#found it at a thrift shop. i collect vintage glasses so it was a big win | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alarawriting · 5 years ago

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2019 Inktober 29: Injured

Nightmare Before Christmas extension!

It began when you were 10. You were over Lisa’s house for her birthday, and she received a doll as a gift from her grandparents. Lisa was not known for her graciousness. “Euw! This doll is so creepy!” she complained, pushing it away from herself.

“Let me see,” you said, and Lisa gave you the creepy doll, which in your opinion wasn’t creepy at all. It was a blonde little girl with very large eyes, mouth partially open and visible teeth, rosy cheeks and pale skin.

“That doll is vintage,” Lisa’s grandmother complained. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong is that this doll is ugly and creepy and weird and I don’t want it!”

“I do,” you said. “I think she’s pretty.”

“Well, then,” Lisa’s grandmother said, “Courtney can have the doll.” She smiles benevolently on you. “Go on, dear. You can keep the doll.”

You smiled graciously. “Thank you!” you said, knowing Lisa had just angered her parents and grandparents by being so ungrateful. You wanted to make them feel better. “I know Lisa just gets weirded out by dolls sometimes. She didn’t mean to be rude.”

From Lisa’s glowering expression, it was obvious that she had meant to be rude, but you’d given her an out and now that her initial reaction was past and she knew she didn’t have to keep the doll, it seemed like she’d realized the tactical error she’d made. “I’m sorry, Grandma. Courtney’s right, I kinda get scared of dolls sometimes.”

“Well, what a stupid thing to be afraid of,” Lisa’s grandmother said, but she was plainly somewhat mollified. “Here. Since you apologized, I’ll give you some money for your birthday.” She fished a five dollar bill out of her wallet. “That doll was worth a lot more than this, but I suppose this is what you’d rather have.”

“Thank you, Grandma!” Lisa said, and the birthday party went on as scheduled.

The doll was quite old, so she needed an old-fashioned name, but one that sounded nice. “Her name is Betty,” you told Lisa’s grandmother later. “She’s really pretty. I’m sorry Lisa was so mean about it.”

“I am too. That child can be so ungrateful sometimes.”

“I’ve been telling Betty that Lisa didn’t mean to be so mean, she just had a bad reaction because she’s scared of dolls. Betty understands, but she’s glad she’s going home with me instead. Dolls don’t like to live with girls who don’t like them.”

“You understand,” Lisa’s grandmother said, nodding. “Dolls have feelings too. They deserve to be with girls who’ll love them.”

“Did you have a doll who looked like this when you were young?"

Her eyes welled with unshed tears. “I did. I lost her when we moved. I’ve been checking antique stores and thrift stores for years, hoping to find her.”

“What was yours named?”

“Eleanor. I named her for a queen, Eleanor of Acquitaine. Have you heard of her?”

You said no, so Lisa’s grandmother – whose actual name was Mrs. Shapiro – talked your head off about kings and queens of England for half an hour before you got a chance to go play.

***

Once you were home, headed up the stairs to your room, Betty complained. “Lisa’s ugly. And mean.”

“She didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. She’s actually a very nice person. She just… is scared of dolls.” You shifted Betty in your arms so instead of lying in them like a baby, she was facing outward, her back against your chest and your arm around her middle, so she could see the others. When you opened the door, you gestured at your other dolls, the ones on your bookshelves and on your dresser. “Hello, everyone! This is Betty!”

“Hi, Betty!” the dolls chorused.

“She’s the newest addition to our family, so I was thinking we could have a tea party to welcome her.”

“Great idea!” Mandy cheered.

So you got out the tea set, and arranged all the dolls on the floor, and the dolls who didn’t get tea cups because your tea set wasn’t that big, you gave mugs or glasses from your play kitchen, and you put plastic desserts from the toy kitchen on everyone’s plates.

“This is delicious,” Kyla said. “Did you make it yourself?”

You laughed. “Oh, no, no, it’s store bought! I’m a terrible cook.”

“You got that right,” Veronica, who was sometimes kind of a jerk, said.

“Oh, oh, wow! Veronica, you’ve got to be best friends with the new girl!” Eric said. He had been a girl when you got him, but you thought it was unfair to have nothing but girl dolls, so you hacked off all his hair and put clothes on him from a GI Joe you found in the mud near the playground, although they didn’t really fit. “Betty and Veronica! Like the Archie comics!”

“Archie is stupid,” Veronica said, but mellowed a bit. “But it’s very nice to meet you, Betty.”

“We’re going to be great friends, I just know it!” Mandy said.

Betty started to almost-cry the way Mrs. Shapiro had. “You guys,” she said. “This has been the best day of my life.”

***

One day Mrs. Shapiro brought you six more dolls while you’re over Lisa’s house. They were all vintage, and they were all damaged, from the one whose hair was falling off to the one with one eye that wouldn’t open to the one with a cloudy white film on her eyes. “Courtney, would you be interested in these?”

“Were they yours?”

She nodded. “I think they deserve to go with a girl who will play with them. I was going to give them to Lisa, but…”

“Yeah, Lisa won’t want them. But I love them! What are their names?”

Mrs. Shapiro said some of the names and visibly struggled to remember the others. You asked her, “Why don’t you play with them anymore?”

“Well, I’m a grown woman. Grown-up women don’t play with dolls.”

“But you could if you wanted to.”

“I suppose I could, but it would be a little embarrassing.” She chuckled.

“I could bring over my tea set and some dolls and you could play dolls with me. I want to know your dolls’ personalities. It’d be rude to tell them to be completely different people just because someone new owns them.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

In the end, you went over Mrs. Shapiro’s house yourself for the tea party, which Lisa thought was weird but Lisa could think whatever she wanted. Mrs. Shapiro put out a real-life tea set and filled the cups with Kool-aid, which was more verisimilitude than you’d ever managed. During the tea party she did voices for all the dolls, Hortensia who couldn’t keep her eye open and Emily who was losing her hair and Birdie who was going blind and Renee who had no clothes, just a washcloth around her body with safety pins holding it in place and Michelle who had one shoe and Lauren who kept falling over when she was put in a sitting position. You were very grateful; it really helped to know how the dolls sounded, their voices and personalities as well as their names.

And when you saw that now you had six dolls who were injured or lacking in some way, you realized what you wanted to do.

You went to Girl Scouts to learn to sew, because Mrs. Shapiro claimed to be terrible at it and wouldn’t teach you, and your own grandma worked and didn’t have time. You told the librarian about your quest, and she ordered you a book from another library about repairing dolls. It was intended for adults, and you were nine, but you used a dictionary and struggled through it because you needed to know. Your dad suggested that rubbing alcohol on a q-tip might help Birdie’s eyes. Birdie was so very grateful to you for restoring her sight.

After that, your parents would give you thrift store dolls, broken-down dolls who needed love and care as much as the pretty new dolls at the toy stores, for every birthday and Christmas, because you told them emphatically that that was what you wanted. “No one loves the ugly dolls or the broken dolls or the creepy dolls. They need someone to take care of them. They need love.”

And you had so much love to give.

***

Twenty years later you learned the hard way that a shop that fixes dolls doesn’t make any money. You branched into selling high-end, high-quality toys, as well as continuing to collect and fix up vintage dolls. You sewed beautiful new clothes for them and re-glued their hair and re-attached their arms and legs. You carefully removed their eyes and polished them, attached new weights to the eyelids to enable them to open and close, and sometimes heated and re-shaped the eyes in hot water so they would fit properly in their sockets again.

You sold the dolls to any child, or any adult buying for a child, who wanted one and was willing to pay your prices, which weren’t cheap after you’d done so much restoration work. But when the day was over and you’d done the receipts and closed the books and swept the shop and locked up, you took the dolls upstairs to your living space with you, and you played with them, because dolls deserved to be played with.

Men who found out about this hobby of yours found it weird and unpleasant, so none of your relationships lasted more than a few dates. You weren’t close enough to any of your friends for them to find out. You had pen pals, fellow doll aficionados, all over the world, but you wouldn’t admit even to them that you played with your dolls. By this time you had so many that you couldn’t possibly play with them all every night, which was part of the reason you’d been willing to part with some of them back when you’d opened the store. But you did your best to make sure they were going to good homes.

***

Forty years later the internet had nearly destroyed you, and then saved you.

It became so easy to buy vintage dolls, you overbought. You took on employees to help you repair them, but they didn’t love the dolls like you did, so they didn’t stay your employees. Then people stopped buying from the store because it was so easy to get even vintage toys online, at much better prices than you could afford to sell at. You sold through online channels yourself, but it wasn’t enough.

You expanded your offerings to hand-crafted children’s furniture and toys, working with artisans you met at a Renaissance faire or online, reselling their work. And you moved the doll repair business online. It turned out that the number of people willing to send their beloved childhood friend to a total stranger through the mail and pay a lot of money to have her restored was much higher than you’d guessed. You picked up more employees, this time to run the store so that you could work full-time on doll repair.

Fifteen years ago you’d gotten a cat, but she died of old age, and you didn’t replace her. Your doll friends weren’t immortal – you’d had porcelain-headed dolls shatter, you’d had to reluctantly tell heartbroken women that their childhood toy had been mauled too heavily by a dog to be saved – but when age damaged them, it could be fixed. They weren’t doomed to die like living creatures were.

You made sure to make time to play with the dolls every night, no matter how busy you got. Sometimes you hardly had time to do anything but choose a lucky few, dress them in nightgowns and caps for their hair, and take them to bed with you, but you always did at least that.

***

And then there was the day you heard a violent crash downstairs.

You were a woman living alone. You tried not to live in fear, but you knew you were vulnerable. The sound terrified you, so you called the police, and stayed upstairs behind your bolted bedroom door with two or three of your favorite dolls reassuring you, until the cops arrived.

They called you downstairs to see what you knew.

The man had had duct tape on him, and rope, and a knife. You were somewhat shocked that anyone would target you for such a thing, at your age, but the cops tell you that it was probably your age that drew the guy’s attention. He must have assumed you couldn’t defend yourself.

You could not explain why he was lying dead in a giant pile of dolls, his eyes punctured, his throat bruised, his neck broken. You hadn’t left your room. It was more than obvious that a small middle-aged woman couldn’t have done the kind of damage to the dead man that had killed him; the best anyone could guess was that he’d tripped over a rack of dolls and fallen on them so hard that hard plastic hands had jabbed his eyes out and then he’d broken his neck in the fall. But you knew better. The cops couldn’t possibly understand, but you did.

“Thank you,” you said to all the dolls, the creepy dolls you hadn’t yet repaired and the ones that you had and yet children still called them creepy, the pretty vintage dolls and the modern dolls that had needed repair. “Thank you,” you said, weeping over the body of a porcelain doll that had broken, but she was the only casualty. Others had damaged hands and some had crushed plastic bodies and quite a lot of them had their clothes ruined by blood, but those were all things you could repair. “Thank you all so much. You saved me.”

“You’re our mother,” one of the dolls said.

“You saved me,” another doll, a repaired doll, said.

“We love you. We’ll never let anyone hurt you.”

You gathered your precious, precious dolls to you and hugged them, and cried. Oh, your dollies, all your beautiful dollies. You’d saved their lives, and now they had returned the favor.

#tw: implied rape threat #inktober 2019 #creepy dolls need love too

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dippedanddripped · 5 years ago

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This holiday season, the hottest place to shop in Los Angeles won’t be on shoppers’ paradise Rodeo Drive, but in a warehouse in the city’s grubby garment district. That’s where A Current Affair, one of the world’s hottest vintage marketplaces, will be on December 7.

High-end vintage fashion is having an unprecedented moment, and A Current Affair’s founder Richard Wainwright – resolutely shy in his thick-rimmed glasses, patterned button-down shirt and jeans – is right in the middle of it.

Wainwright has the perfect pedigree for vintage – he has degrees in fashion marketing and merchandising from the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, and in history of art from the University of California, Berkeley.

“Vintage has always played a role in my life,” says Wainwright. “I started collecting at an early age. Back then, we didn’t really have ‘

fast fashion

’ so combining items found at thrift stores and yard sales was both a creative outlet and a practical way to afford clothing [that] my parents wouldn’t otherwise buy me.”

Shoppers trying on items at A Current Affair.

When Wainwright started A Current Affair nine years ago, the event had only 17 exhibitors.

“Today, we are now a community of over 200 sellers popping up in Los Angeles, Brooklyn and the San Francisco Bay Area seven times a year, in addition to trunk shows … and we did an event at [department store] Isetan in Tokyo this autumn. There is nowhere else to shop that compares to A Current Affair,” Wainwright says proudly, describing the marketplace’s clothes as “the best vintage on the planet”.

A vintage look at A Current Affair.

Liz Baca, with her fiancé Michael D’Andrade, is the owner of The Goods, an appointment-only showroom of designer vintage clothes in Los Angeles, and a vendor at A Current Affair.

“The vintage marketplace has exploded,” says Baca. “When I began, people didn’t really understand what I did. Today, everyone sells vintage clothing. It’s become mainstream.”

The world of high-end vintage is not what you get at your local second-hand shop. Instead of costume jewellery, old flannels and luggage from the 1960s, it’s more 19th-century lace gowns, 1920s cocktail dresses adorned with hand-sewn bead work and feathers, and chunky solid gold jewellery from the decadent ’80s.

Band shirts can still be found at A Current Affair, but they might set you back several hundred US dollars.

A vintage fur coat at A Current Affair.

A vintage dress at A Current Affair.The appeal of vintage is wide and varied, and pieces are often one of a kind. The chances of you showing up to a party where someone is wearing the same pencil skirt from the 1940s as you are is almost non-existent. And, because of their age, vintage pieces have a story to tell.

Yes, designer threads tell the world that you have plenty of money, but vintage clothes have history – and the romance of a new couture ball gown pales in comparison to that of a century-old silk.

Anyone who isn’t wearing vintage has a one-dimensional view of fashion, and it reads as flat and boring in today’s over-saturated visual environmentA Current Affair’s founder Richard Wainwright

Common criticisms of vintage clothes – that they show wear and tear or look worn – are seen as something to be proud of by many clothes lovers. The patina of an already cherished garment is something that no amount of chemical treatment or factory distressing can emulate.

Broader economic trends are also at work. Retail is in trouble, and bricks-and-mortar stores are struggling to stay afloat across the board – some fast-fashion brands, such as Forever 21, have already filed for bankruptcy and closed their stores.

Meanwhile, A Current Affair feels vital and packed with shoppers – including fashion icons like Donald Glover – on the day we visited a pop-up in September.

“It feels as if we are the only type of fashion retail that is booming,” says Wainwright. “Everyone complains that retail is dead but our shows are very much alive.”

Why are millennials in Malaysia and Singapore deserting H&M?

While some of the vendors at A Current Affair have shops, the majority conduct their business online, or through rented by-appointment-only show rooms. Vintage doesn’t require bricks-and-mortar stores to stay afloat. Social media, especially platforms like Instagram, have been a godsend for vintage purveyors. Instagram offers a way for sellers to display their wares to their targeted audiences anywhere in the world without significant overheads.

“Fashionable people have always turned to vintage, but in this age of social media there is added pressure to have things that no one else does or to combine things in unique ways,” says Wainwright. “Anyone who isn’t wearing vintage has a one-dimensional view of fashion, and it reads as flat and boring in today’s over-saturated visual environment. ”

Vintage sunglasses at A Current Affair.

Vintage is also a sustainable option in a time when people are increasingly aware of the environmental impact and human toll of fast fashion. It is essentially recycling, without the buyer having to bear responsibility for its sourcing and manufacture. And, even if the piece you buy is originally from a large fashion house, the money you spend goes to small business retailers, not large corporations.

Until recently, the biggest obstacle to vintage overtaking traditional fashion was the Asian market, where online statistics portal Statista expects fashion sales to hit almost US$362 billion this year.

