#Soft Panniers

[advpulse]

We’ve been testing the GIVI GRT722 auxiliary bags on several bikes, including the Himalayan. These compact roll-top bags are made with highly-durable 840 TPU and feature an IPX5 waterproof rating — enough to handle heavy rain. With their built-in mounting straps, they attach conveniently to upper crash bars for extra storage that doesn’t get in the way like a tank bag, plus they help you spread the weight around the bike more efficiently. Alternatively, you can attach one to the rear rack and use it as a day trip tool bag or mount a pair on the back of your panniers. With 8 liters of space each, there’s plenty of room to pack your tools and a tube with room to spare, or use them for quick access to a first aid kit or a place to stow away extra layers. Worth a look if you’re looking for an easy way to add more capacity to your luggage setup. More details at: bit.ly/grt722aux

[ukulelegodparent]

grrrr why did people ever stop wearing mid-renaissance clothes

[hannahssimblr]

Evie doesn’t appear phased about what I did in the abandoned church. When we left, scrambling back over that rocky wall, I already hated everything I said to her all evening. I can't even count all of the stupid things.

Yet she is unphased like she hasn't figured it out yet, laughing and chatting on my bicycle as the first glimmer of light from the seaside appears on the horizon. If I had pulled any of that shit with Michelle, with the torch and the spooky stories I was inexplicably compelled to tell afterwards, I would be dead already. Buried.

“Can I confess something?” Her voice is soft and close to my ear. “You don’t seem like a person who is into ghosts and stuff like that.”

“No?”

“No, you seem too cool.”

“I’m not cool.”

She pauses. “I think you are. You remind me of some of Shane’s friends from home a bit.”

“Culchies.”

“No, just very sporty, popular boys who, like, get invited to house parties.”

“You don’t get invited to house parties?”

A derisive laugh, “No, I’m not cool.”

“Well, if I threw a party, I’d invite you.” 

The road thins and slopes towards the sea as I pass the welcome sign to the village, freewheeling over palm fronds, and through the sand piles gathered by the curbs until the last, empty, open street lies ahead. I have no concept of what time it is. It is after midnight at least, but before four, because the sky is still that even, deep blue of astronomical twilight. 

It is disappointing to reach the gates of the caravan park. 

“Do you want me to bring you all the way?” I ask her.

“Yeah, okay.”

And so we gain another two minutes, which I use up telling her about the ganja guy in that caravan by the tennis court. She finds the story amusing. It seems she feels that way about a lot of things I tell her. This is not unfamiliar. At school, I grew accustomed to people who hung around me and acted like every word I uttered was hilarious, not because they honestly thought so, but because they wanted me to give something to them, attention, or popularity, validation of some sort. It just doesn’t seem that way with Evie. 

“What time is it?” she climbs off the pannier rack and rubs the side of her neck. 

I check my phone. “It’s half two.”

“Wow. I should really get to bed. I barely slept last night and I’m so exhausted.”

“You didn’t?”

She wavers. “Um, no, I was just wound up from being in Dublin and all. My mind was racing a bit, like, it tends to do that.”

We say nothing for a beat. I should probably get back on the bike and go home, but instead, I stand there scouring my brain for some way to spark another conversation and keep her where she is. 

It takes too long to think, and within a second she has turned away. “I better go inside.”

“It was nice to hang out with you,” I call after her as she climbs the weatherbeaten planks of the mobile steps. 

She smiles, fiddles with a piece of her hair, then, almost as an afterthought, she tries the door. 

But it is locked. 

Another attempt, jiggling it this time, then she pats her pockets with growing alarm. 

“Everything okay?” 

She shakes her head. “I’m locked out.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Yeah,” with hands at her temples, she stares at the ground in disbelief, “I remember where I left them. They’re in my room.”

I’m stumped. It’s not like I can bring her home to my house. That’d be weird, and I don’t even want to think about the questions it would arouse. What if the guys were to come home to find her, God forbid, brushing her teeth in the bathroom? What would they think I did? Could I even blame them for thinking it?

“Oh! Hang on!” She says, and without explaining herself, she darts around the side of the mobile home, vanishing through clumps of overgrown grass until she’s swallowed completely by darkness. 

“What the fuck?” I follow her. 

I find her at the back, where moss has sprouted between slits in the PVC sliding. 

“My window,” she explains, “I thought I left it open.” Her thumbs find a sliver of space at the base of the frame, and with some effort she shoves it upwards, heaving out a heavy sigh of satisfaction. “There!”

She pauses. “Do you want a glass of water? You must be tired from cycling all that way.”

She means an actual glass of water. It is not an innuendo and I know it. 

“Yeah, that’d actually be really nice.”

Nobody needs to know that I agreed, that I’m doing this, that I am actually crawling in her bedroom window behind her, because God knows, I don’t know what I would tell them if they asked. This is one of those moments where my behaviour is inexplicable even to myself.

As I clamber over her bedside table, narrowly avoiding knocking her lamp to the floor, I catch her kicking a pile of clothes under one of the twin beds. I smile. She’s messy. 

“Okay, stay here,” she orders, and hurries out the door, leaving me alone in her room, surrounded by her things. 

One of the two narrow beds is unmade. I choose that one to sit on while I observe this little box room. An old, painted dresser, a 90s-era television set left unplugged, a bedside table and a lamp. Without question, the rest of the stuff is hers. There is a suitcase, still unpacked, a tennis racquet, and a few plastic bottles of water at various states of fullness. An orange bikini hangs up to dry by the window, and I don’t stare at it. The door handle squeaks and I snatch a book from the bedside table so I can pretend to be interested in it. 

“What are you doing?” Evie stands frowning with my cup of water in her hand, and I feel like she has caught me doing something illegal.

“Just looking at your books. Is that okay?”

“They’re not interesting books, just silly romance novels and stuff.”

It’s like I’ve only just landed in my body. I hadn’t even realised what I was looking at. Turning the book over to its baby blue cover, looping cursive across the front, I shrug. “If you like reading them, then who cares?”

She hands me the cup and sits next to me on the mattress. “I know I should be reading the classics, but I tried to read Catch 22 a couple of months ago and found it bad.”

“Really? I like that book.”

Her cheeks redden. “Oh, well, it’s not really bad, that’s not what I meant, it–”

“It’s okay, it’s not for you. It’s fine not to be into something.”

She frowns at her lap and brings a fingertip to her mouth before catching herself like she’s remembering she doesn’t bite her nails in front of other people. I want to talk to her more about how it’s alright if she has an opinion that is different than mine, that it doesn’t make her wrong, or anything like that, but I decide against drawing attention to her embarrassment at all. I suspect she might prefer it that way. 

Under the window, a black, linen-covered notebook sits flat, loose pages jutting out from the side. Laying the water and the romance novel down, I reach for it.

