#European Tights Store

[slavio1985]

Why European Tights are considered the gold standard of quality? — myidealine.com

In the world of fashion, tights are an essential yet often overlooked piece of clothing that combines function with style. European tights, however, are widely regarded as the pinnacle of quality, blending elegance, durability, and exceptional design. They have become a wardrobe staple not just for Europeans but for fashion-conscious individuals around the globe, including in the United States and Canada. Reputable sources like calzedonia.com and myidealine.com bring European elegance and quality to the North American market, making these tights accessible for everyone. But what makes European tights so distinct, and why do they continue to set the standard in the hosiery industry? In this article, we’ll explore the elements that set European tights apart, from premium materials and cutting-edge technology to artisanal craftsmanship, timeless style, and sustainability. If you’ve ever wondered what makes these tights so coveted, read on to discover why they’re a cut above the rest.

1. European Tights: arich tradition of Craftsmanship European hosiery brands, particularly those from Italy, Spain, France, and Germany, have a long-standing tradition of textile craftsmanship. Italian brands like Calzedonia, Golden Lady, Pompea, Trasparenze, Veneziana, Amour as well as French and German labels, have mastered the art of hosiery over decades — if not centuries. This heritage is reflected in every pair, where quality is not compromised for speed, and each piece is crafted to feel like a work of art. In many European factories, highly skilled artisans are involved in the production process. These artisans combine time-honored techniques with modern innovations, ensuring that every pair of tights meets high standards. This commitment to quality is rare in today’s fast-fashion world, and it’s a significant reason why European tights consistently outperform others on the market.

2. Premium materials for ultimate comfort One of the defining characteristics of European tights is the quality of the materials used. Many European brands select only the finest yarns, often using blends that include Lycra, silk, microfiber, and organic cotton. These materials offer unparalleled comfort, durability, and elasticity, ensuring a perfect fit that feels luxurious against the skin. Italian tights, for instance, are known for their use of premium Lycra, which provides exceptional elasticity and smoothness. French brands may incorporate silk or fine cotton for a softer feel, creating a smooth finish that’s both comfortable and breathable. This attention to material quality not only enhances the comfort of European tights but also contributes to their durability, making them a worthwhile investment.

3. Innovative Technology and manufacturing Techniques European tights manufacturers are constantly pushing the boundaries of hosiery technology. From seamless construction techniques to advanced knitting methods that reduce snags and increase flexibility, European brands lead the way in innovation. Italian hosiery companies, in particular, have pioneered seamless knitting and other technical advancements that give their products an unparalleled fit and durability.

For example, the use of double-wrapped Lycra fibers is common in high-end European tights, providing a level of durability that prevents runs and maintains elasticity. This technology results in tights that hug the legs without causing discomfort or losing shape after multiple wears. It’s the reason why European tights are both visually pleasing and highly functional.

4. Fashion-forward European Tights for Style and Function European brands have long been recognized as trendsetters in the fashion industry, and tights are no exception. European tights often come in a range of fashionable designs, from classic black opaques to intricate lace patterns and polka dots. For North American consumers, this variety allows them to express personal style while enjoying a level of quality not always available in local options. 

European tights also offer a range of finishes — from ultra-sheer for a subtle look to opaque for colder months — allowing wearers to find a style that suits any occasion. This focus on design ensures that European tights are not only practical but also a stylish addition to any wardrobe, appealing to both fashion-forward individuals and those who prefer timeless elegance.

5. Commitment to Sustainability and Ethical Practices Sustainability has become increasingly important to consumers, especially in North America. Many European hosiery brands are at the forefront of eco-friendly practices, using sustainable materials, minimizing waste, and ensuring ethical labor conditions. Italian and French brands, in particular, are known for adopting green manufacturing processes and using recycled materials, plant-based dyes, and energy-efficient production methods. For North American consumers who prioritize eco-friendly shopping, choosing European tights offers a way to enjoy premium quality while supporting sustainable fashion. By investing in tights that are made with respect for both the environment and workers, customers can feel good about their purchase.

6. A luxury feel with long-lasting Value 

To experience the luxury of durable European tights, browse options on myidealine.com While European tights might come with a higher price tag than some alternatives, they provide excellent value due to their durability. The combination of high-quality materials, expert craftsmanship, and advanced technology means that a single pair of European tights can last far longer than cheaper counterparts. Instead of replacing tights every few wears due to tears or runs, those who invest in European hosiery find themselves reaching for the same dependable pairs season after season. For North American consumers who value quality and longevity in their clothing, European tights offer a cost-effective solution. A durable, well-made pair not only feels luxurious but also saves money in the long run, reducing the need for frequent replacements and contributing to a more sustainable wardrobe.

7. Perfect Fit: Comfort meets Elegance European tights are designed with fit in mind. Brands often prioritize comfort, using advanced knitting techniques that create a smooth, even fit that doesn’t pinch or roll down throughout the day. Italian and German hosiery companies, in particular, have mastered the art of creating tights that provide a snug yet comfortable fit, catering to different body types with inclusive sizing options. The feeling of perfectly fitted tights is especially valuable for those who wear them for long hours. Whether you’re heading to the office, a night out, or an outdoor event, European tights provide an added layer of confidence and comfort, allowing you to look and feel your best without sacrificing style.

8. Versatile European Tights for every Season and Occasion

From ultra-sheer summer styles to warm opaques for winter, myidealine.com offers European tights suited to every season and style preference. European tights come in a wide range of styles, colors, and thicknesses, making them versatile enough for every season and occasion. Ultra-sheer options are ideal for warmer weather, while opaque tights in rich colors provide added warmth and style during colder months. The versatility of European tights makes them an essential piece for any wardrobe. For special occasions, many European brands offer luxurious styles with intricate lace tops or unique designs that elevate any outfit. Brides, for instance, often choose European tights for their special day, appreciating the elegance and quality that make them stand out. For North American consumers looking to elevate their wardrobe, European tights provide that sophisticated touch.

9. A legacy of timeless Style European tights have a timeless appeal that transcends fashion trends. Styles that were popular decades ago still hold their allure, and European brands have maintained classic designs that appeal to women of all ages. This generational appeal resonates with North American consumers who appreciate both vintage-inspired styles and contemporary aesthetics. Younger generations are drawn to European tights for their vintage charm, while older consumers value the classic elegance they bring. This cross-generational appeal means that European tights continue to hold a unique place in the market, offering something for everyone, no matter their personal style.

10. The Allure of European Luxury At the end of the day, choosing European tights is about more than just buying a practical garment — it’s about embracing a piece of European luxury and tradition. For North American consumers, European tights represent sophistication, quality, and a dedication to timeless style. They offer a sense of luxury that adds something special to everyday life, allowing wearers to experience a little European charm wherever they go.

Conclusion European tights have earned their reputation as the gold standard for a reason. From meticulous craftsmanship and premium materials to innovative design and a commitment to sustainability, these tights provide a level of quality that’s hard to match. For American and Canadian consumers seeking to elevate their wardrobe, investing in European tights is more than a fashion choice; it’s a celebration of quality, comfort, and enduring style. By choosing European tights, you’re not just adding a beautiful garment to your wardrobe — you’re making a choice that values heritage, quality, and an appreciation for the finer things in life.

[moonshynecybin]

if you could typecast the grid as stereotypical americans who would be who? (idk if i'm making any sense) but for example bezz gives very cali stoner energy.

god this one is hard because they are all so stunningly european. truly. american men do not act like that. the jean tightness alone. ummm. okay let’s start with the easy ones

pecco: pecco is from a suburb like three hours from chicago and he tells everyone he’s from chicago. framed bulls jerseys on the wall etc

pedro acosta: someone said baseball player from north carolina and yeah. i can imagine bumping into this guy at cookout. like he’s giving charlotte/macklenberg county. serving gastonia. he went to nc state with my friend thomas and he has strong basketball opinions.

bez: califoniaaaaa you’re right. of the surfer or skater variety… either way he’s in baggy as fuck clothes skulking around outside kicking it whenever he can. eating a sandwich

vale: new jersey. my trashy italian american clown princess

mav: screams boston 2 me

aleix: too european im being real. insane amounts of european. kind of breaking my brain sooo im not assigning him one

enea: gay ass san fran guy with his lil dog. walkin around the castro the dog gets hot. he picks up the dog. gay pride flag in the background. i cheer. he’s drinking espresso that costs fourteen american dollars. that’s like 12.50 euro google is telling me

casey stoner: this bitch is from vermont

luca: right across the river from vale in new york citayyyy… i think he would thrive in an environment where he doesn’t look insane wearing something very elegant and a lil dressier. like you can’t really do that in idk. most of the south or midwest or southwest or— anyways we’re sending him to nyc

jorge martin: i COULD see him hanging out in florida but like slutty florida not trashy florida. just on a beach in miami in the tiniest shorts imaginable with aleix comma also there europeanly. idk

joan mir: LOUSIANA. need to take his pissy ass to the bayou.

jack miller: attended the university of alabama and was perhaps too invested in SEC football culture. i would end this by saying roll tide for comedy but that would make me gag here in real life. anyways

marc and alex. hmmmmmmm. i could see outside austin texas as that seems 2 be hallowed ground for marc lol. alternatively. kentucky. horse boys. this is another hard one i’m open to suggestions here cuz nothin is jumping out at me tbh

franky: seems into mindfulness in a way that is giving seattle. runs a bookstore with REALLY good staff picks. big ass armchairs HUGE used book section that smells good. sitting there petting the store cat in a flannel with the sleeves rolled up. sipping his coffee. works nights at the local bar sometimes. who said that.

brad binder: denver.

[hyallulonelyhime]

hyahime presents: J-Fash ghosts of the past - DOLLY-KEI.

not at all connected to the 'living doll' stereotype, "dolly" is merely the popular name of a style related to cult party kei and mori kei.

The pioneer for this fashion scene was the store Grimoire, which featured clothes and accessories antique dolls would only dream of wearing. Vintage, haunting and more mature than you'd expect, dolly-kei was heavily inspired by eastern european aesthetics.

The style was most popular around 2010.

Come with me and explore the tombs of this no longer active style.

What caused it to fall off?

perhaps the same reason for its initial popularity: dolly gained attention for having a little bit in common with a lot of other jfash styles. Many lolitas were interested, and some goths realized they liked certain elements too. With the lack of guidelines and specific rules, the freedom that made it possible for so many subcultures to enjoy dolly also made it lack defining features. It became harder to say what was dolly instead of mori, goth or lolita.

F Yeah Lolita wrote, in 2010:

"As the style is much less defined as Lolita is, as well as being very new, it's difficult to pinpoint what exactly makes something Dolly Style. It's a little bit Lolita, a little bit Mori, and a little bit Gothic. The skirt length ranges from full length to very hip mini skirts."

