#Handbag Factory

[senhanleather]

🌟 [The Magic of Handbag Making! ✨] Hey dear fairies, today I want to introduce you to a super cool handbag factory! 👜💫 Are you guys ready? Come explore this amazing place with me! 💥✨

In this handbag factory, every handbag is created by our team of designers with their heart and soul, and every detail is carefully crafted to make your fashion quotient skyrocket instantly! 🔥💃

Our factory has advanced production equipment and high-tech craftsmanship to ensure that every handbag is the best of the best! Every thread, every buckle is strictly screened, just to bring you the most perfect experience of use! 💪💖

Not only that, our handbags are also made with eco-friendly materials, focusing on sustainable development, so that you can contribute to the earth while pursuing fashion! 🌍🌱

Whether you're attending a party or going shopping, our handbags have you covered! From fashionable styles to practical designs, we've created a diverse selection for you to be the center of attention! ✨👛

So, dear fairies, if you want to have a one-of-a-kind handbag, come and visit our factory! We promise to bring you an extraordinary shopping experience and absolute value for money! 🌟💯

[mike-sir]

Sanyuanli/Shiling Leather City Processing Factory in Guangzhou, China supports customized luggage and bags.

[oppositional]

flyer designer unknown

[literaryvein-reblogs]

some words for worldbuilding (pt. 1)

Air

billow, breath, bubble, draft, effervescence, fumes, puff, vapor

Arena

aquarium, bazaar, coliseum, field, hall, mecca, stage

Building

abbey, architecture, armory, asylum, bakery, bar, booth, cathedral, club, construction, court, department store, dock, edifice, emergency room, factory, food court, fort/fortress, framework, garrison, greasy spoon, hacienda, hangout, headquarters, hotel, inn, institute/institution, jetty, laboratory, mansion, mental hospital, monastery, mosque, museum, nursing home, office, pavilion, penitentiary, plant, prison, rampart, repository, ruins, sanctuary, shrine, skyscraper, stockade, storeroom, structure, temple, theater/theatre, treasury, warehouse, wharf

City

capital, metropolis, town, village

Furniture

altar, banister, bench, booth, bunk, cabinet, chair, couch, crib, davenport, dresser, furnishings, futon, jetty, lectern, partition, perch, platform, pulpit, rail/railing, screen, secretary, stand, wardrobe

Geographic division

area, county, desert, dynasty, kingdom, outskirts, quarter, sector, suburb, territory, tract, zone

Habitat

abode, ecosystem, environmentalist, habitat/habitation, harbor, home, land, nest, paradise, premises, refuge, settlement, tent

Habitat, human: accommodations, apartment, barracks, cabin, castle, condominium, convent, domesticity, dungeon, element, encampment, estate, grange, hacienda, home, house, housing, hut, jail, lodging, madhouse, monastery, neighborhood, old country, palace, prison, reservation, resort, sanctuary, shanty, suite, vacancy, villa

Habitat, rural: barn, burrow, conservatory, desert, farm, forest, grange, jungle, sanctuary, wilderness/wilds, wood/woods

Land

abyss, avalanche, bank, bay, bed, bluff, campus, cape, cavern, cliff, compost, cove, crevice/crevasse, dirt, downgrade, dune, elevation, estuary, expanse, field, fossil, garden, glacier, gorge, green, ground, gulf, harbor, hillock, inlet, knoll, landscape, lawn, lot, marshy, menagerie, mine, moat, mound, mountainous, nature, outlook, park, patio, pit, plateau, plaza, porch, prairie, projection, property, quagmire, ravine, ridge, savanna, shelf, soil, stack, table, trench, tundra, valley, well, wood/woods, yard

Nation

country, home, land, nationality, soil, state

Personal item

adornment, amulet, beads, best-seller, briefcase, cache, cargo, charm, contraceptive, disguise, effects, equipment, favorite, gem, glasses, handbag, jewelry, knickknack, luggage, marionette, memorabilia, necklace, novelty, object d’art, odds-on-favorite, paraphernalia, pledge, possession, pride, puppet, purse, resources, ring, souvenir, stuff, supplies, sustenance, thing/things, trappings, trifle, valuable

Planet

cosmos, Earth, galaxy, moon, planet, sphere, world

Region

capital, commonwealth, quarter, region, settlement, suburb

Room

alcove, attic, bath, bedroom, boutique, cellar, den, enclosure, foyer, gin mill, hall, lavatory, loft, outhouse, parlor, restaurant, saloon, shop, stage, store, tenement, theater/theatre, vestibule

Shape

angular, beaten, billowy, checkered, concave, conical/conic, crescent, curly, deformed, elliptical, flat, gnarled, kinky, misshapen, obtuse, round, shapeless, spiral, straight

Vehicle

camper, conveyance, motorcade, transport

Vehicle, air: aircraft, armada, blimp, dirigible, helicopter, shuttle, UFO

Vehicle, land: ambulance, bicycle, car, cherry-picker, dolly, excavator, model, traffic, truck

Vehicle, water: armada, boat, craft, fleet, sailboat, yacht

Water

abyss, aqueduct, basin, beach, blackball, brook, cape, channel, condensation, creek, deep, estuary, fountain, gulf, heading, inlet, lake, oasis, pond, promontory, reservoir, sea, spray, strait, tide, wash, wave, whirlpool

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary. Writing Resources PDFs

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary

[weijufashion]

Our logistics transportation is very efficient and fast.

[luxury-factory]

Louis Vuitton Sac Trianon MM

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Shipping Out

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader Warnings: Drinking, smoking, public sex, smut. Word count: ~1.5k

Summary: Just trust me on this one, and read all the way to the end.

Author's note: A little birthday treat for @bottlesandbarricades. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

The pub is crowded and noisy, the humidity of the air making her carefully coiffed curls cling to the back of her neck with perspiration. It’s not often that she frequents this side of Manchester, but the change of scenery is a refreshing switch of pace to the monotony of everyday life. Laughter, music and the clinking of glasses is preferable to the whir of the factory sewing machines.

She taps her red lacquered nails against the wood of the bar, wrinkling her nose at the stickiness of the wooden surface beneath her palm. If the frequency with which it’s wiped down is any indication of the attentiveness of the barkeep then she’s in for a long wait for a drink.

Sighing, she fishes her cigarette case from her handbag, flipping it open and plucking one out. No sooner has she placed it between her lips than a hand is clicking a flame to life before the end of it, turning it a glowing cherry red. She casts her gaze upwards through the steady plume of smoke, met by twinkling blue eyes and a cocky smirk, as the chivalrous stranger deposits his lighter back into his trouser pocket and regards her with a tip of his head.

“Thanks,” she says with an easy smile, taking the smoke between her fingers and exhaling a tight line of vapour up towards the ceiling.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies with a wink. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this then?”

God, that’s a terrible line.

She bites back a laugh, and decides to humour him. “Trying to get a drink, service in here is awful though.”

He purses his lips, eyes raking over her from head to toe, before nodding. “Can’t be having that.” Slapping a hand against the bartop, he calls out, “Oi! My lady friend and I are dying of thirst over here! Anyone serving?”

She raises her eyebrows in disbelief, but doesn’t have to wait long until a middle aged, irritated looking woman makes her way around the corner to the pair of them and grumpily takes their order. She’s long since finished her cigarette by the time the glasses are placed heavily down in front of them.

He doesn’t even ask what she wants to drink; she ends up with a gin and tonic, while he has a pint. It’s what she would have ordered anyway, but the bold presumption unsettles her regardless.

Sipping her drink, she relishes in the way the fizzy bitterness envelopes her tongue as she takes in what he’s wearing; navy blue slacks and a matching long sleeved smock, with a white striped collar.

“Shouldn’t you be on a boat somewhere, sailor?”

He grins, setting his glass down on a dog eared beer mat. “Just so happens I’ve been given a night of shore leave. I ship out again tomorrow.”

“Lucky me,” she says with a coy smile.

“If you play your cards right you might be.”