Quick as a whip, she moves to block my hand. “You can’t see this.” 

“What? Why not? What is it?”

“It’s personal.”

“What, like your secret diary?”

“No! Not like that. It’s none of your business.”

She doesn’t say a word, so I adjust my tone to be gentler. “Come on, let me see it. It’s no big deal.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s messy. My work is messy.”

“Uh, yeah, like all sketchbooks. I’m just curious about it, please.” 

She says in a tiny voice: “I don’t want you to judge me.”

“But why would I do that?”

“Because. You’re a real artist, and I’m just… a hobbyist.”

I scoff. “I’m not a real artist either,” not by any stretch of the imagination. 

“Well, those people at the Berlin art school would disagree.”

I’ll be a real artist after I go to Berlin, not before. I wish she knew that. Right now I’m just a sixth-year student who likes to draw pictures of his own feet. “You’re saying all this based on nothing. I’ll show you my sketchbook sometime and you’ll see. You don’t turn into a prodigy just because you get accepted into art college.”

“Okay, well, you’re not allowed to be mean.”

“I’d never”

“If you think it’s shit, I’ll know,” she warns as finally, she relinquishes it to me, “I’m really good at reading faces.”

“I bet.”

Finally, I open the cover. I do not underestimate the value of this worn-out sketchbook that she was so incredibly protective of, and hope my hands are not dirty, that they don’t smudge the corners of the pages. I am careful to be very thoughtful about each piece that I encounter. 

She has a tight line, surprisingly. I expected to find something more loose and free-form, floaty figures with dozens of wandering, light lines, some voile curtains in the wind, perhaps, but her hand is deliberate, cautious and exact. It says something about her that I didn't expect.

I pause on one page, one close to the end of the sketchbook, with a drawing of a man and a dog. It’s this beach. The land’s shape in the background she roughly drew looks familiar to me, but I sense her anxiety when I realise I haven’t spoken in a while. 

“These are really good,” I assure her. “The way you’ve captured the movement… You can tell that he’s resisting the wind here, there’s a great weight to it.”

She seems to melt with relief. “Thank you. I’m trying to get better at drawing things that are moving. I got too comfortable drawing still things and then got way too focused on the details. Like my cat,” leaning in close she flips back near the beginning, “See, she was sleeping, so I felt like I had time to draw every little thing. Like all the individual hairs and everything. I got way too caught up with it.”

“I like these too, though. I get what you’re saying about there being a lot of detail, but I dunno, it still works for me. I think the line work is really sensitive. I think you’re a really good artist, like, everything in here is honestly great.”

“Really? You don’t have to say it just to be nice.”

“I’m not! I really think that.”

“Okay,” she pulls the sketchbook off my lap before I can change my opinion, and stashes it safely beneath the bed, out of reach. With a quick toss of her hair over one shoulder, she looks at me with a challenge in her eyes. “You’ll have to show me your work now. This is a transaction that works both ways.” 

“Yeah, I will. The next time you’re over at the beach house, I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”

“I bet it’s unreal.”

“Don’t hold your breath. Not as good as yours.”

She rolls her eyes. “As if. I bet I’ll look in your sketchbooks and they’ll look like DaVinci did them.”

“Well, if you think that, I promise you’ll be disappointed.”

I should thank her for showing me her work, but it feels like a kind of weird thing to do, a thing a boy who was insecure and hungry for her approval would do. Someone like Liam. 

Liam. 

Should I feel bad about Liam? Here I am, in Evie Kilbride’s bedroom, getting her to show me one of her most private and precious possessions while he, what? Sleeps under Lion King themed bedsheets at home? I wonder if he’s ever been in her room, or in any poor, suffering girls’ room. 

Why am I so obsessed with being nasty about him? What is wrong with me? Perhaps inherently I am a mean person. 

When I adjust myself on Evie’s bed, I rest my thigh against hers. Her skin is cool. She doesn’t move away. 

“When you go to Berlin,” she says, “Will you know anybody there?”

Oh yeah, Berlin. I exhale. “No, I’m going on my own, which, like, I’m kind of excited about.”

“Scared though?” She prompts, and I admit: “Yeah, a little bit, I suppose. More excited.”

“I think I’d be scared to leave and be away from everybody I know.”

“Yeah, I get that, but I wasn’t really thinking that way when I applied for university there. It was honestly more about the experience I’d have and what I’d learn from doing my degree there. Plus, when I applied, I didn’t actually think I’d be going on my own.” 

“No?”

“My girlfriend at the time and I applied together, actually, but she didn’t get in. It was brutal. We got our letters on the same day.”

“You decided to go alone, anyway?”

“Yeah it felt like the best choice for me, I just didn’t see myself being in Ireland anymore, I don’t want to waste my early twenties in this horrible recession, and I don’t want to graduate into it with no job prospects. I just need to get away from it.”

“And your girlfriend?”

I hesitate. It’s not like I don’t want to talk about Michelle, it’s just… I usually avoid any conversations that might lead to some necessary explanation of the arduousness of our relationship. “We broke up. We called it quits before our exams. I didn’t want to put her through the long-distance thing, like, honestly, I didn’t want to put myself through it, because I knew I couldn’t handle that. I really just… I don’t want any attachments when I go, like, no responsibilities towards anybody else. Having a relationship while trying to navigate the changes that are ahead of me,” I sigh. “It would be too hard.”

“Wow. How long were you together?”

“Almost a year.”

She hums sympathetically. “It must have been a hard decision.”

“It was. She’s a great person.”

“Well, you can always get back together at some point in the future, you know, like maybe someday when you graduate…” Her sentence trails off as I shake my head decisively. 

“I don’t think so. It’s just over. I can’t really see us picking up where we left off, like, nothing to do with her or the relationship, per se. It’s just that I feel like I can’t ever go backwards. Once it’s done, it’s done for me. I just don’t really hang on to other people in that way.”

Her leg shifts away from mine, and the warmth of the atoms between us dissipates. She rests against the wall, her head lolling gently to one side, makeup flaking beneath weighty lids. 

“You look a little sleepy.”

“I am.”

I smile. “Then sleep. I’ll leave.”

“Okay.”

Hugging her sort of seems like the right thing to do, but I overthink it, hesitate too long and then just get up from the bed. “Okay Evie, I’ll see you again soon.” 

It’s her who demands a hug, holding out her arms to me and making a little hmph sound, so I kneel on the bed and let her wrap her arms around me. Her face nestles in my neck. She’s all warm cheeks and the flutter of eyelashes. 

“I’ll text you when I’m free to hang out again.” 

“Mm,” she has already laid down, and I can’t resist one moment where I just look at her. She’s so cute. She has the loveliest face I may have ever seen in real life.

