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secret-engima · 4 years

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...Rufus Shinra and the Turks in KHR

-Pure, total, utter, CHAOS.

-This boy was raised to rule an EMPIRE that played pretend as a power company there is no one more suited to wreak havoc with the Mafia than this boi and his pack of trained killers.

-Let’s be really mean and make Rufus be reborn as Tsuna and OH BOY the chaos starts from a young age.

-Tsuna doesn’t remember his old like until Nono seals him, and several days later (after Nono and Iemitsu have left) in the continuous desperation to LIVE-SURVIVE-NO-NO-NO that comes from having part of his soul locked away, Tsuna cracks open a part of his mind that should have never been touched, and Rufus spills out across the young, vulnerable mind of his second life with a gasp and a shudder, and he feels something in his veins screaming to be let out, and it feels like drowning-freezing-dying so he FIGHTS with every ounce of Will he has.

-The seal was meant to restrain the young, untrained Flame of a toddler. This new and unsettled, it was not prepared to hold back the surge of Will that came from an adult mind honed to a razor edged and tempered in world-ending apocalypses. The seal shatters into a thousand shards, but not before it carves at Rufus’s soul on the way out, and Nana rushes her son to the hospital for what looks like a seizure.

-The doctors have to restart his heart three times before he finally stabilizes (before his Flames finally flush the last of the seal shards from his system and are allowed to flow free through his veins). During the tense, hours long struggle to keep him alive, Nana calls the number Iemitsu gave her over and over.

-No one answers.

-Rufus wakes up in a hospital, and the sensation is not unfamiliar. It still takes him a moment to recognize the woman dozing in the chair by his bed with dark marks under her eyes as his mother (new mother) and this life as Tsuna’s life, not Rufus’s.

-Well. This is.

-Not what he expected when he died.

-He gets the feeling Gaia is laughing at him.

-The doctors can’t figure out what caused his seizures, nothing unusual shows up on any of their tests or scans. The only thing is heightened stress hormones and blood pressure, but not nearly high enough to cause damage. Eventually they let Nana take him home, but the woman who was previously so distant and ... ditzy in Tsuna’s memories is now protective, alert. Rufus assumes it’s because having your child nearly die horribly for unknown causes would make anyone (barring say, his old father) terribly upset.

-(He doesn’t know that Nana carried him all the way to the hospital because she doesn’t have a car, that his Flames, screaming Sky and biting, feral Mist, soaked into her own soul in their desperation, and in their quest to tear off his seal, shattered the one Iemitsu had sneakily applied to Nana’s passive Sky flames as well).

-Rufus thinks on Tsuna’s memories and realizes that it was his absentee father and “grandfather” (hah if that’s not a crime lord euphemism he’ll eat his own shoes) that caused his awakening and near death. There is something morbidly amusing in having a terrible, probably criminal father in both lifetimes.

-It would be funnier if he had any of his old allies to help him along (to make him feel less lonely).

-He also has powers now, and for a while he wonders if that makes him some kind of Ancient or halfbreed of one, but either way he keeps them secret, and he’s pretty sure Ancients didn’t use quite this much fire in their powers.

-He keeps his head down, he gets top marks in school but makes no real effort to socialize with his peers (none of them are worth knowing except maybe Hibari, but Hibari is feral and Rufus isn’t sure he wants to deal with that), and in secret he practices control over his Flames. He has two of them, one is bright orange and bright and POWERFUL, it’s the easiest to call. The other is weaker, but it’s incredibly useful. It’s light indigo in color, and with it Rufus can weave illusions from simple “don’t notice me” things to full on imagined animals or people as distractions.

-One day though, he gets caught playing with his powers by one Yamamoto Takeshi. The boy looks at him with an implacably neutral expression and Rufus is wondering if his purple fire can erase minds, when suddenly he smiles and holds out a palmful of blue fire.

-Rufus’s orange Flame lurches out of his skin in a breathless, needy desperation that startles them both, the Intuition in Rufus’s head SINGING found-you-found-you-mine-mine-mine- and there’s a click in both their souls-.

-Takeshi relaxes and something in Rufus’s soul cries with joy and recognition. Then Takeshi folds his hands politely in front of him and smiles a smile Rufus would know anywhere in the world, “Hello sir,” Tseng murmurs, “it’s good to finally see you again.”

-After that, their adult reserve crumbles, and the two children (only ten years old) cry heart wrenchingly on each other’s shoulders, because they saw the world end, they saw death, and now they woke up and thought for years they were the only ones.

-The others trickle in slowly after that, in fits and starts. Kyoko wanders over one day and introduces herself as Elena, and Rufus realizes Ryohei, her very quiet brother, has been something of a Martial Arts fanatic since a few years ago (since Rufus broke his seal, he doesn’t know it, but the sheer power and desperation of his Flames echoed over the town and woke up the others, though they did not realize where their awakening had come from).

-Cissnei shows up on his doorstep without explanation, her hair dark purple now and her body skinny from malnutrition that Rufus’s new mother happily sets about fixing.

-One by one his Turks drift in, and when Hibari starts growling over the intrusion of a budding gang in his territory, Rufus finally deigns to give Hibari his full attention.

-It’s a fight that ends in two broken arms, three broken ribs, a black eye and a nasty concussion, but one of those arms, the black eye, one of the ribs, and the concussion aren’t his and Hibari looks at Rufus in something like awe before he names Rufus Fluffy Carnivore and suddenly Hibari has a new turk recruit who comes with his own small army of pompadour wearing minions.

-Excellent.

-Rufus is content to start small. He doesn’t want to attract the attention of his father’s organization yet, but he has established himself as a small Yakuza now (though no one knows he rules it, his illusions are so helpful in making him seem smaller and weaker and clumsier than he is, to the point the oblivious students and teachers call him Dame-Tsuna) and he is looking into uncovering which Mafia group his father works for (so he can someday tear it up by the roots and burn it down, just to see the look on Iemitsu’s face).

-Of course, when he turns 14, everything gets ... complicated.

-Namely a tiny hitman shaped vaguely like a toddler shows up on his doorstep, calls him Dame-Tsuna, and says he’s here to teach Tsuna how to be a proper Mafia boss.

-Rufus and his Turks are Not Impressed™.

-But Iemitsu sent this tiny hitman, and Rufus is never one to pass up a chance to play the enemy for a fool, so he plays along. He plays the startled, skeptical civilian, the klutzy middle schooler with a group of wacky friends who don’t fit in any better than him, and when the TRAINED KILLER who is the best in the world (or so he claims) buys it wholesale, Rufus has to struggle not to roll his eyes at the sky because HONESTLY.

-Then Reborn drags a boy from Italy here, one who is quiet and wears sunglasses and has perhaps too much love of explosions and Rufus grins to himself and clicks his fingers at Tseng. Tseng takes the boy aside, and when they come back, Rude calmly swears fealty to Rufus without batting an eye.

-Reborn’s strangled surprise in the corner is priceless.

-It’s less priceless when Reborn shrugs it off as coincidence and keeps buying the “Dame-Tsuna” persona.

-It takes until Mukuro (Reno, a nearly broken, fractured Reno who has kept his sanity only because of the memories his torture dragged up out of his soul) shows up with two more of his Turks and Rufus and Rude talk them down in minutes (and with a lot of tears afterward, because these bodies are only 14 and Reno and his comrades have been through too much already) that Reborn starts to get suspicious that Something Is Up.

-Even so. The Dame-Tsuna insults and condescension persist, and Nana is bristly from it now (from being lied to in the face and expected not to notice) and Reborn still doesn’t notice and it is honestly getting on Rufus’s nerves.

-The day the Varia show up and he is told that Tsuna is to fight for the throne of Vongola, a pack of seeming 14 year olds against TRAINED ADULT ASSASSINS. Rufus decides enough is enough.

-On the day of the first fight, Rufus calmly and openly tells his Turks to “Take the Field”. The leader of the Varia, a man who’s Flames all but scream pain and betrayal and anguish (a familiar set of emotions, albeit not hidden and turned into poison, and it seems like Rufus is destined to be reminded of his first childhood at every turn doesn’t it) laughs at the “arrogance of the small trash”. Rufus just smiles, thin and polite and sweet.

-Martial Arts tears through Lussuria with a flurry of punches and kicks that send little shockwaves through the arena and the laughter slows.

