#French-milled soap

[chasingrainbowsforever]

~ Pastel Palette ~

[dress-this-way]

Soap Still Life ~ Via Mooisenleifs Blogspot

[onegirlatelier]

Floral vest | November, 2023

This vest is a Frankenstein of two patterns—the construction is from the Ophelia Slipover by Toshiyuki Shimada 嶋田俊之and the floral pattern from the Flower Yoke Pullover by Erika Tokai 東海えりか (@erika_tokai on Instagram). Both patterns are listed on Ravelry but only available in printed books.

Now, it is not my genius idea to piece these two together. I think it was first done by a fellow Chinese knitter and designer, who is XS KNITTING on RED and XS_KNITTING on Wechat. I have both pattern books but she did provide very detailed instructions on how to combine the two patterns for this vest. I mostly followed her notes – see modifications below.

Overview of the construction

Make a provisional cast on with a waste yarn.

Knit colourwork in the round from bottom up, ending at approx. underarm level. Decrease on the sides as instructed. You will later steek the fabric at the sides so the pattern includes the additional allowance for steeking.

Knit the front and back yoke sections flat, following the instructions for neck and shoulder shaping. (There is no armhole shaping in the yoke part.)

Sew together the front and back yoke parts, pick up stitches to make the neckband.

Reinforce the steek and cut. Pick up stitches from the steeked edges to make the side bands. Sew the bottom bit of the side bands together.

Pick up stitches to make the hem.

Needles

(all 80cm circulars)

Colourwork: 3.00mm

Yoke: 2.75mm

Neckband: 2.75mm, bind off with 2.5mm

Side bands: 2.5mm, bind off with 2.25mm

Hem: 2.75mm, bind off with 2.5mm

Yarn

Biches & Bûches Le Petit Lambswool 248m/50g, in white and light pink. This is a 2-ply woolen spun, slightly rustic but soft yarn. It softens even more after washing and blooms too, making an incredibly light but hearty fabric. I always thought it was produced in Europe since this is a French brand, but the Lambswool range is actually spun and dyed in Scotland. Hence it is a little less local than I thought (and their website doesn’t say where the wool material comes from), but I’m also happy to support Scottish mills that produce less chemically treated yarns in small batches.

Another nice thing is that each of my skeins/balls actually weighed 55g, so there was a little surplus than what I paid for.

Yardage

I took detailed measurements just in case you (or future me) are worried about having enough yarn, or thinking about doing differently coloured bands, etc.

As can be seen, the bands and hem take up quite a bit of yardage.

Modifications

Colourwork

I think I followed the instructions entirely for the colourwork.

Yoke

I knitted one more row at the bottom of the front and back yokes respectively, because I somehow started from the wrong side and the pattern started from the right side. The shoulder seams are done with Kitchener stitch instead of a three-needle bind-off. Therefore I think I had about 104 rows in the yoke instead of 100 in the pattern, which means I picked up 84 stitches instead of 80 for the side band at the yoke section.

First block and felting

After I finished the yoke, the colourwork looked rather uneven. Since the yarn I used was thinner than the Shetland yarn in the pattern and I knitted the colourwork loosely to match the instructed gauge, the fabric was also quite loose and not as supple as I wanted. The good thing is that the finished garment (using the required gauge) had quite a lot of positive ease for my body measurements. So I decided to shrink the garment slightly by hand-felting it.

To felt a wool garment, you need one or more of the following: high temperature, moisture, agitation, soap. Here’s what I did to felt it as gently as possible. The half-finished main body had no live stitches at this point so I just soaked it in icy cold water as how you would normally block a knitted garment, but without soap. Then I just use my hands to agitate the fabric until I felt that it had first evened out and then tightened up. Trust me, without hot water or soap you need quite a lot of agitation to felt a garment—not just swishing it around.

I’ve also seen people putting their work into a pillow case into the washing machine on a hot drying cycle and stopping every few minutes to check if it’s felted enough. I have no confidence in operating my washing machine but you can try.

The result was satisfactory enough for me to go ahead.

Neckband

Neckband was finished with a tubular bind off with two rows, i.e. one pair, of reinforcement (the ‘tubular’ bit’). To do this, you would first use a slightly smaller needle to switch the ribbing from 2*2 to 1*1 as you knit across (see Suzanne Bryant’s video). I used a needle one size smaller but I think I could’ve gone down two sizes, as the finished neckband feels a little too loose.

Side bands

I reinforced the fabric using the crochet method and then steeked it. Some people recommend the hook to be one size smaller than the knitting needles, but I used a 1.5mm and it worked well for me. It;s absolutely possible to steek with an even number of stitches (many tutorials say you can only do an odd number of stitches).

Using a 2.5mm circular I picked up stitch for stitch for the colourwork and 84 for 104 for the yoke. One stitch is added at either ends. There was no stitch decrease after picking up. I finished with Italian bind off which is another kind of invisible bind off like tubular bind off, just without the ‘tubular’ bit.

To do this: On the 15th row (wrong side), I knitted the first 35 sts (which were not bound off) using the 2.5mm needle in 2*2 ribbing. Then I switched to 2.25mm and switched the ribbing to 1*1 as I knitted across, and finished by knitting the last 35 sts using the 2.5mm needle again in 2*2 ribbing. On the 16th row (right side), I knitted the first 35sts in the 2.5mm needle and 2*2 ribbing as usual. Then I adjusted how I held the project so that I could pull the working yarn to the opposite side (front/back side) of the garment and start the sewn bind off from the wrong side.

It is absolutely not necessary to do all this. Some people make a very simple knitted bind off. This is purely because I want an invisible bid off and the ribbing pattern made it easier to do it this way. Also see illustration.

Then I Kitchener-stitched the 2*2 ribbing to make the side seam.

Hem

I took out the provisional cast on and transfer sts to a 2.75mm needle. My side bands were slightly wider than instructed so I picked up more side stitches for the hem too. 336 sts I think. I did 2*2 ribbing and finished with a tubular bind-off with four rows, i.e. two pairs, of reinforcement.

And that's it! I'm really pleased about this little vest and might make more in different colour schemes in future.

