#french uniform coat

[ltwilliammowett]

Uniform coat of an officer of the French Navy, 1852-1870

[cynics-and-cynology]

Suddenly, there is a cat. In its mouth it holds a small piece of paper, which it offers to the recipient.

The content of the paper is as follows:

Friend?

The cat will now follow him around.

Despite his inclinations towards free thought and independence, Blaze is not much of a cat person. Quite the opposite, really. This is one of the instances when he almost regrets that there's nobody else in the vicinity whom this cat could latch onto instead.

"What business do you have tracking me, huh? How did you take care of yourself before now? Did your mother not teach you how to catch field mice for yourself? If you want to be kissed and pampered and whatnot, go find yourself a sentimental lady of higher society who'll give you fresh beef every day, a satin pillow to sleep on and probably festoon you with lace and ribbons or (God forbid) put a little dress on you."

He crouches to read the note properly.

"Friend?"

He snickers, but not unkindly so.

"A blue coat and a white nose,* of course you need a friend. Well, a friend I could be." (A peer. An equal.) "I have to warn you though, my friend, that there is a capricious little lady in my household, and if she doesn't like you, there's not much to be done against it, you understand. But if all goes well, I will not be a bad host."

[wonysugar]

g!p sugar mommy giselle🫦🫦🫦

g!p.... sugar mommy...... giselle..... ANON. holds you by the neck dearly thank you for this. also! it’s barely even mentioned at all but just know giselle is like 37ish and reader is in her mid-twenties. :]

cw : age-gap!

giselle as the sugar mommy you randomly met on your day to day minimum wage job at a fast food place MHMMM LET ME COOKKK..... having her be a regular who always comes in like once a week, always wearing something super fancy.. like a black prada trenchcoat or sometimes even a dolce & gabbana blazer. point is, she immediately stuck out like a sore thumb among the rest of the crowd.

plus, you found her undeniably gorgeous as soon as you laid eyes on her, so it's not like she'd go unnoticed otherwise, either.

she often approached you at the register and made small talk, as stupid as it often was. she'd find some stupid excuse not to use the self checkout machine and would find a lame conversation starter while you're watching her pull out a dior purse, proceeding with the payment of her order. that often lead to you asking her questions of your own.

"why do you eat here? you look like you have other.... better places to be eating at."

she'd chuckle at your words, finding them amusing, before answering in a gentle tone, "trust me, i do. my niece doesn't seem to think the same way i do, however, as she seems to really like this place. i appear to be the only one indulging her."

soon enough, you'd warm up to her with each visit of hers and the conversations would get much, much longer. so much so that, often times, your manager would have to step in and remind you to get back to work prompty. it got annoying quickly, as the conversations were just getting good; chatting about studies, travel plans, ambitions and goals, etc.

so, wanting to have these incredibly interesting exchanges in a more comfortable and relaxed setting, aeri asked for your number.

naturally.

who cares that she was like, ten years older than you. it wouldn’t hurt to make a friend… right?

numerous nights of friendly-texting-turned-flirty later, you two quickly agreed on a set date and location, which turned out to be a friday evening spent in the very expensive restaurant right across the block from your workplace. it was a date! she informed you to come in 'appropriate' attire, whatever that meant. how would you know? your closet consisted of hoodies, sweaters and some t-shirts as well as your work uniform. that being said, you showed up to the date wearing a low cute dark blue dress you found laying around in the darkest depths of your drawer for probably more than seven years. saying you were nervous would be nothing but a huge understatement.

she, on the other hand, came wearing a creamy white turtleneck under the black trench-coat she was usually seen wearing when ordering food at your job, the look topped off by wide legged black pants and really expensive looking black leather heels.

what the fuck are you doing.

getting cold feet, you nervously sat down at the table and bowed your head in her direction. intimidated by the light yet impacting amount of makeup she had on her face, you avoided eye contact as much as possible. she was breathtaking.

she told you to choose whatever you’d like on the menu and to not look at the price, as she insisted you not to worry at all about the bill. you, of course, felt guilty so you proceeded to pick the least expensive thing on the menu and attempted to convince her that you genuinely loved the dish, hence why you’d pick it among everything else.

who were you kidding though, you couldn’t even pronounce whatever fuckass french name it was that you picked to the waiter. she smiled at you as you finished ordering, making you turn red in embarrassment.

“you know y/n, i couldn’t bring myself to mention it in a place as unflattering as your workplace, no offence,” she started as you shook off the statement, practically agreeing with her before she continued, “but i must say that i think you are absolutely adorable.”

it gets to a point. and at this point you’re just short-circuiting at her words and intense eye contact, finding it difficult to even act properly in front of her!

she noticed that, of course, especially in times during the conversation where she called you endearing names such as “darling”, “love” and “honey”.

that wasn’t much different in bed, either.

as it turns out, you really did want her to fuck you at the end of the night! honestly, how could you not when she’d been opening every single door for you, insisting on paying for the entirety of the bill at the restaurant and offering to drive you home despite it only being a 10 minute walk?

she’d done nothing but drive you crazy all evening with her sexy and gentle manners, it’s only natural you gave her a sloppy handjob whilst she drove her grey lexus lx back to her own house with the pure intention of fucking the shit out of you.

…and she did! very well, at that!

two of her fingers deep into you, she circled your clit with her thumb and left gentle kisses on your jaw down to your collarbone. slow and steady pumps of the digits, she thrived in hearing your soft whimpers.

that didn’t last long, however. she was getting impatient, and her dick was aching to feel you.

ass up face down, you’re getting pounded relentlessly into the mattress before you know it. getting treated like nothing but a queen all night only to be later fucked like a depraved slut… it had to be the best thing you’d ever felt in a while. of course, you let her know of that with guttural moans that left your body with each thrust of her cock. she didn’t care, her house was big enough to muffle your screams, after all.

she whispered obscenities into your ear whilst you did so, gripping a fistful of your hair and humming at each sound that came out of your mouth. talking about how tight your cunt was for her, about how good it felt, how she couldn’t wait to use it every other day, about how she would kill to take care of a pretty little thing like you.

gripping onto your sides and ramming into you shamelessly as she drove you to your climax, you bit your lip until you felt like it was bleeding. her breathier heavier and each of her moans slightly higher than the previous, you both orgasmed together, a wave of euphoria washing over the two of you immediately.

oh and, you know what she said about ���taking care of a pretty little thing like you?’ yeah, she meant every word.

soon enough, she’s taking you on dates every other weekend, referring you to a slightly better paying, less agonizing job thanks to the connections she possesses, sending you excessive amounts of money she labels as your ‘monthly allowance’ and overall spoiling you with whatever your heart desires. hell. she even payed your university tuition! she finds it endearing to see you always so shy and embarrassed to accept the money she gives you; you always go on about how ‘you don’t give her anything back’ and how it isn’t fair.

but to her, you do give back. your happiness and joy is what aeri does it for, and you give her great amounts of that. not only that, but you also give back by whoring yourself out and looking pretty for her. giving her unwarranted boners by sending her risky pictures and videos while she’s at work, having you wear the lingerie she buys you, knowing you use the toys she got you whenever she’s too busy to take care of you, etc. aeri could name nothing better than having you be the beautiful doll she gets to play with every now and then. :]

[fire-gift]

carolcutshall: French Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana

LOUIS DE POINTE DU LAC, Interview With The Vampire Season 1 Mardi Gras Ball FINALE Costume

1940 Mardi Gras Ball, Marie Antoinette theme Costumes for our Vampire family

Louis’ Costume was less ornate and encrusted than Lestat’s. Feeling more streamlined like a livery or a uniform and less aristocratic. Nodding to Louis and Claudia’s feelings of never being seen as equals to Lestat. Claudia’s Costume pulls inspiration in shape and detail from period portraits of Shepherdess styled gowns.

Pink costume here is of a fit model helping us work with samples and land on our shape. My department was working all day and Jacob was shooting all night so we had to get so much done without him and really make our time with our actors count.

Coat, waistcoat and pants built by Pae and Kim Custom Tailoring in North Hollywood

Ribbon, appliqués and trim @/promenadefabrics and Jefferson Variety Store in New Orleans

Shoes made by Jeff Churchill @/jitterbug.boy Beautifully destroyed on set by @/thenatewasson

[planet-hwa]

୨୧  bad boy facade chapter 1 – 산

chapter 1  the writing on the wall    ୨୧  series masterlist

pairing     badboy!san x reader  genre     high school au, a very small amount of angst but mostly not word count    4.3k -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ warnings     hierarchy systems, mentioned poverty, mentioned smoking and drinking, mentioned adultery?, gang affiliations, past friendship breakups, nicknames/pet names, swearing, mentions of anxiety — featuring woosang

❝ no one tried to read my eyes, no one but you, wish it weren't true ❞ 🎧 now playing   no one noticed ; the marias

   ↳   navigation  ◦  masterlist  ◦  requests   ↳  a playlist for the series

The town Mountain View was split, two sides of one coin: the Northside and the Southside. 

When you walked through the Northside, the buildings screamed money, all the brick houses were the standard two stories with white picket fences protecting the front yards, a vegetable patch on one side and a swing set or monkey bars on the other. Housewives on their daily power walks with their french bulldogs on leash, the dog bags not being the only plastic they carried on their bodies. Bentleys and Rolls-royces parked in driveways and along the streets, a blinding shine coat on the body and one of those stick-figure family stickers on the back windows. Husbands returning from their high-paid office jobs decked with suits, briefcases and enlarged egos — all aiming to outclass one another with their yearly salaries and perfect families (at least, a facade of a perfect family). Students with their A+ grades and their private school uniforms, all hiding a social-shattering secret from their parents — whether that be cheating classes, smoking weed or fucking the neighbour’s mum when they’d go clean their pool.

All of it was like a page torn out of a high-end magazine or a scene cut from gossip girl.

But when you cross the tracks to the Southside, everything darkens.

Compared to the Northside, the Southside looked like utter trash. Multiple abandoned buildings that were now overrun by unfortunate homeless people, the only two shops being open was a small milk bar and an actual bar where all the residents drank themselves further into depression. There were few full houses, all of them practically crumbling to the step, but many caravans and trucks throughout the large self-made caravan park. Instead of cars through the streets, it was motorbikes owned by the strong-build, tattooed biker gang members: all of them wearing the same leather jackets that read ‘The Black Pirates’ with their logo on the back. Though the community was smaller, it was stronger than the Northside. Everyone had struggles and no one ever considered themselves to be superior to someone else.

The town was glued-stuck in a hierarchical system: rich vs poor, clean vs dirty, scholar vs drug addict. Each side was set to despise each other, the only one seeming to be somewhat in the middle being the mayor of the town, always attempting to keep the peace between each side.

So when the news broke that the Southside High School suddenly burst into flames over summer, the placements of the students turned the town into a frenzy. Parents of the Southside students worried that the lack of a school building will increase their kids chances of an, already, shitty education. And the Northside parents biggest worry was having the new students be put into the private school (not like they could afford it), and cause havoc and distractions on their perfect children’s education. The moment the mayor put out a statement saying ‘all junior students will be sent to Greenfield High School in the next town over, and all senior students will be sent to Mountain View Academy’, parents threatened to remove their students from the school and even leave the town for good.

And some people actually did because they believed themselves to be so above the “southside scum”. In reality, we all bleed the same colour even if the Northsiders claimed they bled gold.

Everyone expected the worst from the new students, but were they really that bad or just completely misunderstood?

Only one way to find out.

