Trigger/Content Warnings: kissing, alcohol, brief mentions/hints at transphobia, mentions of nsfw content.
— NOVEMBER 15, 2015: you’re eighteen: eighteen with a non-profit just starting to really take flight but still no first kiss. tonight was going to be the night. it had to be. at least — that is what you tell yourself as you wipe the brown liquid that remains on your lips after that final swig of liquid luck. you might even be in love.... you think. she’s your friend, but there’s something there. you swear there is, and now, she's heading back to college in a few short weeks for her next quarter, which means... there’s everything to gain and nothing to lose.
when she sees you, she smiles, and your face burns. fingers reach out to gently rest upon her shoulder, accompanied by a nod towards the kitchen for a ❛drink and fresh air❜. it’s something you saw in a movie. then again, it could have been a video: one of those videos. so desperate for perfection in this moment that you had been dreaming of, since you had seen her face light up when you told some stupid joke, you devoured everything you could find to help inform you on how to make your move.
who could blame you really — for rolling into more explicit material — when all you can find about others that look like you — are like you — are stories of anger and loss? yes, sometimes those videos were worse, but some... well... some provided at least information on the how: how he could make the move, how he should lean in, how he should finally seal the deal and press his lips into hers.
with her hand in yours, you lead her to the kitchen, grabbing drinks along the way as you step out onto the porch. the cold chicago wind causes you to jump slightly, pulling your jacket and her closer into you. there’s an amused smile on her lips. you both know what’s about to occur, but you can’t seem to do it... not yet at least. your body, leaden in fear and doubt, remains still, but she — oh, she leans closer into you, chin tilting up to look at you properly. she tells you you look handsome, that these few months have clearly done you well. she tells you that she’s proud: proud to be your friend and see what you’ve done with yourself.
that’s what finally breaks whatever spell your body’s been under. there’s nothing romantic or sexy about it like the images from the videos you used to research meticulously. your hands reach out to try and grasp her face but instead fall to your waist as your lips eagerly press into hers. it’s all too fast. before you’re able to try and adjust, to make her feel how you feel, she’s pulling away with a laugh.
❝oh fuck. now i really know i’m drunk.❞
your lips fall into a frown, but you nod. she’s right. you’ve both drank too much.
❝don’t tell anyone about this. they won’t let either of us live this down.❞
again, she’s right. you’e just friends. two friends that had a bit too much to drink, and one with a silly idea that wouldn’t leave their head.
AT AGE FOURTEEN YOU THINK YOU HAVE THE WORLD FIGURED OUT. you are wise beyond your years in so many ways --- yet you are still so inexperienced in the human experience . . .
you learn to waltz because your mother says you must and it’s not that you object to learning such things but you’ve never stood quite this close to a boy for this length of time. you carry a natural grace with you always, but somehow turn into a bumbling idiot every time your partner tries to lead. his name is benjamin and he laughs at you when you step on his feet, but he doesn’t seem particularly cruel. he’s amused, but still you scowl and hang your head just hoping he doesn’t see how your cheeks burn hot with embarrassment.
it gets better with time, you get better with time --- yet still, you are hardly a natural. the other girls get swept across the floor with ease and you . . . you have to work harder at it. you always have. or maybe it’s that you don’t like to let others lead.
after a particularly grueling lesson you plop yourself down in a cozy leather chair in your grandfather’s study and whine about how your feet hurt and how you can’t get the steps in time with the music and how you might as well quit ( you’re not a quitter, though --- you both know this ). he tells you that ginger rogers once put it this way --- that she did everything fred astaire did, but backward and in high heels. it’s an impressive way of looking at it and you internalize it, memorize it, chant it in your head like a mantra.
and the next day you enter the dance studio with your head held high, the sort of confidence one notices radiating off you in waves. you’re determined to get it right, to be the best --- and benjamin notices too.
