#miss selfridge

[eightiesmorgue]

Helen and Michael in the 1980's

[womenofwrestlingfashion]

Satin Cap Sleeve Tie Back Corset Top in Light Pink from Miss Selfridge ($47.99) & Echoed Embellished Western Boot in White from Azalea Wang (on sale: $120)

[ebaygirls]

[a-trace-of-lace]

Outfit of the Day

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[berneeberry]

x3bernadette

Please help a girl out & have a look at my vinted items. ♻️ 💕 🧚‍♀️

[sneekpeekinspired]

House on Fire - Episode 1: 'I Feel Like i Know You'

Alexandre Vauthier V-Neck Puff-Shoulder Long-Sleeve Napa Leather Mini Dress ($1095)

Christian Louboutin Frenchissima Alta over-the-knee 100mm boot ($1995)

Miss Selfridge vinyl faux leather trench coat in bright red ($119)

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EYECANDY LA Diana Collar Necklace in Cream Pearl (€63,95)

[girlsofthemoonblog]

Anette and two models featured in a Miss Selfridge ad, from the August 31st 1974 issue of Petticoat magazine 💜

•my scan•

[poisonousrain222]

a little jake-centric oopsie

part one part two part three part four part five

[below-average-fangirl]

If Mr Selfridge had been a braver show they would have developed a relationship between Miss Ravillious and Miss Mardle.

[kitsunetsuki]

Miss Selfridge Ad (Cosmopolitan 1974)

[jomiddlemarch]

The customer is always right

Alina wasn’t sure if the evidence of her mixed heritage, the warmer cast of her complexion, the shape of her dark eyes, the unrelieved ebony of the braided hair at the nape of her neck, had played the deciding role in her offer of employment at Selfridge’s tea emporium instead of the accessories department she’d applied for, but with the rent due on her lodging and barely enough money left for a cup of stewed tea and a day-old bun at the wagon outside the department store and not the emporium itself, she wasn’t about to inquire—or complain. Mr. Grove made it clear he expected her to spend at least part of her first week’s wages on a new shirtwaist and extra set of cuffs, but he’d also mentioned the generous employee discount and encouraged her to ask Miss Mardle about the gloves from Holland that weren’t selling as well as they’d hoped.

Her landlady had started muttering about girls like you no better than they should be. Her alternatives had been working in a laundry or sleeping rough. The orphanage she’d been raised at refused to take her back, even as a char.

She’d be perfectly happy to serve tea in Selfridge’s crested china for the rest of her life.

At least she’d thought so until Count Kirigan stood on the other side of the counter, very tall, very handsome in an austere, presumably exiled Russian fashion, evidently considering her offer to find him a very nice Darjeeling indeed sirwith the same gravity as a writ of summons or whichever equation determined Cambridge’s current Senior Wrangler. Even given the relative brevity of her employment at Selfridge’s, she could appreciate his bespoke suit was far more finely made than even Mr. Selfridge’s most expensive options, his snowy linen the ruin of some laundress’s hands. She kept her own hands neatly folded together, the scar on her palm hidden from view.

“The English panacea in an American’s shop?” he said, his voice lightly accented, that foreign hint lurking under pure toff and she couldn’t keep from smiling just a little imagining Mr. Selfridge’s reaction to the Count’s description. From what she’d seen of the man, Mr. Selfridge would be just as likely to smirk as growl, especially at the choice of “shop” for the positive acres of gleaming marble floor, gleaming mahogany counters, every item for purchase set out to tempt a kitchen-maid or a marchioness.

“Any cup here is properly brewed, I can assure you, sir,” she said. There was a trick to keeping her expression from being too bold or too cowed and she’d gotten it down pat because it was what kept a friendless orphan alive and fed but something in the way he regarded her told her he understood what she was doing and why.

“Show me,” he said. Alina glanced around to make sure there was no senior staff member about to come round the corner and give her some extremely punctilious set-down for what was most certainly an unusual situation, a Count requesting a demonstration by a maidservant in full view of any other customer who might walk by. Count Kirigan waited, imperious, yet with a curiously warm expression in his dark eyes. Alina set to the task and made short work of it, pretending to herself she was only preparing her own last cup before bedtime, the leaves weak from re-use but better than nothing. She poured it out and offered it to him, not a drop on the saucer, the steam curling up, homely and mysterious at once.

