#some of their suits (jacket+pants) cost less than some of their single jackets?

[vulnerasti-cor-meum]

one day I’m going to wear prada. just see if I don’t

[forasecondtherewedwon]

The Great Madripoorian Snake Off - ch. 2

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes Rating: E Chapter count: 2/2

Read ch. 1 on Tumblr.

Chapter two summary: Sam and Bucky get tossed out of Selby’s bar and it’s the perfect (more or less) opportunity to discuss their kiss.

Sam sincerely believed that, between the three of them (including Zemo with his pompous swanning and Bucky with his identity a single glove away from being revealed), he wouldn’t be the one to mess this up. But there goes his phone, ringing away in his jacket pocket.

He reaches in and presses a thumb to the screen, swiping desperately as his heart rate climbs. Selby’s eyes on him are nasty things; she doesn’t rise from her seat and yet it feels like she’s bobbing and swaying, hypnotizing him how a snake would. The thought provokes a nauseated rumble from Sam’s stomach and maybe Selby hears that now that his phone is silent. Or maybe she doesn’t, what with the ominous sound of the handful of armed men in the room adjusting their grip on their guns.

“Answer it,” she orders.

Sam extracts the phone from his pocket and holds it up to show that the call’s already been declined.

“Well,” Selby says, unswerving gaze on his face, “call back.”

“I don’t think I better…” Sam hedges nervously.

“Listen to me, Smiling Tiger. I don’t trust you and my tolerance of your presence is really beginning to wear thin.”

“I know what you mean,” Bucky mutters, standing next to Sam.

“What was that?” Selby asks.

“I said, uh, don’t be mean. To him.” After an awkward pause, Bucky lifts an arm (thankfully not the Vibranium one, though based on how badly this encounter is going, Sam wouldn’t have been surprised) and wraps it stiffly around Sam’s shoulders. “My husband.”

What Sam would like to do is call Bucky an idiot, but what he does is lean slightly into Bucky’s hold. On the inside, he’s cursing Bucky to Steve’s rumoured moon base and back. This is how you do it, he thinks. This is how you exorcise your feelings about what a bonehead your associate is without running your mouth in front of the person clearly itching to shoot you.

“Call back on speakerphone,” Selby instructs, ignoring Bucky because she doesn’t seem to consider his fumbled response worth addressing. “Now.”

Sam redials Sarah. He better not be sweating. He can just fucking imagine a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead while he’s bent over his phone, visibly splashing the surface. Bucky’s shared anxiety is obvious in the way he hugs Sam more securely to his side. Not really a hug though. Feels more like Bucky preparing to yank them both to the floor when this terrible cover story goes to hell and the bullets start to fly.

By what honestly feels like a miracle, Sarah does the thing she always does, which usually irritates Sam, but today he loves her for it. She ignores his call. They’ve been doing this forever. It’s a subtle sibling fuck you to the other person whenever one of them returns a call only a minute or two after being called. It says, Oh, so you were close enough to your phone to call me back fast, but couldn’t bother answering it when my name popped up? Knowing Sarah, she’ll be standing in the same spot she was when he dismissed her call, staring down at his name on her screen, with that damn expression of sisterly superiority.

To Selby, Sam shrugs and pockets his phone when Sarah fails to pick up.

“I really have had enough of you. You too,” Selby says, looking pointedly at the pain in the ass who has his arm draped around Sam. “Get out of my sight while I have a discussion with Baron Zemo. In fact, get out of my bar. Someone’ll show you the way.”

“Easy,” Sam says in a low voice when a member of Selby’s security team puts a hand on his shoulder to hustle him towards the back exit. The guy does it to Bucky too, but Bucky says nothing. Sure. Being manhandled by an employee he could easily drop? Silence. Hearing a comment made by the boss and not even directed at him? The perfect opportunity to insult Sam. Bucky’s such a dick.

“Yeah, we got it,” Bucky finally says after Selby’s guy has the door to the alley propped open, prepared to shove them through it.

The guy backs off, but Sam and Bucky still step outside quickly to avoid the closing door.

Sam glances up and down the alleyway, then up the grimy walls. No sign of cameras and only one end of the alley is open to the street a dozen yards away. The other dead-ends at a hulking dumpster. With this very un-luxurious, private place to talk won at the cost of them pissing off an extremely dangerous player in a game to which Sam is still fumbling to open the rulebook, Sam rounds on Bucky. He jabs a finger towards his chest without actually touching him because he doesn’t actually want Bucky to feel threatened. Also, the last touch he instigated between them was firm contact between his palm and Bucky’s ass. So. He doesn’t really know what to do about that, or his hands, or Bucky standing before him in what’s seriously too narrow of an alley. Who designed this place?

“You can’t act like that,” Sam says. “Are you trying to get us killed? This is a mission.”

“You think I forgot? I’m not confused, Sam,” Bucky contends with a frown. “I know I didn’t accidentally go on vacation to fucking Madripoor, ok?”

“Well, then you better prove it by watching your mouth.”

“I was thinking about your mouth!”

The words erupt from Bucky and Sam nearly backs into a wall in surprise. He only stops himself because he remembers the expensive suit and that keeping up appearances is the best they can do at this point, since their acting as soon as they speak is a disaster.

“Now?” Sam asks when annoyance overtakes shock. “When I said we’d talk about it later, I was thinking hours, maybe days. Not while we were still on the premises!”

He motions at the wall, but Bucky cocks his head, looking unconcerned.

“We’re beside the premises, if you wanna be technical about it.”

“I don’t.”

“Too bad. Say what you wanna say,” Bucky encourages with a wave before planting both hands on his hips. “About us kissing.”

“I don’t have anything to say about that either.”

Despite the straight length of wall at his back, Sam’s feeling cornered. He wasn’t expecting Bucky to be the one willing to introduce a dialogue about this. He didn’t really think Bucky would have anything to say about the kiss period. But now the asshole has decided that the best way to spend their time exiled from Selby’s is to talk about their act of intimacy. With his face flooded by blue neon light and his stance sexy in how self-possessed it makes him look. They kissed and now Bucky Barnes—world champion of menacing, wordless staring—wants to talk.

The thing is that they kissed while Bucky was pretending to be his husband and Sam was forgetting to pretend anything. It felt too good. He’d wanted it too long. He wants it again, now, still, with Bucky against a backdrop of dirty bricks, dipped in light so blue it almost vibrates Sam’s eyes. Bucky looks like he’s trying to sell Sam designer cologne and Sam shouldn’t feel drawn in by this, but he wants to buy the danger this cologne model is selling. He wants to get a good grip on Bucky’s black jacket and hear him whisper “Madripoor Pour Homme” in his ear on a warm exhale.

“You gotta go first,” Bucky insists. “You’re the one who wanted to talk about it.”

“Because I thought you would want to explain yourself.”

“We’re supposed to be married, you looked like you were gonna upchuck looking at that snake, I ran interference in a way that seemed appropriate for our cover.”

Bucky’s method of laying it out so straightforwardly is absolutely infuriating.

“To stop me from throwing up,” Sam clarifies angrily.

“Yes.”

“If you were really worried about that, you wouldn’t have kissed me.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause you woulda been afraid that I’d throw up all over your face.”

“So what are you saying?” Bucky demands. “That I was hoping you’d throw up on my face?”

Sam laughs.

“God, I hope not. Just that your reasoning is bullshit and you must’ve kissed me for some other reason that you haven’t said.”

Bucky’s gaze flicks to the ground, then back up. His face is angled slightly differently and the blue light does his bone structure favours that it was already too beautiful to ever need to ask for.

“Like what?” he asks softly. And the noise of the people talking and shouting on the street at the end of the alleyway dims below the volume of Sam’s heart thudding in his ears.

Sam doesn’t get a chance to answer; the door they came through bangs open—a hollow clang as it hits the wall and the security guy sticks his head out to check on them, looking the wrong way first. Rougher than he was at the bar, Bucky grabs Sam’s face. Sam closes his eyes as Selby’s man glances towards them, cutting off sight to be hit all the harder by the urgent feeling of Bucky’s mouth moving against, then with, his own. It’s a mess because Bucky kisses like he’s being awarded on most vigorous performance, his tongue prodding eagerly between Sam’s lips in a motion more commonly seen in bullet extractions.

By the time he hears the door shut again—without the guy bothering to even try to interrupt (meaning Selby must not want them back in the negotiating room that badly)—Sam feels as if he’s had his mouth more thoroughly fucked in thirty seconds than the rest of him’s ever been.

Bucky’s even gotten him against the wall and Sam acts like he’s pissed about that, shooting Bucky a look as he gently pushes him back and brushes at the sleeve of his jacket. His first breath free of that kiss is a pant.

“Man, do you only know one way to solve a problem?”

Bucky looks back challengingly.

“I only need one way if it’s the best way.”

Sam attempts to ignore Bucky’s gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips as he says, “Based on what criteria?”

“Selby’s guy left us alone, didn’t he? That means Zemo’s in there flailing without us, without being able to… to rip the rug out from under me by telling her who I really am—”

“Were.”

“—or blowing your cover to see what kinda information she’d give up in exchange for an Avenger.”

“And kissing me was the best way to accomplish that.”

“Well… yeah,” Bucky decides. But his expression is squirrely, so Sam narrows his eyes at him.

“We coulda left the neighbourhood if you wanted to leave Zemo high and dry after flying all the way out here.”

“We still need him to help us get answers on that serum. If he didn’t think we were around, he’d go to ground. Wouldn’t be hard to find him again, just a waste of time.”

“You’re just… committed to our story then,” Sam tests.

“Yeah.”

“It’s not difficult for you.”

“Obviously,” Bucky agrees.

“Better or worse than having to take on everybody in that bar with your bare hands?” Sam asks. When Bucky just stares at him, he goes, “What? You know that’s what Zemo would’ve wanted from you if you’d consented to play the part of the Winter Soldier.”

Bucky exhales heavily and nods.

“Yeah, this is better.”

“Just the lack of violence or having to make out with me?” Sam pushes, grinning.

“I don’t have to.”

“Oh, so you want to then.”

Sam’s trying to be playful, finding loopholes in the slack rope of Bucky’s words, trying to make room for some humour, some levity, between these filthy walls and the beam of neon from above. There is something in Bucky’s eyes right then. Something understanding, something kind. Whatever it is, Bucky immediately shores it up with a metric tonne of intensity. His look now could pull Sam from a burning building while simultaneously being that burning building. It’s almost physically disorienting. The temperature rises inside Sam’s suit like the heat’s being trapped at every seam.

“So what if I do?” Bucky fires back.

“You don’t.”

Sam says it almost angrily, too warm and too confined in his Smiling Tiger disguise. At least the guy he’s impersonating isn’t into weighty coats with ostentatious fur collars like some barons Sam knows. Still, it’s too hot—the suit and Bucky’s stare.

“I don’t?” Bucky asks.

“I don’t think so,” Sam confirms, though he’s dizzy now. Needing to remove a layer of this suit, needing Bucky to step back to let him breathe.

“Why would you think that I wouldn’t want to make out with you?”

“Because you’re… you!”

“That explanation sucks.”

“Because,” Sam tries again. Bucky lifts his chin in a questioning gesture and Sam just wants to propel him back into the far wall and kiss his neck. “Because you’re an asshole.”

“Since when am I an asshole?”

“Birth, probably, but I wasn’t there when it happened three hundred years ago, so I can’t say for sure.”

“I was born last century, same as you, and you know that!”

“Can’t confirm it. Wasn’t part of the backstory.”

“Now who’s the asshole?” Bucky gripes. “You’re not supposed to know my fake birthday because you’re my fake husband, you’re supposed to know my real birthday because you’re my real friend.”

“I do know your real birthday,” Sam promises, taking a step closer regardless of the flush of heat he feels to be moving towards Bucky’s rigid posture and pinning stare.

“You my real friend?”

“Something like that.”

“Something like that,” Bucky repeats, quieter, barely looking away from Sam’s mouth now.

“We’re not telling the story out here,” Sam says. He glances up and down the alley again. “No witnesses.”

“Good. I don’t wanna pretend.”

Sam’s shoulders relax—not in relief but in disappointment—because that sounds like it’s the end of that. After all that talk, culminating in a short debate of which one of them’s an asshole: pretty much peak flirting, Sam would say, measured against their history of interactions. But then Bucky takes a step too soft for Sam to hear and hits him with a look too soft for Sam to misinterpret.

“Or we could say it was the snake drink’s fault if we want an excuse later on,” Sam offers.

Bucky quickly wets his lip with his tongue.

“We could.”

Sam’s hand goes to the buttons on his suit jacket. It’s a motion of self-consciousness, grasping the overlap of fabric between the buttons, but Bucky knocks his hand away with an easy backhand that skims over Sam’s fingers. Eyes locked on his, Bucky undoes the buttons while Sam’s arms hang tensely at his sides. Although the jacket wasn’t restricting his breathing, Sam inhales fast—a swimmer breaking the surface of a pool between strokes.

When he slowly guides Bucky in, hand on his hip, the open jacket doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference in what’s separating them. That’s what Sam thinks. Bucky’s cyborg brain has evidently done some data-crunching and come up with a different assessment; there’s more than just the length of a knife in the front of Bucky’s pants now as he presses up against Sam.

“You undid one button,” Sam teases. “Is that indecent by forties’ standards? That why one button’s enough to get you going?”

“Let’s see how you feel about one button.”

Sam’s abs seize when Bucky’s hands go—abruptly and confidently—to his belt. He’s as efficient getting it open as Sam’s seen him when dismantling and reassembling an assault weapon or tugging the straps on a tac jacket to secure his knives. Following the jingling and the slap of leather, Bucky opens the button of Sam’s dress pants with a single, silent tug. Sam’s cock jerks.

“Ok, I get it,” he says, breathing too hard over the way Bucky’s chosen to make his point.

He smiles and clasps Bucky’s shoulder, smoothing up to the back of his head, ready to pull him in for a kiss, but Bucky raises a hand between them. A hand concealed by a leather glove. As Sam watches, Bucky bites the tip of the glove’s middle finger between his teeth and pulls his hand out. It comes easily, the Vibranium experiencing little friction against the lining of the glove. He then retrieves the glove from his teeth and jams it into the back pocket of his pants, out of Sam’s line of sight.

“Keep going?” Bucky asks in a rough voice.

Is his tone sexy despite or because of it being choked with desire? Sam can’t decide, but he can nod and provide a “Yeah” while longing for Bucky to just press his hips closer.

Continued eye contact is too fucking much to deal with, so Sam does pull Bucky in now, angling his mouth to meet his. The kiss isn’t anything wild. It’s steady and apparently allows Bucky to concentrate on untucking Sam’s shirt from his unbuttoned pants. Sam’s cradling the back of Bucky’s neck, rubbing his thumb up and down behind his ear (after almost immediately discovering the way it makes Bucky subtly shiver) when the Vibranium hand slips up under his shirt to touch his skin.

The initial surprisingness of the texture is enough to reinforce how unexpected this whole thing is and Sam breaks the kiss. It’s like waking up from a really lifelike dream, except he opens his eyes to see Bucky’s right in front of him. Around them is an alley, a bar where Zemo’s trading money and ass-kissing for super-soldier secrets, and the terrifying lawlessness of Low Town, Madripoor. This is where they had to be for Bucky to look at him like that.

“We’re not done,” Sam states.

“Thought maybe you…”

Sam shakes his head.

“I want to too,” he assures Bucky. “Even if you are a bad husband.”

“What? I am not!”

“You didn’t get me out of swallowing a piece of snake.”

“And I’m damn sure we agreed that you forcing me to join you evened the score. You can’t decide now that it wasn’t enough.”

Sam squints at him, slowly blinking half a minute into the eye contact to prove that it’s not a staring contest. (If it were, he would’ve won.)

“Maybe you didn’t really drink it,” he says.

“Like hell I didn’t drink it. I know you can taste it on me.”

“You know what?” Sam says, fingers rubbing against the grain of Bucky’s hair as they skate up from his neck. “It’s fucked up that I still want to kiss you after you said that.”

“You want me to find a place to buy mints first?”

Bucky’s huffing a laugh as Sam leans in to kiss him. His mouth smothers the sound and by the time their lips part again—both Bucky’s hands up Sam’s shirt as far as his burgundy vest will permit—a quavering groan slips out. Sam wants to attribute it to Bucky, but he can’t be sure. Kissing him harder, Sam puts his free hand squarely on Bucky’s ass, bringing his hips in snugly, feeling the assertive swell of his erection.

“They’re gonna come looking for us again,” Bucky warns, forehead pressed to Sam’s as he pulls his mouth away to speak. “We probably only have a few minutes.”

Sam breathes, listening to the noise from the street, before saying, “How would Smiling Tiger’s husband spend them?”

“Since he’s not a real guy,” Bucky starts, “and I’m just making him up… I’m pretty sure he’d do this…”

His hands come out from under Sam’s shirt, only to settle on his fly. Bucky unzips him and Sam’s head falls back with a laugh of disbelief because they’re not doing this. No way, not here. But this bold motherfucker convinces Sam he’s serious when he pulls the front of his pants and briefs down; Sam looks downwards, alert and aflame, to watch Bucky crouch with one knee on the pavement, eyes level with his exposed groin.

“This seem in character to you?” Bucky asks nonchalantly, forehead wrinkling with the question as he looks up at Sam.

“As if I’m gonna start critiquing,” Sam says while grabbing the waist of his pants with one hand to keep his ass covered as he rotates to put his back to the open end of the alleyway—and the door, if anyone else comes through it.

Bucky repositions to be in front of Sam. His hand’s gliding up Sam’s thigh when Sam speaks again.

“Remember, the story is that you do this so well that I’ve postponed wearing a wedding ring.”

“No pressure then, huh?” Bucky checks in a tone full of complaint.

“It was your story!”

Bucky’s mouth is abruptly too occupied to shoot off a retort. All the air goes out of Sam’s chest with the warmth of Bucky’s mouth around him, his tongue making Sam fight not to twitch his hips forward and sink deeper. Glancing down, yeah, it’s not tough to appreciate the deal Smiling Tiger struck in that story of Bucky’s. This is not a sight Sam hates. He thinks it could only be better if Bucky would look at him while bobbing his head forward and back, but, first of all, being on the receiving end of a Bucky Barnes stare in this moment might actually be more than Sam’s ready to handle and, second, Bucky with his eyes closed in apparent pleasure is a damn nice view.

The door slams open behind them just as Sam’s raising a shaky hand to scrape his fingers through Bucky’s hair. Bucky freezes and Sam straightens, hand aching with how tightly he’s suddenly holding onto his pants.

“James? Sam?” Zemo calls out. “You’re going to need to— What are you doing?”

“I dropped my… glove,” Bucky shouts back, looking up into Sam’s eyes in unfamiliar panic.

“Yeah…” Sam says, too slow but consistent with his subpar ability to lie. “…his glove. He lost—”

“Found it!”

“He found it.”

Sam glares at Bucky as he gets to his feet and withdraws the glove from his back pocket, waving it out to the side. He leans around Sam and gives Zemo a nod. Sam doesn’t turn his head far enough to get Zemo in his peripheral vision—and doesn’t turn his body at all because the only way he could hate Zemo more is if he had to live with the knowledge that he’d seen his dick, shining with Bucky’s saliva—but he’s plenty aware of the long silence the Baron does not fill following the delivery of the lie about the glove.

Eventually (and the wait is excruciating), Zemo says in a smug little voice, “Well, gentlemen, I await your return,” and closes the door. Sam doesn’t trust the Baron to have shut the door, but he does trust the sag of Bucky’s posture. They’re alone.

“Zemo’s gone,” Bucky says, returning the glove to his pocket, “and he knows.”

“Of course he knows, Buck! Did you just forget how to lie?”

“I…!”

Clearly floundering, Bucky motions to Sam’s cock with both hands. It’d be easy, and truthful, for Sam to admit that he was also too distracted to react well, but he’s not gonna throw Bucky that kind of lifeline.

Sam hitches his briefs up at the front; the discomfort of the band pushing against his shaft is worse than the awkwardness. Thinking about how many hours it might be until he and Bucky have an opportunity to continue this in a more private, Zemo-less space makes Sam want to do something really stupid, something Bucky would do, like punch the brick wall in aggravation. Problem is that Bucky’s Vibranium fist would go clean through while Sam might break his hand.

