#oiled leather sandals

[birkenstockindia]

Why Natural Leather Sandals Are a Must-Have for Summer - Birkenstock

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[cultivating-wildflowers]

Misplaced a couple of tools, one of which my dad described off-handedly as having “sentimental value”, which led to me panic-searching my mess of crafting supplies. I found the tools. And now my crafting supplies and costumes are organized.

[hederasgarden]

Ab Initio

Summary: Terrified and alone, you find comfort in an unlikely place - Rome’s mightiest Gladiator. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader  Word Count: 2K Rating: Mature. Heavy angst with references to spousal death and SA. Author Note: This is a follow up to Post tenebras lux but in reality it is more of a prologue to that story. I intended to write an epilogue for the story, but I opened my google doc and this happened instead.  Thank you to @ryebecca and @aliensupastar for their beta help. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Everything about this place assaults your senses. The air is thick and stifling, heavy with the sour tang of blood, mixing with the acrid stench of the Gladiators' sweat and leather armor. It clings to your skin just like the weight of their eyes. You try to disappear into the folds of your dress, but there's no hiding from the way their stares strip you bare with every passing second. 

You stumble in the unfamiliar sandals, the soft leather soles slick against the cold stone beneath you as Viggo pulls you along. No one has explained your presence here or told you what is to happen. One moment, you were in the kitchen and the next you were dragged into a bath that smelled of lavender and honey, your skin scrubbed raw by the hands of women who wouldn’t meet your eyes. They oiled you, perfumed you, and dressed you in intricate and lavish clothes more befitting of a Roman bride than a slave.

Macrinus marches ahead of you, the edges of his expensive robes dragging through the dust of the ground. He hasn’t even spared you a second look, beyond the brief, cursory inspection when he first laid eyes on you where he declared that you would do.

"Hanno," Macrinus calls out, capturing the attention of one of the Gladiators in the training yard. 

The man he beckons is tall and commanding, his body a perfect balance of strength and leanness that's a testament to hard-won power rather than sheer bulk. His hair is a mass of curly brown locks that match his rugged beard, but it's his eyes — those deep, dark-set blue eyes — that are the most compelling thing about him. They miss nothing, taking in everything with a subtle, calculating sharpness. When he looks at you, it's not just a glance, it's an assessing, cataloging look.  

Macrinus grasps your shoulders and angles you towards him. “I cannot yet deliver you the general's head but I hope you'll accept a consolation prize."

The words barely leave Macrinus’s lips before Hanno’s response rings out, as cold and flat as stone. "I have no need of her."

“Come now," Macrinus presses, voice laced with a light, almost teasing amusement, but something darker lurks beneath that veneer of geniality. "She’s here, and she’s yours if you want her."

Hanno just stares back, and Macrinus sighs. 

"I have brought her all the way here," he continues, growing a little more insistent. "If not you, I’ll have to gift her to another. Or perhaps the men can share her.”

You thought you knew fear when your husband was killed as the general's army razed your city, but that’s a distant thing to what you feel now. Before you can stop it, a low, terrified sound slips from your lips. It breaks through the tightly held mask of composure you've tried to keep in place. Hanno’s attention snaps back to you in an instant. There’s something about how he looks at you that’s more measured than before, that makes your stomach churn. There's no compassion or kindness there, only a cold calculation. He looks at you like your discomfort is part of some game or unseen test.

You try to steady your breath, but the terror lingering in your chest is a living thing, crawling beneath your skin. It feels impossible to breathe. Macrinus watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction, but Hanno remains silent, his gaze never leaving you.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks. "Very well. I will take her."

Macrinus claps his hands in approval, a sharp sound that cuts through the tense silence. "I told you when we first met that a slave dreams not of freedom, but of his own slaves," he says with a chuckle. "You are not so different, Hanno of Numidia."

Your new master hums, but says nothing else. A push from behind sends you stumbling forward, closer to him. Your heart races and panic surges through you as you instinctively try to pull away, but Hanno is too quick. His grip tightens around your wrist, the roughness of his calloused skin pressing against yours, warm and solid, despite the coolness in the air of the yard.

"Is that all?" he asks. He doesn’t sound particularly interested, just... expectant.

“Yes, yes, go enjoy your hard won prize,” Macrinus encourages with a knowing grin. 

Hanno drops the wooden sword in his hand and shifts his grip to your waist. He spins you to face forward and marches you ahead of him. You’re too numb to resist, paralyzed by the overwhelming terror flooding your every nerve. It’s only when you catch sight of the iron gate of his cell that a flicker of resistance surges through your body. You dig your heels into the dirt and twist in his grasp. He doesn’t even flinch as you try to pull away; his body simply shifts with yours, pushing you forward.

“Please,” you beg. “Do not do this.”

“Stop,” he commands, but he doesn’t sound angry, just tired. 

A scream claws its way up your throat but before the sound can carry, Hanno’s hand is there, pressing over your mouth. As he forces you against the stone wall, his body pressing you into the unforgiving surface, the hand not covering your mouth swiftly moves to the back of your head. His fingers splay wide, cradling your skull before it can slam into the cold stone. The gentleness of the gesture is startling and at odds with the force of his body pinning you against the wall. For a brief moment, his touch feels oddly tender, careful even, like he’s worried about hurting you.

"Easy," Hanno murmurs. “I will not hurt you, but you must calm.” His grip tightens slightly, just enough to make sure you feel his presence, and then he asks, his voice more serious, "Can you do that? Nod if you understand.”

After a moment of stunned silence, you nod.

His shoulders drop and the hand that’s been pressed over your mouth loosens a little, though his fingers still linger. “Good,” he praises and you blink, tears escaping the corner of your eyes. “If I remove my hand will you scream?” He asks.

You shake your head and the weight from your lips disappears. You take in a shuddering breath.

“Who are you?” He questions. “A concubine?”

The word stings, like a slap. You almost choke on them, but you gather enough strength to shake your head. "No. I-I work in the kitchen.”

You can see the confusion flicker in his eyes, quickly followed by something else. His voice comes out sharp, incredulous even. "The kitchen?"

“I do not understand what is happening,” you say. The words tumble out before you can stop them. “No one has told me anything. I was dressed and brought here.” A great swell of emotion sweeps through you and a weak, tearful sound escapes from your throat.

Hanno’s expression shifts. He steps back slightly, his grip loosening just enough to give you some space, but still firm enough to remind you that you’re not free to move. For the first time since this encounter began, there’s a crack in his composure, a flicker of guilt; perhaps even a trace of pity. 

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he says, tilting his head to capture your attention. “I have no desire for you.”

No desire for you? The phrase is meant to comfort you, but all it does is add another layer of confusion to the mess of emotions churning inside. You can’t bring yourself to ask the question burning in your mind: Why, then? Why bring me here, if not for that?

“I will not hurt you,” he assures you again, before releasing your wrist. “But I cannot send you back. I cannot be sure Macrinus won’t punish you if I do.”

“Punish me?” You question. “I-I have done nothing wrong.” The sob that follows is involuntary, a sound so broken it seems to come from somewhere deep, primal. Like an unmoored boat caught in a violent storm, your emotions spin out of control, and everything you suppressed since you were brought to the arena tumbles out. 

"They took me from my husband," you whisper through the tears, your voice barely audible. "My home." Your shaking hands grasp at the delicate golden chains draped around your neck and you tug at them desperately. The metal bends under your fingers, straining, until with a sharp snap, the delicate link breaks. 

“Now they have reduced me to…to….this.”

You reach for the heavy jewels that hang from your ears next. They feel like anchors, pulling you deeper into a place that isn’t yours. With a final, desperate yank, you rip them free and they fall with a dull clink. Tears blur your vision, and you barely register Hanno’s movement as he steps closer. His presence is a sharp contrast to the turmoil inside you — steady, solid, unyielding. You expect him to dismiss your anguish and remind you of your place, but instead, he surprises you.

“I am sorry,” he says sincerely. “I am sorry they have taken so much from you, as they have from me. My wife.” He twists the thin golden ring on his pinky, a shudder passing through his body before he continues speaking. “My city. The only home I knew.”

His unexpected tenderness sweeps away the jagged edges of your panic, and you sink to your knees, exhausted. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, smearing the carefully applied kohl. Hanno shifts closer, and when you pull your hands from your face, you’re unsurprised to find him kneeling in front of you.

“We have both known too much loss at the hand of Rome,” he begins. “But I promise you, I will shield you from what I can.”

“Why?” The question slips out before you take it back. What did he want from you if not service? What kindness is there left in the world for a slave?

His gaze shifts, hardening, and you can almost feel the change in him before the words come. “I am tired of fighting. Of inflicting pain, all in the name of Rome."  He exhales and looks up at the sliver of sunlight that creeps through the bars of his window. “And perhaps because I could not save her,” he admits, his voice faltering. 

When his attention returns to you he lifts a hand as if he means to touch you. It hovers just a breath away from your cheek before he drops it. “But I can help you.” 

The vulnerability in his admission surprises you. You don’t know what to say nor how to react, but Hanno requires neither. He simply offers you his hand and pulls you to your feet when you accept. You let him guide you to sit on the cot, looking up at him tearfully.

“We should remain here for a while. The others will expect me to…” he trails off and you nod. 

He settles himself on the opposite end of the bed and rests his elbows heavily on his knees, hanging his head forward. In the dim light, you can see how the lines of exhaustion etched into his face are deeper than you noticed before. What you can see of his arms and chest are a constellation of scars and bruises. Some are old and faded while others are fresh and raw. Each is a testament to the violence and suffering he's carried with him.

You look at your own hands, roughened in their own way from work over the years but compared to him, your body feels unmarked by anything significant. It seems impossible that you bear no scars, no visible traces of the grief and pain that consume you. 