-Knives (now named Haru) doesn’t even bat an eye at the lightning umbrellas and instead goes straight for the man’s sensitive bits with a lightning enhanced foot, then holds a knife to his sensitive parts and sweetly asks him to yield.

-By the time the Storm battle occurs and Rude has neatly burned off a good chunk of the Varia Storm’s hair with his bombs, the laughter has stopped and the staring has begun. Reborn and Iemitsu are deathly silent as they watch “Tsuna’s civilian friends” shred the Varia like paper, but really what did they expect to happen when they pitted the only group of unenhanced alive who could go toe to toe with SOLDIERs and win against some over-confident assassins?

-The Varia leader gets steadily more furious with each uninterrupted victory from the Turks, snarling and raging at his subordinates in a way that is most unbecoming. By the time it’s the turn of the Skies (and Nono is there to watch and such a PITY he didn’t get killed in the exploding mecha suit, truly), Rufus is still smiling thinly and Xanxus is fit to burst with fury.

-”What are you?” Xanxus roars not long into their fight, when Rufus calmly dodges every blast and seems to all but fade from the senses if they take their eyes off him for a mere moment, “You’re supposed to be a Sky! Stop fighting like a trash Mist!”

-Rufus stops, and pointedly does not look at Reborn or Iemitsu or Nono. He just grins, wild and bloody, “Alright.”

-He lets his Sky Flames out.

-The two so-called referees, Iemitsu’s pet Rain, and the Varia’s Lightning all drop to their knees from the pressure.

-Xanxus gapes.

-”Turns out,” Rufus hums calmly as he creates a shotgun out of Mist Flames and fires a round of pure Sky Flame at Xanxus’s chest (the man barely dodges with a stream of curses), “that nearly dying of a prolonged seizure and three heart attacks when you are just a toddler because of the Flame Seal that your dearest father and father’s boss tried to carve into your soul means your Dying Will is very, very strong. Who knew.”

-Xanxus actually lowers his pistols to stare at Rufus, “They. What.”

-Rufus politely refrains from shooting this man while his guard is down, because an enemy of Nono is a potential ally that shouldn’t be wasted, “You heard me. Ask mother dearest if you want. She was the one who ran to the hospital with my seizing body in her arms and spent the next seven hours outside the emergency room calling my father’s number with no response, unsure if I would live or die. But please, don’t let mere facts stop you from telling me how I’m trash who can’t light a candle with my Will. It certainly doesn’t stop my so-called Tutor.”

-Somewhere in the background, Reborn makes a strangled noise, and Rufus thinks that the Varia Sun is the one making the angry kettle noises all medics make when their medical sensibilities have been gutted and set on fire in front of them.

#SE asks #oliverslewty asks #Secret Engima Rambles #Tear Down the Sky verse #Rufus as Tsuna verse #long post #oh look new au #giving this two names for now #we'll see which one I remember

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menswearmusings · 3 years

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Carmina’s 21st Century Edge

A few years ago at a Drake’s trunk show, I asked Kingsley Blum about the decline of the necktie in mainstream dress. Her response was so memorable that it’s stuck with me: She said that if neckties are on the path to dying out, Drake’s thought of themselves as being the one tie maker who would stand til the last, making the best ones that exist, supplying to whomever will still wear them.

Recently I’ve been thinking the same thoughts toward high quality leather shoe makers. Although better positioned than the necktie to survive (after all you must wear shoes in public, while a tie is superfluous decoration), leather shoe sales are generally in decline while more casual shoes are on the up. Who will survive and thrive as the casual wardrobe comes to dominate the world?

One high-end maker that seems positioned to do well even as people become more casual is Carmina. I’ve always known about them, but had never actually owned a pair until recently. Once I did, though, I couldn’t help but be delighted by not just the quality and beauty of the shoes themselves but also their approach to business in today’s market. Unlike other bench grade shoemakers in their price category, they go out of their way to make it easy to learn about and buy their shoes online, and even allow custom single-order shoe purchases.

The pair I bought were still via a wholesale account of theirs: Gentlemen’s Footwear in San Diego. Nonetheless, the Carmina website is so impressive, they just might have won me over completely. Here’s why:

First, we’re all familiar with how impactful lasts are in whether or not a shoe will work on your foot. 90% of posts on any given thread on online style fora about shoes is “How should I size in last x if last y from brand z fits me in size…?” Carmina’s affiliate thread on Styleforum is no different, but rather than having to rely on community wisdom and experience there, they have an easy tool on their website that lets you compare last shapes directly in shape, instep and toe spring. So if you find a good fit in one of their lasts, you can quickly determine for yourself fairly quickly how a different last might fit differently before buying. For me, this is invaluable because the pair I bought are outstanding, and fit true to size. But comparing it with the tool to other very popular Carmina lasts, it’s clear I would need to size up. Genius!

Second, and this is a point I wouldn’t think I’d need to say in 2021, but you can actually buy their shoes on their website. Do you admire Crockett & Jones’ tassel loafer* and want to try it for yourself—but live in the gigantic swath of America where nobody anywhere near you sells them?—have fun Googling places to order and hope they happen to stock the shoe you want I guess. It’s a crapshoot. And don’t even get me started on Alden. Carmina, however, has their entire collection of shoes available for order online, and even offers individual one-off orders. Which brings me to:

Third, their made to order customization options are wild. Not only can you choose a shoe model, what leather you want, the linings, the soles, and other details but you can choose a last for them to make it on. Delivery is approximately 6 weeks after your order. The price for MTO isn’t low—this is a luxury brand in the mid-three-figures—but neither is it crazy high compared to retail price for shoes at this level. For someone who has built up their shoe collection enough that they have no need for any additional pairs for rotation, being able to custom make a shoe to your design specs to this degree is amazing.

I’m really impressed with Carmina, in case you couldn’t tell. Most important is that the pair I have are comfortable on me, which honestly is not true of other brands I’ve owned or tried on at this price point (frankly, Beckett Simonon’s $200-level shoes are the most consistently comfortable leather dress shoes I’ve tried, alongside certain Allen Edmonds pairs I own, but these rival those and the quality is appreciably better). But besides that, the quality of make, the design, and the ease of shopping in 2021 make Carmina the shoe company I’d put my money on to thrive.

* Apparently Crockett & Jones launched online e-commerce a couple months ago. What a time to be alive!

(Help support this site! If you buy stuff through my links, your clicks and purchases earn me a commission from many of the retailers I feature, and it helps me sustain this site—as well as my menswear habit ;-) Thanks!)

If you’re just getting into tailored menswear and want a single helpful guide to building a trend-proof wardrobe, buy my eBook. It’s only $5 and covers wardrobe essentials for any guy who wants to look cool, feel cool and make a good impression. Formatted for your phone or computer/iPad so it’s not annoying to read, and it’s full of pretty pictures, not just boring prose. Buy it here.

Read more at Menswear Musings

#Carmina #High end shoes #luxury shoes #menswear #shoes

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odindiana15-blog · 5 years

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Gifts , Shopping Secrets

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supergirl-imagines · 6 years

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Lena Luthor/you fic pt. 31

Lena woke up to the sound of drawers being opened and slammed shut and squinted against the harsh sunlight streaming through the large windows on the east side of the apartment. You were whizzing around the room in a desperate attempt to find something and Lena got up in a hurry.

“Whoa, what are you doing?”

“I need my fucking glasses.”

You hadn’t worn them in months, because you hadn’t been sober in months. When you opened your eyes, you were bombarded by a complete set of uninhibited senses and because of that, an incredible headache.

“Okay,” Lena began rooting through the drawers of your nightstand as you nearly ripped the dresser apart. It took her less than a minute to locate the lead frames.

“Here,” she crossed the room and slid them onto your face quickly. You finally came to a stop, chest heaving as she rested her hands on your shoulders.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” you nodded.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like I want some goddamn drugs.”

“Other than that…”

“Like I’m being bombarded by every goddamn sound in the city. There’s a dog across the street that won’t shut up—“

“Hey, it’s alright. Just listen to me. Listen to my heartbeat; you can hear that right?”

You nod again and close your eyes. It takes a few moments, but you zone in on her pulse and the cacophony of city sounds begins to fade.

“Thank you,” you murmur quietly. “Um, don’t you need to be at work?”

“I suppose I do…I could get someone to cover if you need—“

“No, go to work. I’ll be fine.”