“Goodnight,” I whisper, but I doubt she’s even heard me, and then, as quietly as I can, I climb over the bedside table and leap down onto the dew-sprinkled grass below, leaving behind no trace but ripples in the glass of water on the bedside table, lying untouched next to her sleeping face. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

Corresponding LG Chapter [2]

[no1frogfan]

Kaiju give me your number

Iwaizumi x gn reader

Word count: ~700

Tags & warnings: None

Notes: I was struck by a deeply silly idea tonight (don’t worry, it gets sillier!), so this is my first entry for the spooky sports collab hosted by the one and only @koushuwu! Check out the collab masterlist here! (Please forgive me, Mica! My original entry will be arriving some time in the future!)

The only warning you get is a muffled I’ll get it! before the door swings open. Standing inside is a shadowy figure, its vague spiky shape barely illuminated by the streetlights behind you, looking particularly ominous in contrast to the decidedly un-spooky R&B now thumping out into the quiet night.

You squint into the darkness. “Um…hello? I’ve got a delivery for-”

Suddenly, the shadow lunges forward.

You let out a scream, almost losing your balance as you lurch back a few steps. A hand (too leathery to be human) reaches out and…

…flicks on the porch light, almost blinding you.

“Hey! Turn it down I can't hear!”

You’re still blinking away the stars in your eyes when you see it — him. Them. Two of the firmest, cushiest pecs you have ever seen casting an actual shadow over a set of gorgeous abs, the skin smooth and soft, especially against the rough black scales covering his legs and arms.

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the music. What did you say?”

Despite the absolutely stunning man in front of you, your brain somehow manages to make sense of what he’s saying.

“Um…I have a delivery for-” you glance down at the receipt “-for Hajime?”

“Wait, aren’t you…?”

He does a double take. Holy shit, it's actually you. You’re wearing the same helmet (black and covered in stickers) and — he checks behind you — that's the same bike! A sleek green one with bright yellow panniers.

“I’m looking for Hajime. Am I at the right place?”

You check the receipt again, leaning back to squint at the house number above the door. It’s partly to actually check if you’re at the right address, but mostly to calm down by looking at something other than a stranger dressed as the world’s most attractive lizard man. You didn’t even know you were into lizard men.

“That’s me. I’m Hajime.”

He reaches up and you track the flex of his biceps as he lifts the lizard mask off his head. Oh fuck. His face is handsome too, and a little bit familiar — maybe from around campus.

You must have been standing slack-jawed for too long because he glances down at his bare chest and blushes. “Sorry, I’m- my friends thought sexy Godzilla would be funny...”

Ah, that would explain the dorsal spines.

(It’s actually a little annoying how apologetic he seems, as if looking like that was something to be embarrassed about.)

Almost on cue, two more huge men crowd into the doorway. You guess these must be the friends he’s referring to because they’re dressed as what can only be described as sexy pieces of bread, one slathered with peanut butter and the other slathered with jelly.

“Sweet, food’s here!” Yells the sexy jelly man, reaching out to grab the bags from your hands.

The sexy peanut butter man pauses and looks suspiciously between both your embarrassed faces, scrutinizing you closely before something seems to dawn on him.

“Wait a minute…isn’t this that biker you crashed into?” He whirls on you. “Are you that biker?”

“Mattsun…” Iwaizumi warns.

He — Mattsun — gestures at Hajime. “Do you remember him? Last month? He wasn’t looking and walked right in front of you?”

Recognition flashes across your face and a cheeky grin grows on Mattsun’s. “I knew it.” He leans in conspiratorially. “You know, he won’t shut up about you, wants to take you home to really apologize if you know what I mean.”

Your eyes dart to Hajime. He wants to what? With you?

“Enough!”

Iwaizumi hurriedly shoves the other man back and stuffs the signed receipt into your hands.

“Sorry about him.”

A few excruciating seconds pass while you both stand awkwardly in the doorway. Right. Guess not. His friend was probably just messing with you…

“Well, thanks.”

You sneak one last furtive glance at that sexy Godzilla chest before turning to leave.

“Wait! Do you want to��come in for a drink? Or something?”

“Oh! I can’t…I’m working.”

You gesture vaguely to your left, toward the restaurant.

“Right, obviously, right, sorry. That was stupid.”

Another beat of silence, though this time it's probably more excruciating for him than for you.

"God you're hopeless." Mattsun’s head pops up over Hajime's shoulder. “What he means is can he get your number?”

[tornadoyoungiron]

TRAINTOBER | Day 9 - Viaduct

The City of Truro is coming back for his second visit to Sodor. Duck is beyond excited. Gordon however is not.

What about Oliver, Duck? What about Oliver?

~~~

"What are you so happy about," Henry grumbled as he stared with ire at the Pannier Tank engine that was sitting on the rails practically vibrating.

"City of Truro is coming back to the island!" Duck all but squeaked. "Oh, how delightful it will be to have him back again!"

Henry humphed in response. Having the City of Truro around meant that Duck would be even more sufferable than ever. Nothing against the famous city class but Duck would do nothing but praise and speak of the Great Western Way.

"Oh good, now you'll be even more insufferable than usual," Henry snorted back and Duck pulled a grumpy expression at him.

"It's not my fault you can't tell quality from scrap!" Duck sneered back and Henry just humphed. He looked away to watch Gordon pulling into Knapford station with his express. He looked more worried than usual.

Henry and Duck glanced at each other and shared a smirk.

They knew that a certain someone wasn’t going to enjoy this return visit of the famous Great Western.

~~~

“Gordon you’re being rude,” Thomas scolded the big engine. The grand Pacific just wheeshed in response and Thomas pouted at him petulantly before a sneaky grin spread across his face. “You avoiding Truro, wouldn’t have anything to do with losing your dome on the viaduct the last time would it?”

Gordon looked sheepish for a second before he glared down at Thomas with an apocalyptically cross face.

“What nonsense!” He snapped and blasted steam at him willing the E2 to go away. Thomas giggled and hurried off in a rush before Gordon could realise what he was going to do.

“Wait Thomas no! Thomas stop!” Gordon desperately called after the little engine but said engine had already disappeared down the line cackling like a maniac. “Damn it!”