There’s that smirk again. She watches as he takes out a packet of Lucky Strike, perching one between his lips before offering one to her. She gratefully accepts, and he’s quick to light it for her, before doing the same to his own.

Every table is full, but she doesn’t mind, she’s content just to prop up the bar with him, ignoring the ache of her feet as they lapse into effortless conversation. He’s handsome, if a little overeager and she pays rapt attention as he entertains her with stories of his time aboard the HMS Exeter.

She’s on her third gin and tonic of the evening when he leans in to whisper to her.

“So, I might not see another woman for months after tonight. You gonna help me make it one to remember?”

Feeling her cheeks heat up, she giggles softly. “What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find a way for you to thank me for my loyal service to our country,” he tells her, taking her hand and leading her out of the pub.

Allowing the gin to fuel her confidence, before she can change her mind, she lets him guide her outside. Even met with the sobering chill of the night air, she offers up no protest when he pulls her into the ginnel, the brickwork biting into her back as he pushes her up against the wall and captures her lips with her.

It’s a messy kiss, moist and desperate with need. He tastes of beer and tobacco as she welcomes his tongue against her own with parted lips, her fingertips sliding over the breadth of his shoulders and up into the cropped softness of his sandy coloured hair.

Pressing tighter against her, he groans appreciatively, mouth moving from hers to travel a path across her jaw and down her neck, as his hands find their way up her skirt. One teases the top of her stocking while the other presses against her clothed core, making her gasp.

His touch is hurried, not as thorough as she’d like, yet she feels a growing stickiness between her thighs regardless. The warmth of his fingers and lips against her makes her feel desired, and she is lightheaded, almost giddy, to see the effect she’s having on him.

Instinctively, she parts her legs wider as he dips beneath her knicker elastic, stroking eagerly through her folds.

“Christ, you’re soaked,” he rasps against the shell of her ear, “bet you’d let me fuck you right here, if I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

She bites her bottom lip, stifling her quiet whimper as his strokes against her cause her to throb. “Please…”

“Since you asked nicely…” He pulls back, blue eyes dark with intent as he makes quick work of unbuckling his belt, lowering his trousers and briefs just enough to free his erection.

Even in the darkness of the alleyway she can see that he’s thick and heavy, and he pumps lazily at himself, while his free hand reaches into his pocket.

“Leave that,” she tells him, as she spots the foil of the sheath wrapper.

He raises an eyebrow, pursing his lips as he stares at her. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” she whispers.

That’s all the confirmation he needs, slipping the packet away and surging forward. He pulls her underwear to the side, grasping the base of himself and pushes forcefully into her in one motion.

The movement knocks all the air from her lungs. Though she is wet, the public nature of their tryst leaves little time for him to prepare her fully, the luxury of time is not on their side, but in their desperation neither one of them cares. It stings, the fullness of him pushing against her, but it’s a pleasurable hurt.

Her breaths leave her mouth in shallow pants as he pistons his hips into her, lifting one of her legs to hook her thigh around his hip. She wraps her arms around his neck, clinging to him as he rocks into her, his forehead pushed up against hers.

“Filthy slut,” he grits out, “bet you’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

“Y-yeah…” she whines, feeling his fingers press tighter into the meat of her thigh.

His brow furrows, and he grunts, his pace becoming sloppy and erratic. While the ache builds steadily inside of her, she worries he’ll finish before she does. The thought is fleeting, and as though he’s read her mind, the hand not gripping her thigh slips between them, fingers rubbing tight circles against her bud. She clenches around him, the added stimulation serving to intensify the tightening in her lower belly.

“That’s it,” he mutters, “come on.”

He pulsates inside of her, knocking against a spot that makes her tip over the edge suddenly, and she lets out a choked cry, a rolling wave of weightlessness travelling from her head to her toes. Her walls spasm around him and he pushes himself in to the hilt, a groan of relief escaping him as he spills himself inside of her.

They stay like that for a few moments, both catching their breath as their bodies relax. He grins as he pulls back slightly, before leaning in to pepper her face with soft, playful kisses.

“Tommy!” She huffs a laugh, swatting at his shoulder.

He slips out of her, stepping back to tuck himself away and fasten his belt. “Thought we weren’t supposed to be using our names? Part of the fun was pretending we don’t know each other.”

She scoffs, putting her gusset back into place as she feels his spend start to drip out of her, and smooths her skirt back down. “Think you ruined that when you ordered my drink without asking what I wanted. A stranger wouldn’t know I like gin and tonic!”

Tom rolls his eyes and chuckles, offering his arm for her to take. “Right, right. Well, I’ll remember for next time. Whatever you need for me to fulfill your fantasies.”

“Right now, my only fantasy is being at home in bed. That pub is horrible,” she tells him as they begin to walk down the street arm in arm.

“You wanted the uniform. I wasn’t gonna take us somewhere someone we know would see and take the piss.”

She laughs, gripping his arm tighter as she looks up at him. “Was fun though, wasn’t it?”

He gazes down at her with hooded eyes as they continue to walk. “I’ve had worse nights.”

Read on AO3

More Tom fics

[zablife]

Tommy's Scent

Tommy Shelby x nun!reader

A/N: The scent of smoke in the air, requested by @cillmequick and @peakyswritings. Part of my Corrupt a Wish challenge.

Warnings: predatory behavior, unwanted advances, brief mention of assault Corrupt a wish reminder: If you think this story has a happy ending, you haven't been paying attention. Proceed with caution!

There was something about the earthy, spiced blend of smoke that would always be central to your memory of St. Hilda's. Arriving as a novice, the scent haunted your waking hours as it seemed to follow you through every corridor, never fully dissipating. The unique smell seeped from the banisters and books alike as though some specter lingered in every corner watching you.

The more it clung to you, the greater the weight on your mind until you could think of nothing else. Determined to banish the distraction, you took it upon yourself to air the classrooms every morning. However, breathing in lungfuls of soot and smoke from the nearby factories hardly seemed like a solution. The combination of smells gave you a nauseous headache which frequently made you ill.

By the end of your first month at the orphanage, your hands were already becoming red and chapped from the frequent, thorough scrubbing of your habit and stockings. At the end of your third, they were raw and bloodied. However, your nightly ritual had become something of a self-soothing gesture as you allowed the fresh scent of the soap to cleanse not only your belongings, but your anxious heart.

Your small room was something of a sanctuary for you in those days, the one place where the air remained pure. Loathe to leave the peace you'd created within those four walls, you began to delay the start of your day to remain there. Noticeably late for morning prayers on more than one occasion, you were swiftly reprimanded by Mother Superior who expressed doubts about your commitment.

After you pleaded with her to let you stay, she obliged on the condition that you performed a new duty. You listened intently as she explained there was a sick child in Warwickshire whose parents were to receive weekly communion. It seemed odd that this task had fallen upon the sisters of St. Hilda's when St. Mary's was much closer in proximity. However, you didn't dare question her judgement, especially after she'd shown you mercy.

The next morning you made the journey to a large estate called Arrow House in a shiny Bentley that had been sent just for the occasion. You tried not to show your excitement at the lavish accommodation, but you had to admit you were secretly thrilled at the prospect of making the drive in luxury each week.

The time passed quickly as you trained your thoughts on the little girl who'd fallen ill, wondering how you might find her upon arrival. Your nerves seizing hold of you before you'd realized, you began to fidget nervously as the large house came into view.

As the car came to a halt, you took a deep breath and held your head high as you exited. You were keen to project an air of confidence if the family was watching from the window.

However, you needn't have worried. There wasn't a single member of the Shelby clan to be found when the heavy oak door swung open, only a slight woman in a carefully pressed uniform. She ushered you inside as she studied you with piercing green eyes, stiffly introducing herself as the housekeeper.

Though you couldn't say why, the hair on the back of your neck prickled as you followed her down the hall. It might have been her unfriendly demeanor or the sudden rush of wind as the front door closed behind you, but an disquieted feeling came over you. The sense of déjà vu only grew stronger as a familiar woodsy, slightly sweet smell met your nostrils.

