just saw that post about how you should get army surplus boots instead of docs and I get the sentiment of that and I don’t want to argue with it but the notes were full of people lamenting how easily docs wear out/how lower quality they are and I’m all. what in the hell are y’all doing to them

Carmina’s 21st Century Edge

A few years ago at a Drake’s trunk show, I asked Kingsley Blum about the decline of the necktie in mainstream dress. Her response was so memorable that it’s stuck with me: She said that if neckties are on the path to dying out, Drake’s thought of themselves as being the one tie maker who would stand til the last, making the best ones that exist, supplying to whomever will still wear them.

Recently I’ve been thinking the same thoughts toward high quality leather shoe makers. Although better positioned than the necktie to survive (after all you must wear shoes in public, while a tie is superfluous decoration), leather shoe sales are generally in decline while more casual shoes are on the up. Who will survive and thrive as the casual wardrobe comes to dominate the world?

One high-end maker that seems positioned to do well even as people become more casual is Carmina. I’ve always known about them, but had never actually owned a pair until recently. Once I did, though, I couldn’t help but be delighted by not just the quality and beauty of the shoes themselves but also their approach to business in today’s market. Unlike other bench grade shoemakers in their price category, they go out of their way to make it easy to learn about and buy their shoes online, and even allow custom single-order shoe purchases.

The pair I bought were still via a wholesale account of theirs: Gentlemen’s Footwear in San Diego. Nonetheless, the Carmina website is so impressive, they just might have won me over completely. Here’s why:

First, we’re all familiar with how impactful lasts are in whether or not a shoe will work on your foot. 90% of posts on any given thread on online style fora about shoes is “How should I size in last x if last y from brand z fits me in size…?” Carmina’s affiliate thread on Styleforum is no different, but rather than having to rely on community wisdom and experience there, they have an easy tool on their website that lets you compare last shapes directly in shape, instep and toe spring. So if you find a good fit in one of their lasts, you can quickly determine for yourself fairly quickly how a different last might fit differently before buying. For me, this is invaluable because the pair I bought are outstanding, and fit true to size. But comparing it with the tool to other very popular Carmina lasts, it’s clear I would need to size up. Genius!

Second, and this is a point I wouldn’t think I’d need to say in 2021, but you can actually buy their shoes on their website. Do you admire Crockett & Jones’ tassel loafer* and want to try it for yourself—but live in the gigantic swath of America where nobody anywhere near you sells them?—have fun Googling places to order and hope they happen to stock the shoe you want I guess. It’s a crapshoot. And don’t even get me started on Alden. Carmina, however, has their entire collection of shoes available for order online, and even offers individual one-off orders. Which brings me to:

Third, their made to order customization options are wild. Not only can you choose a shoe model, what leather you want, the linings, the soles, and other details but you can choose a last for them to make it on. Delivery is approximately 6 weeks after your order. The price for MTO isn’t low—this is a luxury brand in the mid-three-figures—but neither is it crazy high compared to retail price for shoes at this level. For someone who has built up their shoe collection enough that they have no need for any additional pairs for rotation, being able to custom make a shoe to your design specs to this degree is amazing.

I’m really impressed with Carmina, in case you couldn’t tell. Most important is that the pair I have are comfortable on me, which honestly is not true of other brands I’ve owned or tried on at this price point (frankly, Beckett Simonon’s $200-level shoes are the most consistently comfortable leather dress shoes I’ve tried, alongside certain Allen Edmonds pairs I own, but these rival those and the quality is appreciably better). But besides that, the quality of make, the design, and the ease of shopping in 2021 make Carmina the shoe company I’d put my money on to thrive.

* Apparently Crockett & Jones launched online e-commerce a couple months ago. What a time to be alive!

(Help support this site! If you buy stuff through my links, your clicks and purchases earn me a commission from many of the retailers I feature, and it helps me sustain this site—as well as my menswear habit ;-)  Thanks!)

If you’re just getting into tailored menswear and want a single helpful guide to building a trend-proof wardrobe, buy my eBook. It’s only $5 and covers wardrobe essentials for any guy who wants to look cool, feel cool and make a good impression. Formatted for your phone or computer/iPad so it’s not annoying to read, and it’s full of pretty pictures, not just boring prose. Buy it here.

Read more at Menswear Musings

treason against kingly youth, pt i of ii

summary: somehow, you survived the 2020 election. now, all you have to do is get a know-nothing white man into the senate. should be easy enough. 

pairing: chris evans x reader

words: 3223

trigger warnings: rpf, white dudes doin White Dude Things

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

For a moment, just a moment, you allow yourself to breathe, really breathe. One, big breath in that clears the stress from your muscles, drops your shoulders, lets your whole body sag against the decade-old chair that you’re surprised hasn’t crumbled under the weight of your ever-tense body and its corresponding sins.

It’s a mere six feet away that everyone else you’ve worked with for the past three years with – the people you went through sleepless nights, long road trips, greasy food from mom and pop diners with the middle of assfuck nowhere, registering voters and writing up another plan for every fucking thing wrong with America (low teacher pay? Check. Electoral college ruining democracy? Check. Criminalization of homosexuality? Check. Private school sucking the life out of public schools? The monopoly artificially inflating prices on glasses up to 400%? The disparity between the number of men’s and women’s bathrooms in federal buildings? Check, check, check) – each and every person celebrates with wine and whiskey and any other alcoholic beverages they can get their underpaid hands on. It’s not even the cheap stuff, no, this is top shelf liquor. This is D-Day, “we’ve got an hour before the nuclear missile hits” liquor.

There are two times people go this all-out on their spirits – the end of the world, and the end of an election (though, to some, they’re the same thing).

But not you. Never pitiful little you. Pitiful little campaign manager you doesn’t rest, doesn’t get to stop pulling rabbits out of hats and money from single moms and votes out of college students.

There’s three TVs in front of your desk, each playing a different news station and each anchor drowning the others out. It’s a cacophony of white noise, and not because

The only voice, the only singular voice that has cemented itself into this far, previously blissfully unattended corner of your brain. You can hear her, feel her own on your shoulder – you can see her leaning against her old desk nestled in her home back in Massachusetts.

“I want you to be my chief of staff. You ran my campaign better than I could have asked for, and I would be incredibly lucky and blessed to have you run my White House.”

Your own voice rings next, always shakier than the time previous.

“I can’t do that,” your sigh gets deeper each time, too. “You know I can’t.”

Somehow, her voice always gets more confident. It’s one of those things about her, about the way she carries herself. If she’s faking that confidence you’d never know. “I know, but I’ll always tell you that there’s a place for you at the White House as long as I have something to say about it.”

In the sea of blue and red and white confetti and streamers and all the other shit people use to celebrate when their party wins an election, the thick, bleached white of your laptop screen stares back at you more menacingly than any Republican – winning or losing - you’ve ever met.

You’d like to think you are the kind professional that is never caught off guard, the kind of woman who can expect anything. But as the email that’s derailed your plan for the next four years stares back at you, the all-caps subject line feels more like the headlights of an 18-wheeler to a deer in the middle of a highway than an excellent career opportunity.

Still, with malt liquor in hand, you allow yourself a moment to breathe. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll make all of this just a little bit easier.

A little less than five hundred miles away, Christopher Robert Evans is the drunkest he’s ever been, surrounded by the same men he’s known since his freshman year of high school, yelling nonsensically as one of his current senators becomes the president-elect of the most power country on Earth.

The only coherent thing to leave the man’s mouth the entire night is oh so wonderfully caught on a friend’s iPhone and will – quite likely – be posted to some social media site by the next morning.

The video (which you will eventually be seeing at your first meeting with the Boston native) shows him in a Harvard sweatshirt (a university he did not attend), deep blue skinny jeans, and a Patriots hat balanced just enough to show his (possibly) thinning hairline. There, between his two best friends, he screams in his played-up Boston accent at the top of his lungs:

“I’M GOING TO BE A SENATOR, BITCHES!”

But you, back in D.C., are blissfully unaware of the long road ahead of you. So, you enjoy your malt liquor, and your small bit of quiet on election night – a sign of the muted calm before the political shitstorm ahead of you.

You end up not replying to said email the next morning (see: seven hours later after falling asleep in your chair for about five hours and then browsing angry GOP Twitter accounts while cackling into a cup of the blackest coffee you’ve ever tasted for the other two), confirming you’d be willing to work for Christopher Robert Evans’ campaign to run for the current president-elect’s soon-to-be open senate seat.

Or, at least confirming you’d speak to the Evans family to talk about running the campaign of the whitest man under the age of forty you’ve ever seen. Whether or not you ended up attempting to control what is likely another dumpster-fire campaign in a series of dumpster-fire campaigns. Harris is the one that comes to mind, but drawing any parallels between that woman and this man feels borderline offensive.

Plus, her senate run was successful. And she held elected office before that.

Why did you agree to do this again?

Right, you need money. So much money. All of the money. At least enough money that you can be bought from straight under the White House, which just so happens to be the amount the Evans estate offered you in exchange for your services.

Maybe that’s why you’ve found yourself in a conference room in an expensive office building, looking up at Chris Evans as his face turns red and your heart rate picks up.

“I’m Massachusetts’s best choice!” he screams, slamming his hands onto the table – a rich brown you sort of wish you could afford to have in your own home back at the capital. Your estate sale table, even with the coat of white paint you gave it after buying it, still can’t hold a candle to the beautiful grooves and smooth top.

But this isn’t time to yearn for better interior design prospects. Now is the time to put this moderate democrat man-child in his upper-middle-class place.

“Chris, you’re the best choice for an internship for the fucking EPA,” you nearly hiss. “You’re in the intern in Vice who watched Dick Cheney make deals with those fucking oil businessmen. You’re the shiny faced bastard who watched the world burn while listening to a Walkman. Do you understand me?”

His teeth are barred like he’s about to bite at your face; luckily that man comes with an electric collar and you’ve got the controller.

“Your biggest qualification is you got a five on the AP Gov exam. You have a single living family member who has held elected office in the last five years, and he was in the House of Representatives. The House! He wasn’t even in the chamber you’re gunning to be a part of. You were an econ major with a minor in, what? Poli sci? At a mid-tier university because your family doesn’t have Kushner money to bribe your acceptance letter out of a better one. Your main job after college was working as an accountant for old fraternity because they get audited so often the IRS had to release a public statement saying they were changing their processes for such matter on college campuses. You’re so moderate you’re in the aisle playing legislative mad-libs while everyone fawns over your B+ facial hair and C- chest tattoo. You’re a cute puppy at a for-profit rescue, you’re eye candy on a political television show.

“You’re the type of person who didn’t think that Gillibrand was done for before the second debate. That’s the problem with you. I mean there are lots of problems with you, but that’s the one I’m most annoyed with right now. It’s not that you can’t understand patterns or see what’s going on around you. It’s that you were never forced to. When you walk outside in the dark, I bet you don’t look behind you, you don’t clutch your keys like claws to protect yourself. You know how much pepper spray costs? Do you know what a noisemaker does? No, you’ve never had to. You’ve never had to shield yourself from danger because the rest of the world did that for you.”

It’s then that you realize you’re both standing, your finger jabbed into the Windsor knot of his tie. Still, you don’t stop.

“You are the shell of an actual politician; you represent a safe option for right-adjacent Democrats and moderate Republicans who hate the president’s coalition and women. Especially women of color. You’re the perfect option because you stand for nothing of substance, you do nothing on your own. You’re a cover for old racist white men and moderate white women who need something to attatch their lack of political knowledge to during dinner conversations. Either you shape up, or I’m leaving this campaign and watching your inevitable fall from my office in the White House. I will drink a martini in the West Wing the day you lose, I will release a glowing endorsement of the first liberal who so much as whispers about taking your ass down. Do you understand me?”

The longest few seconds of your life pass with bated breath as you two stand there, chests rising and falling in a synced rhythm with your jaws set. It’s a stand off, neither of you willing to look away from the other’s eyes.

“Do you understand me, Evans?” you bite, getting angrier at each passing Chris says nothing. It’s not the self-reflective kind of silence, it’s the generic peanut butter when you’re too broke to afford the real stuff. It’s pasta before a marathon. It’s ads the radio station plays when they’re out of loops of the latest rape-adjacent pop hit.

It’s a filler. And it’s a bad one.

“¿Te comprende?” You’re almost yelling now, screaming in his face louder than you’ve ever screamed before. “¿Me necesitas para decirlo de nuevo?”

Another heavy pause. Chris’ voice is rough as he speaks, like ten grit sandpaper. “Yeah, I get it. I fucking get it.”

And with that, he grabs his side bag and stomps out of the conference room, grumbling something about high school Spanish and Despacito. You ignore his tantrum – unlike his father, who moves to run after him. You shoot daggers into the silver-haired ca, and he sits back down.

You push the too-sweet aftertaste of canned fruit to the back of your mouth. The thick resume paper slides out of your laptop-case-slash-important papers-folder with ease, the heavy five-hundred word essay on why you hate your job detailed in 12-font Times New Roman, pristine black letters nearly shining in the low light.

“That’s my letter of resignation,” you say, looking your boss dead in the eyes. With his jaw set the way it is, you expect to hear his teeth cracking before you could leave the boardroom.

“You know we can’t accept this,” his father says with a tone that’s much too close to a laugh. A nervous laugh, but one that makes you feel like he’s treating you as if you were a joke nonetheless. “You’re our only hope for this race.”

The second sheet of paper - or, rather, the small stack with a staple in the top right corner perfectly perpendicular to the nearest corner - hits the table next. “Then, these are my demands. Let me know by midnight tonight if you can meet them or not so I know whether or not to accept a job somewhere else.”

With that, you pick up your coat and leave.

The driver, a single mom in her mid-forties who is helping put her only son through college, laughs when you enter the backseat of her vehicle. It’s not condescending, not something you feel offended by. Rather, shame paints your face.

“Did Mr. Evans-Junior snap?” She asks as she pulls away. Her tone is knowing, too knowing. How long has she worked for the Evans anyway?

You sigh, then scream into your hands. The woman in front of you doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move a muscle as she waits for your reply. “He’s an idiot.”

The woman laughs. “That’s not what I asked, and I know you know that.”

You’re tempted to scream again, only a little louder. You don’t. “He snapped. I snapped,” you sigh again as you watch out the window. It’s late, too late for traffic to be like this. Fuck Boston. “Now I want to go home and take off my bra and wash off my make up and ger super drunk and shave all my hair off and quit my job and become a sheep herder in Iceland.”

The woman doesn’t disagree, doesn’t negate. She gives you the wonderful gift of silence until she drops you off, waving you goodbye.

“You have a good night,” she calls.

“I’ll do my best,” you shout back.

You’re alone in your apartment, dressed in the most comfortable (and expensive) pair of pajamas you own with red wine and some playlist titled an artsy version of “my life is very sad and my world is falling apart so I bought a $200 bottle of alcohol and hope I cry off my name-brand make up before I have to reemerge into the eyes of polite society,” when you get the text you’ve been dreading. It’s Chris, with his perfect capitalization and punctation and lack of emoji use. You’ve seen the way he texts the rest of the team, his family, his friends. He only pulls that shit with you.

Fuck, you think as you open the message. That kid’s really gotta loosen up. Isn’t weed legal in Massachusetts? He’s a Democrat, there’s no excuse.

He’s asking if he can come over, because of course he is. You’re just lucky the message is something closer to “I feel bad and wish to speak about it with you in person” instead of the crass “u up” you expected. Still, when the three dots at the bottom of the screen appear once again, you assume it’s going to be a picture of his junk that loads.

“Please,” is all the text says.

You acquiesce, sending him something akin to a “Fine but if you step out of line again your ass is going to be explaining why you fucked up to the cold-as-fuck pavement outside.”

You hear the knock at your door thirty minutes later (you often forget how shitty Boston traffic is), opening it to reveal the saddest white boy you’ve ever seen in your short life.

His chestnut hair is disheveled enough to indicate he’d had half of a sleepless night. This is the most casual you’ve seen him – basketball shorts with another Godforsaken Harvard hoodie with Nike sneakers – bags under his eyes completing the “sad frat boy who probably just flunked a chem exam” kind of look.

“Can I come inside?” he asks.

You sigh, trying to figure out how your life came to this. A jerk of your chin allows him entry into your small apartment, every surface littered with physical copies of presentations and a map of Massachusetts covered in stickers and sticky notes and scribbles of poll numbers from past campaigns. To Chris’ untrained eye it all looks like the homestead of a serial killer, but to anyone else on his campaign it’s his ticket to the senate. Politics is a game, a game with very public winners and losers and those who fall between; anyone who doesn’t study all of those outcomes is destined to find themselves either a) in a vacation home in the hills of Vermont drunk as hell, or b) running for president.

(You’ve considered how likely both of those possibilities are, and part of you fears he’ll do both).

There’s a heavy, awkward silence that falls over the room as you both sit down, facing each other.

“So,” you ask awkwardly. “Do you want, uh, a beer…or something?”

Chris shakes his head. “No, I’m, uh, I’m alright. Thanks.”

You sigh a little, relieved. “Good, because all I have is very expensive red wine and judging by our past interactions it is not worth having it spilled all over my white carpet.”

For a moment it’s obvious he doesn’t realize that you’re kidding, but after a few seconds of a facial expression that’s a perfect blend of concerned, rejected, and confused – he lets a little smile get past his façade.

“Yeah, uh,” he laughs. “That sounds like a bitch to clean up.”

What follows is a few minutes of incredibly awkward silence as he looks around your house once more and you take the opportunity to look at him.

It’s weird to see him in this state – it’s weird to see him as something human.

Still, you want to snap at him when he breaks the quiet.

“I want to do better,” he says, voice small. He avoids meeting your eyes, wrings his hands while he looks at the floor. “I thought about what you said and I,” he sighs. “I’m sorry. I want to do better…for you.”

You sigh, placing your red wine on the side table next to you before clasping your hands together. “Look, if you’re winning this election for me-“

“I’m not,” Chris says way too defensively. You let it slide for your own sanity.

“If you’re doing this for me, you’re going to be disappointed. Mostly because what your father wants and what I want are two very different things,” Chris opens his mouth to speak again but you hold you hand up to silence him. “Listen, I have a few rules with my clients. The first one is don’t lie to me. We can talk around this all day outside the boundaries of this home, but if you can look me in the eye on my couch while I drink my wine and tell me you’re doing this for a love of the people or whatever, I’m going to need you to leave.”

Chris gives you a single silent nod.

“But, if you want to win this shitshow…” you drink the rest of the glass in a single gulp. “Then, yeah. Let’s fucking do this.”

Chris lights up.

“But, I have some rules.”

He nods silently, allowing you to continue.

You count off on your fingers. “Don’t lie to me. When I ask a question, answer it. If I don’t ask a question, answer it anyway. I want to know everything, got it?”

Chris nods.

“The only time I don’t want you to speak is when I tell you to shut the fuck up. You got that, too?”

Chris nods again.

“Good, then I have a sneaking suspicion this will work out just fine.”

The Lady in Black Leather

It was 3pm and you were bored. You were tired of sitting around the apartment. You called Scarlet and asked her to come over. The two of you purged your wardrobe and then she decided to take you out. "You need a makeover and a new wardrobe. Come on!" and off the two of you went.

Your doctor had FINALLY given you permission to do what you wished now that you had healed completely from the surgery. You had spent the last three months not doing much. You weren't allowed your normal walking routine and you couldn't exercise, lift much, nor have sex. That last one not being much of a problem cuz your boyfriend dumped you when you told him you needed this surgery because of your Uterine Fibroids causing you so much pain.

He was livid and called you all kinds of horrible names, told you that you'd be less of a woman if you had the surgery, and told you no man would ever want you if you told them you could no longer bear children... not that you would've been able to anyway. The doctor told you that the fibroid was so large it took up nearly all of the room in your womb and he recommended you have the surgery soon before the fibroid got much bigger. He told you that if you didn't have this surgery, you might become pregnant, but would most certainly lose the baby due to the fibroid. You decided you didn't want to risk that and was tired of the agonizing pain you endured every month when your period rolled around.

Well you had the surgery just after Christmas, spent New Years alone at home recovering. Your friends checking in with you and helping you with basic household chores, dressing, and shopping for you.

Scarlett, your best friend, saw you nearly every day. She would come in the morning before she went into work, would help you in and out of the shower and helped you get dressed. Then she would return in the evening to help you get ready for bed. One day she noticed you weren't as happy as you usually were and asked what was wrong.

You spilled your guts out to her. Telling her everything your now ex-boyfriend had said to you and how you just feel unloved, hollow and empty now. You cried because you always wanted to feel what it was like to have a baby inside you and now you'd never know. She tried to comfort you and encourage you but could see as the time went on, that you were slipping into depression.

Finally on the day you were cleared by your doctor to resume your usual activities, she took you to her favourite salon to cheer you up and give you a boost of confidence. She scheduled you for a makeover and then took you out to get you a new wardrobe after the two of you purged your old one. You got rid of almost everything that wasn't black. She chuckled and thought it was just a phase you were going through. You two walked through the stores and looked at all kinds of different outfits. You tried some on, but only ever purchased black.

The two of you giggled at the lingerie store and she held up a black leather underbust corset with silver buckles across it and shoulder straps. The corset laced up in the back. Your eyes lit up and you snatched it out of her hands. You found a black peasant style blouse with cutouts at the shoulders and another one that you could pull down so the neckline circled your upper arms and came across your back and chest, exposing lots of skin, or you could pull it up over your shoulders to be more modest if desired.

You found another underbust corset that was black and made from a pretty brocade patterned satin, this laced up in the back as well. You tried them both on and instantly fell in love with them. You came out of the dressing room with your black leather pants on, the black peasant blouse and the leather corset and went to look at yourself in the mirror.

"HOT DAMN!" Scarlett said as she saw you come walking out! "GOD! Don't come anywhere near my Sam dressed like that!" She teases. You look in the mirror and grin. Your long, dark, straight hair has really grown out and now hangs just below your waist. Now that it has had a proper trim and conditioning treatment, it shines like a raven's feathers. Your makeup is a lovely dark smokey eye and light pink lipstick and blush.

