#vest jacket vendors

[thomsonsharon347]

Why Buy Quilted Vests and How to Wear Them

Discover the versatility and style of quilted vests and why they're a must-have in 2024 fashion. Quilted vests functionality with fashion, providing lightweight warmth and a sleek silhouette.

[promithiae]

The kind of people the general public assumes would attend a fiber festival: stodgy old grannies that would clutch their pearl if you say the word darn

Actual fiber festival attendees: a bunch of subversive queers that will not hesitate to make the raunchiest joke at any given opportunity. And the ones the grannies tell are the most crude of all

[bettyfrommars]

Heyy, I have a little optional request for the nightmare factory. Eddie could be located in an abandoned theme park or an abandoned place half submerged in water & loves how much this location freaks you out in the best way…

nightmareGuide!eddie x reader

another installment of The Nightmare Factory

masterlist

This is a collection of blurbs and short fics about Eddie falling for you, but only being able to communicate through your nightmares. 2.3k

This suggestion really inspired me, and I don't think it's exactly what you had in mind, but I will be using more abandoned themes throughout this series. This is a comfort write for me that I post as soon as I'm finished, so I'm sure there are plenty of errors.

18+ONLY, nightmares, terror, abandoned places

------

When you showed up to the theme park, you were the only one there. Strange also because you didn’t remember how you got to that location, and as you looked around you wondered if maybe you were at the wrong place.

Perhaps you were supposed to go to a different fairgrounds or theme park because this one looked like it was abandoned.  It was dark out, and there didn’t seem to be a single star in the sky.  The moon was bright, though, and it loomed comically big, as if it were somehow much closer to earth.  You were standing in the empty parking lot in front of the ticket booth and rolling metal arm entrances, which were all covered in graffiti; the pavement littered in shattered glass from the broken windows.  Ahead you could see the looming rides spread out over the vast park, each of them overgrown with moss and vines, rusted and frozen in time like a place where laughter goes to die.

Questions echoed somewhere in the back of your head as to why you were there, but all the same—your feet kept moving  

Out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw a black mass with multiple spider legs crawling up the ferris wheel—but when you turned with a gasp, it was gone.

“You lost?” A deep voice called to you from between the fence and the ticket booth. You saw the plume of smoke first, and then someone stepped out.

It was a man, possibly in his twenties, with long, curly dark hair past his shoulders and bangs that covered his eyebrows.  He was wearing dark jeans with holes in the knees, white shoes, and some type of denim vest covered in patches over a leather jacket.  When he took a drag of his smoke, you noticed the chunky silver rings on his fingers.

Eddie wanted to contain his excitement, but it was hard to be normal about this.

He finally found a way for you to see him—-to really see him.  To talk to him.  You could even touch him, if you wanted to.

In dreams, there are people we travel with once in a while that are simply known as Guides.  Sometimes they pass knowledge on, sometimes they are there as a reflection of your needs, and sometimes—they are just there to hang out with you.

Usually, to be a Guide you had to be employed with the Nightmare Factory for a long time; it was the equivalent of slacking off for a few years before retirement.  But, Eddie had wormed his way into the Abandoned Spaces Simulation wing of the factory by flirting ruthlessly with Jean, the older woman who worked the front desk.  

And now, there you were—looking right at him.

“I think I came to the wrong place,” you said.  It never occurred to you to ask him who he was or where he came from—there was an instant familiarity.  You even wondered if he was the reason you came to the amusement park to begin with.

“Come with me,” he inclined his head, extending the crook of his elbow for you to take.  “I have something I want to show you.”

In a blink, you were deep inside the park, surrounded by the long-forgotten rides and a place along the fence where there were once games to win prizes like pop the balloon and bullseye.  A roller coaster loomed menacingly in the distance like a big, green, sleeping monster while a vendor that advertised cotton candy had what looked like mold growing all over bags of the sweet treat and bullet holes through the sign.  

Eddie guided you to the ferris wheel, and for some reason, now it looked brand new—as shiny as the day it was first erected.  

“Take a ride with me?” Eddie asked, enjoying the expression of awe on your face.

A gust of wind blew his hair back and you wrapped your arms around yourself, horrified to realize you were still wearing your pajamas.

“Oh shit,” you whispered, meeting his amused gaze with terror.  “I forgot to change my clothes before I came here.”

“It happens,” he shrugged.  

He took your hand to help you up into the metal bucket, and then he settled in next to you and pulled the safety bar down.  Your hips were touching and he opened his knees a bit wider so that your legs were touching too.  He arched forward to adjust his jacket, and when he sat back, he turned his head to ask if you were comfortable, and you had this overwhelming urge to kiss him.

Eddie felt it too.  He noticed the way your gaze fell to his lips, the way you swallowed hard and then sought his eyes with a childlike curiosity.

“Do I know you?” You asked. “We’ve been here before, haven’t we?”

“Not here,” Eddie rocket the squeaky bucket as the ride started at a crawl. “But yeah, we’ve met before.”

Who was operating the machine? How was it suddenly in working condition?  You didn’t even think to wonder. When their seat finally made it to the top, it stopped and swayed there. Eddie lifted his arms up for a mock yawn and a stretch, and then one of his arms came down around your shoulders.

You heard the music first, and then the playful screaming and the buzz of conversation.

“Look down,” Eddie told you.

Below, the park was completely functional again.  There were no more weeds or mold growing on everything, and a sea of people made their way around to the various rides and games, enjoying the festivities.  There were bright carnival lights and people cheering and the smell of buttered popcorn.

Eddie was watching your face; basking in the way your eyes lit up.

“We should get a funnel cake after this,” you told him, forgetting that the place was ever abandoned. “With powdered sugar and strawberries.”  You put your hand on his leg so that you could lean further over to see the rest of the scene.  There were stars in the dark blue sky again, and they twinkled like jewels.

“Hey,” he brought his arm down from around your shoulders and took your hand to interlace his fingers with yours and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.  You were warm and soft and he didn’t want this to end; he could feel desperation tightening in the back of his throat.  “Can I ask you something?”

You met his gaze, searching for your answer.  “Sure?”

He looked down, rubbing his thumb along yours.  “Do you think you could try to…remember me? After you wake up, I mean.”

Your face offered the genuine confusion that you felt.  “Wake up? You mean, this is a dream?” Your attention returned to the swarm of people down below.  “Why does it feel so real?”

“I’m real,” he whispered. 

You turned to face him, to return the affection in his rich, umber eyes, and he squeezed your hand.

“Fuck it,” he breathed, deciding to shoot his shot.  “Listen, this is going to sound crazy, okay? But I work for a place called the Nightmare Factory and I was dispatched to scare you a few months ago, but I just…I don’t know…I really like you.”

As his mouth moved, his face began to distort; his eyes and nose vanished, and then they came back misplaced like a deranged Mr. Potatohead.  You watched it in awe, having trouble registering what he was saying.

“I mean, I’m not sure how this could work,” Eddie continued.  “Because we exist in different realms, but there are dreams that last for days, and I’m going to find one for us, so we can get to know each other better. If you want that?”

You nodded, even though his voice was garbled and there was an eyeball where his mouth should be.  You blinked a few times, and then his face finally went back to normal.

“I’d like to spend a few days with you,” you heard the words come out of your mouth and felt the response come from your heart, even though you didn’t think you had heard a word he’d said.  As you slept there was another very important part of you that stayed awake—and it yearned for this boy you were with.

Eddie coughed out a laugh, relieved, and then tightened his lips around a long exhale.  “Damn, that’s a relief.”

The lights all around the park began to dim, but you didn’t notice or mind, because Eddie brought his hand up to cup your jaw and ran his thumb a few times over your cheek.  The screams you heard coming from down below were different now—more blood curdling—but Eddie was pulling you close to press his forehead against yours.  

“I want to be your favorite nightmare,” he confessed softly.

“Are you supposed to be scary?” You asked, innocently, rubbing the tip of your nose on his. “Because you’re not very good at it.”

The bucket you were in began to swing aggressively as something made the ride jostle.  

“Shit,” Eddie hissed.  “There’s always something. But wait—don’t look!”

Before his words could register, you did, indeed, look down to find that what had once been a sea of regular people, had morphed into a horde of zombies.

Snarling, hungry, ragged zombies with bulging eyes and skin hanging off their bones.  

They were crawling their way up the ferris wheel to get to you.

You screamed and crushed in closer to Eddie. He wrapped his arms around you and put his lips against your ear so you could feel the sensation of his hot breath.  “They won’t hurt you, I promise. You trust me?”

A few of them were half way up, screeching and moaning as others joined the ascent.  You were thinking maybe you should crawl down the other side and run into the woods.  The last thing you wanted was to be mauled to death by the walking dead.

“Do you have a knife, or something we can stab them in the head with?”

Eddie chuckled at your exuberance to kill his co-workers.  “Baby, it’s okay, I promise. They’re just trying to scare you, they won’t hurt you.  Hey—” he took your face in his hands as the metal basket made a cracking sound at the hinges like it was about to break.

“Oh god oh god oh god—”

And then he pressed his lips to yours, softly, but with enough pressure that your eyes fluttered and you forgot to be worried.

The big wheel you were on started to move forward, chugging and jerking along at a labored pace.

Eddie pulled back to see you.  “Remember me? Please? Remember my face.”

All you could do was nod a few times.

The zombies were sliding off and falling to the ground as the contraption rotated on its axis, but the next problem was that you were about to be deposited right into the arms of the waiting horde; jagged teeth snapping at the air, eager to tear you limb from limb.  

“I promise I’ll try,” you told him, bracing yourself as you were lowered into the outstretched hands of your demise.

When the bucket was about to ground level, two of the zombies lunged at you from the side, and just as their fingernails clawed at your clothing and you screamed bloody murder, a wide, black hole with blue edges opened up in the atmosphere and you fell through, screaming.

You fell back to your bed.

Your eyes flew open as you gasped, feeling your arm and neck for bite marks.

“What the hell was that?” You said aloud to the dark room.

It was so vivid, so real.

There was a boy in the dream that you desperately did not want to forget, and a voice inside told you to write down what you remembered of him.  Even as you searched around in the drawer of your nightstand, the details of the boy you kissed were slipping away and turning to mist.  

Writing frantically in the dark, you recalled that he had brown eyes and he said he wanted to be your favorite nightmare.

But what did that even mean?

The abandoned theme park and the zombies—-those details were very clear.  But him…him…HIM.  Why couldn’t you keep him in your mind?

Why couldn’t you keep him?

When the ferris wheel came to a stop, Eddie pushed the metal bar up with a grunt.

“Thanks for nothing, you guys,” he told the group of flesh-eating zombies that were all gathered casually around him, mingling with clueless expressions on their faces.

“Sorry Munson,” Val—the one with a broken neck that made her head sit sideways and a missing eyeball—said with a helpless shrug.  “Kevin said we had to.”

“Fuck Kevin,” Eddie jumped from the platform to the ground, his wallet chain clapping against his thigh. “I suppose he wants to talk to me?”

They all nodded in unison.

“Are you coming to the potlatch this weekend?” Norman—the one with a skeletal face that looked like his skin had been burned off with acid and a bloody hole in his stomach—-asked with his wide, lipless mouth.  

“Maybe,” Eddie answered, shouldering his way through the rest as they mumbled their greetings. “If I have time before band practice.”

Marv, the Zombie with maggots in his rotten cheek, clapped Eddie on the back a few times.  “Kevin is on the warpath today, but don’t let him get you down, kid.  You do good work.”  

Eddie walked a bit and then stopped and turned around when he realized none of them were beside him.  “You guys coming?”

“Nah,” Val said.  “We’ve gotta wait around here for the next one. Our shift isn’t over for another hour.”

[steddieas-shegoes]

i am Dying to see eddie and steve swap battle vest and letterman jacket and eddie supporting steve at all his games and swim meets just as much as steve supports eddie’s things….maybe more of a modern au? because that shit would not fly in 1985 lmao. steve deserves a bf who is proud of him i think.

THANK YOU!!! I am not having the best day mentally today but I have been staring at this prompt since like six a.m. and I knew what I wanted to do, but I don't know that I got all the way there. It feels a little clunky to me, but I hope it's still fun! - Mickala ❤️

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

Eddie Munson met Steve Harrington his junior year. They were unlikely friends; Eddie was one of the few gay people who were out in Hawkins, a metalhead who played guitar in a band, a guy who didn’t really fit in with any one group of people, but his access to good weed made him a guy everyone at least talked to. Steve was a basketball playing, swim captain, jock who had loaded parents and stuck up friends.

Eddie hated sports, he hated jocks, and he hated Steve’s friends.

But he loved Steve.

He didn’t say so, of course. Steve was straight as could be, and he was a good friend, maybe even his best friend besides Gareth and Jeff.

They made fun of Eddie constantly over it.

“Oh, it must be Steve time, he’s checking his hair like he could ever fix that mess,” or “Steve texting you dirty pics or are you just sunburnt?”

