#Winter Coats Wholesale
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Popular Winter Jacket Styles By Oasis Jackets
Wear the hottest designs of winter jackets this season to stay stylish! Choose from chic leather alternatives to cozy puffer coats for stylish outerwear that blends warmth and flair. These essential jackets are ideal for remaining stylish during the winter months. Discover the newest styles and give your winter attire a makeover.
Visit https://www.oasisjackets.com/the-winter-jacket-styles-that-are-super-popular-nowadays/
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The Winter Jacket Styles That Are Super Popular Nowadays
VISIT: https://www.oasisjackets.com/the-winter-jacket-styles-that-are-super-popular-nowadays/
Planning to buy a new winter jacket soon? Want to know which styles are trending these days? Read the blog to find out!
A winter jacket is a must-have to keep you warm, cozy, and comfortable during the entire season. Are you thinking about buying a new one soon? Keep on reading to learn about some of the most trending styles.
If you are a retailer with an aim to get hold of the best-quality jackets for your store, then hurry and make a bulk purchase from a preeminent wholesale jacket manufacturer today! Check out the winter jacket collection of this famed supplier now!
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Winter Style Tips to Look Ravishing
So, this winter, do not be afraid to explore and experiment. Who knows, you might unlock a new fashionable winter look to flaunt! Dress up to your heart's content!
Visit: //www.linkedin.com/pulse/style-tips-look-ravishing-winter-oasis-jackets-clq0c/
#wholesale fitness jackets manufacturers#fitness jackets for women#fitness jackets manufacturers#wholesale fitness jackets#bulk winter jackets#bulk winter coats
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Wholesale Winter Clothing UK - Exciting Discounts By Red Wholesale Manchester
Made in Italy Winter Fashion Clothes
Are you looking for the best women's wholesale winter clothing collection that is truly aligned with latest fashion trends? If yes, then Red Wholesale is your ultimate destination being UK’s top rated ladies apparel supplier offering a spectacular range of Made in Italy clothing wholesale.
Their clothing line features a wide range of stylish and cozy winter wear which is now available at discounted prices, perfect for boutique owners and retailers who prefer variety with quality for their customers at affordable prices.
For new year, all their winter collection is available online and in store at exciting discount ranging from warm jumpers to fashionable coats & jackets, trendy cardigans to chic ponchos & capes. All their designs are well tailored and reflect Italian elegance to keep your customers warm and looking charming throughout the winter.
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Which Style Of Winter Jacket For Men is Best For This Year?
When the winter frost comes in, premium men's winter coats are essential for keeping you warm.
#men's winter coats#Winter Jacket#different types of hoodies#wholesale#men jackets manufacturers in USA
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How To Style A Turtleneck
Once you've discovered the perfect turtleneck from clothing wholesalers Melbourne, here are several ways to style it as a terrific layering piece.
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a lovebirds bloom! (lets live in a christmas tree) pt.iii ☃️🎄
keigo t. x fem. reader | vryvery sweet sweeter than candy
pt.i of a lovebirds bloom , pt.ii of a lovebirds bloom
sneak peek ➸ in the midst of winter, a particular hero is feeling quite frosty this season from the absence your warmth, let’s see if you can fix that.
word count : whole ass book grab a cup of coffee to indulge in ts
As much as the flurries of winter trickling through the bustling cities with its angelic flakes were enchanting to see, it was hell to travel in.
Every time your found your car’s battery to be frozen and glistening with ice, the walk to your flower shop almost always ended with you limping through the doors, a new bruise decorating your skin.
Whatever lunatic conjured up the idea to attach the outside of your shop with a little set of stairs must’ve not been hugged as a child, you thought as you gripped onto the railing.
After a particularly rough 6 a.m hike to the shop, you plopped your bag onto the counter, too exhausted to move it elsewhere. Instead, you opened your phone to say goodbye to your silly reels and tweets.
But when you swiped your screen down to do a final time check, your eyes met with the text notification:
hawks
6:14 A.M.
Hey. You at work? Picked up some hot coffee and wanted to see if I could share with another early bird. :-)
Your eyes stuck on the message like a sticker, and you couldn’t find yourself to rip them off your screen. It felt almost.. nice to be almostkindoffriendsbutkindofstrangers with Hawks, yet unreal.
