#sweden oiled up

[finsulover]

FUCK THE SCHOOL PAPERlemme draw sweden oiled up on finland's bed.......

[charliemwrites]

Since I’ve been going pretty hard on dark fics lately….

Who’s up for some childhood friend Simon?

In his worst moments, when he thinks of his inevitable premature and violent end, he hopes that he’ll be able to hold out long enough to die in your arms. Even if they have to fly him straight from the battlegrounds to you, lay him in the grass outside your flat, he wants your face and voice that puts him to his final sleep.

Most moments aren’t his worst moments. But he still thinks of you and prepares. Everything is going to you, of course. Price knows. You’ll get Simon’s tags, his mask, a flag. You’ll get a letter.

He started one night after you two reunited, a little drunk from a thank-fuck-we-survived post mission celebration. It’s a little wobbly and ramble in some places, but never threw it out - never reread it either. Finished it in one hour, three pages long.

He’s added onto it since then. On hard night, nights he misses you. When he’s nostalgic and tipsy, when he wakes up from nightmares soaked in your blood. It’s about 12 pages now. Different colors of ink, different types of pages. Even one slanted and awkward because his writing hand was broken so he had to use the other.

He doesn’t bring it home to you with him. Doesn’t want you to accidentally discover it and think it’s something else. It stays where Johnny will find it if the worst happens; Simon trusts him to give it to you.

He never really thought about it the other way round. Couldn’t stand to face the prospect again. Not when he can feel the bullet scar beneath your shirt sometimes, or sees you rubbing at it in cold weather.

(He doesn’t consider it his worst moments but he knows you would - that he’d crawl in that grave with you.)

But it’s almost happened again. You’re sitting caddy-corner to him at a briefing table, listening to Price as he explains the situation. Simon’s watching you watching Price. Your shoulders are relaxed, fingers fiddling with your temporary access card. Not nervous, just occupied while you focus.

You’re not worried at all. Simon feels like he’s falling apart right here. One shake of the stupid uneven table and all his pieces will just slide apart into a useless pile.

Without looking away, your hand slides across the table and hooks around his. He doesnt startle - he’s ghost right now, and ghost is rock solid - but his fingers twitch around yours. You shoot him a quick smile and then refocus on Price, picking at a worn patch on the skeleton design of Simon’s glove.

Duct tape for a collapsing soul.

Price concludes, “You’ll stay here, safe and sound with an escort.”

Simon speaks up for the first time in what feels like days.

“I’m not bein’ deployed, skipper. Not right now.”

Price snorts. “‘Course not. You’re on leave with little miss here in sweden.”

“Sweden,” Simon repeats, unimpressed. Not one of the Laswell’s better lies.

“Land of tall blondes,” you chime.

“No one else knows I’m a blond.”

You shrug. “Their loss.”

Simon snorts, you grin, and Price dismisses you both in short order.

You’re staying in Simon’s room; the captain didn’t even offer you temporary quarters. Not that you minded, happy to toss your things amongst his and climb into his bed.

He cleans his favorite gun impulsively at the desk while you futz around on his computer - probably investigating the latest set of unreleased movies he bribed from Laswell.

“You get ten minutes of brooding left and then we’re getting food and watching a movie.”

He scowls down at the magazine, oiled cloth in hand.

“I’m not brooding.”

“It’s like you have your own lighting. I swear those shadows are darker next to you.”

“That’s just how light works.”

“Oh it would have been so much cooler if you said, like, ‘I am the shadows’.”

He pauses, casts you a long, flat look. You beam.

“Ooh, yeah, with that face too! C’mon, say it!”

He blows out a dramatic breath, then grumpily repeats, “I am the shadows.”

You laugh, hopping up from the bed to approach. He shifts his gear out of the way, clearing a space for you to lean against his desk, your knee touching his.

“Im alright, Si. There’s nowhere safer I could be.”

He sets the pieces in his hands aside, flexes his fingers spasmodically.

“Could just not know me. Anywhere would be safer than knowing me.”

You click your tongue, purely derisive. “That’s stupid.”

“That’s just facts, babes.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s your guilt complex. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here.”

He arches his eyebrows - not that you’ll be able to see it past the mask. But you know him well enough to just know.

“Right here?” he challenges. “On a military base? With who fuckin’ knows out to get you? Just because you lived two doors down from me in kindergarten?”

You sigh, that one that tells him you’re employing extra patience purely out of love and experience.

“Right here, Si. Wherever you are,” you confirm.

“Should cut your losses,” he says, trying his best impression of the machine he became after he lost everyone but you. He’s never felt less protected in the mask.

As always, you see right through him.

“A bullet couldn’t take me from you, Simon Riley. The ‘Ghost’ doesn’t stand a chance.” You curl your fingers around the back of his neck, duck down until your forehead knocks against the hard mask’s. “Because it’s me n’ you ‘til the sun stops rising.”

An oath made of picked daisies and shared blood. The weight of it presses on his chest so hard he feels buried again. Layers of earth crushing him, you up above, the only heaven he knows or needs.

“Me ‘n you,” he rasps.

You let him stay like that another moment. Absorbing the warmth of your fingertips, crept beneath the edge of the balaclava. Breathing with you until he’s sure you’re synched. Heart, breath, blood, down to the firing of your neurons.

“Alright, no more brooding. You’ll feel better with some food.”

Simon exhales, sloughing off the gloom and pessimism that weighs on Ghost’s shoulders. You’re here, right here. Nothing will happen to you when he’s still breathing.

“Think I have a few more minutes.”

“Nah, it compounds when I brood with you.”

“You brood like a rainbow broods.”

You snort and flick at his mask, tugging him up with you towards the door. He lets himself settle, listening to your cheerful babble all the way to the mess.

[ifindus]

Would love to hear your thoughts about Norway during his peak in the Middle Ages - The old kingdom!

Thank you so much for all the top-tier historical asks you’ve filled my inbox with 🙏🥺💖 I very much appreciate it ✨

Norgesveldet, Norway at its largest and most powerful is such an interesting topic, and I’d like to take this opportunity to talk more about Norway’s character arch and his standing in Scandinavia during this time. And along this, @95jezzica’s hc that Norway is the oldest out of the Scandis, which I absolutely love.

During the 1200s Norway is at his peak. He is the largest he has ever been, ruling over land far away, a result of his exploration and craftiness at sea. He is involved with an extensive trading network, stretching from his settlements on Greenland, Iceland, the Faeroe Islands, Shetland, Orkney, and the Hebrides, as well as large areas that today belongs to Sweden, with connections to Europe through the Hanseatic League as well as his neighbours. Many of Norway’s territories are inhabited by Norwegian settlers, who all pay taxes to the Norwegian crown, accumulating a fair amount of coin to be spent on buildings and other stately projects. He has the entire North Atlantic under his control. Norway is exporting iron, furs, fish, and fish oil to the rest of Europe. At this time, Norway is the largest nation in Europe measured by land.

At home, Norway has just finished his civil war in 1240, and with a new and stable system in place, he flourishes; the Sagas are written, churches are built, and cities are founded. A sort of government is formed, and a new law is made, establishing a more developed justice system and a more effective military system. Norway was the second kingdom in Europe to be gathered under a common law (after Castille) and establishes diplomatic connections to other countries. The administration of the Norway is solidified and he really takes his shape as a powerful and well-established nation.

Based on the actual year of founding, Norway is the oldest “nation” in Scandinavia, and I want to give Jezz credit here for influencing me towards this hc. Denmark, Sweden, and Norway have all been more or less equal throughout the Viking Age, with some periods where they were in alliances and had more complex relations. Norway was allowed to grow on the basis of Denmark being weaker etc. But we essentially have three nations who grew up together here, similar in age, development, and influence. And we see Norway really grow up through his civil war between 1130 and 1240, coming out stronger as a result. In the 1200s and 1300s he is a genuine powerful nation who has powerful connections and resources.

