#rain coats purchasing tips

[thomsonsharon347]

Raincoat Types You Can Purchase in 2024 for the Monsoon

Stay stylish and dry this monsoon season with the best raincoat types you can purchase in 2024. From classic trench coats to modern, lightweight rain jackets, there are options to suit every taste and need.

Visit : WWW.Oasisjackets

[jinxhallows]

kinktober #o17 | glory

KINKTOBER 2023 || jinxhallows glory (praise kink) || chan x fem!reader summary: you and chan met as volunteers for the local cabaret theatre, working as stagehands, but when it blossoms into something more, and the temperatures drop below freezing, chan figures out a way to warm you up, and fast... warnings: praise kink, and all that entails, plot heavy, fluffy, lots and lots of praise, 'daddy' petnames, non-idol AU

word count: 4k masterlist - click here

The first time he let it slip, you two were still just friends.

You both volunteered as stagehands at the downtown cabaret theater, and you had been sent out to purchase some last-minute supplies. Your coat was dripping wet over your arm from running through the rain, a shopping basket hooked in the crook of your opposite elbow, and you held the phone to your ear, spinning around to decipher the location of the checkout.

"Did you get the safety pins?" Chan's voice came through the phone.

You nodded, even though Chan couldn't see you. "Yeah."

"And-"

"I also got the glue gun sticks, an extra pack of AA batteries, and a small can of black acrylic paint," you rattled off.

"Good girl," Chan responded, genuinely impressed.

At the time, he had no idea that his words had a much different impact on you than he could have ever imagined. The idea of him praising you under very different circumstances had ignited a fire within you, one you couldn't ignore.

The season progressed and Chan worked up the courage to ask you out for drinks and now you two are barely two months into a very new relationship. Still working together, now as hired staff seasonally, at the cabaret theatre, you two are now working together on helping out with the production of A Christmas Carol.  It’s two months until showtime, so you’re in the thick of things, managing a team of stage designers. Chan is managing the costume department and overseeing music direction. He has a brief gap between meetings, so he decides to surprise you by grabbing your favorite drink and muffin from the local coffee shop. After leaving a generous tip in the paper cup at the front of the register, he heads back to the theater through the brisk winter cold.

Chan enters the theater's workshop, finding you in your office. He closes the door behind him, greets you with a kiss and your drink, and then takes off his coat. As he hangs it on the nearby coat rack, you take a sip of the drink, savoring the warm, spicy flavors of your favorite spiced winter beverage. Opening the small, white paper bag, you take out your favorite muffin. "I needed this so badly. I was late this morning and couldn't grab breakfast."

"Why didn't you call? You know I could've picked you up," Chan says, sitting on the edge of your desk as you ease into your chair. You blow on your drink, preparing it for a sip. "Your car's been in the shop for weeks now. Any word on what's going on with it?"

You pause for a moment, taking a sip of your drink as you ponder how to address the issue. You've been avoiding Chan's questions about your mode of transportation since receiving the bad news. You're hesitant to reveal that you don't have everything under control, fearing it might push Chan away. After swallowing, you gather your thoughts and finally speak up.

"It's gonna be a while," you say, your voice tinged with a touch of uncertainty.

At this point, Chan has confirmed his suspicion that you're intentionally keeping this information from him. He nods, taking in your response, and glances at his watch. Fiddling with one of its links, he contemplates whether you've been together long enough for him to press you about these matters. He doesn't want to start an argument or intrude on your privacy, but he's genuinely concerned, especially with the weather getting colder and the distance you live from the theatre.

"That... doesn't sound good," Chan finally says, after you've taken another sip, looking back at you. You can feel the hesitation in his words and sense that he's holding something back. Your fingers nervously tap against your cup in an unknown rhythm that's stuck in your head. "Yeah, the engine, it's kind of... shot," you say, tapping the cup at a higher tempo. You find the lid of your cup more interesting than Chan's attempt to hide his shock. He knows he's not great at concealing his emotions, and he clears his throat, suddenly fascinated by his watch.

"Wow, that's... I'm sorry to hear that. Engine troubles can be expensive. You know if you need any help at all—"

"I'm just getting another car. I've been looking, but I haven't had the time yet, especially with the production coming up, so I've been taking the trains. I'm okay, though, Chan, really," you reassure him. Setting your cup down, you interlock your fingers, resting your chin on them, and offer him a disarming smile.

"Since you've had time to come visit me, I'm guessing you're ahead of schedule?" you inquire, relieved when you see his focus shift, steering the conversation in a different direction. 

For now, you've evaded his questions again.

"Like a well-oiled machine. In fact, there's a little bit left over in the budget to get the fog machine fixed."

"Chan!" you laugh, "How did you manage that?"

"A few people owed me a few favors. I know how much you wanted to give those Ghost of Christmas Future scenes more ambiance." Chan embraces you, and you eagerly rush into his open arms, hugging him tightly, the scent of his shampoo and cologne filling your senses. When you let go, he slowly turns you around in his embrace, his arms encircling your body, your back against his chest.

"Thank you for this. Oh, Hailey will be so excited to hear this, and Thomas, we'll have to space out the set for Act Three, but that's no problem. I—" You stop yourself, your hand on your forehead as you catch yourself from rambling again. Chan loves seeing you excited like this, so he never stops you during your enthusiastic outbursts. You turn around, your arms resting on his shoulders, and you kiss him, expressing your gratitude with a hundred silent thank-yous.

Chan finds the courage to speak out, his hands gently resting along your waist. "Please let me give you a ride, at least to and from here. You live outside the city, and I'd feel better knowing you're safe in this cold." He anticipates a rebuttal and adds, "Just for the cabaret. Whatever else you do is your business, but if you did need me for other rides, I'd be up for it—just needed to get that out there," nodding affirmatively to you and himself.

You decide to accept his offer this time. You had guessed wrong; it had never left his mind the entire time.

"Fine," you roll your eyes with a small smirk, "I just know you live in the city, and that's out of your way."

"It's not, honest," Chan stands up and leans forward, kissing your forehead. "You're really special to me." With a smile, he heads out and adds, "I'll meet you in the lobby after rehearsal."

"You're really special to me..."

Those words reverberate in your mind for the next four hours of work. They're louder than the hammering of nails into wooden boards, louder than saws cutting through plywood, and even louder than the timpanis in the orchestra pit.

As you work, your head down while distressing the paint on the side of a fake building, you can hear Chan stopping and starting the musicians, going over pieces meticulously. It's hard not to lock eyes with him when he glances over at you occasionally.

Unbeknownst to you, Chan is entranced by the way you bring a vision to life, ingeniously assembling pieces that leave him baffled. He observes you walking among other stagehands, adeptly adjusting a streetlamp, your gloved hands confidently resting on your hips, toolbelt hanging down. You point, shake your head, and oversee adjustments, stepping back and tilting your head, scrutinizing it from various angles before granting it a thumbs-up.

Every so often, you cast an inconspicuous glance over your shoulder, but Chan has already shifted his focus long enough to deceive you into thinking he wasn't watching. He splits his attention between you and the piano, directing the musicians, a sight he relishes.

At one point, a designer stands beside the piano with a partially costumed actor, waiting for the right moment to approach Chan. The designer holds up a piece of velvet red fabric against the navy blue costume.

"Was thinking maybe this material?" the stylist asks.

"Nah, not really, the blue is better against the gold buttons," Chan nods, providing his expert opinion.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Thomas' voice teases, breaking your focus and startling you from your reverie.

"Oldest one in the book. And corniest," you quip back.

"Don't do it, boo. I'd be distracted if Chan were mine too," Thomas remarks, and you both sneak another glance in Chan's direction. "He is a delicious piece of sweet potato pie, ain't he?"

You nudge Thomas playfully, and both of you head backstage.

As the day concludes, everyone gathers around for announcements and updates from the director. Afterward, people begin to disperse. You're embraced by hugs from Thomas and other crew members who've become like family. The holiday break is upon you, and some are leaving town to enjoy their vacation. The lobby teems with people, and amid the crowd, you spot Chan. You hear him chatting with others, and as he finishes, his expression brightens as he spots you.

You’re really special to me… You give Chan a warm hug. It's cozy inside, a welcome refuge from the cold winter winds outside.

"Ready?" he asks with a grin.

You nod, and together, you make your way to the exit. The bitter cold greets you as you step outside, and the wind feels like needles on your exposed cheeks. You tug your scarf up around your nose to protect yourself from the icy gusts. Chan holds you even closer as you both step out into the open, and he opens the passenger door of his nearby parked car.

The car's interior offers immediate warmth, and you welcome it with relief. Chan yawns as the silence settles in around you. He had a busy but good day, and now he's just as eager to hear about yours, especially after getting lost in watching you do your thing.

"Are you sure you wanna do this? Like, drive me all the way home?" you ask, your voice tinged with doubt.

"Yes, I want to drive you all the way home," Chan says with a chuckle. He starts the car, shifting it into reverse to back out of the parking space. "And then I want to walk you all the way to your door, and then I want to kiss you, like we're a couple of teenagers from the fifties."

You laugh at his sweet sentiment.

"I'm serious! You make this relationship thing feel like it's worth something, like it's something I can do... forever," Chan says. He starts to feel a little self-conscious about gushing and quickly dials it back. "You're just... really special to me." There it is again.

"Chan," you begin, and there's a moment of hesitation.

"Yeah?" Chan's gaze remains fixed on the road, but he's eager to hear your words.

"I love you," you say, surprising both yourself and him with the sudden confession.

Each quiet second Chan spends frozen on the road ahead makes you want to backpedal.  It’s too soon.  Are you dumb? He’s gonna think you’re crazy.  It’s not even three months yet.

“I love you too.” He says, and it comes out like his own kind of word vomit, at the tail end of his ruminating thoughts of whether or not you actually meant your statement.  Then he guilts himself for doubting the expression of your feelings. Chan would just like to get out of his own head for thirty seconds.

"Ok, now that that's settled," you say, your humor helping to break the tension, and you settle into your seat with a sigh. "I'm sorry I get so weird about you helping me sometimes. I just feel like you have your shit together, and I'm still trying to figure it all out. I know you didn't sign up to get a girlfriend with a bunch of problems—baggage."

Chan snorts, a mixture of amusement and relief. He's glad to hear that this is what's been on your mind, that you've been carrying a self-imposed burden. He appreciates the vulnerability in your words. Sometimes he needs to feel needed, especially in a relationship.

"I'm not sure what your definition of having my shit together is, but this version of me, isn't it," he says with a smile. "I didn't sign up for a girlfriend with a perfect life. I signed up for Y/N, and all that comes with her. How dare you short me the fries to my combo?"

You both share a laugh, and as the car settles into the quiet hum of the engine, you notice snow falling and sticking to the slushy roads as you leave the city behind and enter the suburbs. You check the weather forecast on your phone, prompting you to speak up.

"There's a frost advisory tonight, love," you muse. "You think you should stay over tonight? The roads are gonna be awful."

Chan hadn't planned on it, but he realizes he has nothing urgent to rush home to, and he's getting pretty tired too.

"Good idea."

It takes another thirty minutes, but soon, Chan is pulling into your driveway, turning off the car and walking you to your door just as he said he would. He waits patiently next to you, his hands warming in his pockets as he looks around at the snow falling and piling up, covering the black streets in blinding white reflected against the streetlights.

It's a perfect night to snuggle with a special someone.

You turn on the music, an old Aqualung album filling the former silence, making the blanket of white outside look even more magical. You had never found yourself enjoying the quiet company of another until you started dating Chan. It's a new experience for both of you since you can get lost in conversation for hours. But with Chan, there's no pressure to keep coming up with new topics. It's one of the many reasons why he enjoys your company. He can just be himself around you.

You come over to join Chan as he sits on the floor against the couch. He initially begins to unfold his crossed legs to make room for you, but you extend a leg over his, straddling him instead, holding two cups of hot cocoa in your hands.

"Oh, well hello, beautiful," he chuckles, taking one of the mugs from you.

The way he says it makes your heart flutter, and you can't help but tease him. You sip your drink, looking at him with a mischievous gaze. "There's just something about the way you say those things to me."

"What things, baby?" Chan asks, playing along. He knows what you mean, but he loves hearing it from you. "When I tell you how pretty you are? How I get caught staring at you at work at least five times a day by the other volunteers?"

You can't contain your giggles, and he takes your mug and his, placing them on the coffee table as he cups your face. "I can feel how hot your cheeks are getting too."

"Because!"

"Because why? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't list every reason why I've fallen in love with you to your face."

You bite your lip, realizing Chan's winning the playful banter. He holds onto your hips, shifting himself underneath you and readjusting, all while focusing on being romantic rather than all the nasty things he wants to do to you with you straddling him like this.

He kisses you, gently at first, and then more passionately. "For one, you are beautiful. Anyone with eyes can see that..." You notice the drop in Chan's volume and the edge his tone gains, making you crave him in ways you haven’t been able t0 have him yet. “I like that.” “Yeah?  You do? You should, ‘cause you’re a pretty girl, my pretty girl of course.” Chan's eyes linger on your lips, and you lean forward, capturing his lips in a single kiss that leaves both of you lingering, breathing heavily, your faces close.

"Call me your pretty girl again, and you might start something you can't finish."

"Who says I can't finish it, pretty girl?" Chan counters with a sly smile, his lips dangerously close to yours.

Chan is the next to initiate another kiss, drawing you into a passionate embrace. His hands trail up the bare skin of your back, hidden beneath your hoodie, leaving a trail of sinfire in their wake. You lean your head back with a gasp as he hums against your neck.

"Listen to those breaths you take, so sweet for me," Chan says, eager to hear more of your reactions. He sucks hard enough to leave a bruise under your collarbone, making you gasp in response.

"Oh my God, Chan, I—" You start to express concern, but the juxtaposition of his arousal and your own, both concealed beneath clothing, interrupts your common sense. He shouldn't be marking you up like this. You realize you'll need to wear a turtleneck or a collared shirt to cover your collarbone.  “B-Be careful-”

"I'm sorry, baby. You're just so intoxicating, you know that?" Chan manages to peel himself away from devouring you for a brief moment, a feat that takes immense self-control. "And you have the most adorable smile."

You try to hide your smile, but he pulls your arm away. "No, let me see it. Look at how you get when I compliment you. I can't tell if you love it or hate it, but it's damn hot seeing you get all shy like this. Makes me want to say more, see how else your body responds to me."

"I think it's turning me on," you admit, your voice slightly shaky, and a coy smile forms on your lips.

“You think?” Chan states more than questions, running his nose and lips against your chest, peppering kisses up your neckline. He sucks again, leaving another mark, this time closer to your jaw. You moan in response, and he tangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck as he pulls you in for a kiss. Your lips bruise against his, swollen as he pulls back, looking up at you as if you were Aphrodite herself.

“Thank you, babygirl. I’m sorry I left a couple of marks.”

“It’s okay, you should leave a couple more.”

So Chan does just that.

You hold onto his neck as he moves forward, pressing you into the floor, lifting your hoodie up and sliding it over your arms so he can lay more open-mouthed, deliciously wet kisses down to your navel. He dips his tongue in, taking your piercing between his teeth. Your back arches, and he's going for your jeans, ready to unbutton them, but he stops, sitting up on his knees.

Chan knows if he goes any further, it would be akin to dragging him from quicksand.

He has to ask first.

“We’ve never gone this far,” Chan says, feeling somewhat awkward for not just outright asking you. You realize, of course, that you two haven't gone this far, but Chan wants to ensure you're comfortable. How much further are you willing to go? Chan can easily wrap things up right here, but the way you're writhing underneath his lips every time they press into your skin, leading further and further down south; Chan needs you to tell him otherwise. “I want to go further,” you say, your thumbs hooked into the top of your pants. “You told me you'd finish it, didn't you?”

You assist him in getting your bottoms off, and he nuzzles against the damp fabric of your panties, taking in your scent. “Had no idea you’d smell this amazing,” Chan says, pulling your panties aside to slip a finger in, curling it up. “You must really want me, hmm?”

“Mhm, I do.”

“Can you take more fingers, baby?” “Yeah, I can,” you nod fervently, vigorously, eager to feel him spread you further. Chan gets two more fingers inside of you, and he pulls the panties even further around your lips, leaning down to kiss and suck your clit. He enjoys the way his saliva catches the light as you buck your hips up.

“Prettiest pussy I've ever seen, babygirl. Are you going to let my cock feel it too?”

“Yes, please, daddy?”

Chan has to process the fact that you've called him this. He nearly short-circuits.

“You must want to be my good girl tonight,” he says as he pulls off his hoodie, tossing it aside and unbuttoning his pants.

“I'd give anything to be your good girl, Chan.”

“Anything?”

His fat cock slaps against your wet slit as he holds it firmly. “Anything.” you begin to twist your hips, attempting to grind in a way that will make him slide inside you. You're wet, it's spread everywhere, slicking your inner thighs and cheeks. All it takes is one good thrust, and he can –

“I want this, right here,” his firm taps stop you in place, and his eyes lock onto yours as he pushes his cockhead between your folds, stopping as soon as he's sheathed inside, feeling your walls begging for more. “You feel so wet, baby. Is this for me?” he asks, inching inside until he's halfway in. Chan wants to stop, but the sensation of your walls squeezing him proves to be too much, and he bottoms out inside of you.

“Yes!” You cry out, stronger and louder than you intended, spawning Chan to thrust again, rutting into you. He doesn't always go deep; in fact, he's stroking you at just the right angle to make you see stars as you drag your almond nails down his back, feeling his muscles tense under your touch.