“Can you promise me that you won’t do anything stupid?”

“I mean, I can try.”

“Will you at least promise to stay clean?”

You release a long breath through your nose and shrug.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Thank you,” Lena gives your shoulders a small squeeze and then pulls away. She looks conflicted; like she should lean back in and kiss you goodbye, but you both know that it’s not how it used to be. Things aren’t like that anymore, at least not right now. Lena lingers a moment longer and then slips her shoes on.

When Lena leaves, you collapse back down into your bed and take a deep breath. You haven’t been this alert since, well, the night Lena left you. It’ll take some time to remember how to siphon out the overload of sensory information you’re subjected to without some sort of numbing agent to block it. You begin wracking your brain for something to ease the long hours that are to come. It’s only 8 am and no bar in town is open at this time of day. Then again, locked doors weren’t much of a barrier for you now. Almost on autopilot, you grab your wallet from the desk and rip your window open. The fresh air does little to calm your overworked nerves as you fly over and around buildings before landing at the alleyway entrance to the underground alien bar. You rap on the metal door a few times; not wanting to burst in if there is in fact someone there.

When no one answers, you give the handle a quick yank and bust the lock with ease. The bar is deserted and you fish a few hundred dollar bills out of you wallet as you hope over the counter to the wall of liquor bottles. The money is left in plain sight near the cash register after you fill your arms with unmarked bottles of extraterrestrial alcohol. The cash should be more than enough to cover what you take and the busted lock, so you leave without much guilt on your mind. If you had any idea where to buy this stuff wholesale, you’d never break in. But, these were desperate times.

You fly back to your apartment in less than a minute, being plagued by a different type of guilt. Though you know Lena would like you to stay completely sober, she never explicitly said anything about alcohol. The only thing on the table right now was the drug issue. That’s how you justify it to yourself, anyways.

Deciding to take it slow, you open your sparsely packed fridge and pull out the first soda you see. It’s been a while since you’ve mixed liquor with anything other than more liquor, but you force yourself to be generous with the amount of soda you pour into your glass. When you take a sip, you can barely taste the alcohol, but it will have to do. You take your weak drink with you to the bedroom and climb back underneath your blankets. With nothing better to do, you open your laptop and decide to try and catch up on any news you may have missed while being gone. You decide to look at Catco’s website and read some of Kara’s most recent stuff, but you don’t make it past the homepage. The first story on the feed’s title doesn’t catch your eye, but the thumbnail beside it does. It’s of you carrying the car crash victims of last night.

New Girl in Town? Unnamed Hero Teams Up with Supergirl

It doesn’t surprise you that Kara is the one who wrote the article. She found an image where your hood and hair obscured your features just enough to keep you from being recognizable. Irritated that she decided to write about you, you snag your phone out from beneath the sheets and call her.

“Hello?”

“Why the fuck are you writing about me?”

“Well, good morning to you too.”

“I’m not kidding around, Kara. What are you doing?”

“I’m making sure you know you’re in the public eye. People are going to be looking for you now and you need to remember that when you’re out.”

“I’m fully aware that people are looking for me because your sister made me lose $200,000 worth of drugs, remember? Keep me out of your writing or National City is going to have a whole cartel trying to track me down.” There’s a moment of silence and you know she hasn’t thought of this.

“You really think they’ll come looking for you?”

“Maybe.”

“Hmm. Maybe we should think about making you a disguise.”

“No.”

“Nothing fancy, just maybe a mask and a suit! Unless you want someone taking a good picture of your face and never being able to walk around without being recognized again.”

She makes a decent point.

“Fine. Nothing fancy.”

“Okay, I’ll have Winn draw something up. What kind of colors would you—“

“Black.”

“No, you can’t do black. People are going to see you and think you’re a villain. I’m thinking gold.”

“I’m not flying around looking like C-3PO, okay? Just make it black.”

You hang up on her and toss the phone back into the mess of bedding around you. Against your better judgment, you click on the article and scroll down to the bottom. There’s already a string of comments. You close the window before you can read them. You don’t want to know what people are saying about you. You don’t want to know what kind of expectations the city has for you now. Not when you already have enough standards to live up to with Lena, and Kara, and the US government.

You quickly toss back the entirety of your drink and get up to make a new one. You’re on edge and nearly drop the stolen bottle in your hand when the earpiece chimes on.

“Me again. We’ve got a situation down at 53rd and 4th. It’s not—“

“I’m on my way,” you interrupt her and toss back the pure liquor you had poured. It stings your throat and makes your eyes water. Your apartment is left in more of a mess as you rip a t-shirt from your dresser in half and tie it around the bottom half of your face. Airing on the side of caution, you still don a sweatshirt and tug the hood up.

It doesn’t take long to find the “situation”, as the sound of sirens and screaming are all too loud outside your window. Wishing that you had gotten another drink or two into your system, you fly lazily towards the intersection and land hard enough to crack the pavement beneath your feet.

It takes you a few seconds to comprehend everything happening around you. The sights and sounds blur together in a cacophony of panic and chaos and you try desperately to make sense of it as people push past you in desperate droves. There’s a rumbling under the street and suddenly, it’s splintering like plywood and something large emerges from the crater. Water and sewage shoot from broken mainlines and you step back to avoid the foul-smelling streams.

“I was trying to tell you that—“ Kara lands beside you and you interrupt before she can even get a sentence out.

“Yeah, aliens, got it. What do we do?”

“I’m not sure, I’ve never seen this type of thing before.”

Both of you step back as the writhing mass frees itself from the hole it’s made. You look for a face or at least some type of discernable feature, but all you can find is a grotesque, gaping maw filled with needle-like teeth. Before you can dodge it, a viscous black substance shoots out from the center and coats you. It reeks like some combination of roadkill and the sewage that’s still spilling out around it.

“Fuck,” you gag and shake the slimy goo from your hands. “What do we do? Kill it?”

“No,” Kara replies sharply, “we don’t kill it. We don’t even know what it is. Do you know how to use your freeze breath?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

“Then get ready to pick it up. I’m going to freeze the water around whatever this is so it can’t do any more damage.”

“You want me to touch it?”

“Y/N, this isn’t the time to get picky about your role. Get up there.”

Begrudgingly, you fly above the odd creature and wait for Kara to do her thing. A crowd is gathering below and you get anxious enough to straighten the cloth around your face. It’s making the smell of whatever was spewed on you stronger and you resort to breathing out of your mouth. It isn’t hard to pick up the sound of cameras clicking in the crowd of onlookers and you begin to think that Kara’s idea of a disguise isn’t a terrible idea. Supergirl is regularly photographed with professional technology and it wouldn’t surprise you if you were being broadcasted on the news right now. People were going to want a name and a face and you would be damned if you would give that to them. The blast of cold below you pulls you out of your thoughts and you look down just in time to see the wriggling mass frozen in place by the liquid from the pipes it had cracked. Its slippery exterior makes it hard to get a grip, but you manage to lift it out of the street. It smells just as bad as whatever nastiness it had squirted on you.

“What the fuck do I do with this thing?”

“Follow me, we’ll get it to the DEO so they can figure out what it is and where it came from,” Kara instructs. You follow her once she takes off, careful not to let the squirming monster in your hands slip. Kara passes the city headquarters up, not wanting to give away its location by dropping off a giant alien. In less than 30 seconds the two of you are outside the city limits and entering desert territory. It seems that the both of you have forgotten about the tracker on your ankle because when it goes off you have no idea what’s happening. Quite frankly, it feels as though your foot has been blown off and your vision goes dark. You’re vaguely aware of plummeting, of losing your hold on the wet, gruesome creature you had been carrying. Strength slips from your body as it plummets towards the dry earth below. You’re vaguely aware of Kara catching you, but the entire experience is too disorienting to comprehend fully. The Kryptonite is lighting every synapse in your nervous system up with chemicals and then dissolving them quickly.

“Y/N? Can you hear me? Y/N?”

Kara’s voice replays on what seems to be a loop and as you remain in some sort of unconscious limbo. You’re mad; mad at the fact that you had just gotten practically tased for doing something that the goddamn DEO was making you do, mad at Kara for not thinking of the repercussions of taking you outside of the city, and mostly mad at yourself for being stupid enough to forget your limitations.