From the style's livejournal community, we see the same concern in december:

When seeing discussions of grimoire and dolly, I saw the tights being mentioned a lot.

But the hats, tessels and furs stood out to me more.

In 2015, Grimoire's 7th birthday party showed little signs of these traits spotted earlier, which had helped make dolly 'unique'.

Most of the fashion was gothic, girly.. but not specifically dolly. Or maybe it was.

I tried going to the grimoire webpage but it's down and this post is getting long: i'll tell you where this ends.

Grimoire is now focused in a more mature audience and it has been reported that their clothes are more 'normie' and mainstream-like.

A man will die, but not his ideas: in harajuku, many designers and fashionistas have been spotted in mori-like clothes with tassels and tights and cream coords that look like an old doll's.

The last mention of dolly in tokyofashion.com is 2019.

[moody-alcoholic]

Special Delivery Service

Chapter 13 - The Gun

Summary: Simon x reader, 4.4k words. When retail therapy turns into needing actual therapy. CW: descriptions of weapons, fictional terrorist attack, blood, death, use of a weapons, vomit, bombs, implied suicide bombings, PTSD, I’m European I know noting about guns, hurt/comfort.

Previous - masterlist - Next AO3

Enjoy <3

You spend the whole morning watching videos on how to use a pistol. You think you’re getting the hang of it. It’s not too difficult, there’s the safety and then you pull back on the barrel to load it, or something. You’ve seen that in films people pulling back on the barrel. It’s harder then you think, maybe it’s because it has no magazine in it.

You spend the next few hours almost turning the flat upside down looking for some, eventually you find one in the sock door of all places. It has bullets in it, you take them all out and count them all before putting them back. So there are 10, you don’t know if that’s a lot or not.

You teach yourself how to load it and ‘cock’ it with bullet in it. You don’t even dare touching the trigger when there are bullets in it out of fear of it accidentally going off. After another hour or so of getting used it it you decide to do something else.

You look on your phone for nearby activities even though you don’t know what you want to do. There’s a shopping centre nearby you decide thats a good idea a little bit of retail therapy to take your mind off missing Simon. Maybe you’ll buy him something nice. That makes you smile, now it’s a mission; find something nice for Simon.

You go to put the gun back in the drawer but stop yourself. You should take it with you. It’s an intrusive thought if you’d ever heard one, it would be kind of cool though. Like spies from TV. No it’s dangerous. You feel a race of adrenaline at the thought of going out in public with a weapon hidden on you. Maybe this is good to get you over your awkwardness around them, exposure therapy.

It makes you smile, okay you’re going to do it. You go into the bedroom pulling clothes out. Tight jeans and a long baggy shirt. You stand looking in the mirror in the bathroom. You place it in the back of your jeans first, it’s uncomfortable and sticking out, besides if you bend down it would be easy to spot.

You take it out looking at it in your hand. You shove it barrel first down the front of your jeans against your hip. It feels better there and the baggy shirt hides it well enough. You grab your bag, yeah if you carry your bag on that side you wouldn’t even know. You feel an excited buzz run through you. You were actually going to do this. You smile psyching yourself up. You’re just going to the store, 20 minutes tops. No one will ever have to know, especially not Simon.  

—————————— 

It had been longer then 20 minutes but you didn’t feel as worried as you thought you would on the walk to the centre. It's busy early evening people on their way home from work stopping off to do some shopping on the way home. You don’t really know what you want to get for Simon, you’re basically window shopping until you get drawn into lush just from the smell alone. 

“Need any help?” The chipper employee asks. It’s the first time someone has talked to you. It makes the weapon feel suddenly heavy in your jeans. You move your bag to cover it. 

“Just looking, thank you.” You say nodding back at her. There’s that spike of adrenaline again. You like the feeling of having something on you that no one knows about. It makes you feel strangely powerfully. You’re looking at the tubs of moisturiser as your phone rings It’s Simon, it makes you smile as you pull the phone up to your ear. You don’t even get chance to say hello.  

“Where are you, I tried calling the flat you weren’t there.” He says, he sounds annoyed. 

“Yeah I went out, I’m shopping.” You say stopping to look at the body soaps. Maybe you’ll buy Johnny one, his nickname being Soap, it makes you smile. 

“Where?” He asks. 

“I don’t know some shopping centre down the road.” You say frowning, now you can definitely hear an edge of something in his voice. It sends a shiver up your spine as you see a person running past the front of the store. 

“Which centre is it called Mayland?” He asks quickly. You try to look out the front of the store to see but there are more people running. Then you hear it loud pops, people screaming. Your breath catches in your throat. 

“I don’t know Simon, what’s wrong?” You ask. The woman in the store grips your arm making you jump. 

“Hey,” You shout at her as she pulls you in the store hitting the button to close the store front. 

“There’s a shooter in the centre.” Her voice shaking eyes wide. You don’t believe her for a second then you hear more popping making you gasp. The weapon you have stashed feels heavy and cold against your skin. You swallow hard as the metal grate slams shut on the ground. 

“Simon there’s a shooter in the shopping centre.” You say following the woman who’s pulling you to the back of the store. 

“I know we’re on our way where are you?” He asks. Your minds blank you can’t remember. You look at the employee as she pulls you behind the counter. You can hear screaming and more shots. 

“Lush,” you whisper as she shushes you. 

“Stay exactly were you are okay? We’ll come find you.” 

“Okay.” You reply. “Come quickly.” 

“As fast as we can.” He replies then hangs up. Your hands are shaking as you put your phone away. 

“Do you think I should turn the lights off?” The woman next to you asks, she’s young probably the same age as you. Her name tag says Hannah, you look at her her makeup running down her face. You don’t know what to do. 

“Where’s the switch?” you ask as quiet as you can. There are still shots going off, glass shattering, people screaming.  

“In the back.” She says. 

“Maybe we should hide in there.” You say, she nods. You both get up slowly creeping across the floor to the employees only room. You look out the windows as you pass. You can’t see anyone. There’s another scream another shot. You feel sick. She reaches up with her shaking hands punching in the door code.

The door clicks open and you follow her in closing it behind you. There is no window on the door so you can’t see out. She turns the light off going over to the computer.

“We can look on the security camera.” Her voice is still shaking as she types in the password to the computer. 

“Where does that door go?” You ask pointing at the other door in the room. 

“Access to the store room. like a big warehouse.” She says as she pulls up the security camera up. Good, there’s another way out we won’t get trapped here. That makes you feel better, the weapon on your waist doesn’t feel as heavy now. You have a way to protect yourself. And Hannah, you’ve decided you need to protect her too.

You look at the security camera, you can just about see out the front windows from the angle. With the lights off it makes it easier to see shadows of people running across past the windows. 

“Should we call the police?” She asks. You don’t know, maybe you should. You have no idea what to do you just want to get out of here. Then you remember Simon is coming, which means the police are probably already on their way. 

“I think they know about it. My boyfriend he’s.. army, he said he was on his way. We should stay were we are.” You say trying to sound reassuring. She nods looking back up at the cameras. You can still hear noise outside, not so much screaming any more but pops and smashing. 

“How many do you think there are?” She asks. 

“I don’t know.” You shake your head. You don’t want to speculate. There is a loud crashing noise so loud it makes you both jump and turn your heads to the door. It sounded like a bomb. Maybe that's it, it’s over. There’s more screaming. It’s not over. You look back over at the monitor. 

Hurry up Simon, please hurry up.

You see movement on the camera, you have to squint to look but there is definitely something there. You’re holding your breath as the glass window of the store smashes. Hannah lets out a screech, you almost want to shout at her to shush her. Your heart is pounding too fast for you to think. You should leave, this door is only made of wood. It’s not going to hold off a man with a machine gun. 

“We should leave.” You whisper, pointing at the door behind her. Your eyes are still glued to the monitor as the man steps into the store. 

“What about your boyfriend?” She asks her voice catching in her throat. Shit, he did tell you to stay where you are. Maybe if he knew the guy was in the store he would tell you to move. You watch as he walks up to the counter, the out the range of the camera.

You sneak up to the door pressing your ear up against it. You can hear his steps. You’re holding your breath again, listening to each step, you close your eyes. Each step sounds almost deafening you’re listening so closely. 

Then a phone rings. Your eyes snap open looking at Hannah.

You don’t have time to think, you don’t have time. You push yourself up to your feet rushing for the door in the room as you yank it open. Hannah is still fumbling with her phone. Shit shit shit. You don’t think you just run down the corridor hearing Hannah sobbing behind you.

There are loud shots behind you, your heart is going so fast you feel like you can't breathe. You realise maybe she should have been leading cause the next door you go through leads you back into the shopping centre. You feel sick seeing bodies with blood pooling on the floor. You don’t have time to stop grabbing Hannah's wrist as she sobs, pulling her through into the centre. 

You’re looking round for an exit, your head focused on the ceiling as you hear more shots to the left of you. You slowly start to move to the right realising you’re still gripping Hannah’s wrist.

You see an open door to what looks like a service corridor. You pull her over to it. You pray this leads to the loading dock and you can get out. You go through the door at the very end it opens into a store room. It’s dark automatic lights flick on as you walk in.

That’s good it means no one is in here. You let go of Hannah’s wrist, she sits down on a box sobbing in her hands. You start making your way across the room weaving round the shelves, maybe you could just stay here, the room is big and it’s at the back off the centre. You see another door with exit above it.

You turn to call Hannah but when you do a door opens. You panic jumping over boxes tripping over goods as you hear screaming, then an explosion. You throw yourself behind a shelf the smell of smoke filling the room. You take a step forward tripping over a box. The gun flies out from the spot you hid it. You'd completely forgotten about it.

“Shit,” You cough feeling around for it while smoke fills the room. Your fingers find the cold metal and you pull yourself up. You take a look back as the other side of the store room, there’s a small fire starting you think.

You feel sick the smell of burnt flesh in the air. You’re too scared to look, you should look, you should check if she’s still alive. You know she’s not, deep down you know. You need to move that would have been loud people could be on there way over to you. You force yourself to move pushing open the door.

It’s another corridor. Maybe you should head back to the Lush store, wait for Simon. You walk through a door it leads into a room that’s clearly being renovated. You hear shouting, it makes you jump you look at the weapon in your hands. You can see the what would be storefronts are borded up. The place smells of paint and wood. There are temporary walls around the place.

You press the safety off and pull the barrel back just like you saw in the video’s you watched. It feels wrong in your hands. There’s more shouting, you’re not thinking just heading towards it. You don’t know why the voice sounds familiar, everything sounds wrong, sounds muffled in your ears the only thing you can hear is your pounding chest. 