He took it, having removed his gloves while she worked, his bare hand grazing hers. It was a terrible impropriety, surely a firing offense, but there was nothing she could do about it. He sipped the tea once, closed his eyes for a moment, and then looked at her again, saw her as it seemed no one had ever cared to—or been able to.

“Perfect,” he said and she knew he was not speaking only of the tea. “Not many people surprise me, Miss—”

“Stark,” Alina replied.

“Miss Stark,” he repeated. He opened his mouth to speak again but was interrupted by the arrival of his mother, who gave Alina a brief, searing look, before turning to her son as if Alina had become an object to ignore, a canister of tea left on the counter to be put away and forgotten.

“Sasha, you’re still here, you silly boy, when I’ve been in the Palm Court—you’ve been waiting a long time!” she exclaimed, the criticism apparent despite her fond smile. It wasn’t reflected in her eyes.

“Apologies, Maman,” he said, bowing very briefly. “It did not seem long to me.”

“You are not alone,” she scolded.

“No, I am not,” he said, his lips curving, nodding very formally, very politely at Alina, as if he were the supplicant and she the grand lady who might grant a favor.

“For Serge, this will do,” she said, shrugging slightly. “But you are made for greater things.”

“As you say, Maman,” he replied. It was neither an affirmation nor a rejection. “I will only be a moment here.”

“The motor will be at the front door,” Princess Marie said and walked off, her embroidered coat fluttering around her like a train. Alina wondered who had dared to drive such a woman out of her country, courting her implacable wrath.

“I must take my leave, Miss Stark. But I should like to return, if you would welcome that,” he said. He was as careful as if she were his equal, with no coaxing or cajoling in his deep voice.

“I’m nobody special, sir,” she said. He reached over and touched her hand very lightly, a heavy silver ring gleaming on his finger. She couldn’t help the warmth she felt, the blush that must be staining her cheeks red as poppies.

“I must disagree with you,” he replied. “And please, call me Aleksander.”

“Not here,” she said, making a decision she had to hope she would not regret, doing her best to ensure she could still walk away. “Not at Selfridge’s.”

“Where? When?” he asked. When had someone last been so eager to see her? She couldn’t recall anyone ever speaking to her so, certainly not someone as elegant as Count Kirigan with his closely trimmed beard, his every gesture graceful and puissant, the archaic term somehow suiting him better than any other. His gaze was ardent and she felt it, more thrilling now than warm, stirring her rather than making her apprehensive. If she trembled, it was not from fear.

“There’s a tea-shop not far. They have currant buns, though the tea isn’t as good as what we have here,” she said. “I’m afraid the time won’t be convenient, I work until six—”

“This evening?” he said. She would have said tomorrow, but perhaps it was better not to have time to think better of it.

“All right,” she said. He tilted his head in an almost shy entreaty.

“All right, Aleksander,” she said and saw something ease in him.

She never served another cup of tea in Selfridge’s crested and gilt-trimmed china. She did order the Darjeeling once she was the Countess Kirigan with full access to the account. It was indeed very nice and she knew Mr. Selfridge himself begrudged her not a whit, because he told her so the first night she met him at the theater, that he had always known she had the spirit and the gumption to become a Countess, his American delight at conquering the aristocracy evident but not at all unpleasant.

[womenofwrestlingfashion]

Satin Jacquard Micro Mini Lace Trim Skort from Miss Selfridge ($47.99 via ASOS)

[ebaygirls]

[a-trace-of-lace]

Outfit of the Day

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[fashionfoodcocktails]

Ones to Know| Make-up artist Bea Sweet

[m0chisenpai]

Can you write a fic about Jake sully x reader where she has a terrible father and she completely shut him out of her life and one day he comes back for reader and Jake is just super protective over her? <3

father!jake sully x daughter!reader

You often forget you were once human along with your adoptive father. Then moments would ground you, and remind you of that little star in the sky you’d once call home. And the primal look in your fathers eye right now looked far from human.

You’d never heard your father hiss like that before and you hoped you never did again. Usually, when you did he would playfully bare his fangs at you and you would copy him with a fit of giggles. But his teeth now bared in a show of dominance against the man who held your arm in his. 

