#fabric stores los angeles

[goblinontour]

Swallow You, No Remorse

mirror, mirror, flesh upon my face, woah

warnings: shopping, dissociation, light spanking, fucking, blowie, peaches & cream (separately), and, as always, love

word count: 7.3k

The paper is crinkling in his back pocket. He can feel it. He can’t hear it over the music that fills the store and his ears — some overly formalised rhetorical score, too grand for a place like this — but he can feel it. It’s there, pressed against the denim, an irritant, an accusation. He could just pull it out and look at it, end this ridiculous wandering in circles or zigzags or whatever absentminded, aimless pattern he’s been making.  

A half-hour? A full hour? Time passes differently in places like these. Unnatural, windowless, fluorescent-lit limbos where the mind empties out and the body moves on its own, like a wind-up toy slowly running out of momentum.  

Isn’t that why he made the list in the first place? A proper list, dashes neatly marking each item, a safeguard against his own inevitable forgetfulness. And yet here he is, already lost, already drifting, already failing at the one simple thing he set out to do.  

The sane thing — the reasonable, adult, functional thing — would be to just reach into his back pocket, fish it out, and confirm what else was on there beyond the carton of eggs he’s already thrown into the cart. Are they even on the list? He doesn’t know. He reckons eggs are a necessary enough thing to have, so he grabbed them. That’s how people do this, right? They go to a store and they buy eggs. They don’t turn it into some existential ordeal.

He knows there’s more written on that crumpled scrap of paper. He distinctly remembers making more than one little line. But isn’t it so…pathetic? To walk around with it in his hands, scrutinising his own handwriting like a child trying to decipher a secret code, broadcasting to the world that he isn’t capable of remembering basic things?  

He exhales sharply, barely more than a puff of breath, and grips the shopping cart’s handle. It’s already been annoying him for the past however many minutes, but he’s been ignoring it, thinking maybe the problem would solve itself if he just stopped paying attention. But it hasn’t, and now, now that he’s noticing it again, it’s all he can focus on. The damn thing keeps swaying to the right, veering off-course if he doesn’t keep constant pressure on the left side. He’s been correcting it instinctively, nudging it back in line with his hip, but the repetitive movement is getting to him now. If he doesn’t finish up soon, he’s going to walk out of here with crooked legs and a bent spine.  

He straightens up, suddenly hyper-aware of how he’s been hunching forward, shoulders curled in, neck craning down. He rolls his shoulders back, stretches his spine, quietly sighs like this is some great epiphany, though it’s really just common sense. His t-shirt — too tight, a size too small, probably shrank in the wash — digs into his skin at the adjustment, fabric straining against his shoulder blades and seams rubbing in the crooks of his armpits. Tight t-shirts are great for that. They start to hurt if you don’t adjust to them.  

Christ, he’s probably overthinking this.

People are work. A lot of work. Too much work. And that’s, like…ultra, mega okay. Usually. It’s just pure psychic automatism and he should-

Oh, right. Tanning lotion.

He should probably get into forgery since his only real skill is mimicking people. He doesn’t even know who it is he’s trying to become by making himself potentially orange, depending on how this turns out, but here he is, in Los Angeles, and as much as he enjoys the sun, he can never seem to spend enough time in it to actually tan. The burns always get to him first. So: tanning lotion.

God, Alex.  

Alright. He knows that we, humans, with our mighty little brains, like to dwell on our own condition — maybe it’s narcissistic in principle, maybe it’s just an unavoidable side effect of consciousness and self-consciousness — but he still doesn’t know why he can’t just pull out the list.  

Maybe, apart from all the above, there’s another recurring thought in his busily thinking brain. An obsession with its own incontrovertible and eventual void.  

The oxymoronic appeal of…death.  

Death as a dreamless sleep.  

He’s never had a night of dreamless sleep. If it isn’t a dream, it’s a fantasy occurring and occupying that space.  

He holds such a deep sense of longing for his bed.  

All the time. Yesterday. Twenty-nine years ago. Right now.  

His gaze snags on a display of discounted candles as he passes. The real scents are all gone. All that’s left are the ones that are meant to smell like an idea rather than an actual thing. Soft Cashmere & Oakwood, Midnight Rain, Golden Hour Mist. He wonders if he should get one, just for the hell of it, just to see what the hell “Golden Hour Mist” is supposed to smell like. The idea of golden hour doesn’t seem like it should have a scent. And mist? Mist just smells like air, right? Probably overpriced, anyway.  

The cart sways again. He corrects.  

You simply have to adjust. That’s what everyone says. That’s what life is made out to be: adjustments. Adjusting yourself to it. When the avalanche of stimuli starts coming your way — some good, some bad, some ugly — it’s difficult for most people to handle. He’s one of those ‘mosts.’ He thinks so, anyway. Most people don’t have the thick skin required to make it through all the lies, all the assumptions, and most of all the truths being said about them.  

It’s like Brecht says in his play: “In its natural state, human skin is too thin for this world, so men take care to see it grows thicker.” 

Until, finally, they’re bumping into things and not feeling them anymore. He’s not quite there yet.  

But then comes the second part, the part that messes with his plans and hopes of one day becoming unbreakable: “There would be nothing wrong with the method, if only you could stop it from growing. Take a piece of tanned leather: it stays the way it is. But the living skin grows, it grows thicker and thicker.”  

Does his skin gain a new layer if he tans it? Is that what he’s trying to do? Does he get a thicker layer of protection that way? Or does he become less himself and more skin?  

A woman brushes past him too fast, her perfume hanging in the air in her wake, and he wonders what it would be like to live in the kind of brain that doesn’t trap itself in loops like this. To just…buy eggs. Push a cart that works properly. Pick up a candle and preferably not think about the philosophy of its name.  

He reaches into his back pocket. Feels the paper wrinkle under his fingers.  

Almost pulls it out. Almost.

Which aisle is this?

Alex doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. His brain isn’t logging that information, isn’t marking this moment as a mundane one. It’s failing him. Much like his ability to remember a list (a list he has already abandoned, crumpling like an afterthought). And much like his ability to keep his hands to himself when you’re this close.  

The scent hit him first. That was the problem.  

That scent that has lived in the fibers of his pillows, in the hollow of his throat where your mouth always finds purchase, in the folds of his sheets where your weight has pressed into them long enough to leave an imprint, a ghost of you that lingers even after you’re gone, and in the space between wakefulness and sleep where his subconscious is still occupied with the freshest memory of you. 

He should have known it immediately. Should have inhaled and thought, Ah! There you are!, but the cruel delay, the stupid hesitation of his own mind taking a second too long to recognise you. That brief lapse, that fraction of a second where he didn’t immediately register you — it infuriates him. It makes him feel like a fraud in his own body.  

That scent should be coded into his DNA by now.  

The phone was an impulse. A stupid one, but when he feels like this — like he’s been caught in the space between hunger and hallucination, his own body a trap he doesn’t know how to escape — he acts before he thinks. He moves before his brain catches up. His fingers wrap around the mobile in his pocket, slip past the crinkled sticky note he’s still too stubborn to pull out and use, and he’s already pressing your name, already lifting it to his ear when he watches it happen — your body stills, just slightly, as you feel the buzz of your phone in your pocket.  

You answer.  

“Hi.” he says.  

“Hi.”

“It’s me…Alex.” A pause. He watches your back, the set of your shoulders shifting under your shirt, watches the muscles in your neck tighten for just a second before you relax again. “I’m right behind you right now. And now,” he continues, watching the slight turn of your head, the way you let him see only the elegant slope of your left side greeting him in place of your full face — “now you see me.”

“Now I don’t.”

It’s a game. Always is.

Did you see him when you walked past? Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. You won’t tell him, because you know him. He’d rather believe this is some happenstance of faith, some cosmic alignment, proof that you are tethered together in a way neither of you fully understand but both of you are too weak to resist, by being placed in the same aisle, at the same time, under the same flickering fluorescent light that is wholly unfit to illuminate you.  

“You look good. I like those jeans.”

It’s not just a compliment. He needs you to know that. It’s an admission of guilt. Because he’s following your lead without thinking, without hesitation, without needing to see your full face to know you heard the shift in his tone. You felt it. And without eyes in the back of your head, you know he’s checking you out. 

Shamelessly.  

“Keep following me.”

Your voice curls through the receiver. He doesn’t need to be told twice. He obeys.  

“Don’t turn around.”

“You hungry, Alex? You starving?”

The whisper is quiet. So quiet that only he hears it. So quiet that it should be a secret, but it isn’t, not really, because he already knows. He knows what you’re doing, what you’re saying, what you’re thinking, because it’s the same thing he’s thinking.  

And God, those peaches — his eyes catch on them absently, these soft, golden things in jars, bathed in syrup, and it makes him think of you. He sees them, and then he sees you, the way you hovered near his bathroom counter that one time, plucked the bottle of his new peach-scented body wash, uncapped it, brought it to your nose, inhaled deep, and sighed. 

He remembers the hum you let out, the way you said, “This makes me wanna eat you.” And he remembers how it made him ache, how it sent some violent shiver of want down his spine.  

He’d wanted to crumble into the tile floor on the spot.  

You tried to take a bite out of him once. A real, actual bite. Not a playful nibble. Not a fleeting graze of teeth. A bite.  

Below his arm, the softest part of him, your mouth on the fleshy underside of his triceps — if you can even call it that, because it wasn’t the muscle you wanted. It was the fat, the place where the fibers fade into something pliable, something tender, the kind of flesh that invites teeth, that begs to be consumed, the plush layer beneath the skin, the part of him that could bruise beneath the pressure of your teeth. You wanted to sink in. Wanted to hurt him, to mark him, to make him less of a man and more of a meal. To swallow him whole, turn him into something that belonged inside you. But the moment your lips touched the spot, he stirred.  

Unsuccessful. So far.  

“Evidently.” he says, because he’s past the point of lying. There’s no use pretending.  

“Evidently…”  

“Let’s go back to my place.”

You laugh — sharp, quiet, indulgent. You don’t have to turn around for him to see the way your mouth curves around the sound. You call him out instantly.

“When you say things like that, do you realise what you say? It’s like saying ‘That’s so gay’ at something. You need more subtlety, darling.”

“Knock it off, alright?” He giggles, but his fingers twitch at his sides. He’s already unravelling.  

Because in his dream, or fantasy, or whatever the fuck his brain does when it takes reality through a rewiring and distorts it into something softer, he’s on the living room floor, lying on his back, and you’re petting the cat inside him. Kneading his stomach with your own paws, walking back and forth, pressing into him like you mean to stay, like you mean to burrow inside him, curl into him, make a home there, settle somewhere deep where even he can’t get you out, stretching and leaving behind little ghosts of warmth everywhere you touched.  

In reality, he lets go of the shopping cart.  

Lets it drift, lets it rattle against the linoleum as he moves toward you. No pretenses. No more games. No invisible inside-his-brain things meant to protect him.  

And that’s the moment it catches up to him — how much of a fucking hassle this stupid thing has been, this wonky, defected cart that has spent the last twenty minutes dragging him to the right, making him counter it with his whole body weight, making him lean so hard in the opposite direction that he felt it in his spine, digging into his ribs.  

But he doesn’t have time to fix it now. He’s already moving. Without fanfare, without hesitation, without any real sense of whether he should or shouldn’t-

The hunt is over. He catches you.  

You don’t even flinch. Because you knew. You always know.  

And he’s weak. So fucking weak.  

His hands are on you before his brain can tell them not to be. He’s touching you in broad daylight, in public, in the middle of this goddamn aisle, and there’s no stopping it. No rewinding this back into subtlety. No pretending his body isn’t betraying him, that the very blood in his veins isn’t singing mine mine mine mine mine.  

His invincible streak is done for.  

He’s lost.  

He’s ruined.  

Have I led a toothless life? he thinks. He feels like he has never bitten into anything. He feels like he’s still waiting. He was reserving himself for later on and he has just noticed that his teeth could be gone.

And all he can see is your nape.  

Taut. Bare. Untouched by the sun, lacking its kiss, but not untouched by him, and it’s now visible from your hair being out of the way, the soft back of your neck, which every now and then he set his teeth in, forgetting he could have none, such is the power of instinct.

Still, it’s a lifeless thing without the bloom of his lips pressed against it, without the red marks his teeth have left before, and that is unacceptable. He should be kissing you there. He should be biting down now, now, now, now, because what else is instinct but an uncontrollable thing? He wants to bite it now.

He wants.  

He takes.  

And when you finally — finally — turn in his arms, when your breath ghosts against his jaw, when your fingers curl into his shirt and hold, “Which aisle is this?” he asks, dazed.  

And you whisper against his mouth, “Doesn’t matter.”

His dick has its own heartbeat.  

It is…growling.  

And you haven’t even touched him yet.

He turns his nose at couples in public because something picks at his heart every time. A tight pull, a slow gnawing, a sensation he can never name but always, always feels. How can you be so in love where everyone can watch? Aren’t you afraid? Shouldn’t you be afraid? It has always seemed like something meant to be hidden. A private ache, a secret indulgence, a thing that blooms best in dim-lit corners and half-shielded glances. Not something to be flaunted under the cold, all-seeing eye of the world.  