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

“I can’t believe they’re coming to our school!” Yeosang huffed through the phone, falling back onto his bed and watching you on the screen as you speedrun the holiday homework that was left for the last minute: a stressful habit that occurred every school break. “AND they get to go here with no school fees at all! It’s completely unfair to us, why do we have to pay?”

“Our parents pay, not us.” You chuckled, a dramatic offended gasp leaving him as his hand clutched his chest like he was suffering a heart attack. Your best friend was a very dramatic person, overly dramatic some might say but it was one of your favourite things about him.

“Are you sure you aren’t just scared that you’re gonna see Wooyou-”

“Hey!” Yeosang shouted, causing you to slightly jump at the abrupt loudness. “I thought we agreed to never say that name or talk about that person again.”

The mood change within him was instant, memories of his past friendships flooded into his brain as he was reminded that tomorrow, they’d see each other again after all these years — possibly even be in the same homeroom. You felt bad for bringing it up but unfortunately for him, it was necessary.

“I’m sorry,” you apologised in a whisper, a small sense of guilt climbing over you. “But really, how are you feeling about seeing… him… again?”

Yeosang’s eyes avoided the screen, moving around his bedroom and claiming new interests in the walls and roof.

“I-I’m fine.” He stuttered, his voice cracking slightly before his eyes met yours. “I’ll be fine.”

But that was a lie.

In reality, he was terrified to see his ex best friend once more. The friendship that was held strong between them since they were seven years old, their parents struggling to separate them at the end of school days and most ending in a sleepover at the other's house. The friendship that followed its way into high school, even after Wooyoung moved in the second year, they still managed to see each other every single day. The friendship that Wooyoung ruined the moment he joined The Black Pirates and started committing petty crimes and snorting any sort of substance he came across. 

Yeosang tried his hardest to help him, desperately wanting to save him from early death, but Wooyoung countered it with harmful words and even more harmful punches. It was that day that Yeosang vowed to himself to never talk to Wooyoung again. 

He still remembers the last fight as if it were yesterday and not four years ago.

“Youngie, please! You can’t keep doing this to yourself, it’s destroying you!” Yeosang pleaded, the tight grasp on Wooyoung’s hands trying to hold him back from leaving. “Please, I can help you.”

“I don’t need help!” Wooyoung yelled, yanking his hands away from Yeosang. He ran his fingers through his hair, gripping tightly at the roots before dropping his arms to his sides.

Yeosang stared at him in disbelief, never seeing this side of aggression from his best friend before, and it was terrifying. The redness of Wooyoung’s face, especially around the eyes and nose was the only hint towards him that this was not his normal self-

“Are you kidding me…” Wooyoung moved his heavy eyes to Yeosang, his friend’s face masked with grief and sadness and his eyes glossed over with tears that threatened to spill. “You’re high right now, aren’t you?”

“Fuck off.” Wooyoung scoffed, a subtle yet very telling swipe of his nose indicating that, yes, he was in fact high. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Wooyoung, please-”

“No! I’m so sick of this shit Yeosang!” Wooyoung shouted, stepping forwards as Yeosang backed himself into the wall, his frame blocking him in. “Ever since I joined The Black Pirates you’ve been so fucking annoying about it, saying I’ll get hurt or killed but look, I’m completely fine! Why can’t you just be fucking happy for me that I fit in somewhere?”

“Because you’re not fine!” Yeosang uses the strength over Wooyoung to push him harshly away, his feet losing balance and almost toppling over himself. It was so obvious that he was not Wooyoung, not really. “I know you’re not, I know you better than anyone!”

That ticked something in Wooyoung’s brain. Whether it was the words that came out of his best friend’s mouth or the drugs that penetrated his system and pressed hard on the anger inside him, something clicked.

Wooyoung lunged forward with a tight flying fist, planting a harsh punch to the side of Yeosang’s face. His body fell harshly to the ground, the pinch of pain instantly clouding his eye and preparing to leave a purple bruise. He glared down at his teary eyed friend, wincing as his hand softly grazed the affected area — but Wooyoung wasn’t done.

He climbed atop Yeosang’s body, his weight now holding him down as he began setting punch after punch onto his face. The strikes were agonising, not because of the contact but because of the person initiating it. Tears streamed down Yeosang’s puffed cheeks, burning the sensitive skin and being spread around by Wooyoung’s fist. He cried out desperately for him to stop, but Wooyoung’s ears were blocked by fury, smoke practically steamed out of them.

“Youngie- Please, it hurts!” Yeosang begged, his voice croaking from the heavy emotions between them. “P-please, stop!”

With one last blow to his jawline, Wooyoung finally ceased his aggressive motions, breath heaving above Yeosang as he covered his face with his hands and wiped away his tears. Wooyoung stood up and scowled down at the boy, a clob of spit flying from his mouth and landing on Yeosang’s chest.

His heart broke into a million pieces when he heard Wooyoung’s final words. “You don’t know me at all.”

And a few days later, you had been partnered with him for a school project and haven’t been able to get rid of him since. 

Actually, he hasn’t been able to get rid of you.

You had never gotten the displeasure of meeting Wooyoung he who shall not be named, only hearing the stories and seeing a few photos, but you didn’t like him. Not one bit. Not after seeing the effects he left on your best friend, both the physical evidence and the emotional. Though he was a bit dramatic, Yeosang was one of, if not, the sweetest person you knew. So knowing that someone could hurt him so bad, someone so close to him as well — it didn’t sit right with you. I mean, who could hurt a person as pure as the driven snow, a man with not a single bad bone in his body.

“So, what homeroom are you in?” Yeosang asked, swiftly trying to change the topic.

“Uhh… I think I’m in Homeroom 710-”

“Nooo!” He whined, the fake tears beginning to fall but you just laughed. “I’m in Homeroom 715, this is a scam.”

Yeosang began to fake cry once more, quickly stopping and looking at the phone screen to make sure you were watching him before continuing. All you could do was laugh at him. He continued to complain about everything coming up tomorrow whilst you finished off the last few lines of your homework. You will never understand the concept of homework, why are we learning stuff at home when we’re meant to learn it at school?

You weren’t the best school academically but you were all of the teacher’s favourites purely based on your kindness and helpfulness within the classes, you were always the person to be put with the new students and be their guide for the day. There was a worry in the back of your mind that you would be chosen, once again, to show the new students around. And you were okay with that, frankly you didn’t care about all the new students and the possibility of them “ruining the education of the good ones”. Your family was rich but they were one of the few who were snobby rich, and you were taught to never judge a book by its cover.

But imagine if you had to be the guide for the school for your best friend’s enemy, that'd be the biggest betrayal to his moral loyalty, even if the choice wasn’t yours.

Once you finished the final dot, you packed up all your school supplies into your bag, sitting it next to your laid out uniform; which you only did so you could be more prepared in the morning so you could sleep in and avoid going to school for as long as possible.

“Anyways, I better go to bed.” Yeosang sighed, already snuggling himself into the duvet. “Gotta get my beauty sleep.”

“Yeah sure… I’ll see you tomorrow,” You scoffed and climbed into your own bed, plugging your phone into the charger quickly: it had been sitting on 3% for about an hour. “And you know, you can talk to me about anything, right?”

Referring to your previous conversation, you could see the hurt on Yeosang’s face when it was brought up, almost feeling it through the phone. He was never good with confrontation, always let things go because he was too afraid to speak up. And the one time he did speak up, he got multiple hits to the face so it didn’t leave the best impression. He simply nodded before saying goodbye and hanging up-

“WAIT! Did you hear about-”

The call didn’t end until 2am.

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

Waking up the next morning, you already dreaded the pressures that the final year of school was gonna put on you. With the extra homework, more intense classes, mid-year and end-of-year exams, college applications — not to mention the constant questions from adults around you about what you’ll do once you’ve finished school, since you have to have your entire life planned and prepared the moment you enter the real world. If the “real world” was the one you entered once you finished school, then what world was the one you lived in for the past 18 years?

You shook the thoughts out of your head, promising to yourself that you wouldn’t start to overthink them. Quickly throwing on your uniform, the white button up covered by the navy blue and maroon school colours of your blazer and plaid skirt, a neat tie placed under the colour.

The perfect private school look, worn by many perfectly imperfect teenagers.

“Morning pumpkin, breakfast is on the table.” Your mum joyfully smiled as you came down the stairs. Your father hurriedly packed up the last of his things into the briefcase before kissing the both of you on your cheeks and heading off to run his company.

“Do you need a ride to school this morning?”

“No it’s okay,” You say before sitting at the table and sipping on your tea. “Yeosang is picking me up.”

“Didn’t he crash his car because he got distracted by a squirrel on the side of the road?” She asked with a small raise of the eyebrow.

“Yeah… he’s still a good driver though?” You answered, slight uncertainty turning the statement more into a question. “I think…”

Your mother chuckled lightly before sitting next to you with her toast and coffee. The toast crunched under your bite, crispy crumbs falling on your neat blazer before being swatted off by your mother’s hand.

Though your family was part of the more fortunate side of town, you were the most humble of them all. Unlike the other mothers who let their husbands provide for them and were content with being housewives, your mother worked from home for your father’s company, reading over and sorting out papers her husband would bring home. He would always rely and trust the opinion of her rather than any corporate douche who was only in it for the pay rather than the impact. Your family also still loved each other, though divorce was unusual in the community: a loveless marriage was not.

Before any of the usual morning conversation could start, loud booming music could be heard outside with a few knocks to the door. Pulling your bag over your shoulder and bidding your mother farewell, you opened the door and was greeted with your brightly smiling best friend. 

“Have a nice day, angels!” Your mum shouted before you both left and got into his, newly repaired, car.

“Isn’t she beautiful again!” Yeosang exclaimed, gesturing his hands around the car, the familiar dented bumper no longer visible and covered over with a shimmering new coat.

“Yeah, make sure no rogue ants distract you.” You joked landing yourself a small punch to your arm, which you returned to him slightly harder.

“To be fair, that squirrel was climbing the tree backwards,” He justified, turning the key and pulling at the handbrake before moving off down the road. “Who wouldn’t look at that?”

The car ride was short yet jovial, the playlist cued with your favourite songs and the carpool karaoke blocking out all current worries, and any noise from outside. Turning down the side street, the large school building finally came into view. Built tall with bricks, both a muddy red and a softer cream colour, large arch windows placed symmetrically along each wall. The grand staircase that led up to an arched entrance, young and new students already filing into the building to be earliest to class. A clean walkway tracing around the courtyard, soft cherry blossom trees outlining the path and sitting atop freshly cut grass.

Yeosang pulled into the student car park, directly into his specially designed spot that all year 12s painted at the end of last year. One bump to the curb and a small ‘oopsies’ from Yeosang and you were ready to leave the car. Closing the door, you looked up at the excessively large building, it still felt as intimidating as your first day. The sudden reminder that the school year has officially started finally kicked in, along with the anxiety.

“Ready to enter hell?” Yeosang’s sarcastic voice pulled you out of your thoughts, quickly nodding before linking arms and wandering up the path and towards the entrance.

The courtyard was laced with students, all the older ones hugging and catching up on their holidays to Bali or Fiji, multiple white girls with low-key cultural appropriated braids and beads in their hair. New students being hurried along by their parents to meet up with the teachers that were scattered around, all desperate to get their kid ahead by offering up different types of fruits or souvenirs.