[sourvers]

01: DON'T BE A STRANGER

chapter summary: a familiar face visits and asks for your help. the choice of refusal is dim.

⤷ this is the first chapter of 'Petrichor'! hope you enjoy lovelies. minor plot change for my heart's sake.

cod main masterlist . petrichor masterlist . ao3 link . next chapter .

The Yukon was pleasant and frigid beyond belief. 

Nevertheless, you craved haskap berries, and spring was inching over the horizon; crawling up your spine and shaking you alive. 

You sigh, gingerly closing your copy of ‘Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea’ , your hand instinctively tracing over the gold details as your French pronunciation lingers across the plain of your tongue.  

‘Vingt mille lieues sous les mers’ , You think, the ventures of Captain Nemo still fresh in your mind like Kate’s stilted voice reverberating in your ear: a siren, a horn, a whisper of dread you couldn’t shake. 

It started outside the grocery store, four days ago. 

Whitehorse was a 15-minute drive from your secluded home, found on the very outskirts of the capital and wrapped by lush pine trees. In the summer, grand fields of wildflowers spread across your horizon and became your choice of commerce during the warmer months, knowing how skilled local businesses made soap from dried fireweed. 

You drove into town to buy items you had put off: flour for the pie, extract, a new toothbrush after your other snapped in half, and red yarn. 

The locals kept to themselves and united all at once. A strange, inexplicable harmony you couldn't penetrate or grasp. Perhaps years of unyielding winters carve and shape people, like a sculptor holding the heart of their project. You hoped one day, you’d understand it too. 

Nevertheless, what you did understand was the townspeople's standoffish and overwrought nature. You were new to the town, a woman who only came to town to buy or sell, spending your ‘elusive’ days in or around the outskirts of your home or a vague “out” as you’d phrase it.

A group of the townspeople’s children even titled you the ‘Wicked Witch of the North’ after you accidentally struck over several vases during a summer market. While it was the talk of the town for several weeks; muttered under hasty quiet breaths despite being miles away, it was when the townspeople heard the most of your voice. From the strange resonance in your voice to how you pronounced your ‘o’s and ‘r’s. 

However, there was one citizen who seemed to find your presence jovial. 

“Oh my!” exclaims Sophia, her brown eyes gleaming under the fluorescent light of the grocery store; casting the small store in an odd shade of green, “Even you don’t come this late, what brings you here witch?” she teases, her bright smile flashing like headlights. 

“Well, I’ve come to pick up my ingredients,” you explain unfazed, your eyes scanning the shelves for your brand of flour,  “I have to keep up appearances of course. Can’t scare the children if I don’t tempt them with pie.” 

Sophia chuckles, her laugh bright and boisterous like the sun beaming down on you. “I suppose you can’t.” 

You scoff, yet, the subtle pull of your lips rivals your sarcasm. 

“You know, the new delivery of flour is behind,” Sophia smiles, “Small tip.” 

You take the one in the front, a small cloud of flour coming to life at your touch, “Thank you… I’ll take note of that.” 

Sophia smile dips and she sighs, tilting her head as she watches you promptly take what you need, contemplating for only a few seconds. 

“Do you have something to say?”

Sophia’s breath hitches, however, she gives you a small tentative smile, “You should come over… have dinner with my family some time, being alone in a place like the Yukon isn't good for the soul.” 

Your hand freezes as you reach for the vanilla extract, its sweetness exuding from the bottle like an elixir. Sophia’s eyes don’t reach you from behind the shelves. Despite being considerably older than Sophia, a part of you stung with childish envy. 

You sigh, and hum in mellow amusement, reaching for your thin wristwatch as you emerge from behind the shelves growing shadow, “And who told you that?”

“My grandmother,” stated Sophia, a small bud of pride growing in her chest, “She is our elder in the community.” 

The corners of your lips rise into a tentative and strangely warm smile, one of kinship even. “A wise woman I can surmise.” 

Sophia grins, “More than you can know.” 

Soon, you line your groceries on the belt and Sophia scans them silently. The beeping and incessant hum of the heater were the only words communicating in the air. 

“You must think I’m annoying.” 

You raise a brow, your eyes searching through your wallet before responding, “How so?” 

Sophia scoffs, “Well, I’m a nineteen-year-old store clerk who bothers a grown woman every time she shops. A bit of an asshole move if you ask me.” 

You let out a momentary laugh, swiping your card, “I’ve seen worse assholes, you’re by far the least dangerous.” 

“So I’m still an asshole?” 

“The good kind.” 

Sophia cracks a smile as she hands you the receipt, “If you let people know you more, they’ll like you.” 

“And why’s that?” you muse, stuffing the receipt in your jacket pocket while starting the car.

“I’m sure you know why,” states Sophia, “Don’t be a stranger.” 

You gaze at her, half amused, “I’ll take note of that.”

You amble towards the door, the sun long set as you reach for the door handle–

“Wait! God I almost forgot,” piped Sophia, “A woman came here earlier, I think she was looking for you given her description. Blond short hair, blue-greyish eyes I think? Anyways, do you know anyone like that? She spoke a bit fast too–”

Your eyes widen before promptly sharpening like the blade of a knife, “Thank you, Sophia. I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“But wait-” 

You swing the door open, a blast of frigid evening air brushing against your cheek as the grip on your grocery bag tightens. You let out a slow, restrained sigh, tuning into the crunch of your boots on snow, leading you to your car. Despite the layers you wore, you still shivered as the moon gleamed down on you, its rays tender and soothing. 

Too soothing. 

“It's rather rude to not announce your presence,” you mutter quietly, lacking any bite as you sink your empty hand deeper into your right pocket, eyes fixed on your reflection in the car window and the crunching of snow.

“I hear the townspeople call you ‘The Wicked Witch of the North’, quite the title. I wonder what you did to get it.” 

You hum in amusement, gradually turning your head to face her, the first fall of snowflakes landing on the tip of your eyelashes, “What are you doing here Laswell?”

Kate let out a sharp exhale, a cloud of white rising into the atmosphere. She crosses her arms over her chest, “I need your help, but first, we need to talk.” 

Your eyes go up and down her figure, as your lips curve into a smile, ignoring her pensive face, “As punctual as always. But you didn’t come prepared did you?” 