he pulls you in close as the music ends and you ask him why he’s still dancing and he says he’s not. his face is too close to yours and his eyes flutter shut and before you can ask him what he’s doing he plants one on you thinking that you feel it too. but you don’t think of him like that --- he’s only an obstacle on your way to being the best at something.
it’s not what you expected, you don’t feel anything --- it’s not like the movies or like what her friends have said. you linger a moment in shock and then you realize everyone is staring. he could’ve waited for a moment alone but instead he took your first kiss in front of everyone --- you think he was trying to prove something, trying to put on a show. and maybe he was, but you refuse to stay for the curtain call. you run out of the studio quickly, just trying to leave this moment in the dust.
you shut your eyes tight, just like you’ve seen in the movies.
you don’t know what to do with your hands.
his lips taste like coca cola, and when he pulls away,
all you can think about is why he chose to kiss you
in the parking lot
of a rema 1000 supermarket.
/
at school, everyone talks about you kissing joey larsen.
your friends ask you what tricks you did with your tongue,
ask you about how wet it was.
you tell them it was just a simple press of lips.
you think maybe it’s so lackluster,
because you don’t have feelings for joey larsen.
he’s nice and smart, but the romantic in you
wishes you felt a spark.
instead, all you have of that memory is the taste of coca cola,
and the smell of the dumpster near which you were standing.
/
you’re sixteen.
you’ve lived a lifetime in a handful of months.
coming back to school is just another hurdle.
the stares from your classmates burn holes into the back of your head.
they all whisper behind your back;
to your face, they speak words laced with pity.
it makes you want to turn invisible.
but the gossip and attention follows you and shoves you into center stage,
a spotlight thrust onto you that you can’t cower from.
a morrison sibling, dead. the other, walking around as a ghost.
/
maybe you start dating him because he’s speaks to you like you’re normal
not broken.
maybe it’s because your loss is insignificant.
maybe it’s because he doesn’t really care about you.
it doesn’t matter.
you blend in with the other girls, a hand intertwined in his as you attend parties with people
who were once your friends.
( you pushed them all away, didn’t you ? covered your aching heart with ambition.
but the lingering taste of loneliness doesn’t leave your tongue. )
/
the music is too loud as you avoid all their stares.
you’re the girl from the paper,
you’re just desperately trying to find footing again
in a life where you feel like you don’t belong.
/
he presses you up against the wall and leans in slowly.
you exhale as he presses your lips together and you close your eyes.
it’s hesitant. it’s awfully public.
maybe your audience is waiting for something.
maybe you are too.
when he kisses you, it’s the closest you’ve felt to being a normal teenage girl,
being kissed by a handsome jock.
you can’t help but feel as if you’re playing a part.
you kiss him back, looping your shaking hands around his neck.
everyone’s staring anyway, may as well give them a show.
/
you’re twenty two.
you kiss him because you’ve thought about it almost every day since watching the sunrise with him.
you kiss him and when your lips slot together,
it’s the closest feeling to magic that you can describe.
he kisses you, soft and sure and smiling, fingers caressing your skin like you are
something precious.
and in his arms, you melt.
DAY TWO / GOLDEN RINGS.
➛ rose’s wardrobe is fairly simple. on a day to day basis, rose can be seen wearing sweaters ( she likes ones that are off the shoulder, but she has quite a few that aren’t either ), in a pair of jeans, boots, and a soft coat. she doesn’t have a lot of variety in her wardrobe — it’s mostly all earth toned and solid colors, and she doesn’t spend too much time thinking about it.
➛ rose is almost always carrying around her staple brown leather bag, passed down to her from her father. in it, she always carries a little notebook and a pen, a voice recorder, and a disposable camera. especially recently, rose never knows when she’s going to see something worth noting, and she always wants to be ready.
➛ the one time rose gets adventurous with her wardrobe is during night outs. she’ll wear some lace, maybe some silk tops, and will have a lot more exposed skin than usual. this is due to the fact that the bar or club she’ll end up in will have low lighting, and rose doesn’t feel like an odd one out for dressing so differently. it also gives her a little boost on confidence when people hit on her.