You continued to walk through the courtyard and finally up the grand concrete stairs before Yeosang stopped and pulled at your arm lightly. Looking up at him, you saw the discomfort in his expression before following his eyes to meet a group of students being lectured by the principal. Scanning through the crowd, you recognised none of the students, all of them being the new transfers from the southside.

Finally, your eyes met where Yeosang’s stare sat, a group of four boys huddled out of the way and seeming to not pay much attention and all owning the same thing: a black leather jacket with a large patch on the back. A skull with a pirate hat sitting in front of a sword that had ropes tied around it, the words ‘The Black Pirates’ sewn above it in a banner style — each jacket having a different name written underneath.

One boy was tall, extremely tall and had a strong build yet a soft face, short dark brown hair with a few blonde streaks in it. The boy stood next to him slightly shorter yet with a larger build, as if his muscles had muscles, his face as serious as a heart attack. Then your eyes fell on a familiar face, though you had never met him before, he looks exactly like his instagram photos. Wooyoung; he who shall not be named; your best friend’s ex friend and your designated enemy. He was the shortest of the four, a cocky smirk and rolled eyes were masking his face as the principal spoke. His hair was cut into a mullet style, the underneath dyed blonde, the hairstyle he hadn’t changed since he and Yeosang were friends — the hairstyle Yeosang suggested for him, but only they knew that.

And the final boy, the most relaxed and comfortable looking of them all, and also the most handsome. All his facial features were sharp and created with extreme precision; his jawline as sharp as knives, and his eyes held a piercing gaze for anyone who looked his way. His broad shoulders lent up against the wall and his arms crossed, obvious muscular biceps pushing through the leather sleeves. His hair was jet black with a few strands falling over his face perfectly shaping his cheekbones.

Before you could stop staring, his eyes met yours before glancing over your body and back up. He shot a wink in your direction as he followed the principal’s group through the school doors. Unusual butterflies began to flourish in your stomach at the interaction, but pushing the feelings and thoughts aside quickly and focusing back on Yeosang.

“Hey, are you okay?” A worried look appeared on your face as you watched his thoughts fly around in his head, noticing the glassiness of his eyes as they met yours.

“Y-yeah, I just…” He blinked away any reminiscence of possible grief, not wanting to show the effects that one glance at he who shall not be named does to him. “I didn’t expect to see him straight away.”

You squeezed his arm gently before nodding your head to go inside. He wiped over his face before sending you a soft smile and following your lead through the doors, where once inside, Wooyoung and his friends were nowhere to be seen — for now.

From students organising lockers to the ones standing and chatting in the middle of the hall, you trudged your way through until returning to your locker, Yeosang’s located just a few away from you. Swirling the lock left then right to the numbers of your code, it clicked open and the dreaded textbooks stared back at you. On the door was two clipped polaroids: one of you and Yeosang from his sixteenth birthday party, and the other of you and-

The feeling of long arms slithering around your waist caused you to jolt backwards, your back being met with a strong chest. Spinning around in the arms, you looked up at your giggling boyfriend before he leaned down and placed a soft kiss on your lips. The familiar warmth made you melt into his embrace as he pulled away.

“Hey baby, did you miss me?” He smirked and cocked an eyebrow, quickly dropping his arms from your waist and leaning against the open locker door, a move he’d pull on you to tower his large frame over you.

“Yunho, why didn’t you tell me you got back?” You smiled softly, love filling your eyes as you watched his wander around the familiar halls before meeting yours once more. “And of course I missed you.”

“I only got back yesterday, and I was too jet lagged and fell asleep before I could text you.”

“It’s okay, we can talk about your amazing summer in Europe at lunch.” Reaching up for another kiss, the ring of the first bell cut you short.

Hastily gathering your books and shutting your locker, you waved to Yeosang as he walked in the opposite direction before following Yunho into the classroom, thankfully sharing a homeroom together. As you walked in, your homeroom teacher mentioned that this year was assigned seating to reduce distractions of sitting next to friends — seriously, are we twelve?

Tracing your finger along the drawn setup, you found your seat number, your name and your partner’s name. The name didn’t sound familiar to you, automatically recognising that you were seated next to a new student, most likely a southside one. Of course. Since you hadn’t been assigned to give any tour guides, of course they would still place a new student with you. But you had an open mind, the only thing worrying you was it being a guy who sat next to you with your boyfriend being an easily jealous person. It took him so long to understand that Yeosang and you were just friends, and had never been or never would be anything more. You even ignored the fact that Yunho was sitting next to his best friend, a girl who was desperately in love with him and who he had left you to help multiple times.

The second bell rang through the school, the majority of students now seated with books open in front of them. Your homeroom teacher, Mrs Waltz, began to read off the attendance followed by ‘here’ and ‘present’ of student voices. The sudden sound of the door opening interrupted her flow, the principal’s head poking in before fully entering.

“Sorry to interrupt Mrs Waltz, I just wanted to make sure all the newer students made it to all their classes." Mr Kim stated, moving over slightly to gesture the few new students in, though you weren’t paying much attention and were distracted by jotting down the start of your notes.

“Of course,” She smiled, pointing to her drawn up seating chart. “Your seats are written up on the wall here.”

“Everyone, please be welcoming.” Mr Kim lectured before leaving and returning to his office.

The rustling of southside footsteps mixed with the judgemental whispers of northside students filtered the classroom, Mrs Waltz quickly continuing her lessons. Too invested in your notes, you didn’t notice the figure that plopped down in the seat beside you. You glanced back at Yunho who had a small scowl on his face, more aimed at the person next to you, but returning him with a small understanding smile.

The person behind him caught your attention as you recognised the oreo coloured hair to be Wooyoung’s. You were annoyed that he was in your homeroom, but also filled with gratitude that he wasn’t in Yeosang’s, losing the ability to belittle and distract him. Accidentally ignoring the person next to you, a throat clearing cough brought your attention to him.

“Hey princess, do you have a pencil?”

୨୧ next chapter

author’s note   it's finally here! the first chapter of the series, i hope you all enjoy it! i know that it's kind of short and there was actually very little mention of san in this but this was more of a prologue to the series, he'll have heavy features in the rest of the series... obviously. REMINDER: i am from australia so the spelling of some words may not be the correct spelling for you but they are for me >.<

  ୨୧  taglist    @morethingsfandom @solaris-amethyst @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @baby-stay92 @autieofthevalley @liveloveseonghwa @dejatiny @mortal-advocate @dreamsoffanfics @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @dalsuwaha @nevieatiny @woateez @choizlover @foreveryxunggg @woosmaid @yeosannie4 @auroras-colors @mintchocosan @jjongbearsies @frzzenfrxg @sanniebabes @cyberpvnk-enthusiast @eyesonlyformingi @sannies-tiddies @honeyjongie @rainteez02 @robertsbbygirl @mingisgf999 @atzz8 @moonlight-hwa @chrryjoong @sanhwalvr @cloudysannie @atxxzist @choisansplushie @starz-choisanii @slowitdownmakeitb0uncy @jerseygirlzzzxx @mzngi @sparda1234 @babigriin @marvolos

[halcyon-writings]

nav.

— "Zayne, do you ever think about the future?" You ask, hands cradling a mug of lukewarm coffee. One that you're half tempted to dump into the breakroom sink since you haven't taken any more than a sip of. The mug is placed on the counter with a soft clink, your hands tucked inside of the pockets of your coat.

The aforementioned Doctor raises a brow, curiosity colors his expression when he sees you have a mirthful look to your eyes. Ah, so it wasn't some question based on any sort of curiosity about the future.

"If by the future you mean dinner? Then I think..." He trails off slightly, as he looks to the watch he's wearing, before looking back up, "Once the few hours I have left are done, today, I was thinking hot pot."

You let out a small sound, raising an impressed eyebrow. But your lips are set in a small and barely noticeable pout.

"Oh, how nice," You murmur, "Well, do enjoy it, as some of us have only just started their overnight shift."

He lets out a small exhale, one that you think sounds like a polite sounding laugh. Amusement glitters in his eyes when he pushes off of the counter he was leaning against. Zayne adjusts his glasses, pushing them back further on the bridge of his nose.

"We'll. I'll just have to make sure that you're eating well, I didn't see you bring your usual bag with you," He notes, raising a brow.

You look sheepish, remaining quiet. That’s all the answer he needs for any further questions. Even so, a fond yet exasperated sigh leaves the Doctor’s lips.

“I’ll have some food delivered, just let me know when your lunch break will be,” At the sight of your beaming smile, he can’t help the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as you bat your lashes a little. “And a bubble tea,” He continues.

Your smile is near blinding.

But it compares little to when you finally come home, just as dawn breaks past the horizon of the sky. You’re undressed from your uniform, into some comfy pajamas as you slip past the blankets.

Zayne yawns quietly, like clockwork as he lifts his arm, in turn lifting the blanket so that you can scoot in beside him. You jump when his colder hands settle on the slim part of skin when your shirt rides up. Your eyes darting to his face in an accusatory manner.

He simply closes his eyes, pretending to sleep.

“Sleep,” He mumbles, his nose already brushing against the crown of your hair.

“Thank you for the bubble tea,” Is your drowsy reply, and he hums, his eyes closing as yours do.

The sun is higher in the sky. And for the first time in nearly a week, you’re finally off. No need to rush in or worry about being on call like before. And miraculously enough, so was Zayne.

You raise a brow, as you sit at the kitchen island, your foot lazily tapping against the side of the chair. “I wonder how that miracle happened,” You say airily. Your fingers loosely playing with the bracelets on your wrist.

Zayne shrugs, pretending to be oblivious, “Who is to say? Maybe the stars have aligned and we finally can enjoy a day off.”

Just as he opens the fridge, you blink, seeing that it’s more of condiments and some drinks and leftovers than any real ingredients for breakfast. You snicker quietly.

“I suppose breakfast and then a quick stop to the store is in order first?” You ask.

Zayne nods, even his eyes having a glint to them. You knew he enjoyed the fluffy french toast that was more often than not piled on with powdered sugar.

“I suppose you’d be right,” He agrees as much as he tries to make it sound like an acquiesce.

You smile against the rim of your mug of coffee. Breakfast with him didn’t sound too bad.

