#Bulk Blazers

[thomsonsharon347]

Blazers Vs Suit Jackets: Is There Any Difference Between The Two

VISIT:

Are you of the opinion that blazers and suit jackets are basically the same, like many?

[jacketssupplier]

Why Every Man Should Own Suits Jackets?

As a business owner, interested to bulk source suit jackets? Check this to know how wearing a suit jacket can rev up your work attire.

Visit: https://www.oasisjackets.com/why-every-man-should-own-suits-jackets/

[haeseolar]

he's the one i dream of

mileapo - school!au, student council president apo, delinquent mile

rated G, 2k words

twitter / based on these photos

----

“P'Mai, you’re late again.”

Mile glares at Apo as he passes by, making sure their shoulders brush against each other. It sends a shiver down his spine. Whether it’s simply from the touch or the knowledge that with everyone else Mile would have no issue bumping straight into them out of spite, he’s not sure. 

Apo doesn’t let Mile walk far without him, trailing hot on his heels, heaving his backpack higher up as he goes.

“Have you been smoking again? Is that why you’re late?”

Mile throws a cold glare over his shoulder but doesn’t respond. It’s fine - Apo is more than used to this by now, having spent almost the entire school year worming his way under Mile’s skin enough to just get him to look at him. And so what if he had to pull out the ‘I’m the president of the student council’ card one too many times? It barely worked anyway, considering Mile’s general lack of respect and interest in such a hierarchy, only made worse by the fact that Apo is a few years younger than him. 

“P'Mai, you -” Apo jogs so they can walk side by side, although the view of Mile’s broad back was nice while it lasted. He likes looking directly at the other boy, eyes tracing over the contours of his build - wide shoulders, only made more obvious with the bulk of their school blazer, then the gradual taper down into his slim waist. It makes Apo sweat a little under his collar, his tie suddenly feeling too tight around his throat.

“Slow down for a second!” Apo finishes, grabbing a hold of Mile’s bicep.

He finally stops, those narrowed eyes zeroing in on Apo again. “You were telling me off for being late, but now you want me to be even later?”

“Well,” Apo shuffles, his white trainers squeaking against the linoleum flooring. He doesn’t let go of Mile’s bicep and uses his other hand to push his glasses back up his nose in a nervous gesture. “It’s been a while since we last spoke, so I just wanted to check-in. How’s your music class going?”

Mile sighs, the fight leaving him. He always turns up to school like this: pent up, his muscles wound up tightly like he’s gearing for a fight. Usually, he is, but not because of his own doing - the neighbourhood kids and other nearby schools all seemed to revere him as some type of prize to beat. You take down Mile Phakphum, and you’re the king of the area, earning the respect and fear of hundreds of others. Apo finds it completely pathetic and unnecessary, especially considering that they were all nearing their 20s.

“You could’ve texted me and asked this,” Mile replies flatly, his eyes straying to where Apo is still gripping him.

Apo jolts, hurriedly letting go. He tries to ignore the flush blooming across his cheeks. “I would’ve done, but you take forever to reply.”

Mile raises an eyebrow, looking down the straight slope of his nose. Apo clears his throat, heart hammering away behind his chest. He always feels so small when he’s in front of Mile, despite their height difference barely being even a few inches.

Taking over the student council had been easy. Rallying everyone into some form of subordination to show his authority had been easy, too. It had taken plenty of work, endless days of continuously proving himself, but it’d worked out. The worst thing about it was that Apo looked like a walking target for bullies. He’s not ignorant of his outward appearance and the way he carries himself - for him, it’s a matter of his personal pride. He likes looking smart, with his small circular frames and neat hair, pristine uniform and spotless track record, along with straight A’s in all his classes. Trying to get people to take him seriously and look at him as anything other than an object to ridicule was something he didn’t think would be possible, but he still did it.

Being faced with Mile’s handsomeness, on the other hand? That’s still something Apo is trying to manage. He’s seen the same face, the same features, heard the same voice and admired the same silhouette now for months, but it never gets easier. His pulse still speeds up, his stomach explodes with butterflies, and his cheeks go pink without any proper reason apart from just being within the general vicinity of Mile. Apo’s gone through worse and conquered a whole lot more, yet this one seems like the only mountain he can’t reach the top of.

He’s not sure when it started. It was as if he woke up one day - normal, no Mile centric thoughts - and then the next, he was head over heels for him and it was all he could think about. After that, his brain was completely infested with thoughts of Mile’s sharp jawline, his piercing deep brown eyes, his thick eyebrows, and the soft scent of smoke sweetened by a vanilla cologne. His strong arms, even stronger calves that he only saw when he peeked outside the classroom window during the other’s P.E class to watch, and - 

Apo hears a sigh, and then there’s a hand on top of his head, ruffling his hair.

“Stop worrying about me and get back to class yourself, prez,” Mile says gently.

Apo startles out of his thoughts, but not quite. 

Maybe it was the time that Mile finally responded to him with more than a glare. Or maybe it was the time that Apo managed to break up a fight that was brewing outside the school gates, and Mile gave him a curt nod of thanks before walking off. Or, maybe, more recently, it was when Mile started to truly pay attention to him, letting him stay with him in the music room during lunch, listening to Apo’s complaints and ramblings, even chuckling at some of his jokes. Then, if it was around that time, it could’ve been when Mile smiled properly at him for the first time. Not just a small upward quirk of his lips, but a real, genuine smile that completely transformed his whole face. It lit him up like a golden halo, making his eyes crescent into delicate moons, his lips pulling across his teeth as he beamed, his cheeks bunching up sweetly, two sets of dimples appearing with the action. It stole the breath right out of his lungs, looking like a fish out of water as he gaped, and even now at the mere thought of it, he fears he may do anything to try and see it again.

Apo swats his hand away, delayed in trying to smooth down the wild strands of hair that Mile had messed up, caught up in his daydreaming about Mile’s smile. “I’m allowed to be a little late, you’re not!” 

Mile rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his blazer pockets. His tie is barely done up, loose underneath his shirt collar, and his shirt is half-untucked into the waistband of his trousers. It’s enough to have him written up for a dress code violation. Apo should write him up. Yet, if he does that, it’d mean losing sight of the effortless dishevelled look that Mile pulls off. He supposes he finds it… somewhat charming, after all. Even if it means he’s showing bias amongst the pupils, he can’t find it in him to care. 

Apo never said he wasn’t perfect, and he definitely never said he wasn’t selfish.

Especially when it means that he can reach out, trying to steady his shaking hands, to redo Mile’s tie for him. 

“You’re always so messy,” Apo mutters, the toes of their trainers pressing against each other, the warmth of their bodies radiating between them from their close proximity.

Mile’s breath hitches. He’s seen Mile’s football teammates initiate physical contact with him easily, and Mile accepts it just as quickly, only batting them away from his hair but nothing else. Apo wants - he wishes - he had the courage to do that. To reach out without a second thought, without being bogged down with all these fluttering nerves and the sound of blood rushing in his ears from a simple interaction between them. Apo wonders if he tried to brush down the stray strands of hair from Mile’s bedhead, would he be pushed away too? Maybe Mile would let him get away with it, just like a lot of other things the student allows him to do without more than a mumbling complaint. 

Apo glances up at him through his eyelashes above the tops of his lenses, curious, but Mile isn’t looking at him. He’s staring past them with a scary amount of concentration, the muscles in his jaw twitching from being clenched so tightly, his cheekbones pinkened. Apo’s stomach sinks. It’s clear from that alone that Mile is fine with everyone else touching him, just not Apo. He supposes that’s fine - if anything, considering Mile is somewhat of a delinquent, and Apo is the equivalent of a thorn in his side, he guesses that it wouldn’t be the most ideal situation for Mile to feel comfortable in. It doesn’t take long for him to sort it out, the sting of rejection fuelling him to go quicker as he’s used to doing it with practised ease on himself. Within a few twists and tugs, Apo pushes the tight knot up to the base of Mile’s throat, making sure it settles nicely in the middle of his collar.

“There,” Apo declares, patting Mile on the chest. 

Mile jolts beneath his palms, his pectoral muscles tensing and then relaxing. He peers down, running a hand over the newly tied tie.

His expression gives nothing away, not even when their gazes meet. “Not gonna nag me about my shirt as well?”

“Unless you want me to shove my hands down your pants, you can do that bit yourself,” Apo scoffs, crossing his arms petulantly. 

The air thickens around them, Mile’s neutral expression falling into something else. Something dark, dangerous, a twinkle in his eye forming. Apo feels cornered, a piece of fresh meat in front of a starving lion. He adjusts his frames on the bridge of his nose again, wishing that the lenses were tinted so he had some form of physical barrier between him and the way Mile is watching him.

“Shame,” Mile says vaguely, tucking the hem of his shirt lazily into his waistband. It looks even worse than before, sticking out at odd angles, and Apo’s hands itch to get a hold of it and sort it out for him. 

Instead, Apo wrinkles his nose at it in distaste, his ears burning with the insinuation of Mile’s response. “Just… be on time tomorrow, okay? Then I won’t have to nag you so much.” His voice comes out more venomous than he intended, biting and exposing the fact that it hurt his feelings a little.

“But then I wouldn’t have an excuse to see your pretty face first thing in the morning,” Mile replies, smirking when Apo looks at him in pure shock.

“P'Mai!”

Mile leans in, his breath hot over Apo’s lips, sending puffs of condensation across his skin. His skin ripples with goosebumps, tiny spikes and shivers working their way down his whole body. Mile’s hair tickles across his forehead, catching behind his glasses. 

“I’ll see you later, prez,” Mile whispers.

He pulls back as quickly as he comes, walking away down the hallway to his next class. Apo remains still from shock, enduring roils of embarrassment and something else he’d really rather not put a name to stirring in his gut until Mile is almost too far away to see.