Historically, vintage, at the risk of generalisation, just didn’t check the boxes that many Asian buyers are looking for in status clothes: big name label recognition, bleeding-edge trendiness and price tags that are as jaw-dropping as they are widely known. In China (the largest market by far) there are legal restrictions around importing second-hand clothes. There are even superstitions against wearing vintage – like the belief that wearing a dead person’s clothes will upset the original owner’s ghost.

How a fast-fashion boycott could help save the world

This is changing fast. Japan has long led the way in Asian interest in vintage, with

Tokyo now a mecca for the most dedicated vintage enthusiasts

. This fervour, however, is global. There are major vintage markets in many Asian metropolises, including Bangkok, Beijing, Tokyo and Seoul, that are often considered just as hip as – or even more hip – than big label stores or glitzy shopping districts.

After English, the most commonly spoken language at the A Current Affair pop-up in Los Angeles in September was Mandarin. A Current Affair also hosted its first Asian pop-up event in Tokyo last month, presenting more than 500 vintage pieces curated for the Japanese market to eager crowds in the city’s Shinjuku neighbourhood.

“I have certainly noticed an interest in vintage clothing spread in the Asian markets,” says Baca. “These days, interest there is just as widespread as other markets. I see it only growing bigger.”

A vintage dress at A Current Affair.

The global shift towards vintage over fast fashion in the last few years has been drastic, and is poised to accelerate further still.

New York University business professor Scott Galloway predicted, as reported in the Australian newspaper Sydney Morning Herald last month, that global second-hand clothes sales will overtake fast fashion within nine years – and the numbers bear this out.

In 2018, according to Statista, the American vintage clothing market was worth US$24 billion, compared to US$35 billion for fast fashion. In nine years, analysts expect the second-hand clothes industry to reach US$64 billion, with fast fashion trailing at US$44 billion.

A vintage fur coat at A Current Affair

“Vintage has gone mainstream, especially with the endorsement of celebrities wearing vintage on the red carpet,” says Eddie Paul Friend of Lust and Fond, a California-based vendor at A Current Affair.

Those celebrities – like Zooey Deschanel, Christina Hendricks and Aya Cash – also show off their latest fashion finds on Instagram, where they are as likely to shout out to their favourite vintage shops as they are to their favourite labels.

Even high-fashion icons like Kate Moss have come out as proud vintage shoppers. October saw the release of Musings on Fashion and Style: Museo de la Moda , a book Moss collaborated on that serves as a paean to her favourite vintage pieces and looks.

“The buyer has changed,” says Baca. “Used clothing has become socially acceptable, so now you see all ages, financial backgrounds and races buying vintage clothes.”

This article appeared in the South China Morning Post print edition as: How vintage is fast becoming A Global trend

#japan #vintage #vintage fashion #fashion blog #streetwear blog #urbanwear blog #a current affair

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scruffyhappaboreherder · 7 years ago

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Modern AU. Cassian is the skip (captain) of a curling team; Jyn owns and runs a clothing store, and also makes custom athleticwear. Leia works for the US Olympic Committee and ... is dealing with a lot that’s not directly addressed here.

May the 4th be with you, @doptimous! The prompt was “sweet talk/flirting”, but this sort of got away from me and turned into something with more background and leadup than talking. Still, I have a few ideas for other things they might say to eachother, and if/when I post the followups I’ll tag you. :) I stole the title from a Rush song. I don’t think there is really much that would require a warning in here? Oh, and while this is brought to you partly by my quadrennial ritual of getting obsessed with curling, you don’t really need to know anything other than the fact that it’s a sport to read this. --- Carve Away the Stone

"Jyn, come on." Leia leaned against the doorframe. Jyn pretended to ignore her as she bent over her sewing machine and guided the fabric so that the needle would flow along its appointed course. "I could really use some bodies at the curling club benefit auction tonight. If you come, you can meet up with whoever bids on your donation. Saves time on going back and forth that way."

"Leia, this was due yesterday. Do you really think I'd be here on Saturday morning if it weren't important? And once I'm done, I have plans to go home and curl up with my cat and tea and maybe a book."

"Do you think I'd be here nagging you if it weren't urgent?" Leia countered. "You can walk to the firehall from here. Or from your apartment."

Jyn closed her eyes and took her foot off the pedal. "If I get this finished and mailed, and have time to clean up beforehand, I'll be there."

"Good. Do me a favor and put it on your social media, would you?"

"It's not exactly on brand." Either brand, Jyn thought. Not for the vintage/thrift/hippie chic store she ran, and not for her over-the-internet custom athleticwear business.

"Your personal social media, then. And you can always come as you are. Baggy sweater and sweatpants isn't too far off what people wear to curling practice."

"Yeah, that's not happening." Her business was appearance-oriented; she couldn't appear in public looking like a college student coming off an all-nighter.

"Raid the shop, then." She waved toward the sales floor, and broke into song. "It doesn't matter what you wear, just as long as you are there."

Jyn groaned. "Leave, before I get tempted to stop working and pull the security footage and put that on my social media."

Leia smirked. "And risk missing the pickup deadline to get that on its way? See you at seven."

Jyn huffed and turned back to her sewing machine. "Lock the door behind you."

---

She finished the kit, packed it up, and printed a label. She quickened her pace when she saw a familiar figure unlocking the drop box and reaching in to collect the packages.

"Hey, Jyn," said Bodhi. He held out his hand for the box, and she handed it over. "How's it going?"

She shrugged. "If I never see chartreuse and orange and hot pink together again, it will be too soon. But at least this is finally done."

Bodhi winced. "Glad it's in a box. The risk of sudden-onset blindness sounds pretty high."

She pulled off a mitten and pretended to fling it him. "My work is always tasteful and lovely. Except when the client wants something hideous. Either way, I deliver."

Bodhi smiled a little. "Leia told me you would probably have something ready when I was doing drop-offs there, and asked me to stop by your shop."

Jyn sighed. "And to remind me to come to her benefit auction while I was there?"

"Yep."

Jyn scowled. "I said I'd be there if I could; she doesn't need to draft everyone in sight to remind me, too."

Bodhi nodded. "I told her that."

"Thanks for having my back. Hey, on that note, want to come with me to this thing tonight?"

He looked hesitant. "Where is it again?"

"The firehall. As Leia reminded me when she showed up to twist my arm, we can walk." Bodhi was her upstairs neighbor, in addition to being the area UPS guy.

"Okay. I can do that."

Jyn nodded approval. They'd been to the firehall a lot, sitting on either side of Bodhi's mom and watching her play bingo, starting when they were barely old enough to walk. It was familiar territory. "I'll come by at 6:30. That okay?"

"Sure," said Bodhi. "I should be home by then."

"Good. See you." She punched his shoulder lightly and retraced her steps, heading for the side street her apartment building was on. She tried and failed to stifle an enormous yawn. Well, she had a few hours to catch up on her sleep.

Wearily, she climbed the steps and let herself in. She leaned against the door and let Toast twine around her ankles and meow plaintively, then knelt and scooped him up and carried him to the kitchen.

"Yes, I left you by yourself overnight, yes, you're so neglected, I know," she murmured to the cat, who was purring now. She glanced at the autofeeder: the food and water dishes were fine. She shifted Toast to one arm, checked the litter box in the bathroom, and set him down while she cleaned it. Then she washed her hands, made tea, and finally allowed herself to sprawl on the couch and let her aching muscles relax. Toast jumped onto the couch and curled up next to her, and she patted the tan splotches on his side absently. "Just going to close my eyes for a few minutes," she told the cat.

The darkness was soothing, a relief after hours of staring at lurid colors under strong lights. She fell into it gratefully.

---

She was in a garden, lying on a chaise longue. Several cartoonishly round bees buzzed in and out of the rosebushes. The sun shone warmly on her face, and—

Jyn came back to reality with am abrupt jolt. Toast was sprawled on her torso, purring softly. And her phone was buzzing on the table.

She cursed and snatched it. It was Bodhi, of course, asking if everything was all right. She was already 15 minutes late.

She dislodged Toast and stood up, and dashed into her bedroom to stare at the closet. The green shirt-dress with the diagonal hem, she decided, and leggings with a Christmas candy pattern. She shoved her feet into green Docs and ran out her door and upstairs to knock on Bodhi's.

"Still game?" she asked when he opened the door. He nodded. "Want to drive?"

"Sure." Bodhi grabbed his coat and keys and shut the door behind him. He followed her to the front door, and then led the way to his boxy grey Honda.

Jyn rested her head against the window and watched the street lights pass by until they found a parking spot a couple blocks away from the firehall. She climbed out and waited for Bodhi to lock up. And while she was leaning against the car a truck with a snowplow rumbled down the street and splashed her from shoulder to ankle with grey slushy snow.

Bodhi turned to see why she wasn't coming, or maybe because of the reflexive horrified noise she made. "Oh my God—" he stammered. He popped the trunk, darted to it, and handed her a blanket. "I can, I can drive you to the shop, or back home, or—"

"Forget it," Jyn said ruthlessly. She used the blanket to scrub away the residue that hadn't already fallen to the ground. The wet spots on her dress would dry eventually. The tights were probably a loss, and she irritably managed the process of balancing in the snow as she took them off. She tossed the tights and the blanket into Bodhi's trunk, and slammed it shut. "Come on. Let's go."

Bodhi nodded resolutely and fell into step beside her on the sidewalk. Jyn watched balefully out of the corner of her eye, but there was no sign of further snow-plow activity. A block to the corner and another to the firehall; they walked past the engine house and made for the hall's front entrance. They could see the light through the glass doors; Jyn took a deep breath and yanked the door open.

As soon as they were inside, they were hit with a wave of noise. Against the far wall, a mock curling lane had been set up, and people in tracksuits were demonstrating shooting techniques. But most of the attendees were seated at tables or in line at the concession stand or the cash bar. There were only a few people looking at the silent auction table; she caught Bodhi's eye and nodded in that direction.

"Might as well see what I'm in for," she muttered. "If I'm lucky no one will be interested, and I can go back home and sleep and write all of this off as a bad dream." She looked down at the clipboard that had her business card stapled to the bid sheet. "Or not. What the hell is Team Andor?"

"He is," Leia said from behind her; Jyn tensed and successfully fought down the urge to jump. She pointed at the curling lane. "The one with dark hair showing the kids how you launch a rock."

Jyn groaned. "Oh no. You cannot be serious." She turned to face Leia.

Leia raised her eyebrows. "What were you expecting, Johnny Mac? It's a curling fundraiser."

"I was expecting someone to go for the gift cert. Or, worst case scenario, someone wanting an insanely frilly wedding dress and having to be talked down."

"I'm sure I could round up someone who needs a wedding dress." Leia smirked. "But seriously, Jyn, it's half a dozen hot guys, or at least decent-looking guys you'll get to poke and prod while you measure them. What's the problem?"

Jyn sighed heavily. "So this is about you not being satisfied with my love life, again? Leia, it's fine. And obtaining someone's measurements is not nearly as sexy as whatever you're picturing. I'm a professional."

Leia frowned at Bodhi, who had disappointed her by not, as she put it, spicing up Jyn's life with some romance. Jyn caught Bodhi's eye to reassure him that she was biting her tongue, the way she did every time when Leia was on this topic, to keep from pointing out that Bodhi had had a brief fling with her dad. We get along so well because we're both graduates of the Galen Erso School of Emotional Fuckery, Leia. Come on. You're smart. Figure it out.

Leia shrugged. "You can't blame me for trying. But seriously, what's the big deal?"

Jyn glanced around at the hall full of boisterous curling enthusiasts and their friends and family members. "Tell you about it later, maybe. Let's just say that you owe me. Especially if you encouraged this guy to bid on my donation."

"Is there a problem?"

Jyn spun. Of course it was the dark-haired guy Leia had pointed out. She met his eyes. "Leia and I are very old friends," she told him, keeping her tone even. "We tease eachother a lot." She held out her hand. "I'm Jyn Erso."

"Cassian Andor."

His hand was warm and dry and strong. Jyn pulled her own away gently, and reached into her purse, not caring if anyone noticed the muck splatters on it. At least the contents had stayed dry. She drew out a business card and offered it to him. "When you're ready to talk about what you'd like, feel free to get in touch."

He nodded and tucked the business card into a pocket without looking at it. "Would you like to come and see our practice sheet? It might be helpful."

Jyn opened her mouth to refuse politely, but Leia said ruthlessly, "Yes, Jyn, you should go see it. It's an interesting use of materials. And hey, Bodhi, I wanted to make sure you saw Maz Kanata's listing. She donated some of Emmie's homemade yarn, and it is amazingly soft. There's a sample, come on."

"Uh," Bodhi stammered. "I would like to see it. But. Maybe later." He took a breath and straightened his shoulders, and Jyn gave him a quick grateful smile. She knew that would be a difficult temptation to resist under ordinary circumstances—he'd take up knitting to as a relaxation aid and loved the feeling of soft natural yarns—but to do so and reject an obvious social cue had to be making him feel like his anxiety was eating him from the inside out.

Jyn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Prospective client, even if you would rather he weren't. Do not fly off the handle. She met his eyes; they were dark but they shone like searchlights from his skeptical, serious face. "Mr. Andor, I've made kit for athletes of all sorts, from tennis players to bowling teams. I have a wide knowledge of what athletes need in terms of movement and comfort, and I'm not completely unacquainted with curling. You have my card. When you're ready to discuss your requirements with me, you know how to get in touch." She inclined her head. "Now if you'll excuse me, I would also like to see that yarn."

She captured Bodhi's arm and towed him away. Conveniently, the yarn was at the very opposite end of the table. "Thanks," she muttered. "Sorry." She let go of his arm.

Bodhi shook his head. "Sometimes I think you and Leia trying to be friends again is going to kill me. If you don't kill eachother first."

Jyn grimaced. "It won't come to that. But I'll stop twisting your arm to make you come with me. It isn't fair."

Bodhi shrugged, and picked up the yarn sample. His eyes closed involuntarily. "Oh, that is soft. I might have to bid on it." He opened his eyes and looked down at the bid sheet and winced. "Okay, maybe not if the bidding is that high."

Jyn reached for the pen. "It's on me."

---

She turned the deadbolt of the shop door precisely at one. On Sundays and Mondays, when she only opened the shop for a few hours, she spent the mornings taking care of administrivia or tidying up. Occasionally she allowed herself to sleep in, and today she felt she had earned it: she had stayed at the curling fundraiser until the list of silent auction winners was posted, and come home with a voucher that she planned to pass on to Bodhi later today. He'd bailed early, with her blessing and an assurance that she didn't mind walking home.

Leia had spotted her lurking by the auction table nursing a hot chocolate, and demanded to know where Bodhi was. On hearing the explanation, she scowled and said that Jyn was insane to think of walking home in this weather without a coat, and walked away. Jyn expected her dress to be warm enough; the firehall was drafty, and she'd dressed for that. She had gloves in her purse, and a little cold wouldn't kill her. But when Leia strode over with a coat and told Jyn to wear it home and that she'd have it picked up from the shop tomorrow, she'd figured she could let Leia win this one. Even if the coat was not at all something she'd have picked out to go with her dress, and rather large on her, it was warm, and the synthetic fur felt nice when it brushed against her cheeks as she pulled the hood up.

She was faintly surprised when the bells rattled against the glass at five past. She was even more surprised when she saw that it was Cassian Andor. Once she'd glanced up as she scribbled a new amount on the bid sheet for the yarn and seen him looking at her. Not in a creepy way, but thoughtfully, as if she were a puzzle. She was half-surprised he hadn't withdrawn his bid; she'd half expected that he would, and a part of her even hoped that he would.

"Good afternoon," she said tentatively. "Did you want to talk about your silent auction bid?" There, that left the option open for him to say that he'd changed his mind, if he wanted to. She could work something out with Leia to cover his bid if he wanted his money back.

He shook his head. "No, Ms. Erso, I've come to retrieve my coat."

Heat rose instantly to Jyn's cheeks. She fled to the back room, and then had to fight the urge to hide her face in the coat, as the nearest suitable surface. Instead she snatched it from the coat rack, and forced herself to walk back to the front of the shop at a normal pace.