“Let her go” Jake spat out and the man immediately tightened his grip. You felt like the world would end right then and there, the new life you’d knit together came unraveling in front of you.

Your father made a name for himself as soon as he caught wind of Pandora. When you were younger you were naive to it. All you knew was that daddy would spoil you with a pretty little dress, and a bigger dollhouse cause he got special rocks from this planet in the sky. 

Then you got older and you heard things, whispers from the cracked doors of that study. How he was investing his money toward some foreign element with an old college buddy, Parker Selfridge. You were still a child, just well into entering those double digits, but all you knew was from that day on every gift your father gave burned your hands.

You would have given anything to get away from your father. Perhaps you were only there to carry the name, but you ran from that gilded cage long ago. You convinced Grace Augustine you were some young prodigy in the making and the woman was more than welcome to teach you about the plant life on the planet and about the Na’vi people. 

Life was beautiful again. Following the war, you found this as a gift from Eywa herself, the chance to love and be loved by a real family. Neytiri spent her days on the hunt even while pregnant and you trained by her side, learning the ways of the hunter and the future Tsahik. She loved you fiercely and saw you as hers despite not sharing blood. 

None of you expected a search party to be placed, yet here you stood in the grasp of the man who once called you father. Jake saw red when he heard your cries and found you in the arms of the man. His heart thudded in his ears, the world around him a blur as you had his entire focus. 

His eyes calculated every nervous shift the man whom you once called father stepped back with you held tight. “Y/N tell that thing you are not one of them.”

This only elicited another primal hiss and fangs bared at him and your father finally released you and took a slow step back. “Ok, ok.” He finally released you from his hold and you quickly ran to Jake who kept his eyes trained onto the human but reached a hand back to press into your stomach. 

“Y/N, baby I know things went so badly wrong. But please. Come home baby, we miss you. We’ll do what we can to fix you back and mama is home ready and waiting. Please baby.” And you felt tears fall, because it was all a lie. Your father used that very tone when you ran up to him in a fit of tears begging to know if your friends were true, that Santa wasn’t real. And he rubbed his hand down your back and cooed at you with syrupy words that the man was indeed real.

Those sticky sweet words make your stomach burn as you tightened the grip on Jake’s hand, no your father’s hand. “I wanna go home, please.”

“I know baby, we’re going home. Let me fix this baby.” he whispered back, lacing his fingers with your own and squeezing what strength he had into you. 

The human cooed your name again, and you balled up your fist hissing weakly at him.

“This is home” you retaliated, “not back there. Not where I was a shadow, a guest in the place that was supposed to be home. Mama didn’t want me and you knew it just as much as she did. You abandoned me once you can do it again.” Your nails dug into Jake’s palm as your voice raised and your eyes screwed shut as you pressed your forehead to his back, taking in gasps full of air. 

“Y/N.” He took a step forward, arms reached out and Jake lowered himself over you more, tail swishing in agitation as he prepared himself. “Baby, I don’t want to cause a muck on this planet, you don’t want to bring unnecessary harm. Just come home and we can leave the natives alone. No unnecessary bloodshed.” His hand once again reached out, the dark glint of metal shined in Jake’s eye. 

He knew what that was slung over his shoulder.  He was no match against it, and who was to say he wasn’t surrounded now? That their wasn’t an army waiting for him, ready to attack if he came back empty handed.

Yet just as he went to take another step forward arm reaching to his weapon, an arrow shot from the trees above and lodged itself in front of where your fathers hand would have been had he not moved back fast enough.

Your eyes flickered into the trees above where your mother stood, arrow drawn with another bow. She gracefully leapt down, her stance unwavering as she took a spot beside her mate. Eyes never once leave the human man whose face was painted in fear. “Another word, and I shoot again.”

Silence fell. All you could hear and see was your father whose arms fell in defeat finally turning his back to you, arms raised. When he was far enough your fathers arms gathered you into his chest where he pressed you so tight you feared you would pop. 

“You’re fine baby, let it out” his words washed over you as you let your cries out, gripping onto him tightly. His words and Neytiri’s hands stroking your back brought you peace. You were safe, you were home.