“Sexually frustrated?” Bucky asks bluntly.

So the punch-the-wall plan must’ve shown in Sam’s face.

“I’m fine,” Sam lies, belt buckle clinking as he starts putting his clothes in order.

A steady hand lands on his wrist and Sam glances up and into Bucky’s eyes. He swallows. Rather than help—refastening what he undid before—Bucky worms his hand into Sam’s briefs and wraps warm fingers around him. No, not again. Sam is not going to be the only one standing here with his dick out a second time. He runs his hand over Bucky’s chest and presses, turning them so Bucky has his back to the wall. Bucky’s hand stays loose on his cock until Sam grips him through his pants. Then, Bucky’s pumping away as Sam’s jerking his belt open—the material a sharp, ropey weave like Bucky’s tac straps in contrast to the buttery leather of Sam’s belt. Hastily, Sam gets into his pants, stretching and pawing, twisting his wrist to reach in and smooth his palm down Bucky’s length.

Their eyes meet and it’s holding hands in the car all over again.

It’s a race to the first grunt, the first groan, the first involuntary buck of the hips. Bucky’s zipper scratches at Sam’s forearm but that’s nothing, not worth letting go when he can see the glistening sweat at Bucky’s temple. Sam adjusts his grip to make a firm fist, completing long, merciless strokes that rip a rough gasp from Bucky. Of course, then he’s gotta retaliate and Sam can barely keep his shit together when Bucky pulls his hand out only to spit in the palm before thrusting it back into Sam’s pants.

“We can’t,” Bucky grits out.

“I know.”

But they keep going, Sam mentally crossing his fingers and his toes that Bucky won’t get to watch his knees wobble or his legs fold. He could swear he has Bucky on the ropes when that idiot starts pulsing his grip, tensing and relaxing his hold. His eyes are dark and unblinking as blue light seeps over them.

Sam’s overwhelming desire is to come all over Bucky’s hand, but the more responsible part of him reminds him that he’s going to have to walk back into Selby’s bar to somehow assist Zemo with the information negotiation and letting Bucky jerk him off in these expensive pants won’t help him accomplish that. He doesn’t want to bring what’s happening out here back in there, doesn’t want this thing between them reduced to part of Smiling Tiger’s fiction.

“Fuck, ok, stop!” Sam blurts.

Bucky stills immediately, not hiding his smirk when Sam takes his hand back. Bucky’s stays down the front of Sam’s pants until it’s in the way of Sam tucking his shirt back in. He clenches his teeth as he fixes his underwear, zips his pants to strain over the bulge he was so close to letting Bucky take care of. He catches Bucky with the same look on his face.

“The serum,” Sam says, attempting to refocus them both.

“Yeah. Maybe Zemo’s coaxed a lead out of Selby by now.”

Sam can’t contain his laugh.

“You better hope he has or else the only thing you achieved by breaking him out of jail was having him as a witness while you blew me.”

Bucky turns away from him so quickly that Sam knows he’s not mad; he has to be hiding his own smile. They stand there, shuffling in place for a couple more minutes. Right when Sam’s about to propose that they head inside, the side door flies open for the third time and Zemo staggers out, chased by the rapid, overlapping pops of several guns.

“Are you serious?!” Sam demands. The three of them sprint down the alley, heading for the crowded street.

Bucky channels his annoyance into a wordless shout at Zemo.

“I don’t know what went wrong,” Zemo yelps when Sam grabs his arm, hauling him around the corner as they emerge onto the street. “People usually find me very trustworthy, very persuasive.”

Sam glances at Bucky, who looks away guiltily.

“I don’t know…” Zemo pants. “…how to make this small… misunderstanding… up to you.”

“Just run!” Sam suggests. Feet pounding alongside Bucky’s as they dart down a side street, he says, “You think it’s time for you to use that knife?”

“Oh yeah,” Bucky says, like he only just remembered he has one.

Without breaking his stride, he slides the knife from his pocket, half-turns, and zings it backwards. Sam doesn’t turn to look, but he’s satisfied when the closest source of gunfire cuts off abruptly.

“This isn’t so bad,” Bucky says when they take a quick right, Zemo straggling slightly behind.

Bullets chase the three of them around the corner, ringing as they strike a fire escape and shatter a sign. Raising an arm over his head to protect himself from falling shards of glass, Sam glances at Bucky incredulously.

“I want a divorce!”

[pikemoreno]

denying, admitting

part 2 of the ‘pretending’ universe

pairing: jack “whiskey” daniels x f!reader

word count: 5.2k (hahaha whoops. the longest single piece i’ve ever written)

warnings: canon typical violence, mildly gruesome death of a bad guy, some bad words, idiots to lovers

a/n: here it is finally, the continuation of the drabble pretending. the link to it is below. enjoy the best yeehaw man. we ignore canon here.

wanna join a taglist?

pretending | masterlist

“Your name is?” 

“Erica Shields.”

“And your boyfriend’s name is?”

“David Wells.”

“What does he do?”

“He is the CEO of a new weapons manufacturer called Co-Tech.”

“And when they ask what he really does?” 

“He is the CEO of Co-Tech… And all of their offshore accounts holding millions of dollars from the sale of illegal bio weapons.”

“And, just so we’re clear, the targets tonight are?”

“Mr. Lucas Mora and Mr. Grant Levin. Lead dealers of an illegal weapons ring known in the inner circles as IWE. They are the primary targets and any known-associates can be subdued as secondary targets.”

“Good,” Champ nodded, looking quite confident in your ability to keep to your fake identity, “You’re good to go, Agent Brandy. I’ll call up Agent Whiskey now and you can go ahead ‘n head down to get ready.”

You froze as you stood to leave. “Get ready, sir?” Air left his mouth gruffly in a way akin to a laugh as you looked over the pantsuit you were wearing. His eyes were knowing where yours were markedly confused.

You were already ready… You thought?

“Just go meet Ginger Ale downstairs. She’ll explain. Good luck tonight.”

“No luck needed, sir. We’ll take ‘em down tonight. Maybe a couple of their other dealer friends if we can prove they’re in on it.”

“Not that, Agent.” 

“What--” Agent Whiskey knocked on the half-open door at that moment.

“Ready for me, sir?” 

“Yes, please come in. Agent Brandy was just leaving.” His cheeky smile directed between the two of you told you nothing and everything all at once.

What did he think he knew about this? This was nothing. Just an agent with a miserable crush on a senior agent. You excused yourself from the conference room quickly, ignoring Jack as you brushed past him. 

Ignoring how intoxicating he smelled-- was that a new cologne for the occasion? 

Ignoring how nice he looked-- wine-colored velvet suit jacket, white button-up, dark dress pants, the usual hat abandoned in favor of his dark hair, immaculately styled for the occasion. 

Ignoring the fact that you could feel his eyes boring into you and you were not going to be giving him the satisfaction of playing into his flirting.

You did as you were bid, making your way to the staging area to get your weapons and other effects for the mission to find a high-low red satin dress, black heels, and obnoxiously large jewelry hanging along with your knives and the “upscale” version of the Statesman glasses. Your face must have dropped quite visibly because you heard a laugh from Ginger Ale next to you.

“Absolutely not,” you groaned, “I thought ‘Maybe a tasteful pantsuit with some flats?’ Maybe some boots? How am I supposed to work in this, Ging? Where are my knives gonna go?”

“Unfortunately this crew you’re going to be dealing with is-- well-- Unapologetically misogynist under the guise of being ‘traditional’ is probably the best way to put it,” Ginger shook her head. 

“So they’re afraid of a girl wearing pants?”

“When they look as independent and secure as you, absolutely,” she laughed. “The other women at the party are gonna look like this. You would’ve blown your cover before you even spoke if you were in your regular attire.” You sighed. You guessed it was a pretty hot look, if not a little unruly to complete the mission in. It’d get you to walk three inches taller in newfound confidence and you guessed that couldn’t have been anything but helpful in this scenario.

“So do I get my knives or am I just playing the part tonight?”

“Not at all. What better way to take them out then doing it by the hand of someone they don’t respect? They’ll never see it coming.” She presented the thigh holster that had been laying on the table next to her.

“Oooh, now that’s sexy, Ging,” you gawked, admiring the piece and absolutely filling it to the brim with the best of your knives from the wall of weaponry in front of you, as well as your trusty vial of poison.

“I know someone else who’ll think so too.” You stopped cold and turned to face her as she looked particularly smug

“Oh, not you too. First, Champ was acting weird about this and now you too? What exactly do you guys think is going on here? It’s Jack. He flirts with everyone.”

“It’s not just Jack that I’m talking about. I mean this with all the love in the world, but you can’t possibly be that dense, Brandy. Stop playing coy.”

“Playing coy how?’ Your anger bubbled in your throat, not at Ginger Ale or tonight or even Jack. Just yourself. Yourself and your dumb affections. It made your words come out a little more venomous than you intended, but Ginger took it in stride. “Pretending I don’t have a ridiculous crush on a senior agent and my partner in this tonight? Pretending that I won’t be heartbroken when tonight means nothing in the grand scheme of things?”

“You should probably go ahead and get ready. Your partner should be done with Champ any minute.” She gave you a tight-lipped smile and ushered you off to go change.

By the time you made it outside, Jack was already waiting, leaning coolly against the sleek black town car-- no Bronco for tonight; a CEO could only show up in the best.

“Look at you, all gussied up,” Jack smiled as you walked towards him. You rolled your eyes, and avoided his in doing so. It was all a part of the charm. Jack was a serial flirt. You’d seen it. And you’d seen too many before you fall for it, take his having fun too seriously. You couldn’t let his words fluster you or start thinking they were something they weren’t. But still, you couldn’t hide the playful smile that pulled at the corners of your mouth as his eyes stayed on you.

“After you, my sweetheart,” he opened the door to the elegant car for you.

“There’s no one here, Jack, you don’t have to start with that yet.”

 If only you saw the way he had to bite his tongue as you settled into the passengers’ seat.

You were really starting to make him question how good he is reading the signals. It had been seeming so obvious that you were into him; and so he reciprocated, making it more than clear that he is very much into that idea. And now you had taken the coy act so far that he was wondering if it was an act at all. Of course, he wanted to tell you how he felt about you. He’d wanted to tell you tonight. After a night of him “pretending” to woo you, showing you off, and kicking some criminal ass, he would tell you that the pretty things he’d said to you were real, that he would love to take you out for real and definitely not to an illegal weapons party this time. 

But he didn’t want to do that if you really weren’t interested. He didn’t want to put you in that uncomfortable position of having to reject someone you were going to see and work with everyday. Until he got a good read on how you really felt, he’d have to keep it to himself… While still making it so painfully obvious-- in a non-committal way. 

The drive was largely silent as you both thought far too hard about the messes you’d put yourselves in. The thick cloud of it was only interrupted by occasional questions and confirmations about the plan, the targets, and the escape.

Mr. Lucas Mora’s mansion was absolutely breathtaking as you pulled up to you: all light stone with a tiled roof, big windows, a grand driveway featuring a roundabout winding around a glamorous fountain that sparkled in the night lights. You found yourself trying to hide your awe as a valet took the black town car away and Jack led you by the arm up the marbled stairs to the front door that must’ve cost more than your entire apartment. You kept your voice low as you spoke to Ginger Ale over the com. She’d hacked into their security cameras like the damn genius she was and had eyes on the whole affair.

“What do we see, Ging?” 

“Levin and Mora are in the lounge. A lot of foot traffic in there. You should get them out of there before engaging”

“We have to get them separated. Less chance of one escaping.” Jack put his hand over his mouth, pretending to scratch at his mustache so no one could read his lips. You walked in the direction of the lounge, arm in arm. The way the knuckles of his other arm ran lightly over your arm was far too distracting for its own good, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“I’m not seeing a lot of weapons for a weapons dealer party. Should we be worried, Ginger? Anything hidden?” you asked, talking into a flute of champagne you picked up to keep your words hidden.

“Of course not. Their weapons are far too dangerous for their own use,” she laughed,  “I don’t see anything, but I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Copy th--” You didn’t get to finish before the two of you were intercepted by Levin, the younger of the two leaders. He had a strong jawline featuring a smattering of well-kept stubble, slicked back greasy hair, and a smile so smugly charming it surely sealed him a few deals. 

“Where do I know you from?” he had an oddly ambiguous accent that you couldn’t quite pin and you wondered if that was on purpose. This man had to be a chameleon. “I pride myself on never forgetting a face. It would seem I’ve missed one.” He talked solely to Jack-- of course.

“David Wells. CEO of Co-Tech.” He held out his hand to be shaken. Levin only looked at it. “And this,” he put an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer, “is my girlfriend Erica Shields.”

“Never heard of you.” Jack let his hand fall back to his side, not dropping his eager smile.

“We’ve had several dealings with IWE. Often sell to--” Levin’s eyes lit up.

“Oh none of that code here, Mr. Wells, we’re all friends. Glad to have a loyal associate here with us.” He gave Jack one solid pat on the shoulder and then continued on to talk to someone else. You noticed for the first time how tense your shoulders had been and Jack rubbed a hand over one soothingly. How did he always know?

“Alright, let’s re-group,” you shrugged his hand off lightly, turning to face him. “I’m gonna tail Levin. You try to schmooze Mora. Take this.” You placed the poison vial in his hand, disguising the gesture as a hand squeeze-- which you couldn’t say you were mad about doing-- and stalked off to find your target.

It was a half hour before you saw him again. You were walking the pool deck and listening to Jack’s poor attempt to give Mora a poisoned drink. He was incredibly uninterested and you internally groaned at how obvious Jack was being with trying a little too hard to get it to him. The thought was interrupted by a voice coming from the pool below.

“And who might you be? I think I’d remember a gem like you.” You looked down to find none other than Levin, and staggered a moment, unsure of what to make of the comment.

“Erica Shields. We met a few minutes ago? With my boyfriend David Wells?” you responded in your sugary-sweetest voice.

“Right, right, of course.” You nodded awkwardly and there was a long beat of silence.  What game was he playing? Or was he really just that dismissive towards women? “Well, are you coming?”

“Coming?”

“You don’t have to play dumb with me, sweetheart.” It was the same term Jack had used with you earlier, and yet this one went down like poison instead of honey. “Come on down here with me.” He rose to float on his back in the water to emphasize where exactly he was wanting you to go. “Your boyfriend may be making millions, but I’m making billions.” He winked. You had half a mind to take a knife out right there and plant it directly into his chest, unconcerned with the consequence of the on-lookers, but then you realized you had an even better opportunity. 

Let’s turn this Ms. Shields into a gold-digger. 

You played along.

“Oh I don’t doubt it, but I’m afraid I didn’t get the memo about swimsuits.” You cocked a hip, tilting your head at him. 

If you could just get him alone.

He practically leaped out of the pool and climbed up onto the deck, coming to stand almost nose to nose with you. 

“Brandy, I know what you’re trying to do and I can’t recommend this. Rendezvous with Whiskey and you can figure out another way,” Ginger Ale’s voice came into your ear. Levin’s voice cuts back in.

“Well, we don’t have to stay here, angel.”

“Ginger, what’s she doing?” Jack’s panicked voice followed, “Brandy? Where are you? I’m coming to find you.” You’d never heard him speak so urgently. It made you freeze for just a second before you spoke to Levin

“Lead the way,” you smiled, watching as Levin quickly dried off before leading you with a hand on the middle of your back. You leaned into it despite wanting to put one of your knives through it. What a pig. 

It was at that moment that you met eyes with Jack, just briefly, just long enough to see his face fall. You turned away before Levin noticed your staring, missing the seven stages of grief cross Jack’s face as you walked away. 

His first instinct was jealousy. He, of course, knew you weren’t going anywhere with a worm like Levin for any reason other than your job, but he couldn’t help the knee jerk reaction from seeing someone else with an arm around you. His second reaction was worry. You were the most capable agent he knew, but that sort of situation was a particularly dangerous one. He didn’t miss the possessiveness of Levin’s grip; and he didn’t want to think about what he was going to try to do when he had you alone. His third reaction, then, was to follow you. It was his fault you were in this mess with him anyway-- so much for “wooing” you. There was no way he was going to let you suffer for it.

In that time, Levin had pulled you into the first of ten bedrooms in the upstairs corridor of the mansion and promptly pinned you against the opposite wall, an arm on either side of your shoulders. You responded in kind, the way anyone would respond to an unwanted advance by a sleazy billionaire: by stabbing him in the neck. About that time is when Jack finally caught up to you, slamming the door open, lasso at the ready, eyes wide in fear. He relaxed visibly as Levin crumpled lifeless to the floor. You watched Jack crack a smile.

“Guess I should’ve known you wouldn’t need any rescuing,” he reeled the lasso in, returning it to its place on his belt. You smiled back.

“You should’ve. But it was sweet of you to worry, so I’ll forgive you. Let’s get Mora and get the hell out of here before anyone finds the body.” 

***

You made surprisingly, anticlimactically quick work of Mora once you found him again. You snagged a tray of drinks from where a member of his extended wait staff had set it down. Jack added a dash of your little secret ingredient to one of the glasses and you presented it to him as he lounged on the couch. He gave you one singular nod, took the drink from you, and continued laughing with his guests. One sip would be plenty to have him on the floor within ten minutes, and you watched him take that first deadly sip with pride.

So now the targets were either dead or dying and you knew instantly you were going to have to book it out of there because once Mora keeled over, it wouldn’t take very long for anyone in that room to figure out the culprit. The issue, of course, was remembered once you made it outside the doors: your ride back was in the hands of the valet: a valet that was overcrowded with guests trying to leave. It’d take far too long to get the keys and peel out of there. Mora would be long dead before then. 

“Ginger, how long before we can get an extraction? We can’t get the car back in time.” Jack mumbled lowly as you made your way out of the mansion, walking with Jack hand in hand as though you were a couple going to look at the front gardens

“I’m not sure. All other agents are out. There’s a small town about a mile away if you can get there. I’ll send someone to you with a ride as soon as possible.”

You looked at each other. 

“Guess we’re walking darlin’.” Screams sounded from the house and you both jumped at the sound. “Quickly,” Jack added, eyes wide.

It was about a quarter of a mile of walking down the roadside before the terrible heels really started digging into your feet, leaving blisters and arch pain in their wake. No one had trailed you so far, which was good because your feet couldn’t handle moving any faster than their current trudging pace.

Jack must’ve noticed your limping, because he stopped and grabbed your hand to stop you as well, eyebrows knitted in a frown.

“You alright?” He looked you over, as if checking for injuries.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine, Jack. Don’t worry. It’s just the shoes.” He looked down at them, noticing the angry red rub marks. He didn’t waste a second in kneeling down and starting on removing his right shoe.

“What are you doing? You don’t have to do that, Jack. I’ll just go barefoot.”

“Nonsense.” He finished removing the right shoe and started on the left. 

“Well now you’re gonna be barefoot. What’s the difference?”

“I still have socks. You don’t know what kinda weird stuff is on the side of the road out here, Brandy.” He removed them and then gestured to your shoes, looking up at you. “May I?”

You worried at your bottom lip for a moment, looking down into sparkling eyes you’d thought about too often. They were now so close, so earnestly looking into yours. The care and concern sent a little spark up your spine. You nodded and joined him in undoing the little buckles on each shoe. He held out a hand for you to grab onto for balance as you slid out of the heels and into his much-too-large dress shoes. The strange, casual intimacy of the act was odd, but not unwelcome.

“Well, it’s certainly not a perfect fit, Cinderella, but it’s better than whatever the hell Statesman gave you,” he smiled and you returned it. He stood back up and your hands parted as you continued your trek to the town Ginger had found, shoes in hand and the promising lights of it gleaming up ahead.

Actually arriving to the little town of Speake was less than spectacular. The shining lights you’d seen came from the neons of a gas station and a 24 hour dive and the flickering street lamps in front of a long-closed post office, and a quaint but not horribly sketchy motel.

“Ginger, we made it,” you called, “What’s the ETA?” She hesitated.

“Is there a place there you’d feel comfortable staying at a while? 

“I guess,” you sighed, afraid to ask again, “What’s the ETA, Ginger?”

“First thing tomorrow morning.”

You looked to Jack. “Motel it is, then.”