Then, we get The Plague, The Black Death. Norway is hit a lot harder than Denmark and Sweden. It is almost fatal to him and it nearly kills him, eventually merging his royal family into those of his neighbours, and we see Denmark especially take advantage of the situation to form the Kalmar Union.

And this all makes such an interesting character development for Norway. As a slightly older nation with a rich and proud history, being an equal or maybe even more powerful than his neighbours, at his definite peak, to take such a fall. To end up being stowed away, his existence merely symbolic at times, seeing his future as uncertain and under the total control of others. He falls. He is crippled. And he ends up being tossed around for nearly 500 years before he can finally stand up as an independent nation once more.

It really makes for such an interesting dynamic between the Scandis as well. Both Denmark and Sweden knows what Norway used to be, how powerful and proud he was, and they see what he has been reduced to after the Plague and during the union. Maybe they even start to forget who he used to be. Though sometimes, in certain situations when he is fired up, they can see remnants of the nation he once was.

They are definitely reminded of his past in 1814 and 1905.

[leezlelatch]

Secondo x F!Reader - first meetings, brooding, flirting, Secondo's POV. Next in the snippet series...Secondo visits Italia for unpleasant business. Could his stay be the change he needs? @writingjourney

Dark sunglasses cover his eyes, and his expression is blank as the pallbearers walk his mother’s casket down the long aisle. It had been many, many years since Secondo had been in a Catholic Church, and this, his mother’s funeral, would be the last. A procession follows, faces he’s never seen before, and he vaguely wonders if they are cousins, or even siblings. Do they wonder who he is? The long lost son of a woman left in shame after Nihil left his wicked touch on her. Secondo hopes she lived a good life. He thinks she did, quietly watching when he was old enough to handle his own affairs, a silent benefactor. He stands when the last of them leave, his eyes staring scornfully at Jesus on the cross. Where was his grace, when all was broken?

He gets back to the abbey nestled in the hills of the Italian countryside long after dark, having spent several hours wandering the small village of his youth. With a glass of wine in hand, he steps out onto the balcony of his room, looking out over the olive grove the Siblings tend to. The Italian branch of the Ministry sells their own olive oil, a lucrative business that has kept them afloat since he was a boy. It gave him a deeper appreciation for his country, and the beauty that can be grown from the ground and used in their food.

Secondo checks his phone, his thumb scrolling past updates from Sweden, a “me me” his brother sent, deleted, and of his particular interest, the latest on the restoration of a first edition of The Discoverie of Witchcraft by Reginald Scot, a book for his personal collection. He isn’t eager to get back. Tensions are high amongst the Clergy, their dissatisfaction with his younger brother apparent. They simply do not like that Terzo doesn’t bow.

Secondo’s time as Papa is well remembered, and bitterly ended. Too many parties, too many nights trying to drink his life away. Underappreciating what he had until it was gone. He gave Terzo the papacy knowing his brother carries a vision, and he is eager to see it realized. But like a true Emeritus, tragedy is never far. Secondo looks up at the sky and finds the North Star, and he wonders if Primo is in his observatory, looking at the same star. Italy may be where he was born, but Secondo isn’t home. Not when home are three men that in equal parts infuriate him, and make him fight harder every day. He tosses the wine over the edge, setting the glass on the ledge.

“Satan Christ on a stick!” A voice shouts from below. Secondo leans over the balcony railing, looking down in shock at the Sister of Sin now covered in his spilled red wine. She shakes her hands, droplets flying from her fingertips and she looks up, her brow furrowing as she spots him. “Papa,” she says. “I’m wet.”

Well, that’s not the first time he’s heard those words, but not necessarily in this context. Secondo’s mind works a mile a minute to catch up with everything that’s happened in the last few seconds, and he huffs out a small laugh. “Satan Christ?” He asks. 

“It’s a creative way to swear, but I think appropriate,” she answers, looking down at her light sweater now stained red. “I hope this was cheap.” 

Amusement is quickly replaced by regret, and Secondo glances around as if a rag would appear out of thin air. “A moment, Suora. I will be down,” he calls, hurrying into his room and wrenching open the linen closet. He pulls out a towel, grimacing at the light shade. That will be two things he will have to get a burgundy stain out of. He grunts, putting a hand on his back on his way to the front door. Far too much running around for his age, especially so late into the night. 

Secondo steps outside into the night time air, his eyes scanning the place near his balcony where the wine covered sister had been standing. “Suora?”

“Here,” she says, coming around the corner, her sweater removed and in her hands. Secondo pauses, his eyes quickly taking in the sight of her cream colored camisole. He clears his throat, offering her the towel, and he watches with a small frown as she squeezes the sweater between it. 

“Do you have something to say, Papa?” She asks, watching him with an amused quirk of her eyebrow. 

Secondo straightens, his frown deepening, and he tilts his head in atonement. “Forgive me, Suora. I should not be so careless in disposing of my beverages.” He glances away, an uncomfortable itch climbing up his spine. Today has not improved, and here he is, middle-aged man, and her superior, making a fool of himself. 

“I didn’t mean that, although the apology is appreciated. You were looking at me like I was doing something wrong.” She clenches the fabric of her sweater between the edges of the towel, and he waves his hands, reaching for it. 

“You are doing something wrong,” he says gruffly. “Do not squeeze. Blot. We will have to get this under a cold tap.” She laughs, and he glances at her, blowing a breath between his teeth as he begs Lucifer for patience. 

“You seem familiar with…stains,” she says, circling around him, her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair is rustled by the evening breeze, and Secondo pauses, staring at it fluttering and catching between her lips. She blows it away, and he swallows.

“Red stains in particular,” he murmurs, returning to the task at hand.

“That’s something a murderer would say,” she responds, her lips curled at the corners, her smile mysterious. It reminds him of the Mona Lisa.

“There are plenty of rumors about my family, Suora. Choose one,” he says with a flash of teeth. She tilts her head in response, and they stare at each other for a moment. Secondo is used to intimidating people. He doesn’t want to intimidate people. His looks, his demeanor, something somewhere went wrong, and he is paying for it. He gets to watch his brothers be treated like gold by the Siblings where he is dulled copper, dented and used. Secondo garners more fear than respect, and that is acceptable. Or so he tells himself.

“I like the one where you’re all vampires,” she says.

He laughs. A real, genuine laugh, and it makes her smile. He’s caught in that smile, so sweet and full of joy, and it makes him warm. She isn’t intimidated, she’s silly, she cusses in the strangest ways. Is it childish to think this woman is a gift from his mother? Someone real, someone who isn’t afraid.

“Come inside,” he says, holding her wrinkled sweater with a long-suffering sigh. “We shall see if we can save it. I am sorry for drenching you. And tell me about this vampire rumor, will you?”

She follows after him, passing through the open double doors into a hallway lit by old, metal chandeliers that cast a soft yellow glow. “I’ll tell you plenty if you tell me what compelled you to throw your wine off the balcony,” she says.

Secondo leads her up a flight of stairs, his hand gripping the railing, his knees aching from all the walking he did earlier that day. “It displeased me,” he says, unwilling to unload his inner turmoil on a woman he just met. 

“Remind me to stay in your good graces then,” she says, snickering a laugh. He joins her. It feels good to laugh. 

“Ah, do not worry,” he says. “My knees cannot take another trip down the stairs.”

[trollprincess]

I saw a TikTok where a guy asked, “Where are all the other countries sending US disaster aid to help with the hurricanes? You don’t see them, do you? Nooooope.”