Ever since that night in the cafe, you thought back to it like a dream, a blur of warm glances and candles mixed with wafts of pumpkin.
One thing you remembered from the little date was the exchanging of your numbers.. which was just a folded up post-it that Hawks had managed to stick in your coat pocket at the last second, freaking sneak, with little doodles dancing around the boldened digits.
After said date, the two of you would text consistently for a few days. Getting to know each other, sending each other relatable posts, y’know, the usual spiel of a talking stage.
The strange thing however—is after a week, you hadn’t come across the man for nearly two months.
You understood fully though, of course! Work constantly pulled him away all the time. He was needed to serve, to help people continue their domestic routines.
His missing presence just felt so unnatural, didn’t it? But perhaps his swarms of admirers were enough to keep him occupied.
How was he able to do it? You’d never know. Even a trip to unload the flowers from the wholesalers’ truck back and forth made you cry from the soreness you’d get in your legs, and he’s out here fighting damn kratos on the daily? Yikes.
But thinking about it, It stung a little to think about how empty he would feel after all those hours.
At times, you’d come home to your apartment, everything still left eerily the same as it was earlier—but a bittersweet lone feeling loomed over you.
You didn’t want to picture how it’d feel for him.
Especially in the mellow season, so close to Christmas.
Reluctantly, you tapped the keys on your phone, quick to send out brief ‘yes, of course!!’ to his proposal, thumb shaking while it hovered over the ‘send’ button.
As you set your phone down, your heart undeniably throbbed to the thought of him walking through those doors, his warm presence lighting up the gloomy unlit store.
It must’ve just been the mixture of sweet aromas making you feel that way.
The ‘thump!’ of your head against the counter echoed embarrassingly through the room as your nerves began to jitter about.
⋆⁺₊❅.
Something that always struck out to you during wintertime was no matter what time of day it was, most other businesses in the vicinity had their christmas lights flickered on in the early morning, and in the dusk of night.
Yourself and your coworkers didn’t skip this tradition, taking the opportunity as soon as you guys could to hang the golden twinkle string along the roofline.
Ever since, you kept the brightness of each bulb inside to a minimum as to not overwhelm your clients at the crack of dawn.
From the inside, the silhouettes that passed by were usually the ones on their way to the offices and occasional joggers. All too well accustomed to the ‘early bird’ lifestyle like yourself.
Speaking of early birds.
The subtle ‘whoosh’ that you only guessed were the wings of a certain hero faintly brushed the chill air.
You decided not to look up at the door yet, as you anticipated his arrival and wanted to capture the perfect best view of him waking in.
Absentmindedly staring at your nailbeds, the catchy chime jingled against the doorframe, a creak escaping from the door that was being pushed upon.
Finally looking up (pretending you didn’t notice him in the first place), Hawks’ clothed elbow pressed the black bar of the door, his signature black gloves carrying two coffee cups and a little frost glistened on the tips of his wings.
He huffed out as he entered, frigid vapor leaving his mouth as he was met with the relieving warm temperatures. His golden-amber eyes crossed to meet yours, his lower lids creasing upwards to the sight of you, a nervous smile rested upon his face.
“ ‘M telling ya, the universe was just waiting to pelt me in the face with all this wind. Nipping at my face ‘till it turned all red.”
If the pinkish-red spread across his sharp features didn’t stick out enough, the poor excuse he used was a bit obvious. Hawks really hoped you wouldn’t notice just how desperate he was to see you again.
You wondered if his wings were subtly trembling from the cold or his nerves.
He didn’t really expect you to text him back, in fact, he spent the last 2 months drifting off while on his shifts, thinking and thinking how to impress you but in a casual way.
Not desperate and too wanting, but at the same time reciprocating his feelings for you—
“Yeah, right? Nearly falling on my ass every time I come into work. Not much of an issue for you though, hm?”
Hawks let out a low chuckle, sniffling and bringing his hand to lightly rub his reddened nose.
“Fortunately not. But— anyway, sorry for just asking to come in on such short notice. I just wanted to .. talk to ‘ya.”
The faint scratch of raspiness in his voice indicated that he must’ve caught a small cold, presumably from the strengthening winter, but at the same time he sounded almost ashamed.