➛ her hair is usually in natural bouncy waves, sometimes in a low ponytail with some curls falling out to frame her face. her jewelry is minimalist — she only wears two rings, one on her point finger, the other on her ring finger on her left hand. sometimes she wears a simple gold necklace, and she has only two ear piercings with gold studs. her makeup is usually minimalist, mostly due to time, so rose will usually put on some concealer, some brow gel and mascara and call it a day. when she goes out, however, she’ll usually put on a dark lip and add a smokey eye.
➛ during the summertime, rose usually wears flowy pieces. whether it’s a dress, or a pantsuit, she opts for comfort and breeziness. however, she really enjoys the cold, so in the winter the coats she wears aren’t particularly warm, but practical.
➛ she’s rarely seen wearing hats, aside from a large fuzzy winter one henry helped her pick out right before he passed.
➛ she usually likes a small heel in her boot, partly because she’s short, but also because she likes how it makes her look and feel. at events or parties, she’ll opt for a higher heel.
the first time you attend an event with so-called MIXED COMPANY, you are seventeen years old. there have, of course, been birthday parties with girls from your school, family parties and business events. but for the most part these events were not conducive to the kind of goings-on that could be considered part of the quintessential teenage experience. perhaps this is why the other girls in your cohort titter and giggle in anticipation of the upcoming combined formal, where boys from the brother school will be in attendance. like you, many of your friends have had minimal interaction with boys, and as such there is certainly an air of mystery and excitement about the possibilities this event poses. before long there are whispers in the halls and private group chats which spread the new of an AFTER PARTY, no teachers, no parents, and the lure of an unattended liquor cabinet. you exchange glances with your best friend - it is far from both of your comfort zones and yet… perhaps TOGETHER, you will be brave enough to face the potential of the event. besides, neither of you would ever let the other go alone...
the formal bears the sort of stiffness and awkwardness that you might expect based on name alone. you stand in a sea of designer dresses and tailored suits, and watch on with a confused smile as the scene before you unfolds. it is not the FAIRYTALE BALL, romantic comedy moment that many of the girls seemed to have assumed it would be. unsurprisingly, when you have been deprived of normal social interaction with boys your age, the transition to darling socialites who dazzle all onlookers with moves learned in your recent ballroom class, is not so easy. instead, you watch groups of girls awkwardly huddled like penguins. you stifle a laugh as your cohort throw furtive glances to the groups of boys who for the most part appear OBLIVIOUS to the subtext of the event and are acting, perhaps, they way they might on a rugby field rather than a black tie event.
and yet, while dancing with your friends, one points out that you appear to have captured the attention of one of the boys. you steal a glance, CHEEKS FLAMING, at the group behind you, and your eyes meet his. he is handsome - you suppose, in that kind of classic way. but there is also something awkward about him, somewhat LANKY and bumbling. you turn back to your friends, eyes wide as they tease, ‘ evelyn’s got an ADMIRER ’ they giggle, and you wonder why those words cause your chest to tighten.
arm in arm with your best friend you steel yourself as you walk into the after party. to say that the atmosphere of the room is diametrically opposed to that of the school hall is putting it mildly. gone are the restraints of formality; suit jackets removed, hemlines are shorter. away from the watchful eyes of the teaching staff, and with the kind of COURAGE or perhaps naivety that alcohol allows to the privileged progeny of london, suddenly the girls of north london collegiate and the queen elizabeth’s school boys are intertwined, talking, laughing. someone hands you a glass of something, and a long sip causes you to blanche at the taste. you see your friends, clem and rosie, waving you over to where they sit, with the boy from earlier, who is in turn surrounded by his schoolmates. another long sip and a nervous laugh with chloe and you find yourself walking forward. “ EV! this is oliver! ” comes the not so subtle introduction offered by clem. you find yourself saying that it’s lovely to meet him, asking if he is enjoying the night, sitting yourself down amongst the group. after all, wasn’t this the POINT of the evening? to meet, mingle, go a little crazy?