Somehow, I remained polite in my response. But the good thing about Tumblr is that I can vent my actual answer, which is:

*raises megaphone*

BITCH, WE ARE ONE OF THE RICHEST MOTHERFUCKING COUNTRIES ON THE PLANET. WE SHOULD BE ABLE TO TAKE CARE OF *OURSELVES*. Y’ALL WANT TO BITCH ABOUT SENDING AID TO UKRAINE AND OH, WE NEED TO TAKE CARE OF AMERICANS FIRST AND THEN A HURRICANE COMES AND YOU WANT TO KNOW WHEN, WHAT, FUCKING BELIZE IS SENDING YOU MONEY?!

MAYBE IF YOU’D LET US TAX THE SHIT OUT OF BILLIONAIRES AND STOP SPENDING ALL OUR MONEY ON MILITARY EQUIPMENT THAT’S OBSOLETE HALFWAY DOWN THE ASSEMBLY LINE WE COULD INVEST MORE IN DISASTER AID. AND MAYBE CONGRESS COULD COME OFF FUCKING VACATION AND DO SOMETHING.

HOWEVER.

SINCE YOU FUCKING ASKED.

OTHER COUNTRIES SEND US HELP FOR DISASTER RELIEF *ALL THE FUCKING TIME*. CANADIAN LINE WORKERS ARE IN NORTH CAROLINA RIGHT NOW. THE MEXICAN ARMED FORCES AND THE DUTCH NAVY HELPED CLEAN UP AFTER KATRINA. KUWAIT GAVE US $400 MILLION IN OIL AFTER KATRINA TO OFFSET OUR LOSSES IN THE GULF. BANGLADESH AND PAKISTAN OFFERED US A MILLION EACH AND WE TURNED THEM DOWN. SWEDEN OFFERED US A SHITLOAD OF NEEDED SUPPLIES AFTER THE BP OIL SPILL AND WE SAT ON THAT OFFER FOR FUCKING WEEKS BEFORE TAKING IT. AND THEN WHEN COUNTRIES OFFER AND ARE LIKE “LOOK, WE’RE POOR, CAN YOU PAY US BACK WHEN YOU GET A CHANCE?” WE TURN OUT OUR POCKETS AND PRETEND LIKE WE HAVEN’T GOT SHIT TO GIVE BACK IN RETURN.

WE GET OFFERS. WE FUMBLE TAKING THEM ALMOST EVERY FUCKING TIME. BECAUSE WE’RE SELFISH SELF-CENTERED CUNTS.

*lowers megaphone*

Ahem. Thank you.

[arsenal-womens-1]

I see you in my reflection part 2

Tw: guns school shooting death blood self harm description of death murder panic attack if there’s any I’ve missed sorry

“The bravest thing I ever did was continue my life when I wanted to die.” — Juliette Lewis

“If you love someone, you say it. You say it right then, out loud. Otherwise, the moment just passes you by.” — Mark Sloan

Six hours later, you are on your way back to Leah's. It was just going to be Beth, Viv, you, and Leah having dinner tonight after you’re planning on watching a movie called *The Fallout*. You have no clue what it’s about, but it’s apparently meant to be good. It’s cold outside, not too cold, but still cold. The car comes to a stop. Finally, you get out of the car and run to the door. Leah walks up the stairs as slowly as possible, finally opening the door. You run in, running straight to the kitchen. Leah had agreed to let you help with dinner. It’s called marry me chicken. It takes about 45 minutes to cook.

“Right, get all the ingredients out, and we can start cooking,” Leah says, pulling out all the ingredients: 30 g of plain flour, 4 chicken breasts, 125 g sundried tomatoes in oil (drained and roughly chopped), 3 tbsp oil (reserved), 1 red onion (finely chopped), 3 garlic cloves (crushed or finely grated), ½ - 1 tsp chili flakes (to taste), 2-3 thyme or oregano sprigs (leaves picked), or 1 tsp mixed dried herbs, 150 ml of double cream, 250 ml of chicken stock, 35 g parmesan (grated), 8-10 basil leaves (torn), and lemon wedges.

Halfway through making it, there is a knock at the door before Leah can say anything. You run to the door. Beth and Viv are just standing there. “Come in,” you say, taking off their shoes and coats. You all walk back into the kitchen where Leah is still doing stuff for the food. “How was media day?” You just shrug your shoulders at that.

“Boring, mainly they all ask the same question, just in a different way,” you reply. Beth and Vivian just shake their heads. You have said multiple times that you don’t like media days. This is only the second one you’ve done, but you still have the same opinion: “Yeah, they do that a lot apart from a few, and since you couldn’t do any work today, you need to do a bit more tomorrow.” The only downside of living with Beth and Vivian is that they make you do schoolwork. It’s the most boring thing.“What if I don’t do any more schoolwork?” you ask.

Viv loses it at your shoes, saying that no matter what you are doing, the work is still there.

You just accept your fate. “Can someone call my phone? I’ve lost it. It’s aging.” Leah holds your phone up and says, “Thank you.” Opening your phone, there is a text from your dad.

Dad:

“Hey kid, I know we haven’t spoken in a bit, but I thought I would text you and see how you are doing. Also, Max and Missy want to know if you are going to be home this summer for their birthday.”

You:

“Hey Dad, I’m doing good. I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it home this summer, but tell Max and Missy that I miss them and I wish I could be there, but I can’t. I’ll send them presents.”

Dad:

“It’s okay, kid. You don’t have to apologize. I know why you don’t want to come back, but they wanted to know if you were able to come. It’s good to hear that you’re doing well. I have to go. The twins need to be dropped off at your grandma’s house.”

You:

“I’ll text you later. I love you too.”

“Who are you texting?” Leah asks as she finishes cooking.

“My dad was asking if I was going home this summer.” In the time the team had, knowing you’ve only ever said that you lived in America, you dodged any other questions, so at one point they all just left it, seeing that you didn’t want to talk about it before you got there. “Are you going home this summer?” they asked.

“No, I think I’m just going to go to another country,” you told them.

They all nodded. “What country are you thinking of going to?”

You had thought about this a lot. “I was thinking Norway, Sweden, Spain, or the Netherlands. I’ve always wanted to go to those countries.” When you said “Netherlands,” Viv smiled a bit for the next 45 minutes. You all talked for 20 minutes before the food was done. It was time for the movie.

The movie starts with a girl sitting on the toilet. Three minutes later, she walks to the bathroom. Viv and Beth are sitting next to each other, and Leah is in the middle. On the end, exactly seven minutes in, it sounds like a door banging and screaming more. It feels like your heart is about to pound out of your chest. A lump in your throat starts to form.

Blood everywhere, screaming, bullets.

“I can’t breathe.” The second you say that, all three of them are beside you. Vivian lifts you up and places you in her lap. “Copy my breathing pattern.”

“Y/N, I’m scared.” The door slams open.

“They didn’t do anything wrong; it should have been me.” Your breathing isn’t slowing down. “They didn’t deserve it; we were just kids.” Beth is now standing behind you, kind of trapping you like a burrito. “Copy my breathing, kid.” You try your best to copy her breathing, eventually doing so.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Your head is still on Vivian’s chest.

“I’m a twin… was a twin. The shock on their faces was something. We were identical. Lucy was 1 minute and 25 seconds older than me. She always would use that or say it was the best time of her life.” Tears were falling down your face. The girls said nothing, so you continued. “When we were 4, we moved from California to New York. Our next-door neighbors had a girl our age. Her name was Lily. She had green eyes, brown hair, and was a little bit taller than us. We became inseparable. We were in the same class. It was grade 6; we were in 4th period English with Miss Cooper. We sat at the back of her class.”

“Today we are learning about Romeo and Juliet.” Lily is to the left of you, and Lucy is to the right. “Lily, give me a pencil; I’ve forgotten mine again.”

“We were 12 minutes into the class when the first shouts could be heard two doors down from us. The screams for help were horrifying. We did everything they said to do. He was down with that class fast. He moved to the one next to us. There was a door connecting both classrooms together. We didn’t barricade it.”