It was annoying.

But it also kind of sucked.

Steve was kind of a mystery in some ways. Sure, he was rich, or at least his parents were, but he didn’t seem happy.

He once told Eddie the happiest he’d ever been was the day they hung out after he scored the winning basket for a game. All they’d done then was smoke a little at Eddie’s trailer and have pizza, but whatever. If that’s what made him happiest, Eddie could do that every day.

When Eddie found out he wasn’t graduating, he showed up at Steve’s house with tears in his eyes.

“I don’t know how to tell Wayne,” he sobbed as Steve held him close, whispering that he would be fine and now they could be seniors together, that Wayne wouldn’t be mad.

Steve kissed his forehead.

Steve kissed his forehead.

Eddie’s brain was short circuiting. He stared at Steve, who was giving him a calm smile.

How was Steve so calm?

“Was that like a comfort thing or…” Eddie started, not sure what else to say.

“It was more of an ‘I’m super in love with you and hate seeing you upset’ thing,” Steve said, like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t just admitted he was in love with Eddie, like he hadn’t just completely changed everything Eddie thought he knew.

Eddie just blinked back at him.

Steve sighed, but smiled fondly at Eddie, like Eddie was adorable or something.

“I didn’t really expect the blank look when I told you.”

“What did you expect?”

“Maybe that you’d let me kiss you? For real?”

Eddie didn’t hesitate, leaning in to press his lips against Steve’s.

“I’m super in love with you, too, by the way,” Eddie said when he finally pulled away.

—----------

All summer, Eddie booked his band at any bar or local festivals he could.

He told Steve it was because he knew he wouldn’t go to college, knew he would be stuck with a job like Wayne if he didn’t find a way out of this town.

He wanted Corroded Coffin to make it, to be seen by just the right person, to open for bands he’d only dreamt of seeing live. Maybe one day have their own tour.

Steve wanted that for him.

Steve’s parents almost never came home during the summer, usually only for a day or two around Steve’s birthday to keep up appearances that they cared about him.

But Eddie was playing at a small local art vendor show a few towns over on his birthday, and had insisted that Steve go so they could make a whole day of it and celebrate his day after their set.

Steve couldn’t say no.

He left a note for his parents, threw on Eddie’s battle vest (“you’re mine and this will show everyone that you belong to me”), and drove to Eddie’s house so he could ride in his van with him.

It was the first show he was attending as Eddie’s boyfriend.

They even put him in the band group chat and jokingly called him the band’s boyfriend.

He loved that he fit in with all of them so well, how kind they all were to him, even though he didn’t share many of their interests.

The vest felt good, it made him feel loved and protected, which he’s pretty sure is what Eddie was hoping for.

His parents called him on the drive to the event, but he ignored it, knowing they would ruin his day if he answered.

They were either home and mad that he wasn’t or they were calling to tell him they wouldn’t be home for a while and a present that he didn’t even like would be delivered soon.

But he didn’t want that and he didn’t want Eddie to be mad at them. Today was supposed to be fun. It was about Eddie and his band, his friends, showing their talent and having fun on stage. It was about Steve getting to be a part of it and enjoy himself, maybe even walk around the vendors and buy something for himself.

He wore the battle vest as armor, just as Eddie had, and as anyone who knew the importance of them did.

He wore it to support Eddie, his boyfriend, who put his heart and soul into his music and into Steve.

He wore it because he’d never known what it was to love someone so much, or be loved by them in return, but he felt it most when he was surrounded by physical evidence of how much Eddie cared.

—----------

When school started, Steve was already on track to being the Varsity captain for basketball and the swim team.

But his biggest accomplishment, and he’d tell everyone this for years, was being able to say Eddie was his boyfriend.

Steve coming out had been big news for about a day, and then some girl ended up leaving school because she found out she was pregnant, and he was old news.

But then Eddie showed up wearing Steve’s letterman jacket.

That caused a hell of a scene.

For days, Steve dealt with endless questions about how long they’d been together, why he chose Eddie, if he knew that Eddie was a drug dealer and wouldn’t ever be anything.

He didn’t care.

He smiled as Eddie walked proudly through the halls wearing his jacket, gave him a kiss before class, and met up with him whenever he could.

“You should wear my battle vest if I’m wearing your jacket.”

“You think that’ll go with the polos and jeans?”

“I think if you’re wearing it, it could go with anything.”

“Gross. Are you in love with me or somethin’?” Steve asked with a smirk as Eddie leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Or somethin’.”

People at school left them alone, not sure what to do when their sports hero was dating the guy who failed his senior year.

It was probably the best case scenario for them.

Sure, they got judgmental looks from students and teachers, and when Steve’s parents found out, he’d probably be disowned, but it was worth it.

And Wayne loved Steve. He would come with Eddie to the games and swim meets that he could, cheering louder than anyone else when Steve pulled off something great.

“Maybe you should wear the jacket.”

“Now, now. Jealousy ain’t a good look on ya, kid,” Wayne said as he slapped Eddie's shoulder in the stands.

“Maybe you should marry him.”

Wayne’s head snapped to Eddie.

“Is that somethin’ you’re thinkin’ about?”

“Yeah. I mean not now obviously, we’re in high school. And it’s really only been a few months. But I think so.”

“Have you talked about it?”

Suddenly, all of Wayne’s attention was on Eddie, not the game happening in front of them.

“Not really. But he’s doodled Steve Munson on just about every piece of paper I’ve seen,” Eddie said with a smirk.

The conversation dropped off when Steve made another shot, Wayne jumping up and cheering like it was the game winner. From what Eddie could tell, Wayne thought every basket was a game winner if Steve scored it.

—----------

Eddie didn’t manage to graduate.

He was heartbroken.

Steve managed to get through with halfway decent grades, but hadn’t bothered applying to college since he didn’t know what he wanted to do.

His parents came home for the first time in over a year for his graduation, complaining almost instantly that they didn’t understand the dramatics over doing what was expected and required.

And then they met Eddie.

Eddie, who wore Steve’s jacket to his graduation, proud of his boyfriend even if he was bummed that only one class kept him from graduating alongside him.

Wayne sat next to him in the stands, ready to cheer the second they called Steve’s name.

Steve’s parents wouldn’t sit near them, refused to believe that Steve was friends with anyone living in a trailer park.

Eddie was letting him tell them when he was ready; he knew how terrifying it could be to face people who should love you no matter what but probably wouldn’t after they knew.

Steve insisted he wear his jacket regardless.

“Let them come to their own conclusions if they want. They’ll know by the time they leave again that you’re mine and I’m yours.”

So Eddie did.

And Steve’s parents were pretending they didn’t notice.

At the end of the ceremony, after Wayne subtly wiped his eyes and Eddie gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, they both made their way towards the parking lot.

Steve told them his parents made them dinner reservations he couldn’t miss, but that he’d be over after. Wayne was baking him his favorite dessert for later from scratch: confetti cake with buttercream frosting. And Eddie had his own plans for the night once Wayne left for his night shift.

So when Steve showed up only an hour later wearing Eddie’s battle vest, looking like he’d been crying for most of the last hour, his hackles rose.

“Sweetheart, what happened?”

Steve fell against his chest, letting out a sob that drew the attention of Wayne in the kitchen.

“What’s goin’ on? Steve, are you hurt?”

Steve just cried louder and Eddie’s eyes widened, panicked look pointed towards his uncle.

“Stevie, can you look at me for a minute?”

Steve pulled back and sniffled a few times, but managed to look at Eddie.

“Is it your parents?”

Steve nodded.

“They kick you out?” Wayne asked from behind Eddie.

Steve nodded again.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if ya need me,” Wayne said. “But Steve? You’re welcome here. You understand me? I love ya like my own, and you have a place here if you want it.”

Steve nodded, clearly holding back another sob at Wayne’s words.

“Wanna talk about it or just sit on the couch with me for a bit?”

“Both.”

Eddie smiled down at him before placing a quick kiss to his head.

They sat down on the couch, Steve practically in Eddie’s lap for how close he was.

“I told them why you were wearing my jacket. They didn’t believe me at first, said that I was just trying to rile them up for attention. Then I went upstairs and got your vest and tried to tell them again and they-” Steve took in a gasping breath. “They said no son of theirs would be seen with trash like the Munsons. I said that at least the Munsons care about me and that was it. My dad said I better be gone before they get back from the dinner that was supposed to be celebrating my graduation.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You can stay here with me.”

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to let me move in just because we’re together, Eds. Robin offered to split rent at her apartment. I’d have to sleep on the couch since it’s a one bedroom, but it’ll be cheap.”

“If you want to do that, I’ll support you, but…” Eddie sighed. “I’d really love to have you here. I know Wayne would too. You’re my family, a Munson if I have anything to say about it, and-”

“Wait. What?”

“What?”

“I’m a Munson?”

Oh, well, okay. Guess his plan was shit now anyway.

“I had a whole plan. Jesus. I don’t want your memory of this to be ruined by your parents.”

Steve’s eyes widened.

“Were you…?”

“I was. But I’ll come up with a new plan, sweetheart.”

“No! No. Please. I don’t want this day to be ruined by them. I never want another moment ruined by them,” Steve begged, his eyes still wet, but a smile replacing his frown.

“Stay here then.”

Eddie ran to his room, grabbed the box he had sitting in his dresser for the last three months, and ran back to Steve in record time. He probably would’ve passed PE the first time around if he knew Steve was waiting at the end of the mile.

He kneeled on one knee in front of Steve, who was crying but for a totally different reason now.

“Stevie, I know we’re young and technically I haven’t even gotten my high school diploma yet, and I’m not really sure what kind of future I can even give you, but I know I want you in it. I know I want us to figure it out together, here or somewhere else. Anywhere else preferably. I know any minute I spend away from you is a minute wasted. And I know that I will never love someone half as much as I love you. So if it’s okay with you, I think I’d really like to marry you. Sound good?”

“Can I change my name to Steve Munson?”

“We can go sign the papers tomorrow if that’s what you want, sweetheart.”

Steve leaped forward, practically tackling Eddie to the floor, kissing his cheeks and neck and forehead.

“Is this a yes?”

“Yes! I wanna marry you right now.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah, can we?”

“You don’t wanna do something nice?”

“No, just want you and Wayne and Robin to witness it. And I wanna save up and buy us an RV, and I want our honeymoon to last forever. We can travel the country, you can perform at random bars and I can be a bartender for the night or something. Use the tips to fill the tank of the RV and pay for our cell phones.”

“You’ve put some thought into this.”

Steve leaned in to kiss Eddie messily, lips wet with spit.

“It’s all I’ve thought about for a year, Eds.”

“That long?”

“Mhm. Wanted to be yours forever for so long.”

“Let me put the ring on then, ya goof.”

Steve was smiling. Eddie was smiling. They couldn’t see him, but Wayne was smiling from the entrance way to the kitchen.

“It’s pretty. Where’d you get it?”

“I gave it to him,” Wayne said, finally entering the room.

“What?” Steve looked back down at the ring now on his finger, and back up at Wayne.

“Made him promise to use it for you. You’re the only one I trust with Eddie’s heart.”

“Wayne, I-”

“No arguin’. It was my wedding ring. Ain’t doin’ me no good now. I know it ain’t much, but it means a lot to me and I know it’ll be important to you.”

Wayne had told them both the story of his one and only love. How they’d met in high school, got married when they were 18, and enjoyed what little time they had together. She got sick young, doctors didn’t know half of what they know now, and she was gone before they could even think about finding treatment.

He wore his ring every day for the last 35 years, only taking it off if it needed polishing.

Until the day he gave it to Eddie and said, “you better ask that boy and he better say yes.”

And they did.

On the day they got married at the courthouse, Eddie wore Steve’s letterman jacket and Steve wore Eddie’s battle vest, new gold wedding ring patches displayed proudly on the front of each.

[little-emerald-snake]

Kinktober Day 16

Public - Sebastian Sallow X F!MC

🔥NSFW 🔞 MDNI

1.5k words

It had become tradition to see each other at least 3 times a year since they’d graduated. This time Sebastian had reached out via owl to invite her back to Hogsmeade for a trip down memory lane.

He started her visit by taking her for a stroll in Hogsmeade, visiting all the vendors they knew well and used to love including taking her to the Three Broomsticks for butterbeer.

They’d spent over two hours drinking spiked butterbeer and catching up with Sirona, grateful it was a slow day and she had the time to catch up with them.

They had planned to stay at an inn in Hogsmeade but she had begged Sebastian to take her on a stroll around the castle. They got permission from the headmaster and took their time exploring their old stomping grounds.

The castle held so many memories both good and bad for them both. It was a mad wave of nostalgia for them. The memories of long nights studying in the library, the Undercroft where they’d shared dreams and secrets and even awkward kisses during a night in 7th year after indulging in a little too much firewhiskey.

After visiting all their favorite places throughout the castle they’d walked back to Hogsmeade, chatting along the way about life and how far they’d actually come since graduating.

