#austerity not in a color white way but a color black way

[lazycranberrydoodles]

don’t take this too seriously …

#yeah the lan clan is the Goth Sect #austerity not in a color white way but a color black way #either way it is essential for him to have Big Overcoat a lan wangji without proper dramatic silhouette will not flourish #shout out to piosplayhouse for their goth lwj/scene wwx post that i never stopped thinking about #art #my art #mdzs #mo dao zu shi #mdzs meme #mdzs fanart #the grandmaster of diabolism #the grandmaster of demonic cultivation #lan wangji #modern au #doodle #sketch #lmao

[a-dinosaur-a-day]

Tumblr, We Need To Talk

So multiple times now, posts that I have written, completely free of any sense of anger at all, have been interpreted by folks here - not just as angry - but as malicious. It has now happened enough times that we need to address the biases at hand here.

I am three things that are relevant for this discussion: I am Jewish. I am Italian. And I am Scottish.

These are three cultures that feature "loudness" as a positive trait. What do I mean by that?

I mean arguing, debate, discussion at my home growing up was louder than a kindergarten field trip to the zoo. Louder than a metal concert's mosh pit. Louder than the conure room at a bird shelter.

I am a loud, boisterous person. That's just who I am. With those three cultural backgrounds, I can't even help it. On more than one occasion, someone has interpreted my tendency for the dramatic, my eagerness, and my enthusiasm as being "too much". In fact, it is quite a point of trauma for me, the number of times that specific rejection has occurred.

But to me, I wasn't doing anything wrong! I was acting as my family acted, as people from my culture acted, as those around me in other situations acted. In Judaism, arguing is even seen as emotion-free, because interpersonal debate is how we learn and grow. Even the most stringent and austere Jewish groups will feature a loudly arguing table of scholars in the Beit Midrash. Italian dinners are filled with singing and shouting for joy. Being Scottish means yelling at everything and then yelling at it again. This was, and is, my life. It was loud. It was emotional. It was excitement.

Online, tone indicators are even worse, with many people easily being misunderstood in a given situation. Hell, there are probably those of you reading this now who are reading a higher level of emotion and anger into my words than is actually there. That added complication has now lead to multiple occurrences of this misunderstanding.

This isn't limited to the cultures I come from, of course! The anger and excitement and enthusiasm found in Black culture has been weaponized against it for as long as racism has existed (y'all can ask @ladyraekingmaker more about that). In fact, lower class Black Women in the United States were often perceived negatively for being loud and having their private lives carried out in public (because they did not have access to private spaces). Same for different cultural norms in other places, from Persia/Iran to parts of Latin America and more.

Indeed, loudness, anger, and tone are heavily tied to how different cultures are perceived. Calmness, stoicism, and a lack of "emotionalness" is a highlight of WASPy cultures, famously - "white anglo-saxon protestant" if you're not familiar. Being more "low key" and less expressive was considered high class, being less so was low class. And that still continues today - from the snide comments of tumblr anon's and ex friends, to the literal policing of impoverished communites of color for their celebrations and community gatherings.

The perception of emotion and passion as a "bad" thing is 100% tied to white supremacy. Full stop. In fact, policing people for being "angry" at certain things was a great way to shut down discussion of many important issues, that deserved anger - things like racism, sexism, and homophobia. Anger is a good, important, and necessary emotion - and being emotional in general is a way many people use to emphasize their own points and indicate how much they care about a subject. It's necessary, and it's good. Anger, emotion, excitement, these are good things.

It is better for someone to be angry and up front with you, allowing you to learn and grow as a person, than to bullshit you and mollycoddle you into a state of complacency.

So, that means that for many people reading this, you probably never really thought of how your reaction to loud, or emotional, or dramatic, or excitable people was related to upholding social norms. That's okay! It's not a big deal! We are all born with blind spots and things we are ignorant of that we have to understand and tackle. Growing up is something we never stop doing.

But I'm not magically going to stop being excitable, loud, and emotional. And I'm not going to magically stop being myself. While in person, my tone and facial expressions would help others to at least see that I am not mad but excited; here, you're going to have to take me at my word.

If I am angry, you will know it. It will be extremely, painfully obvious. I might even explicitly say it. But the fact remains is that, every time I have gotten (frankly, condescending) anons in my inbox telling me to "calm down", I haven't been angry at all. And that is a cultural bias a lot of you have to examine in yourselves. By policing how people - not just me - on how they talk and express themselves, you are upholding white supremacy. And you need to stop.

I am too much for some people. That's okay! If I am, you are free to go. No one has to follow me. But I am not going to minimize myself just to make some people comfortable, especially when I am doing nothing wrong. And if you continue to insist that I am, you are missing the point of this post.

Stop worshiping the empty alter of stoicism, of emotionlessness, of quietude. It's not how most humans act. And it shouldn't be, because emotions exist for a reason. That reason? Is communication.

And if you're still not convinced, just get invited to a Pesach seder. Good luck with that being anything close to "calm".

~ Meig

#emotion #logic #cultural differences #white supremacy #tone policing #not dinosaurs #this post is cosigned by my friend who is a cultural historian thanks

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

How about Rollo meeting Ortho in the interaction?

ROLLO ONII-SAMA ERA??????? ????? ????? ??? ?? ? ????????? ???? 👀 (Gotta love how even the most uptight characters have sort of a soft spot for Ortho…) I shared some of the ideas expressed in this interaction in this previous post, if you want to check that out!

This very long interaction is “just strangers meeting for the very first time” since the request was non-specific. I do plan on releasing more in-depth Ignihyde and Rollo interaction headcanons later, so please look forward to that!

***WARNING: there are massive spoilers for Glorious Masquerade in this interaction.***

***CONTENT WARNING: depiction of a panic attack.***

Like Fire, Hellfire.

Late.

He was running late.

One thing had led into another, and that after-class chat with Professor Trein had spiraled into a longer-than-intended discussion on magically binding contracts. The older man was, Rollo found, poised and intellectual—a wise choice for an instructor. More than that, there was a warmness behind his austere presentation, something grandfatherly, kind, and comforting.

Rollo had been enchanted, and the time had slipped by so easily. Only when the sky was painted in hues of rose, tangerine, and gold did he realize the afternoon had bled into sunset.

He cleared his throat. "Pardon me, Mozus-sensei. It has been a very enlightening conversation, but I have other matters I must tend to."

"Of course. It was wonderful getting to speak with you one-on-one." Trein stroked the fur of a plump black and white cat nestled in his lap as he spoke. A familiar, Rollo ventured, careful to not let the disgust seep into his expression.

"Then I will see you tomorrow." He bowed, turning on his heel to exit. Just as Rollo was to cross the threshold, Trein called out to him.

"Flamme."

He stopped, looking over his shoulder. "Yes?"

Trein rested his hand. The setting sun poured in from an unobscured window, coloring the room in the shades of a dying day. He released what was on his mind.

"I want you to know that you are able to come to me whenever you wish. If you are lost or need guidance, academic or otherwise, I would be more than happy to assist. Your circumstances being as they are…" Trein shook his head. "I worry about you, the same as I do for each and every one of my students."

Rollo found himself frowning. He let the lie upon his lips go.

"Thank you, sir. However, your concern won't be necessary. I have taken the time to properly reflect on my actions since the masquerade.”

"... Very well, I won't push further. Have a good evening."

"Yes, you as well."