He didn’t know love was something you could show.  

And yet, here he is. Here you are.  

He is kissing you.  

He thinks about this often, how his lips are always one heartbeat away from betraying him. How they tremble with need whenever you are too close for too long. How they seem to make decisions before his mind can catch up. He had spent years convinced he would rather be bitter in his ways than accept that he could have this and it could be this simple. In all its raw and relentless weight, it was something he was allowed to hold.  

It has always been easier to watch it happen to other people, to keep it at a safe distance, to see it in fiction, in film, in strangers on the street. Something to be observed but never touched. To nod along and say, Yes, of course, I know love exists, without ever having to know what it feels like.   

But then — your taste is still on his tongue.  

It tells him everything.  

And how could he ever not want to hold his hand on your waist?

“Mhmm…” He licks at his lips when he pulls back, sees his sparks reflecting in your eyes, blinks long so they don’t blind him. His heart is a drumbeat in his throat, and your breath is warm against his chin. He doesn’t know if he should be moving, talking, staying still, holding you closer. He only knows that he wants.  

“Come on. Did you walk here? I’ve got the car parked up front.”

“I did. I just wanna see all this first.” You nod toward the vastness, the endless rows of shelves, the long aisles stretching ahead, the lights buzzing faintly above. You take a quick glance at the abandoned cart behind him, tilting your head slightly. “And you have to get toilet paper.”

“Do I?” He raises an eyebrow, half-amused, half-exasperated, knowing full well you’re right, but already too distracted by the way your mouth moves, the way your voice lingers between the syllables.  

“There was only one roll left last time I checked.”

“I have a bidet.” He counters, smirking. It’s a weak defense and a feeble attempt at distraction. You both know it. He’s trying to lure you, and he reckons you’ve already made your decision. He just hopes it’s in his favour. But even if it’s not — not yet — he won’t quit before he’s got you in the passenger seat, or perhaps his bed.  Because you never know what might happen on the way, but bed is definitive. 

Bed is undeniable.  

There’s no escaping there. No excuses, no distractions, no aisles of meaningless products to stall the inevitable. He could cage you in between his arms, press you down into the mattress, make you stay, make you understand just how much he needs-

“You don’t.” You smile.  

A slow, knowing one. One that makes his chest tighten, makes his fingers twitch with the need to pull you closer, closer, much closer.  

“I’ll order one. And I’ve got a roll of paper towels somewhere, I’m sure. We’ll be fine. Let’s go home.”

And maybe this is another kind of love, too. The kind that lingers in the in-betweens, in the ordinary, in the stupid, pointless arguments. It sneaks up on him in places he never expected to find it.  

He can no longer deny it is his.

All of the best things in life demand a surrender to vulnerability, don’t they? A willingness to look a little foolish, to risk the burn of embarrassment, to let the world see you stripped. 

Dancing, where your limbs might betray you, or singing, where your voice might not reach the note you swore you could hit in the safety of solitude. Even cooking, where the knife could slip, where the sauce could curdle, where your best effort might still be met with a polite grimace and a half-hearted “It’s…interesting.”

And then there’s sharing not just a piece, but the whole of yourself, which is the most reckless act of them all. 

Love, which is reaching out a hand and hoping that it won’t be left hanging in the air, untouched. Pressing your mouth to another’s and bracing for the possibility that they won’t kiss back. Undressing not just in body but in spirit, standing naked before another person in ways that go far beyond skin and fabric. There’s no armour in love. No way to safeguard your pride. There’s only the leap, the freefall, the hope that you won’t hit the ground alone. And there’s no escape from it. No way to avoid the raw exposure of being seen for what you are, the lurking threat of rejection or ridicule or simply doing it wrong.  

It’s terrifying.

He’s spent years perfecting the art of appearing unbothered. Of sculpting himself into something smooth and untouchable that doesn’t flinch at the mere idea of possibly falling flat on his face. If you pretend not to care, then no one can use it against you. If you laugh first, then the joke can’t be at your expense. If you never hold your hand out for too long, then you won’t have to endure the slow, awful realisation that no one is going to take it.  

He’s learned to not care. At least, that’s what he tells himself.  

So long as he doesn’t care, nothing can bruise his ego or dent the fragile, meticulously thought out version of himself that he presents to the world. He doesn’t care, then he doesn’t need. He doesn’t care, doesn’t long. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t ache.

Right?  

And yet-

Thud.

He smacks his head against the headboard, and you laugh. Too eager for your own good, too full of uncontainable glee, too…little old you.

And it wrecks him.  

He should be mortified. He thinks he might start spiralling into himself, cursing the fact that he’s just made an utter fool of himself at a moment when he was supposed to be cool, in control, but instead…he wants to kiss you stupid.  

You’re not laughing at him. You’re laughing because it’s funny. Because the world is full of imperfect, messy moments, and you don’t treat them like something to be ashamed of. Because you think he’s beautiful when he’s clumsy and human and stripped of all the careful precision he usually wields.  

Because you like him, even when he’s like this. 

That’s what really undoes him.  

He craves perfection, but he detests things that are perfect. He aches for beauty, but only if it’s earned. He so desperately wants to see things that are flawed and raw and honest — and in those things, he finds something more perfect than perfection itself. Something like you. 

It’s a constant war within him, these contradictions. The fight toward adaptability, toward softness and letting go of his own impossible standards. He lets himself lose that battle with you. Every time.  

So he traces you before he even thinks of undressing you. Before even a single article of clothing is removed, his hands and lips commit you to memory. The texture of the fabric you wear — delicate silk, some well-worn cotton, the softness of a sweater he knows you stole from him — he makes note of it all. Because you let those things touch you, just as you let him touch you, and that means they must be worthy. And if he is worthy, then this must be real.  

He feels you with everything he has. Fingers, palms, lips, breath, heart. 

He yearns with every inch of himself.  

You don’t have patience for it. You don’t want to savour, to take your time, to stretch this moment into eternity. You want him in pieces. You want to rip him apart.  

So you start with his shirt.  

It’s tight. Clings to him like a second skin. You try to pull it over his head, but the neckline catches on his nose, and by the time it’s off, his face is flushed red, heat rising up his throat, spreading over his cheeks. He’s burning, and you might get charred. You lick over his collarbone as if to soothe him.  

It only makes it worse.  

His hands fumble with the buttons on your top, his usually deft fingers betraying him in their hunger.  

“Need help?” you tease, voice dripping with wicked amusement.  

You glance down at him, and he looks ruined already, struggling to maintain the illusion of composure. His jaw is tight, his breathing uneven, his pupils blown wide as he watches you, his entire body tense with the effort of holding himself back.  

But you don’t want him to hold back.  

You want him to break. You want him mad. You want him to feel as insane as you do when your tongue grazes his skin and you get a taste, when you shift against him just right and you feel the hard press of his erection through the tight denim of his jeans, rubbing against the middle seam of yours.  

Gone, gone, it all needs to be gone. 

“Take everything off.” he demands, unhinged, something dangerous brewing.

And you smile. You’ve won.

He watches the way your body shifts under his hands. Always studying you, learning you, committing every reaction to memory so he can play them back later when he’s alone and desperate and reaching for anything that will get him off. He knows how your breath stutters when his fingers skim just under the waistband of your panties, and how your back arches when he presses his lips to the dip behind your ear. 

He knows you because he’s taken his time learning, and God, does he love learning.  

You willingly bare yourself to him, and he to you, without hesitation, without shame — only the deep, bone-deep hunger that neither of you can satisfy, no matter how many times you try.  

He kisses your shoulder as it’s revealed, lets his lips linger just to feel the way your skin warms beneath them. Your fingers ghost over his hip bone, tracing the sharp ridge, the soft skin stretched over it. You feel the twitch of muscle when you press down just a little harder. 

He shivers too. 

He’s naked now, completely, because he couldn’t stand anything between you and him. That just won’t do. The second his jeans got caught clinging around his ankles, twisting and restricting, he twisted himself under you, kicking them off with impatience and an almost frustrated groan, not willing to be anything less than completely unrestrained. If he can’t spread his legs the way he wants, then he can’t get you where he wants you — can’t pull you between them, can’t press you down against the mattress, can’t cage you in like he needs to. He needs to feel you pinned down, not to keep you in place, but so you know there’s no need to run.  

He needs to. You let him.  

“You gonna get on your knees for me?” he asks. 

His voice is softer than it should be given the filth coming out of his mouth. But it’s his eyes that do it. Big, wide, full of hunger. He’s not looking at your face, though — no, his gaze is locked a little lower, where your arms push your breasts together. Barely concealed. He’s got your wrists pinned, elbows locked, holding you in place just to get a better look. He’s made this happen, orchestrated the scene, maybe for his own benefit, maybe for yours. Maybe he doesn’t know the difference anymore.  

“Maybe.” you whisper, and you swear you see something snap in him.  

“Maybe?” He repeats it, mocking, tasting it on his tongue like it’s something foreign. “I can fuck you like this.” He dips down. He presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat, open-mouthed, breathing in your scent, then lower, lower, until his breath is hot against your chest, so hot it’s making your skin burn. But he doesn’t take what’s right there in front of him. He stalls, teases himself as much as you, because anticipation is half the pleasure, isn’t it? He enjoys the ache. “But I would like you from behind.”  

“Would you?”  

“Mhm…” A hum. “Come on, get on your knees.”  

You hold still, just to make him wait, see what he’ll do.  

He doesn’t ask again.  

He gives in to his own impatience, pressing one last pair of kisses to your chest, one for each of the girls, before gripping your hips and flipping you over, pinning you beneath him, pulling your hips up just to get you where he wants you. You don’t even have time to react. His knees press into the mattress, solid. He yanks you back, forcing your body until it is flush against his and you can feel the heat of him on you, heavy and insistent.  

He rolls his hips once through the groove between your legs to make you gasp, feel how hard he is. You push yourself up onto your elbows and turn your head to look at him, your cheek brushing against the sheets.  

“Are you gonna take them off?” you ask, shifting your hips.  

He’s got the lace between his fingers. He’s playing with the fabric, running his digits over the delicacy, contemplating. The little thing is already damp, clinging to you in the most delicious way. He loves this part — the power in holding you right where he wants you.  

To be or not to be, that is the question.  

You decide for him. “Leave them on.”  

He doesn’t argue. It means he doesn’t have to waste time. It means he gets to take you sooner. He almost doesn’t know what to do with himself now that you’ve given him an easier way to ruin you.  

Dragging his fingers over you, he says “You’re already fucking dripping.” His voice is thick with it, with need, with pride. “You just get like this when I touch you, huh?”  

“Alex-”  

“Shh, babe. Let me play with you for a little, would you?”  

Then, with a hand firm on your hip, he pulls the fabric to the side, giving himself the view he’s been waiting for. His fingers slip through your slick folds, teasing, not giving you anything substantial, but enough to make you shiver at the obvious implication. He takes himself in hand, runs the head of his cock against you, wet and throbbing, teasing, knocking before entering, the polite thing to do. He pushes the tip in just barely, not quite pressing in yet, only spreading your wetness over himself.  

Then he lifts his hand and gives one of your cheeks a slap, testing, watching the way the flesh bounces before settling back into place. A little taste.  

You make a sound — a moan, but you try to stifle it, try to act as if you weren’t expecting it, as if you didn’t love it. You turn your head, give him a look that’s pure scandalised indulgence. 

“Oh, you like that?” His voice is full of something cruel and sweet all at once. “Come on, baby, you can take a little more than that, can’t you?”  

He does it again. A little harder this time. A sharp sting that quickly turns into a warm, burning ache. He grips your hip to steady you when you tremble, his fingers pressing deep enough that you know you’ll have marks in the morning.  

He’d do it again to see how many times it takes for it to really turn red, but it’s business time. 

“Gonna let me fill this little hole, huh?”  

How can he look like an angel and create such terrible vile things with his mouth? You’ll never know. Perhaps it’s you that’s corrupted him or him you or maybe you’re just both fucked up in all the right ways because it almost makes you gush to hear it coming out of his mouth. 

Maybe you were always meant to be like this.  

“Yes.” 

“Tell me.” he murmurs, leaning forward, his lips brushing against the back of your neck. “Tell me how bad you want it.”  

Your breath stutters, your fingers twisting in the sheets.  

“Please.” you whisper.  

His cock twitches at the sound. Fuck, you sound so sweet when you beg.  

“Please what?”  

“Please, Alex-”  

Another slap, harder this time, making you whimper. “You can do better than that.”  

“Please.” you breathe, your voice shaking, your body trembling. “Please fuck me. Please- need you inside me, need you to-”   

“Good girl.”

Too sweet, far too tender for how he proceeds to ruin you.  

He likes to destroy — you see it in the mirror on the side of the bed, a perfect, damning reflection of the mess you’ve become. Of the way his hands grip your waist, fingers pressing deep to leave the shadow of bruises in their wake. Of the way his hips snap against yours, relentless, measured, pushing you forward only to pull you right back onto him, over and over, a rhythm so precise it’s almost cruel.  

You see it in his face too.  