"I am so sorry." She held the coat out to him from behind the counter. "I had no idea Leia had appropriated your coat when she insisted that I wear this home."

"You wouldn't have accepted it if she had?" He said this calmly, but his eyes were on her as if the answer meant something to him.

Jyn shook her head. "I wouldn't have wanted someone else to freeze on my account. I assumed that she raided the lost and found." She paused and bit the inside of her lip. "And, at that point, I didn't want to argue."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "It can be easier not to argue with her when she's annoyed."

"That's what I was thinking," Jyn admitted. She shrugged, and set the coat down gently on the counter, since he didn't seem to be in a hurry to take it back. "If it helps, she usually isn't specifically annoyed at you. More at the universe in general, and it just overflows."

He considered. "I don't think it does."

Jyn heaved a sigh; it lasted for longer than she expected. "Yeah, it usually doesn't." She resisted the urge to fiddle with the fur edging the hood of his coat, just to have something to do with her hands. "Did you meet Leia through her job?"

"Yes, she's our USOC contact." He slid his hands into his back pockets. "Look, Ms. Erso ... I know that Leia, ah, talked you into doing this. I wanted to say, if you'd rather not, you don't have to."

Jyn lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. "I don't back out of professional commitments, Mr. Andor. Unless, of course, you would rather I did."

He shook his head. "I looked at your portfolio. I like your work."

"Thanks." She smiled, and he smiled back. It transformed his face; suddenly he didn't look quite so wary or tense. "You know, I don't usually get many customers on Sunday, anyway. If you want to talk over ideas, I could—"

The door bells clanged again. Andor jumped, and Jyn looked sharply at the entrance. A tall Asian man was pushing the door open.

He looked accusingly at Andor. "Coach Draven wants to know why what was supposed to be a two second stop is taking so long. You've been in here for—"

"Not now, Kay," Andor interrupted. "I'm sorry," he said to Jyn. "This is Kay, my lead. We were actually on our way to practice."

"Right," Jyn said. She hastily gathered up the coat and held it out to him. "Well, now that you have this back—"

He accepted the coat and drew it on. "Thank you."

She laughed a little. "Thank you for the involuntary loan."

He smiled again. She thought she could get used to seeing that smile. "I'll come back after practice. We can continue this."

"Good," Jyn said softly. She lifted her hand in an abbreviated wave as he followed Kay out of the shop. "Stay warm," she murmured as the door closed behind him.

#doptimous #therebelcaptainnetwork #rebelcaptainmay4 #i swear the fact that jyn was working on saturday on an overdue project was not meant to be meta #it was the first thing i wrote weeks ago #:P #also it's still midnight and before the midnight pst deadline so yay me sort of?#i have a complicated relationship with deadlines #my posts #rebelcaptain #fanfic

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adler-graphicdesign · 7 years ago

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WEEK ONE

A short document (maximum of 2-3 paragraphs) that begins with a Problem Statement.

This is followed by a detailed project proposal including your initial research that supports the proposal.

This becomes the first posting in a project blog that you will maintain weekly in a dated and organized which contains the following:

Schedule - A weekly schedule listing each step and commitment to deadlines—what has been accomplished and what is planned for the week ahead.

Research – Gathering data that supports your decision making and the project’s direction.

Ideation Development – Brainstorming and sketches. This includes type studies, mood boards, and potential design direction.

Design & Execution –This includes content creation (writing and image collection/making) and proof of concept such as mock-ups or prototypes.

PROJECT PROPOSAL

Surrounded by its natural scenic environment, Ithaca has always been a hub for art and music. The town of Ithaca can be found hidden behind the gorges and trees in upstate New York, and it is known for supporting art and music. In the center of town, Ithaca Commons, is a place locals and tourists can gather at to get eat, drink, and shop. There are many restaurants, bars, and stores in the area. Rather than the retail stores that people are commonly accustomed to seeing, Ithaca has a variety of unique shops spread across the commons. Ithaca is a huge supporter of high quality crafts, which is evident by the three crafts cooperative stores that are spread across the commons. Other shops include various glass shops, headshops, a consignment store, thrift stores, vintage stores, a consignment store, a used book store, a fair-trade store, a music store, and other local shops. Local bars and small venues house an abundance of music and musicians, which provides entertainment to the locals and tourists. Moreover, as you walk around the streets of Ithaca commons, a public gallery of murals greets you at every corner. The problem with being a huge supporter of the art and music culture is that locals and tourists begin to expect more.

Recently, my mom moved back to Ithaca and realized there were no local crafts festivals like there were in Connecticut. She found this odd and very surprising considering how art seems to have such a heavy influence on Ithaca’s culture and philosophies. Since Ithaca is known for its beautiful scenic trails and its natural gorges, many people visit the town during the spring, summer, and even the fall… before it gets too cold. However, the town is small and people run out of things to do and places to visit. Hence the need for more events and markets is evidently necessary to entertain locals and attract more tourists. Therefore, I am proposing to create a theoretical music and arts festival that can showcase the artistic skills of Ithaca individuals, as well as musicians and artists outside of the area.

The music festival movement began in the 1960s and continued to grow and spread across the world. People from everywhere began to embrace the music festival culture and its prevailing philosophies, thus they focused on personal empowerment, cultural and political decentralization, and ecological awareness. Both art and music have a huge impact on society and they give people the opportunity to freely express their individuality. Given Ithaca’s prominent ideals that promote free expression, individuality, culture awareness, and ecological awareness. Both art and music have a huge impact on society, as they allow the opportunities for people to freely express their individuality. Given Ithaca’s prominent ideals that promote free expression, individuality, culture awareness, and ecological awareness; a music and arts festival seems to be the ideal event the town should host. Ithaca is in desperate need for arts and crafts festivals given that there is an obvious appetite for high end arts and crafts in the town. However, I think it is important to combine both aspects of art and music for this festival because it provides people with the chance to fully immerse themselves in all aspects of art. This music and arts festival will benefit the town of Ithaca in many ways including attracting more tourists, entertaining locals, and providing more opportunities for local artists and musicians. Musicians and artists around the world are given the opportunity to showcase their work and sell it in a new location, surrounded by a unique scenic environment. Moreover, locals and tourists will finally have a place to gather, socialize, shop, eat, and be entertained all-in-one!

Initially, I will come up with a list of names for the festival that encompasses the ideas and values that this music and arts festival is intended to promote. There are various deliverables that can be included in this project. First, I will design its brand identity, including a logo and a website prototype. Although music festivals have become a growing industry, their branding and marketing is different than most companies. During my research, I compared various festivals websites for both music and arts and crafts. Most of the marketing and promotion is done digitally and online. Thus, there is no need to create business cards, letterheads, and more. It seems that the social online presence is the most important. Once I have established a name and a look and feel for the festival that is most appropriate, I will begin to gather the rest of the information. Location is very important, especially since Ithaca is small. It is possible that the festival may be located right outside the town depending on how big it will be. After researching various musicians and artists, I will design a line-up and other promotional materials to advertise the musicians and artists attending the festival. Since this festival is not exclusive to just music, I want to design a brochure or pamphlet that features high quality artists and crafters. In addition, whether it is a separate printed booklet or not, I want to create a booklet that details what visitors will see at the event. This booklet will be handed out to all of the attendees to help guide them through the festival. This booklet will contain a list of musicians with a select amount of them featured, a schedule of the shows, a list of food vendors, artists and crafters, a festival map, and possibly some tips and tricks for the festival goers.

In regards to marketing and promotional materials, I will create banner ads and other digital materials that promote the event. Although most festival marketing is digital, other print materials will include the tickets or wristbands for the event, flags and signs for the event, posters, and maybe even festival merchandise. I intend to make this music and arts festival an all ages, three-day event that includes stages for musicians and performers, walls for artists to paint on, installation art and sculptures, interactive art and art activities, and more (similar to Bonaroo Music & Arts Festival.

There are only a few existing music and arts festivals out there, but most of them do not showcase juried artworks or high quality art. The benefit of the location of my festival is that there is a large range of high quality artists and crafters that are already local. Although I would like vendors that are non-local as well, there is the advantage that Ithaca is a hub for art and music and only an hour away from the Corning Museum of Glass, which is a famous center for the glass craft. This festival will include a large shopping area for local and non-local vendors that includes high quality artwork. I want this festival to promote art of all medias and to encourage individuality and free expression. Therefore, I also want to include an art activity area where people can create their own art if they want to.

CAREER OBJECTIVES

This project has a lot of different components included in it which will benefit my portfolio exponentially. This project allows me the chance to brand something from start to finish all by myself. I have only a little branding experience prior to this assignment, and both previous projects were done with a partner. I want to challenge and push myself to brand a festival rather than a company because of my passion and background knowledge for festivals. I grew up attending music festivals and crafts festivals with my mom, thus I know what it is like to attend such events and I am aware of what people are looking for or need to successfully enjoy the event.

People spend a lot of money to attend music festivals, and most craft festivals have an entrance fee even though it a shopping market. If people are going to spend that much money to attend only a three-day event, it is important to ensure that their experience will be worth the price. Some festivals lack the means to successfully ensure a good time, thus I am hoping that the booklet/pamphlet I create will help guide them and ensure satisfaction. This event may be an experience of a lifetime for some people, so I want to do what I can to make it memorable.

As a graphic designer, I would say my skills are more focused on the technical aspects including strategy management, content development, and project management. I am a very organized person, but I love to think outside the box and create things most people would not. I think that this project will hugely benefit my career path because it will showcase my strategic and organizational skills, and it will also challenge me to get in touch with my creative side more.

I typically stick to layout designs and presentations that are clean and simple. Even though I recognize layout design as one of my best skills, I realized that my portfolio does not exemplify my layout skills enough. Layout design is a huge component of this project, thus I will be able to provide people with more proof of my skills. Furthermore, I believe this project will challenge me to explore how to make my designs more fun and lively through illustrations, designs, and playful typography. I want to play more with the creative and artistic aspects of graphic design rather than the underlying geometric structure behind the design. I am very specific and technical when it comes to alignment and simplicity, and I want to break away from that this semester.

PROJECT SCHEDULE (TENTATIVE)

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overdrivels · 8 years ago

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Disguises

Hey, Anon. Anon. You ruined me (in a good way). I just want you to know that.I took this request and GOT TAKEN FOR A RIDE, so you’re going on one, too. It actually evolved into something strange, so please let me know if you’re not entirely satisfied with this.

(I’m also pretty bad at writing McCree, so I would also like to direct you to dickbutt-writes-again’s pining McCree fic from which I have drawn some inspiration from. Also, it’s a seriously good fic. Go read it.)

It isn’t long after the initial recall that the walls of Watchpoint: Gibraltar begin to fill one by one with human presence.

It shouldn’t have been such a surprise when old faces began to appear. It was only a matter of time. So when Winston calls for a briefing to introduce a former Blackwatch agent who will be spearheading a new mission to infiltrate a Talon-sponsored gala in New York under the guise of wealthy investors, he really should have known whom to expect.

An old lady everyone’s sworn they’ve never seen before stands beside Winston, who looks overly pleased with himself. The lady herself just looks around the room through thick glasses as though confused by her surroundings, making timid steps around her shaking cane. She looked like she ran out of a vintage thrift shop, covered in multiple layers and a giant tacky shawl that swept the floor.

Jesse’s stomach flops with something strange and familiar at the sight, and he really hopes that he didn’t just discover an unsavory desire for senile old ladies.

A quick glance around the room reveals people who look less than pleased, concerned even, to see someone so elderly in the room.

“Everyone,” Winston announces proudly, “allow me to introduce to you our newest operative, former Blackwatch and master of disguise, Agent Anonymous.”

Well, damn.

Looks like he didn’t discover a hidden inner fetish, just a long forgotten bundle of heartache and confusion.

“What did you say?” you shout shrilly. Everyone in the room winces. “Ancient atoms? Well, of course they’re ancient! They’re in all of us, you know! Each of us is made from the cosmos! You know the Big Bang? They taught us that in school. I taught it in school! Fourth grade! Licensed school bus driver, too. Best you’ll ever find, we went were no man could. Now you kids just go to museums and space parks and the like.”

Zarya deadpans at Winston. “You must be joking.”

“About?”

“You are sure that you have right babushka?”

“She looks like she’s just a regular halmeoni. You’re sure this is the master of disguise?” Hana watches you continue your rant, oblivious to the fact that everyone else is staring.

Soldier: 76 casts a look at her as though insinuating she should be the last person to be talking about age and missions.

“Of course! I would never make that mistake.” Winston pauses, and peers at you cautiously. “You...are Agent Anonymous. Aren’t you?”

“I’m not a magenta moose!”

“Of course not, darlin’.” Jesse cuts in. You were perfectly capable of causing mass confusion and chaos with one of your characters, Jesse knew that first-hand. “You’re a one-of-a-kind beauty, ma’am.”

You squint at him, tilting your head owlishly. Behind the thick glasses, he could see the a familiar glint in your eyes. Something in his chest shifts uncomfortably. “Why, Jesse J.M. McCree! Oh my goodness--is that really you, young’en? Come here so I can get a better look at you!”

Winston sighs in relief. At least it’s clear now that you really were who he thought you were.

Jesse takes slow purposeful steps to avoid running up to hug you, knowing that he had a better chance with a cactus. You always kept everyone at arms length, fearful that your true identity may be inferred from a simple embrace. Instead, he pulls his hat down to his chest and bows dramatically, sweeping up one of your lacy hands, and presses a kiss to the knuckles.

“At your service, ma’am. Though, not as young as you.”

The hand he holds turns and makes a halfhearted grab to pinch his face, and he barely jerks out of the way.

“What sass! You’re just like my ex-husband!”

“Thank you kindly, ma’am. Must mean somethin’ good if yer mister was able t’get a fine catch like you.”

“Oh hush up!”

You tap him on the hip with your cane, and he laughs--you both laugh, and he ignores the feeling of something buried deep inside him slowly unwinding.

Age, gender, weight, height, real name, he never got a grasp of any objective information that could give away your original identity. ‘Strictly classified’ was the term Reyes used whenever he’d ask, followed by ‘It’s none of your damn business’ when he’s caught trying to dig.

And it definitely had nothing to do with the fact that you were granted your own private room upon joining Blackwatch when he still had to sleep in a bunk.

It was frustrating beyond belief having to meet you for the first time every other week. It’s enough to make him think that he hates you, even acts the part, and absolutely dreaded the first mission the two of you are sent on. Intercept an arms trade by taking out the buyer and taking their identities. The buyer was a young cocky son of an influential figure, and Jesse was elected to play the part, and you, his aide.

You never break character, but he does, more than enough times for the dealers to become suspicious. It takes a dramatic chase scene through the winding streets and underbelly of Hong Kong that lands you both in some remote area, heaving and mildly fearful for your lives for him to say to you, “Yer all right.”

And he means it.

You must know it, too, by the dumbstruck look on your face that’s entirely out of character for the person you don.

“Thanks,” you say, an abashed smile wrinkling the edges of your eyes. He thinks this is the closest to the real you he’s ever seen, and finds that he wouldn’t mind seeing more.

He’s sent on more missions with you, and with each one, he learns something new about the person behind the costume.

He stops trying to look into your files before long. He didn’t have to know those things that could be found on a piece of paper like the name you’ve picked for yourself that day or a picture of the face you decided to wear. What he did know was the way your eyes practically glowed when your character spoke of something you--the real you--enjoyed; the deftness and gentle touch of your fingers as you apply latex and make-up to his face and transform him into someone else for a mission; the small slaps of encouragement against your thighs right before you’re about to fall into character.

Eventually, even without his Dead-Eye enhancement, he could pick you out of a crowd of strangers.

He didn’t know until after Overwatch disbanded just what any of this means.

The next time he sees you, you don a younger, more casual civilian persona, one that he swears he’s seen before, but not entirely sure in what context.

“Hey there, cowboy.”

He tips his hat at you, resisting a smile when his eye catches on the nostalgic name tag you have on your chest. ‘Anon’. “Evenin’, darlin’. How’re you settlin’ in?”

