#and whats more we have further evidence supporting the 'they just dressed like sailors and other pirates'; in the transcipt of the Tryals | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

madamewriterofwrongs · 3 years

Note

my sweet darling - how about an armed forces 911 AU? Maybe Eddie meets Navy Seal Buckley overseas? Maybe they meet back stateside at the VA?

You, my darling, always send me such fun and interesting prompts. I promise I didn’t forget.

Ooh, okay. Let’s see...

Prompt Me with AUs

Delta X-Ray (I am Sinking)

Read on Ao3

Eddie first sees him as he’s getting off the plane in Washington. He’s going to receive a medal. Apparently his work in Bagram made him a hero and not a broken, shell of a man. Who knew. And really, it’s just a glance because he has other things to worry about besides a Navy man getting dressed down by his captain. He doesn’t need to hear what’s being said to know that’s exactly what’s happening. He’s seen that look too many times, felt the hot breath of his superior as they spat harsh words meant to ‘toughen him up’.

As he passes the sailor, he hears something to the effect of “if it happens again, you will be dismissed.” And Eddie wonders how many times this particular man has received this exact lecture. It doesn’t really matter, anyways. He just wants to get his medal, shake a few hands of politicians who think they had anything to do with his ‘accomplishment’ and go home to his wife and child – ex-wife, he reminds himself. Shannon had the papers shipped to Afghanistan. Couldn’t get away fast enough, his mind bitterly supplied. All he would have at the end of the day was his son, and a medal to replace the wedding band he’d worn since he was 19.

Before he knows it, he’s standing on a small stage, a million lights flashing in his eyes as cameras and stage lights practically blind him. His shoulder aches – out of the sling for the afternoon so he can at least look more put together than he feels – and he’s dizzy from the attention. That’s his excuse for why he doesn’t recognize the man standing beside him.

“Seaman Petty Officer First Class Evan Buckley.” A blond man steps forward and Eddie catches himself staring at the dress whites and stone expression for longer than is strictly necessary. He seems a far cry from the officer being scolded less than an hour ago, but it is definitely him. And he was standing on stage beside Eddie, about to receive a medal of his own.

“For distinguishing oneself by heroism not involving actual conflict with an enemy of the United States, Petty Officer Buckley is awarded the Navy and Marine Corps Medal.”

As he watches the stripes being pined on the officer’s lapel, he lets himself wonder what crime the man could have committed to be dressed down and rewarded in the same afternoon.

He’s so curious, in fact, that he nearly misses his own name amongst the titles thrown around.

“Staff Sergeant Edmundo Diaz.” He steps forward, holding his breath until the entire ordeal is finally finished. “For gallantry in action against an enemy of the United States, Staff Sergeant Diaz is awarded the Silver Star.” The medal is heavier than he anticipated, but he supposes that makes sense. It is quite a burden he’ll be carrying around, and now he has a gold star to go with it – he wants to chuckle at the irony of his ‘Silver Star’ actually presenting as a golden one.

It seems everything about his life is a life.

There were a lot of reasons Eddie hated attending events like this: The politics, the bravado, the crowds of people ‘thanking him for his service’. Mostly, though: he never knows anyone. Sure, he can charm a senator or two for a few minutes, swap stories with other officers from other divisions about where they were and what they saw. But those are fleeting relationships, meant to get him through the day. He’ll go back to his hotel room at the end of the night with no more friends than when he’d stepped off the plane in this awful, awful town. Eddie is tired of ‘schmoozing’. With any luck, today will be the last time he has to tell the governor’s wife how lovely she looks in her dress.

That’s when he spots the man sitting at the edge of the bar like he’s trying to hide from the world, and he decides to make his way over.

“Do you mind if I join you?” He asks, even as he sits down.

The other man’s eyes light with recognition – and damn, are they as blue as the sea. “Not at all. Diaz, right?”

“Eddie.” He supplies, raising a finger to the bartender to snag his attention. If he is going to make it to the end of the evening, he’s going to need one, good drink. “And you’re Buckley.”

“Actually, it’s Evan but you can call me ‘Buck’.” His amusement must be evident because his new drinking buddy supplies the answer. “There are a surprising amount of ‘Evan’s in the Navy.”

It had never occurred to him to check how many ‘Eddie’s were in his squadron. Maybe he should ask his CO if that’s why he always called him by his full first name.

“Congratulations, by the way.” Buck looks somewhat nervous even as the words leave his mouth. “On your medal. Good job.”

“Oh.” Is all Eddie can bring himself to say as he stares into the bottom of his glass. “Thanks.”

“You don’t look too happy about it.”

He really isn’t doing a good job of hiding his emotions if this relative stranger ca read him so easily. “No, I-” he takes a deep breath to recalibrate his thoughts and paste his best fake smile. “It is a great honour.”

“Bullshit.” Buck laughs in his face but for some reason, Eddie doesn’t bristle nearly as hard as he expected. It almost feels playful. The rest of Buck’s response is cut off by his buzzing phone on the counter. The man quickly grabs it long enough to check his notifications, returning it to its place at the bar with a disappointed look.

“Are we keeping you from something?”

“Uh, no.” It’s Buck’s turn to look caught out and in need of recalibration. His expression changes much slower. “I’m just waiting for a call from my sister. I sent her an invitation to this thing but she never responded.”

Eddie has experience with family not coming to big social events like this one. Of course, in his case, he never invited them in the first place.

“Family ain’t easy.” He shrugs as he takes a long sip of whatever burning liquid he’d ordered – it really doesn’t matter so long as he can stay sitting here and not mingling with the crowds of vultures.

“It’s more than that.” Buck looks worried, and the way he bites his lip is… Eddie shouldn’t be focusing on that. “It’s just…” The man shakes his head, dismissing whatever feelings were eating at his gut. “I don’t want to bore you.”

“Please.” Eddie leans into his space with a playful smile. “It can’t be any more boring than this event. Please try to bore me to tears, if you dare.”

When Buck smiles, Eddie’s heart flutters out of his chest and sits beside him as they listen to Buck begin to speak. He tells Eddie about his sister, how she cared for him growing up, how she went away with her asshole of a boyfriend – now her deceased asshole of a husband – leaving him to fend for himself. He talks about travelling the country, trying every odd job he could get his hands on, until a buddy of his suggested he join the Navy. And he loves the work, he really does, but he hasn’t seen his sister in over a year. Their last conversation ended in a fight about some family secret that Buck is reluctant to talk about. Even Eddie can tell that the man just misses his sister. No matter what the argument was about.

Eddie finds himself talking – in less detail – about Shannon and the divorce and his son at home. At Buck’s prompting, he shows off his favourite photos of Christopher (avoiding the one burning a whole in his shirt pocket, torn and bloody, which never leaves him). The man’s face positively lights up when he sees the kid, offering an appropriate amount of sympathy for his divorce without pushing him for more emotions.

It’s easy talking to Buck, he realizes after a few hours. Because suddenly, the venue rental is nearly up and he’s still sitting at the corner of the bar, talking to Buck. Sure, a few people have passed by and shaken their hands, thanking them for their service – Eddie cringes every time and Buck has to hide his laughter once he realizes – but for the most part, it’s just the two of them, sitting and talking.