He just knew that the little gremlin tank engine would tattle tale on him to the City of Truro, he just knew it. 

~~~

The final day of the City of Truro’s visit came and Gordon found himself having to be coaxed out of the sheds in order to pull his express. He’d done a good job of avoiding the famous Great Western and he was hoping that he could wait it out until he left. To his dismay, he couldn’t pass his express off on James and he now found himself approaching Vicarstown with a less-than-pleased expression on his face.

To his horror, he saw the crowd on the platform opposite to his, the smaller green tender engine with golden details sitting on the track next to him. He pulled up to the platform and avoided eye contact of any kind with the Great Western. This however did not work and a kindly voice called out to him.

“I’m terribly sorry if I’ve offended you dear Gordon,” the City of Truro apologised in a soft, kindly voice. 

Gordon glanced over at him and found that there was a regretful look on the Great Western’s face.

“Offended me? Why would have you offended me?” Gordon asked pompously.

“Well, you’ve been avoiding me dear chap, I hope I haven’t insulted you or something,” Truro clarified and Gordon sighed.

“Well I-” Gordon paused finding it hard to admit his feelings. “The last time you were here I insulted you and embarrassed myself by losing my dome on the viaduct.” 

“Ah I see,” City of Truro mused thoughtfully. “Well if it’s any consolation, I don’t find that particularly embarrassing. Now, if Flying Scotsman had done such a thing, I would give him no mercy. Such a ridiculous thing that engine.”

Gordon snorted and rolled his eyes.

“My brother is rather ridiculous,” he conceded.

“Quite, but I find you to be a lot more pleasant and reasonable than your brother,” Truro assured him. “I hold no ill will towards you and I was deeply hurt that I did not get to spend time with you, the famous express engine of the Wild Nor’ Wester.”

“Ah,” Gordon felt his ego inflate quite a bit at the Great Western’s words. “Well, I am sorry for being stuck in my own head.”

“It’s no matter,” Truro smiled. “Next time then.”

“Yes, next time!”

The two engines smiled at each other as they reached common ground.

“Say, I was actually hoping that you would be able to tell me some embarrassing stories about your brother if you had any,” Truro pressed sneakily and a devious grin appeared on Gordon’s face.

“Oh, I have many,” Gordon smirked.

~~~

[empirearchives]

(Portrait of a young lady c. 1800-1805. Louis-André-Gabriel Bouchet. Fondation Napoléon, Paris.)

Flimsy Female Fashion in the Age of Napoleon

From NGV:

The garments worn by fashionable young women following the Revolution were famously dominated by muslin. In imitation of the ancient Greeks and Romans whose simplicity and elegance of dress was synonymous with democracy and the Roman Republic, post-Revolutionary Fashion set itself in opposition to the opulent artificiality of the Ancien Régime with its hooped and panniered skirts and elaborate embroidery and trimmings, by strutting a pared down simplicity in both style and material. Simply gathered, high waisted dresses of fine soft fabric, especially muslin, became the rage. The French interpretation of these classical garments came to be known as Empire style, whereas in England it became known as the Regency style. While muslin was the preferred fabric it came to have political and economic ramifications that were highly problematic for Napoleon.

Muslin is most typically an unbleached or white cloth, produced from finely combed cotton yarn. It originated in Northern India and first appeared in Europe in the 17th century. Becoming increasingly available with the English occupation of India in the 18th century, it found great popularity at the end of that century in France. Popular with British women in India, its open weave allowed the movement of air, and therefore was suitable for hot, dry climates. Muslin clothes were traded by ancient Greeks from the Indian port of Maisolos (or Maisala) and perhaps the name muslin originated from that place name. Marco Polo apparently praised the muslins available from India. The word muslin is also used colloquially. In the United Kingdom, many sheer cotton fabrics are termed ‘muslin’ and their uses are many; for instance, muslin is used for making various cheeses which require the milk solids to be separated from the whey.

Because the muslin trade was essentially cornered by the British, this delicate fabric had to be imported from England. This posed a serious problem for Napoleon – not only because he has closed French ports to English trade because of the hostilities between their countries (the Continental Blockade), but also because Napoleon was anxious to re-establish the textile industries in France following the Revolution. He was famously impatient with women around him who continued to wear muslin and was known to lose his temper with both Josephine and his step-daughter, Hortense, reportedly either tearing their fashionable dresses or spoiling them by dousing them with coffee and officially banning the wearing of muslin. His reasons were serious (though his temper must have been irksome) and connected with propping up France’s textile industry. He required formal dress to be worn at all times at court, thereby reintroducing a clientele for silks and velvet largely made in Lyon.

(Source)

[miles336]

I would like to request yandere Papyrus fontcest please!

Dirty Laundry (Fontcest)

Papyrus brought Sans’ jacket to his nose. Inhaling the scent. The saccharine fragrance was lolling his senses; he could feel pseudo-flesh manifesting from beneath his trousers. Already. 

For the first time in forever, Sans had thrown his dirty laundry into the hamper. Papyrus was—ecstatic. And yet, curious as to why. 

It was rare for Sans to toss his shorts into the pannier, much less his entire wardrobe—especially his jacket. Something Papyrus never had the chance to wash. Ever. 

Perhaps Sans was getting another job? Although it was strange to consider him adopting a new duty to his already busy schedule. Regarding as to how many jobs Sans was currently balancing at the moment, It would be odd—or just plain stupid—to get an extra one. 

Gently, Papyrus lowered the garment. Eyeing the defiled azure fabric. Peculiarly. 

Maybe there was a special occasion coming up—a birthday? Gyftmas? April fools even?  

Or—

…

Papyrus shook his head. His thoughts were getting the best of him; he was thinking too deeply about this. Most likely, Sans just—thought his clothes needed a wash, that’s all.

Yea, that’s it. And besides, Papyrus should savor this moment. It was an uncommon one, after all; he wouldn’t get a chance to be so intimate with Sans’ clothes for a long time after this.

He raised the jacket back up to his nasal. Taking another whiff of the soft material, he filled himself with Sans’ cloying scent.

—&—

“SANS.” He groaned, letting the ‘S’ drag out. Of course, Sans would be here. Why hadn’t he thought to look for his brother here in the first place?

Swiftly, he nudged open the bar’s door. The immediate warmth of Grillby’s cozying up to his parky bones. It was vast compared to the quiet, wispy chill of Snowdin. 

The familiar faces and voices of the dog sentry greeted him. As well as the other bar patrons. However, Papyrus had no time to bother with them. He needed Sans home; it was getting late. 

It didn’t take any effort to spot his brother. He smiled brightly as he heeded that known jacket. 

Right in the center of the bar, perched up on a stool, was his brother—

His brother.

Sans

Sans, who was—cuddling with Hopkins, had her arms wrapped around his boney neck as their laughs outweighed every other patron's vocals. They were so close. So—carnal.

Papyrus blanched. Stepping back an inch. And then another inch. And another, until the bar door slammed shut on its own. He flinched hard. 

The whole world became hazy. Why was she so close to him? Why was he letting her touch him like that? Even around Papyrus, Sans was sensitive about his neck. About touch. So why did—

Why did he let her? 

Papyrus stalked back to his house. Unable to hide the globs of tears blurring his vision, He was unable to pick up his phone and dial Undyne’s number. He was unable to call out to his flowery friend and cry and whine to him.

He was unable to stop his soul from burning. Burning from—what felt like—betrayal

—&—

Sans stumbled in, drunk. 