There was no time to reconcile your thoughts as the housekeeper left you at the threshold of Mr. Shelby's office, clutching your handbag against your body. By sheer willpower, you rapped upon the door, reminding yourself you were here to deliver communion to the Shelbys. Out of duty for this sacred act, you were compelled into the room where you glimpsed a man in only his waist coat and rolled sleeves sat at the desk. A rush of embarrassment caused you to falter, unaware he would be dressed so informally.

"Come," he commanded without looking up from his papers and the authority in his voice dictated nothing less than strict obedience.

Taking a seat across from him when he gestured, your gaze locked onto his sky blue eyes. They appeared quite angelic in the light, framed by his long, dark lashes. However, there was a hardened look about him which gave you a chill.

He hadn't failed to notice the effect he had on you, leaning forward to offer a cigarette. You shook your head as you politely declined, reaching into your bag for the small case containing the communion wafers.

"That won't be necessary," he muttered as he lit up.

You watched intently as he inhaled, your concern growing as his chest expanded like some great beast. The gentle roll of smoke tumbling from his mouth and nostrils did nothing to suppress your anxiety, especially as you were struck with a sudden revelation. The scent haunting you all those months was his unique blend of tobacco.

The clink of his lighter snapping shut jolted you back to reality and the purpose of your visit. "Mr. Shelby, I'm afraid, I don't understand. You asked me here, but you no longer wish to receive communion?"

The cigarette burned slowly between his fingers, curls of smoke reaching the high ceiling long before he gave an answer to your query.

Staring into the roaring fire beside him, Mr. Shelby's eyes reflected the bright orange hue of the flames as he admitted, "My daughter died last month. So, you see, I've no need."

You gulped harshly at his words, but quickly recovered. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know. Would you care to say a prayer together?"

He only laughed at your suggestion, "And what good would that do her now, ey?"

"Prayer has seen me through difficult times since I was a child," you answered, staring at him earnestly.

Plucking the cigarette from his lips, he pinched it between his thumb and forefinger as he punctuated his words. "When I was a boy I carried a screwdriver and a blade and everyone believed I had the power to lay curses."

Your blood ran cold upon hearing this, but you had to admit you were intrigued by his statement. "Do you?" you ventured, holding your breath for his answer.

Without breaking eye contact he affirmed, "Yes, I do."

You shuddered involuntarily as another chuckle escaped his lips and you became suspicious he'd asked you here only to humiliate you. Whether driven by grief or malice, you didn't know, only that you'd become terribly afraid of him. Reaching for the rosary in your pocket, you removed it and began rubbing your thumb over the beads to soothe yourself.

You didn't realize you'd closed your eyes to the devil across from you until he was standing at your side, one hand clamped against the back of your neck. "I wouldn't try that," he advised as he caught sight of your lips moving in silent prayer. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered a cruel taunt, "No one is listening."

The following moments were a blur, his body too close for comfort and his words a mixture of threats and perverse longing. He'd watched you from the day you arrived at St. Hilda's, careful to keep to the shadows whenever he visited Mother Superior.

Upon his confession, your mind traversed the path of your early days at the orphanage when you'd been assigned to teach Latin. Suddenly you were lost in memory:

The twist of the door knob down the hall caused you to jump before turning your attention back to the lesson you were teaching. As the ancient wood creaked upon its hinges, you redoubled your efforts reciting the lesson as you'd rehearsed. However, the potency of the scented smoke caused you to freeze with chalk dangling from your fingertips.

As though in a trance, you moved to the doorway, your head tilted at an angle to follow the dark figure now striding away from you. In the shadows of the darkened hall, you could make out the outline of a man in a peaked cap. His dark, dusty coat flapped behind him as he disappeared from view, leaving nothing more than a few dirty footprints to prove his existence.

"You knew I'd been there," Mr. Shelby uttered and you cried out in horror at his ability to read your mind. It was beyond comprehension how he'd known your every move. "You wanted to know me too, didn't you?" he asked, hands roaming your body despite your thrashing. You couldn't answer, catatonic in the face of his brazen assault.

What seemed to be a lifetime later, you collected yourself from the floor and bolted for the door. Hurtling down the hall as fast as you could with tears blurring your vision, you eventually reached daylight, but in your haste to escape, your feet stumbled on the stone steps outside Arrow House. Falling to your knees, you winced as the gravel cut into your legs.

"Let me help you to the car," a calm, even voice boomed behind you. Thomas Shelby came into view above you, hand extended like a perfect gentleman.

"Don't touch me," you snapped, chest heaving for breath. A spark of indignant rage caught fire inside his crystal blue eyes before taking a deliberate step back when he noticed the driver approaching.

Smoothing his hair back, he turned to the older man announcing, "William, Sister Y/n seems to have hurt herself. Please help her to the car."

As William took hold of your elbow, you rose to face Mr. Shelby with a look of determination. Inwardly you vowed to tell Mother Superior everything as soon as you returned and your steely eyed gaze said as much. It was the very reason he returned to his office at that moment, to make a phone call of his own.

And thus your confession about Mr. Shelby's behavior did not go as planned. The moment you divulged the false pretenses under which you'd been brought to Arrow House, her apathy turned to anger. Incensed at your accusations, she reprimand you for telling such “fanciful tales."

However, you could not accept the injustice that had been done. “You're aware of his wickedness and you do nothing?” you gasped in disbelief, glancing down at your bloodied legs as proof something had indeed happened that day.

"Mr. Shelby is a very generous benefactor. In fact, the Grace Shelby Foundation is the biggest single source of funding for this charitable institution. If he asks for your visits to continue, then that is what you shall do." When she was finished, she pursed her lips tightly to convey her resolve and you realized it was her final word on the matter.

You took the long, lonely walk back to your room in a stupor. The moment you closed the door, you allowed yourself a moment of pity and cried until your eyes were as red as your hands which scrubbed ceaselessly to erase the scent of him.

-----------------

Tag List:

@peakyswritings

@evita-shelby

@kittycatcait219

@callsign-fangirl

@theshelbyclan

@elenavampire21

@little-diable

@lyarr24

@the-fangirl-diaries

@kmc1989

@helen06dreamer

@pietroxreader 

@galactict3a

@ietss

@mostly-marvel-musings

@writeroutoftime

@yolobloggers

@outlanderuniverse

@anilovessadbooks

@elliaze

@snickersmee

@call-sign-shark

@brummiereader

@cillmequick

@mischievouslittlecreature

@justrainandcoffee

@ryecosse

@garrison-girl-08

@copinghex

@dandelionprints

@look-at-the-soul

@cillianmurphyfanatic

@kpopgirlbtssvt

@babayaga67

@babaohhhriley

@kmhappybunny240

@rangerelik

@shelby-fangirl00

@thomashelbyswife

@mythos-writes

@thegreatdragonfruta

@peakyltd

@holacia3

@novashelby

@moral-terpitude

[kigieri]

Second Fiddle

Lando Norris × Reader

Insecurity can eat you from the inside out. Lando is experiencing pressure from all sides, communicating to his girlfriend about it, however, is another monster altogether. She will have to show him love and support and be insistent so he may talk about his problems.

A/N: This fic was written during the summer break.

This story on AO3.

He stretched and saw her in his peripheral vision. He took her in while turning his head. She stood at the door, in a breathtakingly blue dress, some glitter covering the skin that was showing, her hair nicely done. "I see I have to share you with the Sim again. Let me not turn into Kelly, will you? She may accept the Sim as her counterpart in the relationship, but I won't." Her smile was tight. She joked to cover her annoyance. "I don't think I have ever heard her complain about it seriously. She's just fine with how things are." Lando chuckled nervously. One had combing through his hair. "Yeah, Max also doesn't forget date nights." Her voice was curt. "You have enough time to get ready. We'll make it in time for the reservation." She looked pointedly at the Sim rig. "But we're talking about your work when we come back."