Sebastian slowed to a stop at a place along the road to Hogsmeade where a path broke off to an old set of ruins. He’d known the area well, and after a bit of debating he knew this was the best chance he had at making a move on her.

He stepped off the path to the branched off section and turned to offer her his hand. “Let’s go exploring, love. For old times sake?”

She seemed hesitant but only for a moment before she took his hand and smiled. Her mind drifting back to wandering and exploring the highlands like they had so many times in their youth. He beamed, a childlike happiness across his face that she hadn’t seen since they were young.

He pulled her excitedly to a set of stone ruins that remained mostly standing and with just enough cover that he could pull her behind a stone wall so they could catch their breath.

They weren’t far from the path and anyone walking down the path would hear them and if they looked close enough they could see the Lumos cast that came from Sebastian’s wand.

He placed his wand on a ledge created by a stone that was pulled just a bit farther out than the others. He turned to her with a smile, surprised when she pressed herself against him. “Reminds me So much of when we used to sneak out and fight poachers and dark wizards after curfew.”

He smirked, leaning up against the wall, crossing his arms casually. “Oh yea? What about it reminds you of back then?”

She giggled, moving even closer to him, her hands sliding between his vest and his long jacket. “Well, the rush from being out alone at night. The ruins, the less traveled paths. The feelings I get when I look at you. The ones that make me want to revisit that clumsy kiss in 7th year and see if your lips still feel as electric now as they did back then.”

His breath caught, hands coming up to stop hers in their mission to burrow against his sides. “You felt it too? And you didn’t say anything till now…why?”

She hesitated, chin dropping as shame flooded her cheeks. “Bash, of course I felt it. But we were kids and we were so close because of that trauma bond. I didn’t want to build a relationship off of that”.”

He suddenly took hold of her wrists, pinning them in one of his hands above her head against the rough stone of the ruins. She whimpered in response, her eyes looking up to meet his coffee brown orbs.

He pinned her in place with the burning look filled with a mixture of confusion and heat. His free hand slid gently up her side, bringing a whimper from her lips. He groaned, pulling her leg up so her knee hooked around his hip.

He leaned in, capturing her lips in a gentle kiss and closing his eyes. Her own eyes fluttered closed and she kissed him back, passionately. He devoured her willing lips, licking her bottom lip and taking charge when she pleasantly parted them for him.

She tasted exquisite, the smell of her enveloping his senses and making him crave her even more. Logically he knew this was the last place he wanted to take her, but the excitement of possibly getting caught, of finally having her. It was all too much.

He ground his hips against her and she responded in kind, arching into him and moaning into the kiss. She met him equally as urgently in their kisses as his hand still held her wrists above her.

He ground against her again and the pretty sigh she let out made him snap. His lips left hers, teeth coming to scrape against her sensitive neck as he ground harder against her. She pressed her hips into him and moaned softly at his response.

He pulled back, dropping her hands and gripping her chin to make her look at him. “Tell me no. To let you go right now. Not like this. Anything. Make me stop.”

Her lips lifted in a small smirk and she pushed against him, her center grinding against his clothed erection as she pushed her lips against his.

At that moment he’d lost his last thread of sanity. Lips crashing back to hers, hand leaving her chin to lift her skirts as quickly as he could. Her own movements became urgent as she pushed at his hands and began lifting her skirts up. “Your pants, please. I can’t wait anymore…”

He got the message and began to undo his own pants with his one hand, the other hand still keeping her knee glued to his hip. She gasped when he roughly ripped her panties to the side and ran his swollen head against her slit.

His eyes scanned her face for any signs of hesitation and when he met nothing but frantic need he harshly plunged into her welcoming heat. A moan ripped through the sounds of chirping crickets.

Their lips met in a clash of tongue and teeth. He grunted, fucking into her harshly. Her own hips met his every thrust, moans swallowed by Sebastian’s eager lips.

Their movements were eager and rushed as they chased the same burning passion they’d both felt within each other for all these years.

She cried out, breaking their kiss as she clenched and pulsed around him. He grunted in her ear, fucking her through her orgasm, taking only a moment to peer around the ruins and check that nobody was nearby on the path.

Anyone in the area would easily be able to hear them on such a clear night, so close to the path. Once he was sure she’d finished, he slid out from her and dropped her knee. She gave him a concerned look, a question on her lips.

He smirked and rotated his finger in a ‘turn around’ motion. She obliged and he bent her over a sturdy enough stack of fallen bricks lifting her skirts back up. “Don’t worry, I'm not done with you yet. But you need to try and be quiet. Anyone out here could hear your pretty cries and we don’t want that do we?”

She shook her head, biting into her knuckle as he thrust back into her. His hand gripped her hip, slamming into her while reaching around with his other hand to find the sensitive bundle of nerves he knew would drive her over the edge again.

His own pleasure wasn’t far behind as he chased his own end. It wasn’t much longer before she was tensing around him again, her voice echoing out in the night even as she pressed her face into the pile of her bunched skirts that she held up.

He followed her right over the edge, hips slamming against hers and stilling deep inside of her as he filled her up. When he pulled back, his essence had filled her up so much their combined mess dripped down her inner thighs, her panties only soaking up a bit as he pushed them back into place over her swollen cunt. “Looks like you’ll need to shower tonight, gorgeous.”

He gave her a lewd wink as he buttoned his trousers up and picked up his wand from the stone ledge. After pulling herself together as much as possible she took his hand and they walked back to the path, her legs shaky and unsteady. “I can’t believe we had sex in the ruins we used to run around all the time.”

He only chuckled and linked his hand and hers as they walked back to town and to the inn where they checked into one room and spent the rest of the night wrapped in each other's arms, discussing their future.

Kinktober Prompt List

[reneeluv154]

The man with the accent.

I hope you enjoy! 🤍🤍

In this imagine your looking for a place to stay when you find no luck Jack saves you from a drunken man as well as offering a place to stay.

I was terribly lost, this small town was bursting at the seams with people and carriages, horses and fruit stands. “Excuse me, can I help you?” A rather short man with short brunette hair, thick sideburns, and a somewhat smug look asked. He wore a tall black hat, with a black jacket and leather gloves to match. A gray button-down suit with a white shirt underneath. A cloth wrapped around his neck, his shoes were nice and polished, he didn’t fit in.

“Well I came here hoping to find shelter, you see I-“

He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m not all worried about that but-“ He paused, pulling a golden-backed pocket watch out of his suit pocket and checking the time.

“You might as well hurry, the men get quite restless.”

He gave a small inconsiderate smile before walking off toward a vendor. I was disgusted, how could someone say such a thing?

The sun had now set, leaving the stars and moon to take the sky. The only light in town came from the old pub in front of me. The only way I was going to find a place to stay was if I went in there and searched for somebody. The only people I had seen come in and out of the place were men.

Walking in, there were plenty of people, some were hollering while others were singing and some were simply enjoying a beer with a friend or two.I noticed the woman serving drinks.

“Excuse me, mam?”

“Oh, hi sweetheart I’ll be with you in just a moment .”

“I was just wondering if you had a place for me to stay. Just for the night.”

“I’m afraid all the rooms are filled.”

I didn’t exactly understand but she wasn’t quite in the talking mood, with the men ordering beers, whiskey, and rum left and right.I walked further into the mess of people feeling awkward and vulnerable.

“Hey, baby. How about you take me back and give me something special.” The man reeked of rum and cigarettes, clutching my arm tightly while stumbling about.

“I’m sorry I think you have the wrong person.” It was more of a question than a statement.

“Oh come on.” He tried tugging me with him to the back of the bar but I resisted, I was thoroughly shocked by his strength.

“Please let me go.” I was trying to be nice but also pleaded with him, attempting to pry his hand off.

“Leave her alone Gale.” This voice was different from any of the others I had heard, it was weird, I had never heard anything like it.

“Oh come on, it's her job.” The man huffed, tightening his grip and tugging on me harder.

“No. Gale, it’s not, this young lady does not work here.” The man with the accent came over loosening Gale’s grip immediately. Gale huffed, taking a look at me and going back to sit down by a small window.

“You can sit with us if you would like.” I followed the man with an accent as he walked over to a small rectangle table pulling a chair over for me. I sat down observing them, one at a time. The man to my left was much older than the Man with the accent, the hair on his head was gone but his beard and mustache still remained.

His natural hair color was breaking through with a bit of gray undertone. His clothes weren’t the nicest I had seen. The vest he wore over top of his stained button-up shirt with several of the buttons missing, was fraying at all the seams, a few tears here and there. The small red piece of cloth he had tied around his neck was faded as was the rest of his clothing. His suspenders holding up his light pants, a button having popped off of those as well.

The man with the accent was handsome, to say the least. His dirty blonde hair was messy from where he continued to run his hand through it while his lips were glossy from the beer in his hand. His brown eyes focused on the table as though he was trying to remember a memory far long gone. He wore a thin shirt, the puffy sleeves rolled up halfway revealing his slender arms and prominent veins. Overtop was a navy buttoned vest. His pants were brown, he wore a piece of cloth around his neck as well. His clothing was far more professional and seemingly new than the other.

“I heard you needed a place to stay. I have a hospital not too far down the street. I'm sure we could spare a room if you would like.” The man with the accent offered.

I wanted to so badly but had to think of those who truly needed that room.

“I greatly appreciate the offer but I’m sure there are plenty of others who need the room.”

“Yes but not currently, If the room is needed we will take you out and place you somewhere else safe.”

Both the men were now standing. Taking a moment to consider I agreed, walking out with the two of them and towards the hospital.

I sat on the small window sill watching the stars and the moon.

“I wouldn’t sit there, it would hurt if you fell.” That accent seemed to shock me each and every time.

“Nah, you think so?” Sarcasm spilling from my mouth.

He shook his head with a small smile. “Here’s some extra blankets it can get quite cold at night, if you need anything more just let me or one of the nurses know.”

I closed the window and latched it, going to help him spread the blankets across the bed.

“Thank you for letting me stay.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He smiled walking over to the door.

“Get some rest, I’ll probably come to check up on you tomorrow.”

I nodded leaving him to close the door and me climb into the bed, all the blankets creating a comforting weight.

There was one last thought on my mind before drifting to sleep. What was his name?

Part 2 is now on my profile.

[amphetamine-keen]

Battle Jacket Tips! Yippee!!

I'm hyperfixating, so be warned that this might be rambly and a lot longer than it needs to be, but I promise these are good tips

I'll try to put all my rambles in small text and if it gets too long, I'll stick it under a read-more-- oh, would you look at that

For starters, what is a battle jacket? Maybe you've just stumbled across this post and have no context, or maybe you're researching bc you think you might be interested in making one, here's a short explanation:

Battle jackets are a popular garment in a lot of alternative communities. Punk and metal are the biggest two that I'll be focusing on, but there's genuinely no limit to the "genres" that a battle jacket could belong to. I don't like country music, but like, if you want to make a country battle jacket, do it! Have fun!

Battle jackets are typically either leather or denim and covered in patches and pins to the wearer's taste. Punk battle jackets might include more political sentiments and DIY than say, a metal battle jacket, but of course, there are no rules, and my battle jackets tend to be a bit of a mix of punk and metal. Remember: There are no rules, these are all just suggestions.

The Base:

A few suggestions for your first battle jacket:

Do thrift your starting garment. If you can't find something exactly like what you're looking for, don't sweat it. Find something "good enough" and get started. That's what fabric dye and scissors are for. DIY or Die is the motto here. My most recent battle vest started life blue and with sleeves. Now it's black with big yellow panels in the sides.

Do get your jacket a little bigger than usual. Patches can stiffen up the garment and make it feel tighter, plus, if you wear it year round you'll wanna be able to put it over your coat in the colder season. I actually have two vests, a warm weather and a cold weather vest. The warm weather vest is a lot smaller so it doesn't hang off me when I'm just wearing a shirt, but I recommend starting with a larger vest and doing the "warm weather" vest as a second project.

Don't buy a premade battle jacket, especially fast fashion. The whole point is to make it to your tastes, so buying a jacket with someone else's patches and pin picks kinda mucks up the best parts of making a unique, custom garment. Also, the fast fashion industry is horrifically exploitative, and supporting it financially isn't very punk. If you've already done so, don't beat yourself up. We're all learning and growing. Take the things you learn and grow from them in the future. That is punk.

The Patches:

The biggest patch on a battle jacket is your "back patch." They're huge and seen as the sort of "keystone" of a jacket. They're not a requirement, but I like them a lot. Usually, the patch is of the wearer's favorite album, or something similar, but they can be anything you want. Tarot cards, art pieces. Go nuts and find something that brings you joy. My first vest was very "traditional" with a Metallica Master of Puppets patch, but my second one has painted + embroidered handprints from all my long-distance friends so I can keep them with me <3

Do buy directly from band websites, or from the merch stands at live shows! That's my favorite way to get patches, even if they might be expensive or have iffy manufacturing ethics because it shows where my vest has been and what it's seen.