Papyrus clenched his teeth. Barely able to look at his brother—his betraying, backstabbing brother. 

He sat on their lumpy couch, with one knee atop the other as he sat ornately. Trying not to burst into tears at the sight of a lipstick smear tinseling Sans' clavicle. 

“Sup, bro,” Sans giggled, limping towards the furniture. “I was wonderin’ where y’where.” 

He staggered to the floor, far too drunk for his own good. 

Papyrus scowled, almost disgusted. A part of him wondered if that bunny roofied Sans’ drink. Another part regarded that his brother had just been careless with his alcohol tonight.

“Ya shouldn’t stopped me, Papyrus.” He hissed, flipping over to lay on his back. His dozy eye lights bore into Papyrus’s hollow eye sockets.

His hand was raised above his head, reaching for Papyrus. 

“Alp me up.” He winked drowsily. 

With a quick motion, Papyrus snagged Sans’ hand. He yelped. Startled at the pull. He was lifted off the ground so quickly.

He was face-to-face with his brother, who was giving him a fierce, sharp glare. 

“What’s with th—“ Papyrus shoved his face into Sans’, their teeth clanking together. Harshly. A red ecto tongue lapped at his teeth, making Sans gasp. Papyrus tasked it as an entrance. Pushing it inside his brother’s mouth.

The ticklish sensation of something running through his mouth forced Sans to form his own tongue. 

He balled his clammy hands into fists. His drunken mind not even processing what was happening—Papyrus was kissing him? Papyrus was—

He screamed, his voice overcast by the sloppy kiss. Their tongues rivaled, Papyrus’s ruling over his. 

The wet organs intertwined. Mixing together into a flurry of purple saliva. 

Papyrus’s hand groped Sans’ neck. Trying to appear more like lovers. 

Sans let his tongue fall flat, losing the energy to shift the ecto around. Papyrus beamed, exploring his big brother’s mouth. 

Eventually, Papyrus pulled away. Panting; exhilarated from their make-out. He gave Sans a cheeky grin. 

“YOU’RE MINE. YOU KNOW THAT, RIGHT, BROTHER?” He lifted Sans’ into his lap. 

“What—what are you—what?" Sans couldn’t form a sentence. This was—all too much.

“THAT DISGUSTING RABBIT—SHE’S TRYING TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME.” 

Papyrus nuzzled his jaw to Sans’ neck. He embraced his brother. He warped his arms around his back, securing him. Keeping him locked within his grasp.

“SHE DOESN’T DESERVE YOU. SHE DOESN’T KNOW YOU LIKE HOW I DO!” Papyrus hummed. Sans’ eyelights dispersed. His brother was talking about Hopkins.

“HOW HORRIBLE OF YOU TO LET HER HAVE YOU, ASWELL.” Those brooding arms squished Sans from inside of them. “DON’T WORRY. I FORGIVE YOU, THOUGH.” 

“I’LL ALWAYS FORGIVE YOU.” 

“Please—stop.” 

“YOU BELONG TO ME. NOT HER—NEVER HER.” 

“Papyrus—“

“I LOVE YOU SO MUCH—SO MUCH. WHY CAN’T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?” 

“Because I don’t love you like that!” Sans howled, clawing at Papyrus’s battle body. His brother fell silent. 

“Yer my brother,” he murmured. “I like ya as my brother.” 

“Papyrus.” Sans whispered. Burying himself into Papyrus’s scarf. “Let’s just forget about all this.”

“IT’S BECAUSE OF HER, RIGHT?”

“No—“

“IT'S OKAY. I DEALT WITH HER. YOU’RE TOO DRUNK TO KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT, SANS.” Papyrus chortled, rubbing circles into Sans’ back. Sans opened his mouth to deny it—yet he didn’t.

He hadn’t realized it at first, but Papyrus’s scarf smelled a lot like dust.

-

Thank you so much for the request! I hope you enjoyed this!! (I didn’t get this beta read—so sorry if there’s any mistakes)

[jewellery-box]

Robe à l'anglaise (convertible to a polonaise) American, ca. 1780; the silk English (Spitalfields), ca. 1770-75

Originally constructed as a formal robe à la française, this brocaded silk satin gown was modified around 1780 to update it into a robe à l'anglaise (also called a "nightgown" in England), part of a shift to more informal styles of the last quarter of the century. While the robe à la française with its loose flowing pleats extending from the upper back to the hem was worn over wide panniers, the bodice of the robe à l'anglaise fitted tightly into the small of the back ending in a deep point and the closely pleated skirts were supported by crescent-shaped pads with cork or horsehair, familiarly referred to as "bum rolls." Other changes made to the dress include a center-front edge-to-edge closing, rather than a stomacher to fill in the opening, and sleeves that cup the elbow and likely would have been accessorized with fine cotton or gauze cuffs, rather than the multiple pendant self-ruffles and lace engageants typical of the robe à la française. Additionally, at the time of its alteration, linen loops were stitched to the inside seams of the skirt in order that it could be drawn up into the exuberant swags of the robe à la polonaise, another fashionable style of the 1770s and 1780s.

Woven in Spitalfields, London, the ivory satin self-figured with diminutive sprigs and trailing vines and brocaded with sprays of roses and pansies and scattered blue flowers dates to about 1770 to 1775. Although many eighteenth-century dresses were altered 10 or even 20 years after the silk was produced, this example was reworked within just a few years. The soft drape of the lightweight fabric lent itself well to the more fitted construction of the new styles.

Provenance: The dress is believed to have been belonged to Catherine Beekman (1762-1839), wife of Elisha Boudinot (1749-1819), a lawyer and a New Jersey Supreme Court Justice from 1798 to 1804. Married in 1805, Beekman was Boudinot's third wife. A portrait of Catherine Beekman at age five by John Durand is in the collection of the New-York Historical Society (1962.73). An embroidered muslin dress with matching fichu, ca. 1798, also believed to have belonged to Catherine Beekman, is in the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art (1992.119.1a-c).

Cora Ginsburg

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 22, 31 mai 1902, Paris. La fête des fleurs. Deux toilettes d'été inédites pour dames ou jeunes filles. Bibliothèque nationale de France

(1) Toilette élégante pour jeune femme ou jeune fille, en foulard ciel. Jupe en forme, devant uni. Haut volant plissé remontant derrière et finissant sur les côtés. Un bel entre-deux de guipure rebrodée fait la tête du volant et descend devant jusqu'au bas de la jupe. Veste garnie de la même guipure qui fait des coquillés des deux côtés de l'ouverture; gilet de panne ou de taffetas noir; col marin en guipure; plastron de mousseline de soie blanche, agrémenté de velours noirs étroits. Des plis forment une sorte d'empiècement au haut de la veste; mêmes plis sur les manches écourtées et évasées sur un bouffant de mousseline de soie.