You don’t know if you can trust Hanno, but his promise feels like a bridge between the wreckage of your life and whatever might lie beyond this moment of darkness. You want to believe him. You want to hope. 

It’s all that’s left to you now.

Next part of the series - Post tenebras lux

♡

My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.

[juletheghoul]

educational

a/n: I still have so many asks for this man, and I have not forgotten them! Thank you to everyone who voted, to everyone who takes the time to comment and reblog on my posts. You have no idea how you all have reinvigorated my love for writing, a million hugs and cuddles for all of you. I always welcome any and all comments and questions or deep dives! This isn't beta'd, barely proofread. Hope you enjoy 💕xo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 2.3k

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series masterlist

The sun was oppressive. It beat down with a vengeance and the fan in your hand did nothing to alleviate the waves of heat permeating the market. You had half a mind to head right back to the villa, to ask Marcus to bring you on another day when you could focus on anything other than the drops of sweat sliding down your spine, making your new robes stick to your skin. Or the way the stiff leather sandals on your feet rubbed your ankles raw. 

Running back to the villa didn’t seem right however, it tasted too much of defeat, of a refusal to accept your new place in this world and the thought of your General, your husband being disappointed in your inability to shop for yourself put eels into your belly. Gritting your teeth, you continued your hunt for the things you needed. 

“What about this Domina?” Your new attendant, a girl a few years younger than you had been when you’d first joined his house pointed at a blessedly covered stall, golden trinkets glittering where the sun poked through gaps in the covering catching your eye. 

“Let us look.” You smiled, making your way over. There you found a lovely perfumed oil for your skin, at a fairly reasonable price. You also found some of the incense Marcus liked, and a new brush for his hair. You bought them, even though he had sent you with the intent to buy things for yourself. With your purchases made and in the hands of your guards you decided to finally return home, when another stall caught your eye. Gauzy sheer linens covered most of it but when the warm breeze blew them aside, glittering jewels flashed. 

The woman running the stall smiled when you entered, she had streaks of grey in her hair, lovely oiled skin and eyes as dark as night. 

Opals with fire caught inside them hung on golden racks, rubies the size of walnuts, emeralds as green as fresh laurel leaves glittered, all of them entrancing you enough to pull your hands out to touch them. 

“With your skin, those would look lovely.” She walked over, pulling dark blue sapphire earrings from their place on her wall and holding them to your ears. “Beautiful.”

“They are gorgeous, I must admit.” Marcus had told you to buy whatever you wanted, had given you enough coin to splurge but you hesitated. Your eyes fell to a small book on a shelf, a picture of a man and a woman on the cover. 

“That is… very educational. Especially for a married woman.” She pulled the book off the shelf, placing it into your hands for you to peruse. The contents made you gasp. It was a guide book, a guide for the art of love. The art of copulation. There were diagrams, positions to try, all manner of things you’d never even thought of. 

Heat rushed to your face, the thought of showing Marcus, of trying them with him made the heat grow and spread to the place between your thighs. 

“You must have it, I have no doubt your husband will enjoy it, you as well.” She winked and you laughed a nervous little laugh, nodding conspiratorially. 

“You should adorn yourself for him, something glittering, something precious.” She gestured to the jewels once more and you bit your lip, wondering what to choose until you saw what looked to be a belt of different coloured gems. 

“I like this–is it for my waist?” You slid your fingers across it. 

“That would be perfect, not just your waist my lady.” She undid the clasps and arranged it, draping it onto your body. “Usually the ladies wear them over a simple robe to elevate it, but I think it would look just as beautiful against the skin, if you take my meaning.” You could see it, the top part of it like a necklace, with a long line of gems between your breasts leading down to connect with another line of it like a belt. 

With an ache for him, and a considerably lighter purse, you left with your purchases and made your way home once more. 

-

He was occupied, held up in his study with representatives from the Emperor, a senator and a whole host of others taking up his time with important matters. You left him to it, and busied yourself with your own preparations.

The tub was steaming and fragrant when you submerged yourself. Dried flowers and sweet smelling oils swirling with every movement, all manner of different elements coming together to soften your skin and make you shine for him. Thoughts of what he would think of your book fill your mind as you cleanse yourself of the day, musings about what he might choose pull at the corners of your lips as you run the clean washcloth across the expanse of your chest and thighs.

You oil your skin once out of the tub, arrange your hair and adorn yourself with jewels. Golden bracelets and anklets he’d gifted you on your wedding night, an armband shaped like a snake, earrings that dangle and trap the light when you move, the special body chain from the stand. You feel like a goddess, like a priestess readying yourself for worship. 

By the time he comes to bed the need, the arousal is fierce enough to make your hands shake. 

“Apologies my love, I was hoping to have been done sooner but—“ he catches sight of you then, sprawled out on the bed, an airy robe leaving nothing to the imagination, the small book in your hands. His eyes devour you, robbing him of his words, making your heart race.

“I have something for you, something for us.” You rise, exaggerating the swing in your hips with every step you take towards him. Your adornments jingle, a pleasant sound rings with every stride. 

“Do you now?” He licks his lips, and presses his palm to his growing bulge at the sight of you. “I have something for you too, growing stiff and aching.” His hand reaches for you as you get closer, pulling you into his embrace. 

“I do not doubt that.” You laugh, pressing your palms to his chest to keep him from pushing you onto your bed.

“I would very much like to give it to you, nice and deep.” His eyes are so lust blown that the warm brown is now a cold black. A moan escapes at his words, at the feel of his kiss on your throat.

“First, I would like you to look through the book I bought today.” He frowns, confused at the apparent shift. “I believe it could be very educational for us.”

If you weren’t so aroused, so excited to experiment you might have laughed at his expression. Naked shock was all you could see on his face. Never, in all your years within the villa, within his presence had you ever rendered him speechless before. The effect is titillating.

Wordlessly he peruses the pages, cheeks flushing, attention rapt at the diagrams and instructions shown within.

“Gods above.” Your smile deepens at the low whisper of his voice, nerves fraying with anticipation. 

“I am particularly curious about this one.” With trembling hands, you flip the pages to a certain diagram, where the woman is sitting on the man's lap but facing away, her legs closed tightly between his legs underneath her. The thought of Marcus having you that way floods your body with heat. His mouth at your ear, his hands free to slip between your legs or hold onto the weight of your breasts. 

Silently he studies the book, eyes intent. His quiet intensity fills the air between you, it makes you wring your hands with nervous anticipation, almost makes you wonder if you’ve gone too far. Your nerves fray the longer he stares, the old fear of disappointing or upsetting him creeps up your spine, until he smiles and licks his lip. 

“You, my love, continue to surprise me.” He closes the book and sets it aside. 

“Do I?” You take his hand in yours, and press it to your lips, desperate for his approval and for his love.

“Oh yes. Just when I think I cannot be any more fortunate, you spoil me and show me another facet of your love.” He pulls you forward, guiding you to stand between his spread legs at the edge of your bed, pulling the robe off to expose your nakedness.

“Look at you.” His palms slide from the sides of your thighs past your hips where they touch the jewels that adorn your waist. Up, up, up until his thumbs flick at your nipples. 

“You are yourself, my most precious jewel. So beautiful–” He presses his face to your breast, his lips gliding across your skin between words, “-kind, adventurous and brave, sweet as summer fruit,” he skims his nose over the top of your breast before licking at the stiff peak. With a sigh you hold him close, fingernails scratching at his neck, slipping through the fine grey waves, cradling his head close. 

Your heart races as he pours his love onto you, any and all fears are quieted to nothing under the silky slip of his palms against your back. His mouth forms a tight seal around your nipple, enough that it makes you gasp. His smile is predatory, confident and it makes you laugh; half nervous, half exhilarated. 

Your breasts shine with the oil, and his spit when he lets go. You take the opportunity to pull his robes up and off. Your mouth waters at the sight of his manhood, hard and leaking for you. 

“Turn around.” His voice sends a shiver down your spine, deep and commanding, irrefutable. His lips press to your shoulder, moving down to your lower back, you squeal in shock and delight to feel his teeth on the meat of your ass. 

“I could devour you whole, do you know that?” You can hear the smile in his voice.

The arousal is enough to choke you, enough to ease the glide of himself against your sex. Butterflies swarm as he pulls you back, guiding his own weeping tip to the tight fist of your cunt until you sink, slowly onto him. You gasp at just how deep, just how full you feel like this. 

“Gods above, woman.” His grip on your hips is tight enough to bruise, his voice strangled in your ear.

It is so much better than you had imagined.

His thighs bracket yours as you adjust to the fullness, slick dribbles out of you and drenches his lap when his hands do exactly as you hoped they might. With deft fingers he pinches and pulls at your sensitive nipples, teasing the peaks mercilessly as you begin a tentative bounce on his lap.

“Is this how you wanted it?” His breath tickles your neck, painting your skin in gooseflesh. 

“Yes, yes Marcus, just like this-“ your head falls back onto his shoulder, the arousal so fierce it burns through you, sets your heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird, trapped in the cage of your ribs. 

“Take it, take your pleasure from me my love, ride this cock—“ he bucks up, pulling a pained moan from somewhere inside you. 

“That’s it, you can do it, milk my fucking cock.” His arm tightens around your middle and you can feel the jewels pinching at your skin, the edge of pain only heightens the pleasure coursing through your veins, ripping a swathe through your body in the shape of him, always him. 

Thick fingers force their way between the tight press of your thighs, pinching at your swollen clit and it’s almost too much. Sweat beads in your hairline, slips between your bodies as you roll your hips harder, clenching around him with every tight bounce. 

There are no more words, only the harsh pant of his breath in your ear, the slick, vulgar sound of your wet arousal; the whimpering heralding your climax. 