***

Jack couldn’t help but feel he’d won the lottery as you dragged yourselves up to the second floor of the motel. There was only one vacant room with one king bed. It was a little too perfect, like he’d set it up himself, but he hadn’t. Well, he guessed he had, actually, but just the part where you joined him on the mission as his fake girl, not that you’d get stuck out here and have to share a motel room. Sure, he hadn’t gotten the chance to charm you quite like he’d wanted to: having you on his arm, complimenting you to others at the party, maybe getting to fake-- real-- kiss you. And he definitely regretted putting you in danger. But all of that sort of fell away from his memory now that he was getting so much more alone time with you than he’d initially bargained for. He wouldn’t dream of trying to share the bed with you, of course. He’d rough it out on the chair or find a way to make something up on the floor. But still, he couldn’t help but be a little giddy at the prospect of spending this much more uninterrupted time with you. 

Jack might’ve been incredibly enthused with the scenario, but he hid it from you well. He didn’t want to seem overeager and come off as though he was excited about the arrangement because of the off-chance that you might sleep with him. He knew what his reputation could be around the workplace. Hiding what he was feeling from you, though, meant that you had no idea what to think at this point. It all looked very different and incredibly confusing on your end of things. 

First and foremost, you’d settled it in your mind now that you would be sharing a bed with him. That was fine. You were friends, pretty good ones at that. And both professionals to boot. The unsettled part came in you knowing how you felt, but becoming more and more unsure of him. The fact of the matter was that any flirting that occurred before tonight was unreliable as proof that he might be attracted to you. He flirted with far too many other women for you to be able to take it seriously. Then there was tonight. He was clearly panicked about your safety and willing to give up his shoes for you. Hard to say what it meant. He might be a bit of a stubborn asshole at times, but he cares deeply about people. It’s what put him in Statesmen in the first place. Given that, would he have acted similarly with other agents out of the simple goodness of his heart? Maybe. But then again, it had seemed that he was catching onto your crush based on the day in the boardroom when you got this assignment. “You keep saying that we’re friends but you look at me for a moment too long for that to be true,” he had said. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Obviously, he was getting the idea. So assuming that he truly was acting differently around you, was it because he felt differently in and of himself? Or was it because he had caught on to how you felt and knowing someone had given into his charms made him automatically more interested in them?

It was hurting your head, going in circles like this. And by the time you gave up on your spinning, cycling thoughts, you’d reached your $35 room for the night.

It wasn’t… Terrible, you guessed. About what you’d expect for a $35 room in no-town Kentucky: beyond basic, subpar comforts, and flickering fluorescents. But it looked clean enough, that was a relief.

Relief ended as you looked in the bathroom mirror, mentally getting ready for bed as it now reached 1am. Relief ended when you realized you had nothing to sleep in other than the sweaty, itchy, puffy dress on your back. A long night was about to be even longer as you stared at the ceiling uselessly, sleeplessly waiting for the extraction. 

You stepped out of the bathroom and stopped as you watched a long-legged Jack trying to squeeze himself into a small armchair in the corner of the room.

“What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like? I’m getting ready for bed.” 

“Yeah, sure.” You hopped onto the bed. “C’mon, there is more than enough room to share this miserable little bed here.” You spread your arms across the bed for emphasis. but he hesitated. Of course he really didn’t want to spend the night in a lumpy old chair, but he didn’t want you to say that it was ok just because you felt bad for him and have you be uncomfortable.

“Ah-- Well, only if you’re comfortable with that, darlin’. I don’t want to overstep. I’m fine here, really.” You raised an eyebrow.

“Get over here.”

“Oh, thank God.” He practically ran and jumped next to you on the bed. 

“Liar,” you grinned, “I thought you said were fine over there.”

“Who wants to spend a night on a chair like that? I’m not crazy.” He crinkled his nose at the realization of your bed attire. “But I’m thinking you might be. Are you really gonna be sleeping in that?” 

“Well, what else am I supposed to be sleeping in?” He sat up and started unbuttoning his white button up shirt before you could utter another syllable. “What--” You began, but it was obvious he wouldn’t hear it. You were too distracted anyway, unable to look away from the exposed, tanned skin of his shoulders down to his soft belly. You’d always assumed him to be the type that took immaculate care of his body and wouldn’t settle for less than perfectly toned abs. The realization of the truth was a happy one, if you were honest. It was endearing, imperfect. It made him a little more human and less Agent Whiskey. 

“It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s probably a lot better than that.” He held the shirt out to you and promptly turned around for your privacy when you took it with gratitude. 

“No peeking, Whiskey,” you teased as you changed.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sunshine.”

You flopped back onto the bed when you’d finished and touched his shoulder to let him know it was ok to turn back around. 

“Better?” he grinned.

“Much better. Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight sweetheart.” He flipped off the light and you both retreated to your edges of the bed. 

Both out of respect for the other.

Both kind of wishing that this was happening under other circumstances that didn’t require you both to separate like two magnets of the same pole. 

But instead you repelled apart until sleep took you both.

Waking up in the morning was another story. Both of you had migrated toward the other in the night, meeting in the middle. You were facing each other, noses almost touching, his arm draped over your middle. Both of you coming to at about the same time led to an awkward dance of moving away and arms jolting away and mumbled sorry’s as you both laid there for just a moment more.

And he didn’t mean to say it, he really didn’t. This was not how he’d want this come out, but he was just admiring the way his shirt laid against your skin and the way your eyes glittered even in this grungy lamp light. And it just… slipped out.

“When I’ve imagined you wearing my clothes this definitely wasn’t what I was expecting.” You sat up so fast you felt a touch of vertigo. 

“I’m sorry, what?” His eyes widened in panic. Did he say that out loud? He wasn’t just thinking that? Damn was he tired still. 

“That came out wrong I—“

“What does that mean, Jack? Why would you be imagining that?” Your heart rate was picking up to dangerous speeds, your tone was more clipped than you intended, fear seeping into it.

“You know,” he mumbled, hands covering his face now, regretting every choice that led him to this moment.

“No, I don’t,” your voice softened as you crawled over and gently removed his hands from his face. “As a—,” you gulped, “A conquest or a… Something else.” He sat up, horrified, sitting directly across from you. 

“A conquest? Of course not! I talk a big game, but I don’t do that shit anymore.” He sighed. “I recognize that I flirt around a lot, but it really never goes anywhere honestly. I don’t let it. But even then, of course you were different.” You gawked, but you couldn’t hide the way your mouth twisted upwards on the corners. 

“How was I supposed to know that, Jack? You said it best, you flirt with… Everyone. How was I supposed to tell the difference?” He took your hands softly, giving you the space and permission to take them away if you wanted. You didn’t. You let him thumbs run over the knuckles soothingly as he spoke.

“You think I’d give just anyone my shoes to walk in or my shirt to wear? Hell, do you think I’d generally offer to take the floor when presented with a gorgeous woman and a motel room? No, Lord knows a younger me would’ve been all too happy to share the bed and hope something more came out of it. But it’s all different with you.” 

“Oh,” you whispered, looking down at the interconnected hands between you.

“Oh?” he chuckled, “That’s all I get?” 

“Jack I-- I’ve liked you since I met you on my first day. Do you remember?” He nodded. “Swept me right off my feet. I was so upset when I realized you were like that with everyone.”

“It was different then too. I just didn’t know how to make that obvious. It’s been a while since I’ve had to actually try to woo somebody, I guess.”

“You didn’t even have to try. I wasn’t so good at showing that either, I guess. Afraid I was just another name on a long list.”

“No lists. If there was, you’d be the only name on it.” You outright giggled in embarrassment and glee and exhaustion and pure dumbfoundedness all at once. Then your downcast eyes met Jack’s fully and next thing you knew your lips were on his and you really couldn’t have told who initiated it, but now his hand was on your cheek and your lips moved soft and slow against his, just getting used to the brand new feeling that was sending sparks through your stomach. It was over too soon, but you smiled at the prospect of that being your new normal, that you would have the opportunity to get used to the feeling: the feeling of his lips on yours in the morning light and the feeling of his hand in yours as you walked to meet the agent outside for the extraction.

Well, maybe you wouldn’t need another extraction again at least.

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[lord-tathamet]

Dinner Plans

A short story almost two years of age, that I once wrote for a university class. Found it again, dusted it off, polished it slightly, but let it retain that little bit of amateurish writing simply to marvel at how far I’ve come with my writing ever since. 

Enjoy. 

For the fifth time in the last two hours did the man with the moustache and sunglasses look up from his research and look at the face of the clock of the broken church. He scowled beneath the moustache, but forced himself to look at it regardless.

4:18 pm.

They were late, as per usual. He shook his head and focused back on his literature. He made the mental note to have a number of alarm clocks be send to each of them for next time. Flatteringly Photoshopped pictures of the Mexican coast reflected in his sunglasses while his eyes skimmed through the brochure's whimsical descriptions of the rich culture of its indigenous people and beautiful beaches.  He skipped through a couple of pages until he found what he was looking for. A decidedly too sharply fined and too pale fingernail stabbed into the page displaying the photograph of an ancient, grey pyramid.

The man sitting behind the shining aluminium table was tall, narrow and sharply dressed: a suit jacket with bloodstone cufflinks, black suit-pants, a clean white shirt only slightly wrinkled and  two buttons open. His legs ended in a pair of shiny, pointy shoes. His face was stern and angular, with pronounced cheekbones and a pointed chin. Bushy eyebrows sat above the pair of sunglasses that protected his eyes against the sun, and a long white moustache grew beneath the hooked nose which gave his appearance a certain roguish charm. A wavy mane of grey-white hair surrounded his face and hid the pointed tips of his ears, giving him certain qualities akin to an old lion. It was difficult to clearly guess his age, but anyone briefly passing by and glancing at him would take him for a very spry looking gentleman in his mid-fifties.

Leaning in on his read, the man with the white moustache made a few notes on a small block of paper. The pen he used was black, ornamented with silver filigree and absurdly expensive, as was the ink held within. Next to the note pad stood an untouched and by now cold cup of coffee, its content as pitch-black as a dark winter night and reflecting the bright afternoon sun above.  Disgusting in taste and disgustingly cheap in comparison, but he needed the table, and none of the waiters would bother him as long as he had at least one beverage in front of him, as maligned and untouched it was.

Cars rolled by exhuming grey fumes, the nearby fountain shot water into the air and people passed his table. Most of them in casual summer clothes, sundresses and cargo pants and shirts and some of them even with hats to gain some shade. For a moment, the man looked up from his notes and allowed himself a brief indulgence – the eyes behind the sunglasses darted from one healthy neck to another. A small, wolfish smile parted the pale lips and if there had been anyone to pay close attention, they would have gained a brief glance at his very pointed, very sharp and unusually long canines.

“Good afternoon, count.”

The man in the white moustache begrudgingly pulled his eyes away from his current mark – a lovely Turkish woman with streaming black hair that was climbing the stairs around the fountain just a shy dozen feet from his table, close enough for him to smell the sweet mixture of blood and perfume she exhumed – and he turned to the youth that had seated herself opposite of him, soundless and sudden as if she had appeared out of the thin air.

“And to you, countess. You are looking lively as always.”

She seemed young enough to be his granddaughter, though no one within their right mind would have thought to imagine a superficial familiarity between the two. A girl of fourteen years, with a healthy, rosy complexion and flowing, lush dark hair that curled at her shoulders, the sunshine twisting golden shimmers into its waves. Large doe-like eyes that projected innocence and hid a vicious intellect, a petite body that suggested fragility and cloaked the strength to bend iron bars as if they were straws. She was in white, of course she was, a pretty, knee-length dress and a white handbag in her lap and with her hands folded atop of it. The lid of her bag, the man with the moustache noted with a mild amusement, was riddled with numerous, colourful stickers and badges, and around her wrists hung several loops and bands of tiny gemstones like rainbow wreaths.

They were the only change about her since their last meeting.

“Thank you. My sincere apologies, there was an unfortunate delay with the train between Kassel and Hannover.” She shook her head. “More than five centuries since the invention of rail transport and still a simple thing like an open door may stall a train's journey for almost an entire fifteen minutes.”

She nodded at the travel brochure still open in front of him. “Are you already planning your next journey? I thought you would stay in Berlin a little while longer.”

“I am a traveller at heart, milady. Although my beloved home will always be in the heart of Europe, the other continents do possess their own charming allure,” he replied, setting the brochure and note block aside. “And besides, it has been a while since I have last visited the Americas. There must be much exciting game to be hunted there.”

“Always about excitement, is that the reason you wanted us all to meet here of all places?” The countess nudged her chin toward the broken church spire in the background, a disgusted sneer cracking her face. “And mirroring glass everywhere around us. One of these days, your thrill-seeking hunts might cost you your life.”

“How would the youth of your seeming generation say? No risk, no fun.” The count let his eyes wander around the square for a moment. “Where is Laura? The two of you were practically bound at the hip when we last met.”

The young-seeming woman stiffened in her seat. The snarl dissolved into a very neutral, very calm expression that seemed like it was carved from marble. “Laura is... no longer with us.”

A single eyebrow rose, but otherwise the count's face remained unmoved. “Hunters?

“No.” There was a subtle tremble of her lip, the count noted, before she continued: “She could no longer bear it, she told me, moments before she drove the knife through her own neck. She betrayed me, just like the others before her.”

“My condolences.”

She nodded, her face remaining neutral. “It has been over three decades since. I have moved on as best as I could.

“In fact,” she allowed herself a smile,” I happen to have a date just after we met up with our friends.”

“You still insist on fraternizing with your prey?” The count sneered. “Now that is a carelessness that will get you killed one day.”

“Because unlike you, I seek actual companionship?” Her eyes glinted like sharp icicles in the sun. “Because unlike you, I do not wish to to prolong myself in solitude and run afoul like some pack-less dog? Because I want to spend this blasted eternity with someone like myself?”

Blue flashed and briefly turned red. For a moment, the two stared at each other with an intensity not unlike of two big cats, every individual muscle tense and ready to pounce. Then as quickly as the moment came, it passed.

“I did not mean to insult you, milady. Forgive me. I only worry about others of our kind. We are already so very few remaining,” the count sighed.

“Do not kid yourself, count. You care for nobody but yourself,” the countess replied, but she too relaxed in her seat.

The next five minutes they spent in silence. The count returned to his brochure, only briefly looking up to take notes and to send another quick glance up at the clock tower. The young woman had produced a smartphone from her handbag and immersed herself in the screen, brief smiles lighting up her face in between her typing and the brief ping of sent messages.

“Empusa will be here in half an hour,” she said after little while and looked up from the screen. “She is picking up Lamia from the airport and helping her through customs right now.”

“What about Schreck?”

“The sun is still up, remember? He will meet us after dusk.”

“His mutation is as highly fascinating as it is impractical,” the count murmured. “Why didn't they update me about it?”

“We do possess a text chain, you know. I'm surprised you are not part of it, since you are always the one organizing our meetings.”

“I refuse to touch one of those damnable Apps ever since Lestat sent around pictures of his own rectum to everyone.”

“Suit yourself. Why the Americas?”

The count tapped his finger on the table. “The Mexica people of pre-Columbian America possessed fascinating religious rites related to blood sacrifice to honour their gods...I wonder if there might be others of our kind still in their old territory.”

The countess fiddled with her smartphone. “Sometimes, I admit, I envy your ability to travel without restraint. I tried everything, yet I still must return to my family's tomb ever so often.”

“Have you considered moving your tomb in its entirety, stone by stone? There are still many old woods and mountain valleys unmolested by human hand. I am sure the hags you usually travel with would be most grateful for the exercise.”

“I have tried, once, when Laura was still with me.” A twinge of sorrow crept across her face. “I wanted to go far, far away from home and take her with me. But then, my body began to wither, my senses to decay the longer I prolonged returning to my tomb for a night. Laura, too, could not go long without a place to return to. Horse-carriages can only get you so far. And when we tried to move a single stone, what little strength I had left in that moment was about to leave me.”

The count hummed. Then his own phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, swiped across the screen, read the message in silence. A wolfish grin split his face.  

“Then you'll be happy to know that I plan on putting an end to these laws that seem to bind us.”

“What to you mean?” The countess leaned forward, an eyebrow arched.

“I planned on surprising all of you when Schreck, Lamia and the others would be gathered with us, but I might just as well reveal it all now,” the count smiled and leaned back, hands tapered together. There was a red gleam to his eyes, behind the sunglasses. “In my studies of the Americas, I came across a new initiate to our little circle – one that shares many of my own tastes and wishes to help others of his kin. Among such, is breaking the accursed bindings placed upon us.”

He extended a pointing finger. “He is currently sitting on the other end of the Breitscheidplatz. The tall man, olive skinned, with the gold rings in his ears.”

The countess followed his direction, narrowed her blue eyes to a glint. “What is his name?”

“The old Mayan people called him Camazotz. And he might very well be one of the first of our kind to walk this earth.”

On the other end of the square, the tall, olive-skinned man with golden rings in both his ears turned his head and nodded at them. His eyes gleamed in a blood-red, and for just a moment, both of the undead nobles could catch a glimpse of his shadow flickering across the wall behind him.

For just a split-second, they saw the shadow of a bat the size of a small house, stretching its wings and enveloping the street within its grasp.

[angerissue]

Character Survey.

Real name: Dr. Robert Bruce Banner, Ph.D..

Single or taken: Single, and this probably isn't going to change anytime soon. He has a number of ingrained emotional issues, and ideological issues that pertain to his condition, that prevent him from seeking romantic relationships and even just becoming close to someone. One-night stands are possible, because they don’t involve emotional commitment from either party, but real relationships scare the hell out of him. The closer that someone gets to Bruce, the more he fears hurting them or being hurt himself.

Abilities or powers: He has an extremely high IQ, almost unprecedented intuition when it comes to the sciences and its numerous technologies, and a great ability to think outside the box and solve complicated, confounding problems. Also, he can turn big and green, which makes him capable of inhuman physical feats and gives him a ridiculous healing factor. This cannot be understated; he can literally recover from decapitation if the conditions are right. It's debatable whether these qualify as gifts or curses, because of the experiences they've created for Bruce in the past, but they're definitely abilities at the least.

Eye colour: Brown. Sometimes green if he’s in a mood.

Hair colour: Dark brown with some grey.

Family members: Rebecca Banner (mother / deceased), Brian Banner (father / incarcerated), Jennifer Walters (cousin / alive), Susan Drake (adoptive aunt / unknown), Elaine Banner (aunt / deceased).

Pets: In The Persistence, he owns a white knockout mouse named Eddie, who came from a selection of ailing lab mice that he experimented on with the Hulk's plasma. He doesn’t have pets in other verses, though he wouldn’t mind a cat, or a dog with a calm and mellow demeanour, as long as his living situation and overall routine is constant and undisturbed. Otherwise, it will never be a possibility. Back when General Ross' squad broke down his door in Brazil, he needed to abandon a mutt named Rick, and it hurt because he’d become very fond of him. He doesn't want to do this to another animal.

Hobbies or activities: He loves hiking and jogging (with trails in forested areas being his preferred location), cooking and baking, gardening, reading textbooks and science journalism, bait fishing, programming and experimenting, travelling, sightseeing, meditation, yoga, collecting and listening to vinyl records, and being a rebel by listening to police scanners and going after bad guys if he doesn't have much else to do. But even if it seems like he's not outwardly doing anything, he's probably still occupied — he tends to spend a profuse amount of time in his own head, ruminating and reflecting on future goals, whether it involves anticipating or dreading them. He also likes to contemplate new concepts and designs for technologies.

Animal that represents them: Definitely a pangolin, because you can’t look at a pangolin and the way it carries itself and not think of Banner from a purely visual perspective. Add on the fact that their bodies are covered in hardened scales for defense, and how they curl up into a ball whenever they're upset and threatened, and you have a metaphorical version of Bruce, who tends to shy away and retreat into himself whenever he's having a lower moment, and has a lot of deep-seated defensive mechanisms on display during social interactions. But seriously, these animals just want to walk around eating ants, minding their own business. They don’t have a bone to pick with anyone... Which is also similar to Bruce. And did I mention that pangolins are endangered, because they're frequently hunted and trapped by humans for their supposed “beneficial properties” in medicine (none of which are proven)? That's similar to how Banner has been followed all over the place by the U.S. military, just because they perceived his condition to be useful somehow.