“The flag signalling we use now was established in 1855.” Buck explains as he leans further into Eddie’s space. “And while Robert Morse invented Morse Code in the 1830s, the International Morse Code that we use didn’t come out until the 1850s.”

“How do you know all of that?” Eddie was fairly certain he hadn’t had to study the history of communication when he was in training. But he’d also been very focused on his medical textbook.

Buck was incredibly cute when he blushed, Eddie decides – though he opts to keep that opinion to himself for now. “I get bored and I read.” The man shrugs nonchalantly, as though he hasn’t been entertaining Eddie with stories of Naval history and his own dumb-ass mistakes all evening. Honestly, Eddie wants to sit here all night and listen to Buck tell him stories of the world. It seems like he’s lived a lifetime already. And what has Eddie done? Gotten a girl pregnant, joined the army, gotten shot, and now he doesn’t even have a wife to go home to.

“Can I ask you something?” Eddie realizes too late that Buck looks nervous. He thinks he probably wouldn’t have said yes if he’d noticed. “How did you get your medal?”

Now he knows he doesn’t have to answer – and his initial instinct is to close out his tab and see if he can run to El Paso on his still-injured leg. But he also realizes that he hasn’t told anyone since it happened. Not the full story. Even now, he might not have the words. But he tries.

“Our helicopter got shot down while transporting wounded. I could still move so I got everyone out. Or I tried to get them out.” The echo of gunfire is not as distant as the others told him it would be. He can still smell it. “Support finally arrived and they decided to give me a medal for holding down the fort.”

Buck places a gentle hand over his and Eddie gasps, reminded that it has been a very long time since anyone has touched him. God, how he misses it.

“You saved wounded soldiers in the middle of the desert while being fired on. And you think you were just doing your job?”

“I’m an army medic.” He reasons with the bottom of his glass. “It’s my job to save people.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think that’s why you do it.” Without elaborating, Buck smiles at him and Eddie forgets the question.

“What about you?” He asks instead. “What’s yours for?”

Unlike the enthusiastic, bubbly personality he’s been talking to for the last few hours, Buck melts into the face he saw up on that stage. The stoic, professional.

“We were on our way back from an escort mission when we encountered some rough seas. I happened to be on deck with the chief mate when he had a stroke. I tried to tend to him but the storm was getting worse and no one could find the captain, so I just took over navigation. It was rough, I had no idea what I was doing, but we all made it out safely and the chief mate was okay.” As Buck shrugs, memories of an overheard conversation come flooding back to Eddie’s mind.

“Wait, were you on the USS Angelo?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Eddie can’t believe it. He has to laugh. “You were the cadet who sailed out of Hurricane Ida?”

“I am a petty officer first class, I’ll have you know.”

“Buck, you navigated a 2,000 ton ship out of a hurricane and all they gave you was a lousy medal?”

“I should get that printed on a t-shirt, or something.”

“That was incredibly reckless but also incredibly brave. Buck, you’re a hero.”

“I was just doing my job.” The smirk tells Eddie he knows exactly what he’s doing but it still hits him that he’s throwing Eddie’s words back in his face. Cute and cheeky.

He doesn’t know why he asks – well, he does, but it’s incredibly stupid and impulsive, and he definitely can’t blame it on the alcohol but he sure would like to.

“How long are you in town?”

Buck looks pleasantly surprised by his question but answers with regret in his eyes. “I head out with the Fifth Fleet in the morning.”

Wow. “You just got a medal, and you’re headed out to earn another one?”

“Something like that.” Buck laughs and Eddie wishes he was braver than he felt. “But I won’t be gone forever. And I’m really good at telegraphy if you wanted to send anyone a message.”

He’s so grateful that Buck has the good sense to be everything he needs right now. Because asking the next question is easier with someone standing next to him. “I suppose I’ll need a way to get in touch with you, then.”

Buck winks and Eddie has never been gladder that the concept of ‘standing’ was only metaphorical. The man should not be so irresistible after only a few hours, but Eddie can’t help but watch him push off his barstool and walk around the side of the bar.

“Hey, Diaz!” The spell is broken long enough for him to look across the room at where his name is being called. He waves at old friends – well, Senior Airman Han and Space Force First Sergeant Wilson are the closest things he has to old friends but in actuality, he’s not sure he knows their first names. “We’re going to the afterparty, want to join?”

On a normal night, Eddie would decline on the basis that he doesn’t want to go, and would rather lay in bed and watch reruns of ‘Murder She Wrote’. Tonight, Eddie wants to decline on the basis that he doesn’t want to go, and would rather stay up all night talking to someone who makes me feel curious about the future.

“Not tonight.” He shouts back across the room. “I’ll catch you at the next ceremony.”

They wave him off because they know it’s the same excuse he makes every single time but the only thing that matters is getting back to Buck.

“So.” He turns to the bar only to find it empty. The seat beside him is also unoccupied, as is any of the space surrounding him.

Had he dreamed up Buck? Had he been imagining this person who made him feel like divorce wasn’t his last chance at happiness? Was he truly so desperate and lonely?

“Hey.” Eddie looks up with too much hope in his eyes to only come face-to-face with the bartender. “He left this for you.” The man – who is not Buck, no matter how much Eddie hopes to see those eyes again – slides a napkin across the counter and walks away before Eddie can ask anymore questions.

He picks up the napkin and reads the blue ink-stained note written in messy scrawl.

Kilo

--... .---- --... ..... ..... ..... -.... --... ----. .----

The dots and dashes he recognizes as a series of numbers – a phone number, he hopes – but the word above? He tries to recall his academy days.

Kilo. Short for Kilogram. Used in the International Code of Symbols to represent the letter ‘K’. In Maritime Signal Flags, it indicates: I wish to communicate with you.

He’s pretty sure the bartender hates him for how late he stayed and how loudly he laughed at Buck’s note, but he can’t bring himself to care. Instead, he spends his energy memorizing the napkin’s contents long after he’s input the number. It’s more than just a piece of paper: it’s hope.

#military au #911 on fox #911 fox #buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie fic #911 fic #first meeting #cj answers things #florenceandthemachine #cj writes things #love flo

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callme--starchild · 4 years

Text

the life and times of scrooge mcduck

Scrooge was panting heavily, the rocky feel of the damp cave in which he was cool under his spats as the shivering from its destruction nipped at his heels, pebbles and drops of water spraying his sweaty, dusty body like rain, feeling that only stoked the adventurer as the buzz in his hands, a product of the treasure he had found , reminded him of the new find that would conquer the headlines for a few days, maybe weeks if he managed to impress the press enough – which by the way, it wouldn't be difficult after dealing with it most of his life.

Behind him he could hear the footsteps and cheers of the scoundrels who were chasing him, a feigned Gaelic accent standing out among all of the intensity with which they shouted and the drama that they dragged in their words, spouting a string of rude words in Scottish and English that he would not dare to even repeat in his mind, even now that he will have a small and innocent sidekick under his wing very soon.

But he was forced to stop when the ground began to shake, some cracks forming on his feet. He literally didn't remember that when he first entered the cave, but he had to assume it was because he took the treasure. It wasn't the first time he'd faced a consequential breakdown, but where was the interest if there wasn't a little adrenaline rush? And Scrooge was not one to back down from adrenaline.