His fingers leave your clit and you whine, the demand for them to return on the tip of your tongue but he quells it, pressing those same fingers into your mouth. He takes the saliva from your mouth, and returns his fingers to their task. The slip is just right and with a silent scream you freeze, squeezing him tight enough for him to hiss, tight enough to do just as he wanted and milk him for all he’s worth.

His grip around your middle softens, the jewels have left indents in his skin as well as yours, you pull his arm up to press your lips to it. 

Once the blood has settled and you’ve caught your breath, you pull away from him, turning to settle in his lap again only this time facing him. 

His expression is pure bliss, flushed with exertion and smiling with the ghost of his climax still painting his features. 

“I must send you to the market more often, spoil you as you spoil me.” You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck just as his wrap tightly around your waist.

“So you are pleased with my purchase then?” Your lips press to his mouth, his cheek, the little hairless spot on his chin, your favourite constellation to map out. 

“I am more than pleased with it, but I must study it in depth. So many things to try, so many lessons for us to learn from this book, hmm?” He skims his nose across the column of your throat, smiling into your skin as your heart races for him even with your pleasure still coursing through you. 

“…And you know that I am a quick learner, my love.”

-

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[y3ager]

MATERIAL GIRL.

— and what do you give the girl who has everything? two rich boyfriends!

jean k. x eren y. x black!fem!reader

tags: modern au, fluff, polyamorous relationship. socialite!reader. lovergirldeepdown!reader. 4k word count. inspired by this blurb.

HAILING FROM OLD money— your father the CEO of a century old automobile brand and your mother the third generation runway model—you have seen all there is to see, worn what there is to wear, had every priceless stone dangle from your neck and fingers, and tasted the most decadent of foods. the belief that just superficial things would be enough to sway you offends you greatly. if you don’t have it, you will have it as if it’s your right at this point. it takes much more than dinner and a yacht ride to make you squeal.

and that’s what’s so tiring about the whole dating scene. the pool is filled to the brim with arrogant nepotism babies in khaki shorts and sweaters around their shoulders. they’ll never worry about a thing because daddy kisses the ass of this man and mommy grins in the face of that woman, and by god, do they make it known. if another man brags about owning original modigliani pieces over dinner, he’ll be met with an oyster shell to the eye. who are you supposed to be, some bright-eyed influencer? please. check the pedigree.

things changed when you met them, however. one in the summer, and one in the winter.

you were on the jet back home from italy when hitch, a girl you’ve known since you were a tyke, bombarded your phone with messages about christening her new penthouse with a pool party you just had to come to, lest she’d drag you there. after confirming your attendance, you rolled back over in the white leather reclining seat and pulled your silk eye mask back down, making a mental note to get your braids refreshed and place an order for a new bikini.

you’re reborn as a literal doll, the braids on the left side of your head coaxed into an intricate butterfly while the others lay flat against your scalp in faultless rows and hang low to your hipbones. white, white, white everywhere, from the nails, the strappy swimsuit, the miu miu sandals; a beautiful contrasts against your glistening ebon skin dusted with body shimmer for good measure. perfect, as usual.

hitch’s new high rise penthouse is something out of a multimillion dollar budget drama, with its dozens of crystal clear windows and modern interior. sitting far away enough from the city to avoid the hustle and bustle, but close enough to gaze at the twinkling lights, it’s practically a palace for the dreyse corporation heir.

champagne flute filled with 1820 juglar cuvée, you mingle amongst the next generation of the one percent. hitch’s friends, and your friends by proxy you assume, are a breath of fresh air. human.

but there’s one person amongst the gaggle you don’t recognize. from your spot next to the slightly tispy miss dreyse, your dark eyes glance over the rim of your ivory framed sunnies, glass rim tapping absentmindedly against lined, glossed lips. light brown mullet, slightly tanned skin, dark brown eyes...

“hitchie...” your elbow gently bumps into the blonde’s sides, snatching her out of her mild stupor. “who’s that?” you ask innocently, gesturing with your half full flute. it’s casual, inquisitive.

hitch squints a little bit, pure concentration written all over her features as she tries to put a name to the face. “oh!” when the name comes to her, her hand meets the back of your shoulder in a kinda hard slap, totally unintentional, of course. “jean, kirschtein! you know, from-” a hiccup interrupts her introduction, making her burst into a quick giggle. “-the oil company.”

the pieces begin to come together, you know the names all of the elite; the braun’s, the leonhart’s, the ackerman’s, names listed amongst yours and names you close deals with. clans with power, influence, wealth, distinction.

he, jean, is walking over now; casual with an easy stride that shows he’s in no rush, he’s confident. he pays his respects to the girl of the hour, congratulating her on her new playhouse before her attention is diverted by another guest calling her name to get her to come over there. hitch slips off, but not before discreetly tapping your lower back in excitement; an unspoken ‘get him.’

“jean,” he introduces himself, extending his hand in a polite greeting. “i wanted to speak to hitch, but i wanted to talk to you, too. you are breathtaking.” his eyes drink you in, from head to toe, even though they’ve been roaming your frame since you first caught his attention. the heir simply cannot get enough. “but you get told that a lot, yes?”

“thank you.” your lips spread into a small smile, one hand slipping into his larger one as the other pulls off your sunnies, sticking one of the arms down into your top. “i’m ___” jean bore a lean swimmer’s build, dark navy beach shorts hung low on his hips, and his tanned skin decorated with a dusting of faint, brown freckles over his body. years of private villas and yachts, no doubt. he was impossibly tall, too, you find yourself having to gently tilt your head back to see his face fully. it was cute from afar, maturely handsome up close. was that a faint hint of a mustache? it was hot.

jean repeats your name slowly, enjoying the feeling of that line of syllables rolling off his tongue. “i’d love to get to know you more. ___, you’re so beautiful. i have to impress you somehow. name it,” his other hand comes up to rest of top of yours, successfully encasing it in a gentle hold. an excuse to touch you just a little bit more. “i’ll make it happen.”

your smile becomes a grin, and your dark eyes glint mischievously under your delicate lashes. one quick test, because where’s the fun in not initiating one? you just want to see what he’d say, pick at his brain. what sweet words will he spin from his golden cords now? “but jean,” you begin softly, “what if i was the type of girl that liked a man that took control? told me we were doing this, at this time, on this day, and in my prettiest red dress?”

“it’d be rude, ___, at least in my eyes, to so quickly assume i had a right to your time, and drag you around this way and that. allow me the privilege of occupying your time, and space.”

before you can catch it, one of your expertly threaded and sculpted eyebrows quirks up in mild surprise. you beckon him a bit closer to your face with a wave of your acrylics. “good answer,” you tease, honeyed voice playful and whispery. “phone? i can put my number in, and we can talk about how you can try to romance me when i have my schedules laid out in front of me.” you watch as he fishes the device out of his shorts pocket.

you were captivating afar, but up close with your tawny skin soft, glittery, and emanating an intoxicating vanilla scent, your dark eyes glistening with mirth and playfulness… it makes jean’s body go into some type of shock, his heart plummeting to his feet and his blood running cold but racing through his veins at the same time.

“well then,” you chime as you save your digits into the millionaire’s phone, the contact simply your name with no bells or whistles to adorn it. “i hope we can get to know each soon, mr. kirschtein.”

jean thinks that pearly white smile will be the death of him.

…

every year, no matter what, your father throws his annual christmas party. you long assumed that it brings him a special type of happiness because your normally humble father goes all out for them, each year being better than the last. he flies out the best chefs in the world to cook for hours, orders the tallest, greenest tree for the foyer, and has the house cleaned til someone could check their reflection in the perfect marble floors. when it comes to this, the man skimps on nothing.

you take it upon yourself to make the most of it, requesting custom design dresses from the most exclusive sewing tables over in Europe, shoes fresh from the runway. only the very best for you, the heiress, the crème de la crème, the girl who has never known the word no.

“dance with me?”

you had been absentmindedly swirling your wine glass by its delicate stem, attempting to place its origin (red, tart-like with its cranberry flavor and a strange orange bite near the end), when you’re approached. once you turn your head, you’re meet with striking green eyes and a sharp little smile.

“you looked bored, and that’s what these parties are for, right?”

eren yeager, the german-american son of grisha and carla yeager, 2nd generation genius neurosurgeon with a net worth in the 7 figures, and the just-as-talented, third generation wedding gown designer. according to the rumor mill, after graduating in the top of class in one of those ivy’s upstate, he gallivanted across the country (no, the world) as the not-so-favorable yeager son. of course, there are entirely too many eyes on the yeager clan for grisha to do too much of anything and a son can do no wrong in a doting mother’s eyes; so eren is left free to his disagreeable desires. everyone wonders how long that will last.

steely dark eyes and your naturally neutral face does nothing to deter him. you decide to indulge him, slipping your hand into his and raising up, allowing him the luxury of whisking you to the dance floor. “i guess i don’t see why not.”

“great.” his hand is soft and a little cool against your own, the woody, cedar notes of penhaligon the inimitable gently wafting off his skin and pressed shirt. unbeknownst to you, a few pairs of eyes bore into yeager’s back. the arrogance he has to whisk you away so early into the party, especially with it being his first one. if eren was the wiser, he’d revel in their envy.

there’s a handful of other couples waltzing across the floor when you two arrive. your fingers thread through his as his free hand finds a respectful place on your waist, blessed with the feeling of the smooth skin exposed by the opening in your dress.

no matter how much money your father makes, he’s an old black man at heart. old r&b plays from the expensive sound system he had installed, tevin campbell’s can we talk playing through the speakers. the irony of the situation isn’t lost on you. nonetheless, you hum nonchalantly to the tune and glide around the floor with your partner.