Worst habits: Take your pick. Distancing himself from other people even when he could use the company, self-flagellation, humouring his guilt complex even when he's not responsible for certain negative outcomes, repressing or suppressing his emotions when he needs to express them (or the opposite, staying as the Hulk so he can stew in those strong emotions and therefore punish himself for whatever he “did wrong”), running away from connections that involve real commitment, especially romantic ones.

Role models: Steve Rogers for his patriotism and overall sense of morality, Neils Bohr for his defense of the Bohr atomic model (which had been a radical theory for the time) and subsequent successes, Ernest Rutherford for similar reasons, and his mother when he was younger, though he doesn’t remember much about her because he was only six when she died. Same goes for his aunt, Susan; while he spent more time around her than Rebecca in total, he was rather emotionally absent by this point because of all the trauma earlier in his childhood. In general, his role models tend to be people who remain strong in the face of adversity and judgement, and stick to their values for the benefit of others. All the above people qualify in that sense, for different reasons.

Sexual orientation: Heterosexual.

Thoughts on marriage and kids: Nope, and bigger nope. He would love to have a close connection with someone, however much he's actually repressed the desire for the time being, and some part of him does want to have a child — however, he always concludes that it wouldn't be worth it. Bruce believes marriage would be a shackle for anyone who's unfortunate enough to become his partner, and it would open them up to potential threats from people who could use them to get to him and his condition. And children are a no-go because Bruce doesn’t want them to have a father like him; he might be absent for a lot of their upbringing, and either unstable or otherwise unaccommodating in temperament if he’s upset. And he'll constantly be trying to hide his condition from them as well, because god forbid they find out their father is a monster, and they feel like a freak because of it. He's been in a position where he felt like an anomaly as a child, and he's not interested in subjecting his children to this. He also loathes the idea of bringing children into the world because he would not be able to ensure their safety — after all, he can’t even ensure his own. So to Bruce, he'd be setting them up for endangerment just because they’re related to him, similar to how his partner would become a target as well.

Style preferences: Safe and conservative, and not flamboyant by any means. He usually sticks to warmer and neutral palettes, and cuts/styles that are classic and unlikely to fall out of style; this includes his suits, jackets, pants, and shirts. We're talking chinos and slacks, poplin dress shirts, wool sport coats and blazers. Most occasions will see him wearing the dress shirt, slacks, and sport coat together. If he's feeling more adventurous, he'll pair a sport coat with a crewneck, or he could even go with a polo shirt and jeans, but the latter is rare. In general, Bruce's most interesting piece is a brown leather bomber jacket, which he usually wears in the warmer months; colder weather will bring out a peacoat (and he loves to pop the collar in lieu of using a scarf). As far as cost goes, Bruce is fairly well-off between the royalties from S.H.I.E.L.D. and other work he's done here and there, but even so, he doesn't purchase outrageously expensive clothing and tends to go for the mid-upper brands. He'll do made-to-measure, but not full bespoke. He finds any further spending to be superfluous.

Approach to friendships: Cautious and uncertain about them, and tends not to approach people first, because he would hate to overstep his boundaries / make someone uncomfortable. Rather accommodating to people he considers friends, but he's extremely quick to duck out if they can’t meet him eye-to-eye regarding touchy topics, like decisions that affect the well-being of many people. This is the reason he shunned his friendship with Tony after they debated about the Sokovia Accords. Being an introvert, he’s one of those people who doesn't like bothering his friends; even if they make it abundantly clear that he's welcome anytime, he'll hesitate, but he’s completely okay and even happy if those friends approach him instead. He doesn't always like when his personal space is invaded, or if someone touches him, but he'll start to make exceptions if he becomes more familiar with someone. He loves the people that he can consider friends, but he always views the friendships as something that could dissolve in a heartbeat. On some level, even unconscious, he's always expecting things to end.

Thoughts on pie: An acceptable desert. Bumbleberry, strawberry rhubarb, and pumpkin are his favourites. He prefers the homemade variety, and because of it, he tends to make his own, butter crust and all, avoiding store-bought unless it’s particularly memorable — or if someone buys a slice for him. He’s appreciative like that.

Favourite place to spend time: Somewhere he can guarantee that he's not being watched; these are most commonly his labs in the Northwind Observatory, quiet and secluded trails, or his chambers in the Crown City citadel on Sakaar. Not only do these locations ease his anxieties about being studied, inspected, or followed, but he feels less of a pressure to put on false pretenses and exhaust himself with social niceties, many of which may be fabricated. He doesn’t need much external stimulation, because he’s fine simply turning inward and thinking, without paying much attention to his surroundings, but he’ll certainly admit to spending a ton of time tinkering with pet projects if he’s in the labs. Obviously, Bruce prefers to be alone in most of these cases. But if he's with someone he cares about, whether a friend or a romantic partner, and can openly express himself around them, that's nice for him too.

Swim in the lake or ocean: Lakes, without question. He has some bad memories of being in the ocean, whether it’s about the time he was tossing and turning in glacial waters after his failed suicide attempt, or clawing his way out of a quinjet that crashed into the water while his alter started to take over. Bruce remembers all that, and it's not pleasant. The openness of oceans perturb him as well; lakes are usually far more intimate and amniotic because they’re often surrounded by forests, which allows him to feel safer and less exposed.

Their type: Someone who is, and is comfortable with showing, some semblance of dependence on him, which would placate his need to fill a provider role and not simply be a charity case; he's had enough of that between begging on the streets and asking Tony Stark for boarding. (This doesn't mean he's looking for someone who's a total pushover, cannot make their own decisions, or is emotionally needy, because those would make him run in the other direction, frankly.) Someone who can hold their own and stand up for their beliefs when necessary. Someone who can challenge him intellectually, though not necessarily in an academic sense; it really just depends on how much they can expand his own perspective by giving their own. Someone who really understands his needs and issues. And obviously, someone who isn't scared of his condition, because it's going to manifest a lot. It needs to; he doesn't really have a choice in the matter. Hulk is another story, but fortunately, he doesn't show up enough to really be an immediate concern, and Bruce and his partner can cross that bridge when they reach it. Physically, he's usually attracted to women who are slightly shorter than him; their hair can be anything from blonde to brown, and he prefers body types that are similar to his own; more on the slender side but not necessarily fragile.

Camping or indoors: He’d rather be indoors. He isn’t extremely fond of camping, if we’re using the most common definition of "pitching a tent, cooking with a fire made from sticks and tinder, and spending the night in the woods with the bears and the bugs". There are indeed occasions where he cannot stand to be indoors, whether because he’s feeling claustrophobic (a common symptom of abstaining a little too long from transformations), or he simply needs some time away from other people in the geographic sense, but in those cases, he’s more likely to go for a walk or hike, not set up an entire campsite and spend the rest of the night outdoors. For him, camping is meant for a survival-type situation rather than a recreational one. The closest thing to camping he'll do is living in a cabin with a wood stove and local water supply, which he’s done a few times over the years. He's even purchased a few cabins by the time his Persistence verse rolls around, so if one of the properties are compromised, he could always retreat to another one.

Tagged by: @mynameisanakin​! Tagging: @fallencomrade​ , @asgardianhammer​​ , @alongingwithin​ , and anyone else who wants to do this.

[szopenhauer]

if you have any pets, were they adopted from the humane society? my (now ex) friend had a stray give birth on her yard and she gave away all the puppies besides the one she kept, I chose the most scared and fat one lol

what kind of cheese is your favorite, or no cheese at all? Gouda

do you like home design, like picking out paint colors and furniture? love it <3

have you seen any of the old james bond movies? I hate James Bond movies, tried few and they were so lame

have you ever been in a hot air balloon? and if not, would you ever want to go in one? I’d like to try, maybe someday

do your parents buy you something on a daily basis? food 

is anyone else in the room with you right now? not rn

do you collect anything? shitload of stuff

do you have a pool in your back yard? no and don’t want to own one

do you watch youtube videos often? how often is often?

do you wear mascara? no, I don’t see the point of mascara tbh

do your parents fight?  sigh...

have you ever watched a movie that’s in a completely different language, so you had to read sub-titles? plenty

do people with yellow teeth disgust you? mine are yellow, it’s hard to keep them well having GERD :(

do you wear rings? at times

would you like to have a universal remote, like in the movie, click? hmm...

do you get any magazines in the mail? my mom does

what was the last picture you uploaded to your facebook? snapchat one with peach filter

what’s something that you do that you know hurts people close to you? live?...

what was the last board game that you played? either Scrabble or Hollywood

do you get bloated at all after you eat? I have cascade stomach, GERD and IBS so...

when is your birthday - in winter, spring, summer, or fall? winter :(

you must pick (no, “neither” bullshit please): dying by being run over by a train or being thrown from the top of the eiffel tower? tower

who’s the most overrated celebrity of them all (yes, i know they’re all overrated - but pick one)? Beyonce

what do you wear the most - sneakers, flats, heels, boots, or do you just go barefoot? slippers XD

what’s better - short sleeve tops or tanks? short sleeve

black, blue, or red ink? blue

do you sometimes splurge on expensive, sexy lingerie? my most expensive lingerie (which is sporty) costed less than 20 PLN

what’s your favorite food group? grains?

don’t you just love sushi? never tried and don’t wanna, gross

if you walked in on your husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/important significant other cheating on you - how would you react? I have several scenarios in my head 

how old were you when you lost your virginity? what even is virginity? you can have sex without losing it anyway

what annoys you the most about modern technology? hard to tell

do you prefer your chicks with long hair, short hair, or somewhere in between? I always went for girls with no longer than shoulder length yet not shorter than mine but now I date someone with very long hair

do you turn around when someone yells “hey!!!” even if you’re not sure if they’re referring to you or someone else? might

have you ever had that oh-so-embarrassing moment when you think some hot guy/girl is waving at you and/or flirting with you, so you wave back, only to realize they were directing it at the person behind you? they weren’t hot

who was the last person to come back into your life? my gf

is there anyone at your house outside of your family? in the garden

who was the last person you had a conversation with in person? my dad

what was the last piece of jewelry that you purchased? for myself or someone else?

how old are each of your siblings? 30+

how many different conversations do you have going right now? 0

do you think it’s weird to wear socks to sleep? it’s not, unless you sleep naked

have you ever gone swimming in a lake? yup

do you usually buy a new bathing suit every summer? I didn’t buy any swimsuit for ages, don’t own even one

what sucks most about the computer you end up using the most? what doesn’t suck about it, ugh!

what’s something you want to say to someone at the moment? I’m not sure

will you have sexual intercourse within the next two weeks? I won’t

has a boyfriend/​​girlfriend ever put alcohol/drugs before you? nah

do you like when people call you things like “baby”, “sweetie”, “hun”, etc? certain pet names are fine

will this friday be a good one? it’s not...

what’s wrong with you right now? everything?

have you been a happy, angry, or sad person lately? angry and sad

are you wasting your time on someone? hope not 

when’s the last time you cried yourself to sleep? days ago

have you ever been in a perfect relationship? relationships aren’t perfect because no one is perfect and that’s ok

when was the last time you completely broke down? last week

honestly, have you ever kissed anyone with a name that starts with j? nope

are you nice to the people you dislike? if I have to, I prefer to avoid them 

are you and the last person you kissed in a relationship? we are

your ex shows up randomly at your house, what do you say? no comment

would you rather date someone who is extremely protective or not protective at all? why do we have to choose extremes?

does sex mean love? to me

have you ever fallen asleep on someone? as a baby

have you ever slept in the same bed as your friend? more than once

plans for tomorrow? nothing have you ever ridden a skateboard? tried the main thing you can’t leave your house without? clothes, I won’t leave naked does anyone know your password besides you? just me what are you listening to? Melanie Martinez when was the last time you changed in front of someone? this month what’s the closest black thing to you? what I’m wearing, computer mouse and keyboard too, my cellphone next to me is also black what were you doing at 8:00 am? fallen asleep again are you happier single or in a relationship? we’ll see if you had to get a piercing, what do you get? normal earrings in lobes you can get a puppy or a new car. which do you choose? car, I have a dog and don’t want another at least soon have you ever had a best friend who was of the opposite sex? my father is my bestie did you get a full 8 hours of sleep last night? it seems like it have you ever been arrested? noooo

what is a difference between the last two people you hugged? one is a female and one is a male  where is the next place you will go? for a walk - forest probably why did you kiss the last person you kissed? we’re dating

do you say sexy a lot? I don’t recall using that word  when did you last throw up? years ago? do you like to have long hair or short hair? short what is your favorite place you have traveled? Ełk? where do you keep your money? that’s personal what was the weather like today? warm do you want to cut your hair? meh what is your favorite place to shop? thrift? are you over the age of 25? I am are you going to have a good night? hopefully when was the last time you did the dishes? I just washed the knife

do you and your friends trade/borrow clothes, shoes, jewelry, etc.? no way

is your birthday ever on a holiday? which one? it was always on free from school time (ferie zimowe) and my friends been basically always sick so they couldn’t come 

are you friends with your neighbors? I say “goodmorning” to part of them and that’s all

do you think its weird when people talk to their pets like they’re people? not that I have whole conversations with mine but I happen to speak to them when I want to

do you like uggs? they’re great for winter slippers :3

describe what you typically wear on a hot summer day: T-shirt, sweatpants/leggings/pajama pants, panties/undies, socks, slippers or slip on shoes

what about a cold winter day? underwear, tights (when it’s very cold - under leggings), leggings (unless I’m home then sweatpants/pajama pants), socks, boots (if not slippers of course), long sleeves shirt, tunic or oversized t-shirt, sweater, vest, jacket, scarf, hat, fingerless gloves

do you like coffee? ewww, disgusting

do you like flip flops? same

do you like rain? especially it’s sound at night

do you like horses? they’re fine

what is the deepest pool you have jumped into? where? I don’t jump into pools or lakes/rivers

does it annoy you when people open your mail or text messages? people don’t do that :o

what magazine do you buy the new issue of each month? Moje mieszkanie

what is your favorite farm animal? chicken

have you ever driven a golf cart? I’m against golf so...

if a genie gave you 1 wish, what would it be? health, for all, forever

what is something that you shouldn’t like but do anyways? ask God

is there something you love dearly but knew you’d be made fun of for it? I guess

who is someone you always want to be happy, even if you aren’t happy alongside them? those close to me

does it take you a long time to get over someone you liked? it’s complicated

have you ever gone a week or more not thinking of your boyfriend/girlfriend that much? does it sadden you, or make you happy you don’t completely depend on a person? I didn’t go whole week without thinking about them at least once wtf 

is there someone who ruined your life? do you forgive this person? most of those ppl didn’t apologise, most of them don’t know or care, most of them are not part of my life

have you ever questioned your sexuality? when was this? how did it end? I thought I must call myself bi because I dated a guy even tho I wasn’t really into them but I realized that even having sex doesn’t mean I’m not asexual - trying things make you more sure of smth instead of changing who you are       

have you ever felt suicidal? constantly

do you know anyone who has had a miscarriage? or someone who can’t have kids at all? both are more common than you think

what is something you wish would have ended differently (ex. friendship or relationship)? what if I wanted some things to never end? does that count?

type the alphabet and stop at the letter of the last person you kissed: ABCDEFGHIJKLM eventually ABCDEFG (short version of the first name) eventually ABCD (surname) how was your day overall? it’s going so fast because I can’t sit down for long, parents call me every single minute to help them have you kissed someone more than 20 times? I didn’t count but who knows

if you married the last person you texted, what would your last name be? won’t tell you :P how often do you hold back what you want to say? sigh, it’s complicated it’s 2 in the morning and you get a text message, who is it most likely? my gf ever cried while you were on the phone with someone? not many times but still how do you know the last male you texted? he’s my parent do you think the last person you kissed cares for you? they say and try to show that they do  do you laugh a lot? as for such broken person it’s A LOT  are you good at giving directions? I’m pretty bad at that what does your mom call you? by one of the versions of my name duh are you afraid of roller coasters? I’m afraid I’d puke  where do you sing the most, in the car, the shower or everywhere? in front of the computer and when I’m home alone which happens very rarely are you wearing any make up right now? I don’t even own any makeup are you nice to everyone? pfft is it hard for you to be happy for someone else? oh well...

do you like bread crust or do you prefer it cut off? depends, usually eat it tho

what is the worst/hardest drug you’ve been offered, but declined to partake in? nothing hard 

do you think you could ever have an abortion if you unexpectedly turned up pregnant? I don’t want to think about it

is there a color shirt you’d never wear? tie dye or some tiny pattern that makes my head spin 

is there a situation where you caved into peer pressure and regretted it? what I don’t regret?...

would you ever bleach your hair platinum blonde? for a movie role

do you like the band mgmt?  I know couple of songs by them

do you like vanilla candles? I’m not into candles 

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

the hades!harry vibes are strong in this photoshoot

[inspired by some ideas @harrysroleindunkirk came up with ;’)]

///

Hades could be such a narcissist at times and Persephone knows this.

She knows it very well because through all of the millennia she had spent married to him, she had seen the trait manifest across all different types of situations.

His slight narcissism was evident in the way Harry carried himself. How he went about the halls of the palace and the corridors of Olympus with his broad shoulders back, his chest puffed forward, and his expression set in a cool, stoney façade of superior indifference. It was present in the way he sat on his golden throne with his back perfectly straight and his thighs parted, not too wide but just enough to establish an aura of dominance in the humongous judging room.

It was evident in the smug, self-indulgent energy he gave off whenever servants, gods, and other mythological creatures praised him for anything he did. Whether it was higher beings complimenting his input during a council meeting up on Olympus, or members of his board expressing their awe at how smoothly he ran the Underworld, and even when a random nymph blushed bright green while serving him his wine. It all tickled him pink, feeding his ginormous godly ego to the brink.

And most of all (in her life, at least), it was ever-so prominent behind the thick black oak doors of their bedroom. It was in how Hades would fuck her up against the wall with her feet dangling off the ground, thighs clasped around his waist as he would grip her throat and jaw roughly, gritting his teeth while looking down upon her from over his cheeks, neon green electric currents webbing across the juniper shade of his irises. He would pound into her so hard the paintings would rattle on the obsidian walls, her hands clawing at his sweaty, flexing back as she released broken whines and pleas, shaking in his strong arms.

”Tell me how much you fucking love it. Want my dirty little thing to scream how bad she wants my cock.”

Harry’s narcissism wasn’t overwhelming by any means, but rather subtle and almost graceful, lurking beneath his natural confidence and waiting for the right moment to surface.

And it reveals itself now, as Y/N sits back on her heels amongst the dew-covered grass of her garden, looking small amidst the colorful arrays of daffodils, roses, and peonies. She’s grumbling to herself as she picks and prods at the fancy mechanism Harry had brought back from his trip overland, cursing humans for making everything more complex than it has to be.

“Oh, for Zeus’ sake, princess. Give it here.” Harry strides over from where he was leaning against a giant tree with leaves the color of red wine, taking the demented object from her grasp gently, rolling his eyes in a jesting manner. “Your age is starting to show. Can’t even work a camera.”

“Shut up.” Y/N snaps, a grouchy pout settling itself on her tinted lips as she crosses her arms over her chest grumpily, slumping down onto the ground fully, her bottom fitting in the space between her calves. “It’s not my fault! They’ve added so many more buttons since the last time I handled one.”

Persephone watches with a type of begrudging wonder as Harry turns a few knobs and slides his thumb over a small disk that clicks with every rotation. He looks through the tiny glass square at the top of the camera, focusing the lense on her and turning it slowly with professional ease.

“There we go.” He sighs giddily, stepping forward and extending the shiny black Canon toward his awaiting wife. His voice comes out warningly, but playfully so. “Now don’t go messing with the settings or I’ll have to do it all over again.”

“Now don’t go messing with the settings or I’ll have to do it all over again.” Y/N mocks in an irritated, high-pitched tone, yanking the equipment piece from his grasp and starring down at the minute screen. “I’ll do what I bloody please.”

Hades bends down so that they are level, setting his forearms on his knees and tilting his head slightly to the side teasingly. A single eyebrow kinks upwards, getting lose beneath a few curls that hang over his forehead (he’s been letting his hair grow out recently). “S’that so?”

“Yup. I’m gonna chuck this thing into the River Styx.”

Harry reaches a hand forward, cupping her jaw in his fingers and swiping his thumb over the faint dimple that curves at the center of her chin. “I love it when you’re a helpless little menace. Means you need me that much more.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Persephone scoffs, shoving his hand away by his wrist and glaring at him as he giggles boyishly.