You grin again at how you look and feel in the corset. You enjoy how it hugs you and gives your abdominal area the extra support and you feel more confident and carry yourself with a straighter posture.

You head back into the fitting room and put on the other corset and the black high-low ruffled skirt Scarlett had found. It looked nice with the brocade on the second corset and you came out with the cutout shoulder black peasant shirt on under the corset. Again Scarlett's eyes about popped out of her head. "GOD, Harley, you look smashing!" She tells you. How about we go out for drinks and dancing tonight to celebrate your new look and your doc releasing you back into the real world again?!?!" she suggests.

"Ok, Scarlett. That sounds like it might be fun!" you say with a grin. "Which one should I wear?" you ask.

"Go put the black leathers back on, but leave this top on and put on the other corset." She tells you. You go and do that and then come back out.

"YES! That is your look for tonight! now we just need to find you a jacket to wear!" she tells you.

You ask the clerk if you can just wear this out of the business and she nods. "Here, let me just snip off the tags for you so the cashier can ring them up." she says.

You pay for the purchases and the two of you head out into the spring sunshine.

"We need to find you some sexy boots and a jacket!" Scarlett says and then her eyes brighten. "I know just where to go to get both!" she exclaims.

She takes you to a shop a few doors down and the sales men are almost falling over trying to help you find the right boots. You settle for two pairs. A higher heel boot that goes just above the knee, and a flat pair that goes to mid calf... both in black.

You pay for the two pairs and wear the higher heeled one out of the store. The two of  you are laughing and joking and aren't paying attention when you suddenly bump into a big, burly, balding man who almost knocks you off your feet. He reaches out and catches you before you fall and apologizes for not paying attention to where he was going. He has a warm, scottish accent and smiles at you with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

You blush beet red and he chuckles. "You gonna be okay, Lass?" he asks as he steadies you. You nod and grin. "Thanks, sir, for catching my friend." Scarlett pipes up, seeing you all flustered. He chuckles and nods. "My pleasure. You two ladies have a nice day." he says as Scarlett pulls you towards the store selling the jacket she wants you to get.

The big, burly, balding man watches you two walk away and he grins as he watches your long, raven hair sway from side to side as you walk. He chuckles again and shakes his head. "Damn, she was hot!" he tells himself as he sees you two walk into the store.

You and Scarlett look around at all the different types of jackets. You both select a few and you go to try them on in front of the mirror. Scarlett hands you a black high low jacket with a royal purple lining. You try it on and grin. It has a fitted chest with three flaps that cross the chest and snap closed, the bottom of the coat flares slightly at your hips and does the typical high-low lay. You turn and show her. "What do you think of this with that skirt I bought?" you ask. She claps and nods. "Oooohhh Yes!!!" she says.

You take off the jacket and set it aside. Then she hands you another one. This one was a patent leather gothic style trench coat with a huge hood that you could fold over your shoulders when you weren't wearing the hood. You liked it immediately. It was comfortable and yet form fitting to your hips, then flared out as you walked. You decided to get that one too and the best part about it was that it was waterproof.

"Now I just need a short one for going out on the town." you tell her. She holds up a couple and you grab the one with a double collar and an asymmetrical zipper across the chest. You try it on and grin. "Yes!" Scarlett says. That looks great with your current outfit!" she exclaims.

You take all three jackets to the cashier and pay for them. You decide to wear the short one for the day and the clerk carefully puts the other two into a bag for you and clips off the tags for the short jacket. Scarlett carries the bag out after you paid for everything.

"Now to find you a little black dress and some more cute tops and some more pants and skirts." Scarlett tells you. The two of you are laughing as you leave the store and the big, bald man looks up from his phone and smiles.

The two of you walk from store to store and shop for clothes. One of the stores, is right near where the big bald guy is standing. He sees you looking at black dresses and skirts. Scarlett is holding up a couple and you frown and shake your head. Then you hold up a gorgeous long black number that makes him want to beg you to try it on. He grins when he sees you drape it over your arm to try on. You grab a couple knee length and another high-low skirt and head for the dressing room. He has a clear shot of the mirrors and waits for you to come out.

You and Scarlett head to the fitting room and you ask her what you should try on first. She tells you to leave the top and the corset on and to try on the skirts first. You do and come out in the knee length one and bare feet. "OOOOhhhh! I likkkkkkeeeeee!" she says excitedly "Very sophisticated!" she tells you. "But you need a nice pair of black dress shoes for that look." she says as she looks around. "Hang on!" she goes and finds a pair of simple black pumps in your size. She helps you slip into them and giggles as you are now taller than her. You turn and look into the mirror and grin. "Come on, do a twirl and the catwalk." Scarlett teases.

You chuckle and give her a catwalk strut down the walkway towards the windows, you twirl around at the window, not noticing the bald man standing outside in the hallway staring at you with great appreciation, and you catwalk back to Scarlett who is clapping and her firery red curls bouncing as she bounces in her seat. "Great! Go try on the high- low skirt!" she tells you.

You go back into the fitting room and come out a moment later in the high low skirt. It has a royal purple lining in it that matches the jacket you bought. Scarlett squeals when she sees you come out in it and pulls out the jacket. "Here! You gotta try it with the jacket!" she exclaims and helps you into the jacket.

You look in the mirror and turn this way and that. "I don't know, Scarlett, I kind of want to stick with just the black." you tell her. She laughs, "Aww, come on Har, ya gotta have a LITTLE pop of color now and then!" she teases. "Come on, do the catwalk with this one too! I think that guy you bumped into seems to be enjoying your little fashion show." she teases.

You glance up and notice him standing outside the windows talking to someone on his phone occasionally glancing in. Your face gets pink and you say, "I don't know, Scar, now I'm nervous." "Aw, come on! Harley! Show 'em what ya got! He seems to be enjoying it, let 'em look. It's not like you're gonna take 'em home with ya!" she teases.

"Fine!" you relent. You strut down the walkway towards the windows and do your little spin, making the tails of the jacket fly and strut back to Scarlett, who is giggling.

"And now for the finale! The little black dress!!!!!" she exclaims with glee. You roll your eyes and head back into the fitting room. You remove the corset and the blouse, the skirt and then put on the dress. It looks all right on you but then you wonder how it'll look with the corset. You put the corset back on and voila, you look amazing! You grin and slip on the black heels again. You step out of the fitting room and look straight down the walkway to see the reaction of the man standing just outside the windows. The bald one you bumped into's eyes get wide and he grins at you. You glance over to Scarlett who pulls you over in front of the full length mirror and makes you turn slowly.

You admire how flattering the dress is on you and how the corset gives your girls just the right amount of support. "Har, why did you put the corset over it?" Scarlett asked.

"Because I need the support and the dress looked better with it on." you explained. You strut down the walkway slowly and give the guy a good look at you. When you reach the window, you smirk at him to let him know you saw him watching, and his face turns pink and he glances away, continuing the conversation on his phone. The moment you turn he glances back to admire your rear in the dress.

"HOT DAMN! She is SMOKIN HOT!" he grins. He is distracted and suddenly hears Aiden on the other end of the phone. "Now, Martin wants to know if we are meeting him up at The Squawking Raven's Bar tonight. He needs to let them know how many to reserve tables for. You two comin' or what?" Aiden asks.

Graham is still watching you interact with Scarlett and isn't paying attention.  "Earth to Graham... You coming to The Squawking Raven's tonight or what?" Aiden asks again. "Yeah, I guess. I don't have anywhere else to go tonight." he replies as he watches you head for the dressing room.

"Out of your league, Graham... Out of your league." He tells himself. Then turns his attention back to the three way call he was on. The three of them talk about what time to meet at the bar and Graham spots you and Scarlett heading for the Cashier. He grins when he sees you pay for the dress and both skirts and the shoes.  The two of you head for the doors and start walking towards him. As you walk past you pause and whisper. "Hey handsome, hope you enjoyed the show!" and then kept on walking, arm in arm with Scarlett who was looking back and giggling.

Graham grinned

 FAST FORWARD TO THE EVENING

"Come on Har! Hurry up!!!" Scarlett says, annoyed. You come running out of the bathroom and then ask. "What should I wear? I got so many cute outfits with you today."

Scarlett picks out the leather pants that are almost like leggings they fit you so tight, the peasant top without the cut outs, and the brocade corset, then thinks and grabs the high-low skirt with the purple lining. "Here, wear this." she says.

You quickly get dressed and she pulls the neckline down around your shoulders exposing your shoulders more. "There. Now find a necklace and get your knee high boots on so we can go!"

You quickly find a black lace choker, with a silver circlet at the throat. There is one long, silver chain coming down off the center of the choker and it has a black pearl on the end. There are two slightly shorter silver chains, one on either side of the longer one, and they too have black pearls on them. There are four small pendants containing black pearls each one flanking the longer chains. You put it on and then put on the matching earrings.

You dab on some Ylang Ylang essential oil you use as perfume.

You look at your hair and say, "Scar, can you quickly braid this for me into one of your rope braids?" she looks at you and grins. She pulls half of your hair up and braids it into her signature rope braid then wraps it around your head several times. Pinning it in place with hairpins. She takes some of your hair jewels and puts them in throughout the twisted hair crown. "There, now let's go!" she says and grabs your arm.

You pull on your boots and grab your hooded trench coat and put it on. You dig out your ID and debit card and cash from your wallet and put it into a small leather pouch and ties it to your loop on the bottom of the corset on your right side.

The two of you dash out the door and Scarlett drives you two to The Squawking Raven bar. You both walk up to the bouncer and he grins. "Hi Scar! Who do you have with you tonight?" Joe asks. "Joe, this is my best friend, Harley. She is celebrating her first night out since having major surgery and we're gonna have a good time if you let us in." she teases. He holds out his hand and you hand him your ID. He looks at it, gets a surprised look on his face and hands it back to you. "You sure don't look your age, Honey! Scar, you sure she is over 21?" he teases. Scarlett giggles, Yes, Joe. We have been friends since we were toddlers." she tells him. "Damn!" he replies. "Well you two ladies have fun!" he tells you two as he holds the door for you both to enter.

The music and the bass hit your bodies immediately and you grin. Yes, this was exactly what you needed after the last four months of life dragging you down.

You both head for the coat check and then once your coats are safely stowed away, you go to grab a drink. You both come up to the bar and Lacey glances up. "Well lookie here! It's Scar and someone new! How are ya tonight?" He asks.

"Hey, Lacey! This is my best friend, Harley. Harley, this is Lacey." she tells you both. "Nice to meet you Harley! Welcome to The Squawking Raven. Can I get you two ladies anything?" he asks.

You look up at the selections. "Jameson on the rocks, please." you ask. He looks surprised and Scarlett just grins. "Screwdriver for me, Lace." Scarlett says.  You two turn and watch the dancing for a minute and look around. You see there is an upper deck where people are seated in booths and some are standing by a railing looking down. There is a spiral staircase at the front and center end of the upper deck.

"Here you are ladies!" Lacey says as he hands you both your drinks. You both grin and Scarlett tells him to put the drinks for tonight on her tab. He nods and the two of you head for an empty table by the dance floor.

You giggle as you watch Scarlett's curls bounce in time to the music as she jams out while you two walk. She is in a bright green leather steam punk vest with a high collar and chains hanging off it. There are little gold hooks holding the vest closed and she has black jeans on. She has her usual ankle boots on and her red hair is reminding you of Merida from the movie Brave.

You order food and wait for it to arrive before downing the alcohol too much. Once you both have eaten and drank your first round of drinks, you both are ready to hit the dance floor.

___________

Graham is standing by the door outside waiting for the rest of the group to arrive. Martin and his wife were already inside and up in the upper deck's booths. Finally he sees Richard's and Aiden's cars arrive. They join him at the door and Joe lets them in. They are heading across the floor for the spiral staircase when someone dancing bumps into Richard, causing him to bump into someone who is in front of him and slightly off to the side, nearly knocking them off their feet.

He reacts quickly and steadies the person. His left hand grabbing her upper arm and his right hand steadying her as he grabs her waist to keep her from flying forward too far. His hands land on soft leather and he feels the person's body stiffen momentarily.

He rumbles an apology close to the person's ear so she could hear him over the music. He has to resist letting out a groan when the scent of her perfume hits his nose. It was like a sweet intoxication and he was hooked instantly. The woman frowns and looks up at him with her big blue eyes and long, black lashes. At first she didn't recognize him, then it dawned on her who he was and her eyes widen and a blush creeps up her neck.

"OH! I'm sorry!" you say. When you realize who just bumped into you.

He chuckles and lets go of your arm, keeping his other hand on your hip. "I'm sorry for bumping into you." he apologizes. "You ok?" He asks. You stare at him for a moment, then lower your head shyly and nod."I'm fine." you tell him.

He grins. "Ok. Just wanted to make sure you were all right." he replies with a panty melting smirk. You have to bite your lip to resist groaning audibly. "Damn, he is so frickin' sexy in that blue shirt and silver grey pants! His hair was longer than you had seen him wear it in a while. You follow his tumblr and twitter pages. His silver streaks in his hair were a little more noticeable now and you grinned. You reached up and hesitantly brushed a strand off his face, making him grin more.

"Thank you." you replied. Suddenly Scarlett was grabbing your hand and pulling you further into the dance floor, completely oblivious to your exchange with the handsome actor. You looked over your shoulder as she pulled you away and mouthed, "Sorry" to him. He chuckled and headed for the spiral staircase where the others were gathered.

You and Scarlett danced for a while and when you got thirsty, you sat down at the table while she went to get you both drinks. You looked around, beaming at all the fun you were having. They were playing great dance music tonight. You glanced up into the upper deck and gasped. You saw the bald man from earlier in the day standing at the railing with Richard Armitage and suddenly there was Aiden Turner and Martin Freeman along with another woman who you assume was Martin's wife.

As you were looking up, Scarlett came back with your drinks. "Here's another Jameson on the rocks for you, Harley!" she said as she plopped it down on the table. "What'cha lookin' at?" she asked when you glanced back up at the upper deck.

"You'll never guess who is here." you tell her.

"Who?" she asks. You tilt your head up to the deck. "Along the railing..." you say as you take a swig of your drink.

"Oh my GOD!!!" she squeals excitedly. "I knew I recognized Baldy from this afternoon! That's Graham McTavish!!!! Oh my God, you were flirting with him!!! And he flirted with you!!!" Scarlett teased!

You blushed beet red. "Look who else is up there." you replied.

"Oh good Lord! It's Aiden Turner and Mr. Oakenshield himself, Mr. Armitage!" she squealed. Then she saw Martin turn and face the dance floor again after talking to someone behind him. "Bilbo is here too?!?!?!?!" she squeaked! "Oh my dear Harley! We hit the jack pot tonight!!!  Eye candy everywhere!!!!" she exclaimed!

You just covered your face and laughed. "Scar, PLEASE don't embarass me tonight!!! They are just normal people like you and me, just a lot richer." you tell her.

"Come on! Let's go dance some more!" she squeals and pulls you out on the floor. You bring your half drunk Jameson with you so no one can mess with it. You quickly realize you need to down it due to the number of bodies around you. "Hang on, Scar, I gotta go finish my drink!" you tell her. She nods and keeps dancing.

You head back to the table and take another swig of your drink. You don't notice that Graham spotted you on the dance floor with the redhead from earlier in the day and pointed you both out to Richard and Aiden. You finish your drink and pop one of the small ice cubes in your mouth and chomp on it, liking the feel of the crunch in your mouth. you pop another in your mouth and crunch on it too.

"You know what they say about Lasses who eat ice don't ya?" You hear from behind you. You grin and recognize that accent and the warm voice. You pick out another small ice cube, turn and pop it in your mouth as you raise an eyebrow.

You see Richard swallow hard and you smirk. You roll the cube around in your mouth for a moment teasing the two men, and then give it a satisfying crunch.

"What do they say about Lasses who chew on Ice, Mr. McTavish?" you tease.

He smirks, then says, "They haven't gotten any in a while." he chuckles, pats Richard on the back and turns to head back to the upper deck. You giggle and look at a stunned Richard. "You want a drink?" you ask when you see Aiden approach Scarlett to dance.

Richard snaps out of it and chuckles, "Sure, what are you having?" he asks as you both make your way to the bar.

"Jameson on the rocks, please Lacey, and something for Mr. Armitage here." you tell him. Lacey's eyes open wide and he grins. "Sure! What'll you have?" he asks Richard.

Rich looks at you surprised when you order a Jameson on the rocks. He should've known you'd order something like that from how you were dressed. He tells Lacey what he wants to drink and then turns to you.

"So, you like the strong stuff?" he asks teasingly.

"Yup!" you reply bouncing to the beat of the music. "Jameson, Jack Daniels, Captain Morgan" you list off. "But I like stuff like Screwdrivers and champagne too. Just depends on where I am at and what mood I'm in." you reply. "I'm almost always willing to try new things."

He hums.

"Here ya are Harley," Lacey says as he passes you both your drinks. "Want me to put it on Scar's tab?" he asks.

Richard raises an eyebrow, "Scar?" he asks you. You giggle. "Scarlett, the red-head I came with tonight. She's my best friend." you explain.

Richard nods and takes out his wallet. He pays for the drinks and then puts his wallet back in his pocket.

You both take your drinks to the table and sit. You watch Aiden dancing with Scarlett and chuckle. "OOOHHHH Sam isnt gonna like that if he finds out she was dancin with a guy instead of me!" you chuckle.

Richard looks at them then back at you and raises an eyebrow. "Who's Sam?" he asks.

"Her Boyfriend." you reply.

Richard coughs from his drink. "Why is she out with you instead of her boyfriend?" he asks.

You grin. "We were celebrating and he didn't want to join us." you explain.

Richard looks at you confused. "Celebrating?" he asks.

You nod and take another swig of your whiskey. "Yeah. I just got cleared by my doctor to resume normal activities after being on strict limitations. I had major surgery right after Christmas that practically put me on bed rest." You explain. "I was ok'd today to go back to my normal activities, So we went shopping for a new wardrobe, she got me a makeover and we came here to celebrate." you tell him.

He chuckles. "I can understand you coming here for celebrating, but why the makeover and shopping spree?" he asks as the two of you watch the dancing out on the floor and nurse your drinks.

"My boyfriend of 3 years dumped me like a hot potato when I told him I was having this major surgery. He got mad at me and degraded me and said a lot of horrible things to me that made me feel like crap. I've battled depression and poor self esteem for my whole life. Scarlett was just trying to help me out of a bout of it that i had after the surgery." you explained. "She tried to get me to feel pretty, sexy and confident." you tell him.

"Ah." Richard nodded, understanding the self-esteem part all too well. "And did it work?" he asked

"Sort of." you reply. "I'm definitely not pretty or sexy, but I do feel more confident with my new corset on." you tell him.

"Well it's his loss." he tells you as he reaches across the table and puts his hand on yours.

You look at him confused, "Huh?"

"Your boyfriend, he was a fool for leaving a beautiful and incredibly sexy woman like you like he did." he replied as he stood and came to stand in front of you. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear that had come loose. You stared at him in disbelief.

"Would you like to dance for a bit?" he asked.

You grinned and downed the rest of your drink, smirking at the shocked look on his face. You let him pull you out to the dance floor and the two of you danced the night away as Graham and Martin and Martin's wife looked on from the upper deck.

"Graham, who's the lady Richard is dancing with?" Martin's wife asked. Graham shook his head. "I don't know who she is. I only saw her and that red haired lass that Aiden's dancin' with when they were shopping at the mall earlier today.

"Is THAT the woman you were watching when I was talking to you and Aiden on the phone?" Martin asked, flabbergasted. He looked down to the dance floor when Graham nodded at him.

"Damn!" Martin said, earning a smack from his wife.

He looked up at her confused and she smirked at him. "Look, but no touching!" she reminded him.

He grinned mischievously, "Sweetheart, the only one getting touched by these mitts is you!" he told her and grabbed her to give her a passionate kiss.

Graham chuckled and teased, "Get a room you two!"

Martin's wife teased back, "Aw, come on,  Graham, you know what it's like to be in love! How come your wife doesn't join you on your travels?" she asked.

Graham sighed. "She hates flying. And she takes care of the kids and grandkids while I'm gone. She doesn't want to be in the spotlight and wants to keep her anonymity." he replies.

"Unlike somepeople..." Martin teases his wife and gives her a squeeze. She chuckles and looks down at Richard and you dancing.

"She has an unusual beauty to her. I wonder what attracted him to her?" she pondered.

Graham chuckles. "Hmmm, a mysterious, beauty, dressed in all black leather with long, soft raven hair... gee, I don't know what he was thinking..." he tells her teasingly

She rolls her eyes. "Men." she snorts.

They both just chuckle.

--------

After a while, Scarlett and Aiden come over to you and Richard and the four of you head back to the table. Scarlett goes to get drinks and brings them back. You are feeling pretty buzzed by now and happily take the Jameson from her.

You take a swig and sigh contentedly as you let it sit on your tongue for a moment before swallowing. Aiden chuckles. "I don't think I've met someone who downs whiskey like you do!" he teases. "How many have you had now?" he asks.

"Four... i think." You grin and finish the glass in two gulps. Savoring the flavor before you swallow each one. Both Richard and Aiden's eyes open wide and you smile, popping the small ice cubes into your mouth one at a time. "I like to enjoy the flavor on my tongue before swallowing it." you tease and wink.

"I'm amazed you aren't totally hammred!" Aiden replies with a mischievous grin and winks at Richard. The two men talk for a couple minutes about a coworker who liked whiskey, but you ignored them.

"Scarlett, you better be careful and make sure Sam doesn't find out about tonight." you whisper to her as Aiden and Richard talk. She giggles. "I don't really care at the moment, he can go pound sand for all I care. I'm tired of his controlling nature. He never wants to do anything with me." she tells you and you shrug. "You might want to let Aiden know so he isn't caught unawares." you tell her.

Richard asks you if you'd like to dance some more and you nod. The two of you head out onto the dance floor.

"What was with all the whispering?" he asked. "I was just warning her to be careful with Aiden. I don't want him getting hurt. Scarlett is dating a guy who is very controlling and only wants her for one thing. He refuses to do anything outside of the bedroom with her and she is getting tired of it. I have had my doubts that they would stay together for very much longer. She is an outgoing person and loves to socialize. I just don't want their breakup to be blamed on Aiden." you explain.