His lips part around silent gasps, and his brows furrow, and his jaw clenches every time you squeeze around him. He watches himself dissociate, detaching from the act enough to observe it from the outside, like he’s studying a creature he doesn’t recognise no more.  

He’s so rarely in touch with his own body, so rarely aware of how it feels. He feels too much. So much that not even the image staring back at him can explain everything coursing through him, everything you make him feel. It’s overwhelming, and he doesn't know how to hold onto it, so he ends up letting it take him whole. He lets it consume him the same way he consumes you.  

You weren’t his, and he wasn’t yours.  

You were each your own, bound to nothing but the pull of your bodies and the hunger in your bones. But you were so good at making it feel like you belonged to each other, like you were carved from the same aching desire, sculpted by the same desperate hands.  

You hold onto the hope that he’s as weak when it comes to being inside you as you are to getting filled by him. And felt by him. And kissed by him. And- 

“Are you close already?”

His voice is low, almost teasing, but not quite. More like he’s genuinely asking, like he can’t believe it. He’s half impressed, and the rest is just desperation to see how much further he can take you.  

You don’t answer right away because you can’t. Now that he’s brought it to your attention, that he’s voiced what you hadn’t fully grasped yourself, it’s all too obvious — how your legs are shaking, how you can’t seem to pick yourself up, how your fingers clutch at the sheets so tightly your hands start to cramp.  

And you only now realise that he’s barely been inside you for a few minutes. A few minutes. And yet — how much more could there really be to do?  

You squeeze around him involuntarily, and he groans, dropping his forehead against your shoulder for a fleeting second before he pulls back to look at you. He’s smug, lips curling, that familiar glint in his eye — like he’s just stumbled upon something he didn’t know he needed but now can’t live without. He does that every time. 

“That close, huh?”

You whimper, trying to shake your head, trying to tell him no, not yet, but it’s a lie, and he knows it. He sees it in the way you tremble, the way your breath stutters, the way your back arches ever so slightly like you’re subconsciously chasing something you don’t want to end just yet.  

“I bet you could come just like this.” He slows his thrusts, shifts the angle, rolls his hips just right, making you feel every inch of him as he drags against every sensitive spot inside you. “All stuffed and barely moving. That’s all you need, isn’t it? Just me, nice and deep, keeping you full.”

You let out the most pathetic sound. It makes him curse under his breath, gripping your hips harder, holding you steady as he starts moving again, just a little rougher and a little more determined than before.  

“Fuck, look at you.” he murmurs, gaze flicking between your face, and the flushed skin on your neck, and the mirror, watching the way your body takes him, how your mouth falls open, how your lashes flutter. “Don’t even need to work for it, do I? You were already there.”  

You want to protest, but you can’t, because it’s true. You’re already there. And he’s not gonna let you go anywhere else.

He grabs you by the hair. Rough in intention, delicate in his grip. A contradiction — like everything about him. He pulls, and your scalp burns, a quick bloom of sensation, but oh, it stings so good. 

And he’s everywhere. Kissing all your spots, inside and out, his mouth mapping the edges of your pleasure, finding every weak spot, pressing his advantage. He knows your body better than his own. He knows just where to touch, where to lick, where to bite. It’s too much. He’s too good. And it has to come out of you in some way, has to escape from somewhere deep inside where you can’t contain it.  

It comes in the form of his name, breaking past your lips the way a prayer tumbles from the lips of oneself when they finally feel salvation. Your body shudders, shakes, clenches around him as he thrusts through it, and you hear him groan above you, see the clench of his jaw in the mirror’s reflection.  

“Just a bit more.”

That’s what he’s telling himself, grounding himself in the thought as he pushes forward, chasing his own undoing. Just a bit more, just a little longer. A weak little lie that can’t hurt, or a promise that he wants to believe, because if he pretends it’s just a little longer, he can keep fucking you like this without fear of it ending. Just a bit more — but it’s never just a bit when it comes to you.  

And suddenly, he’s getting harsher.  

He’s fucking you like he’s forgotten how to do anything else, like he was made for this, and you — god, you can’t take him. Not like this. Not right now. The desperation, the need, it’s tipping over the edge.

“Hold on, hold-”

You turn to shove at his chest, knocking him off balance. He stumbles back onto his heels, his hands catching himself against the mattress, eyes wide with shock. Stunned. You don’t wait, don’t hesitate — you’re on him. Settled between his legs, hands pressed to his thighs for leverage, you take him in your mouth. You don’t ease into it — he’s welcomed straight to the back of your throat, and his breath hitches, a strangled sound getting caught in his chest, one that makes pride bloom in your heart, even in your half-ruined state.

He’s still hot, still slick from you and flushed to the tip, and when you press your tongue flat against him, you swear he tastes sweet. You love how he tastes. Maybe that makes no sense, but it does. It’s not just his skin but the way he’s looking down at you, blown pupils and lips parted.  

He thinks it might just be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, to have someone take parts of you in them. To accept it, to want it. There’s something sacred about it, something almost devastating. A kind of surrender that isn’t forced, but offered. Trust laid bare like a gift he never asked for but would die to keep.

And you take him so well.

He’s full in your mouth, thick and heavy against your tongue, and the muscles in his stomach tense under your fingers as you press your hands higher and he fights the urge to thrust deeper. But you don’t need him to. You do it yourself. You take him as far as you can, let your body mould around him, let the wet sounds spill.  

He’s already close, so close, and now he’s getting there quick.

“Fuck-” 

His fingers weave into your hair again, gripping tight, but not to control — he lost that control the second he saw you looking up at him like this, with your lips stretched around him, with that hunger in your eyes. He just needs something to hold while you ruin him with how your throat tightens just right.  

“So good, baby.” His voice is wrecked, slurred with pleasure. His knuckles pale against the bedsheets, clenching like he’s holding onto a chain, bracing himself against the inevitable, yet the swing moves to a rhythm his hands don’t command and it hits him now that perhaps not everything he holds is his to control. 

And through it all, you watch him.  

You never look away.  

Crave me. 

That’s what your eyes say.  

Desire me. Want me. I know you do already. All mine. 

Be a good pup and bark for me. 

If he had the ability to speak, he would’ve said your name. If he had the ability to move, he would’ve fucked your throat until there was nothing left of either of you. But he has nothing, nothing except the little solace he gets as he bites down on his lip to muffle the noises slipping from his mouth, and how his fingers tighten in your hair, his body bowing forward as he spills himself down your throat, his thighs tensing under your palms, his hips stuttering forward before he can stop himself. 

And he’s glad now. 

He’s grateful he doesn’t have to think about where it’ll go, the mess — no streaks across your cheek, no pearly trails cooling on your thighs, no need to wipe it off your skin before it gets sticky or a single wasted drop. No, he knows exactly where it’s going. Straight down. You’ll take it, let it coat your tongue, let him watch as you swallow every last drop, warm and thick, taking him so deep he swears he can feel himself sitting heavy in your stomach. He wonders if you can feel it too, if it lingers in your throat. 

Does it make you ache for more? 

He’d keep going if he could, fuck your mouth until it overflowed, until you had no choice but to let it dribble past your lips, down your chin, onto your tits, a mess after all. 

“Fuck-”

Creaming is great and all, but it’s even better when it’s put exactly where it belongs, or else it starts to drip.

This is much better. 

And if he could, if his voice worked, if his lips weren’t parting around silent moans and his mind weren’t so thoroughly fried, he would’ve barked for you. He would’ve barked had he not been too busy chewing your name in his mouth like his last meal whilst you ate your fill of him. 

He would have done anything for you. Anything.

Pliant in your hands, pliant between your lips. Got him feeling tender and maudlin. Got him stripped down to nothing. 

There’s nothing left to say but “I think I love you.”

a/n: This started from @heartshapedpolaroid saying she would read a shopping list if i wrote one. That was the first half-ish. But everything I write somehow turns into being about love in one way or another. I think writing is one of the only places I have to express it. It has nowhere else to go so it just end up in this stuff. I guess. And I was channeling @junedenim quite heavily, I think. Anyway :)

[reydeyflummyx759z]

Testing the Stars

CW: Mess

Ft. Sarsaparilla Contreras, a best friend, and Misaki Musoubana...

In an adventure filled with dick moves and manipulation.

This was definitely a new approach.

I wanted to capture Misaki's perceived nature and true nature... A sneezy wolf in sheep's clothing.

CHAPTER ONE...

Saks is Free Real Estate!

Misaki Musoubana, the epitome of Tokyo's elite, strutted through Los Angeles with the eyes of a hungry tiger. As she pondered into Saks Fifth Avenue, she relished how everything looked. She whisked through the luxurious racks of the boutique with the grace of a gazelle, her long black hair bouncing gently in rhythm with her confident stride. Her greenish-blue eyes sparkled with the excitement of finding the perfect ensemble for the upcoming gala. The spring air was a minefield of pollen and dander, but she'd never let it show.

Not in public.

Not with her best friend, Sarsaparilla "Ria" Contreras, who had the unfortunate timing to be in the throes of her own fashion emergency.

"Misaki," Ria whispered, her hazel eyes full of concern, "are you sure about this? You just got paid..."

Misaki's hand shot up, silencing her friend with a delicate yet firm gesture. She took a deep, unnecessary sniff, her prominent nostrils flaring like the petals of a particularly irritated orchid. "Posh, darling. It's fine. Besides, we ought to live a little, no?" Her high-pitched, nasally British accent was as soothing as a serrated knife on velvet.

Ria, with her short blond hair with blue undertones and a small, straight nose adorned with a septum piercing, looked skeptical. She knew Misaki's allergies could turn a delightful day into a sneezing symphony. "Well, it is pretty dusty," she protested, her voice a sweet blend of worry and doubt. "Are you sure going to such a high end store was a good idea?"

Misaki's hand fluttered to her nose again, her fingers lingering briefly before she spoke. "I've got this new nose spray, darling. The latest in hypoallergenic technology. It's supposed to be the bee's knees, so no need to worry about me turning into a walking tissue factory." She flashed a dazzling smile, her mole on her right cheek seeming to wink in the store's soft lighting.

The two friends continued their shopping spree, Ria's eyes darting around the store as she searched for the most avant-garde pieces that would make heads turn at the gala. Meanwhile, Misaki's nose began to itch with the intensity of a thousand mosquito bites. She tried to ignore it, focusing on the fabrics that whispered against her pale skin. Yet, with every breath she took, the scent of freshly dry-cleaned clothes and the faint hint of floral perfume wafted in, setting her allergies ablaze. "Hh... Hk'nxt!" Misaki stifled a sneeze with sheer willpower.

"What was that noise?"

Misaki's eyes watered, and she gave a delicate sniff. "Nothing." She lied, her voice nasal and strained.

Ria's gaze searched her face, and she looked ready to argue further, but Misaki was already moving on. "Look at this," she cooed, holding up a dress that was the color of a moonlit night. It shimmered with beads and sequins, the fabric whispering promises of elegance and opulence. She held it against her body, and the fabric clung to her curves like a second skin. "It's divine, don't you think?"

Misaki's nose twitched again, and she swiped at it with the back of her hand, the urge to sneeze growing stronger. "It's a bit... Old, isn't it?" Ria suggested, eyeing the garment with suspicion.

"Old?!" Misaki scoffed, her voice pitched high enough to shatter glass. "This is vintage, darling. The kind that makes a statement!" She held the dress closer to her large chest, as if protecting it from Ria's uncultured critique.

"Okay, if you say so..." Ria rolled her eyes and followed her friend's lead.

But the dress was the least of her worries. The itch in her nose had spread to the back of her throat, setting off a tickle that grew with every breath. Her eyes watered more, and she could feel her sinuses swelling shut. "hhHEHH’TSHIEWWW!!!" she finally couldn't hold it in, the sneeze exploding from her like a firecracker, the dress momentarily forgotten.

"Holy crap, bless you!" Ria's exclamation pierced the air, a stark contrast to the elegant ambiance of the boutique. She watched as Misaki's entire body convulsed with the sneeze, her eyes squeezed shut and her head thrown back, the force of the explosion sending a spray of saliva into the air. It was a stark reminder that even the most put-together of socialites weren't immune to the whims of the natural world. "Are you okay?"

Misaki's nostrils flared in preparation for another sneeze. She pinched her flaring nostrils shut, eager to continue shopping. "Ria, darling," she gasped out between clenched teeth, "I'm fine." Her voice, a melody of adenoidal sweetness, became a strained nasally dirge. Misaki couldn't believe it. Her eyes watered, and her long pointed nose took on a life of its own. There was no hiding it. She was going to have a damn allergy attack. The sneeze - or sneezes - could either be contained or become a full-blown, nose-blowing fiasco. Sadly, Misaki's urge to just sneeze her life savings away was all but inevitable.

They moved on, her eyes darting around the store like a caffeinated squirrel searching for a nut. A cloud of fine dust rose from a rack of fur coats, and she couldn't resist running her fingers along the fur. "Misaki!" Ria's voice was a warning siren. "Oh my goodness, look at this... It's so exquisite!"