“S-sorry,” you hiss, your head falling against the floor as you cum around his cock. “Keep it up, baby,” he encourages you, “You look so good taking me like this right now, so fucking good.”

"I-I look—"

His firm grip on the strands of your hair at the nape of your neck forces your gaze upwards, compelling you to meet his intense, smoldering eyes.

"Beautiful," he breathes as his thrusts take on a deliberate, measured pace. Each motion propels you closer to the precipice of another orgasm, and you can barely keep your eyes open. His hand presses flat against your head, angling it so you can witness the raw, primal connection between your two bodies. "You look beautiful, say it." You gasp and muster the strength to whisper, "Beautiful," as he introduces two of his fingers to your lips. You eagerly accept them, your tongue tantalizingly caressing the pads of his digits, still bearing traces of your earlier essence. He withdraws his fingers and expertly circles your clit with confident, steady pressure, evoking whimpering pleas from deep within you.

"Such a good girl," he praises with a low, smoky voice, pride lacing every word. "I'm so proud of you, baby. Can you cum again for me? I just wanna see that face one more time.” He wants to etch the vision of your blissed-out expression into the depths of his consciousness, ensuring it's the first thing he sees every morning as he awakens with thoughts of you.   Instinctively, you attempt to shield your contorted, furrowed brows with your hands, but Chan swiftly restrains your wrists, pinning them above your head with a powerful grip. His other hand intensifies its attentions to your clit, moving more vigorously.  He pairs this with shallow, accurate thrusts,each one striking your g-spot with unerring accuracy, causing you to unravel until you could think no more.  You’ve been fucked dumb, for the first time in your life.  As you gradually return to your senses, you struggle to find words or even make sense of how another human being can make you feel this extraordinary.

Amidst the haze of your post-orgasmic stupor, a lucid thought pierces through: sex is a potent, heady concoction, a force to be reckoned with.

Then, the second wave of awareness washes over you when you hear Chan's voice, close to your ear, whispering those two potent words, "Good girl." - fin

[ghostlychief]

in my head

Here's the thing: you’re in love with a version of a person that you've created in your head, that you are trying to but cannot fix. The only person you can fix is yourself. This has gone on way too long…enough is enough.

pairing: simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader; fwb; unrequited love

warnings: NSFW; SMUT; MINORS DNI; fingering, missionary; creampie; angst if you squint; fluff if you squint

wc: ~2500

---

Ghost is peppering kisses across your body as he makes his way down to between your legs. You’re currently sprawled on your bed, anticipating his next move while you stare up at the ceiling. It’s Saturday, so it wasn’t unusual that he was over at your place. Although this time, your heart feels a little heavier. You try to push it away though.

You hear the pitter-patter of the rain that seems to be in rhythm with Ghost's kisses on your soft skin. Cold rainy days are your favorite, you've decided. There's something so calming about being able to hear the raindrops land around you, almost like they're cocooning you in their own little bubble, but that bubble pops when Ghost takes purchase in between your thighs. A place you've recently only reserved for him. He just passed your collar bones, but not before leaving marks on your neck, indicating who you were with, who you've been with and is now making his way down your chest. His soft lips enclose around your nipple, sucking until it leaves the bud hardened and then he moves to your other breast, repeating the action.

You’re glad you can still hear it outside your window.

You turn your attention back to Ghost, who has now started to sprinkle sweet kisses, too sweet for his true intentions, on your inner thighs. “Simon,” you whine. “Don’t tease me.” He looks up at you and smirks when he sees the pout on your lips. “You’re good baby, I got you. Don’t worry.” And with that he’s back to kissing your legs while his hands start massaging you, getting closer and closer to your center. You squirm a little when his fingers finally find your slit. He runs two of his long fingers up and down your folds, collecting the wetness that has already formed there. You see him bring his coated fingers up to you. “Taste for me,” he breathes. And without any hesitation, you suck on his fingers, tasting yourself, making sure to look at Ghost while you lick on his fingers. He watches you with fire in his eyes as you suck, loving the way you're peeking at him through your long eyelashes.

“Mhm good girl.” His statement makes your face warm even more so than it already is. He brings his hand back down to you and slowly rubs his thumb on your clit, making you let out a soft moan. You’re just about to complain that he’s back to teasing you when he swiftly enters his middle finger into you. This causes you to halt the complaint that almost comes tumbling out of your mouth and instead, you focus on feeling his deft finger inside you. You let out another soft moan accompanied by a faint ask for more. Your hand travels down your body until it reaches Ghost’s wrist. You wrap your small hand around his wrist, almost as if you are helping him guide his finger in and out of you. At this, Ghost enters his ring finger into you, now stretching you out with two of his large fingers. Your hand still rests on his wrist, but the faster he moves his fingers inside you, the more your grip starts to loosen up. Your other hand rests on his bicep, occasionally squeezing the muscle as he repeatedly moves his fingers in and out of your at a fast pace. Noticing that you’re getting close, Ghost adds a third finger and starts to rub his thumb on your clit in soft circular motions that make you moan his name. The soft motion of his thumb partnered with the fast and brutal pace of his fingers makes your pleasure grow and grow, drawing you nearer to the tipping off point.

“That’s it baby, I want you to come all around my fingers.” Your hips buck up into his hand and you feel yourself reach the start of your high. His fingers are still working quickly inside you while his thumb rubs on your clit. You look down your stomach at Ghost in between your legs and the sight alone tips you over, the feeling of your orgasm washing over you. He lets your ride it out on his fingers and he coaxes you all the way through it, just as he always does. “That’s it baby, good girl.”

Ghost makes his way back up your body, leaving kisses on your legs and stomach. He then leans down to kiss your lips, his hands on either side of your head. You revel in his kiss, it’s something rare.

You help Ghost take off his briefs, so now you are both fully naked. You run your hands up his torso, feeling his flexed abs. Then your hands find their way up to cup his jaw. He’s still kissing you, almost like you are important to him. Like you’re enough, giving you a false sense of hope. You wrap your legs around his thick torso, pulling him closer to you. You feel his dick brush up against your center and you can’t wait any longer for him.

You grasp him, pumping your hand up and down a few times, and spread the precum all over his engorged tip, getting him ready. You start to guide him to you, your walls already clenching around nothing, anticipating the girth and length of him. Ghost breaks the kiss to look down at you guiding him inside of you. He's just at the entrance, and before he pushes into you, he rubs his tip against your folds, gathering more slick to ease the pressure of his dick entering you, ease the feeling for you. Although you're still so wet from your first orgasm, you still feel the slight sting as he slowly and gradually pushes into you.

You both let out a sigh as he fully sinks into you, eyes connecting at this very moment, gazing at each other as Ghost buries himself completely in you. Your eyes part from each other's, his gaze now focusing on your soft breasts, bringing his large hand up to cup one. He rolls his thumb across your nipple as he gives you a minute to adjust, something he knows you need when he first slips inside you, which always makes a wave of affection wash over you.

His hand comes up to grasp your hip, his thumb rubbing soft circles on it, almost as if it’s his way of saying “It’s alright.”

“Are you good?” He asks, looking down at you. You look up at him and nod. “Yeah, I’m good. You can start moving.”

At your consent for him to move, he does just that. He pulls his hips back before he pushes them back into you. He starts off with a steady pace, not too fast, not too slow. You’re surprised he’s not pounding into you relentlessly like he usually does. This time his thrusts are much more calculated, calm, like he’s got all the time in the world. The slower drag of him against your walls makes you roll your eyes back, reveling in the feeling of him. It’s only him, that’s all you can think about, all you can feel right now. You let go of the heaviness you’ve been feeling to focus on being with him now. It’s not hard,he makes you feel like you’re floating anyways.

You open your eyes, always wanting to see him. The image of Ghost rocking over you is one of your favorites, and you make sure to file it in the back of your brain so you can cherish the memory later. When you look up at him, he’s already looking down at you, which you find interesting.

You lift your hand up and run your thumb over his eyebrow piercing, something new he got done the other week. You smile softly as you trace over the piercing. He’s always wanted one, has been talking about it for years. You feel his hand that’s gripped on your hip squeeze you when your thumb glides over the cool metal on his face.

Your fingers run down his face, down his shoulders, taking in as much as you can of him. Then you run your hand down his tattooed arm, mapping the intricate details of his tattoos and running over the protruding veins due to him propping himself up. Ghost watches you as you run your hand across him. You usually aren’t as touchy with him as you are today, but he’s not complaining or pulling away. He gives you a particular harsher thrust has you moaning and clutching his arm a little harder.

“Oh, right there” you breathe. He hits that same spot again, but this time you move up the bed a little from the force of his hips. Your breasts jiggle as you shift up the bed and Ghost’s eyes are trained on your chest. He brings his tattooed hand up to up one of them, rolling his thumb over your nipple. Ghost keeps this faster rhythm, and he removes his hand from your breast to wrap it around your leg. He positions your leg so it’s resting on his shoulder, now giving him a deeper angle into you. This position allows you to feel him move even deeper inside you. His thrusts are hard, but his pace starts to slow down.

“You feel so good baby, so tight for me.” Ghost’s hips start to falter a little bit in their smooth rhythm, a telltale sign he’s close. At his words, you unconsciously clench around him, making him breathe out a silent curse. “Fuck, I’m close, Si” you whine, not noticing the nickname slip. You feel so full, so consumed by everything going on.

“Me too.” Ghost removes his hand that’s been propping your leg up and moves it down to your clit, and starts to rub slow circles on the bud, making you squirm. You bring your leg down from his shoulder to wrap it around his torso once again pulling him closer to you. You drag your hands down and up his back as his thumb continues to abuse your clit. “Fuck, you feel so good. Where do you want me to come?”

“Inside please,” you breathe out, barely able to string a sentence together. With a few more thrusts from Ghost, you feel the coil in you snap. He’s following just a hair behind you, emptying inside of you. You feel his come paint your walls as your center clenches around him, riding out your second orgasm of the night.

He collapses on top of you but is careful not to crush you completely. You’re both breathing heavy as you both come down from your highs. It’s still raining outside; you can hear the raindrops on the windowsill, which calms you.

After a few minutes of laying in your room listening to the rain, Ghost peels himself off you and gets up from the bed. He finds his boxers and then makes his way to the bathroom. You sit up momentarily to watch him go but fall back against your bed when you realize he’s not leaving.

You look like a starfish splayed out on your bed, thoughts running wild. You’re so lost in them that you don’t notice Ghost has returned with a warm washcloth in his hands. You only fully notice his presence when he delicately starts wiping your sensitive center. His first few strokes making you writhe due to over-sensitivity. His hand rests tenderly on your knee, thumb stroking back and forth as he wipes you clean.

“Thank you,” you say softly, looking up at him bent over you. He smiles at you and gives you a small peck on the inside of your knee before he gets up to throw the washcloth in your hamper.

He picks up his t-shirt that was thrown on the floor a while ago and stretches his hand out to you. “Here, I know you like wearing my clothes.”

 “Only if they’re clean Riley, only if they’re clean.” You give him an amused look but take his shirt anyways.

“I’m going to grab some water; do you want anything?”

He gets back on the bed, sitting down and replies “no,” so you make your way out to the kitchen. You decide to get Ghost a water too, knowing that he would appreciate it even though he said he didn’t he want one. You knew the minute you got back with your glass, he was going to drink most, if not all of it. You return to your room and set the glasses down on your nightstand.

“Scoot, Riley.” He acquiesces but pays no mind to you as you climb into bed, since he’s looking at his phone. You sit next to him, your thighs brushing up against one another’s, and turn on the TV. He sets his phone down and turns his attention to the TV and subsequently you.

“Anything in particular you want to watch? How long are you staying over by the way?” you ask, with slight hesitation permeating your voice. You don’t want him to leave. He looks over at you, the glow of the TV illuminating his big eyes.

“I don’t have anything for the rest of the day. I was thinking we could hang out, and maybe get food later.”

“Oh, ok” you quietly say. You’re surprised honestly. In all your years of knowing him, the guy seemed to have plans every other day of the week, and Saturday was no exception.

“Yeah,” he says as he lightly nudges his shoulder with yours. “It’s the perfect rainy day to stay in and do nothing.”

“You’re right,” you agree as you smile up at him.

“Now c’mere.” He wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his side.

You both fall back into your pillows, bundled up in your sheets and blankets. You hear the rain start to pick up as you choose a movie to watch, the dark clouds making it seem much later than it actually is. You snuggle further into Ghost, and he tightens his hold on you. You sigh, and finally feel relaxed. The past week was stressful, so you welcomed the weekend and Ghost with open arms.

You’re only about an hour into the movie and before you know it, you feel your eyes start to close, sleep overtaking you. You fall asleep with Ghost gently rubbing your arm up and down with his hand as he continues to watch the movie, almost like he is trying to coax you to sleep, knowing that you had an exhausting week. You swear you also feel him kiss the top of your head, but you aren’t certain, since sleep overtakes you, carrying you into dreamland.

--

When you wake up, your room is dark, and the TV is still on. However, you miss the warmth that Ghost’s body usually brings. That’s when you realize he’s not in bed with you, like he was when you fell asleep. You sit up and check your phone. You see that it’s 10:30pm. On your screen you also see a notification from Ghost.

Riley 9:36pm: hey y/n, sorry something came up, so I had to leave earlier than expected. I left you some take out in your fridge though, so enjoy. Talk to you later.

You see another text from him.

Riley 9:38pm: and don’t worry, I made sure to lock your door

You sigh at his text, not surprised at all he didn’t stay. You fall back onto your pillows and turn off the TV. The rain continues to pour down outside, bringing you that familiar solace, which eventually allows you to fall back asleep.

[xsezzie]

Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas @chibimochii !!! I am your @squealing-santa this year~!

I finally got to write for these two and I really hope you enjoy it. Also my first time participating in this event so it was interesting to try, I hope did okay!

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: It's tickling???

AO3 Post

Neuvillette is eager to spend some of the festive season with Wriothesely this year... although Neuvillette has received some questionable and unsightly attire.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What’s this?”

Wriothesely stared at the rare visitor in front of him. His serious and blank expression heavily contrasted the red and white hat atop his head.

“Are you aware of the tradition of Christmas, Wriothesely?” As Neuvillette asked, he leaned forward against the Duke’s desk, bell on his hat jingling, as if anticipating the answer like a child who can’t wait.

Cute.

“Yes, I’m aware… who put this hat on you?”

“Sedene did, she said I should try and be more festive this year.”

Wriothesely chuckled, “I think you have been plenty festive all the years you’ve decided to celebrate.”

“Well this year is… different.

“How so?”

“Come to the surface.”

And so, this is how Wriothesely found himself spending the week of Christmas in the Palais. Sitting on Neuvillette’s couch, tea in hand, cold rain howling outside.

“Would you like one of these ‘ugly’ Christmas sweaters that Clorinde purchased for everyone?”

They were indeed ugly, but in a cute way. 

“I am most certainly not wearing one of those, I know you will try and take a picture.” The Duke glared playfully at Neuvillette.

“Come now, you will get cold.”

“Then light the fireplace!”

“I… do not want to.”

“You’re the *Hydro* Sovereign, the fire isn’t going to do anything to you.” Wriothesely couldn’t help but laugh to himself, “Seriously though, you control this rain don’t you? Why is it so bad tonight? Is something wrong?”

Neuvillette signed, “Yes, something is terribly wrong… You will not wear this ugly sweater.”

“Oh ha-ha, very funny… why don’t you wear the sweater, hmm?

“It… clashes with my robes.” 

“That is the point isn’t it? It’s ugly and it needs to look as bad as possible. Come here, I will help you.”

Neuvillette looks at Wriothesely with wide eyes as he calmly approaches, “N-No I can do this myself! I am not a child…”

The smirk on the Duke’s face said he had other ideas though, easily tugging on Neuvillette’s coattail to stop him from moving away and pulling him into his muscular arms.

“Not this again!” The Iudex stifled a laugh.

“Not what again? Whatever could be wrong, dear Sovereign?” 

“Y-You are going to do that tickle thing to me again aren’t you!? Everytime you think I am being shy or not compliant with your schemes…” 

Wriothesely chuckled and easily dragged him to the couch, gently pinning him down and trying to undo the buttons of his coat, “Well I wouldn’t be doing the ‘tickle thing’ if you would just wear the sweater. Come on, I will buy my own if you put this one on.”

“W-Whehey are you like this!?”

“Honestly, it is rather amusing to watch your ears turn red when you are embarrassed. Just look at them.”

The Duke makes a point by softly pinching the tips of Neuvillette’s pointy ears, making him let out a small uncharacteristic squeak. “Stohohop!”

Wriothesely manages to get the robe off with minimal effort, mainly because he knows Neuvillette is secretly enjoying this. This affection between the two, as well as secret visits has become more common recently, and neither is complaining. These meetings have allowed Wriothesely to get to know the new leader of the nation in a more intimate setting… including the fact that he is ticklish.

“Ah you love it, now put this sweater on before I tickle you more.”

“N-Nohohohoo!!”

“Alright then you leave me no choice…”

Wriothesely prepares one sleeve of the sweater and pulls Neuvillette’s arm up, looping it into the hole and successfully getting it through. Not that the Chief Justice is putting up much of a fight as he appears to be in some sort of giggle fit at this point of the absurdity of the situation, this allows him to easily get the other arm into its sleeve as well… that just leaves his head.

“I swear I am going to get someone to cut your hair sometime… it’s so damn long…”

Neuvillette huffs in amusement, “I quite like my long hair, as do the Melusine’s… and I know you do as well…” 

That rare knowing smile, he will pay for this.