The sound of the door crashing open startles everyone. Before anyone can do anything, he’s shooting randomly all over, and in 2 minutes, he’s gone.

“Lily was on the ground. She was in a pool of blood. He shot her 6 times; 2 of them hit her left lung. I tried to stop the bleeding, but it was no use. Her lungs were filling up with blood. Her beautiful face was covered in blood. She was scared. I could tell because of the way her eyes looked. She would get that look when she was scared. Lucy laid her head on my shoulder. She had been shot once, between her chest and shoulder. I remember Lily’s eyes starting to shut. I remember saying, ‘Come on, Lily, keep your eyes open for me. Keep them open.’ I remember her last words so clearly: ‘Y/N, it’s okay. It’s okay. Go be a superstar, win all the trophies. Don’t give up on your dream.’ There was another round of shots. The color in her eyes was gone. She was gone.”

“No, no, no, Lily, don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.” Armed police rush through the door. “Everyone show hands.”

“I don’t really remember much about how I got from the classroom to the ambulance. I remember the paramedic saying that I had been shot 3 times. I didn’t even know that I had been shot. I was in shock. I remember the sirens. I remember them asking questions, getting wheeled into the ER. I was next to Lucy. I remember her heart monitor. I didn’t know what it meant except that she was alive. Within 2 minutes of being there, she flatlined. They tried to get her back, but they couldn’t. 14:25 was her time of death. A piece of the bullet had made its way to her heart. They were dead, and I wasn’t. After that, I turned to self-harm and other things. I wanted to be with them. It wasn’t until about 2 months after it all that it sank in that I had lost my twin sister and my first love in the same day

[paikothecateater]

Denmark prolly uses men's 13 in 1 i think

Yeah, and it absolutely horrifies Iceland.

They'll just be washing up in the morning, Iceland will just see the bottle Denmark's using and be like "yo, can I see that real quick?" Denmark's like "oh, yeah, sure." Iceland just starts reading it.

"oh yeah, haha, see, something like this would probably never work for me. Shampoo, conditioner, face wash, motor oil... Wait... Motor oil? Hold on... Toothpaste!? Okay, shaving cream I can understand, but WHAT THE FUCK IS LAUNDRY DETERGENT DOING IN THIS!? "

Denmark is just crying laughing because he knows he and Sweden are the only people who could use this and still look perfectly fine. The only difference is that Sweden is not an animal.

[amagi2000]

Matthew Thomas QuartermainReFORm UK: Reigniting the Core

December 13, 2023  · 

Poor Greta. Life without petroleum and petroleum based products.

One crisp winter morning in Sweden, a cute little girl named Greta woke up to a perfect world, one where there were no petroleum products ruining the earth. She tossed aside her cotton sheet and wool blanket and stepped out onto a dirt floor covered with willow bark that had been pulverized with rocks.— with Build Backbone Better.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Pulverized willow bark,” replied her fairy godmother.

“What happened to the carpet?” she asked.

“The carpet was nylon, which is made from butadiene and hydrogen cyanide, both made from petroleum,” came the response.

Greta smiled, acknowledging that adjustments are necessary to save the planet, and moved to the sink to brush her teeth where instead of a toothbrush, she found a willow, mangled on one end to expose wood fibre bristles.

“Your old toothbrush?” noted her godmother, “Also nylon.”

“Where’s the water?” asked Greta.

“Down the road in the canal,” replied her godmother, Just make sure you avoid water with cholera in it.”

“Why’s there no running water?” Greta asked, becoming a little peevish.

“Well,” said her godmother, who happened to teach engineering at MIT, “Where do we begin?”

There followed a long monologue about how sink valves need elastomer seats and how copper pipes contain copper, which has to be mined and how it’s impossible to make all-electric earth-moving equipment with no gear lubrication or tires and how ore has to be smelted to a make metal, and that’s tough to do with only electricity as a source of heat, and even if you use only electricity, the wires need insulation, which is petroleum-based, and though most of Sweden’s energy is produced in an environmentally friendly way because of hydro and nuclear, if you do a mass and energy balance around the whole system, you still need lots of petroleum products like lubricants and nylon and rubber for tires and asphalt for filling potholes and wax and iPhone plastic and elastic to hold your underwear up while operating a copper smelting furnace and . . .

“What’s for breakfast?” interjected Greta, whose head was hurting.

"Fresh, range-fed chicken eggs,” replied her godmother. “Raw.”

“How so, raw?” inquired Greta.

“Well, . . .” And once again, Greta was told about the need for petroleum products like transformer oil and scores of petroleum products essential for producing metals for frying pans and in the end was educated about how you can’t have a petroleum-free world and then cook eggs. Unless you rip your front fence up and start a fire and carefully cook your egg in an orange peel like you do in Boy Scouts. Not that you can find oranges in Sweden anymore.

“But I want poached eggs like my Aunt Tilda makes,” lamented Greta.

“Tilda died this morning,” the godmother explained. “Bacterial pneumonia.”

“What?!” interjected Greta. “No one dies of bacterial pneumonia! We have penicillin.”

“Not anymore,” explained godmother “The production of penicillin requires chemical extraction using isobutyl acetate, which, if you know your organic chemistry, is petroleum-based. Lots of people are dying, which is problematic because there’s not any easy way of disposing of the bodies since backhoes need hydraulic oil and crematoriums can’t really burn many bodies using as fuel Swedish fences and furniture, which are rapidly disappearing - being used on the black market for roasting eggs and staying warm.”

This represents only a fraction of Greta’s day, a day without microphones to exclaim into and a day without much food, and a day without carbon-fibre boats to sail in, but a day that will save the planet.

Tune in tomorrow when Greta needs a root canal and learns how Novocain is synthesized.

[tkwrites]

Love, even in the hard parts. - Quinn Hughes x ofc

photo from pinterest

Title: Love, even in the hard parts.  

Author: Tory / @tkwrites 

Relationship: Pre-established: Quinn Hughes x Original female character 

Warnings: grief, mentions of a dead mother, lots of crying, hospitals 

Summary: When his mom can't make it to take Quinn to surgery, Sarah steps in inspite of her hatred of hospitals. 

Word count: 2500 

Comments: This was very much written for myself. As someone who lost both of her parents young, it's often a struggle to find people to relate to about it. A struggle to find people who look for and see pain in others the way I have learned to see it after experiencing it so deeply. I wrote this on a day when I was really missing my mom, and wishing I had another mother figure in my life to give me a warm embrace, or a romantic partner to comfort me through the pain. It's a bit unrealistic to expect someone to fulfill needs without being asked, but that's why it's a fantasy. 

These are the same characters as before, but there's not really a timeline. These are just snapshots from their life together. 

Love, Even in the Hard Parts

A Quinn & Sarah Snapshot

Sarah hated hospitals. Ever since waiting in one, just to learn her mom couldn’t be saved, she felt anxious and on the verge of tears anytime she was in one. 

Ellen was supposed to be here to take Quinn to and from surgery, but her flight had been delayed, so Sarah had stepped in. First, only to drop him off, but upon another text from Ellen, to stay and wait for him to wake.  

Quinn had assured her he could ask a teammate to pick him up, but she didn’t want him to be with someone he didn’t know well. Petey had already gone back to Sweden.  

She’d had her tonsils removed. It had been more than 10 years, but she still remembered waking up and feeling like she’d swallowed a sandbox. She wouldn’t want to be with anyone but someone she trusted completely.  

She had headphones on, and was listening to a romance novel, trying to distract herself from the smell. She’d even rubbed peppermint oil under her nose to try to mask it. Both the oil and the novel were helping, but her heart still thundered in her chest and tears stung behind her eyes, threatening to spill out.  

She’d missed the window to walk outside. Now she was too close to him waking up to leave.  