[sassenach77yle]

Outlander 7x16 "A Hundred Thousand Angels"

I HADN’T SEEN ANY of the previous day’s flock of visitors, though Jamie had told me about them. This day, though, brought one for me. Mrs. Macken brought him up the stairs, in spite of her advanced state of pregnancy, and showed him into my tiny room with great respect. He wasn’t in uniform and was—for him—quite subfusc, in a coat and breeches of the dull gray that was referred to (with accuracy) as “sad-colored,” though he had taken the trouble to wear a dove-gray waistcoat with it that flattered his coloring. “How are you, my dear?” he asked, taking off his hat. Not waiting for an answer, he came down on one knee by the bed, took my hand, and kissed it lightly. His blond hair had been washed, I saw—I smelled his bergamot soap—and trimmed to a uniform length. As that length was roughly an inch, the overall effect reminded me irresistibly of a fuzzy duckling. I laughed, then gasped and pressed a hand to my side. “Dinna make her laugh!” Jamie said, glowering at John. His tone was cold, but I saw him take in John’s aspect, and the corner of his own mouth twitched. “I know,” John said ruefully to me, passing a hand over his head and ignoring Jamie completely. “Isn’t it dreadful? I ought really to wear a wig for the sake of public decency, but I couldn’t bear it in the heat.” “Don’t know that I blame you,” I told him, and ran a hand through the damp mass of my own hair, drying on my shoulders. “Though I haven’t yet got to the point of wanting to shave my head,” I added pointedly, not quite turning my head toward Jamie. “Don’t. It wouldn’t suit you at all,” John assured me. “How is your eye?” I asked, gingerly trying to raise myself on the pillow. “Let me have a look at it.” “Stay there,” he said, and, leaning over me, opened both eyes wide. “I think it’s quite good. It’s still a bit tender to the touch and gets the odd twinge when I move it too far up or to the right, but—do you smell French cheese?” He sounded slightly startled. “Mmm.” I was gently prodding the flesh around the orbit, which showed only a slight residual swelling. The sclera was still quite bloodshot, but the bruising was much better. I thumbed down the lower lid to inspect the conjunctiva: a nice slippery pink, no sign of infection. “Does it water?” “Only in strong sunlight, and not very much,” he assured me, straightening up. He smiled at me. “Thank you, my dear.” Jamie didn’t say anything, but the way he breathed had a distinctly edgy feel about it. I ignored him. If he chose to make a fuss, I couldn’t bloody stop him. “What are ye doing here?” he asked abruptly. John looked up at him, one brow raised, as though surprised to see him looming on the other side of my bed. John rose slowly to his feet, holding Jamie’s eyes with his own.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asked quietly. There was no hint of challenge in the question, and I could see Jamie suddenly check his own hostility, frowning slightly as he looked John over, considering. One side of John’s mouth turned up a little. “Do you think I’ve come to fight you for the favors of this lady? Or to seduce her from your side?” Jamie didn’t laugh, but the line between his brows smoothed out. “I don’t,” he said dryly. “And as ye dinna seem to be much damaged, I doubt ye’ve come to be doctored.” John gave an amiable bob of the head, indicating that this line of reasoning was correct. “And I doubt, as well,” Jamie continued, an edge creeping into his voice, “that ye’ve come to continue our previous discussion.” John inhaled slowly, and exhaled even slower, regarding Jamie with a level gaze. “Is it your opinion that anything remains to be said, regarding any part of that discussion?” There was a marked silence. I glanced from one to the other, Jamie’s eyes narrowed and John’s eyes wide, both with fixed blue stares. All it lacked was growling and the slow lashing of tails. “Are you armed, John?” I inquired pleasantly. He glanced at me, startled. “No.” “Good,” I said, grunting slightly as I struggled to sit up. “Then you obviously aren’t going to kill him”—I nodded at Jamie, standing over me with fists half curled—“and if he didn’t break your neck the first time, he isn’t going to do it now. Are you?” I inquired, arching a brow at Jamie. He looked down his nose at me, but I saw the slight relaxation of his mouth. And his hands. “Probably not.” “Well, then.” I brushed the hair back from my face. “No point in hitting each other. And harsh language would detract from the pleasant nature of this visit, wouldn’t it?” Neither of them chose to answer this. “That was not actually a rhetorical question,” I said. “But let that go.” I turned to John, folding my hands in my lap. “Flattered as I am by the attention, I don’t think you came solely to inquire after my well-being. So if you’ll pardon my vulgar curiosity . . . why are you here?” He finally relaxed and, at my nod, took the stool, linking his fingers round his knee. “I’ve come to ask your help,” he said directly to Jamie. “But also”—it was slight, but I noticed the hesitation—“to make you an offer. Not as quid pro quo,” he added. “The offer is not contingent on your assistance.” Jamie made a Scottish noise indicating deep skepticism but willingness to listen.

John nodded and took a breath before continuing. “You once mentioned to me, my dear, that—”

“Dinna be calling her that.”

Mrs. Fraser,” John amended, and, with a polite bow to me, turned his attention to Jamie, “once mentioned that she—and you, I would imagine—had some acquaintance with General Arnold.”

Jamie and I exchanged puzzled looks. He shrugged and folded his arms. “Aye, we do.” “Good. What I—and my brother”—I felt, rather than saw, Jamie’s start at mention of Hal—“would ask of you is a note of introduction to Arnold, with your personal request that the general allow us official entrance into the city—and whatever aid he might find it convenient to give us—for the purpose of making a search for my son.” John let out the rest of his breath and sat, head down, not moving. Nobody moved. At last, Jamie let out a long sigh and sat down on the room’s other stool. “Tell me,” he said, resigned. “What’s the wee bastard done now?”

88 A WHIFF OF ROQUEFORT~ "Written in My Own Heart's Blood"

[valend]

Do we know what kind of fashion styles (for their time) did hamburr have? Were they following whatever is trendy or doing their own thing

I love this question sososo much!

Unlike Jefferson, who was described as being unfashionable/old-fashioned, that his clothes were too small and that he wore slippers etc. we don’t have any similar descriptions for either Hamilton or Burr. On the contrary!!!

The most obvious proof of Hamilton being “trendy” is this from Chernow:

“From the time he started out as a young lawyer in postwar New York, Hamilton presented a dashing figure in society. He was trim and stylish, though not showy in dress. His account books reflect a concern with fashion, as shown by periodic visits to a French tailor, and his sartorial elegance is confirmed in portraits. In one painting, he wears a double-breasted coat with brass buttons and gilt-edged lapels, his neck swathed delicately in a ruffled lace jabot. One French historian remarked, “He belonged to the age of manners and silk stockings and handsome shoe-buckles.”He was as fastidious as a courtier in caring for his reddish-brown hair, and his son James recorded his daily ritual with the barber: “I recollect being in my father’s office in New York when he was under the hands of his hair-dress[er] (which was his daily course). His back hair was long. It was plaited, clubbed up, and tied with a black ribbon. His front hair was pomatumed [i.e., pomaded], powdered, and combed up and back from his forehead.”” [Chernow p. 187]

More detailed I remember one particular description of his clothes from Chernow’s biography again:

“When [Hamilton] entered the room, it was apparent from the respectful attention of the company that he was a distinguished individual. He was dressed in a blue coat with bright buttons; the skirts of his coat were unusually long. He wore a white waistcoat, black silk small clothes, white silk stockings. The gentle- man who received him as a guest introduced him to such of the company as were strangers to him. To each he made a formal bow, bending very low, the ceremony of shaking hands not being observed. . . .” [Chernow p. 334]

Hamilton was also really interested in the design of the soldier’s uniform:

“A chronic stickler for etiquette, Hamilton entered into the minutiae of protocol and dress, showing an unrestrained love of military matters. The most fastidious tailor could not have dictated more precise instructions for Washington’s uniform: “A blue coat without lapels, with lining collar and cuffs of buff, yellow buttons and gold epaulettes of double bullion tag with fringe, each having three stars. Collar cuffs and pocket flaps to have full embroidered edges and the button holes of every description to be full embroidered.” For Washington’s hat: “A full cocked hat, with a yellow button gold loop, a black cockade with a gold eagle in the center and a white plume.” For his boots: “Long boots, with stiff tops reaching to the center of the knee pan, the whole of black leather lined above with red morocco so as just to appear.” Hamilton’s descriptions of other uniforms were no less meticulous.” [Chernow p.564]

So it’s pretty obvious that Hamilton cared a lot of someone’s physical appearance therefore I doubt he would dress unfashionably.

Now for Burr I don’t seem to recall anything particular about his dress. Besides the silly rumour of him wearing that one bullet proof silk coat to the duel I don’t really remember anything else.

This is what I could find from a casual search (if I have more time I might look into it a bit more)

“Like Hamilton, the impeccably tailored Burr made an elegant impression, with his lustrous dark eyes, full lips, and boldly arched eyebrows.” [Chernow p. 192]

(no comment on the lustrous dark eyes, full lips and bold arched eyebrows bit, im completely ignoring it)

“According to eighteenth-century caricature, womanish men were fickle and disloyal, while as men of fashion, dandified politicians could be expected to change party affiliation as easily as they changed their clothes. By comparing the Burrites to beaux, dandies, and foppish boys, he associated them with prodigal dissipation and sexual indulgence—the twin vices of luxura and licentia, the antithesis of republican virtue.” [Isenberg p. 276]

I’m assuming since Burrites in general were described as looking like that then I believe it’s pretty fair to assume that same caricatured description goes for the man himself as well

There is also this description of his clothes, but in his defence he was on the run lmao:

“He wore a slouching white hat with a broad brim, sported a long beard and a checkered handkerchief around his neck, and a great, baggy coat tied with a belt. Hanging from the belt was a tin cup and a butcher’s knife. The outfit did not fit the profile of the dapper Burr, known for his stylish dress and genteel manners.” [Isenberg p. 353]

So from that description we’re able to tell that Burr was usually fashionable.

“Two prominent Federalists had loaned Burr $1,000 for new clothes, so that he could be tastefully attired in black silk for the duration of his trials.” [Isenberg p. 362]

I suppose silk would’ve been considered pretty fashionable for the time

Now, I might be misremembering this so if anyone has a source for this please let me know but I think I remember somewhere being mentioned that the way Burr was discovered and arrested in Alabama in 1807 was because his boots were too nice 😭😭😭

I genuinely have no idea if what I’m saying is true but apparently his boots were too trendy and polished and didn’t go along with the rest of his shabby clothes

[whumpdoyoumean]

Whumptober #21

xxx alternate prompt: shivering

Illya looks over to the opposite corner of the train compartment where Napoleon sits scrunched. The American is somehow looking even worse than he had the night before; his suit jacket is crumpled on the empty seat beside him, his tie hangs loose around his neck, and his cheeks are an unhealthy shade of pink. Even though his eyes are closed, his face is tight with discomfort, and he's shivering.

It's clear to all of them that whatever is wrong with Napoleon it isn't a hangover.

"Cowboy," Illya says softly. There's no response from the American, though, so he speaks a little louder. "Cowboy!"

One eye pops open. "Hm?"

"I'm going to dining car for tea. Do you want to come?"

"I'll make sure no one steals your fancy coat," Gaby adds.

Napoleon sighs, sitting up slowly. He takes a deep breath, then says, "I suppose something to drink couldn't hurt."

Illya would smile at the small victory if he weren't so worried about the man. He holds out a hand to help Napoleon to his feet. Napoleon looks at it, then up at Illya with an expression of mild disgust.

"I can stand by myself, thank you," he says, and the reediness of his voice undermines the statement somewhat. He fixes Illya with a determined stare and stands, bracing a hand against the wall for support. As he straightens, the color drains from his face, and his expression becomes slightly panicked.

"Solo?" Illya says slowly, moving toward him. No sooner has he done this than Napoleon bends at the middle and vomits. Illya looks at Gaby who looks back at him, her eyes wide.

"I'll go find someone to clean this up," Illya says, lingering in the doorway, torn between desire to help and reluctance to leave Napoleon.

"And you should get some ginger tea if they have it," Gaby says.

Napoleon, still folded in half as he catches his breath, makes a sound. "I think I've changed my mind on that drink, thank you."

"It'll soothe your stomach," Gaby says. Then, to Illya, "Go on!"

He nods and exits the compartment, stopping the first person in uniform he sees and explaining what happened. She makes a face, but says she'll find someone to clean it up. Illya thanks her and then heads toward the dining car, walking through it and directly to the kitchen.

"Excuse me--" a man with a French accent begins.

"I need ginger tea," Illya interrupts. "And a cool, wet cloth, please. As quickly as you can."

The Frenchman looks at Illya for a moment, sizing him up. Illya straightens to his full height. The man's eyes widen just enough to be noticeable, and he finally nods.

"The tea will take a few minutes."