“i gotta ask, do you enjoy these things? or does your dad put you up to it?” your arm is held above your head and you’re spun around in a quick circle before being guided back to eren’s chest. face still impartial, you nod your head towards your five o clock, the wavy blonde strands dangling from your delicate updo tickling your face. a table teems with gifts for you and you only, bachelors from afar vying for a wisp of your attention with shiny, expensive gifts. they fail to realize that a girl like yourself isn’t so easily bought. but, it’s their money not yours, and few things in life bring you greater joy than pulling ribbon and wrapping paper from luxury brand boxes.

“of course i do. i’m not ‘put up’ to anything. i dress up, i get my presents. what isn’t there to love?” manicured hand splayed across the man’s back, you’re dipped towards the floor. you’re one to give credit where credit is due, yeager is a good dancer; the confidence in his movements isn’t a lame front and he maintains the delicate balance between taking the lead and dragging his poor partner around. since this is suddenly an interview, you have questions of your own. “when i have time to go through them, will i find your name on anything?”

“of course you will. be pretty damn rude to show up to a party empty handed. especially when it might be my only chance to get a gift for the princess.” a name your normally cringe and scrunch your nose at sounds surprisingly nice passing by his lips. he grinned boyishly. “no hints.”

“i can wait. for your sake, i hope it’s no ring. it’s going straight into the garbage.” just the thought of such a “present” makes your blood want to boil. who raised these “men”? i mean honestly, what brain dead fool buys a ring for a girl who didn’t even know his face? and expected her to wear it? you would sooner die and go to hell first.

“no way someone is that dumb. you’re fucking with me.”

“what do i have to lie for?”

"well, taking a look at these guests, i take it back. some of these bastards look dumb enough to pull a stunt like that." eren scans the array of guests over your shoulder, and you can't even feign offense for your father's sake. scanning over a guestlist for former flames and explaining why you didn't want them in attendance would take too much time, and you really didn't feel like explaining "relationship troubles" to your dad of all people. loved him as much as you did that really wasn't his business. besides, watching them shiver and skulk away from your disinterested and annoyed glance made up for everything. "are you a betting woman?"

"did you waste grisha's money on a degree in journalism?" your eyebrows furrow and eren laughs again.

"you're funny, ___. most of our peers aren't so witty. and if it so pleases her majesty, i want to bet on the odds of one of these dumbasses putting a ring under your tree." eren's green eyes stare down into yours, gleaming with playfulness, mirth, and confidence. "what do you say? someone does, and we can go on a date, just us two, and you can smile and laugh a little bit."

"and if there's no ring?"

"i'll leave you alone and fall in place in your long string of broken hearts."

luck has always been on your side. look at the family you were in born in, the riches that are your birthright! the universe has never dealt you a bad hand and surely wouldn’t start now. and worse case scenario, you hang out with one of the few men that can mark your plump lips twitch in the shadow of a giggle. “fine.” your brown eyes meet his green, and neither of the waver. “deal.”

several days later, gifts from around the globe surround you. handbags, shoes, dresses, envelopes bursting with cash; you’ll have to tell your dad you need some walls knocked down in your already spacious closet to make room for more. amidst all this, though, a godforsaken ring is gripped between your fingers. if looks could kill, it would melting and dripping from your grasp. holding it like it’s contaminated, you snap a picture to send to yeager:

‘i’m free the 3rd weekend and tuesdays.’

…

as temperatures rise again, you spend the next few months allowing jean kirstein and eren yeager the luxury of whisking you away when your schedule permits.

the former is a bit... old fashioned, in a good way! you're led off to slow paced, cozy dates; the two of you roaming italian streets, attending shows in their original opera houses, he never strayed you out of the bubble you two were born in. it was casual, soft, predictable in a good way.

eren on the other hand, spent money like it would burn through his pocket if it sat there too long. he spent money like a man who just felt its crispness in his palms and was addicted to the feeling, knowing deep down it'd never stop flowing for him. you're frequenting the night scene in your tight, revealing dress, his firm hands on your hips as you two grind to the pounding beats. shopping spree dates that lasted all day, if your hand so much as brushed it, it was bought, packaged up, and in the car. spontaneous flights abroad, stealing you away for weekends. it was exhilarating.

they both provide the things you're looking for. jean is the type of man you imagine yourself settling down with one day, when the whole young and turnt shtick melts away into something more domestic and slow paced. he has gentle hands and treats you so delicately, softly. his reliability will be something you can learn to lean on and need.

eren could possibly be that type of man too, but for now he has a fire, impulses that keep you oh so entertained. having everything in the world gets boring, and eren brings that spark that you crave.

you ruminate at your vanity. hair tied down and tucked away under a silky soft bonnet, you run your gua sha across your moisturized face, long sweeping strokes that end with a gentle tug. eye masks rest on your face, your feet clothed by a exfoliating mask, and a fluffy robe envelopes your body. you stare at your reflection, you're the only one who gets you.

you're really at a crossroads. you choosing between something is unheard of. you're ___, you get everything you deserve and want tenfold. you like jean, you like eren. the way they look at you with such adoration, how their hands and lips caress your body, the sweets words they declare, and how every promise they've made to you remains unbroken, oh how they must certainly feel the same for you.

as greedy as it may make you sound, you want both. your cake and to eat it too. two of your richest peers fawning over you day in and day out, them caring for you and you caring for them. them loving you, and you loving them. it’s a dream that will be your reality.

…

after a long day at sea on one of many jean’s yachts, the sun beaming down on not only the beautiful blue water but the two of you, entangled in each other’s arms, docks at the private harbor.

you’re running your fingers through your french curl braids as jean talks to one of the dock’s attendees, slightly sleepy from your sunbathing session. the gentle breeze of the day brings the smell of saltwater up to your nostrils and you hear seagulls squawking from spots on the wooden posts. obviously, a day at the water leaves you craving seafood, juicy lobster tails with a decadent pasta on the side. your daydreams of the soon to be dinner are interrupted by an extremely familiar “yo!”

heads turn, and it’s none other than eren striding across the dock’s walkway towards where you and jean are standing. his green eyes shine at the sight of you, the hot pink of your two piece bikini a perfect contrast to your skin and showing curves and bends he’d worship for the rest of his life. oh, and jean’s here too.

another woman might falter, her heart catching in her throat and sweat beading up on her flesh as her suitors stand before her, but you’re the epitome of calm, brown eyes smoothly meeting eren’s. there’s no ring on your finger, and besides, you know what you’re after right now.

“haven’t seen you in a while, yeager.” knowing it’d be cliche, jean fights against the urge to wrap a protective arm around your waist. “done gallivanting the world?”

“seen all there is to see kirschtein, and you say that like it’s insult. what use is money if it just sits in accounts collecting dust.” eren looks at you again, god you’re a sight for sore eyes. “especially when there’s a woman like her to spend it on.”

jean’s eyes can’t help but to roll. what a cornball. “well, good chat, but ___ and i are on a little time crunch. i’m taking her to niccolo’s, especially after being on the water.” his hand slips into yours, taking charge but not tugging you along. you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this side of him.

“well, now that you mention it, i could go for some niccolo’s too.” eren’s grin is shit-eating. what a cute dynamic these too have, one you know has a bit more bite to it when a lady isn’t in their presence. “how about i join? matter of fact, my treat.”

“that won’t be necessary.”

“i insist.”

“you two would argue all day if i let you,” you interrupt this small tussle, and now their attention is back on you. a manicured hand raises up to cover your small yawn. “like an old married couple.”

“it’s all in good fun,” eren’s shoulder nudges jean, and if jean had lasers for eyes, the youngest heir to yeager fortune would be a pile of dust before your feet. “we go way back.”

jean ignores him entirely, but eren finds it hilarious. “what he’s suggesting is insane, ___.”

you give a gentle shrug of your shoulder, coyness at the ready. “it’s nothing serious, it’s a lunch date between friends, and i bet you’d like to catch up.”

jean’s jaw tenses. he turns to you completely as eren looks on curiously. “i think it’s a sign that you say that, ___. i’ve been meaning to have this conversation with you for a while. yes, we are friends, but i want to be more with you.”

this moment, with the waves crashing across the dock, the sun illuminating the two of you, jean clasping your hands tight, would’ve been a soft, tender, picturesque one had it not been for eren’s booming laughter.

“oh, so now this is a pissing contest, huh, jean? well, since we’re confessing feelings, i have my own to speak for you.” his outburst breaks your gaze, and you and jean both turn in unison. “___, i want you to be my girlfriend, and i’ve felt this way for a while. i’ve been waiting for just the perfect moment, but i can’t let this jack-off take this one for himself right?” comically, you’re put between them, each of your hands in theirs.

“i…” this takes tact, a delicate way of stringing together words and honestly, with their eyes boring into yours, you find yourself falling just a touch short.

“i respect any decision you make,” jean assures.

“___, i will do anything for you,” eren promises.

any decision. anything.

you bit your bottom lip, hands minutely twitching in their clasp. you lean in neither direction, at the center of them. “any?”

and then there’s a beat of silence. and everyone’s looking at each other. this feels like a scene in a sitcom, something that should be accompanied with a laugh-track, but there’s no closed mouth that’s been fed.

“because in the time i’ve gotten to know both of you, i’ve begin to care for both of you. and i’ve made great memories with the two of you. i know i could make even more. i don’t value any time spent with you over each other’s.” your voice shakes just a tiny, tiny bit, vulnerability creeping in. “you too make me… so happy.”

eren cuts the silence first, ever the impulsive one. “i’ll do it.”

“you cut me off,” jean quickly interjects. eren really puts him on his toes, ignites an aggressive fire deep within, steps on just the right nerves. “i’m doing it too.”

“i said i’d do anything.”

“and i said i’d respect any decision.”