“On your fucking knees!” Someone shouts. Johnny? No way, it almost doesn’t seem real. You’re weaving round the wall’s as you see movement ahead of you. You freeze in place you see the back off a man, a terrorist. You don’t see Johnny but you hear them all shouting. There is another voice too. You bring the weapon up, its shaking in your hand, you aim for his back and fire.

The weapon goes off as you watch his body fall to the floor, you killed someone you’ve never done that before. You’re not paying attention your ears still ringing. You grip the weapon as hard as you can, it feels heavy in your hands, the metal cold like the first time you picked it up. You walk over to the man eyes locked on him as you watch the blood pooling out the mans chest. You did that. You killed him.

“Soap! Clear the room!” It’s Simon’s voice, it’s Simon’s hand on your shoulder. He pries the pistol out your hands standing in front of you. You look up at him, his scary mask all of a sudden doesn’t look that scary. His eyes are wide looking down at you, you can’t tell what he’s thinking, if he’s mad or scared. Maybe he’s happy, he doesn’t seem happy.

“I-I- didn’t-t-” You stammer as Simon holds your shoulders up, you feel tears come as your legs start to shake the smell of blood in air fills your nose. There’s a chill in the air it makes you shiver.

“You’re okay, I’ve got you you’re okay.” He wraps his arms round you, you’re not expecting it. Your pressed up uncomfortably against his vest but you don’t care. Your legs give way and you fall to the floor being guided by Simon’s arms.

“There was a bomb they killed Hannah, they found us in the lush store, I don’t know there was a fire.” You say sobbing into his chest. Your voice catching in your throat, all you can think about is the smell of burning flesh.  

“Shh, it’s okay. You're safe.” You look over his shoulder tears still streaming down your face as you see the body laying still on the floor. He probably had a family, he probably had a wife and kids. You killed a father, a husband, a person. You feel sick, gripping Simon’s vest tighter.

“It’s clear.” You hear Johnny as he comes back into the room. You look over at him, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You don’t care. 

“What happened!?” You hear a voice behind you, a door closing. You’re still being pressed into Simon’s arms as you start to shiver feeling suddenly cold. 

“She shot him.” Simon says.

“Shit, get her out of here. Gaz, Soap I want this place secure and no police til we’re ready.” You hear John shouting orders. Simon helps you too your feet, you look over at the man laying in a pool of blood as your legs feel like jelly and you’re forced to grip Simon’s vest. 

“The weapon is it registered?” You hear John walk up behind you. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, or any of them.

“It’s mine.” Simon nods. 

“Then how the hell did she get hold of it?” John says you hear him gritting his teeth as you shiver.

“I stole it.” You croak, you hear him sigh. 

“Get her out of here.” John says before walking away. You hear him shouting in the distance as Simon leads you out the room.  

“I’m sorry.” You say. He doesn’t say anything. The place is mostly cleared out now. You’re walking to the side of Simon with his arm round your waist. You wipe tears from your eyes as he leads you to the main exit of the shopping centre, there is a police cordon set up and you can see people looking around. His hand leaves your waist and he sits you down on a bench. 

“Are you angry at me?” You ask still shivering. He sighs like he’s trying to choose his next words carefully 

“What you did was incredibly dangerous.” He says, he doesn’t sound angry, his voice is low almost like he’s disappointed. It makes more tears well up in your eyes. You see an officer and paramedics come over. You don’t need them, seeing the officers makes you feel sick. 

“Listen,” Simon says bending down in front of you forcing you to look in his eyes, they’re hard digging into you. Maybe he is mad, his hands grip your shoulders like he wants to shake you. 

“You didn’t shoot any one okay? It’s really important you understand that.” You swallow hard nodding. 

“Say it, tell me you understand.” He demands.

“I understand.” You nod as the officer makes it over to you, Simon’s hands leave your shoulder. 

“She’s fine, just shock.” He says as he stands back up, his hands leaving your body make you feel sick and unsupported. Bile rises in your throat as you look up at the officer. You can’t stop it just having time to part your knees as you double over vomiting your stomach up.

You barely have time to regain your composure before you hear loud pops from back inside the shopping centre. Your head snaps in that direction as you see Simon already running back in. You feel the officer grabbing your arm trying to pull you up as you watch Simon disappear round a corner. You want to call out to him tell him to come back. 

“Come with us love,” You hear one of the paramedics say as they drape a blanket over your shoulders. It distracts you reminding you how chilly you feel. The popping has stopped. You let the paramedics lead you to the back of an ambulance.  

——————————

It feels like forever waiting for Simon to come back. You sit in the ambulance and get checked over while an officer interviews you about what happened. You tell him everything, well almost everything. About hiding in Lush, then running through to the store room, the explosion, then bumping into the masked man. You keep the fact he’s your boyfriend to yourself. And the fact you killed someone.

He was a terrorist, he deserved to die. Hannah didn’t deserve to die. You should have gone back and checked. You shouldn't have left her. What if she was still alive and you left her to die. Then you might has well killed her.

When the officer is done he offers you a lift home. You decline, telling him you’ll walk. Simon’s flat is just a few streets away anyway. You hop out the back of the ambulance when the paramedics give you the all clear. They give you some leaflet about mental health resources and ask if you would rather stay with a friend for the night.

You tell them you don’t live alone and they let you go as you hand the blanket back to them. You don’t want to go to the flat. You want to sit and wait for Simon, your body betrays you though forcing you to walk towards the flat. You don’t remember the walk clutching the flyer in your hand.

You make into the flat, it feels cold, empty. You take your phone out your pocket you see a missed call from Simon. You don’t want to call him back. You stand there looking at your phone not knowing what to say. You text him to say you’re at the flat then throw your phone on the sofa.

You don’t remember how you ended up on the bathroom floor dry heaving into the toilet but that’s where you are. You strip your clothes feeling like they’re sticking against your skin. You get into the shower turning the heat up and sinking to the floor pressing yourself up into the corner. You let yourself cry, sobbing as loud as you want letting the hot water sting your skin. 

“Baby?” You open your eyes, the shower has been turned off and Simon is standing over you. You shiver as he turns round to grab a towel. You move going to stand up, your legs feeling stiff. He reaches down helping you to your feet, wrapping the towel round you. 

“Hey, are you okay?” He asks pulling your chin up to look at him. His brow creased as he looks round your face. 

“I killed a guy.” You say, you killed Hannah too. 

“I know it’s okay,” he wraps his arms round you pulling you up to his chest. His hand strokes your hair. You close your eyes breathing him in, he smells of smoke.

He leads you out the bathroom to the bedroom. You sit on the end of the bed as he brings your bag over passing you your pyjamas. You take them sitting with them in your hand like getting dressed is going to take too much energy. You look up at him standing over you. 

“I’m sorry,” You say. He bends down in front of you his eyes not leaving your face. His hand lands on your knee. 

“You have nothing to be sorry about. Okay?” You look in his eyes you don’t know if you believe him. You just stare at him. 

“I’m not angry at you no one is. You did what you had to do, you don’t get to feel guilty about that.” You nod at his words. His hand comes up to cup your cheek and he leans over kissing you. It’s a long kiss slow, one you let yourself melt into.

When he breaks away you change and crawl into bed. He gets in behind you wrapping you up in his arms. You feel his chest on your back as you stroke his arm, he plants little kisses on your head and neck. He lays there with you until you fall asleep.

——————————

Simon doesn’t sleep, at least not for a few hours. As soon as he was convinced you were sound asleep he slipped out of bed. He’s not sure what to do, he’s gone through the anger phases, the panic phases. Now he’s on self doubt.

It’s his fault you got the gun, he’s already had the bollocking from Price. He’s mad at himself for forgetting it was there, for letting you go out when they knew an attack was coming. He shouldn’t have bought you. It’s too late now, and now you’ve killed someone.

He picks up the leaflet about mental health thumbing through it. Maybe you’d be fine, maybe you’d just get on with life. When he came back after not being able to get hold of you and found you curled up asleep in the shower he knew it wasn't going to be that easy.

He sighs putting it down. Price won’t be mad at him for long in fact he’s probably already over it, Price would know what to do how to play this. Simon has no idea, PTSD isn’t really talked about much, besides when you get used to the killing it’s not a problem. 

He was going to shoot him. Simon reminds himself. A second before you did he had already moved his finger to the trigger. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He moves out onto the balcony to answer it, it’s Price.

“Hey,” Simon says not knowing what to expect. It’s late he didn’t think he would hear back from him until the morning.

“Congratulations lieutenant, they want to pin medals on us all.” He says. Simon can hear the smirk in his voice. 

“I don’t want any medals.” He replies.

“You and me both.” Price sighs. Simon just wants to get back to normality. Maybe this is the new normal now. Being called up anytime the government needs help. He matches Price’s sigh. 

“How’s she doing?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” 

“She talked yet?” 

“No.” There is a silence on the line. Simon can hear Price inhaling, Simon smiles. Smoking a cigar after a job well done. 

“Take her back down to London tomorrow, just be with her, try and get her to talk.” He says. Simon knows what he needs to do. He needs to figure out how broken you are. If you’re going to need therapy. 

“What about debrief?” 

“I’ll get MacTavish to take notes.” Simon smiles. 

“Thanks cap.” He says, he’s happy, he wants to spend time with you be with you, close to you. 

“Yeah well, could have gone a lot worse.” Price says, he sounds sad. It could have been a lot worse. You could have missed, killed him or Johnny. You could have been killed in the attack. Simon grips the balcony rail looking out over the city. A city that has once again been destroyed by another attack. He lets out a sigh. 

“Get some rest Simon, don’t be too hard on yourself.” Simon smiles, Price knows him too well.

“Will do.” Simon says before Price hangs up. He walks back into the flat, through to the bedroom. He looks at your sleeping form curled up in the bed. He pulls his shirt off climbing into bed behind you pulling his arms back around you.

You murmurer pressing yourself up against him. He shushes you nuzzling his head into your neck, breathing you in. She’ll be alright, I’ll make sure she’s alright. He silently promises himself, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep.

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[izzabela]

Hello! I was wondering if you could do part 2 of the "Night Changes" Smoke x reader? I would like to see what's in store for the reader after finding out the horrible truth.

Under the Moonlight - twisted!Tomas x male!reader

in which your mind tells you go, but your heart says stay

a/n: i was actually going to do this on my own time. since requested, perhaps i'll speed the process up

ship[s]: Tomas x male!reader

warning(s): TWs: knife play, mind break, MDNI, smut, m!reader = m!genitalia, rough, creep!Tomas, perv!Tomas, huge dick Tomas(???), size kink, degradation

[Lord, help me and give me the strength]

=====================

You ran.