You really have no sense of time as you begin to come out of the Kryptonite jolt. Your vision returns gradually, as the waves of darkness begin to lighten and reveal the room around you. You seem to be in an almost futuristic hospital wing, with glass walls illuminating the underground facility it’s housed in. You have to assume it’s the ‘other’ DEO that you had foolishly tried to fly to. A heart monitor beeps steadily beside the exam table you’ve been laid on, and you pull weakly at the wired stickers on your chest. Someone has changed you into a pair of V-necked hospital scrubs. When the monitor begins to go off, Alex Danvers rushes from somewhere else inside the facility and into the medical area.

“You’re awake.”

“And pissed,” you grunt and sit up. Your whole body aches, but your ankle is the worst of all. Upon examining it, you see dark red marks where the Kryptonite probes hit you.

“I would imagine. We’re really sorry for what happened and glad that you’re okay. And before you even ask, we aren’t putting the ankle bracelet back on. We put a small chip in your neck—“

“Wow, how familiar,” you snap and feel the scarred area. There’s a small bandage just to the left of the mangled skin that resulted from your time at CADMUS.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I know that’s…a bit of a sore spot for you but we can’t have you unmonitored.”

“Whatever. Can I leave now?”

“Well, we want to check and see if your powers have return—“

You explode a cup full of pens across the room with a quick flash of heat vision and Alex sighs.

“Are you always this angry?”

“I am around people who arrest me. Am I free to go, Agent Danvers?” you say her title mockingly, though you know it probably isn’t a great idea to start something with someone who has the power to lock you up and throw away the key. But, Alex almost looks a little guilty as you stand up from the table.

“Yeah, you can go. Your clothes are over there on the desk.”

You look in the direction she glanced in and saw your previous outfit, neatly folded next to the smoldering pile of melted plastic and ink you had created. Eager to leave the facility, you change out of the scrubs and into your clothes as fast as you physically can. There was never a reason to change in another room now that you had your abilities; you could strip down and get dressed so quickly that no one could ever see you naked.

“Y/N?” Alex calls your name just before you stepped out of the glass doorway.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been doing a really great job so far. I know you aren’t happy about any of this, but we’re glad to have you helping the city.”

Her compliment catches you by surprise and you imagine that your face probably shows that.

“Well, thanks or whatever.”

#lena luthor #lena fic #lena luthor imagine #supergirl #supergirl imagine

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girlafraidinacoma · 6 years

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IN THE LAP OF THE GODS Ch.2:

Summary: What do you get when you mix a tight-knit art community, young, hot-blooded twenty-something university students and good old-fashioned British Rock & Roll? Probably the next best hope for art and music that generation has to offer. With her friends’ band skyrocketing to fame, what exactly does a girl do when she suddenly finds herself sitting in the lap of the gods? The answer: do the only thing she can do, rise to the occasion of course!

Pairing: Gwilym Lee!Brian May x Original Female Character [chill guys, this WILL be a Bri fic…eventually].

Warnings: swearing, a very dramatic Freddie, Rog has a bit of a moment with a pastry...

Words: 2.2k +

Author’s Note: Chapter 2, Baby! I hope you guys enjoy it, and pls feel free to comment, reblog or leave a like if ya feel like it!

Kind of AU, contains both elements from real life and the Bo Rhap universe, so imagine whoever you prefer whether they be the real thing or the Bo Rhap Boys–be free.

Link to the Ao3 fic!

Chapter Playlist:

Chapter Two - That One Time When Fred Went Out for Coffee Or, Why Being a Young Entrepreneur is Harder than You Think

Kensington, 1969.

Out of breath and flushed pink, a young woman strode inside a musty little stall in Kensington Market, the shop bell giving a faint sort of ding upon her entrance. Freddie, who was quietly cataloguing their inventory in a faded blue balance book, smiled when he looked up to greet his friend.

“Wyn Clemens! You’ve come to visit me.” Fred said, ecstatically skipping his way to her from behind the counter before hugging her shoulders.

The girl made quick work of untangling the woolen scarf she had wrapped several times around her neck and mouth, placing that and her coat on the hook by the door.

“I swear I’ve gone up and down the place twice and both times I’ve managed to miss you entirely! Blimey, I didn’t think it was this small.” Her eyes scanned the darkened interior.

Currently their stall was nondescript, tucked away in between a carpet wholesaler and a shoe repair place, hidden away amongst the plethora of other stalls just like it. Cozy was one word for it, cramped was another, more accurate descriptor. Really, it was more of a booth. There they sold various garments and accessories to clothe the young bohemians, rockers, mods, punks, hippies and everyone in between who seemed to frequent the market there. Their shop was manned and looked after by Freddie and his friend Roger, and only by them, which was why, while their inventory was not exactly vast, it did quite literally seem to swallow the entire place in velvet, faux fur, leather, and brocade.

“Hey!” someone yelled in indignation, “This is a very fine establishment we run here, I’ll have you know!” A blonde head emerged from the back of the shop, a little area sectioned off by a dark curtain. It hid a tall, narrow mirror and served as both their stock room and fitting room.

The girl raised her eyebrows, feeling slightly sheepish at having offended this new person. “Wyn, this is Roger, the friend of mine I’ve been telling you about. He runs this dismal dispensary with me.” He said, not looking behind him as he gestured his head towards the blonde’s general direction. “Rog, this lovely creature you see before you is my new friend, Wyn.”

“Ah, the Ealing bird. Well, I suppose I could let that slight go for your pretty face. The name’s Roger Taylor, very nice to meet you, love.” He gave her his hand to shake, his lips upturned in a smirk.

“Careful there, Rog.” Freddie reminded him, which earned him a mischievous look from the blonde.

“Wyn,” the girl announced, unfazed by Roger’s cheesy smile, “I’ve come bearing gifts!”

“Ooh! Gimme! Gimme!” Freddie cried happily, his hands making grabbing motions all the while.

Wyn tutted at his antics shortly before presenting him a brown paper bag. “I thought it would cheer you up, while you’re stuck here.”

Freddie opened the bag and what he found there nearly brought him to tears. The bag was filled with fresh pastries still warm to the touch as he poked his nose inside and took a long whiff. He placed it on the counter before examining the goodies one by one, a hungry Roger joining his side. “You do care, Wyn! It’s just like Christmas! And here I thought everyone had forgotten about me. It feels like I haven’t seen the sunlight in days.”

“Weeks, really,” Roger added mournfully, before stuffing his mouth full of pastry. They had both been cooped inside their store trying to peddle their wares since the weekend and it was now Tuesday afternoon.

Freddie had a dramatic faraway look in his eye, his mouth shaped in a forlorn ‘O’ before finally snapping out of it. God, Wyn thought, he really should have been in theatre.

“C’mon then Wyn, tell us about all the changes in the outside world,” Fred was prattling away again, “Is dear old Liz still on the throne? How about Coronation Street, is it still playing? And what about tie-dye? Are people still wearing tie-dye?”

There was a quiet moan of “Oh Jesus, that’s the spot.” that came from Roger as he polished off an apricot danish.

Wyn gave the two of them a fond chuckle, trying to ignore the ridiculous sounds of ecstasy from the blonde as he delved into a croissant. “Let’s see,” the girl gave a pause for dramatic effect, “Yes, God forbid anyone else who’s set their eyes on that chair. Everybody knows Coronation Street is for ever. And it brings me to tears just thinking about it, but yes, unfortunately, the tie-dye lives on.”

“I knew it! It’s useless, Rog.” Freddie shouted, calling Roger’s attention. “Just bury me in these fur stoles. Even if they’re not real at least I’ll be kept warm and they haven’t assaulted anyone’s retinas.” He had trudged over to a rack of miscellaneous animal coats and stoles and buried his face in them. His further rant became muffled and unintelligible as he cried into the mass of faux fur.

“How long has he been like this?” The girl turned to the blonde with a worried look.

“On and off since Saturday,” he informed her, brushing stray crumbs from his mouth. “We’ve hardly sold anything.”

“This is no good, come on Fred. You just sit down, I’ll go out and grab us a couple of coffees and come straight back.”

Freddie perked up upon hearing this and was almost back to his usual spirits. “I have an idea, can I go get the coffees instead, darling? I want to go outside, I want to hear the birds chirping and smell that London smog. Maybe that old lady from the fruit and veg stall could yell at me, that would really get me going.”