“Good, good, everything’s pretty much the same as before,” you say as you take up a seat beside him. “That--Zarya, is it--was very accommodating. Helped me with a lot of my luggage. The young lady, too. Hana? Got her to help with unpacking. She really likes the collection. Wanted to play with it sometime.”

McCree snorts. Figured she would.

“There’s a lot of new faces here. Glad that you’re at least familiar.” He thinks you should speak for yourself. “Though...”

You reach a hand behind him and gently twirl your fingers around the ends of his tresses. An unreadable smile crosses your face, and he wonders if this was a part of your character, too, or if he’s actually seeing a piece of the real you.

“You look ridiculous.” There is a warmth in your voice that grips him by the heart and squeezes. “Your hair’s a mess.”

He holds a hand to his chest and feigns a pout. “Aw, c’mon, you’re hurtin’ m’feelings here.”

You tug on his serape also, your tone, teasing. “This poncho is ridiculous, too.”

“It’s a serape. Th’ same thing I’ve always wore.”

“It’s red.”

“An’ I look damn good in it.”

His heart skips a beat when you laugh and say, “Yes, yes, you do.”

You slide a hand against his cheek. Against his better judgement, he indulges himself in the touch, pressing his beard into your palm like an affectionate cat. Screw it. If you can pretend, so can he. You rub your thumb against his cheekbone, giggling softly.

“You know, I meant to comment on it before but...”

“Hm?”

“A BAMF buckle? Seriously? Where’d you even get this?”

"Hey, gotta call it like it is.” He does not resist an attempt to fluster you with a slight roll of his hips.

He gets a light smack to his hip--again--for his sass. But it’s a small price to pay to see the blush that dusts your face. (Jesse does not realize the implications of this sight until much, much later.)

The days to the mission tick down. Jesse sees you wear a different person each day: a young woman who draws up a whole book of plans and contingencies for the mission out of anxiety for a mission that persona might not even go on; an administrator who forsakes food and sleep to organize and create the necessary documentation for the logistics of the gala (floor plans, maps, hotel reservations, background checks, everything was documented and prepared to the letter); a soldier who fiddles with the communication devices every once in a while as though waiting for something other than the voices of your targets you’re eavesdropping upon.

It’s almost like old times. More than once he’s caught himself staring just a bit too long, laughing out loud when the others get flustered over each new character. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying the confusion the multiple facets cause--no wonder Gabriel never scolded you for occasionally forgetting to wear your name tag. The rest of the week goes by like this, and the night of the mission comes quickly.

You arrive in an unmarked car with McCree and everyone else already stationed around the perimeter should the night go down in flames. He gives your broader than usual shoulder a quick squeeze as you make you it out of the car.

“G’luck, darlin’. Giv’me a holler if ya need anything.”

“Mr. McCree, I do not require luck,” your new persona says, straightening his tie and extending a pristine gloved hand out to him. “I already have a BAMF on my side, after all.”

Jesse’s mouth falls open.

Well, fuck.

There goes his self-assurance that he is not in love with your characters, too.

Anon, I know you didn’t ask for this, but because of this request, please have some unsolicited imagines about Agent Anonymous, master of disguise.

You were recruited into Blackwatch for your exceptional talent to disguise yourself and act like an entirely different person. Gabriel recruited you so that you can do some covert missions for Blackwatch as well as provide support by helping with people with their undercover missions (teaching them how to become a new character, put on disguises, things like that which would normally require a whole team of people to do.)

You join under the condition that no one will ever find out your real identity. Hell, you had no idea how Gabriel even found you by your real name, no less. You’ve been switching up character and names for a long time, never staying in one place for too long. It should’ve been impossible to track you down. But when he does, you curse your inexperience, wracking your brain for any ideas on how he could’ve known.

But since he knows, you had little choice but to join him as “Anonymous”.

When you do though, you’re given your own office with an inner room with a crap ton of space, all for your costumes and tools. The office itself is more of a dressing/fitting room for when agents need to get their disguises on, but it’s heavily secured so that no one can come in without you. Don’t worry, your own room is in the back and requires your biometrics to enter.

You even manage to get a voice modifier from the engineering team, specially ordered by Gabriel to help with your disguises. You are STOKED. Your range of potential characters has just increased by like ten-fold.

Gabriel may or may not be incredibly amused to see just how far you could take this thing. From pretending to be the opposite gender to someone way outside your age range. You had an inkling that he really got a kick out of watching you fuck around as a different person every day and confusing people.

Your personas fUCK people UP. It got to the point that Gabriel made you wear a nametag whenever you were on base because he got just that many complaints.

He’ll never fucking say anything though if he sees you not wearing it. He enjoys the chaos it causes even at the cost of getting scolded by Jack. WORTH.

Gabriel is probably one of the only people who can recognize you ON SIGHT. It’s eerie and you have no idea how he keeps doing it, and he’ll never tell.

Jesse initially hated you because who the hell do you think you are? Getting a room to yourself when you’ve just joined? (It’s mostly out of pettiness that he doesn’t like you. He was less mature back then, okay?)

On top of that, Gabriel favors you. That’s pretty jealousy-inducing.

Jesse gets really annoyed though when he realizes that your characters have their own actual personalities. They’re only single use for missions anyway, so why do you have to create these intricate backstories? Why did you have to purposefully change your mannerisms? Why did you have to pretend to NOT have skills that you clearly used last week?! THEY HAD AN EMERGENCY AND COULD REALLY USE YOUR DRIVING SKILLS! No, he didn’t care that your character didn’t know it, THEY WERE ABOUT TO DIE. WHAT KIND OF ASSHOLE DOES THAT?!

You all got out safely, but it would’ve been so much easier if you didn’t insist on sticking to your character.

But in a way, McCree begrudgingly respected that dedication.

So he’s completely floored when you one day break character to protect him during a mission gone wrong. You completely panic and haul his ass out of a shitty situation that would’ve surely killed him. You don’t have a lot of combat ability (or at least, not that character), but you risk life and limb to save him anyway.

You revert back to your character when you both get to a safe place, but he’s never forgotten the panic in your eyes, the gnashed teeth, and the desperation to just get him out ALIVE even at the cost of revealing your identity which you hold dearer to you than life itself.

Jesse finds himself more and more curious about you--the real you. The only way he’s found that he could get any information about that was to talk to one of your characters. The only one he’s had good luck with is an introspective writer persona who spends a lot of time planning their stories rather than writing.

When he speaks to the writer persona, they talk about you like you’re a fictional character broken down into simple archetypes. He hates it. You’re real, damn it! Not a fucking character in a fucking story that can be dismantled into a few sentences or a brief character profile. But he endures because that’s the only way he could get to know you quickly.

He finds out that you have a ton of resources that you study and use; body-suits, muscle suits, make-up, so much latex, and just so much stuff.

But he ends up knowing more than that. He knows that you’ll never be a character that outside your range (like a small child or a giant). He finds out things like you sometimes wear some part of your disguises to sleep when you’re alone because you forget to take it all off; that you do reuse your characters more than once; that you’ll never do a character that likes something that the real you absolutely despises; all of these things he wouldn’t notice unless he pays special attention to each one of your personas which, face it, he only meets them for a short period of time and not all of them are good company.

Jesse sometimes wonders how much of the real you is projected onto your characters.

“So y’tellin’ me that the ‘original’ is good at all these things?”

He watched you open your mouth and pause, carefully thinking over what you’re about to say. In the end, you slump down in your chair, running a hand through your hair.

“Yes--no. That’d make for a Mary Sue or a Gary Stu, wouldn’t it?”

He doesn’t know what those things are, but shrugs anyway, willing you to continue.

“Well, luckily, they’re not. They pretend. They do have limits. Like, they can’t play someone like Reinhardt. And the ‘original self’ isn’t good at a lot of stuff, like, they can’t play a person who can fire off shots like you. But they can pretend by knowing how to at least hold a gun properly.”

“Don’t suppose that’ll be very handy in’a pinch.”

“Oh, it is. The bluff is good enough, sometimes. But rarely would the ‘original’ need to do something like that. Usually, just a person who says that can do it. Their favorite is probably old people. Inconspicuous, easy to do,” you say as you pull up multiple files from your tablet and project it into the air for Jesse to see. It’s of character descriptions. It has their names, birthdays, likes, dislikes, relationships--everything.

“The only issue is that those require more make-up and a lot of latex.” You run a hand through your hair again. Did you do that often as yourself? Or was it just a idiosyncrasy of this character? “But it gets a lot of jobs done because no one suspects the elderly. The only issue is that it gives the ‘original’ back pain. Too much hunching. They should probably do something about that.”

He finds himself enjoying these sessions more and more. It’s like being fed pieces of a mystery that just keeps getting deeper and deeper.

In reality, what’s getting deeper is him. He’s deep in feelings.

DID YOU KNOW?! Eventually, you become a source of confusion for him for a long time! You almost gave him his mid-life crisis early! One day, he thought was into women, then you show up as this really suave guy character, and then he thinks he’s gay, then you show up as this shy, awkward beauty, and he’s straight again. STOP KILLING THIS MAN.

He doesn’t know whether he falls in love with a persona or if he’s fallen for the real you. It’s just a mess. He’s a mess.

Eventually he decides that it’ll probably never happen, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking about it.

So he just stews on his feelings and shoves them away. But GOD if you don’t make it hard for him when you wear a character who is extra flirty or very touchy-feely.

In the end, McCree never finds out your real name or age or gender. But he knows what he sees, and he sees that you’re a kind (but mischievous) person who he enjoys the company of. He recognizes you through your mannerisms--no matter how hard you try to change them to fit your character, it’s still you with your habits. And that’s never going to change.

#jesse mccree x reader #mccree x reader #reader #drabble #this really got out of hand #I'm sorry anon I'll do better next time #I just really really got into the idea of having a reader who's alias is 'Anonymous' and has no real face #guys how do you romance or slow-burn or imply romantic-ness? this shit is hard #again this just got really out of hand and I'm so sorry but I just...yeah. I have no excuse.#my writing

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tarantismss · 5 years ago

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i want to live in a place much bigger than me. london, amsterdam, new york city. where nobody knows my name, where i can walk down the street, invisible on wednesday and on friday very much seen, making six new friends before i even reach the coffee shop. i want to travel the world and go on adventures and go camping with amazing people and take photos of every moment.

i want my own flat minimalist and cosy but with room for friends to stay the night if i so choose. at night i’ll plug in the fairy lights and light candles everywhere and burn coconut incense. a loft bed with blankets and pillows like white clouds and a desk underneath for when i can’t sleep and need to write in one of seventeen journals i never really needed to begin with. i might cover a wall with polaroids and things found at vintage shops and prints from my blog. another wall will be entirely shelved and i will spend hours in bookstores and second hand shops finding books to add to my collection even thought i know i’ll never have time to read them all, just so i can have fitzgerald and plath and emerson and thoreau fill the empty space when no friends are around. an old couch that’s still oddly comfortable with a big antique coffee table and neatly stacked magazines like vice and iD and russh, where i can pour myself a glass of wine or ash a cigarette or a blunt with a friend who has an accent that makes my heart flutter. a large chair by the window for when it rains and i can literally curl up to read a book in the glow of a thunderstorm. a balcony for when it’s warm and i am lonely and need the sun to hold me. a small kitchen equipped with a cast iron tea pot, enough room to make italian food and a refrigerator that is always stocked with red apples and sparkling pear wine. and of course i’ll need a massive closet filled with thrifted things and over sized sweaters and thigh high socks and black leggings and skirts and shorts and tops and everything else you could imagine so i can be a different girl every day - and beautiful lace lingerie that hopefully only one gorgeous, wonderful, tall, artsy boy will get the privilege of seeing.

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assholemurphy · 6 years ago

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Innocent Until : Chapter 6

Also on AO3

The 100

Murphamy

Explicit

Summary:

Sequel to Proven Guilty

Bellamy’s a cop who got the love of his life falsely arrested, Murphy’s a journalist who’s just trying to piece his life back together after the aftermath of his ex-boyfriend turned serial killer’s killing spree, that he’d ended up in jail for. His relationship with Bellamy died when he locked him away, or at least, he thought it had, but now, two years later, after a chance meeting in a coffee shop, they decide to give it another try. But Bellamy’s got a big case that he has to go undercover for, just as his relationship starts going well. Will they last this time around? Will Bellamy survive this case? Will Mbege discreetly poison Bellamy? Maybe, but maybe not.

Beginning

<- Previous Chapter

“Okay, so, 1000 or 1200?”

“1000? What’s 1000?”

“Watts.”

“Yeah, I said what’s 1000 for?”

“It’s 1000 watts.”

“That’s what I’m asking!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! It’s 1000 watts as in wattage, Murphy, stop it. It’s a microwave. You’re being a dumbass.”

“But I’m an adorable dumbass,” Murphy said with what he thought was a cute smile but really just looked like he had shoved a beach ball up his ass and it had finally deflated.

He started to lean against the front of the basket, but the second he shifted most of his weight onto it, it rolled away from him and left him flailing as he crashed to the floor, the basket rolling back at an angle and bumping into the display of cooking utensils, economically priced at ten dollars each, sending a couple of the buckets crashing to the floor, the noise drawing the attention of some nearby customers who craned their necks to see what had happened.

“But a dumbass nonetheless,” Mbege sighed and shook his head, turning back to the row of display microwaves in front of him.

Murphy just grinned and picked himself up from the ground, dusting off his jacket. He made his way over to the basket and pulled it away from the display before it could cause more damage. He waved to the customers who were staring at him and gave a little bow, snorting to himself when they turned their noses and walked on. Stupid dickholes always had to be judgey. It wasn’t like he’d done it on purpose.

He bent over to pick up the fallen spatulas and replace them in their bucket before setting it on the display again. It didn’t take more than a couple moments to clean up his mess, but when he stood, he was greeted by a rather surprised employee who looked him over and muttered out a quiet but grateful, “Thanks.”

“Well, I caused it. I’d be a dick to just walk off.”

“You would, but you’d also be part of the majority.”

“Well, the majority sucks ass.”

The employee, who’s nametag read ‘Justin,’ smiled and nodded, “Yeah, well, I could lose my job if I ever said that out loud.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m the one who said it, then,” Murphy laughed. He pointed to the display, “Do people really pay ten bucks for a fucking pasta fork?”

“Ah, but these aren’t just any pasta forks. They’re pastel and pretty and they’re from a line of kitchen supplies branded by some reality TV woman who can apparently cook or some shit, so by buying them, you, too, can make pasta the authentic way!” Justin told him, shaking his hands dramatically.

“With a jar of premade sauce and undercooked noodles?” Murphy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“And they wonder why their kids hate them. It’s a sad life, really. The one of Suzie-Homemaker who wanted to be an actress but failed in Hollywood when they realized she couldn’t, ya know, act, so she gave up and latched on the nearest middle-aged rich guy she could find because she never learned to do anything for herself.”

“Well, I mean, society probably played a role in that by telling her she was only worth her looks and never encouraging her to do anything worthwhile because ‘the boys won’t like you if you do that.’ I mean, it’s unfair.”

“Sure, I guess, but it’s not so much that, as the fact that they’ve convinced themselves that if they spend more money, they’ll be happier, instead of just going to night school with their husband’s money and then divorcing him once they’ve graduated. And it’s a little funny to watch them fawn over absurdly priced cookware like it’s gonna make a difference in how their frozen lasagna tastes. Just because it’s pastel green doesn’t mean the food’s gonna taste any different than it would if you bought a two-dollar white one.”

“Money does not a good lasagna make. But, I wouldn’t really know. I’m not allowed to touch the stove anymore,” Murphy admitted, sheepishly.

“What’d you burn?” Justin asked.

“Uh, water?” Murphy grimaced. “And myself. On multiple occasions.”

“Nice,” Justin laughed. “So, I’m guessing you’re here for a microwave, then?”

“Yeah. My friend Craig killed our last one.”

“Well, in that case-”

“Murphy! Get your ass back here!” Mbege called, looking annoyed.