Ran as far as your legs could carry you.

Ran as far as the elder gods permitted you to do so.

Ran as far as fate allowed you.

Your adrenaline took you so far, and your body gave in when you barely passed the forest's end. The compound was right there, just a little ways more, and you could speak your truth on the atrocity you witnessed.

However, as your brain and body moved, you felt stuck.

If you told Kuai Liang, who would he believe more? Yes, you were inner circle Shirai Ryu, but you weren't his brother.

You may be talented, insightful, and helpful, but the line between family and ally was thick- and Kuai Liang drew it that way.

You begin to think, wonder, comb over your options in your head as you cross ideas off. While doing so, you had to be alert for any movement around you.

After all, you were being hunted.

Although, it made zero sense for you to be listening around you.

Your hearing may be top notch, but Tomas was a former hunter and ex-Lin Kuei. Stealth practically raised him; mastering smoke magic only makes him more formidable and threatening.

He has perfected his hearing, blended in with his surroundings, knows one-hundred ways (or more) to kill someone.

The fact he could do such a thing, to his own clan, and with a smile.

It shook your heart, nerve, and shattered your soul.

This really was not the same man you loved from afar. This man was a monster, a demon- a dark entity that took the European man hostage.

But dear, oh dear, you knew deep down you were wrong. The eyes know, and what they saw was the same Tomas that was training other initiates that same day, the same Tomas that ate with you in the dining room.

The same Tomas that patrolled with you late in the evening.

You had another pressing matter to think about, which was how you really feel about Tomas after this.

You couldn't really do that, though, when you felt a knife against your back and a hand cover your mouth.

Eyes wide, your body feels everything that's around you. The rough, calloused, and pale hand that covered your mouth.

The knife that pressed into your uniform and barely nicked your skin, had a distinct curve that could only belong to one person in the clan.

And by the elder gods, the voice you heard only sealed the deal.

"Hello dear," Tomas calls sweetly, voice muffled from his mask. "Didn't I tell you to wait for me?"

You remember a couple hours earlier. How he told you he'd take the other side of the compound while you went opposite, but you don't recall him telling you to stay put.

Tomas moves his hand to your neck, gripping it tight enough so you don't run, but loose enough so you could utter an answer.

Nervously, you answer him. "No sir, Tomas. You only told me to go the opposite."

You weren't entirely wrong, but it wasn't the full truth either. A switched flipped in him, his pupils shrinking as his colored iris took over.

Rage overcame him as he pressed the knife further into your back, snd you feel a little more blood spill.

"Are you saying I lie?" Tomas inquires with a sultry voice.

He forces you to walk backwards along with him, just enough that Tomas's back hits a tree from the forest.

Again, despite the harrowing situation you find yourself in, you can't help but flush at the proximity in which you are near Tomas.

You knew he was tall, his genes differentiating him from the others. He was almost two heads taller than you. When you two sparred together, he could easily pin you down with a kick of a leg and one hand over both arms.

He had large, well, everything. Large not just in height, but large in width with bulging muscles that bore scars and physical trophies of his history as a ninja.

If he was big like that, you could only image him down there.

You should be disgusted, afraid of him, any feeling other than aroused. But you can't help it, and it twists your mind with more thoughts and ideas.It seems Tomas sense your confusion, and he removes the grip from your throat to your hip.

Even though the fabric, how tightly he holds you proves he won't let you leave so easily.

Tomas's kind voice is in your ear, his knife pressed threateningly against your back, and his hand clamping down on your hip makes your member throb and begin to grow.

It's no better when you feel Tomas's already firm length rest in between your clothed bum. Your breath skips a little, and Tomas catches it.

"My, my, excited aren't we?" Tomas questions teasingly, rutting against your clothed ass.

Against your best wishes for yourself, against all better judgement, your body wants more. You whine and grind backwards, wanting his cock free from its material prison of his pants. Tomas catches this as well, and the knife drags from your back to your ass.

"Do you want this, honey?" he tuts. "Even after what you saw? What a twisted, filthy man you are."

He isn't wrong either. You curse your heart for feeling such a way with him, especially in this situation. However all rationale leaves you as his knife skillfully cuts your pants down, revealing your plump and impressible ass.

His laugh is dark, his twisted way completely corrupting him totally as he loosens his own britches.

The slight heat emanating from his cock can be felt on your ass, and your theories on his size may just be confirmed soon enough. Before your theory is tested, you can hear Tomas lick and slobber his fingers up before plunging them into your asshole.

You cry out, but you feel the cool tip of his curved blade against your neck. You've just been silenced by the possibility of death- and your cock twitches at the excitement of it.

As Tomas keeps pumping his fingers in and out, perfectly poking the oh-so good spot of yours, his karambit keeps you in your place. You moan, sobbing as Tomas shifts from the sharp edge to the flat part of the blade.

The biting coolness of the flat edge of his blade is pressed into the side of your neck, and fat tears roll down your cheeks as he reduces your manhood to nothing.

"The mighty example of the Shirai Ryu, lessened to a common whore getting off death."

You dumbly agree, babbling and begging for more of his fingers to stretch you out.

Without warning, he roughly takes his fingers out your asshole, leaving it throbbing and red. Subconsciously, you squeeze, and the muscle contracts in his sight.

Tomas still has the knife at your neck, but he expertly uses his other hand to line himself up and tease you a bit with his cock.

Girthy and long, he taps it against your asshole to torment and edge you- his cock just a couple of inches away from entering your. His bulbous, mushroomed head is prodding your entrance.

Because he won't push himself in, you try and speed the process up. However your punishment was the karambit's pointy edge threatening a little off-centered your chest.

"You greedy vixen," he snarls. "You wouldn't want me to use this on you? Hm? Not on my precious little pet."

The blade's edge is over your heart, but your excited moans removes any intimidation from the danger of death.

You enjoy the feeling of it- and Tomas smiles sadistically at you succumbing to your newfound truth.

To reward you, Tomas shoves everything of his inside of you. You're immediately winded, the size of his cock too much for your small, tight hole.

Even so, the pain of him pistoning in you causes pre-cum to pearl and form over your cock's head. You also feel your insides taking shape to his monstrous size, and Tomas practically melts at the feeling.

"I knew you were mine," he says lowly as he slowly pumps into you. "Your slutty hole is sucking me in so well."

Your breaths are choppy and uneven, still trying to get used to his size as he thrusts. In a couple of strokes, though, you're comfortable with his size and mewl happily.

Disobeying him, just this one, you turn your head as far as it could go and reach his eyes. You're smiling, tongue slightly out as you enjoy Tomas ravaging you.

That's all the permission he needs to go mach fuck (literally).

Your mind is blank, and you don't care if your debauched cries draw attention to you two. His dick, huge and rough with veins, is hitting all the right spots for you in your insides.

He's feral, head leaning into your back as he moves his karambit from over your heart to your stomach. You flinch at this, but the chilled metal is welcome as it only adds to the experience.

Oh you, the mighty, hath fallen to the sins of the night.

"You've been waiting for this, weren't you?" his voice condescending as he fucks into you.

"You just put up a front. The innocent stares, the not-so-secret pining," he reminds you, his voice sickeningly sweet with arousal.

You just hum mindless yes's and more's, the feeling of his cock plowing you makes you go stupid- cock drunk, if you will.

"You don't want that kind of love," he says, practically reading you. "You wanted this- the darkness, the sadistic honor, the things mad men do for a person. That kind of love."

Everything he says goes in one ear and out the other, and Tomas just drops the knife to grab your chin and pull you closer to him. Your back is arched beautifully, and your head is turned ninety degrees so you could see him from your side.

"But you don't need to think anymore, honey," he says kindly. "You can be my toy, no one has to know what you saw- not with me by your side."

Your eyes gleam, rolling backwards as he roughly thrusts inwards. That's really the only answer Tomas needs from you as his pace goes from already fast, to even faster.

His high is near, and instead of his knife edging you near death, a tight grip around your throat menaces your life.

Such a tight grip on your throat, Tomas is controlling how close you are to passing out. That, plus his rough and lusty length bulldozing into your asshole, sends you over the edge.

Hot strings of white come out, decorating the rough soil below both of you.

The second time you disobey Tomas, but he lets a boisterous laugh free as his hand finally leaves your throat and joins the other hand at your waist.

With him still inside, he switches your positions and puts your face into the tree. With both his hands evenly at your waist, he continues his pace and slams into you.

Your sweaty bodies against each other harmonizing with your moans and groans, it's a symphony of the erotic- and it only drives Tomas closer and closer to his edge.

Tomas uses his right hand to reach around to your dick, squeezing and stroking it to get you to cum once more.

No, he doesn't care if you're telling him you're sensitive.

"Don't you want to help me honey?" he manipulates you with that same sweet voice. When you whine in response, throwing your head back in pleasure, Tomas is finally near.

With final, powerful thrusts, he buries himself deep inside you as he fills you up good. You're filled to the brim, seed spread all over and his fat dick lodged perfectly inside you. He practically molded you into his personal pocket pussy.

He's trying to pull out, keyword trying, but you're sucking him up good with the muscle. He gives you a decently light spank, and you let go just enough so he can slip out.

A sight for Tomas to behold, his lover happily full to the brim with his heirs, watching the white leak out and drip down his thighs.

He has to physically hold himself back from eating you out and rimming you right there.

Your knees shake with how rough Tomas was, and you're caught by him right before you could hit the ground. You groan and wriggle in his strong arms, carrying you like you weigh no more than a feather.

"Gonna take care of you so well," he praises you. "Gonna make sure you have it all."

His promises to you fall short as you drift off into sleep, your asshole still leaking as he took you back home.

However, you knew he would keep his oaths. Tonight was proof. Your dreams are filled with the endless possibilities of Tomas protecting you- morally correct or not.

=====================

i came back from a party that started two hours late, ate two whole plates of food, danced for two hours, then broke out in hives

see yall in the next fic!

[ktempestbradford]

Jumping off of what I said in this post about having to dismantle certain toxic ideas about myself, I realized that folks might not know how deeply not being a straight, white, cishet, able-bodied, Christianized male (aka the Dominant Paradigm) in the West messes you up mentally. It's a huge mental health problem that isn't always addressed.

When I started up my latest round of therapy I began to acquire labels for some of the ways I acted or reacted to situations. One day in session I was like: Was that a trauma response? It was, wasn't it? And my therapist confirmed. What confused me is that I didn't think I'd experienced trauma.

The idea I had of trauma was some Major Incident in which something Very Bad had happened to me or near me. Or it was about being in abusive situations, usually at home. The kind of ways trauma is depicted in the media.