Illya nods curtly, and the man bustles off. Illya steps back and stands waiting, arms crossed over his chest and his leg bouncing, for what seems like an eternity. Finally, the Frenchman returns, the tea in one hand and the cloth in the other. Illya reaches for his wallet to pay the man, his hands patting every pocket and finding each one empty.

"Chyort," he swears quietly, then looks up at the Frenchman. "My wallet. I will come back later to pay, you have my word."

The Frenchman rolls his eyes and sighs, offering the items to Illya. "Take it. Compliments of the kitchen."

Illya takes them with a grateful nod. "Spasibo."

The man nods back. "De rien."

Illya hurries back to the compartment, carefully so as not to spill the tea. By the time he gets back to the car, the mess has been cleaned up and Napoleon is back in his seat looking sweaty and sickly, eyes shut, a rubbish bin next to him.

"He's burning up," Gaby says quietly, taking the wet cloth from Illya and pressing it to the American's forehead. His eyes open halfway and he raises an eyebrow.

"You don't have to play nursemaid," he grumbles, and Gaby glares at him.

"I am not playing anything," she says, and turns and takes the tea from Illya. She holds it out to Napoleon. "Drink this."

Napoleon scowls, and the petulance in his expression would be more amusing if he weren't so obviously miserable. "I told you, I--"

"Drink it."

Napoleon's jaw tightens stubbornly.

"I would drink it if I were you," Illya says. Gaby looks ready to force it down Napoleon's throat.

Napoleon haves a dramatic sigh and takes the proffered cup. Illya notes with concern that it shakes as Napoleon raises it to his lips. He takes the smallest of sips and immediately makes a face, holding the cup away from himself as though it had somehow wronged him.

"What?" Gaby asks, hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed.

"It could use a bit of honey," Solo says, then adds under his breath, "and so could you."

Gaby throws her hands in the air. "Fine! Drink it or not, I don't care. I'm going to take a walk. It smells like sick in here."

"Gaby," Napoleon says, but she ignores him, slipping out and closing the door behind her. Illya turns to Napoleon with a raised eyebrow.

"You look like shit."

"Yes, well, that's about what I feel like funnily enough," Napoleon responds. He makes a face and shoves the tea back into Illya's hands, then leans over the rubbish bin and is sick again. Illya looks away in an effort to give Napoleon a modicum of privacy. When he turns back, Napoleon is sitting back, sweat beading his pale forehead, breathing shakily.

"Not very soothing after all," he says with a weak smile.

Illya sets the tea down on the empty seat beside him, then leans forward and presses the back of his fingers to Napoleon's cheek. He frowns. "You really are burning up."

Napoleon puts his hand over Illya's for a fleeting moment, then lets it fall back into his lap with a discontented noise. "I don't feel hot," he murmurs, and as if on cue, a violent shiver runs through his body.

"Izvini," Illya says softly. Napoleon lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

"Not your fault..." His brow twitches down into a frown as his nose starts to bleed, a line of red tracing its way to his upper lip. He wipes at it, looks briefly at the blood on his hand before putting his hand back up to his nose as it continues to drip. "The hell?" he murmurs. He looks up at Illya, and in his eyes is something close to fear.

"Relax," Illya says as though he's not also afraid. He reaches for Napoleon's jacket and pulls out the handkerchief that he knows is kept in the breast pocket. "Here."

Napoleon looks at it with a pained expression. "That's silk," he says miserably.

"Come on, Cowboy," Illya coaxes, and Napoleon finally gives in, taking the handkerchief from him and shoving it partially into his nose to staunch the flow.

"I hate this." He practically whimpers it.

"I know. Why don't you try and get some sleep? It is a long ride and we still have a ways to go."

Solo leans his head back, putting the back of one hand up to press the damp cloth against his forehead.

"I don't know if I can sleep," he mutters. He sounds pathetic.

"Just try," Illya says. He's never seen the American looking so unwell and vulnerable. Hell, he's seen Napoleon look more alive with two bullets and another man's tooth in his body. He stands and moves to the seat next to Napoleon. "Come here."

He's not sure if Napoleon will; they have to be careful about being too affectionate in public. So it speaks volumes to how unwell Napoleon is feeling when he leans toward Illya, his head falling heavily to rest against Illya's shoulder. The shivering has gotten worse, and Illya reaches over Napoleon to grab his jacket and drape it over him. It's not too long before Napoleon's face relaxes and his breathing becomes even.

It's not long after that the compartment door opens and Gaby steps in, bringing with her the smell of baked goods. She looks a little surprised to see Napoleon leaning against Illya—she knows how careful the two of them are—but doesn't say anything about it.

"I thought you might be hungry," she says softly. "Is he sleeping?"

"Yes," Illya replies, taking a scone. "Thank you." He cranes his head to look down at Napoleon. The white handkerchief hanging out of the American's nose is now half-red. He looks back at Gaby. "I am worried.

She nods, her eyebrows drawn, mouth twisted to one side in obvious uncertainty. Even though, she says, "He'll be okay."

Illya nods.

"I hope so."

xxx

[sanguinarysanguinity]

I have Just enough understanding of what you're up to with 'Omega3-verse' to be both curious and also somewhat trepidatious... so do tell!!

So, you might remember a post by @jeejyboard that was making the rounds:

...yeah.

It was spawning season, when the Highland's departed sons and daughters returned in their masses, each seeking the glen of their birth. There were fewer on the roads these last years: too many killed at Culloden or exiled in France. The French exiles would arrive eventually, the poor brutes -- too late, haggard and wounded, to die alone and unsatisfied in the spawning grounds. So it had happened in the years after the '15, Ewen had been told, and the '19, too.

There was no small number of spawning Redcoats on the road, either, headed for Argyle, the Lowlands, or the southlands. Most had shed their eponymous red coats, the narrow backs of their uniforms burst by the bulging shoulders beneath. But even without their coats, they were still recognisable, their military footgear and distinctive waistcoats surviving their owners' increase somewhat better than their coats.

But Redcoat or Highlander, the salmon-kin were harmless so long as one did not impede their journey. It was not until they reached their respective spawning grounds that the cock hookjaws became fierce, their breeding fangs and newfound five stone of muscle at last finding employment -- but only against each other. So long as one posed no competition for the henfish, one had nothing to fear from the jealous cockfish. But there were always a few intrepid youth, who, more horny than wise, tried for one of the henfish and were savaged for their impudence. Lachlan, as a boy, had donned skirts and bonnet and almost succeeded in slipping in and out of the spawning grounds undetected, before running afoul of a hookjaw's wrath.

Ewen had never been tempted by such sport. He yielded to the salmon-kin on the roads, and guarded the privacy of Ardroy's spawning grounds so that the Cameron salmon-kin may conduct their affairs unmolested. When the season was over, he arranged for the pregnant henfish to be taken in and cared for, and likewise saw to the dead. Not one in twenty hookjaws survived the spawning grounds to see another season. They died of exhaustion or hunger or their festering wounds, their bodies a feasting for carrion-birds. Only a few kelts -- emaciated, wounded, and barely conscious -- were found alive, lying scarcely breathing among their dead kin. Ewen saw that they, too, were cared for. Most still died, but at least they died in comfort. They were as Cameron as those who never left, and the Clan took care of their own...

[amrass]

8 films that inspire my RDR2 fanfics

So this is for the kind and patient anon who asked me for some movie recs relevant to my writing, and for anyone else who might be interested.

This list has genres like western, drama, crime and horror. Most of the films have darker themes, half are non-English, and some have that surrealistic edge that I try to emulate as a nod towards Rockstar games. I consider fanfics closer to screenplays than literary fiction, and so it feels natural that this list has an emphasis on fun!!!

1. Il Grande Silenzio / The Great Silence (1968)

I've said it before and I'll say it again, this is my favorite western film of all time. It is a classic, a spaghetti (Italian) western made by Sergio Carbucci ("the second greatest spaghetti western director"), and it has a Morricone score - buuut it is set in snowy mountains as opposed to deserts, have anti-fascist themes and is revisionist and dark.

The main character Silence, who is an outlaw who kills bounty hunters, reminds me of Arthur Morgan, and the main villain, the evil bounty hunter Loco, of Micah Bell. I think it served as an inspiration for them. It's great if you want to get that western atmosphere seen through a colder lense.

-

2. Utvandrarna & Nybyggarna / The Emmigrants & The New Land (1971 and 1972)

These two movies are best seen as one imo, as they follow the same Swedish family of farmer immigrants through the 1800s, as they travel across the sea to settle in the USA. These films are great for getting into the history at the time, as they are quite accurate, and might give you a realistic portrait to "lawful" human beings lived and died, such as Abigail and John in RDR1-2. To say it's a harsh life puts it mildly, but there is also joy, and I love how unflinching this film is in showing the life at the time. Great for seeing why it isn't easy for the Van der Linde Gang to settle down.

The last one might be the most relevant since it's set wholly in the USA, but personally I adore the shift from the Scandinavian landscape to the American one, a contrast that helps me describe it better. It has great actors you might associate with Ingmar Bergman films (no one is as good at dying as Liv Ullmann lol, kudos).

PS: PLEASE DON'T WATCH THE NEWER NORWEGIAN REMAKE. THE SWEDISH VERSION IS SUPERIOR.

-

3. The Thing (1982)

AHHH I couldn't not put it here, and not only because the main character wears a cowboy hat, or it being my favorite horror film. No, this one is just great for learning how to write tension. The whole movie is super tense, and made more so by the characters being smart, the stakes being high, and the whole setting being used. It’s also gory and FUN.

-

4. Le Cercle Rouge / The Red Circle (1970)

Lolol when I first wanted to watch this I got the German one made many years prior, which was pretty meh. Afterwards I watched the correct version, and MAN, truly a great heist film. It really gives young Dutch & Hosea vibes. This one is great how at showing how much planning and carefulness one has to do if one wishes to lead a life of crime, and how it might not save you. It’s also just a cool movie. Old school cool.

-

5. Le Trou (1960)

More tension ... And god, the sound picture in this movie is something else. This is a French prison escape film, and can help you if you want to see just how important loyalty is among criminals. It really has that harsh, high testerone vibe to it lololol, and I'm sorry, but the French butts in tight and sexy prison uniforms are a sight to behold.

-

6. Sin City (2005)

Okay this is the sort of film I can't watch with just everyone because it's so exploitative and over-the-top, but it's my favorite comic book style movie. It has extreme violence, very sexy men and women in nice coats or underwear, and it's just so much fun. The character Marv reminds me of low honor Arthur Morgan, and Dwight, of high honor John Marston. I love the comics too. Just know that this isn't for everyone, but it is very me.

-

7. Female Trouble (1974)

LOLOL another film that isn't for everyone, but it's kind of considered mandatory viewing if you're queer. I know this is an odd choice to inspire RDR2 fics, but I write crack fics, and believe it or not they require work as humor requires a degree of form, seriousness and precision.

I love also John Waters so much, I remember watching this exact movie with my first queer friend at sixteen and we were like, hugging and kissing each other in sheer joy. I am inspired by this type of surralist, over-the-top, dark humor across all my stories. Tbh if Divine showed up in the Rockstar universe, probably toned down for Rockstar due to marketing reasons, would you be surprised? I'd love to see her on a horse spray painted with glitter.

-

8. The Hateful Eight (2015)

I almost translated this movie title into Italian just for fun, but ... Yeah, I guess I had to kind of end this list with a circle composition, what with The Hateful Eight being inspired by Il Grande Silenzio and all, and those two GIFS before the list being from the film.