Unfortunately for Misaki, her nostrils couldn't take the billowing cloud of dust. Her large breasts heaved involuntarily, the black low cut blouse stretching with the fabric. With a poised forefinger and thumb, Misaki pinched her quivering nostrils shut. To her horror, a squelching wet sound resulted from squishing them together. The pressure built... And... "Hghh'IGHXT!! Nggght! Huh-MMmpt-shh!" Misaki stifled three sneezes in rapid succession. Damn it, her asthma was probably going to join the misery too.

Ria, bless her heart, tried to remedy the situation. Unfortunately, running her hands through the furry fabric, real or no, was a death sentence waiting to happen. "Ooh, Misaki! Try this on!" What Ria pulled out, to Misaki's horror, was a mink jacket. Yes, the mink was divine and shiny. But to all who knew her, Misaki was dreadfully allergic to fur.

Misaki's greenish blue eyes looked at the fabric. The itch she tried staving off rekindled its potent flame.

"Ria. Are you sure about thihh-this?" she said, her voice nasal and tight. Misaki's voice wavered with sneezy hitches. "It's nea--hhhihhh--nearly suhhh.... Suhhh..." Two manicured fingers of poise fled under her filling nostrils.

Ria then saw the danger in front of her too little, too late. "Misaki, don't --,"

"Huhh... Huhh'KKKNNNT! Huhh'KKKSSHT! HAKKK'Kkntt!!" The squelched sneezes sounded horrendously unsatisfying and harsh. Misaki was about to provide a sultry retort to her bestie for trying on the damned mink jacket. Realizing resistance was futile beneath the spray of freshly produced sneezes, Misaki played along with her body's whims. "Heh-heh-ehh-ahh-AHHHH!"

Ria's hazel eyes widened in horror. "Oh shit, you're --,"

"--Hih'HIHH'hHH... EEEEHHHkKK'SHhHhEEE-HEEW!!" The mess of a sneeze that burst from Misaki was a tawdry attempt at being, what was it? Demure. Cute. Poised. Refined. Misaki prayed - no - pleaded to the gods that her sneeze session would stop. The sneeze was so sinfully loud that it caused more than a few bewildered shoppers to pause. Saks Fifth Avenue was definitely not the place to blow a gasket. Even the people giving out wine samples turned away.

"Okay, Misaki, I think that's enough sh--,"

"HEHH... IIssch'SHHYIEW! AHht'SHIIEW! Hhht'shhHIEW!" It was at this point she found out: Ria fucked up big time. The resulting sneezes sounded like a wounded dove, high pitched, nasally and shrill. Then... Misaki has a sinister idea. The taller woman removed the jacket, the contents slithering to the floor. The billowing dust of mink snaked up Misaki's sensitive nostrils.

Ria saw Misaki groping for a dress she practically cried for within the last three weeks. An $850 lavender mini dress with a heart shaped opening for the chest area got snatched from the rack. Ria realized that her friend was going to do the unfathomable. "Don't you dare--,"

"Hehh!! HAAESCHHHH-yYIEWWW!!" Misaki, to Ria's horror, decided to pull a dick move, which consisted of sneezing all over the beautiful dress... And everything else she wanted. The moment Misaki lifted the fabric of the mini dress to her nose, a brief flash of a knowing smile beamed before her nostrils flared wildly, and sneezed heartily into it. "Hghhhh... HGHHHH'GSZCHHHIEWW! Hah'TSSshhyeEWW!! Huh... HUT'SCHHHIIIEW! CHIIIEW! 'SCHHHIEEEWW!!" At this point, the spectacle was palpable.

What a scene.

A Japanese British woman sneezing into a bunch of new and expensive clothes to kill the price tag felt gross and disrespectful to Ria.

"Misaki, for fuck's sake!" Ria's sweetness turned sour, her eyes narrowing into slits. "You're going to get us kicked out!"

And Misaki didn't give two shits. She wanted - no - NEEDED everything. With a resigned sigh, Misaki's sweetness fell to oblivion. "Respectfully, Ria dear, I fucking need this." Misaki practically dragged her friend with the clothing of choice into a dressing room, completely unsolicited.

"Ew... What the fuck?"

"Girl's got issues...."

"Robbie, let's go." A myriad of people were at the store, hearing a snotty firecracker blow up.

In the dressing room, Misaki's plight worsened. In fact, her normally pristine Hime cut looked disheveled and sprinkled with the last several allergic sneezes. "Okay, what the FUCK are you doing?!"

"Reaching for the stars, sweet... Hea... Ahh... HASHHH'YYYIEEWW! HESCHHH-IIEEWW! HKPTSCHHHIEW! HKK'TSCHHIEW! ISSHHH-ShYYyIEWW!" The sneezes sounded like a shrieking little girl's, shrill and high pitched at the end. "God, everything's bloody dust... DustIiieh-HHHH!!"

"Don't you fucking DARE!!" But it was far, far, far too late. The lavender silk dress, a once pristine canvas of elegance, now bore the brunt of Misaki's drenching sneezes. Her prominent nose was a twitching, snotty mess, and Ria could only stand there, horrified. She knew that look in Misaki's eye—it was a blend of desperations and spite. Through hell or high water, Misaki was going to manipulate this situation to her 'advantage,' and there was no stopping her.

Misaki's nasal shrieks grew in volume and frequency, each one echoing through the plush walls of the dressing room. Her body, usually a bastion of poised elegance, jerked with each spasm. She could feel the eyes of the other shoppers burning into her back, judging her lack of decorum. "Ughh... HEDZCHHHHHOOOO! HEGHHZCHHHH'IEIU! HDDDDGHHH-SHYyIUUU! AEEESCHHHIEEW!!" But the itch in her nose had become an all-consuming need, a siren's call that she couldn't ignore. The dressing room had become a battlefield, with her allergies the enemy and the clothes her unwilling accomplices.

Even Misaki's high pitched nasal explosions turned into undignified howls for long lost control. Through the smell of roses and sneezes, Ria braced herself. She knew the manager was going to be beyond pissed.

Misaki, in a fit of desperation, threw the soiled garments over Ria's head. "Ew, what the hell?!" Of course, little did Ria know, this was Misaki's calculated plan the entire time. She had zero intention to buy anything, if at all.

"Take these to the counter and ask for a discount, darling," she ordered, her voice muffled and nasal. "Tell them it's an ehh... Merr... GeHHH!!"

"Come off it, Misaki--,"

The dove's nostrils flared twice their already large size, her sneezes drenching the poor embroidered handkerchief. "AEEESCHHHIEEW! HuhhRESSSCHHH-iew! ASHHH-IIIEW! HAHH-RESHHH-IIIEW! HAAHH-EDDZCHHH-SHHIIEWWW!"

"Okay, stop it--,"

"Use that sweet, innocent act of yours." Misaki's greenish blue eyes sparkles with mischief and watery evil. "It's a fashion emergency, so chop chop." She ordered like a mother ordering a child.

Ria's hazel eyes narrowed, the haze of the dust and fur settling around her. "But, Mi-,"

"Just. Fucking. Do it." Misaki's tone darkened to pure poison. "Or I'll break your God damn phone." Knowing how vicious Misaki's older sister was, Ria knew better than to cross a bona fide tigress in sheep's clothing.

Ria's jaw clenched, but she knew when Misaki had reached her limits. With a huff, she gathered the soiled garments and stormed out of the dressing room, the clothes leaving a trail of sneezed-on sparkles behind her. With a sheepish expression, Ria braced for the inevitable, feeling the wetness on her hands. "Sorry about that, Vinnie. She wants everything."

A sweet, burly redhead - apparently named Vinnie - looked at the clothes in disgust. All 10 garments and a purse faced Misaki's allergic wrath. The man gave three looks at each garment. "Well .. that'll be $167.88. Can you tell your friend to feel better for me?"

"I sh--"

Misaki emerged from the dressing room, her long nose reddened and chapped. "AH-ESCHIEW! HASHHIEW! HAT-SCHHIEEWW!" The furious clicking of heels turned away from Ria, exiting the store with haste.

Ria's expression crumbled. "I will..." And give her a piece of my God damn mind, she thought.

The moment Ria paid for the items, she saw Misaki blowing the absolute heck out of her perky, refined nose. The moment she emerged from her expensive handkerchief, her nose looked absolutely red and swollen. Her eyes were watery, her cheeks flushed, and her face was an absolute disaster. "Thank you, Ria darling," she sang, her voice nasally and smug. "You're my favorite pup." The patronizing pat on the head made Ria feel like she was all but a lapdog.

This had to stop. "This is the last time I'm taking you anywhere."

"ESCHH'iIEEEWWW!!" Misaki's nose was a battleground of itchiness and irritation. She couldn't even breathe properly, let alone maintain the poised composure she was known for. Each step she took through the bustling streets of Los Angeles felt like a marathon in a desert of pollen. The air was thick with the scent of spring's unwelcome embrace, and she could feel her sinuses screaming in protest. "Hih'HCHHHIIEWW!" The sneezes had turned into a symphony of despair, a nasal concerto that would make even the most stoic of composers weep.

"Are you even listening to me?" Ria's voice pierced through the haze of Misaki's misery, her hazel eyes flashing with a rare hint of anger. But Misaki was too far gone, lost in the relentless maelstrom of sneezes and sniffles to care about the consequences of her actions. Misaki stumbled out of Saks Fifth Avenue, her handkerchief a soggy mess in her hand. The pollen-filled air outside did little to alleviate her suffering, the springtime bloom a cruel reminder of her body's treacherous betrayal.

Misaki's expression wavered a little. "You were the one who suggested the outing. Hence, you pay the price." With a chuckle, Misaki fanned her face with the handkerchief and sneezed heartily into it. "HASCHHHIEEW! ASHHH-IIIEW! HII'SHIIIEW!"

"Good Lord..." Ria's eyes narrowed as she followed her friend's chaotic sneezing. "You're despicable."

"Huh?" Misaki gave a knowing look.."The next place we're headed is the dry cleaners. Don't worry. It'll be fine, darling."

Ria's face contorted into a grimace. "What the--"

"Oh, I know you'll play along, dearie." Misaki smiled with a beaming, conniving grin. "You always do."

Ria couldn't believe it. Misaki had always had a flair for drama, but this was a whole new level of extravagance. "You're unbelievable," Ria grumbled, holding the bag of discounted, sneezed-on garments like it was a sack of dirty laundry.

Of course, when they walked towards Misaki's beautiful black Buick, Misaki made a beeline for the passenger side. "Come now. Drive off like you're proud."

Ria rolled her eyes, slammed the door shut, and revved the engine, feeling the vibration in her core. The scent of freshly cut grass wafted through the open window, and it was all Misaki could do not to sneeze again.

The grassy smell felt like Ria's answer to the ordeal. Misaki gave an accusatory glare at the windows. She clamped a manicured hand over her mouth and nose, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to breathe through her mouth. It was like trying to keep a dam from breaking with nothing but a handkerchief. "Hegh... Hegh-CHIIEW! HESCHHIEEW! HAAH-SCHHIEW! Hehhh-AHH-CHIIIIEWW!" The sneezes ripped through Misaki like a tornado, leaving her gasping for air and her eyes streaming with tears.

"Jesus..." Ria groaned, "Okay, after the dry cleaners, where do you want to go?"

"Fleming's." A proud answer that Ria couldn't believe came out of her mouth. "We deserve the victory food. Plus..." Misaki gave her friend a smile. "You've been a good little kitten so far."

"If you say so." The ride to the dry cleaners was a silent symphony of sniffles and sneezes. The pollen had claimed its prize, and Misaki was the hapless victim. Ria felt a pang of pity, but she knew her friend's true nature. She had to draw a line in the sand, or she'd be forever cleaning up after her messes, both literal and figurative.

.....

And...

Part 1 is finished.

This was fun!

[lissomelace]

THIS IS ONE OF THOSE THINGS THAT IS DEFINITIVELY NOT MY FAULT!

(it's totally my fault)

But in my defense, I was in Los Angeles for reasons (concert+family visit) and managed to take a quick trip to the garment district, and. Uh. Well. Souvenirs are a totally normal thing to get on vacation!

(Okay these colors are ABSOLUTELY terrible in the photos (that one on the left is a pretty deep, saturated red))

So: new project! I got a red silk dupioni, a red/silver silk taffeta, an ombre silk charmeuse, and a floral dyed silk chiffon of some kind!

(All silks from decorative intl silk inc, which also is an online store here)

Anyway, new project! I'm hoping the inspiration of these fabrics will actually get me going on this. I'm going for Feanarion vibes (Carnistir specifically), so, uh. We'll see how this goes! Certain elements are going to be historically inspired (i'm thinking 18th century staylike bodice for a sort of flattened chest, some sort of veil/headwear, linen underdress to protect the silk, etc.) in addition to fantasy elements. It will likely end up more of a frankenstein mashup than anything else.

(my planning stage is such utter chaos! And I only draw as is necessary for getting my ideas out. They get worse as time goes on and brain goes fast!)

Anyway, I have a lot of ideas (too many, as my scribbled design indicates!), but if anyone knows of any particular fun styles of skirt that look good in a very stiff fabric (that's the plan for the dupioni) I would be very grateful for suggestions/inspiration!