Wriothesely then realises he has Neuvillette in a pretty good restraint, his arms in the sweater above his head, “I think you require more tickling for Christmas, O’ Hydro Dragon~”

No response could be given apart from a surprised shout followed by a wheezy laugh as Wriothesely digs his fingertips into Neuvillette’s armpits, causing him to squirm and desperately pull his trapped arms down.

“Nahahahahahaa Wriotheseheheheheheheeellyyy!!!”

“Sorry not sorry, sir.”

His fingers travel down Neuvillette’s delicate ribs, making him kick wildly behind the Duke’s back, kneeing him a couple times.

“Ouch, come on now is such violence necessary? I am only doing the ‘tickle thing’ you know?” The smirk was audible in his voice.

“Hhahahahaha you d-deserve ihihihihihihiiit stahahahahahahaap!!!” Neuvillette’s wheezing laughter only made Wriothesely chuckle and begin to dance his fingers down his sides now, causing the hydro wielder to writhe beneath him even more. 

“NOOOHOHO!!!!”

“Are you going to wear the sweater?”

“N-Nohohoho you wear ihihihit!”

“Ah, I guess more tickles for you then!”

And so the Duke returned to tickling Neuvillette’s exposed armpits, driving him nearly insane at this point. He quite liked the look of the Iudex when he was laughing and free of worry. The slight permanent frown he seems to always wear is replaced with a beet red face and tears of laughter beginning to form at the corners of his eyes. He honestly looks as if he might be enjoying this a little.

Wriothesely decides he doesn’t want Neuvillette to pass out and stops his tickling, taking the exhausted man and sitting him upright, legs across his lap. As Neuvillette recovers from the ordeal, he finds the sweater being forced over his head finally and Wriothesely adjusts it and his hair so he is snug.

“Gotcha~”

Neuvillette doesn’t even protest, nor does he want to. He rests his head against the younger man's chest, feeling warm and comfortable as he gently rubs his back to help him come down from the ticklish high.

“Not a word to anyone… especially the Melusines…”

“Don’t worry, this was too precious for me to want to share with anyone but you.”

“Hah. Trying to butter me up now?” Neuvillette chuckles.

“I will save that for tomorrow. For now, let's relax. The rain stopped so I assume whatever was on your mind was successfully tickled away?” 

Neuvillette’s ears turning a little red did not go unnoticed, he looked up with wide eyes as if he had been caught. “Ah… I guess so… though did you really have to tickle me?”

“Yes, and I have the urge to do it again now that you’re in this awful sweater.”

“W-Wriothesely don’t!”

Neuvillette’s words were cut off with a wheeze from himself and Wriothesely decided to try his legs and feet now, not that he minded. This was a nice way to spend Christmas Eve.

“Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon… Merry Christmas~”

[reve-writes]

—thunderstorms; nikolai lantsov.

ʚ nikolai lantsov x tailor!reader | grishaverse | 1,2k words. ʚ based off of this ask. | you're stranded with your captain, sturmhond, and forced to stay together at an inn to wait out a coming storm. the problem is: one, you're deathly scared of thunderstorms and two, there is only one bed. ʚ the one bed trope; fluff; reader being a grisha is easily omittable if its not your thing. ʚ a/n okay i don't write for nikolai a lot and i feel like he's very out of character here i'm sorry. i love him i think i'll understand of him after i read king of scars? for now i'm basing him off the show and the main trilogy. thanks for reading.

"Great," you mutter, throwing your hands in the air. Sturmhond pushes past you from where you stand in the doorway. If he notices anything askew, he doesn't say anything. You, however, glare at the moderately-sized bed in the centre of the dusty hotel room. There's no way you're sharing the bed with your captain.

No. Way.

He turns to look at you, red hair—the result of your handiwork—falling over his forehead. You notice the hazel of his eyes have started to return, replacing the muddy-green enchantment you've put on him a week prior.

"Are you not coming in?" He asks, entirely too casual as he sheds his blue coat.

You walk into the room, closing the door behind you. You take the coat from him, placing it neatly on the clothe hanger behind the door. "It should dry by the morning."

Nikolai hums. "I feel like I can sleep for a week."

With a satisfied groan, he plops onto the comforter with his boots still planted on the floor. You crinkle your nose at him. As if he can sense your disapproval, he looks up, pushing on his elbows to stare at you from where you stand near the doorway.

"You're making the bed all wet," you protest, tugging him by the sleeves. "Go clean up first."

You lead him to sit in the leather armchair in the corner of the room. He follows with nary a protest, you're right after all. His clothes is damp, sticking to his skin uncomfortably. You pull on your satchel, overflowing with haphazardly purchased clothes from the nearby market stalls.

Without warning, you throw a tunic and a pair of trousers towards him. Simple, understated clothes— a complete opposite of what he usually wears, but you can barely afford anything. Not when you've left most of your valuables aboard the ship, which is currently docked on the other side of the island.

He catches them too easily, his reflexes trained from all his years serving in the Ravkan army. "You can clean up first. I can't have my favourite tailor catch a cold, darling."

You try to ignore the casual way he throws around terms of endearment. That is just the way he is. Flirtatious, charming privateer. Still, there's no helping the spike of your heartrate whenever he calls you darling or sweetheart. Thank the Saints that he's not a heartrender.

"How chivalrous," you say. "I'll take the washroom first then."

Your heart hammers in your chest still even after you've finished and it is his turn to use the bathroom. You sit at the edge of the bed, trying to come up with a sleeping arrangement for the two of you. Saints. You're not sleeping side-by-side here.

You don't think you'll be able to sleep a wink.

The room is bare save for the armchair, a vanity and the bed. You are not sleeping on the floor and you can't exactly ask the Prince of Ravka to take the floor, can you? You'll be plagued with guilt anyway if you do.

Lost in your own head, you don't notice the pitter-patter of rain against the glass of the windows. Not until it's too late. There's a loud rumble overhead, thunderous, reverberating throughout the small room with an unwelcome crack.

You jump, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Your breathing is uneven now, the tips of your fingers growing cold. You squint your eyes, bracing yourself for another booming sound.

You hate thunderstorms. It brings a chill down your spine, rendering you helpless. This fear follows you, like a monster under your bed you can never manage to outgrow. You've grown to hate it more ever since you start to live at sea. Whenever the clouds start to appear a little too grey, Nikolai will call for the crew to head to the nearest docks, knowing your inability to stand it.

"Hey."

A warm hand engulfs yours, a comforting presence cutting through the turmoil in your mind. Nikolai's hair is still wet. You notice your work has already started to fade away, revealing blond strands amidst all the red. His eyes come into focus, eyebrows curved into worried lines as he kneels in front of you.

You don't know why but you smooth your hand over his hair. "You didn't dry it properly."

He chuckles, relieved that you're okay. "I heard the thunder and rushed outside. I was so worried I barely put my clothes on."

Your face heats up, noticing the undone knots of his tunic. You tug on the thread, tying it into a secure knot. You don't notice the way you've leaned in, but Nikolai does. He freezes, shoulders tensing as he watches you, the way your eyelashes brushing over the tops of your cheeks when you blink, the slope of the tip of your nose.

The thunder rumbles again and you suddenly jolt back.

His hands immediately reach towards you. "It's alright, darling. We're safe. Nothing can get us in here."

You swallow, nodding. Your heartbeat roars and you don't know if it's your scared reaction towards the storm outside or Nikolai's proximity. The way his eyes look at you—it's too gentle. It makes your stomach do flips.

"I know, I'm sorry," you say, holding a hand out. "Let me dry your hair. Tell me some stories to keep my mind off it."

He smirks, passing you his towel. "You know I can never pass up a chance to talk your ear off, darling. You know i've never told you about this sweet shop in Ravka, have I? My favourite...."

His voice is a calming lull in your ears. It's as if the world around you has melted away and the two of you exist in a vacuum. Just you and him. It's a pleasant feeling, one that you wish to indulge in a little longer. Realistically, he's a prince and you're no royalty. Whatever stolen glances and brushes of fingertips exchanged between you are bound to end sooner or later.

For now, you let yourself fall.

"...and that is how I unintentionally crashed my mother's tea party."

You let out a small laugh, setting his towel to the side. "I'm sure the Queen gave you an earful and a half."

He snorts. "Oh, she did. Whenever she has guests, I stay away from the entire wing that they're occupying in the castle."

You scoot further into the bed, patting the empty space beside you to invite him. "No funny business, Captain. It seems like we have to share the bed."

"But I strive to do funny businesses," he protests, frowning as he pulls the covers over the two of you. He doesn't seem the slightest bit worried at the prospects of sleeping on the same bed. His long tale has eased the rapid beating of your heart as well, replacing it with a comfortable warmth. You roll your eyes in response, putting an arm's length of distance between the two of you.

He grabs your wrist. "I'll be good, darling. I promise. Come closer or you'll fall off the bed."

Embarrassment blankets your face with heat. "Nikolai."

You relent, letting yourself press closer to his side. Waves of comforting warmth radiated off of him. Under the blanket, with him next to you, the storm outside is but a muffled sound and you don't think you've ever been more relaxed during a thunderstorm before.

"Good night, Captain," you mumble, letting your eyes flutter close.

"Night, darling."

[ ]

[amnesiamilk]

Tips for Fox Therians !

Your pelt is gorgeous btw. Are you struggling or seeking more ways to connect ? Don’t worry ! Here’s some tips from ur local polytherian!

Eating and Food

CRONCH. Look for food that is very cronchy. This way you can feel like you are eating prey . Eat meats , trail mix, or berries ! Foxes have an open diet . If you’d like to simulate hunting then go for a “stuffie hunt”. If you’d like to actually eat what you catch , wrap red fruits in paper and CHOMP . Peel the paper away once the fruit begins to “bleed” and enjoy your meal.

Activities and Behavior

Be very skidish . Jump when a noise is heard . Turn towards the sound . Perk up with footsteps . Bite what you don’t like . Snarl. You are the fox, cunning and agile . Try cuddling a blanket and pretend it’s your tail . Listen to rain. Go on hikes .

Gear and Species dysphoria

Ew we hate it . Species dysphoria is a biotch. How can we help? Coats . You’re a fluffy fox, put on your fluffy pelt! Roll around in that coat of yours . Buy a tail (make sure it’s not from a fur farm or just purchase a fake tail) and wiggle your bushy tail .

[sswwmmpptthhnngg]

Bat Out of Hell | Chapter One

→ Pairings: Eddie x HendersonSister!Reader

→ Warnings: angst, anxiety, mental health, hurt/comfort, vignette style flashbacks, eventual smut, slow burn, drug/alcohol mention/use, 18+ minors dni

→ WC: 13k+

→ A/N: Y'all. This is feeling mightily like a magnum opus sorts. I can't tell you how many times I've written and rewritten, hemmed and hawed. I finally just had to hit post. Here there probably be typos, not beta-ed in the slightest. I figured I'll go back and edit, just needed to get the story out.

In penance, I made y'all a playlist, featuring some of the tracks mentioned in this chapter and some funk tracks that I really just like and would 1000% be playing at the record shop if I worked at one.

Here we go.

→ Playlist: Maggot Brain

Chicago, March 13, 1991

Silence. Blissful, impenetrable, being-less silence. The quiet of your apartment enveloped you from the brisk March bustle of the city at your back. Windy City indeed. You thought you were prepared for Chicago’s so called spring growing up in the Midwest all your life, but the proximity to the lake changed all that. Icy torrents ripping at warp speeds at slush sludged in between the laces of your Docs. Or at least it used to until you wised up and purchased a pair of Sportos. Not the pinnacle of fashion, but damn were they functional against Chicago’s street funk.

Kicking off said boots, your toes uncurled on the warm wood floor, welcoming the relief of being able to spread out. The day had droned on, picking up that double was an instant regret. Noon to midnight. What the hell had you been thinking? Especially when you had to cram your feet into the dress code mandated pointy toe pumps, which you tossed in the direction of your closet, not caring where they landed. Whoever decided bartenders had to wear heels during their shift deserved an extra hot seat in hell. Maybe a few extra pokers for good measure. 

Tight, pinching spasms wracked your muscles as you unfurled your scarf from your neck and shlepped your heavy coat from your shoulders. Dense fabric pooled at your feet as you rubbed at your shoulder, willing away the already forming kink. Damn your overly altruistic nature of wanting to help a fellow coworker out of a tight spot. Thankfully, Wednesday nights at The Signature were fairly quiet, at least as quiet as an upscale bar on The Mile could be. Bankers, business men, and bourgeoisie. Typical clientele for the elite establishment. Top shelf liquor at a high sticker price, steak, chrome, velvet, pretty waitstaff, a cliche of 90’s decadence atop one of Chicago’s tallest buildings giving the patrons ample opportunity to look down at the city as well as down their noses. Sure, it wasn’t the most you placed you’ve ever worked. But it was a living and the tips were generous. Always an incentive for the trouble. That and the two shots your last patron of the night insisted that he didn’t do alone. Another perk. 

Tequila was already at work, doing its job dulling your senses, lulling you out into the sea of unconscious dissociation. Lights were off in your apartment, just the glow of the streetlights filtering though the window into the darkness of the small studio. Typically your neighborhood was awash with lights, music, and the scene; the punk bustle of Halsted your initial draw. Tonight, dampened by the sleeting snow, all was quiet. Just like you needed it to be. 

Only Wednesday and it had already been a week. Between tonight’s double, a full 10 days on shift in a row, and the weather, exhaustion permeated your bones. It was March, no holidays in sight, yet the bar buzzed with loaded tables, even on what were supposed to be the slow nights. People were insane for traversing the blustering streets when the gales amassed snow piles as deep as your knees. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays the alcoholics from the swift completion of their rounds. The sheer number of appletinis you had to mix threatened your sanity and the massive orders for mojitos left your palms raw from their encounter with the muddler. Tips. That’s why you were doing all of this. To afford your modest studio apartment. And to live. Though you really weren’t doing too much of that lately.

Flicking the light switch on the wall next to you, your apartment lit with a soft orange glow from the small lamp nestled in the corner of the space. One of the few things not encased in cardboard. Yet. What little time you had between shifts was unfortunately spent packing. Exactly on what you had wanted to spend your precious free time. Heaving a sigh, you surveyed your once cozy apartment. A narrow path cut through the maze of boxes in your apartment from the front door to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the couch, the couch to your bed. How there were so many boxes temporarily housing your meager cache of belongings, you’ll never know. It seemed as though each box you packed, another three were needed. Seeing everything you had to your name entombed in cardboard felt hollowed. Displaced.

Truly, aside from the last week, you hadn’t spent a lot time in your own apartment, or really even on your own. This time of year and the memories attached to it— you didn’t want to dredge them up if you could avoid it. And avoid you did. Working 10 days on, catching up with friends for dinner, crashing with a friend. You had once loved your little studio, but times had changed. You had changed. What once was a haven felt like a lifeless shrine to a life you used to live. A relic of a life that wouldn’t come to be, full of memories you wished to bury.  

Life altered vastly since the first time you came to Chicago to now. The one constant, this small haven had been the place you lay your head for the better part of the last seven years. Seven years. How had it been that long? Keeping busy in a city like Chicago was all too easy you supposed, having learned this firsthand when you had first moved to The Windy City all those years ago as a bright-eyed freshman stepping foot on Northwestern’s campus. Initially, you had moved into the tiny on campus dorms. The vivacious energy of other eager freshman only enlivened you for your first real no responsibilities experience, other than your school responsibilities of course. Being the elder Henderson sibling put a heavy mantle on your shoulders and college was the first time you got to lay the burden down. 

At first it was odd, adjusting to not having to take care of the house or pick your little brother up from school and run him all over Hawkins to his activities. You were truly living for yourself. Classwork and your part time job at the campus library were your only two obligations. The world truly felt like your oyster in those days. Free. Expansive. Yours for the taking. 

Campus life exhilarated, with the many new people and experiences. Your head was on a constant swivel that first semester. Clubs to join, parties to attend, people to meet. Your calendar burst at the seams with the new, wanting to experience everything and anything you could get your hands on. Too many years in a small town will do that you. You wanted a life so far removed from your life in Hawkins and it was in your grasp. 

Classes scintillated, broadening your horizons at every lecture. Friends joined your ranks, falling in with another merry band of misfits much like your chosen few friends in Hawkins. The only downside being your rather finicky first semester roommate who didn’t seem to grasp the concept that the room was shared, not just hers. Lauren, not be pronounced like normal, but “Lore-Ren” as in Ralph Lauren she would constantly correct. Her spiteful “toleration” of your “devil music” and distastefully drab wardrobe lead her Lacoste to leech onto your side of the room, inch by inch.  There were only so much poppy plaid, debutante delicacies, and Chad Lowe posters you could stomach. Enter your search for a space of your own.

Weeks of perusing periodicals for spaces for rent in your price range returned a fruitless search. Seems like every twenty-something was jonesing for their own slice of the city to sink their teeth into. You didn’t just want any old apartment in any old neighborhood. If you were going to strike out on your own, there was only one place to be. 

Halsted was your chosen borough, the scene rife with lovable riffraff, your kind of folks. Every spare moment you had was spent in the neighborhood; it wasn’t all about the jocks and cheerleaders— freaks ruled the roost in Halsted. Leather jackets, punk t-shirts, sky-high mowhawks, Halsted attracted those outside of the mainstream. Naturally, it was hard to find a feasible place to live in freak central due to the draw. 