You shrugged, curving your lips into a dimpled smile, “No worries! Really, I actually need help with something, but we can come back to that after breakfast.”
A quirk of his eyebrow accompanied his half-hidden shock, a cute little expression of bewilderment.
“Oh? Are you sure? I know I’m the one usually expected to nag at my colleagues, but I really don’t want to drag you out from work.”
“Of course, don’t worry. I don’t actually have to start working until like 8.” You assured him sweetly, gesturing him forward with the hot drinks.
He nodded silently as he placed the cups down on the counter, pulling up a stool opposite from you. Additionally, he grabbed out a brown crumply bag that had been tucked under his arm.
Your eyes lit up when you read the imprinted, « 2 CHOC CROISSANT » on the sticker.
As you took your first few sips and bites, the silence only grew and resided in the air. You cleared your throat.
“Hey, I know we aren’t, y’know, that close, but if there’s something bothering you, I’m here to listen. You seem to be a little quiet.”
Black pupils flickered up to your face as he was mid-bite into his pastry. “Mm-h.. I kno. Is jsst.. ‘m nat mch ‘ff a mrng… “ he then swallowed rather hard, “I’m not much of a morning person.”
You laughed at his muffled response, sparking an adoring glint in Hawks’ eyes. He’d humiliate himself a thousand times more if it meant he could hear your laugh again.
He continued, setting down his croissant on his napkin below, “Honestly, I came here initially to see you, but I feel like I gotta apologize for leaving you with nothing from me the past months.”
You kept quiet, intrigued in what he wanted to say and let him continue.
“I haven’t.. I’ve never had this sort of frien—connection before. And, hah— it’s quite ironic how everyone describes me to be such a smooth-talker, but here I am, suddenly not knowing how to form a coherent sentence.”
He averted his gaze from your own, his leg bouncing nonstop.
“You’re just.. simply a fresh breath of air from the world i’m caged in. I.. can’t really explain it.”
“You don’t have to,” you comforted, “i find myself thinking about you too,” you confessed into your croissant, hesitant to let your voice exceed from your low volume.
Hawks’ breath hitched when he heard those words. He hadn’t felt this tense before, a foreign feeling churning in his stomach.
It wasn’t helping that you looked so alluring under the warm light. So sweet, so consoling. Although it was still dark out, your eyes managed to have that shiny gloss from the soft lights.
“I promise, if we had met under different circumstances, I wouldn’t be such a mess right now. ‘S not like my character,” he grinned with a hint of more confidence, tinkering with the golden ring on his middle finger.
“To me, it doesn’t matter what the rest of the world thinks of your character, I think your own sweet self is enough.”
Owlishly, he stared at you, speechless to your statement, as if you spoke a different language to him. He chewed at the last piece of his morning dessert, lost in thought (planning your future wedding).
“Guess theres some truth in there.”
You continued munching at your breakfast, your winged visitor patiently waiting until nothing but crumbs were left on the table.
⋆⁺₊❅.
The consistent ticks of the antique rose-patterned clock hung on the wall became subtle background noise, a nice drumming in stark contrast to awkward silence.
Swiping your palms against eachother, making sure your hands smeared off any stubborn crumbs in the crevices of your hand, you took note of the time displayed on the clock’s hands. 7:25
Your head turned anxiously back to Hawks, him peering towards you as you opened your mouth to say something, but nothing coming out.
“What’s going on in that peculiar little mind of yours?” asked the hero, propping his arms flat against his table to rest his head on them.
You hated the amount of questions he asked, it was practically violating—literally intentional to spill every secret out of you. He wanted to listen to every inconvenience you had.
Mumbling, you started, “It’s just that.. I feel a little guilty that I’m going to ask you for a favor like this when you could be out there, saving the day instead of being cooped up in here.”
Perking his head up in surprise, he argued without hesitation, “No no, I’d rather be held as hostage here for the rest of the day if it were up ‘at me. There can’t be anything in this shop too rough for me.”
A godsend he was. Really, if he could choose, he’d spend the rest of his life in this wonderland of a shop you’ve decorated.
“Okay,” you breathed out, “I need help putting up the Christmas tree.”
“So that’s what was missing in this place, ‘swear it was on the tip of my tongue,” his smooth tone shifted quickly to be teasingly warm, drawing a smile out of you, “Let’s do it then.”