Then I came across a Twitter thread in which the person said that everyone needs therapy, especially marginalized people, because the way Western society works, anyone who is not the Dominant Paradigm or doesn't hew closely to it is constantly being harmed by society.

Are you BIPOC? Racism is almost everywhere, and where it is, it's constant. It's also not always KKK-level in your face racism; it's more often wave after wave of microagressions on top of whatever challenging condition you're in due to historical racism. In other words: Chronic.

Are you neurodiverse? Good luck not being overstimulated by allegedly benign activities like going to the grocery store. Good luck not being criticized on a daily basis because you can't act "normal". Try holding down a job that expects you to sit at a desk for 8 hours yet you can't even sit in a quiet environment because the asshole CEO read that open office plans make employees more productive.

Are you anywhere under the LGBTQIA+ umbrella? Welcome to the constant barrage of invasive questions from strangers, invasive laws, invasive religiosity... Once again, an allegedly benign activity (going to the bathroom in public) can be a damn crucible if you don't look like the "right" kind of woman or man. Have fun navigating the medical system when you want affirming health care.

I could go on. Disabled people, poor or working class people, fat people, any people who have been historically marginalized and oppressed all experience this. It is trauma. It is harm. It does affect us. But it's Chronic and Systemic. That's the crux.

Because we have to keep on going even with all this. It's every day and it's not easy to escape. So we "deal with it." Some of us have good coping strategies and or supportive family (bio or found) and that really helps. It doesn't alleviate the overall problem. Thus, we all need therapy (so the OP of that Twitter thread concluded).

I don't know that we ALL need it. And I for sure know that some mental health practitioners and therapy frameworks are quite harmful to marginalized people. I'm very lucky in that I have a great therapist and the treatment I'm getting is informed by my identity and background, not ignorant of it. Not everyone has that or has access to it.

What I do know is that we all need Community. True community offers true support, which is necessary for healing.

We also all need to know that our mental health struggles and our trauma are real and valid, even if they don't look or manifest the way we've been conditioned to recognize them. Don't let anyone invalidate your experience or mental health struggles because you don't fit into a specific, wrongly-labeled box.

And don't let anyone tell you that this society isn't out here traumatizing you, because it is. Society doesn't need to be this way. But here in The (European Colonizer Created) West, that's what those with more power have chosen for the rest of us. And it sucks.

I have nothing but hugs and empathy for all the other people out there experiencing this. The only piece of advice I have is: Find community, hold on tight to each other, be that oasis of Okay that others need and they'll be that same oasis for you. <3

[thesirencult]

ICY DIARIES 💎 2 : NEVER JUDGE A BOOK'S ENDING BY ITS FIRST CHAPTER

On this episode of "Icy Diaries" we will explore the dynamic of personal timelines, divine timing and why you shouldn't listen to the "gurus".

Back when I was in highschool I used to share a desk with a girl named Marie. Most people wanted to leave our small hometown and move two hours away, to the big city. Everyone was obsessed with leaving and never coming back until their success could make people jealous on a cliché highschool reunion.

Marie though was different. She decided to stay in our hometown and focus on herself. She was always very overweight and never had a boyfriend. Once we were talking about first kisses and she confessed to me that she had not even held hands with a boy, let alone kissed one.

She also didn't know what career she wanted to follow, even though she was a straight-As student, highly emotionally intelligent and very tech savvy and intelligent.

Marie was a late bloomer.

A few years passed, C*VID hit and I decided to visit my hometown.

I got off the train and I started walking towards my childhood home, thinking of warm cups of cocoa and waffles.

As I turned the corner I saw a long haired brunette in tight gym clothes getting off the passenger side of a Porsche. Her man was holding the door open, waiting for her to get off the car.

Looking my way she smiled and waved. I immediately recognized that warm smile and those caring brown eyes ! It was Marie !!!

Turns out, Marie trusted her path and didn't listen to others around her urging her to go to the big city. She worked part time jobs and started attending an online European university program that she could afford without going into debt. For 4 years she had worked on building lucrative online businesses and had founded several projects along the way, even selling a couple of e-commerce stores and a SaaS web app. She had tried moving to the city and had been accepted to a good school but she didn't want to burden her family. People made fun of her for not leaving the town and said that she was scared to get out of her comfort zone ! Who knew !

One day she decided to hit the gym and she became friends with her mentor (a story for another day) and a guy who went to our middle school but switched to a different highschool. He didn't leave our hometown too. His family owned a business and he decided that he wanted to learn the ins and outs of it to take over at some point. It was a very very lucrative venture. Like in the MILLIONS. I learnt that they were planning on getting married and moving in together in their home.

I would have never imagined these two together, but seeing them now side by side something clicked in me :

It all happens for a reason, at the right time.

The story above, portrays to me the importance of following your heart.

I know that many people tell you to suck it up and go cold. Sometimes we need that. Other times though, we need to trust the journey.

Marie never seemed like the type of person who could build businesses. She kept private. Marie played the game right though.

She didn't go after the BIG city sharks. She opted for her small town boy who kept her satisfied. Because that's what she wanted.

She didn't force it and she made the best she could with the tools she had.

Now she can enjoy her life, just at 25, while other classmates of ours are slaving away in corporate offices to pay off college debt.

That was the right decision for her.

Each one of us is on their personal journey. Your timeline is yours. It's not your mama's, neighbour's or friend's. If you can utilise a cheat code don't make it harder just to feel like a victim.

You won't get a prize for suffering.

After my meeting with Marie I started seeing life differently. I decided that I would never let anyone shame me for my choices. Your inner voice holds the answers, you just need to listen.

I always wanted to follow my passion for astrology and helping people to reach their highest potential. Actually Marie was one of the first people I analysed the chart of. She was super chill and open minded from the start. I'm very happy that she let her light shine to the world, in her own way.

You are a queen and you are always on time 💋

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: Of all the many languages you speak which is your weakest one? Do you use those languages?

It’s privilege to learn any language that isn’t your mother tongue. As Ludwig Wittgenstein correctly observed, “The limits of my language means the limits of my world”. If English is our native tongue we put ourselves at a disadvantage because we expect every other nationality to take the trouble to speak it. There seems no incentive to learn a foreign language. We become lazy not just in language but also in other ways including our cultural enrichment, our imagination, and a misplaced sense of our self-importance in the world.

Of the European languages I know, I probably think German would be my weakest. When I was in school in Switzerland you’re brought up in three languages: French, Italian, and German (even if the Swiss speak Swiss German). When I say weakest I mean I can converse fluently, but I don’t have time to read German literature in the same immersive way I would say with French literature or take any special interest in German affairs.

I would say I’m fairly fluent in French now but still prone to silly mistakes. I’ve been told that I can speak without an accent and that is heart warming to know, because that was always the goal once I moved here to France. I don’t really use French in my work as it’s a multi-national entity and so English is the default language of corporate world, but I’m speaking French pretty much the rest of the time outside of work.

I was extremely fortunate to be born into a multi-lingual family where Norwegian and English were spoken from birth. All my siblings were being versed in Latin (not Greek which came years later after doing Classics at university) by the time I was 8 or 9 years old because my father was a classicist and he felt Latin was the building blocks to mastering other languages.

All this occurring whilst we moved lived and moved around a lot in the world such as China, Japan, India, and the Middle East. When I was initially sent to one of the first of my English girls boarding schools I was horrified that most of the girls only spoke English. I thought I was the stupid one for only knowing 6. Boarding school, if nothing else, gave me a great privilege to hone in on the languages I did know and start to learn others.

My parents didn’t take the easy way out and put us children in international schools like all the other expat children. That would have been too easy given how tight knit the British expatriate community was out there. Instead we were left to sink or swim in local schools in places like Tokyo and Kyoto in Japan or Shanghai in China or in Delhi, India. It was a struggle but you soon find your feet and you stumble towards some basic level of fluency.

I’m fortunate that before Covid my corporate work took me often to the Far East and it was a great opportunity to hone what I already knew. The result is I can converse and take business meetings in Chinese and Japanese (though English gets thrown into the mix too).

I would say Chinese is more of a struggle for me these days because I’ve not been back since before the Covid lockdown in 2020. Chinese is one of those languages that can easily melt away if you don’t get the chance to converse in it on a regular basis. Japanese less so, probably because the culture had more profound impact on me than Chinese culture.

Hindi is less of an issue because I have close Indian friends and also I watch Bollywood movies as well as converse with Indian immigrants here in Paris who have local stores. Urdu I learned through the backdoor because Urdu has a spoken affinity with Hindi (if you know Hindi then you know spoken Urdu, more or less, especially in Northern India and cities like Delhi where Urdu was born in the burnt ashes of Mughal India). Reading is another matter because they each use different scripts - Sanskrit for Hindi and Arabic and Persian script for Urdu.

Strangely enough when I was doing my tour in Afghanistan years ago with the British army, I would speak Urdu with local Afghans who served as official translators or were selling goods on the base. These Afghans knew Urdu because an entire generation of Afghan boys and girls grew up in refugee camps on the Pakistani border during the different phases of the Afghan war. I have very fond memories of their friendship and hospitality, but less so of the war itself. 

With Arabic, it had lapsed woefully until I did a posting in Dubai in the past year (as catalogued in my blog) and I found myself suddenly remembering a lot and asking Arab friends. Soon I was able to hold my own amongst my colleagues and corporate clients. In these cultures it’s really hard to stay focused because so many of them speak very good English. So it’s hard to get them to stick with their own language because you want to learn from them - but they want to show off their English proficiency - and so you have to be polite but persistent to stick with Arabic.  

If you’re learning a new language then I hope you stick with it. There’s almost nothing more rewarding in your life than the disocovery a rich culture through language. The key is to find a way to make it fun rather than a trip to the dentist chair for a root canal operation.

Thanks for your question.

[zaidshair]

Location: shopping deck of The Odyssey @elijahbell

It wasn't really that Zaid had a mind to 'scavenge' or 'loot' per se. He was better than that, he wasn't some sort of basic greedy opportunist wanker who just wanted to capitalize off disaster. But.

But. This cruise ship had some lush fucking shopping choices. In Zaid's struggle to exit the bloody ship, he found a Bvlgari, a Kenzo - and one of his personal favourites, an Hermès boutique. Apparently, cruise ships full of old European geezers with too much retirement dosh meant the best sort of designer tourist traps.

Zaid would've been ashamed that he had paused in front of the severely slanted Hermès shop, looking within, if it wasn't for what happened next. He stopped just to see if there was anything that caught his eye; window shopping one might say. It was all good quality, it'd be a shame to let the ocean claim such useful clothing and accessories, wouldn't it?

Zaid found himself gravitating towards the store...close enough to hear a pounding. No - a knocking. Like someone was at the shop's backend storage room, pounding at the shut door.