"Ah." he says.

The two of you dance for a while then head back to the table. You sit and lean against the table. Popping another ice cube in your mouth to suck on.

"Would you like another drink?" Richard asks. You shake your head. "No, I better lay off the whiskey, it's gettin late and we are gonna have to head out soon." you tell him.

Richard frowns. "You sure?" he asks.

You nod. "Yeah. Thanks tho for the one you did get me."

He nods.

You look around for Aiden and Scarlett. "Where did they go?" you ask nervously.

Richard looks puzzled. "Who?"

"Aiden and Scarlett. She's my ride home." you tell him.

"I'm gonna go check and see if she is in the Ladies' room. I'll be right back." you tell him.

You head to Lacey and ask him where the Ladies' room is, he points to the back wall and you nod and thank him.

You stumble across the dance floor and over to the restrooms. You go to open the Ladies' room door and find it's locked. You put an ear to the door and hear two people having sex. You knock on the door and holler, "Scarlett, you in there?"

You hear them pause and a lady replies, "No one in here by that name, hon."

You apologize and head back to the table you were at. You look around for Richard and don't see him. You look up into the upper deck and see him up there talking to Martin and Graham. He sees you down on the floor and heads back down to the table.

"Graham said they left when we went back onto the dance floor." he tells you.

You sit down on the chair, rub your forehead and groan." Ugh! I hope they went to Aiden's place and not hers or there could be problems." you tell him.

"You gonna be ok?" he asks you. "Yeah. I'll just call one of my other friends to come get me." you reply.

"I can give you a ride if you want." he offers.

"Thanks, but I'm not entirely comfortable with that yet. No offense. I just haven't had the greatest luck with guys i just met knowing where I live." you tell him. He raises an eyebrow.

You sigh. "I'm sorry, I gotta go." you tell him. "Thanks for the dancing and the drink." you tell him and turn to head to the coat check.

Richard stands and watches you head out. He frowns, something was bugging him about your reaction and he couldn't put a finger on what it was. He watched you put your coat on and flip up your hood. He followed you at a distance and watched as you started to walk out the door. You stopped to thank the bouncer for letting you in and then you began to walk down the block.

"She surely isn't going to walk home?!?" he thought. He frowned again. Then realized he didn't even get your name or your phone number. He facepalmed annoyed with himself. He watched you disappear into the darkness and prayed you got home safe.

He turned to head back in and Joe looked at him. "You just gonna let her walk home alone?" he asked.

"I offered her a ride, but she declined. Said she was going to call her friend for a ride. Maybe they live nearby." Richard replied.

Joe nodded. He opened the door and let Richard back in.

The rest of the night, Richard thought about you, worried, and wondered if you made it home all right.

By the time he got home, it was early morning. He knew he was going to have a headache and had to be up in 6 hours for makeup and hair.

Groaning, he stripped out of his clothes took a couple of aspirin with some water and climbed into bed. He set his alarm on his phone and plugged it in. Then drifted off to sleep dreaming about the mysterious woman in black.

@fizzyxcustard @thetherianthropydaily @emrfangirl @midnight-reader-morning-sleeper

Thursday’s Child

Pairing: CastielXReader Word Count: 2759 (Pt. 1) Summary: Part 1 of 5 - You met Castiel during his stint at being human and knew him as Steve, a sweet, albeit mysterious, man working at the local Gas-N-Sip with sad blue eyes that seemed to light up in your presence. That was eight years ago; now the daughter he fathered during your brief time together - the girl he doesn’t know about because he stole from your bed without a word and slipped out of your life before you knew you were pregnant - is asking for him. You realize, for her sake, it’s time to face the painful truth in order to find him. A/N - Part 1 is an angsty intro to the reader, the next part brings us up to speed on where Cas is at ...

Pt. 1

You walked into the Gas-N-Sip onto a scene a match stick strike short of complete chaos. Beyond the sea of customers waiting at the counter, the grumbled volume of their impatience rising like a storm’s tide breaking on a rocky shore, you saw not the blue-eyed sales associate you sought for, but the ragged figure of the manager, Nora, as she slammed her fist against the side of the cash register to compel its cooperation.

The machine spat its contents out in a metallic ding barely audible above the thunder of discontent. Nora flung a handful of crumpled bills at the gaping man stood before her and waved him toward the door with his uncapped cup of cold coffee without a word regarding well wishes for the goodness of the day.

The frazzled blonde jabbed a finger at her temple, peered blankly over the counter, and muttered, “Can I help whose next?” in a manner that made whomsoever was next dither in presenting themselves for customer service slaughter, and two people leave without getting the gasoline they came for - one of whom had trudged there on foot through the snow uphill in a pair of threadbare tangerine Converse after their car ran out of juice three miles down the road.

As the sea swelled in murmured confusion over who was next, you dove into the crush of shoulders and shoved a path through to the front.

Pressed into the counter, you jostled a carousel display of novelty keychains, the inconvenient disturbance of which, more than your voice, caught Nora’s strained attention. “Nora!” you panted. Caging the scattering of metal rings within your elbows to prevent their clattering to the floor, you ignored the nicotine-husked scolding of a wrinkled weather-worn woman sounding in your ear about cutting the line.

“Y/N?” A flicker of hope lightened Nora’s craggy sleep-deprived aspect at the sight of you. “Have you seen Steve?” Clutching at your wrist, she asked the desperate-toned question before you could, unknowingly answering yours in its sameness. “He hasn’t been in for two days. No call out. Nothing. That’s not like him.”

Cheeks paling, you agreed – conscientious to a fault, it wasn’t like him at all to just disappear.

The sickly sense of suspicion festering in your stomach during the last forty-eight hours that began upon waking to empty sheets and fattened itself not on food, because you’d barely eaten under the barrage of worried emotions, but rather fed on a gluttony of unreturned calls and texts, shuddered and flipped with enough weight to unsteady your feet; wrist yanked from her grip, you flattened your palm to the front of your jeans as an awareness of imminent ill shot sour bile up your gullet.

You shook your head; taking a second, you choked back the throat-searing fluid and fortified your dizzied balance against the confirmation he had indeed gone without a trace. “N-no, I haven’t-” you sputtered- “I-I was hoping-”

Cutting you off, unable to hear anything beyond the unhelpful news of your weakly uttered ‘No,’ frustration rutted her sweat-beaded forehead. “Well when you do see him, tell him he’s fired. He left me in the middle of a mess of inventory and I haven’t had anyone to open. For fuck’s sake, it’s the holidays! I’m in a real lurch here.” Wheezing to reach for the final bit of breath required to bellow out her contained fury, she gestured at the crowd and flashed the one or two nearest folks shocked by her expletive outburst a conciliatory service industry contrived smile.

“If-if you see him-” you attempted to request the returned favor through the burst levy of her rage as the woman spewing insults about your impudence wedged between you and the counter to demand immediate attention. Funneled in defeat to the center of the store, you broke for the bathroom before the wet brim of heartache flooded your lashes and a renewed heave of nausea hollowed your belly of its fill of woe.

<<<>>> 

“Mama?” The girl outfitted in pastel blue and magenta feather-bedecked fleece footie pajamas curled on the bed beside you stirred sleepily in the crook of your arm; the friction of her minute movements and dry forced heat air of winter combined sparked a static shock where the soft warmth of her bare fingers brushed your own calloused cooler ones.

“Yeah, honeybee?” Swiveling your concentration from the pages of the storybook held above the both of you, you closed the pages and sniffed your reply ticklishly into the freshly washed soap-smell of your daughter’s scalp – the scent of her a welcome haven from the heady aromas clinging to you of yeasted bread, warmed spice, and browned sugar that otherwise denoted a hectic day spent toiling in the bakery and sweet shop you operated below the small apartment.

She squirmed and giggled beneath your unrelenting Eskimo kisses until, fidgeting sideways to evade and escape, she squealed mid-laugh a query so completely unrelated to the book you’d been reading aloud minutes before it took you aback. “Where’s daddy?”

Her innocent and wholly natural curiosity stilled your showering of affection, seized at the center of your chest to steal your breath, and skipped your heart a few agonizing beats, but only a few; you’d grown emotionally numb over many years to the hurt of not knowing what happened with her father, of trying to reconcile your questions with a lack of answers in order to figure out what you did wrong, if anything, to warrant Steve’s disappearance from your life – and his own - without a goodbye, a warning, or so much as an inkling of a reason.

Although you tried and mostly succeeded in tidily boxing up the train wreck aftermath of emotion in your brain, he remained nonetheless an enigma forever in front of you because she was his; she wore his smile, albeit a bit easier and more often than he did; she saw the world through that same shade of inwardly illuminated blue, giving everyone she gazed upon the benefit of the doubt; she treated everything she touched, too, with a kindness, carefulness, and consideration so like him.

He endured even in his absence as an end without an end - the only proofs of the brief love-swept spell of him having been in your life a blunted memory stonewashed by time to dull the jagged edge of loss in believing he was the best thing to ever happen to you, and the life he sparked in your womb, a little girl who turned out to be what he wasn’t – the love of your life.

Yet despite the distance of years and the layers of a life well-lived laid on top of past pain, and like the first time you met him, every once in a while, when you least expected it, in moments when you were most relaxed, his recollection had a way of taking you by surprise such that you forgot how to breathe.

Her inquisitiveness, however, did not; she asked after him on occasion, especially now that she was in school and of an age to notice and wonder at the differences between her family and those of her classmates.

“Max has two daddies.”

Her observation, spoken in an airy awe punctuated by a yawn, penetrated your reverie into the past.

“That so?” Shifting up onto an elbow to better study the seriousness scrunching up her nose, you smoothed her disheveled hair into a chestnut halo of bouncy ringlets encircling her head on the polka dot patterned pillowcase; your fingertips fondly followed a wild whorl rebelling above her ear.

“Mm-hmm,” she drowsily drew out the noise, blinking heavily-lashed eyes that danced over the neon glow of star stickers arranged in constellations on the ceiling. With a mumbled, “and a dog, too” -she tossed the blanket, burrowed face-first into the pillow, and fell soundly asleep.

Staying absolutely motionless, you praised in grateful silence the sudden seizure of slumber children are wont to succumb to for temporarily relieving you from an explanation; whatever she dreamed of would be better than the reality of not knowing you had to offer.

You slipped from the bed and into the hallway, flicking lights off as you walked the worn oriental carpet runner to your bedroom, and found yourself standing in front of the closet digging for a shoebox stuffed in the topmost corner behind a stack of spare sheets.

Extricating the box with a grunt, you sunk to the floor, pushed off the lid, and dumped the contents, those few physical scraps you possessed of Steve - notes, snapshots, and the crumbling petals of a pressed red rose he left behind besides the scars on your heart and her - into your lap.

Last season, perched on Santa’s lap at the mall, your daughter told the falsely bearded jolly supplier of holiday spirit and maker of childhood magic she wanted him to bring her daddy home for Christmas. The pitying frowns donned by Saint Nick and his helper elf upon hearing her request haunted you for weeks afterward. The bright pink bike you bought to place under the tree as her big gift that year seemed a paltry substitute for what she really longed for.

It also prompted you to hire a private investigator to track Steve down. You hadn’t looked for him before then – you’d gotten on just fine without him; but it was becoming clear she needed to know him, if not as the father figure she idealized, at least as a means for both of you to get some kind of closure.

Part of you supposed regardless of why he left he should know he had a daughter and it was unfair - however unfairly he’d treated you - to keep her to yourself when you’d created her together. Whether he wanted to be a part of her life once he knew he’d not only deserted you, but left you knocked up, heartbroken, jobless, and in deep debt holding a newly minted mortgage for a building in need of major renovations before you could bake up that first batch of blueberry scones and realize a long-imagined dream – a dream he inspired you to pursue - would be entirely up to him.

Maybe you’d hesitated to look for so long because you felt he would want to be in your lives out of a sense of obligation rather than any emotive attachment of fatherly feeling; whatever had happened, the Steve you loved was a good man – dutiful of responsibilities to a fault. But Steve chose to leave and you wondered if he’d feel more trapped than anything if he knew there was a child; that he would be there like a hare snagged in a hunter’s snare awaiting fate, but that he wouldn’t want to be there.

In terms of fairness, that consequence wouldn’t be fair to any of you.

You eyed the sealed legal-sized manila envelope folded in half and jammed in the bottom of the emptied box. The part of you that preferred not knowing and defaulted to pigeonholing pain instead of dealing with it stuck it in there a month ago when the backlogged and grandfatherly private investigator working for literal beans of the brewed coffee variety and a weekly doughnut delivery as a personal favor to you got around to handing his findings over along with the kindly-intended counsel that he’d uncovered enough of the big picture to deem the case concluded, and it was up to you to decide whether it was worth hunting the guy down for a face-to-face to fill in the remainder of the damnable details.

Tucking the document into your outstretched hand – the fingers suffering from a nervy tremble no amount of suppressive will would quiet - he strongly cautioned against the latter pursuit of an in person meet up on the basis of having had decades of not so positive experience with quote unquote, “This same sort of dead beat dodging child support.”

Bolstering your resolve to learn the truth with a lungful of air, you slid a finger into the glue affixed gap of the envelope; the flap sliced your flesh as you tore into the paper. Soothing the slash against the warmth of your tongue, you slipped free the sheets within and rotated the cover page to scan the paragraph typed thereon – it comprised a summary of the steps the investigator took, contained a list of contacts in South Dakota and Kansas – potential current states of residence based on credit card activity - should you want to trail him further, and provided a social security number along with a name in bold uppercase print: JIMMY NOVAK.

A noose of nerves cinched tightly at your throat. The last thing you expected was an outright lie.

Steve … no, Jimmy, he carried a sadness in the slouch of his shoulders, a something secretive that distanced his gaze sometimes; he told you he lost everything - his family, his home - that he started over with nothing save the two feet he landed on to build a foundation. You believed him, respected his fortitude to move forward, and loved him enough not to push him to talk about a past obviously painful to him until he was ready.

You never dreamed what he meant to say was everything you knew of him, everything he shared, was a fabrication built not to move on from the truth, but to hide it from you.

The whoosh of your pulse pounded in your ears; vision tunneled, the panicked pump of racing blood blackened the periphery of the white sheet when you turned to the next page.

Written there was the fact Jimmy had another family; had a daughter – Claire. He left them, too. He hadn’t lost his family and home, he ran out on them just like he ran out on you.

“Mama?” Dainty fingers tapped at the damp shine of your cheek; she crept in so quietly you hadn’t heard the tip-toe tread of her bare feet on the carpet. “Mama?” she said it again, a broken whisper verging on a sob, and tangled her limbs around your neck.

You shoved the papers off your crossed legs and pulled the ball of her body into your embrace. “What’s wrong, baby bee?” Blinking to staunch the sting of your tears, your piqued emotion surrendered to a roused motherly alarm as you folded the mess of her sweat-matted hair to your bosom where she could hear the reassuring thump-thump housed within.

“I had a bad dream,” she murmured and fisted the fabric of your robe.

Me, too, you thought, and snuggled her in tighter.

Glancing at the discarded report amid the box’s other trinkets, your bleary gaze landed on a glossy polaroid photo of you and Steve snapped at a holiday party you goaded him into attending with you when your original plus one ditched you at the last minute so you wouldn’t have to face alone a roomful of tipsy marketing execs you loathed.

That night, that moment, his fingers flirting hesitatingly at your waist, touches giving in to the pull of gravity as the night wore on to graze then hug your hips as if they belonged there - had always been there - a confidant and comfort tenderly testing the territory of more - you naïvely yielding like pliant putty to his touch - that was the point of no return; through the retrospective filter of the truth it became clear he seemed too good to be true, because nothing about him was true.

Part of you wished you could reseal the envelope and the truth with it and return to the comparative bliss of not knowing. Mostly you seethed, an unprocessed anger relegated to the back-burner ignited, inflaming mind and muscle until your entire frame radiated a heat of rage.

The girl quaking in your grasp, bend of her spine shivering as you skimmed it in soothing caresses, reminded you some nightmares do evolve to have happy endings; no matter what happened, or what would happen, you had her and he couldn’t take that away from you.

Wiping her fear and tear flushed features into your pajamas, she gasped a desire that plunged daggers through your heart. “I want my daddy.”

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” you spoke in a whisper to shush her whimpers and calm the heated tempest of your nerves.

She went limp wrapped in the safety of your words and arms; you’d do anything for her, including suffer pain and swallow your pride to dredge up a monster from the past. You only prayed he wouldn’t hurt her, too.

Castiel tag list:  (Closed, if you’d like to be removed please let me know!)    @jeepangel​  @sammiesamness​  @willowing-love​  @blueicevalkyrie​   @im-the-nerdiest-of-them-a11​  @thesugargalaxy​   @bluetina-blog  @dont-trust-humanity @honeybeetrash​  @bucky-thorin-winchester​  @superwholockz​   @tistai  @wordstothewisereaders​  @gill-ons​  @mrswhozeewhatsis​  @marisayouass​  @stone-met​   @castiel-savvy18​  @samualmortgrim  @trexrambling  @magnificent-mantle  @xdifsx  @mandilion76  @rockfairy  @peaceloveancolor​  @unicorntrooper  @anisolatedship  @itsilvermorny  @aditimukul  @kudosia  @goofynerd-67babylove​  @uninspirationalsonglyrics​  @gray-avidan​  @mishascupcake​   @mishapanicmeow​   @praisecastielamen​  @roseyhxnt  @jessikared97  @let-the-imaginationflow  @warriorqueen1991   @sebastianstanslefteyebrow   @hisnameisboobear  @kristendanwayne  @fuschiarulerinthebluebox  @coolpencilpie  @jenabean75​ @luciathewinchestergirl​  @morganas-pendragons​  @heyitscam99  @fangirl-and-stuff  @selahbela  @realgreglestrade  @splendidcas  @pointlesscasey  @i-larb-spooderman​  @thewhiterabbit42​  @thelostverse​  @castieliswatchingoverme​  @beccollie18  @dragonett8  @dixie-chick  @jtownraindancer​   @carowinsthings​  @passionghost  @ladyofletters67​ @futureparent​  @gabbie7-11​  @myfandomlife-blog  @dreamerkim  @samael-has-arrived  @shamelesslydean  @earthtokace​  @neaeri  @justanormalangel​  @lone-loba​  @supernaturalymarvel​  @lilrubixx​  @wings-and-halo​  @lilulo-12​  @x-cassiopeia​ @thehoneybeecastielfollows​  @musiclovinchic93​  @81mysteriouslyme​  @the-bottom-of-the-abyss​  @jaylarkson​  @missjenniferb​  @ayamenimthiriel  @supervengerslock  @jessiekay2010​

generationsuga - myg

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre/warnings: dancer!yoongi, fluff, brief mentions of tap dancer!jin, taehyung and jeongguk are the justin bieber of 2012 in this universe

word count: 2,756

summary: he’s a commercial hip hop dancer who takes small jobs here and there but mostly spends his time at the small studio he owns with you. you teach ballet and jazz technique classes to disinterested kids who are mostly there for the guy (yoongi) who had an “epic” fifteen second b-boying solo in a kim taehyung video or the children figure out that they have to pay attention to you or else yoongi makes them do wall sits.

There was an extra crack in his spine when he straightened from the stereo but the music emitting from the same chipped speakers wasn’t unfamiliar, track seven on disc three of a five disc set he’d bought before the official opening of the studio. Warm up music, a low fi beat with just enough accentuation to be useful in improv, track seven one he never used (in fact, he barely used disc three at all) because the kids complained enough about stretching and he didn’t need the added distraction of Yoongi, this is making me fall asleep!

The top 40 playlist filtered through Seokjin’s Spotify membership did the trick instead.

The second catch in his spine wasn’t surprising but new in comparison to the wood floors underneath his sneakers, shining from their weekly Wednesday visit by the cleaners. They’d been there for years, just as the mirrors stretching the length of the far wall, complete with two elevated barres, a stack of mats, and an ever growing collection of forgotten pointe ribbons.

Yoongi stared at himself through the same smudges in the mirror, fingerprints appearing no matter how many times he told his classes not to touch them, counting subconsciously in his head and his body moved a fraction before eight without having to be told. His shoes were new, laced for once because you’d scolded him of rolling his ankle and he no longer had the luxury of healing quickly from injuries. Minimal scuffs lined the soles but a new one formed when he toed into the floor, legs freezing while his upper half rolled with an elongated hi-hat. He added an arm without thinking about it, one on his chest, latter pressing straight, wrist locked and palm flat.

The next half a count and he jerked his arm backward, moving in the opposite direction from the flow of his hand, wave of locked fingers catching on the reflection of a variety of plaques hanging on the far wall. His hand in the mirror followed the journey of his career, from a young student with a hat way too big for his head and ambitions to match, ones that jerked his shoulder out of place when he insisted he could copy the ridiculous b-boy position he didn’t even know the name for. He cut the position from his piece and earned his first award, his first scholarship, his first opportunity.

The in between was frivolous, scholarships earning classical training that laid the base for his first appearance, a background dancer on a children’s television show. He was seventeen and had grown into his snapbacks just a fraction more but not enough for him to stand out in the middle row of the formation. University came and he continued to get by on his basics, joining way too many clubs that let him exist without straightening his elbows and extending through his ankles. It was coincidence and talent that brought him to his senior showcase hours after a near breakdown as what would come next, a talent scout scouring the corridors after the show until they located the bleached blonde and offered him an audition for an upcoming music video.

His picture with Kim Taehyung, Tae, became a collage, frames cluttered together on the studio wall with each new video he entertained with the superstar, his friend. Superstardom of Yoongi’s own in the dance world that led him to his quiet house on the outskirts of the city limits within walking distance of a tiny studio he’d bought after a year of sizable paychecks. The bill of sale was framed too, on top of a hoard of receipts from the mirrors, the floors, the mountains of paint, and the new computer Seokjin insisted he buy him if he were going to operate the front desk. He didn’t know he kept it all but he didn’t know why he’d throw away evidence of his passion, either.