“I knew it,” Apo unfreezes, delirium powering him as he spins around on the balls of his feet to face the same way Mile went. 

“Your breath stinks of cigarette smoke!” He yells after him, pouting when all he hears is Mile’s laugh echoing around him in reply.

[jreads]

A Total Coincidence (Part 01)

Rating: totally family friendly 👍🏼

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: Foul language, Mentions of blood, It's pretty angsty

A/N: OHHHHH we're so back. If you're new here, welcome. If not, welcome back! I am extremely excited for this. Comments and reblogs are very much appreciated. You can comment on this post or the masterlist to be added to the taglist!

You work a tiring and thankless corporate job. It pays well but it’s draining. You put a façade on in the office, one of polite, unruffled professionalism, but it slips quite quickly as soon as you push your way through the polished revolving glass doors of the modern high-rise.

He knows all of this because he watches you.

It’s not creepy, he attempts to convince himself, because he goes to that coffee shop too. The cozy, dim-lit one that overlooks your place of work. Granted, he used to only go once every blue moon. He’s there far more often now, in a darkened back booth, at the same time in the day. 

A total coincidence.

Simon Riley never used to spend a lot of time in London. He has a permanent address there, under a fake name, just to smooth over certain legalities. He never bothered too much with the details. In between assignments he comes back to ensure everything is as it should be, and to water the small cactus on the windowsill, a joking gift from MacTavish following their op in Las Almas. It’s one of those low-maintenance ones; you should soak the soil once every two months just to ensure it doesn’t turn a duller shade of green. Simon is half certain he could feed the thing gasoline and it would still flourish. But he liked his routine. It was touch and go, busy, never too much time in one place. The injury threw a damn wrench in it all.

The team had been deployed somewhere in the South American jungle, attempting to uncover part of an elusive arms trafficking operation. While the job had been successful, Ghost had been rewarded with one in the gut. Hemorrhage, internal bleeding, the works. They had patched him up real well, but the Captain had insisted he take some time, at least until after Christmas. He hadn’t wanted to. There’s nothing to do. It gets all too quiet when he is left to his own devices. He gets restless. But in this café, under warm string lights and surrounded by chatter, it isn’t as lonely. Especially for the ten minutes just after 17:00 hours when you come in to place your order.

He isn’t entirely sure what had drawn him to you in the first place. I could have been any number of things. The light gait of your walk, the way you struggle with the heavy door, your sweet voice, or the way you treat the serving staff. They all like you. Especially the ginger kid with the glasses… he likes you a bit too much. It could have been the way you shrug off your blazer in the late summer heat, folding it into the crook of your elbow and rolling your neck. It could have been the way you usually fumble to hold everything in one hand, always one cup, one paper bag, along with your purse, jacket, blue light glasses. Peppermint tea, he had found out when he had walked too closely past you one day. You were delicately trying to pry the lid from your cup to let the drink cool and—even through the mask—he had smelled the fresh aroma of it. He lists all the possible causes of his interest as if there is some hidden, puzzling meaning behind them. Realistically, it’s probably just because he finds you real fucking pretty.

Whatever the reason, he has formed some strange one-sided connection with you. You haven’t noticed him, maybe you never will, because he sits in the darkest corner of the shop, hood pulled over his head and medical mask in place whenever he isn’t eating or drinking. He’s been reading a lot recently, James Patterson, John le Carré, but George R. R. Martin is his current. It’s a welcome change of pace. And a good excuse to spend the bulk of the afternoon here, nursing a black coffee and croissant BLT. 

It's still summer and in central London, it’s sweltering. The café has their AC blasting, but as the sun dips low between the buildings it reflects off city glass and into the tiny shop, heating it like a microwave. The warmth feels oppressive today, even with his change to an iced coffee. The hoodie doesn’t help. That’s one of the only downsides of being here; he can’t shuck the damn hoodie. The tattoos would draw enough eyes, but the scars would make people stare. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s people not minding their bloody business.

The ginger kid, Harvey, as his name tag says, sets an oscillating fan atop the espresso machine. Fat lot of good it’ll do on a day like this. As if in spite of his inner dialogue, its artificial breeze flutters Simon’s bookmark right off the table and to the wood-panelled floor. Reflexes faster than his memory, he bends down to grab it and bites his tongue to fight back what would have been a rather nasty string of curses. 

“You’ll have to watch it for a bit. No folding forward or back, or to the sides.”

“So I can’t even fucking move now, hey?”

“Just be careful. The stiches should hold, but I don’t want you testing it, alright?”

Well now he had just gone and bloody tested it. Fucking hell. He had copious bandages overtop, but he needed to make sure nothing had pulled. If it had, he’d be sitting in a pool of his own blood by dinnertime. Masking another grunt of pain and fighting off his dizziness, he heads for the bathroom. No one will bother the shit on his table, the employees are usually pretty good about that. 

The fluorescents flicker on automatically as the door shuts. He lifts his hoodie up and inspects the damage. Nothing is showing through, thank fuck. But he bets when he changes the wrappings later tonight, the gauze underneath will probably hold evidence of his stupid mistake. 

He hates it, the wound. And hates himself for it. It’s a reminder that he’s not invincible… that he’s anything but. That despite the skull mask and the layers of armour and the assault rifle slung over his shoulder, he’s only human. Weak. He’s had injuries before, stabs and slashes and broken bones. But none quite so severe as one well-placed gunshot wound. Usually he bounces back pretty fast, but this time…

Simon hates the paleness of the face in the mirror. He thinks, just for a moment, of throwing his fist into the glass, just to rid himself of the reflection. Opting instead for a frustrated sigh, he rearranges the sweatshirt once more before throwing the door open and rounding the corner, stopping just inches from where you lean against the wall, waiting on the barista.

Fuck, he hadn’t even noticed the time. Your back is to him and you’re on your phone, texting away. He snoops, just a little. He’ll reprimand himself for it later. It’s your mother. She’s asking if you’ve eaten and sending pictures of a mischievous looking grey cat. He watches your shoulders shake in a light laugh. There’s a lock of hair obscuring the pulse in your neck and he wants to brush it away.

Enough, you bloody creep.

“Pardon,” he mumbles, pushing past you.

“Sorry.” You press yourself close to the wall as he moves, barely looking up from the screen. He can smell your fragrance. You’re so small compared to him; he can’t stop himself from picturing what his hand would look like splayed possessively over the small of your back.

Fucking hell, he needs to stop.

You’re oblivious to his thought process, engrossed still in the conversation with your mum. Only when the employee says your name do you look up, smiling even wider and profusely thanking as you reach for your cup. He likes your name, he thinks. It suits you. What would it sound like on his tongue if he said it aloud?

He’s going bloody soft. Simon theorizes that Johnny is largely to blame. He had been introverted before that op, preferring to work alone, avoiding interaction with others unless completely necessary. Since then, he found himself missing the raucous laughter of the task force, the cracking of army humor jokes. He couldn’t find it in himself to care much, though. After all, it’s not like it was making him any worse at his job.

His reputation had preceded him in the jungle. Once the cartel had caught wind of 141 touching down, they were talking about him, fear lacing their voices. El Crânio, they called him. The Skull. The kill count had been fucking brutal.

It feels strange to be thinking about that in a place like this. It’s like two different lives that don’t ever intersect. Three even, if he counts his real identity. Ghost, Simon, and William. Will is the name he gives to the barista here, the one on the bills that come to the flat, the one attached to the SIM in his phone, the one on the fake driver’s licence and motorbike certificate in his wallet. He hates it, but he wasn’t the one who got to choose it.

He watches the way you play a coin from your change between your fingers, spinning it over the back of your thumb before catching it. You tend to fiddle with things while you wait: debit card, pens, hair pins, like your hands are aching for something to do. He can empathize. He’s started biting his nails again.

The employees have worked fast today, and you have your tea and biscuit in hand in record time. It almost seems unfair. Five minutes he gets with you, watching at a distance. At least he knows he’ll see you again tomorrow.

And he does. Again and again and again. Over a few weeks, the hole in his gut starts to heal, but it’s replaced with a new one. Something more insistent and far less easy to treat.

One day, you’re late. He starts to ruminate without meaning to but naturally, his mind goes down darker routes. He shakes the unwanted thoughts off, trying not to dwell on just how much they unnerve him. But you show up eventually, smile still plastered on. He wonders if it’s real. 

“They’re extending my day,” you’re telling the server. “Not by much, just one or two hours.” Something about an expedited move from digital to hardcopy files. “At least it’s overtime pay.” 

He doesn’t like it. The days are getting shorter; it’s getting darker earlier. He doesn’t like the idea of you walking home alone in the shadows of the London streets. Crime is on the rise; there’s all sorts lingering around the city at night. But then again, it shouldn’t bother him. It’s not his commute; you’re not his.

He sticks around most days though, just to make sure you get out alright. 

Today is different. It’s different because it’s 19:00 hours and you have dark circles under your eyes and you’re staring at nothing in particular and when the barista hands you your drink you say thank you, but you don’t smile. You always smile. And he’s trying to tell himself that it’s none of his business, that it’s not his problem but it is. Suddenly, it’s his biggest problem.

He holds the door open for you as you leave because it’s all he can do. You thank him, quietly, but don’t even look up from the floor. He won’t follow you; that’s crossing a line, a breach of privacy. So, he turns towards his own flat, looking back only once to see you disappear behind a street corner.

He sees your haggard face in his dream that night.

The next few days are more of the same. Even the coffee shop employees are starting to talk about it. How you look tired, shaky. Harvey talks about asking for your number as a way to cheer you up. The baristas all shut him down pretty quickly.

Weeks pass. He’s almost done the Game of Thrones series. But you’re only getting worse.