The door fell into its hinges behind them. Lando toed off his shoes before dumping her handbag, which he had been carrying, on the sofa and letting himself fall right on top of it. She picked up his shoes, took off her own and placed them nicely under the coat hanger. "I did not find this date that exhausting." She stepped next to the couch. His eyes raked up her legs, all the way to her face. She was smiling, as he had anticipated from her voice, and she leaned down to ruffle his hair lightly.

"It's summer break, Lando." She sat down next to his head, continuing to lightly massage his skull. "We're going on vacation in a few days and work and the Sim are still at the forefront of your mind." She turned his head upwards, so he had to look at her. He turned onto his back, manoeuvring her purse out from underneath himself and dropping it on the floor. "I know. I just want to be ready to step back into the car." She nodded. "You're second in the standings. You have won a race." She leaned down to kiss his lips. "I know you won't be satisfied until you're first, but let's enjoy the break. You can jump right back in when we are back, okay?" He nodded. "Yeah..."

He may have said he would enjoy himself but she knew his head was still in the garage. His mind racing around a circuit or analysing data even while sitting next to the pool.

The air was humid and they had enjoyed a fabulous Greek dinner, there was little better in the world for her than warm goat cheese with walnuts and honey. Now she leaned against the railing of their little balcony, overlooking the sea. Lando was inside the hotel room, sitting in front of his tablet and, even though he tried to hide it, she knew exactly what he was looking at. Time flew by while she was watching the waves. She was ripped out of her musings by arms encircling her waist.

Lando planted a kiss on her neck before laying his chin on her shoulder. "Why are you standing out here? I thought you wanted to go to bed." She nodded lightly, not looking away from the water. "Is the data different from yesterday, or the day we arrived?"

He froze for a second. "I.. ehm..." He swallowed. "They send me stuff from the factory." She hummed. "That's what I thought. Is that where your head is? While I'm trying to have a nice vacation with you?" He sighed. "I'm sorry. The second half of the season is important."

She turned around in his arms, facing him. "I know. I do not feel neglected because your focus is your work. I knew that before we started dating." She raised her hand to rake it through his hair. "I'm concerned about you because this exceeds your normal level of obsession." He could not suppress a small smile, she knew him well and that felt good. She continued after a moment. "Your head is not really there either. I know that too. You're staring off while sitting in front of the tablet, you'll get that faraway look while we're out. I want to know what that is about. I wish to help you, Lando." Her hand had come to rest on his cheek.

He had looked at her face while she spoke but now his gaze strayed to the ocean behind her. "I need to be the best I can be." She nodded. He did, however, not continue, so she spurred him on a bit. "Why Lando? To beat Max, or is there more?" Her second hand had found its place on his bicep and squeezed lightly. "I have to beat Oscar."

That was not new information to her, but she was surprised by the tone he said it in, more determined than he normally spoke about the comparison between him and his teammate. "If he is better they will favour him, no matter my standing in the championship. Webber made more than sure of that." She swallowed. "You think they're going to put him first?" His gaze returned to her eyes and, with some hesitation, he nodded.

"Oh Lando..." She let the hand from his face glide behind his head and pulled him towards herself, letting him slide into the crook of her neck. "He is a great driver and I'm sure Mark as his manager has made that contract solid as steel, but you're the face of the team, you're Zak's priority. That may not be official, but that is how it is. And yeah, Oscar may not care much for your championship, but he can't mess up his chances with the team or you if he wants your continued support."

Lando listened and stayed quiet, simply breathing her in for some time. When he stood straight again his eyes were slightly glazed. "I'm afraid I'm gonna run it into the ground. That it's not gonna be the team's fault, or Oscar's, but mine." She nodded, wiping under his eye to catch a tear. "It will be a hard fight. Max is a good driver and Oscar is too, but you have made it this far. You are the second best right now. Even if you don't win it this year, you have shown your worth and you're going to win in the future."

He nodded, not fully convinced but reassured by her words. "Let us go to bed, shall we?" She asked. Neither of them had let go of the other. Lando let his arms slide down her sides and stepped back to turn around towards their room. She turned back towards the ocean again, just to look at the waves once more, before also walking into the room. He had already started undressing when she came in. "I would like it if you talked to me about these things. We support each other." His nod was almost not noticeable. "It is hard, and I will ask again if I notice something, but I don't want you to be alone with this." This time his nod was more vigorous. "I will try." He looked at her, smiling crookedly. She nodded. "Thank you." She walked the few steps towards him and gave him a short kiss.

@kigieri 2024. All rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate or repost any of my work.

[soot-and-salt]

Daily Alastor writing exercise #2

I guess I'll keep doing this until I remember how to goddamn write again.

Thank you for being so kind about the last one. It filled me with a joy I hadn't known in months, like a flower finally watered again after a drought.

I keep writing angst... I'd say I'm sorry but...

Alastor stared up at the thin screen, ankle balanced on his knee and a boutique of winter flowers loose in his hand. The theater was empty, save for him and the man at the piano who played as if he was at prayer, head bowed and eyes half-shut. It was a late showing, the film no longer fresh enough to be on the marquette, set out like spoiled produce to be picked at by those of lesser means.  He didn’t mind the theater. Not really. There was a certain frail charm to it, like a glass bell jar used on people instead of butterflies, preserving that which wasn’t meant to be preserved. Alastor was glad of it now, though. He watched the silent picture ramble on before him, as a slender man with a ridiculous moustache and top hat stumbled his way into comical mishaps meant to delight indiscriminate crowds like the vaudeville shows of his childhood.  And suddenly there she was, trapped forever in celluloid like a beetle in amber. Leeched of her righteous color and bawdy accent, but her just the same. Alastor watched, unable to help the smile that crept onto his face, as Mimzy bustled into the scene in a fox stole and the helpless tramp walked right into her. She gasped, eyes wide as billiard balls, mouth a perfect “o” of affront, before she began to smack him with her handbag.  A dialogue card popped up on screen. “You cad!” it said in curvy handwriting, and Alastor could almost hear it in her voice, the spark of her accent and the dive in pitch of her tone when she really got angry.  Just as quickly as she had arrived on the screen she was gone again, disappearing into a crowd of people and leaving the comedian looking slightly battered and adrift.  “That’s my girl,” Alastor said fondly, sadly, wishing he could replay it again and again just to see her. He’d give anything to reach through the screen and pull her back home, back to New Orleans, where she belonged. Where he had kept her safe from mean landlords and cruel boyfriends, instead of letting her go to chase her dreams of stardom in the silent movie factories of New Jersey.  Where she had run straight into another man with ill intentions, a drinking problem, and a gun.  Alastor stood slowly and dropped the flowers on his seat. He’d see her again, he knew it deep down in his bones, but he ached without her now. Regret was not an emotion he was used to, though grief was a ready friend he had shaken hands with many times before. He hated to welcome it back into his life once more.  “Goodbye Mimz,” he said, running a hand over a flower petal before putting his hat back on and walking out of the theater, the slow piano tune following close at his heels like a dirge.

(oh hey @henchy5824 and @elkaseltzer)

[floydmtalbert]

le départ

Lou + Rosie, a succession of trains, and a Westland Lysander, for @mercurygray! A follow-up to this wonderful piece, an AU in which Merc’s Joan and my Louise are running an escape line.

It is a morning of ragged cloud and fitful sunshine, the southern outskirts of the city rinsed by the recent rain and buffed up to a shine by the wind. The cold, hard light throws everything into sharp relief: the acres of cheap housing, the wasteland of railway sidings and warehouses and factories, the handful of people waiting on the platform at Ivry. They carry bags and suitcases and have a dark, shuttered look about them. No one speaks. This is Paris in its fourth year of occupation: the silver city, tarnished and battered, silence and suspicion amongst strangers.

Louise and Robert stand apart from the other travellers, huddled against the wind, his arm around her shoulders and hers around his waist. Casual, patient, as though none of this really matters. They are just a young suburban couple, newlyweds, heading to the country for the weekend.