[mercysong-tardis]

Duchess Satine “The Lawless” (Pre-Battle) Build Summary/WIP

<- BACK TO PART ONE

Collar/Shoulders On upper shoulders I used a crushed satin stretch fabric with a beautiful teal colour to use as the base. I bought the fabric at an outlet fabric mall in Los Angeles. I knew i was going to be picky with the lace since it's such an iconic piece of the outfit. It is my belief that this outfit may represent the Oceans of Kalevala or the Mandalorian Waters. Because of this, I wanted the lace to resemble water, like when the sunlight shines through a pool and those pretty wave-y light distortions dance on the bottom of the pool. I waited MONTHS trusting that the right silver lace would be found, and after tons of searching, I found the lace I wanted in a Fabric Store on GoldHawk Road in London! I then tediously (almost a week) whipstitched this lace down onto the fabric to keep it in place and prevent any puckering. It is lined inside as well and there is no stretch to the fabric. The collar is one piece, and sewn to the shoulders. It closes with two silver hook and eye closures and is lined with the silver crepe satin. I added a little border of beads to the top of the cutout to give it a smoother transition from the silver lace and the edge.  There are two silver studs I've been holding onto for this cosplay for almost two years now. They are round and have a slight dome shape I think makes them subtle but present.  For the shoulder things, I used the same silver crepe satin as the cuffs and used the blue overtunic velvet to space them out. 

Belt The belt is constructed of ethically sourced deer leather, soft tanned. Was lucky to find it and a slightly richer blue tone like the animation. It is lined and trimmed with the same silver satin. Mine closes in the back with two heavy duty silver hooks and eye closures. I had to make this adjustable in the future in case my aforementioned weight fluctuates too much. The raised leather hexagons are sewn and glued on and will have silver pearl-y studs in the center and lined with long metal silver bugle beads in the same tone as the satin, since the MM/RL CRLs require them to be Leather or metal. I was originally going to use other large dark blue pearls but then they didn't match the rest of the outfit so I bought some vintage buttons from England for the Studs. (NOTE: THIS HAS NOT BEEN PHOTOGRAPHED YET)

Wig The wig I wore to MCM Birmingham is a blonde styled and cut wig I use for my Rebel Legion Approved Rose outfit Satine. I have yet to solve the usual issue of my real hair, however, since this outfit would require a bun. I usually leave my hair down the back of my costumes in a tight braid since it all doesn't fit under a wig. I have very long brown hair (to my knees) which makes hiding it under wigs very difficult. This costume variation has Satine's hair up in a bun and I have yet to figure out how to do this without bleaching my hair. I hope I will be able to use the wig from the latter half of the episode (shoulder length) for low profile events then have another solution for High Profile events that might make me be required to style my real hair.

Appliques The appliques were a piece I really wanted to make sure were included for the greatest level of accuracy. There appear to be six round appliques hidden by the back overtunic, and are on the skirt of the undertunic. They are not usually visible except when Satine is running, so I did the same by using the same blue deer leather as the belt hexagons, and Zig Zag stitching a lining around to create the halos around the edge. 

Boots If anything takes the cake for being the most difficult piece due to learning new skills and just plain hard sewing, the boots were it. I thrifted a Pair off of Vinted with a block heel and suede in the right blue colour (pictured below). I had to cut the top to match the design and carefully shorten the zipper on the inside. There was no option for a lack of closure since they have such a narrow ankle and are structured. I just made sure the zipper was as minimal as possible. I hand sewed all the piping down after sketching the design directly onto the boot. I think I broke about twelve needles and stabbed myself twice as much doing this but it was worth it. 

ON TO PART THREE ->

[keanuquotes]

The Enduring Appeal of Keanu Reeves He battles evildoers in 'John Wick 4,' manufactures two-wheel pieces of art, and is worshiped by the internet, but Keanu Reeves swears he's just a normal guy. And he’s got the scars to prove it. Ky HendersonMar 15, 2023 9:00 AM EDT It’s easy to look cool when you’re riding a motorcycle, but it’s hard to look cooler than Keanu Reeves on a brisk, sunny afternoon in Los Angeles. He rests his left hand on his thigh and steers with his right, which gooses the throttle as he weaves around slow drivers. He wears a form-fitting black canvas motorcycle jacket that accentuates how trim he is—even more fit than he appears on-screen—and a beat-up Shoei helmet. He leaves the visor up, choosing instead to shield his eyes with sunglasses the Terminator might wear to a Hamptons garden party. Reeves looks at home and at ease on a motorcycle. He looks cool.

At a gas station stop, he suggests switching bikes. We’re each riding cruisers made by Arch, the motorcycle company Reeves co-founded with designer Gard Hollinger in 2011. The company produces high-end, highly personalized production bikes; I’m on a 1s, the company’s new $100,000+ sport cruiser. Reeves is on an older model, KRGT-1, but it’s his personal Arch, a true one-of-a-kind. It's the only Arch ever painted YK Blue, a color Reeves and Hollinger commissioned based on the ultramarine pigment famously mixed by mid-century French artist Yves Klein. Reeves says all that’s left of the paint is in a tiny can stored somewhere at Arch in case the bike’s paint ever needs touch-ups.

Which it most certainly would if, let’s say, some idiot were to put the bike down in front of a horrified Reeves while riding down the Pacific Coast Highway. Thankfully, there’ll be no lowsides today. Although the bike is beefy, with a 2,032cc V-twin powerplant, it’s easy to maneuver and comfy as a BarcaLounger.

Keanu Reeves stands in motorcycle factory holding blue mug Brian Bowen Smith

Reeves eventually leads us back to Arch’s factory building, which is nondescript from the outside but artfully decorated inside using shipping containers to separate working areas. Metal fabrication is done behind one; customer bikes are lined up in another with technicians hard at work. After Reeves dips outside for a cigarette—the 58-year-old both looks like a much younger man and smokes with the frequent abandon of one—he leads us to a small conference room.

“I like meeting people, but I’m a little reserved,” he warns as he settles into an office chair, looking far less comfortable than he did on a motorcycle. “How much of my private life do I want to talk about? I don’t know. Otherwise, let’s hang out.”

When Reeves was growing up in the Yorkville neighborhood of Toronto, he was consumed with existential thoughts. He discussed death a lot more than the average 11-year-old, for instance—but not because he wanted to die. He just wanted answers to big questions. Perhaps not entirely unrelated to his interest in mortality, he was also obsessed with the biker gangs that periodically motored into the neighborhood. It wasn't pods of dentists letting loose on weekends. It was leathers, patches, menace—the whole deal. And Reeves loved it.

“They looked exotic,” Reeves says. "They looked to me like they were free. Plus the bikes were cool and sounded great.”

Despite his childhood fascination, Reeves was in his early 20s before he first rode a motorcycle. It happened at a movie studio in Berlin—where else?—when he saw a woman on an off-road enduro bike in a parking lot. He approached her and asked if she’d teach him to ride, which she agreed to on the spot. (If you’re wondering why a woman would do that for a total stranger, search “Keanu Reeves in the 80s” in Google Images.)

Not long after he got back to Los Angeles, he bought a 1973 Mk2a Norton Commando, having long admired the classic brand. That bike currently sits in the Arch shop, which is notable for two reasons: One, few longtime riders are lucky enough to be able to hold onto their first bike. Two, over the years Reeves has…suffered some mishaps.

“Yeah, I’ve fallen off a few times,” he admits of the accidents he’s had on a variety of bikes. He takes a swig of water, then corrects himself. “Not ‘fallen off.’ Crashed. I’ve got a couple of hit-by-cars. A couple of going-too-fast. I’ve laid a couple of bikes down but I was riding in the winter, so that’s not really ‘crashing.’ That’s about it. The usual stuff.”

He’s broken ribs, knocked out teeth, sliced his leg open so deep that bone was visible. His most spectacular accident occurred in 1988, only a couple years after that day in Berlin. Reeves was riding alone at night in Malibu’s Topanga Canyon when he took one of the twisties too fast. By the time he came to a stop, he was lying on the pavement wondering if he was about to die. As you know, he didn’t—but he did fuck himself up pretty bad.

“I ruptured my spleen,” he says matter-of-factly. The widely reported version of the story goes that he needed the organ removed, but Reeves says it’s still intact. “They sutured it up and put a Band-Aid on.” He has a gnarly scar running vertically from his sternum down to his belly button, but in the right light it just ends up accentuating his abs because, well, he’s Keanu.

Reeves first met Hollinger through a mutual acquaintance about two decades after that crash, when Reeves wanted a custom sissy bar—basically, a backrest for a passenger—added to his 2005 Harley Davidson Dyna. Hollinger, who at that point was a relatively well-known, well-respected customizer with his own small LA shop, wasn’t interested.

“I knew I could build him the world’s most expensive sissy bar,” Hollinger says, “but I also knew it wouldn’t be satisfying for either of us.”

Instead, Hollinger spent the next five years completely reimagining the bike. He’d work in spurts, changing or adding something, then handing the bike back over to Reeves for months. By the time the bike was finished, Hollinger says, about the only parts of the original Dyna still remaining were the engine and the serial number on the chassis. Today that bike—a chromed-out ride fit for Mad Max—is displayed in the shop, the inspiration for what eventually became Arch.

Keanu Reeves on motorcycle wearing black canvas jacket and sunglasses Brian Bowen Smith

Eventually being the key word. When, during the long process of modding the bike, Reeves first suggested to Hollinger that the two team up to start a motorcycle company, Hollinger didn’t have to think about his answer.

“I knew what a tough business it is, what a challenge it would be—and that it would not be a great investment,” Hollinger, now 63, says with a laugh. “It was a wonderful motorcycle I built and it was wonderful getting to know Keanu, but starting a motorcycle company sounded like a horrible idea.”

Reeves didn’t relent. As the pair became better friends—and as the motorcycle continued to take shape—they’d have long conversations about the realities of starting the company. Hollinger would show up to their discussions with pages of questions written on a legal pad, but what gradually eroded his hesitation was the thoughtfulness with which Reeves described the experience of riding a motorcycle.

Finally, nearly convinced, Hollinger asked Reeves to boil everything down to one reason why they should do something as seemingly crazy as starting a motorcycle company. The actor came up with it on the spot—a reason Hollinger immediately understood, which allowed him to envision the company and its worth as an opportunity to do something meaningful and long-lasting.

“Because,” Reeves told him, channeling the mortality-obsessed 11-year-old kid gawking at dudes on motorcycles, “we’re going to die.”

Related: 2023 Arch 1s Sport Cruiser Is the American (V-twin) Dream

There have been many jokes made over the years about Reeves being a dummy, but after spending about 8 seconds with the guy it’s obvious he’s keenly intelligent. I mention that I read lots of sci-fi and fantasy books as a kid, which prompts him to ask whether I have opinions on several titles, followed by recommendations to read several others.

Thing is, his idiosyncratic public persona—which is sort of like Ted (not Bill) if Ted were a little more shy and a much better dresser—isn’t an act. Reeves isn’t trying to fool his critics or fans. And he isn’t really putting on an act in an attempt to prevent people from knowing who he is. He’s just this very singular, introspective, likable person who happened to become a pop culture icon.

All of that said? He can be pretty goofy. His physical mannerisms are sometimes at odds with what he’s saying, like he’s being controlled by feuding puppeteers. He speaks haltingly, stopping and starting and stopping again, often all in the same sentence, as he considers what exactly he wants to say or, just as likely, what he doesn’t want to say. More than once over the course of an afternoon he giggles—yes, giggles—at something he says or thinks, placing his cupped hand over his mouth like a theatrical school child hiding laughter; the gesture is as strange as it is endearing. He's somehow both laconic and verbose, calm and keyed up.

Although Reeves has long been known as “The internet’s boyfriend,” he’s currently dating—sorry, internet—acclaimed visual artist Alexandra Grant. The pair first collaborated on the 2011 book Ode to Happiness after having known each other previously; in the following years they collaborated on other projects and co-founded the small book imprint X Artists’ Books. Their romantic relationship began about five years ago but only became public knowledge two years in, when they arrived at a red carpet event together.

When asked about Grant, Reeves leans back in his chair as though trying to put both metaphorical and literal distance between himself and the idea of discussing his personal life.

So, uh, maybe it’s best to make it about bikes: What’s Grant’s opinion of Reeves’ (occasionally injurious) motorcycle fixation?

“She used to have a motorcycle, so she’s fine with it,” Reeves says. Then he pauses, as he so often does, seemingly considering whether to say anything more. “She hasn’t ridden in a while.”

Despite his lifelong love of bikes, Reeves hasn’t ridden them much in his movies. There’s a brief scene in the landmark 1991 indie film My Own Private Idaho. There’s some riding in 1996’s Chain Reaction, including one scene in which he manages to outrun an exploding hydrogen reactor. He’s technically on a bike in John Wick 3 while battling bad guys, but that was all done while stationary in front of a green screen. He has no interest in shoehorning Arches into his movies, though a couple of Arches are featured in the futuristic 2020 video game Cyberpunk 2077, in which he also played a major role.

Reeves says there’s a brief motorcycle scene in the upcoming John Wick 4, a movie whose eventual existence might have been laughed at when the original film debuted. Despite the series’ current status as an unstoppable franchise juggernaut, it originally wasn’t even planned as a franchise—and it certainly didn’t appear destined to be one after John Wick received a somewhat tepid theatrical reception in 2014.