It’s October now, and the autumn chill is starting to set in. You wear a black trench over your office clothes, tugging it closed to fight the cold of the wind. Your eyes look bloodshot, hollow, like it’s been weeks since you’ve slept. He knows the look intimately; he sees it enough in the mirror. Ginge has asked for your number anyway, and you’ve politely declined. Ever the diplomat. He feels bad for smiling at the dismayed look on the boy’s face. Luckily, it hides behind his mask.

It rains the next day. Torrentially. It’s the kind that can dampen a thick cotton sweater within seconds, so he begrudgingly takes an umbrella with him. The shop is warm and ambient, a world within a world. The coffee tastes better on a day like today, warm, bitter, and reviving. He loses himself in his book, looking up only to realize that it’s passed your time. He thinks for a moment that he might have missed you, but that’s impossible. He could have blindfolds on and still feel your presence. 

You haven’t shown up. There’s a twist of something akin to anguish in his chest and he tells himself to calm down. Maybe they kept you late; you’ll show up eventually.

Except you don’t. 

Soon, the workers are wiping down tables and raising chairs. He has no choice but to abandon his station and venture back out into the cold. Something is off. It might seem silly, but he’s learned never to discount his hunches. So, he sets up camp in the courtyard, umbrella obscuring what little is visible of his face, and he waits. And waits. And waits. 

It’s nearing 22:00 hours when you finally exit the elevators and break for the revolving doors. He knows something is wrong immediately, your feet are moving too fast and you’re casting glances over your shoulder as if you’re being followed. As soon as you exit the building you’re running, as fast as your heeled pumps can allow.

“Fucking hell.” He’s up within seconds, umbrella closed and leaving him open to the onslaught of rain. He jogs to try and keep up, a safe distance behind but you’re too fast. By the time he rounds the corner, he’s lost you.

He’s checking each cross street, turning back on himself. The patter of raindrops is almost deafening, the cabs sending sprays of sludge up from the gutters as they race down the laneway. But through it all—as he’s been trained to—he hears sounds of a struggle. A scream, half muffled. It’s yours. He knows it immediately. Simon follows it as if he’s tracking you. One block north, one west. A half. Retracing his steps. There’s no sounds past the slick splash of car tires on wet asphalt. An alley lies to his left, no streetlights. He’s about to venture down it when you come hurtling around the corner, straight into his chest. Your coat is ripped, hair soaking, and he swears there’s blood on your clothes. Your tired eyes are panicked and laced with fear, looking at him with desperation. He doesn’t have time to be shocked. Because from behind you comes a hooded man, tall build, muscular, though not nearly as big as him. Taking hold of your forearm, he draws you behind him. The man pauses.

“Can I help you?” Simon asks. His voice is anything but friendly. The man seems to size him up and decide the fight is unwise, turning on his heel and walking briskly back the way he came. Good. He’d go after the guy, but he sure as shit isn’t leaving you alone in the middle of the street.

You ‘re clinging to the sleeve of his hoodie and shaking like a leaf. He has slid into that lethal calm familiar to field work, assessing the location, noting information, protecting. Once the man is out of sight, he’s got your face in his hands and your skin is so soft but so cold.

“You alright?” he asks, already fully aware of the answer. You can’t even speak, barely looking at him, just back down the alley as if your pursuer might remerge. Shock, he thinks. What was he supposed to do with a civvy in shock? Get them to a safe place, speak calmly and stably, check for injury. 

“Right, come on.” He pulls you lightly by the arm and you follow without much resistance, probably too weak to refuse. Like hell he’s letting you go anywhere by yourself right now. It’s almost unsettling how small your wrist feels in his hand, fragile, too easily breakable. 

His flat is warm, but you’re still shivering. Simon had deposited you on the couch after helping you shrug out of your destroyed jacket. A blanket sits around your shoulders now, and the kettle is boiling. He’s retrieved his somewhat depleted med kit from the bathroom, kneeling on the floor in front of you. Distantly, he curses himself for not replenishing bandages from the drugstore. There’s a nasty cut on your upper arm, open and bleeding, a knife slash. Anger isn’t something he can afford to feel right now.

“Let’s have a look,” he says, more to himself then anything. You haven’t said a word to him. But when he dabs at the wound with clean gauze, you grasp at his forearm, inhaling sharply. 

“I know. I gotta clean and stitch it though, alright?” He’s never been great at patch ups, but he has been trained. He doesn’t want to hurt you, but you can’t keep bleeding either. Fucking hell, he wishes he had gentler hands. Or something stronger than ibuprofen. 

“You drink?” he offers. You nod. Good enough. He brings you back a glass of whiskey. You down it, wincing at the strength, offering the empty glass back to him. He takes it, placing it on the low table before assessing you again. 

Clean. Disinfect. Needle, thread, vertical mattress stich. Under up, under down and tie off. This would be a breeze for the field medic. But his fingers are thick and much less nimble. You keep clutching at his arm through the sleeve, squeezing to stave off some of the pain. His eyes flicker up occasionally to check your face, but your own are tightly shut. He can tell you’re gritting your teeth, but you barely make a sound. Impressive, though it’s probably partially due to adrenaline. He ties off the final stitch. “Done.”

When you open your eyes there’s relief in them. And a loosening of tense muscles that is worrisome because it’s happening too fast. Your upper body is swaying, and your features are going unfocused, and he knows what happens next. 

He manages to cradle your head just before it hits the arm of the sofa.

Bloody fucking hell.

You wake up in a bed that isn’t yours. 

It’s plain. In fact, the whole room is. Grey-brown drywall and exposed brick. White sheets, white bedspread. The only real piece of décor is a bookshelf, spanning a considerable length of the wall, practically exploding with titles. What the hell? 

You rise onto your elbows only to gasp in pain. 

It’s a nasty looking cut, red and swollen around the edges but tied together with neat stitches. The sight of it opens a floodgate of memories, one after the other, ending with the man who saved you, shrouded in darkness.

Shit. This wasn’t good. None of this was good. You need your phone, but all of your belongings had been in your handbag, lost in that alley. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, onto cool tile. Tiptoe out the doorway, taking in pieces of the quiet apartment as you go. Industrial design, morning light, a view of the city, a tiny cactus on the sill.

“You’re awake.” The Manchester accent is heavy and laced with concern. You spin on the source only to stop dead. 

His brown hair is so light it might as well be blonde, eyes dark with the shadow of lowered brows, skin peppered with pale pink scars. Prominent ones over his left eyebrow and bottom lip. The hint of a tattoo peeking out the collar of his t-shirt. Though eerily beautiful, his face is one that might send people running. But you find you aren’t afraid of him, not in the slightest.

“You wanna tell me what happened back there?”

If you liked it, please let me know! 🩶

[grey-sides]

Hargrove- Billy- the new keg king has lines from Steve's blazer on his cheek.

He probably has beer in his hair too and all down his sticky, sweaty front. His leather jacket is tossed over the back of Steve's desk chair, waiting for him to slide back into it and bulk it up.

Steve has red, itchy eyes. He's tired and thirsty and his heart is aching in his chest.

His back hurts too from hauling Hargrove up his stairs. And his head hurts when he considers why he even did it.

Because he was lonely.

Because he was worried about Hargrove. Too drunk to drive home, too drunk to stand straight at the end, too drunk to shove Steve off.

He snores. Steve wonders if he snores too, but Nancy never stayed the night, she always went home.

He licks his lips and pushes himself off the floor. He gave the guy his bed for christ's sake, when he has a perfectly good couch downstairs and a guest room to boot.

Steve sighs, picks up his pillow and chucks it at Hargrove.

He snorts and rolls onto his side, waits, groans. Moans. Covers his eyes with one hand.

"-fuck m'I?" he mutters, sitting up and looking around.

He spies Steve, looking annoyed, feeling annoyed. His blazer is probably covered in spit and beer and snot.

"Harrington?"

Steve stares at him. "Glad you didn't die in your sleep."

Hargrove narrows his eyes at him. "What the fuck am I doing here?"

Steve shrugs, turns to go to the kitchen so he can make coffee. Bacon. Eggs. Maybe some toast.

"Harrington!" Hargrove snaps, clambering off the bed to pound after him. "What the fuck?"

Steve half turns and glances at him. "You would have choked on your puke, asshole."

Hargrove shoves him in the back, eyes ablaze. "What the fuck?"

Steve has a hickie on his neck, sucked under his jaw from Hargrove. He had been handsy. Complimentary. Steve had been scared. Had hauled him to bed and set him down and told him No.

"Your car's still at the house," Steve mutters, tosses his keys to him.

Hargrove's eyes zero in on the hickie and he pales. He takes a step back and then a step forward, shoves a finger in Steve's chest. "You tell anyone-"

Steve catches his wrist, squeezes it once. "I'll be dead too," he replies.

He waits a moment, to see if Hargrove is going to haul off and punch him. Another.

Steve looks at the kitchen. "You want breakfast?"

And Billy pulls his hand back slowly and nods. "Thanks for keeping me alive, I guess," he mumbles.

He ambles into the kitchen and washes his face at the sink. And Steve pokes the hickie and turns on the stove.

[desswright29]

Me and yo’ Mama (Preview)

A/n: I figured that I would give you guys a sneak peak of the Finale of “Half Crazy” since you’ve been oh so patient with me. It is being worked on and it will be coming very soon! In the mean time. Enjoy this snippet.

The boy took his horns from the thief, and went on his way. He came to a house, and asked to be entertained. The owner refused, and sent him away, because his clothes were in tatters, and his body soiled with travel.

“Udaku…..MRS. Udaku!”

“Your Majesty.”

“Queen SHURI Udaku! Answer immediately before I find you in contempt of COURT!”

Shuri snapped out of her thoughts, staring out into the courtroom. Her eyes landed on the side of the defendant. There Okoye, and Nakia sat. And in the last seat closes to the aisle there sat Tolu, Sunglasses perched upon her face, a walking stick leaning against her chair. For as long as Shuri knew her, she’d always been at her side. Unfortunately, that very loyalty was the cause of her ailment. 