When Rose, the motherly looking nurse who had taken Quinn back for surgery, tapped her gently on the shoulder, Sarah jolted. Fear rocketed to her fingertips, making them tingle with misplaced energy.

She smiled kindly, “I'm sorry, hon. He’s just waking up now if you want to come back.”  

Slipping her headphones around her neck, Sarah coached herself into standing and followed the nurse into the hallway.  

They were in the VIP section, and it looked almost homey. It was still a hospital, and still smelled too sterile and disinfected, but at least it wasn’t 70 different colors of beige and green.  

“Here you go,” Rose held the door open for Sarah to step through. She’d been so caught in her own thoughts she didn’t think she could find her way back to the waiting room if she tried.  

“Quinn,” Rose said gently, “your wife is here.”  

“Girlfriend,” Sarah corrected automatically as she sat in the chair next to the bed.  

He gave her a lopsided, drunk smile. "You can be my wife for the day," he said, voice gravelly.  

She could see in his face that he was going to be sick before he began to cough. She grabbed the basin off the table next to the bed and held it under his chin, helping him tip his head forward so he wouldn’t get any vomit on himself.  

He winced as he settled back.  

“I was just about to say,” Rose said, taking the basin from Sarah’s hands, “you’ll want to avoid talking for the next day or two. It can aggravate the gag reflex.”  

She took the basin into the bathroom and came out with a fresh one. “It’s very normal to vomit quite a bit after a tonsillectomy,” she assured.  

Sarah nodded, looking around the room. It was bigger than any she’d been in in the past. And far more private. Quinn had a beautiful view of the city through a large picture window opposite his bed. Everything was painted in warm, cozy colors. But it was still a hospital, and he still had an IV in his arm that she willed her eyes to skip over every time she looked at him.  

His hand came to rest on hers, solid and comforting. When their eyes met, Quinn - even in his drugged up, addled state - could see the sadness and fear in her face. It bothered him that he couldn’t comfort her the way he wanted to.   

“Are you okay?” he whispered. No gag came. He would just have to talk quietly.  

She nodded, even though she clearly wasn’t. “How are you feeling?”  

He shrugged one shoulder up. “Thirsty.”  

“Can he have some water?” Sarah asked, thankful to have something to do.  

“Gulping can be quite hard, and he won’t be able to use a straw for a week or so, but I’ll get you some ice chips. Do you want them flavored, sweetheart?”  

He shook his head.  

Rose came back a few minutes later with a cup of soft, pellet ice.  

Sarah helped him get it into his mouth, and he sighed when the cold liquid began trailing down his sore throat.  

Thirty minutes later, Ellen came blustering into the hospital room, a suitcase wheeling behind her.  

“I’m so sorry,” she told Sarah, gathering her into a hug.  

Sarah shook her head, and pulled away before she could get too comfortable. An embrace like that would certainly bring her tears spilling over the surface.  

“How is he?” 

She pointed to the hospital bed, where Quinn was awake, but listlessly so. Sliding between resting and waking to let more ice melt in his mouth. 

She didn’t trust herself to speak. There was a certain, intense jealousy that came over her any time she saw someone else’s mother come to support them. Even if she loved them, it was still hard to see and know she would never again get that same support from her own mom.  

“Quinn? Quinn, I’m here.”  

Hearing his mom's voice brought him out of another stupor.  

“How are you feeling?” she asked, pushing his hair off of his forehead.  

“Fine,” he whispered. 

His eyes sought Sarah in the room. She had her back to them, her arms wrapped so tightly around herself, he could see a peek of her Canucks blue nail polish under each arm.  

Ellen settled in the chair next to the bed. Through the rustle of her clothing, Quinn heard Sarah sniff.  

“Mom?”  

“What, honey?” she asked, smoothing his hair again, “what can I get you?”  

“I’m fine, Mom,” he said, testing the limits of his voice. He had to pause and swallow. It hurt, like trying to swallow glass or a golf ball.  

She offered him more ice.  

He took the cup, but didn’t tip it to his mouth, “Mom, I can't right now, but Sarah really needs someone."  

Ellen’s eyes shifted to look at her son's girlfriend, standing proud and contained, looking out the window.  

As they watched, her hand swiped over her cheek. Even from there, they could see the sheen of liquid smeared over her fingers.  

Ellen squeezed Quinn’s hand and walked over to her. It was just like Quinn, to see someone else's need and find a way to fill it even if he couldn't do it himself. 

When the younger woman turned to look at her, fat tears were pooled in her eyes, and rolling down her cheeks.  

“Oh, Sarah,” Ellen whispered, and gathered her into an embrace.  

Sarah began to really cry then. She wasn’t loud, but her breath shook, and her gasps and cries were tiered, as if she were going up and down stairs.  

Ellen held her and smoothed her hair, letting her cry into her shoulder in such a maternal way, Sarah felt both relieved and sad. Her own mother was never as thin as Ellen, but Ellen’s embrace was strong, keeping her grounded the way Sarah needed.  

“I just miss her so much,” she whispered.  

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” 

A while later, she added, “I wish I could have met her.”  

That brought on a fresh wave of tears that had Sarah crying louder.  

Ellen hugged her tighter, palming the back of her head to keep her head on her shoulder. It had been so long since one of her boys had needed this kind of motherly comfort. This was dually the easiest and hardest part of motherhood. The ‘I’ll hold you while you cry and help you put the pieces back together’ kind of motherhood. At the same time, knowing you couldn’t fix all your child's hurts, or take away their pain.  

It brought tears to Ellen's eyes to think that she could stand in for Sarah’s mom in this small way. 

A few minutes later, Sarah pulled away, feeling more than a little embarrassed.  She wiped at her eyes, and forced a bit of a laugh, “I’m sorry, thank you.”  

Ellen took her by the shoulders, “Sarah, you don’t need to thank me, and you certainly don’t need to apologize.”  

“I just,” Sarah met her gaze, “thank you. Being here has been really hard.”  

“I know. Quinn told me,” she assured, her palm still traveling up and down her back in a soothing pattern. “Thank you for taking such good care of my baby while I was getting here.” 

That night, after stopping at the store for ice cream and Popsicles, and watching the game, Quinn settled into bed while Sarah puttered around fussing over him.  

“You're sure you don't need anything else?” she asked, finally stopping to look into his face.  

He shook his head. “I need you to come to bed.” He patted the space next to him.  

She nodded, toed out of her slippers and finally - finally settled next to him, resting her head on his shoulder.  

“Thank you for taking me and taking care of me today,” he said, his voice strained with emotion. 

She propped herself up with one arm to look at him.  

“I love you, Quinn,” she said as if it explained everything. “Of course I'll take care of you.” 

“I know, but I know it was hard for you today.” 

Her smile was a bit defeated. She wanted to be done with the hospital, even though she knew it was better to talk and process the emotions.  

“Thank you for telling your mom what I needed,” she said, her own voice pulled tight with the memory.  

“I wish I could have been holding you,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to her hairline.  

A tear slipped down her cheek. Never in any kind of relationship - friendship, sibling or romantic - had someone seen a need and filled it so quickly, without her having to ask. To find support given before seeking – to find that Quinn was paying attention to her too. It made her chest tight with gratitude, and her voice wobble with emotion. This was the first relationship that didn’t feel out of balance as they so often had in the past. They cared for each other in visible, tangible ways.  

“You gave me the next best thing,” she whispered. “Thanks for sharing her with me.” 

“That’s not sharing, Sar, my mom loves you.”  

She gave a defeated little sigh, “I know, it’s just…" her voice trailed off in that thinking way of hers, "thanks for seeing me, I guess.”  

He laughed a little at the absurdity of her statement and immediately had to throw up.   

By some miracle of physics, he managed to get to the small trash can his mom had set next to the bed.  

Without complaint, Sarah got out of bed, took the bag out of the trash can and to the garage bin. When she came back, she had a bottle of water and a large cup. 