Rollo stepped out into the hallway. His past still clung to him like a shroud, trailing behind him like a wedding veil. It would follow him to his very grave.

He was not lost—he was certain of where his destiny would end, and it was wreathed with the flames of vengeance.

At this time of the day, hellish red washed over corridors devoid of students. With everything empty and painted the same shade, the campus appeared monotonous—each hall the same as the last. Hadn’t he already passed this classroom a few minutes ago? Was he seeing things, or was Night Raven College turning into a glorified maze?

It was strange—first, he had been late. Now he here he was, lost. It was unlike him to be in such circumstances. Had he stepped into a wonderland where everything was the opposite and logic was topsy-turvy?

Should I turn back and return from the way I came? He wondered whether it would save him time or waste even more.

Something flickered in the corner of his field of vision. His eyes instinctively darted to it. Whatever it was, it was blue in color, emitting a soft halo of light. It was at the end of the hall, too far away to make out any concrete details.

What is that…?

Rollo’s feet moved on their own, compelled to follow the mysterious blue glow. At first, they were set in a comfortable walk—but his pace grew brisker and brisker as he approached. Walk to jog to sprint.

He didn't know why, but he was desperate to catch up to it. Rollo was a man possessed, a moth drawn to a flame. Every bone, every muscle, every drop of blood screamed at him: you must.

The blue sharpened, coming into focus. Taking form, assuming a body. From behind, Rollo could tell it was a young boy, his feet low to the ground but not quite touching it.

An otherworldly apparition, floating.

His heart caught in his throat. His breath hitched, then stilled. Fear had seized his throat, preventing the air from escaping him.

No. No, it can't be. Impossible.

Rollo's hand shot out, expecting to meet the air, to faze though the boy in blue. But his skin met something solid, and a bolt of ice raced down his spin upon contact.

Liquid welled in his eyes. Searing.

Don’t leave me. Don’t disappear right before me. Not again.

His pulse quickened, his stomach twisting.

The breath he had been holding was released, shakily expelled like a horrible secret.

"Brother...!"

Then Rollo saw him in full. The composition of it was all wrong. He had the same wide, curious eyes—but his hair was set aflame, and the ghostly pallor of his face was framed in an odd mask. His mouth was obscured from view, and where there should have been a heart was an eerie blue fire.

His body, too, was not natural. Metal, with strange segmentations in the limbs. A low hum of electricity. Decidedly unhuman.

Rollo’s heart sank, his fragile hope shattering.

It's not him.

“Uwah!” the boy in blue cried, startled.

Of course, Rollo realized. Why wouldn’t he be caught off-guard? He had just charged at the boy and suddenly grabbed him. Rollo let his arm drop and bowed deeply.

“I apologize for the fright. I… mistook you for someone else.”

“Oh, that’s why!” The boy in blue seemed to smile reassuringly from behind his mouth visor. “Don’t worry. It’s common for humans to make optical identification errors.”

“Erm, yes.” Rollo wove his hands together. It did nothing to relax his hammering heart, his creased brows. “Do excuse me for the disruption. I’ll be on my way now.”

The boy tilted his head. Rollo shivered—it was as though the child was peering straight into his soul. Big doe eyes full of life. Warm like a little candle. It was uncanny how familiar this boy was.

Candid, pure.

It’s almost like he has returned to me.

His chest twinged, and he faltered with his departure.

“… Mister, your vital signs all read abnormal. Body temperature, pulse, respiration rate, blood pressure, even the level of perspiration.” His tone turned concerned. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“I am fine.”

He didn’t look convinced. Rollo wasn’t sure if he believed his own lie either.

“You’re not wearing a Night Raven College uniform,” the boy noted. “You must be a visitor then! Let me escort you to the nurse’s office. You will receive the care you need there.”

“I assure you, I’m not in need of their services.”

He blinked. “… Feedback acknowledged. If you refuse to go, then I can’t exactly force you to.”

The boy hovered in a circle around Rollo, extending his arms out toward him. “I can still help you get to your destination though—wherever that may be! Just let me know and I’ll calculate the most efficient route for you.”

“What…”

Rollo reeled at the sight of him flying—on his feet, and without a broom! The boy spoke so strangely for his age as well as well, talking of biometrics and mathematics as easily as a child might discuss their favorite toy. But the way he stared back at him…

The eager expression, hands outstretched.

“Onii-sama!”

The hurt in his chest intensified, a new bloom of pain taking root in his head. An ash-covered memory was lit ablaze again.

Smoke in his lungs, singed flesh in his nose, and tears stinging his eyes. The scream of a burning child ringing in his ears.

Pain, a searing knife against his skin.

“H-Help me… HELP ME…!!”

Rollo took a trembling step back. He didn’t realize it, but he had started to shake all over, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. His eyes were alert, paranoid.

The air too thin to sate his screeching lungs. The world closing in, blanketed in curtains of smoke. Coals at his feet, fire rising.

“N-No, I… I…!!”

His hands flew to his head, clawing at his skin, his hair. Everything suddenly felt too uncomfortable, too hot—

“Mister!!”

Rollo felt arms being thrown around him. An encircling, kind embrace. He looked down to find the strange child hugging him tightly. Smiling softly, angelically.

“… It’ll be okay," the boy said, his voice as tender as the touch of a feather. "There, there. Everything will be okay."

The flames froze, as did the fuel that fed them. Rollo stiffened, reality seeping through to him. His body, unsure of how to react.

He slowly lowered his hands from his face, properly looked the child in the eyes. They seemed to pulsate hypnotically, projecting soothing shades: gold, amber, honey.

"I'm here for you," the boy continued. "See? I'm here.”

He was. Rollo knew his gaze, his touch. The warmth he had long since renounced, been deprived of.

“Focus on me. That’s right, just like that. Breathe slowly. Let’s do it together, okay? In, out. In, out…”

Huff, huff, huff.

Rollo was not so much as breathing as he was gulping and spitting up pockets of air. He was a dehydrated man tasting sweet water on the verge of death, then vomiting on the luxury of it.

The boy nodded understandingly in spite of his shaky efforts. “Just like that! You’re doing great.”

Huff, huff.

His body moved more on instinct than on command. Taking in air and returning it, a process set on autopilot. Each breath increasingly more stable than the last.

A warm hand rubbing the area between is shoulder blades. Wordlessly easing him through it.

“… How are you feeling now?”

Those few simple words dispelled the last of the suffocating heat. His emotions tempered, cooling, and finding ground once more. What was left was fizzling frustration and knotted confusion.

Huff…

Rollo released the last of his breath.

He struggled to speak. “I... I don’t understand. Why are you…”

He pulled away, but kept his hands on Rollo's shoulders. “I detected heart palpitations and other abnormal biological fluctuations. Altogether, they indicated that you were experiencing something akin to a trauma response. You looked so sad and scared. I initiated the only protocol in my memory bank that suited the scenario."

“You…” Rollo hesitated. “You did that for a complete stranger?”

“Hehe. Did my comfort protocol work?” He gave a happy twirl midair. "I'm glad that you're feeling better, even if just a little!"

Rollo watched him in silence, guilt stirring in the pit of his stomach. When he touched his cheek, he found it slightly damp. Renegade tears that had slipped free and dribbled down.

Pathetic—after all these years, he hadn’t become any stronger at all, still crumbled when he reminiscenced. Old, aching memories forever branded into him. Memories that continued to hurt him, even to this very day.

He clutched a hand over his heart.

And yet this boy…

Protectiveness swelled up.