Let me out! Please let me out! I want to go home!

Zaid sloshed forward, on alert. "Hullo? Someone there?"

Please! I just want to go home! Can you help me?

Zaid rattled the doorknob, but it didn't work. "Fuck me, it's stuck. I'll need another way to get you out of there, mate. Hang tight, yeah?" Turning, Zaid saw another man roaming down the deck between the shops. Zaid hopped and waved. "Oi! Mate! Can you give us a hand?"

[mariacallous]

Along with the cans of macaroons, jelly rings and coconut marshmallows, every Passover supermarket display includes bags of Joyva sesame candy. It’s not terrible, but nothing compares to the deliciousness of homemade sesame brittle. 

Our Moroccan and Iraqi mothers and grandmothers always made batches of their own sesame brittle for Jewish holidays, hennas (a traditional Sephardic pre-wedding celebration), bris ceremonies and mimouna (a traditional North African celebration to mark the end of Passover).

The combination of toasted sesame seeds and honey originated with the Ancient Greeks, then spread throughout the Middle East and Southern Europe. In Greece and Cyprus, it’s called “pasteli;” in Arabic “haloua de jijlan;” in Spanish “aljalwas de ajonjoli;” in Italian “giuggiulena;” and “croquent de sesames” in French.

Sesame brittle is still very popular throughout the Middle East, Italy and Spain. European bakers consider it chic to decorate wedding cakes and cream puff towers with thin strips of sesame toffee. And while peanut brittle reigns supreme in the U.S., sesame brittle is growing in popularity  — not that it ever went out of style in our homes.

Rachel’s Spanish Moroccan family calls sesame brittle “halwa.” As a little girl, she recalls her mother, Rica, making it for all their family celebrations, served with a glass of fresh mint (nana) tea. Nowadays, her husband and cousins are so excited when she makes it. Sharon’s grandmother called sesame brittle “sim`isiyi,” and always had a tin of it on hand. She would serve it to her guests on long Shabbat afternoons with fresh fruit and a small glass of cardamom tea.  

The texture of this joyous, nostalgic dessert can vary from chewy to extra crispy, and the recipe may include roasted almonds. Vegan and gluten-free, it’s the perfect quick treat to add to your repertoire, coming together in 30 minutes.

Notes: 

When making sesame brittle, make sure to lay out all the utensils and have the ingredients pre-measured. Working with hot sugar means having to work quickly, before it has a chance to harden. 

The tricky part is to roll the brittle thin. We recommend using a stone countertop or a Silpat non-stick mat on the bottom and another on top of the syrup. Place the rolling pin on top of the mat, to ensure that it doesn’t stick.

Store in a tin or glass container with a tight lid for 4-6 weeks. 

[textingtroublesanswers]

*Tala restrains the urge to bring up how that sounds surprisingly similar to symptoms of neurodivergency like they had been talking about far earlier. Ludwig probably has enough to worry about right now, he doesn't need more...*

At least you know where the European store is now, you can go get yourself a treat when you pop into town, without having to binge to make up for 30 years of nothing.

-🦖

Ludwig grumbles, letting Mikhail pull him to his feet. He immediately stumbles, clutching his stomach while groaning.

"Scheiße. My trousers feel very tight all of a sudden."

"Doktor over did it, see? Heavy told you." Mikhail picks him up, letting Ludwig bonelessly collapse against him.

"I overdid it, but it was so worth it."

"Doktor always says that."

"Because my ideas are amazing & they are always worth it even when I go into them head first without thinking about the consequences. Like this." Ludwig gives Mikhail's chest a little pat.

"Like what?" Mikhail chuckles.

"Like the Überheart. One of my best inventions, that I created while going on three hours of sleep & an entire jug of black coffee despite the fact that coffee gives me headaches. It was perfect." Ludwig smooshes his face against the left side of Mikhail's chest, right where his heart is.

Mikhail shakes his head with a sigh, looking over at you. But he's smiling, because no matter how ridiculous his doktor can be, Mikhail loves him & all of his quirks.

[themistressdomme]

I would make any drink you desire Mommy! I remember you like a vodka redbull :) Maybe it would help if I worse one of the short skirts I have and a tight crop top while I make your drink so you can get a sneak peak of what's in store for you ;) I'm not afraid to squirt, I just get sensitive and I can't force myself to keep going 😭I've always just had someone force it out of me... For toys I have two dildos, one bigger for my pussy and the other smaller for my ass, a butt plug, a clit vibrator, a candle for wax play, a ball gag, another gag that you've seen ;), and a pink collar. I also have bed restraints but I don't think that would work solo lol. Thank you for explaining to me! I bet you would taste amazing and I think I'd be so obsessed I'd be kissing your pussy in between tasting you 🥰 I think you should definitely smack my pussy if I try to stop you from getting the satisfaction of making my pussy break my mind 😘

PS I am so sorry I sent so many asks yesterday I did not realize how many because I was tipsy 🙃 Also are you European then? I'm just surprised because you sounds American to me in your texts 😅

🍾

Mm, I think you should surprise me, darling. Make me a drink that I'll enjoy, hm? You know my tastes, after all 😘

Oh my, princess. A short, tight skirt and a crop top, hm? Are you just begging to be used by Mommy? Dressing like such a good little slut for me? Keep teasing Mommy like that, and I might just be inclined to destroy every single one of your holes, darling 😈

Oh my. Someone needs to force it out of you, hm? I volunteer as tribute 😏 Let me see how many more times I can make you cum for me after making you squirt so pretty.

My my, don't you have an absolute array of toys, my pretty champagne. I'd love to use every single one on you. Many at the same time, hm? I want you filled and plugged, every hole available to me for my pleasure. That gag I've seen is rather pretty, hm? Keep your pretty little mouth open for me whilst I put my fingers in it.

I'll let you taste me whilst I'm tying your legs open. I'll sit on your face, how about that, sweet? Stick your tongue out, be a good little thing for me to use whilst I tie the last couple of knots. I want you spread eagle, ready to take me as I plot to make you squirt and cum. I will show no mercy, even when you're squirming and writhing, trying to get away from me 😈 In fact, I'd smack your pretty, oversensitive cunt for trying to get away. "You're going to take what Mommy gives you, and you're going to be grateful about it."

No, love, never apologize for sending asks! I loved each and every one of them 😘 Good to know I'm plaguing your mind every now and then 😉 You're cute when you're tipsy 😏

Haha! I'm definitely not American 😉 As for what I sound like, I'll leave you wondering 💋 I do have a project in its early stages of development... 😘

🍾

[seamsterslocal]

Look! AT! HIMMM!!!

this pattern is labeled 'sith frock coat' and i made it in about two weeks of incredibly late nights when i lived in new mexico that became very much like a fever dream. it was very ambitious for my skill level at the time--i think it was the first time i invested in nice fabric for my own clothes--and for the most part it came out very well. this pictures are a few years old but it still fits me decently well, so i may go back later and fix those things that didn't go well the first time

i biked as my main method of transportation at the time, and this was mainly made with that in mind. nm is a desert but it DOES rain, usually all at once, and i still had to be at work across town. also santa fe is up a mountain so it does get brisk, which is why i chose to use a wool herringbone (brisk yes, winter no. i lived there for 5 years and called the nov-feb months fall++ the whole time). this is why the back is higher than the front--i needed to keep my thighs dry--and the hood is large enough to fit over a bike helmet

it was made with a removable linen lining (not pictured) which turned out less well it terms of fit (tight in the shoulder) and also didnt quite do what i wanted, lining-wise. the slit my hands are resting in was made to access the pockets in the lining and are not actually pockets now--i'd like to add those

the idea of a fold back front skirt was better in theory than practice. i'd like to go in and fix it to be, well, fixed though i'll probably keep the snap tape down the front. or i may replace the snaps which are currently holding the fold back skirt with something more sturdy, like a zipper

overall it does great. like i said the hood fits over a bike helmet or any warm winter garment you could name and the wool herringbone, though not waterproof or treated i any way, does shed water and kept me 100% warm and 98% dry while i learned i was too disabled to hitchhike across iceland (thank fuck for public transit i'm jealous of europeans every day). i have great shoulder movement and even though it takes a moment to get it settled over other clothes, once on it's very comfortable. the black lining is a plainweave linen; the purple lining, inner tulle, and ribbons are synthetic but they don't typically touch my skin when i'm wearing this. where i am now, this is a great fall or spring jacket without the lining

this is the first pattern i ever flattened the princess seam on, and i'm very proud of how it turned out. if i recall correctly the base pattern was a vaguely steampunk costume coat pattern i got in the post-halloween stores. i used the pattern for the sleeves, bodice, and collar, though all were altered in some way, and drafted the hood and skirt myself

[vampireboy2003]

Weekly comic reviews N°1

The book tour, by Andi Watson

Published First in 2019

This book came in to my possession almost by chance. I had some money to spare this month and wanted to spend it on a graphic novel (living lavish, i know) this one, out of all the other ones in the book store that day, looked most appealing to me after a quick sift through the pages. Its fitting then, that the book is all about a guy that gets majorly screwed over by circumstance.

The book tour tells the story of G.H Fratwell, a relatively unknown english author who, upon the publication of his latest novel has to now go on a book tour to promote It. The book tour is a colossal disaster from day one, and on top of that he becomes the main suspect of some murders he didnt commit.

The story is almost simple in its structure, with Fratwell going from bookstore to bookstore, and hotel to hotel, and misfortune to misfortune, all without cracking that very British "politely inconvenienced" face.

Its a very kafkaesque tale, not only in its themes and presentation, but with a lot of references peppered in. For example, the title of Fratwells novel -- "No K" is one of many references to The trial, a short story that this book is clearly inspired by. You can see a very heavy kafka influence not only in the plot itself but the tone of the story, finding humour in the absurdities that Fratwell goes through, and in Fratwell himself almost perpetuating some of the things that happen to him by wanting to not inconvenience whoever It was that was making him miserable at the moment. It is a book ultimately about Fratwell and his downward spiral, as he realizes no one around him really cares about him, his book, or wether or not he killed a woman. I wont spoil the ending here, but make sure to be prepared If you like things neatly tied up. The ending DID work for me, and it kind of gets me reflecting upon the work and making me want to read again, which is good!

The art also wraps around the story pretty perfectly, with very simplified designs for every character (especially our main character) and more detailed backgrounds and buildings. It is pretty to look at and delicately drafted, and gave me the feeling that the street itself was swallowing up Fratwell, while providing a lot of character to all of the generic european towns and bookshops he visited. One of my favourite sequences in the novel is the opening one, where we see a character arriving in town through a lot of big wide pannels of cityscape. It reminded me almost of a movie, and in fact the timing displayed throught the whole story is really tight, this being not only pacing, but the pannel-to-pannel and page-to-page timing that really makes you feel those akward situations Fratwell puts himself in, and even the timing of the "jokes" the book has.