“You know I love you, pet. It’s all in good fun.”

It takes a couple of minutes, but eventually Y/N manages to get a feel for how the camera works, fiddling with it as Harry mulls over what poses he should do for the impromptu photoshoot he’d decided on out of nowhere.

He had been up in the mortal world earlier that day, strolling through a shopping mall casually while thinking over his layout for the upcoming Halloween party up on Olympus. He was in charge of planning this year and it’d be utterly embarrassing if the god of the Dead delivered anything less than a bone-chilling extravaganza.

Hades had been entertaining the idea of a blood fountain instead of a chocolate fountain (he knows Zeus would never go for it, but he still wanted to suggest it) when he had stopped dead in his tracks in front of a store he had never seen before.

It was new, obvious in how shiny and pristine the interior looked through the spotless tall glass windows. The framework on the gilded doors was imprinted with images of exotic animals— lions, tigers, dragons— and glittered under the sunlight that streamed in from the glass dome that was at the center of the shopping mall.

Even more breathtaking than the exterior was the interior. Specifically, the clothing.

Racks upon racks of suits, shirts, pants, and accessories lined the store, the fabrics shimmering, looking expensive and custom-made and suited for a king, which he happened to be.

Hades felt light-headed for a second as his eyes trailed across a certain tuxedo jacket with a midnight blue background and silver flowers embroidered into the silk, the thread twinkling as if diamonds had been mixed into the material. Across the torso of the item, golden frills draped the sharp shoulders of the article, overlapped by an exaggerated black velvet collar that that folded grandly. On either sides of the oversized collar are two gilded metal lion head pins, studded with an array of jewels of all different colors— red, green, blue, yellow, and even lilac.

The tuxedo hugged a cloth manikin, which sported a starch white button-up beneath with a giant gemmed cross in the center. The whole look tied together beautifully and Harry then noticed that there was literal drool gathering along the inside of his bottom lip.

He’d wanted that suit and he wanted it now.

Hades only took a second to glance up at the giant neon Times New Roman letters that hovered above the entrance to the store, making a note of the name so he could go online and fawn over more clothes later.

GUCCI.

Walking in, Harry didn’t look like much. Just a young man in loose beige trousers, a pair of black boots, and a plain white t-shirt with the collar and sleeves bordered by dark blue accents. He quite liked the minimalist approach when he wondered the mortal world; he liked feeling like one of them.

But apparently, the woman at the register wasn’t too fond of his look, giving him a distasteful once-over and assuming that he was in a store-front that was heavily out of his league. The cheapest thing on stock cost no less than two grand and, frankly, the most expensive item the lean boy was wearing looked to cost not even a twelfth of that. She didn’t want some wannabe hipster wasting her time.

Little did she know Harry was anything but.

Hades had made a beeline for the outfit that had captured his heart, brushing his fingers along the fabric softly with care, almost of if he were afraid to disturb it. His array of rings gleamed under the buttery lights of the chandelier in the store, reflecting how he felt inside as the silk tickled the pads of his digits.

“Gods, it’s beautiful.” He had mumbled under his breath, thumb kissing the studded surface of one of the bejeweled tiger heads.

“It sure is.” The cashier had piped up with a faux sugary tone coating her voice, coming up behind him and trying to refrain from telling him to leave. “It’s expensive, as well.”

Harry had not even cast her a mere glance, continuing to admire the work of art before him. When he spoke up, his voice was distant, wistful, and somehow unconcerned at the reality check the lady was trying to implement. “How much?”

“Thirty-five thousand.”

There was a pause in the perfumed air and the employee almost smirked.

“I’ll take it.”

The worker then had blinked once, shocked into a stupefied silence. So shocked, in fact, that she can only comprehend this man’s words as some type of joke or prank. She had then reiterated.

“Thirty-five thousand up front, sir.”

Harry had then finally turned towards her to exchange stares for the first time, his thick brows pinched into an expression of unamused annoyance. “Yes, and I said I’ll take it. Is it not your job to do as the customer requests?”

“Yes, but—“

“Then ring me up, please and thank you.” He states with flat finality, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. “And preferably now. I have somewhere to be.”

Harry can truly say that his favorite thing in the world— mortal, under, and godly— is the look on a person’s face when they realize Harry’s true stature. Not so much that he was a celestial being, but that he has a bank account that suggests he’s anything but your typical human.

Being the god of Death comes with its perks, including the title as god of riches and jewels since most of the rare gems lay beneath the ground, in Harry’s territory. Exchanging them for mortal money was not an issue at all.

Hades can’t help but scoff as the lady’s eyes had widened when his purchase went through, looking down at his debit card as if it had grown a hydra head. Her voice had come out tight and embarrassed. “Would you like your receipt?”

Harry had taken the hanger from her grasp, pushing his messy hair out of his eyes and cocking his head to the side mockingly. “I’m fine, thank you. Won’t be needing it.”

And that had landed him where he is now, strolling back and forth casually amongst Persephone’s most unique beds of floral and fauna, clad in his new outfit. It had fit him perfectly, as most things tended to do. It hugs his figure in all the right places, accentuating his strong shoulders and enthralling back muscles, tapering in at his waist and resting against his thick chest like it was tailored specifically to him.

As Y/N positions herself accordingly with the camera he had bought right after making the Gucci purchase, Harry decides that this suit will go down on his list of things that he loves to reside in. It’s a pretty small list: His palace, his crown, this look, and his wife.

Yeah, he definitely loves being inside all of those, some more than others. And especially all at the same time…but that’ll come after the photoshoot, if he has anything to do with it.

“Are you ready, darling?” Harry speaks up from his spot before a large tree with maroon leaves that sparkle like the stars.

“Yeah, get the goats ready!”

“Swell.” Harry sing-songs, bringing his diamond and gold ring-clad fingers to his lips and tucking his middle and thumb inside his mouth, releasing three quick spurts of whistles.

It takes a few moments, but then there is a faint shimmering in the air before him and a bright flash, from which three baby goats emerge, clobbering after one another, midway through a game of what appears to be tag.

“There you are, you little buggers.” Harry scoops up one of the magical goats— a silver one that shimmers exactly how the thread in his jacket does— settling it into the crook of his elbow and pressing a gentle kiss between its velvety ears. “Pan would kill me if I lost you guys. Threatened a reed pipe up my ass.”

The pearly goat looks up at him innocently with its big golden irises, releasing a curious bleat.

Harry doesn’t speak goat (it’s more of a nature god trait) so he just assumes the animal is praising him for his clothing taste and thanks it with a few scratches behind its tiny head.

Hades trails towards a certain rock formation that he thinks looks sturdy enough to sit on, the other two goats trailing behind him happily, hooves thudding giddily against the aromatic grass and stirring up the diamond sand beneath.

He sits down in his designated spot, scooting backwards until he’s fully balanced on the boulder, propping up one of his boots on a dip in the rock. “Perfect. Now I’ll just…”

Harry carefully takes one of the other baby goats into his big hand— a chocolate brown male whose horns are just beginning to bud, the keratin glinting with a certain iridescence that suggests the little guy isn’t just any ordinary farm animal.

He places the boy next to his lap, where the creature sniffs at his thigh hesitantly before deciding it is a worthy pillow. The goat folds its legs beneath its body, laying down nonchalantly and snuggling its head against Harry’s upper leg.

“You like the casual look, don’t you?” Harry coos, patting it lovingly, to which the lamb responds with a soft, satisfied bleat.

“Alright, two accounted for. Now, where’s your other sister…” Hades looks around, a small pinprick of panic knotting his stomach as he can’t seem to spot the last goat anywhere.

“Y/N, have you seen—“ Before he can finish his question, he gets his answer.

Persephone is sitting cross-legged on the ground a few feet away, the camera discarded carelessly beside her, replaced by the last animal that his friend had lent him. His wife is carrying the goat in her arms like a child, rocking it ever-so slightly as she kisses between its lilac-tinted eyes, giggling every time the goat blinks its long lashes.

Y/N rubs her fingers through the buck’s golden fur, tracing the spots of sparkly grey that are sprinkled in certain places. “Aren’t you just the prettiest girl? Yes, you are! And you smell so nice, too. Y’like lavender, huh? Me too.”

Harry can practically see the goat preening in Persephone’s arms, obvious from how she actively seeks out his wife’s palm and cradles her head into it, licking at her fingers.

“Babe!” He hates to interrupt, but they really should get to shooting. “Pan said we have to have them back by 8! We gotta hurry.”

“Right, right, sorry!” Y/N sets the baby animal down on the ground, pointing towards her husband and encouraging her to go over with its siblings.

When Hades finally has all of the lambs situated accordingly (he’d placed the last one beside his other thigh), Persephone begins flashing the photos.

He hasn’t modeled in a while— not since his last self-portrait, which was around sixty years or so ago when he was painted by his good friend, Pablo Picasso. That man really knew his angles. He visits him in Elysium every once in a while.

Harry tries to imitate what he’s seen in fashion shows on television and in episodes of America’s Next Top Model (those girls were fucking fierce, for Zeus’ sake), pouting his lips slightly and looking at different points in space to flex his best sides. He tilts his gold laurel crown back a bit, pushing his curls out of his face to get a cleaner picture, staring directly at the camera with his lips parted in a smize and it amuses him to no end when he sees the flowers next to Y/N’s feet grow a little bigger.

At one point, the goat in his arms reaches up and bops its nose against his chin in a kiss, the cold tip of its snout causing Harry’s face to scrunch up as a boyish giggle escapes the corners of his lips. “S’cold, stop it!”

Y/N’s heart nearly melts right out of her, then and there, as she clicks the scene as many times as the camera will allow.

The photos come out pretty decent and she’s surprised that there were so few she butchered (there was an incident where the camera wasn’t flashing and she turned it around to see if the lense was open and ended up getting a high definition image of her nostrils instead).

After all is said and done, Harry opens a portal into Olympus, herding the goats through by patting there behinds gently. “I’ll see you guys another time! Tell Pan thank you! And Acacia, please stop gnawing on your brother’s horns. Thank you.”

Hades swings an arm around Persephone, looking over her shoulder as she clicks through the photos, feeling his ego inflate a bit.

“I look good, don’t I?”

She doesn’t catch his smug tone immediately, too focused on tampering with the lighting on one of the pictures. “Yeah, you look great, honey.”

“Mm,” he presses his lips to her temple, puckering soft kisses along her skin and up the line of her eyebrow, “did this suit justice. Best thirty-five grand I’ve ever spent.”

Y/N pauses her actions, craning her neck to the side to look at him, her eyebrows shooting up in mild surprise. ”Thirty-five grand?”

Harry pouts childishly at her scolding tone. “Am I not allowed to splurge on myself every once in a while?”

“Of course you can. But that’s enough to buy a fucking car, Harry. And you spent it on a single tux?”

Hades looks down at the metal tips of his burgundy leather boots, eyelashes fluttering in an embarrassed manner. “I really wanted it, though!”

Persephone sighs, turning fully to press a peck to his plumped lips. “It’s alright, baby. As long as you’re happy, then.”

The edges of Harry’s lips tilt up into a sheepish grin. “I’m happy, yeah. Feel like a right king.”

“Good, cause you are.” She reaches up and drags the pad of her index finger down the curved bridge of his nose and along his jaw, using the single digit to guide his head upwards, where she locks their lips in a few quick, wet kisses. “My handsome lord.”

Harry’s tongue wonders out to lick at the corner of his mouth slyly, feeling the inside of his chest grow warm. “Love it when you call me your lord.”

“Yeah?” Persephone blinks up at him with hooded eyes, her own pretty lips tilting up into a suggestive grin. “Why’s that?”

Harry’s hands coast up here hips, fisting lightly at her dress as his voice drops an octave. “It’s so fuckin’ hot.”

“Fitting, since that’s exactly what you are.” Y/N murmurs, draping her arms over his hard shoulders, hands pressed across the expanse of his upper back, one holding the camera tightly while the other runs over the silky material of the suit coat.

And now is one of those moments Y/N had mentioned before, where she can see Harry’s narcissism starting to flare up.

It’s evident in the way he’s suckling his bottom lip, batting his eyelashes in a sultry, rhythmic pace that suggests lascivious intentions. In how his neck veins are flexing alluringly in an attempt to seduce. In how he tilts his head to the side a bit to draw his jaw taunt. In how a watery, verdurous glint washes across the whites of his eyes for a millisecond.

Y/N slides one hand up the back of his neck into the curls along the nape, tangling them between her fingers and tugging at them in a quick, rough manner that jets his chin upwards and pulls his throat tight over his Adam’s apple.

Harry releases a quiet hum at the harsh movement, basking in the way his scalp tingles and in the way the tendons underneath his jaw stretch. His mouth parts in a small, open-mouthed simper, dimples peeking through his cheeks.

“What was tha’ for?” He swallows thickly, not being able to hide it as his Adam’s Apple bobs heavily.

“Nothing, really. Just know you like it.” Y/N laps fully at the center of his juglar, blowing over it lightly. ”My lord.”

”Fucking hell.” Hades growls, ripping himself from her grasp and grabbing her hand almost savagely, yanking her towards the exit of the garden that heads directly to the palace.

Y/N scrambles along, barely being able to keep up with his long strides. She already knows the answer, but she asks anyways just to toy with her husband.

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t play fucking dumb with me, pet.” Harry throws a look over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth curling into a seductive sneer. “You know damn well where we’re going and what I’m gonna do to you.”

Y/N flutters her eyelashes at him innocently, her lips pouty. “What are we gonna do?”

“We’re gonna do another photoshoot. A nude edition.”

[newstfionline]

Inside the growing teen migrant camp

By Garance Burke and Martha Mendoza, AP, Nov. 27, 2018

TORNILLO, Texas (AP)--The Trump administration announced in June it would open a temporary shelter for up to 360 migrant children in this isolated corner of the Texas desert. Less than six months later, the facility has expanded into a detention camp holding thousands of teenagers--and it shows every sign of becoming more permanent.

By Tuesday, 2,324 largely Central American boys and girls between the ages of 13 and 17 were sleeping inside the highly guarded facility in rows of bunk beds in canvas tents, some of which once housed first responders to Hurricane Harvey. More than 1,300 teens have arrived since the end of October alone.

Rising from the cotton fields and dusty roads not far from the dark fence marking the border between the U.S. and Mexico, the camp has rows of beige tents and golf carts that ferry staffers carrying walkie-talkies. Teens with identical haircuts and wearing government-issued shirts and pants can be seen walking single file from tent to tent, flanked by staff at the front and back.

More people are detained in Tornillo’s tent city than in all but one of the nation’s 204 federal prisons, yet construction continues.

A temporary, emergency detention camp that opened in the Texas desert in June for an overflow of migrant children shows no signs of closing. There are now more than 2,300 teens being held inside the tent city, some have been there for months. (Nov. 27)

The camp’s population may grow even more if migrants in the caravans castigated by President Donald Trump enter the U.S. Federal officials have said they may fly teens from the caravans who arrive in San Diego directly to El Paso, then bus them to Tornillo, according to a nonprofit social service provider who spoke on the condition of anonymity because he was not allowed to publicly discuss the matter.

An Associated Press investigation has found that the camp’s rapid growth has created serious problems, including:

-- None of the 2,100 staff are going through rigorous FBI fingerprint background checks, according to a government watchdog memo obtained exclusively by the AP. “Instead, Tornillo is using checks conducted by a private contractor that has access to less comprehensive data, thereby heightening the risk that an individual with a criminal history could have direct access to children,” the memo says.

-- Costs appear to be soaring more than 50 percent higher than the government has disclosed. What began as an emergency, 30-day shelter has transformed into a vast tent city that could cost taxpayers more than $430 million.

-- The government is allowing the nonprofit running the facility to sidestep mental health care requirements. Under federal policy, migrant youth shelters generally must have one mental health clinician for every 12 kids, but shelter officials have indicated that Tornillo can staff just one clinician for every 100 children, according to two immigration rights advocates who spoke with the AP.

-- Federal plans to close Tornillo by New Years’ Eve will be nearly impossible to meet. There aren’t 2,300 extra beds in other facilities, and a contract obtained by AP shows the project could continue into 2020. Planned closures have already been extended three times since this summer.

The teens at Tornillo were not separated from their families at the border this summer, but they’re held there because federal immigration policies have resulted in the detention of a record 14,000 migrant children, filling shelter beds around the country to capacity. Almost all came on their own from Central America hoping to join family members in the United States.

Some children have been detained there since the tent camp opened in June. As the population inside the tall wire fences swells, and as some children stay there longer, the young detainees’ anguish has deepened.

“The few times they let me call my mom I would tell her that one day I would be free, but really I felt like I would be there for the rest of my life,” a 17-year-old from Honduras who was held at Tornillo earlier this year told AP. “I feel so bad for the kids who are still there. What if they have to spend Christmas there? They need a hug, and nobody is allowed to hug there.”

After his family passed extensive background checks, the teen was recently released to them, but said he still has nightmares he’s back inside. He spoke on condition of anonymity for fear of reprisal from immigration authorities.

Confining and caring for so many children is a challenge. By day, minders walk the teen detainees to their meals, showers and recreation on the arid plot of land guarded by multiple levels of security. At night the area around the camp, that’s grown from a few dozen to more than 150 tents, is secured and lit up by flood lights.

The nonprofit social service agency contracted to run Tornillo says it is proud of its work. It says it is operating the facility with the same precision and care used for shelters put up after natural disasters.

“We don’t have anything to hide. This is an exceptionally run operation,” said Krista Piferrer, a spokeswoman for BCFS Health and Human Services, a faith-based organization that runs Tornillo. “This isn’t our first rodeo.”

She said they have no guidance from the Trump administration regarding what will happen after Dec. 31.

A spokesman for the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, Mark Weber, said no decisions have been made about whether Tornillo will close by year’s end as scheduled.

More than 50 years of research show institutionalizing young people is traumatizing, with harmful impacts on their psyche and life trajectories, prompting policymakers to seek alternatives to locking up children, said Naomi Smoot, executive director of the nonprofit Coalition for Juvenile Justice.

“Hearing that more than 2,000 kids are in any kind of detention facility is alarming to me,” she said. “That’s not where kids should be around the holidays, in particular when they haven’t broken the law.”

Most of the children locked inside Tornillo are never charged with a crime; crossing illegally into the U.S. is a civil offense. By law, migrant children traveling alone into the U.S. must be sent to a government shelter where they stay until they can be united with relatives or other sponsors while awaiting immigration court hearings. Migrant children’s time in government custody has grown longer this year, in part due to the Trump administration’s new requirements for deep background checks on sponsors who agree to take in young immigrants.

Tornillo currently has 3,800 beds for the teens, with 1,400 of those on reserve.

Nonprofit Hope Border Institute advocacy director Camilo Perez-Bustillo, who served as a Spanish-language interpreter at the camp earlier this month, said most of the two dozen children he met showed signs of depression and anxiety over when, or whether, they would be released. About two-thirds are boys, and half of the teens are Guatemalan. There are no on-site interpreters for teens of indigenous origin who speak Spanish as a second language.

“They are all counting the days they are inside the way prisoners do,” Perez-Bustillo said. “Many of the kids have the sense of being suspended, and anxiousness about how much longer they will be held there.”

For each night each child spends at Tornillo, taxpayers spend up to $1,200 to pay care workers, cooks, cleaners, teachers and emergency services workers, according to information staff at two congressional offices said they were provided on a recent visit. That’s well above the $775 officials have publicly disclosed, and close to five times more than a typical youth migrant shelter. The most expensive hotel room in El Paso is about $200 a night.

BCFS did not dispute the cost, but said on average, actual costs are closer to $750 a day, which would bring current operations to more than $12 million a week.

The costs at Tornillo are so high because everything--water, sewage, food, staff and detainees--must be trucked in and out of the remote site. Every few hours, two teams fill up 2,000-gallon tanks of water from a hydrant outside the facility, then drive them back through the fences. Each day, 35,000 gallons of diesel are trucked in as well, to run massive generators that power air conditioners in blazing hot summers and heaters on frigid winter nights.

Scant details about how those funds are spent motivated New York-based software developer Josh Rubin to set up residence in an RV just outside the gates, where he keeps vigil on the vehicles going in and out. In recent weeks, he said, he has spotted new trends: construction trucks moving equipment in to build another tent, a vehicle carrying heaters, more buses with tinted windows taking children to immigration court.