“Boyfriend?” Justin asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

“No, my brother,” Murphy sighed. “I need to get back to him before he decides to shove a meat fork up my ass.”

“Sexy. Hey, uh, since you don’t have a boyfriend, do you mind if I give you my number?” Justin asked, hopefully.

“Oh. Actually, I do have a boyfriend. He’s just not here. Sorry,” Murphy apologized.

“If he’s not here, then he won’t know, right?”

Murphy blinked and shook his head, his brow furrowed, feeling a little angry that Justin had implied he’d ever be willing to cheat, not just on Bellamy, but on anyone. “He’s a cop. A detective. And he would know. Because I’d tell him. So, no, I don’t want your number. And I’ve really got to get back to my brother.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t change your mind?” Justin asked, smiling slyly.

“No. Have a nice day.” Murphy grabbed the cart and walked away, a shiver running down his spine. What a fucking creep.

“Flirting?” Mbege teased, having not overheard the conversation. “See, now why couldn’t you go for a guy like that instead of Bellamy? He was cute.”

“He was pushy and creepy, and he implied I should cheat on Bellamy, which I would never do,” Murphy grumbled, handing the cart over to Mbege so he could put the box that Murphy assumed housed their new microwave in it. “And I’m happy with Bell, okay? I love him.”

He glared at the box like it was the reason for Mbege’s mistrust of Bellamy, though he knew it wasn’t and that his mistrust was well earned. But, that stupid fucking microwave was the entire reason they were in this store, so it was the entire reason Murphy had even had to speak to Justin. How dare he fucking imply that Murphy would be anything less than faithful to anyone he was with? He’d never cheat, it wasn’t in his nature. Fucking creepy ass employees. Fucking microwaves. Fucking Craig blowing up microwaves.

“Murphy, the microwave isn’t going to fight you, so stop looking like you want to fight it. I swear to God, if you break this one before we even buy it, I’m going to make you dig your own grave and bury you in it with a TV playing the Big Bang Theory on repeat. The complete series. You will listen to it until you run out of oxygen and then I will keep it playing for the next ten years so that your soul won’t ever rest in peace,” Mbege threatened, resting an arm on top of the box protectively.

“Craig fought the last one. Why isn’t he buried?” Murphy pouted, turning away and busying himself looking at blenders.

“Because Craig didn’t mean to.”

“Or because he has your balls in a jar next to his side of the bed.”

“Right next to the one he keeps yours in,” Mbege sighed. “Think he’ll go back to normal after this is all over?”

“Probably. But the question is; will you still want to marry him after it’s all over?”

“He could straight up sever my spine and I’d still want to marry him. I love him, even if he’s being an insufferable ass right now. No matter what he does to me, no matter how much hell he has or will put me through, I’m always going to love that little shithead,” Mbege said, coming to stand next to Murphy.

They stood in silence for a moment before Mbege sighed again, “That’s how you feel about Bellamy, isn’t it? No matter what hell he’s put you through, you still love him?”

“Always will,” Murphy nodded. “Should we buy a new blender? Ours is a bit-”

“Dated?”

“Terrifying. It shoots sparks from the socket and one of the blades wobbles so much I’m afraid it’s going to fly off and gut me.”

“Then we should probably buy a new one.”

“Toaster, too.”

“Toaster, t- Murphy, did you break Eisenhower?”

“Maybe?” Murphy winced. “But honestly, who the hell names a toaster ‘Eisenhower?’”

“Craig did. And he loved that toaster.”

“So, we get a new one and glue googly eyes to it and let him name that one. He’ll be satisfied. Might even buy a fake mustache for it.”

“He’d like that.”

“But I get veto power on the name.”

“That’s not going to matter and you know it. Once he has a hold of the Sharpie, he’s a dictator. It’s his world, we just live in it.”

“His world is currently my least favorite place to be.”

“That why you’re spending so much time at Bellamy’s?”

“Half of it. The other half is because-”

“You love him. I got it,” Mbege rolled his eyes. He grabbed for a box, “Here, this one’s retro. You like that vintage shit, right? Cause you’re a closet hipster.”

Murphy scoffed, “I’m not a hipster and I’ve never been in the closet. Not once.”

“Oh, you are. You totally are. Why else would you wear those ridiculous wire-framed glasses and read Vonnegut? And that shitty iced shit you call coffee? Hipster.”

“I’m not a hipster, Begs, I’m punk. I do it because I like it, not because it’s trendy or somehow cool. I don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks about it. You’re missing the combat boots, leather jacket, and giant collection of punk music.”

“Most of which is on vinyl. And you’ve got a fucking record player!”

“I found it at a thrift store!”

“You really aren’t helping your case.”

“I’m not building a case. I’m building a wall. A brick one. Ala Poe,” Murphy huffed.

“A wall? You’re either an emo hipster or an orange dictator, I’m not sure which anymore,” Mbege snorted. “Come on, toasters are this way, I think.”

“You did not just compare me to that bad toupee wearing, crayon scribbling, spellcheck nightmare.”

“I did.”

“That’s not even okay.”

“Nope, it’s not.”

“Then why?” Murphy cried, standing in front of the cart so that Mbege had to stop. “Why are you being mean to me? What have I done wrong?”

“You haven’t done anything, Murph. It’s just your general existence that calls for it,” Mbege grinned. “It’s like you wear a giant ‘kick me’ sign attached to you at all times. I’m just doing what the universe demands.”

Murphy laughed, “You’re not wrong.” He jumped up on the bottom rack of the cart and stuck his arms out, “Push.”

Mbege raised an eyebrow but did as ordered.

“And I will always love you….!” Murphy sang as Mbege snickered. They drew looks of curiosity that quickly turned to disdain from other customers as the continued down the aisle looking for the toasters.

When they finally found them, Murphy jumped off the cart and grabbed for an orange one. Speaking of that absolute political nightmare. “This.”

“Fuck. No. Put it back.”

“But, it’s pretty!”

“It’s ugly!”

“We could glue googly eyes on it and some fake hair and-”

“I’m using my veto power. We’re not having a Donald Trump themed toaster.”

“But, it’d be funny!”

“No.”

“And we could get some Legos and build a little wall in front of it and stick a sign to it that says ‘white bread only.’”

“Would you stop?” Mbege asked, fighting a smile.

“Come on, please? Imagine it. Just think for a second. We could make breakfast great again!” Murphy laughed, holding the toaster close to his chest. “Please?”

“I swear to God, Murphy. If you don’t put it back right now-”

“Please? Look, I’m pretty sure that by buying this, we’ll be funding tax cuts for the rich. How great would that be?”

“Murphy, stop it. It’s not fucking funny,” Mbege choked out, trying to keep from laughing.

“Then why are you laughing? Just let it out, Mbege, it’s hilarious,” Murphy smirked, shaking the toaster. “You know what? I’m just gonna call Craig. We’re gonna take a vote. It’s democracy, bitch!”

“You’re gonna vote for Trump?” Mbege finally lost control of himself and let out a burst of laughter. “Have you forgotten your morals?”

“Breakfast doesn’t care about morals and neither does Trumpy the Toaster.”

“Craig’s gonna say yes,” Mbege groaned.

“Is that the sound of defeat I hear?”

“Fine, get the damn toaster.”

“Yes!” Murphy yelled and stuck the toaster in the front of the basket. “Now, to the craft supply aisle!”

“Do you know what you need?” Mbege asked, grumpily staring at the toaster. “Cause I’m not spending another hour in here while you search through aisles of things that look like they belong in the basement of a kindergarten teacher turned hoarder.”

“We need jewelry glue, because hot glue won’t work on a toaster, and googly eyes, cause Craig spilled the last of what we had in the driveway when we were trying to put them on your car-”

“You did what?”

“-and some foam to make a tie and hair. I’d use felt, but it might burn. Foam won’t look as good, but it’ll be safer, and I don’t want to kill Fuhrer Trumpy just yet. If he dies, it’ll be by public hanging.”

Mbege snorted and rolled his eyes, making his way to the craft aisles, Murphy trailing along behind him and looking at things.

“Murphy, put the towels back,” Mbege said without even looking.

“But-”

“No. You and Craig are just gonna cut holes in them to make capes like you did all our other ones. No.”

“I was drunk!”

“The first time!”

“Fine. No towels. But can we get this?” Murphy asked, holding up a Ninja Turtles themed cake pan.

“Do we need it?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“Baking cakes.”

“Uh-huh. Because you’re allowed to bake cakes.”

“I can mix them!”

“The last time I asked you to do that, you mixed it, then took the bowl and spoon and ran to the living room where you ate half of it. The answer is no.”

“Okay, then can we-”

“If the question ends with anything other than ‘go home now,’ the answer is no,” Mbege frowned.

“But-”

“Murphy, come on. It’s almost five, we’ve got to make supper, provided Craig doesn’t have the kitchen table covered in party favors.”

That was another thing he had to deal with today. If Craig hadn’t killed the microwave this morning, he’d be home with him. Maybe he should have left Murphy with him. That would have saved him the shame of having to look the cashier in the eye while he bought toy swords and an orange fucking toaster. Of all the things that orange bastard had inspired, this was the one that irked Mbege the most. At least, today. Well, so far today. He hadn’t read the news, yet, but he doubted anything would top Trumpy the goddamn Toaster. What the hell was wrong with him and why was he willing to go along with this? Why didn’t he just leave Murphy in the toy aisle and promise to pick him up in six years?

“How about we just get pizza? That way we don’t have to make Craig move. He might actually cut our balls off this time,” Murphy said, coming up behind Mbege and resting his head on his back. “I’m tired.”

“Then let’s hurry up and go home. We’ll eat and you can go to bed early.”

“Craig won’t let me,” Murphy whined. Craig had kept him up well past three last night making party favors and deciding on which candy they should have and it was all a blur. He hadn’t gotten to sleep until he fell asleep on the table and Mbege had all but carried him upstairs. Actually, now that he thought about it, “Did you carry me to bed last night?”

“You passed out at the table,” Mbege shrugged.

“I know that. Did you literally carry my ass to bed last night?”

“And tucked you in and read you a bedtime story.”

“Begsy!”

“Yes, Murphy, I carried your scrawny ass up to bed right before I forced Craig to our room. Which reminds me, have you been eating at all? You weigh like, half of what Craig weighs,” Mbege said with concern.

“Yes, Begs. But I’ve also been running around the city all day, every day. I’m fine. Don’t be such a mother hen,” Murphy huffed, pressing his face into Mbege’s back.

Mbege smiled softly, “I’m gonna start walking now, if you fall on your face, that’s your problem.”

Murphy shook his head and wrapped his arms around him, “Stay. I want to nap.”

“Walk with me, pick out your shit, come to checkout and help me put this shit in the car, then you can nap while we wait for pizza. And then you can eat. Then you can go to bed early, regardless of what Craig thinks, and you can wake up in time to see that apartment on eighty-third,” Mbege bargained.

“Or I could nap here for an hour and stay up with Craig all night again,” Murphy countered.

“Move your ass, shithead, I’m getting tired of being in this store and people are staring at us.”

Murphy raised his head and looked around, squinting at the elderly couple giving them a dirty look. “What? You’ve never seen a man take a nap in the middle of a department store before? Go ahead, take a picture, then! Use your little point and snap camera you bought on vacation to Florida last Christmas because your family didn’t want to spend it with you! There’s a twenty-four-hour photo center here, develop it and share with your friends at the nursing home!” He yelled at them, snickering when they huffed and turned around.

“That was rude,” Mbege sighed.

“And?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be nice to old people? Isn’t that part of your punk thing?”

“Only when they’re carrying groceries or crossing sidewalks. Otherwise, it’s open season on senior citizens. Especially when they’re looking at us like that,” Murphy spat.

“Like what?” Mbege asked, furrowing his brow.

“They had the same look that old people give you and Craig every time you hold hands in public. Or whenever I do anything that even remotely looks couple-y with you. It’s that stupid look they get as they remember back to the 50s when they could have had us, well, you, arrested for it. It pisses me off,” Murphy grumbled, letting go of Mbege and straightening his hair. “They deserve to be shouted at.”

“Oh,” Mbege nodded. He shook his head, unbothered. Why should he care about the opinions of some old fucks who’d be dead in three years? “Come on, Murphy. Let’s get the rest of our shit and go.”

Murphy nodded and put his hand on the basket, looking at Mbege.

“What?”

“Does it not bother you?”

“I’m used to it, Murphy. We have this conversation every time it happens. My answer hasn’t changed. It sucks, but you get used to it. Why?”

Murphy shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s just…”

“Just what, Murphy?”

“They give the same looks to me and Bellamy sometimes.”

“Look, Murph, it sucks but you can’t change their minds by shouting at them. If the Supreme Court and fifty years couldn’t change their minds, then nothing will. Don’t worry so much about them, they don’t matter. Half of them don’t vote and it’s not like they’re going to overturn a ruling just because some uppity little old lady got offended by seeing you hug me. That’s not how it works. I’m gonna tell you what Dad told me, okay? Don’t pay attention to them. Don’t. Don’t give them your time or your peace of mind. There’s nothing wrong with loving who you love. You’re not doing anything wrong, they are by judging you, so don’t let them upset you, because if their lives are so dull and sad that they have nothing better to do than get upset by someone else’s relationship, then they don’t need your anger, they need your pity. So, fuck them, okay?”

“That’s what he told me when I had my first boyfriend.”

“Well, it’s good advice.”

“That last bit wasn’t in there, though.”

“Gotta add a bit of myself to it, you know? Keep it up to date.”

Murphy snorted and slowed his pace so he was standing next to Mbege. “Thanks, Begs.”

“Anytime, little bro. Even if I don’t like you being with Bellamy, I don’t think you should be bothered by those people. It’s stupid for them to care.”

“I don’t know why you won’t just accept that I love him,” Murphy sighed. He’d tried everything he could think of to get Mbege to come around, but he wouldn’t.

“I accept that. And I accept he loves you. I just don’t accept that it’s good for you.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m an adult and can make my own decisions.”

Mbege frowned. He felt a little bit of deja-vu, but maybe he was wrong this time. Maybe it would actually work out for them. He hoped so, for Murphy’s sake. “Are you happy? With him, I mean? Does he make you happy?”

Murphy nodded, “Happier than I’ve been in a while.”

“Then I hope it works out for you.” And he did, he really did.

“Thanks, Begs.”

“I still don’t trust him, though.” And he wouldn’t until Bellamy proved he would never do anything that would hurt Murphy, that he wouldn’t keep secrets or lie to him, for any reason. If he showed him that, then maybe he would trust him with Murphy. Maybe.

“He’s not going to hurt me again,” Murphy told him. He reached out and linked their arms on the handle of the cart. “He won’t, okay?”

Mbege smiled down at him for a moment before shaking his head and turning their cart down an aisle that looked like a summer camp arts and crafts tent had exploded. “He had better not.”

._-*-_.

“So, this one time, he brings me this flashdrive, right? And I’m skeptical, because I highly doubt some lowlife drug runner actually has any real information on what’s going on in the cartel or gang or business, whatever they were calling it. And I tell him so, right?” Monty began, turning away from his computer to grab a slice of pizza from the box on the table and plopping down on the couch next to Murphy.

Murphy nodded, enthralled in Monty’s stories. So far he’d learned about the time Bellamy had gone undercover at a school, despite looking like he should have been graduating college, and the time he’d almost gotten arrested for stalking and had to call Kane to prove he was really a detective and the girl was potentially in danger and he’d been assigned to follow her in case the murderer showed up and tried to kill her, and his personal favorite, the time Bellamy had wrapped everything in Kane’s office in gift wrap, complete with giant bow for his birthday, which had caused a stapler to be chunked at his head and glitter bombs to be put in his desk at least once a week for the next two months.

He liked Monty’s stories. They gave him insight into who Bellamy was around everyone else. According to Monty, he could be a real asshole at times, and Murphy believed it, but he was glad that he wasn’t a complete stickler for the rules. He liked knowing Bellamy could have fun at work, it made him seem like a more relaxed person, because Murphy worried about him almost constantly due to how stressed he seemed to be when he got off work. Monty had assured him it was just the case he was on, something about drug dealers who kept giving him the slip and a snitch who couldn’t be bothered to double check his information.