The Bordeaux train draws in from the Gare d’Austerlitz, wheezing steam, half an hour late and already packed, even in the first-class carriages. Louise appeals to an elderly woman sat by the window, asking if she would move so that she and her husband might sit together. The woman sighs and grumbles, glaring at them with rheumy eyes, but eventually they are settled, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. She can feel the warmth of him even through the layers of his clothing, the sweater Ferraby had offered up, its sleeves a little too short for Robert, the suit and thick wool coat in a nondescript grey that she and Joan had chosen with care. As the train heaves itself into motion and gathers speed, he turns his head to look out of the window, and she turns her head to look at him. If only… she thinks, but stops herself.

If only we really were going away for the weekend. If only this journey would never end. If only the war was simply something happening to other people.

At Étampes, an inspector walks down the corridor, stepping over people and luggage, calling for tickets. He stops at their compartment, a police officer behind him, and there is the dutiful pause while people rifle through handbags, search through pockets. Louise takes out her ticket, waits a second while Robert does the same, following her lead, and then hands both of them over. The man glances down at the tickets, and up again at their faces, and passes them back. Then the door slides closed and he and the policeman are gone.

With great sighs the train traipses on into the flat farmland of La Beauce, where the fields are brushed green with sprouting winter wheat and the sky is a cool blue.

In the outskirts of Orléans they slow. The marshalling yards of Fleury-les-Aubrais have recently been bombed and everywhere there is wreckage, wagons thrown about, rails twisted and knotted, the ruins of buildings still smoking. In silence people stare out of the window at these signs of what is to come, while the carriages rattle and jolt over the single track that has been repaired.

At the station itself, doors slam and people come and go. They hear heavy footsteps in the corridor, Germans this time, two sergeants of the Feldgendarmerie in their grey uniforms and silver breastplates, flanking another man in a belted raincoat and trilby, a uniform in itself. Louise and Robert hand over their tickets and the identity cards bearing the names Anaïs Hélène Gauthier and Maxence Charles Gauthier.

“You are travelling to Angoulême?” the Gestapo officer asks. He speaks French well, which she always finds unsettling: no hope of hiding behind incomprehension, of playing for time with confusion.

“Yes.”

“For what purpose?”

Louise glances at Robert with a small smile, reaches for his hand. “We’re having a few days away.”

The German looks between them and then back at their papers, turning them over in his hands, lingering. Time seems to slow. Louise holds Robert’s hand tightly in hers, feeling his pulse racing against her own skin, just as her thoughts are racing. How would she act if she were entirely innocent, if she really were a young Frenchwoman taking a trip with her husband? How would Anaïs Gauthier behave? She would hardly care at all, would sit there and deal with it, this little interruption to her day.

And so Louise puts her hand on Robert’s cheek, tilts his face down to hers, and kisses him. Nonchalance, Gallic insouciance, in the face of everyday inconvenience.

At last the Gestapo officer turns his attention away from them. Questions are asked of the other passengers in the compartment, and then he tells them all to wait and steps outside with their documents.

The elderly woman sighs, and the two men sat next to her, minor bureaucratic types, mutter in low tones, complaining about the delay, wondering if they will still make their meeting in Blois. Louise says nothing. Sweat prickles under her arms, in the small of her back. She can feel the dampness of Robert’s hand, as well, and still the thud of his pulse.

He puts his mouth close against her ear and says, so quietly only she can hear: “What are they doing?”

She forces herself to smile, coyly, as if he has just whispered an endearment. She turns her face into his neck and then tips her head up to murmur into his ear, her voice no louder than a breath. “Checking lists. Noting names. Don’t know.”

The door opens again with a crash and the officer reappears. “Alright,” he says, passing the documents back, before he and his military policemen head into the next compartment.

Don’t ever look relieved, she had been told at Beaulieu. The instructor’s voice echoes in her ear, even at the distance of two years and hundreds of miles. Don’t look relieved, because being relieved means you were scared, and being scared means you have something to hide. Louise keeps her expression calm, indifferent, but as she returns her identity card to her handbag Robert smiles at her, and she can’t help but smile back, a hint of triumph in her eyes.

The train jolts forward, and they are moving again at last, on through the city of Orléans itself, the city of la Pucelle, Sainte Jeanne d’Arc. Louise thinks briefly of Joan, her Joan, who had seen her off the night before last with deux bisous and a handful of francs Louise was sure had come from Joan’s own purse and not from London. Hardly a maiden, dressed not in breeches and armour but in immaculate skirt suits, and still the kind of woman to be spoken of with something approaching reverence.

Louise smiles a little to herself, looking out of the train window at France, for which she had come in the first place, and thinking of Joan, and Ferraby, and all of her comrades, and every airman she had guided back into the fight, for whom she had stayed.

Soon they are out of the city and into the bare fields of the floodplain with the line of the river visible as a distant fringe of willows. Robert dozes, his cheek resting against the top of her head, while Louise pretends to sleep and instead keeps track of the other passengers in the compartment. The pair of government officials leave for their meeting in Blois, and two young women take their place, gossiping in low and urgent voices about a man they know, a real salaud, who is going with two girls at once. Should they tell the girls? The debate goes on without ever reaching a conclusion. At Amboise, the man sat next to Louise disembarks, and a mother with a small child replaces him. The train rumbles across the river on a stone bridge and edges its way through the drab suburbs of Tours. Only the elderly woman remains, but when Louise makes a show of waking, just before Saint-Pierre-des-Corps, she sees that the woman is fast asleep, her head nodding on her chest. No one who heard Louise mention Angoulême sees them stand up and retrieve their suitcase and shuffle down the corridor to the end of the carriage.

Robert jumps down onto the platform and takes the suitcase from her, and then holds her around the waist and lifts her down beside him. The guard blows his whistle and the train draws away, leaving a scattering of passengers behind. They file towards the exit while Louise and Robert walk towards the concourse and the ticket office.

They stand on the platform on the other side of the station, waiting for the slow train to Vierzon. It is deserted: there is no one around, no one else taking the train with them, no one to notice them on this February afternoon with the sun casting long shadows and the wind cold on their faces. When the train arrives it is empty, too, and they climb into a compartment and lean back against the faded and threadbare plush.

She touches his arm. “Not long, now,” she says, and he nods, looking at her steadily.

Outside on the platform a whistle blows, and the train lurches forward, on into the countryside. Through their pale reflections in the window are the flat fields of the floodplain between the Loire and the Cher, stretching away to the horizon, brushed with the glow from a setting sun. The sky is a luminous blue like the blue of a stained-glass window. Poplars stand like plumes in the drift of sunlight.

At Azay-sur-Cher a young man is waiting for them. He flicks away the stub of his cigarette and comes forward to greet Louise, kissing her on both cheeks while the two of them go through the little rigmarole of the double password.

She turns to Robert, puts a hand on his elbow. “This is Guy, our air movements officer,” she explains. To the Frenchman she says: “Voici Bob!”

Guy grins, a handsome, boyish grin. “Salut, Bob, ça va?”

“Uh…” Robert takes his outstretched hand and shakes it. “Ça va?” he replies, glancing at Louise with a small smile, and she nods, beaming back at him, both of them remembering sitting in the attic of the atelier, stifling laughter as he stumbled through the phrases she was trying to teach him.

Guy leads them to a shed behind the station house where four bicycles are stored. He wheels the spare one beside him as they cycle off into the gathering dusk, over the level crossing and onto a single-track road meandering through the fields. The land is flat and bare and unending, broken only by lines of poplars planted as windbreaks, willows along the rim of a drainage ditch. Through the trees to the east the moon is rising, replacing the dying sun with its own silvery light.

After a few miles they turn off onto a farm track and bump over ruts and potholes out into the fields. Guy brings them to a halt by a small copse, and dismounts to survey the pasture stretching out before them, looking left and right, squinting into the gloom, taking a few experimental strides over the rough earth and patchy grass.