Smiling with self-satisfaction he thundered his neck, Glomgold's footsteps and voice increasing in volume only inciting the adventurer further. Fortunately, it was not the first time he had found himself in this type of scenario, and he smiled when he recognized the path insensitive to his weight.

Easy peasy. And Scrooge was being very modest at the moment.

"Stop right there, Scroogie!" He ordered, a temple and determination palpable on his voice in spite of the force applied to thick his accent. It hadn't been long before a monologue began about the recognition he would gain from presenting Scrooge's discovery as his own.

Saying your absurd schemes out loud, rookie mistake. He dared to think, huffing for a few seconds before beginning to calculate his steps.

It was not easy, the stone was incredibly sensitive to pressure, and the small stones falling from the ceiling caused him to lose concentration for a moment and almost made him step on cracked areas, not to mention that the precious gem of the treasure in his hands clinked and hummed, but Scrooge was no sharper than the sharpies for taking missteps, and he smiled readily at the challenge ahead.

"Explosives!" We must use explosives! That will bring down the cave, and lock up Scrooge and the treasure,” he exclaimed with a laugh that bounced off the walls, and Scrooge grinned sarcastically.

"And he did?"

Scrooge opened his eyes, feeling a small weight in his lap that released him from his reverie and made him look down. His little nephew had taken advantage of his self-absorption in the story to support his head, and while the Scotch duck used to be reluctant at any contact – which was expected of a man who has been the victim of multiple metaphorical stabs in the back, he had certainly become aware of how much the duckling enjoyed any opportunity to show him that he loved and trusts him.

Furthermore, it was impossible to deny something to those precious little sapphire eyes that were staring at him in utter amazement despite exhaustion, and how to blame him? His bedtime was approaching; and with the fevering duckling, he was prone to falling asleep faster.

And it was hideously adorable to feel at the mercy of a child who at the tender age of four was still sucking his thumb, but it was his favorite part of caring for his nephew as Hortense and Quackmore came out to answer when SHUSH called them.

Even if that didn't mean that he deprived himself of caring for his little sister.

"Of coorse he didnae!" He yelled, laughing at the questioning gaze of his nephew, "do ye think if Ah had Ah woold still be here?"

Jubilant, he poked the duckling's chubby stomach and took the opportunity to give small tickles, delighting in the little exhaled laugh. He took the moment to put his hand on the boy's forehead, removing the now warm cloth and using it to dry the water and sweat that was there.

"Wow, it seems the temperature is dropping," he commented, seeing out of the corner of his eye the satisfied smile that crept over the boy's face as he puffed out his chest.

It certainly seemed touching and reminded her to some extent of him.

"Of course, I'm Donald Duck. If Unca Scrooge can take on the world and win, maybe I can too."

And apparently, the boy took him for inspiration. It was smart and touching if he dared to think about it.

"Well, to be able to face the world, there first you must fight this little fever, and to do that you have to take your medicine," he said watching the clock, knowing in advance that the boy must do it before bedtime, so he took with gentleness the boy in his arms to sit him properly on his bed.

He knew that Hortense was very strict when it came to schedules, particularly those that involved her son's health, so he approached the bedside table with Donald's different medicines and the glass of water that Duckworth had diligently left before, ignoring his nephew's wince.

"But Unca Scrooge!" He rose suddenly, trying not to think about the sound of his voice hoarse against the sudden dizziness that left his trembling legs and blinked while hearing his uncle rebuke him for his carelessness, then looked at him with wonder "you still haven't finished telling the story, what happened in the cave?"

But turning his back on him, Scrooge snorted, smiling knowingly as he took the spoon that corresponded to the portion of the flu medicine the boy had to ingest. Of course, the little imp would find an excuse to distract him and make him forget to give the med. It was not the first time he had tried that ruse; but he was never victorious, even when Hortense had to keep him company and it was only Quackmore who had to answer the agency's call.

"Well, there Ah was, literally winning easily because Glomgold hadnae counted on a little unforeseen that got in the way of his…" He thought about the word for a few seconds because he couldn't really think of the other duck's trick as a scheme "absurd plan."

"And can you tell where you'll get explosives from in just a few minutes?" Commented one of his rival's occasional accomplices. He could easily deduce that it was a young lass, perhaps with more common sense than her employer's, and he clicked his tongue at the irony of the situation.

Unfortunately, he couldn't gloat over his impromptu victory. The cave kept collapsing, and the power with which the other businessduck used to speak did not lengthened the process at all.

The light emanating from the jewel in his hands became more powerful and lasting, making it difficult for Scrooge to see and concentrate, but those moments became fleeting when he had already dealt with the treasures for years, and he preferred to concentrate on the cave, recognizing that it would be the end in the first misstep.

But Glomgold and his lackeys were hot on his heels and knew he must think and act quickly. Fortunately, it was not the first time he had found himself in such a situation, and he smiled with fierce determination as he cracked his neck, ready for one more run.

However, the moment he took the first step, a small snore and a weight on his chest brought him out of his thoughts once again, and Scrooge looked down to see Donald snuggled against his torso, his small head resting on his chest. He was sleeping soundly, smiling warmly as his uncle's constant heartbeat lulled him, and Scrooge couldn't help a small laugh as his wing stroked the soft yellow hair feathers, slightly pale from the sickness.

Honestly, the duck did not know whether to be insulted by seeing his little nephew doze as he recounted his anecdote - despite his reluctance to approach him after making him take his medicine and his exhaustion turned more evident, or marvel at how fragile and defenseless the duckling wore as he clung to his coat, dressed in his favorite sailor pajamas.

It was hard to believe he was the same little boy who inherited his temperament as much as Quackmore and Hortense's .

But looking at it on the bright side, she could feel Donald's not-so-feverish forehead, though he wouldn't deny that the lad still needed to be checked occasionally.

He took the boy carefully, delighting in watching him snuggle into his arms as he used to when he was just a few months old. It was incredible to Scrooge how his interest in keeping the imp happy and protected outweighed his interest in gold, a fact previously considered impossible by the billionaire.

But this life was much more precious and valuable than the treasures that were locked up in his garage. He recognized it by appreciating his bright blue eyes staring at him in amazement, or the way his chest rose and fell in rhythm with each sleeping breath.

A warm smile came over his face and, after making sure they were alone - which was not difficult since he didn't hear any footsteps from Duckworth, he planted a small kiss on Donald's forehead. Maybe it was not strange for the butler to witness his expressions of affection toward the child, even Scrooge had seen him depositing small kisses on the duckling's head and accepting his invitations to the various games that his childish imagination proposed, but Scrooge was more comfortable sharing the moments he could alone with the boy and allowing himself to let his guard down with him.

What the Scotsman did not notice, however, was Donald slightly opening one of his eyes, smiling sleepily as he felt his uncle's pampering before snuggling further into his uncle's arms. His interest in knowing how the story ended was there, but his exhaustion was greater. No wonder the ducky fall as soon surrendered his bedtime arrives or that it was sooner when the duck felt sick, Scrooge recognized it; and he knew that as soon as he had enough energy the boy would demand to know the conclusion of the adventure.

Though Scrooge's favorite part was the way the story ended, he thought as he turned off the light and left the night light on before going to the single bed, the duckling sleeping peacefully on his uncle's abdomen.