You had discovered Halstead on complete accident. A rare Saturday you had to yourself with no tests to study or homework littering your desk, left you jonesing for a trip into the city. Needing to get out of your head with finals just around the corner, a trip to the city was just what the doctor ordered. With a loaded whole day plan, centering around a visit to the Institute of Art and lunch at the famed hole-in-the-wall diner Jim’s Grill, the promise of reprieve from studying seeped into your overwork brain as you nestled into a window seat on the Red Line. The ambling lull of the train proved too much for your lack of sleep as you settled into a casual doze. You should have gotten off the train in Buena Park near Wrigley Field to catch the 80 to Irving Park, but your doze was a full blown sleep and you missed your stop by several. Waking up as the Red Line pulled into Belmont Station, the rest is history. You fell in love with blossoming counterculture the moment your Chuck Taylors hit the pavement in Halsted. 

Berlin’s cavernous nightlife club with a diverse, no-attitude, all-orientations crowd on the dance floor, Susie’s 24 hour diner on Montrose, The Alley’s punk duds. Every corner housed a haven for the freaks. You had never seen anything like it. When night fell, Halsted really sprung to life. A glitter gulch filled with people pouring in and out of clubs, cars circling for non-existent parking spaces on cruise congested streets. Part-time tourists suburbanites and street freaks mingled together in club queues. Places like Punkin’ Doughnuts became a mainstay staple in your social calendar. A booming 24 hour street scene, a beacon for the offbeat. Straight up sugar fiends filled the parking lot of the Belmont and Clark Dunkin Doughnuts, loitering in the lot while music blasted through ghetto blasters or a scuffle of a live band. It was electric and eclectic, a place where you could go and find like-minded folks; a rarity in the midwest. It wasn’t just the punks, but other folks outside of the mainstream: house music fanatics, antifascist skinheads, skaters, trans folks, drag queens, goths, runaways. It was a corner hub awash with a tapestry of folks that could just hang out together. With the constellation of music venues and bars, there was always something going on in Halsted.

Perhaps your favorite of all the establishments was The Wax Trax! The bread and butter of the neighborhood, Wax Trax! was the anchor for the disenfranchised. A punk/new wave/industrial haven. Many hours were spent flipping through LPs and adding treasures to your already expansive collection. It was more than just a record store. Amid the death grip of AIDS, the arrival of Ronald Regan’s trickle-down economics, and the specter of Cold War nuclear Armaggedon, Wax Trax! was the neon-lit musical club house or a hidden community. A community that liked fringe music and transgressive humor, a community that identified as gay, trans, punk, misfit or “other,” a community that found solace in glam, dirty disco, girl groups with magnificent beehives, rockabilly of the most impolite sort, or the gritty grinding of industrial music. To be a regular at Wax Trax!, meant you didn’t fit in anywhere else. Who new there were so many of your kind? Especially in there. Not only were the vinyls cool, it became your regular haunt. Where you worked after classes and on the weekends. Where you found home.

Literally. Perusing the records a few weeks after finals while finishing up your May Term class, you spotted it. A for rent sign in the fourth story window right across the street from The Trax. Your fingers flew to dial the number during your shift and the landlord answered on the second ring. The appointment was set to the view the apartment that evening. 

It was love at first sight. You had found it. Home. Your oasis among the grit of the punk scene of Halsted. The small studio nestled on the top floor of the building facing Halsted, giving you the perfect birds-eye view of the street happenings below. Warm wood floors, crisp freshly painted while walls, tall cathedral ceilings, skylights peppering the ceiling emitting an otherworldly glow. You couldn’t have custom cherry picked a better apartment if you tried. It enveloped you from the first moment you opened the door. You had to have it. 

The place was a steal, so much so that there had to be something wrong with it beyond what the naked eye could see. Your potential future landlord had mumbled something about goddamn punks creating a ruckus and driving away renters, but thought better of finishing the statement when taking in your appearance. You may look like a punk, but your credentials were anything but riffraff. Your full ride scholarship to Northwestern, solid employment history at Wax Trax!, he didn’t even hesitate to have you sign a lease. And sign you did. It was perfect. You were home.

That was 1984. Back when the world made sense. Back before monsters, evil Russians, the Upside Down, back before you lost— Yeah, not tonight. A shake of the head dispelled the mounting thoughts. Getting out of your uncomfortable pencil skirt and Oxford was what you needed right now. Basic needs. That’s at least what your newly acquired therapist had recommended last session. Keep it simple, especially in this period of transition.  

Weaving through your box maze to where your bed nestled underneath one of the skylights, you slumped down on the mattress, unclipping your suspenders as you sat. Working at a place you didn’t enjoy really took it out of you. The stuffy clientele, bitchy backbiting coworkers primed to see you fall flat on your face. The only saving grace was your surprisingly affable bar manger and boss Jerry. He had been absolutely gutted when you put in your two weeks notice. Losing my best and brightest, he had all but cried when you handed in your resignation. 

Tending bar wasn’t the plan, it really wasn’t even in the realm of what you wanted to do with your life. It was merely a means to an end. ’Til you found your footing again. A temporary stepping stone on your way to bigger and better things, to quote your therapist. Yeah, a five year stepping stone. Aggravatedly, you stood, pulling open your dresser drawer keen to find something comfortable to lounge in for the sixteen hours you had yourself only to be met with emptiness. Shit. SHIT. Your gaze turned to the stack of boxes next to the dresser labeled “BEDROOM” in bold black block lettering. Focused packing had clearly hit your dressers, and if you had to guess your closet too, in preparation for your impending move. Like everything else in your apartment. Shoulder slumping at even the thought of having to dig through boxes to find something, anything at this point. Had it been summer, you could strip to your under layers and just laze on the couch as you pleased. But no, it was the tail end of winter, always the most biting time in Chicago. Heaters were already working overtime against the squall, radiators simmering as the steam heat fought to keep the chill at bay. 

Fighting the heavy sigh threatening to spill from your lungs, you righted your shoulders. Better to get this over with quickly so you could finally be horizontal. Just a minor inconvenience, that’s all. You’ve had more than your share of those this week. The snow, a grabby patron, everything you own in a box, and now not even being able to find a t-shirt. Fuck this week. Actually, fuck the whole month. March was the worst anyways. 

Not even bothering to find a blade or keys to make opening the boxes infinitesimally easier, you pick at the heavy packing tape. Cardboard ripping filling the silence of your apartment as you tore into the first box destined for your future bedroom. Socks. You rummaged around deeper in the box only to find more socks and stockings. Who packs an entire box of just socks? Apparently you do. Could you have at least specified that the box contained socks? No, of course not. That would have made things all too easy, too convenient for present you. 

Packing in a sleep addled state clearly was a mistake as the next box contained heavy wool sweaters and layers meant to stave off the elements, and the following only contained bottoms. Strike three. You calves quaked as you heaved the offending, wholly unhelpful boxes to the side so you could get to the next stack. Relabelling and re-taping the boxes was a future you problem. 

Another box, another disappointment. This one straining to contain a portion of your LPs, dust jackets laden with dust from disuse. When was the last time you had even played one of these? Physical Graffiti, Led Zeppelin. Queens of Noise, The Runaways. Space Oddity, David Bowie. Creatures of the Night, Kiss. The Number of The Beast, Iron Maiden. So many greats made up the backbone of a comprehensive collection once your pride and joy. Warn paper spines felt familiar under your fingertips, a warm musk kicking up as you traced the them. So much of your youth was spent in a constant rotation of these albums on your turntable, lost in the euphony each album created. How long had it been since you pulled one of these out? If the layer of thick dust accumulating upon your turntable was any indication, it had been an eon. 

Subsequent boxes contained more records hidden away, stale with desertion. Perhaps the dust added to the heft as you sloughed the boxes into a disorganized pile on your quest for something comfortable, desperation and tiredness mounting upon each disappointing box. The last box at the bottom of the stack was unsurprisingly unlabeled. It had better not be more records. Three full boxes packed to the gills with LPs was enough. Even the thought of having to transport those ratcheted up the tiredness. You peeled back the tape and popped open the flaps and your hands froze. Box flaps fell from your shocked hands as you peered down at the box’s contents. 

Soft baby blue satin glinted in the low light of your apartment. You couldn’t hold back the soft smile that quirked your lips in recognition as your fingers traced the lettering on the cool fabric. Sound Hound looped across the satin expanse in white script formed by patch and chainstitch. Almost reverently, you lifted the jacket from the box. How it was still in near mint condtion, you couldn’t fathom as you brought the fabric to your nose. The Oakmoss, anise, and bergamot notes of Brut met your inhale; it still smelled like him. Your dad. Don “The Sound Hound” Henderson.

One thousand percent responsible for your record collection and former deep love of music, Don was WINN 104.9’s premiere drive time radio spot Not My First Radio. Perhaps your dad was also one thousand percent responsible for your sense of humor. All leather jackets, KISS t-shirts, and cigarette smoke, he was a true rock’n’roller and he immersed you in that world from your conception. Playing you Pink Floyd in utero, playing you acoustic cover lullabies of Led Zeppelin, giving you the finer points of imitating Barry Gibb for your grade school talent show, sneaking you out of middle school to see Cheap Trick in Chicago and subsequently finding Meat Loaf thus beginning your life long obsession, and all the late night concerts as you began high school. Bowie, KISS, Journey, Nazareth, AC/DC, Bee Gees, Billy Squire, Black Sabbath, Bruce Springsteen. If it was a major musical act playing anywhere near the Indianapolis area, you could bet DJ Don “The Sound Hound” Henderson was in attendance. And by proxy, you if he could steal you away as his assistant in “research”. 

It wasn’t just rock and roll, it was soul. Your dad may have been a rock virtuoso, but he was also a funk junkie. Kool and The Gang, Funkadelic, Cymande, Earth, Wind, & Fire. Anything with a groove sent you and your dad whirling around the living room to the beat, laughing until your sides ached as much as your cheeks from smiling. Often roping your mother and your brother in on your hijinks. Music wove the very fabric of your life from before you were born. It was a tether, entwining especially you and your dad together, as thick at thieves. You idolized him. He was your best friend.

At least he was until cancer took him when you were 14. Watching your idol succumb to that nasty, eating disease broke you. He wasted away in a matter of months post diagnosis. It was then you resolved you wanted to be just like him, setting your sights on Northwestern’s broadcasting program. You were going to carry on the Henderson name, at least in the radio world. Desperate to keep the music thread continuing in your life. 

A telltale lump began to form in the back of your throat, tightening in that all too familiar way. Guard already low due to energy dangling dangerously close to burnout, you set the bomber jacket aside to assuage the brewing feelings, but were startled with a clatter. Curious, you pressed a hand to the jacket, feeling a rectangular lump beneath the fabric. Slipping your hand in the pocket, you produced a clear case housing a cassette. A yellowed label read “Sound Hound: September 1, 1979 Broadcast”,  your dad’s familiar scrawl clearly scripted. Feet moving of their own volition, you hardly realized you had crossed the room until you were popping open the tape deck on your alarm clock and pressing play. 

The tape began to spool, clicking and clacking reverberating from the player. Not even fading in, the tinny recording began abruptly. 

Since you been gone

Since you been gone

I'm out of my head can't take it

Since you been gone

Since you been gone

I'm out of my head can't take it

Graham Bonnet’s iron lung of a voice faded as a voice you hadn’t heard in a long while began to talk over the outro.

“And if you are just tuning in to WINN, you’re listening to The Sound Hound!” Your dad’s voice enthused followed by a very cheesy Halloween werewolf howling sound effect. “That is a new drop from across the pond. After the rain there’s always a Rainbow. And off their new album Down to Earth that was Since You’ve Been Gone. Hoping your ride home has been rockin’ and rolling smoothly. Keep an eye on the traffic headed southbound on 65, there’s heavy traffic in all lanes. Speaking of traffic, here’s one last jam to take you home. And this one is for a little creature who should be just getting off school. See y’all tomorrow on the next Not My First Radio Show!”

A Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Barbara Ann

Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Barbara Ann

Barbara Ann

Take my hand

Another bitter smile formed on your lips. As hard rock as your dad could be, he had a secret soft spot. One only known to you. The Beach Boys. No one would expect a love of The Beach Boys. But he did, he loved them un-ironically. It became your thing. Taking his prized powder blue Fairlane, affectionally known as Babs, out for a cruise down the 31. Top down, summer sun warming your skin and wind tousling your hair. Barbara Ann pouring through the speakers at the highest volume possible. You singing along at the top of your lungs. Your dad singing off-key in his best Boris Karloff impersonation, coaxing a peel of giggles from you in your younger years. 

Oh Barbara Ann, take my hand

Barbara Ann

You got me rockin' and a-rollin'

Rockin' and a-reelin'

Barbara Ann ba ba

Ba Barbara Ann

Those were the kind of hazy days of summer that you wished would last forever. Some of your fondest childhood memories lived in the cream leather interior, the soft blue dashboard, the treads of the tires. Barbara Ann became your code. Anytime it played on air, it was his way of say hi or he was thinking about you. Now, when you happened to hear it, it was your dad’s way of saying he was with you even beyond the grave and Babs… Well, she was a last corporeal piece of him. 

Honestly, it was bittersweet. Babs was a little bit of your dad to keep with you wherever you went. In later years, she became a scared space of shared secrets, long drives to Lover's Lake with Led Zeppelin on the radio, a stolen away solace at the back of the drive-in lot. But for the last five, she sat in your apartment’s parking structure. Under some sheet like a ghost of your past life. 

Nostalgia. What was with it today? Threatening to swallow you whole like the squall outside. As if this month wasn’t already charged enough. Now all this nostalgia to contend with? No thank you. While a trip down memory lane was nice and all, what you needed desperately was a little sleep. And to do that, you needed to be comfortable. Endeavoring to not let anything else sidetrack your mission, you return to the box you had opened, Beach Boys still bopping along in the background. Jackpot. Finally, past you did something that made sense. A box with a jacket AND other garments. It only took eight boxes, but you had found something to wear. Finally, a soft cotton tee was in your hands. You could almost cry in tired elation. The heathered forest green tee was Nirvana in your grasp. Shaking it out, eager to slip into comfort, you used the last ounce of your waining will straighten out the garment and— ugh, you had got to be kidding. 

Out of all the tees you owned, it would be this one. It was your lot. A huge cosmic joke where you were the punchline. Your shoulders sagged in weary acceptance. Clearly the universe was out to get you. As if you hadn’t been served enough sentimentality, the sole tee you could find would be for Shepherd’s Records. Shepherd’s had been your first job. Manning the counter and keep track of inventory for your dad’s best friend, Irwin Shepherd. Lord help you if you called him by his first name. He was Shep, and only Shep. God, you had loved that job, working nights after school and weekends, even coming home in the summer to man the shop. There was no place better for a music fanatic to work. Playing records all day and getting paid to chat with folks about music? Nothing better. 

You snorted ruefully as you lay the tee on your bed and began to disrobe. Seemingly everything today saw fit to remind you of things that were no longer part of your life. Dad. Shepherd’s. Music. So much loss in a short nearly three decades. But that was something better saved for your therapist office, not standing half naked staring at a t-shirt listening to Barbara Ann in the middle of your apartment at 1:30 in the morning. You just needed sleep. Sweet sleep. And maybe a Bartles & James to take the edge off. Yeah, that sounded good. Slipping on the comically large shirt, it hung down to mid-thigh, ample coverage for a night’s sleep. You rucked off your tights and snagged a pair of tall, thick socks from your box of socks before shuffling to the kitchen for your intended beverage.

The cool of the refrigerator breezed across your bare legs as you tugged open the door and plucked the peach flavored wine cooler from the scant contents of your fridge. Plunking the door closed, your hurried to the couch, pulled on your socks, and nestled under the bulky knit blanket, sinking into the warm reprieve from the chilled air of your apartment. One of the few things you hadn’t packed was a bottle opener. You grinned at your own genius as you reached for the tool on your coffee table and popped the top off your beverage. The sweet peach of the fizzy drink titillated your tastebuds as you took a deep swig, relaxing into the plush of your couch. 

Silence once again. The tape player had clicked off as you dressed and you were once again left in the quiet of your apartment. Gentle rattling of the radiator only added to the soundtrack of your mounting thoughts. This time of year always dredged up encroaching feelings. Giant, monstrous, beast like feelings unfurling their tentacles, probing through the mirk for some soft flesh to sink into. Testing the virility of the armor you’ve built over the years, craving to find some chink in your defenses. Most days you could stave off the onslaught with tools from your therapist wielded like weapons hewn in hard work of facing down your demons. Other days, much like today, when tiredness seeped from every pore and the calendar slowly progressing towards the day you dreaded most, your defenses offered little resistance to the strike. 

In the turbulent grey of March, you couldn’t help but think on it. Of him. The irony wasn’t lost on you that you lazed on your couch wearing the shirt bearing the name of the first place you truly saw him. The first time that unruly mop of brown hair waltzed into your life, setting you on a collision course of inevitable destruction.

Hawkins June 20, 1981

Summer. Might as well be called hell season as far as you were concerned. Asphalt hot enough to cook an egg or melt the rubber off your sneakers. Mercury bursting to the top of thermometers, 100 degrees and counting. Heat haze blurring the corn fields along the sides of the road as you drove into town. The mid-afternoon Midwest sun was as unforgiving as you could get, so much so that despite your car’s air-conditioning being on the fritz, having the top down wasn’t even in the realm of possibility lest you scorched your hide clean off. Dewey beads of sweat caused your baby hairs to stick to your brow and your legs to the leather of the seats. It was a scorcher, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. 