“okay!” you voice crashes down like a gavel. “okay. i’m glad that you two are hearing me out,” a smile tugs at your glossed lips, this feels so easy and lighthearted, a stark contrast from the seriousness you impose upon yourself. already, you feel yourself loosening up, because the two of them bring out the true, relaxed you like nothing else can. “but for our sanity the bickering needs to come down a notch before we all kill each other, yeah?”

two strong pairs of arms envelop you. it takes some effort, but you wrap your own around the two of them. three heads together, you find yourselves laughing. a weight eases of your shoulders, but not because you got your way, but because you know this is the death of a mask created by the circle you were born in. a mask that hides the love you can feel in an attempt to guard it.

“well, we won’t kill you.”

nov 13. 2021. nov 9. 2023. i nearly gave up. i almost threw in the towel. but goddammit she’s done. praise god.

[bebemoon]

look for the name: KHWEZI

@pinkcanceress

cult gaia "skye" asymmetrical button-up halter top + matching "leilani" button-up skort (both in "lollipop multi" color)

{hair} braids, twists and buns (as taper holders) @ jean paul gaultier a/w 1994

versace pink pvc crystal heeled sandals

kindred black "a woman is fire" perfume oil

staud "goodnight moon" leather top-handle bag in pink

[victusinveritas]

Jesse Zuo aka 左晨霄 aka Chenxiao Zuo aka Chxzuo (Chinese, b. 2000, Beijing, China, based New York, NY, USA) - Leather & Sandal Wood, 2024, Paintings: Oil on Panel

[sukunaslilgurl]

Blades of betrayal

Chapter one: The new stranger

The wind howled through the mountains, carrying shards of ice and snow that cut against bare skin like invisible blades. It was a day colder than death itself. The trees stood silent, their branches heavy with snow, bowing under the weight of winter’s cruel hand. The ground was blanketed in white, a sea of frost that seemed endless. And in the midst of the storm, a lone figure moved steadily through the swirling tempest.

She wore a white-and-black kimono, its long fabric flapping wildly in the wind, like a ghost drifting through the storm. A wide black hat sat low on her head, casting her face into deep shadow. Her hair, tied back in a tight braid, was hidden beneath the hat, and a thick black scarf wrapped around her mouth and nose, concealing her features entirely. Only her eyes were visible—sharp, cold, and glinting faintly beneath the brim of her hat, like frozen steel.

But it wasn’t just her presence that unnerved those who saw her. Strapped to her back were two gleaming katanas, their hilts intricately designed, hinting at their deadly craftsmanship. A massive naginata was strapped diagonally across her back alongside them, its curved blade peeking over her shoulder, a weapon that spoke of a warrior who mastered not just the art of close combat, but death itself.

Around her waist and slung across her body hung several heavy leather pouches, their contents unknown, but they jingled faintly as she walked. Some appeared weighted with coins, others with objects no one dared imagine. The sheer volume of what she carried, combined with the aura of danger that clung to her, made her presence impossible to ignore.

Her path led her to a small village on the outskirts of Kyoto. The place was called Tsuyama, a forgotten cluster of wooden houses and shops nestled against the mountainside. The storm had driven most people indoors, and the streets were eerily quiet, the sound of her sandals crunching against the snow the only noise breaking the silence.

She reached a small building with a faded sign hanging above its door: a noodle shop, its windows fogged from the warmth within. Without hesitation, she pushed the sliding door open and stepped inside.

The warmth of the room hit her immediately, a stark contrast to the bitter cold outside. The air was thick with the aroma of simmering broth and sizzling oil, but as soon as she entered, the chatter and laughter inside the shop came to an abrupt halt. Every head turned to look at her, and an uneasy silence settled over the room.

The patrons stared.

Her appearance was unlike anything they had ever seen. The snow clinging to her kimono, the wide-brimmed hat that shadowed her face, the scarf hiding her mouth—she looked like a phantom materialized from the storm itself. But what truly captured their attention, what truly sent a shiver through the room, were the weapons strapped to her back. Two katanas, a naginata, and a myriad of pouches that jingled faintly as she moved. She was not merely a traveler. She was something else entirely.

The way she walked—steady, deliberate, without hesitation—made her seem almost otherworldly. Her presence demanded attention, even if it filled the room with unease.

She said nothing as she walked through the shop, her sandals tapping softly against the wooden floor. The other patrons whispered among themselves, their voices low and filled with suspicion.

“Who is that?”

“ Seems like a warrior…”

“No ordinary warrior carries that many blades…”

“Could he be… a ronin? A killer?”

Their whispers fell silent as she reached a table near the back of the shop and sat down. Her movements were deliberate, calm, and yet carried a weight that made the air in the room feel heavier. She placed her hands on the table, her fingers resting gently on the wooden surface, and then, with a voice like a blade drawn from its sheath, she spoke.

“Sake and noodles. Now.”

Her tone was cold, commanding, and devoid of any warmth. The words cut through the room like ice, sending a shiver down the spines of those who heard them. Her voice carried an authority that demanded obedience, a presence that made the shopkeeper hesitate before bowing nervously and hurrying to fulfill her order.

The other patrons exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes darting between one another and the strange woman who now sat among them. No one dared to speak to her, to question her, but the tension in the room was palpable.

Who was that wanderer? A fugitive? A warrior from some far-off land? And why did that person carry so many weapons?

The snowstorm raged outside, its icy winds rattling the windows of the shop, but the true storm was the one that had entered the room with her.

The room remained deathly silent as the woman—an anomaly in every sense—sat at the corner table, her icy aura filling the warm noodle shop. The shopkeeper, shaken and nervous, approached with a tray, placing a bowl of steaming noodles and a small flask of sake before her. He quickly retreated without a word, his hands trembling slightly.

Irene reached for the sake flask first, her gloved fingers steady and deliberate. She removed the stopper, tilted her head back slightly, and poured the liquid into her mouth in one slow, measured gulp. The fiery warmth of the alcohol slid down her throat, chasing away the chill that had clung to her body since entering the shop. She set the flask down with a soft clink and picked up the chopsticks.

As she began to eat, her movements precise and unhurried, the whispers from the other patrons grew louder. They were trying to be discreet, but in the quiet room, every word carried.

“Who is that?”

“He got the presence of a warrior… but no man would look like that.”

The comments grew bolder, more brazen. The men exchanged sneering looks, emboldened by the strangers silence.

And then, Irene did something no one expected.

She reached up with both hands, her chopsticks momentarily forgotten, and removed the wide-brimmed hat from her head. The room collectively froze as a cascade of dark curls tumbled free, spilling over her shoulders and down her back, like a river of ink against the white and black of her kimono. The curls were thick, unruly, and unapologetically wild, an image that stood in stark defiance of every rule of the Edo era’s rigid beauty standards.

A gasp rippled through the room as the realization hit.

“She’s a woman,” someone muttered in disbelief.

“She’s traveling alone?” another whispered. “Carrying swords? Wearing no makeup? This… this is an outrage!”

“Who is she?”

“She’s got the presence of a warrior… but no woman would be like that.”

“Is she foreign? No proper Japanese woman would wear her hair like that, wild and untamed.”

“And those weapons… it’s disgraceful! Women shouldn’t carry swords.”

The shopkeeper, peering from behind the counter, nearly dropped the dish he was cleaning. Women of this era were meant to be delicate, submissive, their appearances carefully curated to exude grace and modesty. Irene, with her unbound curls, her weapons, and her cold, sharp gaze, was the antithesis of everything society expected.

Her face, still mostly hidden by the black scarf covering her mouth, revealed only her eyes—piercing and unusual, framed by thick lashes that seemed to hold a deep, endless darkness. Her gaze scanned the room, locking onto the men who had dared to speak about her.

They froze.

Her eyes were unlike anything they had ever seen. They were cold, unrelenting, like twin voids that seemed to pierce directly into their souls. They conveyed no fear, no warmth—only an icy authority that sent a chill down their spines.

The men faltered under her gaze, but one of them, emboldened by the drink in his hand, scoffed loudly and said, “What kind of woman parades around like this? You’re a disgrace! Do you think you’re a samurai?”

Irene didn’t respond. She slowly picked up her chopsticks again, continuing to eat as though his words were no more significant than the wind howling outside. But her silence wasn’t submission—it was a quiet, simmering power that filled the room with tension.

Another man chimed in, his voice thick with contempt. “Women with swords… and that hair. She looks like a barbarian! No wonder she hides her face. Who’d want to see a savage like her? She is probably ugly too.”

Irene’s hand paused mid-movement, her chopsticks hovering just above the bowl. The room went silent again, as though everyone was holding their breath. She placed the chopsticks down gently, deliberately, and turned her head toward the group of men.

Her gaze fell on them like a blade.

They flinched, their bravado cracking under the weight of her silent fury. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, but the coldness in her eyes was more terrifying than any shouted threat. It was the look of someone who had killed before, someone who knew the weight of life and death—and treated it with indifference.

The shopkeeper, sensing the rising tension, tried to intervene. “P-please, my lords,” he stammered, bowing deeply. “Let us not cause trouble here. The storm outside is bad enough, and—”

“Silence!” one of the men snapped, but his voice trembled. He looked at Irene again, trying to muster the courage to confront her. “If you think you can just come in here and—”

Irene finally moved. Slowly, deliberately, she stood from the table, the motion fluid and precise. Her kimono shifted slightly, revealing the hilts of her two katanas and the gleaming blade of the naginata strapped to her back. The sight was enough to make the man’s voice catch in his throat.

She took one step toward the group, her gaze never leaving them. And then, in a voice colder than the storm outside, she spoke for the first time since her order.

“Say another word,” she murmured, her tone low and dangerous, “and I’ll show you what these weapons are for.”

The room fell into absolute silence. The men paled, their courage evaporating as quickly as it had come. Irene’s gaze lingered on them for a moment longer before she turned away, returning to her seat. She picked up her chopsticks again, as though nothing had happened, and resumed eating.

The men didn’t speak again.