Arriving at the mansion with a satisfied smile, the duck looked at the golden totem. As soon as he was returning to the mansion, the brilliant sapphire had stopped tinkling and blinding him, allowing him to appreciate the beauty of the treasure now in his possession. Fortunately, his study of it had not detected any referring curses.

He felt triumphant, which, frankly, was not new to the traveler. Taking leaps and bounds towards the main steps of the mansion, the Welsh Duck recognized the ringing of the house phone, and knew that it would not be long until Duckworth answered, to which he chose to take that shower of money that the adventurer so much needed in these moments.

Moments later, the butler would be knocking on his door. "Sir, Mrs. Duck is interested in speaking with you."

"It seems to be important," he added before his employer could speak. For while Scrooge and Hortense rarely spoke - unless the agency was involved, there was something about the butler's tone of voice that puzzled the Scot.

His suspicions took another turn when it was he who answered the call.

"Scrooge!" The aforementioned pushed the phone away from his ear when his younger sister's voice exclaimed from the rooftops, her accent becoming more pronounced than usual. She sounded happy, and that gave him a little insight into the reasons for his call: "the egg is hatching!"

Thus begins another chapter in the history of Scrooge McDuck.

#el's fanfiction #disney ducks #duckverse #duck comics #teamuncleweek2020 #day 1: bedtime story #team uncle #donald duck #scrooge mcduck #flintheart glomgold #duckworth and hortense makes a cameo #scrooge being a dad #kid donald duck

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bakugou-tm · 5 years

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Aoyama has a younger twin in the support course. The class finds this out when she shows up in the classroom on Halloween, dressed as Sailor Moon, knee highs and all. She's sitting on her brother's desk, just chatting with him in French. Que Bakugo BLUSHING when she jokingly calls him her Tuxedo Mask.

This is such a cute idea plus I love Sailor Moon so consider done (p.s. I’ll still make reader have their own features, I’ll just make the dad have your features) ——————————————————————————————- ------------

Honestly you were surprised when your brother invited you to the Class 1A Halloween Party.

Not that you and your brother had a bad relationship, actually the two of you got along like two peas in a pod. It was just the fact that you were only in the support course, meanwhile he was in the top class of your grade.

Aoyama constantly reassured you that his classmates weren’t as stuck up as the 1B Students who you’ve come across, so you could only take his word for it as you walked down the halls of your school.

Honestly, you wished you could walk into the class with your brother by your side but unfortunately he was going to help decorate the classroom. With his design skills there was no way you could drag him back from doing what he loved, so you decided you would take the extra time to get ready.

But now as you stood at the door, 1A plastered across the tall wood in bright white letters, you felt your heart begin to race. It’s not that you were shy, infact you shared the same sparkling personality your brother had. It’s just this was a class filled with practically professional heroes.

Voices and music were heard from inside, making you wonder just how many people were in there or how big the room itself was. Inhaling quickly, you wrapped your smooth fingers around the handle and swung the door open as you exhaled so you didn’t chicken out.

Luckily your entrance wasn’t like most movies where everybody freezes to look at you, the music shuts off, and your left there melting in your place wanting to disappear.

Rather only a few eyes looked you up and down questioningly, the others not even hearing your entrance due to the music.

Just as you were about to walk in a tall lanky man stood before you, he was wearing all black with ropes around his neck and black cat ears in his hair.

“Who are you?”

His voice was as menacing as his look, but honestly you couldn’t help but get a lazy sort of vibe from him. Was this really the homeroom teacher your brother had told you about?

Before you could even open your mouth to speak, you heard the familiar high pitched voice of your brother from across the classroom.

“Mademoiselle, you made it!”

Well, now all eyes were on you.

But you couldn’t help but smile at seeing your brother so excited to see you, all dressed up in his 90s disco outfit. Offering a small bow to the class you quickly met halfway to your brother, placing two quick kisses on either side of his cheeks.

“That’s your sister?” You heard one voice exclaim, your head turning to see it come from a bright blond haired boy. Was that his real hair color?

“Yes of course! She has my father’s features as you can see.” Aoyama exclaimed as he slinked an arm around your shoulder giving you a tug.

Letting out a soft giggle you squeezed at his arm before offering a warm smile to the class, “My name is Aoyama-chan, but to prevent confusion you can just call me (F/n)!”

You gained a few hellos and smiles, luckily allowing your nerves to sink away. A few even embraced you, one especially bright girl catching your attention.

“(F/n)-chan your costume is amazing! I..It looks like the real costume!” The brunette girl sang, moving around you in circles to get a better look at each aspect of the costume, “My name is Ochako by the way!”

This made your heart absolutely swell, after all this costume took you almost a month to put together. With your brothers fashion taste and your design skills, you were able to make a near replica of the Sailor Moon costume.

Using a plain white leotard, you stitched in two red bows for your chest and the back of your blue skirt. Then you found some red knee high boots and stitched in some white accents to match the outfit. Luckily your brother was able to supply you with the white gloves, red choker, and tiara that fell nicely under your (h/c) locks. And though it took a very.. very long time, you managed to get your long locks up into two round buns while you put in two extensions to look like two long pigtails coming out.

You really felt like you nailed the look so to hear so many compliments made your heart soar.

“Thank you, thank you..” You said with a warm smile, “It took me forever to put it together, but luckily I had my fashion designer of a brother help me put it together.”

At this your brother sprouted tears in his eyes as he hugged onto you tightly, “Oh merci my dear sweet sister!”

The rest of the night went well, filled with games, dancing, and laughter. You got to know everybody in the class, realizing your brother was indeed right. Everyone here was so humble and kind, even the one who was known to be grumpy.

It took you awhile to chip away at the ash blond but eventually you got him to even crack a small smile, if that’s what one would call it at least...

How could you not want to make him smile? Even with his ferocious nature, something about him was so charming and captivating that drew you to him.

Not to mention, he was practically wearing the full outfit for Sailor Moon’s love interest, Tuxedo Mask. The ash blond claimed himself to be a ‘spy agent’ but to you it was just a lazy last minute costume idea and a large coincidence.

So by the end of the night as you sat on your brothers desk, surrounded by a few of his classmates you felt content with the night.

Everyone seemed to be captivated by the way you and your brother spoke french to each other as if it was the back of your hand.

“So did you two use to take french classes as kids?” Momo questioned, of course her eager nature to learn new things wanting to know how your knowledge on the language came about.

“Ah well.. my mother’s side is actually partially french,” You explained, glancing down to your brother before letting your fingers run through your (h/c) locks, “Many of our family members speak only french so we just picked up on it as a kid, same with english!”

A few ooo’s and nods were seen as you spoke, some seemingly impressed that the two of you were just casually trilingual.

“So how come Aoyama didn’t join you with your Sailor Moon theme?” Kirishima questioned while taking a swig of his punch.

Aoyama seemed to blush at this feel ashamed that he didn’t but you quickly tousled his hair and sent him a smile, “None of the characters in the show really ‘screamed’ Aoyama, plus he wanted a costume that I could completly bedazzle so a 90s disco boy just seemed to fit best.”

“Yeah that costume does literally scream Aoyama.” Jirou said slightly wincing as the bright sparkles blinded her face causing a few to laugh.

Aoyama beamed at this, whipping his hands in the air and shaking them.

“What can I say, I simply sparkle!”

You couldn’t help but giggle at this, loving your brother’s fabulous attitude before another question arose in the air.