School was officially done for the year. No schedules, no assignments. Just you and your favorite place on earth, thankfully with air conditioning. Pulling into your designated spot, you cut the engine, twirling the keys around your finger as you walked up the back door of Shepherd’s Records. Locking the door behind you, pressing your back to the door, you relished in the cool air, an oasis from the broiling heat outside.

The quiet cool of the shop was peaceful as you made your way through the stacks of records. A familiar scent of plastic wrap, laminated cardboard, and heavily treaded carpet. Inviting, a place of comfort. Being the only record institution in Hawkins, the store was always a little less than clean, clear that many people have trampled through the shop. Stained carpeting, a little rubbish stuck in a corner somewhere no matter how thoroughly you scoured the shop, and the ever-present hint of fast food, plastic, and hairspray lived in the soft lines. 

Posters hung from the rafters debut the newest albums and in store promotions. The community bulletin board was littered with flyers for local shows and stacks of independent zines by filled the table by the door. Oasis was certainly the right word for Shepherd’s progressive palace in the midwestern malum. The devil-may-care attitude the outsider rock and roll nature of Shepherd’s offered appealed to some, but the real draw was of course the music. Rows and rows of illustrations and photos, containing everything from heavy metal to new wave to Motown to Shostakovich. 

Folks occasionally bought an album or single after hearing it played over the store’s sound system, or something of your recommendation. Husband’s utterly lost trying to find a gift for their wife. Some girl humming something she heard over the radio that she was desperate to have a copy of her own. Local DJ’s jonesing to find an international import of an obscure funk album. The true diehards never wanted assistance, nor did they really need it. “Don’t buy that album, there’s only one good song” or “This might be there best ever”, you didn’t dare even breathe it in their direction; they’d find your opinions more than annoying wanting to draw their own conclusions. Elitists aside, you gleaned a lot of joy in connecting folks to the music that excited them. After all, vinyl was how you fell in the love with music. 

While other kids were listening on Fisher 100 watt hi-fi systems, you were spinning records on a Technic SP-10. Direct drive, the pinnacle of hi-fi. Much more crisp than a sad sounding mono speaker and better yet, loud, much to the dismay of your family and neighbors. It made music a much more visceral listening experience for you. It wasn’t just the superior audio quality, it was also the album itself. Nothing tops the feeling of cracking open the record sleeve, peeling back the plastic wrap not knowing what was inside. Were there lyrics? Tour photos? Pure unadulterated excitement. When there was a lack of stuff inside, it was always disappointing. 

Nothing topped browsing the aisles of Shepherd’s, looking for an exotic gem or a familiar favorite. And you got to do it everyday. And get paid. Summer, heat side, was your second favorite time of the year. Five days a week you basked in the haven Shepherd’s provided. Briefly you wondered if this is how your dad felt, being at the station surrounded by albums as far as the eye could see. Ample avenues and journeys to take, music to be carried way by… if only he was here. Your love of music stemmed from wholly your dad. While you mom fancied Barry Manilow and The Beatles, not terrible choices if you're honest, she was a causal listener, not one who was consumed by what she heard. You and your dad had that in common, cut from the same sensitive cloth. 

“Come here, Creature,” he’d beckon you from the floor of his office, kneeling next to his record player adjusting the gain. “Listen to this.” He set the needle on the record and sound would pour out as he lay on the floor, limbs stretched and eyes closed. Completely succumbing to the music.

You’d nestle into his side in kind. Your nights typically consisted of this. Waiting for your dad to return home from the station with a new release to show you. You’d both lay on the floor and close your eyes and be taken away. As the music would build, gooseflesh broke out upon your arms, sending zinging chills throughout your whole being. Utterly and completely alive. The first time you recall feeling this sensation was the first time you listened to Ramble On by Led Zeppelin in this exact manner. Barely 6, your father could hardly wait to share one of his favorite albums with you. 

“Whadya think?” he’d turn to you and ask, eyes alight. You’d tell him exactly what you thought, how it made you feel. Swapping sensations and your deep, newly acquired love of Robert Plant. 

What you wouldn’t give for him to be tucked behind the counter right now, discussing that the Creature Feature would be for the day. Creature, your dad’s nickname for you, raised many eyebrows. Part due to your penchant for staying up into the early hours of the morning, part due to your love of Creature From The Black Lagoon. You had made him watch that film on repeat so frequently that the tape began to run thin, needing replaced. Twice. What could you say? There was just something about a creature just wanting love. The outcast, the oddity, the one never to belong thirsting deeply for companionship. Or that’s at least what your interpretation of the plot was, not a bloodthirsty Gil-Man out to ensure a beautiful woman. 

Your Creature Feature turntable choice of the day: Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. Was there any better way than to start you day with funk? Maybe a little mind-melting for the beginning of your shift, but it was one of your favorite albums of all time. Rife with protest-soul, brimming with rage over Vietnam and raised fists in support of Martin Luther King Jr., Maggot Brain spoke through brooding delusions, screaming from the shadows in a time bereft with injustice. You drop the needle on the record and just marinated a minute. 

Mother Earth is pregnant for the third time

For y'all have knocked her up.

I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe

I was not offended

For I knew I had to rise above it all

Or drown in my own shit.

Bandleader George Clinton’s spoken word begins fading into one of the most powerful and passionate guitar solos ever etched in wax. Fuzz and wah ala Hendrix, combined with the delay and echoplexed improvisation, Eddie Hazel’s solo brayed through the shop, eerie and mournful, an emotional apocalypse of sound. The one-take-wonder and titular track was your favorite, not just for sound, but also for lore. Clinton told Hazel to play as if he just found out his mother passed. The heartbreak and subsequent spiral of loss was palpable as the music pumped through the overhead speakers, vibrating in your chest as you set about turning on the lights readying for open.

This is why you loved working here. Learning all the interconnectedness of the music tapestry. How artists and styles inspired and wove together. If you paid close enough attention, funk was the epicenter of a lot of musical genres. Funkadelic for example influenced Miles Davis’ Agharta with their Wars of Armageddon which could really only be described as a paranoid freak out jam. Decadent, dizzying, and heady. There were even tunes Black Sabbath would have been proud of like Super Stupid. Funk to jazz, funk to metal. It was all connected; that such pain could transmute into something so poignant it echoed for decades after. 

Far to heady thoughts for barely noon. Proceeding with your opening duties, you flicked on the open sign, the connected neon lights flickering to life as you unlocked the front door, officially ready for the day. As per the nature of the biz, your first hour was slow, not a customer in sight. Which was fine, you had plenty to keep you occupied. Between cleaning, much needed dusting, straightening up the store, and bringing stock up from the back, you hardly noticed the bell above the door jingle with your first customers of the day.

“I’ll be right up!” You called, making your voice heard over Wars of Armeggedon. A feat considering you were in the back room contesting with protest audio, crowd ambiance, odd mouth noises, and otherwise cacophonous and riotous noise driven funk.

No response was given as you trotted up to the front. “How can I help—” your customer service smile dropped in an instant when you saw who was standing in the center of the store. “You,” your voice deadpanned in summation. 

“For starters, you could play something a little more, oh I don’t know, sane?” 

A hulking frame draped in a lettermen’s jacket despite the heat were blocked your path to the front of the store. Flanked by two of cronies, clearly amused with the cat and mouse game that had just instigated, they caged you in. Terrific. What had started out as a laissez faire day now had been severely sidetracked. Summer was supposed mean less encounters from the masses at school. Something you had greatly looked forward to: no jocks for a glorious three months. It had only been two days. Of all the record stores in all of Indiana, he had to walk into yours.

“Last I checked, I was the employee here, not you Carver,” you spat with clenched teeth, standing your ground not being at all intimidated by the goons. 

Chet Carver, the eldest Carver sibling. Most notably known for captaining the Hawkins High football team as quarterback. And also being a grade A douche canoe. Blonde. Brawny. Entitled. You would think for a pastor’s son he’d be a bit more humble. But it couldn’t be further from the truth. The aggressive meathead saw fit to target anyone who was slightly off center from the norm. Mathletes, drama geeks, no one was safe from his ire. His sway over those who looked up to him was strong, seeing as his little brother was following along in his exact footsteps. 

You knew his type, all too well unfortunately. Just a year or so ago, you were going steady. Holding hands, kissing in his car at the drive-in, the whole lot. Dumping the King of Hawkins High made you persona non grata, top mark in his crosshairs. He leered down at you, sussing out your stance for any weakness, thirsty to rend you to your knees as you had done to him. That smarmy captious grin made your blood boil and your palm itch to smack the look off his face. 

“What do you want?” You over-annunciated each syllable, hopefully the direct manner would somehow seep into his peabrain. 

“Oh you know,” he casually began, finally putting distance between the two of you. He began walking his fingers over the albums as he spoke, “we were out for a drive before heading to Benny’s for a burger and I thought to myself, you know what I could use? A new record.” He paused to flip through one of the bins he was standing in front of, taking time to muss the alphabetical order. 

Your lips pressed into a thin line, jaw aching in restraint as you bit back a smarting remark. As much as you would love to engage him in witty repartee, the sooner he left the shop, the better. You watch unmoving, your eyes trailed Chet and his cronies as the perused. Watching only, not interfering. Sure, they were making your job difficult by bringing chaos to your inventory, but if it was the worst they did, so be it. A few disorganized records? They could do much worse. 

“Ah, this is the one,” Chet had stopped his perusal, pulling a record out of the country bin and holding it out to you. Ronnie Milsap. There’s No Gettin’ Over Me. Fitting.

With a short snort, you took the record from him and made for the cash wrap. Of course he would pick the worst song of the year with the most blatant messaging.

Well you can walk out on me tonight

If you think that it ain’t feeling right

But darling

There’s ain’t no getting over me

Well you can say that you need to be free

But there ain’t no place that I won’e be

As one would assume, such a cocksure clydesdale didn’t take being dumped too kindly. If his constant harassment was enough of an indicator, this cheap shot was as clear as a foghorn. There ain’t no getting over me. Please. You had heard the song all but once over the radio at Melvald’s and it was enough. Utter trash. A narcissist’s anthem if you’ve ever heard one. You had been over him the day you dumped him. He had changed after your dad passed. All your friends had. Treating you different for grieving; you weren’t the peppy upstart you used to be. Not cool enough to hang with the in crowd. And honestly it suited you fine. The exhaustion that came a long with keeping up The Joneses was too much anyway.

Your frustration leeched out onto the register keys, punching the pricing into the cash register as you thought back on it. You may have been over Chet, but the feelings of your world turning upside down were a little too fresh. “$9.98.” You foisted your palm in his direction, not bothering to make eye contact as you rummaged beneath the counter with your freehand for a bag 

From the corner of your eye, you saw him smirk, reaching into his jacket for his wallet. “I’ll let you keep the change if you give me a smile,” he taunted, laying a crisp ten dollar bill in your awaiting palm, as he leaned over the counter, encroaching inch by inch on your personal space. 

Change was made quickly and dropped into the bag. “Have a nice day,” you spoke flatly, slapping the bagged record into his chest. The paper bag crinkled against his jacket, the force and surprise propelling him back a few steps, bemused expression on his face at your reaction.  

HIs cronies chortled again, the interaction pulling them out of the mussing miscreancy.  “Seems like we’re not wanted here, Carver,” one of them mused, flanking Chet. 

“I supposed not,” Chet clapped him on the back. “Let’s get outta here.” 

Finally, FINALLY, the three skulked their way to the exit. Only being in the store for all of ten minutes, they had sufficiently made a large enough mess of your racks that it would take you nearly half the day to restore the order. Scooping up the nearest stack, you took the armful of albums back over the the counter. 

“Hey Henderson,” he called to your retreating back, pausing you mid step. 

Your abrupt turn and the heft of the records in your arms put you off kilter are you stared him down in the doorway. 

“I always thought you were prettiest when you smiled,” he winked, disquieting you to the very core as he exited.

Had your hands been free, you would have flipped him the bird, double time. That fucker. Thinking he could come in here, invade your sanctuary, and leer like that? Who did he think he was? Right, god’s gift to womankind. The albums met the counter with more force than you intended, the pile spilling onto the floor with the force. A breath didn’t know you were holding released, your shoulders slumping in resignation. This was going to be a long shift.

Several hours and almost the entirety of Iron Maiden’s Killers later, all was righted in the store. All of the jazz section had to be completely reorganized from Armstrong to Zawinul. Pain in the ass was the understatement of the year. Wistfully, you wished you had given Chet a piece of your mind, read him for all the filth he was, but being in his presence any longer than necessary would have been a drain on your day. Engaging him in the slightest would have bated him to linger. Just the short encounter had been enough. 

Gloriously, you hadn’t had another customer all afternoon, nothing too atypical for a Friday. The lull in activity gave you ample time to right Carver’s wrongs. Something about organizing provided the proper channel for your aggravation. A before B, B before C. A rhyme and a reason, no chaos in an easily understood system. The balm you desperately needed, smoothing the wrinkles out in your day.

“Hey Henderson!” 

Your head snapped up, the voice catching you off guard. The sound system must have obscured the door bell as you had not heard the group of boys enter, too lost in your world of alphabetized jazz. Anxiety left your body in a rush, spine slackening in relief as you looked upon a familiar face. “Hi Grant.”

The sophomore flustered under your recognition, looking down at his shoes as a blush tinted his round cheeks pink. Among your job at the record shop and a babysitting gig here and there, you also tutored students as a part of the Hawkins Library Aide program. Looked good on college applications and provided some extra scratch. 

“Got that new Demon album in. Set aside a copy for you,” you continued, wiping your hands off on your jean shorts, ridding the dust from your sticky palms. 

“Hey,” one of Grant’s friends good naturedly ribbed, “getting in in tight with the record store girl. Sucking at English has it perks.”

“Shut up, Gareth,” Grant admonished his blonde friend. 

Gentle giant Grant. You would never understand why the school thought him such a freak. Grant aired more on the quiet side, odd considering his large frame. Had he been popular, he more than likely would have been a starting lineman or something like that. Instead, he favored music, art, softer pursuits. He reminded you a lot of your brother’s friend Will in temperament at least. Grant’s whole friend ground reminded you of your brother’s Party come to think of it.

“Speaking of which,” you dashed back behind the cash warp to retrieve his hold, easily finding under GOODMAN, “how’d you do on your final?” Your hands moved on muscle memory as you prepared the sale, stamping the brown paper bag with the satisfying ka-chunk with the store’s branded stamp. 

“He aced it,” Jeff beamed at his friend as they neared the counter. 

“Way to go!” You beamed proudly at your pupil as he handed you the payment for his tape. Prepping for the exam tested Grant’s resolve. Really, the only reason he needed a tutor was due to O’Donnell’s impatience. Had she taken the necessary time and not written him off as a “problem”, like she did with any student who wasn’t a grade A ass kisser, he would have been just fine. All he needed was a little time and reassurance. 

“Right?” Gareth added, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Now your parents can’t say shit when we practice in your garage all summer.”

“We owe our future success to you,” Jeff grinned. “We would be down a guitarist if it wasn't for your help.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the exchange, this friend group not unlike your brother’s in the slightest. Through tutoring, you came to know Grant well, and by proxy, you had become casually acquainted with his friends. Gareth: loud, boisterous, ostentatious. Jeff: quiet, contemplative, congenial. And—

“Hey sorry, I’m late! The copier kept jamming at the print shop,” the boy who was more mass of hair than human skidded into the shop. Eddie. Eddie Munson. Out of all of the group, you had interacted with it’s defacto leader the least. No words had been exchanged, solely a head nod or a wave. He flapped around like a bat out of hell. Hyperactive. Mercurial. Rough around the edges. The crowned town freak. Though you suspected that wasn’t truly the case. Was he unruly? Absolutely. Did he draw attention to himself in spectacle? Everyday. But was he a freak? Doubtful. More than likely merely misunderstood. Not unlike your own brother. Same hyperactive, overly chatty, nerd tendencies.

You watched the group flurry about as Eddie tacked up a boisterous flyer. CORRODED COFFIN @ THE HIDEOUT AUGUST 4th 7pm it read in what you assume to be Eddie’s scratchy scrawl, complete with the stereotypical rock paraphernalia sketched on the neon paper. 

“Dude, how did you manage that?” Gareth jerked a thumb at the poster. “The Hideout is bar.”

“Power of persuasion my friend, power of persuasion,” Eddie lips drew back in a wide grin full of pomp, his ego on full display. Unruly curls jostled in time with his animated movements as he regaled his friends with the full tale. From your station behind the counter, the mischievous twinkle in his eye was easily seen, overly proud of his cleverness in securing their gig. 

His chains glinted in the neon light lights of the shop, causing them to glow more pink and blue against the cut off black denim shorts and shirt he wore. Iron Maiden and Eddie the Head barely stood out on the fabric, faded with much wear. Rough around the edges indeed. He certainly contrasted the punchy hunter green and burnt orange of Hawkins High School’s logo. Of the town’s sun-faded siding of the houses along Main Street. The pastels and polos of the in crowd. How had you not noticed before? 

“And a Tuesday? There’s gonna be no one there,” you overheard Gareth complain as you tuned back into the conversation. 

“Gentlemen, come on,” he threw his arms around Gareth and Jeff’s shoulders. He spoke in a manner of a commander quelling his troops before a charge. His persuasive aura huddling the group  “Sure it’s not Market Square Arena, but it’s a start.”

The group looked unsure between themselves. 

“One person doth an audience make. Right?” He was all smiles. Affable and relaxed having swayed his friends over to his point of view. Curious. You regarded him as they continued to converse, perusing the shop leisurely. In the way one should. Try as you could to look at anything else, your eyes followed Eddie’s movements. Pouring through the records, admiring the album with their due reverence. His love of music read from across the store. If it wasn’t his sheer enthusiasm for his gig, it was the way he handled each vinyl with care. Like each was a priceless antiquity meant for the Smithsonian, not a dusty old Indiana record shop. 