Do buy from small businesses and online vendors. Try your local craft fairs, or Etsy shops for patches you like. They might be pricier, but that's just because the seller isn't exploiting factory workers and valuing their own time.

Do make your own patches! I might go more into this later, or on a different post, but there are a lot of ways to make your own patches. Embroidery, paint, stenciling, etc. You can get fabric quarters at most craft supply places for like $3 USD tops or free if there's a local Hobby Lobby. Acrylic paint works, though it might crack a bit over time. Fabric paint is pretty widely available and gives a smoother look.

Don't just buy wholesale packs of patches on Amazon. Like the above point about premade jackets, bulk patch packs are often made in exploitative sweatshop conditions, and Amazon should be used sparingly because even if the manufacturer is ethical, Amazon's warehouses are not. Also like the above, don't beat yourself up if you already bought a pack of patches. I did it too, when I first started, you live and you learn.

Don't wear patches for bands you don't know. I mean, you can, I'm not a cop, but you will look like a poser.

Non-Patch Editions:

I said it before, and I'll say it again. There are no rules. You don't have to limit yourself just to patches to customize your jacket. Have fun with it. Here's a list of options to give you ideas, based on things that I've done or want to do on my own.

Embroider directly on the fabric! I put spider webs and violets on my vests just because I like them and think embroidery is fun.

Spikes and studs!! You can get packs of spikes from lots of places (some more ethically than others) or you can make your own. As a disclaimer, some music venues may raise issues with pointier bits, as they could cause injury to other people, so use your best judgment.

Add other metal bits! Can tabs, lighter hoods, chains, keys, washers, nails, bolts, and pieces of scrap metal are all pretty fun to play around with!

Corsetting. Whether as a resizing measure or just for the aesthetic, get some eyelets and throw some ribbon in there. Could be fun!

Pins! I've mentioned them before, but also you can make your own with some bottle caps and a safety pin. Or repaint buttons you already have. I've kept the same little pronoun pin I repainted with nail polish for almost a decade, and it's still in great shape.

Putting it all together:

These are some general tips for putting all the pieces together, and honestly was supposed to be the whole post, but I like to talk so here we go!!

Lay out everything first before sewing it down. I have ripped up more patches than I care to admit, just to sew them back down on another part of the jacket.

Big tip for the mix-patch crowds, keep all your political patches on the front of the jacket. The idea is, if some asshole has a problem with your opinions, you want to see them coming. You don't want them sneaking up behind you.

Thread. Elder Punks often recommend dental floss for fastening patches to your jacket bc of its strength and rightfully sew (hahaha!). However, if you'd like more colorful options, try upholstery thread. It's super strong, and it's what I use on all of my own jackets. Though, I do keep floss and a needle around for convenient repairs. The box has its own thread cutter!

Needles. If you're like me and have shitty old person hands at the ripe old age of 23, those tiny dollar store needles will make your hands cramp up like a motherfucker. For this reason, I use doll needles. My default needle came in a walmart pack, and I use the smallest gauge, 3 in long needle. The thicker ones are too hard to get through the fabric. It's much easier to grab and easier on my hands.

Thimbles. Even with big-ass doll needles, sometimes it's difficult to grab them well enough to get through really thick fabrics. That's what thimbles are for (not to keep you from pricking yourself with the sharp end). Get yourself one, or improvise something similar, it will save your life.

Stitching. Sew down all of your patches, even the ones that claim to be "iron-on" because in my experience the iron-on adhesive fails pretty quickly. I recommend a whip or blanket stitch, so the edges don't peel up or fray (as handmade patches might). If you're moshing, a lot of folks claim that floss is best because it keeps people from ripping off your patches. Respectfully, I think that's a bunch of horseshit. If you don't want your patches ripped off, make them harder to grab onto. Keep your stitches small and close together so assholes can't get a grip on them. That said, I've never actually had someone try to rip off my patches in the pit or otherwise, so use your own discretion.

Washing. A lot of hardcore crust punks will tell you never to wash your battle jacket, but crust punk isn't for everyone. I wash my jacket every year or so, and it's pretty easy to do as long as nothing on your vest is susceptible to damage in water (I had some early patches that I finished with Modpodge that were ruined in the first wash, so keep that in mind). If you're confident in your stitchwork, just toss the vest in a garment washing bag or a pillowcase and chuck it in the wash with everything else. If you're a little more cautious, it's easy enough to hand wash it in a tub/sink and hang it out to dry. Don't use bleach or you'll probably ruin something.

[glitterge1pen]

Have you ever stood in an empty hallway and been put into 2005-2009?

Rukawa Kaede x reader, sfw, fluff, word count 3,490

guys I've done it again I have wrote something vague and tender

Stadium Operations Manger had not been the job you thought you would find yourself in. At least according to the results of the career aptitude test you took in high school.

Scheduling and preparing the stadium for events was your main job. Working with musicians teams to figure out how their touring stage would fit in your space. What nights were for basketball or hockey or monster jam trucks.

What charity wanted to sing at that hockey game? And there's a new food vendor right? These were questions you handed off to other people, the managers beneath you. With a walkie talkie, clipboard, and google calendar you hoped yourself invincible.

That was of course until Rukawa. His name squeezes its way out of the corner of your mouth, it tingles the tip of your nose and turns the ends of your ears hot. Your staff in aprons, yellow crowd control vests, and black security jackets moves out of your way as you pass.

There is twenty minutes until the doors open and then another hour until the game.

Your shoes clunk on the tiled floor, your legs burning from the fast pace. Where could he be this time? You were almost back at where you had started and there was no sign of him.

Pressing on the walkie you ask if anyone has seen him. They don't have to ask who. But he is still amiss and you don't know if you should be angry or impressed.

Deciding that he can wait just a couple minutes you walk over to the glass wall that overlooks the city. In the summer doors lead to a rooftop cafe, a balcony, but now in the colder months the doors are locked and you can only look.

At night the lights and reflections of the city are like rain. You often find yourself taking in this exact view, either on the first floor or higher up on the third floor where you are now.

Next to you is one of the smaller merchandise shops. The front of the shop also glass. All the local sports teams merch is stocked here and tonight the basketball teams logo is most prominent amongst the jerseys. Especially Rukawa’s jersey. That number of his, 11, seemingly mocking you. Where was he?

The shop door was propped open, you'd have to check the schedule and remind whoever closed last night to make sure to shut it. A sneaker. There behind the cashier counter on your right is a sneaker on the floor.

You leave the door to investigate. There is Rukawa on that blue shop carpet. His arms crossed over his chest and his breathing even. You kick the bottom of his shoe.

"Come on," he groans, "Get up, game time is soon,"

"You're lying,"

"I'm not lying you got to get your ass up and back downstairs,"

He doesn't say anything. You huff, knowing that the next part of this charade is trying to yank him off the floor. Rukawa is tall and mostly muscle, you tug on his arm but never get him very far. Today he is limp dead weight. You set your clipboard down to use both hands, in a misstep you tangle your shoes with his. Your hands loose grip on his forearm and you're tumbling backwards.

This is what seems to wake Rukawa up. His own hand grips onto your wrist pulling you in his direction just as he’s standing onto his feet. You bump into his chest and are momentarily in a whirlwind. Rukawa smells nice, his cologne faint but there, beneath the vague spicy citrus is the gentle sweat of sleep. His jersey isn’t pressed to flat clean lines but it is clean, it smells fresh. He’s looking at you not saying anything and you can feel his gaze but do not meet it.

“Your boss is going to kill me,”

“He’s not my boss,”

“He's your coach and that’s close enough, come on we have to get you down there,”

Rukawa follows you out of the store and into the massive stadium halls. He keeps pace with you, employees eye him but don’t ask for pictures or autographs. Around the bend is the employee only elevator and your shoulder brushes against him on the ride down to the basement floors.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,”

You say with a nonchalant tone, your eyes feasting upon your clipboard trying to find when the medic team is supposed to arrive tonight.

“I didn't mean for you to trip,”

This time he can't look at you while you look at him. You don’t know what to say, your mind trying to find some other instance where you’ve heard him apologize but can't. It's the thing that twitter accounts, sports journalists and other players say about Rukawa. That his head is too high, that he can't admit when he's over stepped but instead will say what he plans on doing next. The elevator dings open and you tell him that it's alright.

༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

Your office is tucked away in the basement. It's barely big enough for the desk, couch and shelf of binders that hold it together. Rukawa is there on the couch, his back to you as you type away on your computer. Players were required to arrive at the stadium at least forty five minutes before the games. Most came earlier than that. Rukawa's teammates were lounging in the locker room with take out, in the seats below the announcers box playing Xbox on the jumbotron and listening to music on the court.

Rukawa was napping. You wondered if he had some sort of sleep disorder. Since finding him in the shop several weeks ago Rukawa had stopped napping in various places around the stadium and taken up your offer to sleep in the office. You turn to look at him now and find that he is already looking at you.

“You're awake,”

And he nods, sitting up.

“You ready for the game,”

He scoots the couch closer to the desk.

“I’ll take that as a yes,”

“We’re weak on defensive because Miller is out. Their good scorers, and so are we but our weak point is shining,”

“You can still win,”

Rukawa is close to the desk so that he can rest his head in his arms. His breath itches your skin as your attention battles to focus on the computer screen in front of you and not him.

“And you have to move the couch back when you leave for warm ups,”

༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

The team was on a losing streak. You did not bring it up to Rukawa. He sulked in your office before games, twisting in his sleep. He had been spending even more time in the gym. The training center was only two blocks away from the stadium. He parked his car in the same lot as yours, you saw him in there sometimes before you had to clock in, the training center not open yet. Most often he was napping, but sometimes you caught him watching game highlights. You always made sure to bump your fist on his window as you passed by.

Today, in the cold night air, he was there again. The trunk of his car slamming shut as he tossed his duffle bag inside. His eyes widened when he saw you, having caught him off guard. Another thing that you had not been able to do before. You see the bags under his eyes, the red creeping around his pupils.

“Rukawa, what are you still doing here, its really late,”

He shrugs, “I could ask you the same thing,” you were carrying a box full of posters. The new ones for the holders had come in, you liked to keep the cool ones of bands you liked. Rukawa held the box for you as you unlocked the car. Your breath came out in white clouds, the air slithering around you, Rukawa put his hands in his pockets.

“Hungry?”

He asks. The restaurant of Rukawa's choosing was at first surprising. Empanadas served over a counter. Traditional ones, and ones with more flashy fillings like Vegan Caprse and Spicy Bbq Chicken. The place is small with few tables, it's on the mall strip downtown and has doors on either side. People filter in and out easily, their empanadas wrapped in wax paper, steaming hot as people head back outside. Most seem drunk, rosy, and loud as they wait for their food.

You order first and snag the window seats, gliding onto the high stools. It's Friday so even though it's late the street is still buzzing. When Rukawa slides into the seat next to you, he hands you a cellophane wrapped pastry.

“For letting me use the office,”

“Oh you didn't have to do that,”

“I did. I have to do something for you,”

He's so matter of fact about it that it makes you want to roll your eyes. He's serious and dead set on small things like this, it makes you grin. You watch the people on the street, your reflection mixing with the lights, the people behind you in the small restaurant just blurry shapes in the window. The food is good and warm, the bread flaky and filling.

“Are you okay?” He doesn't answer but instead just looks at you. If he was going to be stubborn about it you supposed you could be a little mean, “I know you don’t like losing and…” You trail off hiding a smile behind your empanada. He twists around in his stool, propping his elbows up on the counter. You don’t stop looking at him and eventually he sighs and swivels the stool to face you.

“Fine. I don’t like it. And I can't do anything about it,”

“And have you done other things?”

“Like what?”

“What you've never taken, like a spa day or something?”

“I’m not going to a spa,”

“I’m not saying go to a spa I just mean when you aren’t playing basketball what do you do?”

༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

“When I first moved here this is where I would come,”

It's the next day and you had spent more time than you'd like to admit thinking about what to wear. Only to find that Rukawa was bringing you to a bridge looking down at the freeway. It was the massive freeway too, the one with ten lanes and the toll. The bridge had nothing but chainlink, that enclosed the concrete path, and a single iron railing keeping people from throwing rocks and themselves down at the cars. It connected a neighborhood of houses to a strip mall.

“And why would you come here? There's like nothing here,”

He shrugged, “This path connects to the river, the one down by the stadium. I used to run it every morning and sometimes I’d stop here at the bridge.”

There's stairs you have to descend, they seem clunky and odd next to the freeway. Drivers slow down as they approach and merge from the ramp onto the lanes. The city is still in view and you find your eyes wandering to the skyscrapers and glistening windows. Rukawa nudges your shoulder with your own.

“This is the part I like,”

A car gets on the exit ramp.

“What about it?”