“Winter’s never been my type.” 

“A shame, you’re missing out,” you quipped, turning your back as you opened the passenger door, “Come on, I don’t have a choice do I?” 

Kate gives you a small smile, uncrossing her arms and shoving her hands deeper into her thin coat pockets, “According to my weather app, it's expected to be spring soon.”

You scoff amused, “Word of advice? Don’t fully trust the weather app.” 

Kate’s smile falters and you become acutely aware of the paper cut between your fingers. You pull out of the parking lot and onto the road. Snowflakes collect on your windshield while the hum of your tires against gravel fills the silence; looping like a song’s beat, over and over. 

“Kate.” 

“Yes?” 

Kate turns her head to face you: your face stiff, steadfast, unwavering; gazing head-on into infinite darkness. Even now- face cast in the evening shadows and dim starlight- Kate’s stomach churned at the sight of you, twisting like a knot. You seemed to be untouched by time: delicate scars still engraved in your skin, acute angles and tender curves still bridging together the map of your face, sharp and ever more subdued. As if deep in slumber. 

It was just as Kate recalled it to be. 

“This ‘help’ that you’re going to ask of me,” you probe, eyes fixed on the road, Kate’s gaze burning through your neck scarf, “I won’t be able to refuse, will I?” 

Kate releases a strained sigh, leaning back into her chair, she gazes ahead. Frost grows on the window. “I don’t want to force you into anything.” 

“But it seems you’ll have to,” you reply smoothly, methodically as if in thought, “Don’t downplay yourself, the only reason I’m here in the Yukon is because of you .”

Kate stiffens and gazes at you shortly, awaiting your words behind the small, tentative pause. 

You shake your head and sigh, lowering your voice, the sound near soothing, “I owe you a debt I will never be able to repay.” 

“I wouldn’t phrase it like that.”

“And yet, here you are.”

You look at Kate for the first time since you’ve entered the car; a sly smile reaching your lips before your eyes swiftly dart away from Kate’s weary stare. 

She notices.  

“Now that we have that out of the way,” you begin, promptly, “What exactly do you need help with?”

“I hope you don’t mind being in a bit of a boy band.” 

You raise an eyebrow, “I think the Backstreet Boys are alright if that’s what you’re referring to.” 

Kate releases a laugh, “It’s a different kind of boy band.” 

Kate gave you a week to pack, say goodbyes if you had any, then depart. 

The file she had given was still placed, rather haphazardly, on your coffee table alongside your book while your craving for haskap berries gradually faded, melting into the Earth like snow. 

You sigh, gradually rising from the couch and crossing your arms. The file staring back at you, its contents spilled across the table while its words were thoroughly engraved in your mind. 

“A covert task force,” you muse, bringing one of the papers to your face, your eyes dancing over the lines, rearranging them like a puzzle, “Four members. All men,” you scoff, “No wonder Kate called it a boyband.” 

Kate had given you a considerable amount of time to pack despite not owning any items worth considerable significance. A duffel bag would do just fine, you’d wear your trench coat, and leave the winter gear behind. 

You haven’t even begun packing.

“God. I even bought groceries,” you sigh, rubbing the bridge of your nose, “Might as well give it to Sophia for free.” 

After Kate stayed for that night, she left the following morning, her phone ringing call after call. 

“Busy?” 

“More than you can imagine.”

A part of you wondered why she decided to visit from the States; probing your mind until you wrestled in bed for an answer. She could have easily phoned you. Nevertheless, Kate plotted peculiarly. A method of thought meant for only those who understood. Perhaps she came to dangle the medicine for your terrors over your lips, to be of some consolation and company. Or more likely, to ensure the handcuffs around your wrists were still burning through your skin. 

“I never said we needed a new asset to the team.” 

Kate sighs, gingerly placing the cup of tea in front of John. Its smell quietly blended with the air, “You and I both know that we’ve run dry on information.” Kate pulled her chair open, taking a seat, “This friend of mine provides a new set of skills to the task force, something to give us an edge.” 

“Then why is there a strain in your voice?” 

Kate stares at John blankly, her voice low, grave even, “After what nearly happened to Soap, we should reconsider who we consider our assets and informants.��

John remains silent, heaving a sigh before gazing out the window, his eyes mellow for a brief moment. The cup of tea still untouched. “When is he coming?” 

A small smile reaches Kate’s lips, “Bold of you to assume it’s a he John,” Kate pulls out a thin file, its contents scarce, “She’s outsourced, not military but has more than enough skills to carry her weight.” 

John reaches for the file, his eyes scanning over the information: height, weight, eye color, name. 

‘Someone from the outside’ he remarks.

“No photo?” muses John, “She wears a mask like Simon?” 

“No time for a photo. Had to call her in quickly. Though, she prefers long coats instead of a mask.” 

John hums, amused, “Anything else I should know? Before telling the team?” 

Kate pauses, her small smile remains, her tone candid, “Negative.”

[godesssiri]

10 Thrifting tips the thrilling continuation

I am a dedicated thrifter and I have done a few thrifting tips posts, things to look for, how to find the best stuff. I had an excellent day thrifting today and decided it was a good day to polish up a draft I had and post it. So read more for tips to get the goodies.

If you buy fairly plain wooden furniture, it doesn’t take a whole lot of expertise to refinish it. You can get a cheap palm sander for less than 50 bucks, and a small tin of furniture wax goes a long, long, loooong way. Or you can get Danish oil if you want a satin finish or Teak oil for a gloss finish. Don’t let Youtube videos make you believe you have to test out 10 zillion different coloured stains unless you are aiming for a very specific look. Just make sure you slap something nourishing on the wood after you’ve sanded it. Also remember that whatever product you use; multiple light coats will come out better than one thick coat. There’s a huge amount of satisfaction in looking at a gorgeous chunk of wood you’ve bought back to life.

French milled/triple milled soap. Old ladies like to give soap as gifts and people tend to stick it in their drawer to scent their clothes and never actually use it, eventually they have a clean out and this unused soap goes to the thrift store still in it’s original paper wrapping. This soap is expensive. This soap is fantastic. The milling process creates a very different product than the bars you get at the supermarket. It doesn’t go goopy and melty even if you leave it sitting in a puddle in your shower, it’s not as drying to your skin, the scent stays on your skin for longer. These bars last for months, it’s well worth picking them up if you like the scent.