⋆⁺₊❅.
Attaching all the hooks that resembled tree branches into the base and circling behind each other around the tree, twirling incandescent lights that swirled from top to bottom, the two of you stepped back to admire your hard work.
A delicate tree, but simple in all the right ways. It wouldn’t be too distracting yet would get the “Christmas” point across to all the customers.
Hawks nudged at your arm with his shoulder, a proud grin presented on his face, “This completes the holly and jollyness in this store. Feels like im in santa’s workshop now.”
His now vibrant and eager energy lifted the concerns pressing on your chest about him.
A tingling thought in the back of your head suspected he wasn’t grumbly only because he hates waking up so early.
Preciously gazing at the tree, you smiled shyly, “I know. I feel like this time of year goes by too fast, but it’s so beautiful.”
“Mhm,” the winged hero hummed out, his eyes lingering upon your figure as you went to adjust some of the crooked ornaments, “Very beautiful.”
Was there any reason why he suddenly felt so warm in his sweater? The heater couldn’t have been blasting that badly, right?
It’s not like he could have controlled the way he darted between each feature of your face, your hands, your style of apparel that just matched your personality perfectly.
He even worried that if he got too lost in your presence, his wings would begin to curl around you, cradling you into a soft cocoon-like embrace.
Yeah, he did not want to picture your weirded-out reaction—
His ringtone began beeping erratically from his pant pocket sending a walloping dread in his stomach, cursing under his breath.
Whipping your head back from the abrupt noise, you sighed, a reminder for you as well that your dozen hundred chores were about to commence.
Fumbling for his phone in a hurry to turn off the annoying sound, his other hand covered his lower-face, visibly cringing at the fact he had to actually clock in today.
He almost flinched when he felt your hands rubbing circles against his shoulder, consoling him, “Should’ve expected it sooner or later.”
“Hate that. All this, ‘have to move it later,’ ‘it’s getting late,’ ‘should’a known it had ‘ta end.’ I don’t think ‘s fair.”
“Me either, it really isn’t.”
Hawks’ hand slowly traced down to your wrist before gently grasping your fingers as his thumb reassuringly rubbed against your knuckles.
Widened eyes focused onto your face, his expression more serious and determined, “There’s no way I’m leaving making the same mistake as before, i can’t,” he paused, “promise I’ll respond to your texts and take you out on a proper date, with a whole bouquet of roses and everything.”
You smiled back up at him sweetly, awestruck at his commitment, almost like you were in a dream, “I think that sounds lovely. I can take care of the flowers, though.”
Shaking his head, he grinned back, “Maybe, but I wanna do this the right way. No more coming and going every season.” You nodded your head at that, completely giving in.
⋆⁺₊❅.
The two of you made your way to the main doors, just a few minutes to 8:30. All bundled up, Hawks held a small wrapped bouquet of camellias, his large hands crumpling the wrapping paper.
“Bye, [name]. You’re a real sweet girl for putting up with my ridiculous antics.”
“Bye, Hawks, I try. Be safe! Don’t slip on your way out!” He rolled your eyes at you sheepishly as he was halfway out the door, when you stopped him, tugging at his arm.
“Ah. . . Wait,” you uttered, holding the material of his jacket with uncertainty in your body language. He hummed in confusion and faced you.
Stepping closer, a quick tilt of your head leaned toward his face, surprising him before you pecked his warm cheek and pushed him out the store, rushing into the back room.
Looking back, astonished, his rough fingers hovered over the spot where you kissed him, a blush fading onto his already hot cheeks.
He turned to the road, beginning to walk down until he reached the end of the sidewalk to take off to his agency, prying at his phone to pin your contact at the top of his messages.
a.n: keigo is so shy when hes flustered canon horikoshi told me so. i hope you guys liked this lmk what i should write nexttt have a lovely holiday y’all :33 🌷🎄
#we love hopeless romantic keigo#keigo takami#bnha hawks#hawks x reader#bnha keigo#mha x reader#bnha#mha#keigo takami x reader#mha hawks#bnha x reader#mha fluff#hawks x you#takami keigo#divider by me#mha x you#keigo fluff#hawks bnha#hawks fluff#fudgechocolatepuff#🍫#my hero academia#boku no hero academia#hawks imagines#keigo imagines#mha x female reader#bnha x fem!reader#bnha x you
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TIMING: Worm Day in Feb LOCATION: An appropriate battlefield PARTIES: @kadavernagh & @banisheed SUMMARY: Worms fight for the pride of their banshee. Love is a battlefield. CONTENT: Wormspice
“Lá na bPéist,” Siobhan said, grinning the way an animal sometimes only seems to right before it lunges. “Last worm writhing, yes.”