“So (L/n) did anyone else join your Sailor Moon theme then, that would be such a cute picture!” Ochako said with glimmering eyes.

“I knowww, you should have told us we all would’ve dressed up as the other girls!” Mina whined with a pout.

Your eyes lit up at this, feeling so welcomed into the class. You even felt you could consider these girls your friends. All of you would’ve been so cute dressed up as the Sailor Girl’s, but maybe you could save it for next year.

Pondering how to answer the question as voices died down, your eyes quickly flicked over down to Bakugou who was sitting at the desk beside Aoyama. He seemed to be focused on fixing the cuff of his tuxedo to even notice your eyes on him.

Lips forming into a small grin you let out an exasperated sigh, “Unfortunately no I hadn’t made plans with anyone to match me, but we totally should dress up as the team next year!”

The girl’s eyes seemed to light up at this, all talking amongst yourself before you turned your gaze down to Bakugou, confidence flickering in your gaze.

“Although I wasn’t planning on matching with anyone, I believe Bakugou-kun is the Tuxedo Mask to my Sailor Moon.”

At this the class was silent.

Bakugou’s gaze was torn from his cuff as he looked up to you with wide vermillion eyes, only for your own (e/c) ones to wink back at him.

The ash blond boy felt his cheeks begin to heat up, a warm blush evident across his face at the implication.

“Awwww, oh my gosh you’re right!” Mina exclaimed as she wrapped her arm around Bakugou, “You two would be so cute together, you’re totally matching like a couple!”

A few laughs and cheers were heard at this, further embarrassing Bakugou while you happily giggled, enjoying seeing this new emotion on the boy.

“Like hell we are! We.. just met!” Bakugou shouted, small pops coming from his hands that merely showed as an empty threat.

Though Bakugou would never admit, his heart began to beat just a bit slighter when you said that. But that only seemed to make him even more flustered which he hated.

Luckily everyone assumed it was just him taken aback by the comment, but his best friend seemed to read right through him as the red head smirked down to Bakugou.

“I think this calls for a picture, right dude!” Kirishima exclaimed while holding up his phone, of course he had to be the best wingman he could for his best friend.

Bakugou’s eyes widened before he looked to the side and glared at everyone.

At his reaction you felt your heart sink a bit, half of you was hoping he may just agree but you should’ve known. Why would the top student at UA ever see anything in you? After all you were just a support class student.

“I..It’s okay don’t pressure him guys, it was just a joke.”

Everyone seemed to die down at this, not expecting Bakugou to agree anyway.

But the ash blond didn’t dare miss the new quiteness in your voice. His vermillion gaze lifted to your expression, seeing how your crystal eyes had sunk to the floor.

He wasn’t even sure if it was possible but even your hair looked like it was drooping. Were you an actual anime character? How on earth were you doing this?

Bakugou rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue, standing up abruptly causing the table to creek against the floor causing everyone to look up.

“Are you gonna get your ass up and take the picture or not shitty Sailor?”

He would’ve paid a million dollars to get a picture of your face, everything about you lighting up like the sun. So much he almost winced at how blinding you were, it was clear you were Aoyama’s sister.

“Right! Come here Tuxedo Mask.” You exclaimed, skipping over to Bakugou as his hand snaked around your waist to pull you closer.

Having the entire class stare at him with wild grins as Kirishima took a few shots had his blood boiling, but for some reason feeling you close to his side made it simmer just a bit.

Maybe with you at his side, things were gonna be just a bit better.

#bakugou x reader #my hero academia #katsuki bakugou #bakugou #boku no hero academia #bnha bakugou #bakugou katsuki #this shit? CUTE

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queen-scribbles · 6 years

Note

Trope mashups: 14/100 for Taviloth; 52/99 for Ederity

14. Taviloth- Bodyguard AU/100. Accidentally Saving the Day

My gut reaction was to say obviously, nmw, Tavi’s the bodyguard. But then I started thinking about it, and the other way around is great, too. Either way would involved the guard-ee’s family being affluent/powerful enough to afford/need a bodyguard in the first place(so status boost for each of them in turn), so with that established, we have two versions.

VERSION A: Bodyguard!Tavi

In this option, Aloth’s family hires a relatively ethical mercenary to keep an eye on him/protect him while he’s off studying to be a wizard. (Should mention, this version, since his parents are better off, his father’s… slightly less nasty. Maybe still verbally and/or emotionally abusive, but not physically, so no Iselmyr)

The two of them butt heads a little on the way to Hogwarts *cough* wizard school, due to differences in personality and outlook; Tavi’s loud, blunt, brash, outspoken, swears worse than a sailor, and is guarded but usually more optimistic than the opposite, while Aloth is diplomatic, quiet, non-confronttational to a literal fault, has sworn maybe three times in his entire life…. you get the picture, BUT there’s less friction than one might anticipate putting two people who are so different together. Pretty soon, annoyance turns to admiration; Aloth admires Tavi’s forthrightness while she has to admit he really has a way with words. They start getting along better, feelings start to develop, but neither will admit it bc they think there’s no way the feelings are reciprocated. One of them finally caves just before they reach their destination, both are surprised by the realization “Oh, really? You like me too?!” (Tavi maybe jokingly questions his tastes in women :P) and they agree it’s probably best not to broadcast this development. It might make her job harder.

So they act just the right level of detached in public and sneak romantic moments in private. One of said private moments winds up with them hiding in a closet, where they overhear a plot to assassinate a local noble so his kid can claim the title. Given that the plotters are highly trusted members of the noble’s cabinet or advisors(bc aren’t they always? :P), Tavi and Aloth then have to sneak around finding proof before they say anything or they’ll A) get laughed at and not taken seriously or B) be in very big trouble for leveling such an accusation against people who are trusted by one of the school’s biggest supporters. Oh, and all the while they’re still trying to keep their relationship under wraps. Fun times all around :D

VERSION B: Bodyguard!Aloth

In this option, Aloth’s backstory is relatively the same; abusive dad, Iselmyr, wizard school etc etc except school goes smoothly(ish) and he does become an arcane knight. The thayn he winds up serving is friends with Tavi’s parents(yes, she gets to keep her family in this AU), who are still merchants, but significantly more successful/better off this time around. They’re still based in Old Vailia, but they spend a lot of time in Aedyr bc they do a lot of business there. Tavi is still, well, Tavi. She just has to fight harder for the pants vs dresses argument and gets in bigger trouble if her parents catch her swearing. (Yes, they’re aware she’s an adult. She’s “reflecting badly on the family” by not being ladylike) Her parents frequently lament her habits of staying out to all hours, “Slumming it”, and spending large chunks of time in either taverns or the woods.

One day they voice these troubles to their thayn friend, who suggests they simply hire a bodyguard to accompany her on her (mis)adventures and help keep her both safe and in line. They’ve thought about it, but they do have enemies, you know, and aren’t sure who they can trust. He promptly offers the use of an arcane knight who recently came into his service; talented wizard, glowing recommendations yada yada yada. Given their long friendship, they do trust him, so they accept.