you find yourself watching him speak, without really taking in much that is said. a few words break through, enough for you to realise that your friends weren’t far from the mark by attempting to set this up. top grades, orchestra, tennis, and ambitions to work in finance. as your eyes glance over his features, you begin to see your future unfold before you, imagine the SMILES on your parents faces as you bring home someone so well matched.
when he asks you if you want to go outside, you think, what for ? but the looks on your friends faces are encouraging, their expressions spurring you on. you glance around for approval from chloe, but find her seat vacant ; gone to the bathroom perhaps, or getting another drink. you give him a smile, and say simply, “ okay ”, thinking that some fresh air would be nice, away from the din of the music and laughter. he leads you to a balcony, encasing your hand in a slightly clammy grip. you are looking up, exploring the stars with wonderment when you realise his hand has moved to your cheek, turning it gently to face his.
his lips are on yours before you can ask what he is doing. you find yourself, in a moment that seems to last for HOURS, realising that this was the purpose, the reason he led you away, and you wonder if you wanted this to happen, after all, you followed him, didn’t you? his lips are soft, but press a little too firmly, your noses bumping awkwardly. you realise you feel NOTHING but a sense of disappointment. is this what it was MEANT to feel like? is this how everyone else felt? this … nothingness ? accompanied by the pressure of another person against you?
by the time he pulls away, you realise that you have no idea what comes next. he utters something about how lovely you are but your brain is trying to piece together what any of this means. a hasty “ i uh - have to go to the ladies room ” is the only thing you can muster as you make your exit back to the party, heart pounding in your chest.
your first kiss doesn’t awaken anything in you, except for a strange sense of dissatisfaction, and disillusionment with notions of romance. but you tuck those thoughts away, and as your friends excitedly question you about ‘ WHAT HAPPENED ’, you find yourself hoping that someday you might kiss someone and feel MORE.
𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐊 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 : tell us about your character’s first kiss .
mentions : frank and carol sullivan , rose morrison .
content warning : alcohol , food , and kissing .
new years eve, 2014. you’re fifteen years old and you and seventy - five other people are packed in like sardines. as you and your parents step inside the two - story row house five doors down from your own, all you remember thinking is that this is definitely some sort of fire code violation. received a whopping four hours earlier, the invitation was the definition of a pity invite. your dad had run into marci sherman while perusing foodtown’s bleak spreadable cheese section, and she thought it was just so sad that the man who heroically repaired her washer valve’s plans to ring in the new year consisted of a quiet night in with the family.
historically speaking, sullivans weren’t exactly a social breed. your parents kept their circle to a modest handful, just a rotating cycle of family friends who swept into town a few times a year to sip boxed wine and gush about how big you’ve gotten. despite the innate lack of blood relation, you were instructed to call these people aunt and uncle; carol was an only child, and frank hadn’t spoken to his brother since he caught him stealing from the plumbing business twelve years ago, so the pickings were about as slim as the selection of non - alcoholic beverages at this party.
you’re tired. you’re bored. you can’t stop refreshing words with friends to see if rose played her turn, despite the fact that it’s been almost a year since you’ve so much as heard from her. ever the attentive host, mrs. sherman catches you staring at your phone and promptly swoops in, ushering you towards her son’s bedroom to play with the other kids. well, for one, you were far too old for playing, and for two, paulie sherman was eleven. years ago, you were recruited to babysit with the promise of twenty bucks in your pocket, a dream that died the moment he threw his xbox controller at the screen and pinned it on you. the so - called others were around the same age, if not younger, with the exception of a girl named jackie who introduced herself as paulie’s cousin from pennsylvania.
she was nice enough, though she wouldn’t stop talking about her boyfriend and how his best friends list on snapchat kept flip - flopping between her and a girl from his youth group. pretty, too, even with a scowl on her face and a mouth full of braces adorned with pink and aqua rubber bands. after an agonizing twenty minutes of watching paulie and his school friends play russian roulette with a nerf pistol, jackie comes to the conclusion that said boyfriend is, in fact, cheating and asks if you want to go outside.