War would be waged at dawn. Regan marched into the clearing she had designated for Siobhan, a big tin jar in her hands, previously filled with coffee grounds, and now full of writhing worms. She didn’t think her newly-purchased worms truly desired anything – what an enviable, simple life in many ways – and they especially had no interest in fighting Siobhan’s worms. But this was a matter of pride. Siobhan assumed that Regan’s worms were undignified and meek, odorless and scrawny, and Regan was tired of bearing her insults.
Her skin prickled as a long figure appeared across the clearing, the sun creeping up behind her and casting her face in shadow. She would have her own worms with her. And if they were as girthy as Siobhan claimed, why could Regan not see them from here? Not so impressive.
“Lá na bPéist,” Regan greeted her. It was the customary way. Day of the Worms. There was no ‘happy’ in front of it; it was only a simple and respectful declaration of the day. “My worms challenged you, and I picked the location, so I will be generous and allow you to set reasonable perimeters. Will this be down to the last worm standing – so to speak – or do you have something else in mind?”
--------
Violence was a necessity. Since the first forms of microscopic life, it seemed, violence was a language to claim dominance. Or so Siobhan assumed, banshee literature was often flirtatious with the truth. At least one book claimed that all life was born out of a big bone, contradicted by another book that claimed the big worm in the sky birthed them which was also contradicted by another book that was simply a picture of a skeleton shrugging. Science is an afterthought but violence, still, was an art. What Regan didn’t know, with her skinny worms, was that their little worm war didn’t start here. Their war began the moment Siobhan laid eyes on her unseasonable winter coat. In order for something to be strong, something else has to be weak: a rule of language that Siobhan knew intimately. She wouldn’t be weak.
Her happy, healthy, girthy worms writhed in the box she brought them in. She was pained to rip them from their happy home inside her compost system, where they had lived for months, lovingly tended to, fertilizing the earth that she used for her garden. For Death to be appreciated, Life needed to be respected as well. But there was no doubt in Siobhan’s mind that this truth escaped Regan. She probably purchased her worms wholesale online.
“Lá na bPéist,” Siobhan said, grinning the way an animal sometimes only seems to right before it lunges. “Last worm writhing, yes.” She snapped the locks open from her plastic box, upturning her girthy worms upon the ground. The worms, unlike malnourished counterpoints, flourished in Siobhan’s delicate compost. They were indeed larger and thicker, though the girth may have been slightly exaggerated. There was something…odd about them, however. A line from Wurmsten’s Pride and Wormjudice flashed in her mind: it was a truth universally acknowledged, that a single worm in possession of girth must be in want of a mate.
Siobhan shook her head, surely their passionate wiggles were nothing more than an eagerness to shed worm blood. “Go on, leanbh, or does the sight of my thick worms make you envious?”
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The Jade sauce came too late. Regan had done her best with the worms given her tardy start (with preparations, not… to everything else Siobhan surpassed her in), but her worms still looked mangled and pencil-thin. They took only occasional interest in apple slices and they kept squiggling into the sides of the container like they had no sense of place or orientation. But she had come here to win. And Siobhan was a boastful creature, wasn’t she? Her worms couldn’t be so grand as she claimed. They were probably just as grey, just as aimless.
“I agree to your terms. May the best worms win, cailleach.” There were no prizes or trophies in these wars of worms, only bragging rights. Siobhan would like the extra pin in her lapel, and Regan needed something she could surpass Siobhan in. Had the course of her life run smoother, she would have believed that needing something was enough to make it happen, but if anything, it created obstructions at every turn. Right. Confidence. She had Jade in her corner, even if she wasn’t present now. That was enough, right? Regan held onto that as she unceremoniously dumped her worms from their tin home. They collected by her feet, and she shook a little so stragglers could roll off her boots and join the rest of the squadron. “I was advised to read to them. They’re engorged with–” She would not admit she had read them Tana French “– harsh tales of the moors.”