“You,” Rollo spoke up at last, “why are you wandering on campus grounds unsupervised? Are you not aware that this is a dangerous location for youths like yourself?”

“I’m here to pick up my big brother!” he replied, beaming proudly. “Nii-san had a big exam today, plus a club meeting. It should be over by now, so we’re going to meet up and then have a family fun night!”

“How… thrilling for you.” Rollo offered a tight-lipped smile. “My word, this elder brother of yours sounds highly irresponsible if he’s leaving a child of your age unchaperoned. It should be the older sibling’s responsibility to look out for the younger, not the other way around.”

“Huh? That’s usually how it is for us, though. Nii-san forgets to take care of himself when he’s not reminded!” He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Nii-san stays up late gaming, snacks instead of having real meals, and rarely leaves his room.”

“That’s absolutely abhorrent,” Rollo seethed, his rage returning to him. “What sort of example is he setting for you?”

Red prickled the edges of his vision. How dare that so-called brother burden this poor, sweet boy and allow him to wander around a mage-infested school? For that, Rollo would put him to the stake.

“That’s it, it’s settled! I will accompany you and ensure that you find your way home safely. Furthermore, when you reunite with your brother, I will be sure to give this man a piece of my mind.”

“Eeeeeeeh?!” Shock lit up the boy’s face. “This is the first time anyone’s ever wanted to meet nii-san so passionately!”

For all the wrong reasons, he recognized—still, there was a fragment of hope in the circumstances. Potential friendship to be found in the confrontation. He clung to that possibility.

"Well... okay, if you really want to. Nii-san might be a little more than surprised to see you, but it's a good chance to him to meet new people."

"Fufufu, that's correct. It would do him some good to become acquainted with—" A thought dawned on him. "Ah, forgive me. I forgot to ask for your name earlier. Please, may I know it?”

“Me? I’m Ortho! Ortho Shroud.”

Shroud.

The surname (unfortunately) conjured up a familiar face. Pale completion, cobalt lips, irises in piercing yellow, blazing blue fire for hair. A man that retreated from the light, spitting words as sharp as his jagged teeth.

Rollo grimaced. How had he not seen the resemblance sooner? Blinded by emotions, he ventured with a subtle scoff.

“What’s your name, mister?” Ortho asked, peering up at him.

"I am..." Rollo stopped himself. A swarm of unanswered questions fought for his attention, each wanting to be the first to be let out.

Shroud’s brother is no longer with us. How is it possible that he is standing here before me? What has happened to his body? Why is it metal? Surely they’re beyond normal prosthetics. He’s floating like some unorthodox apparition…

One inquiry won out in the end.

Has he told Ortho about me?

What would happen to the boy’s faith, his joy, once the introduction was uttered? The idea summoned a great deal of discomfort, twisting painfully like a knife plunged into Rollo’s guts. Guilt pooling.

He fell silent.

“… Never mind that. My identity is unimportant, for I am a mere visitor to this prestigious school. You may continue calling me ‘mister’ as you were.”

“Roger that! Let’s get going then. Nii-san’s waiting!”

Ortho flew ahead, the guiding light in a world dyed a hellish hue of red. Rollo followed at a safe distance, but never let the boy out of his sight—but he never drew too close either.

Why did you do that? Rollo rebuked himself. You've done no wrong. You have nothing to be ashamed of, no reason to feel any guilt. You are in the right. Why mask the truth?

He squeezed his eyes shut.

That night, atop the bell tower...

"Do you think your brother would have wanted this?! Idia had demanded. “Would he be happy... seeing you do this to the city—to the world—in his name...?"

I am without sin. I am righteous, Rollo told himself. A prayer, a staunch affirmation. Of my virtue, I am justly proud.

“Hurry up, mister!” Ortho called to him. The boy’s voice snapped him back, and Rollo smiled in spite of himself.

“… Of course. I am coming.”

This happiness, he knew, would not last forever. Spells always broke before the strike of midnight.

He had to relish these fleeting yet magical moments while they lasted.

#twisted wonderland #Rollo Flamme #twst #Ortho Shroud #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions #disney twisted wonderland #Rollo at the Writing Desk #spoilers #Mozus Trein #angst #Lucius #tw // panic attack

[anjelicawrites]

Pierced Through

Paring: modern!Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x reader

Synopsis: a late night between two lovers

Warnings: switch!Feyd, switch!reader, more dominant reader, kissing, oral (m and f receiving), p in v sex, kissing, biting, scratching, overstimulation, edging, fingering, titty pinching, titty sucking, sharing the same piercings as a form of love, getting pierced as a form of foreplay, loads of piercings, reader being called “good girl” a couple of times.

A/N 1: reader is AFAB, the only descriptor is that they have long hair, for plot reasons. Where needed, they/them pronouns used. 

A/N 2: this is a modern AU with random bits of our pop culture thrown in it. 

Squinting your eyes you start to remove the makeup from your face. It has been a sweet night out, you and Feyd finally alone, eating a nice meal and just walking around town to enjoy the soft spring, after a harsh, snowy winter, reconnecting after he’s been away for work.

You ignore the chiming of your phone, it’s either the group chat with the girls, or the one you have with Feyd’s exes, the self called Harpies.

“Is What If I Were Your Mother buzzing tonight?” 

“Oh, you need to keep yourself up to date baby, it’s Pick Me, Choose Me, Love Me now.”

“Am I supposed to get the reference?” Even without eyebrows you can see the muscles lift in silent judgment.

“Grey’s Anatomy baby. You watched it with me.”

“I dissociated most of the times.”

“Asshole.”

“You’re beautiful.” 

Feyd’s hands travel slowly up the silk of your nightgown and stop under your breasts, the whiteness of his skin contrasts with the black material hugging your curves; you love wearing colorful clothes and decorate your shared apartment had been a push and pull between his monochrome austerity and your explosive personality, you’ve only folded to his request that you wear black lingerie for him (that you use truly ridiculous stuff when he’s not around it’s a secret between you and the two group chats).

You lean against his naked chest, letting your head brush against the long column of his neck, reveling in the smoothness of his skin; you miss having beard burns between your legs, your Feyd makes up for it with the bite marks he leaves on your skin when he hungers for your taste, which is always.

“I know you’ve been a bad girl.” He drawls in your ear, part of his face hidden by your hair.

“You need to be more specific than that, ah!”

Feyd’s long fingers pinch your pierced nipples through your nightgown; he was with you when you had both done, he had kept his forehead against yours while the nice lady piercer did her part. 

He had kept the low rumble of his voice to a minimum, describing how he was going to pleasure you as a reward for your courage; you were so torn between fear and excitement that you didn’t really listen to him and if the lady piercer did, she ignored him. 

Now you two match and it drives you crazy that under the expensive clothes he wears at work, Feyd hides similar body mods to yours; you haven’t gotten used to yours yet and even if your nipples have healed nicely, they’ve become more sensitive, and Feyd loves using this against you.

“I’ve noticed the new books on your beside table, little dove.” 

His hands cup your breasts, chocking the answer in your throat.

“I… I have no idea what you’re talking about!” You try to keep hold of his stare through the mirror. “I’ve moved some old books I want to read ouch! Ah! Feyd please!”

Feyd’s fingers pinch the small barbells on your nipples, only to pull at them until you start whining pathetically.

“Do you really think I don’t know all the titles on you bookshelf, little dove? Britney Spears’s biography? Really?”