He returns to them and starts speaking to Louise, and she translates for Robert. “He says things look fine. All okay. There are no obstructions and the ground is firm enough for the aircraft to land. The only worry tonight is fog.”

Behind the copse is a dilapidated barn, empty but for some rusted farm equipment half-covered by canvas tarpaulins. A scant covering of straw is strewn across the floor, and cobwebs hang thickly in every corner and across the walls. Guy and Louise move with well-practised ease, slipping wordlessly into the routine. The Frenchman crosses over to a bundle of fence posts propped against the wall, and selects three stakes about four feet long, each with an end sharpened to a point, while Louise lifts the corner of a sheet of tarpaulin and retrieves some lengths of string and four torches, and tests each one in turn.

“Wait here,” she tells Robert, and she and Guy head outside to set things up.

There is just enough light to see by as they walk out into the field. A hundred yards out Guy plants one stake in the ground and waits while Louise fastens a torch to it. Then he sets off into the distance, marching with wide steps as if performing some ancient and arcane ritual, while she follows behind him, their footsteps leaving a trail in the dewy grass like the wake of a ship in still water. They position the second stake and the second torch, and pace to the right to repeat the process for a third time. Guy glances back at their work, the stakes only visible as vague shadows, and nods at her, satisfied.

Back in the barn they make themselves as comfortable as possible, unwrapping the food Louise and Robert have brought in their suitcase, and sipping ersatz coffee from a flask Guy produces from his satchel. They leave the door open despite the chill night air, using the light of the moon to see rather than risking switching on the torch Louise has kept in her coat pocket.

Guy turns to Robert and says something in French, a question which makes Louise laugh, a bright, young sound out of place in the shadowy and derelict barn. Robert looks at her, curious, and she translates for him: “He asks if you’ve flown before.”

Robert starts to smile. “Just a couple times,” he says wryly.

She looks back at the Frenchman. “Bob is an American airman. A pilot.”

Guy nods, realisation dawning, and makes an apologetic shrug. He says something else, and again Louise laughs and explains for Robert. “He says, she never tells me anything. Whether our guests are British or American, soldiers or airmen. Sometimes I ask foolish questions, but it is good security.”

Another flutter of French passes between them and they share soft laughter at some private joke. Then Guy straightens up and begins speaking to Robert, breaking off every now and then for Louise to translate.

“He says as you have flown many times before you know there is nothing to fear. But we must still explain to you our way of doing things. As it will be quite different to what you are used to.”

She waits while Guy brushes some straw aside and lays out three coins on the floor, forming an inverted ‘L’. “We have positioned three markers out in the field,” she explains, her soft English following Guy’s rapid French, “like this. The pilot will touch down at the first marker, here. He brakes, and stops at the second marker. Then he turns around the third marker and comes back to the first, where we’ll be waiting.”

Again she pauses. “The passengers jump down and unload their luggage, and then you climb up the ladder. There will be a parachute in the aircraft for you, and a flying helmet and oxygen mask.”

Robert frowns. “Will we need oxygen?”

“No, no, but that’s where the microphone is. For the intercom.” Louise smiles at him as he nods. “Every airman I’ve met wishes we had throat microphones like you Americans, but…” She shrugs. “Everything will be plugged in, but you’ll have to flick the on-off switch on the front of the mask when you want to speak.”

They take him through the procedure a second time: where they will stand, where the Lysander will land and turn, what they all must do. Robert listens intently, his eyes fixed on Guy and then on Louise in turn, a small furrow between his brows. It will be fine, they tell him. The whole thing will take no more than five minutes.

“—comme sur des roulettes,” Guy says.

Louise searches for the best translation, and settles on: “Easy-peasy.” She smiles again. “Is that all alright?”

Robert nods. “Yeah. Easy-peasy,” he repeats, and smiles back at her. “Will you, uh—will you tell him that I understand? And will you thank him for me, please?”

She turns to Guy and passes the message along, and the young Frenchman grins, and reaches out to shake Robert’s hand once more.

Presently Guy goes outside to check the landing zone, worried about the police, German troops, worried, above all, about fog. Alone again, Louise and Robert sit close together, leaning into each other.

“You’ll be in England by daybreak,” she tells him. “Before, even.”

“Yeah.” He is quiet for a moment. “Where are you headed? Back to Paris?”

“Mmm. Yes.”

Neither of them says anything more, aware that time is running out, wanting to hold on to the illusion that the night will spin on forever. They wait in silence, even when Guy returns, watching the rectangle of sky through the open door. Overhead, Orion the hunter tilts like a windmill, dragging a whole panoply of constellations behind him, and the moon climbs higher and higher, flooding silver across the fields.

At midnight, Guy gets to his feet and stretches. “Let’s get ready,” he says to Louise. She and Robert follow him out into the moonlight, ghostly shadows moving across the pale countryside. Underfoot the ground is hard with frost. Ribbons of mist are wrapped around the trees along the edge of the field and a bank of fog lies over the river.

“Look,” Guy mutters, pointing. “Fog. It could ruin everything.”

“I know,” Louise whispers back. “But there’s nothing we can do. We just have to wait.”

They wait. Dark figures in a monochrome landscape, staring at the stars, painted by the moon. Cold seeps into them. There are the sounds of night, the distant barking of a dog, the susurration of the icy breeze, and underneath everything the sound of the nearby river. And then something else.

“Can you hear that?”

“What?”

It dies away. Did she imagine it? But the sound returns, a murmur becoming a rumble.

“That’s it!”

Now there is no doubt: an aero engine, the sound coming and going on the breeze and then settling to a steady drumbeat. Louise hands the torch to Guy and he points it up into the night sky, flashing the letter ‘P’ in Morse code. The letter ‘Q’ comes back to them, a small star blinking in the blackness.

Robert points. “I see it!”

Louise turns on the first torch and sets off to the other stakes, running, stumbling on the hard, uneven ground. She reaches the second marker and snaps the torch on, then crosses to the third. As she sprints back to where the men are waiting she sees the Lysander above her, a black shape against the spray of stars.

The aircraft turns towards them, shedding height, growing larger and larger, tilting in the flow of air. The noise of the engine rises and falls as the pilot jazzes the throttle. Suddenly, shockingly, its landing lights are switched on, as brilliant as spotlights so that on the ground they seem exposed to view like figures on a stage. Then, slowly, deliberately, it touches down, bounces, hits again, and rumbles down the flarepath. They watch it turn at the second lamp, and the third, and come back towards them where they wait, deafened by the din, beside the first.

The slipstream hits them as the aircraft turns once more and points into the wind. Guy waves at the pilot in the cockpit and runs up to talk to him. In the rear of the cockpit two passengers are moving. The hatch slides back and a figure emerges and climbs down the ladder to the ground.

Louise turns to Robert, glancing at his eyes, the slope of his nose in the moonlight. She clutches the sleeve of his coat, almost desperately. He faces her, puts his mouth close to her ear.

“Thank you,” he says, half-shouting to be heard over the engine. “Thank you for everything. I wish I could say more.”

She shakes her head, and leans back so that he can see her smile. Then she leans up on her tiptoes. “In this line of work we consider it bad luck to say ‘good luck’,” she tells him, her own voice raised. “So I’ll just say bon voyage. And I hope never to see you in France again.”

He grins back at her. By now the second agent is on the ground and Guy is shouting from beside the nose of the aircraft, his words picked up by the propellor blast and thrown back at them in disorder. “Need—go! Get—quick!”

Louise ushers Robert over to the Lysander. Time hurtles at her—the engine roaring, the propellor a blurred disc against the moonlight, the stars rampaging across the sky—and she just stares at him, wanting to tell him so many things and unable to say them. He nods, as if he has read her mind, and puts one hand on the side of her face and leans down to kiss her.

Then he is gone, up the ladder and into the cockpit, and the pilot gives the thumbs-up, and Louise and Guy run back from the aircraft.

“Go!” Guy yells, gesturing downwind with his hand. “Go, go!”