He cuts through your perusal, his deep boisterous laugh filling the space. Head thrown back, fully body shaking. Lopsided grin toying at the edges of his lips. Free, you thought idly. He was utterly free. A foreign chink sounded somewhere deep in the pit of your stomach at the thought. When was the last time you had laughed like that? Let your hair down and allowed yourself to be free? Hell, just even be. 

Jesus Christ, what planets were in transit today that made every thought that wafted through your head wax the poetic? Turning to busy yourself with something other than staring at Eddie Munson, receipts from the week begging to be filed demanded your attention. 

The slips of paper consumed your attention, filing expenses for the week, returns from the one lady who insisted Stevie Nicks was the devil incarnate and insisted on a refund, and preparing the order for next week’s shipment for Shep. Lost in your own clerical world you had missed the small scuffle and sound of light cajoling behind you. That was until a voice was cleared, loudly and comically. Clearly intended to garner your attention. 

“H-hi there,” you were greeted as you looked over your shoulder. Eddie was standing at the counter across from you.

“What can I do for you, Cousin It?” You could hardly withhold the jibe that left your lips. Cousin It? You mentally reprimanded yourself for your lack of filter. It had been a long day. The perfect defense, but your excuse died in your throat. 

A wry smile quirked the corner of his lips as his friends chortled behind him, trying and failing to pretend like they weren’t eavesdropping. “You wound me!” His hands flew over his heart as he staggered a few steps back as if he had been stabbed. “Is this what customer service has come to nowadays?”  He faux fainted into the support of the record bins behind him with the grace of a 1800’s courtesan. 

His friends burst into full guffaws, unable to ignore the hijinks. You huffed, folding your arms across your chest. Clearly, this clown wasn’t too unlike the other who came in to chat you up and goad a smile out of you. 

He caught you mid eye-roll, those deep brown eyes. A flash of amusement in the neon lights of the shop. “Listen,” he said lowly, demeanor changing to something resembling a semi-respectable member of society. “I bet those numb skulls over there,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at his friends as he sidled up the counter again, “my DM seat, my—”

“Dungeon Master seat, yeah I’m tracking with you,” you interrupted, all too familiar with the term. Dustin’s inane rambling about Dungeons & Dragons had permeated your brain. He only talked about it 24/7.

His eyes widened, surprise clear as he looked at you. “Well then,” the laugh lines appeared on either side of his mouth, clearly pleased at this turn of events, “a lady informed.” He propped an elbow on the counter and rested his chin in hand as he leaned closer to you. “Then you know the severity of this bet,” he all but whispered into the space between you. 

You stared at him for a beat, sussing out his intent. Narrowing your eyes at him slightly and still his grinned persisted, not fading a mite. 

“Right, so I bet them my DM sea aha I could get a lovely lady as yourself’s phone number by the end of the day. They don’t believe in the Munson charm.”

Eyes flicking to the clock, it was 5:47pm. Nearly the end of the day. Per his early statement, most of his day sounded like it was spent wrestling a copier prior to killing time in your shop. His options were limited. A wry smile cracked your features. “Let me guess,” you leaned onto the counter mimicking his position, “I’m your only hope?” He returned your grin. “You’d be correct, Obi Wan.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“My undying gratitude,” he answered quickly, hand flourishing over his heart.

“You’re going to have to sweeten the pot.”

At that, his palm flew up to cover his mouth, the thought process propelled him to pace, unable to stay still to ponder. The need to make a show of it all too great. He paused, as if a great idea dawned on him.

"I, milady, will owe you one favor of your choosing. A favor from your humble, grateful servant," he bowed low, arms out wide in submission.

Flabbergasted, you regarded him in his docile pose. "I don't even know you, dude.” You really didn’t. This being the first time you’ve ever directly spoken to the boy, how on Earth could he provide you a favor? Would you even want a favor from a complete stranger?

He stood, quickly returning to his towering height. “Touché,” his grin faltered, not expecting this conversation to go left. 

Perhaps the Munson charm really was a figment of his imagination. Then again maybe it wasn’t. Disarming, you could feel your hackles from your earlier encounter with Chet smooth back flat to your neck as Eddie searched for something further to say, a pink tint dusting his cheeks as he floundered. There was something endearing about the way he toed at the carpet with his beat up Reebok’s. All the bravado seem to slip for an instant, allowing you a brief peek behind the curtain. There was more to him than the rumors around town suggested. 

"I, milady, will owe you one favor of your choosing. A favor from your humble, grateful servant," he bowed low, arms out wide in submission.

Flabbergasted, you regarded him in his docile pose. "I don't even know you, dude."

He stood, quickly returning to his towering height. “Touché,” his grin faltered, not expecting this conversation to go left. 

Perhaps the Munson charm really was a figment of his imagination. Then again maybe it wasn’t. Disarming, you could feel your hackles from your earlier encounter with Chet smooth back flat to your neck as Eddie searched for something further to say, a pink tint dusting his cheeks as he floundered. There was something endearing about the way he toed at the carpet with his beat up Reebok’s. All the bravado seem to slip for an instant, allowing you a brief peek behind the curtain. There was more to him than the rumors around town suggested. 

You never really believed what the rumors whispered. Cultist. Satanist. Evil. If he was any of those things, he certainly would be blushing in front of you trying to come up with something to offer. 

His gaze returned to yours. “You’re nice,” he arrived at with what you were sure was less subtly and finesse than he wanted, “at least that what Grant says. He raves about you. So I know you’ve got some small soft spot for us freaks.”

Your brow lifted in response. “Is that so?” you challenged.

“Me thinks so,” he mirrored you, leaning back in, closing the distance. “You know,” he offered casually, “we aren’t totally strangers. We’re just meeting now. I’m Eddie by the way.” 

“Oh I know.”

“I do declare,” he gasped in a rather surprisingly accurate mimicry of a southern belle. “Henderson the Great knows my name?”

A snort was your only response as his chocolate eyes did their best to woo you into helping him. You rested your chin on your fist, staring him down in equal kind. A Mexican standoff over the counter. He trying desperately to sway you. You trying to determine his motives. Narrowing your eyes slightly, you weighed your options. What did you really have to lose in this situation? Your phone number was permanently etched in the men’s bathroom at Hawkins High thanks to Chet and his minions. Crank calls weren’t something with which you were unfamiliar. But what you had to gain, that was a mystery. What could Eddie Munson do for you that you couldn’t do for yourself?  Something about Eddie made you want to say yes, seal yourself in this devil’s bargain where you had the power and he owed you.

“A favor I can call in for anything at anytime. No questions asked?”

“I draw the line at animal sacrifice,” he grinned, “but yeah. Anything, anytime.” He drew a little x over his heart, sealing the deal. 

“Charming.” You proffered your hand. 

He stares at you, startled that it worked? His lips the perfect “o” in shock.

“Give me your arm,” you laughed lightly, fishing a pen from a drawer behind the counter. 

Eddie all but threw his arm into your await grasp, eagerness rolling off of him in waves. His skin vibrated under your palm as your phone number took shape on his arm. 

“I really appreciate this.” The timbre of his voice had changed, warm. Rife with what felt like true meaning. You didn’t doubt his appreciation and if you had looked up, you would have caught the shy blush that blossomed on his cheeks at your gentle touch. Deeper and redder than before.

“Just doing my civic duty. Can’t let Princess Leia lose her seat.”

With that he laughed. Full on belly laugh like before. But this time at your prompting, you had earned a bit of his free savoir faire. Pleasure at the fact bloomed small in your chest, causing you to nearly drop the pen in your grasp. 

“Munson, are you accosting my tutor?” Grant keyed in on the moment, just realizing what was happening. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry.” His large hands landed on Eddie’s shoulders pulling him away from the counter, severing your connection. “I’ll get him out of your hair,” Grant said as he shooed his friend to the exit.

“See ya around, Creech,” called over his shoulder as Grant manhandled him to the door. “What did you just call me?” the world hitting you like a slur.

“Creech, like Creature?” He grinned, pointing at your t-shirt. “Like Creature from The Black Lagoon? Rad shirt by the way,” he complimented as Grant finally herded him out the door and onto the sidewalk. 

Creature. That world fell upon you like cold bucket of water. No one had called you that in years. The only person to ever use the nickname, your father. In disbelief you looked down at your tee. The familiar movie poster was there, same black ink on the love-worn shirt. Creature. Out of all the things he could have called you… 

“You did not just get her number!” You heard Gareth’s shout from outside the shop in total shock of his friend’s success. A laugh you needed worked it’s way up and out of you. At both the outburst and the absurdity of the last five minutes of your life. Creature. You couldn’t wait until he found out that you had given him the shop phone number. 

If someone from the future had beamed down in that instant and told you that the two of you— that you and him— he and you— You would have never believed it. In what timeline were the two of you destined to be together? You threw an arm over your eyes as you surfaced from the memory you'd always carry with you, no matter how hard you've tried to erase it. Carry? His memory, a boulder and you, Sisyphus. Forever rolling his echo up the mountainside and just as you are about to crest, to be free from the niggling guilt and ever-present ache, it plummets back down, right back into the pit you from which you crawled. Fingers bloody and war torn, muscles aching only second to the affliction of your heart. Would you ever not feel the boulder in your chest? The throb of the rock lurching about, staggering your thoughts, keeping you off-kilter. In a session, your therapist had suggested that you never shrink your grief, you eventually outgrow it. But how long? Ten years? Fifteen years? Fifty years? The past five constricted, your skin pulled taut over the sorrow stone. Tightness hindering your ability to draw breath, to think clearly, to move on.

Or was it more like maggots? Worming away in the decay of your heart, carving out tracts for all the guilt and shame to fester. Wriggling, putrid, filth. Yeah, no. Beginning to the lose the battle with the constriction in your throat, you stood lest you be swallowed by the mounting wave of grief. Before the wave crested, you stooped back to the kitchen, grabbed the dwindling content of the six pack you started days priors, and schlepped back to the couch. If you were to face the sleepless undertow pulling at your ankles, you wouldn’t do so without liquid courage. Sleep evaded you most nights, but this time of year it was damn near impossible to find rest in the choppy waves that thundered your shore. And even if sleep did take you, this was going to be a long night.

Shrill ringing woke you from your post-shift slumber. Groaning, you swore, feeling as if you had just closed your eyes only to have your sleep so rudely interrupted.

The ringing didn’t quit, the blasted thing rattling from your side table just above your lounging head.  Blindly from your prostrate position on your couch, your hand roved until it met the glossy plastic of your telephone. With a groan, your fingers curled around the receiver, hoisting into the air and foisting it to your ear with a grumbled, “hello?”

“Come home.” 

A demand, a cracked intonation you hadn’t heard in your younger brother’s voice in a long while. The mere sound doused you like a frigid bucket of water. You froze, heart thrumming loudly in your ear overriding your functions to knee-jerk. Shocked, you propelled yourself sitting, dread pooling in your gut. Shit, shit, shitting shit.

Tantalizingly, the thought of just simply hanging up waltzed to the front of your brain. Oops, the phone happened to fall out of hand and right onto the cradle, your muscles too tired from mixing drinks to hold the receiver. Believable? Yes. Easy to execute? Yes. Your palm itched at the idea. A faked bad connection had gotten you off the phone a time or two, but this called for more drastic tactics. Surely this would work. Your brother would understand, wouldn’t he?

Frustration was evident in his tone as he yammered on, his words falling upon deaf ears. You couldn’t blame him; he had every right to be frustrated with you. Five years is a long time to stay away, no matter how good your reasoning. 

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen Dustin in five years. He had come to visit during breaks after he got his license, your family drove up to celebrate your birthday one or twice, meeting for a quick catch up in Indianapolis on a Saturday. You had seen your family. Perhaps not as often as they would like. 

Just a few months ago you were all together. Now that was a magical Christmas. Soft white fluffy snow, the kind you see on those “Wish You Were Here” postcards, blanketed the roads as you took the bus from Cambridge into New York City Dustin’s first year at MIT. The world always has a little more glow that time of year, but something about being in New York made it even more so. Skating in Times Square, hot chocolate in Central Park freezing your butts off, forcing your mom to eat street hot dogs with you and her bellyaching about all the hazards of imbibing, getting lost in the natural history museum for hours. Complete bliss. It was almost enough to make you forget. Almost.

It wasn’t like you were radio silent either. Save for the last few months, regular phone were a Wednesday night staple. There were cards exchanged for the birthdays and holidays you dodged coming home to celebrate. So you had missed a few birthdays, Christmas, high school graduations, college acceptances— ok so you had missed some major milestones. An even more appealing reason to add to the list of why you needed off this call. A big ol’ pit of guilt.

Who were you kidding, though? Really. This is Dustin Henderson. That dogged determination would have him ringing you again and again until you rip the phone from the jack, and burying it under your floorboards a la Edgar Alan Poe’s Telltale Heart. Even then, the phantom ringing would drive you mad. The alternative: The National Guard would show up on your doorstep and drag you kicking and screaming all the way back to Hawkins. As much as you dreaded this exact scenario, he was your little brother and you loved that little punk more than anything. Though the fantasy of a final desperate dodge appealed, you couldn’t do that to him. You wouldn’t do that to him. Resigned, your shoulders slumped. You had to take this call. There were no more ways around it. You were trapped. Great, just great. 

As if your anxiety wasn’t high enough, the thought of being trapped only served to make the walls of your studio apartment feel smaller than they already were. With each nervous breath, they closed in a little more, creeping closer and closer. Your beloved little hole in the wall was now a refrigerator box of rigid tension. What was it that your therapist had reminded you of last session? Chewing on your cuticle and maintaining your breath evenly, you tried to recall her words. A breath would help. Slowly, you unfurled yourself from your tense seat, placing your feet flat on the floor and inhaling and holding. In. Out. In and out. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat as many times as it takes to gain your bearings. As many time as it takes to not want to claw your way out of your own skin. Breathe. Just fucking breathe. 

Finally releasing the stranglehold on your eardrums, the ringing subsided, bringing your brother’s frantic calling of your name into focus.

“Dust—”

“Jesus Christ, I thought you had a coronary.” The relief in his voice was palpable, even cutting through his obvious frustration.

“Sorry.” Hopefully he’d pickup on the sheepish tone to your voice. You hadn’t meant to startle him. Hell, that was the last thing you’d want to do. Things had been hard enough for Dustin Henderson. A basket case sister is not what he needed right now. With a deep swallow and additional breath for good measure, you consoled, “I spaced is all.” 

While the ringing had stopped, uneasiness licked up your spine. Pressing your palm to your abdomen did little to quell the steady rise of heat, but it was a minor comfort. A minor comfort you’d continue to give yourself until this wave of anxiety releases you from its undertow. 

“Don’t do that!” His admonishments continued, ratcheting your guilt at every word. It wasn’t supposed to go on this long. Yes, initially you were avoidant, then it just became your modus operandi. Avoidance was easier than the inevitable bursting of the bubble. And god did you want that bubble to last forever. Really it had superseded a want; it was now a need. That sweet bubble of blissful feigned ignorance. Yep, you could hide in that no problem. 

Dodging this call for the past several weeks had been a Herculean effort on your part. Picking up extra shifts at The Signature Lounge to keep you out of your apartment until the wee hours of the morning, conveniently forgetting to change the tape in your answering machine, staying out all hours of the night dancing and drinking until your stomach was more sore than your feet, even going as far as leaving your phone off the hook to avoid this dreaded call.

Three months. Three blissful months of not acknowledging the impending anniversary. Ides of March took on a whole new meaning since 1986. At the thought, you swallowed harshly, your throat drying at the memory. A nearly empty Bartles & James offered you salvation from your coffee table and you sought it, finishing the bottle before adding it to the pile of its discarded twins. Beware indeed. Even with all the time past, stomaching this call was not on the list of things you wanted to do today. Honestly, probably ever. 

You sighed in the receiver, the nervous sweats already starting to coat your palms, the receiver slackening in your grasp. An excuse already forming on your tongue as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Don’t even start,” he interrupted what was sure to be your anxiety ridden ramble.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You said you were coming. You’re already three days late. Everyone’s counting on you being here.” 

Grounding. That was what your therapist recommended. Grounding. Sitting on the ground felt more appropriate to ground yourself, already feeling what little energy your brief nap gleaned left your body. Okay, so maybe lying on the floor would be better. Already feeling gelatinous, you poured yourself onto the floor. Flat as a board, staring up at the ceiling. 

Five. Five things you can see. 

The image of yourself reflected convex back to you in the screen of the small television sitting on the floor. Hair askew, dark circles forming under your eyes darkened by the remnant mascara smudged from your couch cushion. Oversized tee hanging off your frame, you looked as gaunt as you felt. No, you wouldn’t dwell on your haggardness. What else? Cobwebs in the corners that really needed your attention. Really, how long had those been there and how hadn’t you noticed an arachnid roommate taking over the corners of your space? Equally egregious dust tufts under your couch. The mountain of boxes awaiting Friday’s movers. Last one. Your eyes roved over your apartment, your body unwilling to move. What else could you see from supine spot? Your window. Diluted light of the city glinting through your sheers. A favorite of yours, especially this late at night. The kind of light that makes you feel like you're the only one in the world awake. A familiar friend for your sleepless nights. 

Four. Four things you can touch. 