You don’t answer immediately, needing to catch your breath and he takes advantage of your silence to run the piercing on his tongue up your neck, his sharp eyes not missing the way your body trembles against his.

“Par condicio baby.” You finally manage to answer. “I have read her sister’s, now hers. I want to know every detail. All the tea, as the kids say.”

“You’re truly going to become the epitome of an old busybody.” He says, with genuine affection in his voice.

“And I will share everything with you. Because you are as curious as I am, my love.”

Gently, Feyd lets his hands run up your chest until he’s reached your head of hair. 

Not only the Harkonnens, but all the natives of Geidi Prime have been genetically modified to not grow any sort of hair on their body and yours still fascinate him after all this time together. Whenever he can, he braids them before you two have to leave for work and he makes a point of undoing all your hairstyles when you are finally home, just so that he can feel the texture of your hair against his hands and the smell of your shampoo in his nostrils.

Painstakingly slowly Feyd removes all the pins from your hair, freeing each lock until they all cascade down your back and he can grab your roots, reveling in the feeling against his hands; you moan at the way he massages your scalp, slightly pulling to make you moan at his leisure. 

Under the too bright bathroom lights he can absorb all your facial expressions, he can see your nipples push against the silk of your nightgown and his mouth waters at the thought that you must be wet already, for him.

Quick, so quick that your head spins, Feyd turns you around and sits you on the bathroom counter, back to the big mirror, the hem of your nightgown already brunched around your hips.

You don’t have the chance to realize what he’s doing that two of his fingers are already under your panties, playing with the wetness there; he can’t wait to accompany you to have your clit and labia pierced, this way you two will truly match (even though you can’t have your tongue done); you two will have to stop vaginal sex for a little while, but to the greater purpose of him torturing your pretty cunt for your shared pleasure.

“Up!” He orders and you comply, lifting your arse so that he can remove your lacy panties. “Good girl.” He drawls when you spread your legs for him even wider, to accommodate his huge frame.

“Are you going to take care of me, Feyd?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, electing to suck on the delicate skin of your tight, until he’s sure a nice mark will blossom; he loves keeping you on edge: perhaps he will torment you for his own pleasure, perhaps he will give it all to you, until the lines blur.

“Don’t I always, little dove?”

“I missed you, so much.” You say with a small voice, your hand cupping his smooth cheek.

“So I did you.”

There’s a dark smirk tinging his lips as he kneels between your parted tights, his big hands on your knees in a show of ownership that has your head spin and fall back against the cold mirror.

Feyd lips are so warm against your skin, and so soft as he kisses a slow path to your cunt, up, up he goes, until his hands can grab at your hips to still your movements and open your labia with his thumbs to make way for his long tongue.

His movements are slow, the barbell on his tongue cold against your clit as he slowly massages it, writing nonsense that has you keen already. He can’t help himself but suck gently when your ankles cross behind his head to keep him in place. Over the lecherous sounds of your pleasure he can her your nails scrape against the mirror in the vain attempt to gain control: not yet, now you are for him to torment.

His tongue slowly runs down to your hole and he moans at the honey he finds there: so much and all for him! 

Hungry his tongue fucks you, the piercing stimulating all your nerves all the more, his big hands clench on your hips when you try to squirm away from his nose; on instinct you arch against his intrusion, your ankles pull him tighter against you as you wail your pleasure, small sobs like pain that spur him on all the more.

You come all over his face and keen when he starts sucking on your clit again, overstimulated and delirious you try to push him away, only for him to growl against your sensitive skin, triggering a smaller orgasm that shakes you.

Feyd stares at you with enlarged pupils, his face drenched in your sweetness, his cock torture against the cotton of his bottoms.

“Feyd, please.” You say breathless.

With a fluid motion he stands up and carries you bridal style to the bed, where he sits you to help you out of your nightgown, before discarding his soiled pajama trousers.

His pierced cock stands proud, leaking from the head; you were scared the first time you’ve seen it, imagining how painful it must have been for him, now you’ve come to love every single piece of jewelry adorning his manhood. From the Magic Cross on the head, to the small Frenulum ring, down to all the beadings on his shaft and the small ring on his perineum, you’ve kissed and played with all of them, tormenting Feyd, until he couldn’t understand if it was pleasure, or pain that triggered his orgasm.

You can’t wait to go with him, have your own privates worked on, while he adds the last beadings to complete the whole shaft: you know that sharing this will bind you tighter than the ring he will soon put on your finger, and it both excites and scares you to your core.

Feyd lays next to you to lazily kiss you, his soft lips on yours unhurriedly share your heady taste with you. His hands are in your hair, your nails are scratch down his back: you’re so hungry!

The ping of the received message interrupts you two.

“Ah shit! I think I need to answer this one.”

Feyd doesn’t say a word, he simply stares at you, his non existed brows raised.

“Baby this might be important. It’s Alia.”

Of all his Atreides relations, his little cousin is the only one he can truly stomach; he’s not happy that Chani is one of your oldest friends and that you hang out with her and Paul so much, yet he accepts your friendship with weird and off putting Alia.

“What happened with her?” He asks, curious.

“Let me check my phone and I will be able to tell you.”

With a huff Feyd goes to retrieve your phone and kneels between your splayed legs as you unlock your screen.

“There! I knew it!”

“What did she do?”

“Not her, the guy she was messaging with. He seemed so nice, too nice, if you know what I mean: he sent her a dick pick and us girls are discussing how to retaliate.”

“A dick pic?” Feyd looks sincerely puzzled. “Why?”

“You should ask your male friends. I know I hit the jackpot with you, but most of the guys out there are useless pieces of shit. Hang on, let me send this quick voice memo.” You say locking your ankles against his back to pull yourself up and kiss his nose. 

“Girls, I say that the old fashioned guillotine gif is the best way to go. My favorite is the small one chopping off the wurst but I stand with whichever you want to send. Now I am going to disappear because I’m getting laid. Cheers girls!” 

For the hundredth time, Feyd wonders what horrors that chat contains; he is not sure his Harkonnen upbringing has prepared him to face them. A whole host of women let loose without any sort of filter? No thank you!

Using his own lack of concentration, you roll the two of you, straddling his still erect cock; you raise your eyebrow at him and he just shrugs: horrified or not, you’re still naked and he hasn’t come yet.

“Fuck yourself on my cock, little dove.” He drawls.

“Not so fast, baby. You had your fun.”

When he tries to roll the two of you again, you grab his wrist and push them against the mattress and ground your naked cunt against the ridges of his cock. From your vantage point you stare at Feyd: you know he can easily manhandle you, he has done so many times, the fact that he’s letting you dominate him, that he is willingly submitting to you, drives you as dizzy and wild pleasure, as his pierced cock is.

Feyd hips kick under yours, the jewels on his manhood only enhancing the torment you’re subjecting him to, your wet, warm lips envelop his erection and he fancies he can feel your hole clench around nothing.

You straighten your back and grab at your own hair with a long moan of pleasure, Feyd’s hands grab your hips in retaliation, forcing you to move even faster on his erection; he only wished he had put weights on your nipples, just to hear you cry out in pain.

Abruptly you plant your hands on his chest to rub your engorged clit on one of the beads on his cock; the pleasure you feel makes all your muscles tremble with the effort to move, your orgasm so close, so close!

You come with a scream, your nails stabbing Feyd’s pectoral, triggering his own release between your lower lips and his muscled abdomen; he growls at the pleasure and at the frustration of not spending himself inside of you, feeling his balls draw up with the force if his orgasm.