Staffers are transported to the camp from motels near the El Paso airport, where the tour buses take pains to park on side roads, far from view. On a recent evening outside the Hawthorn Suites hotel, Tornillo workers filed off to bed in the darkness, many talking of feeling sick or exhausted.

Twice a day, the desolate stretch of highway outside Tornillo comes alive as more than a dozen tour buses pull up. Bells sound, lights flash. Workers walk in two by two, wearing khaki pants, neon jackets and backpacks, some wrapped in scarves against the cool desert air.

Dalila Reynoso-Gonzalez, a program director for the Methodist immigration advocacy group Justice for our Neighbors of East Texas, said she was moved to demonstrate at Tornillo after helping an immigrant father reunite with his son held there. The boy told her stories of a stark and lonely place and spoke of isolation, fear, disorientation.

“It’s really heavy on my heart,” said Reynoso-Gonzalez. “How did we get to this place, why do we have so many children out there?”

[incorrect-astro]

Can you do 5 v. with your fave ship? I just really need to see someone write this it's amazing

YOU ASK FOR MY FAVORITE SHIP SO I GIVE YOU BINU this is got hella fucking long bc tbh i Loved this but this is 1,000+ words of pure bullshittery honestly but yes i hope u like it!!!!!

playlist i listened to while writing this ;)

5; v: “You live across from me in our apartments and we smile when we see each other but we don’t really know each other and oh you’re the stripper at my friend’s stag do/hen night fuck this is really uncomfortable”

he was cute. his eyes were sharp but turned soft when he aimed his gentle smile towards him

he was barely shorter than Dongmin, but seemed far more muscular than he had ever dreamed of being

he’s like a big puppy!!!

Dongmin is so WHIPPED for this boy and he doesn’t even know his name

cough cough fast forward to when they ran into each other while getting their mail and Dongmin very obviously sneakily peeks over at Cute Smile Neighbor’s mail to see his name

Moon Bin

THAT’S SO CUTE huh what a nice name

anyway fast forward AGAIN to Myungjun inviting him to his bachelor party

“Dongmin please come you’re so violently single we can find ur gay ass a hot stripper bf”

so anyway Dongmin ended going even though he Didn’t Want To

he didn’t want to bc strip clubs make him Uncomfortable of course not bc Cute Smile Neighbor Bin and Dongmin as well, of course (aka he found out and lowkey (Highkey) stalks him to their building’s gym every evening aha WHAT) works out every evening during the time of the party what of course not

so the day of the party exactly an hour before he’s supposed to get to the club Dongmin gets all dressed up

aka These Jeans and This Shirt And Jacket and This Hair

damn @ himself he looks Great

fast forward he’s at the strip club now and he meets up with Myungjun who promptly shows him his ring for the 992852635th time

“Dongmin look look at the ring Jinwoo gave me isn’t it so beautiful!!”

“yes Myungjun it’s just as beautiful as every other time you’ve shown me”

so okay it’s been like half an hour since Dongmin got to the club and now everyone’s here !! Dongmin leaves FOR LIKE A MINUTE to go to the bathroom and as he’s walking back-

“hey Dongmin we got your single ass a stripper!!”

N O Myungjun fuck of-

WA I T

that’s the dude the GUY

???

what is his cute smile neighbor doing here??

?????

why is he coming over??

oh

o fuck

WEEWOOWEEWOO

HE’S A FUCKING STRIPPER

HIS HOT CUTE SMILE NEIGHBOR IS A STRIPPER

AT THIS CLUB?

he’s going to die

he’s actually going to die?? oh my god

cute neighbor hasn’t noticed it’s him yet

“Dongmin, this is MB! MB this is Dongmin :))))))”

Myungjun what the fuck PLEASE STOP TALKING

o well MB (?? y’all i couldn’t think of another stage name for moon boy so??) looks fuckin stunned now he recognizes him now

“oh, hi!” CUTE SMILE

“um”

@ himself pls say SOMETHING more than um

“yes hello”

very fucking clever Dongmin u useless gay

well that was a short lived interaction bc MB ??? Bin???? is grabbing his hand now and pulling him towards one of the curtained off half-circle couches

HELP HIM

he closes the curtain and

OH MY GOD

HE’S TAKING OFF HIS SHIRT

o shit he’s F I T

he’s stroking Dongmin’s thigh oh my god

Myungjun how much fucking money did this cost

AKJHFKJSG

he is SITTING ON TOP OF HIM

Dongmin thinks he’s dying

he can’t feel his heartbeat but also he knows he still has blood left so? what is This

R18 R18 NO

well Myungjun sorry @ ur wallet but this Cannot Go On

“hi um, i’m sorry i can’t.. do… this”

Bin ?? MB??? stops and is just kinda Sitting on Dongmin’s legs now ??

why isn’t he??? saying anything????

Dongmin no

DO NOT OPEN UR MOUTH

DON’T START TALKING

DON’T ANXIOUSLY MUMBLE A N Y T H I N G YOU PRICK

Dongmin, anxiously mumbling,

“i’m really sorry it’s just..  you’re really cute and i actually kind of know you i guess?? we don’t really talk but i know you recognize me and i just-i don’t feel like it’s right if we skip over like 8 steps and go straight into this”

Dongmin exactly 5 seconds later, blushing violently,

“ohmygodpleaseignoreallofthat”

Bin, the stripper. also blushing violently because !!!!!! ANGEL NEIGHBOR (who’s apparently named Dongmin ?? thanks @ angel neighbor’s friend) THINKS HE’S CUTE!!!!!!!!!

Bin, screaming internally calmly,

“you think i’m cute?”

OF COURSE I DO HAVE YOU SEEN YOURSELF IN A FUCKING MIRROR????????

“very cute”

Bin internally: FUCK

Bin externally,

“you’re so beautiful”

OHMYOGD

“i-wha-“

Dongmin pull urself together goddamn

“do you really?”

Bin, almost in tears at how CUTE Angel Smile Neighbor Dongmin looks while he’s looking up through his eyelashes at Bin with this adorable confused look,

“how could i not? you’re like an angel”

BIN OH MY GOD

Dongmin?? can’t fucking breathe

coughs so Bin is Still sitting on Dongmin’s lap btw so Dongmin WITH SOME RANDOM SWEEP OF CONFIDENCE

leans up and kisses Bin ???

Bin kisses back Obviously

…

…

y’all

STOP MAKING OUT DAMN!!!! DON’T U BOTH NEED TO BREATHE ????

28273 years like, a minute and a half later they pull away panting because they’re Disgusting

Bin: “so… should we like.. go on a date?? or something???”

Dongmin: YES OF COURSE “oh sure sounds nice”

these shits acting like they didn’t just make out for 1.5 minutes 14 years

so anyway idk how to end this but because Myungjun Paid for Bin’s time but neither of them really want to like…. do the Thing they end up just talking for the extra half an hour they have and it’s really nice because they actually have !!!!! a lot in common!!

Dongmin, the second he leaves Bin:

WHAT A FUCKING TIME TO BE ALIVE FOLKS

bonus ;))))) -

they go on a few dates and Bin asks Dongmin to be his bf and Dongmin is like !!!!! yes of course!!!! and they kiss it’s Pure

then like a year later Dongmin asks Bin to move in with him and Of Course Bin accepts and it takes like 2 days to move bin’s stuff across the fucking hall bc he has So Fucking Much Stuff

and obviously they share a bed

Bin, hanging his bi pride flag next to Dongmin’s pan pride flag: “hey babe which way do these look Most aesthetically pleasing together”

and Then okay y’all THEN it’s like 3 years since they first started dating

Bin asks Dongmin out on a date ad Dongmin gets all excited bc they’ve both been really busy that they haven’t been able to have a Proper Fancy Dinner Date in like 3 weeks so he gets all dressed up

in This

and so even though they live together they meet at the restaurant ???

but ye anyway Bin shows up in This

the best couples wear couple suits

and they hug and kiss a lil coughs and go to the hostess and Bin gives his name nd she sees their reservation n take them to their table

they have some Fancy Wine bc they are Fancy Boys

and it’s while Dongmin is in the MIDDLE of taking a bite of his chocolate cake that Bin stands up

Dongmin, mouth full of cake: ????????

Bin: gets down on one knee

Dongmin, low-key choking on cake: !!??!?!???!??!?!????!!!!!!!

Bin: pulls a ring box out of his pocket

Dongmin: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bin, already tearing up :”””) : “we met in a really unconventional way, and a slot of people said we weren’t going to make it a month, even less so 3 years, and for that i want to thank you for putting up with me for this. long. you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and i am so so happy i finally asked you out, and that you asked me to move in with you, and that we are here, now, together and happy and in love.. you are truly the most beautiful person i have ever met, both inside and out, so… Lee Dongmin, my angel, my love, will you marry me?”

Dongmin, crying loudly: ohmygod of course Bin, of course i’ll marry you”

Bin carefully slips the ring onto dongmin’s finger, both pairs of hands shaking as Dongmin pulls Bin up and hugs him hard enough for Bin to lose his ability to breathe

everyone else in the restaurant: CHEERING ND CLAPPING FOR THE HAPPY SOAP COUPLE!!!!!

send me more writing requests kiddos

[scumbagbaker]

Amen || Irish AU

He didn’t believe in God. Not that he ever had, but he understood the urge to, during recovery. It was tempting, the idea of some higher power that saw everything, that held them accountable, that knew the truth no matter what they proclaimed at the start of meetings. Benjy kept his head bowed and his eyes open during the prayer, just enough to look like he was going along with it all, nothing more, nothing less.

The same concept wasn’t applied to recovery itself. He’d taken to the 12 steps like a duck to water. No, that wasn’t quite right. He’d taken to the 12 steps like an animal that had spent its entire life in a zoo, who finally got to see real grass without bars for the first time. Sobriety had given him a freedom he didn’t know was possible. the idea of that cage surrounding him again was enough motivation to stay sober, with or without any kind of God.

Benjy feels his three year sober chip in his wallet as he sits on the train, his stomach souring with dread as the scenery gets more and more familiar. Three years sober, as of 29 days ago. Two and a half years single, since Ollie liked vodka more than him, and now, despite his success as a sober person, Benjy had come to the step he’d been dreading.

Amends.

Benjy stares at the piece of paper in his hands, tracing over the unfamiliar address with his thumb. He lets his mind wander, lets his thoughts creep into the darkness that’s always there on the edge of his consciousness-what would their address be if he had stayed? Would he had been able to give them a house in Foxrock? He doubts it. Benjy thinks of the sometimes pitifully thin envelopes he’d sent, without fail, every single one of those hundreds of weeks since he’d left. He could’ve gotten them something, at least, maybe, if he’d been able to keep it together. If he could’ve been a fraction of what they had deserved.

He’d told his sponsor, a grizzled old Scot named Al, nearly everything. How’d he’d slipped out early in the morning, how they’d both been asleep in the bed next to him. How she’d woken up, just a little, and that Benjy had told her he’d been right back.

It wasn’t the first time he’d lied to Cleona, not by a long shot, but Benjy couldn’t think of a lie that hurt more.

And now, 5 years, 8 months and 13 days later, he was finally turning his lie into the truth.

He’d called the bar three times, hanging up out of fear the first two. When the “Hello?” was softer than the two before it, Benjy faced his fear and spoke.

“Killian?”

Benjy hears his former best friend suck in a quick breath.

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve.”

“I know.”

“What do you want?”

Benjy fights the urge to hang up again.

“I’m-in the program. I need to-I have to tell her I’m sorry, Kili. In person. And Shay too. Don’t you think they deserve that?”

Benjy, though he didn’t and still doesn’t believe in God, found himself praying in the silent crackle of the phone line.

“She moved on, you know.”

He hadn’t known. Not fully. There’d been a tiny, stupid, egotistical part of him that had hoped-

“As she should’ve. And-”

Benjy fights the lump in his throat to get his son’s name out.

“Seamus? Does he-?”

“Mate. You left before he was one.”

Killian’s voice isn’t accusatory, Benjy could deal with accusations. What he couldn’t handle was what was in his should have been brother-in-law’s voice; pity.

Whether the pity was there because Benjy had missed out on so much or because he was stupid enough to think his son would remember him, Benjy wasn’t sure.

“Right, right. Yeah. I-I’m moving back to town next month. Gotta take care of some stuff with my mum. And I figured she wasn’t still at uh, the cottage, but I was wondering...could you tell me where she’s staying?”

“What’s going on with your mum?” Killian says, suddenly wary. Benjy’s mom was just as nasty and cruel as any of the women in the neighborhood they’d grown up in. The fact that she hated Irish people was just a fun little bonus that further alienated Benjy’s already alienated ass.

“She died.” Benjy says flatly, no emotion in his voice.

“Oh.”

This is when normal people would apologize, but Killian knew Benjy enough to know not to waste his breath. Still, if his mum had been good for anything other than a genetic predisposition to substance abuse, maybe her death would give Benjy just enough sympathy...

“Alright.”

Benjy could continue falling into his own memory, but the train whistle sounds and the world outside starts slowing down. He gathers his secondhand, single suitcase from the overhead compartment. It contains two pairs of jeans, six pairs of pants, two plaid shirts, four black t shirts, four white t shirts, the suit he’d bought himself when he turned eighteen, nine pairs of socks, three photographs, paperwork from his mum’s estate lawyer, two dozen packs of cigarettes, and, the cumulation of three years of sober, sweaty work:  €18,358.45

The cash took up most of the space, so Benjy reckons his suit is properly wrinkled now. He pulls his wool lined jean jacket closer around his shoulders as he exits the train heads towards the station doors. It was early April, the weekend after her birthday but Benjy tries to pretend like he doesn’t remember that. He pulls the black stocking cap down further over his ears, wishing he’d worn three of his flannels over his black t shirt instead of two. His yellow converse were nearly brown now, and Benjy is just thankful he doesn't have to open his umbrella before he hails his taxi.

The driver does a double take when Benjy gives him the address-clearly he isn’t the usual faire of that neighborhood, but he just nods at him and starts to dig in his bag for enough money to cover the cost without looking obvious. Once he’s achieved that, Benjy stares out the window, watching as the buildings surrounding them get nicer and nicer. They pause at an intersection with an empty storefront, and Benjy stares at his reflection in the window. He should’ve gotten a haircut, the curls on his neck were peaking out from under his hat, making his hair dangerously close to a mullet. He had at least managed to shave off his mustache, terrified of looking too visibly queer in front of someone who, a lifetime ago, had introduced him to his first queer friends. He looks odd without it, he decides. Somehow too young and too old all at once-though Benjy supposes that is how he feels. He’s still not entirely sure how he’d managed to make it to twenty-five, and, dully, he wonders if he’ll be strong enough to make it to thirty.

The dullness turns back to dread when the cab parks. Benjy has half a mind to tell him to forget it, or to keep it running, certain that whoever answers that door will have him thrown out at once. But, wordlessly, Benjy hands the bills forward and gets out of the cab, standing and staring up at the gorgeously expensive house in front of him even after it drives away.

Benjy takes a breath, his hand slipping into his pocket to fiddle with his 3 years chip. Al had found him a group to go while he was in town, staying at his mum’s “house” that Benjy was pretty sure wasn’t outfitted for regular heating, but facing the near homelessness he’d grown up with again was going to be rough. It was going to be too much, Benjy knew, if Cleona opened the door only to slam it in his face.

If she refused to see him, Benjy was going right back to the train station and getting a ticket back to London. Even if that meant...

Could he come all this way and not see his son? Was he such a coward that he’d run away a second time? Maybe then Benjy would wait until Seamus was old enough to deck him properly. Or maybe, Benjy can meet his dad the same time Seamus meets him.

Benjy is able to move his suitcase out of the way just in the nick of time as he violently vomits into the storm drain at his feet. Two impossibly polished women pushing prams give him the side eye from across the street. Benjy waves, for some stupid reason, and calls out “bad salad!” because, clearly, that explained projectile vomiting in a neighborhood where the benches cost more than everything he’s ever owned.

Benjy closes his eyes. He pictures his son, the hole in his heart, in his life. He pictures the thousands of versions of Shay he had spent the past 2,078 days missing. He repeats it to himself, the mantra he’s told no one about.

“I am the cycle breaker, I will make amends. I am the cycle breaker, I will make amends.”

Benjy sucks in a breath and opens the gate, heading up the front walk to the impressive house. He wasn’t sure where Cleona stood on God, but he hoped with a hope he had no business having that she believed in second chances.

[liray-stylespk]

Mens Stylish Clothing Secrets

A cookie is a small text file that an internet site will save with your Personal computer or cell unit any time you take a look at the website. It permits the website to recall your steps and Tastes (including login, language, font measurement and other Screen Tastes) around a time period, therefore you don’t have to keep re-moving into them whenever you come back to the positioning or look through from one web page to another. How can we use cookies? We’re confident when we say there’s something at RebelsMarket to suit every single tribe and every design. Regardless of whether you’re immediately after dim clothing that’s muted and functional, or even more vivid and Daring shades and layouts – We've got Adult men’s manner clothing For each and every event.   Your a short while ago considered items and highlighted suggestions › Watch or edit your searching historical past Dubinsky even claimed to obtain after turned down an employer's wage supply in negotiations as too high priced towards the businesses, and so dangerous to workforce. Dubinsky summarized his Frame of mind by saying that "personnel will need capitalism the best way a fish needs h2o." General public officials have only words and phrases of warning to us – warning that we have to be intensely peaceable, and they have the workhouse just back of all their warnings. The powerful hand in the regulation beats us again, after we rise, into the problems which make lifetime unbearable. Order a Take care of crammed with parts hand-picked by our skilled stylists which can be completely you. Shipping is no cost and there’s no membership necessary. The better part? The retailer provides an at-home try out-on software if you're picking out your first pair of pants so you're able to send back again whichever You should not end up fitting, totally free. This easy but outstanding outfit is perfect for your 1st day. You don't want to overdress or underdress if you are Conference another person for the first time. So, this outfit is an excellent equilibrium Mens Stylish Clothing between the equally. I like to phone these types of outfits as wise formal. This is often formal sufficient to satisfy another person for the first time and informal more than enough to keep you cozy. For making this outfit little a lot more formal, you may unfold the sleeves and wear nice cufflinks. These cookies document your go to to our Web-site plus the articles you interact with, and may also be utilized to manage the number of situations you see an advertisement. This outfit is perfect creatives, business owners which have to dress up in specified cases. But, If you're a lawyer or possibly a banker you could nonetheless wear this outfit when Assembly a shopper outside of Place of work just like a bar or simply a coffee shop. Wear this outfit with interesting double monks to edge up the overall appear. Incorporate a pleasant pocket sq. (matching with your shirt) to complete the glimpse. Concurrently, breeches had been steadily replaced by pantaloons, as where tricorne hats by bicorne hats and finally by the highest hat with the 19th century and henceforth. You shell out merely a $twenty styling fee to your stylist’s skills and time—it receives credited towards pieces you preserve. As among the couple industrial unions throughout the AFL, the ILGWU was wanting to advance the cause of Arranging personnel inside the steel, auto together with other mass output industries that used an incredible number of minimal-wage workers, most of them immigrants or little ones of immigrants. Numerous of those staff ended up struggling to escape as the doors on their floors had been locked to avoid them from thieving or getting unauthorized breaks. In excess of a hundred,000 people participated within the funeral march for your victims.

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[putthison]

Another Option for Suits on a Budget: Jomers

It’s hard to overstate what a wasteland the entry level suit market was a decade ago. When I was coming out of college (more than a decade ago!), nearly every guy I knew was going to Joseph A. Bank or Brooks Brothers (if they had a little more scratch) for their “interview suit.” I wanted a nicer suit myself, but I was working as a bartender and felt $250 was a stretch, let alone $500--I ended up with a boxy 3-button number from Joey Banks (on sale!). Not much has changed. A few years back, Derek wrote a great guide to first suit choices at any price level--there were only two options at $500 or less.

So I was glad to read about Jomers suits, which intend to offer higher quality and more modern styling at a consistent price of $250, about the same price as the current model of my old Joseph A. Bank suit. (Jomers also makes trousers, shirts, and polos, all in a modern, trim, generally Italian style.) Jomers sent me two suits to review and try on, and I talked over email with Jomers’ CEO Meyer Dagmy. So what can you get for $250 these days?