Blue Willow. Would you like to have a nice set of china but don’t want to drop a lot of money on something that might look dated in 10 years? Collect blue willow from thrift stores. Blue willow has been around for hundreds of years and it’s going to be around for hundreds more. It can be slotted in to almost any home style, classical, boho, maximalist, scandi, etc, etc. Because it’s been around for so long pretty much every manufacturer has done it, so you find it really often at thrift stores and it’s easy to pick up a couple of plates here and a serving bowl there. Also, because so many companies have done it over such a long period it’s possible to pick up modern dishwasher safe dinner plates that you can use alongside a lovely 100-year-old antique gravy boat.

Gifts. Never feel ashamed of buying gifts from thrift stores. The perfect vintage item is way more meaningful than any amount of new stuff. And if you’re buying for someone who doesn’t like vintage; if something looks new and undamaged how is the recipient going to know that it’s not new?

Get yourself a thrifting routine. You’re gonna find the best stuff if you go often so don’t just randomly go every now and then. People who say they never find anything are the ones who only call into a thrift store every couple of months and expect something amazing to just drop into their lap. Set a day once a week, or every other week or once a month, but make a commitment to go on a regular basis.

If you see something that you think you like but you’re not 100% sure, as long as you can afford it and have a place for it, get the thing. Take it home, live with it. Maybe you’ll decide you don’t really like it and take it back to the thrift store and consider the price you paid a charitable donation. But sometimes you bring something home that you kinda like and end up absolutely loving it. Some of my favourite things in my house are things I wasn’t completely sure about when I was in the thrift store. There’s nothing worse than the regret of leaving something behind because you weren’t sure about it, then deciding actually I do want that thing, but it’s gone, and you’ll never find another quite like it.

If possible, go with someone who knows your likes/tastes. It’s amazing the number of times I’ve been in a thrift store with my mother or best friend, and they’ve found something I love that I hadn’t even noticed. Plus they’ll be dirty rotten enablers and encourage you to buy the thing that you love but you’re not sure you can justify to yourself.

There are a bunch of Youtubers who do thrift flips. If there’s some décor item that’s in all the stores at the moment and you love it, but can’t justify spending money on it, then it might be worth looking up to see if anyone has done a thrift flip and can give you a tutorial on how to turn a thrifted item into the hot décor items of your dreams.

Keep the cycle going. If you have stuff in your home that you no longer use/love, then donate it. If you’ve traded up and found something better but your original thing still has life in it, donate. Even if you originally bought something from a thrift store no one is gonna be mad if you send it right on back (unless you’ve used it to death, and it really should be heading for landfill).

Don’t put yourself in a box. Don’t refuse to get something because it’s not ‘your style’. What is ‘your style’? Things that you love, that make you happy. Do you love this thing? Does it make you smile? Then it’s your style. Honestly style is something that evolves organically, that grows and expands as we’re exposed to new things. If you try to follow a certain style rigidly then you’ll end up with a home that looks boring and cookie-cutter. Throw in something unexpected that speaks to you. Then throw in another of those things and another and another and pretty soon you’ll end up with a home that actually is your style – maybe you just don’t know what your style really is yet. I think of myself as very confident in my style, but I’m constantly stumbling across new things that I didn’t know I needed in my life.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

[darkworkcourier]

A day late, but have a little festive follow-up to this fic. ;D

Words: 4476 Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (reader code named Ladybird)

Contains some naughty business in the bath, oral, good ol' missionary, a little tiny bit of cockwarming, and soap being ladybird's bestie again.

---

It’s half past seven in the evening. You’re up to your neck in honeysuckle-scented bubbles, right ankle propped up on the faucet, stomach comfortably filled with döner and champagne. Eyes closed, shoulders still pleasantly aching from your two o’clock massage, you prop your phone between your jaw and shoulder and say, “No, it’s been awful,” with the perfect amount of high drama. “The room’s tiny, no laundry, nearest restaurant is like a half mile away. I’ve never been so miserable in my life.”

“I call bullshit,” Soap says into your ear.

“Nothing to call bullshit on. If you want to trade places—”

He snorts, and you hear the clatter of pans in the background. “And put up with him when he’s like this? Bet me the fuck not.”

You play coy. “Like what?”

“Wound up like an eight-day clock,” Soap replies. You hear the hiss of a faucet, and then the distant chatter of what you guess is a hoard of family members. “Sexually frustrated.”

Someone in the background asks, “Who’s sexually frustrated?” in a mirror of Soap’s accent.

“You, ya reprobate,” Soap retorts in good humor.

You grin and tilt your right foot a little, idly wondering if you should schedule a pedicure. “Tell your brother I said hi.”

“My friend says ye sound like a bampot,” Soap dutifully reports.

“Soap!”

“It’s a nice thing in Scotland, Ladybird.”

“You know it’s not.”

He laughs, as does his brother. At the same time, you hear the hotel room door open, causing you to smile immediately. It should alarm you how easily you've fallen into this, all smitten and ridiculous. When the bathroom door opens, it takes a hell of a lot of self control not to just hoist yourself out of the tub—soaked, slippery, and naked—and launch yourself right into Simon's arms (or potentially trip and slide into them). Instead, like a normal person, you glance over your shoulder while staying very much in place.

Simon pokes his head in, hair mussed from his beanie, N95 pulled down below his chin. He furrows his brow and mouths, 'Who?' while making a phone gesture with his pinky and thumb.

You point to the bar of (French-milled, lavender-scented, luxury) soap next to your elbow, and he nods in understanding, disappearing back around the door frame. For one foolish second, you think you're safe.

"Alright, so aside from being in a hovel, how is it?" Soap asks.

You turn your attention back to the phone call, stretching your legs out and propping your left ankle on the edge of the tub. It slides a little on the wet marble. "I mean, I get into the bath and come out dirtier, if that gives you any idea."

"Mhmm." He sounds unconvinced. "And the mission?"

Shit. Right. "Y'know," you start, voice pitching higher than you intended. "It's... going."