Matériaux: 14 mètres de foulard; 0m,50 de panne ou de taffetas; 4 mètres de mousseline de soie.

La même toilette peut s'exécuter en toile ou en lainage léger.

Chapeau de paille souple, blanche; enroulé de gaze blanche rayée noir; et bouquets de coquelicots. Le ruban de gaze peut se remplacer par un taffetas pékiné.

(1) Elegant ensemble for a young woman or girl, in sky foulard. Shaped skirt, plain front. High pleated flounce going up behind and ending on the sides. A beautiful insertion of re-embroidered guipure forms the top of the ruffle and goes down in front to the bottom of the skirt. Jacket trimmed with the same guipure which makes shells on both sides of the opening; black pannier or taffeta waistcoat; guipure sailor collar; plastron of white silk muslin, embellished with narrow black velvets. Pleats form a kind of yoke at the top of the jacket; same pleats on the cropped and flared sleeves on a bouffant of silk muslin.

Materials: 14 meters of foulard; 1/2 meter of panne or taffeta; 4 meters of chiffon.

The same ensemble can be made in canvas or in light wool.

Soft, white straw hat; wrapped in black-striped white gauze; and bouquets of poppies. The gauze ribbon can be replaced by pekin taffeta.

—

(2) Toilette de visites pour jeune femme ou jeune fille, en voile "araignée" gris-perle. Jupe rayée de longues pattes partant d'un empiècement à plis obliques qui enserre les hanches. Au bas, série de plis lingerie. Corsage ajusté et drapé à gauche, entièrement à plis, décolleté en V. Empiècement de guipure jaunie, fixé par de légères bouclettes de velours noir terminées par de petits choux. Tour de soie en tulle noir. Manche évasée et fendue sur un bouffant de guipure.

Matériaux: 12 mètres de voile.

Capeline de paille blanche, à passe doublée de paille blé tout enroulée de plumes blanches.

(2) Visiting ensemble for a young woman or girl, in pearl-grey "spider" voile. Striped skirt with long legs starting from a yoke with oblique pleats which encloses the hips. At the bottom, a series of lingerie pleats. Fitted and draped bodice on the left, fully pleated, V-neckline. Yoke of yellowed guipure, fastened with light black velvet loops ending in small puffs. Black tulle silk tower. Flared and split sleeve on a bouffant of guipure.

Materials: 12 meters of voile.

Wide-brimmed hat of white straw, with brim lined with wheat straw all wrapped in white feathers.

[thebeautyofdangerousassociation]

The Silhouettes of the 18th Century.

A Silhouette is the recognizable shape of fashion as it changes. Fashion in the 18th century reflected affluent society's view on style, personal taste, social position, and world outlook.  France was established as a fashion leader in the 17th century, and Paris became a world center for popular modes of dress throughout the 18th century. 

The iconic silhouette of the eighteenth century is that of the  conically corseted court dress, a simpler line of dress launched the era. The mantua, which dominated the beginning of the eighteenth century to the point that dressmakers were called mantua makers, was introduced in the late seventeenth century as a casual dress alternative to the heavily structured court dress required by Louis XIV. Before the mantua the dresses beforehand took more of a robe format however once the mantua became more formal, the bodice took more of an important role over the dress, the display of the stomacher, an inverted triangle of richly embroidered fabric. The placement of the stomacher allowed for an increasingly full skirts of which created a narrow-waisted silhouette for the mantua, which became increasingly extreme over the course of the eighteenth century. The triangle of the bodice was created by conically shaped stays that pressured the waistline to a small circumference while driving the bosom upward to bob about as a barely contained base for the spherical head. The rectangle at the base of this structure was created by panniers which were constructed with hoops, at first to support a bell-shaped skirt, but later drawn in with tapes at front and back into a flattened ovoid form. 

By the 1770s, the silhouette of the skirts shifted away from the squared-off panniers. In the 1770s the polonaise gown was also developed, the waist remained small and pointed into a very full skirt. The fullness of this gown was created through the voluminous drapery fabric, most often via rings sewn on the underside of the skirt that were drawn up with cording to create puffs at the back and side of the dress. The puffs of fabric rested on full petticoats to create the still expansive base of the silhouette; its real shift was one of weight, giving as it did an overall lighter impression of the body within.

In the 1780’s the chemise became popular, this was a lightweight gown made from fine fabric gathered in at the natural waist by a sash. However, this gown still emphasised the waist. Furthermore, by the end of the eighteenth century, a different silhouette was beginning to emerge, intended in imitation of classic Greek and Roman dresses. The dresses took a turn from hard geometric carapace into a soft, thin chemise of cotton or linen that grazed the natural female form and almost fully revealed the breasts.

Rococo emerged in France in the 1720s and remained the predominant design style until it fell out of fashion in the 1770s. Excessively flamboyant and characterised by a curved asymmetric ornamentation and a use of natural motifs, Rococo was a style without rules. A smart and refined court culture called Rococo flourished in France after Louis XV came to the throne in 1715. Along with Rococo the leader in woman's fashion became more of a solidified statutes as international trendsetter. The essential spirit of Rococo era women’s clothing is expressed in its elegance, refinement, and decoration.

This is a typical Rococo period women's dress, "robe à la française". The ensemble shown here consists of a gown, the petticoat much like what we would call a skirt today, and a stomacher made in a triangular panel shape. The gown opens in the front, and has large pleats folded up at the back. All this would be worn after formed with a corset and pannier, which acted as underclothes. Until clothing accepted drastic changes with the 1789 French Revolution, rich outfits, such as is shown here, were worn.

The fan-shaped trims on the gown on the left.

Rococo S-Shaped.

[whatwewrotepodcast]

The Baker

               In the mountains above Zugang there was a tiny cottage, nestled amongst the craggy foothills, its rough stone walls blending in amongst the tumbled boulders. The thatched roof grew moss and strange mushrooms, unbothered by the cold climes, and a rickety post and rail fence encircled a small, rough pasture for a herd of sheep and a shaggy mule. Above the door hung a huge great axe, a truly mighty weapon. For all the years it had hung there the weather had made no mark on it, and no spot of rust dared sully its razor-sharp blade. In the cottage lived an old man. How old he truly was, no one could say – at least a hundred, some said, though he walked upright still as though even the weight of his years couldn’t subdue him. And yet even so he was human only, and everyone expected each passing year to be his last. But he lived alone, accepted no aid and refused to come down from the hills to the city where he would be safe from the ravages of the cold mountain storms and the beasts that came hunting down the slopes in winter.