You fall in his arms, breathing fast as you kiss all the available skin your lips can reach.

“I’m not done with you, Feyd-Rautha.” You growl in his ear.

The sound that escapes his mouth is a mix between a whine and a groan, his cock still hard and pressed between your bodies; under you his long back arches when you start making your way down the planes of his muscles, your lips finding the small rings on his nipples, your teeth pull at the metal until he keens, the small pain exploding in his engorged cock.

“Little dove.” He groans.

“None of that, my love. I’ve missed you so much.”

Feyd moans at the heath in your words: physically he’s the stronger one, yet he knows you could destroy him with a snap of your fingers.

A long litany of moans spill from his parted lips with every lick and small bite, he feels his balls draw up again, ready to spill.

“Not yet, Feyd. I want you to come inside of me.”

He growls when your hand curls around his base, your teeth pulling cruelly at the ring on his perineum as he writes on the black sheets: he’s so ready to explode for you, paint your insides with his thick cum.

You can feel his long legs scramble against the mattress when your lips find his frenulum ring, your tongue plays with the small piece of metal and the small strip of oversensitive skin; despite your cruel hold, small beads of precome bubble and slide from his cock, meeting your curious tongue.

His taste explodes in your mouth, making you ravenous as you suck on his pierced head with thirst, your teeth playing with the delicate skin; he tries to call your name when your nails rake down the skin of his tights, tortured sounds escape instead, pulled forth by your teeth pulling on one of the beads of the Magic Cross.

With a lewd pop you let his erection fall against his clenching abs, to give him a modicum of respite before attacking him again.

You rise to your knees, your body framed by his trembling legs, simply to observe your handiwork: the marks blooming on his delicate skin, his pupils completely expanded and fixed on the patch of hair between your legs and on the wetness he can see.

“Shall I sit on your face, or use your cock for all it’s worth?”

For a second Feyd can’t answer, his eyes mesmerized by your hands caressing your body and massaging your breasts: he needs to suck on your nipples, or he’ll go mad!

With disconnected movements he pats his hip and you laugh at the way need robs him of his preternatural coordination.

“Say it. I want to hear it!” You command, your fingers still pinching your nipples.

Feyd licks his lips; the room is so saturated with the smell of sex that he fancies he can still taste you on his lips.

Without breaking eye contact, Feyd growls low in his throat.

“Come and use your cock, little dove. I bet your cunt missed it.”

“I think it’s you who missed me more.” You say, crawling towards him. “What are you going to do while my new piercings will need to heal? Go mad with need?”

The idea of holding you while you get your clit pierced forces a shudder through his body: soon, it is going to be so soon!

“I can always play your arse.” He answers, burning with the need to breach you. 

“You’ll have to beg better than that.” You say, flicking his engorged head and earning a lovely yelp of pain.

You position yourself on his cock, you are both so wet you don’t need any more preparation and your cunt welcomes him with a slight tremble.

Feyd’s hands clench on your hips to help you ride with gentle movements that have your clenching muscles slowly relax around his cock, sucking him in until you’re sitting fully on him, feeling every ridge and modification against the velvet of your walls.

To give him a full view, you put your hands on his raised knees and use him for leverage. Slowly you lift yourself up and down, making sure he sees his cock, drenched in your juices, disappear where you two meet with lewd squelching sounds. 

You’ve thrown your head back, letting your hair touch his legs, and miss the way he looks at your body, how ravenous the sight of your combined comes around his base makes him. 

He groans when you bounce faster on him, beads of sweat roll between your lush breasts and he tries to sit up to suck on them, but a tight squeeze of your hole deprives him of all strength. 

“Tell me what you need, my love”. You ask, sitting firmly on his hips. 

Feyd's hands clench on your hips, your cunt is strangling him so perfectly his eyes cross. 

“You nipples…” He groans, almost in pain. “Let me suck on them!” 

Nonchalant you cup your breasts and lightly pull on the rings, not missing the way Feyd's cock twitches inside of you. 

“Do you want to suck on them? Cover all my skin with your marks?”

Feyd's body shakes under you, the wires in his head crossing with the need to taste you, and to come inside of you. 

“Yes!” He manages to groan, as desperate as a drowning man. 

Taking your sweet time to torment him, you push your weight forward and on your arms, your tits millimeters away from his hungry mouth; before he can latch his lips around one areola, you stop him. 

“What if I make you choose between my breasts and coming, tonight? What's your priority?”

Feyd's fingers stab your hips with the desperation he feels: he needs both! 

“You love my mouth on you, you never come as fast as when I fuck your cunt and pull on your rings.”

Desperate times need desperate moves. 

Pensively you cup your breasts again and start moving slowly, the cacophony of moans and sobs spurring you on. 

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the powerful heir to his family fortune, reduced to a bitch in heat under you, begging for your body, beautiful in his need of you and of your guidance. 

“I think you’re right, baby. There's nothing better than your cock in my cunt and your lips on my tits.”

You lay on him again, letting his mouth latch around one pert nipple as his hips piston desperately inside of you; as much as you’re trying to control yourself, the precipice of another orgasms is closer and closer, aided by the delicious mods on Feyd's cock against your quivering walls, hitting everywhere all at once, battering all your nerves without mercy while his teeth worry and pull at your pierced nipple: pain and pleasure a blur in your mind and in his. 

Feyd's hips ram faster and faster against your G spot, spurred as he is by your show of dominance and control over him; he can barely contain himself when you squeeze tighter than ever. You haven't ordered him, yet: he can't come without your permission. 

“Now Feyd!” 

Your barked order dissolves any control he has on himself: grabs you and pulls you tight against his hips and comes, triggering your own orgasm. 

You grind against him, prolonging your shared pleasure until it hurts and you have to let his softened cock slip from your cunt. 

You can feel his thick cum slide from your overused cunt and you shudder on him, he simply cages you against his strong body until he feels your body relax. 

His hand goes to your head to knead the long tresses, one of his favorite post sex rituals as you leave butterfly kisses all over the marks on his neck. 

“You OK baby?” You whisper gently against his skin. 

“Yes, stay.” He adds when you try to go to the bathroom. 

“We're sticky, baby.”

“You smell like me. Let me enjoy it.”

You recognize his tone, he needs to be held more to ground himself back into control. 

“I'm not going anywhere. Come here.”

You tell him and he simply puts his head against your chest, letting himself be cradled by you. 

“Let's chill, OK? I missed you.”

He doesn't answer but you can detect how heavy his breathing is: he's going to fall asleep soon and you let yourself follow him. 

#fey rautha x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen x reader #feyd rautha x y/n #feyd rautha harkonnen x y/n #feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen

[fatehbaz]

The perfect storm had been building for some time. Ferguson is at the bottom of the income spectrum and has acted as a sort of vanguard for the outward march of suburban poverty. [...] [T]he dwindling population, fleeing industry, and plummeting property values had created a budgetary crisis, forcing many of the area’s small municipalities to rely less on their shrinking tax base and more on extra-tax fees and fines, enforced by the police and facilitated by the city’s arcane court system.

The result was that Ferguson and similar suburbs existed in what the Huffington Post called “a totalizing police regime beyond any of Kafka’s ghastliest nightmares.” Out of a population of roughly 21,000, over 16,000 Ferguson residents had arrest warrants issued. And this number only counts individuals with warrants, not the total number of warrants. In 2013 this figure was a staggering 35,975, roughly 1.5 warrants per person in the city.