The engine gains noise, roaring and raging at the night, straining for a moment against the brakes before lurching forward, bumping along, gathering speed, with Robert looking back at her, his face no more than a smudge of whiteness and shadow. Then abruptly the Lysander is in the air, a matte black shape against the luminous black of the sky, climbing, turning, swinging through the stars, and leaving Louise standing in the backwash, her hair blowing in the wind, her coat flapping around her, in tears.

The sound of the Lysander fades into the minutiae of the night. Suddenly she is cold.

Beside her, Guy is shaking hands with the two men, welcoming them to France. She stands for a moment longer, running through what she must do: clear up in the field and the barn, share out the men’s clothing in her suitcase amongst the new agents, put the identity card for Anaïs Gauthier into a slip in the lining and retrieve the papers for Irène Françoise Brochard. Cycle to the safehouse Guy has found for them, and, in the morning, catch the first train to Vierzon and escort the agents to Paris. Move on, get back to work. Keep going.

Guy is looking at her expectantly. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and puts on a smile and walks over to the men waiting for her.

[loxbagfactory]

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[mariacallous]

Earlier this month I complimented a friend on her new Bottega Jodie bag. She had recently got a promotion at work, and is now a senior manager at a respectable record label earning six figures. The bag was a celebratory gift, she told me, only it wasn’t Bottega—it was a dupe.

As someone who has a closet full of designer labels—and who could certainly afford to buy the real thing—her admission surprised me. My face must have given that away. “It’s real Italian leather,” she quickly followed up, “and their website says they manufacture in the same factories as some luxury brands. You couldn’t tell the difference, so why would I spend thousands more for basically the same thing?”

It’s a question many have been asking since dupe culture went supernova over the last few years. A shorthand for duplicate, dupes are cheaper alternatives that are basically the same as the real thing. Think of it as a cousin to counterfeit culture, but instead of being a cheap knock-off that infringes on a brand’s trademark, they’re uncannily similar imitations—promising the same qualities of the product at a fraction of the cost.

It’s not just my friend who loves them either. Roughly one-third of all US adults have intentionally bought a dupe, according to Morning Consult, with that figure rising to almost half for Gen Z shoppers and 44% for millennials. In the UK, research by Mintel shows 47% of consumers are now open to buying luxury lookalikes in 2024, compared to just 12% in 2016.

“The shame of buying these things has gone,” says Alice Sherwood, author of Authenticity: Reclaiming Reality in a Counterfeit Culture. “Luxury prices have skyrocketed while the trend cycle has rapidly accelerated. People no longer want to spend upwards of £4000 on the latest ‘It’ bag that might be out of vogue within a year.”

Add their proliferation on social media into that mix, and the dupe culture has been normalised in ways that “knock-offs” from Canal Street never were, she says.

Just one scroll on TikTok would affirm this. At the time of writing over 260,000 posts have been made under the #dupes hashtag, with the majority featuring creators sharing their best dupe finds across fashion, beauty, lifestyle and homeware. Most of the time they’re from fast fashion retailers like Shein, Amazon and Temu, but more recently, a new crop of companies have been dominating dupe culture by offering quite a different proposition.

Low-Price Luxury

Take my friend’s new favourite brand, Quince. According to their website their mission is “to create products of equal or greater quality than the leading luxury brands at a much lower price”. To do so they’ve sourced factories used by “well-known luxury brands” to manufacture their goods, but by cutting out the middlemen and hefty markup, they can sell them at far more affordable prices.

They’re not the only ones. Leather goods manufacturer Sitoy Group Holdings regularly uploads videos on social media showcasing how the quality of its $100 handbags is almost identical to those sold for upwards of $1000, all the while advertising that they use the same production lines used by Prada, Tumi and Michael Kors. Then there's Chicjoc, one of the largest Chinese fashion apparel brands on Taobao and Tmall, claiming it uses the same fabric manufacturers as those used by the likes of Chanel, Valentino and Louis Vuitton.

This shift towards high-quality dupes puts luxury brands in a difficult position. For decades, they’ve justified their high prices with the promise of superior craftsmanship and materials. They've even poked fun at these imitations. But when brands are offering near-identical goods allegedly manufactured in the same factory as luxury brands for much, much less, that justification starts to crumble.

Another brand that has gained significant traction online this year is Los Angeles-based premium basics brand, Italic, with many consumers on Reddit expressing their satisfaction with the quality of the products. “Most of our products take 5–10 sample runs and 6–18 months, sometimes even longer,” says Italic CEO Jeremy Cai. “Our sourcing process involves rigorous vetting and ongoing quality controls, including factory certifications, samples, and production quality.”

This meticulous approach stands in stark contrast to what many might expect. Italic contacts 20-30 potential suppliers, evaluates 5-7 factories, and ultimately works with just 1-2 of them for any given product category, visiting each factory on-site.

The key difference between Italic and the high-profile brands using the same factories, Cai explains, is in the pricing: “Most of our factories' clients sell for 2-4x more than our SRPs (Suggested Retail Prices), often much higher.” By cutting out the markup typically associated with luxury goods, Italic offers high-quality products at a more accessible price point.

Cai is quick to point out that Italic does not market itself as a “dupe” brand. However, that hasn’t stopped consumers from drawing comparisons to more expensive luxury labels. In contrast, competitor Quince leans into dupe culture, positioning itself more overtly as a challenger to high-end brands. On Quince's website, woven intrecciato handbags, which resemble Bottega Veneta's iconic designs, are showcased alongside price comparisons to their luxury counterparts.

Quince also frequently analyses luxury competitors’ best-selling items to identify opportunities for replication. “Data collection is crucial in our product development process,” says a Quince spokesperson. “Our team uses a variety of sources, including Google Trends, social media, and customer feedback, to understand the market and ensure we’re delivering what people want.”

Quince’s strategy is built on the belief that luxury can—and should—be more accessible. “Our founding team, with years of experience in luxury and DTC (direct-to-consumer) retail, knew that competitors add a 40–60% markup on similar products,” continues the spokesperson. “As costs in the luxury market become more transparent, consumers are less willing to accept these inflated prices.”

To that end, Quince works globally to source manufacturing partners that share their commitment to transparency, while innovating to keep costs down. Every product page on their site includes detailed information about materials, country of origin, and certifications for working conditions along the supply chain.

Luxury brands, on the other hand, have traditionally kept their manufacturing processes shrouded in secrecy. William Lasry, founder of Glass Factory, is working to change that.

Lasry travels the globe, visiting and spotlighting factories with superior craftsmanship and ethical practices across his social media platforms. While not all brands are doing their very best, he is sceptical about some companies' supposed connections to luxury factories, pointing out that these dupe brands frequently exploit this ambiguity for marketing purposes.

“There are many instances where a factory will produce a sample for a luxury brand,” Lasry explains. “Luxury brands often request samples from hundreds of factories, but in many cases, nothing materialises beyond the sample stage. The factory might then turn around and claim, ‘We’ve made samples for Gucci,’ even though no production deal was ever finalised.”

Petros Analytis, head of research at Glass Factory, agrees that it’s hard to draw the line. “Unless they let us come into the factories and see for ourselves, it’s hard to ascertain.”

Premium Tax

While transparency might be slowly improving, one thing the luxury market has always clung onto is its appeal. Conglomerates like LVMH and Kering built empires on the foundation of an alluring narrative—one that combines centuries of heritage with modern-day prestige. By blending Old World craftsmanship with the new-age glamour of celebrity culture, they made handbags, shoes, and clothing a gateway to an elite, exclusive world.

For a long time consumers were happy to pay big bucks to belong in this world. Perhaps unknowingly, they were buying not just a product but an experience. The true value of a designer label wasn't simply measured by the stitching or material, but by the feeling it evoked—the confidence boost, the social status, the feeling of exclusivity. “It’s a real skill to make a handbag into an object desired by millions of women, one that has so much meaning and can do so much for your self-confidence,” notes Sherwood.