After a few minutes of suffocating silence, the tension in the room remained thick, but the stillness was shattered when one of the men, his face flushed with alcohol and fury, finally spoke up. His voice was trembling with bravado, but there was no mistaking the venom in his words.

“You little bitch,” he sneered, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Irene. “How dare you—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the room erupted in a blur of motion. Irene, still sitting at the table, had barely moved. Her hand shot out with the speed of a striking serpent, and in one fluid motion, she drove her chopstick—like a dagger—directly into his throat.

There was a sharp, sickening crack as the wood pierced through his skin, and then the sound of gasping breath as the man staggered back, his hands clutching at his throat in a futile attempt to stop the blood. His eyes bulged in shock, and for a moment, he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.

The room was paralyzed with fear as the man collapsed to the ground, his life draining from him as quickly as the blood that pooled beneath him. The other patrons were frozen in place, their mouths agape, too stunned to even breathe. The shopkeeper, wide-eyed, stood behind the counter, unable to move or speak, his hands shaking as he stared at the scene unfolding before him.

Irene didn’t move an inch. She simply sat there, her expression unchanged, as though nothing had happened. Her gaze remained cold, her posture unbroken. She looked at the dying man for only a moment before glancing back down at her bowl of noodles, as though his life had never been worth the effort of a second glance.

The men around him had turned pale, their faces drained of all color, the arrogance and mockery they once wore now replaced with pure terror. None of them dared to say a word.

Irene took a slow, deliberate sip from her sake flask, her eyes never leaving the table. The message had been clear, and it had been brutal.

In the silence that followed, the shop seemed to hold its breath. No one dared to move, speak, or even look in her direction again. The only sound was the soft wind howling outside, as if even nature itself was holding back from disturbing the moment.

Irene finished her drink with a quiet exhale, her eyes glinting as she glanced around at the frightened faces. Her voice, when she spoke, was cold and final.

“If you are wise,” she said, her words sharp and unforgiving, “you will keep your mouths shut. Or I will cut your heads off.”

The remaining men, their fear palpable, nodded silently, too terrified to do anything but comply. Irene didn’t spare them another glance. She finished her meal in silence, as if the brief violence was just another part of her day.

The rest of the room remained silent, but the unease was unspoken. They had all witnessed something far beyond their comprehension—something far darker and more dangerous than any of them had ever expected to face.

The woman with the wild, untamed hair, the deadly weapons, and the ice-cold gaze had made one thing very clear: she was not to be crossed.

—————————-

Shortly after Irene finished her meal, she stood up from the table with the same calculated, fluid motion. She didn’t even glance back at the men who now stared at her with a mix of fear and resentment. Her presence in the room had already left an indelible mark on them, but she showed no sign of care.

Without a word, she walked to the counter, where the shopkeeper stood frozen, still pale from the scene. Irene reached into one of her leather pouches and placed an excessive amount of coin on the counter. It was more than enough to cover her meal—far more.

The shopkeeper hesitated, glancing at the money and then back at her, unsure of what to do or say.

“Take it,” Irene said in a low, controlled voice. “Keep it. You won’t need to remember me.”

She turned and walked to the door, the soft jingle of her pouches and the rustle of her kimono the only sounds as she exited into the snowstorm.

The door slid shut behind her, and the silence in the room returned, heavier than before. The men, still shaken by the display of violence, exchanged uncertain glances.

But then, one of them—his face still flushed with fury—gritted his teeth and muttered, “That damn whore. Who does she think she is?”

His eyes narrowed as he stood up, his hand reaching for his blade, but another man quickly caught his arm.

“You’re insane if you think we can take her on. That woman… she’s dangerous. She’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Do you want to end up like that poor fool on the floor?”

The man sneered, but his eyes flicked nervously to the spot where Irene had been moments before. “No. I’m not going to let her just walk away after that. We have to follow her. We can’t let a bitch like that live, not after what she did.”

The others murmured in agreement, their fear still palpable but overtaken by a twisted need for vengeance. They glanced toward the door, knowing that if they didn’t act quickly, she would be gone—and they wouldn’t get another chance.

The man who had spoken earlier, now seething with anger, nodded sharply. “Get your weapons. We’ll follow her and kill her. We’ll make sure no one ever dares to do this again.”

Their plans were already forming in their minds—plans filled with blind fury and the foolish conviction that they could conquer someone like Irene.

Outside, the storm continued to rage, and the faint silhouette of Irene moved steadily through the snow. Little did she know, her actions had already set in motion the chain of events that would come to haunt her. She had walked into the shop as a stranger, but now she had become the target of a vendetta—a vendetta that would soon come to claim blood.

But for now, she walked on through the blizzard, undeterred, as if she were simply a part of the storm itself.

[wombywoo]

21, 22 & 23 please <33

thank youuu <3

21. cold weather outfit

Quinn likes nice sturdy coats, something warm he can throw over anything. He usually layers up with a long-sleeved shirt +sweater +jacket, and keeps to jeans or sweatpants if he's more casual. Turtlenecks and scarves too, because he likes keeping his neck covered.

Vincent has several classy overcoats, plus his leather jackets. He doesn't experience the cold like a human does, but he still dresses accordingly; nice sweaters, cardigans, boots.

22. hot weather outfit

While Quinn is not typically a shorts guy, he will throw on a pair if it's excessively hot (england's 70° "heat wave" 🙄) He'll pair it with a casual tee or a loose collared shirt. You'll never catch him in sandals though 🚫

Vincent doesn't often go out in the sun (vamp reasons 💅) but if he has to, he'll wear something to cover up most of his skin. There are new sunblock options available, so if he lathers up, he might wear something short-sleeved with some linen pants. If the mood strikes, he might throw on boat shoes or Italian leather sandals (quinn informs him they are laaaaame)

23. beach look

asdfghjk I'm actually working on a beach pic rn 🤫 stay tuned

Quinn's bathing suit choices are usually tight and small, lol. Slinky shirts and sunglasses, still no sandals 🙅‍♀️ He's pasty so he doesn't deliberately attempt to tan, but if he's at the beach he might try some sun oils. He's got a decent body so he doesn't mind showing it off in certain conditions~

Vincent still has reservations about being in the sun, so the beach is not really his scene. On an outing, he'll wear a full-body wetsuit type of outfit +floppy hat and stick to setting up under an umbrella with a book. In his human days, he probably wore those high-waisted belted swim trunks or a one-piece 'speed suit' and now I can't get that visual out of my head 🤭

[artandthebible]

Esau Selling his Birthright to Jacob

Artist: Dutch School

Date: Second half of the 17th century

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Private collection

Description

This painting of the biblical story of Jacob and Esau is notable both for its monumental scale and its skilled execution. Having been preserved in the same private collection for generations, it has only recently been made available to scholars to study, and while there is a consensus as to its high quality, its authorship has yet to be established with any certainty.

The artist has captured the climactic moment in the narrative of Jacob and Esau as recounted in Genesis 25:19-34, when Esau agrees to sell his birthright to his younger twin Jacob. Esau and Jacob were the sons of Isaac and Rebecca, and the grandsons of Abraham. When Rebecca was carrying the twins, the Lord revealed to her that she was carrying two nations within her womb, and that they would be separated, the older serving the younger: Esau was born first, with reddish skin and covered with hair; Jacob was born second, grasping his brother’s heel. Esau grew up to be a skilled hunter and was favoured by his father, while Jacob preferred to stay at home and was dearly loved by his mother. One day, Esau returned from hunting in the countryside to find his brother cooking some red lentil soup. Famished, he asked Jacob for some of the stew. The younger brother responded that he would sell it to him in exchange for Esau’s birthright. Exclaiming that his birthright was useless since he would die of hunger if he did not eat immediately, Esau swore an oath and thus abandoned his birthright to Jacob, who would become the third patriarch of the Jewish people.

The figure of Esau is instantly recognisable in this painting by his ruddy complexion, unstrung bow and richly adorned garments. He is accompanied by a greyhound, a sign of his wealth, which is painted with such personality that one can assume it is a portrait of a real dog. Holding his bowl of soup against his chest, Jacob takes his brother’s right hand while meeting his eye with a calculating expression. Compared to Esau’s stylish boots of green soft leather and gilded straps, Jacob’s sandals - apparently little more than soles secured to his feet with white and pink ribbons - underscore the younger brother’s domestic inclination. The silver tazza on the table, in addition to being a luxury object that would have been instantly recognisable to contemporary viewers who may have had similar vessels in their collections, may also be read as a symbol of the riches that Jacob will now inherit.

[manic-maniac-man]

HUgE July 2010

Excellent shoes

10. A basic model that has been available since the beginning. It has a long throw and the toe curves significantly when worn. All are handmade in the atelier. ¥144,900 (MORERIDE)

11. This pair of shoes has been treated with a special cream made from dissolved lime, giving them the appearance of having been worn for many years, even though they are brand new. The same treatment is also used for sneakers. ¥103,950 (Kokonoe)

12. These simple yet voluminous shoes go extremely well with the cropped pants that Ann is so good at, and are used a lot in this season's collection. ¥131,250 (Orizzonti)

35. The strappy sandals that were popular in the past are making a long-awaited comeback this season. Check out the sharp design that shows off the Dior Homme brand's strengths. ¥58,800 (Christian Dior)

38. The randomly placed studs make a big impact. The sole is made of a mixture of crepe and cork, making it sturdy and just as rugged as it looks. ¥40,950 (Miharayasuhiro Tokyo)

36. Macramé sandals are seen on the runway paired with suits and other items, proposing a wide range of coordination options. We encourage you to try out bold styling with a free mind. ¥82,950 (Lanvin Japan)

39. The oil-coated suede and smooth leather combination, as well as the decorative shoelaces, give this shoe a rich look. It provides a firm hold and a good fit. ¥29,400 (Mister hollywood)

37. The colorful strap design represents a flock of snakes. The delicate connections of the beautifully dyed leather give a glimpse of Raf's sophisticated aesthetic. ¥70,350 (Saint Frère)

40. These sandals are made from luxurious cordovan, which becomes more attractive the more you wear them. Don't miss the intricate details, such as the butterfly medallion, which is Needles' brand icon. ¥61,950 (SSP.)