Ultimately, while i could write a lot more about the themes and overall message of the story (its pretty dense and would take me at least another re-read), its a light read that one could do in a rainy afternoon. It IS quite derivative of Kafka, but in a way that didnt bother me as someone who didnt really know all the references going in (but might bother someone who does for all i know) id definately reccomend this if you want a real dream-like experience, where in the end you can really chew on the story for a while.

I give It

7 kafkas out of 10.

Thanks for reading and make sure to tune in next week where i will read uhhh another comic.

[heavymetalseries]

A Riff of Retribution | Heavy Metal Hunters 1 | Chapter 1

January chill bit into Hale’s skin. The wolf pelt he’d picked up years ago at a second hand store in Gothenburg kept the worst of it out. He closed his eyes to focus on committing the sound of wind whistling through the trees to memory. Tomorrow, he would do his best to transcribe the sound for guitar. 

If we make it to tomorrow. 

There was always the risk on these trips that every night would be their last. Hale had made peace with that a long time ago. 

Aleksandr’s voice from the other side of the fire was the only human sound in the Swedish mountains. It was strange to hear the words in his soft melodic voice rather than Ragnar’s death growls. Strange, but pretty. 

Two thousand years ago, Aleksandr would have been a priest or a storyteller in a small mountainside town, and he would have been happier for it. He wasn’t meant for rapid modern life. He sifted through the rabbit bones at his feet with the stick he’d been using to stoke the fire, trying to read some kind of message from the gods in them.

“Freyja spoke to me yesterday,” he said in soft Swedish.

Hale raised an eyebrow, silently urging him to continue.

“I had this dream. There was a… fetal deer eating its own umbilical cord. I think she wants you to call your mother.”

That was… disgusting. 

Even though he was used to Aleksandr saying these sorts of things, Hale made a face. and shook his head. Some of his hair fell from the loose bun. He tied it back up to keep it out of his face despite the wind’s best efforts. His finger brushed one of the beads in the thin braid on the right side, more out of habit than anything else.

“I think she wants you to stop smoking so much pot,” Hale said.

The rustle of branches interrupted Aleksandr’s soft laugh. Their eyes met for a brief moment. Aleksandr unsheathed the long dagger strapped to the side of his leg, while Hale’s hand settled on his already-loaded crossbow. Guns might have been more practical, but they would have to account for every bullet. It was more trouble than it was worth. The ash bolts were more effective than bullets anyway.

More movement came from Hale’s left. His head snapped in the direction of the sound. 

Two of them?

“Aleksandr,” he said sharply.

“I know.”

With his free hand, Hale found the silver mjolnir pendant and engagement ring hanging from the leather cord beneath his jacket and kissed them. He rolled his shoulders to let the pelt fall back onto the snow. His eyes were fixed on the tight line of trees. 

Odin, protect us. 

They had been lucky so far. They had survived these hunting trips on and off for eleven years now. Hopefully, this year would make it twelve.

A woman’s voice cried out in the darkness. 

“Help me! Help me!”

Hale ground his teeth against the instinct to find her. He didn’t know if this tactic was something they learned or if it was ingrained into them. The nearest cabins were all empty right now. They had checked before sundown and found no sign of human life. 

That had been several hours ago. Somebody very well could have wandered up into the mountains and gotten hurt or lost in that time. 

Hale doubted it. 

The same cry came from behind him. This time, it was a man’s voice. 

“Help me! Help me!”

Hale stood and raised his crossbow with both hands. Though it was fairly light, he was mindful of the way the weight tugged at the scars behind his left shoulder. In his periphery, Aleksandr sheathed the dagger and raised his own crossbow instead.

This wasn’t right. 

Draug weren’t like European or North American vampires. They didn’t move in pairs. It was likely why Hale and Aleksandr had survived doing this so long. It was always two against one.

They had a strategy. His job was to slow the bastards down so Aleksandr could finish them off. Two of them coming from different directions complicated things. 

“Hale,” Aleksandr said.

Hale knew that tone. 

“Don’t,” he warned. 

“You’ve been a good brother.”

“Fuck off.”

Aleksandr laughed softly. 

“I love you too, Hale.”

Hale’s lip twitched into a smile despite himself. 

“Come on, you fucks,” he muttered. 

The silence was worse than the noise. Had they seen the weapons and retreated?

No—

From his left—

“Hale!”

Hale spun. 

Eyes glowed yellow in the light of the fire. His finger twitched on the trigger. The bolt went wide.

Dammit!

The draug moved fast, too fast for Hale to follow. There was no point trying to see it. He allowed instinct to take over. He turned in the direction of the hairs prickling on the back of his neck as he released the bolt without letting himself think about it. A howl of pain rang through his eardrums. The draug paused long enough that Hale could see the bolt sticking from her thigh. She stared at him with sharp teeth bared and wide eyes a blue so pale, they were nearly white. She was thin enough that he could make out the bones of her skull and collarbones where her torn and bloody clothes hung loose from her body. It was impossible to tell how old she’d been as human.

Jeans and a t-shirt. 

Had she been killed in the summer?

Hale smothered down the guilt before it could distract him. One week a year. That was the agreement. Anything outside that week wasn’t his responsibility. All he could do was put the poor thing out of her misery and keep her from killing anybody else.

His weak shoulder gave out a little as he pulled the trigger again. The bolt stuck between the draug’s ribs instead of her heart. 

“How are you doing, Aleksandr?” he shouted.

The lack of verbal response wasn’t encouraging. 

“Aleksandr!”

“I’m fine!”

Hale slipped his shoulder to the side, narrowly avoiding the woman’s claws aimed for his face. The ash poisoning was slowing her down already. She was too close for the crossbow. He let it fall to the ground and moved his right leg back. 

A sharp cry rang out behind him. 

“Aleksandr?”

Hale made the mistake of looking back. He didn’t see Aleksandr or the other draug. 

“Aleksandr!”

Gods, where was he? Where—

The woman slammed into him. The snow broke his fall, and the pain was muffled by the spike of adrenaline in his veins. He braced his left hand against her rotting throat to keep her teeth from his face. Cold pain pulled at the scars behind his shoulder. The weak muscles quivered with the effort of holding her back against gravity. Her ugly snarl looked even more inhuman in the firelight. 

Hale’s pendants were hot where they’d fallen back against his skin. 

Protect him, you bastards, not me. He’s not a fighter!

Hale could handle himself, but Aleksandr— 

Aleksandr could hold his own. He wasn’t as soft as he looked. Hale couldn’t think of him while the woman’s short claws raked at his arms. She was clearly young enough they hadn’t had a chance to grow long yet. The sleeves of his jacket kept them from breaking his skin. 

Hale shifted to push the woman back a few inches with his good arm. He wedged his knee up between them. His fingers scrambled over his thigh until they found the hilt of his dagger. 

Blood splattered on his face as he drove the blade into the underside of her jaw. She howled and screamed around the metal. He kept his grip on the hilt as she jerked back, dislocating her jaw. She fell back, and Hale was on her in a less than a breath. He dropped his weight onto the dagger. It took two tries to get it between the ribs and into her heart. 

It was concern for Aleksandr that made him stand as the draug woman thrashed on the snow, not the sick feeling that came with watching her die. 

This never did get easier. 

“Aleksandr?”

“I’m— I’m okay. I got it.”

Aleksandr wavered a little as he stood. As Hale approached, he made out the figure of the male draug in the firelight. Crossbow bolts stuck from his body, including two protruding from his heart beside the dagger. 

“Are you hurt?” Hale asked. 

He unzipped his jacket and tossed it back onto the log Aleksandr had been sitting on. Sweat made the long-sleeved shirt underneath stick to his body. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Aleksandr did the same. 

“I don’t think so,” Aleksandr said, looking himself over.

Hale guided Aleksandr closer to the fire so he could get a better look. His stomach clenched. 

In Eir’s name—

“You’re bleeding,” Hale said.

Aleksandr looked down at himself, frowning.

“I am? Oh...”

Hale pulled one of his gloves off and grabbed the bottom of Aleksandr’s shirt. Aleksandr’s long fingers caught his wrist.

“No! I don’t want you to see,” Aleksandr said quietly.

For the love of all the Gods. 

Hale had had seen Aleksandr at his worst. He had seen every one of his ink-covered scars. He was the one who’d found Aleksandr when he—

It wasn’t worth fighting over. 

“I won’t look,” Hale promised. 

If the injury was as mild as the amount of blood suggested, he wouldn’t have to. 

Hale had two inches and a good fifty pounds on Aleksandr. Even with the sharp ache in his shoulder, it wouldn’t be difficult to manhandle him if he had to. 

Aleksandr winced as Hale prodded at his stomach with his bare hand. His long fingers clutched at Hale’s arms. 

“Breathe through it,” Hale said. 

He took deep, exaggerated breaths that Aleksandr gasped to match. There were three breaks in skin on the left side, running from beneath his ribs to his navel. They didn’t feel deep enough to need more than a few stitches, but they would leave another scar. Aleksandr already had so many, both from fights with draug and from his own hands. 

Hale flattened his palm against the gashes and wrapped his free arm around Aleksandr’s waist to hold him in place. Another scar would bother Hale far less than it would Aleksandr. 

Aleksandr had survived some of the worst things a person could live through. Hale would never mistake the way Aleksandr clung to him as weakness. 

Hale’s hand grew warm. He closed his eyes, focusing on the high singing of the wind through the trees. Aleksandr let out a pained sound and jerked. Hale tightened his grip. 

“It’s all right, Aleksandr. Relax.”

The heat burned. Hale clenched his teeth together to keep his expression neutral. A light sting began at the base of his ribs and drew downward in a mirror of the wounds on Aleksandr’s body. He couldn’t let it show how much this hurt him. It was bearable. The worst would come in a few days when Eir took her payment for healing Aleksandr from him. 

Aleksandr squirmed in discomfort as the deeper muscles knotted themselves together. Hale kept his hand in place until the gashes wouldn’t heal anymore. He pulled his shaking hand back and wiped his palm on his pants. 

“We should finish with these,” Hale said, nodding toward the corpses bloodying the snow. 

Cutting the heads off and carving out the hearts was just a precaution. The bodies would return to the earth on their own when the sun rose. Hale grabbed his hatchet from where it rested against the log he’d been sitting on and turned to the female draug.

“Hale,” Aleksandr whispered. “Hale!”

Hale spun, raising the hatchet to hurl it at what he expected to be a third draug, and froze. 