The accomplishment wall ended but his focus traveled to the glint of the diamond band shoved snug underneath his knuckle. It wasn’t new and neither were you. The various frames of glossed pictures, diplomas, scholarship announcements, and flimsy receipts were tainted with you.

Your forgotten ballet slipper in the corridor of his first school and your bashful smile when you informed him you had already purchased another pair by the time he returned it to you. The ice you’d brought him for his shoulder and the teasing scold that sometimes practice does make perfect. The easy arch of your back and elongation of your calf on the barre that he could only gape at for thirteen different reasons. The bounce of your stature in the back row of his first television show and his internal decision that he’d rather have your smile lighting up the screen than a half second glance of him completing the choreography. That same smile peeking out from behind his dorm room door, a half second visit to collect your brightly colored bag stacked on top of his stark black one but ending in you being late because his lips pressed against yours one too many times. The flowers in his arms after the talent scout tugged on his elbow from you, your arm falling from around his waist as he chatted with the man but your proud affection never faltering.

The picture in the middle of his Taehyung collage with you wrapped up underneath his arm, your first and only public duet three days before your wedding and a week and a half before the official opening of the studio. Your signature was squished next to his on the bill of sale. Your name was first on the owner tagline underneath the ridiculously large neon sign hanging from the front of the building

“Why get GenerationSuga in size seventy-eight font when you can get it in size two hundred font for twenty dollars more?” Seokjin achieved his wish in the same way he garnered Yoongi’s credit card to buy new tap shoes (“If you’re going to make me teach and run your entire establishment, the least you can do is buy me some proper equipment”). Persistence.

Yoongi was mid turn when the door opened, ball of his foot planted behind his opposite heel, turning him a rotation and a half until he was planted. The indentations in his cheeks grew higher, encompassing his teeth and then his gums as he watched you shake your head, nudging the studio door shut with your hip.

“Pirouette,” He teased, “and a half.”

“You never were good on relevé,” You stepped around him, discarding your half soles and tattered jazz shoes next to the pile of pointe ribbons.

He cocked an awkward pose in response, “And you never could quite count anything other than Beethoven.”

The music had shifted, track eight, something slow and ridiculous. Not quite slow dancing music but not quite dancing music in general. You snagged Yoongi’s hand and dragged him closer. He avoided squashing your bare toes and corrected the position, arm around your waist and hand clasped in yours.

“Why didn’t we ballroom dance at our wedding again?”

Yoongi wrinkled his nose, spinning you in an off beat circle that curled your toes in delicate placements around his shoe clad feet. “Shoulder…” He’d barely been able to hold onto you without crying (for seventeen different reasons, pain the primary) and you said nothing just like you hadn’t since holding ice on his sore muscles years prior in the dingy boys locker room. You’d advised against him trying that one faithful position on set before the first take of your shared Kim Taehyung video. The video was shot in one take because he managed it and then could barely move the rest of the day. Or the next three days. Or the next week.

You hummed, pattering fingertips into the spoken muscle as he twirled you back in, holding you close. “I can’t count and you’re stubborn,” You dug your thumb into his collarbone, “Why do we own a dance studio?”

He dipped you mostly because you knew exactly where to press to make the already weakened muscle give out. “We can sell it to Jin,” Yoongi told the brush of his lips against your cheek, “The kids already adore him. His tap empire would flourish.”

Something shifted in your eyes when you nodded, aiding Yoongi in dragging your figure back up. Softly you moved, resting your cheek against his chest as you moved in a minuscule circle about yourselves, shoulders sagging as your fingers twisted into his shirt.

“What?” Yoongi’s lips bumped against your hairline, “The only person better would be you. You’re—”

“The kids hate me.”

Yoongi stalled your movements. It was silent in the studio. Track eight was the last one on disc three.

“The only way they could hate me more is if I actually used Beethoven in my classes,” You continued, voice grumbled and muffled against him.

He began moving again, back and forth rather than in a circle. Thumbs gentle on the small of your back, lips coating your ear, “Were they bad again?”

Something like terrible left your lips and Yoongi sighed. Well known in the dance world meant idolized by children meant children enrolled at his studio meant children who only wanted to come to his classes and skip everyone else along the way, even if it was in the contract, if they were training just as he and you had in your youth, or if they were simply recreational students with homemade posters of him plastered on their doors. You didn’t take it personally but sometimes it was hard not to.

Yoongi took it personally.

“What if we add an extra hour of technique in today?”

You peeled your cheek from his chest, giving him prime opportunity to cup your face even as you frowned. “Why would we do that? Your supposed to have them next—”

“I will,” He beamed and pecked the confused wrinkle of your lips, “You can teach my class today.”

You stared at him as he continued to poke his thumbs against the side of your lips just to watch your cheeks inflate and deflate. “...you want me to teach a hip hop class?”

“I have some things in mind for warm up today but then yes,” Yoongi kissed you harder this time, letting his nose brush against yours as he pulled away, “I want you to do whatever you want.”

You watched as he strode across the studio, opening the door with a delayed greeting, the sugary sweet hey, guys! on his lips stalled by the tumbling rush of children through the door, chanting Yoongi! like bored parrots. It was like your presence sucked away their voice and enthusiasm, the ripple effect of silence traveling from the first child who saw you all the way to the last until it was just a low murmur among themselves.

“Get your shoes on,” Yoongi was saying, taking to the sound system in the corner to press the auxiliary cord into his phone. “We’re going to do something a little bit different today.”

“Is Miss helping today?”

There was a groan at the suggestion, muffled and panicked on the tail end that they’d actually let it slip and Yoongi smiled in the general direction of the offender.

“Yes, actually,” Your head snapped up when the beginnings of Fur Elise crackled out of worn speakers. “I’ll be running warm ups and then Miss will be taking over from there. Head on over to the wall for me, line up.”

Even as a trained classical dancer, wall sits to a repeating playlist of Fur Elise were among even your own personal hell. The same fury of the children seemed to be turned on you as well, the difference in their usual serene classroom, warm ups skipped by Yoongi in favor of learning a new combination. Their narrowed eyes lasered into you from your frozen spot at the barre, attention only shifting when Yoongi began to speak.

“I’ve heard that your attention seems to be lacking in technique class,” He cocked an eyebrow at a young boy in a baggy tank top until he sunk further onto the wall, “and jazz. And anything that frankly is not this class right here. Is that true?”

Silence.

“You know, I was a young dancer like you guys once. I didn’t use think the basics were important, either. I slopped through jazz one and two. I never made it past two. Everyone else in my class graduated with jazz five. They had to make a special exception for me because my work ethic was horrendous and the instructors were, frankly, tired of dealing with me.”

Someone whined. It’d barely been forty seconds on the wall.

“I don’t want you guys to be like me. I want you to be better than me. Feature in a Jeon Jeongguk video,” A little girl’s eyes lit up, causing her to come out of position. Yoongi didn’t scold her because he didn’t blame her. “And who better to learn from than my lovely partner in crime…”

Your skin flushed hot and you smiled bashfully when several pairs of eyes turned back to you this time without malice. Partially with indifference, partially in apology. Whether it was wall sit induced apology or not, you indulged in it.

“If you’re good and pay attention, we won’t have to do anymore wall sits,” A nod and they all came off the wall with a sigh of relief. “...so pay attention.”

“I won’t go too hard on you guys,” You spoke up finally, arms unfurling from your chest to hang awkwardly at your sides. “Correcting Yoongi’s technique violations in his hip hop lessons is a tiring endeavor.”

There were a few giggles as the hoard of children began to shuffle toward you. Small victories.

“Alright...uh. Spread apart for me…”

Yoongi shut off Fur Elise as you began to lecture on extending through your turnout. Proper arm placements. Pretty hands versus hamburger hands (“I’m not the hip hop expert but I’m fairly certain there’s limited times you need to look like you’re hoarding multiple McDonald’s cheeseburgers in your fists.”). More giggles.

“Oh, so…” Yoongi shoved himself up off the stool in the corner, standing next to you. He cocked his hip at the worst angle he could manage, toes sickled and turned as far inward as he could manage. Ankle weak behind the laces of his sneakers. He made crab hands, snapping them each at you, “Like this, right?”

You glared at him, fond and hopelessly endeared as he hopped, changing legs. He winced as a muscle in his knee twinged but he kept up the act. “See? I can do it to the other side too. That’s important, right? To be able to do things on both sides?”

“You have to be able to do it correctly on one to say you can do it on both.”

Yoongi’s lips twitched and you scrunched your nose at him. Battle cries.

“Mhmm, I think some wall sits might be in order for the teacher this time,” He took a menacing step toward you and you held your ground.

“Make me.”

He caught your waist to the tune of shrieking giggles, lifting and dragging you away until you were out of the studio followed by a train of protesting children.

Bring our teacher back, Yoongi!

Yeah, you can’t steal them! They’re ours!

Bring them back!

Yoongi carried you past the front desk, lips behind your ear while you struggled, gasping for breath between laughter, chaos so much you barely heard Seokjin’s chair clack against the wall and his shouts of Hey! No running in my lobby! Seokjin’s herding and Yoongi’s lead dragged you into the opposite studio, your studio, where he plopped you down on a stack of mats similar to the one in his studio.

A labored breath had your surroundings clearing, finding him hovering above you, shoulders sagging as he tried to collect himself as well. The children were shrieking but you took no mind to it, a smile overtaking your features seconds before Yoongi’s lips descended onto your own. More yelling but it faded away this time as the children fled the scene, entering another Seokjin tyraid as he yelped, “What did I say about running?”

“I stand by my statement. Your turnout is horrible.”

Yoongi nipped at your bottom lip, grinning into the next press of your lips.

“Care to give me a private lesson later?”

Magic in the Blood - Ch.3

Summary: “You used magic on me,” Neil said, mildly accusing. He opened his eyes, staring into the glowing honey gold of Andrew’s eyes.

“Don’t I always?”

Instead of answering, Neil asked, “Yes or no?” because his hands were aching to run along Andrew’s skin, up his toned thighs, to tug him down over him. …..

Or where everything is the same, but magic exists. The school year is over, there’s no more practices until mid-summer and for the first time, Neil can spend his time the way he wants. Without suppressants muddling his system and Andrew sober, they’ve got magical and logistical issues to work through.

And then there’s the new Foxes when they show which is a whole other magical nightmare of itself.

Pairing: Andreil

Rating: T

Previous <- Chapter 2

Chapter 4 -> Next

Chapter 3: Taconic State Park, New York Part 1

Neil:

“Where are we going?” Andrew asked, reaching for the radio and adjusting the volume so Neil wouldn't have to shout over the music.

Neil and Andrew hadn't made any plans before they'd left Fox Tower that afternoon, leaving Kevin, Nicky and Aaron to their empty rooms waiting to be picked up by Abby. The Upperclassmen had been smart enough to book it out of the dorms as soon as they had the chance, and they'd followed their leads. They left without saying anything to the others, simply throwing their belongings into the Maserati and leaving. They didn't need to be back for another two weeks when Aaron's trial started, and Andrew's protection was no longer needed with Riko dead.

Even now, hours later, Neil's phone was still vibrating insistently with Nicky's texts. 'Where did you guys go?' 'Where are you going?' 'You can't ignore me forever'. 'Whatever. Have fun, nerds <3'. 'Don't do anything I wouldn't do :P'.

Reaching into the door side pocket, he finally turned off his phone. He'd talk to Nicky later. Maybe.

“We're going camping,” Neil said simply, rummaging through the glove compartment for the map of the East Coast and brochure he'd picked up. He'd made the decision when they'd stopped just after the house in Columbia, talking to the woman at the register and then Matt about places in New York. He turned the brochure towards Andrew.

Andrew glanced at the picture and quickly away, changing lanes before looking back. “Where is that and why there?”

“New York. Matt's mom wanted to meet us, so this is going to be two birds with one stone.” He shoved the map and brochure back in the glove compartment. “Don't make that face. Matt all but begged me. This will be a road trip. The place is called Taconic State Park. It looks cool, and there's not going to be a lot of people there so we'll be able to let our magic do what it needs to. Also, it says there's a waterfall. Matt pretty much made it a requirement for us to go.”

“And when did you start listening to what Matt says?” Andrew asked, schooling his face from the mild look of disgust back to his usual blankness. “You don't know how to lay low, do you? This is exactly how you got caught last time.”

“I got caught because some murderous psychopath outed me,” Neil corrected, rolling his eyes.

Andrew cut him a sidelong look. “No, you got caught because you decided to mouth off to a murderous psychopath and make him look incompetent multiple times who then decided to out you.”

“I would never,” he said, mock seriously.

“I have video evidence.”

“Lies.”

Banter with Andrew was easy, the easiest part about being with Andrew if he were to be honest. Unlike when they were intimate and they're magics intertwined as if fighting, they tangled and settled between them in a comfortable jumble instead. When they bantered, they didn't need to worry about how their magic was interacting, if their magical union would become toxic or burn out in their emotions or knock out a cell tower.

“I wouldn't lie to you.” There was a lilt of mirth to Andrew's voice, but underneath, there was also the tang of seriousness.

Sobering, Neil smiled over at him and held out his hand. “I know that.”

Glancing over, Andrew took Neil's hand without comment, threading their fingers together as lightning sparked between their palms.

Neil was unreasonably happy as he tried to school his expression. “We're going to have to stop for water and food.”

“Oh, so you weren't planning on hunting and scavenging for food? What's the point of camping then? Do you have any of this planned out at all?”

“Some of it that I've figured out since the gas station.” Neil shrugged. “Mostly, I'm hoping for us to get lost and dies out in the woods. It'd make what's left of my father's syndicate happy.”

“They'll have to try harder than that if they think I'll let you die by accident.”

Andrew:

Before knowing where they were going anywhere in particular, the first stop the pair had made had been at the house in Columbia. Perhaps due to some feral instinct, Neil had spent the time collecting blankets and other useful items for life on the run, shoving them into the trunk without much thought.

Andrew left him to his hording, disappearing into the how to collect the few pre-made sachets he had and jars of honey and animal blood he had in his closet. He'd shoved them into a small bag he had, packing sweaters and shirts around the fragile glass. They'd met back down at the car, climbing in without discussion.

They stopped again nearly eight hours later at a twenty-four hour all sale store and bought a small tent, sleeping bags, chairs and enough non-perishables and water to last them several days. When they climbed back into the car, Neil behind the wheel, it was nearly midnight.

They'd been up for more than eighteen hours, and they sat in exhausted silence for several long moments. The want to finally get to where they were going and the need for sleep hung unspoken between them.

“I'm tired,” Neil finally admitted, “And even if we get there, I don't think the registration office will be open.”

Andrew hummed, but didn't say anything, his eyes itchy with fatigue. While the silent need to finish the drive sat heavy in his chest, he also knew there was no need to continue on. They were on summer break. There was no reason to rush anywhere.

Of course, there were spells they could cast to combat exhaustion and caffeine just a drive-thru away, but neither of them had the energy or ingredients for a spell, and caffeine did strange things to their magic when they were so tired. Caffeine made their magic unreliable and uncooperative, made it more like to explode at inopportune times.

“Hotel,” Andrew decided.

“Thank god,” Neil whispered.

They found a cheap motel ten minutes up the road, and fell into the queen sized bed as soon as the door was locked and bolted behind them. Neil toed off his shoes while face down in a pillow, groaning all the while, before curling into the smallest ball possible against Andrew's back. He pressed his forehead to the space between Andrew's shoulder blades and fell asleep. Within a moment, his breath had evened out and his magic filtered through the air.

Andrew lay there for longer, listening to Neil's breathing. Rain began to patter softly against the roof. His magic reacted to Neil's sleep accordingly, snaking out gently from his body to wrap protectively around Neil and cocooning them in a bubble of protection. The sachet in his pocket warmed, adding strength to the walls he so easily built.

He slipped into sleep with the warmth of his own magic and the sounds of Neil and his rain surrounding him.

…..

Andrew woke in the early morning to Neil rolling away from him and pushing into the bathroom. He turned onto his back to stare at the ceiling and listen to Neil puke his guts out. The shower roared to life before Andrew followed him into the bathroom.

“You can come in,” Neil said as the door opened, “I didn't mean to wake you up.”

Closing and locking the door behind him, Andrew pulled off his clothes one piece at a time. He hesitated with his briefs before slipping them off. Normally, he wouldn't get naked even with Neil, but it was early in the morning and he could feel the lag in Neil's magic. He was craving skin to skin contact, and he had to wonder if Nicky was behind that. It wouldn't be the first time he'd cast on Andrew, on accident and just to see if it would work if he did, but it would be the first time Andrew hadn't felt the spell hit.

“Magic in the area?” he asked even though he knew that wasn't the answer, stepping under the spray where Neil stood with his head bowed.

Neil's breath came quickly, and he swallowed harshly. His voice was thick as if he were trying not to vomit again as he said, “Someone tried to cast on me. Tasted like tracking. God, I feel nauseous.”

Andrew's protection magic had at least done its job, but he thought they'd managed this part of someone casting on Neil. His spells must have been fading. “Yes or no?” he asked, sliding his fingers together to prep his magic.

“I don't want you to take this. It feels... wrong. Different than usual.”

Andrew stood a hair's breadth away, waiting as Neil leaned forward with a hand on the wall and wretched. “They're probably using someone stronger or a different spell.”

Bile splattered against the tub floor. Neil nearly whined as he said, “They're trying again. Where did they get so much of my hair?”

“Probably Fox Tower. Or the court. They might be using your blood.”

He heaved again. “Fuck 'em.”

“Neil-”

“Yes. It's a yes.”

Andrew pressed his parted lips to the back of Neil's bowed neck, licking at the knob at the top of his spin and biting down. Acrid smoke filled his mouth as he inhaled Neil's tainted magic, and exhaled clean magic back into him. Without the help of his conduits and herbs, the process took longer than normal, hurt more, tasted worse. While he worked, he drew invisible sigils across Neil's back, pressing them into his skin with just the warmth of his palm before moving on.

When he finally pulled back, a bruise was forming on the back of Neil's neck in the arc of his teeth and the vaguest impressions of his sigils lightened Neil's skin. “This is temporary. I need to refresh your spells.” His mouth tasted like ash, and he spit at the floor several times.

Neil turned to face him, looking tired and rung out. His magic barely flickered in the air around him, grey and dull. “I can take care of myself. You don't-”

“I'm going to anyway,” Andrew cut in before he could finish his sentence. The last time he'd fully revoked his protective spells on Neil, he'd gotten kidnapped almost immediately by his father's people and come back looking like someone had used him as an ashtray. He wasn't about to let that happen again.

“I'd kiss you if I hadn't just puked.”

“Brush your teeth while I get my bag, and we'll talk about it.” Andrew shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist and heading to get his bag.

Neil followed more slowly after him, towels wrapped tightly around his waist and shoulders, to rummage through his bag. He stood at the sink, scrubbing roughly at his teeth and tongue.

Andrew watched him closely from the bathroom as he sat on the edge of the bath and set out his supplies. He pulled out the small mortar and pestle that Nicky had jokingly gifted him after learning who his deities were, but he used it more than he liked to admit. He used it quite often actually.

Small, but heavy, the set was carved from black stone intermixed with glaringly white fossils. The inside was stained rust brown from constant use, and he only considered it for a moment before tapping in dried mint, rosemary, sunflower and salt. Over the herbs, he poured a small splatter of the blood that had been enchanted to remain fresh before grinding it all together into a fine paste.

He'd been told over and over throughout the years that he practiced his magic wrong, but the first thing he'd learned once Higgins had found him was that his magic was highly subject to his own thoughts and whims. For him, it helped to include as object that was close to him and something that reminded him of the subject of his magic.

When Higgins still mattered -because he had at one point no matter how Andrew felt about him now- he'd taught Andrew that magic was personal, that there was no right or wrong way to do it. Where Exy was structure and rigid, witchcraft was loose and up for interpretation. Due to his lack of control though, Higgins had suggest a deity to follow, Apollo to be exact.

Andrew had scoffed. What use would he have had for a god that wasn't there to help anyway? What use did he have for magic that didn't work anyway? The only person he could rely on was himself, and he wasn't going to put his time and energy towards an absent god.

Only once he was in Juvie and had met Aaron with all his bruises and down turned eyes that he considered the possibility. Deities, whether that be God from a magicless religion or a God(dess) from a pagan religion, were supposed to focus the worshiper's magic and make it easier to manipulate into the needed shape. A deity wasn't a requirement for practicing, but Andrew had needed to focus if he was going to help his brother.

Andrew studied under Apollo for months before realizing he was in dire need of feminine energy in his craft.

Sekhmet found him sitting on the curb outside a convenience store in the form of a black cat with piecing golden eyes and an emerald collar. The cat had rubbed her head along his arm and back before taking a seat next to him. She's dropped a piece of paper in his lap, looking please. The paper had been from a textbook, an image of Sekhmet staring up at him.

Mistress of Dread.

Lady of Slaughter.

He'd looked over at the cat, scratching behind her ear. “Thanks.”

With a blink, she'd gotten up and disappeared over the hood of a car.

“Andrew?”

Blinking back to himself, Andrew scooted over and said, “Sit. Back to me.”

Neil sat as he was instructed, dropping the top towel and shivering as the cool air pressed against his skin. Overhead, there was the weak patter of rain beginning again, softer than earlier that night.

“Sit still,” Andrew warned before dipping his fingers into the blood mixture. He retraced the sigils he'd already written. Track blocker. Hex dispeller. Barrier. The blood glowed gently after her pressed each sigil into Neil's skin.

Neil trembled. “You're warm.”

“Good. Turn. Now the front.” Andrew placed a general protection sigil in each of Neil's four corners to ask the elements for their protection, and over his heart, he drew his oldest sigil. The first sigil he'd written that worked.

When he pressed his hand over the blood, electricity jumped between their skin. Neil gasped quietly. “What was that one?”

“Just something extra.” He was still mildly skeptical about the gods, but he'd silently talked to Apollo and Sekhmet while he'd been drawing. The burst of energy between their bodies told Andrew that someone had heard.

Andrew ran his fingers down the bridge of Neil's nose, smirking as he scrunched it up. When he prompted Neil, he dipped his clean fingers in the blood mixture to do the same to Andrew.