Shuri sat upright, unbuttoning her blazer with one hand, before man-spreading and leaning back into the chair on the stand. Her jaw clenched as her right arm rested on the armrest, her thumb underneath her chin, and her pointer resting on her cheek. 

“In your countries justice sytem the protocol is innocent until proven guilty, am I correct?” She spoke cool toned, even, yet authoritative. Never could you misconstrue her as weak.

The courtroom was silent as Shuri’s eyes roamed the crowd. The other world leaders sitting around  in judgement of her. A smirk slightly raises her left cheek. As she lets out a small menacing laugh. 

“Hm. Everyone in this room knows this is a witch hunt. America feels as though it finally has it’s opportunity to take down Wakanda and it’s resources. You want my people to beg and bargain for the freedom of their leader. If this was about justice, your British counterparts would’ve been extradited years ago for the sex-trafficking ring that we’re all acutely aware of. The Israelis government would be on trail for the several war crimes they’ve been committing since before you all were born. Which is saying a lot since the bulk of you are well into your 60’s. We all know that there are much bigger Fish to fry here. But, You know… What is it that the children say in your country.” She looks around at everyone sitting up a little more in her seat as she looked from person to person. “Ah! Evil twin, Evil twin.”

“Mrs. Udaku! What point are you trying to make here!” Shuri’s head swung in the direction of the voice. Her fist banging into the banister in front of her. Her eyes peircing through the elderly man. 

“MY POINT IS!  Mr. President… that I have not been found guilty. So you will respect my title and position as your worlds leader! My proper title is Queen Shuri Udaku, DAUGHTER of Romonda! The most powerful entity in this room!” Her eyes slowly left the visibly shaken man.

“It is best that you all keep that in mind for the duration of this trail.” She relaxed back into her chair, giving her blazer a slight tug. “Now where were we….Double homicide and attempted murder. Eh”

[ladyswillmart]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the love ❤️

Hey wow, thanks for the message! I actually had to think about this one quite a bit. I'm not always the biggest fan of my own work, but in recent years I have published a few fics that I ended up liking. These... might be in some particular order? Eh, I dunno! Anyway, here goes:

5.) "It's Up To You" (Portal). The one where Doug Rattmann is trying to repair Grady. This is the last Portal fic I did and probably ever will do (though, never say never, right?). I'm not sure why I envisioned Doug as a fan of Ricky Nelson but it kinda works. Like the rest of my Portal stories, I put a lot of heart into this one, but in the end it felt like a bit of a waste. Oh well, I still like how it turned out.

4.) "Fish is Also a Four-Letter Word" (Gensou Suikoden II). It's sort of a screwball comedy where Jillia kind of asks Klaus to use his strategist super-powers to kill her brother. This was one of those magic stories where it all just brilliantly came together in a matter of days, footnotes and all. Rarer still, it's a story I can re-read and go "oh, that was cute", without cringing!

3.) "Malus" (Soul Blazer). The tiny fic in the tiny fandom that could! The first story I've ever done that was narrated by a goat. It's such a sweet and gentle tale, and I still think this setting is really interesting. There are not a lot of fics for this old SNES game, but I guess it is kind of a niche title. I got about halfway through a follow-up (narrated by a dormouse) so maybe I'll finish that one some time too...

2.) "A Difficult Business" (FF14). Originally a shitpost on Tumblr, which should tell you everything you need to know, if you don't want to actually read the fic summary. It's the one where Y'shtola bribes Nero Scaeva to deep fry Nidhogg's eyeballs in the fry vat at the Husting Strip Galleria food court's Ol’ Mistbeard Fish ‘n Chips.

1.) "Mog House" (FF14). In here, there is only Mog. And House. Huh, this one also involves Nero in some manner of bribery (only this time he's the one doing the bribing).

Ironically (?), my actual #1 pick isn't something that I can link to because it hasn't been published anywhere yet! It's called "Ancient History" and it's a 16-chapter work of Ultima VII (Serpent Isle) fanfic that's going up on my Neocities. For whatever reason, I made the boneheaded decision that it would be the FIRST thing to go up on my website, along with a complete (read: way too verbose) timeline and character profiles and little pictures, the works! All of this is still under construction, HOWEVER the bulk of the actual writing/markup of it is DONE and has been for some time. It's really just down to the getting the formatting just right, plus some light revision and last-minute edits.

Oh yeah! I still need to write the epilogue. Hah!

Unfortunately, it looks like Dawntrail got in the way as it's currently taking up my "writing" time slot. 😅 However, I'm also making my way to the end of all that so I expect I can get back into finishing my website pretty soon as well.

It's something I don't really expect people to be interested in so I'm not putting this story on AO3 or anything like that. I'm really proud of the work I put into the website and the story and the little AU world I crafted around it, but in the end, it's something I did just for me. 😛

[armpirate]

The Only One || JJK || Ch. 18

Pairings: mafia!jk x fem!reader

Genre: smut, angst, mafia, contract relationship

Warnings: Prostitution, torture, blood, use of drugs and weapons

Summary: You've always wished for a better life. Every single day at work, you were hoping something would change. Although you didn't think that change would come in the form of one mysterious man and a contract.

His controlling and selfish behaviour only wanted to keep you away from any other man that wasn't him, and you only had to wait for him.

Too bad you really thought you'd be smarter than Jeon Jungkook.

Previous || Next

MASTERLIST

Jungkook looked around, keeping his lips shut as he waited for any of the men present to speak up and give an update on the current situation on each one of their territories. Although he knew if there had been any problem, he'd have known about it as soon as it came up. He just wanted to make sure everything was working out as usual.

And it was like that.

The retro sound of the music outside the room they were in accompanied Jin's words on how everything was working perfectly fine in Japan. It was probably the territory that worried them all the most, dealing with the different mafias there, and being able to find some type of balance -even if that meant they didn't have absolute power, nor benefits- was pretty difficult at first. And it caused a fair amount of discussions and arguments about it. Almost being close to giving up the territory if it hadn't been for Jin and his contacts -and his strange charm that made one of the women go completely nuts for him.

—What about you? —Jungkook asked, looking over at Jimin standing next to Yoongi.

—Fine —he shrugged—. Everything's fine. You made sure of it, didn't you?

His eyebrows slightly furrowed at that poisoned comment. Jungkook wondered if it was possible that Jimin was aware of the deal he made with Pedro back in Spain, but he discarded it as soon as his blond friend stopped speaking. He was sure that, if Jimin was aware of what he did, he'd have exposed him in front of the rest of the crew.

It was just something in him. Whenever he wanted to piss him off, he brought up something that could make the others throw a tantrum at Jungkook. But that time he didn't. And he understood the reason behind that poisonous tone: his ego was still hurt over the fact that Pedro didn't take his word seriously, and still needed Jungkook to show up there and close the deal for him.

While the increasing heavy tension grew between them, the others just threw glances at each other, unable to understand what was going on between those two.

—What about you? —Namjoon finally interrupted— How's everything going with the Choi family?

—I'm keeping it as cordial as I'm able to —Jungkook finally looked at him.

—Doesn't seem like you're trying too hard —he snapped back—, I didn't see any of them at the party.

Jungkook twisted his pierced lips, throwing his head back before glancing at the tall bulked man that was stepping closer to his desk.

—I said I'm keeping it cordial, not that I'm licking their buttholes —he tilted his head.

Namjoon looked at the man in front of him, and tried to hold back the annoyance that was running through his body when that arrogant look came out of Jungkook's eyes after that comment. He'd known him since he was a kid, and he'd been a witness of every step he took until he became the man that he was in that moment, but it pissed him off to death when he entered that attitude. As if he was never wrong, and no one would do it better than him.

Because that was a lie. He knew he'd do it better anytime.

—I'm just saying that...

Jungkook didn't let him finish. He just stood up while buttoning his blazer again, a sign that the meeting was over for him.

—I know what you're saying —he commented, bending closer to Namjoon, who was now supporting the weight of his body on the tip of his fingers against the desk—. And I don't care about having a close relationship with that family. I don't want their noses in my business. Cordial and a good relationship is secured, but I don't want them near anything that has to do with me. Do you understand that? —he tilted his head.

Pressing his thick lips together in resignation, Namjoon nodded and stepped back. He knew Jungkook was making a mistake by trying to burn any bridges that could link them to the Choi family, he knew that party could have big consequences and the Bangtan clan would suffer them all only because Jungkook can't be able to deal with Sanhyuk after they almost fought for a woman.

—Joon, I'm sure he knows what he's doing —Yoongi's voice interrupted from somewhere in the room—. It's an anniversary for our clan, I see no point for the Choi family to be here.

Namjoon sighed at that comment. If there was someone that would come at Jungkook's defense out of the six, that'd be Yoongi -which was something that didn't really surprise him, he kind of expected it at that point in the argument. Yoongi always had a soft spot for Jungkook, not because he was the leader and the person who had power among them, but because their parents were the closest, something that led to both of them to basically grow together.

—You all should calm down —Jin stepped forward—. This is supposed to be a party, so let's just celebrate we're going strong for another year. Get some drinks, talk with some girls... Have some fun, you know —he clapped Joon's back, trying to cheer him up.

—Head out first, I need to do some things here —Jungkook mentioned, resting his back on the big chair.

Not wanting to get into a new argument, they all nodded and left the room slowly, leaving him alone back again. He rested his head over the comfortable fabric, losing himself in his thoughts, not surprised by the route those were taking. His head wasn't on the constant push and pull with Namjoon, or the thick silence that came from Jimin, but the dangerous woman that was hanging around his house as if it weren't a big deal. Not only that, but he was unable to get out of his head the way she kept looking for his attention the past week, and how she almost gave in to him after only a few words. He remembered the way her plumped lips parted as pleasure ran through her, how her legs parted as she expected more... and he blamed his pride for rejecting all that, only because he wanted to hear directly from her how bad she wanted him. If he hadn't been so harsh, he probably would've sunk deep inside in between her perfectly worked legs.