Yet, behind the curtain of glamour, the reality of some products was very different. While consumers believed they were buying the pinnacle of luxury, what they were often getting was a product only marginally superior to midrange alternatives—and occasionally no better at all. The excessively high margins were less a reflection of quality and more a tax on the brands' appeal.

“They are the architects of their own problems,” continues Sherwood. “By making so much of their products not about the tangible product, but about the intangible aspects of the brands - those sexy ads, the celebs who carry your products, the stores, the glossy ads, the slogans, the heritage backstory, all that stuff that isn’t actually the product itself.”

In turn they’ve created an enormous gap between what consumers are actually paying for and the real value of the product. As these companies have increasingly pursued the ultra-wealthy, they’ve left a gap in the market that other brands, eager to capitalise, are starting to fill. “They know that the prices at the very top of luxury are too high to reflect the actual value,” Sherwood says. “But have turned these notable silhouettes and styles into desirable items that a dupe brand can free ride off of.”

Then, recently, the veneer began to crack even further. In March, Italian luxury brand Loro Piana became embroiled in scandal after an investigation revealed the material behind their $9,000 sweaters was sourced by low-paid workers in Peru. Just a few months later, in July, Italian prosecutors alleged sweatshop-like conditions in factories supplying certain products for high-end labels such as Dior and Armani. The revelations triggered outrage among consumers, many of whom had long trusted these brands to uphold the highest standards of craftsmanship and ethics.

Across online forums like the r/handbag subreddit, once-loyal customers voiced their disillusionment. For many, these scandals revealed that the luxury brands they idolised were not living up to their promises. Both Loro Piana and Dior have denied the allegations. However, The Business of Fashion revealed that Milan's public prosecutor said in a court document that they had found “an illegal practice so entrenched and proven [that it could] be considered part of a broader business policy exclusively aimed at increasing profit.” Neither company has been charged in relation to the probe.

Such reputational damage couldn’t have come at a worse time for luxury brands. Coupled with the rise of dupe culture, these scandals are forcing consumers to rethink their relationship with high-end goods. If craftsmanship is no longer exceptional, and ethical practices are called into question, what exactly are people paying for when they buy luxury?

Rebuilding the Dream

Recent sales figures underline just how far demand for luxury mega-brands has fallen from its post-pandemic highs. In July, some of the industry’s biggest players reported disappointing revenues for the second consecutive quarter. LVMH, the world’s leading luxury conglomerate, missed sales estimates, while Gucci’s parent company Kering, experienced a decline of 11%. Other major brands like Richemont and Burberry also reported disappointing figures, with first-quarter sales plummeting by a staggering 20%.

At the heart of luxury’s current struggles is the erosion of the very dream that once propelled the industry. The disconnect between the marketing mythology and the reality of production has left consumers feeling disillusioned, meaning the days of blindly paying a premium for a logo may be at risk.

The democratisation of information and consumer power through social media has played a huge part in this. Platforms like TikTok and Reddit are filled with conversations that challenge the industry's value proposition, which has made it so much harder for luxury brands to control their narrative.

To regain their position, Brittany Steiger, principal analyst of retail & eCommerce at Mintel says they will need to focus on what once made them so desirable—authenticity, superior craftsmanship, and a narrative of prestige that feels both aspirational and attainable. Some experts suggest that embracing more transparent practices and truly living up to their ethical and quality promises could also be the way forward. Brands that fail to do so, may find themselves increasingly irrelevant in a world where high-quality dupes continue to gain ground.

It’s clear that the old model of luxury has been disrupted, and it’s no longer just about price anymore. In the battle between heritage and value, consumers are asking more questions—and luxury brands must have better answers. And if they don’t, there’s a whole industry on the sidelines who do.

[foxspirit1928]

Miss Fisher Snippets (198)

Meet Phryne Fisher, the fanciest-dressed nurse, ever.

Seeing how distraught Mac was, you would think that Phryne would just quickly throw on something simple and get out of the door as fast as she could. Not so. The vibrant color and pattern of this fur collar coat with matching hat, handbag, and shoes, made her stand out among the factory workers in plain, grey uniforms.

I tried to picture how Phryne instructed her companion to help her pick an outfit.

Phryne: “Dot, I am heading to a factory with Dr. Mac to investigate a suspicious death. A poor girl fell into a giant machine, and there would be a lot of blood, and possibly splattered body parts. Bring me the light blue coat, cream color handbag, and white shoes that I newly purchased. You will likely need to get some bloodstains off them when I get home, though.” 

Dot: “Yes, miss. You can count on me. Here is the matching hat, and you look lovely.”

Mac: “…” (sipping her coffee and rolling her eyes)

(Posted 22-Jun-2024)

[weijufashion]

Continuously shipping, busy workers.

[sepptember]

there's a post about Pro-Palestine small businesses on instagram by @.counseling4allseasons and i wanted to share that post here.

mentioning businesses that aren't on this post are encouraged!! I'll reblog them to my account or add them to the post. If any of the links don’t work, please let me know.

note that all of the businesses in the insta post might not be included because I struggled to find the link, and some links may lead to an instagram account instead of a website.

Apparel:

Chérine Caftans - Moroccan traditional wear

Hirbawi - Kufiya factory in Palestine

HULM Kicks - Palestinian-owned shoe store

Watan Worldwide - Cultural clothing/merchandise store

Ayan Resources - Palestinian-owned clothing brand

herababyco - Baby clothes

Modestveencouture - Palestinian-owned boutique with wedding, prom, and engagement dresses

Zaytoonas Stitches - Palestinian-owned embroidery store

Dignitii - modest active wear

Nöl Collective - Palestinian-owned traditional wear

RUUQ - Hijab body suits

Dar Collective - Cultural merchandise

Shopdehma - Modest clothing brand

Nayabhijabs - Hijabs

House of amiri - Children's clothing

this business is currently not stocking their inventory because they are working on broadening their brand. support by following them is still highly encouraged.

Yemen Wear - cultural Yemen apparel

Pali Power - Palestinian athletic apparel

Le dressing de moon - Palestinian thobes

La Farrah Boutique - Palestinian thobes

Skincare/Makeup/Fragrances:

Farsalicare - Skincare brand

Yaskinnatural - Skincare brand

Dyfbeauty - Makeup brushes

Mora Cosmetics - Muslim-owned clean makeup

Kadi perfumes - high-quality perfumes and fragrances

Alwafa Shop - Natural skincare

Abumiskperfumes - oil-based fragrances

Dr. Sebaa Co. - Muslim-owned skincare brand

Savana Goat - Natural and artisanal goat soaps

Lerenu - Scalp & haircare

Inika Organics - Organic makeup

Tuesday in Love - Wudhu-friendly nail polish

Home Goods:

Inspire me home decor - Interior design/home decor

The Little Bulbul - Islamic puzzles/mugs/prints

Olive & Heart - Palestinian owned candle shop

Candlescape & Co. - Palestinian owned candle shop

Create & Crescent - event kits and crafts

Kilim Design Store - carpet and flooring.

With a Spin - Home decor

Lifestyle:

Feyre Creations - events merchandise

Khair Designs - Interior design

Soul Detox - Palestinian-owned black seed oil mix and health capsules

Sophologynic - Palestinian-owned wellness-kits and organic honey

Creations By Sal - Custom wedding products and gifts

Crescent Moon Bookstore - Palestinian-owned children’s bookstore

Little Muslim Craft Store - Crafts for Muslim children store

Modefa - Home decor

Sitti soap - Natural soaps and more.

Vidamin Wellness - Organic vitamins

Mysalah Mat - Interactive prayer mat

The Happy Bakers - Egyptian-owned cookies

Little Busy Hands - Customized themed sensory bins

Shahrin Azim Henna & Jagua Artist - Henna Services, New York/NJ

Accessories:

Oroboros Watches - Egyptian-owned watch store

Kiro - Egyptian Jewelry Brand

Elegant Bijoux Jewelry - Lebanese-owned jewelry

Canava Handmade - Luxury Arab handbags States NYC

Deeya Jewellery - Luxury gold plated bridal/formal jewelry