“It had some success in the theater, but it really became more popular in second viewings,” Reeves says. “So the studio asked if we wanted to do another one.”

Reeves does more than just kick unbelievable amounts of ass in the movies; he’s also had a hand in plotting out the sequels. The genesis of the third and fourth installments, he says, took place while he and director Chad Stahelski were on the road promoting the second and third movies, respectively.

“Generally, Chad and I cook ’em up while we’re doing press tours,” Reeves says. “We talk about what we’d do next if the current film does well. I’m like, ‘I want to ride a horse and do a horse chase!’ And Chad says, ‘Yeah, we can do it in Central Park!’”

Reeves says he doesn’t know what comes next for him, but John Wick 5 will almost certainly be an option—if he wants to do it. He’s currently developing a TV series, and maybe he’ll make the motorcycle road movie he’s long thought about making. He’ll also no doubt continue riding bikes and growing Arch because he loves doing both.

He says he may continue BRZRKR, the comic series he co-writes. He won’t stop helping others via his philanthropy (he declines to discuss other than to say it’s “in health and the arts”). And he’ll burnish his already-glowing reputation as, in his words, “a pretty respectful and considerate person,” because that’s how he likes to treat people.

“I’m just,” Reeves says as his mouth curls into a smirk and his arms shoot out in front of him as though he’s pleading to be believed, “a normal guy.”

via keanuworld

[theseasicksailorblog]

Indie Sleaze: 5 item shopping list

My non-negotiable 5 clothing items to live your indie sleaze truth, written as 2000s/2010s fashion historian.

Ballet Flats

Worn by school-teachers and it girls alike, ballet flats have always been a staple in fashion history, especially in the late 2000s and 2010s. For a first time wearer a simple black flat is a safe bet as it can be paired with anything, but if you want to sleaze it up, opt for a metallic or glitter variation. Something to note about indie sleaze fashion is that the more extra it feels, the better it looks, so don't hold back on cool, funky, flats. These can be found in thrift stores, department stores, and all over Amazon.

Metallic Fabric

Since the dawn of rave/party culture, glamorous lamé fabrics have used for just about every article of clothing possible. Cheaper spandex alternatives rose to popularity as The Cobra Snake era partying merged into mainstream. Shiny red leggings paired with a black cropped tank was peak casual 2010s sleaze attire. A great place to find styles like this is Los Angeles Apparel aka American Apparels re-brand. Though they no longer sell the fun colored disco pants and shorts, the lamé collection offers a variety of shiny colorful items with that trustworthy AA quality. Other places to look are party supply stores, poshmark/depop/ebay, rave shops, and of course Amazon.

Ultra Feminine Dresses

One of the most underrated pioneers of indie sleaze fashion is model and t.v. personality Alexa Chung. While Alexa is often grouped with the Twee (shopping list coming soon) and hipster aesthetics of the 2010s her ability to blend soft girlish dresses with last nights makeup allows for an uber sleazy effect. Mini shifts, polka dotted a-lines, and vintage baby-dolls all work as long as you pair them with unkempt hair and grungy tights to keep the edge, bonus points if your dress has a peter pan collar or your tights have rips. You can find these practically anywhere but start at your local thrift store as they usually have large selections of outdated dresses that were popular during this time period. Alternatively look at department stores, vintage/antique markets, and you guessed it Amazon.

Ringer Tee's and Shorts

Before athleisure was an over-saturated mess of "flare leggings" and Lululemon we took inspiration from student athletes everywhere with the iconic ringer tee's and ringer shorts. Getting their name from the contrasting ring of fabric outlining the seams of the article, ringer style pieces were seen everywhere and worn with everything. Both such versatile basics that could be kept casual or dressed up that you might see a ringer tee with a skirt, or ringer shorts with stockings and a blouse. Los Angeles Apparel has great options for both the shirts and the shorts, places like Walmart and Target often carry ringer shorts, and Forever 21 with great ringer tees, and as always Amazon.

Stockings/Tights

It doesn't matter if they're black, white, multicolored, fish-netted, or opaque, stockings always find a way to elevate a basic look and is often what takes an outfit from mainstream to indie sleaze. Don't worry about buying a super nice quality pair as stockings look best with ripping seams and enormous holes. But don't tear them with a fork like those tiktok girls did in 2020, it screams try hard as a real indie sleaze girl would rip them via dancing, curb sitting, and drunken stumbling. Just like the dresses, you can find tights anywhere. However I don't recommend secondhand as they are technically an undergarment and it's hard to ensure the level of cleanliness.

Spacehey saw it first https://spacehey.com/theseasicksailor

[myemuisemo]

The Joann closure list is baffling

The 500-store closure list is out, and it's bizarre. They're closing the nice, newish, well-maintained store in Turlock and keeping open the tatty little understaffed store in Modesto, the one where they turned the heat off in January. (Yes, it's California; but it's like being in a refrigerator -- the poor employees!)

I feel like I should have checked to see if they already closed Modesto when I wasn't looking. Turlock is a slightly smaller store, but it's also paying almost 20% less rent per square foot (someone did a spreadsheet from the bankruptcy filing!) and sited in a shopping center with appealing anchor stores. The Modesto store crouches miserably in a back corner of the Target parking lot, behind the drive-through Starbucks and the former site of the used-book store, with no signage visible from a major street.

You can't tell me Modesto was making massive sales numbers when the shelves were always empty.

Sacramento news station KCRA confirms that Modesto and Roseville are the only stores in their broadcast area slated to stay open.

People from Stockton are not going to drive to Modesto for fabric and yarn. No Stocktonite ever has said "let's go to Modesto to shop." It is not a thought that can be thunk by a resident of Stockton. I feel like Joann's corporate decision-makers are creating a situation where most sewists and crafters forget their store exists, because it's not worth the drive to browse in person nor to get in-store pickup for online purchases. This is not Los Angeles, where people drive 40 minutes for whatever. This is a long haul through the near-perpetual traffic jam at the CA-99 interchange with the Manteca Bypass, followed by the horrors of the Briggsmore Overpass, which is so baffling that the Modesto Bee used to have a humor columnist who regularly pilloried it. I can negotiate the Briggsmore Overpass with ease because I was born to this life, but outsiders freak out.

My mood is worsened by having compromised my ethics because I only needed a $2 pack of thin elastic, and Hobby Lobby was the one craft store directly on the way home from today's meetings. They are proof that hell has a really good real estate team.

Honestly, the only thing Joann corporate could have done to make me happy is to be entirely other, better people for the past 30 years. Don't devour local fabric stores, don't over-expand and over-leverage, don't cut staff below sustainable levels, and don't conspire with a major liquidator to fail at recovery from the first bankruptcy. Give me a time machine.

[lesbiangummybearmafia]

Having a night, so to ground me and destruct me I decided to do this.

These Are Sure Some Asks

What do you really need right now? My favorite person to snuggle with and fall asleep in her arms.

What are some of the things that have made you who you are? Pain, trauma and love

What are some of your pet peeves? Stupid, bigoted, ignorant, annoying people!

Share a dark thought? (Go on, vent a little) need my time machine to go back and kill baby Trump, Hilter, Mussolini, Stalin, and any other evil SOB!

Something that makes you ridiculously happy? Just being with my favorite person, listening to her talk, being in her presence, talking to her for hours. Seeing her smile and laugh, making her laugh. Learning new things about her no matter how small. Finding out things we have in common. Having everything in my gut, body and soul screaming at me that she's who I've been waiting for my whole life.

What are you craving? My favorite person! I only got to see her for a very short time today and I wasn't nearly enough.

Song stuck in your head? Electric Love - Borns

Last thing you watched? Metlock

Shows on your watch list? Before, The Floor, New episodes of Bob's Bugers, How To Die Alone

Books on your reading list? Not really a book reader so I'm going with fanfic. Been reading new Brenda x Sharon and Janeway x Seven fics

Something on your wish list? My favorite person 😘 naked spread out on 1000 thread count sheets!! Spending hours making love to her.

Something you want to monologue about? Omg so much! The climate crisis, the state of the government in the US, how broken every single system is in the US, how the Republicans party must be dissolved to save the US because it just became breeding ground for fascism! About all the outrageous lies the Right tells about immigration and immigrants!! How the US has stop supporting Israel! About the genocide of the Palestinians!! How the lgbtqia+ community is being targeted in our country, especially our trans brothers and sisters! The war on women's reproductive rights. Which is horrible but is ultimately a red herring to control women's freedom once again. I can keep going...

If you were a note, what note would you be? I'll be truthfully I'm confused by this one. So I'll go with I'd be heart shape Post-It 😉🩷

Tactician, fighter, generalist, or supportive role? Generalist

Talk about a stuffie. Ok I'll tell about my teddy bear Orli. Got him at build a bear, he no longer available at the store. He has velvety fabric and super cute that why I choose him. I got him atleast 15 years ago, I was also a fully grown adult when I got him. I don't quite remember why I went to build a bear that day I got him or why. It was just meant to be. Because he's helped quite alot with my anxiety over the years. He was one of the only things I was allow to have when I was admitted into a level one psychiatric hospital 7 years ago, when I tried to commit suicide. Helped me through through that and everything that's followed. If there was fire he would be the first important possession I'm grabbing! I sleep with him every night and he's on bed the rest of the time. I'd be lost without him! He might be a stuffie but he's like family too! I get panicky when I can find him. He's a bit rough now, but fuck so am I. 😁

They say you can tell a lot about a person from the state of their desk... Do you have a desk? Can you describe it? No desk, I use my bed as my desk and complete chaos! But it reflects the chaos of anxiety ridden mind.

Space, enchanted forest, magical kingdom, or underwater city? Nope on all this jazz. I'm more I want to live in version of Los Angeles in Blade Runner or any other futuristic city I was told about in books, movies, anime and TV shows in the 80s and 90s!!

What are some of the meanings of your name? (Or url if you don't want to say.) I was a little high when I came up with it. So it's like this: I'm a lesbian, I like gummy bears and I was listening to Swedish House Mafia that night I came up with it.  So I got, lesbiangummybearmafia 🤩

What fictional doctor do you wish was your doctor? The Doc from Voyager

Are you a gamer? What was the last game you played? I'm a old school gamer. It was Mario Kart

How do you take your pizza? Another favorite it black olive, mushroom and pepperoni

Strangest thing that has happened to you this week? Got told that I'm basically a New Yorker, a new friend told me this. Way she figures it since both my parents were born in New York I have in my blood. Since she's from New York she should know. She said it's because I'm straight forward, blunt, can detect bullshit a 1000 feet. All that the New Yorker in me. I'm perfectly fine with that!

Share a bit of philosophy? This to shall pass, it could always be worse, put positive out it does actually come back to you, fight for yourself (that actually works to) others will fight with you!

Do you follow the news? Most of time...but not right now.

What's on your mind? My favorite person!

What is your dream mode of transportation? Transporters from Star Trek and Flying Cars from Blade Runner

What fascinates you about humanity? How we can be both infinitely kind and infinitely evil. Both should not be able to survive in a single species. However humanity is living proof that this is to be true. Also the complexities of the human brain. It's very much runs in ways like computer and yet we have emotions that seem to on a logically level make no freakin sense. Yet it these very emotions that are responsible for some of humanities most beautiful things like art, music, movies, books, poetry, sex, love, romantic, happiness, joy, family, etc.

What about life makes you smile? My favorite person ie, the woman in RL I very much have deep feelings for. She's made me realize that I want to be in a relationship again. Also perhaps those signs I've been waiting for finally showed up 😍

What is your favourite way to create? I have many. I like to free write, write fanfic, write songs, draw, paint, made collages, make quotes posters, make edits, sing, bed dance, car dance, bathtub dance, do nail art, do crafts, etc.

Insert your own question here! Awesome ok

Design your own music festival any artist are allow, both living and dead, who would be on line up?

Tagging all my followers and friends!

[kicksaddictny]

Collaboration Alert: Bodega Teams Up with Saucony for Grid Shadow 2 "Jaunt Woven"

Bodega and Saucony's Rich Legacy of Collaborative Footwear: Introducing the Grid Shadow 2 "Jaunt Woven"

With a heritage spanning from the 3D Grid Hurricane to the GRID Azura 2000, Bodega and Saucony have cultivated a storied partnership in crafting iconic footwear. Now, they reunite once more to present a fresh rendition of the Grid Shadow 2 silhouette, aptly named "Jaunt Woven."

True to its name, this model boasts a captivating multi-fabric construction, prominently featuring intricate woven details. What sets this shoe apart is its upper, meticulously crafted from stone-washed 18oz canvas, hemp, and cotton fabrics, all adorned in natural tones. Embracing the use of various natural fibers, the design exudes an eco-conscious ethos.

Enhancing both style and comfort, the shoe features a molded EVA midsole in a soothing cream hue, accented by a speckled green heel and a rich brown gum rubber outsole. Adding a pop of vibrancy, subtle hints of Acid Lime and Red Alert punctuate the design.