The bathroom door opens again. You let your guard down, which is one of the classic blunders. Biting down on your bottom lip, you resolutely do not look at Simon slinking into the room like a devious cat.

"Yeah, sounds like you're workin' real hard there," Soap says, completely unaware that Simon's kneeling down beside the bathtub, his jacket discarded in favor of a black t-shirt (his favorite Six Feet Back or Six Feet Down shirt, complete with plague doctor).

Do not look at him. Do not make eye contact. The second you make eye contact, it's over. He's like a sleeper agent.

"I mean, we've gotten more intel in the past few days than we have since this all started," you say, keeping your voice steady even as you see an arm slide into your periphery, following the line of the tub. "Ask Price."

Fingers dangerously close to the water line. You watch them, glaring.

"Don't need to," Soap replies. At the same time, you hear the high-pitched shriek of a kid tackling another. He groans. "Also, I take it back. Trade places wi' me."

He might not want that at the moment, right when Simon's hand slides into the water, disappearing wrist-deep in bubbles, fingers finding your left thigh right away. Finally, you do look at him, since looking away doesn't seem to work. The bastard has the au-fucking-dacity to look bored, like this is just another part of his mission, a box to tick on his to-do list. Scope out Berlin, follow a money trail, chit-chat with some KSK insertion specialist, get dinner, feel up the girlfriend.

In a clumsy motion, you manage to mute yourself long enough to hiss at him, "Don't you dare, Riley."

"Don't I dare what?"

"Ladybird?"

To quote the man feeling you up, fuckin' hell.

"Sorry. Yeah. I'm here," you say, leaving a smeared fingerprint on your phone screen. "I'm, uh, trying to multitask."

"Multitask? On what, exactly?"

"On—" Simon's hand lazily glides over your inner thigh like he has nothing better to do. You swallow hard. "On my report for Laswell," comes your very pathetic answer. (Simon snorts in disbelief.) You have maybe six words total on that report, and none of them are informative. "Trying to do that and figure out my laundry situation at the same time."

"Uh-huuuh," Soap drawls out. Another kid screeches in the background, and you hear his brother (who sounds alarmingly like him) bark something that sounds a lot like 'don't make me go in there'.

"Yeah," you say, as Simon's index finger finds your slit, tracing up and down the length of it while he props his opposite elbow on the edge of the tub, resting his chin on his palm. "It's, uh, tedious."

And you hear the realization. You know Simon and Soap are friends by the shared rate in which the reach epiphanies. "Gotcha," he says. "Should I leave you to it?"

Oooh, he sounds way too smug.

"I mean, talking to you really is the highli-i-ight of my day!" you reply, the long vowel of 'highlight' catching on an upward stroke of Simon's fingers that nearly sends you right out of the tub. And Simon, son of a bitch-in-chief, snickers.

So does Soap. Because these men operate on a wavelength that transcends time and distance. "Right. Is this a bad time to ask if you're still plannin' on comin' up for Hogmanay?"

"What'd he say?" Simon mutters close to your other ear, low enough that Soap can't hear him.

You mouth 'Hogmanay' before biting your lip when the tip of his index finger brushes over your clit, sending a jolt through you that disturbs the bath water. He shakes his head, giving you the worst attempt at a wide-eyed innocent look, seeing as how he can't accomplish it even if he tried.

"Didn't catch that, sweetheart. Wanna put him on speaker?"

"Fucker," you hiss. Against your better judgment, you do as he asks, tapping the speaker icon and setting the phone down on the opposite side of the bathtub. It's out of the danger zone of you dropping it as Simon's fingers do terrible, horrible things to you in your time of vulnerability. "Soap, can you repeat that? You cut out for a sec."

He either laughs or coughs, and it's hard to tell which. "S'askin' if you two were still planning on comin' t' Hogmanay, or if this Berlin thing was gonna take up the rest of yer time."

"Of course we're still going," you reply, right as your legs betray your brain and spread to give Simon more room. "W-wouldn't miss it for anything!"

A long pause. A long, long pause. Then, "Ghost?"

"Yeah, Johnny."

Damnit.

"You coming, too? Or is Ladybird finally gonna come to her senses and ditch you to run away wi' me?"

Simon mutters, "Oh, she'll come alright," into your ear as his middle finger joins his index, drawing heinous circles around your clit while you try not to moan.

"What was that?"

"I said yeah, I'll be there."

"Ah, more's the pity," Soap says mournfully. "A'right. Try not tae keep her up too late, ya mongrel."

"Copy that, Sergeant."

You hear the tinny, percussive sound of something hitting a solid object with alarming volume, and then the squeal of, "Uncle Johnnyyyy! Throw it back!"

Your turn to snicker, even as Simon is being a monster. "G'night, Soap."

Soap gives an exhausted and resigned, "Gooood night and happy holidays, Ladybird. Don't let the bed bugs bite, or give you too many hickeys."

Bastards. All of them. Every single one.

You gratefully end the call, your head falling back to the rim of the tub and that hidden moan finally coming to the surface. "You are the worst," you tell Simon, although each word comes out unfairly sexually-charged.

He looks thoughtful, even as his fingers start teasing your opening. "That's not what you usually say."

"Usually you're not trying to f-finger me in the middle of a-a..." He picks up the pace in the middle of your sentence. You shudder, head rolling toward him, your glare losing its heat. "A fuckin' phone call," is the end result, and the last word is lost in a sigh.

"You don't sound that angry about it," he points out.

No, because you love him and he knows it. He knows that you look at him like the sun rises on one shoulder and sets on the other, and that he looks at you the same way (when he thinks you're not watching). And he knows that maybe, deep down, you kind of get off on the shit he likes to pull.

"I will be angry if you try fingering me underwater," you say. "Water's not lube."

"I wasn't gonna try," he replies. "Figured I'd get you riled up first."

You squint at him, bottom lip pouting out. "The worst," you reiterate.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple. "You like it."

"Wash my hair and I'll like you more."

His hand retreats, to both your frustration and relief. He draws it out of the mountain of bubbles, wiping it off on the bathmat. He's out of your peripheral for one second, a low hum reaching your ears and reverberating down your spine. "The sea salt one or the— whatever the pink one is?"