The firm plastic of the phone if your hand, transferring the heat of your palms. Threadbare cotton of your favorite tee. Warmth seeping through the floor, bonus of being the top floor apartment. The heat always rose.Soft pile of your barf green shag rug that you adored and everyone hated, including your mom and that is how it came into your possession. Love for the stupid thing brought brief smile to your face as your hands wandered through the strands. 

Three. Three things you can hear. 

The city, the white noise churn of traffic passing by your window. The soundtrack to your day to day, thankfully minus the honking. Some kind of jazz in a time signature that should be outlawed played by your most adjacent neighbor. Your brother’s voice, rattling off plans for your visit at a speed beyond your current comprehension. 

Two. Two things you you can smell. 

One of your neighbors cooking something with garlic down the hall. Your stomach thundered at the smell. Maybe as a reward for making it through this call, a late night slice was in order. Leftover remnants of the perfume you spritz at your pulse point before your shifts today.

And one. One thing you can taste. 

The acrid aftertaste of the Battles & James churned with bile slowly climbing up your throat. Delectable. Your phone cord could reach to the bathroom, maybe a quick brush would suffice. If you could be bothered to get up from the floor. 

To your amazement, your therapist had been correct. Or maybe it was more to your chagrin. You did feel a little more centered and your anxiety had eased from a chokehold to a tight grip on the back your neck. But progress was progress, and you’d take it.

“Did you hear anything I said?” 

Right, you were still on the phone. Dustin’s voice lasered through the haze, bringing you back into the moment. Truthfully, you hadn’t heard a single word he said, too preoccupied with keeping your heart from beating through your ribs like a Chestburster from Alien. Guilty you had’t paid attention, you settled on the response, “Mhmm.”

“Oh yeah? Repeat it back to me?”

Nevermind he was now a college sophmore, Dustin Henderson was still a butthead. “What happened to respecting you elders?”

“Oh I don’t know, how about you start acting like the elder sibling for once?”

The ringing in your ears returned, tinning out all background noise. A stab straight to the gut. You really had shirked your duties as eldest sibling. Retreating into yourself for the better part of the last three years, only to emerge a disjointed caterpillar figuring out how to wiggle yourself into a chrysalis to heal for the last two. Therapy was new, and it was helping, but clearly to everyone else progress wasn’t being made. 

“Dustin—” the shock not kept from your voice at your brother’s sharp barb. You knew he was angry, despite him not outrightly saying so. He had been pulling the weight as the defacto elder sibling, you could admit that. Really, the guilt of sticking Dustin to carry on and grieve alone may have contributed to your negligence in reaching out. Heat burned in your cheeks. You deserved all the ire coming your way. Simple as that. 

“Sorry, too harsh,” he joked, his usual tone settling in place. “When you didn’t show up on Sunday, we thought—”

“I know,” you interrupted, knowing exactly what he thought. Pre-therapy, he had a right to be concerned; those days were dicey at best. But now— what about now? You weren’t ready to check out, this you knew. But the aimless distractions you sought, what was even the point? You had no heading.

“I worry about you.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“If I had visual proof of your existence every once in awhile that would help. Ma too.”

“I’m coming home now aren’t I?”

“You were supposed to be here Sunday.”

Heavily you sighed, the bridge of you nose pinched between the fingers of your free hand. “You’re an ignoramus, you know that right?”

“Yeah, I know. I just miss you, alright?”

“Miss you too, kid.” You really did. Your relationship with your brother wasn’t the typical cat and dog. Even six years your junior, he was you best friend. With all the shit you went through together, you were all each other really had. The support, the understanding, the trauma. It bonded you together deeper than the average siblings. You couldn’t disappoint him again. You wouldn’t disappoint him again.  “I’ll be there Friday.”

“Why not tomorrow?”

“I picked up another shift. If I’m going to be gone for two weeks, gotta have a little more savings in the can.”

He sighed heavily into the receiver, frustration begging to flow again. It wasn’t your usual excuse, he seemed to buy it. “Okay,” he said slowly, disbelief coloring his words. “If you’re not here by Friday—”

“You’ll reign down holy hellfire on me and drag me kicking and screaming back to Hawkins. I know. How many times have you threatened me with that?”

“This time I have back up.”

It wasn’t an empty threat. You knew he did. If you dared to not show, not only Dustin would be at your door, certainly all of Hellfire would be. With that many people to let down, you knew you would be going regardless of how much you dreaded it. 

“What, you think the guilt trip isn’t enough to sway me?”

“You’re an idiot,” he laughed, jovial nature returning. “Friday?”

“Friday,” you confirmed. “Love you, Dust.”

“Love you too.”

The call disconnected on his end, the dial tone tolling from the receiver still clenched in your grasp. You were going home. You were going to Eddie’s Memorial. You had agreed to come home to attend Eddie’s Memorial. That was that. Finally the receiver had made it’s way back to the cradle as you collapsed back into the couch, dragging your hands over your face. What did you just do?

[cemexecution]

❛  i’ll  buy  you  another  one .  ❜

Viola had been intimately familiar with responsibility from the day her mother was lowered into the earth, into the damp pockmark of her grave.  An only daughter, almost always alone, almost always waiting, but never idle – not when there was an endless cycle of chores to meet with grace and consistency.  Clothes to launder, floors to sweep, meals to cook, wounds to suture, markets to visit, church services to attend.  Always an absence to endure.  Keenly felt, it was a raw socket explored with curious tongue tip.

Marriage suited her – and she suited marriage.  A fresh start, their new home newly clean, the scent of carbolic soap and beeswax overshadowing that of fresh paint and sawdust.  Paltry flames writhed in the hearth, a meagre pile of coals smouldering in the shuttered dark.  Viola sat primly on the chaise-longue, unmoving, save when she squeezed her eyes closed as the hunt drew frightfully near.  Still, she refused to retreat to the marital bed without her husband; she was determined to meet him upon his return from the hunt.  She imagined helping him unwind his scarf, his weaponry propped by the coat rack, among furled umbrellas and bone-dry rain jackets.  Boiling the kettle for tea, bringing him crushed comb-honey on buttered toast.  Kissing him sweetly, welcoming him home.  Viola waited, as she had from the days of her girlhood, the hem of her nightdress kissing her ankles.  From the mantlepiece, her wedding brooch gleamed like a ruby, watching like a lonely eye.

It was a relief when dawn arrived in a slow flood of grey light, leaking weakly through the narrow cracks between shutters.  At last she heard the familiar, foreign accent of Gascoigne speak their agreed password, an utterance growled through the keyhole.  Barefooted, she hurried to the front door, unbarred it, and was met with an appetite she had not expected.  No sooner had the heavy door swung closed behind him, no sooner had he shed his sullied weapons, than he was on her, a hound with a spindle-limbed hare in its toothed maw.  His hands were hot, soot-stained, blood drying in the grooves of cuticles.  In one coarse movement, they seized both the high neckline of her nightdress and the sweetheart cut of the laced corset underneath, her feet leaving the ground as he found his grip.  Hooks and eyes bent, buckled, opened.  Narrow slips of whale bone snapped.  Fabric ripped like crêpe paper.  Viola gasped first in surprise, then a second time in desire.  No propriety now, no decency.  No sin in the sanctity of marriage. 

“I’ll buy you another one.”

“… oh, you had better!”

Gascoigne pawed the soft buds of her breasts with one hand, coaxing her nipples into stiff peaks, while the other tore single-handed through her bloomers.  What little clothed her fell in ragged, fraying petals – until she was the pistil exposed.  Although a virgin when they spoke their vows, Viola was no shrinking violet.  Not then, not now, certainly not after the hallowed weeks of their honeymoon when the nights were long and lustful and loving.  Pushed along by the rush and urgency of Gascoigne, Viola’s hip bumped against the frame of their bedroom door.  She jumped into his grasp then, naked and needy, pale arms wrapping around his neck, knocking the hat from his head.  Thighs struggled for purchase around his broad body as she kissed him wherever she could reach – his jaw, his chin, his nose – anywhere but his mouth.  A deliberate denial, answered by one in kind.  Gascoigne peeled her away, and tossed her effortless and harmless onto the perfectly made bed.  Then came the first pause, the silence marred only by their laboured breathing, their shared, unspoken need.

Viola regarded him shamelessly, golden hair untethered, pooling around her head in a silken halo, those tresses diligently brushed with one hundred boar-bristle strokes in preparation for bed.  Mischievous, she parted her knees by slow degrees, wondering if he imagined her in his mind’s eye, if the image he conjured was close to the truth.  His wife, naked and waiting, her body sleek with youth and pre-motherhood, a bluff of sandy hair at the apex between her spread thighs.  Young and eager and wet and his.  Could he smell her arousal, sticky and warm as honey?

It was a second coming as he climbed onto the bed, the oak frame groaning in protest as he sandwiched her unceremoniously between his weight and the crumpled duvet.  It was filthy and improper, how he remained suited and booted and doused in drying blood as he fingered the fastenings of his trousers, freed his cock and stuffed her full, pinning her to the mattress.  Viola gasped, that breathy sound giving way to a moan, her fingertips digging into dressed shoulders, her head falling back in bliss.  So much for tea and toast.

“Welcome home, dear husband.”

[mssirey]

Kinktober 12 - Pegging

This is a continuation of my list from last year.

(Zed/Sam, anal, anal prep, explicit acknowledgement of Zed having a clit)

“Relax.”

That was easier said than done.

Zed’s cheek was pressed into the sheets, while his head tried to turn enough so that he could see Sam behind him. A gloved finger circled the pucker of his asshole, lightly massaging lube into him, coaxing him to open up.

He adjusted his grip on his ass cheeks, held them wider for her, and willed his body to slacken. He sighed and his belly dropped lower, the curve of his spine dipping towards the mattress.

“Just need a little more…”

Zed focused on sinking, melting for her, and her fingers retreated for just a moment before returning with a fresh squirt of lube. She pressed into him, slow and easy, humming her approval as his body did the work to accept her finger.

The brush of her other knuckles was a relief, his thighs trembling as he kept his knees beneath him. Her finger was in, pushing the lube deep, and with a slow turn of her wrist and an easy in and out, she worked it into his flamed skin.

Zed’s nails bit into his flesh, but it relieved enough of his tension to keep himself relaxed.

“Good,” Sam praised. “Let’s go again.”

She pulled out with only the barest breath of protest from him, but the next time was easier, and the next finger, until he was ready.

“Come here,” she leaned over him and, with an arm around his midsection, pulled him up. He backed up over her lap, feeling her synthetic cock nudge against his cheek. She tugged him further, kept him close, his hands finding their grip on her waist behind him.

“Here I am,” she reached between them, directed the well-coated head to his gently gaping hole. “Sit.”

“Yes,” he hissed as he let gravity do the work for him, let it take him and make his ass Sam’s.

The tip pushed him wide until his muscles caught around the flare of silicone glans, and the slip of his control had him plummeting. He fell just an inch before Sam’s arms tightened to slow his descent. She let him sink slow, her cock reaching past the depths her fingers managed, stretching him around her.

It was a raw kind of bliss, sharp jolts of incomprehensible sensation buzzing through his nerves, the fire in his gut rising into his chest. And then Zed was seated, his head lolling forward while a shudder wracked his body. Sam was all he could feel, all he could pay attention to, so very present inside him.

Zed panted and each lungful was thick with the heat of his own scent, his skull clouding. All it took was a little reflexive squeeze for a bolt of pleasure to tear through the fog, a streak of vibrant white-blue that forced his chest to empty as he seized up, only spiraling into a fresh clench.

His heels began to pedal on the mattress, scrambling for purchase that would not help him to escape the tide of sensation that climbed around him, and within him.

“Shh, shh, you’re good,” her breath washed hot against his ear, but all he could do was twitch in her arms while he tried to keep still, and—more importantly—loose. “I’m in— I’m all the way in.”

Her words were damp on his skin. It clung to the flush that warmed his neck as she nuzzled into him, and tickled through the little hairs that he’d not cleaned up in a bit. Tingles rained down his body, skittering sparks that met the burning ache in his core, making his muscles jump.

“Just breathe,” she soothed, held him, hugged him, while kissing along his shoulder. “You did it. You were so good.”

Zed’s eyes swam in his head, unseeing as they circled the room, his jaw hanging, barely able to bring himself to swallow. “Sam,” he mewled, the throb of his clit rising above even the storm that thundered within his head.

Sam was the harbor that sheltered him. She remained still beneath him, breathed with him until time felt looser, stretched and languid. When he had melted completely into her, all that remained of him was that ache, its gravity too much for his thoughts to escape. Each detonation of his pulse grew heavier, deeper, dragging him into its sway.

Saliva ran thin from Zed’s lip, painted his chest, and when he begged, his words were wet with it. “Touch me!”

Sam’s arm shifted lower, and the buzz of anticipation built, only for her to try to ease into contact. Tension snapped as his body tightened, his hips driving upward, chasing the very idea of being touched with a weight that demanded pleasure from his body.

Zed only rose about an inch out of Sam’s lap before the inner tug had him crumbling back, the impact jarring up through him. Sam’s fingers found him properly—his clit stiff and heated—and rubbed him with a blunted finesse, aided by the abundance of his arousal.

Zed needed more and so he rose again, but that time Sam met him with a jolting buck, his cheeks feeling the sting first. The crackle of his nerves was all consuming and he let her take him from there. She knew what he needed, praise spilling freely as she gave him everything.

“That’s it!” Her hips didn’t stop, retreating only to then push him higher, thrust after thrust sending him soaring into new, turbulent heights of pleasure. “You’re taking all of me.”

Sam’s voice guided Zed through the experience, helped him remember himself, just as her arm kept his being together. And still he unraveled, trembling and slurring through his first orgasm, before being ridden straight into the next. His mind stopped trying to parse sensation, accepting that it was all in service of oblivion.

Zed followed the currents where they led him, until stillness dissipated the fever and he found himself loosed upon the shores of earth once more, in Sam’s arms. “You liked that?”

There was no wit left to summon, but he hummed a tired note and tucked himself deeper into her hold. 

Previous Pieces (my personal favorites): Self-cest, Size, Kryptonian Furniture, Choking, Body(hair) Worship, Scent/Sweat, Begging, and Cockwarming

[cascadebiologicalsupply]

Tips on Choosing the Best Fur Pelts for You.

The perfect fur for you can be chosen like a car. Since most of us cannot afford to buy a different car for each activity or requirement, we choose the most crucial ones, such as school runs and camping, and then we purchase. All furs are similar. Unless we can buy different fur for every occasion, we must make careful decisions while considering our individual lives.

Here are some excellent tips you will need to follow when choosing fur pelts. 

Staying Dry

Because being wet significantly enhances the wind chill effect, staying dry is essential to staying warm. Avoid chinchilla, rabbit, and furs that have been sheared or plucked if you predict damp weather since underfur that isn't shielded by strong guard hairs absorbs water. There are three wise options if you anticipate frequently wearing clothing that will be exposed to rain: flat fur, "reversed" fur or fur linings, or fur with a lot of long guard hairs.

Durability

It's encouraging that most furs can last for decades in this day of rapid, disposable fashion, especially with expert cleaning and storage. But some things last longer than others. The least resilient furs are those without thick guard hairs, like chinchillas and rabbits, while others, like Otter, beavers, and mink, are the hardiest. Natural furs typically last longer than furs that have been shorn, plucked, or dyed.

Look & Feel

You must pick the best fur for sale if you're an attention grabber. Long-haired fur is for you if you want the world to know. Nothing offers the star look like a fox coat, with its long, lustrous guard hairs and unique natural colours, often associated with flash and glamour. Long-haired beavers, fishers, and coyotes are larger and coarser for males and frequently used as parka trim, but when worn as a full-length coat, they instantly convey the Mountain Man aesthetic.

The Bottom Line

Always take your time when deciding which fur is ideal for you. Visit a few boutiques, especially one specialising in retail furs, such as cascade biological supply. Here, you’ll find unlimited stock. 

[gssoftwareposts]

10 Essential Tips for Maintaining Your Outdoor Furniture Year-Round

Whether you have a beautiful patio, a cozy deck, or a spacious backyard, keeping your outdoor furniture in good condition is essential to ensure its longevity and maximize your investment. In this article, we will explore ten essential tips for maintaining your outdoor furniture year-round, so you can continue to enjoy its beauty and functionality for years to come.

However, to keep your outdoor furniture looking its best year-round, regular maintenance is essential. By following these ten essential tips, you can ensure that your outdoor furniture from kyan Furniture remains as attractive and functional as the day you bought it.

Tips

1. Understand the Material of Your Outdoor Furniture

Different materials require different types of care. Whether your outdoor furniture is made of wood, metal, wicker, or plastic, it’s crucial to understand how to treat it properly. For instance, wooden furniture often needs to be oiled to prevent cracking, while metal furniture may require a rust-resistant coating. If you’ve purchased outdoor furniture by kyan Furniture, an outdoor furniture manufacturer known for their quality, always refer to the manufacturer’s care instructions specific to your furniture’s material.

2. Regular Cleaning is Key

No matter the material, regular cleaning is vital to maintain the appearance of your outdoor furniture. Dirt, pollen, and grime can accumulate, making your furniture look dull and worn. Use a mild soap and water solution for most materials, and gently scrub with a soft brush. Avoid harsh chemicals, as they can damage the finish. For outdoor furniture by kyan Furniture, follow the recommended cleaning guidelines to ensure the longevity of your investment.

3. Protect Your Furniture from the Elements

Weather can be harsh on outdoor furniture. Sun, rain, wind, and snow can all take a toll. Consider using furniture covers when your furniture is not in use, especially during extreme weather conditions. Covers can protect against UV rays, moisture, and dirt, extending the life of your furniture. As a leading outdoor furniture manufacturer, often offers weather-resistant designs, but even the most durable furniture benefits from added protection.