These warrants were part of a complex racket designed to impose unrelenting fines on the poor population in order to fund the city government, which itself had largely been redesigned to facilitate this predatory practice.

In 2013 fines, court fees, and other such extortions accounted for some 20 percent of the city’s budget. These fines were disproportionately applied to the city’s black residents, with black drivers twice as likely to be stopped, searched, and arrested as their white counterparts. [...]

---

These funding systems are not unique to St Louis, but instead became a national trend as more and more municipalities found themselves in dire conditions after the last crisis. The suburbanization of poverty and skyrocketing incarceration rates have thus been paired with growth in these massive, extra-tax extortions applied to the poor -- and particularly the suburban and rural poor, who are more likely to live in small, cash-strapped municipalities (or counties) with a dwindling tax base and less access to federal aid. In most places, this takes the form of an expanding net of legal search, supervision, and harassment that essentially extends the walls of the prison out into the new suburban ghetto.

Increasingly expensive incarceration is gradually replaced by a predatory probation system composed of extra-carceral monitoring, fines, and seizure of property, all amplified by the fusion of public budgets and for-profit probation companies. 

Many of these are relatively recent trends, with Ferguson’s dependence on probation funding skyrocketing after 2010. But rather than an unfortunate exception, Ferguson is a window into the future. As low growth, deepening crisis, and general austerity continue [...] [t]hese cities will be forced to find new sources of funding, and the easiest way to do this is for better-off residents to utilize existing legal resources in order to prey on the poor.

As the economic situation becomes increasingly dire, similar patterns emerge at greater scales: the county, the state, and the federal government will all turn to such predatory practices, facilitated by growing armies of police and preexisting legal mechanisms for debt collection, surveillance, and incarceration.

---

These patterns are piloted in the poorest areas, applied first to the most disadvantaged social groups. In Anaheim, California, the poorer, predominantly Latino neighborhoods in the city have seen a series of gang injunctions, allowing plainclothes police to arrest and open fire on residents for things as simple as their clothing color or gathering in a crowd. In 2012 a sequence of police shootings in the city led to nights of rioting just outside D!sneyl@nd. In the poorer parts of New York, stop and frisk policies and the enforcement of laws against minor offences (such as selling loose cigarettes) have allowed for similar practices, resulting in local riots around the killing of Kimani Gray in Flatbush in 2013 and national riots around the killing of Eric Garner in 2014. Similar practices have long been applied to the rural poor, including the black residents of regions such as the Mississippi River Delta, Native residents of reservations such as Pine Ridge, Latino farmworkers across the country, and the white poor in places like the coal-mining towns of Appalachia.

-------

Text by: Phil Neel. Hinterland: America’s New Landscape of Class and Conflict. 2018. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

#st louis #100 year rainfall record in st louis during boeing strikes #abolition

[eudaimonia83]

Chapter 6 is posted! For anyone who felt adrift last week bc of the new character, the Elucien goodness will hopefully make up for it this week. 🥰

Content warning: Solstice, but make it just a bit sinister. Muhahaha. No triggers that I can think of in this chapter.

Trivia moment: this chapter was the original basis for the entire fic. (It has obviously spiraled significantly into larger themes since then, lol.) I’ve long been annoyed that Lucien keeps being forced to hang out w the IC and then they act like he isn’t there, or treat him like he’s an enemy. *cough az and cass cough* So i wanted Elain to make him feel included…and to finally give him a thoughtful present. I also wanted Elain to be a bit more in her element, at a party.

There will probably be a couple weeks before this is updated again bc I will be working on a different piece for a bit, but there’s more coming!

Chapter 6: ELAIN

SOLSTICE NIGHT

The party was a bright affair, lamps all ablaze, faelights swirling like tiny acrobats in the rafters, and fires crackling merrily. Elain wore her lavender silk dress, against the advice of Nuala, who had suggested a darker color to match the rest of the guests. And it was true; Mor was resplendent in red and gold, Nesta icy in silver edged with white and jewelry of sparkling black, Feyre in deep royal blue. The three Illyrian brothers were in their customary matching black, though Azriel’s leathers somehow seemed the most formal attire of the lot. Rhysand had indulged in a violet-trimmed waistcoat and Cassian’s crimson siphons seemed to set everything he touched ablaze.

But after Elain had spent two hours trying to decide between a dark blue high-necked velvet gown and a long black dress festooned with big pink roses — hating how pale she looked, how thin and wan — she had finally thrown open her wardrobe doors and pulled out the soft, swishing dress with its fluttering skirt. It was not truly fancy enough for the occasion, she knew. It was a dress for a day in the gardens in the height of summer, for running in and out of the shade of her tall hedges, for trailing her hand in the fountain and dabbing the cool water on her neck to soften the heat of the sun’s kiss, for spending hours lying in the grass trying to identify the scent of each particular flower. But her heart had eased the moment she’d held it up and looked at herself in the mirror. It felt right. And in it, she felt beautiful. She knew people called her the pretty sister. She had used that as currency herself, drawing the attention of men and boys alike. But standing next to Nesta, regal and austere; or Feyre, slender and magnetic and alluring; or Morrigan, glowing and brash and curvaceous…she just felt ordinary. In this dress she could at least compare. To keep warm, she picked out a plum-colored velvet high-cut jacket edged in brown fur. The gentle color of it warmed against the bronze of her curls, which she left down; and her cheeks, still hollow from the weight she’d lost as a new Fae, looked like they picked up some color. She stared at her reflection for a while, feeling as though it all looked unfinished, when the bell tinkled merrily to announce that dinner was ready. On her way down the stairs, she passed a dripping bouquet of winter roses and pine garlands; one of the arrangements the decorators had brought earlier. The roses were cream-white with a pink edge to their petals. In sudden inspiration, Elain twisted two buds from the bouquet and prepared to tuck one into her hair, before thinking, be daring. Be brave. With the slightest of tremors, she instead tucked both of the flowers into the sweetheart collar of the dress, right above her décolletage. They warmed against her skin. Somehow, she didn’t need a mirror to know she had chosen well; she lifted her chin and walked down the steps. She passed a massive gilt-edged mirror as she went down the hallway to the dining room, and noticed that the buds had opened slightly against her skin, blushing and pale in equal measure. She stopped to straighten them only to find their stems firmly tangled in the fabric of the lining of her dress, so they pressed lightly against her breasts. Like they were hugging her. And when she’d entered the dining room, ever so slightly late — she remembered one of her human friends insisting they be late to a party, saying “no, Lainey, you must make an entrance” — she’d been pleased to find all eyes drawn to her. Even Amren’s steely gaze had narrowed.

Dinner had been loud, especially when Nyx had made an appearance after his nap. His eyes were ringed with tiredness, but lit up merrily when he saw Cassian, the undisputed favorite, who immediately waved at him and stuck his tongue out. Feyre now relinquished her son to his uncle and sat back on the lounge chair, tucking her feet up under the blue silk of her gown. Elain hadn’t spoken to her all day; when they’d arrived back from the Hewn City, later than people had expected, she had looked unsettled, and shuttered herself in with Rhysand for a good hour, the shields around the room thick and humming. She looked happier now, her pale blue eyes alight as she watched her family.

Elain couldn’t think of how to begin the conversation, but felt obliged to ask, “Are you enjoying your birthday?”