48. The contrast of textures created by mixing different materials such as cotton, nylon, and calf leather is appealing. The voluminous form is also a key point. ¥63,000 (Balenciaga Japan)

49. The star motif that symbolizes this season is embroidered everywhere. The signature silver "4G" plate stands out against the all-black body. ¥58,800 (Third Culture)

41. These pointed toe boots are made from vintage cracked leather. The bold elements blend in perfectly for a rock look. ¥115,500 (Kokonoe)

42. Mid-cut boots can be paired with cropped pants or shorts for a unique look, only from Thom Browne. The tricolor ribbon is also a nice touch.

¥122,850 (Reference price/Steady Study)

Black Fleece by Brooks Brothers

The natural beige color of these shoes is perfect for summer and gives off a refreshing impression. Check out the carefully crafted details, such as the medallion and brogues. ¥84,000 (Brooks Brothers Japan)

[birkenstockindia]

Birkenstock oiled leather collection, you can look and feel your best no matter the occasion 

Birkenstock oiled leather sandals collection is the perfect choice for those who want timeless elegance and unmatched style. Made from high-quality leather that is oiled https://www.birkenstock.in/collections/men-oiled-leather

[lanitalay]

Before I Say Goodnight

Chapter 9

a/n: can't believe that we're already at chapter 9, that's crazyyy

warnings: none, really

Word count: 2.8k

Other chapters

Eyes flutter open and you swear you can still feel a blush heating your cheeks. You had no idea how the kiss -well, kisses- even happened. One moment you were heading to your room, the next you were sitting on the counter while Azriel kissed your mouth and neck… Your whole face is red now. Getting up from the bed, you go to the bathing room and fill the tub with cold water. I need to calm down.

Looking in the mirror you see perfectly braided hair, a beautiful deep purple long sleeved dress that fits your torso snugly and flares beneath the hips paired with delicate sandals only worn on days spent helping the priestesses with menial tasks. You wished you had a necklace to really complete the look but didn’t see the point in purchasing one. Before leaving the room you find a bottle of lavender oil you had been using for relaxing baths and aromatherapy and place a few drops on your neck and wrists. Since arriving, you have never put that much effort into how you look. Your priorities having always been lying elsewhere but… you can’t deny that you like Azriel. At the thought, a girlish grin appears on your face. You hadn’t liked anyone since Mathew. When that relationship ended everything else in your life seemed to fall apart and romance was the last thing you were thinking about. Even on your trip, you had seen attractive people all over but never made an effort to speak to them. Mathew… you wonder what he’s been doing. It has been nearly a month of you being gone. Disappeared. A month… the smile vanishes, replaced by a subtle frown. You had been so desperate to return once you arrived, the shock of a new world sending you into panic mode. But guilt fills you up as you realize that the last few days you had barely thought of getting back. You think of your friends and your family all the time, but the urge to see them again has… diminished to a certain degree. Life in the House of Wind has been very comfortable, but just abandoning your whole life is a giant leap to make because of comfort. You compose yourself, not wanting to go into a spiral before having breakfast, and head to the dining room.

You’re relieved and horrified to see that only Azriel is in the dining room this morning. “Good morning” you greet and sit down, immediately filling up your plate with an egg dish that looks delicious. He clears his throat “good morning”.The only noise is metal lightly scraping against delicate porcelain. Shadows lurk their way towards your face, no doubt telling their master what they see. You haven’t looked at him yet. Blush still wild on your cheeks. Images of his hands, his beautiful scarred hands, and all the places they touched replaying over and over and over. He pulls his shadows back and clears his throat again “did you sleep well?” It had been sun up by the time you two had disentangled, but for at least a few hours you had managed to sleep without the disturbing nightmares. “Yes, what about you?” he shook his head, “I had training at dawn”. Your eyes widen and you finally look at him. He looks great, freshly bathed, his hair still damp and his Illyrian leathers hug his biceps in such a way… You look away from him again and focus all of your attention on the eggs. “About last night…” Azriel begins and your throat closes up “what about it?” He pauses and continues “we can pretend it didn’t happen if you want” you look at him again, brow furrowed. “Why would we do that?” he shrugs “it’s just a suggestion, I don’t want things to be uncomfortable between us”.  “Do you want to forget about it?” He remains still, you swear you can see his internal debate. After a moment he shakes his head “no”. “Me neither, but I think we should remain friends, until the portal thing gets resolved” he looks at you, unwavering. “Do you want to go back?” You shrug “I think I have too” “you don’t have to do anything you don’t want”. You break the stare “I don’t know Az, I really don’t” when you look back his face has softened and he nods “it’s ok”. You finish your food and pour yourself some tea, “Lucien is going to be at the River House today, do you want to go?” You perk up at the mention of the red haired male “of course”. 

It had been a while since you had visited the beautiful house on the river bank. Autumn had changed the leaves' colors to shades of red, orange and yellow. You had been excited to hear that Lucien was finally coming to the Night Court. He was the first to help you here, even if it had been a… rough start. You missed him and the other exiles, forever saving a place in your heart for them. “Who invited you?” Lucien teased once he saw you walk through the main door. You roll your eyes but can’t help the little walk-skip-run you do to hug him “you shouldn’t speak to me like that, emissary. You never know how useful I could become for your diplomatic endeavors” you say in a mock-stern voice. “I’ll see you at lunch, Rhysand wants to get the meeting out of the way” you nod and he walks into the High Lord’s study. Azriel speaks “I’ll me at the meeting too, Elain is in the kitchen if you want company in the meantime” “alright, see you later”. 

The kitchen smelled of yeast and sugar and flour. “Hi, Elain” she didn’t look up from the cake she was decorating as she greeted you in return. There was a big mess everywhere you looked. You could clearly tell where she had mixed the frostings to make different colors and where she had combined all of the ingredients to make the cake batter. You even spotted where she had kneaded the bread that was currently in the oven. “Want me to help you clean up?” she looked up at that, eyes filled with genuine gratitude “I would appreciate it if you could” and offered a sheepish smile. Despite the mess all around her she looked perfectly intact. Maybe she has some sort of magical stain repellent. “Is there an apron I can put on?” without stopping her task she answers “there are some in the first drawer” and motions with her head. You put on the apron, roll your sleeves up and get to work. 

Wiping the sweat off your brow and fanning yourself with a rag you admire your work. The kitchen was spotless. You were very tempted to take a slice of the cake but had already been warned that it was for after lunch. “Are you happy to see Lucien?” You asked Elain, but quickly regretted it because you were not nearly close enough to her to ask questions about something so personal “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer. I just know about the mating bond but it’s none of my business”. She sighs, like she’s been thinking about it all along. “It’s ok, but to be honest, I don’t know” you nod and are surprised as she goes on in a hushed voice “he is a good male. Truly, he is, you know that. But before this life I was engaged to man that I was in love with. We had chosen each other and were committed to a lifetime together” she looks directly at you for the first time today “and the promise of that was ripped away from me along with my humanity. The concept of mates is still new to me, but my sisters and I have been told that we have been very lucky in that regard. And I can’t deny that I feel attracted to him, like I’m being pulled to be near him constantly. When he’s away I feel it in my bones… but I didn’t choose him. He was assigned to me by some predetermined fate. And I’m constantly suppressing the instinct to be with him because it is the only shred of free will I have left. If I choose to be with him, I’d feel like I’d be forfeiting the last part of myself that I have control over” you had never heard her speak so much. Reaching for her hand, placing yours atop hers “in my realm, I felt very similarly to you. I felt like I was being controlled and molded into someone that just was not me. I had a fiancé and instead of feeling lucky I felt like I was drowning and everyone in my life kept pushing me underwater. So I ran, I left it all behind and… well now I’m here. It did not go how I thought it was going to but” you lower your voice, hearing the doors to the study open “I don’t regret making my own decisions. I asked you because I’m nosy but if you want my unsolicited advice” she nods, “do whatever you need to do, even if it takes you out of your comfort zone. Travel, meet new people, share your knowledge with someone, visit a neighbor, whatever but don’t lock yourself away”. She squeezes your hand and smiles gently. 

 After lunch you go outside to enjoy the sun. As winter approaches the days get shorter, making every drop of sunshine extra precious. The rest of the group stayed inside near the toasty hearth. The constant breeze that comes from the Sidra chips away at your exposed skin and you shiver. A warmth emanating male comes to stand next to you. You take a side step to be closer to him “how was the meeting?” Lucien looks around and answers “fine, there weren’t many updates to give. How has it been here?” You look at him and realize you trust him. In the beginning you had to, it was your only option. Now, you trust him because he’s earned it “Azriel and I kissed last night” you just had to tell someone and prayed to god none of his shadows would not report this back to him. Lucien’s eyes widen and he laughs, a bit too loudly in your opinion. “Want to elaborate?” you shook your head “I just needed to tell someone” “I’m flattered”. You scoff  “you should be” a harsh gust blows some strands of hair out of your braid and your eyes water from the cold “it was a bit weird in the morning but then it was fine. I don’t know what to think about it though, since I’m supposed to leave soon”. Lucien lifts a sharp brow “he wasn’t fond of the idea of you returning, something about a trap?” “It’s just a feeling I have, and the nightmares don’t help” “Rhysand is eager to try the portal” you laugh at that “I get the  feeling he doesn’t like me very much”. Lucien chuckles “he really only likes Feyre”. You remain quiet for a bit until Lucien speaks again “you are supposed to fly down to the clearing tomorrow”. Ice runs through your veins now, a mixture of the  wind and the impending trip back home. “Oh” is all you manage to get out.