“Alright Fred,” she said with a comforting smile, pouring into his open palm a handful of coins. “Happy hunting.”

Freddie had taken off so fast he had forgotten to bring his jacket which he left still hung up on the door.

“That’s probably the happiest I’ve seen him all weekend,” Roger said, wistful.

“If he’s happy, then I’ve done my job.”

Wyn had started to look the clothing racks, her fingers stroking the garments in fascination. She also took out two or three items she had liked, inspecting them fully before shaking her head and putting them away, Roger meanwhile stood beside her giving his opinion on them. Soon he was entertaining her by spinning little yarns about several pieces, how they acquired them, whom they were worn by, all made up but increasingly fantastic.

“You looking for anything in particular, love?”

“Not really, whatever catches my fancy, I suppose.”

“How about now,” he said as he had stood in front of her, hands on his waist and a twinkle in his eye, “Do I catch your fancy?”

“I’m in the market for clothes today, Roger, not a boyfriend.”

“Who said anything about a boyfriend?”

“Uh-huh. Maybe some other time, Taylor.”

“Alright, alright.” he said, pacifying her. “Something to wear then. Something that will work for your figure?”

“I’d never be opposed to looking good.”

Roger was still flirting with her, but he also appeared to have a clear focus now, he was a man on a mission to find her something she could be persuaded into buying. “Do you like wearing patterns?”

“I’d give it a go.”

“How about colour?”

“Love them.”

“Any you’re partial to?”

“Every colour of the rainbow!”

Roger scoffed playfully in exasperation, she really was no help, but he enjoyed her company. “I think I have just the thing for you,” Rog said with a snap of his fingers before darting behind their makeshift stock room/ fitting area. He came back about a minute later with a frock on a plastic hanger.

What he presented her with was a white and green houndstooth dress in the mod style which had a black peter-pan collar and a short mini-skirt. Wyn let out a pleased hum, “I like the way you think, Taylor.”

Roger barked a laugh though he seemed to glow in praise, “That might be the first time a woman has said that to me.” He reached into his pocket and fished out a packet of smokes and a lighter. “Go on, then. Try it on.” He urged her, pushing her behind the curtain and sticking a cigarette between his lips.

Roger sported a boyish charm, all buoyancy and pent-up energy. Wyn thought it was ironic the way that he was blessed with the looks of a cherub by Raphael, yet flirted like a devil. It was little wonder Freddie had warned her about him when the topic of his friends came into conversation. Before she could wrestle the corduroy off her legs Roger’s hand had slipped in between the partition, throwing a pair of shoes at her.

“Black gogos? Oh, you really must be out to get me. I’m going to freeze out there.”

“You’re just fitting them on!” The voice behind the curtain replied. “You don’t have to wear them out…You don’t have to wear anything at all.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Just saying.”

A couple of minutes later she stepped out from behind the curtains, smoothing down the dress where it wrinkled a bit in her midsection. “What do you think?” she asked, striking a pose.

Roger took another large puff from his half-finished cigarette before putting it down on the ashtray on the counter. He began to sing lowly as he drew near to her, “Is there anybody going to listen to my story, all about the girl who came to stay?” There was another cheesy grin on his face as he took Wyn’s hand abruptly and led her into an impromptu slow-dance. “She’s the kind of girl you want so much it makes you sorry. Still, you don’t regret a single day. Ah, girl,” he sung as he spun her.

Wyn smiled, “I’m going to take that answer as a ‘yes’, but I wouldn’t know how I’d wear it though, my hair…”

“You could wear it swept back, or up.” Roger suggested, now extremely close. He removed his left hand from her hip and used it to gather her thick hair up and away from her face, fingers grazing the back of her neck.

Wyn cleared her throat, her cheeks and neck heating. “You think Fred will let me have this for cheap if I asked nicely?”

“I think if you asked nicely, he’d let you have the whole shop.”

“It’s probably costing him more to run it at this point.”

“Us both.”

The two broke out into a fit of laughter, not even acknowledging the customer who had just walked into the shop.

“Okay, Rubber Soul. So these are the kinds of guerilla tactics you’d stoop to for a sale?” Blushing furiously, Wyn pushed away from him when they finished their dance, choosing to hoist herself up onto the counter next to her bag of sweets.

“Only the best service to our most important clientele.” he said through half-lidded eyes.

“How much for this?” a voice said from behind them.

Roger groaned in annoyance having forgotten the presence of this third person. It was a shame Fred still hadn’t come back, that way he could have dealt with this new nuisance while Roger turned his attention to the girl in front of him. Rog barely spared him a glance as the man held up the garment in question. “Seven pounds.”

Wyn watched the interaction with great amusement.

“Five quid.” the man tried to haggle.

“Seven.”

“This button’s loose, five and five pence.”

“Six if you leave here now.”

“You’re fleecing me.” the man whined handing Roger the money with reluctance.

“Actually, that’s crushed velvet.” said Roger with a cool, impassive grace, plucking his cigarette from the ashtray and taking a puff.

Slipping on his new jacket, the man set off grumbling, nearly bumping into Freddie who narrowly avoided him, carrying a tray of hot coffees in styro cups.

“Took you awhile Fred,” Roger called, leaning against the counter and smoking casually.

Freddie placed the coffees down on a bench by the window. “Roger,” he began slowly with a disgruntled look in his eye. “Was that man just now, wearing my coat?”

“Huh?” this alerted Roger somewhat, he had stopped what he was doing. His eyes grew large as he looked to Freddie and back down at the crumpled note and small coin in his palm.

“Rog, you absolute pillock, did you sell my coat?”

“...Fuck.”

As quick as a bolt Fred had crossed the room in two strides, snatched the money right out of Roger’s grasp and ran back out the door. Freddie ran after the man who bought his beloved jacket, shouting and swearing like a madman all the way.

At the end of the day, Wyn had felt so guilty she ended up paying for her things in full. She had no regrets though. Sure she was down a couple of pounds, but she had managed to get herself a great fitting dress, and a killer pair of boots, not to mention the favour of the infamous Roger Taylor -- a feat she hoped she had managed with all her dignity intact. Or at least she hoped.

#queen #bo rhap #bohemian rhapsody #brian may #brian may x original character #gwilym lee #freddie mercury #roger taylor #rami malek #ben hardy #in the lap of the gods #itlotg fic #bohemian rhapsody movie

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southeastasianists · 7 years

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When Stamford Raffles landed on Singapore on Jan 28, 1819, the island was largely populated by seafaring nomads. Two centuries on, The Sunday Times visits an Orang Laut community in Johor to find out how they are faring, and speaks to descendants of Orang Laut in Singapore.

Tucked away among luxurious waterfront apartments and European-style bungalows on Johor's southern coast lies an enclave of Orang Seletar, indigenous sea nomads. While Johor is their home now, their ancestors were living in Singapore when Sir Stamford Raffles made his historic landing on this very date in 1819.

They are believed to be Singapore's earliest inhabitants.

The Orang Seletar moved to their Johor coastal village, called Kampung Sungai Temon, several decades ago when Singapore developed into a modern city. It is one of the few Orang Seletar settlements left in Malaysia's southern state.

In the old days, they lived on boats near the mouth of Seletar River - hence their name, Orang Seletar. Today, the kampung, which faces the Strait of Johor, consists of 400 people and sits within the multibillion-ringgit Iskandar economic zone, its wooden houses a quaint contrast to the five-star hotels, condominiums and malls being built just across the Causeway.

Led by their "tok batin", or village chief, Mr Salim Palon, they are among 1,620 Orang Seletar in Malaysia. Together with 3,525 Orang Kuala and 148 Orang Kanaq, they form the Orang Laut tribe who reside on the southern and western coasts of Johor. Pockets of Orang Laut also can be found living near river deltas in Indonesia's sprawling Riau islands, and in Singapore.

In Kampung Sungai Temon, the Orang Seletar live in houses on the beach, some of which are on stilts. They still lead a seafaring lifestyle, catching fish, crabs and mussels to sell to seafood wholesalers or cook in the few restaurants they run.

"When I was young, Malaysia and Singapore were no different from each other. We were free to sail anywhere... and had lived on boats in Seletar, Kranji, Jurong," Mr Salim, 58, told The Sunday Times from his house. "Now all that's left is history."

He paused, before adding: "I'm worried the same thing will happen here. With these developments, we might become history, too. We are the original people here. If they take our land away, where will we go?"