Tavi and Aloth’s first meeting is something neither is looking forward to; he’s heard she’s wild, she’s heard he’s stuffy. It goes better than expected; mostly just “So, are you s’pposed to stop me from doin’ crazy shit?” “Only the worst of it, the rest of the time I’m simply to accompany you.” “*grin* Oh, then this is gonna be fun.” She precedes to drag him to every tavern she can think of in hopes of scaring him off.

Not only does this plan not succeed(she gets lots of eye-rolling and does give him a headache or two, but he sticks like glue), he drinks her under the table at one of the taverns and she has to admit she’s actually impressed. (Shit. She didn’t want to like him)

A week or two into this arrangement–which both tolerate but don’t love–Tavi’s parents have to rush back to Old Vailia to deal with some sort of crisis involving a supplier. As they’re leaving, they ask Tavi to ensure a specific set of shipping manifests make it into their vault, bc they may need them for evidence if this crisis goes even more sour. Given that she doesn’t much pay attention to the business(the twins are going to inherit that, so why should she care), she’s not sure which of the documents piled on her father’s desk are the right ones, so she just grabs everything that looks vaguely manifest-ish and locks it in the vault.

The next day, she and Aloth return from whatever she dragged him into to find the house ransacked and the servants all locked in the cellar. From various clues, they piece together that the ransackers were looking for the deeds to the business, which Tavi’s father had brought to Aedyr to ratify adding Malachi and Casius as partial owners. Why they wanted them isn’t clear, but it can’t be anything good. Tavi realizes the deeds must’ve been in with the papers she stowed in the vault, so she and Aloth go to look for them.

Just as Aloth finds the deeds, they hear angry voices upstairs. The ransackers are back, and more serious this time about finding what they’re after. Tavi wants to fight them, both to protect her people and bc to teach them a lesson. Aloth manages to talk her out of it by pointing out they don’t know how many there are, they didn’t hurt the servants last time, and if they’re after the deeds, isn’t it better to get the deeds as far away as possible? She reluctantly agrees and they sneak out instead, then decide the best plan is to try and catch up with her parents, see if they know what’s going on. Of course, since her parents were in a hurry, their ship has already departed for Old Vailia, forcing Tavi and Aloth to book passage of their own.

The rest would involve a couple near-misses with pirates, finding out this is an attempt from an old rival to steal her parents’ business, kidnapped brothers(sorry Cas and Mal), and a really slow burn Taviloth romance that wouldn’t be admitted or acted on until like the last couple chapters and would drive both readers and author to OMG JUST KISS ALREADY YOU F**KIN IDIOTS levels of insanity.

52. Ederity- Marriage of Convenience/99. Magical Accidents

Still would involve Edér holding a position of some authority, Charity’s a friend of his, they get married because He Need a Wife™ and he’s tired of random women throwing themselves at him. Charity’s the one to suggest it, after helping him escape yet another mob of fangirls gold diggers swooning ladies. There are no feelings involved at first; just getting him “off the market”. They act couple-y in public, but in private are just friends. And then, right as they both feel the first flutterings of Actual Feeling™, one of them accidentally drinks a love potion. (Normally a plot device I don’t like, but an exception is being made here) As for which one, I’d probably flip a coin, bc either way would be MARVELOUS. Either way, they figure it out pretty quickly and tell the other one what happened. “So if I start acting lovey and affectionate, it’s ‘cause of that. Totally not that I’m really falling for you. Nope.” And then begins the struggle of either A) waiting it out or B) looking for an antidote while not doing/saying anything one of them will regret once this is over. While, naturally, the one who drank the potion is doubting themself and feeling muddled if their attraction is really real or just from the potion, and what about [X] from before I drank, but that could be nothing…. In the process, of course, someone says something that invites further discussion once the potion mess is over, they talk once both are in full possession of their senses, realize there’s mutual stirrings of affection, and set out on the tricky path of courting while they’re already married.

(These were both great, and now I want to write them, lil bit xD)

From this meme

#queen rambles #trope mashup #taviloth #ederity #otp: third time's the charm #eothasian idiots #i know i'm stretching 'accidentally saves the day' a little #but it's the best i could do :P #yaaaaaaay it's done #/faints

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languages-and-first-world-war · 7 years

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The Ladies from Hell

Ladies from Hell

The study of ‘war languages’, ‘war words’, ‘trench slang’, from the First World War – and clearly variant forms are a major part of the subject – occasionally leads the researcher into the area of folk-etymology and the mythology of language. Folk-etymology takes two forms, erroneous stories of etymology, and word forms that through change propose phenomenological meanings (such as ‘sparrow-grass’ or ‘alligator pears’, for asparagus and avocado pears). Current from Autumn 1914 were stories that the German soldiers confronted by kilted soldiers from Canada, England or Scotland were so terrified that they called them ‘ladies from Hell’ or ‘devils in skirts’.

To date no documentation in German, in newspapers, letters, diaries, memoirs or anywhere else, supports this. It is entirely a story reported, and reported vigorously by Allied soldiers, via newspapers at the time, and in postwar memoirs. It can be found as the title of R. Douglas Pinkerton’s 1918 memoir of his time with the London Scottish; in A. Corcoran’s The Daredevil of the Army (1918, p. 139); Over There and Back, by Joseph S. Smith (1918, p. 192); Private Peat, by H. Peat (1917, p. 175). Soldiers repeatedly reported its use to the press, enjoying their reputation for engendering terror. ‘Devils in skirts’ is found significantly less frequently, for example in the Daily Record 30 April 1917, p.4., in an article titled ‘Praise of the Scot’, which proposed that the Scottish soldier ‘considered it a soft impeachment when the Huns defined him in the early days of the war as the Devil in skirts; but he kept his senses when, for for some unknown reason the German papers devoted much of their space proving, to their own satisfaction, that anything good that came out of England was of Scottish extraction’. Unfortunately what the German papers did not do was offer any evidence of German soldiers using the expression. In the British press ‘Ladies from Hell’ appeared in September 1914 (Dundee Courier, 28 September 1914, p.7), continued through the conflict - the Aberdeen Press and Journal 18 October 1915 (p.4) specifically states in an article on ‘War Words’ that ‘The Germans have a phrase for our Highlanders which means “Ladies from Hell”’ -and after the war (The Sphere, 4 January 1919, p.12: ‘“Ladies from Hell” the Germans called the kilted soldiers then, and the term was one which, from the Germans, carried the highest sort of compliment’). An interesting variation/reaction, from the Highland Light Infantry, was published in October 1918: the Evening Dispatch, 4 October 1918, p.2, reported that they were calling themselves ‘Harry Lauder’s Idiots’; ‘no German, however, has yet been brave enough to call them that’. A further suggestion was ‘Hell’s Latest Invention’. After doing a trawl through the British Newspaper Archive, my impression was that reports in Scottish newspapers were outnumbering those in newspapers from the rest of Britain; in reality fewer than a third of the reports were from Scottish papers.

What did the soldiers specifically say about the term, and did their comments in any way focus more on the gender or the infernal aspect? Private Alick Moore of the Camerons, reported in the Aberdeen Evening Express, 25 December 1914, p.3, stated that ‘ … the Germans nicknamed us ‘the ladies from hell’. We looked as if we were relations of the devil sure enough, our kilts covered with mud, and a few weeks beard on our chins.’ Private Clifford Walker, serving with the Cameron Highlanders, whose letter to a relative in Leeds was reported in the Leeds Mercury, 14 July 1915, p.2, stated that ‘The French people in the villages nearly go daft when they hear the pipes and see us in our ‘frocks’, as they call them. A good many times I have been offered money and a pair of trousers for the kilt, but it is far warmer and helps to frighten Johnny German away’. An interesting use of ‘the’ rather than ‘my’ in ‘the kilt’, indicates its role as an abstract identifier rather than merely an article of personal clothing – each individual kilt is a metonym of ‘the kilt’. There are plenty of comments about bayonet charges, war cries and the Germans running away, but no remarks on the concept of gender.