"Argan oil, and yes to that."

"Spoiled," he says, and while your knee-jerk reaction is to refute that claim, you immediately agree with it the second his fingers touch your scalp.

---

You had plans in Berlin. Nightlife plans, even. There were all manner of shows, concerts, clubs, scenic walks, and nighttime river cruises you could have enjoyed. Those plans, like the ones you had for tonight, got ditched mid-flight the moment Simon had any kind of say.

You can't find it in you to complain. Not while he's between your legs, eating you out like dinner earlier didn't sate him. He fucks you on his fingers, his thrusts matching pace with the quick flicks of his tongue, his dark eyes finding yours in the amber-warm light of the bedside lamp.

You're propped up on a small mountain of stupidly soft pillows, back arching, toes curled into the high thread count sheets. One hand's in his hair, pulling him closer, closer— Anything, any possible means of getting off and finally breaking the tension he's carefully and mercilessly built up inside of you. You're practically fucking yourself on his face, and he looks perfectly at peace with this.

When you do finally come, it's beautiful. It's every neon and LED light you're missing in Berlin, every firework launched over a park, every star in the December night sky. You shudder, twitch, spasm against and on him— Hell, around him as he fucks you through it, coaxing out every last vestige of pleasure on the tips of his talented fingers.

You only realize you're practically suffocating the man with your cunt when you finally let his hair go and he jerks back and gasps. In turn, you gasp, fingers flying up to your mouth as he wipes his face on his arm.

"Holy shit, Simon, I am so sorry," you pant, trying to get your own breathing under control.

"No, no. Don't be," he says, swallowing hard, mouth hidden behind his wrist. "That's exactly how I wanna die when the time comes."

He would say that, but you're still mortified that you accidentally tried to kill him in the name of an orgasm.

At least it's an easy synaptic jump to make in order to think of a way to make it up to him. He lays down beside you—a pretty close mimic of that first time in your room back at base, that first round of tentative touches and vague understandings of each others' bodies. One arm goes around your shoulders, pulling you close to him, letting your head rest against his sweat-damp chest. To your credit, you give him more than a half second of warning before your hand is on his dick.

More like two seconds. That's being generous.

Still propped up on him, you start moving your hand in long, languid strokes. He stills, but you can hear his normally steady heartbeat quicken. Simon ditched the half-protests of 'no, you don't have to' and 'I don't expect it every time' a long time ago, but you still feel that hesitance, the slight shift in his body like he wants to tell you that he's fine; you're not contractually required to pleasure him. You know he wants it, though. That's enough of a reason.

What he doesn't anticipate is you sliding down the length of his body, rolling over a little until your arm and torso bracket one (unfairly muscular) thigh, your hand curled around the girth of his cock, lips brushing the underside. This time, you look up at him, finding his half-lidded, lust-glazed eyes under furrowed brows.

(Once, you like to remember, you did something like this after a mission. He didn't bother to take the mask off, and so you looked up at a grinning skull, greasepaint, and bloodshot eyes from thirty-four sleepless hours. It took so long to get enough gear out of the way in order to pull him out of his pants, but it was worth it to watch him go boneless under your touch. Worth it still when he absolutely passed out afterward.)

Simon's body language doesn't always give everything away. You're trained in the art of watching his tells and cues, the subtle dance between muscle spasms and eye movements, reading out a whole play of emotions that he's trained to hide. He doesn't flinch or tremble when you touch him like this, or when your mouth finally engulfs the head of his cock, tasting the salt tang of precum on the tip. But you do see his abdomen tighten, the way he braces for a punch to the torso.

He braces for you, and what a fucking ego trip that is.

Spurred on by this, you swallow him down as far as you can, until your jaw aches and your throat protests. By mutual agreement, you never take him down to the hilt. He doesn't want you mimicking outlandish porn scenarios with the idea that it would make him happy. Instead, you do what you know for a fact he likes.

Your tongue moves slowly, pressing up under his cockhead, swirling around it, tasting the slit at the tip. You bob your head slowly, savoring the taste and texture of him, the warmth radiating off his body as his breath hitches and he grunts. When you watch him, you see tightness at the corners of his eyes, the way he keeps catching his bottom lip under his teeth and letting it go over and over.

He's awful at making noise, even though you've told him how much you love hearing his sounds. He's got a lifetime worth of experience in keeping quiet at all costs—turning it into an instinct—and so you learned that what sounds he gives you, you've earned.

So he does moan. It's soft, subdued, but the vibration goes through you and makes you wet all anew. It's followed by a soft rasp of breath, and the sight of him fisting the sheets by his hips in a white-knuckled grip. When you swallow him down again, right hand twisting the base of his cock, left hand under his thigh, you feel him shudder and tense.

"Wai— Wait," he manages. Holy shit, you knocked the breath out of him.

You pause, cock still halfway in your mouth. Now it's your turn to tease him, looking up at him with wide eyes and the exact ploy of innocence. He can't play innocent worth a damn, but you've got it down to an art.

"Mm?" you hum around him, and earn another shudder for your trouble.

His expression makes it look like he's working through a particularly difficult puzzle—a jigsaw with no corner pieces. "I wanna... Fuckin' hell, I don't wanna finish like this."

Reluctantly, and with deliberate slowness, you draw your head back enough that his cock slides out of your mouth and smears a small streak of precum along your left cheek. "Oh?" you say, feigning like you simply have no idea what he's insinuating. No, sir.

And like he has a tendency to do, you tilt your head so your right cheek rests against his thigh. You can see the moment he catches what you're doing, a pinch forming between his brows as his brain fights to stay online.

"You... Ah, fuck," he tries, raking a hand through his hair and causing some of it to stand on end. He'd hate to hear you say it, but it's adorable. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, get up here."

"Can't talk about him like that so close to his birthday," you joke, but you follow directions to the letter, hoisting yourself up and slowly dragging yourself across his thighs and abdomen. Your breasts brush over his chest, making him hiss between his teeth. Then you straddle his lap, enjoying the sight of the flushed, hard line of his cock against your thigh. You resolutely do not touch him, even though the temptation is there. He's teased you enough over time, and even though the blowjob was to make up for almost murdering him, you still need to get a little revenge for him trying to make you drop your phone in the bath.