ADAPTING TO CHANGE

A group of Orang Seletar were sitting near the village jetty, chit-chatting, when The Sunday Times visited. "Hey, did you meet the tok batin first? Not scared of getting shot by his blowpipe?" one said jokingly, to laughter.

Mr Fendi Salim, 37, a son of the tok batin, said: "Village chiefs used to shoot darts at unwelcome visitors... Don't worry, now no more."

Over the years, the Orang Laut have tried to adapt to mainstream society, giving up their life on the boats for houses on land, attending government schools and learning to speak and write Malay. They converse with another in the Orang Seletar language, which sounds nothing like Malay.

Some have intermarried with the Chinese or Malays and moved to the cities, while others have abandoned their animist beliefs for Christianity or Islam.

They are known to have been sailing in the region's waters from the 16th century. Back then, they wore leaf loincloths and fished with spears, said fisherman Karim Palon, 53. He added that in earlier times, it was easy to spot the Orang Seletar. "Anyone with uncombed hair, walked in groups with no clothes or shoes on, that's us, lah!"

Mr Basri Abdullah, a Malay seafood wholesaler who buys fish and shellfish from the Orang Seletar, said it is hard to tell them apart from ethnic Malays now. "When they were living on boats, they would sometimes come to shore. The villagers would make them recite Malay pantun before they could enter." The pantun is a Malay poetic form which is passed on orally.

"When we held parties, we would also invite them and we would all dance 'joget lambak' to Nona Singapura song together," he said, referring to the traditional Malay mass dance originating from Malacca.

Despite years of trying to fit in, the Orang Seletar still hold on to some aboriginal customs, and believe in the presence of spirits.

Young fathers such as Mr Ripin Non, 24, still practise the tradition of placing a mother's placenta on a tree for good health.

Before, when there were no hospitals or doctors, the men used to help their wives deliver babies on the boat. But not now. "I will faint if you ask me to deliver a baby!" Mr Ripin said. "When I held the placenta and climbed the tree, I was told to look straight ahead. If I looked left or right, my child would be cross-eyed."

When the Orang Seletar are out at sea and encounter a tideline, or a sinuous line where two currents converge, they will still lift their oars and ask permission from the sea "genie" to cross over.

Another of the tok batin's son, fisherman Eddy Salim, 38, said a nephew who failed to heed the taboo was taken ill after an eerie encounter with a long-haired female spirit. "He had a hard time pulling up his net which was full of prawns, so he cut it off halfway. He didn't realise the 'hantu laut' was sitting on his boat. Villagers later found him unconscious, foaming at the mouth. His mother uttered some mantra to make him well again or he would surely have died," he said.

The Orang Seletar still go to the nearby woods to kill wild boar, deer and other animals. When The Sunday Times visited, two boys had just killed and skinned two pythons.

"We eat everything. You name it, we eat it, except poison," said Mr Fendi Salim, his eyes lighting up.

"Chicken is not as tasty as curry snakes or black pepper crocodiles. But the most delicious is grilled scorpions, they are more crispy than fried calamari," he added.

Being able to adapt to change is perhaps the reason for the Orang Laut's survival.

"(They) have no problems coping with modernisation," Centre for Orang Asli Concerns coordinator Colin Nicholas told The Sunday Times. "It is when the outside development does not recognise their rights, or discriminates against them, that their ability to participate in mainstream society becomes difficult or even jeopardised."

Mr Ripin said he was ridiculed by Johor locals when he tried to sell fish at the market. "They told customers that my freshly caught fish is rotten. Once or twice is okay, but the bullying becomes hurtful after a while."

His sister, Maslinda Romi, 18, said she and two other Orang Seletar students had to put up with name-calling at the government school they had attended. She said: "They say we are dirty. We want to mix, but they don't. Now that I've finished school, it's better for me to stay in kampung and find work here. Nobody outside will accept us."

UNCERTAIN FUTURE

Lining the main streets outside Kampung Sungai Temon are banners for residential projects which proclaim in English, "World-class waterfront living", "A new dimension to urban living", "Dive into endless pleasure".

Nearby in the Johor Strait, a parcel of reclaimed land sits empty. Plastic bottles and rubbish accumulate among mangroves and marshes. Fish and shellfish struggle to survive in the brackish water.

Modernisation has reached the very doorstep of the Orang Seletar, and they are on the brink of losing their customary land and sources of livelihood.

However, the community did win a hard-fought civil case against the state and federal governments last February, when the Johor Baru High Court ruled that they had customary rights to 138ha of their traditional land and waters in the Danga Bay region, which lies in the Iskandar development corridor.

The court had also ordered that they be compensated for the loss of land based on market value. The amount is not known but estimated to be sizeable, given the centrality of its beachfront location, only 5km west of the Causeway.

While they were happy their rights over the land and, for the first time, surrounding waters, were finally legally acknowledged and recognised, they would rather have their land back than compensation. They have since appealed the decision, and the case is pending.

In an e-mail to The Sunday Times, the Iskandar Regional Development Authority, a Malaysian statutory body that oversees the development area, said it is unable to comment as the case is under appeal.

Mr Eddy Salim said their cultural identity is tied to the sea. An old ritual to determine Orang Laut even dictates hurling newborns into the sea to see if they could float. They become skilful swimmers as toddlers.

"You can't separate us from the sea. We will feel awkward living on land. Our heart and soul will still be close to the sea," he said.

Fisherman Muhammad Anuar Sulaiman, 28, his wife Nurul Hanani, 27, and their two children are part of the village but have been living at sea on a giant raft which he fashioned from planks and zinc sheets.

He said: "It's hard to get approval for a house on the beach, so we stay here because where else can we go? The water is all we know. We are Orang Laut. The sea is our home."

#Southeast Asia #Malaysia #Singapore #Orang Laut #Indigenous People

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putthison · 7 years

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Digging in the Crates: Talking with Brian Davis of Wooden Sleepers

Wooden Sleepers is the kind of store I wish was near me. Brian Davis, the shop’s founder, has been around the menswear scene forever, but first opened his shop seven years ago on Etsy. Back then, he just had simple listings for his vintage finds, which ranged from classic Americana to workwear to Ivy Style items. A few years later, he opened a brick-and-mortar shop in Brooklyn, which has been since become a destination spot for men’s style enthusiasts. Japanese menswear magazines such as Free & Easy have featured the store; GQ called it the best new vintage menswear shop in NYC.

When Brian opened his brick-and-mortar, he took down his online web shop in order to focus on his physical location. Carefully setting up the interior decor and presentation was a lot of work, too much to also include shooting photos and selling online. Now that Wooden Sleepers is more established, however, they’ve jumped back on the internet. This past month, they launched a fully dedicated online site (although inventory is still being added), and they’re been developing an in-house line of Wooden Sleepers totes, caps, and sweatshirts (we love all of it). They even shot a fall/ winter lookbook.

I recently sat down with Brian to talk about his store, his history with vintage clothing, and his style suggestions for guys who are are looking to incorporate a bit of vintage into their wardrobe.

Tell us about how you got into vintage clothing and how you started Wooden Sleepers.

I grew up on the east end of Long Island, skateboarding and listening to punk and hip-hop music. I lived with my grandparents at the time, a long way from any of the shopping malls. Buying second-hand clothes from local church shops was a way for me to rebel against the Abercrombie & Fitch crowd -- this was around the early- to mid-90s, when A&F was big. Looking back, a lot of the stuff I used to rummage through would later influence my taste in clothes as an adult – seersucker suits, oil-stained mechanic jackets, vintage Levi’s, etc.

Fast forward to 2010, I was working a corporate job and wanted a creative outlet. My girlfriend at the time, now my wife, encouraged me to set up my own clothing shop. This was when heritage and Americana were huge online. There were sites such as A Continuous Lean, Valet, and Put This On; New York City had the Pop-Up Flea; Etsy was just getting started, but was still a fairly unknown thing. So I started listing stuff online for my thrifted finds. We launched on Etsy in 2010 and then opened a brick-and-mortar in 2014.

That’s surprising because, right around that time, many brick-and-mortars started struggling. Do you find it difficult to do a brick-and-mortar business in NYC nowadays?