She was driving him insane, and she wasn't even there.

Jungkook clicked his tongue, and tilted his head. Maybe he should've invited her, and let the other members know about her existence. They didn't need to know how she got there, only that she would be around him -maybe a little bit too much. It'd definitely make things easier for everybody, especially for him.

And that was all he needed to convince himself to stand up and ask for one of his men to drive him home, so he could come and go fast. He was expecting to find her lying on the couch, or maybe in the library he settled for her only, but when he found his place empty and silent, his senses were screaming at him something was wrong. Trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, Jungkook headed upstairs, collapsing into her room just to find no one there. Wrinkled clothes that were messily all over her bed were the only sign of her.

—Where the fuck is she? —he asked annoyed, as soon as he got downstairs and met with the bodyguard at the front door.

—She left with Jihu a while ago —the tall man answered, confused—. Jihu said...

—Dead —his boss replied—. He just said out loud his sentence to death —Jungkook sighed, placing both of his hands on his waist as he tried to gain some autocontrol—. Where did they go?

—The party —his frown got deeper.

Suddenly, any hint of annoyance disappeared. And for the first time, after working with him for so long, the two men that were getting ready to handle the unleashed beast Jungkook could turn to see him worried.

✸ ✸ ✸

She didn't bother to get herself in fancier clothes after -basically- forcing Jihu to take her to Jungkook's hotel, but she regretted her decision when she saw some of the women at the party, right after the bouncer allowed them in after he recognized the man she came with. The swanky jewelry hanging on their necks, ears and wrists; or the flamboyant dresses they all were wearing while she was still on her jeans and a simple t-shirt. It wasn't like she was ever thinking of being part of the party -she actually just wanted to ruin it for Jungkook-, but the dirty looks that kept falling on her, following Jihu up close were making her uncomfortable.

—I'll look for Jeon —Jihu informed her—. You wait here —he demanded.

Aware that it wouldn't be enough with just telling her, his eyes pierced through her with raised eyebrows, waiting for a verbal reply from her.

—I will —she answered with a tired tone.

She sighed hard, resting her back on the wall while her arms crossed over her chest. While looking at the small groups chatting among one another, she wondered if all those people did the same things Jungkook did, or if they were normal rich people that were just hoping to get a boost in their social status.

It was so hard for her to tell.

—Wow, look who we have here —a male voice interrupted her thoughts.

When she looked up to the owner, she met with someone she didn't expect to find there. Sanhyuk was looking at her with a sided smile and his tilted head, while two gorillas watched his back behind him.

—Has no one ever told you how to dress for a party?

Considering he was the only ticket she managed to find to get her ass back home, she bit her tongue and clicked it, looking away from him.

—I wasn't invited —she mentioned—, I sneaked inside. So technically I have no reason to dress up.

—You already got enough... —he stopped for a few seconds so he could come up with the right word— attention by yourself.

She squinted her eyes, trying to get what he meant, but it only took her a second to understand what he meant. Her clothes weren't the only thing making some heads turn to her place. Y/n pressed her lips tight, trying to come up with something that could distract her from those curious eyes she had just been aware of.

—Met with Jungkook yet?

Her eyes were drawn back to him, smirk never leaving his face while his dark eyes kept looking her up and down.

—No, your snitch went to look for him.

That comment made him chuckle, head slightly falling back at the same time his eyes scanned the place. If there was a place where a war should be started, it was that one definitely. Just one mistake from Jungkook, and he'd be done.

His smile widened when he spotted Jin and Namjoon somewhere across the room, looking around while they chatted comfortably over the music.

—Come with me —he whispered.

—I need to wait for...

—Trust me, if you follow me, you won't even see his face again.

It was the determined tone in his voice that got all of her attention. It wasn't like she needed a lot of reassurance, or big promises, the fact that he was willing to help her was enough. She was desperate, and he seemed to have a solution.

It was simple.

Looking around, Y/n made sure no recognizable faces had their eyes on her before she started following him. The music kept getting louder with every step they took, and the vibrations from the speakers ran through her body. It was then when she realized they were near the stage.

—What are you planning?

—Claim you.

Sanhyuk said that so casually, that she doubted whether to feel offended or skip that to directly slap his face.

Claim her? As if she were an object?

—Don't give me that look —he warned her—. If I claim you, Jungkook will have no other choice but to give up on you.

Y/n, who still didn't understand anything he was saying, kept looking at him waiting for a better explanation.

—There are some rules among our families. One of them is not to steal. Territories, objects, women... —he noticed her clenched fists while she tried to hold back—. That would be enough to terminate all peace accords. He didn't claim you, which means that you don't exist for anyone in this room. If we step out there together, the contract will be over, it won't have any value.

—What do you gain from this? —she asked.

—Taking you away from Jungkook —Sanhyuk pinched her chin—. And knowing him, he probably won't stay still after his ego is hurt, which means I'll be able to fight for my territory as well. It's a win-win.

—If we step out there, will I be able to get back home?

—You have my word.

She was given two choices, but it wasn't like neither of them were better than the other.

Taglist: @kaiparkerwifes @sheylamc @amy2006jones

[keyh0use]

spamming u sorry do u think rafe is like quite comfortable in his sexuality (i hc him as gay) or like would struggle with it a bit

never apologize for this, I love yapping and 2. you know I think he's gay too!

I think his comfort level depends almost entirely on how Ward feels about it. There's literally no way Ward doesn't associate with the LGBTQ+ community, I'm sure he's had plenty of gay colleagues and he & Rose have done deals over dinner with same-sex couples and he's stuck a pin in his blazer during pride month and attended his college buddies mothers wedding to her lifelong best friend Marge. But when he gets home, does he have those same values or were they just for show? Lets say he does. Is he okay with his only son being gay? Lets say he is. Will he be alright with Rafe's choice of partner? Let's be honest, probably not. I think if he grew up in a more accepting home, at least by Cameron family standards, he would still carry a lot of shame. Rafe is already trying to prove himself constantly, which would be doubled in an attempt to seem more masculine and defy the stereotypes he's grown up hearing around Kildare. He would pick apart every compliment he's given in search of a joke, lead girls on just to gauge his father's reaction, and keep his sexuality to himself.

If Ward wasn't accepting, the only difference would be Rafe would get insults hurled at him between hits. Ward isn't a very involved father where Rafe and Wheezie are concerned so as long as Rafe is playing the part well, he probably doesn't care much what his son gets up to down on the cut. As long as it doesn't bleed into the north side and tarnish their family's reputation.

Ward dying could go either way; either Rafe feels set free from unattainable expectations or he lives with the guilt of never making his father truly proud of him.

But I do think he would eventually outgrow the bulk of his insecurities surrounding his sexuality, with time and world experience and Barrys reassurance.

Sometimes I like to live in a little bubble where Ward doesn't suck completely and Rafe can love freely and Barry can come over for family dinner though

[dandelionsandderivatives]

Advice on finishing seams without a serger?

I don’t really want to own a serger and I feel like they’re fairly recent machines anyway. There must be a better way to finish seams?

For my skirt I just turned the fabric twice and hemmed so it would be a nice finished edge. The issue is that then when I attached two seams, the poor needles had to go through 6 layers of fabric and sometimes I was at a corner and they had to go through so much it didn’t fit under the foot. There must be something I’m missing because this wasn’t even a thick fabric.

HALP PLS!!! 😭😭

Hello! I'm so sorry for the late response; I've had a few disruptions to my regular schedule in the last few weeks, and I wanted to give this a good, long, thorough answer. You absolutely don't need a serger; I'm pretty sure my grandmother has never owned one, and she's still wearing things she made back in the early 90s. I'm not as good a needlewoman as she is, but most of my stuff has held up at least as well as its storebought equivalent.

(Probably) the easiest and simplest option is just to zigzag over the edges of your fabric with a sewing machine. A serger essentially rolls sewing the seam, trimming seam allowances, and zigzagging/overcasting into one step. Depending on what you're making, you might want to trim seam allowances after sewing the seam, and then zigzag over the raw edges, or, if you've got a lot of short seams that won't fit nicely under the machine after you've sewn them, you should be able to zigzag over the raw edge of the fabric before you sew the seam. (The issue with the second option is that you'll have the full seam allowance left in there, but if you're doing that sort of precision piecing I expect the seam allowance will be narrow enough that it doesn't matter.) This doesn't necessarily have to be a zigzag stitch proper; my mother's machine does a finishing stitch that looks a bit like a blanket stitch, and I've seen other variations. But practically every machine made after 1970 or so has a zigzag, so you'll probably have the equipment to do it. The key part is that you want to catch the edge of the fabric inside the stitch, so that the stitching thread is binding the last few threads of the fabric together.

The hand-sewing equivalent to this is whipping (whipstitching) the edge of your fabric with needle and thread. I generally don't put my handmade clothes through the dryer, but all of the ones I've finished with this method have been fine in the washing machine. Most of them have survived at least one trip through the dryer unscathed. I suppose you could also do a blanket stitch, but that seems like an unnecessary amount of work.

Other methods:

Seam binding: I haven't personally tried this one. It's usually used for heavier fabrics that won't be lined (a single-layer blazer or skirt, etc). I'm sure it has other applications, but I haven't seen it often.

Pinking: This is the old-school way to finish seams. I haven't really tried it myself.

French seams: These are annoying to do on a curve and can add a good amount of bulk, but they're a very clean finish. Usually used on lingerie and other lightweight fabrics (doing this in coating weight sounds like a nightmare but also a really good high fashion concept).