“So, what was on the flashdrive?” Murphy asked, taking a bite of his own slice.

“Porn. Loads of porn. Of himself. And I’m telling you, this guy had some weird ass kinks, like, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It was so fucking weird. Like, I’m not going to judge, ya know? I’ve got my own weird shit, but it was just insane. The variety and creativeness of the videos was astounding,” Monty shook his head with a quiet laugh. “It was hilarious to see Bellamy’s face when I told him. Even better when I showed him.”

“So, he got a flashdrive of porn from a snitch?”

“Yeah. And then the guy skipped town! He just took off. Bellamy couldn’t find him until he showed up six months later in the cage for public lewdness. Probably making another video. He just, popped back up and when he saw Bellamy he greeted him like an old friend. I wish I could have been there to see that. Would have made my week,” Monty snickered.

“He does a lot of stupid shit, doesn’t he?” Murphy snorted.

“Yeah, but I mean, his closure rate is higher than anybody’s. He’s a great detective, but he can be a bit of an idiot at times. He’s one of my best friends, though. I don’t know what I’d do without him. He drug my ass in here so many times, but he never charged me. He wasn’t even a beat cop, he just saw Jasper and I in the cage one day and decided we were going to be his pet project. Every time we were in trouble, he was there, bailing us out and giving us a lecture. At first it didn’t stick, but after a while, well, we figured he was right, so we got our GEDs and went to college three years early. Finished when we were nineteen and he got us jobs here. I mean, we’d been in here so many times it had started to feel like home, anyway.”

“So, he just got you a job because he liked you?”

“Well, it’s kind of how the department works. Kane drags people in for various crimes and when they get old enough, he puts them through academy and then helps them make detective so they can be somebody. It’s like a big brother project. He’s saved so many of us from bullshit lives that would have gotten us arrested for good, or worse. I mean, if it’s not him, it’s Bellamy. They’re just really good at finding lost puppies and nursing them back to health and making them feel like they’re part of something. Most of us come from fucked up families, my mom was in a cult, actually. So, like, he gives us a home we can rely on, they both do. I lost count of how many nights Jasper and I spent at Bellamy’s place either detoxing or hiding from some crazy shit with our home lives,” Monty said, settling into the couch. “They’re good people. Kane’s like a father figure and Bellamy’s got that big brother thing going on. Everyone feels like they belong here, like we’re a family, no matter how much Kane complains about it being a circus.”

“A cult?” Sure, Monty’s story was great, and Murphy had a new respect for both Kane and Bellamy, but he was a little stuck on the cult thing.

“Yeah. Some creepy church group. I don’t even know what religion they were, but it was insane. She kept trying to convert me, too. Don’t get me wrong, she was a good person and I loved her, but she wasn’t the best mom, not after she joined them. Before, she was great, the best you could ask for. Then my dad died and she kinda lost it. I guess she joined the cult to fill the void. I wish she wouldn’t have, but it made her happy for a while, so I dealt with it. Then, about six years ago, she drank the Kool-Aid and now she’s gone.” Monty grinned a bit sadly, “I’m officially an orphan! I’m Batman! Hence the Batcave.”

“That’s some shit, man. I’m sorry.” That was all Murphy could think to say.

“Yeah, well, Jasper had it worse, so I’m not gonna complain,” Monty shrugged.

“Who is Jasper, anyway? Bellamy’s mentioned him, but he’s never taken me to meet him, so, like, who is he?” Murphy asked, curious.

“He’s my best friend. Like, I wouldn’t be alive without this dude,” Monty grinned. “You wanna meet him?”

“Sure,” Murphy nodded. “When?”

“Now. He’s in his lab, probably trying to blow shit up. It’s what he does best.”

Murphy tossed his half-eaten slice of pizza back in the box and stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans, “Let’s go. I love blowing shit up.”

“You’re gonna love him, then.”

Monty led him out of the Batcave and down the hall to a door that was covered in various stickers, from bands to comics to political references. Murphy snorted because there was no way that could be regulation for a police station, but he guessed Kane was right about it being a circus. But, what did he expect when all he hired were former delinquents? He wondered if he hadn’t got sent to juvie and had continued raising hell if Kane would have dragged his ass here when he graduated and given him a job, too. Possibly. He was here enough, but Kane hadn’t really taken much of an interest in him that he knew of. Of course, that was probably his fault because every time someone had shown him even the slightest bit of kindness or care, he’d snapped at them and done everything he could to push them away, so they didn’t get close and hurt him when they failed to protect him.

He vaguely remembered Kane, actually. It had been why he was so scared of him during his interrogation. He’d been kind but stern and had tried to figure out why Murphy was doing what he was, but Murphy had just sneered at him and told him to fuck off. Several times, until Kane no longer came to see him when he’d gotten arrested. Maybe he should apologize. Knowing what he did now, it seemed like he’d actually been trying to help.

“Murphy?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. Got lost for a second, but I swear, I’m paying attention now,” Murphy smiled sheepishly.

“It’s cool. You ready to meet Jasper?” Monty asked, excited. He really liked Murphy and he hoped he liked Jasper so the three could hang out. It’d be nice to have more friends, especially ones outside the department. He didn’t really get out much anymore, so he didn’t have all that many that weren’t some form of law enforcement.

“Yeah,” Murphy grinned. “Can’t wait to blow shit up.”

Monty laughed and pulled the door open. Murphy half expected smoke to start pouring out and rave lights to flash, but all he saw was pristine white machines and a thousand knick-knacks scattered throughout them. All in all, it was impressive, and just as personalized as the Batcave.

“Welcome to the Secret Sanctum!” A voice rang out and before Murphy could blink there was a clatter of things dropping to the ground and a very lanky ball of red vaulting over a table to land in front of him. “Who are you and do you want to see what happens when you pour melted aluminum into a watermelon?”

Murphy blinked, in shock from the blur of noise and commotion that had just unraveled in front of him. He shook his head and tried to take in the man in front of him. He was tall and his limbs didn’t quite fit the rest of his body, like he’d never fully grown into them, but he was smiling wide and looked a little too friendly, so Murphy figured he was safe. He wore a red lab coat and a pair of goggles on his head that made Murphy laugh a little. This guy was some kind of insane, he was sure, but he liked him already.

“I’m Murphy, John Murphy,” Murphy said when he’d finally gotten over the shock.

“Murphy as in Bellamy’s one true love Murphy? The princess from all of his fairy tales? The Patroclus to his Achilles? The one that got away for two whole years and sent Bellamy into a spiral of angst until he finally got a second chance and perked the fuck up? The guy who removed the stick from his ass? The one he never, ever, ever shuts the fuck up about? That Murphy?” Jasper rambled on, smiling the whole time.

“Uh, I guess?” Well, he wasn’t sure what to make of that, but it had been entertaining.

“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you, Murphy. I’m Jasper Jordan, lab tech extraordinaire and resident Superman,” he introduced himself, sticking out a hand.

Murphy took it and Jasper gave a shake that Murphy was pretty sure he felt in his whole body. “Nice to meet you, too?” He wasn’t so sure.

“Now, about that watermelon?” Jasper asked, turning back to the table. When he turned around, Murphy saw there was a Superman symbol on the back of his coat, except it had a J instead of an S. It was cool, Murphy thought. Nerdy as all hell, but cool.

“Um, sure? Are you allowed to do that?” Murphy didn’t want to be an accessory to something that would make Kane angry. He’d heard horror stories from Bellamy and he didn’t want to experience that in person.

“Well, yes and also no. It depends on who you ask,” Jasper whirled around, a wild look on his face and held a finger up, “and who you tell.”

“So, don’t tell Kane?” Murphy asked.

“Definitely don’t tell Kane,” Monty laughed. “He’s got enough to worry about without knowing about what goes on down here. As long as nothing expensive gets broken and we get our work done, he doesn’t really ask questions. Not after the time he caught us recreating a crime scene from the red light district with mannequins dressed in those goose dresses from White Chicks. He doesn’t really want to know, ya know?”

Murphy nodded and followed the two deeper into the room, carefully stepping over the things that had fallen to the floor. It looked like a couple test tubes and the contents of a Lego set mixed with the remnants of a third-grade science project, but he wasn’t too sure.

They lead him to the very back of the lab where a watermelon set on a table, a hole carefully cut out of the top. What looked like a modified metal Easy-Bake Oven with a can of red hot liquid metal inside was perched on a second, smaller table, along with a pair of long tongs and some gloves. The whole area was covered in sheets of plastic and Murphy was almost certain they were about to murder him.

Jasper held out two pairs of safety glasses for them both, cheerfully saying, “It might explode, and I don’t want to have to deal with the paperwork if you go blind. That would be a nightmare for all of us. So, glasses. I’m not going to make you wear aprons, cause they look stupid as fuck, but some lab safety is necessary. Put them on and prepare yourself, I’m about to make history!”

“Jasper, this experiment has been done before. You’re not making history, you’re just making a mess,” Monty sighed.

“Do you not want to see it?” Jasper asked, his excitement dimming a bit.

“No! Of course I do! I just don’t want to clean up afterwards, that’s all,” Monty assured him.

“Well, too bad. This is a team effort. You stay for the show, you stay for the clean up. Even you,” Jasper said, looking pointedly at Murphy.

“Sure, that’s cool. I’ve got no plans.” His apartment showing had been that morning and he liked it, he was considering renting it, actually, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get the deposit together before the other couple who were looking at it did. Plus, even if he did, the guy still might sell it to them, and there was no getting the deposit back, and Murphy wasn’t going to spend out $700 just to lose the apartment. He’d have to really think it over.

“Great! Then enjoy the show!” Jasper cheered. He slipped on the gloves and grabbed the tongs, holding them out as far away from himself as he could. “It’s gonna get messy!”

He picked up the can from Wednesday Addam’s Easy-Bake Oven and walked slowly over to the watermelon. “Stand back!”

Murphy too a step back and watched, feeling a little more excited than he wanted to admit.

Jasper quickly poured the metal into the watermelon and jumped back, the can clattering to the ground and burning a hole in the plastic. Murphy watched the watermelon with anticipation, smiling wide when he heard it crack and explode, sending chunks everywhere. A few pieces caught on fire and one whizzed past Murphy’s head.

“Ah!” he yelled, grabbing the side of his head.

“Oh, shit!” Jasper said, running over to him. “Did it burn you?”

Monty grabbed for a first aid kit stashed under the table and pulled it out. “I got the kit.”

“No, no! I’m good. It’s not burnt that bad. It just caught me off guard. I’m alright,” he assured them, pulling his hand away from the side of his head. “It didn’t get me too bad, I don’t think.”

“Uh, well…” Monty trailed off.

“Er, it, well, I’m not sure how to put it, really…” Jasper tried. “Here, I’ve got a mirror.”

“A mirror?” Murphy asked, confused. Then it dawned on him, “It didn’t get my hair, did it?”

That would be a nightmare. Murphy loved his hair. He’d had the same hairstyle since he was sixteen. It was perfect for him. Long enough to be edgy but not so long that it got in his way. Plus, it went with the whole ‘fuck gender roles’ aesthetic he tried to keep up.

Jasper returned with the mirror and held it out to Murphy. “It’s not that bad?”

Murphy grimaced as he raised the mirror to his face. The grimace turned to a look of horror when he saw the side of his head. “Oh, God. My head’s gone. What the hell? How the fuck do I explain this?”

“Just don’t tell Bellamy and you’ll be fine,” Jasper shrugged.

“Yeah, he shouldn’t even notice. He’s not the most observant, you know,” Monty chimed in.

“Half my head is gone. I’m pretty sure he’ll notice.”

Jasper winced, “Uh, I don’t know, distract him?”

“How the hell… Fuck it, I don’t care. It’s fine. I’ll be fine. It’s just hair,” Murphy said a little sadly. He loved his hair, but maybe it was time for a change. He needed one. This might be a good start. “I’ll just get a haircut tomorrow morning and he’ll never know what happened.”

“Good idea!” Jasper nodded. “Now, do you want to take apart the rest of the watermelon and see the sculpture?”

“Sculpture?” Murphy asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Monty said. “When you pour molten metal into a fruit, it turns into a sculpture. I’ve got two in my lab and three in our house. Jasper has like five in here.”

“Mhm. So, you can have this one if you want it. They’re pretty damn cool,” Jasper offered.

“Sure?” He could use décor for his new apartment.

Jasper smiled and turned to the table, grabbing a knife and cutting the rest of the watermelon open, revealing a bright, silvery, odd-looking little sculpture that he held out to Murphy. “See? Wicked, right?”

“That’s fucking sick,” Murphy said, turning the metal over in his hand. “And I can keep it?”

“Yeah. We’ve got enough and we’re always making more. So, if you want another one, you’re more than welcome to join us for another experiment. We’ll get you a helmet next time,” Jasper laughed.

“Cool, thanks. And yeah, I’d love to see another experiment.”

“So, you liked it?” Monty asked, hopeful.

Murphy nodded, “Yeah, you two are cool. You should come over to my place some time and hang out with my brothers and I. If you want to. It’ll have to be after the wedding, though.”

“That’d be great,” Monty smiled. “Just let us know when. We’re free most nights, actually. We could get drinks sometime, if you want?”

“I don’t drink,” Murphy told them. “But, I’m more than willing to tag along, if you’d like.”

“Nah, we can do something else. Get burgers or some shit. Maybe even laser tag sometime?” Jasper suggested. He was like Monty, he didn’t have many friends outside of the department, and he liked Murphy, he seemed cool. Not at all like the criminal everyone had been convinced he was, though, Jasper had stayed clear of it. He hadn’t wanted to get involved. Murder cases weren’t his thing, too much violence. He’d do the work, but he wouldn’t ask for details.

“Hell, yeah. That sounds great,” Murphy nodded.

“Awesome. Now, time to clean this shit up. We can just throw the plastic away, but the table needs to be wiped down…”

._-*-_.

“I don’t like it,” Murphy huffed when Bellamy ruffled what was left of his hair. “It looks stupid.”

He’d gotten a haircut earlier that morning, picked it out from a book, it looked kinda punk, but not as punk as he would have liked it too. They stylist had screwed up and cut it a little too short and made him look more like he was going to apply for a position at a bank than like he was about to go out and topple oppressive power structures. He’d still tipped and he’d lied about liking it, because there was nothing she could do to fix it, but he felt stupid.

“I think it’s cute,” Bellamy laughed, pulling Murphy close to him. He had the day off for some holiday, or well, he’d been forced to take it off considering how much overtime he already had, so even though it wasn’t an official day off for the rest of the department, Kane had used it as an excuse to make him go home. Murphy wasn’t going to complain, though, it meant he had Bellamy all to himself for the day, since he’d given Craig the slip, leaving Mbege to deal with him and his obsessive tendencies and dress hunting.

Technically, Mbege couldn’t see it, but he could calm Craig down while he went through magazines for inspiration. He and Murphy had narrowed it down to a few styles, but Craig still wanted a good reference for when he went to the shop tomorrow, which he was going to drag Murphy to, and Murphy was not looking forward to Craig crying in a dressing room because it wasn’t perfect. Murphy loved him, and he was glad he was officially being brought into the family and he could call him his brother for real, but dammit, he was so stressed that he was being overdramatic about everything now. He’d gotten over the bridezilla thing for the most part, but now he was having breakdowns about everything and it was somehow worse, because seeing him cry made Murphy want to fuck up whoever or whatever had done it, but he couldn’t very well fight the florist that quit on them because then he’d go to jail. He’d settled for leaving a scathing Yelp review, but it hadn’t felt like enough.

Murphy sighed and pressed himself against Bellamy, feeling comforted by his arms and knowing that no matter how crazy the wedding stuff got, he could always escape and Bellamy would make him forget about it altogether, “You think?

Bellamy nodded and pressed a kiss to Murphy’s forehead. “Yes. You look very professional. Now we just need to work on your wardrobe.”