The Nicest Suit You’re Likely to Find for the Price

The Jomers suits I received were both in 100% wool, Italian fabric from Vitale Barberis Canonico, one in a lighter blue and one in navy with a little tonal variation (you can see my natural light photos of both above--closeups of the jacket are the darker blue). The fabrics are certainly nicer than what you’d find in a mall--more depth to the color, more interesting weave, and they hang well. They seem about in line with SuitSupply, which is our usual recommendation for suits <$500 and the line you most often see Jomers compared against.

The construction and quality is solid for the price. They’re half canvassed, which is a measure of quality you may not appreciate until you’ve worn the suit a decent amount (for what it’s worth, my 2000s Joseph A Bank suit eventually got the dreaded bubbling in the chest and lapel as the fusing fell apart--suits that are half canvassed have a better reputation). The suits are mostly machine made (not a criticism--you won’t find a lot of handwork in off-the-rack suits under $1000). Meyer told me that there is some hand stitching in the shoulder, as well.

The Jomers suit wasn’t stiff out the box and the lapels and body were shaped well--without a long-term test it would be hard to know how it would break in. I did see a few loose stitches here and there, but nothing structural. I’ve seen some complaints online that the suits arrive wrinkled, but that seems like a ridiculous thing to complain about. You should expect to get any off-the-rack suit altered, and your tailor can steam or press the suit. 

Cut and Styling

Jomers cuts a modern suit in a style that should suit most young-ish guys who want a slim suit for work or formal-but-not-too-formal occasions. The suits are two-button, single breasted, with flap hip pockets and double vents. The lapels are a moderate width and the gorge is on the higher side. They have a barchetta-shaped breast pocket (not as exaggerated as I’ve seen on some Italian jackets). Trousers are a standard drop six (e.g. a size 40R jacket comes with 34 waist pants), flat front, trim, and tapered. They have a split waistband in the rear, which in my experience helps the waist give a little with movement.

Jomers’ model is pretty much exactly what you’re looking for in a first suit. A current-looking suit that doesn’t take a lot of chances. If the only suit in your closet has a ticket pocket, contrast stitching, and a peak lapel, you overdid it. Jomers suits are restrained in that aspect--although they do offer a more casual model with patch hip pockets. The horn buttons complement the fabrics and the lining is industry standard Bemberg (pants are lined as well).

Jomers suits feature pick stitching (a decorative line of edge stitching in places like the lapel and pocket flaps), a detail that in the past was seen on higher-priced suits that you see more often these days--sticklers for conservative dress might find it overly decorative.

Fit and Sizing

Jomers aims to make a trim suit (one of the things that differentiates them from the low-armhole, lowest-common-denominator budget suits out there) and they aren’t kidding. I found the suits I handled to be a bit tighter all around than any of my other off-the-rack jackets, save maybe Italian brand Boglioli. Without alterations, the shoulders were trim but OK (see photo); the chest fit quite close and the waist button pulled. The armholes are high, but not constricting. (For what it’s worth, I measured these Jomers size 42 jackets as about 22 inches across the chest, or 44 all around. This measurement can’t capture the shape of a jacket but it’s a decent shorthand for slim vs looser fits. I don’t wear particularly slim suits and most of my jackets are in the range of  45-46 around the chest.) 

A competent alterations tailor can tweak some of the fit of a jacket (which anyone buying a new off-the-rack suit should account for, in time and money). Take care, however, that a new suit fits how you like in the shoulders and chest, which are a challenge if not impossible to alter significantly. 

I’ve tried SuitSupply’s Napoli and Sienna models in 42 as well, and I found Jomers’ suits to be slightly tighter in the chest and waist. Meyer told me that some customers have said Jomers suits aren’t as trim as they’d like--based on the suits I tried that surprises me.

Currently, the suits are offered only as a jacket with the accompanying drop-six trousers. Jomers plans to offer separates in the future to allow customers to order trousers in a different size, and may do so in their next run (slated for January 2018).

The trousers fit me rather well. I wouldn’t alter a thing except have the hems finished. I found the rise on the trousers to be neither very high nor very low.

Buying Jomers Suits

One thing Joe Banks and Brooks have going for them is they’re in every decently sized city. Walk in and you can try stuff on, and even line up alterations. Jomers is able to offer their suits at such a low price at least in part because they don’t have to pay for retail spaces and sales associates all over the place. The upside for customers is obvious--you can get a suit that might otherwise be out of your price range. The trade off is that you have to order online without trying on, and in Jomers’ case the supply and demand are such that you pretty much have to order as soon as wares become available (stuff sells out quickly). Meyer told me they intend to double the number of units available in the next batch, which had 200-250 suits available in each fabric.

Jomers offers free shipping, and has a 14-day full-refund return policy (buyer pays return shipping). So the only real risk in ordering is that the suit you want may not be available when your return is complete. If I were ordering a Jomers suit today, I would likely order my usual size and one size up, then return the size that didn’t fit as well, and factor the return shipping cost into the cost of my suit.

We generally recommend you save to buy what you really want, and recommend a lot of tailoring that requires some investment. But many guys just aren’t ready to buy a $500+ suit. Jomers solidly fills a niche for people who want better fabric and non-stodgy styling at a price that doesn’t assume you already have a six-figure salary.

[dippedanddripped]

With few exceptions, selling reports on 2019 tailored clothing business have not been great. While the sky’s not falling, both department and independent specialty stores are struggling to maintain volume. At department stores, clothing business has been increasingly promotional (if that’s even possible) while many independent stores trying to sell suits at ticket price are finding themselves with excess inventory. In most upscale stores, luxury brands have fared better than most.

Says Steve Pruitt, retail analyst at Blacks Consulting, who advises top luxury stores across the country, “Clothing is soft across the markets, but not as bad as we sometimes hear. Overall clothing is running down (January-September) three percent. While sportscoats are up two percent, suits are down ­five percent and special order (now 30 percent of clothing volume in upscale stores) is down four percent.”

Pruitt maintains that the bigger issue for both retailers and manufacturers is the lack of newness in suits and sportscoats. “Weddings seem to be the biggest driver for demand in suits, so it’s become purely an event-driven business. Of course, there are isolated markets that still require suits for business but this is declining as the customer ages.”

Dan Farrington from Mitchells stores acknowledges that sportswear and footwear are driving menswear sales but tries to give it a positive spin. “The fact that we’re not in a tailored cycle presents us with an opportunity to gain market share. Clothing is such an important part of our business, we can’t resign ourselves to doing less. We’d like to think that as a suit becomes more an occasion purchase, customers will spend more for higher quality.”

Retail analyst Danny Paul is also somewhat optimistic. Although in the stores that he counsels, suits have been down for 10 consecutive months and 17 out of the past 18 months, he’s encouraged by some growth in sportcoats. “Sportcoat sales in October were the strongest we’ve seen so far this year; they appear to be the one bright spot in tailored clothing. Made-to-measure posted its fourth consecutive monthly increase, although some of those months were small gains. Dress trousers sales have been down for eight of the last 10 months, no doubt affected by the strength in casual pants and five pockets. It’s apparent that something new and exciting needs to be added to all tailored classi­fications, especially suits, to pique customer interest and give clothing the lift it needs for 2020.”

Pruitt agrees. “Moving forward, retailers need to have upfront conversations about the kinds of events that can drive clothing business. Most importantly, the modeling needs to change. We’ve seen fashion presentations with a new focus on pleats, something that could drive a new coat silhouette. But most retailers are slow to adapt, reluctant to introduce this change to their clients.”

Farrington admits some reluctance. “We’re seeing a few looser pant models and some single pleats, but in general, we have no indication that our customers are ready for this since guys seem comfortable with today’s slim (but not tight) fi­t.” Like most upscale retailers, Farrington says his clothing business is best at the very high end: Kiton, Brunello Cucinelli, Brioni. Made-to-measure (averaging 20 percent to clothing sales but ranging dramatically by store) is also holding its own. “I love made-to-measure: no inventory, no markdowns, no returns… We need to further nurture this business.”

Johnell Garmany at Garmany in Red Bank, New Jersey also reports strong business at the luxury level. “We sell Kiton jackets that are $7,500-$9,000; I just sold one for $12,000. Other key brands are Canali, Ravazzolo, and Isaia. Made-to-measure is also growing, especially our own label: from $700 to Italian-made suits for $4,000-$5,000.”

At 25-30 percent of Garmany’s menswear, tailored clothing remains healthy. “Even guys who no longer wear suits every day are noticing that the ones they own are looking dated. So, they’re shopping, especially at special events that we do monthly. What’s driving sales is suits that can be worn as separates. The suit jacket worn with jeans. The trousers on their own. Or they buy a 3-piece suit and wear the vest with jeans. We’re selling more patch pockets and softer shoulders so that the suit coat can also be worn casually.”

At Andrisen Morton in Denver, Craig Andrisen remains optimistic about tailored clothing, which generates 55 percent of his menswear sales (40 percent fashion, 30 percent in-stock, 30 percent made-to-measure). “If you look up and down the street, you’ll see that most men have no idea how to put together a business casual look, so the potential for growth is there.”

At the more moderate level, Macy’s VP Mark Stocker (who is contemplating adding made-to-measure to his mix but does not currently offer it) admits his reluctance to jump on the loose oversized fi­ts shown on designer runways. “Our customer is not there yet. Single pleat models and cu­ffs could reemerge; we’re touching on those now. But as for the exaggerated runway styles, not yet. Our customer is finally getting comfortable with color and pattern; new fashion has to be digested gradually.”

SELF-FULFILLING PROPHESY?

Peerless president John Tighe has a reasonable explanation for declining suit business at retail: too many retailers have stopped believing in it. “Business has been tough, mostly because stores that have given up on tailored clothing are not presenting it as they believe in it so their sales are down. Those merchants who are investing in their business are doing well: specialty stores like Miltons and The Garage, and I have to say Macy’s, where tailored clothing is called out on virtually every earnings call. They believe in it: they’ve invested in floor space, inventory, fixturing, sales associates. I give tremendous credit to Jeff­ and his team.”

According to Tighe, whose company is the largest producer of tailored clothing for the U.S. and Canada with labels ranging from Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, and Tommy Hilfiger to Hart Schaffner Marx, Tallia, and Shaq, customers are looking for newness and innovation. “There’s so much excitement out there,” he maintains, “especially fabric innovation: new blends, stretch, recyclable, sustainable. Five years ago, our suit business was pure wools; today, the majority of what we sell features stretch.”

Clearly, stretch and tech fabrics are driving sales for many clothing brands. At Lanier, Matt Silverman sings the praises of their new performance fabrics in Cole Haan, Kenneth Cole, and Strong Suit. He points to a jacket with mesh inserts and a cool-max lining and demonstrates how the wrinkles roll out of a new bi-stretch fabric using 290s high-twist yarns. He matches a knit jacket with a drawstring, jogger-type pants. Brent Kestin at Q by Flynt (a division of Trybus) touts the “empty” tailoring they’re putting into their sportscoats (all patch pockets and made with Italian piece goods), confiding that last year’s fit was a bit too trim so they’ve sized up slightly for American bodies. At Paisley & Gray, whose major accounts include Macy’s and Men’s Wearhouse, the focus is clothing combined with sportswear: softly tailored jackets and pants anchoring a mix of knits, wovens, and outerwear. Says Vince Marrone, “Our fall 2020 clothing features an array of fabrics from bold vibrant patterns to rich velvets to classic vintage-inspired tweeds.”

DOING THEIR OWN THING

To Tighe’s point, tailored clothing is selling well in stores that support it. At Penners in San Antonio, Mitchell Penner (4th generation) explains that tailored clothing had been declining, now it’s back on an upswing. “We believe in it so we carry an extensive inventory of sizes: 36-74 in regulars, shorts, longs, even portly. Most of our sales range from $495-$895 (HSM averages $1,800); our custom averages $2,900. Key brands include Peerless, Jack Victor, HSM, Hugo Boss, H. Cohen, and Eisenberg. We use Baroni for margin: they make beautiful lightweight super 150s suits that cost us $200 and we sell them for $595. We have seven on-site tailors and we don’t take markdowns. We realize that suit business nationwide has been tough but we continue to do our own thing.”

Another independent merchant who’s taken an aggressive stance is David Elkus at Michigan-based Baron’s and Todd’s. Unwilling to sit back and watch his suit sales erode, he launched a major month-long promotion this past September (calling it Suitember), promoting suits for the entire month and donating a portion of proceeds to local charities. Says Elkus, “Our Suitember results were beyond our expectations! Baron’s suit sales were up over 60 percent, Todd’s suit sales were up nearly 50 percent. All other departments benefitted from the increase in traffic. Our charitable partners were happy, our customers were happy, and we were thrilled! A win-win-win! I’m excited for next year!” (Editor’s note, Elkus’ goal for 2020 is to make Suitember a national promotion in independent stores across the country; for more info: 248-865-9960.)

THE NEW SUIT

While there’s no way to instantly transform an entire culture that’s shifted to casual dressing, there are ways to construct suits that are softer, lighter and more comfortable. But it’s not easy!

At Sant’ Andrea, a much-admired Italian luxury brand that’s recently entered the U.S. market, Luciano Moresco explains, “Sant’Andrea customers look to us for the finest hand-craftsmanship and for luxury materials like cashmere and cashmere/silk blends. For fall 2020, a significant portion of our collection has been lighted up, eliminating the padding but keeping a light canvas in the shoulders to give a touch of support to the clean and fl­uid lines of the garments.”

Says Samuelsohn’s creative director Arnold Silverstone, “We just came out with our lightest full-canvas garment ever. The challenge is how to make a super-soft unconstructed garment look rich and expensive, not like a rag. How we do it: I work very closely with our master patternmaker, back and forth, over and over, until every detail is perfect. We use the lightest canvas, no shoulder pads, no chest piece, but expensive interlinings and a tremendous amount of hand-basting. It’s a lot of work.”

Silverstone maintains that suits are not going away and that business is cyclical. “I think there’s still room for suits but there has to be a new suit. Not a structured garment: soft, unconstructed, with some ­flow. Still close to the body but using softer materials, richer tailoring, less trim. The customer shouldn’t feel confined by the shoulder pad or chest piece—it should feel more like sweats. And, of course, this new suit needs a lifestyle approach to presentation.”

Confides Dan Farrington, ever the pragmatist: “I’m eagerly awaiting that big sweeping change in tailored clothing. In the meantime, we need to tighten our inventory.”

Larry Rosen from Harry Rosen stores (Canada’s largest luxury menswear retailer with 20 magnificent stores across the country) puts a slightly different spin on the precarious state of tailored clothing. “There’s no doubt men are wearing fewer suits, but I believe it’s our responsibility as retailers to show them other ways of dressing for work. Just because an executive isn’t wearing a suit doesn’t mean he shouldn’t dress with a strong point of view. Instead of convincing men to go back to dressing the old way, we need to educate them on new ways. Most importantly, luxury menswear merchants need to focus on things that will ensure our future, like getting in younger customers. We might have to excite them digitally, which we’re now helping our associates learn how to do. But whatever it takes, our future depends on engaging the next generation.”

[ties2youstore]

Men's clothing 100 years of evolutionary history, perhaps your clothing vane!

Hi, nice to meet you guys, today, I am gonna show you the clothing evolution history about men.

The history of menswear is both familiar and unfamiliar. We have an impression of the fathers in the photos, impressions of the unclear costumes in the movies, and impressions of the styles that you originally started to choose... These are not just the changes in the style of the times, but also the history of the evolution of menswear.

In the beginning, let's take a look at the changes in style in men's fashion for 100 years.

Although men’s wear has changed a lot in the past century. From tuxedo to tassel suits to flared pants, there are still some elements in every stage that still exist today. The 100 years of men's fashion is not a past tense.

1900-1919

1. Keywords: detachable shirt collar.

At the beginning of the twentieth century, men's most suitable clothes consisted of three pieces: jackets, pants, and vests. A jacket and striped trousers. The style is relaxed, casual, light and lively, with a unique style at the time.

Men wear morning overcoats during the day and dark-colored evening dresses at night. According to etiquette, they will change clothes many times a day.

In the 1910s, lighter fabrics became more and more popular, and the separation of suits emerged. In the second half of the 1910s, men's dresses consisted of simple single-breasted jackets, narrow-necked and high-button shirts with straight pants. Shirts are usually soft, striped and match a necktie.

The detachable collar is a major feature of men's wear during this period. This is because the collar needs to be cleaned more frequently than the shirt and can be replaced more easily if it is damaged.

1920-1929

2. Keywords: tie and fedora.

People's optimism after the war is reflected in all aspects. Music, movies, dress. The suit is simpler, more snug, and bolder, and is quite different from the popular color ten years ago. The men began to wear tight shirts and the ties became more casual. The combination of Windsor's collar and tie has revolutionized the traditional collar. The white striped shirt is replaced by a bright color. This is an era of excitement, economic growth and the birth of Hollywood, everyone is wearing excitement.

The creases on the front began to appear on the trousers, highlighting the overall shape of a man and casting a strong and sturdy silhouette. Loose pants meant that men started using belts instead of slings.

Hats are also one of the characteristics of the 1920s. With the increasing popularity and popularity of automobiles, automobiles have become an important part of the culture of the 1920s. This has led to the spread of driving-specific clothing, such as flat driving caps made of tweed or wool.

1930-1939

3. Keywords: newsboy hat and loose suit

On October 24, 1929, the economic crisis, clothing companies have closed down. The reduction in clothing production and fabric rations led to the realignment of men's suits.

Reducing material costs and staying sleek – a wide men's suit emerges. The elongated lapels and wide outline further emphasize the shape of the male. In order to reduce the fabric, the waist of the men's suit is very thin, the style of fashion is mainly black and neutral colors, and the bright color is considered to be out of date. Wool, flannel, tweed, and linen dominate this era.

As far as accessories are concerned, the newsboy hat and the ivy hat are representative items at the time. More casual shoe styles, such as moccasins, loafers, and Keds, also originated in the 1930s, and men are often worn in everyday life.

 1940-1949

4. Keywords: colorful neckties.

With the severity of the war, the strict fabric ratio in the society, and the practicality of the style have affected the fashion world. Any glitz and luxury of men from the past few decades have disappeared. The suit began without a vest, pocket and trouser pocket, but instead adopted a simple style without any detail.

After the war, men's fashion revived. Double-breasted jackets, large pants, and hand-painted silk ties are all the rage. In the late 1940s, every man wore a tie, because it was seen as a way of expressing one's personality, and people could relax again and the whole society would be more comfortable.

1950-1959

5. Keywords: greaser style.

In the early 50s, men's clothing was very simple. The suit no longer has a shoulder pad, the double-breasted suit is no longer popular, the tie is still slim, the collar of the shirt is not obvious, and the hat is also a simple and delicate style. Only the pants are still loose.

With the development of tourism and sports, fashions that adapt to these interests are becoming more and more popular. Polo shirts, sportswear, sports jackets... Men's wear has become more leisurely and comfortable, and these trends have continued to this day.

Influenced by rock music, the style of this era is to be younger. The Greaser style also appeared, including white and black T-shirts, baseball shirts, black or blue rolled jeans, leather jackets, bomber jackets and more.

 1960-1969

6. Keywords: close-fitting suit, narrow tie.

The 1960s was a revolutionary period for men's fashion, and all the adventures of the times appeared during this period. Suits are getting tighter, pants are tight and tight, long hair, bright colors, thin scarves, prints, velvet pants, fluffy sleeves, and jewelry, bold and subversive men's fashion glow.

This is because the “youth-driven” subculture was popular in the 1960s, and the trend was greatly influenced by the Beatles. Men's fashion became more modeled and feminine throughout the decade.

1970-1979

7. Keywords: printing.

The 70s was a crazy time for men's fashion. Although there was innovation in the 1960s, with the development of the economy, the cost of clothing and transportation declined, and men's fashion became more brilliant during this period.

Thick-soled shoes are the product of the 70s, casual suits and sportswear are also popular - high waist, tight thighs, extending from the knees.

The patterns vary from print to polka dots, and the rugged knit turtleneck sweater is also popular. The 3-piece disco suit is crazy. In everyone's dream, living is undoubtedly a fashionable and crazy moment.