Explore the captivating new colorway in the accompanying gallery. Priced at $140 USD, the Bodega x Saucony Grid Shadow 2 "Jaunt Woven" is set to release on Friday, February 23. Available at Bodega's Boston and Los Angeles stores, as well as online, the drop will commence at 12 pm ET.

[chrome-hearts-dress1]

Innovative Design, Timeless Style: Chrome Hearts Shirts Revealed

Chrome Hearts Shirts have come to represent exclusivity, elegance, and flair in the world of fashion. Richard Stark launched Chrome Hearts in 1988 as a jewelry company in Los Angeles, but it soon grew to offer home goods, clothes, and accessories as well. Chrome Hearts-shirts are currently very sought-after accessories because of their outstanding quality and distinctive style.

Background and Histories of Chrome Hearts

With its roots in Los Angeles's underground culture, Chrome Hearts has a lengthy history. Richard Stark, the brand's creator, started making silver jewelry as a pastime at first. His designs became well-liked by celebrities, motorcyclists, and singers, which helped Chrome Hearts grow into a legitimate premium brand. Chrome Hearts has remained loyal to its rebellious essence over time, creating daring and nontraditional designs that go against accepted fashion conventions.

The Distinctive Style of Chrome Hearts Shirts

The unique design aesthetic of Chrome Hearts-shirts is what makes them stand out. Every shirt is painstakingly made with an eye for detail, with elaborate symbols, motifs, and patterns that pay homage to the brand's rock 'n' roll past. The Gothic typography and skull and crossbones on Chrome Hearts tees convey an air of independence and defiance. Additionally, the company is renowned for employing premium fabrics that guarantee comfort and longevity, like silk and premium cotton.

Pop Culture and Celebrities' Influence

Globally, influencers and celebrities have developed a cult following for Chrome Hearts Shirts. Numerous well-known people, including A-list stars and well-known singers, have been seen wearing Chrome Hearts clothing on red carpets and social media. The brand's reputation as an exclusive and upscale product has been strengthened by this celebrity endorsement, which has increased demand among fashionistas who want to imitate the looks of their idols.

 Chrome Hearts Shirts: A Status Icon

In the realm of fashion, owning a Chrome Hearts shirt has come to represent status. Because of the brand's limited-edition releases and partnerships with other upscale brands, Chrome Hearts-shirts are extremely sought after by both fashion enthusiasts and collectors due to their exclusivity and scarcity. A Chrome Hearts shirt immediately upgrades any ensemble, adding a dash of refinement and luxury, whether it's worn casually or as part of a statement piece.

Where to Buy Chrome Hearts Shirts?

A few retailers across the globe, including the brand's flagship locations in major fashion hubs like Los Angeles, New York, and Tokyo, sell Chrome Hearts-shirts. Chrome Hearts also offers an online store where clients may peruse and purchase the newest designs while lounging in the comfort of their own homes. Luxury consignment stores and internet marketplaces are great places to look for unique and vintage items. Because of their unmatched craftsmanship and style, Chrome Hearts-shirts are considered an investment piece by some, but they are also considered a justified extravagance by others.

Advice for Maintaining Chrome Hearts Shirts

Taking good care of your Chrome Hearts-shirt is crucial to its longevity and integrity. To avoid shrinking and color fading, always adhere to the care instructions listed on the label of the clothing. These instructions may include hand washing with a light detergent and air drying. Steer clear of harsh chemicals and extreme heat when handling your shirt as these can harm the fabric and embellishments.

Conclusion

Chrome Hearts Shirts are the pinnacle of elegance and sophistication in the fashion world. Fashion aficionados all over the world have developed a strong desire for these shirts due to their distinctive design aesthetic, high-quality fabrics, and celebrity appeal. Whether you like the brand's rebellious vibe or are just drawn to well-made items, a Chrome Hearts shirt will turn heads wherever you wear it.

FAQs:

Are shirts with Chrome Hearts worth the money?

Despite being more expensive, many people think that Chrome Hearts-shirts are worth the money because of their outstanding quality, distinctive design, and attractiveness as status symbols.

Are Chrome Hearts-shirts available for less money?

Due to their limited supply and great demand, Chrome Hearts-shirts are rarely found at a discount; nevertheless, occasionally, reductions or promotions may be available at particular stores or online marketplaces.

Are there many sizes available for Chrome Hearts-shirts?

Indeed, Chrome Hearts come in a variety of sizes to fit different body shapes. To help choose the correct size, it is advised to reference the brand's sizing chart or speak with a sales representative.

How can a Chrome Hearts shirt be verified?

It's important to buy from approved merchants or the official Chrome Hearts website to make sure you're getting an original shirt. You can also search for particulars like consistency in branding, stitching, and material quality.

Are there unisex Chrome Hearts-shirts?

Certain Chrome Hearts shirts may be made especially for men or women, while others may have a gender-neutral style. To ensure the right fit and style, it's essential to read the product description or try the shirt on.

[tatterdemallionsails]

What really sucks is that freaking Hobby Lobby has the best color selection for crochet thread. Like...some of us do want to use something other than white, ecru, and then standard colors. Guess online 'place your bets on how this looks in real life' shopping is gonna be a thing for me. I'm dreading the shipping costs, and DON'T want to go through Amazon.

Now, as fabrics go, I don't live all that far from downtown Los Angeles' garment district, but...frankly, downtown has really gotten bad in the past few years. Scary bad. Which hurts, becausei used to love going through the fabric district, the bead stores, and a few of the fashion streets. Now...best to go with a mob, because yikes.

RIP Joann, now what?

I wanted to make a post I could copy and paste and or link when I see folks asking where to buy fabrics when Joann is gone. I sew a lot, generally between 100-200 items a year and I don't do it on a big budget. Stores are not in a particular order.

Notions:

Wawak.com - start here, mostly stay here. Wawak is a supplier for professional sewing businesses and have the prices that show it. I will not pay for gutermann Mara 100 anywhere else. I buy buttons, tools, thread, and most elastic here.

Stitch Love Studio - this is where I buy lingerie supplies https://www.etsy.com/shop/StitchLoveStudio?ref=yr_purchases

Fabric:

Fabric Mart - this is one where you want to sign up for emails and never buy unless its on sale. They run different sales every day and they rotate. Mostly deadstock fabrics but I buy more from here than anywhere else. Fantastic customer service and if you watch you can get things like $6 wool suiting or $4 cotton jersey. https://fabricmartfabrics.com/

Fabrics-Store - again, buy the sales not the full price. Sign up for the emails but redirect them to a folder because it is TOO MANY. They stock linen or good but not amazing quality. https://www.fabrics-store.com/

Purple Seamstress - This is where I buy my solid cotton lycra jersey. They have other things, but the jersey is what I'm here for. Inexpensive and very good quality. If you ask she will mail you a swatch card for the solids. https://purpleseamstressfabric.com/

LA Finch - deadstock fabrics with a fantastic remnant selection https://lafinchfabrics.myshopify.com/

Califabrics - mix of deadstock and big brands, easy to navigate and always seem to have good denim in stock. https://califabrics.com/

Boho Fabrics - good variety, nice bundles. I have also gotten some really great trims from here. https://www.bohofabrics.com/

Firecracker Fabrics - garment and quilting fabrics, really nice selection and great sale section. I've bought $5 yard quilting cottons here several times. https://www.firecrackerfabrics.com/

Hancock's of Paducah - Quilting fabric and some limited garment fabric. AMAZING sale section. Do not sleep on the sale section. This is my first stop when buying quilting fabrics. Usually the last stop too. Not particularly speedy shipping. https://www.hancocks-paducah.com/

Itokri - This is something a little different. Itokri is an Indian business with incredible traditional fabrics. Shipping to the US is expensive, but the fabric is so inexpensive it evens out. I generally end up paying like $30 for shipping. Beautiful ikat and block prints. https://itokri.com/

Miss Matatabi - this is a little treat. This isn't where you go to save money, but there are so many beautiful things in this shop. Ships from Japan incredibly quickly. https://shop.missmatatabi.com/

Lucky Deluxe - Craft thrift store, always has an incredible selection and fantastic customer service. I need to close the tab fast because I never go to this website without finding something I need. https://www.luckydeluxefabrics.com/

Swanson's - the OG of online craft thrift stores, but I find their website harder to navigate. https://www.swansonsfabrics.com

Honorary Mentions: I haven't shopped at these places yet but I have had them recommended and likely will at some point.

A Thrifty Notion - https://athriftynotion.com/

Creative Closeouts - https://creativecloseoutsfabric.com/ being rebranded to sewsnip.com on March 1 - quilting deadstock

Hawthorne Supply Co. - I just got this rec and I think I need to not look too closely or I'm going to slip with my debit card. https://www.hawthornesupplyco.com/

This is not an exhaustive list of everywhere you can buy fabric, or even a full list of where I shop. There are SO many options out there in the world. You also need to think outside the fabric store box. I thrift men's shirt fabrics for quilts and sheets for backing fabric. I don't do a ton of in person thrifting and my local stores don't get a lot of craft materials but every thrift store is its own universe and reflects the community it is in. Go out and find something cool.

Oh and final note: Don't shop at Hobby Lobby.

[usa2025store02]

Los Angeles Dodgers x Donald Trump Edition Hoodie

Product link:https://flavorhauted.com/product/los-angeles-dodgers-x-donald-trump-edition-hoodie/

Store link:https://flavorhauted.com/

LOS ANGELES DODGERS x DONALD TRUMP EDITION HOODIE: A POWERFUL FUSION OF SPORT, IDENTITY & LEGACY

A BOLD SYMBOL OF TEAM SPIRIT AND PATRIOTISM

The Los Angeles Dodgers x Donald Trump Edition Hoodie is more than just a piece of sportswear — it is a declaration. With its vibrant Dodgers blue script and the commanding number 47, this hoodie captures a dual allegiance: to one of the most iconic franchises in Major League Baseball and to the figure representing a movement in modern American politics. The front of the hoodie showcases the classic Dodgers logo across the chest, paired with "47" beneath it in a striking red — a nod both to the team’s roster aesthetic and a symbolic numerical representation of Donald Trump’s prospective presidential run. It’s not just gear — it’s a conversation starter, a cultural flashpoint, and a collector’s dream.

DESIGN ELEMENTS THAT MERGE LEGACY WITH MOMENTUM

From a stylistic perspective, the hoodie’s architecture balances heritage sports aesthetics with crisp modern tailoring. The Nike swoosh affirms its athletic credibility, while the "Trump 47" on the back elevates it from teamwear to statement piece. The hoodie features embroidered patches on both sleeves — one commemorating the Dodgers' legacy, the other possibly referencing All-Star Game elements — reinforcing a sense of prestige and exclusivity. The white fabric base allows all graphic elements to pop with pristine clarity, while the fitted cuffs and drawstring hood keep the look sharp and contemporary. It’s ideal for both stadium stands and urban street style — an intersection of fan culture, political identity, and sartorial flair.

A LIMITED EDITION FOR THE MOMENT — AND HISTORY

This edition is not only fashion-forward but historically loaded. The image of Donald Trump holding the "Trump 47" jersey amidst Dodgers players at the White House creates an immediate association of sports diplomacy, public narrative, and personal branding. To own the Los Angeles Dodgers x Donald Trump Edition Hoodie is to wear a piece of that moment — a fabric-stitched fragment of political and pop culture. Whether you're a fan of the game, the man, or the movement, this hoodie positions itself as a wearable artifact, reflective of a unique era in American history. It’s loud, proud, and unapologetically rooted in identity — making it one of the most culturally charged garments of the year.

[2025fashion02]

Los Angeles Dodgers x Ninja Turtles Night Game 2025 Baseball Jersey

Product link:https://flavorhauted.com/product/los-angeles-dodgers-x-ninja-turtles-night-game-2025-baseball-jersey/

Store link:https://flavorhauted.com/

Los Angeles Dodgers x Ninja Turtles Night Game 2025 Baseball Jersey: A Radical Mashup of Tradition and Turtle Power

In the vibrant world of baseball merch, themed jerseys come and go—but once in a while, a release smashes through the ordinary and lands in legendary territory. That’s exactly what the Los Angeles Dodgers x Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Night Game 2025 Baseball Jersey does. It’s not just a fusion of baseball and animation—it’s a tribute to legacy, heroism, and wild, nostalgic energy, all sewn into a jaw-dropping masterpiece of style and culture.

With a fearless approach to design, explosive color palette, and flawless integration of two fan-favorite universes, this jersey brings “Cowabunga” to Chavez Ravine like never before.

Shell Shock Meets Dodger Blue Swagger

The foundation of this design is a rich, mutant-green base, instantly evoking the sewers of New York and the rough-and-ready vibe of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. But don’t be fooled by the radical aesthetic—this jersey never strays far from its MLB heart. The classic Dodgers script sweeps across the chest in pristine white, bordered by clean yellow piping that pops off the green like Michelangelo in a pizza parlor.

On the lower front, the Turtles spring into action. Rendered in full-color, comic-style glory, Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, and Michelangelo leap forward with fierce poses and dynamic motion. The placement of these characters grounds the jersey in childhood nostalgia while pushing it into bold new fashion territory. Each turtle retains his classic weaponry, personality, and flair—faithful to the cartoon that shaped generations.