Murphy scoffed and pulled back enough to give Bellamy a dirty look, “I look amazing.”

Bellamy snorted, “You look like you’re ready to see Fall Out Boy live.”

“And they’re a good band,” Murphy defended himself. He saw nothing wrong with how he dressed. Just because his jeans were ripped didn’t mean anything. He’d destroyed them himself, thank you very much, and it had taken a whole afternoon to get them just right. And some people’s opinions of his shirts wasn’t a reflection on him. If they didn’t like knowing that ‘America Was Never Great,’ well, that was their problem for sleeping through history class. He had style, and it was a good style, he liked it, so nobody else’s opinions mattered.

Bellamy shrugged, “I wouldn’t hire you.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m not asking you for a job,” Murphy snapped, pulling away from Bellamy and crossing his arms.

“Come on, babe, you need to look more professional. Not a whole lot, but you want a job, right? Let me help.”

“You’re gonna put me in a monkey suit.”

“Suits look nice.”

“Yeah, on you. Whenever I wear one it looks like I’m going to a funeral.”

“Whose funeral would you be going to?”

“My dignity’s,” Murphy huffed. Bellamy was probably right, though. He had to dress more professionally if he wanted a real job. He got away with it at COL, but only because Jaha had fought for him. Anywhere else, he’d get reprimanded and possibly fired for it.

“Babe, I promise, I won’t make you look like you’re going to a funeral. You don’t have to wear a suit. You just need to look more professional, so people will take you seriously when you interview them.”

“Did you take me seriously when I interviewed you?”

Bellamy bit his lip, trying to find an easy way to say it, but he found none. He sighed, “No, not really. I thought you ran an underground gore blog or something from your parent’s basement. I also thought you looked ridiculous. Hot, sure, later, when I wasn’t pissed at you, but as far as first impressions go, I didn’t take you seriously at all.”

Murphy frowned, “Fine.” Then he smiled, “But would you have fucked me? Like, if it wasn’t a crime scene and you weren’t as pissed. If we’d met in a bar or something. Would you have fucked me?”

Bellamy grinned and took a step closer to Murphy, grabbing his hips and pulling him back in. “I would have ripped that stupid t-shirt right off you and thrown you on a bed and fucked you senseless.”

Murphy nodded, satisfied, “Good. Now, if I wore a suit or some shit, would you want to fuck me as much?”

“I’d take your tie and wrap it around your wrists and tie you to my headboard, gag you with mine, and fuck you until you couldn’t take it anymore,” Bellamy whispered, pressing a kiss to Murphy’s neck.

“So, you’re saying you would fuck me no matter what I wore?” Murphy asked, baring his neck for Bellamy so he could keep going.

“It doesn’t matter what you wear because by the time I got you home, you wouldn’t have it on, anyway,” Bellamy told him between kisses. “That being said, if I could ever convince you to wear a skirt for me, I don’t think we’d even make it back here.”

Murphy moaned quietly when Bellamy gently scraped his teeth against his skin before biting down and sucking a mark. “You want me in a skirt?”

“I do, if you ever wanted to wear one,” Bellamy admitted. He’d wanted to see Murphy in a skirt since he’d first found out about his loose perception of gender. “Maybe lacy panties, too.”

“I’ve got both, actually,” Murphy said, a little shyly. “I could wear them for you.”

“Yeah?” Bellamy smiled against Murphy’s skin. “You’d be okay with that?”

“As long as you don’t rip them, I’m fine with it,” Murphy nodded.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise,” Bellamy said, sucking another mark that left Murphy squirming.

“So, are you going to fuck me or fix my wardrobe, I need to know what’s going on today,” Murphy asked, pulling Bellamy so close there was no space left between them. “I mean, I know which one I’d prefer, but you do have a point and I would like to get a job sometime soon.”

“I’ll help you fix your wardrobe, then. But I’m not done yet.”

“You’re just gonna get me all turned on and then leave me like that so I’m more compliant when we go shopping because I want to get home faster so you’ll fuck me. That’s exactly what you’re doing, isn’t it?” Murphy scowled but made no move to pull away.

“It might be,” Bellamy grinned, sucking one last mark on Murphy’s neck before pulling back. “Or I might be marking you up so that when we go out, everyone knows you’re mine.”

“So, this is you being possessive?” Murphy smirked. “You’re not gonna start grabbing my ass in public whenever someone looks at me, right?”

“I might start doing that, actually. I mean, after that incident with the Target guy, I think it might be a good idea to make sure everyone knows you’re taken. Unless you’re against that?” If he was, Bellamy would stop, no hesitation. He didn’t want to make Murphy uncomfortable.

“No, no. I’m very much for it.” Murphy didn’t usually like possessive guys, but Bellamy was a special case. He wanted everyone to know he was Bellamy’s, and every time Bellamy did something to show that, it reminded Murphy, too. He liked knowing Bellamy wanted him enough to be possessive. And the fact that he didn’t do it in a creepy stalker way like Richards had was probably another reason why he didn’t mind it.

“Good. Then let’s go,” Bellamy grinned, letting go of Murphy and grabbing his keys. “I can’t wait to see you in a tie.”

“I’m not wearing a jacket. That’s too much.”

“How about a vest?”

“Am I going to a wedding?”

“Not yet.”

“Then no.”

“Fine. But I’m putting you in at least one pair of slacks.”

Murphy sighed and followed him to his car. It was going to be a long day.

Two hours later, Murphy stood in front of a mirror wearing a pair of dark wash blue jeans with no rips, a light pink button down, and a black tie. He had to admit, it didn’t look horrible. It wasn’t what he would prefer, but it was alright.

“The tie’s too much,” he muttered too himself, shaking his head and taking it off. “I don’t like it.”

“I think you’ll like this one better,” Bellamy said, coming up to him from the racks of clothes, holding a shopping bag. “Here, I’ll put it on you, then you can see it.”

He pulled the tie from a bag and put it around Murphy’s neck, tying it for him. “There you go.”

“Where the hell have you been, anyway?” Murphy asked, furrowing his brow. Bellamy had disappeared fifteen minutes ago and Murphy had been left to wander the racks alone.

“I may have gone to a different store. One with a more alternative fashion. Look at the tie.”

Murphy groaned but turned towards the mirror. His eyebrows shot up and a grin spread across his face when he saw it. It was plain white with a black skull and crossbones at the bottom. It looked nothing like the ties he’d been trying on. He absolutely loved it. “Nice.”

“I thought you’d like it. I got three colors of that one, one with a full skeleton, and a rainbow one. Figured you could still express yourself, just in a subtler way,” Bellamy told him, resting his hands on Murphy’s waist. “I like this color on you.”

Murphy turned his head so he could kiss Bellamy’s cheek, “Thank you. I love it.”

During the two hours they’d been here, Bellamy had completely changed his style. Less offensive t-shirts and more button downs, no more ripped jeans or political patches. The one thing he’d insisted on keeping was his combat boots. They weren’t going anywhere. Bellamy had finally relented but demanded, “Then for fuck’s sake, tie them!”

Murphy looked himself over in the mirror. He didn’t completely hate it. But, still, he frowned, “I look like an adult.”

Bellamy snorted, “Oh, the horror.”

“Fuck off.”

“Come on, get dressed, we’ll check out and go eat,” Bellamy told him.

“Then what are we going to do?”

“We could shop more. Maybe find some better looking boots or some more ties. Maybe a nice belt. And then…”

“And then?”

“Then I’m gonna take you home and pin you against a wall and fuck you until you’re screaming my name so loud the neighbors call in a noise complaint,” Bellamy smirked and ran his hands up Murphy’s sides. “Sound good?”

“Very good,” Murphy nodded, feeling his dick twitch in his pants. He took a deep breath, they still had at least a few hours left in the mall. He could wait. But the marks Bellamy had left were still visible above his collar and he could almost feel Bellamy’s lips on his neck. Maybe he was right and Bellamy had just done it to make him more compliant. It had probably worked, considering how little of a fuss he’d made about the button downs.

Next Chapter ->

#the 100 #murphamy #murphamy fanfiction #john murphy #bellamy blake #100 fic #my fics #murphamy fic #innocent until fic #this is it for all the chapters i have so far #but there'll be smut in the next one

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jeremystrele · 7 years ago

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A Plant-filled Richmond Rental

Homes

by Lucy Feagins, Editor

The top floor studio, featuring an amazing plaid couch found by Jenna’s roommate on Gumtree. ‘Most people tend to pick up their jaw from the floor when they see this room of the house in particular, due to all the different nooks and design features,’ says Jenna! Photo – Eve Wilson.

Details of the top floor studio. A lot of the small picture frames/artworks were collected from op shops by Jenna and her housemates over the years. Photo – Eve Wilson.

That amazing teardrop window! ‘The best part of this top room is the never-ending windows, in every shape and size you can imagine. It is FULL of light, and the best place to grow plants,’ explains Jenna. Photo – Eve Wilson.

The living room, featuring an artwork by Jenna’s brother. The owner’s son told Jenna that apparently lots of house parties once went down in this living room, held by both the kids and the grown-ups! Photo – Eve Wilson.

A lush corner of the living room. ‘Plants jumbled together in big groups can create their own ecosystems, so that mixed with the lighting and air flow created the perfect urban jungle,’ Jenna tells us. Photo – Eve Wilson.

Dining nook with bright, blue chairs gifted to Jenna by a friend. Photo – Eve Wilson.

Another dining nook! This is one of the most utilised areas of the house, according to Jenna, where there is always someone sitting and working or entertaining. The structure is built from recycled Jarrah wood which gives it a ‘forest cabin feel.’ Photo – Eve Wilson.

Jenna Holmes, the Plant Mama herself! Photo – Eve Wilson.

‘I would go so far as to say this is my dream kitchen!’ Jenna says, ‘it’s made to be a social kitchen. Many a night would be spent with someone in the kitchen and others sitting in the dining room chatting, cooking, drinking wine and playing music.’ It features open Jarrah wood shelving, blue tiles and dark wooden bench tops. Photo – Eve Wilson.

One of the main bedrooms. ‘The elevated sleeping nook is such a simple aspect of the house, yet one of our favourites,’ tells Jenna. Photo – Eve Wilson.

Jenna’s room, where everything is a thrift or vintage find! Her housemate (who collects and sells vintage furniture) found the large circular mirror and wooden dresser. Jenna’s favourite found piece is the framed picture of a woman holding a basket – ‘$3 from an old lady in Northcote!’. Photo – Eve Wilson.

The greenhouse. It was once used as a studio space by the previous owner, architect Greg Burgess, where he did all his design work. Photo – Eve Wilson.

Some of Jenna’s healthy plant babies! Photo – Eve Wilson.

A corner of the greenhouse. ‘The neighbour told me when I moved in that the studio/greenhouse has magic creative “juju” in the walls, as it is the space where previous owner Gregory Burgess creates some of his best and most awarded designs” Jenna reflects. Photo – Eve Wilson.

The glass windows pains and overgrown front yard make the perfect combination for filtered light, and all the plants in the greenhouse grew rapidly because of this! Photo – Eve Wilson.

The rented Richmond home of Jenna Holmes aka Plant Mama is a testament to just how strongly connected you can feel to a home, even when it’s only temporary. This rambling Victorian house has been Jenna’s home for under a year, and she’ll soon be moving on again, as the home is sadly earmarked for demolition. Such is the nature of share house living in Melbourne!

The house itself has many stories to tell. In the 1950’s, it was owned by Croation/Australian photographer Mark Strizic. Strizic’s father, Zdenko Strizic, who was a professor of Architecture at Melbourne University, renovated the back of the house, adding a charming greenhouse which is now Jenna’s plant studio.

Later, Australian author Barry Oakley lived here. Then, in 1978, Architect Gregory Burgess purchased the home, and made further design updates, adding the recycled Jarrah kitchen, and an upstairs loft bedroom. The house was Burgess’ family home for 40 years, before changing hands again three years ago. And just last year, Jenna moved in.

‘I wasn’t looking for a house, nor did I need to move from where I was’ the intuitive creative says. ‘I was late night scrolling real estate listings, saw the house and knew I had to live there’.

Despite having been here for less than a year, it hasn’t taken long for Jenna to fall deeply in love with her intensely creative, many-layered home. ‘It has warmth in its presence, it’s a nice space to be in’ she says. ‘I also love the history in the house and the ideas that have been born in it… The neighbour told me when I moved in that Greg Burgess created some of Australia’s most beautiful buildings whilst working here, and that there is creative juice flowing through the walls. I feel as though also as a creative I have also made my best work whilst living in this house.’

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justauniform-blog · 7 years ago

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Pink Jumper |Tatty Devine Necklace | Milk Tooth LDN Earrings

Well hello there you lovely lot! Today we’re delving straight in with a fashion post, I have so many exciting pieces to share with you that I could actually burst! Let’s get started then shall we? Before that happens and I leave a colourful mess everywhere. I swear my new addiction to Stranger Things (yes, I’m soooo late to the party) is doing something to my brain. First up the teddy coat, man alive have I resisted this trend. I was determined to not join the other 98% of the population that owns one, but here I am, in a teddy coat and absolutely loving it. At first it was rather easy to resist, most of the teddy coats that were sneaking in during Autumn 17 were pretty plain Jane. Although they were very lovely, they weren’t statement enough for me. I mean leopards over bears any day, right? But then a number of months later and just after I had congratulated myself for being original, TopShop go and bring this colour block number out. Fortunately for my ego it was a tad on the pricey side, especially as I had just bought a new faux fur a few week prior. I talked myself out of it and decided that I would visit it whenever I was near a TopShop. Then the TopShop sale happened and the price was too good to be true, and and and and well, just look at it, it’s perfect. I am in love, from the colour block details, to the length and to the fact that someone just asked me if it was Max Mara. Plus all the rumours are true, it is the comfiest coat around! If you’re thinking about joining the teddy brigade, I highly recommend it.

Teddy Coat | Light Up Shoes | Striped Trousers

It has finally happened, my life is complete, I own a pair of light up shoes. All this time I have been so envious of those cool toddlers with their flashing shoes. Well now I’m a cool kid too. Not only do they light up (3 different varieties of lighting upness, FYI), they’re also metallic, which in my humble opinion is the best colour choice for a shoe, oh and they’re by the uber cool Katy Perry Collections. Oh my goodness have you seen her shoe collection? It is epic! I picked these up at Style Set, who are a new site hosting a whole caboodle of fab designers.

I know what you’re thinking, Siobhan do you own anything else that you could put your lower half of your body in? The answer is yes, but they’re not anywhere near as phenom as these striped trousers. So yes sorry for the reappearance, they’re just too good, I had to share them again.

I hold before you another item you’re going to be seeing a lot of, the pink cosy jumper. Yes there is a theme going on here, come on, it is January and the main priority right now is warmth. This jumper is another sale purchase, it was something crazy like £12 which means its cost per wear is currently at 0.01p. Even my accountant can’t argue at that one. January is the best time to pick up bargain knitwear, the shops are getting ready for Spring / Summer, where the UK is getting ready for the big freeze. Ahh Summer, I miss you, please come back.

Can we just take a moment to admire my accessory game here, I don’t want to blow my own trumpet but hello! Of course I have been helped hugely by the likes of Tatty Devine (necklace) and MilkTooth London (earrings). If you want quality statement jewellery, you know where to go. I have been searching for the perfect outfit for this amazing rainbow necklace, I wanted it to take centre stage. It looks so fabulous over knitwear as it adds a bit of interest. The earring are the statement dream, gold plated and curated with artist Maria-Ines Gul, this is my second pair from MilkTooth and you know I’m already eyeing up my third.

Lets end on a high, the glasses, I forgot how much fun it was to wear glasses, I have absolutely no idea why but I had an unintentional break from them. Well they’re back, I am going to add buying more vintage glasses to my things to do in 2018. I’m not quite sure if any can top this pair, they have all the Iris Apfel vibes. I found them in a thrift store in Houston for 10 buck, please reread that bit again with an American accent. I am headed to Houston again this week, where I fully intend to put this glasses plan into action.It would be amazing to hear all about your favourite pieces at the moment, pop me a comment below, I’d love to have a good natter.