Any fleeting confidence she held deflated when Siobhan dumped her worms on the ground, too. They were at least twice as thick as Regan’s, colored like cherry red lividity, and they squirmed with such vigor in comparison. Were… were her worms depressed? She glanced over to the limp mass at her feet, disappointed. It was the look her 1st grade art teacher used to give her when she handed in a drawing of a dead cow for the tenth time. But Regan would not abandon them; if no one believed in them, all bets of winning were off. She would take a line from Siobhan’s book and lob a competitive insult. That would inspire her worms. “I’ve seen better worms,” Regan said, arms crossed, as her stomach cramped from the lie. “Your worms are too soft. You have coddled them. They may have girth, but they know nothing of resilience.” She clenched a fist, fingernails against scar tissue. “Mine have thrived even under suboptimal conditions.” Her gaze sharpened as she met Siobhan’s eyes. “It’s no surprise. You’ve grown soft in your time away, too, haven’t you?”
The worms were in motion. Kind of. They were slow, groping for each other through the dirt in blindness. Siobhan’s took off first, faster than worms ought to move, but Regan’s were sluggish. She decided they were using their resources to fortify themselves. But as Siobhan’s came closer, her worms began wriggling anxiously, inching closer. They knew who their opponent was now. Good. Good. They tangled into a slimy cluster, two tense banshees casting shadows over them.
There was no blood. Where was the blood? They were entwined, were they not? “Are they…” The worms were wrapping up in each other with bulging clitellae, which was surely just an effort at strangulation. They didn’t have teeth. It was their way. “See how clever mine are, drawing yours in with a false sense of security.” Yes. Her worms might not have been pretty, but they were clever, weren’t they?
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It was the Austen that had done it. Why hadn’t Siobhan read to her worms about harsh moors? Why did she think Austen—and her worm counterpart, Wurmsten—would be good material for the worms? That was how they knew, that was why she was thinking of it; their girth made them in want of a mate. It seemed none of Austen’s—and Wurmsten, who claimed her novels were entirely unrelated to Austen—commentary on class and society were absorbed into their slimy bodies. That was why Siobhan read Austen—and Wurmsten, who might have only been known in one niche banshee community but made a healthy living of decaying flesh anyway—in fact: for the wit! The cunning! Certainly, nothing about the romance; it hardly occurred to her. The worms had taken the wrong message away. If only she had read them harsh tales of the moors.
Siobhan’s cheeks pinked like the worms’. “I was reading them The Art of War,” she lied through clenched teeth, swallowing back a bubble of acid. “This is simply what I’ve taught them: ‘a wise general makes a point of foraging on the enemy’. They are…foraging on the enemy.” Foraging could be one word for it, if the meaning was stretched enough, though the more obvious word burned on her tongue. The worms paired up, sealing wet, throbbing clittella to another’s body. Encasing themselves in mucus, Siobhan turned her head away as a particular white fluid bubbled out of the worms. Something was, in a way, being foraged.
“There is nothing false about this.” Siobhan leveled her gaze on Regan, careful to keep her eyes away from the foraging worms; her face blazed red. “Our worms have—Our worms are…” If she didn’t give it a name, if she didn’t say it, could she deny the truth? In a way, with a stretched definition and artistic liberties, they were foraging on the enemy. “It’s a new technique of war,” she said, “you wouldn’t know it; it’s not in whatever books about moors you’re reading. It is obviously very complex. The girth on my worms is at least eighty percent knowledge. Perhaps I am not soft. Perhaps you are just…hard.”
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The ground by Regan’s feet swelled with worms. Her worms, as sad and grey as they were (a few more weeks of Jade juice would have done the trick), had perked up to the presence of Siobhan’s vivacious worms, and were wiggling in response with more gusto than they had displayed in the entire time they had been with Regan. Not only did their swarming continue – it expanded – spreading over to Siobhan, a giant, pulsing mat of mucus and wriggling pink bodies. She had more or less abandoned the idea of this being worm cunning… attempting to believe something did not make it true, and all illusions in her life were undergoing a slow crumble as her departure neared.