Feyre glanced at her briefly before directing her eyes back to her son. Rhysand had pulled him up from Cassian’s shoulders and his little wings beat frantically, though they weren’t yet strong enough to bear his weight. Feyre smiled, lines fanning out from her tired eyes. “I am now,” she said. “It wasn’t an auspicious start to the day, though.”

“What happened?” Elain wondered if she just meant being at the Hewn City or if something worse had happened.

But Feyre shook her head and said, “Oh, it was a tense day at the tithe. The Lesser Fae have had a bad harvest this year so the totals were unimpressive. And they want more than ever from Rhys,” her eyes darkened, brows creasing, “as though he doesn’t protect them enough. As his mate it’s hard to sit by and hear them blame him, like he can control the weather or eliminate bandits.”

She shifted in her seat to keep Rhys and Nyx in her view, and Elain caught a glimpse of a bright gold medallion around her neck, hung on a knobbly homespun cord. The gold was yellow and white hammered together, in painstaking handmade relief, to make a shimmering, undulating surface; Elain saw as the light played on its surface that it was worked into an image. An image of a toothy maw spread wide…claws on disturbingly human hands extended…

Feyre smiled brightly at her sister, noting the direction of her gaze, and picked up the medallion to show her. “Isn’t it lovely? I know the image is grotesque, but the workmanship is stunning, especially to be handmade.” She tilted it so Elain could see better. “One of the tithe attendees gave it to me as a gift. For my birthday.”

Elain leaned forward in appreciation. “What is it?” she asked. She’d never seen such a creature before, even with all the horrors of the past two years.

“I don’t know,” Feyre said, shrugging. “A creature holy to that specific tribe, I shouldn’t wonder.” She lowered her voice as if about to divulge a secret. “I think he thought appealing to me would make Rhys grant his request, but it was all the way in the south, and we haven’t any time to go so far. And it’d be close to impossible to travel there with Nyx so young too.” She admired the gleaming surface. “It is lovely though. One of the prettiest things I’ve ever seen at the tithe. Usually their work is so simple compared to the jewels of Velaris.”

Elain leaned forward and touched the medallion with her fingertip, and as she did, she heard a low roaring in her ears that swelled to obliterate the laughs of the party: a humming growl, low and undulating. The light of the party faded, until it was nothing more than the sparkle of a candle…and before her, a darkness, near total, but for the occasional glimmer. The light wavered oddly, like the cast from a flame — a larger flame, the writhing of its light against the shadows nearly twice Elain’s height, bent violently by gusts of wind. It reached no more than a few inches beyond where Elain stood, then slipped back into blackness. But there was movement there; movement that materialized into fur, mangy and stinking, and teeth, dripping with saliva, light glinting on the points of fangs as long as her fingers, vicious, hungry for blood. And then a rushing voice, filling her ears with a thousand whispers. A pact. An agreement. An old magic, invoked by charm and wrought by hand. It must be honored.

A vision. She knew it even as it spiraled into darkness, the whispers coiling into chaos and then clarifying into something more familiar. Into words. BACK. HOWEVER YOU FIGHT, IT WILL BE OF NO USE. WE WILL HAVE IT ALL BACK. It melted into a hoarse scream, a cry of attack…

But then she was sucked backwards into light, so bright that her eyes watered a bit in protest, trails of blackness still lingering across her vision; and she was at the party, thrown into its chatter and charm, and Feyre was laughing, throwing her head back, exclaiming, “Lucien! As I live and breathe! Rhys told me you were back, and I would’ve been so upset if you hadn’t come to see me.”

Elain blinked, and the last of the darkness slid away. Before her was the erstwhile prince of Autumn, his hair braided and smoothly caught back at the nape of his neck, a bright blue coat with subtle gold threading outlining his broad shoulders. Even dressed relatively modestly, he gleamed, all color and light, all mischief and elegant trickery. So Fae. Even now it sent ripples up her spine, sliding along the knife edge between fear of him and trust in him. His golden eye glinted as he returned Feyre’s smile. “I wouldn’t miss your birthday for all the stars in Velaris,” he said, his voice light and teasing. “Not that even you could give those away.”

“Don’t put it past me,” Feyre winked at him.

Lucien turned to Elain, whose voice was as firmly caught in her throat as a burr stuck in a glove. “Good evening, Lady,” he said, with a slight bow. She swallowed, and nodded.

His good eye narrowed, ever so slightly, taking her in at a quick glance. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, swinging his eyes back to Feyre, and smiling disarmingly. “The pair of you aren’t doing the party any favors sitting here without partaking.”

Feyre protested, laughing, but Lucien cocked his head and stared at her in mock accusation until she relented with a roll of her eyes. “Very well then. A half glass of the gold wine.”

He moved off toward the bar cart with a smooth stride. Feyre’s gaze shifted to Elain, whose hands were clenched tightly in her lap. What had he noticed?

Feyre leaned in and said, her eyes dancing, “That’s a magnificent color on him, don’t you agree?”

Elain blushed from her ears to her chest, hating her sister for being so open, so obvious, so damn gleeful. It was confusing enough to be around him without everyone watching and whispering. She was trying to figure out what to say when he returned, a glass in each hand. He handed the wine cup to Feyre, who thanked him and then slyly slid away; he pushed a highball glass into her hand as they found themselves alone.

“Drink it,” he murmured, almost inaudible over the chatter of the party. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

She clutched the glass hard and stared at him.

“It’s only water,” he said, a trifle defensive. “You should drink it. It’s too warm in here and you’re flushed.” He leaned forward against the chaise, body language utterly relaxed — no one watching from a distance would think he was talking about anything but pleasantries — but a strain in his voice belied all that as he asked, “Did you just have…a vision?”

She put the glass to her lips and drank, the cold of the water a welcome rush on her tongue. The shock of it loosened her voice. She tried to stay as calm as possible, to imitate his nonchalance. “How did you know?”

His smile was tight. Pained. “Even if I hadn’t felt it here…” he touched his chest lightly, over his heart — “your face would’ve given it away.”

“How?”

“You…” He flexed his fingers as if they hurt. “You looked the same as…as back then. When you were first Fae.” He threw a glance at the fireplace with its evergreen bower and gestured at it, maintaining the small talk facade with ease. “Are you well?”

Surprised, she couldn’t help but turn and look him full in the face. “I’m…”

He turned his head, quizzical, as she trailed off. “You’re…not well?”

“No, I’m all right,” she said, hurriedly. “But — you don’t want to know what I saw?”

Everyone always pounced when they heard she’d had a vision, starving for details, most of which she could never recall. But his eyebrows twitched together and back apart as he wiped the concern from his face, turning it bland and calm. “Not if you don’t want to tell me.”

Elain drew in a deep breath and let it out in a trembling sigh that turned into a laugh, tremulous and true and even a little sad, if she was honest. He cast his eyes down and smiled at his hands, folded on the back of the couch. “Don’t laugh at me, Lady.”

“But you’re ridiculous, my lord,” she said, her humor finally cresting over the prickle behind her eyes.

“Eternally,” he agreed.

She was about to give him a pert answer when she noticed Feyre, standing on the other side of the parlor and grinning like the Mad Cat in their childhood storybook. As their eyes locked, Feyre seized Mor’s arm, and the two of them turned away at the same moment, leaning their heads together. Elain fought against a stab of annoyance at their interference and slid her gaze across the room, only to briefly lock with Amren, who returned it with narrow, flinty eyes that were somehow both flat and depthless. Elain felt her hackles rise like she was staring down a predator…like the gaping hungry mouth in her vision. But she forced a smile, and raised her glass slightly. Amren inclined her head in the barest of nods and raised her own goblet, and the corners of her mouth twitched upward in a knowing, feral smirk.