Standing, Andrew said simply, “Shower.”

Neil climbed into the shower, and Andrew followed behind him, leaving his tools to clean up later. He dragged Neil into a kiss as the water burst back to life.

Neil:

The shower lasted longer than either of them probably meant it to, turning from washing the blood from their skin to moans and gasps, hands in hair and lips on necks. The water ran cold before they clambered back out, Neil feeling like himself again and Andrew's magic jumping from his skin in energetic spurts compared to the person. It was nearly eight when they check out of their room.

“Off to the campsite then?” Neil asked, sliding into the driver's seat and turning over the engine in one easy motion. He grabbed the map from the glove compartment as Andrew smoked outside the car door, but instead of opening it, he licked his thumb and pressed it to the front where his fingerprint remained and glowed. “At least we won't get lost now.”

“You'll find a way,” Andrew hummed, stubbing out his cigarette and sliding into the passenger seat. “Do you still feel the spell?”

Neil shook his head, twisting around in his seat to back out of the spot. “No. All I can feel is this sigil.” Turning forward, he pressed his fingers over his heart.

He didn't see Andrew look over at him, but he smiled when he growled, “Stop making that face.”

“I'm not making a face.”

“You are, and I hate it.”

Neil pursed his lips. “You know, every time you say you hate something about me, it makes me think that you actually like it.”

“Bold faced lie.”

“You said you wouldn't lie to me.”

Andrew shrugged. “I wasn't the one who said it.”

Neil hummed along with the frequency of his own magic. “Do you want coffee before we leave town?”

“I want a chocolate croissant and java chip frappuccino,” Andrew said.

“You had those yesterday.”

“And?”

Neil started laughing.

raspberry truffles | ksj

summary: how to fake date your best friend: step one: don’t fall in love with them. failed step one.

[friends to lovers!au, fake dating!au}

pairing: seokjin x female reader word count: 5k genre: fluff warnings: obscene amounts of lindor truffle consumption, holiday mischief, seokjin being lovably obnoxious, the usual. a/n: hi. i know it’s been over a month since i last posted a fic. i hope this trashy fake dating drabble makes up for my absence. based on a true story. yes, this happened to me. well, most of it. please enjoy!

“Are you sure Taehyung’s gonna like it?” You ask, holding up the shirt in your hand with a look of skepticism. Seokjin had insisted that it was right up Taehyung’s alley—an obnoxious red heart pattern covering the entire article—but you’re not sure if he’s actually being genuine or duping you into getting a terrible gift for your mutual friend for his birthday. You’re not going to say it’s not Taehyung’s style, but you’re also not going say he’ll totally love it. It’s kind of a garish, kitsch shirt.

“Believe me, he will,” Seokjin says with the confidence of a talk show host. As if he is the all-knowing god of mutual friend’s birthday gifts. You know fully well that he had completely forgotten about Taehyung’s birthday until you texted him a couple of days ago to ask if he would come out shopping with you. “He’s into shit like that.”

You hold the shirt out in front of you to inspect it. “I don’t know, Taehyung seems more like an Urban Outfitters trinkets kind of guy to me. I feel like we should get him a giant Gudetama plushie or something instead,” you say hesitantly.

“That’s Namjoon,” Seokjin informs you pointedly, and automatically you have to agree. Namjoon looks like he’s waltzed out of the Urban Outfitter’s men’s section on the daily.

You feel around for your phone. “Should I text Jungkook and ask him what he thinks?”

“What? No way,” Seokjin says, hand already going to block you from getting your phone from your back pocket. You attempt to ignore the feeling of Seokjin’s large palm on your ass, but he hasn’t seemed to notice the compromising placement of his hand. Probably for the better. “Don’t ask Jungkook. He doesn’t know Taehyung like I do.”

“They’re dating,” you remind him.

“That’s exactly my point,” Seokjin says matter-of-factly. “Jungkook sees all things Taehyung-related through love goggles. Everything about Taehyung’s perfect to him. He’d be the worst person to ask. Trust me, I’m the best one. You’re in good hands. Don’t you have faith in me?”

“I almost never have faith in you, Jin,” you say as you approach one of the many checkout stands scattered around the Macy’s. True to the holiday season, the line is a good seven other patrons long. “You better be right. Hey, gimme one.”

You reach over into the bag hanging from Seokjin’s wrist, fingers rustling around for a chocolate.

For some unknown reason, the two of you consciously, willingly, and sober-ly bought two whole pounds worth of Lindt truffles from the store in the mall, and now you’re walking around gorging on them. You spent over twenty minutes picking out each individual flavor, taking your sweet time to inspect and select which ones would be the most vital to your growing collection. It may just be the worst purchase the two of you have ever made, and once Seokjin (under your supervision) spent actual money on a bicycle without any wheels from a garage sale in your neighborhood.

“The guy checking us out at the Lindt store probably thought we were insane,” you continue, pulling out a regular milk chocolate one and stuffing the entire thing into your mouth. You crumple up the wrapper and stuff it back into the back, to be dealt with later.

“He probably thought we had excellent taste in chocolate,” Seokjin corrects you proudly over a mouthful of chocolate. There’s a smudge of brown at the corner of his lips you’re dying to wipe off but because you enjoy when your best friend walks around like a fool, you make no mention of it. “Here, try a raspberry one.”

You reach out to grab the magenta-wrapped candy but he moves it out of your grasp in the blink of an eye, dangling it above your head like a demon with a couple of inches on you. He’s not that much taller than you, he’s just insufferable.

“Hey, fuck you,” you declare indignantly, reaching up to grab it. Seokjin goes so far as to stand on his tiptoes in the middle of the checkout line at Macy’s, unwrapping the chocolate with gentle fingers as he towers over you. “Fuckin’ Christ, Seokjin.”

“Open up,” Seokjin singsongs as he returns to his normal height, moving it back and forth over your lips like a mother bird feeding her babies worms as you angrily wrestle him for it.

“I’m not a two-year-old,” you grumble, but Seokjin is relentless and you can’t really do anything except indulge him. He seems so intent on feeding you and you want the chocolate enough for you to not wish to fight him for it.

“Come on, please?” Seokjin begs, puffing out his bottom lip as he slowly begins to lower the chocolate to your mouth. You roll your eyes, make a mental note to get him back for this later, and open your mouth obediently, letting your best friend smile contentedly as he drops the truffle onto your tongue.

“I hate you,” you inform him politely over a mouthful of chocolate.

“Yeah, yeah, I hate you too,” Seokjin says with a grin, his laughter warm and bright.

You and Seokjin pass the rest of the time waiting in the checkout line by going through his camera roll. At your most recent friend gathering, Jimin and Hoseok had snatched up Seokjin’s precious iPhone X and proceeded to spam his photos with various action shots all taken in quick succession. The joke’s on them, though, because Seokjin’s phone has 512 gigabytes worth of storage and now he’s got some prime blackmail material.

Eventually you reach the front of the checkout line, a kind-looking middle-aged woman standing there with the red Macy’s nametag pinned onto her shirt. Seokjin lingers back since it’s not his purchase, a couple of steps behind you as he fingers through the two-pound bag of chocolate the two of you bought together (why did you do that).

“Did he tell you to get this?” The lady asks you, motioning to Seokjin.

You sigh. “Unfortunately, yes. But it’s for a friend’s birthday,” you clarify, still a bit unsure as to whether or not Taehyung will actually like what you’ve gotten for him. It’s too late now. “Can I get a gift receipt with that?”

She nods, pressing on the computer screen in front of her before scanning the item. Behind you, you can hear the rustle of plastic, and you turn around to find Seokjin stuffing not one, but two whole Lindor truffles into his mouth at once.

“Hey! Hands off, Kim! We paid for those together, you know,” you scold, catching your best friend red-handed. Or, red-lipped would be the better term. He smiles sheepishly before chewing the chocolates already in his mouth, quickly swallowing down the offending food with a guilty grin.

“Men,” the clerk comments. At least she understands you.

“I know, right?” You say in response as she hands you your shopping bag and sends you on your merry way. You’re busy stuffing the receipt in your hands into your coat pocket as Seokjin links arms with you, leading you towards one of the many exits in this oversized department store.

“Hey, want another?” Seokjin asks, holding out a stracciatella truffle—your personal favorite—your way. You nod, letting Seokjin unwrap the chocolate and place it on your tongue as you head outside.

King Seokjin™ (7:47PM): Y/N King Seokjin™ (7:47PM): YOU’RE NEVER GONNA BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED King Seokjin™ (7:47PM): I’M FUCKING SPEECHLESS King Seokjin™ (7:47PM): FUCK IT I’M CALLING YOU

As you pick up your phone from the table beside you, the screen already alight from notifications, the device begins to vibrate in your hands as Seokjin’s contact photo—a picture you sniped of him mid-burrito bite—appears on screen.

“Hello?”

“Y/N!” Seokjin wails into the phone, making you jump slightly. Not that you’ve never picked up one of his calls and been met with just a shriek before, because you have. They just catch you off guard. You have the loudest best friend. “You’re never gonna believe what just happened to me!”

“Let me guess,” you interrupt. “You found a stray cat and now you’ve taken it into your house and named it Guacamole. Or you bought a Fender guitar at a yard sale for like, fifteen dollars and now you’re going to become a rock star. You invented a new cake recipe. Saw a twenty dollar bill on the sidewalk. Got signed to a modeling agency.”

Seokjin laughs, hearty and warm into the phone. “All good things, but no. This is better! Wilder! Crazier!”

“What could be crazier than you getting signed to a modeling agency?”

“First of all, fuck you,” Seokjin declares. “Gigi Hadid wants what I have. Second of all, no. I went back to Macy’s because my mom needed me to return one of those fancy expensive coats she bought because she said that the color makes her skin look green. Which, it does, so I’m glad she returned it.”

“Can you get on with this? Jungkook wants me to play him in Mariokart at eight,” you whine, knowing how long-winded Seokjin gets with his stories. He would make a fantastic stand-up comedian.

“Tell Jungkook he owes me two dollars and seven cents for eating three of the Lindt truffles that we got a couple of days ago,” Seokjin adds on. You are wholly unsurprised he calculated the exact amount. “Anyway, let me finish my story. Okay, so I went to Macy’s, right? And the same lady that checked you out for Tae’s shirt helped me return my mom’s coat. And I don’t know, maybe I looked sad or something, because she took one look at me and said, to my gorgeous face, mind you, ‘Oh, did she break up with you? You should have treated her better!’”

It feels like your mouth drops open in shock. Thank God this isn’t a video call.

“Wait, what?” You ask, sufficiently speechless. Did the Macy’s checkout lady really think the two of you were dating? It seems kind of laughable. Sure, Seokjin’s your best friend but you don’t know if the way you behave around him is similar to the way a couple would act. If at all.

“I know!” Seokjin exclaims. “And I didn’t know what the fuck to do so I just stood there awkwardly and nodded. This is slander.”

Before you’re about to ask why, your best friend barrels on.

“Like, how dare she think I make an inferior boyfriend? Excuse me? I would make the best boyfriend in the entire world,” Seokjin declares, as if he has any sort of scientific evidence to back up his claim. In all of his years of living, Seokjin has never been a boyfriend. A fact that shocks you most of the time when you think about it, because Seokjin is incredibly attractive and funny and kind and quite frankly, top-notch boyfriend material. “If we were dating I would treat you so fuckin’ well. Take you on dates to amusement parks and sacrifice my wellbeing by getting on the biggest rollercoasters with you. I’d buy you funnel cake and then I’d tell you that I can make it better. Then I’d make you better funnel cake. And I would pay for your meals only when you wanted me to, like when we split the cost for our two-pounds of Lindt chocolate. And I’d laugh at all of your jokes even though mine are superior in every way. I’d go to stores and see dumbass things that remind me of you and then I’d buy them and give them to you. I’d—”

“You sound really intent on proving this lady wrong, Jin,” you interrupt, Seokjin’s voice getting progressively more determined with every sentence. Like he’s going to change this lady’s mind. Like he’s going to just up and become the best boyfriend you could ever ask for all so he can tell the Macy’s checkout lady to suck it.

“Yeah, I am. I’ve been slandered against,” Seokjin says. You can practically see the furrow of his brows, the resolution lacing his features. “Don’t you agree, Y/N? If we were dating, I would be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

Your mouth opens to respond to him with some witty comment like you do with everything else he says, but your tongue is dry. Red alarms blare in your brain. Even if only for a second, you don’t like thinking about what it would be like to date Seokjin. Because you know—of course you fucking know, he’s your best friend, he’s been your best friend for so long, it’s as if you’re already—

“Christ,” you say, resting your head against your hands.

“You know what?” Seokjin keeps going, paying no attention to the resignation in your voice, the subdued tone of your words. “I’m gonna prove this lady wrong. Tomorrow, you’re coming to Macy’s with me and we’re gonna hold hands and I’m gonna be the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“Tomorrow’s Tae’s birthday bash,” you remind him, the only thing you feel confident saying without your words betraying you.

“Cool. Even better. We’ll drop by Macy’s, tell that lady to suck it, and then we’ll just drive straight to Tae’s. Sound good?”

You don’t think you’d have the heart to say no to him even if you tried. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Good. Good plan.” You think the conversation will end there when, “Be prepared to be swept off of your fucking feet tomorrow, Y/N. I’m gonna be the best boyfriend you’ve ever had. The best boyfriend the world has ever seen. I’m gonna be so in love with you tomorrow, Y/N, you won’t know what’s hit you.”

The line goes dead.

The very first stop that you make when you and Seokjin return to the mall as part of his ridiculous, convoluted scheme to prove the Macy’s lady wrong is the Lindt store. It’s only natural—all roads lead to chocolate. That’s just how life works.

“Two pounds or one pound?” Seokjin asks as he plucks one of the plastic serve yourself bags from the shelf.

“Who do you take me for?” You respond with your eyebrows raised, as if to challenge him. Like you’d ever settle for anything less than the absolute most. “Two. Pour up, bitch.”

You and Seokjin slowly begin to pick out your desired chocolates, two of this one and four of those and ten of these—”Seokjin, what the fuck?”—as you make your way around the section of the Lindt store meant for losers like yourselves to waste away their day looking at truffle flavors. It’s a good thing that you and Seokjin have similar tastes when it comes to chocolates, because every time Seokjin motions for you to choose the next flavor you end up selecting one that you know he’ll like just as much as you.

“This didn’t seem as heavy the first time around,” Seokjin comments with his hands full as you march up to the register.

“Maybe you’ve gotten weaker,” you tease softly as you fumble for your wallet, operating under the assumption that you’ll split the cost like last time.

“No, it’s alright,” Seokjin says with a hand on top of yours, blocking you from opening your wallet.

“What? Seokjin—”

“Please? Come on, I gotta get in the boyfriend mood. Just this once, alright?” He pleads, puffing out his lower lip. Maybe you’d argue more if it weren’t for the way he asks you with such gentle eyes, or how he’s already gotten out his own wallet, or how he’s been swearing up and down that he’s going to be the best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had. You won’t take that away from him.

Besides, you’ve always been weak for him.

“Fine,” you huff out as Seokjin happily hands over his card to the guy behind the register, who looks like he doesn’t get paid enough to watch gross, overly-romantic couples be gross and overly romantic in front of him. Seokjin gives you the greasiest wink you think you’ve ever beared witness to, and with that the cashier hands you your purchase and bids you farewell.

By the time you’re rounding the corner into Macy’s, Seokjin’s expression has changed from that of chocolate-made satisfaction to pure, unadulterated determination, brows set and eyes hard. It sort of makes you laugh, the look on his face, because never have you seen him look so driven just to prove somebody wrong. The lady might not even be working today.

It’s weird, because even though the lady was last seen working in the men’s section on the first floor, as you enter through the second-floor entrance by the shoes, he grabs your hand. It is by no means romantic, not gentle or soft or delicate, but he grips your palm tightly and interlaces his fingers with yours purposely and it makes your breath hitch in your throat all the same. It’s not as though the two of you aren’t touchy with each other anyway, because you definitely are, but you’ve never held hands before. Not like this. Not in the dating way. Not in the way that feels like if Seokjin lets you go you’ll drift away, out of his reach.

Suddenly your hand is held tightly in his and for some reason, you aren’t looking forward to when he’ll let go. In fact, you’re rather dreading it.

You’re passing by the women’s sections, steps slow but meaningful, and Seokjin leans over to tell you to pick out something that you like and something that you’ll wear often.

“What, why?” You sputter out as he guides you through the racks of clothing, sections disheveled from the holiday season. Seokjin’s always had a good eye for style and particularly great taste, even if he does toe the line between fashionable and questionable every now and then.

“Well, first of all, it can be your Christmas gift,” he reasons jokingly, a finger gun accompanied by a wink pointed your way. “Second of all, we’ll need to buy something to have a valid excuse to approach the checkout line.”

“But I don’t—Seokjin, we stopped getting each other Christmas gifts a long time ago,” you remind him, the memory of the two of you deciding that buying material objects for each other wasn’t up to snuff for your relationship playing in your mind. And then, softly, “You know that your company is enough of a gift to me.”

He shrugs, pulling a soft pink sweater from a clothing rack, one that looks to be about his size rather than yours. “Well, then consider this one of those things that reminds me of you that I just had to buy you, alright?”

You end up in the same line you stood in several days ago with a pink sweater hanging from your arm. Seokjin makes sure that every time he pulls out a Lindor truffle from the bag he offers you one as well, unwrapping it with long, nimble fingers before placing it on your tongue.

“We should have just gotten Taehyung some chocolate,” you realize belatedly, staring down at the packet hanging from Seokjin’s wrist. It’s half-empty. Have you already eaten that many? “We wouldn’t even be in this predicament in the first place.”

“If we had gotten Taehyung some chocolate, Jungkook would eat it all,” Seokjin tells you, making you laugh. “And besides, I don’t really mind this. Being your boyfriend, or whatever. It’s fun.”

His words stun you into enough of a silence to last the rest of the journey up the line, up until there’s a single patron in front of you.

“This is a team effort, alright?” Seokjin says to you, grin spread wide on his face. “I know that you’re going to pale in comparison to my incredible talent and flawless boyfriend abilities—,” a laugh, “—but you gotta have your head in the game too, okay? I can’t do this without you.”

“This isn’t a soap opera, Jin,” you remind him softly.

“Yeah, well, it’s about to become one. And just in case you forgot, I love you, Y/N.” Your eyes widen at the sound of his voice, the words on the tip of his tongue—they are words you have heard leave his lips plenty of times before, but never in the way that they do now—but before you can react any further, the customer in front of you is moving out of the way and Seokjin is pressing his hot, wet lips to your cheek in a crushing side kiss.

The lady behind the checkout desk probably looks as shocked as you do.

“Just this?” She asks as you place the sweater down on the counter, too afraid to turn around to look at the expression on Seokjin’s face.

“Great taste, right?” Seokjin asks the lady, forcing you to look up at him. He’s got the biggest smile on his face, proud of his choice, your hand still held tightly in his. You’re almost positive the lady can’t see it from her position behind the counter. “Picked it out myself.”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much, it’s not that exciting,” you reprimand lightly, hoping the comment is enough to warrant girlfriend behavior. Whatever that is.

“You wound me, Y/N,” Seokjin says with a hand to his heart, feigning injury. “Move over, I need to get to the card scanner.”

You scoot over complacently, allowing Seokjin to purchase the item with a swipe of his card. When the price appears on the little screen on the card reader, your eyes nearly pop out of your head, having failed to realize how expensive the sweater was as Seokjin stuffed it into your hands. Surely he must have known, or he wouldn’t have picked it up.

“Seokjin, what on Earth—” You immediately say, making to fight with him.

“Just let me, Y/N,” he pleads. “Please? I just want to treat you.”

“But—”

“You deserve it, you know?” Seokjin asks, turning you so that you face him directly. He’s got the same look in his eye, determination and focus lacing his features. Like he’s daring you to challenge him. “You’re so wonderful, all of the time. And you treat others with so much kindness and respect. You’re funny without having to try super hard like me, and you’ve been dealing with my shit for so long that I’m surprised you haven’t up and left.”

He gives your hand a firm squeeze from under the checkout counter. A reminder not to argue with him, even if only for a couple of minutes.

“And I love you,” Seokjin finishes, too firm and secure to be an afterthought. Too easily said for it to be something he felt obligated to add on.

The lady looks sufficiently endeared as she hands you the plastic Macy’s bag, giving the both of you a smile as you turn to leave. Seokjin looks incredibly pleased with himself and pulls you into a side-hug, crushing your ribs in the process.

“You never let me down, Y/N,” he declares successfully, releasing you from his limb prison. “Thanks for letting me be your boyfriend for an afternoon. I’m ready to go raid Taehyung and Jungkook’s apartment.”

You hum in response, letting Seokjin ramble on about how he was worried he wouldn’t be a good enough actor to fool her and how he really thought she would see through the whole thing without any interruptions from yourself. If he’s noticed how resigned you are, he’s made no comment.

“You know I hate it when you buy me things,” you tell him softly as you’re walking out of the store, fingers fiddling with each other as you stare down into the bag in your hands. There’s a sweater in there that you wish Seokjin hadn’t bought you and a feeling in your heart that you can’t get rid of.

“Pay me back later if it bothers you that much,” Seokjin tells you.

You stay silent.

Christmas lights decorate Taehyung and Jungkook’s apartment, taped up along the walls and windows and wrapped around their grossly millennial white Christmas tree, radiating a soft, warm glow that seems to make everything more romantic than it should be.

You’ve been sitting on the couch the entire night, nursing a cup of kombucha in your hands as everyone around you celebrates, shouting and cheering and screaming. Seokjin disappeared from your sight the moment you walked through the door, always the life of the party.

There’s a sweater in the trunk of his car and a nagging voice at the back of your head.

Taehyung loved the gift you got him, if it’s any consolation. He had opened all of them right after Jungkook wiped most of the icing off of Taehyung’s birthday cake and onto his face, using it as perfect leverage to kiss it off of him, much to everyone’s minor disgust. As he gave you a hug of thanks, Seokjin winked at you, as if to say, “Don’t you trust me?”

You worry that you trust him too much.