Flat-felled seams: This is the way the inside of your jeans is finished. Historically it was often used for shirts, shifts, and other high-wear areas where you wanted to avoid chafing. It's somewhat similar to the French seam.

All right, now for Sewing Confessions: I'm pretty lazy when it comes to finishing my seams. I started sewing with historical stuff that wouldn't get washed super often and vintage dresses, all in quilting calico. (This is generally a bad idea but for some very specific eras of fashion it can work.) My most-washed historical piece was probably my chemise, which was sewn from old sheets. I didn't bother to do much finishing on any of these, partly because I didn't know how, and partly because I didn't really want to flat-fell all the seams in my chemise if nobody was going to see it. (Now that I'm thinking about it, I may actually have flat-felled most of my first chemise. I made a second one fairly quickly.) The other fabric I worked in was cotton flannel for nightwear.

With all of these pieces, the fabric began to wear out/get shabby long before the seam allowances frayed enough to make anything structurally unsound. I have popped a few stitches here and there which could have been saved by a more robust seam, but in general I didn't have many problems. Once I was sewing in nicer fabrics (silk and rayon, especially), I started to have issues with seam finishing. So far, simple hand-overcasting has stood up well for most of these. My usual sewing machine is straight-stitch only, so zig-zagging hasn't been an option for most of these. They've held up fine so far.

Maybe if I got some really nice fabrics, it would be a different story; I'm not telling you not to finish your seams! But bargain-bin cotton flannel, in my experience, wears out too quickly to make conscientious finishing worth it. Don't stress too much about it! I'd advise, from what little I've seen of your sewing posts, to stick to a good zigzag, or whatever finishing stitch on your machine looks interesting. If you want to be strictly historical, try pinking or flat-felling, depending on era and context. When you make some really nice sheer blouses, then maybe pull out the French seams. When you're doing a pair of wool trousers, try seam-binding tape. Go forth and sew boldly!

[barongsrus1]

The Barong Tagalog is not only versatile in its cultural significance but also in its adaptability to different climates and seasons. Whether you’re attending a formal event in the sweltering summer or a winter wedding, there are ways to wear and style your Barong to ensure comfort and elegance all year round. Here’s a guide to choosing the right Barong and accessories for every season.

Summer Embrace the Heat with Short Sleeves and Light Fabrics

Fabric Choices: In hot and humid climates, opt for lightweight and breathable fabrics like piña or jusi. These natural fibers allow air to circulate, keeping you cool and comfortable.

Styling Tips:

Short Sleeve Barong Tagalog: For a casual summer look, choose a short-sleeve Barong Tagalog. The Short Sleeve Barong Tagalog 1051 is perfect for this season. Its simple design ensures you stay cool while looking polished.

Pair with Shorts: For a trendy and laid-back summer look, pair your short sleeve Barong with well-fitted shorts. This combination is perfect for outdoor events and beach weddings, offering a stylish yet comfortable ensemble.

Color Choices: Lighter colors like white, cream, or pastel shades reflect sunlight and keep you cooler. A White Barong Tagalog exudes classic elegance and is ideal for daytime events.

Layering Tips:

Keep layering minimal. If you need to wear an undershirt, choose a lightweight, moisture-wicking fabric.

Avoid heavy accessories; instead, opt for a simple wristwatch and light, breathable shoes.

Fall Transition with Style

Fabric Choices: As temperatures begin to drop, consider slightly thicker fabrics like Organza fabric, linen, or cotton blends. These materials provide warmth without being too heavy.

Styling Tips:

Long Sleeve Barong Tagalog: A long-sleeve Barong offers a sophisticated look suitable for cooler evenings. 

Color Choices: Earth tones like mocha or deep green blend well with the fall foliage. A Mocha Barong Tagalog 3538 complements the season’s palette beautifully.

Layering Tips:

Pair your Barong with an inner layer, such as a lightweight sweater or thermal shirt, to stay warm.

Consider adding a stylish scarf that complements the Barong’s color for added warmth and style.

Winter Stay Warm Without Sacrificing Style

Fabric Choices: In colder climates, opt for thicker fabrics like cotton-silk blends or even wool-lined Barongs. These materials offer insulation while maintaining the Barong’s elegant drape.

Styling Tips:

Long Sleeve Barong Tagalog: A long-sleeve Barong in a darker color, such as the Black Barong Tagalog 3092, is perfect for winter events. The black color adds a formal and sophisticated touch.

Layering: Layer your Barong with a tailored blazer or coat. Choose outerwear in neutral tones that complement the Barong’s color.

Color Choices:

Darker colors like black, navy blue, or charcoal are ideal for winter. The Black Barong Tagalog 3092 offers a sleek and polished look for evening events.

Pair your Barong with dark trousers for a cohesive and elegant winter ensemble.

Layering Tips:

Wear a thermal undershirt for extra warmth without adding bulk.

Add a scarf and gloves in complementary colors for both style and warmth.

Spring Fresh and Vibrant

Fabric Choices: As the weather warms up, return to lighter fabrics like piña and jusi. These materials are breathable and comfortable for the fluctuating temperatures of spring.

Styling Tips:

Short Sleeve/Colored Barong Tagalog: A short-sleeve Barong or a colored barong adds a fresh and vibrant touch to your spring wardrobe. The light gray hue is perfect for the season’s blooms.

Color Choices: Bright and pastel colors are ideal for spring. A Short Sleeve Gray Barong Tagalog 1040 remains a classic choice, but don’t be afraid to experiment with colors like lavender or light gray.

Layering Tips:

Layer with a light cardigan or a blazer that can be easily removed if the temperature rises.

Choose accessories in spring hues to complement the vibrant colors of your Barong.

Year-Round Elegance:Tips for Any Season

Fabric Choices: For year-round wear, opt for versatile fabrics like jusi or silk blends that provide comfort in varying temperatures.

Styling Tips:

Versatile Barongs: The Monochromatic Light Gray Barong is a versatile choice that works in any season. Its neutral color pairs well with various trousers and accessories.

Adaptable Colors: Neutral colors like gray, beige, or classic white are timeless and adaptable to any season.

Layering Tips:

Adjust your layering based on the season: lighter layers in spring and summer, heavier layers in fall and winter.

Keep your accessories season-appropriate, such as lighter fabrics and colors in warmer months and richer, warmer tones in cooler months.

No matter the season, the Barong Tagalog remains a versatile and stylish option for any formal occasion. By choosing the right fabric, color, and layering techniques, you can ensure that you stay comfortable and look impeccable throughout the year. Embrace the timeless elegance of the Barong Tagalog and make a statement at any event, regardless of the weather.

[thomsonsharon347]

3 Unique And Sophisticated Ways To Throw On A Suit Jacket

Want to know how to wear a suit jacket in ways that can make you the center of attraction wherever you go? Start reading the blog now!

[caltropspress]

RAPS + CRAFTS #17: PremRock

1. Introduce yourself. Past projects? Current projects?

My name is PremRock, I’m a solo artist but ½ of ShrapKnel, ¼ Wrecking Crew. I’m currently working mostly with Backwoodz Studioz, but also with Ockham’s Blazer in conjunction with Fake Four and will always put out projects on my own when I deem that fit. I’ve been releasing music since 2010 I suppose officially.

2. Where do you write? Do you have a routine time you write? Do you discipline yourself, or just let the words come when they will? Do you typically write on a daily basis?

I would say the best way to describe my process is chipping away. I am always thinking of phrases and “bars” so to speak and often don’t have control over when they come. For that, it’s on the notes app and later I’ll comb it for things I feel are usable or something to expand on. I work a full-time night job so days off typically start late but I like to use them for the bulk of writing practices but the muse often strikes at late hours. Deadlines make things different and are absolutely necessary and most are self-imposed. I wish there was more of a routine or structure but the schedule is a balance between carving out time through discipline and when inspiration strikes.

3. What’s your medium—pen and paper, laptop, on your phone? Or do you compose a verse in your head and keep it there until it’s time to record?

iPhone notes, Gdocs, pen and Moleskine in that order. My iPhone notes are full of couplets at all times. Typically I will try to compile them all into one place at some point, but they are pretty piecemeal at first a lot of the time.

4. Do you write in bars, or is it more disorganized than that?

I just write and hopefully it fits a four count. I’ll work it out either way.

5. How long into writing a verse or a song do you know it’s not working out the way you had in mind? Do you trash the material forever, or do you keep the discarded material to be reworked later?

I think pretty soon at times and sometimes it’ll take months. I don’t think I ever trash anything forever. Good writing should find a home.

6. Have you engaged with any other type of writing, whether presently or in the past? Fiction? Poetry? Playwriting? If so, how has that mode influenced your songwriting?

Playwriting is a def. Or screenwriting rather. I have a couple outlines of screenplays I pick up and put back down depending on my mood. I think it’d make for an exciting second act (pun!?). Fiction I think plays a role in that. I’ve mostly sought out fictional work when I’ve read, save for autobiographies or historical things that interest me. Poetry and rap are pretty intertwined to me so perhaps down the line I’ll compile a list of things that don’t fit the song structure I’m into making. Who knows? A lot is certainly on the table.

7. How much editing do you do after initially writing a verse/song? Do you labor over verses, working on them over a long period of time, or do you start and finish a piece in a quick burst?

I always revise and edit. At least once but usually twice and sometimes more. This all depends on what the work calls for. A guest verse will typically see less revisions simply because the assignment is often laid out in plain terms so I grasp it quickly. Solo work will be revised more as I whittle down a lot - I write too much there it needs refinement. ShrapKnel or Wrecking Crew stuff comes easiest. Spirit of both competition and collaboration makes the work really enjoyable and easy. I labor over solo stuff more than I would like. Maybe I’ll change that! 