1980-1989

8. Keywords: bomber jacket

We can find that the closer to the modern, the more fashionable and comfortable men's fashion. In the 1980s, fashion has begun to become softer and less eccentric than in the past decade. Neutral suits with a detailed tie are the work clothes for men. When men are not working, they will match the printed button shirts and casual pants.

Other popular items include pleated pants, bomber jackets, plaid shirts and polo shirts and turtleneck sweaters.

1990-1999

9. Keywords: sweaters and t-shirts

Mainstream fashion has been influenced by the three important young subcultures of the decade: carnival, hip hop, rock. T-shirts, shorts, jeans, sneakers, sweatshirts, hoodies, tattoos... are all examples of this culture.

By the 1990s, almost all traditions had disappeared, replaced by a simple color and tailored casual, relaxed clothing era. Leather jackets, knitwear, loose jeans, overalls, baseball caps...

From learning to dress etiquette to expressing ourselves through dress, men’s fashion for 100 years, we have indeed come a long way. After you understand them, you may know the true meaning of fashion.

[norihisahyuga-archived]

Memories.

Kawada Shogo/Onuki Keiko (past), Kawada Shogo/Mimura Shinji Battle Royale 2000~ words. Sfw.

Shogo has memories that stretch all the way back to when he first found the right name, the only name Class 3-B knows him by. He has memories of Keiko Onuki, his first girlfriend, too.

There are little things about himself that he can’t change, little things that irk him on good days and upset him to the point of tears on bad days. She never judges him for needing to break at the edges, for needing to cry on her shoulder, and he never doesn’t wonder how she’s managed to become to much stronger than him, so much better able to hold herself together.

He’s never not grateful, though. Her fingers brushing over his head, over the ends of his hair, buzzed close to his scalp because it was the first thing that came to mind when he went to get it cut. He’d wheedled his father about it for ages, desperate for a change, and his hair was so long by that point, almost touching his shoulders. Its presence was suffocating, and it needed to go.

That alone had made him able to look at his face again, summing up the lines of the bones beneath his skin, the way his face was shaped. There’s no real changing the softness of it all right now; that will come with time, with maturity, a decent length of time on the hormones his father had been able to procure for him with the promise that Shogo would keep his mouth shut about it.

He chose that name, too. Shogo Kawada. The sound of it was hard, and he loved it.

He still remembers telling her for the first time, stretched out in an empty field, their backs cushioned by the tall grasses. Warm from the sun, lazy in the summer heat, her glossy black hair spread out in the grass around her head like a dark, shining halo.

“That’s what I’m going to call myself now,” he said, fingers threaded together, hands tucked beneath his head, eyes half-open, tracing the path of a few clouds. He’d felt particularly masculine that day, a good day to be sure, and Keiko had looked so pretty his heart had climbed up in his throat when she walked out of her front door. “Shogo. What do you think of it?”

She had rolled onto her side, propped herself up on one arm, and though she had been aware of herself for just a year longer than him, that year had already changed her appearance so much. To his eyes, she looked like nothing less than a beautiful girl, the most beautiful he’s ever laid eyes on for that matter. “I think it suits you,” she’d told him, her hand splaying over his stomach, bared where his shirt had ridden up when he’d laid down. “Shogo Kawada. That’s definitely you.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” But having someone else say that meant so much more to him.

It had taken his father longer to get used to the way the name felt in his mouth, but he’d soldiered through it because he’d wanted Shogo to be happy. It was just the two of them, always had been and always would be as far as Shogo could tell; he’d worked his ass off to take care of his son.

“Shogo’s the name I’ve settled on,” he tells him when he comes through the door one night, having waited impatiently for his arrival. “I just wanted to let you know that.”

His father had sat his bag down, pushed the front door shut behind him, and rested a hand on Shogo’s shoulder. “Shogo Kawada,” he’d said softly. “It’s a good name, son.”

He learns to fight just to make the kids at school respect him enough to call him by the right name (the only name, after a while). And they do, because they fear him, and they never dare to call Keiko the wrong name because that’s worse than calling him the wrong name. It’s a gritty way to do things, but he does it just the same because he has a point to prove.

It isn’t really him, though. He works out to give his body a more masculine shape and to be in the right form to fight, he works with his hands enough to make them stronger, rougher and more callused, but he’s never been this rough around the edges before. And though it fits a stereotype well enough to convey a message to strangers on the streets, it isn’t really him. What is him is falling asleep with his head on Keiko’s shoulder, her fingers soft on his cheek. What is him are lazy afternoons in the summer, talking about everything, talking about life beyond school. What is him are tentative, soft kisses because he could never bear to be anything close to rough with Keiko.

He’s allowed to be soft with her, and it’s expected because she’s a girl and boys are supposed to be gentle with girls, but it’s more than that. He wants to be softer, warmer, and Keiko lets him, loves it about him, and for once his skin feels like it fits just right.

They had traded clothes when they started dating because the two of them were exhausted with what they had, their body shapes weren’t really that different to begin with, they were almost the same height… And the few centimeters difference wasn’t enough to make the clothes too long or too short on either of them. The absolute wonder on Keiko’s face as she tried on skirts and dresses he had never really worn in the first place, tucked away in drawers and on closet hangers with the hope that if he never thought about them, they would fade away. And he wriggled into her jeans and her t-shirts and the clunky combat boots her uncle had given her for her birthday.

There had been one garment tossed on her bed that had drawn his attention, a sweater she had never really cared for, and it hadn’t been overly masculine. Quite the contrary, it was almost unbearably soft beneath his fingers and that was all he had to think about before pulling it over his head to see how it fit. It was tight across the chest, just a bit, but once he’d added his binder to the mix it would fit perfectly. It was soft, slouchy on him, and he had loved everything about it.

He remembers examining himself in the mirror, tugging the bottom of the sweater a bit. The sleeves were longer than his arms, but that only made him like the sweater that much more. It would keep him warm during the winter, certainly, and when he’d glanced back over his shoulder to ask her what she thought of him in it, he was surprised to find her just staring at him. In a pair of tight black pants he had never liked the cut of and a dark red top that slipped off of one shoulder, looking sexier than he’d ever seen, but all she was doing was staring at him with wide, wide eyes.

“What is it?” he asked, wide-eyed back at her, but his is in shock while hers is in… Awe? He’s not quite sure he has a proper name for the look on her face. “Keiko, what’s… Are you okay?”

She blinks at him, her dark, dark eyes still just as wide. “I’d always hated that sweater,” she muses, dropping the jacket in her hands as she walks closer. “But you look amazing in it.”

He stutters, not used to being complimented like that and definitely not from the most beautiful girl in the world. Years could pass and he’s not sure he would ever come close to being used to it. “I-I don’t know what you mean, it’s j-just a sweater. It’s kind of warm, though? You sure you don’t—”

“You can keep it,” she says before he can ask, reaching for him, her fingers pressing into his waist through the sweater, pulling him close enough so she can nuzzle his cheek. “Definitely.”

His cheeks are burning, and he knows she can feel it, but she doesn’t say anything about it. “Are you sure? It looks like it was kind of expensive, and I don’t know if you might want it come—”

“I’m not going to want it for winter or ever. I’d rather look at you wearing it, actually.” Keiko curls her fingers in the collar of the sweater and pulls him close, and he’s reminded again that there’s almost no difference in their heights. “Look how handsome you look in it.”

He has to hide his face in her shoulder at that. “Thanks,” he says, muffled against her shirt.

“You’re welcome.” She hugs him, then, a tight squeeze. “Keep it. I mean that. It’s yours.”

He doesn’t have to tell a single member of Class 3-B about his real name, because he’s had it changed by the time he enters their class. He doesn’t have to spend his gym class with the girls because winning his first Program comes with some perks, and he’d been so bloody and battered and bruised, recovering from bullet wounds and stab wounds. It was the least the government could do for him, he thought later on, having ditched class to have a smoke on the track field. He’d lost Keiko, lost all of his friends, nearly lost his life. It was the least they could do.

Even that, he knows, is false. The change wasn’t because they felt they owed him anything, but because he had begged, had broken every bit of pride he had left to beg, and it was something they had no problem giving him. It cost them nothing to change the necessary documents, so by the time he found himself a student at Shiroiwa Junior High, everything was in order.

He’d long since resolved he wasn’t going to tell anyone the truth. The only person who knows now is his father— his entire class dead, his girlfriend dead… He’d lost nearly everything to the Program, and the one thing he planned on keeping to himself was this one little fact. He decides that on his first day, before he leaves for school that morning, that no one else will ever know.

That lasts until he meets Shinji Mimura. That lasts until Shuya Nanahara insists on dragging him to an after school game of basketball— You don’t have to play, Kawada, but it’s better than sitting at home— and he’d found himself on the court, determined to give Shinji a run for his money.

That lasts until they’re together after school one afternoon, a lazy afternoon like the ones Shogo had shared with Keiko. Shinji’s a better kisser by way of experience, and he doesn’t mind the taste of smoke on Shogo’s breath, just keeps a hand around the back of his neck and keeps him close.

“You’re not gonna find what you think you are under that,” he says when Shinji toys with the first few buttons of his shirt, a nimble twist of his fingers freeing one button, widening the part in the neck. “Lean back, Mimura, lemme show you and get it out of the way.”

He would be afraid to do this with Shinji, because Shinji is a guy’s guy and a playboy, has never looked at anyone with anything serious in his eyes before. He would be afraid to tell Shinji, not because Shinji would hurt him— he isn’t like that— but because Shinji would tell people. But it’s been months that he’s been here, months of time spent begrudgingly becoming friends with Shuya, and Shuya was never shy to begin with. Shogo hadn’t asked at first, because it was never his place to ask questions, but it isn’t like Shuya tries to hide himself when he’s changing for class, doesn’t think twice about pulling his shirt off when it’s after school and way too hot.

Shinji, to his credit, doesn’t even look shocked. Instead he stretches up a hand, runs his fingers over the black fabric stuck to Shogo’s skin, tracing where it follows his ribs. “Thanks for feeling safe enough to tell me. You know this is our secret until you decide to tell anyone else.”

Shogo leans down to kiss him with the front of his shirt still open, and Shinji’s fingers slide around to his lower back, don’t hesitate to skip up, smoothing over the fabric of his binder. And he’s relieved, in more ways than one, and he lets himself be soft, just this one time.

[expatsecuador]

Horseback Riding in Ecuador

Horseback riding in Ecuador has a long history. The Spanish conquistadores brought horses with them in 1534, gradually leading to cattle and horses taking over the pastoral lands traditionally occupied by llamas and alpacas. 

Ecuadorian horse riding has since revolved around haciendas. These large properties are scattered all over Ecuador and some still rely on horses as transport. Other haciendas have adapted to also offer horseback riding tours or specialize in competitive jumping. 

Indeed, some of the best horse riding we’ve experienced in Ecuador has been through smaller operators that are either operated by, or arranged through, the haciendas. Even without the horses, visiting and staying at haciendas is one of our favorite weekend getaways.

Once you’ve read this article, you’ll know the different options for:

Taking a horse riding tour

Enrolling in a horse riding school 

Right, let’s get to it! 

Horseback riding tours vs schools

Most visitors to Ecuador only have time to sneak in a horseback riding tour. But, those that are able to spend at least a few months here can look into enrolling at a horse riding school. 

You should be able to find a riding school if you’re close to the bigger cities of Quito, Cuenca or Guayaquil, but may need to search a little harder if you live in a smaller town. We’ve included a list of schools you can try at the bottom of the article. 

Horse riding tours 

Whether you’re new to the saddle or fancy yourself as a regular chagra (cowboy), there’s a variety of tours to suit your needs. 

We’ve created the following map to show popular horse riding tours and schools in Ecuador:

Quito one day horse riding tours

Day horse riding tours are popular in many of Ecuador’s tourist hot spots, particularly in the mountains accessible from Quito. Some popular options include: 

Cotopaxi

Riding in Cotopaxi National Park is an amazing experience. Just you, the volcano, and some new friends. It feels like a different world, and I guess it is.

You can get a tour leaving from Quito that takes around 2 hours to get to the stables or hacienda. Or, if you want to explore Cotopaxi some more (recommended), you can hook up with horse riding tours once you’re there. 

If you’re looking for a place to stay, Hacienda los Mortiños is 5 minutes from the Cotopaxi park entrance with great views of the volcano and offers reasonably priced horse riding tours. 

Hacienda El Porvenir also offers a good variety of rooms and is situated on the foothills of Rumiñahui Volcano. They offer a variety of day and multi-day horse riding trips and can arrange transport from Quito if required. 

Cotopaxi Horse Riding Costs

There’s something for all budgets at Cotopaxi. From Quito, expect to pay at least $100 for a 2 hour ride including return transport and lunch. Private tours cost around twice this. If you find your own way to Cotopaxi, expect to pay from $40 for a 2-hour ride with a local Spanish speaking guide. 

Michelle riding at Cotopaxi

Hacienda La Alegria

Smack bang in the Avenue of the Volcanoes, 40 minutes south of Quito is Hacienda La Alegria. Situated within the Machachi valley and lined with volcanoes on either side, this hacienda specializes in horseback vacations. 

They provide good priced all-inclusive tours ranging from overnight to multiple days. 

Hacienda Tilipulo

1.5 hrs from Quito, between Lake Quilotoa and Vulcan Cotopaxi is Hacienda Tilipulo. This working vegetable farm (brocolli & artichoke and potatoes) also raises horses and offers day trips, multi-day trips and weekly lessons. All are very reasonably priced. 

Pululahua Crater

The lush green cloud forest inside a crater makes for a very unique horse riding experience. This popular destination is only a few minutes away from the Mitad Del Mundo on the outskirts of Quito.

Pululahua Ecolodge offers a good variety of horse riding tours and accommodation options. 

Otavalo

Hacienda La Merced Baja 

A little less than 2 hours from Quito, near Otavalo is Hacienda La Merced. It’s a working dairy farm that also breeds horses and has numerous day riding tours on offer for their guests.

Zuleta

2 hours from Quito is Hacienda Zuleta. And it’s gorgeous. This is a 17th-century working hacienda that offers many different activities such as bird watching, cooking classes and cycling. But, we’re most impressed with their horse riding tours on their very own breed of horse, aptly called Zuleteño.

Their most popular ride takes you to the neighboring Condor Huasi Project where riders learn about condors and spectacles bears. 

You’ll need to stay at the Hacienda to go on their horse riding tours. It’s not for the budget-conscious, but it’s high on our list of places to stay when we want an indulgent, adventure-filled weekend. 

Image: Hacienda Zuleta

Cuenca one day horse tours

Horse riding isn’t necessarily high on the list of must-do activities that tourists (or even expats) explore when visiting or moving to Cuenca. But, Cuenca actually has a long and proud horse heritage with several good options for day trips and riding schools. 

Centro Ecuestre Bellavista

About 20 mins from Cuenca is Centro Ecuestre Bellavista. It’s a full-blown riding center that offers lessons, day trips, competitive jumping and breeding. Spoiler alert, this is where our family goes for our twice-weekly lessons and we all love it, especially the kids.

All prices are very reasonable, including their day trips to neighboring indigenous (Quechua) villages.  

Lessons at Centro Ecuestre Bellavista, Cuenca

Hostería Caballo Campana

This aptly named large hostería around 15 mins from Cuenca offers horse riding tours for a reasonable hourly rate. The hostería also has beautiful gardens and rooms in you’re looking for a mini weekend getaway from Cuenca. 

Hacienda Totorillas

Also about 30 minutes from Cuenca is Hacienda Totorillas. There are multiple options for horse riding here and several Cuenca based agencies even offer moonlight rides at this Hacienda.

Beach horseback tours

If you somehow get sick of cantering through the high sierra, you can always take it down to sea level for a more relaxing ride along the beach. 

Cabalgatas Canoa

In addition to beach tours, Cabalgatas Canoa also offer tours to the nearby Jungle and several lifestyle based options such as their craft beer or BBQ sunset tour. Both of which are ideal for those lazy beach holidays.  

Villamil Playas

For those visiting or living in Guayaquil, one of your closer options is horse riding on Villamil Playas approx 1.5 hours away. There isn’t as much variety here, but you’ll still be able to find comfortable rides between 1-3 hours. These are either booked locally or through a travel agent.  

Multi-day horseback tours  

For me, this is where the magic happens. Riding through the Ecuadorian Sierra for multiple days without a worry in sight is such a rare treat. 

Many of the multi-day tours will use several of the hacienda’s mentioned above to form itineraries spanning days, often up to a week. Some may also include smaller guesthouses or hosterías in the more isolated areas. Some tours also combine horse riding with other activities such as hummingbird or spectacled bear watching. There’s almost too much choice!  

Sample multi-day horseriding tour itinerary 

We’ve included a map of a sample itinerary below to give you an idea of what a 8 day, 7 night tour looks like, including how much riding you can expect each day:

Booking your tour

There are several international based tour companies that offer equestrian focused tours. These are great options for those that like everything organized for them once they arrive in Ecuador or perhaps have trouble with Spanish as these tours normally feature a bi-lingual guide. 

Additional costs

Be on the lookout for any additional costs that may be buried in the finer print. 

Single and small group supplements

Supplements for smaller group sizes and singles are quite common. Also, most meals will be included, but some at the start and the end may not. 

Weight supplement 

Weight supplements are commonly applied too. If you weigh more than 200 lbs, you may need to pay extra. The rationale for this is that horses need to work harder in the altitude due to less oxygen being present. Imposing weight limits helps ensure the horses are treated well and not overworked. This also applies to day tours. 

Tips

Tips for the guides and other staff are not included either. Although not mandatory, many tour companies do suggest a tip of 10%. 

Flights 

Flights to Ecuador are not included for most tours. When booking flights, remember to allow a day to acclimatize before your tour starts. 

Insurance

Horse riding is a high-risk activity that may not be covered under all travel insurance policies. Make sure your policy does include horseback riding or you may find yourself under financial stress if something does not go to plan. 

What to bring

We suggest the bare minimum for any horse riding tour is below. But, if you’re going for a multi-day ride, you may need to pack multiple… 

Riding pants (or at least long pants)

Longsleeve shirt

Waterproof jacket

Riding boots (or at least closed shoes)

Sunblock

Sunglasses

Mosquito repellent

Water

Helmets are mandatory for tours and are provided, but feel free to bring yours if you prefer. 

High mountains = cold weather

It can get very cold in the Sierra. Make sure you’ve packed enough layers to keep you warm. You may also be able to rent a heavy poncho, but make sure to ask your tour provider first.

Don’t forget to acclimatize!

If you’re going to be riding or hiking in the Ecuadorian Sierra, we strongly suggest leaving yourself at least one day in Quito (or similar elevation of 9,350 ft) to acclimatize. Some tours even go up to 13,000 ft, where dealing with altitude is a very real issue. 

Everyone reacts to altitude differently, and chances are you will be fine. But, you’ll increase your chances if you give yourself at least one day first. 

Image: Hacienda Tilipulo Horse Riding School

Horse riding schools 

Before setting off into the high Sierra, you’ll need to learn how to ride a horse… It’s also a great after school or weekend activity for the kids. 

We’ve listed some recommended schools to start your search below. It’s important to note that not all of these schools will be able to teach in English, so at least a basic understanding of Spanish will be required. 

The costs vary by school, but you should expect to budget around $100 per month for classes twice per week. Transportation (if required) can often be arranged but will cost extra. 

Quito

Escuela De Equitacion La Herradura

Quito Ecuestre

Gerber Club Ecuestre

El Establo Club Ecuestre

Cuenca

Centro Ecuestre Bellavista

Kawallu (Hippotherapy)

Guayaquil

Rancho Botas y Espuelas

How old does my child need to be? 

Most Ecuadorian horse riding schools accept kids from 4 years old. We started our girl at 4 years old and she has not looked back. 

Most of the schools mentioned cater to all adult levels too. I’ve no idea if there is an upper age limit, but if you’ve got health issues we suggest getting clearance from a doctor first. 

How long is each lesson?

Schedules vary by school, but expect classes to run for around an hour. 

Equine Therapy

Some horse riding schools also combine equine therapy to help the rehabilitation of children and young people with special abilities. 

Wrapping up

There really are so many options for horse riding in Ecuador! Feel free to leave a comment or contact us if you want some personalized recommendations. 

And please let us know if we’ve left out your favorite hacienda or horse riding school – we’re trying to create a thorough resource to help others.

from Expats Ecuador https://expatsecuador.com/horse-riding/