You open the drawer to your bedside table and place the few belongings you have in your bag. The clothes you had worn on your first day here were clean and folded atop the dresser. You were ready to go home. There wasn’t much to pack. The group had gone to Rita’s for dinner and it was a nice distraction for about an hour, Azriel had flown you to the House of Wind after you finished eating. You hadn’t spoken much to him today. Not knowing what to say or what to think or what to feel. Nervous? Excited? Scared? You take your blanket from the bed and sit in front of the windows. It could very well be your last night here, the view was something you’d want to remember and you curse at yourself for not taking a picture when you still had a phone. 

The flight to the clearing was brutal. The temperature was so much lower in the skies and without any type of shield it felt like razors were slicing through any exposed skin. So you were extremely relieved to have landed in the still temperate Mortal Lands, autumn here was still in its early stages and by the looks of it they still had several weeks before the cold made life more difficult. You had been helping Gwyn with the symbols by holding up her notebook while she drew every line with a thick white pigment. “The lines must be intact” she had said sternly when Cassian groaned about carrying two cans of it. She was nearly done now, only a few more symbols to complete the circular portal. That’s when Azriel asked Cassian to hold the notebook. You looked at him with narrowed eyes as he led you away from them. “I don’t think you should go”. No words came out when you opened your mouth. You try again “what?” It comes out as a whisper. “I don’t think you should go” you huff “why?” He inhales “because the risks are far too big and I don’t think you want to go back but are afraid to admit it to yourself” you cross your arms at your chest, defensive “why would you say that?” His voice is steady “I agree with you, I think it’s a trap” you shake your head “no, why do you think I don’t want to go back to my home?” His expression is stern now “y/n, you’ve told me about your home. I don’t think you were happy there, you could be happy here-” “Doing what? Looking for books my whole life and then drop dead in that damn library while all of you keep living? Azriel, I can’t stay locked away at the house forever”. He pinches the bridge of his nose “that’s not what I’m saying, you could find something else to do, anything really. You could find a place to live in town and build a life for yourself” he’s pleading, your heart feels like it’s in your throat. He goes on “what do you have to get back to anyways?”. You step back from him “you cannot be serious, I have family, friends. Azriel I have a whole life and I can’t just throw it all away. I have no future here, no sense of belonging, no career, nothing” he steps closer to you “I’m saying you could have any life you want here, I’ll help you-”

 “Stop” he stops talking, his shadows have curled around your legs, anchoring you. “Guys, this is pretty much ready” you hear Gwyn announce. You tear your eyes from Azriel and look at the nearly completed circle. Only one line remained. 

“I don’t want our last conversation to be like this,” you say. Azriel insists, “y/n please, stay, you’re being stubborn”. Your eyes roar “you’re being an ass” and walk over to Gwyn and Cassian. They are pretending they didn’t hear every word of your conversation. “Do it” and with a final stroke Gwyn finishes the portal. The four of you stare at the circle in the center and… nothing. Absolutely nothing happened. You feel Azriel sag with relief “Gwyn, what happened?” You ask, she’s double and triple checking the markings on her notebook “I don’t know… we must be missing something, the marks are perfect” you take a breath and turn to Azriel “happy?” he puts his hands behind his back “I think it’s good you’ll have more time to think about what is best for you” you roll your eyes “don’t treat me like a child, just because I'm not a million years old doesn’t mean that I don’t know what’s best for me”. You don’t, and you weren’t feeling one hundred percent sure about returning. But that was your decision, not anyone else’s. “Cassian, can you take me to the Manor?” Azriel looks confused “let’s just go home, y/n. We can be back before nightfall” you shake your head. “No, you guys can go, I’m staying here for a while”. Azriel goes to move towards you but you walk towards Cassian “please?” He nods and you leap into the sky before Azriel can say anything else. 

“Too bad the portal didn’t work out,” Lucien says. “Yeah, too bad” you sit looking at the hearth. “What are you going to do now?”

You shrug “I have no idea”.

tag list: @luvmoo

[spacenintendogs]

modern au ask. What are the gangs personal clothing styles ?

ooooo.... i'm not very fashionable nor am i rlly confident abt my knowledge of styles & stuff so i'm sorry if it's not as creative as it could be :')

hiccup i see a lot of layers, similar to how he dresses in the dreamworks franchise. as he gets older there's more leather since he does a lot of motorcycle riding. flannels, graphic tees, baggier cargo pants & shorts & sneakers are his general go-to. has a nice pair of chucks he brings out once in a while. no piercings but he has a tattoo of toothless' strike class silhouette on one of his shoulder blades.

astrid dresses practically. usually in a pair of jeans or leggings. when she dresses more casually it's basketball shorts with a jersey of some kind. she wears jerseys relatively often too. also shirts she can easily move & breathe in. i think she'd like horizontal stripes for shirts but i might be projecting lol. she's got multiple ear piercings on both ears tho. she also loves her headbands!!! gets a specially made one from tuff & snot with stormfly's spines on it!! steel toed boots.

fishlegs dresses like a hipster. have u seen his moustache in httyd 3?? he's a hipster & he fucking rocks it. also rocks a lot of street styles he's one of the most fashionable of the gang & he is proud of it. he looks great always. gets the tattoos on his arms like he has in httyd 3. he also likes wearing rings!! has a wooden bead bracelet he wears from his older sister. uses stuff like beard oil & is super into skincare. u will catch him with a face mask & cucumbers over his eyes.

snotlout prob goes through the biggest style shift. when he's younger he dresses like the usual high school douchebag, backwards cap & everything. once he's a senior & after he graduates he's more biker style (he does become a biker dude after all). super tight t-shirts that show his boobs lmao. he gets his ears pierced & gets a labret piercing. tattoo sleeve on his right arm of monstrous nightmares entangling around each other. old habits die hard tho so sometimes u catch him with his backwards cap. heeled boots bc he likes to be tall.

ruffnut is so fucking cool u guys. she dresses in a variety of styles, sometimes vastly different day to day but she pulls them all off flawlessly. strong fashion is actually how she & fishlegs bond sometimes (or argue lmao). she's got so many ear piercings & switches out what she has by the day. she does her hair the most elaborately out of the gang, when it's long or short. loves long necklaces & layers them. has her nose pierced too. she has a tattoo of barf going down her calf (tuff has the other half so if they stand next to each other it completes the zippleback!!). her fave pair of shoes tho are her sketchers hiking sandals. let the dogs out!!!

tuff is also so fucking cool, though in a more laid back way compared to ruff. more grungy. ripped jeans from falling off his longboard. old sneakers that have been everywhere. shirts he's had since middle school that may be repurposed to have ripped sleeves or become crop tops. that ugly dress u saw at a thrift store? he's wearing it & fucking looks great. he has his septum pierced and multiple ear piercings (like httyd 3). i also think he'd get snake bites. when he's younger he wears beanies a lot but once he's older he puts his hair up in more elaborate "viking" styles with how he braids. also enjoys tank tops & more frayed looks to shirts in general. has belch tattooed down his calf (ruff has the other half, as stated above).

[is-the-thing-actually-jewish]

Unsure if this is too broad a question, but do you have suggestions or a basic litmus test for making sure you aren’t buying judaica from a messianic site/publisher/creator/etc?

Excellent question! We delayed answering this a little, since we knew @thejewitches were working on a post about red flags themselves, which you can find here and which we will also reblog momentarily.

We would also add:

Yeshua might also be written in Hebrew as יֵשׁוּעַ , with or without the vowels. In general, if there's Hebrew on it and you don't read Hebrew, it's worth double checking with someone who does (which can also help you avoid gibberish or things written backwards).

A clear fetish for anything from Israel and calling everything Biblical, like calling regular leather sandals “biblical shoes” or calling regular olive oil “biblical anointing oil (not a thing)” are generally a bad sign

A seven branched menorah being marketed for Chanukah isn't ALWAYS bad, but it should make you take a closer look

--Mod Shoshana

[bitter69uk]

“Not surprisingly, Mickey played Hercules, well-oiled and wearing what seemed to be a very short skating skirt adorned with leather suspenders. Unlike any other male in the movie, Mickey is tanned and greased and so muscle-bound that he can’t walk with his arms at his sides but looks like some kind of great, jerky mechanical bear. The plot, very sketchily, has Mickey’s first wife murdered. He sets out to seek revenge, meets a black-haired tribal queen and falls in love in nine minutes. The black-haired queen is played by Jayne, wearing a black wig and a padded bra. It was some kind of gravitational miracle that she didn’t fall over with all that frontage on her. At any rate, she and Hercules have to overcome a lot of obstacles to their love, including the murderous impulses of the red-haired Amazon queen who captures Hercules. Jayne plays the Amazon queen in a different wig but the same bra. The movie is dubbed in a variety of accents so that Mickey delivers Shakespearean English, Jayne West Coast American and the others sound indigenous to locales between Los Angeles and London … Jayne’s dual roles were an object lesson in male fantasy. She gets to play the demanding, emasculating woman men fear and the demure, passive woman they want.”

/ From Jayne Mansfield and the American Fifties by Martha Saxton, 1975 /

Released in Italian cinemas 63 years ago today (19 August 1960): “sword-and-sandals” peplum film The Loves of Hercules (aka Hercules vs the Hydra) starring fabulous fame-crazed husband and wife duo Mickey Hargitay and Jayne Mansfield, made in Cinemascope at the height of the “Hollywood on the Tiber” era. In the UK at least, this movie is seemingly impossible to see. Over the years some scratchy, faded versions have surfaced on YouTube – but always dubbed exclusively in Italian! Where oh where is the 4K restoration English language director’s cut Blu-ray?