“Look at the drivers,”

The next car comes, a blue honda, and the girl driving looks over her shoulder to see if she can merge. Almost everyone does this, the peek over the shoulder. Of course everyone does this, but it is charming to see that Rukawa has picked a spot just to watch people do this mundane task. You try to think of other things like this that everyone must do but your mind comes up blank, too busy watching the cars pass by.

There are easy things to think of, like breathing, drinking water, sleeping, that all people somehow complete. But smaller things, like having to check over your shoulder, escape you. But you know still that other people exist in the same way you do.

“I get why you come here,”

༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

“That just isn't going to work sir,”

The grody man in front of you was trying to convince you that his musicians stage set needed another rig for lights.

“There has to be some way you can do this for us, we’ll downsize if we have too,”

“You're going to downsize over some lights?”

All the pleasantries between you two had been used up. The past ten minutes had been very tense, the forty five minute meeting was entering two hour meeting territory and you were jittering with nerves. Not because you couldn't handle this man but because there was a game tonight and you still hadn't made your first round of check-ins with your team.

“Hell yeah we’ll downsize over this. This is money that you’ll be losing,”

“It's not possible, we simply don't have the room for it,”

“Then make room!”

The door to your office swings open, Rukawa is there, duffle bag slung over his shoulder and frozen as he takes in the atmosphere.

“Oh, I didn't know you had a meeting today,”

He’s about to turn away but you usher him in.

“No, no, its alright we were just finishing up,”

“No we aren't!”

Rukawa’s eyes dart between you and this man, he tosses his duffle bag onto the couch, stepping aside to let the man pass. But the man is still in the chair across from your desk, his face red and his palms up like can catch him an explanation for this interruption.

“I’m sorry but we are done. I've explained several times that we don't have room for another rig, and even if we did I couldn't let you use that space because the amount of lights you're suggesting is a fire hazard,”

“Other places have given us the space so why can't you?”

“Because we don't have it!”

You are practically yelling and the man's mouth is open in shock, his hand on his chest like he has the right to be appalled.

“You have to leave,”

Rukawa says. You don't take your eyes off the man in front of you.

“You don't have any say in this matter!”

“They told you to leave, leave,”

Finally, after a long, long beat of silence the man gets up and leaves. He slams your office door hard. Your fists balled up at your sides, you jump at the door. Opening it only to slam it shut even harder than he had. You stand in the middle of your office unsure of what to do now. Your whole body burning hot, your eyes brimming with tears, and your hands still clenched tight.

“Come on, you have to get out of this office,”

You run your fingers over the lines in your forehead, the ones that appear before you're going to cry.

“No, no, I have to check in with security and-”

“Do you think it's a good idea to do that when you're not calm and ready?” “But I have to,”

“Just ten minutes,”

You follow Rukawa to the elevator and find yourself retracing steps to the merchandise store you had last found him in. To your surprise Rukawa walks past that and to the doors that lead to the patio, and he opens them. He somehow has a key and though it's chilly out you still stand on the rooftop. It's afternoon, the sky a strong blue, clouds fluffy.

“Thanks,”

You say as Rukawa tosses you his warm up jacket.

༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

“Can’t you go talk to him,”

“Isn't that your job,”

Rukawa's coach, a balding middle aged man who wears too many rings, sighs, and shakes his head.

“Your better at it, he likes you better,”

“Which is it, am I better or does he like me better,”

“You know it's both,”

You hum and continue typing on your laptop.

“I’ll go with you if you're scared,”

“I’m not scared!”

“Then why aren't you going?”

“Beucae Rukawa is a professional athlete and I trust he knows what he's doing,”

“And I’m his coach and I’m saying he's doing too much, get him out of the gym, hes pissing everyone off,”

“Why do I have to do it? It's not my responsibility,” 

“I already told you, he likes you best”

This is the conversation you had with him in your office that led to you braving the night and walking to the training center. You show your stadium badge to the secretary behind the desk and she does not let you in. So you call coach and he doesn't answer, which leads to you calling Rukawa.

“Can you come down to the front desk,”

He's breathless as he speaks, “The front desk where?”

“Here, like where you are, the training center,”

Suddenly you are scared and nervous and don't know exactly what you’ll say to Rukawa. When he gets down to the lobby he bursts through the doors, head whipping back and forth to find you.

“Did something happen?”

“What? No? Did coach not tell you I was coming?”

Rukawa's shoulders drop, and he shakes his head no.

“He wants you out of the gym,” He runs a hand through his hair, “he says you're stressing everyone out,”

Rukawa hunches over on his knees, he huffs.

“He couldn't tell me that?”

“He says he did and you didn't listen.”

He flops back onto the couch that's in the lobby. You stand there holding the strap of your work bag. You aren't sure what's supposed to happen next, are you supposed to sit down with him? Is he actually going to leave? He wraps the healthy leaf of the house plant that's next to the couch around his fingers. It shines underneath the lights, green, vibrant, of life.

“Have you ever been inside?”

༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

Since Rukawa had given you a tour of the training center he was more prone to dropping by your office on days that he did not have games. He had also begun inviting you to practices. You had only been able to make it to two but they were interesting to watch. You didn't sit in the bleachers but rather in this hallway with windows that looked down onto the court. There were hardly any people there, and they appeared to be other employees.

You were not in your office though when Rukawa had popped in. He saw the drink on your desk and the light of the computer screen. He went wandering the basement offices in an attempt to find you. He grabbed his lunch too, he had come from a practice and was starving. He knew the building pretty well from his adventures in napping. He checked the water fountain, the break room but found you in the office supply closet. Which is where the big xerox machine was.

“Hey,”

You said to him as he entered the small room.

“You weren't in your office,”

“Well, yeah I had to make copies of these,”

Rukawa hoisted himself up on the cabinet next to the printer. He clipped the stacks of paper you were making with paper clips and set them aside for you as he munched on his food.

“Is that a whole bag of tomatoes?”

You asked, lifting up the scanner lid. Rukawa had brought a ziploc bag full of tomatoes to eat. He nodded.

“Do you want one?”

None of the tomatoes were of the same size or color, but most of them were small. He handed you one of the bite size ones, and you don't know what compelled you to do this, but you put it on the scanner with paper. You pressed the start button and bright light illuminated the room. With the lid open you could see the bar of light as it whirred left and right.

Rukawa took the paper off the glass and dumped the rest of the tomatoes on. You scanned dozens of different piles of the tomates. Flipping them over and rearranging them on the glass. All the images were being sent to your computer but also being printed out. Rukawa assisted. Moving the red bulbs this way and that.

“When we’re done can we go to the roof?”

“Sure,”

You say to him. Many weeks later you will visit Rukawa's apartment and find the printed tomatoes framed in the hallway of his house.

༓･*˚⁺‧͙·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾

A/N;  @z_adeh on tiktok has this video of them scanning tomatoes and it zapped my brain

[splatsvilles-fashionista]

Splatoon 3 Fashion Challenge - Week 29:

AUGH I'm super late with this one

So the theme of the next Splatfest, which is the last 'fest of Sizzle season, was announced this week, and it's a rethread of the Money vs Love Splatfest, which has been a theme in both Splatoon 1 and 2. Love took the win both times back then, and while Fame has been thrown into the mix this time, Love still looks poised to win once again if the twitter polls I've seen is anything to go by. As such, we are throwing Money a bone with this week's theme:

Rich Stitches!

For this challenge, you can only use gear that costs 10000 cash or more to buy from the vendors. This means that the full list is as follows:

Headwear:

Howdy Hat

Tentaclinger Earring

18k Aviators

Party Hard Hat

Retro BlueFocals

Annaki Beret

Triple-Deck Specs

Ink-Black Flap Cap

Hipster Horn-Rims

SV925 Circle Shades

Glassless Glasses

Sea-Me-Nots

Gas Mask

Cap'n Cap

Ink-Tinted Goggles

MTB Helmet

Chaos Helm

Face Visor

Moto Shades

Jellyvader Cap

Glam Clam Specs

Paintball Mask

Clothes:

White inky Rider

Dark Bomber Jacket

Patchwork Bomber

Black Inky Rider

Arctic Monster Parka

Annaki Anchored Coat

Barazushi Tuff Duffel

Negastive Longcuff Sweater

Distressed Vest

Varsity Jacket

Airfhow & Hustle Jacket

Olive Ski Jacket

Blue Sailor Suit

Mountain Vest

Forest Vest

Indigo Boss Hauri

Trooper Top

Baseball Jersey

Dark Urban Vest

Shoes:

Red & White Squidkid V

Blu-Shift Moto Boots

Ink-Black Clam 600s

Hunting Boots

White Clam 600s

Red & Black Squidkid IV

Blue & Black Squidkid IV

Red Work Boots

Red Hammerthreads

Blue Moto Boots

Wasabi Tabi

White Lo-Vert Hi-Tops

Desert Chukkas

Arrow Pull-Ons

A somewhat more limited wardrobe than usual, but I am certain you can manage. Now get out there and dress like a rich kid!

Rules:

Put together an outfit of any kind follows the specified theme. Please give it a name as well!

Send it to me via ask or submission, please don’t add it to a reblog, that makes it very easy to miss! Also, please make it clear that it is a submission for the challenge and not just a regular submission.

Only one outfit per person! You can submit multiple photos of that single outfit, though.

Please include the gear you picked in the submission. It makes my life just a touch easier!  

The outfit should be submitted before Tuesday morning, as I will pick my favourite submissions to feature on Tuesday evening.

[aquagirl1978]

Autumn is coming!! 🍂 I'm dreaming of cozy sweaters, hot mugs filled to the brim with soothing deliciousness, and the crunch of leaves beneath two pairs of feet as you walk hand in hand with a lover!

I'm not dreaming of anyone particular today.

Thank you @candied-boys for this request. I did this one a little different in that I left the suitor blank, so the reader can insert the suitor of their choice. Hope you enjoy this taste of fall!

September was your favorite month - although the days were growing shorter, the cooler weather brought so many things you loved. Sitting by an open fire and drinking a mug of hot cocoa. Picking apples from the local orchard and baking a pie. Throwing on your favorite cozy sweater as you read a book in a warm corner.

You didn't have to work hard to convince your lover to take you to the fall festival - one look at the sheer joy and excitement on your face as you described the many different vendors that would be there, and he just couldn't say no.

The weather was cool the day of the festival, chilly enough for you to wear your favorite boots and oversized sweater. Your love donned a plaid vest and matching jacket, topped with a soft scarf. Together, you looked like the picture-perfect fall couple.

You walked hand in hand as you made your way through the fall festival, leaves of reds, oranges and golden yellows crunched under booted feet.

A particularly strong gust of wind blew by; the book you were holding fell from your arms. Without a word, your lover went and picked up the book, rescuing it from a pile of leaves. Dusting it off, he placed the book back into your hands like the treasure it was. You thanked him with a smile, a smile so big and so bright, he tucked it away in his heart.

"Let's get some hot chocolate," he suggested, pointing to a large tent that was selling the warm beverage along with other assorted sweets, with the secret wish that he would see that bright smile of yours again soon.

[necros-writing-stuff]

Hey so I procrastinated too close to the sun and this time made a Ghost x GN Reader where he noncons them while he’s been put on leave. Warnings for: Ghost having a horrible little time with his own thoughts and PTSD, noncon, penetrative sex but the hole it goes in isn’t specified, photography/exhibitionism, outdoor sex (in a forest), seriously none of this is happy or healthy, especially what’s going on in Ghost’s head. Elements of pet play, staged scenarios with sex toys, mentions of werewolves but no actual werewolves. Mentions of kidnapping at the end. Y’all like angst?

Its hard being off duty. His head feels murky. His limbs feel heavy. Its similar to being stuck underwater. But he's the only one who is in a room full of people who seem to be just fine.

A winter market, half inside, half outside. Stalls lining the walls of the town hall and the cobbled square outside. Countless comforting smells in the air, laughter ringing around seemingly as loud as a church bell and making his ears hurt.

He stands out, he always does. Even though he's exchanged his regular mask for a more subtle plain black one, even if he's wearing a hoodie and a leather jacket instead of a vest made to hold armour plates. He's just too tall, too well built in a sea of farmers, vendors and happy families in their earth-toned wools and cottons.

He'd chosen this town because a city would have been too much. Chosen a little cottage on the outskirts, to try and avoid needing to talk to people as much as humanly possible. If they were going to force him to go on leave, to rest, then he'd do it in his own way.

Sadly, he'd gotten the small village vibe wrong. Everyone was so nosy, always asking questions and trying to poke a tale from the new guy. He couldn't relax at the local pub without some old men circling rumours about him right behind his back. Couldn't go to the market without that ever present crotchety grandma stumbling around behind him as if to ensure he'd not steal anything. Couldn't cross by the local school or playground on his morning runs without kids stopping and staring.

The tattoos didn't help, naturally. Not many had them here. Not with the ageing population and white-bread middle class families. And the total 3 members of the village alt community said they were too tacky (without his initiating a conversation, mind you).