The New York Times had a story not too long ago about Bleecker Street, a big commercial area here with global brands such as Marc Jacobs and Ralph Lauren. At some point, the landlords got greedy and raised rents, and now all those businesses have had to move out. Maybe they could have afforded the rents, but it probably didn’t make sense given the amount of business they were getting from the area. And now, when you walk down Bleecker Street, there are a ton of empty storefronts.

My goal as a business was never about being part of that world. When I was looking for a shop space, I was looking for a place with a thriving community of small businesses. We found that in Red Hook in Brooklyn. Our street is very much orientated around mom-and-pop businesses, with great restaurants and small shops. We’ve actually seen our business grow year after year.

But many small NYC clothing stores have closed – Gentry, French Garment Cleaners, Carson Street Clothiers. It’s not just big brands that are struggling, it seems like it’s everyone. People are so used to comparison-shopping online, they’ll find the cheapest price possible for any given item. Do you feel you’ve been able to escape this as a vintage clothing store?

I think so. Although you can still comparison shop with vintage clothes, nothing is ever going to be the same exact piece. If you find something and it’s “the one,” you may never see it again. Sometimes there are idiosyncratic details or nuances that make it just right.

I also think we’re lucky to have a community that supports us. As a consumer myself, I try to support local and small businesses because I know those companies can easily disappear. And that’s not great for the neighborhood. We have many customers outside of NYC, but we’re also lucky to have lots of guys in the neighborhood that enjoy shopping with us. And they’re guys who aren’t going to get on the computer to see if they can find something for ten bucks cheaper.

How do you get your stuff?

No two days are the same. There are wholesale places that sell bales of vintage clothing. So, you go and buy these dirt-cheap lots, sorted by types of clothes – sweatshirts, t-shirts, jeans, etc. But you have to buy so much junk order to get a few gems. That’s how you get these huge vintage stores with a ton of inventory, with racks and racks of stuff.

Our business model is the exact opposite of that. We have a very small store, which forces us to edit. I only want the gems. Which means I have to go out and source things myself, often piece-by-piece. That can mean anything from crawling around an attic to get vintage chore coats to digging around an estate sale. Sometimes I’ll follow a lead I read about; sometimes I network with other pickers around the country. The key is to always be sourcing because out of ten leads, only a few will be good.

You network with other vintage sellers?

Yea, it helps to have people out there who can tell you when they’ve found something, but aren’t in your specific market. I once met an antiques dealer at a flea market who had a stack of old work clothes. I bought the jackets and told him I had a vintage clothing store in Brooklyn. So, we traded info.

A few weeks later, he called me out of the blue and told me he found an old, boarded up mom-and-pop shoe store in Ohio that has been closed since the 1970s. Inside were hundreds of deadstock boots. He wanted to know if I was interested in buying them.

I was skeptical at first since sometimes things are deadstock for a reason – maybe they’re in odd sizes, for example – but he promised they had a good size range and everything was in great condition. So, I told him I was interested. He ended up driving all the way to NYC from Ohio and we met up at my store at midnight. I bought 150 pairs of boots from his inventory. Had shoeboxes going up to the ceiling that night.

I’m surprised those things still happen. I can imagine finding up an old boarded-up place with deadstock items in the ‘80s, but with the internet, it feels like anyone can offload stuff online.

I’m as surprised as you are, but those pickers still exist. From a business perspective, you’re getting the best margin. You’re getting stuff that people think is garbage, so you’re getting it for the lowest price, and then you’re able to find specialty collectors or buyers. It takes a ton of work. These people are often waking up at 3am just to find things, driving around searching for old stores, looking for hidden gems. It takes a certain kind of person.

Do you ever get people coming in off the street with an unusual find for sale?

Not yet, but I once got a call from Richard Press, the former President of J. Press. It was great because I’ve always been a huge fan of the company. He helped broker a sale where I was able to get a bunch of stuff that was in the personal collection of a former J. Press tailor. One that had worked for the company from about the 1960s to the ‘80s. In the collection, there were hundreds of ties, sport coats, trousers, and deadstock shirts. It was so great to see Richard’s face light up, to see how excited he got about clothes. I feel like it’s so easy to get jaded about things, especially in the fashion industry, but Richard had this youthful excitement about him when he saw old things from his family’s store. It was really special.

Are there things you’ve picked up along the way that you’ve decided to keep it yourself?

Well, I always want to give my customers the first crack. I’ve always hated those vintage stores that dangle the best stuff from the ceiling, but only for decoration. That said, I’m an outerwear nut and NYC winters can be brutal, so I was pretty excited to get a Brown’s Beach jacket to go along with the vest. The jackets are rarer than the vest, and I was lucky to find one that fits. My 1940s USN deck jacket is also a favorite. Mine is olive; the navy one is a bit of a unicorn.

A lot of the stuff I wear, however, isn’t that rare. I like madras shirts, old Brooks Brothers button-downs. I like cut-off military khakis, vintage military jungle jackets. Anything from that ‘60s and ‘70s Vietnam War era, in the OG-107 cloth. Some of those vintage military fabrics were made from a cotton-poly blend, especially in the later years, but the earlier stuff was often pure cotton. That’s the stuff you want because it ages in a really nice way.

As a guy who cleans and repairs things for his store, do you have any tips on how to clean vintage clothing?

A lot of it is common sense. Cotton things can be thrown into the wash; wool items will often need to be hand-washed or dry cleaned. A lot of what I buy is vintage workwear, so they’re things that have been through a lot – a washing machine isn’t going to hurt them. There are some things I leave behind because they’re too raggedy, but there’s a lot you can save with a bit of mending and cleaning.

If you find a vintage item with a musty smell, you can also spray it with a 50/ 50 mix of white vinegar and water. It helps freshen it up a bit. The vinegar smell goes away, and with it, it takes out some of the smell you occasionally find in vintage clothes.

For readers who are interested in trying out vintage clothing, do you think there are some pieces that are easier to wear than others?

Definitely, go with the classics. A French chore coat or a Levi’s trucker jacket. Unless you’re shopping at the very high-end of the market, buying brands such as The Real McCoys or RRL, you can often get a vintage piece that’s cheaper and cooler than more mainstream items. Even a Levi’s trucker jacket from the 1980s is going to look better than a mainline Levi’s jacket in the same style, but new.

I also really like getting guys into bigger pants. The pendulum has swung so far into the slim-fit trend that guys can feel like it’s a revelation when they wear something fuller. Maybe a pair of fatigues isn’t right for the office, but they’re great for the weekend. For spring and summer, you can wear them with simple, canvas sneakers, such as Jack Purcells or Chuck Taylors. For fall, they look great with brown, plain-toe service boots. For me, the key to wearing fuller pants is that you don’t want a break. Otherwise, they can look really messy. If you roll them up a little, you get a fuller cut without any of the bagginess.

M-65 military jackets are also really easy to wear. 1950s and ‘60s military issue khakis. Denim chore coats. Especially with chore coats, if you’re not a connoisseur, you’re not going to care if a piece is from the ‘40s or ‘50s or ‘60s. The look is the same, which means you can come up on something that looks great, but is reasonably affordable. Again, they go great with jeans, sweatshirts, and heavy boots. They can fit a bit roomy, but I think that’s the charm.

I know what you mean. Sometimes when the fit is too precise, especially with workwear, an outfit can seem too precious. Ethan Newton once told me how he likes vintage leather jackets because they fit in idiosyncratic ways – which is just another way of saying they don’t fit perfectly. I think that can be good with certain looks.

I agree. We’ve spent so much time talking about effortless style, but sometimes guys get too worked up over details. Just put on the jacket and wear it. A lot of this is much simpler than sometimes it’s presented online. It goes back to the first day of school and wearing a jacket that makes you excited, a jacket that makes you feel cool. It can be about a feeling.

Thanks for your time, Brian.

Readers interested in Wooden Sleepers can visit them in Red Hook, Brooklyn or shop from their new online store. They’re also on Instagram and Twitter, where you can keep up with their daily happenings.