“ it’s, like, 20 degrees out. ” you point out, and your ears begin to burn with embarrassment. low of 20, your weather app said that morning, feels like 8. did pennsylvanians not feel cold? “ and mrs. sherman said — ”
“ no one’s putting a nerf gun to your head. ” she fires back, and slips out the door with you scrambling on her heels.
much to your relief, you find the adults are far too drunk on spiked cider and mr. sherman’s famous wing dip ( equal parts canned chicken, blue cheese, and frank’s red hot ) to notice two young teens slinking through the crowd. across the kitchen, you spot your parents joined at the hip, being subjected to a never - ending slideshow reel of someone’s myrtle beach vacation. a sharp pang of pity jabs you in the gut, but you quickly dismiss it. they were the ones who made you come here in the first place. you were perfectly content to sit on the couch eating crescent dogs and watching ryan seacrest’s valiant attempt at moving his facial features.
two minutes later, you’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on the steps of a splintered deck, watching jackie smear a thick layer of goop all over her lips. the artificial scent of sugar cookie commingles with the chill in the air and you shove your hands into the kangaroo pockets of your hoodie to keep warm. as she caps the tube of gloss and flashes a shy smile in your direction, you remember thinking she’s going to kiss me — but you’ve been wrong before. more times than you could count.
“ what’s your name again? ” she asks, fiddling with her necklace. it was one of those wire pendants shaped with a pair of needle - nose pliers to spell out one’s name. jaclyn, hers declared in spray - on gold cursive.
“ jason. ”
“ hi, jason. ”
before you can even progress the bizarre turn this night has taken, she leans forward and sort of . . . places her mouth against yours. there’s something expectant in the way she lingers, as if she’s waiting for you to unleash your expert kissing prowess upon the world. a foolish part of you had always wanted your first experience to resemble the famous upside - down kiss from spider - man, though the technicalities seemed a little too advanced for a newcomer such as yourself. instead, hands not budging from their pockets, you make a feeble at attempt at kissing her back. the two of you sit there for a few moments, lips repeatedly bumping into one another’s in some strange ritual dance that in no way resembles kissing, and when the sliding door opens and mr. sherman steps outside, you’re just glad it’s over.
when the dust settles on the initial shock of being caught, jackie puts her number in your phone. you both know she’ll never hear from you, and it’s undoubtedly for the best. by the end of winter break, she and her boyfriend would reunite, and soon enough, youth group girl and new years boy would be little more than a footnote in their love story.
it’s eight minutes to midnight when your parents finally escape the trenches and flag you down in the dining room, where you’re chowing down on a plate of sweet and sour meatballs in solitude. they ask if you’re ready to leave and you cannot agree fast enough. the three of you shuffle home in silence and the whole time, you can’t stop yourself from feeling that by kissing paulie sherman’s cousin, you’ve somehow betrayed your norwegian pen pal. god, you wish you stayed home tonight.
just as you reach the doorstep, the sound of muted cheers erupts throughout the block. fifteen miles west, the ball drops in times square and if you listen hard enough, you can almost hear the opening notes of auld lang syne.
you watch as your dad stops fumbling with his keys to lean over and give your mom a tender kiss. so that’s how it’s supposed to look.
wearing art to show hints of personality, jackets with pockets deep enough to host a book, soft fabrics, pops of a warm tone in every outfit, looking like he’s trying to make a streetwear section of a magazine while on campus, slim fitting trousers to accentuate lanky legs, small personal touches (usually in the form of gifted jewellery from one of his sisters or a designer), comfortable trainers for cycling home that are scuff free, patterns, patterns, patterns.
accessories .