I better go and plug in my light up shoes, see you on Wednesday.

BIG LOVE,

Siobhan

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I've got Light Up Shoes and I'm not afraid to use them! Well hello there you lovely lot! Today we’re delving straight in with a fashion post, I have so many exciting pieces to share with you that I could actually burst!

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empireintheair · 7 years ago

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– by ChiChai@Empire –

Throwback Thursday to ChiChai@Empire and Chris@Empire’s trip to Japan in May 2017

Our strongest memories are often transformative moments that affect us for the long run. One of my transformative moments was the first time I strolled down Upper Haight Street in San Francisco. My mom and I were visiting my uncle who lives around the corner. And, what meant to be a lunch date became one of my transformative moments. Little did I know that my fifth-grade soul would fall in love with streetwear and urban art that day.

Growing up, little girl fashion choices were often limited to forced structures of what girls “should” be a.k.a. most tees had phrases like “Babygirl” or “Angel.” Please watch this video to get a better idea of what I mean (and how even with simple t-shirt slogans, the social construct of sexism is embedded onto our psychology).

Upper Haight Street showed me that the idea of how girls “should” dress didn’t matter. With stores like Stussy SF, FTC, and TRUE, I saw for the first time t-shirts with art. No cheesy slogan, no cute ass puppy, none of that. These tees had pure artwork on them. Not only did the little artist in me leap in excitement, I was enthralled to see the women working in these shops. Seeing women rock streetwear for the first time was like the first time seeing women who didn’t give an f about being in a male-dominated industry. To me, it was as if their confidence rocking streetwear made the statement “I’m equal and/or better.” I knew instantly that I wanted to be part of that world.

Me on Haight Street in front of a piece by SF artist Sam Flores(2012)

As other California streetwear-lovers know, we blessed. We have LA, SF, and Oakland where urban brands thrive i.e. Hellz Bellz, Benny Gold, Illest, Oaklandish, and way way way more. Over the years, while I dove deeper in love with fashion, I dreamt of visiting a particular street across the seas for another transformative moment: Takeshita Street.

As all streetwear-lovers know, Takeshita Street of Harajuku in Tokyo, Japan is a large slice of streetwear heaven on earth.

Many know Takeshita as being brightly lit with pink storefronts selling staple Harajuku clothing, such as frilly skirts and loud platform shoes.

Photo by Christina Berlina

It’s also known to have cutesy themed cafes and dessert stands. Chris@Empire and I stopped by a Sanrio one out of curiosity. Not gonna lie, it was pretty yummy.

Back to streetwear…

What makes Takeshita Street a streetwear heaven– after passing through its more froufrou side– is its seemingly-endless shops of urban fashion. The shops here push the boundaries beyond the basic pairing of tee + sneakers. The graphics printed on the apparel ranged from classic placement to experimental; all the locals had a unique silhouette by their layering and curation of clothes; and the brands and those rockin them were unapologetically and confidently themselves.

Strolling through Takeshita Street went beyond my expectations and was indeed another transformative moment for me and my personal style.

Here are some of the favorite stores Chris@Empire and I visited:

Kimono Kabukis

Takeshita not only includes the shiny and new, it also has thrift stores reviving older gems. One of these thrift stores is Kimono Kabukis which sells vintage kawaii kimonos.

They invite its buyers to bring kimonos into the contemporary world. Example A: how steezy is this mannequin tho?

Example B: From their Instagram

. Nu Skool Riot . #kimonokabukis #kimonokabuki #kimono #haori #yukata #harajuku #kawaii #キモノカブキス #原宿 #かわいい #着物 #羽織 #浴衣 #love #fashion #saijoshirt

A post shared by Kimono.Kabukis (@kimono.kabukis) on Jul 8, 2017 at 12:12am PDT

. Rude boy !!! . #kimonokabukis #kimonokabuki #kimono #haori #yukata #harajuku #kawaii #キモノカブキス #原宿 #かわいい #着物 #羽織 #浴衣 #love #fashion #saijoshirt

A post shared by Kimono.Kabukis (@kimono.kabukis) on Jun 24, 2017 at 1:22am PDT

Billionaire Boys Club

Billionaire Boys Club is on the more luxe side of streetwear (i.e. it’s pricing.) But with two big names as its creators, visiting this store was on our list of must-visits.

Trend-setters and musicians Pharrell Williams and Nigo founded BBC in 2005. It has three storefronts on three different continents, adding to the rarity and value of the brand. The store’s layout was clean-cut with out-of-this-world accents to match its astronaut logo.

Undefeated

We’ve been to Undefeated in San Francisco and Los Angeles so we were curious to see what the Tokyo one was like.

It was on the cozier side but it was grand nonetheless. With its wooden fixtures and well-lit glass cases, the store’s handsome setup made us feel as though we were about to buy suits and jewelry.

But nah. I bought a Tokyo exclusive long-sleeve with an Edo-like painting fused with Undefeated’s logo.

Stussy

Stussy is one of my favorite brands. Ever. It was one of the first streetwear brands I heard of (reference back to intro) and I’ve stayed loyal to it since. I remember thinking when I was younger, “If Shawn Stussy can make a living off his handwriting, so can I!”

Christopher and I have Stussy city shirts from Vancouver, Seoul, Seattle… best believe we were going to get one that said Tokyo on it.

Stussy Tokyo has three floors. THREE! The two bottom floors showcased its apparel and home goods…

whereas the entire top floor was dedicated to the ladies! *screaming*

P.s. To the lady in camo on the left that works for Stussy Women’s– you are an OOTD-inspo.

Kickslab

While I geeked out about Stussy having an all-ladies floor (another example as to why representation matters!) Christopher’s jaw dropped as his inner shoe-head revived.

According to Christopher, Kickslab has several original Jordans and other hella rare sneakers. Christopher– who used to have about 150 sneakers– said this is the largest collections he’s ever seen.

BAPE

Last but definitely far from least is A Bathing Ape a.k.a. BAPE, another creation of streetwear icon Nigo.

This was the biggest of all shops we visited that day. Standing at three glorious stories, BAPE’s signature bold colors and gorilla-camouflage patterns create a youthful escape.

Can we take time to appreciate the storefront of the bottom floor? Because the bottom floor solely featured the Baby Milo collections, the window displays were made to resemble vending machines with giant Baby Milo + Friends plushes. (If this was real, I would’ve played. Lost. Cried a bit. Then repeat into $20 deep lol.)

More details from the upper floors:

Me literally dropping onto a BAPE couch after shopping *please note that we saved up for a year for this moment*:

We spent nearly the entire day roaming around the neighborhood while admiring and indulging in the local fashion. This streetwear kid’s dream-com- true did serve as a transformative moment. Now that months passed since our visit to Takeshita Street, I’ve been inspired to push my own boundaries. Harajuku’s inspired me to push boundaries for my own style as well as Empire’s.

Me wearing the Empire in the Air hoodie layered with a kimono from Kabuki Kimonos

TBT to a Streetwear Kid’s Dream: Takeshita Street - by ChiChai@Empire - Throwback Thursday to ChiChai@Empire and Chris@Empire's trip to Japan in May 2017…

#baby milo #BAPE #bathing ape #billionaire boys club #Fashion #fashion blogger #Featured #harajuku #japan #kimono kabukis #shoes #sneakerhead #stussy #takeshita #tokyo #undefeated

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dippedanddripped · 5 years ago

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A billionaire walks into a vintage clothing showroom. Usually this space, tucked down an unassuming avenue in Paris’ chic 16th arrondissement, is off limits to the general public, but being a part of the global 0.001 per cent opens doors that would otherwise remain closed.

“He was a friend of a friend so I agreed,” says Gauthier Borsarello, a former classical musician and the owner of the showroom. A smooth-headed and smoother-mannered 30-year-old Parisian, Borsarello’s name alone feels tailor-made for a collector and purveyor of rare and exquisite vintage clothing. Jackets from WWII, Fifties collegiate sweatshirts and Levi’s 501s line the walls and shelves. There’s an original Abercrombie & Fitch hunting jacket the brand desperately wants to buy for its archive, but Borsarello can’t — won’t — part with it.

“He [the aformentioned billionaire] showed me his credit card,” Borsarello adds, “and said, ‘With this I can buy anything in the world, but what I’m looking for is an experience, something that not just anyone can get’. Guys like him are looking for something that is really exclusive. That’s why I think people are interested in vintage. This kind of clientele is growing and growing.”

Borsarello opened his showroom in 2016 and, unless you’re a billionaire yourself, access is reserved strictly for designers and fashion insiders. His clothes are bought or rented by brands and used as inspiration and reference for collections that will hit the shelves two or three years from now. “Designers come to see something they’ve never seen before: a patch, a button, a piece of fabric,” he says.

Part of a young, dynamic and multi-hyphenated group of second-hand aficionados who combine new-school social media fluency with old-fashioned, on-the-ground scouring ability, Borsarello also owns Le Vif — a vintage store which is open to the general public — across the road from his eponymous showroom. He is also the creative director of retro-inspired label Holiday Boileau and editor-in-chief of L’Etiquette magazine. He posts regular updates of his best finds and vintage “inspo” to his 32,200 Instagram followers. “Instagram made my business really,” he says. Via WhatsApp he connects with a global network of “pickers”, people who trawl through warehouses of vintage clothing, on the hunt for the kind of rare and interesting pieces that clients like Borsarello will part with big money to acquire.

“In the past, people would go to their tailor and have two suits made for the year,” Borsarello says. “Ten shirts, a coat, a couple of pairs of shoes and that was it. I think people are coming back to this way of thinking and consuming, whether they’re buying new or vintage. I think, to be honest, people are tired of all the shit out there.”

The statistics support this claim. According to a joint report by fashion platform ThredUp and analytics firm GlobalData, the resale market has grown 21 times faster than apparel retail over the last three years, and the global secondhand clothing industry is set to be 50 per cent larger than the fast fashion sector within 10 years. By 2028, it’s predicted to be a £50bn entity. On average, consumers own 28 fewer items than they did two years ago. H&M is rushing to join in; the Swedish company recently piloted a “vintage” programme that will allow the re-sale of secondhand garments on its websites.

Farfetch, the £4.6bn-valued e-commerce platform, already has a pre-owned section where it works with vintage boutiques around the world. “I think our customers recognise that these are pieces that don’t really exist anymore, and that they can’t find anywhere else,” says the website’s deputy editor, Rob Nowill. “We’ve seen an incredible reaction to it.”

“Secondhand shopping has recently become quite popular among millennials,” adds Morgane Le Caer, a reporter at Lyst, a fashion search engine that saw a 329 per cent increase in traffic to luxury re-sale products last year. “The thrill of finding something special hidden among hundreds of other pieces is inspiring people to give vintage clothes a second chance.”

Not just clothes: StockX, the trainers and streetwear re-sale marketplace launched in 2016, was in an April funding round which would value it in excess of $1bn (it claims more than $2m a day in gross sales). Cool-hunting men and women are equally likely to shop online at Vestiaire Collective, the Paris-based “authenticated pre-owned luxury fashion” retailer, as they are at Net-a-Porter or Matches Fashion.

Those who still associate vintage clothing with pokey thrift stores, empty charity shops and church hall jumble sales might do well to check out the website of Grailed, a New York-based start-up that launched in 2015 and now boasts 3.2m registered users and a team of 50. It is, according to brand director Lawrence Schlossman, a “men’s fashion community marketplace”. Basically, whatever your personal “grail” (streetwear parlance for a dream item of clothing) chances are someone on Grailed is selling it… for a price. Last year, news broke of a Raf Simons “Riot” camo bomber jacket from the Belgian designer’s autumn/winter 2001 collection selling for $47,000 (£37,000), a site record.

With 440,000 followers on Instagram, Grailed also has an influence on what is and isn’t hot in the online world of men’s streetwear and fashion. Its memes and original content have contributed to the proliferation of recent, wide-spreading trends and talking points such as Patagonia fleeces, Blundstone work boots, teens’ obsession with archival Helmut Lang, tie-dye and a rising US interest in Stone Island.

“Not to fire any shots,” says Schlossman, “but think of eBay. Yes, I can buy a vintage T-shirt and a new pair of Balenciaga sneakers that have sold out, but I can also buy a washing machine — eBay wants to be, and is, everything to everyone regardless of what you’re looking for. We take pride in being laser- specific to men’s clothing.

“When we launched, there was a pervasive idea that ‘vintage’ or ‘used’ had negative connotations,” says Schlossman. “The idea that someone is trying to sell an old, shitty thing they don’t care about or have any need for. I think there’s a whole generation realising authenticity is important, and I think they relish the opportunity to tell people, ‘I’ve been looking for this thing for a year and I found it!’ That’s an important signifier that shows you really care and have great taste, rather than walking into a generic fast fashion outlet and buying their version of whatever a trendy pant is.”

Emily Bode (pictured) has found success re-purposing vintage fabrics into one-of-a-kind clothing

Where once “box fresh” was a vital component of a purchase, today having an item with signs of wear is a key element of cool. Brands like Bode, started by New York designer Emily Bode, are testament to that. She takes dead-stock cloth, old and rare fabrics, and reimagines them as beautiful work jackets or hand-embroidered trousers. Something that began life as a quilt or a curtain is transformed into a one-off item. Brand new is retro: retro is brand new. Kids that are two generations too young to have heard the band play live in its heyday are now obsessed with The Grateful Dead’s merchandise: the wild tie-dyed T-shirts are mysterious and appealing. Some luxury trainers, such as those by Gucci, come “pre-worn” for your aesthetic convenience.

The entrance to Cassie Mercantile, the by appointment only vintage experts whose clothes have inspired some of the biggest brands in the world

On a heavy spring day in Holland Park, I find the hidden entrance to Cassie Mercantile. A gate leads into a garden with the kind of greenery that is rare — and comes at a premium — in London. Leaves hang low and birds sing freely. If this was an episode of Grand Designs, Kevin McCloud might describe it as an “urban sanctuary”.

Gauthier Borsarello told me about Graham Cassie, speaking his name in hushed tones when we talked on the phone. “He’s someone I really admire. I would like to be like him,” he said. “He has something like 600 Instagram followers [it’s actually 1,176], but he’s a legend in the industry and his showroom is amazing.”

Cassie, 59, wears strong black glasses and his beanie like a Brooklyn barista, his Scottish accent worn down by decades in London. He’s been in vintage his whole life, having owned a shop, Eat Your Heart Out, on the King’s Road in the Eighties. “I don’t want to deal with the general public anymore,” he says with a chuckle. Cassie Mercantile opened here 16 years ago. He was, he claims, the first to open a vintage showroom (designers only) in Europe. “If I showed you my client list, the brands I work with, you’d say, ‘Woah!’” he says without pretence. They are indeed woah.

In one photo on his Instagram feed, Cassie poses next to David Beckham, in another with Kanye West. He’s not sure how West found him. “People seem to hear about me,” he says. “He was very nice, though, very thorough. He came in with just one other person and is the first and only client to go through every single item of clothing we have. You can see why he’s so successful, the attention to detail was obvious.”

What immediately stands out is how modern everything feels despite, in many cases, some items being more than a century old. Bucket hats, printed open-collar shirts, bright and battered Nike running shoes, and stacks of Victorian rugby jerseys, Thirties T-shirts and slouchy Vivienne Westwood knitwear from her punk era. The new wave of colourful sportswear and prep could well have been born from this little showroom. Undoubtedly some was.

Finlay Renwick

“I like to think we’re a fashion forecasting company more than a vintage clothes company,” Cassie says. “I’ve always loved the mix of fashion and vintage with a modern outlook. Often there’s this anorak mentality in the vintage business, people love to be able to quote what number a military jacket is or the year it was made. I’ll always remember Ralph Lauren saying, ‘I don’t care what number the jacket is — is it a cool jacket?’ That’s always been my philosophy.”

#menswear blog #vintage #vintage fashion #vintage menswear

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