8. Do you write to a beat, or do you adjust and tweak lyrics to fit a beat?

Def write to a beat unless it’s a weird circumstance but couplets are always being written and sometimes when I’m at work so they’ll be grafted and fit to a beat later. No writing is definitively assigned to a particular beat unless it’s very clear at first or that’s the distinct job I have to do. I will move verses around if I see that fit.

9. What dictates the direction of your lyrics? Are you led by an idea or topic you have in mind beforehand? Is it stream-of-consciousness? Is what you come up with determined by the constraint of the rhymes?

A theme will carry and pallbearers vary.

I love a strong idea and interconnectivity. Death, love, life are heavy so if I address those I like to build trusses to support my claim. A lot of it is stream-of-consciousness for certain. It’s interconnected in my mind for a reason and sometimes that reason isn’t clear at first. It takes time to see why I thought of that. All of it makes sense to me in its own way. Even if it starts out very knotty I like to untangle it. When you’ve been rhyming for a long time, rhymes appear as guardrails and sometimes accidentally. It’s up to you to keep, polish, or discard, I suppose. Some people can write a 100 songs a year and they all sound like they’re keepers. I don’t really work that way, but I suppose if people heard a lot of what I cut they’d ask why I cut it. My answer would be rooted somewhere between “vibes” and “quality control.”

10. Do you like to experiment with different forms and rhyme schemes, or do you keep your bars free and flexible?

I don’t believe in 16 bars. Unless that’s what you pay for or ask for. I don’t believe in a lot of structure in general. When the rhyme is finished the rhyme is finished, but I understand metrics and not everyone should go beyond 16 bars simply because there’s not more to say in an interesting way. But I think we are past the point or need for defined structure. Just write until the writing is finished to you. Jazz and prog rock began taking things far out and you should take things as far as you feel.

11. What’s a verse you’re particularly proud of, one where you met the vision for what you desire to do with your lyrics?

I am definitely proud of “Gravity Falls” on the most recent ShrapKnel album (that people have heard, that is). Felt like I captured a very particular mood and stylistically took some chances. Sometimes that connects and sometimes it doesn’t, but here it did. Certainly validated by the fan and peer response!

12. Can you pick a favorite bar of yours and describe the genesis of it?

Nobody planning to leave…Context to come in '24.

13. Do you feel strongly one way or another about punch-ins? Will you whittle a bar down in order to account for breath control, or are you comfortable punching-in so you don’t have to sacrifice any words?

Whatever best serves the record. Twenty years from now you will be awarded no points for one-takes, only the quality of the records you left behind.

14. What non-hiphop material do you turn to for inspiration? What non-music has influenced your work recently?

Phil Elverum, David Berman, Big Thief, Japanese Breakfast, lots of SAULT...Jason Isbell, Alton Ellis.

Ocean Vuong...Kurt Vonnegut, Clarice Lispector…recently.

15. Writers are often saddled with self-doubt. Do you struggle to like your own shit, or does it all sound dope to you?

It's because we are sensitive to everything. The good, bad, beautiful, and hideous. We are also the most observant. That’s a dangerous cocktail in general. Couple that with societal pressure to conform to something we are not and a self-imposed barometer hard to match and you have a struggle on your hands. I labor over my work, but ultimately I have a healthy respect for myself and my output. So when I doubt myself, I don't languish for long. I hope others who struggle get there too. Most writers have great triumphs and poignant lulls. The triumphs are a reminder of your brilliance. I try to hold onto those.

16. Who’s a rapper you listen to with such a distinguishable style that you need to resist the urge to imitate them?

Would say Saafir but that’s past tense…I think. I used to imitate unwittingly in freestyles. Perhaps early Del was one, and the way Tash from Tha Liks rode beats, plus Daz. Always fancied myself an East Coast rhymer with West Coast sensibilities. Like stepchild of Wu and Hiero…Boot Camp…Death Row.

Current? I think I am a pretty good appreciator of art at this stage of my life. I can observe and admire without picking up tendencies. I feel bad for people who say they can’t listen to much music while creating because it will influence theirs. I think that’s part of the point. You’re not supposed to jack their style. Rather, it’s like one of those sticky-hand things kids used to play with, but except for dust, dirt, and grime, you pick up bits of inspiration and process it through your filter. Nobody has or can change your filter.

17. Do you have an agenda as an artist? Are there overarching concerns you want to communicate to the listener?

My agenda as an artist is to be remembered as a writer who took the craft very seriously and left behind a wealth of work to sort through. It’s to be remembered as a kind spirited artist who sought to empower others if I was lucky enough to get the chance. It’s to have practiced tolerance, inclusion, and used the privilege I’ve had in a way that hopefully spread this exact sentiment. To be useful in the tool of collaboration and have seen a great deal of the world and left behind an imprint that you remembered. To have been as great a performer as I possibly could be. Maybe, folks leave the show and know they have to get to the woodshed. As grandiose or idealized as that sounds, that is what I want. I want people to feel proud to have known me. And above all I want people to have said, “He sure was a motherfucker with the pen.”

RAPS + CRAFTS is a series of questions posed to rappers about their craft and process. It is designed to give respect and credit to their engagement with the art of songwriting. The format is inspired, in part, by Rob McLennan’s 12 or 20 interview series.

Photo credit: Edwina Hay

[jreads]

ok yes i am working on the last part of UC, but this came to me in a half-asleep haze. maybe a mini series? what are everyone's thoughts?

You work a tiring corporate job. It pays well, but it’s draining. You put a façade on in the office, one of polite, unruffled professionalism, but it slips quite quickly as soon as you push your way through the polished revolving glass doors of the modern high-rise.

He knows all of this because he watches you.

It’s not creepy, he attempts to convince himself, because he goes to that coffee shop too. The cozy, dim-lit one that overlooks your place of work. Granted he used to only go once every blue moon. He’s there far more often now, in a darkened back booth, at the same time in the day. 

A total coincidence.

Simon Riley never used to spend a lot of time in London. He has a permanent address there, under a fake name, just to smooth over certain legalities. He never bothered too much with the details. In between assignments, he comes back to ensure everything is as it should be, and to water the small cactus on the windowsill, a gift from MacTavish. It’s one of those low-maintenance ones; you should soak the soil once every two months just to ensure it doesn’t turn a duller shade of green. Simon is half certain he could feed the thing gasoline and it would still flourish.

But that was all before the injury.

The team had been deployed somewhere in the South American jungle, attempting to uncover an arms trafficking operation. While the job had been successful, Ghost had been rewarded with one in the gut. They had patched him up real well, but the Captain had insisted he take some time. He hadn’t wanted to. It gets all too quiet when he is left to his own devices. 

But in this café, under warm fairy lights and surrounded by chatter, it isn’t as lonely. Especially for the five minutes just after 17:00 hours when you come in to place your order.

He isn’t sure what had drawn him to you in the first place. I could have been any number of things. The gait of your walk, the way you struggle with the heavy door, your sweet voice, or the way you treat the serving staff. They all like you. Especially the ginger kid with the glasses… he likes you a bit too much. It could have been the way you shrug off your blazer in the late summer heat, folding it into the crook of your elbow and rolling your neck, eyes fluttering shut. It could have been the way you usually fumble to hold everything in one hand, one cup, one paper bag, always, along with your purse, jacket, blue light glasses. Peppermint tea… and a biscuit, he had found out when he had walked too closely past you one day. You were delicately trying to pry the lid from your cup to let the drink cool and he had smelled the fresh aroma of it. 

Whatever the reason, he has formed some strange one-sided connection with you. You haven’t noticed him, maybe you never will, because he sits in the darkest corner of the shop, hood pulled over his head and medical mask in place whenever he isn’t eating or drinking. He is reading a lot recently, James Patterson, John le Carré, but George R. R. Martin is his current. It is a welcome change of pace. And a good excuse to spend the bulk of the afternoon here, nursing a black coffee and croissant BLT. 

But today is different. It’s different because you have dark circles under your eyes and you’re staring at nothing in particular and when the barista hands you your drink you say thank you, but you don’t smile. You always smile. And he’s trying to tell himself that it’s none of his business, that it’s not his problem but it is. Suddenly, it’s his biggest problem.

[wispstalk]

have queued your songs while i settle down to write for the evening..... final verse of rosemary hitting right in the middle of my lil tanis/martin heart :(( anyway i have a question for you ray.... what sort of textiles do you think northern dunmer (solstheim, blacklight, sheogorad etc) would wear to bundle up in the winter months? 👀

Fine spidersilks make tough but lightweight base layers, linings for cloaks and jackets, et cetera. I imagine Velothi fashion to involve a lot of layering, and in the north they'd take it up to the next level. Silk has excellent insulating properties, and wearing several items creates warm air pockets between layers, so winter silhouettes are surprisingly sleek.

And although Morrowind isn't the most mammal-friendly place, I do imagine goats came with Imperial colonization. Those fuckers'll survive anywhere. Mohair goats aren't very hardy in cold climates, but clever crossbreeding might produce a good fiber stock unique to Morrowind. A pair of mohair mittens or a hat would be a little on the pricey side, so they'd make nice winter gifts.

And lastly those who spend more time out in the elements would rely on sealskin and horker hide outerwear for excellent waterproofing. Chitin armor is bulked out with leather padding and a close-fitting silk jacket beneath (fun trivia: the modern business blazer is basically an evolution of military clothing worn beneath armor, hence the close tailored fit)

[writingonesdreams]

Wince, Stop, and Comfort, for the Tiny Scene Game

Have fun! ✨

- Circa

Sky of shards

Summary: Backstory chapter about how Skye, Zephyr and Hal met for the first time. This is how it all started.

Author's note: Thanks for the words! I had this scene in mind for a long time and this just clicked together. I love how these tiny scene words provide me with the external motivation to write.

Also 2.1k words! This makes the draft officially 20k words long!✨

She watched them turn their backs on her.