a focal point for everything else. eliot likes small, daily reminders of the people he loves most in the world to be represented as part of him each and every day. eliot’s love language is giving and receiving gifts and i think that’s represented best in his style ! from small hints of home such as cuff links gifted by his eldest sister, gabriela, to gifts received from his circlet over the past year that they’ve known each other; the likelihood is, if you’ve ever bought him anything he’s built an entire outfit around it at some point. in the autumn-winter months he rarely leaves the house without a burberry scarf wrapped almost up to his mouth in the biting cold mornings.
patterns .
one of eliot’s favourite things about walking prada when he was younger was always the jumpers. they reminded him of his sketches; of the comfort of looking at a piece of artwork and trying to work out the painter’s intent. and he quite likes to create a similar puzzle for other people when they look at his chosen attire (which will often also be terribly paint stained after a long evening in the strathmore art studio). the best way to work out how eliot’s feeling is often visual. muted tones when he’s working out what to wear when feeling pensive; usual warmth returned when he’s feeling better. eliot particularly likes the idea of wearing the equivalent of delft pottery on a shirt and trying to cooridinate an outfit around it — however, he’s yet to find one.
miss alejandra barrera requests a wardrobe design for upcoming spring 2021 . it is pertinent that her entire wardrobe be redesigned exactly as is requested . thank you .
in order to meet her requirements, we asked her to define and describe what she likes to wear and her overall lookbook . this is what we collected . we look forward to working with you soon .
— pinks and reds , mostly . silk , silk , and more silk . cowl neck dresses , or dresses with leg splits . floral designs , with hints of glitter and stars . heels with socks . lip gloss at all times , almost never lipstick . early 2000′s , with a hint of femme fatale . classy and sleek , but playful and pretty . oversized fluffy coats . skirts and dresses , for the most , almost never jeans or sweatpants . pale and pastels , except for when it’s ruby red and dangerous . necklaces that tie around the throat delicately . butterfly hair clips . sparkly diamond necklaces . soft colours or bold colours only , nothing in-between. playsuits with boots , that are flowing and gentle on skin . top brands are hermes . gucci . dior . burberry . and , of course , prada .
prompt: tell us about your character’s fashion sense !
i. sloane gravitates towards earth tones and neutrals for most of her basics since they can be worn with anything and are a little more versatile. she likes being able to wear things that she can wear in any season just because she’s always had a pretty sparse wardrobe from when she used to move around as a kid. also they’re just easier to layer with since the colors don’t clash or anything like that so she just finds that going for more neutral tones with her basics makes them more wearable.
ii. with that said, she’s also the type of person who likes a good statement piece so cool patterns, bright socks, that type of thing. she likes cool graphic t-shirts. for some reason, i have two pictures in the edit of sweater vests and like, honestly, yeah, sloane likes a good sweater vest! a lot of her clothes have been from thrift stores just because she’s never been super wealthy, but she also sort of prefers it anyway and most of her favorite things to wear have been things that she’s thrifted over the years.
iii. shoes are sort of a different issue just because nice shoes are a little more expensive. sloane usually buys off-brand shoes just because she refuses to spend much more than $50 on a nice pair of shoes. honestly, one of her greatest accomplishments in life was finding her doc martens at a savers in chicago. they fit like a glove and everything and she literally wears them all the time. if not her docs, she reaches for her beaters. she likes converse but she did buy a pair of off-brand cdgs because she likes the little heart.
iv. sloane love love loves jewelry. she doesn’t buy super nice jewelry because she switches them out so often but she prefers silver jewelry for the most part. she’s got three piercings in both ears, and a cartilage piercing in her left ear so she switches out her earrings fairly frequently. she also digs the mismatched earrings vibe. her favorite pair is a pair that her mom, pepper, used to own. it’s one of the few things of her mothers’ she still owns and she tends to save them for special occasions. other than earrings she also likes anklets and necklaces and rings. she just loves jewelry bro. sloane also has a nose piercing, but she prefers a stud over a nose ring.