He should have just gone and settled in another big city. Should have taken advantage of how they had odd people everywhere instead of being the poster boy for antisocial behaviour in a place where everyone knew everyone.

They were the worst of it, of course. A local photographer, constantly crawling and jumping around for the next best shot. They found him to be very interesting, constantly pestering him for a moment of his time, just one little picture. He always said no. They always came back.

Their stall is near the back off the hall, a make-shift studio set up so that everyone can pile in and get lovely little sets of themselves and loved ones for the holidays. Tourists from out of town coo over all of the little goodies the photographer had made from their shots of local animals and sites.

Seems they'd gotten some of the crocheting people on board, too, a line of stuffed foxes meant to represent a local hero. To Ghost, it was just a fox, but to everyone else it seemed to be a point of pride. This little thing that had once sat on some chicks instead of eating them, like that clip he'd seen of a cheetah not eating a baby gazelle.

It worked, though. People were lining up to get the stupid things.

The photographer takes notice of him as soon as he crosses by, no matter how small he tries to make himself. He just wants to go get some of the nice Arabic coffee someone had imported. Something to remind him of his time on the field, of a visit he’d made to Farah’s base of operations last time he was in that neck of the woods. Why did it have to be right next to the pestering shutterbug?

He ignores their waving, pays no mind to the pout they make when he keeps walking. But he can still feel their eyes on him. They know his mind insists. They know who you are.

He shakes his head as he reaches out for the cup being presented to him, nodding to the vendor and giving them a little extra cash for not talking more than necessary. His senses are already overwhelmed as it is, small talk is not in the cards.

Ghost doesn't look behind himself as he beelines it out of the town hall. He's sure he unfairly bumped into some people, but it got so hard to breathe in there that he didn't care. He just couldn't stand being looked at like that.

The paranoia doesn't subside. Not even after a few days of being alone, in his house, not being bothered by a single soul.

They know you repeats again and again in his head. It's ridiculous, aggravating, that one person has been effecting him this much. But they really have been.

Ghost keeps his morning runs to the fields and forests around the town. He survives on the food in his fridge and cupboards, eating every last scrap to avoid having to go shopping and chance another encounter.

He keeps his curtains closed, afraid that he'd open them and the photographer would be there, insisting that they could take some photos in the forest.

What was it they'd said? "You look threatening, I think if I gave you some rope and made you crouch, made you look right at the camera pointing up, it would be an awesome shot. A knife too, that would fit."

As if the viewer were his hostage. His little victim about to be bound and God knows what else. The last thing Ghost wants is to have any physical evidence of his existence, never mind photos that would be circled around fetish sites - and they would be circled around fetish sites, despite their insistence that they wouldn't.

"I won't even post them anywhere, they're more for me than anyone else," they'd said that afternoon, following him through some hiking trails. They'd been gathering a collection of winter flower photos, apparently.

Their eyes had widened after realizing the implications of the phrase 'personal use' after he'd said 'fetish website'. "Not like that! I mean, just that I think you look cool, and I appreciate horror aesthetics. I don't want to bang Michael Myers, for example, just thinks he looks neat!"

He'd rolled his eyes, walking away from the conversation even though they'd called after him.

Honey. Trap. that voice insists once more. They're a spy, someone recruited to seduce or befriend him. Someone to get evidence of his face or name. Maybe Roba hadn't actually died. Maybe Roba had a son wanting revenge. Maybe it was one of the hundreds of others related to Ghost's job.

Maybe he was just so hard programmed to be a soldier that he couldn't get his mind away from work no matter how many months he'd been stuck out here.

Eventually, the food ran out. He had to go into the village, had to do his routine of pretending not to notice granny-stares-a-lot taking note of every produce he passed by.

The stalls were gone, the tourists cleaned out. Only the locals left now. It was much better this way, much quieter. Way less faces to look at and wonder if they were sent to end him for good.

It was meant to be only for a month, you know? His staying here. Just a regular break imposed upon him because he was never not on the job. But then the psych eval had come back, and he'd been grounded for longer. And then it happened again.

"I know more than anyone why you don't like talking to them, son, but you have to start working with them if you want to get back out here with us," Price had insisted. He'd refused. No shrink was going to fix his non-existent issues.

Ghost knew how to compartmentalize, thank you very much. He understood what was and wasn't appropriate behaviour. He just didn't think he had to engage in all of this community bullshit. Didn't think he had to dismiss odd behaviour from certain photographers who didn't listen to boundaries.

Boundaries they'd broken once again. When Ghost returned to his cottage, a gift basket was on the doorstep. He approached it cautiously, looking for anything dangerous hidden in the nesting of shredded red paper.

There was nothing dangerous. Not physically dangerous, anyways. Just some of the coffee that had been at the fair, some sweet treats, a pair of warm socks and the worst offender of all - a stuffed crochet version of him. Holding a note.

He worked his jaw as he brought it inside, intending to dispose of it as soon as possible. But curiosity got the better of him, and he read the stupid handwritten note on fancy craft paper.

"Consider all of this an apology for how annoying I've been," it begins.

"I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable. I just remembered when I first moved here, and people seemed to hate me because I didn't know how to herd chickens. It was pretty isolating. So when you first arrived, I thought I'd be the warm welcome I never got. Obviously, it backfired.

I'll stop asking to take photos, and I won't bother you as much. Still gonna say hi every so often, though. I'm still determined to befriend you until told otherwise.

Enjoy your mini-me by the way! Took me ages to make him, I wanted to get your skull mask thing right. Saw you wearing it that one time, thought it was cool. I didn't make any more, just this one, so take care of him.

Here's my phone number by the way. You don't have to do anything with it. Just thought I'd offer the choice. You can even text me to tell me to fuck off if you really want to."

It signs off with their name, number, and a silly doodle of them sticking their tongue out and doing a peace sign.

It's a bluff. It's not. It's a nice gesture. The socks are the perfect size, how would they know that? His feet are huge, they probably just grabbed the biggest ones on the rack. They're only giving you their number so they can get yours and use it to track you. They're a fucking photographer in a small village in rural England. Somethings in the-

"There's nothing in the fucking stuffed me!" he growls. The kitchen is deathly silent after, no one there to respond.

Ghost sighs heavily, ripping his mask off and rubbing his face to try and shut that voice up. A small feeling of panic rises in his chest, subsiding only after he'd rushed to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face.

He'd covered the bathroom mirror with a towel when he'd first arrived. Didn't want to really look at himself. He wasn't used to it, not anymore. He was used to seeing the mask.

Ghost gulps as he pulls the towel to the side, flinching slightly when he makes eye contact with himself.

"Hello, Simon," he whispers.

He's a man covered in scars. Not a surprise in his line of work. One bothers him more than the others, and its the newest.

It crosses his temple. A slash, evidence of the latest helicopter crashing fiasco. It'd knocked him out for a second or two, but he'd gotten right back up and finished the mission.

Still got his ass grounded though. The fucking psychs still thought they had a Phineas Gage part 2 on their hands, didn't they?

He covers the mirror again before he gets the urge to smash the damn thing. Re-masking, Ghost leaves the house and heads to the forest for yet another hike around the trails. It was one of the only things that kept his mind clear these days.

It's later in the day, the sun having set early due to the time of year. Nice and dark, no one would be around to interrupt him. Just Ghost, whatever creatures live out there, and some vegetation. He can handle some foxes and badgers, no problem. They don't try to show him baby photos.

This time as his heart hammers in his chest, he doesn't feel the need to puke. Doesn't feel a violent urge swelling beneath his skin, doesn't see red. It's that good breathlessness brought on by running yourself to the brink of collapsing.

He gets confident enough in his loneliness to lift the mask a little, just so he can breathe better and run for longer. To work himself down so that sleeping is easier tonight. He always had less nightmares if he'd been working out more.

It's a few hours later when he finally stops. His legs feel like jelly as he finds the fallen log he usually uses to sit and take a breather on. His watch tells him it's around 7pm. Ghost practically breathes down the last remnants in his water bottle. Everything hurts, yet he'd never felt so right since moving here.

He feels loose, relaxed, almost happy as he stumbles back down the trail. Confident that he's doing a-okay and that it was just irritability from missing his job that has made him so surly.

The sound of a camera clicking knocks him out of that happy little place.

Jumping into action, Ghost gets to cover behind a tree, pulling his mask down as he does so. His eyes scan every silhouette in the darkness, looking for the a sparkle in the trees, moonlight reflecting off of a camera lens.

Another shot is taken, and this time he listens well. Its coming from his left, a bit further away than he thought he'd heard the first time.

Some branches crunch under the foot of whoever is out there (he has a very good idea of who), before a soft "Ah fuck," can be heard through the trees. More rustling. Another click, this time he sees the light going off.

Ghost's training comes back to him eerily quick as he sneaks forwards. A sadistic part of him wants to jump out, to scare the photographer, but he doesn't. Especially when he sees what they're doing.

Hidden among the foliage, Ghost's dark eyes widen when he sees the photographer completely naked. In the forest. In the middle of winter. With some interesting props laying around.

Fetish sites, he thinks once more as they lay down, having angled the camera to point down at them as they check the fake blood dripping down their face and chest, nipples hard from the cold.

They're on all fours, staring up at the camera with their tongue out as they arch their body seductively. A collar sits around their neck, a chain attached to the tripod to make it seem like someone is holding it. From where he sits, Ghost gets a lovely little show of what's between their legs.

With the trees being more spaced out here, the moon shines down nicely on the photographer. No doubt that’s a special little camera for night-time photos anyways.

But it just means that he can see something slick on their thighs, and further investigation of the site leads to him sighting a bottle of lube and a frankly ridiculous dildo laid out on a blanket, just behind the tripod. It's knotted, he notes. They must have already fucked them self on it, or rather, staged that they had for the photos.

The moral thing to do would be to leave. To never mention it again, to let the photographer keep their secret and not embarrass them. Yet Ghost can't seem to move. Can't seem to get the proposition they'd made to him all those weeks ago out of his head.

They'd asked him if he'd come out into the forest and pose as some dangerous man. To pose as the counterpart of whatever they're doing right now, really.

He wants to laugh, he really does. Turns out that little voice in his head was half right about the photographer wanting to seduce him, just that the reasoning as to why was off. Not a spy. Just a degenerate, literally crawling around in the mud with a dripping hole, fake wounds and probably the intention of showing off the results to a lot of people.

Of course. Of course he'd only attract the freak who'd get off on him for the mask. Who'd get off on the fear of it incites.

Disgust bubbles in his chest, a sneer carving it's way onto his face as he clenches his hands. How presumptuous of them to assume he'd even say yes to this shit.

He can't stop his mind when it goes back. Little memories jumbled up, of being trapped and chained, of being hurt and being forced to hurt. Things he tries to keep buried deep.

He'd never hurt someone like that. He'd made that promise to himself. That he'd only ever do it when strictly necessary, when doing so would ensure the safety of millions and make it so no one would have his PTSD that makes Christmas the most unbearable time of the year.

Not even faking it, like those into BDSM do. He just couldn't do that to a person he trusted to get that close. Because he knew. Of all people, he knew what it felt like when it was real. He could compartmentalize a lot. But not this.

You should teach them a lesson, mate. Some manners while you're at it.

It's a stupid and cruel thought. They know who he is, he's the only one around here who wears masks.

They know Ghost. They don't know Simon.

He winces, still frozen in that Bush as the photographer poses over and over. He's seriously not actually considering that, is he? He's not listening to those horrible thoughts?

If they did it to you, they'll do it do someone else. Bet they only stopped with you cause you're threatening. And they're really just making them self an easy target for an actual murderer, aren't they? You don't have to hurt them. Just scare them a little.

He'd only do it when it meant ensuring safety. Yeah. This is ensuring safety, isn't it?

They can consider it your thank you for the basket.

He waits until the photographer gets up to check the newest round of shots before he moves, taking the mask of and stuffing it in his pocket. He's wearing a long-sleeve shirt, so his tattoos are hidden. He won't say a word to them, so they won't recognize his voice.

Simon wails until they're posed again. Waits until they're face down, ass up, the camera having been moved to get perfect shots of the lube dripping out of their hole. It's that special semen looking lube he finds as the camera flashes.

They don't realize he's there at first, too busy writhing around to make sure the photos are slightly different each time. He stays out of shot, stood with a hand cupping his slowly hardening cock through his sweats.

Don't need to put it in. Just make it seem like you're going to. Then leave them there, scared and shaking. Lesson learned.

A shiver travels up his spine, patience breaking. He moves without thought, a twig snapping beneath his boot.

Their head twists in his direction, eyes wide and panicked, body pushing up onto all fours, ready to push off and run. The camera goes off once more.

He doesn't say a word. Just keeps staring, eyes roaming up and down as he starts pumping his cock through the thick material of his trousers.

They don't scream. They don't run, just slowly get up and start backing away. For every step they take, he takes one closer, his hand dropping from his crotch to his side as he smiles at them.