#Wooden Sleepers #New York City #Thrifting

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awhilesince · 3 years

Text

Monday, 16 April 1827

6 1/4

2 10/60

my bowels tolerably well – sat half asleep near half an hour on the pot – the washer woman came at 8 1/2 – settled with her in 5 minutes –

at my desk at 8 35/60 – wrote the 2 last lines – read over Marian’s letter – from 7 55/60 to 10, wrote 2 pages and the ends, and under the seal to Marian – glad of the good account of themselves – so will not dwell upon the disagreeable intelligence��of Northgate not being likely to let – trust Marian speaks generally, and has no reason to apply particularly to me what she observed about its being ‘very necessary if not absolutely necessary for a person of moderate fortune to live not very distant from their inheritance’ – If she or my father thought my presence necessary of course they would tell me so –

‘we are now so comfortably settled, that I should have no difficulty in leaving my aunt for any length of time, that could be necessary – In fact, from harass, or anxiety, or 1 thing or other, I have been a little out of sorts lately, and mean to change the air a little by and by – what we shall do next year, it is as yet quite impossible to say – my aunt’s general health is certainly better here, than it was, or than those, who ought to know best, thought it would be, in England: – but I do not mean to say, that the complaint is, or is likely to be, driven away from her limbs – However by next spring, she will be better able to judge for herself – to me, so long as we are sufficiently within reach of our affairs, it is matter of indifference where we live – It is possible to be happy anywhere, if the mind be right – the loss of those whom we have all our lives been accustomed to see, is a greater loss than we may have imagined till it has been been tried; but even this may be got over, if there be adequate reason for it – I suspect that, as you grow older, you will let slip many of your own schemes of going here and there – Perhaps you have already 1/2 forgotten many of your dreams about St. Petersbourgh etc – ‘a rolling stone gathers no moss’ – If moss stands for money, nothing can be more true – we do pay dear for most things; and there are many things cheaper in England than here: – but we have no doctors’ bills to pay as yet; and perhaps we should not have saved much at the year’s end by going to any place in England, which has yet occurred to us – But saving is not the question – I am only anxious to do what is best for my aunt; and whatever she even fancies, be it what it may, we shall try – send our remembrances particularly to Mrs V– (Veitch) with a kind message from my aunt, and remembrances to all the principal of our connaissances – make what use you like of my remembrances at Market W– (Weighton); but do not forget Mrs Skelding – I conclude Mrs I– (Inman) is still at Lancaster – if they go to Hull to give my thanks etc to Mrs Knight for the Euripides Medea by Parson given me in remembrance of Mr K– (Knight)

mention the reports in the French papers of yesterday (Journal des Debats) of Mr Canning’s being prime minister and to make his own cabinet – and how all the liberal French are delighted – read over my letter wrote the above (except the 1st 1 1/2 lines) folded and directed my letter to ‘Miss Marian Lister Shibden hall, H–x (Halifax), Yorkshire Angleterre, post payé’ and sent it in to my aunt to read all which took me till 10 40/60 –

from then to 11 10/60 at breakfast – then sent back volume 10 Anquetils précis de l’histoire universelle ‘à Madame Madame Sené avec les compliments and les remerciennes de Mademoiselle Lister’ written on the paper in which the back was folded – then sent off my letter to Marian (vide 4th line above) at 11 20/60 – then finish dressing –

Talking to my aunt – considering what things should be got, etc etc went out at 1 – Took George with me – bought several things at Bertrand’s – Sardines à l’huile not in season – for they should be fresh to be put in oil (and Bertrand had not any), and would not come in of 3 months – En passant chez Lesueur (rue des Petit Champs No. Number 31.) saw some nice looking beef (ribs) asked the price 10 sols a lb. (pound) – bought 6 1/2 lbs. (pounds) they were giving me a lb. (pound) of rejouissance at 9 sols – would not have – then must pay 1 sol a lb. (pound) more for the beef – did so – asked the price of mutton – 14 sols a lb. (pound) – nice but not so small as Mignand’s –

just before entering the place des Victoires turned to the right down to the passage Verododat – thro’ it, and came out into the rue St. Honoré opposite the oration – En passant went into No. 82 rue St. Denis près celle des Lombards – large wholesale confections shop – only asked me 3/50 a lb. (pound) for fine chinois, the same for apricots – the latter not yet egouttés – bought a lb. (pound) of the former determining to make this my shop – for marmalade d’abricots and all such things 2/. a lb. (pound) – the little pots I buy said to contain 3 oz. (ounces) less than a lb. (pound) – 2 francs a lb. (pound) = 2 1/2 sols an oz (ounce) – at this rate I am right to buy of Bertrand’s – I only give 32 sols. for 13 oz. (ounces) and have the pot – from the confection’s (B. Perrot Pezé), to No. 1. rue des Lombards – bought 3 lbs. (pounds) tea, and sent home George –

sauntered down the rue d’Arcis, and to the Marché au Gibier – a woman asked me 18 sols for fineish skewered pigeons (Bertrand said I ought to have very good at 1/. but there from 14 sols to 30 sols!), I could have got them easily for 15 sols, but only offered 12 sols – then strolled along the Quais looking at prints and maps as I passed – the troops reviewed by the king today in the Champ de Mars – a crowd about the port royal (de Louis 16) etc – thro‘ the gardens – just got under the arcade in time (at 4) to Escape a shower – detained there perhaps 20 minutes – the channels in the streets full of water – obliged to cross (from the rue neuve de Luxembourg) over the little communion show in the rue Richepanse – beginning to rain again just before I got home –

came in at 4 1/2 – Monsieur and Madame Sené with my aunt in her bedroom about her bed on account of bugs – they must come from MacDonald’s bed – Madame S– (Sené) now recollects the nurse had this bed once (last year) in a 4rième when they were from home, and she complained much of bugs – the bois de lit is to be taken away and MacDonald to have another – all very civil – talked a while to my aunt –

came to my room at 4 50/60 – wrote the last 20 lines – settled with George, – and went out (to Mrs B–‘s Barlow’s to dine) at 5 35/60 sent George at 5 20/60 to be then to wait till 7 and then come back to my aunt – washed my hands and changed shoes and stockings at Mrs B–‘s (Barlow’s) – Miss Gauntlet had been there some time –

Dinner at 6 1/4 – sent George home in about an hour from then – peas soup maigre – hind 1/4 lamb, and vol au vent at 4 /. asparagées and mashed potatoes – then a Charlotte Russe (a cream enclosed in a pretty pudding-like mould of savoy biscuits) at 5/. For dessert oranges – biscuits and rout cakes almonds and raisins – tea about 9 – joking Miss G– (Gauntlet) about being a physionist – she said there was something wicked in the corner of my eye – I said there was something ditto in the left corner of her left eye – she had heard it remarked before – she said there was something wicked in the corner of Mrs B–‘s (Barlow’s) eye, but it was more hid there in mine – joked Mrs B– (Barlow) about Miss G–‘s (Gauntlet’s) having given her the name of ‘latent wicked’ –

got to talking about Switzerland – had the map out – mentioned our 1st intention of going by Strasbourg – would do very well – Miss G– (Gauntlet) saw Chamouny 16 August – by all means cross the tête noir, but dangerous too early or late in the season – If not go, return by Lyons – very well worth seeing – Dijon a pretty little town – the Deux Cloches there one of the best Inns, and reasonable, Miss G– (Gauntlet) has been at on the continent – At Geneva the Crown very good – will get all sorts of information there but be generally be guided by the Guide book – this always the best – not interested to advise this way or that – 3 days quite enough for Venice – she bought prints of Parni at Florence – Morgan the best and dearest; but the English turned over his portfolio, and said so much inquiry without purchasing, he will not let them do so now – a Miss Trail Travelled thro’ Italy by herself – had 30 letters of recommendation, and thus went from house to house – a singular genius for painting – copies all the famous heads, Raphael’s mistress, Titians Flora. etc etc in miniature – has left her family to study painting in Italy – a gentlewoman – now at Rome – copies most beautifully – many of her things likely to make a great noise in England when she returns – sat talking Till 12 – George had been waiting since 9 1/4 – sent him for a fiacre for Miss G– (Gauntlet)

got home at 12 1/4 – sat up looking over my French cookery books – some useful information in the confiseur moderne about bottling wine – [O two dots, marking discharge from venereal complaint] – Miss G– Gauntlet strongly recommends all persons travelling to get as many and good letters of introduction as they can –

left margin: Fahrenheit 50 at 7 1/2 44 1/2 at 12 1/4 tonight Fine morning then threatening rain – smartish shower about 4 to 4 1/2 – afterwards fair –

reference number: SH:7/ML/E/10/0081, SH:7/ML/E/10/0082

#annelistercodebreaker #annelister #mrsbarlow #marchapril1827

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