Seokjin bought Taehyung Super Smash Brothers for his birthday, and immediately the video game became the object of everyone’s attention as Taehyung rushed to plug the game into his Nintendo Switch. As you swirl around your kombucha, Taehyung and company are furiously shouting at each other, aggressively mashing the buttons on the controllers in their hands.

“Hey,” a soft voice says next to you. You turn your head to see Seokjin, his soft palm placed against your back to get your attention. “Wanna go outside? It’s loud in here.”

It’s loud in here, too, your brain supplies unhelpfully.

Your best friend pulls you up from where you’re seated, leading you to the balcony outside Taehyung and Jungkook’s kitchen, overlooking a rather dinky part of town. It’s not the greatest view, and by no means is it peaceful or quiet, but it’s enough. He seems to be nursing a cup of kombucha as well. Taehyung and Jungkook never really did alcohol.

You stand in silence for a few moments, letting the fresh air wash over you like waves on the shore, the tide pulling you in before pushing you back.

Then, “Thanks for helping me pick out Taehyung’s gift. He really liked it.”

“I knew he would,” Seokjin responds. “You should have more faith in me.”

“I have enough faith in you, Seokjin.” You sigh.

Car honks. Police sirens. Chatter. Wind.

“If you really don’t like that sweater, I’ll return it. It’s no big deal,” Seokjin speaks up. “I know you don’t like it when I buy you things.”

“It’s not that, it’s just—”

“I wanted to tell you that everything I said in Macy’s today, that’s true,” Seokjin continues. Your breath hitches in your throat. Boyfriend or not, you’re the greatest person that I’ve ever met. That I think I’ll ever meet.” You feel him as he comes up next to you. “There’s nobody like you, Y/N.”

“You don’t mean that,” you say, more to yourself than to him.

“Of course I do,” Seokjin says. “I’d do anything for you.”

“Then would you kiss me?” You whisper softly, hoping that the sounds of the traffic below will drown out your voice. Hoping that the words will just fade into the air around you without Seokjin even realizing.

“What?”

He places a hand on your arm before pulling you into him, large palms tracing up and down your figure. Seokjin reaches up, brushes away a stray strand of hair. Lets the soft pad of his thumb gently press on your cheek.

“Don’t make me say it again,” you mutter to yourself, eyes tracing the laces of your boots.

“Y/N,” Seokjin says, tilting your head up so that your eyes meet his dark brown ones, the Christmas lights decorating the apartment reflected in his irises, like golden stars in a sea of black. “Do you even need to ask?”

Before your mind can catch up to your racing heart, you feel his lips pressing against yours, warm and soft and perfect. He pulls you in closer, leans in further, holds you tighter. It’s not a deep kiss, no tongue, no biting. Just lips. Just lips and the feeling of him, of your best friend, of Seokjin in everything that he can be.

He pulls away softly, standing up tall once more. His cheeks are tinged pink. His smile has never been brighter.

“You know,” Seokjin says. “When I said I loved you, I meant that, too.”

There’s a sweater in a Macy’s bag in the trunk of a car, and another kiss on your best friend-turned-boyfriend’s lips that you fully intend on stealing.

⇒ hmu with feedback or just talk to me here!

Boyfriend Twins No Longer

Derek was furious. Last night had been his 21st birthday and what should have been a blast had been ruined by all the jerks at that gay bar. “Boyfriend twins!” The taunt rung through his mind. Nobody had ever made fun of him and Arjun before! They didn’t even look that similar. After all, Derek might be tan but he could never be compared to Arjun. Sure they had both been wearing Abercrombie shirts and khakis in nearly the same hue, but lots of people dressed like that! And besides, Derek though their matching sneakers were cute. And yet, when they walked into that one queer bar in town, the hipsters all turned to them and immediately started laughing. The door guy asked if they were clones and the bartender asked if there was a 2-for-1 special at the Abercrombie shop. Like they were so cool just because they had piercings and tattoos! That didn’t make them unique! There were plenty of hipster “boyfriend twins” in that bar and nobody gave them any guff! Regardless, Derek couldn’t stop fixating on it. He hated being criticized by other gays after a lifetime of being mocked by straight people for being different. He glanced over at Arjun as he snoozed, admiring his butt in the matching pair of Andrew Christian briefs that they had actually bought in a 2-for-1 sale. Well damn, thought Derek, maybe we are a little similar. “Are you ok, hun?” Arjun asked, stirring from his sleep. Derek sighed and turned away. “You can’t be upset about the boyfriend twins thing, can you?” Derek harumphed and turned to his lover, unaware that the mystical forces that grant birthday wishes had decided to pay attention to Derek this year. “I just wish we weren’t so similar!” Derek said angrily. A lighting bolt cracked across the sky, scaring both of the boyfriends. “You’re being dramatic,” Arjun sighed as he got up from the bed. “Let me make you some coffee and we can do something fun for your birthday. Arjun headed out to the kitchen, his ass looking great in the jockstrap he was wearing. Wait, that wasn’t right, thought Derek. They had the same pair of underpants! “Arjun!” Derek cried. “What’s up with that jockstrap!?” “Uh duh, it’s what I always wear, bro,” Arjun yelled back from the kitchen. That didn’t seem right to Derek. He looked down at his own lap and noticed that he was now wearing a pair of plain Hanes tighty-whiteys. That definitely wasn’t right. He sat up and leaned over the edge of the bed but something else was wrong. His feet didn’t reach the floor anymore. Derek panicked and stood up. He looked in the mirror and something was off. Where they had both been a solid 5’11” before, Derek couldn’t be more than 5’8” now and he was looking leaner than usual. There was something weird going on with his hair but Derek couldn’t really discern it in the mirror. He grabbed his pair of thick black framed glasses from the end table and threw them on. His hair was paler, more red, than before and seemed to be stuck in a weird center part. This was not the haircut he had gotten a week ago. And wait a minute! Derek didn’t need glasses! He threw them off and the world turned into a total blur. Derek started to panic, breathing heavily and starting to hyperventilate. Arjun reentered the room, or at least Derek thought the blurry shape was Arjun—it seemed taller—and handed Derek a glass of skim milk. “What’s this?” Derek whined, his voice noticeably higher pitched. “Where is my coffee?” “You can’t drink coffee, bro,” Arjun laughed, his voice noticeably deeper. “You’re spastic enough as it is.” Arjun took a deep sip of his coffee. “Give me a sip of your coffee then!” Derek whined. Arjun laughed. “You need to put on your glasses dude.” Derek did as he was told and was shocked as the world came into focus. The Arjun in front of him was different. He was taller for one, at least 6’2” now, and substantially more muscular than he had been before. Whereas Arjun had always been clean shaven, he was now sporting a decent five o’clock shadow. Derek rubbed his face; it was now smooth where before he had been sporting the beginnings of a beard. And then Derek noticed Arjun wasn’t drinking coffee at all. He had a protein shake. “Something isn’t right!” Derek wheezed. Arjun rolled his eyes and handed him an inhaler. “You need to calm down bro. And use your inhaler. You know you’re not supposed to get excited. It’s time for us to get dressed and head to campus anyways.” “But it’s my birthday!” Derek complained, taking three short puffs of the inhaler. “So who cares!?” Arjun laughed. “Get out of my room and go get dressed!” Arjun’s room!? But they had shared a room for six months. Regardless, Derek felt too timid to argue and he shuffled meekly out of the room. Derek headed down the hallway and then noticed his backpack peeking out from their study. He opened the door and was shocked at what he saw. It wasn’t a study any more. It had turned into a bedroom. In the center was a twin sized bed with Pokemon sheets. The walls were decorated with anime posters and cardboard cut outs of Lord of the Rings figures. There was an entire shelf of trophies from Math League, Chess Club, the 24-Hour Coding Challenge, Klingon Karaoke. Whoever had this room was a total dork! And that’s when Derek saw it. A framed picture on the wall of a total dork with Patrick Stewart at a comic convention. The guy looked familiar even though he was wearing thick glasses and the nerdiest clothes Derek had ever seen. He looked closer and gasped. It was HIM. But this wasn’t right! This room belonged to a total dork and Derek wasn’t a geek! He barely even used his computer. And yet this room had a massive desk with multiple computers on them, running World of Warcraft! Derek looked at the picture again and shook his head. This couldn’t be right. He would never dress like this! And yet when Derek opened the closet. all the clothes matched those in the pictures. Plaid button downs, cheap pleated dress slacks, shiny leather shoes. None of it seemed right. “Hurry the fuck up and get dressed!” Arjun yelled from out in the hall. Derek had never heard him yell like that before. That wasn’t the Arjun he knew but something made Derek quiver. He did not want to make Arjun mad! He sighed and started getting dressed. He buttoned up the button down all the way to the top and felt compelled to add a too short black tie. He put on a pair of clashing brown slacks that stopped a couple of inches above his ankle and couldn’t stop himself from attaching a pair of red suspenders that yanked the waist of the pants up above his belly button. All of Derek’s socks were white crew socks now and they clashed with his black patent leather shoes but he could hear Arjun getting impatient so he threw them on in resignation. He was scared to make Arjun mad; something he had never felt before. He looked at himself in the mirror and sighed. He looked like a total dork! He had definitely shrunk too! There was no way he was over 5’2” now. “HURRY UP DWEEB!” Arjun boomed from the living room. Derek grabbed his backpack and meekly shuffled out, his confidence totally eradicated. He gasped when he saw his boyfriend. Arjun towered over him now, standing at a solid 6’6”. Where he had been slightly muscled before, he was now a total meathead, weighing in at 300 lbs of pure muscle. The five o’clock shadow he had moments before was now a beard of epic proportion that came down to mid chest and his hair was up in an unruly and super masculine bun. Arjun’s muscles were massive… unlike anything Derek had ever seen and they were on full display as Arjun was now wearing a muscle tank that said “Give Me Deadlifts or Give Me Death” on it. On his legs, he wore tight black sweats that showed off every bit of muscle in his thighs and his massive calved. His arms were now dotted with tattoos and an 8 gauge septum piercing adorned his nose while double zero gauges rested comfortably in his ears. “S-s-s-since when do you l-l-l-lift weights?” Derek said, now aware that he stuttered. “S-s-s-s-since fucking forever, braceface,” Arjun laughed. Braceface? Why would Arjun call him that? But Derek reached up and touched his mouth and knew the answer. Huge clunky orthodontics were now glued to his teeth and when he caught his reflection in the mirror, he sighed. “You sh-sh-shouldn’t talk to your own boyfriend like that,” Derek implored. This sent Arjun into a series of hearty chortles. “Boyfriend!?” he laughed. “I would never date a dweeb like you, fuckwad. The only reason we live together is that the college said I needed to get my grades up if I wanted to stay on the weightlifting team and well, you’re too much of a fucking pussy to stand up to me when I ask you to do my homework.” Derek tried to argue but found himself getting too nervous. I guess I am too much of a pussy, he thought. “You’re right, Arjun,” Derek complied. Arjun rolled his eyes. “How many times have I told you? It’s AJ, not Arjun. Only my mom calls me Arjun. Now let’s get going.” Arjun grabbed Derek by the waist of his tighty whiteys, effortlessly lifting him up in a painful wedgie and carried him out the door. As they walked to campus, Derek felt all eyes on them. People were swooning over Arjun—er—AJ and pointing and laughing at Derek the whole way. He couldn’t stand it! AJ and Derek couldn’t be more different. That’s when it hit Derek. The wish. HE HAD WISHED FOR THIS. “Th-th-this isn’t what I wanted,” Derek said meekly as they arrived on campus. “Well I didn’t want to have to spend time with the university’s least attractive virgin but here we are,” AJ said as he dumped a bunch of books in Derek’s hands. “I’m going to need all these papers written by Monday so I can stay on the team.” “B-b-b-but-“ “No buts, dork!” AJ yelled as he shoved him towards the library. Derek looked at AJ with tears in his eyes. They had been so close, so in love, and now this was their life. More muscular hunks walked up to AJ as they started heading off to the gym. Derek turned meekly and started shuffling towards the library, his spindly legs giving him an awkward gait. “Hey nerd!” AJ yelled after Derek. “You forgot your student ID!” He flung it at Derek and it hit him right in the forehead, causing a chorus of laughs from AJ’s weightlifting bros. Derek struggled to pick it up from the ground without dropping all his books and gasped at his ID. For a brief moment, it listed the correct information: “Derek Parker, English Comp” before shimmering for a moment and changing. Derek blinked his eyes and looked at it again through this thick coke-bottle glasses. “Derwin Pimpleberg, Computer Science,” he sighed. Derek—make that Derwin—had totally changed, and all because of this stupid birthday wish. He headed into the library wanting to cry. Luckily, Derwin found academic achievement easy, which was great because soon AJ was making him do not only his homework, but also all of AJ’s weightlifting bros’ homework. AJ and his boys would come around on Saturdays and get wasted before heading out leaving Derwin alone to play World of Warcraft all weekend. While AJ would bring home a different stud every night to fuck, Derwin was alone reading fantasy novels and writing World of Warcraft fanfiction. And the noise from AJ’s heavy fucking made Derwin sad. Before the change, Derek and Arjun had had plenty of sex, but Derwin—well that was a different story. He was a virgin and try as he might over the next few decades, no one ever wanted to have sex with him and he remained a virgin forever. Eventually, the now roommates graduated but AJ didn’t want to let Derwin go. Why would he? Derwin was too meek to fight with AJ and would clean up after him, make his protein shakes, and wash his dirty gym clothes for him. Besides, whereas AJ’s degree was useless, Derwin’s computer science degree was a cash cow and Derwin was making tons of money consulting. Of course, AJ had made Derwin sign over all of his bank accounts to him so AJ could focus on professional body building instead of working, meaning that Derwin still had to wear cheap dorky clothes and couldn’t really afford to go out, not that he had any friends he needed to see. A few year later, Derwin had to go to his high school reunion and AJ decided to tag along. All of Derek’s friends were shocked to see that their old buddy was now a total nerd stereotype that went by Derwin but they were all enamored with AJ and joined in on mocking, ridiculing, and beating up Derwin. As his former friends hoisted him up the flagpole so he had to just dangle there in an atomic wedgie, Derwin sighed. He had wished that he and AJ were different and well, it couldn't have come any more true. 

‘A Small Phone Call ( lll )’ - Harry Styles Divorce Series

Words: 1,767

Pairing: Harry Styles & (Y/N) (Y/L/N)

Warnings: swearing

Part 1 Part 2

“It’s been a week. A week of you sitting in this room and rotting.” Myléne walked into her bedroom and saw her at the window watching the snowflakes, “You haven’t told me anything about signing the papers.” she turned her head, and a tear fell down.

“I thought period mood swings were bad, this is worse. I’m crying over the old lady walking her chihuahua. Chihuahuas are not dogs, they are like rats, any small dog is a rat.” Mylène chuckled, sitting on the chair next to her, and handing her a cup of tea.

“Says the girl who literally just bought a dachshund.” Y/N looked over and glared.

“Dachshunds are simply humans who got bad luck, God made a mistake and hit the wrong switch; that’s why they’re dogs. It was like a mistake...like...like this baby,” she mumbled the last part, beginning to get worked up again, hiccuping and sobbing.

“Alright you hormone druggie, come here.” she grabbed her and brought her into a hug, “Have you told Harry?” Y/N pulled back from the embrace.

“No...” she tsked.

“You fucked up.”

Eyes widened, she looked to her best friend, “What do you mean, I fucked up. You're supposed to be my support system. My FH... you know like AA, Fuck Harry...squad?” she just looked at her, not knowing how to respond to that.

“You’re an idiot.” 

“I know.”

“Anyway, he can sue now. You didn’t disclose it at the divorce.” Y/N shook her head.”

“Then he doesn’t need to know. Anyways, Harry is Harry, he won’t sue me.” 

“Keep saying that. Harry is Harry, he figures shit out. Like fuck, dude, he figured out you had a bad day before I even did. He figured out the whole bar situation, dude. He reads you like a fucking book. He’ll notice something is up.” 

“News flash, M. We are divorce, we don’t see each other anymore.” she sassed back and looked at the window. 

“Speaking about your ex-husband...” Y/N looked up and gave her the puppy eyes.

“I’ll answer it.” she mouthed, ‘thank you’, as she walked out.

-

“Before you ask, she’s in the shower.” she opened the door to him, holding a box. 

“Hi to you, too. Haven’t seen you since—”

“The wedding, I know. What do you want?” Harry huffed.

“Don’t make me the bad guy. We decided to do this together.” Myléne looked at the box.

“Is that Y/N’s?” he nodded, handing it off. She placed the stuff on the counter and turned around.

“Is she ok?” she gave a short nod, and Harry walked in.

“I’ll call security,” she said, Harry looked unfazed by it.

“Like that would fucking help.”

“You know what, Harry. I never was on board with this relationship. I never liked you, nor did I liked you and Y/N together,” she walked up to him, pointing at his chest. 

Y/N knew the tension between them. It was obvious, she always reckoned it was the fact that Mylène was jealous that she was married before her or that she was happy. But, she doesn’t regret Harry. She doesn’t regret her experience and memories with him. But, she does regret not trusting Myléne. She could sniff out things long before they even happen.

“Can you not fight, you’re giving me a headache.” Y/N walked out of the room to the kitchen, both of them looking up to her entrance.

“Do we have peanut butter?” Mylène turned away from Harry and grabbed it from the pantry.

Harry coughed, getting their attention. 

“Hi,” she mumbled, grabbing a spoon, and digging into the jar of peanut butter, “Come in, don’t be scared. I don’t bite. She does though.” Y/N said, pointing the spoon to Myléne. Harry laughed.

“Week one being divorce, day one out of your room, and your breakfast is three, wait, four spoonfuls of peanut butter. I’ll have to throw that out after because of salvia and germs.” Y/N rolled her eyes. 

“Anyway,” Harry said. He was confused, she was way too preppy to be just divorced, it was weird. Maybe she is better off without him? “This is just your curling iron, makeup bag—”

“I was looking for that, thanks!” she walked over grabbing it and heading to the ensuite.

“Why is she happy?” Mylène raised her eyebrow.

“She is happy to get you out of her life.”

“She hates peanut butter,” he muttered.

“She’s a new person.” 

~~~~~~~~~

Three drink is done, a million to go, yet they don’t make anything better. It was week two of signing the papers. He hasn’t talked to her since that simple morning, where she was so...different; to put a label on it.

“I liked you and Y/N,” Niall said, pushing another beer to him. Harry took it willingly, and downed it fast, “Careful, bud. Don’t drink your feelings.” Harry scoffed.

“Isn’t that the reason why we’re here.” Niall shrugged, looking off to the side.

Harry didn’t know how to deal with the situation. The only thing he did in the last two weeks was putting the townhouse up for sale. He couldn’t be there anymore. It was supposed to be their house, not his house. Then, he moved in with Niall, because he can’t simply walk the halls of the house that reminds him of her. The chipped mirror, for instance, reminded him of the time they came home wickedly drunk.

~~~~~~~~~

She chuckled into the kiss, holding him by the hips while they were backed against the wall of their house. He pushed his lips against hers again, grabbing her hands off his hips and placed them above her head. She pulled back.

They just came home from a house party. It was a party to signify the hiatus. During it, both of them had too much to drink and started to get cheeky to one another, till the point where Niall had to intervene. When doing so, he muttered a few words that the two of them took literally, ‘just go and make a baby already’. So, here they were.

“Are we really doing this?” she said, he smiled, kissing her again. Y/N taking that as an answer.

The decision was made, it was time for them to bring someone new into the family. Someone that was made up of them, half of her, and half of him. 

He grabbed her by the waist and picked her up. Y/N’s legs came around his middle, as he walked back in the foyer of their home, pushing and fighting for dominance with the kiss; their backs hitting the wall again and her foot came in contact with the vase across of them. 