Sticking to his no talking rule, he decides instead to make a "Come hither" motions with his finger, smiling wider when they frantically shake their head and whimper.

That's it, lad. Keep going like this and they'll never endanger them self ever again.

He breaks first, bursting forwards and grasping the photographer by the neck. Pulling them close, turning them around and pressing their now-struggling body against his own.

"Let me go, please, please, I won't say anything just-"

Simon doesn't want to hear it. He really can't be bothered either excuses right now, so he covers their mouth with his large palm. They're too small, his cock rubbing against their lower back instead of their ass like he wanted. So it's back to the floor they go, on their knees with Simon falling in line behind them.

He could draw it out. Could touch them, make them squirm and heighten the fear as much as possible. But that would cross a line, he thinks. Best to just be direct.

Letting go of their mouth, he shoves his sweats down, boxers with them. His hard-on bobs in the cold air, an unpleasant feeling. Not that it'll be cold for long; while he won't fuck their hole he can use their thighs for a bit.

And so he does just that, slides his cock between the soft plush flesh down there as he nips at their ear with his teeth. They'd used so much of that lube that it's incredibly wet, so easy to just slide back and forth, back and forth.

The photographer's weak clawing at his arms doesn't phase him in the slightest. Their tears falling onto his hand just affirms that he's scaring them as much as he wanted to.

With this thrust, he pulls back further than he had for the others. Just too feel more pressure on the head, just to selfishly have a bit more pleasure in this than he really ought to be. He didn't mean to catch the tip on their hole.

He really means it, he tries to tell himself. Really really means that this is only for the photographer's benefit. Really believes that he's nothing like those who hurt him before. Really convinces himself it's not too far to slip just the tip inside and lazily grind his hips, the soft wetness of their insides feeling like heaven around his cock.

Their whines aren't turning him on. The way they shiver and cling to his arms doesn't make him feel powerful. The pathetic groan they let  out when he pushes himself in as far as he can go doesn't make Simon "Ghost" Riley want to empty his balls in this pretty little photographer's hole.

It does though, doesn't it? All of it is driving him up a wall. All of it gripping it's way into his brain, making him realize things he knew, but kept hidden for years and years.

Watching the photographer stage things wasn't angering because he was reminded of his victim hood. It was angering because it reminded him that he was one of the ones not strong enough to stop himself becoming just like the fucked up cunts that made him this way in the first place.

Simon screws his eyes shut, biting down into the photographer's neck, tasting the horrible fake blood on his tongue as he does so.

Stop thinking, Simon. You've got a nice little thing all limp in your arms, just enjoy them and make yourself feel better.

It's not a separate voice in his head. It's his voice. One he really likes listening to in this moment.

Growling, Simon bends the photographer over, forcing them to put their hands down to stop their face being squished into the forest floor. He wants to hear them now, wants to hear the things they'll say as he takes them like a bitch in heat.

That's what that dildo means, isn't it? Some werewolf fantasy? The irony of a dog leashing a human and breeding them?

It's admirable how sad their attempts to stay quiet are. How half-hearted the escape attempts have gotten, how their body shows off the pleasure they're getting from being his little fuck toy for the night.

They seem as much of a liar as he is. They seem to like this just like he does, that attempt to get away just an act to retain what little virtue they falsely held.

They're not doing that now. Not with their head pressed to the floor, full, unbroken moans spilling from their lips as his shaft pummels them over and over again.

It's been a long while since he's last gotten his dick wet, so to speak. He's not used to the warm suction of a hole, not used to how good it feels compared to his hand. He won't last much longer. Much less so when the photographer cums, the sensation of their orgasm only massaging him more than was already happening.

He pets their hair gently, feeling the softness of it before he twists it into a ball and pulls their head back.

Simon's aware of how vicious he's being right now. How unfair of him it is to go at his hardest when they've just came, body over-sensitive. But he needs it. He needs it more than he's needed those exhausting runs he's been doing. Needs it more right now than he needs anything else.

Just needs to hear them scream, to hear them scream for him as he fucks them till he finishes, and keeps going after that until it hurts his cock too much.

Satisfaction fills him when he pulls out, letting go of their hair and letting them crumple down. It's a struggle to get up, to fix his clothes and be made aware of the fridged night cold seeping into his bones once more.

He's going to leave. To just let them fix everything else them self. To let Simon Riley become a nightmare for this sweet photographer that had only tried to befriend Ghost.

He can't stop himself from doing one last thing, though.

Striding over to the camera, he takes it from the stand and ventures back over to his little victim. They haven't moved, practically glued to the spot as they sob uncontrollably. Poor thing.

Kneeling, Simon pulls their ass cheeks apart with one hand, the other pointing the camera between their legs, just as they'd done to them self earlier. He gets close, ensuring his hand doesn't get in frame.

He takes a couple of photos for them. A few of his seed dripping out of them, rather than some fake stuff. A reminder of the reality, rather than the fantasy. Would their viewers be able to tell the difference, he wonders?

He puts the camera back on the tripod before he sets off. He doesn't feel guilty over this. He knows he should. Knows he should feel terrible. But he just feels... relaxed.

They're still there. Still haven't moved. Still crying. And he's going home for a hot bath.

"Was it the socks you didn't like, or my crochet?"

... and looks like someone's coming with him so they can't snitch.

[thomsonsharon347]

Top Wholesale Windbreakers: A Guide to Leading Windbreaker Jacket Manufacturers

The top wholesale windbreakers from leading windbreaker jacket manufacturers. Find high-quality options are best prices and streamline your sourcing with the best in the business. This was a best jacket manufcturer company.

[izzy-b-hands]

a pre-but leading towards Stizzy and potentially Steddyhands thing below. A lot of hurt ppl trying to heal and accidentally hurting each other a bit in the process. Mostly between Ed and Izzy. They're gonna work on it, eventually. Not in this fic, but it alludes that it pushes them onto that path lol.

---

"Getting a bit ridiculous now," Stede huffs. "After all, you could have at least borrowed my jacket."

"And ruin the ensemble?" Ed replies, pulling on Izzy's vest. "Speaking of, this does look better with the vest on! Thanks, Iz."

Izzy nods but his smile is clearly one of discomfort.

Then again, he also immediately volunteered his own clothes for Ed to wear, after a passing fish vendor emptying buckets of chum emptied one all over Ed.

So as far as Stede sees it, the discomfort is his own fault.

"Here," Jim dashes up by them, their long coat in hand. "It isn't that warm out today."

They drape it over Izzy's shoulders before he can even open his mouth, then dart back to Olu in the middle of the crowd that the crew has bunched into on the market walkway.

Stede waits for Izzy's snappy response, but, nothing.

He leaves the coat on too, pulling it tighter with a hand.

For the next hour, they plod through the market stalls, finishing up the long list of things that need replenishing or that are wanted.

"Back home we go," Ed instructs as they reach the front of the market. "Iz, thanks for holding my things for me."

Stede fails to bite back a frown. He'd forgotten Izzy had been carrying Ed's messed up leathers and shirt, that he'd not even paused before taking them from Ed wordlessly.

Fucking Israel Fucking Hands.

He does not care about him. Not one fucking iota. He cared so poorly about his own son that Louis had forgotten who he was. Would that it would happen the same with him and Izzy. Though he'd rather not somehow become Izzy's father.

"Leave them with me," Izzy says. "I'll get them clean enough again."

"Tall task, but I believe in you," Ed nods. "Jim, come get your coat."

Jim doesn't move.

"Jim, come on," Ed smiles.

Stede catches Jim's eyes.

Fury.

"Erm," Stede clears his throat. "They can get it back once we're at the ship. Right, Jim?"

"Yup."

The response is more a snap of the jaw than a word.

They head back home, bunched in the bigger dinghy, bags and boxes and small barrels crowding their feet.

At the ladder, Izzy hands over the coat, tosses Ed's leathers up onto the deck, and then is up and gone before Stede can get onboard.

Not that he cares, really. But Jim was concerned, apparently, and a good captain would attend to Jim's feelings.

"I'm sorry if Ed overstepped there," he murmurs to Jim as they help Roach put away provisions and groceries. "He just didn't want your coat to be misplaced, I think."

"You know exactly why he said what he said," Jim frowns, slamming tins onto the pantry shelves. "Look. He may be back to how he was before you left him-"

"I didn't leave him," Stede interrupts. "Not like that, at least. Like how you're making it sound. I just left him physically, temporarily."

Jim rolls their eyes. "Pardon me for not noting the extensive difference."

"Finish your sentence then," Stede snaps.

"He's happy. You're happy. I'm happy for you both! But you know who I'm not happy for?"

"Izzy."

"He got fed his fucking toe," Jim says. "And he's still jumping before Ed even says how high. I don't fucking get it."

"They're friends," Stede says, handing over a woven bag full of fruit. "And coworkers, and they've been together a long time. That's just how they fit together."

"No," Jim chuckles bitterly. "No, I call bullshit on that. They'd never have stuck around each other if that was the case."

"Then what?"

"Ed needs to pay attention and acknowledge Izzy damn near licking his boots just at the sight of him," Jim replies. "And Izzy needs to remember he's more than a first mate, and to get off his fucking knees to lick those boots, because Ed keeps kicking him on accident instead."

"They aren't trying to hurt each other," Stede says.

"That doesn't undo any of it."

"Maybe they need to talk," Stede sighs. "That's what you're going to say, isn't it?"

Jim shrugs. "Maybe. I'm going to take Izzy the new shirt and trousers Olu, Lucius, and I bought for him while the rest of you were arguing over tea."

They pull the clothing from the last bag of tins, hidden at the bottom, and leave with a swish of their coat.

--

"-okay?"

Stede jumps back behind the wall at the sound of Frenchie's voice.

"We talked about this," he continues. "Yeah, you absolutely fucked up, and then some. But we're here, in the present, and things are better, and if we can forgive Ed and Stede, why the fuck can't they forgive you? Or at least act decently?"

Stede hadn't thought they'd been that bad to Izzy, post-reunion. They gave him orders, of course, maybe a bit sharply now and then.

"You're all going to get yourselves in trouble," Izzy mutters.

"So we get in trouble, whatever!" Frenchie shouts.

"Shh!" Izzy hisses. "I appreciate it. You know I do."

"Yeah, because I finally got to know you! And I know that you don't deserve...I mean he could have bought new clothes! And left you in yours, and he could have worn Jim's coat in the meantime!"

"He's our captain," Izzy says, surprisingly calmly and gently to Stede's ears. "As is Bonnet. There are some things you just let slide, when it comes to captains."

"These captains are supposed to be your friends too though," Frenchie protests. "Friends would at least say thank you for your charity earlier."

"Ed thanked me!"

"Ed liked how he looked in your clothing and thanked you as an afterthought."

That stings. Stede can feel it himself, because he knows Frenchie isn't entirely wrong. Ed didn't mean it that way necessarily, he doesn't think. He was truly thankful but excited to no longer be covered in fish guts! Surely, he could be excused for not responding like Frenchie, apparently, wanted.

There's a hitch of breath. A shaky sigh.

Fuck. He's crying. Izzy is actually crying.

"Hey," Frenchie says soothingly. "At least you've got some new stuff, so you can let your leathers air out with Ed's until they don't smell of fish as much. And Ed can keep sharing clothes with Stede, so you should be the only one wearing these, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Man," Frenchie continues. "Come on. John and I want you by us for the chapter tonight. We can go choose blankets and pillows and our spot near the mast right now, so we're all ready by then."

Stede waits until he can't hear their footsteps before stepping away from the wall.

He thinks back to the night he and Ed had traded clothes, and a phrase from the time comes to mind:

A harried, terrified, "I don't know what to do," in his own voice. He sure as fuck doesn't know what to do now either.

--

"Iz really is tougher than you think," Ed says.

"That isn't what I'm meaning," Stede sighs. "Ed, you need to talk with him. Clear the air, and set a course forward for the two of you."

"I love the sailing metaphor," Ed replies. "But I don't think it's necessary. I'm not proud of what I did to his toe, and I probably shouldn't have-"

"Not ideal," Stede nods.

"Not at all," Ed continues. "But why does that mean I need to go have some heart to heart with him? If he needed that, I think I would know before any of you! I'm his friend."

"He loves you. As a friend and far, far more."

Ed's goblet full of wine hits the floor and shatters.

"I need a minute," Ed says softly. "Either I need to go outside and find somewhere else to be, or you do. I'm not mad; I'm just-"

"I get it," Stede cuts him off as gently as he can. "I'll head outside and check around on the crew. If you need me, come find me, or have someone else do it if you need. They won't mind."

He steps out onto the deck a moment later, heart beating out of his chest.

He'd hoped it wouldn't be a surprise to Ed, because even he, of all people, could see it now. The almost blind devotion and loyalty Izzy had for Ed as a captain wasn't any random luck or just the act of sailing together for years. It came from the friendship that had been there seemingly from day one of them knowing each other, and, from Izzy's side at least, the love.

But apparently, a surprise it was.