You look up and see him staring back at you, pupils dilated, bottom lip dark from biting, chest heaving. He's the image of sexual frustration (and Soap's words come back to you at the worst moment)—a little bit debauched, a little bit divine.

He doesn't say anything, simply reaching up and resting a hand on the back of your neck, pulling you in for a deep kiss. You taste yourself on him, and you wonder if he tastes himself on your tongue. He holds you there, kissing you in a way that feels utterly molten, a long-lasting burn that you're sure he's sustained all day. When he finally does release you, you feel like you were the one deprived of air, suffocating in his need.

His hand moves from your neck to your face, thumb brushing along the ridge of your cheekbone. He leans in once more to kiss you firmly, and you lean back into him entirely.

Forget teasing. You love this man way too much to keep up the jest.

"Where do you want me?" you ask against his lips.

His forehead's pressed against yours. You can feel his eyelashes, a slow, ticklish flicker against your skin—his nose nudges against yours. "On your back," he says, more than a little breathless. "Please."

You don't waste time, rolling off him to splay out on the pillows and blankets, sinking into them. Simon briefly goes off the edge of the bed, fishing around his backpack for a condom. Then he's back, wedging himself between your knees, hips slotting close to yours. Heat radiates off him in waves, and you get a contact buzz just from the proximity. His lowers his head once, kissing you, biting your bottom lip, tasting you once more.

"You need extra lube or anything?" he asks.

"Not after what you just did to me," you reply, tilting up enough to kiss his jaw as a reward for consideration. "I'm good."

You hear the condom packet rip, see the brief silver flash of the wrapper as Simon carelessly tosses it... somewhere. As you adjust your hips for comfort, he rolls the condom on. Then you feel his hand against your leg, movements slow and gentle as he aligns himself with you.

"You alright?" he asks, out of habit.

You nod, smiling up at him. "Always."

And he slides in.

It's an easy motion, part practice and part wetness from the combined efforts of his mouth and your arousal. He still takes it slow so as to not fill you up all at once. Yet the slow glide is almost more maddening—toe-curling as you feel him thrust in and hear his low moan. It feels like an epoch before he seats himself all the way inside, hips flush to your pelvis.

You hear your name as a sigh, and it rings in your head like a bell. You'll never get over how he says it, the myriad of ways he turns your name into something special. 'Ladybird' is reserved for work, for situations when you need to keep your cover, or when he's feeling surly. But when he says your real name, it's with a certain degree of reverence regardless of if it's said in happiness or anger. Like it means something to him that it's never meant to you.

Then again, you get it. His name feels like a secret, too.

"Fuck," he whispers, one hand on your hip, the other on the bed beside you. "You feel so damn good."

You can't wrangle the mischief edging its way into your smile. "It'd be better if you moved," you say.

He huffs a laugh, but follows your suggestion. His hips roll slowly, testing the waters, eyes gauging your reaction. Honestly, he doesn't need to watch for anything with you—it always feels good.

Sometimes the two of you work up a little banter, joking with each other between thrusts, teasing relentlessly. This isn't one of those times. You can't pinpoint why that is, why your playful back-and-forth from earlier fades into this, all emotionally-loaded and sweet. But you're far from complaining as he fucks you, fills and empties you on each thrust and draw, an ebb and flow with all the power of the tide.

Your right leg hitches around his waist, drawing him in close. He presses himself against you, your breasts firmly against his chest. At the same time, he kisses your cheek, down to your jaw, lower still to your neck. When he gets to your collarbone, you feel the slight pinch of teeth, then see his dark eyes fixed on you.

For a moment, you're not sure what he's doing, but then—

"Ohhh," you say. He and Soap aren't the only ones hitting epiphanies on the regular. "Right. Bed bugs and hickeys."

His smile is quick, a flicker of muscle movement, before he gives you another quick nip to the clavicle. "Somethin' to show off at Hogmanay," he says.

"Soap's never going to shut up about it."

"Good," Simon replies. And then he's sucking on your skin, biting down enough for you to hiss and wince. He keeps his eyes on your face, watching to see if it's too much. (It never is.) And he keeps thrusting in, enough so the pleasure drowns out any pain. When the ache is noticeable, he finally relents, lips finding yours again.

His thrusts quicken, and he buries his face into your neck as you arch off the bed and moan. Your arms go around his neck, holding him close, your bodies moving as a singular unit. He feels so deep, every driving push powerful, sending sparks through your nerves. You gasp his name, shuddering against him as you feel his heart hammering in his chest, reverberating into yours.

Your name is a scrape of his voice in your ear, and then you hear the distinctive hitch that tells you how close he is. He doesn't have to say it—rarely does—and you know him well enough now to catch all the signs. His pace stutters, muscles twitch, and his breath is hot against your skin. All you can do is hold him close, fingers on his back, stroking up and down his spine as he fucks you harder.

He has a tendency to freeze up when he comes. It's a quirk, and one that makes you smile and tilt your head enough to kiss his bare shoulder. He grunts and gasps, hips jerking once, twice, then burying himself so deep that it aches. You stroke his back through it all, feeling the divots of his spine, the hard muscles, networks of scar tissue forming constellations between freckles and moles. You're a little bit wistful at the idea of someday feeling him spill into you, experiencing that extra heat. But for right now, you're content to let him lay there and catch his breath as you lightly run your fingers over his skin. Idly, you raise one hand to card through his sweat-damp hair, fighting back giggles as you make it stand on end.

"What are you doing to me?" he asks, slightly muffled against your neck.

"Nothing."

"Doesn't feel like nothing."

Your thumb brushes down over his forehead, running along the curve of his eyebrow. He sighs against your skin, eyes fluttering closed.

"You gonna pull out any time soon?" you ask, grinning.

"Once I remember how my legs work, yeah."

"Take your time."

"Mm." Slowly, he hoists himself up on his elbows and pulls his cock out of you. You enjoy the pleasurable soreness that follows, rubbing your thighs together like you're pressing the memory between pages of a book. As you do that, he unfolds himself to get off the bed, discarding the condom before standing up to his full height.