Ever since Skye was little, her biggest fear was standing in a room full of people talking to each other. Talking happily and merrily and ignoring her.

It wasn't even that she was ignored. It was the responsibility. Like she was supposed to be talking with them, but wasn't, couldn't get into touch with them, all divided in their neat little groups.

All she could muster was stand there, paralyzed by her discomfort, by the feeling she was doing something wrong, being so left out, not wanting to annoy anyone, by mixing in. Asking. Reaching out.

She couldn't take the sight for more than 10 seconds before bulking. No matter how objectively ridiculous it seemed afterwards.

Just didn't expect it to happen here of all places.

The Flying Islands were legendary. Floating shards of earth in the sky, children running out of their homes to point at them, to add meaning to the shapes, to imagine what dragons might be sleeping there.

But the Isles were forbidden territory. Unexplored. Mysterious. Dangerous. The weather and nature there were so wild and unpredictable, humans couldn't tame them, even after 100 years of their sudden burst into existence.

They say they were created at the same time as the old Dragonknight Order fell. They say there was an explosion, conspiracy. Or an accident. Many versions and no way to fact check.

But there was a way to get to see them. One day excursion on the Islands with soon to be graduates from the most prestigious university of magic offered the one in a life chance to set foot on the Islands. Try to reach out to its wild magic with their own. Hope, semester after semester, that with this honour, one day, a discovery came.

Or any kind of new knowledge, really.

Skye felt so confident going there. She was the only mind mage in the last 5 years to go there, for the incredible rarity of mind mage graduates. She was with the top group of students researching it.

That fateful day, she wore a dark blue blazer to highlight her stormy eyes and a striped shirt. Had a new haircut, her silver blond hair just under her chin. She felt beautiful wearing her confidence.

All before the exciting research trip went to hell. A sudden storm caught their airship. They were stuck. Stranded on a small island, a shard shaped piece of rock and mud above a bigger greener shard.

The only means of transpiration without their automatically flown and failed airship were the magic powered gliders.

Gliders powered by physical magic. Soulfire magic that came as a visible tangible fog from the mage. Or Elemental magic, that involved the magicae of the mage connecting to their trained element. The element they were used to resonate with.

Mind magic was the only existing type of completely non physical magic. It worked on a mental level, connecting with anything with consciousness. It couldn't power the gliders.

So, her lovely classmates went ahead and abandoned her to her own fate. For the "greater good of the many'' they said.

"Really, you should insist on sacrificing yourself. You should want to save as many people as possible. Why are you making it hard on us?"

Their de facto leader, a blood mage, informed her in a completely serious, earnest tone.

Hard on you? I'm so sorry, it's so hard on you to write me off as useless and leave me to die!

What can you expect from a blood mage, right? Self-righteous idiots. Just cause their magic was the most used in the medical field, they thought they ate the universe's wisdom and had the right to use the "for the greater good" phrase. She never liked the sound of that argument.

A moral trap people told you, whenever they wanted you to sacrifice something they had no right to claim.

But now, she was the sacrifice for the greater good and she should be thankful. Even insistent and willing.

Looking at their departing backs, she didn't know if she wanted to cry or scream. But she held her tongue, her expression schooled in stony features. Her talent was always not showing her emotions.

Only one persona stayed behind.

Zephyr.

He had black curly hair cut short from the sides, but long enough in the middle to fall into his forehead. Sea green eyes, changing with the light, like they couldn't decide if they wanted to be green or blue. They fascinated her. Or they would have, any other day.

He had an athletic build and wore his shirt and blazer with enough contempt to reveal he wasn't used to them. But his face was calm and his voice steady as he argued with their classmates. In her defence.

"You can't just sacrifice a human life."

"Oh don't be so preachy, Zephyr. You have a soulfire training hall, right? You train that for heroic professions, like police, dragon management, rescue service? Didn't they teach you maths?" Her classmate said. Skye couldn't remember his name, although she heard it once. She was always bad with names. Names, faces, and people she didn't care about.

"Do you want to die?" Another added.

But he insisted on staying with her, although the endeavour seemed hopeless. There was no way he could help her on his own. Even if they thought of something, they probably couldn't do it without the gliders their classmates took, to heighten their own chances.

It shouldn't surprise her. In critical situations, people always thought of themselves. Fear for one's own safety was deafening. Hysterical. Unmanageable.

As much as she hated them for leaving, she didn't feel any comfort by Zephyr staying. It seemed futile, self-destructive even. Maybe he was calm, cause he was doing what he believed in, but was it worth dying for your beliefs?

Curious thing, to pity him and not herself. In critical situations, she blocked her feelings. Didn't want to feel anything she would if she let herself right then. Like a switch. Bet nobody else without her mind mage training could do it.

It was just the price she paid. With her magic potential, with her discipline of the mind and keen intellect, she could have chosen any magic. Blood magic even. All the respect and trust and money that came with that.

But no, she chose the magic that interested her, that she believed in, that made her heart sing and eyes sparkle, that made her life more interesting than her dreams.

Didn't realise that something so rare would be so barely understood. So unknown. That she would be written off as useless at the first opportunity.

She paid her price.

But what about Zephyr? He didn't fit in her constellation of the world. She hated he was the only one, her only saviour, her only hope, the benevolent one that pitied her enough to stay.

"Don't worry. I won't leave you."

She nodded and hugged herself. Pretended to be lost and scared. Rage and sense of offence wouldn't make her sympathetic to him and she didn't know if she didn't end up needing him after all.

Couldn't muster an answer though, so they walked in silence. Found a good tree to sleep by.

Zephyr gave her a reassuring smile.

Skye couldn’t wait until he fell asleep.

She reached out her fingers to him. Usually she had to make up pleasant dreams to make her clients grant her entrance into their minds. But this close up and at sleep? All guards down, trusting her to be an innocent frail little victim? Pche. All she needed was touch. One finger on finger.

She could touch him and go through his mind. One millimetre of skin and she would know who he was, why he saved her, what he was playing at. No way this was a selfless thing. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe he didn't believe the danger. Maybe he was too stupid or too arrogant to understand it. Maybe he wanted to be a hero. Maybe he was just suicidal.

If she touched him, she could know all about him. Likely why she was so bad with people. She preferred to get this "getting to know you" phase quickly and effectively over with. Just one little touch.

But when she reached out with her mind, the ground shook beneath them. The tree moved its roots, shifting them around their bodies, as if a hand was cradling them. She winced, but suddenly they stopped again, just barely not touching her.

Silence followed. The darkness felt thick against her skin, an itchy coat to throw away.

She shut her eyes. This wasn't right. She shouldn't be mind raping her saviour's mind. Even though she hated to be saved by this stranger. Even though she didn't want to need saving in the first place.

Her fingertips tingled with the prepared magic. Skye prepped herself up against the ground with both hands. This was wrong.

A drizzle started then. What a dose of bad luck today.

Closing her eyes, she lie against the ground, hands spread out around her body. The ground felt warm under her back, solid and strong. Why was it shaking? The shard was big and slow enough not to be able to feel its movement. Why did it shake?

The water from the drizzle ran down her cheeks, her neck, her bare arms. Palms turned outward, she let go of her ready magic, of the focus, like throwing an arrow into the sky instead of her unknowing victim.

A pulse. A flash of lighting to her body. A kick into her mind. Something responded. Something connected.

Skye never felt a mind like that. Her sense of her body, her situation, her surroundings disappeared. She was a blade of grass beside her head. She was a bee. She was part of the tree, roots deep underground, communicating with the other roots. Everything was connected. All the little pieces, the shards, the trees, the rocks, the insects made up a net of connections, of flashes of light, life, consciousness. A net over it all, pulsing, alive.

There was no way to stop.

And the net, it was still going. A leaf. A moose. A butterfly over a sleeping body of a dragon. Then she was a dragon, with the weight of wings on her back, with eyes yellow as melted gold.

As if the Islands lived. Breathed. Connected with everything and everyone, they were one big net, one big ecosystem. Exhilarating.

But still. Something was beneath it all. Not just a singular point in a net, but a voice. A consciousness.

Who are you? she asked.

Another mind. Very strong. Mingling with all the points, all the connections, but changing shape. It was sleepy and heavy and slow, but it was an entity separate from the living net of the Islands.

Who is asking?

It was a voice that answered, rumbling deeply in her mind.

She wasn't sure who she was anymore. Part of everything and nothing. Part of the Islands but also a person of her own. Skye. That was her name.

She couldn't formulate words anymore, swimming in and out of self-awareness. Turning into a stream of thoughts, memories, moments that made her a whole being.

So that was what she sent him. A focused stream of who she was. What she felt. What happened to her.

The consciousness, the stranger, shifted. Changed. Activated. Like waking up from a long dream, he, she or it reacted to her thoughts. To the onslaught of memories.

Now there were glimpses coming back. The person, vast and wide like a whole world, giant and overwhelming enough to connect with the whole net of the Islands, couldn't answer. It was confused. But still, she got the glimpses.

Explosion. Blood. Dragons. Giant castle-like building. Impressions and emotions. Pieces of sadness, of grief, of loss and a void.

Escape, escape, escape.

It was too much. He needed to escape. Turned into a tree. A rock. A fly. A dragon. What did it matter? Seeing the world from a different vantage point. Trying another form of existence. Everything, just to not feel the pain.

It took all her skill and experience, all her deep self-reflection and discipline to pull herself back. To realise how she was to separate herself from him. Skye. My name is Skye.

Who are you? she repeated to him. He was becoming clearer on the edges, forming a shape of colour and blackness.

Hal. The only word in the mess of thoughts and memories, of flashes that only vaguely made up a form.

He was too strong. A mage with so much power would be considered a god. The closest to a god their atheistic society, based around magic, had.

A god named Hal.