"Hey," Lucius steps out from behind the main mast. "Tea?"

In the galley sit Pete, Frenchie, John, Izzy, and Roach, though Roach is busy with a dough on the table in front of him.

"Welcome Captain," John raises a cup of tea. "Get everything you bought put away?"

"All the clothing, yes," Stede blushes to think of it. They'd literally been at clothing stalls, buying silk and cotton trousers and shirts and scarves for himself, all while Izzy stood there shivering and increasingly stinking of fish from holding Ed's leathers.

They could have bought him a new outfit in less than five minutes, but they hadn't even thought of it. The clothes wouldn't have been perfectly tailored of course, but they would have been clean.

He doesn't care about Izzy. He doesn't. But it feels a bit uncaptainlike to not have done anything about it, in hindsight.

"We are relaxing together and hanging out until story time," Lucius smiles. "Join us."

"I think you'll like the next chapter," Stede says.

"Ah, no spoilers," Roach says without stopping his kneading of the dough. "We can wait a few hours to just hear the chapter."

"Of course," Stede says, watching as Izzy, without blinking, pours him a cup of tea and does up the sugar and milk for him too.

He frowns when he slides it over, but otherwise he doesn't even look at Stede.

"Um," Stede hesitates.

"Ed alright?" Lucius asks.

"How did you know?"

"Honestly, I was listening in," Lucius shrugs. "It's been wild lately on here and all of you want advice, and I'm just trying to keep up."

Izzy giggles.

"He gets it," Lucius motions to Izzy. "Seriously though, is he okay?"

"We're having a small disagreement," Stede replies. "Not really a disagreement, actually. I told him something I thought he already knew, or at least had some idea of, and he had no idea, apparently, so..."

He raises his cup of tea. "Here I am."

"These things happen," John says. "I'm sure you'll talk it out tonight with him, and be back to normal tomorrow."

"I don't know about that."

"What did you tell him?"

Izzy asks it quietly, just audible.

"I-" Stede pauses, his cup nearly slipping off the edge of its saucer as he sets it down. "It wasn't important."

"Must be if he asked for space," Pete raises a brow. "Come on, you can tell us. If you want to, of course."

"I think I have an idea," Lucius says.

"Me too," Frenchie says slowly. "Captain, did you by chance tell him that Izzy-"

"Was lovely for carrying his things today? I did!" Stede says quickly.

"No," Frenchie scoffs. "And you know that isn't what I was going to say."

The table falls silent except for the sound of the dough being worked.

The galley door creaks open, and Ed wanders in.

"Oh, good. Izzy-"

He strides over to the table and slides some coins towards him. "For your trouble, today. I can see you found something new, but buy yourself something at the next port too. In case of any more fish vendors with shit aim."

Izzy takes the coins slowly. "Thank you, Ed. Much appreciated."

"Stede, I'm gonna take a little nap before the story. Wake me when everyone is ready?"

Stede nods, and kisses the top of one of Ed's hands before he leaves.

As soon as the door closes, the room explodes.

"Wow," John mutters. "He knows you love him now, and you showed just how much at the market and then some before that, and that was worth how much, in coin?"

Izzy shoves the coins his way, staring into the whorls of the wooden table, but doesn't say a word.

"Izzy, seriously," Frenchie starts, but Izzy's hand slams the table.

"I volunteered to give up my clothes, because he's my captain and my friend," Izzy says, teeth gritted. "But he made clear, when I pledged my loyalty, that captain would have to come before friend, in regards to us. So that's what I do, and that's what I did today, and how I feel about him doesn't matter!"

He blinks. "I'm. I should go to my room anyway. Put things away."

"You didn't buy anything," Roach says.

"Then I'll rearrange in case I buy anything at the next place!"

He nearly runs out.

"Great," Pete scoffs. "It's gonna take weeks to get him to talk more openly again."

"No it won't," Lucius says. "He's been doing a lot better. We'll give him some space, and he'll bounce back."

"I don't know what to say," Stede admits bluntly, his voice sounding too loud for the room, at least to him. "I'm sorry."

"Person that needs to hear that isn't in the room anymore," John says.

He doesn't care about Izzy. He doesn't.

--

"Hey."

"What do you need?"

Izzy is shuffling his few knick knacks on the small shelf above his cot. There's so few it honestly looks ridiculous.

"To talk to you."

"Got anything else? Lucius is the one for a chore like that," Izzy says. "Barnacle scraping maybe? Hate it, but I can do it, since no one else ever fucking does. It's a wonder the hull isn't made of them by now."

Stede lets himself giggle. "Do we scrape or leave them at that point?"

"Depends. If you want a hull, leave them. If you don't mind sinking from the holes that'll be left and in need of rapid repair, then scrape them all."

"Izzy," Stede says. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble by telling Ed what I did. I honestly, truly, thought he knew how you felt."

"He used me to practice kissing so that he'd be a better kisser for Jack," Izzy says, hands stilling over the items on the shelf. "Laughed at me for looking starry-eyed during and after. I lied and told him I just liked kissing that much. It's as much on me as it is him."

"That's probably not false. But even so...why not talk about it? Clear the air, about everything."

"All I did was the let the man borrow my fucking clothes," Izzy mutters.

"Because you love him."

"I'm not going over this all again," Izzy continues. "I made it clear in the galley-"

"I don't hate you," Stede interrupts. "Not anymore. I keep trying to, believe me. It isn't working. I don't know if I love you, but...you are something, to me."

Izzy turns from the shelf, to finally face him. "And what does that have to do with me and Ed?"

"You two should talk," Stede continues. "Amd whatever the two of you want, with each other...as long as I have Ed just as much, I'll be happy. If that's clear enough."

Izzy's gaze softens. "It is. Is there any point?"

"In talking to him? I can't say for sure," Stede replies. "But if it were me, I would at least give it a try."

They walk out together to his and Ed's quarters, and he gives a rapid fire knock for Izzy before opening the door. "Go on. I'll be out here, bothering everyone else."

Izzy smiles. "You are very good at it. I'll be at ease knowing that particular duty is in good hands."

"That sounds better," Stede grins. "Go on, use the adrenaline and get in there!"

He shuts the door after Izzy steps inside, and sits against a wall near it.

He cares about Izzy Hands. A hell of a lot more than he ever used to, or expected he would.

But he does.

[apomaro-mellow]

Old Fashion Romance

"OoOoOh~ Who are you gettin' all gussied up for, Lance?"

He didn't even turn away from the mirror as he fixed up his hair. "You already know who."

"For that greaser guy? The one who carries around a knife?", Hunk asked. He was already dressed and ready to go to the fair.

"I bet he's gonna look snazzy tonight too", Lance smiled at the image of Keith wearing slacks and a vest.

"He's probably gonna come in jeans and that leather jacket he's always wearing", Pidge said, not looking up from the magazine she was reading while kicking her legs in the air on Lance's bed.

Keith was in fact wearing his leather jacket. But he wasn't wearing jeans. No, he also had on a pair of leather pants. Fall was in full force and it was getting cold out. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his jacket as he waited for Lance. They had been going steady for a few months now. Keith still couldn't believe that the school's baseball star would even glance his way but here they were.

The fair was already filled with people trying their luck at games, going on rides, and having a blast and every moment that Keith stood there at the entrance waiting was another doubt settling in that maybe Lance had come to his senses and wouldn't show-

"Keith! Hey! You weren't waiting too long, were you?", Lance asked as he came up.

"N-no, I uh, just got here", he bluffed. He saw Lance's two friends not too far off, gossiping to themselves. Keith had given up on keeping up the tough guy front almost immediately after meeting them. They saw right through him. Just like Lance.

Lance himself was looking like he hopped right off the cover of All-American Boy magazine with his perfectly ironed blue-plaid shirt. Seriously, what was a dude like this doing with Keith.

But then Lance took his hand and pulled him into the crowds and his doubts were left outside. Lance linked their arms together and Keith was just happy to be like this, by his side, having those adoring eyes on him. For a moment, Keith didn't even notice they were bypassing all of the booths and food vendors.

"Are we...going on a ride?", Keith asked when Lance led them away from the cotton candy without even giving it a look.

"Yup! A very special ride~"

Keith was about to question the tone of his voice when he saw what they were getting in line for - The Tunnel of Love. Keith swallowed. There were eight couples in front of them. He had heard about this kind of ride. He knew Lance must've too.

"Are you sure about this?", Keith asked as a couple got onto the little cart and went into the dark ride.

Lance took his hand and intertwined their fingers. "I am."

Some of the other couples weren't as subtle at hiding their true intention for this ride. One girl was giving her guy was seemed like a chaste kiss but the way he stared at her chest was anything but innocent. And two girls were giggling much too much and had their heads inclined way too close for a simple ride for gal pals.

There were six couples in front of them.

Keith's heart pounded as they stepped closer to the ride. He and Lance has kissed before but that was it. They never really got a private moment. Lance had a big family and Keith's parents always had someone over. The one time Keith ambushed him in the locker room they only got as far as taking off his shirt before Keith was stuffed into a locker as the rest of the baseball team came in.

There were only three couples left now.

They were doing this. They were really doing this.

Two couples in front of them.

Keith looked over at Lance and then looked away. If their eyes met for too long, he didn't know what he'd do. Whatever it was, it wasn't meant for the public eye. That's why they were going on this ride. To do it in the privacy of the dark.

One couple left.

Lance was hugging his arm into his chest now and if the person in charge of the ride knew what any of the teens were doing, they didn't look like they cared.

[roseclothes]

Stella McCartney SS24

Nicole Phelps's review for Vogue:

Stella McCartney set up her show at the Marché Saxe-Breteuil. On Thursdays and Saturdays it’s a popular open-air market, with vendors selling fresh produce, fish, cheese, bread, and flowers. Today there were representatives from companies pioneering new fabric technologies like NFW Mirum, which makes plant-based leather, and Keel Labs, which produces seaweed-based fibers; stashes of vintage Stella McCartney clothes and stacks of old records; and a merch stall dedicated to Wings, her mum and dad’s band. The market opened up to the public after the show, and all the money raised from sales will go to charities aligned with McCartney’s anti–animal cruelty, responsible-design philosophies.

The Wings booth was the key to the collection, which was an exploration of her parents Paul and Linda McCartney’s complementary style. A Google dive reveals that the much-photographed couple often dressed alike, whether they were in ’70s pantsuits on their bikes, in matching satin baseball jackets in the back of a limo, or in trenches as they disembarked from a plane with a youthful Stella (or maybe her sister Mary) in their arms.

From her father (whose fab wardrobe is one of the many things that made Peter Jackson’s Beatles documentary such fun to watch) came the tuxedo shirts and cummerbunds and a terrific look that combined a willowy vest and full trousers with a white blouse trailing long poet sleeves. Her late mother was the horseback-riding, vegetarian-cookbook-author free spirit and a photographer and musician besides. The mirror-embellished dresses crocheted from Keel Labs’s seaweed-based yarn Kelsun and worn by both genders tapped into her rebellious streak. Elsewhere, the cape-like backs of tops and dresses made with taffeta from Nona Source, the LVMH-backed deadstock platform, seemed to have been designed to evoke wings, while the brocade short-shorts looked like stage-ready tour costumes.

McCartney’s press notes stated that 95% of the materials in the collection are “conscious materials.” There’s a growing consensus that sustainability no longer needs to be part of the conversation, that it’s a given. That couldn’t be further from reality. McCartney should keep drumming on about it until she’s not the only luxury designer who can stake a claim to stats like hers.

[bibliphale]

                   ❛            oh , do you think they take some sort of currency ? i'm .. well , i'm afraid my pockets are rather empty , dear rose.            ❜                    i'd been tagging along with the doctor & rose for a couple days now ; call it my vacation. neither of them knew the extent of what i was , of course , just that i wasn't human. i always had trouble with lying , so when posed a question so direct as to what are you , i couldn't really respond. ah , but they were clever , the pair of them. a creature who can split through the fabric of time & space , good lord , did heaven know of the existence of time lords ? i silently wondered what madman had been spearheading that project.

i'd never been off - world before ; i'd known of some angels who'd wandered beyond the boundaries of earth , but they tended to get lost in the stars , like crowley had wanted us to. oh , crowley. my chest ached slightly at the distance between us , hating that he also wasn't on this little trip. but i knew crowley didn't exactly play nicely with others ; who knew what negative impression he would've given to the doctor , let alone rose. i'd see him soon , i was certain of it. i wasn't entirely sure what planet we were on , nor what time. only that i looked vibrantly bright compared to everyone else's dark clothing , including the street vendor of the market who peered at me quizzically through the stall.

patting my many vest pockets , as well as my jacket , i turned heel slightly to look at the woman beside me expectantly , brows inching toward my hairline as i flashed her a hopeful grin.                    ❛            i always had trouble with the concept of money .. i suppose the same applies here as well , i should've thought ahead ; so sorry about that. could you buy us something to eat ?            ❜

@ibring1ife / closed starter !