“Oops,” she muttered, seeing it falling off and hitting the mirror. They chuckled, but soon walked towards the couch. Little did they know, that this was going to be one of the many times they will try. 

~~~~~~~~~

That was two years ago. They’ve been trying for two years now, and no success. He couldn’t do anything in that house, he can’t without having a panic attack.

Today marked his first day moving in with Niall, so they decided to go out, and drink and be normal mid-twenty-year-olds.

“Here mate,” he was taken out of the daydream by Niall, passing him a few shots, Harry took them greedily. 

He grimaced, not use to the heavy liquor anymore. Since marrying Y/N, they didn’t drink a lot, just wine, beer, and, “Y/N loved her gin and tonics.” he said.

Niall rolled his eyes, “Dude, you’re divorced. These shots are from those pretty blondes over there. If I was you, I would walk right over to one, use your charm, and get laid. You need it.” he patted him on his back. Harry didn’t even want to bare that thought at all.

“And lose the ring, you signed the papers two weeks ago,” Niall added. 

“She liked her hard liquor, but I had to ban it from the house,” Harry started talking, Niall looked over to his mate, talking about something he has never heard from Y/N before, “It would get so bad. She just loved the burning from vodka or tequila. Her twenty-first was the worst. She drank so much, I thought I lost her. So, the only alcohol that was in our house was wine, beer, and those god damn gin and tonics.”

Niall took the shot glass and downed it, “Don’t worry about her, mate. She isn’t drinking anytime soon.” Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Why?”

“’cause she’s pregnant, ey?” he raised his beer glass to him and took a swig. 

Harry didn’t say anything, just starred off in space. Niall instantly became sober from his friend’s lack of words.

“Fuck...you didn’t know.”

Harry looked back at him, “Yeah, I fucking didn’t know.” he was angry. Why, though? Is it because Y/N didn’t tell him, or because he heard from his friend such big news. Or maybe because they tried for two fucking years to have a kid, and it so happens now.

“Look, H, I’m sorry—”

“I gotta go.” Harry stood up from the stool, grabbing his jacket and placed a few bills on the table.

She was cuddled up on the couch, watching some random rom-com that she has seen a hundred times, but nothing beats that and a glass of red wine. But, with her little one on the way, she couldn’t even have a small sip, therefore her cuppa had to do for now. 

Y/N has come to terms with her pregnancy. It was really happening. She had her first ultrasound that week, and she has accepted it. It was time for her to have a baby. Now is the time.

“Urghh, this is the best part.” she muttered, hearing a pounding on the door, “I swear to god, Mylène, if you forgot your keys again, I will kill you.” she walked over, wearing just a tank, and sweatpants; her belly starting to show.

Harry looked up when the door opened and saw her; hair down, makeup off, and a tiny little bump, “You’re pregnant.” he muttered, Y/N stayed still, not knowing how to respond.

“You’re pregnant, and you didn’t even tell me,” he said again, looking in her eye, and pounding his fist against the wall, “fuck you.”

day five hundred and forty-three - stop doing bad things

It’s become increasingly easy to forget to write on this blog, just like it’s become increasingly easy to forget about the pandemic the world is still in. Over 603,000 Americans have died to date, with 312 dying just yesterday. Yet this “end” of the pandemic looks a lot like the beginning of what would become a pandemic, with daily case counts at mid-March 2020 levels, which is to say, certainly not zero. I’m trying to avoid a similar habituation and amnesia with shopping.

If you’ve read the blog you know I went a whole year without buying clothes except for that one magical New Mexico coat. And that I said I had Learned My Lesson and would shop differently when I decided to officially shop again. And that I confessed to buying a blazer on eBay in February and a pair of shearling sandals in March and ordering coats to try on in my last post. And now I’m trying to stop that drip from becoming a flood.

First, I will say I did return one of the two pre-owned coats, but second I will say that with one of them I also ordered two pre-owned sweaters that I did not return. And that I spent a ton of time browsing The RealReal for even more sweaters after that. And that I spent even more time looking for a new ethical/sustainable/unproblematic bralette and then had not one but two shipped from Net-A-Porter in London because they were sold out here. And that I then ordered the same Freda Salvador sandal in two different colors during a flash Bloomingdales sale. This, my friends, is not not shopping.

I am trying very hard to not slip back into the all-or-nothing thinking that has served me so poorly throughout life, either to swear off buying clothes forever or to give up and wild out - one is not realistic, and the other isn’t affordable. I’m writing this post not because I have some great wisdom about how to resist the temptation of new shit, but to acknowledge that it’s real, and cop to succumbing to it. There is a very not quiet part of my brain that says if one is good, two is better, and it turns out I have to learn to live with that part of me instead of denying it exists.

So, how to make this post actionable? By sharing my new shopping process, or the best possible version of it. 

1. Confirm you’re filling a need

Ask yourself why you’re trying to buy the thing you’re trying to buy. Did you identify an actual gap in your wardrobe, or are you just browsing? Do you know how many of that thing you already have? Do you have plans to wear that thing within 30 days?

2. Sleep on that need

This is an important step! Put some distance between deciding you need something and acting on that decision. If you’re reading a blog about trying not to buy clothes for a year, you probably don’t “need” any new article of clothing, so give yourself at least a day but preferably more to see what happens when you continue not having that thing. Could you find something else in your closet to fill the gap? Could you borrow something from a friend? Could you discover that you’ve gone this long without it and been totally fine?

3. Shop pre-owned first

If you gave yourself satisfactory answers to the need questions and are determined and ready to go find the thing, see if you can find it at a vintage/resale/consignment shop, either in-person or online. You already know how environmentally damaging it is to produce clothes, so by buying pre-owned you’re not creating net-new waste and you’re also extending the life of something that could otherwise become waste. You can also play up the one-of-a-kind aspect to yourself if you don’t like associating this shiny new-to-you thing with waste.

4. Shop Good On You second

If you’re convinced your thing has to be new production, it’s pretty hard to know what brands are actually doing things the “right” way. Good On You is the best shortcut I’ve found, as it rates brands on a host of sustainability metrics. It’s certainly not perfect (there being no real regulation in what brands have to report), but it’s a good jumping off point, and can satisfy that itch to browse.

5. Shop small always

No matter what you’re buying, it is always always better to purchase from a small business or designer than a major retailer (she says, after admitting to buying from Bloomingdales). We do weird shit in America, like expect the things we financially support the least (teachers, mom and pop restaurants, the cute corner shop) to always be there for us. If you buy everything on Amazon, all that will be left is Amazon, so maybe divert some of your spending to, say, Garmentory instead, to get that Amazon feel with the boutique support. They have many of the brands that Good On You gives high marks to :)

5. Make sure you can afford it

So you’ve found the thing and know where you want to buy it from, awesome! Could you pay for it in cash? Before you huff about your salary being sufficient, this step is not meant to shame anyone but to break a cycle that credit cards, those harbingers of American prosperity, started. We are very used to putting something on our cards and paying for it later, which means we separate the act of buying from the consequence of bearing the cost. Asking yourself if your checking account could handle the purchase should also encourage you to consider the consequences on your overall budget - did you plan for this purchase, and, if not, are you prepared to give something else up for it? (Note: This section is not intended to question how much things cost. Well made, sustainably made, ethically made items cost more than fast fashion, but that does not make them a luxury. Remember who subsidizes cheaply made products - those being cheaply paid to make them.)

6. Make sure you can return it

This step is maybe the hardest for me, and the one that requires the most between the lines reading. I firmly believe you should never buy anything final sale that you haven’t tried on. I also firmly believe that you should buy pre-owned, where trying on isn’t always possible. The absolute best case scenario is going to a physical store to try something on before purchasing it (from that store or elsewhere), but if that’s not possible then getting the measurements of the item is key. It’s much easier to measure something you already have to compare to what you’re trying to buy than to look at how something has been styled in a photograph and guess how it will fit. This step is designed both to save you money and to prevent unloved and unworn stuff from collecting in your closet - let’s not let the sunk cost fallacy sink your wardrobe spirits.

7. Make sure you *won’t* return it

This step goes back to the first step but could also have been written as “Wear it!” If you’ve done the research, paid the cost and brought that new thing home, take it out for multiple spins! Don’t find yourself reaching for it? Return it! Despite what consumerism says, buying clothes to have and not hold does not make us happier. If you’re not excited to wear the thing you just bought, you didn’t actually need it, and now you know for the next time you have a jonesing to start the shopping process all over again.

So yeah, this is an incredibly long, thoughtful, and arduous way to go about shopping, but the entire point is to interrupt the habits that lead us to browse, buy, repeat. I spent forever looking for a coat to fill a need, but then was like “well what else should I buy to justify the shipping cost” and wound up with two sweaters - this is a bad habit!! But this is a loving blog, so instead of passing judgment on your (or my) shopping lapses, embrace the mindful shopping method above and prepare for self-actualized consumerist bliss. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk. Namaste.

After You Buy All the Essentials, Then What? My Personal List Moving Forward

Switching focus from the urgent to the important is a vital practice in the business world. Have you ever worked somewhere where it’s clear that instead of thinking critically about the core of the organization’s mission for ways to grow and improve, the focus is instead on whatever the newest, shiniest idea is (or often, whatever the latest crisis is)?

I always had a sense of urgency about buying clothes, because my goal was to dress in cool tailoring every day of the week in ways that I would consider meaningfully different. But being constrained by a budget meant I had to think carefully about what I bought, so I wouldn’t end up with something because it was a great deal, only to discover I had very little use for it. So I created a list of clothes I wanted that I imagined would comprise a complete wardrobe (for my tastes and needs). That helped me stay focused on my goals when sale season started and there were so many awesome things to buy.

Now, though, having largely built that wardrobe I imagined, I tend to get distracted by the new, shiny thing much more. I’ll find some product on eBay or in a shop on sale and become obsessed with it, going back to look at it over and over again. Without that hit list of must-buys to bring myself back from the brink, I always have a creeping sense that whatever it is I end up actually purchasing is maybe the wrong choice for me and I should instead be saving that money for some other, better purchase down the road. I’ve picked all the low-hanging fruit, but I have no personal guidance for reaching higher.

So, in an effort to try and refocus myself on buying what I can consider important purchases—not just those with the urgency of desire—here’s my list of next must-haves.

(By the way, if you’re just starting out and want some help building a wardrobe from scratch, check out my “Guide to Building a Tailored Wardrobe.” In it, I explain just that—how to have the right mindset about buying clothes, plus specific advice for versatility in clothing. Check it out here.)

More cotton-linen trousers for summer

Since becoming a dad—but even before then—dress trousers in wool just don’t get much wear from me. Primarily that’s because pants need cleaning more often, and I hate dry cleaning bills. But it’s also because I prefer a silhouette that just doesn’t work with dress pants, at least in wool. Jeans or even chinos made of denim or cotton twill drape differently and thus can work in the tapered cut I prefer. My previously perfectly fitting flannel trousers with that ideal taper from Spier & Mackay are now too slim because my calves got too big. So I have to go fuller. I’m fine going with that in a drapey wool, but day to day I prefer a slimmer knee and slightly tapered opening at the hem.

This is why cotton-linen trousers exist. Cotton-linen seems to have that perfect balance of cotton’s stiffness with linen’s drape, so they hang well but are forgiving if the fit isn’t bespoke-perfect or your proportions make things difficult. Pure linen just doesn’t give off the vibe I’m looking for typically (it feels a little more louche the way it hangs and rumples than I as a person am). And other options like wool-silk-linen blends are beautiful and amazing (I’ll get those below), but what I like about cotton-linen is I can usually machine wash it myself to no ill effect. Currently I have one pair, so it’d be nice to get another 2-3 to rotate through (much as I have with flannel in the winter). My list would be: 

A second pair of off-white 

Tan / khaki

Deeper brown

Maybe a light blue or mid-navy

Options I have for buying these: Spier & Mackay’s dress trouser fit is still my best bet right now, and I’ve been told they’ll have a crop of 7 colors of cotton-linen trousers in mid-April. That said, I also just purchased some pairs from Brooks Brothers’ Red Fleece line that arrive soon, made from fabric by the same mill as Spier’s, for $37 a pair that might work, too.

A rotation of good chinos and a pair of light wash jeans that fit

Chinos are nice because they dress up or down pretty well (you can wear a tie with them without it being weird, unlike five-pocket pants, but on their own without a jacket they’re good too), and if you get them in the right fabric, they’re pretty hard-wearing.

Finding chinos that 1- don’t have stretch, 2- are made from material that’s a good mid-weight, and 3- fit the way I want is extremely difficult. You wouldn’t think so but man it’s hard to find good chinos. And finding good, faded jeans with similar qualities is likewise hard without spending $200+. That said, if I can find them, what would make my wardrobe happy would be chinos in:

Off-white

Stone

True khaki

Possibly a pair in fatigue, which is a good color when it’s too hot to wear a jacket

Options for chinos are tricky. I like the idea of what fellow menswear blogger Ian is doing with his new shop Lost Monarch; $125 is hefty for chinos, but I suppose if they fit really well and the fabric rules, the investment might be worth it. I also always forget about classic chino maker Bill’s Khakis, which was always hailed as having the highest quality back in my early Styleforum days. They introduced a number of slimmer fitting styles over the years and are still fairly easy to find on eBay. Spier & Mackay’s chinos are a great deal but each time I’ve tried them, the fit’s been off for me in some way or other. I might try them once again this spring. 

As for light wash jeans, I’ll be looking probably at American Eagle, Polo RL, Abercrombie, Banana Republic, and other mall brands. Much as I’d like to get some 3-Sixteens or even Naked and Famous, they’re hard to get ahold of where I live and trying jeans on is critical.

A dark navy blazer in both single and double breasted configurations

I have seasonally appropriate navy jackets—one is wool/cashmere for winter, and one is raw silk for summer—and last summer I added a dark blue double breasted jacket for summer as well. When I recently tried on No Man Walks Alone’s Sartoria Carrara jackettried on No Man Walks Alone’s Sartoria Carrara jacket, which was a dark navy twill, I remembered why dark navy jackets exist: they’re classy as heck. All my navy jackets are slightly lighter shades of navy, which is great, but a good, dark navy blazer brings some gravity to an outfit, looks great in the evening and dresses up very well for more formal occasions.

That said, it’s gotta be the right texture. Hopsack wool is a good option; I would also be interested in some kind of blend like wool-silk-linen or similar. I’m not a fan of mohair, so I wouldn’t do that, and the high twist fabrics are tricky because they tend to look fairly smooth, while I like a little more surface texture. Given how much I like my SuitSupply Jort blazer, I’m hoping they release a double breasted jacket that might fit the bill this spring/summer. As for single breasted, I really, really liked that NMWAxCarrara jacketNMWAxCarrara jacket, so something closer to a 3-season fabric from him would be amazing. Of course Spier & Mackay has staple hopsack wool blazers in both their Neapolitan cut and regular cut, which sold out quickly in my size.

A dark navy double breasted blazer by Ring Jacket (model 6) I tried on at The Armoury in New York City. Click the image to see the product page of this actual jacket at their site.

A pair or two of summer trousers in a nicer fabric

Cotton linen trousers and chinos are as dressy as I need them to be most of the time in my life, but it’s still nice to have a pair of classier dress trousers in summer for occasions that call for it. I’ve had gray hopsack and fresco in the past, but those were more corporate than I was looking for.

Summer is the time for levity in the color palette, so I really like the idea of a light or mid blue (maybe a petrol blue). Every time Greg at No Man Walks Alone does spring pre-orders for Rota, they offer these beautiful wool/silk/linen blend fabrics, including petrol blue in the past, and every time, I love how they look but always stopped short of ordering for various reasons. A sufficiently textured, interesting blend in a light gray would also be nice and would be better than a corporate looking fresco or tropical wool. In the swatches below, which were for this season’s Rota trouser made to order options, the blue and gray at the top hold appeal, and even that green at the bottom.

Swatches for Rita wool/silk/linen trousers From No Man Walks Alone.

Some dress shirts from Anglo-Italian

It feels like I’ve been banging on about this for years at this point, I know, but their reverse stripe OCBD is great and I need to just pull the trigger and buy it. But beyond that, Anglo’s house dress shirt model is essentially the perfect shirt: the collar shape is an ideal wide spread with no tie space and that isn’t too stiff; the fit is comfortable but not baggy; and the details are all there both quality and design-wise. The back shirring is maybe a bit out there for many people, but these shirts are meant to be worn under a jacket, which is how I’d wear them. I’d buy white first then probably their blue end-on-end and maybe the bengal stripe. They’re expensive at $175, but that’s less than other comparable Italian dress shirt companies like Finamore or Borrelli.

A couple additional pairs of suede shoes

I love suede for its versatility in dressing up or down. What I wear 95% of the time are snuff suede penny loafers, snuff suede chukkas and tan suede tassel loafers. I’m looking to get more dark brown suede, which, sorta like true dark navy blazers, brings some gravity to an outfit. My penny loafers have been through some rough times; I plan to resole them (which they badly need), but it’d be nice to have a pair that aren’t so beaten up. I prefer a sleeker last shape most of the time (not pointy, maybe almond shaped) to the round lasts you see from classic Ivy brands like Alden, which are more casual and carry a lot more of that Ivy feeling (something I’m always trying to temper with more rakish aesthetics). That said, a rounded loafer of some kind to wear strictly casually is something I’d like to get to help share the load with the other shoes. I’ve also been really into the split toe derby look the last year or so. I tried The Armoury’s on when I visited there in 2018, and really liked it. 

So, the list would be:

Dark brown suede penny loafers

Dark brown suede Chelsea boots

Brown suede split toe

Dark or mid-brown suede beef roll or similar more casual loafers

I’ve noticed that the most comfortable shoes I love wearing the most are all made by Allen Edmonds, so I’ll be looking at those for sure. The Sea Island in particular looks awesome for that casual loafer. Beckett Simonon has some suede boots and given how comfortable their shoes are, their Bolton Chelsea looks nice. Meermin of course is another option for suede boots, and they have a penny loafer that might fit the bill for me, too. Spier & Mackay’s shoe offerings look very good, including this suede penny loafer. And of course the Armoury’s split toe derby is the one I’m most looking at for that category as I’m sort of picky when it comes to split toe shoes.

So there’s my hit list moving forward. I’ve already deviated from it this season by purchasing an excellent but not-on-this-list jacket from Spier & Mackay in 100% linen by Sondrio in a mid-brown glen check pattern. It surprised me how much I loved it, so I’m letting myself deviate from the list, guilt-free. And at the end of the day, the clothing hobby is all about enjoying life anyhow, and what could be more important than than?

(Help support this site! If you buy stuff through my links, your clicks and purchases earn me a commission from many of the retailers I feature, and it helps me sustain this site—as well as my menswear habit ;-)  Thanks!)

Read more at Menswear Musings

Alex and Alison Sokol Blosser on the Evolution of the Family Winery

A business can’t simply rely on its heritage and history to succeed. It must have high-quality products, services, and ideas. For Sokol Blosser, one of the oldest and longest-running wineries in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, all of these qualities have fueled the family business for the last half-century.

Sokol Blosser began producing what would later become acclaimed Pinot Noir wines from the Dundee Hills and Eola-Amity Hills AVAs in 1971. Launched by wife and husband Susan Sokol and Bill Blosser (who had married in 1966 after both graduating from Stanford University), the winery produced its first vintage in 1977. It quickly began winning awards and set standards in the industry.

In 2008, after 37 years running the business together, Bill and Susan passed the reins on to two of their three children, Alex and Alison. Alex Sokol Blosser is the head winemaker, while Alison is CEO. The brother and sister share the title of co-president, and truly feel they are second-generation stewards of the brand — and land.

Sustainability has been a key driver for the Sokol Blosser siblings. Their winery has numerous certifications, including being salmon-safe and USDA organically farmed. Its underground barrel cellar became the first-ever LEED-certified winery building in 2002 in the U.S. In 2015, Sokol Blosser achieved B Corp status, which continues to guide the family’s commitment to the environment.

With Alex and Alison at the helm, Sokol Blosser winery has continued to produce award-winning Pinot Noir, and has added a variety of colder-climate whites, as well as a range of sparkling wines. In 2020, Sokol Blosser introduced a new brand, Evolution boxed wine. Its 2019 vintages of Evolution Lucky No. 9 White and Evolution Pinot Noir, in 1.5-liter box format, are a first for the family brand.

“If you’d asked me 12 months ago if we’d ever put wine in a box, I’d say, ‘hell, no,’ Alison Sokol Blosser says. But if you asked her today if she’d do it again? The answer is in upcoming launches in 2021: Evolution Chardonnay, as well as Evolution Big Time Red. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she refers to Sokol Blosser’s boxed wine offerings in pairs: “The Evolution [Lucky No. 9] White will have the [Big Time Red] pair, and the Pinot Noir will have the Chardonnay pair,” she says.

Below, Alison and Alex share with VinePair what drives the siblings to create compelling wines, how they’ve survived and evolved in a global pandemic, and what the future holds for the Sokol Blosser legacy.

1. What’s the best part of your job?

Alex: The best part of my job is harvest. I love harvest. When you’re a winemaker, you so rarely are able to focus on making wine. So much of the rest of my year, I’m working on spreadsheets, planning, looking at vineyards — there are many aspects to winemaking that’s not making wine. It’s the toughest part of the year, but it’s the time I can really just do the one thing I love.

Alison: What gives me the most joy is when I hear from customers who have had an amazing experience with our wine. Whether it’s someone celebrating a milestone and a bottle of our wine was on the table, or a wine club member serving in the military in Europe who wanted to get wine to share with others stationed there. [That wine club member] then sent a picture of all these guys in their military uniforms drinking Sokol Blosser. We were part of their lives in an intimate way without being there. We were on the table and part of those memories.

2. What’s a setback you faced in your career, and how did you get past it?

Alison: For me, the biggest setback was almost a year ago — March 17 [2020] — and having to lay off about a third of our staff. There was so much uncertainty and fear. It was a very humbling and hard moment to have to lay off people we care about. Thankfully, we’ve been able to bring back most of them. The silver lining is that all of those challenges set us up for better success for the next 50 years.

Alex: It was when our mom fired me. She didn’t fire me because I was a schmuck. This was in the mid ‘90s. The winery wasn’t 100 percent family owned; we owned 51 percent of it. The other partners said [they] couldn’t have more than two Sokol Blossers working full-time. Our mom hired me as cellar master, and then the next day had to fire me. That was a shock.

3. What’s the biggest challenge you or your business have faced since Covid, and how did you address it?

Alison: The challenge of laying everyone off was precipitated by losing 50 percent of our sales — losing all of our on-premise business, cruise and airline business — overnight. We had to preserve the business to be able to come through on the other side.

Alex: Our vineyard crew continues to get older. We knew at some point we’d have to switch to mechanical harvesting, even for our higher-end Pinot Noir. It’s a quarter-of-a-million-dollar investment, and the technology is amazing. Mechanical harvesting is the future.

4. What’s a significant shift your business has made in the last six months that you had never considered before?

Alison: If you’d asked me 12 months ago if we’d ever put wine in a box, I’d say, ‘hell, no.’ But we did it and did it quickly. We green lit that project April 1 and shipped in July. We also had a lot of pivots on the consumer sales side, [and] virtual events we had never done before. Now Alex and I are Zooming into consumers’ homes, doing virtual tastings for people, leading them through a tasting. That’s been fun, and now we have tasting kits with 50-milliliter wines. And we had a flash sale. We thought it would be cool for our 50th anniversary to sell one of our Pinots today for the same price as one of the first: our 1977 Pinot, we sold for $6.75 a bottle. I think we sold 970 cases in two hours. We thought we’d sell 300 cases. It was fun.