“Swish and spit,” she said, handing them over. He spit in the cup while she replaced the liner. She made him do it twice more before she dumped the contents into the ensuite sink and came back to settle next to him again.  

“Why wouldn’t I see you?” he whispered a while later, after the lights had been turned off, and what she said was still lingering in his mind. 

A sigh moved her shoulder into his chest with a little more force than before. “I just mean… I’m usually the one doing the caring, not the other way around, and it's nice - to be cared for.”  

He adjusted a little to get more of his arm around her. “I love taking care of you,” he whispered into her hair.  

Turning over, she tucked her face into the crook of his neck. He felt her tears on his skin before he heard them.  

He held her and let her cry. From everything he knew about her past relationships, she was often taken advantage of. Doing all the emotional work without getting much in return. She would be the first to tell him that her unwillingness to share her emotions was the main culprit for that. Even after therapy taught her to express herself and ask for what she needed, she always seemed surprised to find him still there when she had a hard day, as if he might run away from her pain. But nothing worth anything didn’t take a little work. It was all about intention. And he loved her and wanted to be with her, so he focused his intention on that, no matter the hurdle in their path.  

For her part, Sarah was glad Quinn came from a family that understood grief. A month before she met him, she had decided not to date anyone who hadn’t lost a parent or sibling. It was just too hard to explain the waves of grief to someone who hadn’t gone through it. Quinn had surprised her, sharing some of his father’s stories about losing his mother when she brought it up for the first time. He didn’t have that first-hand experience, but he was sympathetic, and even once told her he asked his parents for advice when they first started dating. He was all in, and she realized that meant more than anything else. 

When she lifted her head eventually, Quinn brushed her tears away with his thumb. Leaving his hand there, cupping the soft curve of her jaw, he smiled and kissed her gently. “I love you,” he whispered.  

“I love you too.”  

She settled back in again, tucked into Quinn’s side as they drifted to sleep.  

Want more Quinn & Sarah? Check out the Snapshots Masterlist

To read all my fics, check out the Fanfiction Masterlist

[mybeingthere]

Carl Olof Larsson ( 1853 - 1919) was a Swedish artist whose paintings , watercolors and drawings often show the life of his family in and around their house in Sundborn , Sweden. Carl and his wife, had eight children and are considered the founders of what is now considered "typically Swedish" living style, whose key elements are brightness, bright colour and lively, cheerful functionality. Their house is now a museum.

Carl Larsson grew up in poverty. When he was 13, his teacher encouraged him to study at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Stockholm. To pay for his studies, he was forced to work part-time. For example, he worked as a retoucher for a photographer. After he was awarded a royal medal in 1876, his financial situation improved somewhat.

In 1877 Larsson was able to make his first trip to Paris. His third trip to France in 1882 took him to the artists' colony of Grez-sur-Loing near Fontainebleau, where he made numerous watercolors of the surrounding nature. Here he met Karin Bergöö , who soon became his wife. The couple returned to Sweden for the wedding. "This was a turning point in Larsson's life. In Grez, Larsson painted some of his most important works, but now in watercolors, and very different from the oil painting technique he had used before," says the book Carl and Karin Larsson - Their Life and Their Art... edited by Michael Snodin and Elisabeth Stavenow-Hidemark .

[fanficfish]

hetalia thought: the older they get, the more "fuck it we ball" the nations get

let me give examples.

-italy bros are at the least gonna hit 2000 soon. Both are bumbling idiots who are more here to have a good time then anything. I'm convinced they're stronger then they make themselves to be (they caught England with a hole. Yes he dropepd in there but how did they get him into the cell? Venezianobbeat up Turkey once, too, and i think that was when turkey was stronger....and if you think about it, veneziano pretending to be an idiot means he can get away with everything. Literally. Even if he sneaks into a meeting room, him yelling about pasta is enogh to make the others go "ah hes at it again"

-China lmand the maid dress cosplay. Enough said.

-the Nordics, who are all over a thousnad and most are prob older. Denmark doesn't give a shit anymore, Norway goes along with everything becauae why not it's entertainment, Sweden is a memelord. Finland is probably a bit younger so he's a little more grounded, and so is Iceland- they follow the rest but i think they haave a bit more sense of not letting time just go by completely. -America and Canada are young and you can see it- they try to fit in with the rest but over or underdo it and are surprised at things like weekends passing by in a blink of an eye. Germany too, the three of them are babies and just don't quite get the joke sometimes, not for lack of trying.

-England is also up there and i mean. England and his brothers made up English TCG pokemon whatever

-france has long since accepted the idea of being a free spirit. He exists and contemplates and does his thing, knowing time will pass and he might as well try to do the little he can.

-we all know russia was hit one too many times by General Winter. Ukraine surprisingly seems to have her head, but Belarus definitely let the age get to her....just a little. I have a bet she's spent so long chasing Russia she doesn't really know how to stop.

-Poland also doesn't give a shit he just wants his ponies. Man's embraced modern life and decided to just take things as it goes. Lithuania would be dead from stressing at him if he wasn't immortal.

-japan is also pretty old but he is an outlier as far as im concerned becauae this man is a boomer whose besties are a bunch of gen Zs and he might as well be one of them. i think he's done better at the aging thing at least.

-not gonna touch on spain and olive oil. -or Austria's entertainment source being infuriating to his hosts and then marrying everyone.

-or Prussia who's kinda just gone awesome

-or Switzerland who saw the world as said fuck all lf you (cue the red cross) yall need therapy (adopts a sister) why am i the sane one here (puts up security cameras)

-and then ofc there's Greece, who long ago philosophiciEd tok hard and now knows the only things that matter in life are sleep, cats, and occassionally hanging iut with your best frenemy.

[your-mommy-ems]

✧ Emma ✧ she/her ✧ minor ✧ books and food

┊ ➶ ｡°.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Hii! Welcome to my blog:

Basic Info:

✧ Emma/Ems ✧ she/her ✧ Minor - birthday Jan 12 ✧ Capricorn ✧ INTJ ✧ Australian ✧ Ferrari girl <3 ✧ I will defend my babies warnette and Evajacks until i die. ✧ i am a firm believer in sarcasm. ✧ if you see me posting about writing its cause I have no motivation. I post about it, but don't necessarily do it ✧ I'm an introvert but will absolutely come out of my shell and become and extrovert when you get to know me

┊ ➶ ｡°.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Things I love

✧ Books -> [series] The inheritance games, acotar, shatter me, the folk of the air, the prison healer, caraval, ouabh, dance of theives, divine rivals (waiting for the next one to come out), the lunar chronicles, the red queen, when in rome series, the naturals, six of crows.

✧ Books -> [standalone] Better than the movies, if he had been with me, the do over (basically anything by lynn painter), the cheat sheet, powerless, the summer of broken rules and a lot more I cannot remember cause I panicked :)

✧ Music -> Taylor swift, Gracie abrams, Tate McRea, a little of Lana Del Rey, Chase Atlantic, Artic Monkeys, Guns and Roses, Little mix, Conan Gray. My music is allllll over the place lmao.

✧ Christmas <3333

✧ Rain <3

✧ Movies -> Now you see me 1 & 2, knives out 1 & 2, oceans 8, 11, 12, & 13, Mamma Mia, the adam project, enola holmes, red notice and basically and chick flick

✧ Tv shows -> B99, Friends, babysitter's club, alexa and katie, fuller house,

✧ art -> I paint, sketch, and draw, whenever I feel like it. I mostly draw. I want to learn how to use gouache and oils paints.

✧ other -> baking and cooking :)

✧ making moodboards -> here is my master list

┊ ➶ ｡°.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

More Info

✧ my dream life is to runaway to paris or new york and open up a bookstore/cafe/flower shop. (and to be the rich hot aunt the everyone loves)

✧ I will most likely put 'lmao', 'lol', <3, :) at the end or in every sentence I can - just cause I want to talk to you but I don't want to come on too strong lmao (see right there - perfect example)

✧ I want to travel when I'm older! [places] -> London, Paris, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Sweden, Germany, New York, Bahamas, Japan, Korea, and a bunch more!