Balancing the look is the iconic “LA” logo, cool and composed on the chest and even bolder across the back. It grounds the playful chaos of the Turtles with that unmistakable Los Angeles calm confidence—because even in a ninja battle, style matters.

Back Design: Where Mutant Magic Meets Championship Pride

Turning the jersey around reveals a second wave of visual storytelling. Up top is the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles logo, brought to life in vivid red and slime-green lettering—pure ‘90s nostalgia with an edge. Just beneath, a supersized, stylized “LA” insignia anchors the piece in Dodger identity, while a brilliant lineup of the four turtles in full action stance marches beneath it like a superhero team ready for game time.

Each turtle is color-coded and distinct, yet collectively unified, mirroring the camaraderie of the Dodgers roster itself. It’s a subtle reminder: teamwork wins battles—on the field or in the sewers.

This back design isn’t just eye-catching—it’s powerful. It tells the world that this jersey doesn’t belong to one franchise, but two beloved legacies coming together for something loud, fun, and unforgettable.

Streetwear Meets Stadium Fit

Beyond its dazzling visuals, this jersey is a dream to wear. Crafted in a lightweight, breathable fabric, it offers the ideal blend of structure and comfort. The classic baseball cut—button-up front, short sleeves, and vented underarms—makes it perfect for game days, streetwear styling, or Comic-Con flexing.

It’s tailored but roomy, with just enough give for swinging a bat, striking a ninja pose, or grabbing a slice of pizza on the go. The Nike swoosh on the front adds athletic credibility, while the clean embroidery on the sleeves gives it a premium edge you can see and feel.

This jersey isn’t just for collectors—it’s for everyday heroes who want to wear their fandom proudly.

The Ultimate Crossover: Dodgers Culture x TMNT Energy

Few teams are more synonymous with baseball royalty than the Los Angeles Dodgers. Their legacy is one of iconic players, legendary moments, and a fanbase that stretches across generations. By teaming up with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, a cultural force of a similar magnitude, the Dodgers deliver a product that transcends sport.

It’s a celebration of two worlds—baseball and animation, city pride and childhood imagination, tradition and innovation. It invites Dodgers fans to relive the Saturday morning cartoons of their youth, and TMNT fans to step into the world of MLB with turtle-powered flair.

Whether you’re a longtime Bleacher Creature or a lifelong Turtle Head, this jersey tells the world: “I love the game, and I love the heroes who fight for good—with style.”

Final Verdict: A Grand Slam of Radical Style

The Los Angeles Dodgers x Ninja Turtles Night Game 2025 Baseball Jersey is more than a themed uniform. It’s a piece of wearable pop art, merging two massive fandoms into one unforgettable garment. With stellar design, nostalgic flair, team-rooted authenticity, and fan-first functionality, this jersey is everything a crossover should be.

If you want to turn heads at Dodger Stadium, light up your social media feed, or just feel like a champion of both the ballpark and the sewer lair—this is the jersey to own. It’s bold. It’s brave. It’s baseball-meets-heroes-in-a-half-shell brilliance.

[freecandyman]

People living in new York and Los Angeles genuinely very much need to not take part in the conversation about how to find irl fabric stores in the wake of Joann's closing. You are the least effected by this. Out of everyone in the whole world you will not have a problem. You were not using Joann's in the first place. Nowhere else in the entire country has garment districts comparable to NY and LA.

If someone from, say, Ohio has a guide for finding independent fabric stores, that will be relevant and helpful. The above information is... not.

How to find a local fabric store is to Google maps it and suffer the drive. You will in fact be buying your fabric from quilt stores. If you're very lucky they won't be overtly racist and suspicious of anyone under 60. Good fucking luck to all of us and be on the lookout for estate sales as the little old sewing lady generation continues to die of old age.

With JoAnne Fabrics going out of business I feel it is my duty as a cosplayer, historical costumer, and general sewing gremlin to help teach y'all how not to be reliant on evil overpriced mediocre big box stores for fabric and cosplay supply, cause if I catch y'all going into Homophobia Lobby to get cosplay fabrics imma have to start throwing hands. And frankly you guys all deserve better.

- Find a neighborhood full of brown people. Probably a slightly poorer neighborhod. I know, I know, but they will have small independent fabric stores. Selection in each may vary. Hispanic and Caribbean areas will give you prints that EAT. Muslim areas will give you fabrics with amazing drapery. Indian and Southeast Asian areas will give you beading that would make the House of Worth wet with envy. (Try to avoid oldwhitelady quilting stores unless you are a knitter or are specifically trying to cosplay Kirsten Larson.) (Also ask while you're there for lunch/dinner spot recommendations. Your fabric store guy usually has a buddy with a joint nextdoor with the best *insert relevant ethnic food here* you'll ever put in your mouth.)

- DEVELOP A RELATIONSHIP WITH THE OWNER OF SAID STORE. This I cannot stress enough. Abdul, my fabric guy, can and will get me whatever I want cause he knows me, knows I bring in other young people, and knows I will be back every month for more. Indie fabric stores tend to have older clients. They are anxious to see faces under 60. Just chat with whoever is in there about the kind of stuff you want and need and they will help you. This also frequently leads to discounts. I have not paid listed price for fabric in years and just walked out of Abdul's with 7~ yards of gorgeous teal satin for 10 bucks. Not a yard. Total.

- Do not be afraid of mess. The best shit comes from stores that look like a hurricane went through them. Don't try to understand the organization. (One day, 4 years into your relationship with the store, suddenly the fabric gods will reveal the knowledge to you.) Again, talk to whoever is in there about your project. They'll help.

- Give up on one stop shopping. Get your crafting supplies elsewhere. Like a small independent hardware store. There's usually an old guy in there that reminds you of an uncle who will also help you.

-Worbla and whatever other Cosplay Specific Material you're using is a fatphobic material straight from Satan's hot taint, you do not need it, and any old hardware/tractor supply dad will help you find better, more durable armor/weapon/detailing material. Don't snub your nose at paper mache and plaster of paris. Venetian Mask makers have been using it for years. Balsa wood is also your friend. Hardware store Uncles will teach you to work with both.

- Elderly people are your bffs. If you see an old person TALK TO THEM. They know how to do all kinds of shit. I know there's a hesitation around old people because of the political climate and a fear that they may be homo/trans/whatever-phobic, but hey....minds are changed by making friends. My elderly Muslim fabric supplier is an Our Flag Means Death fan because of me gushing about the teal I needed for Stede Bonnet. He wishes me happy pride now. He put bolt of rainbow in the window in June and kept it up all summer. And he'd never had a thought about queers before me.

- Don't feel limited to Craft and Fabric stores. Hardware stores are cool. They stock outdoor fabrics and umbrella and furniture covers that are very durable....my first cosplay was made out of patio furniture covers. Also upholstery stores and upholsterers have velvets and damasks and faux leather and real leather and all sorts of rich textures. Most of them will part with a few yards pretty cheap. Second hand sheets and bedspreads and curtains also make some really cool garments. A significant amount of my ren fair garb started as household goods.

- If you are forced to order fabric online, please for the love of all that is holy DO NOT BUY FROM MOOD or any other famous store. You're paying for their branding and their place on certain reality shows I will not mention. Indie is always cheaper for the quality and usually not abusing their workers.

- If the fabric/hobby/hardware/upholstery/etc store you develop a relationship with is inconveniently far from you, see if said owner is willing to take your order via phone and send it to you. You'd be surprised how accommodating people in the crafting and sewing world can be.

It all really comes down to having to form a community. I know finding multiple small stores is a lot less convenient than Joannes. But forming a relationship with a local supplier will, in the long run, yield you much better results AND put money and good back into a community near you.

(And if you're in the NYC area DM me and I'll put you in contact with Abdul. He's the absolute best and I'd do anything to help him and his business grow!!!)

[mrdrycleanofficial]

Elevate Your Wardrobe with Custom Tailoring at Mr. Dry Clean LA

In the heart of Los Angeles, fashion is more than just what you wear — it’s a lifestyle. Whether you're dressing for a high-powered meeting, a red carpet event, or simply looking to refine your personal style, custom tailoring can make all the difference. At Mr. Dry Clean LA, we specialize in delivering expert tailoring services that elevate your clothing to perfectly match your body and your style.

What is Custom Tailoring?

Custom tailoring is the art of modifying garments to achieve the perfect fit and personalized style. It involves adjusting a garment’s fabric, seams, shape, and design to suit your unique body measurements and fashion preferences. Unlike off-the-rack clothing, which follows standard sizes, custom tailoring ensures every inch of your garment is crafted to contour and flatter your physique.

At Mr. Dry Clean LA, our tailoring services go beyond simple hemming. We help transform store-bought or vintage garments into bespoke pieces that feel like they were made just for you.

Why Choose Mr. Dry Clean LA for Custom Tailoring?

When you search for custom tailoring in Los Angeles, you're not just looking for someone to adjust your pants — you're looking for a skilled tailor who understands fit, fashion, and finesse. Mr. Dry Clean LA brings decades of experience, meticulous attention to detail, and a passion for customer satisfaction. Here’s what sets us apart:

1. Expert Tailors with Years of Experience

Our tailoring team has deep knowledge of garment construction and fabric behavior. Whether it’s silk, wool, leather, or denim, we understand how different materials respond to alterations and how to work with them to deliver flawless results.

2. Personalized Consultations

Every body is different — and every style is, too. Our custom tailoring process begins with a personalized consultation to understand your goals, style preferences, and fit requirements. We measure, discuss, and recommend the best tailoring solutions for each individual garment.

3. Precision Fit

The hallmark of great tailoring is a fit that feels natural and looks sharp. From adjusting sleeves and taking in waistlines to reconstructing entire garments, our tailors make sure your clothing fits you like a glove.

4. Quick Turnaround Without Compromising Quality

In the fast-paced world of LA, we know time is precious. That’s why Mr. Dry Clean LA offers fast, reliable service — without cutting corners. You’ll receive your custom-tailored pieces on time and looking spectacular.

5. Wide Range of Tailoring Services

Our custom tailoring services include:

Suit and tuxedo alterations

Dress tailoring

Hemming and sleeve adjustments

Waistline resizing

Jacket tapering

Wedding dress alterations

Leather and denim repairs

And more!

The Power of a Perfect Fit

Wearing clothing that fits perfectly can completely transform how you look and feel. Here are just a few benefits of investing in custom tailoring:

Boosts Confidence

When your clothes fit well, you feel more confident. Whether it’s a tailored suit or a fitted dress, you’ll notice the difference immediately in how you carry yourself.

Enhances Your Professional Image

In business, first impressions matter. A tailored wardrobe communicates professionalism, attention to detail, and self-respect. Mr. Dry Clean LA can help you build a wardrobe that sets you apart in the workplace.

Prolongs the Life of Your Clothing

Custom tailoring can actually extend the lifespan of your garments. A proper fit reduces fabric strain and helps you get more mileage out of your favorite pieces — while keeping them looking sharp.

Reduces Waste and Encourages Sustainability

Rather than discarding clothes that don’t fit perfectly, tailoring gives you the opportunity to reuse and recycle your wardrobe. This not only saves money but is a more sustainable fashion choice.

Tailoring for Every Occasion

At Mr. Dry Clean LA, we tailor garments for every occasion — from weddings to interviews to everyday wear. Whether it’s a designer suit that needs slight adjusting or a family heirloom dress that needs reworking, we’re here to help.

Wedding Tailoring

Your wedding day should be unforgettable — and so should your outfit. We provide expert tailoring for wedding dresses, tuxedos, bridesmaid dresses, and groomsmen attire, ensuring everyone looks their best on the big day.

Business & Corporate Wear

We help professionals across LA sharpen their image with tailored suits, dress shirts, skirts, and blazers. A well-fitted suit is a game-changer when it comes to professional presence.

Casual Wear & Street Style

Don’t limit tailoring to formal wear! Custom jeans, jackets, and even t-shirts can benefit from a tailor’s touch. We help you achieve the laid-back yet polished LA look that turns heads for all the right reasons.

How to Get Started with Custom Tailoring at Mr. Dry Clean LA

Getting your clothes tailored has never been easier. Follow these simple steps to experience the magic of a perfect fit:

Visit Our Tailoring Page: Head over to Mr. DryClean LA to explore our full range of services.

Book a Consultation: Schedule an appointment for an in-person fitting at your convenience.

Bring in Your Garments: Whether it's one item or your whole wardrobe, we’ll assess each piece and discuss the best options.

Get Fitted and Styled: Our team will take your measurements and talk through any specific requests or concerns.

Pick Up and Enjoy: Within just a few days, your perfectly tailored clothing will be ready for pickup.

Trust the Custom Tailoring Experts in Los Angeles

At Mr. DryClean LA, we believe that great fashion starts with great fit. Our custom tailoring services are designed to help you make the most of every garment you own. Whether you're refining your current wardrobe or preparing for a special event, we're committed to making sure you look — and feel — your absolute best.

So why settle for off-the-rack when you can go custom? Visit Mr. Dry Clean LA Tailoring Services today and discover how expert tailoring can elevate your style.