               Once a month, when the moon was waning, and the cold winds blew off the mountain sides, he saddled his old mule with large wicker panniers and made his way down the steep, rough paths to the town. Both he and his mule were sure footed as mountain goats on those rocky, narrow trails, never so much as turning their heads towards the endless falls into jagged ravines below. And as dawn broke over the mountains’ sharp unruly crowns, there they would find him in the market square, painstakingly unpacking the panniers onto the little table set aside for him. The city would wake to find him there, as the markets came to life around him, and people came to marvel at his wares.

               For the hermit was famed throughout Zugang for his baking, and as the moon grew slim children started to clamour to their parents, begging to be allowed to visit his stall. And always he produced the most incredible array of baked goods, the pastries light and crisp, the muffins soft and fluffy. Danishes with rich, fruity filling and custard centres, biscuits with the perfect amount of crunch and a savoury centre. Custard tarts with pastry so fine it melted in the mouth, cakes dense and gooey and bread with the most perfect ratio of crusty outside to soft and light inside. The people of Zugang marvelled at the perfection of his goods, and he traded them for flour, and sugar and jars of pickled fruit – the ingredients for next month’s baking. And as he sold his cakes and tarts and beautiful pasties, he told stories – stories that kept the children rapt and breathless, the adults leaning closer to listen in despite themselves, rapt and distracted from their shopping. Stories of far off places and great adventures, of amazing and terrible monsters and beautiful forests and tumultuous oceans. Of mountain peaks and deep, dark caves, of treasure and loss and victory. And in the evenings sleepy children asked their parents as they were tucked into bed

               Mama did the baker really fight a dragon do you think? Do you think he really knew a giant?

               And smiling parents would pull the blankets up to their chins and smile and kiss their brows

               Of course not, darling, they’re only stories, and he’s just an old man. Now go to sleep.

               But a child’s curiosity is stronger than their propriety, and one afternoon in late winter, as the weak and watery sun sank from the sky and the shadows crept out from the mountains’ feet, as the baker packed his bags of flour and sugar and jugs of butter carefully into the mule’s panniers, a girl lingered by the stall. A dwarf girl caught somewhere between the bright vivacity of childhood and the awkward shyness of adolescence, she hovered, her thumbnail clenched between her teeth as she summoned her courage. He caught a glimpse of her from the corner of his eye, turned towards her with a small and friendly smile, held fast in a web of wrinkles.

               “Well hello there. I’m sorry, all the pastries are gone,” he said, looking across the square, where the last of the market folk were packing up, hurrying home before the night’s chill crept in, searching instinctively for friends or family who might have sent her. The girl shook her head, her eyes wide at being addressed so. The baker tilted his head, then slowly bent his aching knees to crouch down on the hard cold stones, to be on her level. He was tall despite his years, and his eyes as clear and bright as a summer morn. She blinked owlishly for a moment, then extracted her thumb from her mouth.

               “Who are you?” she blurted, then her cheeks flushed rosy red at her own words. For a moment, the baker looked startled, and then he smiled and lent a little closer.

               “It’s a secret,” he replied in a low whisper. The girl’s eyes widened, and she leant towards him further, the mystery only deepened by her probing.

               “Are all your stories true? Did they really happen? Was it you in them all? Why do you live alone up there?” the questions tumbled out fast and furious, tripping over each other, head over heels. A flicker of something dark crossed the baker’s features, a glimmer of a cold and bleak loneliness, a shadow of memory usually hidden behind simple smiles and guileless tales of wonder and adventure, the dark parts filed away, the sharp edges worn soft by time. Memories taken out and handled so often they had lost their bite.

               “All stories are true,” he said as the moment passed, and the girl stared at him as if his every word were vital air and she couldn’t get enough. The baker looked across the square again, into the deepening shadows, and a door once locked deep within his soul creaked open, pried asunder by a child’s innocent question. Behind the door were all the stories he didn’t tell. The ones too dark and cold and scary, the ones that hurt too much. The ones with edges still as sharp as the axe that hung above the cottage door. He looked back at her, “These stories are mine. They really happened, once upon a time, when I was a young man, when my friends and I travelled the land, seeking adventure and glory and to make the world a better place. We fought monsters and evil people. But one of us . . . one . . .” his voice faltered for a moment, and the grief was too raw to articulate, even after all these years. “One day we met a monster we couldn’t defeat, and She . . . well.” A smile as brittle as winter’s first frost. The baker placed his hand on the girl’s shoulder. She was too young to understand. To appreciate the pain of seeing someone who held your soul in their hands lose their own. To know that death was not the worst fate that could greet a person. For a moment his secrets hung in the balance, years of holding this truth close to his chest. Perhaps this little dwarf girl reminded him of someone, someone long ago. Someone he would always share his secrets with. “Would you like the secret?”

               The girl, eyes so wide, her mind racing to all the things she could tell her friends, the impossible edge she’d gained through being brave enough to ask, the superiority she had in her extra knowledge, nodded eagerly, hungry for more.

               “You mustn’t tell anyone, do you understand? It is the biggest secret I have,” the baker said. “The secret is this. My name is Araedi Harsong, Breaker of Chains,” he paused as the weight of those words fell around his neck like stones. An identity long left behind. “Now run along, and keep that secret always.” A squeeze of the shoulder and he was on his feet, stepping to his mule and turning towards the path back into the hills, never once looking back.

               And the girl stood and gaped at the weight of the secret she had been granted, the context for the stories she had listened to since she was a small child. The stories of the great son of the Harsong family, who had freed slaves and fought for equality, who had brought freedom to the oppressed, a fearsome warrior with a kind heart, renowned for his bravery and goodness. The man who had stood against the most powerful families in the land without fear. The man who, one day, at the height of his fame, had simply vanished, never to be seen again.

               Perhaps one day, when the girl was older, she would understand what had happened. Perhaps once day she would recognise the flicker of pain she had seen that day. Piece together the puzzle, the oft-discussed mystery of where the great Araedi Harsong had gone, why he had one day walked away from everything he had achieved. Perhaps.

               But for now, she was young, and filled with the bubbling excitement of a weighty secret, and she turned and ran home, and didn’t look back into the fading dusk, where the shape of a tall man slowly vanished into the darkness, head bowed into the night.

[advpulse]

The Washington-based ADV gear maker celebrates its 10-year anniversary with new products, colors and key updates. Mosko’s fresh gear includes a new first aid kit, packing cubes, a large modular roller bag and more. Follow the link for details!

[mean-scarlet-deceiver]

What's your favorite British locomotive ?

I really can't pick 😭 anytime you show me a cool new pic I'll jump trains fr, I'm so fickle. Especially if it's pre-Grouping.

Certainly I have an abiding soft spot for GER 564.

Even if she did betray me by getting repainted in LNER livery, smh.

It doesn't matter, darling. I love you anyway.

But FR 20 would never do me like that.

I was going to make this locomotive a Big Bad in a fic until I watched a couple videos. In one she placidly and peacefully lost a race to a bus. I transformed into a human 🥺 and there went all my villainous plans for her. She's too pure.