I grew up with Tarantino movies, and when I watched this in the cinema I liked it but was underwhelmed. It's only after rewatching it a couple of times that I started to really, really like it. I like and understand the references, I love the atmosphere, it just helps remind me how fun a movie can be. It's also great for giving characters the necessary degree of coolness. I reference this one a lot in all my works, and would love to do write a fic directly inspired by this.

-

That was it! I can mention some more movies I like that are kind of relevant to this list: Army of Shadows, Django, Man Without a Past, Werckmeister Harmonies, Jackie Brown, Diary of a Country Priest, The Price of Fear (French one!), Event Horizon, Hellraiser, Braindead, Green Room, Rec, Withnail and I, Ravenous …

I always welcome movie recs! Just know that I got specific tastes lol.

Thanks for reading!

[ellas-journey]

From a thing to wear to an icon of culture 👘

There is this hidden detail in Muzan that when I noticed I could not help but smile. Remember how he said that the thing he hated the most was change? Well coming from someone that had to live in 5 different eras is kinda funny, and it's even funny when you realize that he ended up adopting the Western fashion pretty fast. But that's the twist, if you look at Muzan's vest you come to realize that it's the exact same pattern as the kimono he used to wear. The best part? That was a thing that actually happened in history.

Wanting or not, the clothing that the people used to wear represents the history they lived through. "To look seriously at art objects of the everyday, such as clothes - their discourse and practices, their meaning-bearing forms and their codes of internal and external interpretations - in an essential, and often neglected, component of any study of modern aesthetics." - Slade, 2009 Yofuku [Western Clothing] is a type of clothing that is now common all over Japan, but during a lot of time, it was a type of clothes that only selected few grew up with. The 1st contacts with these types of clothing [even if extremely different from what we now call western clothing] was in the 16th century when the Portuguese arrived in Tanegashima. With them came not only different shapes but also different fabrics. But the “true” introduction to western fashion would only happen with Commodore Matthew Perry, catharsis to the Meiji restoration, where Emperor Meiji would start to dress in a typical western military outfit, and soon after the empress would start to aper in the typical victorian dresses. In the Edo period clothing visually distinguished the social classes. "Certain articles of clothing visibly differentiated people of diverse social classes, and simultaneously distinguished an individual within a specific group. The materials, motifs and construction of military campaign coats, for example, marked their wearers as men belonging to the military class." - Milhaupt, 2014; Samurai ranked on the top, followed by farmers, artisans, and merchants on the bottom. What happen was that most of the times the samurai where poor while the merchants lived in economic success. But samurai had the privilege of using certain types of fabrics and patters, even tho most of the times they could not afford them, and so, the merchants would start to adapt the fabrics and patters they were allowed to were and would end up becoming the patrons of arts and fashion. The trends of fashion would later be documented in ukiyo-e, and not only in the work of art sense, but also in pattern books were people could browse the prevailing styles. After the 1st contacts with the westerners, what would start to happen is that slowly but surely the Japanese would start to integrate the western ways of dressing into their lives. The Japanese started to introduce some of its elements with the kimono, shoes, hats, gloves, glasses, umbrellas, etc. Then in the 19th century a full change would happen starting from the man in the highest classes to the man in the lowest classes. The emperor decided to cut his topknot in 1872 and started to dress in western clothing in official appearances, also changing some of the more cultural habits like eating meat and more wester kind of meals. In the official portraits he appears adorned with a French-style military uniform with ornaments in gold and ostrich feathers. Before this, the emperor was never a public figure, so when pictures of the Meiji Emperor became available, and he started to appear more publicly the nation would have their eyes on him and start to imitate him. Women would, for the longest time still dress in the now classic kimono, that would develop as a symbol of the old and traditional Japan. The idea of the western clothing being associated with a modernized Japan and the Kimono [that literally means “thing to wear”] to a traditional country came from the fact that the emperor would choose to wear western clothes in more formal, international events, and for religious national events would choose the traditional Japanese court dress. The western clothes will end up being a symbol of the modernization of Japan, and the Meiji government would use it as yet another tool of national control. For all the Japanese born after 1945 the western clothes became the norm. Most families would end up transforming their kimonos into western clothing pieces, and the patterns sold for kimonos would double for kimonos and western clothing.

But it is funny to notice how despite it all Muzan is the one being presented in western clothing and Ubuyashiki is the one in traditional clothes, always being the contradiction of the other, but also it can also be interpretated as the Ubuyashibi family being "trapped" in the past since in hundred years the corps never killed an upper moon, the history never changed. And Muzan in his ever-changing cycle of his life, in the changing of eras and changing of personas he decided to reuse the only thing he could: his clothes. And just like him, they would adapt through the times.

MILHAUPT, Terry Satsuki. 2014 - Kimono: A Modern History. London: Reaktion Books [Ebook]; SLADE, Toby. 2009 - Japanese Fashion: A cultural History. Oxford, Berg. [Ebook];

[fashionsfromhistory]

Ensemble

c.1790

France

The dualities and contradictions that characterized male fashion in the early Napoleonic period are captured in this spectacularly schizophrenic ensemble. Under the disintegrating forces of the French Revolution (1789-1794), the 18th century confidence, some might say smugness, in its uniformity of aesthetic beliefs was to disappear. The restless need for social and political reform, which began in the 1780s and was fostered through the works of the philosophes, resulted in new patterns of consumption and new forms of self-expression. For a time, however, the ideas, values and aesthetics of the Ancien Régime competed and co-existed with those of the founding Republic.

This jockeying for position between the old and new elites gave birth to a variety of hybrid or transitional styles of dress, this suit being an outstanding example. Comprising a coat with narrow sleeves and a straight, cut-away skirt, a short vest or gilet and a pair of breeches that covered the legs below the knees, it recalls the cool Neoclassicism of the Enlightenment. At the same time, its simple lines and complete absence of decoration reflects the Anglomania that had been a feature of male fashions in France since the 1740s, but which came to the fore in the 1780s. The opulence and frenzied frivolity of Ancien Régime court dress or habits à la française, however, remain in its luxurious fabric and its lurid, effervescent color. Its stand-up collar is also a vestige of the old order, but its exaggerated height anticipates the style of the Incroyables. Like these giddy young men of the mid- to late 1790s, the wearer of this suit was almost certainly an élégant, an 'enlightened' aristocrat who hid his anti-Jacobin tendencies by adopting the puritanical design vocabulary of the republicans.

The MET (Accession Number: 2003.45a–c)

[neylo]

Becoming Marshal of France - Part one: The annoying but necessary shit

@cadmusfly is a bad influence and a terrible temptation. I want you to know that you have succeeded.

Since I was a kid, I loved the feathered hats, the colourful shiny uniforms and the overall vibe of the 18th and the beginning of the 19th century. Apparently, it wasn't a phase.

I am a cosplayer and I love myself a good challenge. And now here it is. I am to make the ultimate entry for the Napoleonic fandom of Tumblr and make my own marshal uniform. I cordially invite you all to join my journey and perhaps, get inspired!

Let's start with the tunic.

Disclaimer: Reenactors, chill, I am not a millionaire - I can't, unfortunately, afford the expensive replicas of the buttons etc. I do not intend to participate in any kind of reenactment activity, and therefore I can't promise 100% historical accuracy. I would love to. But right now I can't.

Note: I use the metric system. It is nice, it is logical, and you should implement that too, Americans!

Before you start:

Step one: find the appropriate fabrics. Are you looking for dark blue? Great start. Now, it's time for some research. Napoleon's Marshals book by Osprey Publishing has done a great job describing the details. You can basically choose your own preferred material: Silk, velvet or linen. Congrats! For a whole-ass marshal tunic, you will need 2-3 metres of fabric depending on your size.

You will also need lining. I recommend linen lining and viscose lining for the sleeves.

Step two: Assess your insanity. There are multiple uniform patterns, each for a different occasion (source):

If you have three years of free time and unlimited supplies of goldwork threads, you can do the grande tenue - the first picture. I would advise you not to. But if you want, there is actually an extant one you can draw your inspiration from. It belonged to Ney. If you are going for this, you will indeed be the bravest of the brave.

Petite tenue is more subtle with less embroidery. Still, difficult as hell.

Tenue de campagne is the one I am going for. I don't like commitments. You will only need to embroider the collar and the cuffs + some stuff on the back. That is doable. That is what I am doing.

Step three: The pattern. The thing is, the patterns of the era were almost the same. I simply butchered my civilian coat pattern and changed it for a single-breasted one with a standing collar. Do you want help? I will share the pattern with you.

This is how my thing looks at the moment.

Step four: Embroidery. What is this shiny thing on the Marshals' uniforms? This is a kind of embroidery called "goldwork" and you need special metallic threads for it. They are not exactly easy to find, but Etsy is your friend. There are multiple US shops, and there is also EmbroideryMaterial shipping worldwide from India. They have a great selection and very agreeable prices.

For the Marshal tunic you shall need two kinds of threads:

The French wire (lol, it is really called like that!)

The Japanese thread (a thread wrapped in a thin gold plate)

You will also need small gold sequins.

I will show you the embroidery progress when my threads arrive. Before that happens, we need to design the embroidery. No worries, someone did it for you. That someone was actually me:

That's it for today.

Stay tuned for more posts.

[auguste-marmonts-only-fan]

Hello hello

So, I have been thinking....there is pretty much NO information about the Iliriyan provinces online....it is extremely hard to come by

That lead me to compile as many pictures as I could with the resources I had on hand, before I start some pictures might be bad quality becouse I took them on my phone with bad lighting...sorry 😅

A monument built in 1808 to honor Marmont, Trogir- Croatia

It's whole purpose was just to look pretty

The Napoleon monument in Makraska

It has nothing to do with Napoleon, it was built to honor Marmont

Border stone for the Iliriyan provinces, Zagreb-Croatia

It marked the border between the french and austrian sides

Map of the Iliriyan provinces

Orange marks the provinces,light green the ottoman empire,dark green Austria,light orange Croatia and the brown is Hungary (Ugarska/Vugarska)

Pages of the Kraglski dalmatin/Royal dalmatian

Aka the first ever croatian news paper in both italian and croatian, which was print by the french

A law signed by Marmont preventing the arrival of Russian boats in iliran docks

French wear house in Slunj, Croatia

Clerks seal, around 1809 from the city of Karlovac in Croatia

Ilirian coat of arms,1809

Next post will be the uniforms!

Check reblogs

[diluclover300]

Just One Week (7)

Gojo Satoru x Female Reader

also posted on my ao3 account: diluclover300

CHAPTER INDEX:

I H8 U

My Kinda Fun

Balance

{S] Awake

Eggs and Rice

Wait, but I'm broke

Couple's Discount

CHAPTER 7: Couple's Discount

...

Satoru is beyond ecstatic, his vision sticky and gooey at the insane amount of silks and wools carefully hung and displayed. There's a catalog of clothes, an array of expensive clothes. Top-tier luxury brands, ones you'd catch celebrities sporting like a pair of pajamas at the local airport. Ones that he can caress between the delicate friction of his fingers as a warm smile spreads across his face like butter on toast. Oh, how lucky he is. 

To reunite with his long-lost friend, whom he spent years tracking down, whom he was able to convince into allowing this moment to blossom into reality. He feels like a kid in a candy store, ogling at each piece of fabric, at each suit jacket and pant. And how tempting the sight is, how it tempts him to envelope himself in pure greed like a creature of sin. 

The assortment of colors, the breathtaking pigments, the unique textures of each cloth...