Alex: We were going to spend a lot of money throwing a lot of parties. The celebration of an anniversary is the celebration of all the shared memories we have. We can’t throw parties for distributors, sales reps, customers … so $6.75 a bottle is what we can do.

5. What opportunities are there for up-and-coming talent in your industry?

Alex: We need strong backs in the winery for every harvest. This was the first harvest in 10 to 15 years we didn’t have international workers. We may be up against that in 2021. Let people know we need harvest interns. Apply now. Long hours. Cold beer.

Alison: Normally, I’d say we have a shortage of hospitality folks who want to work in the tasting room, but that’s closed now. We anticipate we’ll open early summer, and when that happens, we think there will be a shortage of great candidates. Everyone will be hiring. That’s an amazing opportunity [for them].

6. What’s next for Sokol Blosser?

Alison: What’s most immediately next is we’ll be expanding the box wine. Longer term, Sokol Blosser is naturally limited by what we can produce on our land. We have to continually push the envelope on quality. With Evolution, we have more flexibility and want to grow that brand. The consumer is willing to be adventurous and try something new. It’s up to us to figure out what that something is. It’s going to always be quality.

Alex: And we’re looking at potentially buying another vineyard or winery. That’s an opportunity over the next coming years.

Alison: We’re fully planted out. Expansion means to expand somewhere else. Our parents bought in the Dundee Hills when it was affordable. We got priced out of our own neighborhood.

The article Alex and Alison Sokol Blosser on the Evolution of the Family Winery appeared first on VinePair.

source https://vinepair.com/articles/alex-alison-sokol-blosser-winery/

Welcome to the 13th instalment of the “Garmsman Dozen” question and answer session. The response so far has been tremendous. Did you miss earlier ones? There are links at the end of the page.

This week we welcome to the Garmsman Dozen Christopher Laverty from Great Britain!

Who are you, where do you live and what interests you?

Christopher Laverty. York, UK. 40 years old.

Author of book Fashion in Film, broadcaster, creator of website Clothes on Film and costume consultant.

Twitter: @clothesonfilm, Instagram: @lordlaverty, @christopherlaverty, Facebook: @clothesonfilm.

I enjoy movies, decent TV, clothes, clothes in movies, clothes in decent TV, bourbon, pipe smoking, cigars (preferably Cuban), cocktail making, cycling, running and twirling my moustache.

Thinking back to your childhood, what were your most memorable or favourite clothes?

Honestly, I don’t remember much of my childhood. Controversially I don’t many of us really do, we just piece together memories from what we’re told and photographs. With that in mind, I’ll go to my late teenage years when I first remember becoming interested in clothes. It was the mid-late 1990s so a lot of pale, shapeless denim jeans worn way too long with thick, oversized shirts and suede Kickers. This is probably why I gravitated toward the vintage scene which at this time was big on 1970s retro revival. My favourite buy was a tan leather trench coat, probably from the late 1970s, made in Egypt with a Selfridges label. It was immaculate. I purchased for £25 from Covent Garden market and still have it today. I don’t wear the coat much as it’s a little on the nose these days and verging on dress up, but at least it still fits! I do come from a family interested in clothes, particularly my dad. I was born to older parents (they are in their late eighties now) and with an older brother (now 60) and sister (53). I was spoilt rotten. Apparently, I even had a tailored coat, which to a working-class family is quite a fancy thing. My appreciation of clothes comes from understanding how they are made, their design, influences and appropriateness to the era. This is all born in me I think.

How would you describe your style today, and what are your influences?

It’s one of two things depending on my mood, time of year, facial hair and hairstyle: 1) denim and workwear, Edwardian influenced to 1930s OR 2) 1970s lounge with flared three-piece suits. I like to change things up because I get bored easily. It does have to be a specific look though – I have to feel that it ticks certain boxes, although saying that I do loathe the idea of sticking rigidly to eras or historical accuracy. My main influence for the 70’s is television programmes such as The Persuaders! and The Professionals and films such as Fear is the Key and Carlito’s Way. For workwear, it’s more print-based influences, like old photographs of miners and ranchers, but also films like The First Great Train Robbery and There Will Be Blood. I pull from wherever I like, really. Again, it’s not rigid; I’m not a re-enactor, I’m just someone who enjoys a period-specific feel to their dress.

How do you think others would describe your style and garments, do you get any reaction from friends and random strangers?

Totally, though a lot of that comes from random moustache admirers/hecklers. I don’t mind, so long as it’s polite. People will always point out what is different and, if I’m honest, I get a kick out of it. I think my friends just list random people they consider could be associated with my look – I’ve had everything from Shaft to a Spitfire pilot. It’s all good fun unless you choose to be offended (which I don’t because life is far too short to be cross and moaning all the time).

When looking for clothes, what factors play into your selections?

Need, mainly. I don’t really seek out any clothing unless I’m specifically short on something, like a henley t-shirt or new pair of boots. Most clothes come to me, in that I might stumble across a charity shop find or somebody acquires a shirt or whatever they think I’d like. I don’t really pay full price for anything. For example, I bought some suede chukka boots by Alfred Sargent last year, but only because they were offered to me by a friend who’d found them (in immaculate condition I might add) in a charity shop. I certainly didn’t need the boots but I’ll not turn my nose up at a bargain. I love clothes, though my wardrobe is actually quite capsule. I think there’s nothing worse than just buying willy-nilly and ending up with so much gear you can hardly store it all. This actually diminishes sartorial creativity in my view.

When putting together an outfit combination, do you spend a lot of time considering it?

Not really. I think I know what works and just go with that. I’ll plan more if it’s an occasion outfit but for every day I just grab what I like depending on the weather. Putting together an ensemble can be fun, but I do think if you take too long it becomes fussy and convoluted. If in doubt, take it out.

Most garmsmen will have a few “grail items” in their collection. Not to out you, but if your house is burning, which garments do you grab?

Probably my RM Williams boots. They are Craftsman Yearling, the finest boot RM Williams make in my opinion and they work with almost any outfit. I purchased on eBay nearly a decade ago for about £100. The leather is cracking a tad now but I couldn’t be without them. That said, I wouldn’t burn alive for them either so this better be a fairly mild fire we’re talking about here.

Photo by Ben Bentley

Are you budget-conscious or spendthrift? Are you a single-shot shopper, or go large and buy bulk? Where are you on slow-fashion and buying less?

I’m not spendthrift, even less so if I’m buying for others. If something fits and looks great and I can afford it and need it, I’ll buy it. I do like things that are in a sale or reduced though – it just feels more fun to make that purchase. In this respect, I wish I could support more artisan brands but they are just too rich for my blood. The sad thing is I know that the guys running these places and making these clothes and footwear are just getting by as is. If I was rich I’d probably shop with an eye toward supporting homegrown brands, but as things stand whoever can give me what I want for the best possible price is going to get my money.

Having a large collection of clothes can lead to changing outfit on a daily basis, but if you were going to wear a single outfit the next two weeks, what would it be?

My go to is probably a green ribbed cotton henley (from H&M), Marlboro leather and canvas braces (charity shop), Levi LVC 1878 jeans (eBay) and my RM Williams boots. This outfit suits just about every occasion, unless you want me attending your wedding or something. It’s comfortable to travel, work, socialise and chill in. Simple but effective in my opinion.

What would you never wear?

That’s a tough one. Basically, anything that looks awful on me, so very baggy trousers or jeans (I’m a short-ass), super-tight muscle tees (they are hilarious even if you have the body) and chunky hi-top trainers (love them on other people but I look like a failed hip-hop artist). Oh and baseball caps. Every time I put one on I look like I’m dying of some disease.

Photo by David Wade

What are your best tips for buying?

If you’re talking specifically about buying for my look, either workwear or 70’s inspired, then I’d say eBay, charity shops and vintage fairs. Got to be patient though and realise that, in the main, if you’ve found a bargain, someone else has too. People know their stuff a lot more these days so everyone has their eye out. For basics, I find H&M hard to beat. It’s not the highest quality and sometimes their stores are saturated with desperately on-trend crap, but in general, for easy tees and shirts, they are a goldmine (plus have lots of year-round sales).

Do you have a dream garment you’d love to own?

A few years ago I would have said a Savile Row suit but I think I desired one for the wrong reasons. It was a case of wanting to say I’ve had a suit cut on Savile Row rather than wanting the garment itself. I must admit I have always hankered after a beautifully tailored flared leg suit from the 1970s. I have a couple of off-the-peg examples but I’d love one bespoke. Suits of this era with that distinctive cut, the high waist, flared leg, high double vents and pagoda shoulder are not impossibly hard to find, though ones made from high-quality wool suiting are. Also, I’m a sucker for LVC Levi. I’d buy most of it just to hang on my wall and salivate over.

Anyone that buys clothes will have made mistakes, what is your most memorable bad buy?

Loads! When I used to buy more and think later I grabbed many a mistake. Possibly my worst was a pair of loose Abercrombie & Fitch jeans, from eBay if I remember correctly. Not sure what look I was going for. LA surfer, possibly? Or maybe just asshole. Either way, unsurprisingly, they didn’t work.

Do you have any style icons, historic or current?

Most of the looks I covet are from films so were put together by costume designers rather than the stars in question. Then again, stars and icons had stylists back in the day and they have stylists now. Cary Grant always nailed it. James Coburn could rock the Ivy. Nowadays Sebastian Stan constantly looks interesting without going too bananas (he has a brilliant stylist and an easy to dress bod too, mind). My elderly dad has a wonderfully open love of bright colour, which I admire and is daring for a former market trader from the East End of London. ‘Be more like him’ I often think.

Who are your favourite Instagram profiles?

What you mean apart from @Welldresseddad??? 😉 I like all the sartorial based accounts I follow. Two, in particular, indulge my passion for high-end workwear denim that I can’t afford: @kingchung501 and @vorstenbos. Anyone who doesn’t take it all too seriously, basically.

How do you think trends such as denim and heritage style will evolve and survive? What will be the next big thing?

I think more and more people will get into making their own clothes. We are not there yet, and I certainly don’t presently have the skills, but big picture I feel this will get easier and easier to do in our own home. Sustainability is a big trend and not going anywhere – and really it can’t afford to. Denim especially will go down this route. Like I said we are a way off, but with current textile innovations and online communities, it is coming.

Thank you!

Thank you for your Garmsman Chris!

Photo by David Wade

Did you miss the first Garmsman Dozens?

Jon from Great Britain

Shaun from Scotland

Klaus from Germany

Roland from Italy

Daniel from Sweden

Enoch from the USA

Even from Norway

Kris from Belgium

Michael from Great Britain

Liam from Great Britain

Lee from Great Britain

Iain from Great Britain

Michael from Italy

PS: If you have suggestions for participants, let me know. Or have your mother suggest you, if you’re a bit keen to suggest yourself. My email is WellDressedDad (@) gmail.com

  The Garmsman Dozen #14: Chris from Great Britain Welcome to the 13th instalment of the "Garmsman Dozen" question and answer session. The response so far has been tremendous.

THE KIA SORENTO 2020: 10 THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW

The incredible success of the big Telluride at Kia has pushed the smaller Sorento back into the shadows. Add to this mischievous fate the fact that Kia’s “old” utility vehicle, born in 2002, is in its third generation, itself already out of phase despite the usual annual alterations. In short, the Sorento is due to the image of its first cousin, the Hyundai Santa Fe, renewed last year. So here are 10 things you should know about a mid-size SUV that straddles the present and the future…

1 Partie remise

Kia had nevertheless planned to introduce the 4th generation Sorento in great style at the Geneva Motor Show after having given a preview of it on February 17th in South Korea. But you-know-what caused the cancellation of the event. The manufacturer partially made up for it by letting pictures of the new exterior and interior flow.

2 Oh the beautiful look!

The revamped Sorento, which according to our crystal ball will be on sale by the end of the year as the 2021 vintage, abandons the ovoid and, let’s be frank, rather anonymous hull in favour of a much more athletic build where the angles and reliefs give themselves over to the heart’s content.

3 Easy as pie

The current Sorento features a dashboard that is overflowing with user-friendliness. In fact, we’re immediately pleased with two features. First, the fact that a few good old-fashioned buttons are right where you’d expect them; two, the electronic UVO interface displayed on the 7-inch centre screen (and even 8-inch when you check off the navigation) is very pleasant to use, the speed with which a techno-analphabetic like me manages to connect his phone being the best proof.

4 Avant-garde design

In the future Sorento, while the modernisation of the interior is obvious, it is hoped that the ease of use has remained intact. The conventional transmission lever has been replaced by a rotary selector. The two generous side-by-side displays (12.3″ for the dials, 10.3″ for the infotainment) are sumptuous, while the air vents, in the centre and near the doors, feature a novel shape (a sort of vertical diamond) that projects the cabin’s look far into the 21st century.

5 A 4 or a 6?

So far in North America, the Sorento has had three gasoline engines. In 2018, Kia has abandoned the 2.0L Turbo, which in the end proved to be as gluttonous as the V6. The 3.3L is still in the catalogue, as is the 2.4L 4-cylinder.

If your little family already costs you enough as it is, select this less expensive powertrain. Its 185 horsepower and 178 lb-ft of torque, combined with a 6-speed automatic transmission, will be enough to transport your tribe members without worry. The only downside is its towing capacity of only 907 kg.

If that doesn’t seem like enough because your cousin, to whom you often give lifts, really likes Vachon’s little cakes, then you’d better turn to the V6’s 290 horsepower and 252 lb-ft of torque, which brings the vehicle’s towing capacity to 2,268 kg, exactly the same as GM’s rival trio, the Acadia, Traverse and Enclave.

As a bonus, your wallet won’t suffer so much during the inevitable stops at the gas pump since the fuel consumption ratings between the 4 and 6 only indicate a small difference of one litre: 11.3L per 100 km for the most fuel-hungry versus 10.2L for the most frugal. Thanks to the 8-speed automatic transmission that has been powering the V6 since 2019.

6 Promise, promise…

In Europe, the manufacturer has rather foamed the 2.4L and a 2.2L turbo-diesel. Since 2017, Kia Canada has been suggesting that we could also benefit from a diesel-powered vehicle, but we’re still waiting for it, and as long as the fumes from Volkswagen’s Dieselgate haven’t completely dissipated, we’ll wait for it…

7 Long live the electrons!

That said, there are better things on the horizon. For the fourth-generation model, North Americans would receive a hybrid engine where a 180-hp, 1.6L turbocharged 4-cylinder with 180 horsepower would be paired with a 60-stallion electric motor. The combined power of 227 horsepower would be available as a regular and rechargeable hybrid.

The jump to hybridity for the Sorento seems normal given that Kia is already electrifying the Niro and Soul. So what will happen to the 2.4L and 3.3L gasoline-powered models? Rumours suggest a 277-horsepower, 2.5L 4-cylinder turbocharged 2.5L as a replacement.

8 Well thought out

Instead of the usual five seats, you can get seven if you choose the V6. To access the back seats, the Sorento uses an ingenious system: press one of the buttons located near the headrests of the middle seat and the targeted section (60/40) instantly obeys, the backrest folds down and the seat moves forward. The result: a passage that makes it much easier to access both folding seats.

9 Various variants

The South Korean manufacturer has made a wise decision by ceasing to send us a low-end version equipped only with front-wheel drive. From now on, Dynamax all-wheel drive is standard on all versions. And don’t look any further for the SXL model that used to occupy the top of the pyramid. Since it was priced over $50,000, marketing gurus avoided cannibalism between the most expensive Sorento and the most affordable Telluride. In short, right now, you can choose from no less than seven versions of the Sorento with base prices ranging from $32,905 to $48,255.

10 Let’s talk about capacity

If you leave all the backrests of the vehicle at attention, there’s only 320 litres of cargo left in the rear. So, if the Sorento already holds seven healthy adults and you’re all off to the cottage together, you’ll have to choose between going without clothes or food.

But if you fold down all the seatbacks, you’ll be able to rob a flea market of its finest antiques thanks to the 2,082 litres of cargo space. Since the wheelbase of the new Sorento will be a bit longer (1.4″), it will be slightly more spacious.

In my own way, I tested the Sorento’s volume differently. I started by wanting to buy myself a paddle board. My shopping turned into an uncertain expedition when I discovered that Quebecers, failing to go on holiday in Europe this summer, were gargling like hungry ogres on all the summer toys. Finding a personal watercraft, a swimming pool or a paddle board in June had become mission impossible.

Finally, the god of the heat wave blessed me and I found one. Since it was exactly 10 feet 6 inches tall (it says so right on it), I got a little fright: how do I get it home?

But, ladies and gentlemen, my purchase went into the Sorento the whole way through as if the engineers had planned the vehicle’s size according to the board! Seeing how lucky I was, I naturally did what the TV recommends we do in such cases: I bought a 6/49 ticket.

Note: This article was first posted over at my now-defunct Patheos blog. Due to contractual disagreements, which included them refusing to remove my posts from their site after repeated requests, I am moving some of my writing over here. Please link to this version of the article rather than the Patheos one. Thank you!

Ah, mid-August, how I love thee. It’s the height of summer here in the U.S., with barbecues and campouts and calling the air conditioning repair company because the HVAC is down again. My garden is overflowing with fresh produce and I have no idea how we’re going to eat all this kale, but I’m going to make it work. And all the kiddies are trying to squeeze the last remnants of summer vacation out before having to go back to school. Even the stores are getting in on the act, with shelves and displays full of backpacks and pencils and all that other stuff on the school supply list that just arrived in the mail.

Of course, the back to school displays have been up since the fifth of July. But soon enough (probably just after Labor Day) it’ll be time shopping for Halloween, or so the chain stores say. (Sure, it’s a little early to be talking about this, but I have to beat the stores to the punch!) You can expect endless lines of green-faced witches, styrofoam tombstones, little plastic cauldrons, and strings of Christmas-style lights with translucent smiling skulls and ghosts. Right on cue, the feeds on my social media profiles–Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter–will be full of squealing pagans all excited about “Look at all this Halloween stuff I got from Michael’s for just twenty bucks! They had a sale!” and “I got this cute gargoyle statue with red LED eyes at Wal-mart!” (In fact, I’ve already seen a few posts–apparently Michael’s already has their Halloween stuff out. Yikes.)

Most of the time I just hold my tongue and cringe. The very same pagans who have been reblogging and sharing calls to action about fracking in Canada and human rights abuses in Gaza are proudly displaying cheap, chintzy tchotchkes that are the products of environmental degradation and slave labor. It’s a peculiar sort of cognitive dissonance driven by materialism and rampant consumerism without reflection. It would be one thing if there were no alternative options, or if it were over something necessary to life like access to food or water, or even something educational like books. No, these cheap, mass-produced items (only slightly different from the ones offered last year) are purely luxuries, and not even luxuries in the traditional sense of actually being worth something.

And they come out of a well of toxicity. Those cute plastic window decals are derived from the petroleum industry, which severely damages the environment throughout the entire process of harvesting, processing, and using oil. Fossil fuels are also implicated in a whole host of human rights abuses. That cheap metal candle holder with the flying witch cut out? It was made from metals that were probably unsustainably mined, producing countless toxins and destroying nearby waterways and habitats.

These materials are then turned into purely decorative items, usually by poorly paid and abused slave labor in China and elsewhere. In 2012, an Oregon woman bought a set of Halloween decorations from K-Mart. Inside it was a letter written by one of the workers, detailing the horrible conditions at the factory. It is almost certain that this year’s shiny new decorations from Michael’s and the like are made by similarly abused workers.

And what’s it take to get all these trinkets from China to the United States? Generally they’re sent by giant freight ships across the Pacific Ocean, ships which create a massive amount of pollution and devastate wildlife and marine plants; the noise from these ships also interferes with whales’ ability to communicate with each other, particularly as the sound is often on the same frequency that the whales use.

How else can these big box chain stores sell you their tacky items at low, low prices except through abuses to the environment and our fellow human beings? When you get to pay $5.99 for a packet of paper plates with smiling black cats on them, or get a buy one get one free pair of resin skeleton candle holders, you’re not paying the full price for these things. Other living beings are your coupons, and future generations of humans and other living beings will be paying the price for your purchase for decades, if not centuries, to come.

The sad thing is, there are plenty of alternatives to the crap you’ll find on the big box shelves, and yet millions of people convince themselves they just have to have these useless, toxic items, to include people who claim they venerate nature and believe all people should be treated equally and humanely. It would be one thing if we were talking about something necessary to human existence, like food or water access, or if these were carefully hand-crafted pieces bought directly from the artist. But we’re compromising the environment and each other over things nobody actually needs, and which can be easily replaced by better options.

Want to break the cycle of damaging consumerism? Make your own decorations and costumes using recycled and reclaimed materials, and invite your friends and family to get in on it. Here’s one set of tutorials, and here’s another, and some more over here, and those are just three of the first links that popped up when I Googled “how to make Halloween decorations with recycled materials”. If you want to get really artsy about it, try sculpting your own scary skeletons and witches out of recycled paper mache instead of buying the resin ones from the chain stores.

If you don’t feel you’re artistic enough, consider going through Etsy* or other avenues to patronize artists who make holiday wares. You can ask them about where their materials come from, request custom work, and you’ll be giving money to an individual person, not a nameless corporation. Chances are whatever they make will be better constructed than the cheaply made offerings at the stores, and so will last much longer. It may be more of a financial investment in the beginning, but it pays off in the long run.

Remember, too, that Halloween (Samhain) was originally a harvest festival, and many pagans still celebrate it as such today. This means that edibles like squash, sugar pumpkins and apples all make great decorations. You may also be able to find corn stalks from local farmers, and fall leaves are always abundant wherever deciduous trees grow. Once Halloween is over, you can eat the vegetables and fruit, and compost the rest.

If you absolutely must decorate your home in poor-quality, mass-produced Halloween kitsch, consider checking out Goodwill and other thrift stores in your area. Plenty of people offload their old holiday decorations when they move or clean house, and every year I see aisles full of perfectly serviceable secondhand Halloween items available for cheap. A lot of it will end up thrown out because there’s just too much to go around, and too many people insist on heading to Target to buy brand new costumes and decor (most of which will probably end up tossed, or donated and then tossed, in a few years). If for whatever reason you’d be horrified if your friends knew you went thrift shopping *gasp*, you don’t have to tell them the truth of where that inflatable vampire came from. Just tell them you bought it at the Halloween Superstore a few years ago.

Halloween can still be full of fun decorations and playful costumes, and those of you so inclined can still make your home look like October year-round. But with a little care and consideration, we can make this year’s Halloween better for the entire planet, and take some power away from the truly scary monsters that we face in our world today.

* Please be aware that Etsy now allows mass-produced items. You may have to be a little careful in shopping there. Generally speaking, if it’s cheap, it’s probably mass produced.

Did you enjoy this read? Consider supporting this self-employed author and artist by buying my books, or checking out my Etsy shop, or purchasing the Tarot of Bones! You can also get exclusive content, art in the mail, and more by being my Patron on Patreon!