4. Store Cushions and Fabrics Indoors

Cushions and fabric elements are often the first to show wear and tear. To keep them looking fresh, store them indoors when not in use, especially during rainy or snowy seasons. If you don’t have the space to store them inside, consider investing in waterproof cushion storage boxes. Many outdoor furniture sets by come with weather-resistant cushions, but taking extra precautions will keep them in excellent condition for years to come.

5. Apply Protective Finishes

Depending on the material, applying a protective finish can significantly extend the life of your outdoor furniture. For wood, a sealant or oil can help prevent moisture damage and cracking. Metal furniture benefits from rust-resistant sprays, and plastic furniture can be treated with UV protectants to prevent fading. If you own outdoor furniture for balcony , check with the manufacturer for recommended products to maintain the finish.

6. Protect with Covers: 

Investing in high-quality furniture covers is a simple yet effective way to protect your outdoor furniture from harsh weather conditions, UV rays, and dirt. Covers provide an additional layer of defence, keeping your furniture looking fresh and preventing damage.

7. Tighten Bolts and Screws Periodically

Over time, the bolts and screws holding your outdoor furniture together can loosen, especially if the furniture is frequently used. Regularly check these components and tighten them as needed. This simple step not only keeps your furniture sturdy and safe but also prevents unnecessary wear and tear on the joints. As an outdoor furniture manufacturer committed to quality, kyan Furniture designs their pieces for durability, but regular maintenance is always beneficial.

Address Stains Immediately

Outdoor furniture is exposed to the elements, and it’s not uncommon for spills or stains to occur. Whether it’s from food, drinks, or even tree sap, addressing stains as soon as they happen can prevent them from setting in. Use a mild detergent and a soft cloth to gently clean the affected area. For stubborn stains, a mixture of baking soda and water can be effective. If your outdoor patio furniture  includes fabric elements, check if the covers are machine washable or if they require spot cleaning.

9. Protect Against Pests

Pests such as insects, birds, or even small animals can sometimes cause damage to your outdoor furniture. Wooden furniture is particularly susceptible to damage from termites or wood-boring insects. Regularly inspect your furniture for signs of pest activity, such as small holes or sawdust. Applying a suitable insect repellent or treatment can help prevent infestations. , as a reputable outdoor furniture manufacturer, often treats their wooden furniture to resist pests, but ongoing vigilance is essential.

10. Store Furniture During Off-Season

If you live in an area with harsh winters or heavy rains, it’s a good idea to store your outdoor furniture during the off-season. While many pieces of outdoor furniture by kyan Furniture are designed to withstand various weather conditions, storing them in a garage, shed, or other covered area can provide an added layer of protection. Before storing, ensure the furniture is clean and dry to prevent mold and mildew from forming.

Conclusion

Maintaining your outdoor furniture year-round doesn’t have to be a daunting task. By following these ten essential tips, you can keep your furniture looking beautiful and functional for years to come. Whether you have a simple patio set or a luxurious outdoor lounge, regular care and attention will ensure that your investment continues to enhance your outdoor living space.

As you enjoy your outdoor area, remember that choosing high-quality furniture is the first step in ensuring longevity and style. With outdoor furniture by Jyan Furniture, a trusted outdoor furniture manufacturer, you can have confidence in the durability and beauty of your outdoor pieces. Regular maintenance, tailored to the specific materials and construction of your furniture, will keep them in top condition, allowing you to enjoy your outdoor oasis throughout the seasons.

[btmtent001]

The Best Waterproof Camping Tent for Your Outdoor Adventures

When planning an outdoor adventure, one of the most important things to consider is your shelter. A reliable and waterproof camping tent can make all the difference between a great experience and a soggy, uncomfortable trip. In this article, we’ll explore why investing in a waterproof tent is essential, what features to look for, and how to find the best waterproof tent price to suit your budget.

Why a Waterproof Camping Tent is Essential

Imagine setting up your tent after a long day of hiking, only to be hit by a sudden rainstorm. If your tent isn’t waterproof, your gear and sleeping area could be drenched in no time. A waterproof camping tent is designed to keep you dry, no matter how bad the weather gets. The material used in these tents is treated with a waterproof coating, and the seams are sealed to prevent water from leaking in.

Staying dry isn’t just about comfort; it’s also about safety. Wet conditions can lead to hypothermia, even in mild weather, if you’re not properly prepared. A waterproof tent provides peace of mind, knowing you’re protected from the elements.

Features to Look for in a Waterproof Tent

When shopping for a waterproof camping tent, there are a few key features to consider:

Material: The material of the tent is crucial. Look for tents made from high-quality polyester or nylon with a waterproof coating. These materials are durable and can withstand harsh weather conditions.

Sealed Seams: Seams are where the fabric pieces of a tent are stitched together. These areas are prone to leaks if not properly sealed. Ensure the tent you choose has sealed or taped seams to prevent water from seeping in.

Rainfly: A rainfly is an extra layer of waterproof material that covers the tent. It provides additional protection from rain and helps keep the interior of the tent dry. Some tents come with full-coverage rainflies, while others have partial coverage. For maximum protection, opt for a full-coverage rainfly.

Ventilation: Good ventilation is essential in a waterproof tent. Without proper airflow, condensation can build up inside the tent, making everything damp. Look for tents with mesh windows, vents, or doors that allow for airflow while keeping the rain out.

Easy Setup: When the weather takes a turn for the worse, the last thing you want is a complicated tent setup. Choose a tent that is easy to assemble, with color-coded poles or a simple design that allows for quick and hassle-free pitching.

Finding the Best Waterproof Tent Price

Now that you know what to look for in a waterproof camping tent, the next step is finding one that fits your budget. The waterproof tent price can vary greatly depending on the brand, size, and features of the tent. Here are some tips to help you find the best deal:

Set a Budget: Determine how much you’re willing to spend before you start shopping. This will help you narrow down your options and prevent you from overspending.

Compare Prices Online: The internet is a great place to find deals on camping gear. Visit different online retailers to compare prices and look for discounts or sales. Don’t forget to check customer reviews to ensure the tent is worth the investment.

Consider Off-Season Shopping: Prices for camping gear tend to drop during the off-season. If you plan your purchase during the fall or winter, you might find a great waterproof tent at a lower price.

Look for Bundles: Some retailers offer camping gear bundles that include a tent, sleeping bags, and other essentials. Bundles can be a cost-effective way to get everything you need for your trip at a reduced price.

Conclusion

Investing in a high-quality waterproof camping tent is a must for any outdoor enthusiast. Not only does it keep you dry and comfortable, but it also ensures your safety in wet conditions. By knowing what features to look for and being smart about shopping, you can find a waterproof tent price that fits your budget without sacrificing quality. So, before you head out on your next adventure, make sure you’re well-equipped with a reliable waterproof tent!

[orchardgardensseniors]

Autumn Safety for Seniors in Retirement Living

As we enter autumn, it’s important for seniors to be aware of fall safety! While living in a retirement community provides additional safety that a senior living on their own doesn’t experience, there are still further ways seniors can stay safe this autumn. Here are our top five tips on how you can stay safe while retirement living in Kelowna.

Purchase Additional Warm Clothing

As the days get cooler and the cold months approach us, it is important to ensure you have enough warm clothing in your closet. It is important to stock up on socks, warm hats, long-sleeve shirts, warm pants, coats, sweaters, warm gloves, and comfortable house shoes. It is also a good idea to leave some of these warm pieces of clothing in your vehicle in case you need them.

Invest in Waterproof, Slip-Resistant Shoes

As leaves fall and the sidewalks get slick with rain, seniors are at a greater risk of falling. To help prevent this, you can purchase some waterproof, slip-resistant shoes! Not only will your feet stay warm and dry, reducing your risk of getting sick, but will also help you stay upright. These shoes can typically be used indoors or outdoors, and are very useful on slippery leaves or icy sidewalks or walkways. Indoors, they can help prevent accidental falls caused by poor lighting, water spills, or other tripping hazards.

Prevent Risks of Sickness

As we enter cold and flu season, seniors will find themselves at greater risk of getting sick. It is important to keep your immune system healthy. By staying hydrated and eating nutrient-rich foods, seniors can reduce their risk of getting sick. At Orchard Gardens, we provide balanced and healthy food and beverage options to our residents. Washing your hands often and avoiding touching your face are also great ways to keep germs away and prevent getting sick.

Don’t Leave Candles Unattended

Everyone loves the ambience and scent of candles in the fall. The warm flicker and glow of the flame create such a calming and nostalgic feeling. However, according to the National Fire Protection Association, an estimated 8,200 home fires are started by candles each year. Never leave your candle unattended, do not burn candles overnight, and ensure nothing flammable is too close to your candle.

Don’t Forget About Daylight Savings Time

This year, daylight savings is on Sunday, November 5th, 2023. With this change in time comes shorter days. The sun will start going down much earlier than it has been, which is important to keep in mind when you need to drive or walk anywhere in the evenings. 

—————————————————————————————————————————— If you’re looking for a VRS seniors retirement home that offers a fulfilling community, we are here for you. Feel free to contact us with any questions you have. Call 604.731.1020 to arrange a tour at one of VRS’ warm and friendly independent senior communities.

[sunnysidemanorseniors]

Autumn Safety for Seniors in Retirement Living

As we enter autumn, it’s important for seniors to be aware of fall safety! While living in a retirement community provides additional safety that a senior living on their own doesn’t experience, there are still further ways seniors can stay safe this autumn. Here are our top five tips on how you can stay safe while retirement living in Surrey.

Purchase Additional Warm Clothing

As the days get cooler and the cold months approach us, it is important to ensure you have enough warm clothing in your closet. It is important to stock up on socks, warm hats, long-sleeve shirts, warm pants, coats, sweaters, warm gloves, and comfortable house shoes. It is also a good idea to leave some of these warm pieces of clothing in your vehicle in case you need them.

Invest in Waterproof, Slip-Resistant Shoes

As leaves fall and the sidewalks get slick with rain, seniors are at a greater risk of falling. To help prevent this, you can purchase some waterproof, slip-resistant shoes! Not only will your feet stay warm and dry, reducing your risk of getting sick, but will also help you stay upright. These shoes can typically be used indoors or outdoors, and are very useful on slippery leaves or icy sidewalks or walkways. Indoors, they can help prevent accidental falls caused by poor lighting, water spills, or other tripping hazards.

Prevent Risks of Sickness

As we enter cold and flu season, seniors will find themselves at greater risk of getting sick. It is important to keep your immune system healthy. By staying hydrated and eating nutrient-rich foods, seniors can reduce their risk of getting sick. At Sunnyside Manor, we provide balanced and healthy food and beverage options to our residents. Washing your hands often and avoiding touching your face are also great ways to keep germs away and prevent getting sick.

Don’t Leave Candles Unattended

Everyone loves the ambience and scent of candles in the fall. The warm flicker and glow of the flame create such a calming and nostalgic feeling. However, according to the National Fire Protection Association, an estimated 8,200 home fires are started by candles each year. Never leave your candle unattended, do not burn candles overnight, and ensure nothing flammable is too close to your candle.

Don’t Forget About Daylight Savings Time

This year, daylight savings is on Sunday, November 5th, 2023. With this change in time comes shorter days. The sun will start going down much earlier than it has been, which is important to keep in mind when you need to drive or walk anywhere in the evenings. 

—————————————————————————————————————————— If you’re looking for a VRS seniors retirement home that offers a fulfilling community, we are here for you. Feel free to contact us with any questions you have. Call 604.731.1020 to arrange a tour at one of VRS’ warm and friendly independent senior communities.

[aclmarts998]

Spruce Up Your Space and Pamper Yourself: A Guide to Delhi's Top Retailers

Delhi, a vibrant metropolis, caters to a wide range of needs. From historical landmarks to bustling markets, it offers something for everyone. But when it comes to revamping your bathroom or indulging in some self-care, finding the right resources can be overwhelming. Fear not, for this guide unveils the best of both worlds - Delhi's leading bath fitting & sanitary ware manufacturers and top cosmetics & toiletries traders.

Revamp Your Bathroom with Delhi's Finest Bath Fitting & Sanitary Ware Manufacturers

Your bathroom is a sanctuary, a place for relaxation and rejuvenation. To create the perfect haven, high-quality bath fittings and sanitary ware are essential. Delhi boasts a plethora of manufacturers renowned for their craftsmanship and innovation.

Unmatched Quality and Design: Delhi is home to established names like Coats Bath Fittings and Accessories and Mapson Bath Fitting. These manufacturers prioritize quality materials and cutting-edge designs, ensuring your bathroom is not only functional but also aesthetically pleasing. Their extensive catalogs cater to diverse tastes, from sleek minimalism to opulent grandeur.

Budget-Friendly Options: Don't let budgetary constraints hold you back. Manufacturers like S. K. Traders & Manufacturers and Tisha Sanitation offer a range of durable and stylish bath fittings at competitive prices. Here, you can find everything you need to create a functional and comfortable bathroom without breaking the bank.

Beyond the Basics: For those seeking a truly luxurious experience, Delhi's manufacturers cater to that too. Surami Impex Pvt Ltd and Sushil Kumar & Bros specialize in premium bathware, featuring features like rain showers, heated towel racks, and smart faucets.

Insider Tips for Finding the Perfect Bath Fitting & Sanitary Ware Manufacturer:

Research and Compare: With so many options available, research online and visit showrooms to compare features, designs, and prices.

Consider After-Sales Service: Reliable after-sales service is crucial. Look for manufacturers with a proven track record and warranty options.

Seek Expert Advice: Don't hesitate to seek assistance from qualified professionals who can help you choose the right fittings based on your needs and budget.

Pamper Yourself with Delhi's Top Cosmetics & Toiletries Traders

Self-care is an essential part of a healthy lifestyle. Delhi offers a treasure trove of cosmetics & toiletries traders, catering to every beauty need and budget.

Luxury Indulgence: For those who appreciate high-end products, Delhi boasts stores housing renowned international brands like Estee Lauder and La Mer. These stores provide a luxurious shopping experience with knowledgeable staff to help you curate the perfect skincare and makeup routine.

Natural and Organic Delights: The growing trend towards organic beauty products is well-represented in Delhi. Several stores, like those specializing in Ayurveda, offer natural and organic cosmetics made with plant-based ingredients.

One-Stop Shops: Convenience is key for many. Malls and larger retail stores often house a variety of cosmetics and toiletries brands under one roof. This allows you to browse and compare a wide selection of products at your own pace.

Insider Tips for Finding the Perfect Cosmetics & Toiletries Trader:

Identify Your Needs: Are you looking for specific ingredients, catering to sensitive skin, or exploring a particular brand? Understanding your needs will help you navigate the vast options.

Sample Before You Buy: Many stores offer testers for cosmetics. Utilize this opportunity to ensure the product suits your skin type and preference before making a purchase.

Embrace Local Brands: Look out for locally-made cosmetic and toiletry brands. Delhi has a thriving community of independent beauty businesses offering unique, high-quality products.

Conclusion:

Delhi offers a plethora of options, whether you're revamping your bathroom with top-notch fittings or seeking the perfect beauty products. Utilize this guide as a stepping stone to explore Delhi's finest offerings in bath fitting & sanitary ware and cosmetics & toiletries. With a little research and these insider tips, you'll be well on your way to creating a beautiful and relaxing bathroom and indulging in a luxurious self-care routine.

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Garden Report & Frugal Living 24.02.09

One of the finer points of a simple life is loving the simple things: bundled up against the chill to watch the sun come up, marveling how the sunrise unfolds while you sip a warm mug of a homemade blossom tea (lilac this morning), breathing in the morning crispness and the aroma waifting towards your nose ... just being and letting all your senses come alive to enjoy and rejoice in the day that is starting, your heart singing with the little birds giving Praise. A simple start to set the tune for the day.

The camillas are rioting in the garden. Some of the early roses are trying to hold their own through the torrential downpours and now the near freezing temps. The bulbs are forcing their way through the soil still. The little star magnolia holds its blossoms tight in little furry coats. The cherry plums and the fruitless plum have no qualms about the undecisive weather -- they break through in hordes of pink and white irregardless. The yellow pompom flowers are sodden little blips on a whip. I keep monitoring the suet cage and the hazelnut catskins; its still too cold to plant seed but I may not be able to help myself much longer and do toms indoors.

The hay then shavings was maybe not a good idea in the avairy. It has created quite the sponge. I think a courser wood chip, especially hardwood chips would have been a better choice this winter with all the rains. The hens are redding up so perhaps egg production will be soon. I need to look at last year's calendar as they are back to making burrowed nest in the shavings and not in the nest boxes.

I did not get the fruit trees trimmed nor any tree except one. Maybe I'll hold out hope for the next couple of weekends to be clear, dry and help available. The soil is too wet even with boards under the ladders' feet so someone has to scamper while I point with long bamboo pole. While I was examining trees last weekend, I found a lone little quince (thank you little tree). It was like a found treasure!

Frugal tip is about making your own flower tea. If you have your own flowers, this adds to the pleasure but if not, you can purchase flowers that are not commercial florist (pesticide/fungicide/spray free). Purchase from your friendly farmer or ask a friend/elder (then bring them back some tea blend as a thank you) or go to your herbal shop to pick out things you like ... perhaps lavendar or rose petal. Start out simple and then add to your repitoire. Drying your own herbs is a simple process. Make sure to store in dry, airtight containers, away from sunlight and heat.