The excitement is so wonderful, so captivating that he doesn't even begin to notice the woman greeting him at the door. He takes off like a rocket ship, roaming around the men's section. A maze that he hasn't ventured in, yet one that feels familiar and natural to navigate through pure instinct. 

This must be heaven. 

"I think he, uh... I'm so sorry if he causes trouble." You half-groan, head threatening to hang low at Gojo's energetic aura. "Thank you."

The woman nods, a typical response that you'd expect from someone working customer service. You've been in that position before, squeezing out an exhausted smile at something you had no idea how to respond to. Funny enough, your cheeks sting from the muscle memory. 

You think to apologize once more, but you refrain, biting your tongue as you dejectedly follow after Gojo. He buries his head in a ring of hung-up clothes, swiping through each shirt like a potential match on Tinder. 

"Oh? Do you frequent here often?" 

You turn back, confusion overcoming your face. 

"No, I've never been, actually." You slowly shake your head, examining the woman for a moment. "Why?"

That low bun of hers wrapped in a red scarf, and that sleek, white uniform doesn't ring a bell. Does she know you?   

"Oh, sorry, it's just that your jacket... I couldn't help but notice that it is from our brand." 

"Oh," You smile, the interaction as awkward as awkward gets. "That's weird, I never noticed." 

You walk away with an understanding nod, fumbling with your lips as you fidget with the black jacket lying in the crook of your arm. Now that you think about it, it does feel like silk, expensive silk at that. 

Maybe your memories have faded over the years. It's possible that you snagged this from another one of those annual holiday sales, sort of a bad habit you've accumulated. You always browsed for coats and blazers when no one was around to watch, hunching over that compact cubicle as you frantically refreshed your search engine. Occasionally, when someone would walk past or start conversation, you almost let out a guilty flinch out of fear for getting caught. Almost. 

Nonetheless, the suggestion doesn't strike you. There's not a single instance where you, the loyal slave to some measly corporation, could justify the selfish purchase of a fancy coat. A coat was a coat, no matter the price. It would have torn up in that monster of a washing machine you own either. Not to mention the void and guilt that would stem from such an unnecessary purchase.

"Is that my jacket?" Weird. You don't expect it, but you recall the events from this morning. The skeptical look on his rather punchable face. 

Your fingers trace over the sewn-in label, mumbling the brand to yourself. Even that leaves a pretentious, bitter taste on your tongue.

Nope, it doesn't ring a bell. 

You suppose it's French, and to be honest, you don't have an opinion on the French. There are far more significant matters, at least in your opinion, than some species of European folk. Why would you spend your precious paycheck on such a useless thing?

Everything tells you, everything desperately grasps you by the shoulders and shakes you to your senses. And then you finally uncover the answer as to whether or not you "frequented" such a snobby, stuck-up place. 

"I must be remembering things wrong.." Yeah, remembering things wrong, my ass, you think. 

He lied. Oh dear, you really tried to give him the benefit of the doubt.

And that certain white-haired culprit is currently nowhere to be seen. Quite frankly, you have no idea where you are either. You've lost yourself in the garden of consumerism, swarmed by the amount of clothes and designer bags laying in front of you. A landfill for the rich, you call it. 

But it's peaceful for a bit as it is overwhelming. You're oddly calm when you take in the privilege of Gojo's absence, as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. A heavy one at that. 

Five years was, and is too short, much too measly of a distance. If you had it your way, if the Earth rotated to the drumming of your feet, then you would have never known the words "Gojo Satoru". His face would have been an imaginative blur, those eyes nothing but a mere gaze, and those memories would become one of the infinite "what-ifs" of this universe.

And if you ran into him on a fateful spring day? 

You would have abandoned destiny a long time ago, parted ways like ex-lovers. The occurrence would leave you as you were.

Still, steady, and normal. 

These three values would have stuck with you, through thick and thin. But which one was it? You don't know what to call this incident. Was this the thick? Or was this the thin?

You wonder, mull over it for a bit before you're chained back into the prison of his presence. It's a game of push and pull.

This punishment of a game. 

"Yo! Over here, Y/N." You look up from the leather jacket folded on the display shelf below you, eyes hooked onto that raised hand of his. 

You seem to be on the receiving end, on both sides of that hellish spectrum. 

"Okay." You make your way over to "here", that sigh of yours halted. You have something to ask him anyways, something about that jacket of his. 

His hand is still held up high in the air while the rest of his body entangled in a rack of clothes. Stupid is as stupid does. 

His and Hers, You regrettably read and fully understand the sign hanging overhead from the ceiling, along with the bolded words: NEW Spring Collection.

"Did you find something?" You only ask as a precaution, monitoring his spending habits. An awful habit that solely relied on you and you only for support. 

That hand of his flails around before sinking down into the sea of clothes before him. 

"You're here?" His hands scour and fish into the abyss, voice muffled into the ridiculous amount of suits and dresses stuffed in his face. "I'm surprised-"

A groan follows, the sound of plastic material ringing against his skull. A sound that you would have ignored because it seamlessly blended into the rapid snare of the radio-pop tune playing on the store's speakers.  You could have paid it zero mind if not for the sheer amount of second-hand embarrassment that ensued from your witness of the scene. 

"Careful there," You sneer, watching as his back contorts like a gymnast. "The higher-ups wouldn't want you to come back a complete moron."

Satoru chuckles, scrambling once more before putting an end to his short-lived visit to Narnia. 

"I'm thankful for the concern." There's an array of clothes folded over his arm, and oh, does the sight worry. "Please continue to take great care of me, Y/N."

You give him a strange look, your lips curling in disgust. By no means were you concerned about him, worried about this bafoon of a man. 

"You're dumb." It's a conclusion you should have come to earlier, really.

"Remind me," Satoru's gaze trails off into the air before landing on you. "Who was the one that lost to me last night?" 

You're stumped, mouth opening before it shuts again. That unlucky "who" was you, the loser.

Gojo takes your defeat as an opening, a chance. 

"Wanna try this on?" A dress is shoved into your face, along with that cheeky smile of his that peeks behind the cloth. 

Your attention darts from Gojo to the pink, girlish dress. 

The long-sleeves are puffed just by the slightest bit, and the material a bit translucent until you notice that there (thankfully) is a white cloth underneath to keep yourself covered. Your eyesight was just playing tricks on you. Okay, a bit of decency, you appreciate it. However, you think the skirt is just a little too short, but the sweetheart neckline does look kind of gorgeous, you'll admit. 

"Whaddya think?" He reveals more of that hidden smile of his behind the blinding cloth, along with his now enlarged starry eyes. You don't take that as a good sign, it's more of warning. "Hm?"

Emotionally, you don't exactly feel inclined to wear it, nor does the idea entice you. Logically, you can't and don't want to afford a dress you could easily get for way cheaper on the internet. Besides, you'd rather focus on controlling the inevitable loss of your sweet, hard-earned cash if possible. And with the sleek look of the fabric, along with the carefully stitched in details - the item is nothing but a pure fantasy. 

You intend to keep it that way. 

"No-"

Again. 

Again, again, and again! Satoru groans out of pure annoyance. You're using that word again. That boring word, the word which cages him in like a helpless bird, the word which is so draining, so terribly cruel, absolutely inhumane. 

No. 

How he resents the very existence, the very creation of that word. That word which rolls of your tongue without an ounce of hesitation. 

"No?" Satoru interrupts, raising a brow before yanking off his glasses. 

"Um.." 

When you look into those eyes laced with the pure malice of the devil, your flesh tenses. Your muscles contract, a reaction not one of muscle memory, but one of cold-blooded fear. 

"I, um..." Think, think, think! You can't seem to put two and two together no matter how much your brain tells you to. 

When his eyes release a frosty residue into the air, when you watch the air melt against him, you lose your resolve. Stripped of it, left with the stubbornness lying underneath.  

Telling Gojo Satoru "yes" - you'd rather lie cold in your grave. 

"Is it still a no?" 

No doubt about it, Satoru notices. Your stubbornness surprisingly (as if he hasn't calculated this reaction) clashes with his want. 

Without a single word, you begrudgingly snatch the dress out of his loose grasp, eyes searching around for the dressing room as you turn on your heel, slumping with each step like a deflated skydancer. 

"To your left." Satoru directs, burying the self-conceited excitement down his throat. "You're welcome."

Patience is a virtue, he repeats to himself, over and over as you disappear behind the racks of clothes in front of him. 

...

You don't want to. 

Oh, you really can't stand the look of it because the feeling this dress evokes in you is criminal. The definition of bi-polar, heck, even multi-polar as the fabric drapes around you.

A part of you, the mature side of you, loathes the sight. You feel girlish, frail, and overly-feminine, like a total joke of a woman. You gaze upon the mirror and shy from it, covering your eyes before you peek through your fingers out of pure embarrassment. 

You were well-into your twenties at this point, a young age, but still... weren't you a little too old for this? You can't help but feel that way. With those bags underneath your eyes you look like a princess fresh out of a zombie apocalypse, not some cute, innocent-looking chick. Maybe you look a little fucked-up, honestly. Completely out of place. 

Oh, whatever. You lightly squeeze and pick at the skirt, tracing the pleated lines. 

There's another part of you as well, and you suppose it's your immature side. The side that pokes through your doubts like a roses' thorn. 

It's pretty. You feel kind of special, like an actual princess or some kind of tacky, knock-off Barbie doll. Fluffing your hair, a pit forms in the bottom-left of your stomach, plague pooling up inside of you. 

Envy, desire, selfishness begin to settle in. And to think that you strayed, parted ways with these three "friends" years ago. Only now do they make their grand reappearance. 

So this is what it's like to be normal, isn't it? You ask yourself, only to receive no answer. Surely, this is what it's like to have the world at your fingertips, to have all your wants and desires served to you in silver platter, right? 

You should be jumping up and down right now, squealing like a damn schoolgirl at the idea that you were living out a childhood fantasy of yours.

"It's nice," You mumble, almost as if you're trying to convince yourself to agree. The words don't stick as well as you hoped. 

You're jealous, almost angry you've never got to experience something so trivial, so materialistic. Jujutsu training took up more than half of your youth and those high-school memories you so deeply craved only remained a simple dream. A selfish goal you could never achieve no matter which plan or path you took to get there. The consequences of your choices would always haunt you, and you suppose this is one of those instances when you see the faintest image of a little girl. A little girl with a pair of eyes all too similar, with a nose much like yours, with lips of the same nature. 

You want to scream when your chest compresses against itself, eyes stinging and reddening. 

How tormenting, you would have never imagined your reflection to be one of a burden as your fingers still against the fabric of that dress, lips rolling over each other as a ship sinks to the very bottom of your stomach's oceans. 

You remember. You remember it all too well, those years in elementary school. One question stuck with you in particular. 

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

To first-grade you, that was a simple, easy question. So you churned out an answer with very little thought. 

"I want to be happy! Like... forever?"

Hah. Simple. 

You think, no, you thought that such a simple, inoffensive wish would allow your life to show you a bit of grace, a bit of fulfillment. You were wrong, damn it, you were so wrong that you let out a choked, cowardly sniffle. The little you wouldn't even want to see you face, she'd rather die than accept her reality-

"Yoo-hoo. It's been ten minutes, you done yet?" 

You flinch at his voice, blinking profusely as you touch up your watering eyes. Being sad was one thing, but you were not going to cry around Gojo Satoru. Never. 

"Hello-"

You swing the door open, feeling your eyelashes water before you speak. The sound of your voice is stupid as all can be, but what could you do? You were just crying to yourself like the main character in some cheaply-produced Disney movie. 