‘Ladies from Hell’ has stuck. Fraser and Gibbons, in their seminal Soldier and Sailor Words and Phrases (1925), define the term as ‘A name coined in the War by the German newspapers and adopted among the German troops on the Western Front’. This is confirmed by an early report from a soldier: Private John Trafford of the Gordon Highlanders (Dundee Courier, 18 September 1914, p.4) wrote that ‘the Gordons had some captured Germans with them, and the latter informed them that in Germany (NB) the Highlanders were called “the Ladies from Hell”’. Perhaps repeated hearsay made it stick faster, and allowed some elaborations: ‘A lady working among the troops’, as reported in the Western Mail (13 March 1915, p7), said ‘By the way I hear that the Germans call our kilted regiments “the ladies from Hell” (Hollenweiber, I suppose; it was told me in English)’. The levels of projection here are very clear – first the term, and then its ‘original’ version. The same German term was reported as being used by General Joffre, commander of the French Army, in the New Zealand Evening Post, 20 November 1915, p.11: on a hospital visit the general, on meeting a Scottish soldier, said ‘you are one of the men the Germens call “Hollenweiber”’. The actual German word would be Höllenweiber, which should be transcribed into English as ‘Hoellenweiber’. A word search on a site digitizing German language newspapers (http://anno.onb.ac.at/anno-suche#searchMode=simple&from=1) brings up no results, while another site digitizing newspapers Europe-wide (http://www.theeuropeanlibrary.org/tel4/newspapers/issue/3000113894506?hp=3&page=3&refine-query=%22ladies+from+hell%22&query=%22ladies+from+hell%22 ) provides only an article in French about Scottish troops during the First World War, from Le Figaro, 25 September 1939, p.3, which finishes thus:

Lorsqu'en septembre 1914 ils chargèrent furieusement, devant les étangs d'Ermenonville, un regiment de fantassins allemands qui, tous, périrent noyés, ils gagnèrent un surnom : dans l'armée britannique, on ne les désigna plus que sous le sobriquet « The Ladies from Hell » — les dames de l'Enfer... —R. L.

Specifically this notes that ‘in the British army, they were only designated under the nickname …’ The revival and enthusiastic use of the term during the Second World War shows that it clearly was reckoned successful.

Other British articles bring a further nuance to the story: a brief note appended at the end of a story –

“The Ladies From Hell”

The German soldiers call the highlanders ‘Ladies from Hell’ because of their dress and their principle of no quarter to the enemy. – D.P.

Thus the ‘from hell’ notion derives from killing surrendering men.

Other stories refer this back to a song from the Crimean War, ‘The Kilties in the Crimea’, written by John Lorimer of Paisley, in 1865; as reported in the Huddersfield Daily Examiner 9 November 1914, p.2, it runs:

The Kilties are the lads for me,

They’re aye the foremost in a spree,

And when they’re in they’ll no’ come oot

Tho’ a’ the warld should turn aboot.

They’re no’ the lads will run awa’,

But feicht while they ha’e breath to draw;

Just tell them whaur they’ll meet the foe,

And shoulder to shoulder awa’ they go!

Etc. The regiment portrayed is ‘the Royal forty-twa’ commanded by Sir Colin Campbell ‘wi’ his kilted clan’. The battle takes an interesting turn when:

The kilties gaed to help the Turks,

Wi' a' their pistols, guns, and dirks.

But when the bagpipes ga'e a blaw

The Turkies fainted clean awa'.

Their lassies, too, and wives sae queer

They werena like our lassies here,

For they buckled up their e'en wi' clouts.

As if our kilties had been brutes.

Islamic female dress it seems caught the attention in mid-battle. Later:

The Russian General, when he saw

The kilties chase his men awa’

Cried oot, " Does ony mortal ken

Whether they're wild beasts or men ? "

Sir Colin cried, « Come here, my man,

And I will tell, for weel I can,

The kilted lads are just,'' he says,

" Our horsemen's wives in Sunday claes."

Presumably the joke is that the Scots are so terrifying that the Russians are afraid even of Scottish women. The Aberdeen Weekly Journal repeated excerpts from the poem on 4 December 1914 (p.5), an indication that it was not altogether unknown. But it would be unwise to make a definite link between this poem and the appearance of the phrase; despite the use of the kilt in the British Army since the early eighteenth century, this phrase does not appear till 1914, making it more likely an invention, or less likely an adoption, of the New Armies rather than a term from the pre-1914 army .

If we are to discuss this in terms of concepts of gender, as well as of terror, which the phrase proposes, we need also to take into account that women as well as men used the term. Should gender be discussed as part of the phenomenon? Yes, of course. The responsibility for the term, and thus raising the question of gender, is safely projected onto the enemy: projecting the responsibility for the issue onto the ‘other’ allows it to be discussed, ignored, challenged, whatever, but we cannot pretend that the issue is not raised. But there are two parts to the phrase: if the first part of ‘ladies from hell’ is a clear challenge to the soldiers’ gender, the second half of the phrase stares down any challenge to their masculine power. And being the second part of the phrase, since language is linear, it supersedes the first part, making the whole a celebration of the ability to engender terror, whatever the expectations of gender. Primarily a phrase for expressing the enjoyment of being able to create fear, it as part of the process proposes and then crushes any thoughts of effeminacy. No wonder they enjoyed it.

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titoslondon-blog · 6 years

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New Post has been published on Titos London

#Blog New Post has been published on http://www.titoslondon.co.uk/martin-margielas-paris-exhibitions-celebrate-his-personal-legacy-and-skill/

Martin Margiela’s Paris exhibitions celebrate his personal legacy and skill

An elegant camel coat is pitted against a white wrap-dress, stained with shocking-pink blotches. The alliance between the noble French house of Hermès and the disruptive Belgian designer Martin Margiela seems an unlikely combination. But in Paris, two separate exhibitions—at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs and the Palais Galliera— are looking at the iconoclast from Antwerp.

The decision to show Margiela’s work at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, newly shortened to MAD, was encouraged by Pierre-Alexis Dumas, artistic director of Hermès and president of the museum. “We want to make the museum more exciting and appealing, especially for the new generation,” Dumas said, as he stood amid the crowd of visitors, looking at the ripe fruit of a six-year design relationship between the noble French house and Margiela, from 1997-2003.

The iconoclastic designer, who has never shown his face to the fashion world, is known as the king of the undone and the recycled—and a revelation of what lies beneath. His exceptional skills can be seen in Margiela: The Hermès Years, which runs at MAD until September 2, after transferring from the Mode Museum (MoMu) in Antwerp, Belgium. His talents also tell a fascinating fashion story—especially in relation to a simultaneous Paris exhibition at the Palais Galliera, curated by the “invisible” designer himself.