✧ I spend an unhealthy amount of time on Pinterest and Tumblr.

✧ I'm basically friendless if you exclude online friends. So if we're moots you're my best friend, no take backs

✧ Also I love getting new book, show, movie, music recs!

✧ My Wattpad -> My Pinterest

✧ If you want to know anymore just ask! Seriously, I have like zero friends in real life, so you can spam me anytime. I love talking to new people.

✧ special moots: [if you want to be added or removed just ask!] -> @blythexparker, @kitsohana, @myster3y, @stvrlighhttt, @skeelly, @my-mind-is-frozen, @atwtmvftvtvsgavralpsss, @bookscorpion73, @blocked-zombieartist, @urgirlnextdoorr, @nqds, @reminiscentreader, @crenna, @someones-name-inserted-here, @banilikesfictionalpeople, @yourinterruptingmyreading, @mqstermindswift, @seaveysoceaneyes <3

✧my 100 followers event

✧ this is a safe space for everyone!! ↳ Dni - if you're a racist, homophobe, sexist, pedos, ect..

lots of love

Emma <3

┊ ➶ ｡°.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Ps: this was also inspired by @stvrlighhttt, hehe ik you said u didn't want credit but i think u deserve it mwah <3

[enjoythesilentworld]

Simon's Month - Home (Improvement)

day 30 @youngroyals-events one more to go i could cry

Simon owns a home renovation business with his sister. Wille has recently purchased a fixer-upper.

read below or on ao3 (T, 1.3k)

“You have to be nice,” Sara says as they drive down the unassuming backroad, lined with thick vegetation.

Simon scoffs, staring out the window and peeking between the gaps in the trees to get a glimpse of the types of homes around here. That one needs a new roof, but that one's got some good landscaping.  

“I am nice.”

“You’re nice in a special Simon way. Once someone has had time to get to know you.” Sara puts on the blinker, turning up a gravel street. “There’s a reason I usually bring Ayub with me— Get out and open the gate for me, please.”

Rolling his eyes, Simon climbs out of the car and swings open the simple metal gate, which could really use some oil on the hinges. The fence has a few nearly broken posts, too. If this is what the entrance looks like, he can only imagine the actual house. It must be further up the hill, but it’s way too overgrown for Simon to be able to see anything yet.

Usually, Ayub went with Sara on these consultations, because, allegedly, he's the better at talking to the clients. Apparently it didn’t matter that, technically, Simon was in charge of the construction half of his and Sara’s business. Not that it really bothered Simon. At the end of the day, he trusted Ayub to do the initial walkthrough and markup, allowing Simon to focus on getting everything ready to start the actual construction. Today, though, Ayub is busy, so Simon’s been tagged in.

“I’m just honest,” he says, once back in the car. “You are, too, Sara. That’s why people like you as a designer. Because you'll tell them if their shit is ugly.”

She pulls further up the drive and the house comes into view. That is, if it can even be called a house. Simon barely hears Sara’s response, his mind already flitting through the long, long to-do list that will be required to get this pile of wood back to living standards.

“Yes, but I do it in a nice way. This is Felice’s very good friend, okay? She said he’s great. Don’t make him go back to Felice with a bad review.”

“Yeah, yeah, I won’t,” Simon waves her off, stepping out of the car to get a better look at the building. “This place looks like a piece of shit.”

“Hey, that’s my piece of shit you’re talking about.”

Simon turns at the sound of the new voice. In the front doorway of said piece of shit, there’s a tall, handsome man with auburn hair and a crooked smile. It’s quite the paradoxical image, this pretty, clean-cut man walking down the porch steps of such a dirty, overgrown house.

Sara steps up to greet him, apologizing for her brother's snark, while Simon hangs back, still assessing the integrity of the columns holding up the overhang roof. Most of the shingles are in place, at least, and he doesn’t see any sagging that would indicate leakage. Not yet, at least.

“Good to see you again, Wille,” Sara smiles, using that sweet customer-service voice of hers.

“You, too, Sara. Thank you for agreeing to take on this project. I know it’s a bit of a mess.”

“Well,” Simon cuts in without introduction, “she’ll only be able to do her part once we make sure this place won’t blow away in the first storm.”

Wille turns to him and smiles brightly, somehow rivaling even the midmorning sun that shines above them. “You must be Simon.” He extends a hand. “I’m Wille. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Simon takes his hand and shakes it once. They’re bigger than Simon’s, but less calloused. He probably works for some stupid finance company and sits in a fancy ergonomic chair all day, drinking filtered water and fucking off to business lunches with Sweden’s elite.

“Yep. I’ve heard almost nothing about you. Shall we take a look inside?”

If Wille’s surprised by Simon’s attitude, he doesn’t show it. He just nods, still smiling like the sun.  

Sara hisses at him as Wille leads them inside, telling him to cool it. Simon nods distractedly, but he really can’t be bothered to be nice because he’s already annoyed with this rich kid who’s probably bought this house to fix up and turn into a 20,000kr per night rental.

It’s not as bad inside, thankfully. The remaining yellowed wallpaper is peeling, and there's random trash scattered around, but there are no cracks in the walls or water stains on the ceiling. Wille leads them through, pointing out which rooms are which. The whole tour doesn’t last more than ten minutes as it’s only a two-bed, two-bath. The windows are half-boarded, and there are a few unnecessary walls, and Simon is already itching to get started. 

“I want to keep as much of the original structure as possible,” Wille explains when they stop again in the kitchen. He runs a hand over the dusty countertop, looking lovingly around the small, cramped space. “I might want to add an extension in the future, but it’s just me here, so this is definitely plenty of space for now.”

“You’re going to live here?” Simon asks, surprised.

Wille tilts his head at him. “Yes?”

Simon hums, crossing his arms and leaning back on the archway that leads into the living room. “Damn. I would’ve thought you’re more of a city high-rise type. You seem too posh for country living. You know, I don't think take-out drivers come out here. And the nearest Michelin restaurant isn’t for, like, 100 kilometers.”

“Simon!” Sara glares at him.

“It’s okay,” Wille chuckles. “No, I’m not the high rise type. I prefer the quiet of the countryside, and I also prefer to cook my own food. Michelin restaurants are way too overhyped, anyway.”

He’s smirking through his smile and has met Simon’s challenge, and so Simon decides he can let up a bit.

He and Wille spend the next two hours walking through the space again, more slowly this time, while Sara steps outside to make a few calls. She can’t do anything yet, anyway. Not with the house in this state. This part is Simon’s job, his specialty.

“Knocking down this wall will open up the space a lot, especially if you still want to be able to host while in the kitchen. It’ll give you a good view out of the front of the house, too,” Simon rambles, marching through the space and gesturing as he goes. Wille is hot on his heels, nodding along. “I’d put a countertop bar here, though, for some extra seating and to break up the space a bit. We’ll have to rip out all of these cabinets, though. I’ll need to get my plumber out here, too, to check the piping. These old builds are a little iffy sometimes on how well things have held up.”

Simon continues to talk, and endless stream of consciousness and notes about electrical wiring and comments about the state of the hardwood floor. Wille follows him all the way, making notes in a little notebook and asking the occasional question.

They finish just as Sara’s car pulls back up the driveway. Simon hadn’t even realized she’d left.

“I brought lunch,” she tells them, holding up a brown bag. “You two were pretty distracted, so I figured I shouldn’t bother.”

Wille thanks her graciously, and they all sit on the porch together to eat. Simon starts to make notes in his phone, setting reminders to call certain inspectors and logging how many people he’ll need for demo-day.