"Hi." You frown, crossing your arms as you feel the wind blow against your bare legs. You don't even want to look at him right now. Why? He's not scary. 

It's a silence so thick that follows, so thick that you can't even take in proper breaths from the air that lies between the two of you. 

Gojo Satoru stares, and you hate it. You hate that equally thick stare lying behind those glasses of his, seriously. You want to hide away, crawl into a hole when he hums like that, sucking in his lips as he examines you like a zoo animal. You're going ballistic and all you can do is stand there with your arms crossed as a defense. It's insulting because you're aware of how ridiculous the thing looks on you. Insulting because he makes it so obvious that you look like a little girl playing dress-up.

"What?" You say, tone flat. "Why are you looking at me like that?"  

Oops. He swallows, guilty as charged when he stiffly rubs his neck. Satoru feels like a perv, the memories of that night flooding into the dam of his mind.

No, you're a friend.

Just a friend.

Only a beloved childhood friend of his, so there's no reason that these troublesome fireworks should be going off, bouncing off the barriers of his skin. 

"Like what?" He looks away, hands stuffed in his pocket as he occupies his mind with the displays surrounding him. "I wasn't doing a single thing except looking at the dress." 

Your lips tremble, and you feel dumb. Super dumb. Maybe it's those leftover feelings from earlier that begin to explode out of you, little by little. You can't seem to stop it, and it's killing you as your armor cracks. 

"Is it that bad?" Your voice cracks, and he begins to panic as if he wasn't a nervous wreck before. "Be honest." 

"What? Of course it isn't-"

"Stop lying." You let out, eyes burning up into ashes as they redden like cherries. "I mean it."

"Why would I lie? You- you look pretty." Damn it. He's let the cat out of the bag, fingers covering his lips before he decides to just accept his terrible fate. 

No, that wasn't- that wasn't what you wanted to hear. You toy with the flesh in your mouth, the skin of your forehead scrunching and bunching up. 

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no... You shouldn't be mad at him, he was just looking at the dress, he wasn't judging you, you just made him call you pretty. Wait, you're pretty? 

You ignore that, your skin crawls at the compliment. You hate it, you hate him, everything about him. 

Your eyes are - Ugh. What are you doing? 

"Well, it was just because... because.." You stammer, fiddling with the syllables of your words as the image of that particular black jacket appears in your mind.

"Because?" Satoru questions, taking in a deep breath. He feels strange when your eyes swell up like that, so strange that he can't put it into words even if he tried. 

"Are you crying?" He doesn't know if he should ask, and he's especially scared of sounding like a total asshole. What if the tears just poured out when he asked? But, it felt too wrong, so wrong to just watch you fume up like this without adressing the elephant in the room-- the warm beads flooding the crevices of your eyes. 

"You lied." You use the knuckles of your fingers to pat at the corners of your eyes, breathing in a shaky breath as you do, chest slowly rising. "Why did you-"

Okay, he could understand you were beyond frustrated, but falsely accusing him of lying. Oh, he couldn't stand it, even if it was you pointing fingers at him. Even if it was his dear, beloved friend. 

"When did I-"

"Hello, I just couldn't help but notice that dress on you, ma'am. It looks wonderful."

You turn around, looking like a deer in headlights at the saleswoman who probably watched that whole shit-show with front-row seats. Gojo, on the other hand, takes in a sharp breath, rubbing his cheek before acknowledging the fact that they were in public, fighting in public, like a-

"Oh? Are you two a couple? We actually have a His and Her deal going on until the end of this month. Would you be interested?" It's the same woman he accidentally ignored, the same woman who unknowingly directed you to Gojo's lie. She's back, this time to upsell you on products you really don't need and can't afford. You thought you had formed some kind of alliance, but alas, she was just doing her job. Unfortunately, you were her target. 

Now this, this was the reason for his visit in the first place. There was no way he was going to leave without purchasing color-coordinated outfits, the same ones he's been anticipating the release of since the beginning of winter. Usually, he'd be the type to despise such a release, one that didn't serve him any purpose, but because of you, and solely because of you he was...

"Yes. We're interested-"

"No-" You protest, the tears drying up against the dry of your eyes. 

"We are interested." He grits his teeth at you, pulling you in closer to his side, saving face with a smile as his arm wraps around your uneven shoulders. "There's a matching suit for this dress, right? I saw it in the catalog." 

"I-" You try to refuse, but they've already beat you to it. What was this? Your unlucky day? 

You've been having a lot of those recently. And this day is no different when his arm sticks you to him like glue, feeling the outline of his body against your hip. You shudder, skin crawling once more at the mutual warmth. His fingers press against the fabric of your shoulder, giving you a light squeeze and pat. You might as well bark and get on all fours like his dog at this point, that was how you felt. Like Gojo Satoru's pet, always at his service. 

The woman gives him an eager nod, "I'll get the sets out for you two. Please give me a moment." 

Your eyes shoot up at him, and it's an angry look, no doubt. First, your vision traces his fingers that hold you, then at the knowing smile on his face. He knows you hate it, and he's just going to continue this torture of his until he's satisfied. You didn't even have to go through another cycle of defiance only to cower at his Six Eyes. Like a dog, you've been trained into obedience, without a single treat in your bowl or stomach. 

In other words, you're at a loss. Advantage-wise, speech-wise, physically-speaking, emotionally-speaking... all of it.

Even though you eye him with such venom when that neutral expression looks back down at you, those beads still linger. You don't know what to make of your own conflict anymore, having a difficult time as the ground fills your line of vision. 

"Hey, why did you tell her that?" You whisper-hiss, as if those words were meant to be kept a hidden secret. "Now she thinks we're a couple..."

There they are, Satoru takes notes of those tides as his arm slips from your shoulders. They're clashing, the gritty sand soaking those waves dry. 

"Are you okay?" Did he have the right to ask such a question? To show an ounce of his care? Was he allowed to?

"It was for the discount." Is what comes out instead as he widens the small gap between the both of you. Ironically, this much more appropriate response leaves him questioning his own intentions. "Why? Does it bother you?" 

No, it shouldn't bother you. It doesn't. 

"You ass..." You mutter, hoping that somehow a miracle occurs. One so miraculous that his memories of your vulnerability erase.

However, such miracles never seem to hit you - they miss by a large shot.

"I hate you."

Or maybe they do as Gojo just nods. At least this once as you break contact with him, a comfortable silence settling in. 

"The feeling's mutual, don't worry." 

Satoru doesn't want to test the validity his words.

"You lied." 

That isn't so far off from the truth. 

...

"How is it?"

Your reflection is disappointing. The colors that swallow you are lackluster, they trap you. 

"I don't like it." What outfit was this again? You lost track. 

"Oh, that's too bad. Does it fit?" Satoru crosses his legs, resting in a fancy, maroon velvet armchair. 

"...Yes." You answer, rubbing your arm. You're losing. 

"What was that?" He tips his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Sorry, I just can't hear you." 

As if. 

"It fits." You speak up, tone numb as you tell him what he wants to hear. 

"Good." 

This, unfortunately, has been the norm of your conversations for the past two hours. Gojo would pick out an outfit from the spring catalog, force  ask you to try it on, then he'd ask for your optimistic opinions which he held zero regard for whatsoever before buying or trashing it. 

"Excuse me," He holds up a hand before pointing at you. You blink at this, dread filling you whole. "She'll take this one as well." 

You did not say that, but you must be remembering things wrong. 

The saleswoman nods. "Of course, sir."

She moves to pack up a fresh set, but quickly presses onto her own breaks when he opens his mouth to command speak once more. Poor thing, you can't help but feel your own foot ache at the amount of times she's had to deal with this. 

"Also, I want all the accessories."

"A-all?" She raises both eyebrows, masking her shock with a boxy smile. "Are you-"

"I'm sure." Satoru nods, finally looking at the woman. 

"Yes, sir. I'll get started on that right away." She scurries off with such urgency that you'd think she was held at gunpoint. 

Your lips flubber as you exhale, taking in your reflection. Today has weirdly been all about you, in the worst way imaginable. You can't seem to catch a break with the absurd amount of haughty-designer outfits thrown onto you. This one in particular was your least favorite. 

A blue shirt, reminiscent of those soul-sucking Six Eyes, short-sleeved with a slight puff in the shoulders, adorned with buttons of a similar shade. Though it is soft to the touch, it's more than unbelievable to you that this costs around three-hundred yen. The white lace skirt draped all the way down your ankles is no cheaper either, but a couple hundred yen was like child's play for the rich. Another regular day, nothing new. 

Furthermore, Gojo hasn't tried on a single thing. He just assumes he'll like his side of the outfit based on yours, a total gamble of your money.

"Is there anything else...?" You decide to follow routine, but of course, it doesn't work when you finally accept your fate. 

"Nah, you can go change now." He rolls his shoulders back before getting back on his feet, the chair as empty as he found it. "I'll be waiting outside, yeah?"

You carefully nod, studying his sudden change in demeanor as he whistles to himself, that stern expression wiped off the surface of his face. Now that was bipolar. 

"Okay." You'd hate to send him into another frenzy of playing dress-up with a doll that was more than unwilling because you would also like to move on from whatever this was. 

One piece after another, as if you're being timed, you strip down your clothes only to re-dress yourself in your original (work) clothes. Oh, how you long for that nine-to-five lifestyle, how you miss being stuck in that stiff office chair. Today taught you that being rich and ambitious was not for the weak, that you, the weak, suited the likes of a corporate, forty-hour work week. Not this pretend fantasy, this mere illusion. 

Right now, you'd do anything to escape this hell-hole of a place and that demon of man. 

"Oh," Your hands reach for your jacket- sorry, his jacket.

"You lied."

You forgot to prove your point, the evident truth that Gojo Satoru was a liar.

...

You can't believe it. Not a single bit. 

"For the last time, and I say this with all due respect, but your items have already been paid for, ma'am." The bald man at the counter sighs, holding a receipt before you. 

You cautiously scan the very long paper, fingers grabbing it's very end as your eyes widen at the total.   

"But... but-"

You profusely rub your eyes, blinking over and over. You might as well go into cardiac arrest at the seven bolded digits, grasping the thin receipt between your shaky fingers. 

"Correct," His voice cuts through your multiple stammers.  "You didn't pay, your boyfriend did, ma'am."

B-boyfriend? Gojo Satoru? That man? 

"He didn't, and he's not my-" You don't even get the chance to make your case clear. 

"The signature is at the very bottom." 

You stuff your face into the very butt of the paper, eyes flickering between the signature line and the uncanny smiley face drawn on top it. What an eyesore.

How in the world did he pay? You chew onto the flakes of your lips, releasing a deep breath from the very depths of your lungs. You were under the impression that Gojo came here with absolutely nothing but himself. And the flowers. You almost forgot those flowers, and you accidentally remember how ugly and spacious they look sitting on the counter of your kitchen island. 

"Ah, I... I see now, sorry." You let out an involuntary laugh, shoving the receipt down your pocket. "I'm sorry for taking up your time, let me just-" 

You grunt, looping one bag onto your arm after another, the worker behind the counter blankly staring as you visibly struggle. Jeez. Were you the one working customer service or was he? 

"Have- Have a nice rest of your day." Somehow you manage to carry all six bags, three on your left and three on your right as you head towards salvation. Which was better known as the exit of this damn place. 

"You too, ma'am."

Thanks, you mouth to yourself. 

You have a feeling the rest of your day will be anything but nice. 

...