Regan knew little about the secret mechanics of worm copulation, but that melding and fluid seemed reproductive in nature, and Siobhan, well… Regan didn’t know her cheeks could be that color. This was the woman who wore a turtleneck that was missing half its fabric. She had practically done a strip tease with a winter coat. She could blush? Regan studied the couplings, more certain by the second. “They’re… no, they’re definitely, uh…” She couldn’t quite say it either. But Siobhan was acting strange. For a banshee, hard was right. “Hm. I never thought I would hear you provide me with a compliment,” Regan said, raising a brow (she couldn’t look away from the worms, though; they were hypnotic). Unfortunately, it was not true – she was softer than Siobhan and in all the wrong ways. And it was the whole problem, the reason why she needed to go back. “Careful. You may convince me not to go with you, if I am hard. But then, your judgement is frail, isn’t it? You read your worms classic literature thinking it wouldn’t put… these notions in their small minds. Mine are only going along with it – they were poised for battle, then yours romanced mine.”
The ground sounded moist with worm love, like hands sliding into mayonnaise. And Worm Day was not the time for love. Regan’s fists clenched and she found her face growing hot, too. Fates, this really was happening. Was this really what was meant to occur? Her worms were fornicating with the enemy! What had gotten into them? Did that mean – was it actually love? It was beyond reason, like all love, as far as Regan could tell. Could it be, when they lacked the capacity for such emotion? That question made her belly ache (unclear why).
“We can’t separate them.” Regan spoke with certainty, but her voice was thick with something. She wasn’t sure where it came from (or the sentiment of not separating lovers). Some worm mucus probably got in there. She finally tore her eyes from the worm orgy and they landed on a very red Siobhan. “Can we agree on this? They remain together.” Was it worth throwing in that she meant the worms also could not be physically separated? Because that also seemed true. They had melded together, holding fast.
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“They are fucking.” Finally, Siobhan said it. “No,” Siobhan corrected herself, “they are making delicate, sensual worm love.” It was obvious to her, and her inability to look the worms directly in their anuses (they did not have eyes), that their passion extended beyond the realms of necessity; love was linking bodies together, stabbing each other with setae so the no new copulation could be committed, and then wiggling away to eat detritus. Worms knew love, of course they had felt a connection to the words of Jane Austen. “You are hard, maybe. Regan, you are very hard. You are erect with hardness. I cannot--I cannot deny the worms. Perhaps that makes me soft.” Siobahn turned around, shutting her eyes to the worms and the world. They possessed something she did not: love. And a slimy, pink, wiggling segmented body (but oh, how she wished for one).
Where had she gone wrong? From the beginning, it seemed. From loving her worms. From wanting a garden at all, from creating her compost bin. For wanting a life that wasn’t allowed to her. For imagining she might be a worm, writhing with girthy freedom in the dirt free to make love to wormever she pleased and eating as much manure as she wanted. She was a banshee; banshees didn’t do what they pleased. It was all wrong, all along: the war, the worms, the Regan. It was wrong to make innocent creatures act out her fantasies of power. They were worms and worms will do as they want: they will wiggle, they will secrete mucus, they will eat more than their weight each day. They did not have eyes, or legs, or arms, or lungs, but they could make love (they probably did not understand “love” at all, but Siobhan would only realize this after crying about her worms in the privacy of her house).
Siobhan turned around again, tears pooling around her brown eyes. “You’re right. You—child, baby, newborn infant with no knowledge—are right. We cannot separate these worms.” A war was defined by its binary nature; by winners and losers. The worms had won. Perhaps she had gone soft, perhaps the worms had changed her, perhaps it was the air and the occasion of worm day, but she didn’t care how emotional she came off. “If you love a worm…” She clutched at her slow-beating heart. “...let them go.” And she did, against her better judgment, love these worms.
“You…” Siobhan furiously wiped her eyes. Sniffling, she pointed at the other banshee. “...Will say nothing of this during our plane trip—and you will be coming with me. You will. But we have let these worms go—we are accepting a truce on this day. Another Worm Day, and there will be another, we will fight our worms again.” Siobhan sighed. “May your worms be less aroused by my girthy worms next time.”
And with that, the worms wiggled into the sunset.
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This year's popular winter jacket styles: Oasis Jackets
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