After lunch, they take a loop around the outside of the house, inspecting the gutters and stonework. Now that the initial tension has faded, he and Wille get distracted a few times by other topics. Simon learns that Wille is actually not an insufferable spoiled brat. In fact, he’s quite nice and quite funny. He keeps up with Simon’s jokes, and when Simon pushes him, he pushes right back.

Simon tells Wille he’ll have to check with his team, but he’s pretty sure most everyone is in between jobs and will be able to start in the next few days. Wille agrees to meet them at the house for the first day of demolition, and Simon and Sara leave for the day.

“You like him,” Sara says once Simon’s back in the car after closing the front gate behind them.

He shrugs, refusing to give her the satisfaction, and casually admits, “He doesn’t totally suck.”

Perhaps, Simon thinks, this renovation job won’t be too bad.

[ifindus]

since you seem to know a lot of history, I was wondering if you could tell us a little more about norway and his role during ww2, I feel like not a lot of people talk about his importance as an ally.

Let's pretend this wasn't sent back in November! Of course I can!!And "a little" turned into a decent amount 😳

Norway declared itself neutral when the war started in 1939, but became occupied by Germany in April 1940. Throughout the war Norway played an important role helping the allies win. Note that there is also a lot to be said about Norwegian collaboration with the occupiers during these years as well, but that is not the topic of this post.

During the war Norway had both a military and a civil resistance movement. The civil movement was directed towards NS (Nasjonal Samling, the Norwegian nazi party and the only party allowed during these years) attempts at converting people to nazism, while the military resistance were building an underground army who were prepared to step in for the liberation and who also organized sabotages during the last year.

Norway’s government went into exile in London, and was in large responsible for Norway’s war effort and resistance. They took control of the Norwegian merchant ships and put it at the allies disposal, probably Norway’s most important asset and contribution to the war effort. The Norwegian marine and air-force also partook in operations along the Allies, and a Norwegian brigade was organized in Scotland, who were to partake in the final liberation of Norway.

The exiled government had an extensive running contact with the growing resistance back home in Norway, and could gradually provide the resistance with supplies and other support. Soldiers from the Scottish base were sent on missions to aid the resistance in Norway and conduct sabotages.

There as also a base for Norwegian resistance established in Stockholm, who were eventually allowed by the Swedish government to form a military force of 14 500 people under disguise of being police. About 50 000 Norwegians fled to Sweden during the war, and many Norwegians in the border areas aided them as guides over the mountains through difficult and secret passages – they also smuggled goods and supplies through the same routes.

The civil resistance was not exclusively organized, but included everyone who was not a nazi and could be as simple as civil disobedience. Teachers, parents, and priests opposed the effort to convert the youth to nazism by the NS through forced nazi curriculums in schools and obligatory youth service. Other examples of civil resistance were Norwegian workers sabotaging or not even doing the bare minimum at the jobs in factories for the Germans, and the publishing of illegal news-papers which were spread by people handing them to the next person. The most famous illegal news-paper was London-Nytt (London News), and were just Norwegian translations of BBC broadcasts transcribed directly from illegal radios.

The military resistance was known as MILORG, and this secret group had its peak in the last year of the war. This was when they began receiving guns, military equipment and professionals. During the last year they carried out assassinations and sabotages to a much more effective and extensive degree. MILORG was taking orders from the Norwegian military in London and coordinating with them, passing vital information back and forth.

When the Second World War began, Norway was the world’s fourth largest shipping nation, after Great Britain, USA, and Japan, with the Norwegian fleet being the most modern. When Norway was occupied and the Germans demanded Norwegian ships return to Norwegian ports, all of the around 1 000 ships set sail for Allied ports. The Norwegian government in exile commanded all Norwegian ships sail for securing supplies for Norway and the Allies. The ships supplied Great Britain with invaluable wares such as food and oil, and kept up the transatlantic trade during the war. The Norwegian sailors were also present at evacuations and invasions of occupied France and fascist Italy, North-Africa, and Normandy in 1944. The Norwegian ships were under constant attack from the German fleet and many sailors lost their lives transporting for the Allies, most of them working continuously for the five years Norway was at war. Almost half of Norway’s fallen during the war were sailors killed at sea.

[rjzimmerman]

Wheat on repeat (Anthropocene Magazine)

Excerpt from this story from Anthropocene Magazine:

Disguised within an ordinary-looking bowl of pasta before me is a brand new ingredient, 20-years in the making, that many believe could single-handedly slash emissions, store carbon in the soil, and help the wider environment.

The neat fusilli coils contain flour ground from Kernza, a perennial wheat-like crop that produces multiple harvests from one plant, year after year after year. I received some cooking instructions to get the best out of the novel ingredient: “Don’t cover it up with a bunch of sauce! Make sure you can taste it,” says Lee DeHaan, a scientist at The Land Institute, a non-profit agriculture research organization based in Salina, Kansas, that developed the Kernza grain. I follow his guidance, drizzling in a little olive oil and a pinch of salt, and then take a bite, letting the pasta’s flavors emerge: a subtle but unmistakable hint of cinnamon, followed by nutmeg. It’s unexpectedly warm and earthy, like a salute to the rich Kansas soils that Kernza first sprouted from.

The way this crop was raised there was very different to its cousin, conventional wheat. Wheat is an annual crop, like rice and corn, which together account for almost half of the calories humanity consumes. Annuals must be planted and harvested anew each year, a system that requires farmers to heap fertilizers and herbicides onto the land, dispersed by gas-guzzling machinery that bloats agriculture’s carbon footprint. Meanwhile, repeated cycles of tilling and replanting strips the soil of nutrients, and loses vital topsoil to wind and rain. Over time, those soils may degrade, pushing farmers onto new land in search of fertile ground. 

Each mouthful of this Kernza-rich pasta, on the other hand, supports farming that locks topsoil in place and stores carbon in the earth. A growing movement of researchers, farmers, and producers believe that perennial crops have unmatched potential to reform agriculture’s warped system, and are pinning their hopes—and research dollars—on the likes of Kernza to deliver that. The grain is now cultivated across 4,000 acres of land, by over 100 farmers across the US Midwest and as far afield as Sweden and France. Its distinct aromas have made their way into craft beers, cereals, crackers, and whiskey, and have been embraced by major brands such as Patagonia. 

As a potential substitute for wheat, which covers more global land area than any other commercial crop, Kernza seems to herald a wholesome, low-carbon revolution in the vast agricultural sector. And yet 15 years since the first stands took root, the crop has only managed to capture a tiny fraction of the market, a victim of limited yields, government regulation, and a conservative farming industry. So can Kernza ever displace traditional amber waves of grain, or is it doomed to be a perennial runner-up? 

[artandthebible]

The Angel and Gideon

Artist: Gerbrand van den Eeckhout (Dutch, 1621–1674)

Date: 1640

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Collection: Nationalmuseum, Stockholm, Sweden

The Angel of the Lord Visits Gideon | Judges 6:-11-16

The angel of the Lord came and sat down under the oak in Ophrah that belonged to Joash the Abiezrite, where his son Gideon was threshing wheat in a winepress to keep it from the Midianites. When the angel of the Lord appeared to Gideon, he said, “The Lord is with you, mighty warrior.”

“Pardon me, my lord,” Gideon replied, “but if the Lord is with us, why has all this happened to us? Where are all his wonders that our ancestors told us about when they said, ‘Did not the Lord bring us up out of Egypt?’ But now the Lord has abandoned us and given us into the hand of Midian.”

The Lord turned to him and said, “Go in the strength you have and save Israel out of Midian’s hand. Am I not sending you?”

“Pardon me, my lord,” Gideon replied, “but how can I save Israel? My clan is the weakest in Manasseh, and I am the least in my family.”

The Lord answered, “I will be with you, and you will strike down all the Midianites, leaving none alive.”