At this exhibition, the 20 years of Margiela under his own label are not only displayed, but each procedure is explained by the designer, with the support of the museum and its outgoing curator, Olivier Saillard. An example of the Belgian designer’s work are the ‘Tabi’ shoe-boots he created with two toes, and an entire collection in 1997, literally built exclusively on his Stockman dressmaker’s dummy.

At MAD, the most dramatic effect is the colour, that juicy orange of Hermès shown against the white of Margiela, who painted every item in his studio stark white—from floor to ceiling—and even asked his staff to wear white lab coats.

But the noble brand and the imaginative designer are not always so far apart. Using the deep ‘V’ neckline of the Vareuse—once a French sailor’s jacket—the designer’s work for Hermès can look streamlined, graceful and well-suited to the women of a certain age, who appear in videos as lively exhibits.

Some of Margiela’s Hermès pieces look almost like haute couture, for example, coats with a semi-transparent silk cover flowing over fine wool for protection. Other offerings have the bizarre Margiela touch, as in a ‘glove story’ using nothing but unmatched pairs to construct a slender dress. In a similar way, the designer used a collection of engagement rings worked in thread to make a silvered gown.

Margiela never speaks publicly. But having talked to him at length when the exhibition was first presented at MoMu in 2017, I still had vivid memories of what he said—especially when he told me that he wanted to show work that had languished for years in cold storage at Hermès. “The memory was lost,” he told me, explaining that his two decades of creation, 1989-2009, just missed the smartphone and the internet era.

Now that there are two ways to look at the designer’s work, at MAD for his Hermès period and at the Palais Galliera for 20 years of his own creations, I have to ask the question: will the real Martin Margiela please stand up? And I am not even starting to think about the fact that John Galliano has now taken over at Maison Margiela, playing with the same issues of plastic, at its most fantastic, and the entire subject of what lies beneath those sheltering clothes.

The story of Margiela’s Hermès is easy to define. It is about a modern elegance, de-sexualised, with a fresh take on traditional French style. “Fluid is a word we often used—it had to hang off the body,” Margiela told me. And the effect of oversize, which he started around 2000, is evident in his own work.

Critics of the time felt that Margiela could and should have grown Hermès faster and further. During his tenure, he took the iconic Hermès’ hand-rolled scarf and used that technique to edge blouses and tunics. He also played artfully with logos and identity, creating in 1997 a way of button stitching that produced the subtle ‘H’ motif.

Yet he never experimented with the famous Hermès patterns on headscarves and neckties, although he played with hand-printing in his own label, extending the patterned effect on legs and arms.

Spread over a generous space, the MAD exhibition includes short films of the Martin Margiela shows—including the famous 1990 presentation held on scrubland on the outskirts of Paris, where local kids joined the parade. Only just after he had left his job working for Jean Paul Gaultier in 1987, Margiela already showed symbols of his personal style. Clothes apparently worn inside-out and his early use of transparent plastic were in stark contrast to the glamorous style of the over-the-top 1980s. Margiela was clearly forging his own fashion path—a full seven years before he started designing for Hermès.

Kaat Debo, director of MoMu, who was instrumental in the original exhibition, rejoiced in its move to Paris. “I am proud and very thrilled to have this show in Paris, the fashion world’s capital,” she said. “It’s an honour to have Martin’s oeuvre here. I really think he deserves it. And for us at the museum, it is always a joy to travel and see it in a different place and different context.”

“But if you really want to understand Martin, you have to see both shows,” Debo continued. “At Galliera, there is an excellent overview of his own brand. And here at MAD, we see how he translates his DNA for another house.”

The second exhibition, Margiela/Galliera 1989-2009 (on view at the Palais Galliera through July 15) is unique—and not because his name is scribbled in ink at the entrance to the grand building. It is rather the words printed on the exhibition pamphlet: “Artistic Director Martin Margiela”, it reads, above the name of Alexandre Samson, the director of Contemporary Collections.

In an exceptional collaboration, the Belgian designer was in a position to write his own history—or rather to show how he developed his fashion aesthetic in direct contrast to the extravagant 1980s, when he started his career working with Jean Paul Gaultier. From his early training at the fashion school of the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Antwerp, he used his knowledge to deconstruct garments, revealing the hidden sewing skills behind linings, stitching and shoulder pads. He even had his mother knit an openwork sweater using broom sticks, adapted dolls’ clothes to create giant Barbies, and produced oversize clothes so enormous that they were twice the normal shape.

“He never used the word ‘recycling’—it was giving life to pieces he liked, and he loved vintage,” Samson said. “We chose the silhouettes together to make the collection he loves.”

That included a huge American mannequin from 1936, which Margiela used as the foundation of his oversize collection. Other original moments in the 1990s included the artisanal dress made from four separate 1940s outfits, and for autumn/winter 1994 when he selected five groups of garments to show in shop windows in France, Japan and New York. A later elaboration in the new millennium was to have two trench coats assembled to have four sleeves.

Having attended Margiela shows in the weirdest places—one in a ghostly, abandoned underground Paris metro station, where I never managed to open the entrance door, and had to view the clothes afterwards—I have many memories and an understanding of what made the designer so utterly original.

Margiela took us to extraordinary venues, from under an ephemeral cover in the wasteland on the outskirts of Paris to a Salvation Army depot. In 1992, the ‘set’ was not one, but two divided areas; one where everything was shown in white, the other in black. The passion with which Margiela’s followers collected his clothes is shown at the Palais Galliera in reconstructions of the compact apartments of Japanese fans who dedicated their small living spaces to their idol.

Looking at the exhibition leaves the impression that Margiela pioneered great things. In 1999, he made an entire collection out of old duvets—anticipating by a decade the fashion for padded puffer coats. His oversize outfits appeared just at the fashion moment devoted to skimpy, body-clinging outfits.

Saillard, the former director of the Palais Galliera, was the instigator of the exhibition back in 2017, when, he says, an interest in Margiela had blossomed again because of the work of Demna Gvasalia, another alumnus of the Antwerp school, who led the design team at Maison Margiela before launching anti-fashion brand Vetements and then designing for Balenciaga.

“When I met Margiela, the idea was to do an exhibition through an exhibition—showing the clothes from each collection as a personal and fashion retrospective,” Saillard explained, saying that the only designer who had shown the same passion for a museum show was the late Azzedine Alaïa.

And from Saillard, a final wise comment, as we looked at Margiela dresses cut horizontally, instead of vertically: “Young people coming here should understand that the problem of creating new fashion is not about a lack of money, but of imagination.”

1/10 Martin Margiela autumn/winter 1995 collection inspired by dolls (left), Hermès (right)

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Martin Margiela autumn/winter 1996 show

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Martin Margiela autumn/winter 1997 collection

Image: Pierre Antoine

Martin Margiela autumn/winter 2000 collection

Image: Pierre Antoine

Maison Margiela spring/summer 1992 collection

Image: Pierre Antoine

Martin Margiela autumn/winter 1989

Image: Palais Galleria

Martin Margiela spring/summer 1993 show

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Martin Margiela spring/summer 1998 show (left), and on display at the Palais Galliera (right)

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An installation of Martin Margiela's spring/summer 2009 collection at the Palais Galliera (left); runway look (right)Martin Margiela spring/summer 2009 show (left), and on display at the Palais Galliera

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