The woman and two men flanking her were not draug. Their bare feet didn’t leave any prints in the snow as they approached. They wore fur pelts, long wool robes, and jewelry that looked like it was made of bone. Antlers protruded from their heads. Ornate headdresses obscured the top halves of their faces. 

“What are they?” Hale said. 

“Fjallvættir,” Aleksandr whispered. 

Mountain spirits? 

“I thought they were just stories,” Hale said.

He knew how stupid the words were as soon as they left his mouth. Draug were just stories, too. What he could do was just a story, too.

They stopped walking far enough to be nonthreatening, but close enough to make out their features in the flickering firelight. Their skin was as white as the snow. Black lines ran from their cheekbones to their jaws.

Hale’s breath stuck in his throat. The hatchet slipped from his hand. The pain that tore through his heart was almost enough to bring him to his knees. 

It can’t be him. 

It was impossible. He was dead, and what few pieces of him they’d managed to find had been cremated.

The man to Hale’s left with the smallest antlers smiled, his sharp teeth a bright contrast with his black lips.

In that moment, he’s 22 again, sitting outside on a night just like this. Aleksandr is across from him and Sören Ecklund is beside him with his arm around Hale’s shoulder. They’re laughing and drinking, celebrating Hale and Sören's engagement, Hale’s birthday in a week, and the launch of Emperor Immortal’s debut album. The release was the month before, but Aleksandr and Hale had been too busy with exams to celebrate. Hale doesn’t usually drink much, and he’s already a little bit buzzed. 

“To the two greatest guitarists in Sweden!” Sören shouts. “May Braggi bless you both.”

Hale laughs. Sören kisses the side of his head, his cheekbone, his jaw, before Hale finally turns his head to connect their mouths. Aleksandr gags. 

“I would have helped mom and dad move if I knew you’d be making out this entire time!”

Hale laughs again, presses his forehead to Sören's shoulder to hide his embarrassment. His hair, barely brushing his chin, isn’t long enough to cover his face. 

“You’d better get used to it. I’m going to be making out with this man for the rest of my life,” Sören says.

Sören lifts Hale’s hand to kiss the engagement ring on his fourth finger, a plain stainless steel band with a small, red cubic zirconium stone set in the middle. Hale wonders why he keeps insisting they wait until he finishes his Master’s degree to get married. They should do it as soon as they get back to town.

Aleksandr interrupts the moment with loud singing, still perfectly in tune despite being drunk, until a woman’s cry cuts through. 

“Help me! Help me!”

Sören rises to investigate. Hale blinks, and there’s screaming. Blood on the snow. A woman crouched over Sören, tearing through his abdomen. He pushes at her but there’s so much blood. He gasps, chokes on screams. A bloody hand reaches toward them. Fingers dig into the snow. 

Glowing eyes turn to Hale, blood all over her face. Sharp teeth glow in the fire. 

Hale throws himself at Aleksandr. They hit the ground hard. Sharp claws tear at his shoulder. All he can do is scream. 

“Sören... Sören!”

Aleksandr’s cry broke through the waking nightmare. Hale darted across the snow to catch him across the waist. He pulled Aleksandr back to put himself between him and the fjallvættir. 

“Stay back! It’s not him. He’s dead, Aleksandr, it isn’t him.”

It couldn’t be him. He’d been dead twelve years. 

Hale had been at the funeral. He might have been drunk, but he’d been there. He’d been there when they’d scattered Sören's ashes in these very mountains. He’d watched the light go out of Sören's eyes as he bled out on the snow not ten feet from where they stood now. 

The fjallvættr looked toward that spot and tilted his head in a way that made Hale’s throat tighten. 

Aleksandr pushed against Hale’s arm. The muscles of Hale’s left shoulder tugged sharply as he pushed back with as much force as he could. 

“Stay behind me,” Hale ordered.

Hale’s dagger was still stuck in the draug’s chest. He pulled the other one from inside his boot. 

The woman approached the male draug’s body and crouched next to it as if Hale and Aleksandr weren’t there. She seemed to be studying it. Hale watched her in his periphery, keeping his eyes on the man that was not Sören. Her lips moved, but Hale couldn’t hear anything. The other man nodded. 

Sören — It’s not Sören. — walkedto the spot where he’d died and stood there for a moment, looking down at the snow as if he could still see his own blood, before he turned toward Hale and Aleksandr. 

Hale stiffened. 

“Stay back,” he warned. 

Behind him, Aleksandr chocked on a sob. 

The man ignored him and kept walking. Even the damned sway of his hips and shoulders was familiar. He still had that scar on his cheek from a bike accident as a kid. When he smiled, his black lips still pulled up more at one side than the other. 

Hale swallowed down his racing heart. The dagger trembled in his hand. 

The other man walked around them to the body of the female draug. Hale barely noticed. All he could focus on was keeping Aleksandr back as Sören brushed some loose hair from Hale’s forehead. He traced cold, calloused fingers along Hale’s cheekbone and jaw. They settled on his lips for a moment before he hooked his middle finger around the black leather cord to lift the pendant and ring. 

Sören's smile went soft, and he tilted his head just slightly. 

You still wear these, his expression seemed to say. 

Hale licked his lips. The spot Sören's fingers touched was cold. It made him shiver.

It was him. By all the fucking gods, it was really him. Somehow, it was him. 

“I— met someone,” Hale whispered. 

He didn’t know why he said it. He didn’t owe this figment of Sören an explanation. What did he have to feel guilty over?

There was nothing but joy in Sören's broad grin despite his sharp teeth. If Hale could see his eyes, he was sure they would be just as bright. He ran his hand through Hale’s hair the way he used to and traced a cold finger over Hale’s forehead. The lines he drew out made the familiar outline of the Helm of Awe. Painting it onto their foreheads like the Old Norse warriors for their live performances had been Sören's idea in the first place. Their outfits, stage setup, and the way they did their hair had changed over the years as the band grew and evolved, but the Helms remained. 

Sören's hand curled around the back of Hale’s neck to pull him down so he could press a cold kiss to the center of Hale’s forehead. 

Icy pain shot through Hale’s skull like a screwdriver was being shoved through it. The dagger slipped between his fingers as he pressed both hands to his face. White spots blinded him. A sharp scream tore itself from the back of his throat. 

“Hale!”

Through hazy vision, Hale watched Sören step toward Aleksandr. Aleksandr froze, looking wide-eyed between the two of them. 

“Stay away from him!” Hale ground out. 

It might have been more effective if he could actually see straight. Sweat broke out along his spine. His breath fogged in front of his face. 

Sören cupped Aleksandr’s face with one hand. 

“Don’t touch him. I swear, if you hurt him, I will kill you!”

He didn’t care if this thing was a mountain spirit or Sören or fucking Odin himself. If he hurt Aleksandr, Hale would gut him. 

If he could get a hold of his damned axe or dagger or crossbow…

Sören pulled Aleksandr tight against his chest. Aleksandr let out another choked sound and buried his face in Sören's shoulder. 

Hale wrapped his hand around the hilt of his dagger and pushed himself upright, bracing his thighs to keep them from giving out. Exhaustion was quickly beginning to overtake him. 

I’m getting too old for this.

He wasn’t in his 20s anymore. He hadn’t been very kind to his body in the last decade. Truth be told, he hadn’t intended to live so long. In a few years, he would be 40. It was a little surreal.

Keeping one eye on Sören and Aleksandr, he angled the dagger to catch his reflection in the firelight. It wouldn’t have surprised him to find an imprint of the Helm of Awe, but there was nothing. 

Each of the other mountain spirits held a draug over their shoulders. They watched Sören as they carried the corpses to the edges of the trees. The woman’s mouth moved silently.

“No, no, don’t go!” Aleksandr shouted.

Hale turned to see Sören attempting to pull himself from Aleksandr’s arms. Though only the bottom of his face was visible, the downward turn of his mouth showed as much pain as the tears rolling from Aleksandr’s eyes.

“Please, just one more minute. I’m not ready yet, I’m not— ”

Sören managed to pry Aleksandr’s hands from his shoulders, only for Aleksandr to catch his wrists. His head tipped toward Hale. His lips pressed into a tight line, then twitched a little. 

Hale swallowed. It took everything he had not to look at Sören, dropping the dagger as he walked. He wrapped his arms around Aleksandr’s waist. Even through the layers of clothes, he could feel Aleksandr’s heart racing and his lungs stuttering around his sobs.

“It’s all right,” Hale murmured, knowing damn well it wasn’t.

“No it’s not! Let me go, Hale! I swear to Odin—! Sören! Sören!”

Aleksandr’s broken scream reverberated through his back and pierced Hale’s eardrums. There seemed to be no other sound in the mountains, as if nature had silenced itself to give Aleksandr space to grieve.

No, that was too poetic. It was most likely the draug and the screaming scared off any lingering wildlife. The fjallvættir themselves might have done it too.

When Sören reached his companions, his step faltered. His shoulders shifted beneath the fur pelt as if he intended to look back at them. He didn’t. He only straightened his posture and followed the other two fjallvættir into the darkness, leaving Aleksandr sobbing in Hale’s arms, and a cold pit in Hale’s chest.

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[dhaaruni]

ugh the european sizes post is SO TRUE. i lived in europe for a couple of years as a size 8 girl with boobs and an ass and lemme tell you, shopping for clothes felt like i was committing a crime by merely existing 😭😭😭 buying cute and well-fitted dresses/tops/skirts was impossible. i also have a friend from India who travels a lot for her job and she saves her entire "western clothes" yearly shopping budget for her US trips bc acc to her as plus size girl she can't get that kind of proper fit, variety in styles and good quality anywhere else, including India! apparently a lot of western clothing brands in India traditionally ape the UK/Europe in terms of size and fit. absolutely insane bc indian body types run to the curvy, even if you're size 4 or less, these european sized clothes might "fit" technically but won't look good bc they'll be too tight here and too loose there. i believe its getting better now but its still US brands supremacy if you're a remotely curvy or fat girl!

BRO I KEEP ON SAYING!

It makes me SO self-conscious trying to shop with European designers like no, I do not have a 25" bust, thanks for playing. The thing is, I'm a small person and at high end American places like Marc Jacobs and more mid-end stores like JCrew, I'm a 4 or MAYBE a 6, even while I also have DDs, and that simply doesn't carry over into Euro sizes because they're apparently convinced that no women exist who are over a size 2 and a B-cup.

Christian Siriano is a designer who really GETS women's bodies like he understands that a woman who's my size will have relatively narrow shoulders even if she has big boobs so he makes his blazers have room in the chest to stretch without making them way wider. I simply can't just buy a size 12 and tailor down because it'll look super boxy and I'm not paying hundreds of dollars to tailor every item of clothing I own.