Pannier tanks of every stripe and of every iteration look awesome. They're 10/10.

[tirumphlover]

How to Customize Your Triumph Speed 400 and Scrambler 400 x with New 25 Genuine Accessories

Introduction

Triumph recently introduced two new models in its classic lineup: the Speed 400 and the Scrambler 400. These Triumph motorcycles are inspired by the retro style of the Speed Twin 900 and Scrambler 900 but offer a more affordable and easy entry into the Triumph motorcycle brand. They also come with a wide range of original accessories that allow you to customize your motorcycle according to your taste, comfort, needs, and preferences. Here are some of the best accessories for the Speed 400 and Scrambler 400.

Bar-end mirrors

One of the easiest ways to change the look of your bike is to swap the standard mirrors with bar-end mirrors. These mirrors are mounted on the ends of the handlebar and give your bike a sleek and stylish appearance. They also provide a better rear view and reduce vibrations. You can choose between a black or chrome finish for the Speed 400 and the Scrambler 400.

Double-barrel silencers

The double-barrel silencers are a good choice if you want your bike to sound more powerful and athletic. These silencers feature a brushed appearance and are composed of stainless steel. They generate an exhaust noise that is deep and throaty and fits the personality of the bikes. Both the Speed 400 and the Scrambler 400 can use them.

Teardrop-shaped LED indicators

Another way to add some flair to your bike is to replace the standard indicators with teardrop-shaped LED indicators. These indicators are small, elegant, and bright. They also consume less power and last longer than conventional bulbs. They are available in black or chrome finish and can be fitted on both the Speed 400 and the Scrambler 400.

Top box, pannier, and tank bag

If you need more storage space on your bike, you can choose from a variety of luggage options. The top box is a lockable case that can be mounted on the rear rack of the bike. It has a capacity of 30 litres and can fit a full-face helmet. The pannier is a rugged bag that can be attached to the side of the bike. It has a capacity of 15 litres and can fit a laptop or a tablet. The tank bag is a nylon bag that can be secured to the fuel tank of the bike. It has a capacity of 10 litres and can fit a smartphone or a wallet

Front-fly screen

If you want to reduce wind blasts and improve aerodynamics, you can install a front-fly screen on your bike. This polycarbonate shield covers the headlight and deflects air away from your chest. It also enhances the look of your bike by giving it a sporty touch. The front-fly screen is available as an optional accessory for both the Speed 400 and the Scrambler 400.

Sump guard

If you want to protect your engine from rocks, debris, and other hazards, you can equip your bike with a sump guard. This is an aluminum plate that covers the bottom of your engine and prevents damage from impacts. It also adds some ruggedness to your bike’s appearance. The sump guard is available as an optional accessory for both the Speed 400 and the Scrambler 400 x.

Radiator guard

If you want to keep dirt, bugs, and stones from clogging or puncturing your radiator, you can install a radiator guard on your bike. This radiator's front is covered with a metal mesh that lets air through while obstructing foreign things. Adding some texture and contrast, it also makes your bike look better. The Speed 400 and the Scrambler 400 both have the radiator guard as an optional extra.

Engine bars

If you want to minimize the damage to your bike in case of a fall or a crash, you can install engine bars on your bike. These are metal tubes that surround your engine and act as a buffer against impacts. They also provide some extra support for your legs and feet. The engine bars are available as an optional accessory for both the Speed 400 and the Scrambler 400.

Quilted seat

If you want to enhance your comfort and style, you can replace the stock seat with a quilted seat. This seat has a soft and plush texture that provides more cushioning and support. It also has a diamond-stitched pattern that adds some elegance and class to your bike. The quilted seat is available as an optional accessory for both the Speed 400 and the Scrambler 400.

Headlight grille

If you want to give your bike a more rugged and adventurous look, you can add a headlight grille to your bike. This is a wire-mesh cover that protects your headlight from stones, branches, and other obstacles. It also gives your bike a distinctive appearance that sets it apart from other bikes. The headlight grille is available as an optional accessory for the Speed 400 and as a standard feature for the Scrambler 400.

Conclusion

Triumph Speed 400 and Scrambler 400 are two exciting new models that offer a lot of potential for customization. With over 25 genuine accessories, you can make your bike suit your personality, needs, and preferences. Whether you want to make your bike more stylish, comfortable, functional, or protective, there is an accessory for you and your lovely bike.

[bikepackinguk]

Day Twenty-two

Woke this morning after a well-slept eight hours on a soft forest floor. Tentsmuir is a beautiful spot, and with some local guidance I was able to setup in a nice secluded spot. I was also able to hang and dry out my tarp which still had a lot of moisture since Eyemouth. This is another place that I'd love to return and spend some quality time in the future.

However, I have some miles yet to get in!

Following the bike route north from the visitor centre, the going gets pretty rough and rocky very quickly and befire long I was forced to continue the rest of the path to Tayport on foot.

Unfortunately, it was too little too late and the noises coming from the bike announced that the first of the mechanical issues of the journey had finally arrived.

After a little investigation the culprit was found - one of the bolts holding on the pannier rack and rear mudguard had actually sheered off!

Thankfully given that issues are inevitable on a ride this long, we have the tools to fix them! A spare bolt is put in place on a nearby mount to keep the mudguard in place, and for now the pannier rack is supported by some ever-handy cable ties. I'll sort out a more permanent fix when I next have a rest day.

In the meantime, we're back in action and moving on! The ride out from Tayport is thankfully a lot smoother, and heads up the coast to the Tay Road Bridge into Dundee.

After remedying an initial wrong turn onto the dual carriageway, the ride from Dundee has been some of the best so far on the journey. Some lovely smooth segregated and clearly signposted paths carrying right along the coastline, all the way to the other side of Arbroath. I made sure to have a good few pit stops along the way to soak in the views as well as be rewarded with some chats with a few locals, who have all been simply lovely.

The great run of flat riding can't last forever, and with Deil's Head on the corner the path turns north once more and we're back to some big climbs across the countryside, though the route still keeps the sea close enough at hand across the fields.

Whilst the busy main road isn't too far away, not a whisper of it can be heard, and despite the ascents it's a very lovely route.

After some more meandering around the back roads, the trail leads down to cross the River South Esk and past the busy port into Montrose for a quick resupply stop.

The day is wearing on at this point, but the route ahead leads into the St Cyrus Nature Reserve, which is an ideal stopping point for the day. On the legs are pushed up and out of town, and after a little more work the beach is reached for a little before 8pm.

Plenty of rolling dunes make a good place to be tucked away for the night without disturbing anyone, so I'm having a nice sit before getting setup for the night and enjoying another beautiful view across the sea.

Until tomorrow!

[loboomoto]

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