When you see him wince, right hand going to rub a spot on his lower back, you can't help but laugh. "Is round two off the table, old man?" you tease.

He gives you a mock glare over his shoulder, but you see the suggestion of a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. "Once the paracetamol kicks in, it's over for you, Ladybird," he says.

You can't wait.

---

'and how many hickeys?'

You sigh, thumbs moving quickly over the keyboard. 'None, you filthy animal. I'm all business.'

The emojis come quicker than usual. A cute little cow, and then grinning shit.

[nancypullen]

Paris, Part Deux

We decided to take it easy on ourselves today and just pretend to be French. That meant lunch at a sidewalk cafe, shopping, and just strolling the streets around our sweet apartment. Lunch and shopping are two of my favorite things. When I say shopping, I mostly mean picking up some small treats for the people I love. Rue Cler always has what I need. Finely milled French soap, amazing honeys from my favorite honey store, and this delightful toy store where I found treasure for the grandgirl.

The Rabbits of Alice, and I certainly fell down the rabbit hole.

I picked up chestnut honey here...

This family honey business has hives all over France - if you want honey from bees that feed on lavender fields, or almond orchards, or cherry blossoms, or whatever, they've got it. I picked up some chestnut honey because it just sounded good. You can get lighter or stronger, so of course I picked the strongest.

On Rue Cler the cheese shop has 400 varieties of cheese. Four hundred! I can't even get a decent Gruyere in Denton. *sigh*

I was snapping photos as we walked, so forgive me. The fish monger, the veggies sellers, the bread bakers, the chocolatiers...everything you need for dinner is here. Even flowers for the table.

The aroma from this store - selling everything from roasted chickens to smoked pork loin made my mouth water.

That shop also sells roasted veggies to take away with your meat. You wouldn't dare walk past it hungry. Thank goodness we were full from lunch.

After making our purchases we dropped the packages at the apartment and continued down the street to just spend some time enjoying Paris.

There are always peaceful paths and parks to get away from the hustle and bustle.

And sometimes, when you look up...

there she is! I'm not sure people understand how enormous the Eiffel Tour is, here's a terrible shot I snapped when we were wayyy up on Montmartre.

So when you're on your way somewhere and you're hurrying across a street and see this between buildings, you have to stop and appreciate it.

I still think she's loveliest at night, but I'll enjoy it any time of day. We crossed the Seine, roamed around, stopped for a coffee, and after a bit more exploring we eventually decided to call it a day... because we've got to be up a bit earlier tomorrow to catch a train to Versailles! We were able to get tickets to the palace after all! I have mixed feelings about the Hall of Mirrors - I know it will be breathtaking, but I hope I don't have to see hundreds of myself reflected back at me. This is the point on vacation where I start looking a tad worse for the wear. We left on the 7th, my expiration date is coming up. Mickey snapped a photo of me shopping on Rue Cler this afternoon and I looked 90 years old. Or maybe that's just how I look now.

I guess it is what it is, if I have to be ugly I might as well be ugly in Paris! I'm going to close this blog and get some sleep. Maybe that will help. It was an absolutely beautiful day pretending to be Parisian, I highly recommend it. I like stopping at the windows of real estate offices and looking at the listings of apartments for sale or rent. We stand there and act very particular. We simply must have a balcony facing the Eiffel Tower, preferably near a good market street like Rue Cler, but also close enough to a metro station. We're in the 7th arrondissement right now, where Ina Garten has an apartment - maybe I should ring her bell and ask for advice.

We'd be besties, I'm sure.

Alright kids, I'm off to bed. Sending you love. Until tomorrow, stay safe, stay well. XOXO, Nancy

[iwait4youalexg]

This is L’Oréal kids pear scented shampoo. You know the one with the eyeball. For the people who use dove soap and think to themselves I wish I could smell like this all the time. For the Virgos. For the serial fancy hotel toiletry thieves. For the people who lust over the overpriced French hand-milled soaps in the beauty aisle of Whole Foods

[merakib]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Juicy Peach Bath Set.

[chasingrainbowsforever]

~ Yellow and Brown ~

[pjfaze]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Burt's Bees Cranberry & Pomegranate Body Bar 5 Oz.

[thebargainswarehouse]

Botanical Sculpted Soaps

French-milled, luxurious vegetable soaps enriched with shea butter & essential oils in captivating botanical scents. Individually wrapped soaps sculpted with a soft bevel and presented in a gift box of three (net wt. 12.9oz).

[burningarcadesandwich-6448f9e7]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Owl Soap Set for hostess gift or guest bath.

[blinkbones]

Our friends the French: practical guide for GIs in France, 1944-1945

This book is a translation of the guide that was given to US GIs sent to France in the aftermath(ish -- see dates) of WW2. It works on a question-answer model. Honestly for the most part it's a funny read. A lot of the "frequently asked questions" are very run-of-the-mill dumb & uninspired musings that anyone normal and bored might have. "They stink :'( Why chief??" "Yes soldier tis because they're out of soap because of the, you know, war." "Also their roads are bad >:(" "Yes soldier tis because of the war again" So it's pretty funny. Like a compilation of a thousand people's most thoughtless ponderings. The other part of the humor is in the political intentions, which are relatively easy to parse out. A lot of the answers aim to remind the soldiers that they have entered a country that suffered war, and to empathize with that. Another fair amount aims to inform and educate on what's be going on -- I think we'd say "combat disinformation" today. Such as, explaining the Lend-Lease agreement, and why decisions have been made (like: why join the war).

The real funny part is in the pretty blatant propaganda, as in "we joined the war because we all care about MORALITY and FREEDOM ! ! ... (and a little bit because it was beneficial to us)" . There was a bit about French farmers "being the most hardworking of them all" that made me laugh -- because I mean, why the French ones in particular? That's hilarious. And another bit, about cars, that went something like this --

"Why are their cars so poorly maintained?"

"Well, they can't maintain them as well, and maybe they do drive worse. But also, it's because our car industry is just extremely superior, and you can't fault them for not being as good :)"

A very dad-read, if I'm honest. A fairly fun look into war history, as fun as that can get. Also similar guides have been produced for various countries and time periods; in case you were curious.

[chasingrainbowsforever]

~ Foggy Area ~