Lucien followed her gaze and then looked immediately away, back down at his hands, shifting as though he too had caught the expression on Amren’s icy features. “Being watched all the time must get tedious,” he said. “No wonder you guard your secrets.”

“I have none of consequence,” she murmured.

“And now you’re even bringing in lies. How enchanting.” His foxlike grin split his face. She couldn’t control the lurch in her chest. “I like you deceitful, Blossom. It’s intriguing.”

“Well, everyone else has their secrets,” she fired at him. “Can’t I have any of my own?”

“Certainly,” he said. He seemed utterly earnest. “I only ask that you promise to share with me the ones you ask me to keep.”

She paled. Was he going to give her away? An outright lie to Cassian and Nesta, a lie of omission to Rhysand and Feyre…they’d have her under the daemati claws in no time…there would be no secrets then, no mind left, they’d have it all and she’d be a shell of herself…

He extended his hand in a calming motion, seeming to sense her unease. “Not just yet,” he murmured. “When you’re ready. Til you instruct it, I’ll keep my silence.”

She couldn’t think of what to say, but he straightened up and nodded as Rhysand approached. She froze, feeling the sly rake of her brother-in-law’s claws across her thoughts, and focused hard on the half-full drink in her hand.

“Lucien,” Rhys greeted him, smooth and effortless as always. “Thank you for coming.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Lucien replied, and Elain was strongly reminded of the dukes and earls at the dances back in the human lands; that charm, the utter facility of sliding from one interaction to another. “Happiest of birthdays to the High Lady.”

Rhys nodded, immense satisfaction on his face as his violet eyes scanned the merry gathering. Cassian had Nyx on his shoulders; Nesta’s hand rested protectively on Nyx’s leg to keep him from falling backwards. Azriel sat by the window, shadows romping with the fluttering faelights, while Mor and Feyre argued playfully over a chessboard. And Amren stood slightly apart from the rest, her pale eyes surveying keenly. Rhys asked, a trifle absently, “How do the human lands fare?”

Lucien sighed. “The lands are buried under snow, as the seasons dictate. The humans themselves are…suffering.”

Rhys raised his eyebrows. “The fall harvest was sufficient. Once the crops come in in spring…”

“…they will still be suffering,” Lucien interrupted. “They cannot eat their seed crops if they hope to lay in the fields for next season. And yet they cannot starve. Everything there is restless. People who are hungry and sick and neglected will not tolerate it for long.”

Elain felt her insides squeeze in shock. No one interrupted the High Lord. Not even Feyre, who always gazed at him with pride. But even more critically, his words burrowed through her surprise: the humans were hungry and sick. That was her village. Her friends. Mayfer, the bustling harbor city where she’d visited to wait for her father’s ships. Her former home.

Lucien continued, “Jurian has purchased extra grain stores from the continent. And Vassa took in several hundred of the country folk who would have starved otherwise, onto Lord Nolan’s estate.”

“Generous of her,” Rhys remarked. He sounded ever so slightly bored, as his eyes followed Feyre’s every move.

“Just keeping body and soul together,” Lucien replied, and his tone dropped. His expression remained mild as Elain glanced between the two males. But without even knowing how she knew it, she thought he is angry, before remembering to keep her thoughts focused on her glass of water. Angry at Rhysand. For what?

It could be any number of things, a small voice inside her head hissed, and she felt a tiny stab of shame, then covered it with thinking of how cold the glass was in her hand, beading with condensation.

“Clearly. Come see me in the morning and give a full report,” Rhys said, calm and unconcerned. But his eyes flashed as they settled briefly upon Elain. “And get Elain another glass of water. She’s parched, aren’t you, little sister?” His smile was thin and cold, and he moved away, sleek as a shadow, to stand behind Feyre, one arm draped lazily over her shoulder, fiddling idly with the knobbly handwoven string that supported the gold medallion around her neck. She reached up to stroke his wrist; the very picture of domesticity. Elain was pleased to discover that she could in fact distract him with obvious surface thoughts, to misdirect from her deeper misgivings — since she had no expertise in mental shields, that could be a useful tactic, even if it was flimsy. But warring with her satisfaction came a deep unease. A pact. An agreement. An old magic…

“Presents!” Mor called out from close to the fireplace, dragging a sack of brightly wrapped gifts out of a pocket realm, and everyone clustered around the couch for the exchange. Elain knew this would dissolve into spoiling the baby, and she was right; everyone competed for the best present for Nyx, who was getting a bit tired and cranky, and wanted only to play with the bright ribbons on the packages. Everyone had gotten one another gifts, and everyone exclaimed over the silk scarves, the sharp knives, the antique astrolabe that Feyre had sourced from the Day Court for Rhys…but, Elain noticed again and again, no one had gotten any gifts for Lucien.

She stole another glance at him. He seemed unperturbed, smiling at the chaos of wrapping paper and mirth as Cassian opened a leather satchel from Mor with a suggestive shape. He howled with laughter as she winked and told him with supreme innocence that it was for use in the annual snowball fight. Nesta rolled her eyes, and Cassian stuffed the satchel into her hands with a hooded glance. Elain felt curiously voyeuristic, as though she’d witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to see; a tiny window into a private moment between her sister and the powerful male she was mated to. She thought of the little blue box, sitting on the table in the next room, and longed for the right moment to give it to Lucien. But it didn’t seem appropriate, not here; not with everyone watching. She didn’t dare to give everyone else a tiny window into what was — or perhaps wasn’t — between her and Lucien. Not when it would be giggled over and teased and demeaned.

She broke away a few minutes later to gather all her presents together — jasmine soap from Nesta, tulip bulbs from Feyre, a box of expensive spices from Rhys — and found him in the hallway pulling his cloak off the hook.

“You’re leaving?” she blurted out, before she could think of anything better to say.

He turned, masking his surprise with a wry grin. “Overstaying a welcome is poor etiquette, I’ve found.”

“You’re welcome here,” she insisted. Was it her imagination that his eyebrows twitched in denial?

“Thank you,” he said, “but I think this party is for family now. And I’m not that. Whatever else I may be.”

“But…” — was she really going to say it? Her stomach clenched. Brave. Be brave. “But…I haven’t given you your present yet.”

He froze, comically halfway through securing the cloak buttons. “My what?”

“Your — your present,” she stammered. Gods above, untie her tongue from these hopeless knots. “I’m sorry no one else got you anything. But I did.”

As soon as she said it, it sounded false. Petulant. Like she was seeking a compliment.

“What for?” he asked, and he sounded bemused enough that she laughed, short and quiet.

“For Solstice, silly,” she said. She beckoned him into the darkened sitting area, turning on the lamp as she did. He followed, wary, keeping his distance.

She pushed the box at him, unsure of how to proceed, but now committed to seeing it through. He stared at it as though it was a trick, or a bomb that would explode in his face if he touched it.

“But you didn’t need to get me anything,” he said.

“I — I know,” she said, and her courage flagged. The box sank an inch or two from where she’d held it out to him. “But I wanted to. You did save my life, remember, so it’s only fair that I thank you properly.” She squared her shoulders, and in an attempt at being merry, said with a faint smile, “And I have a few Solstices to catch up on with you.”

He still didn’t move.

“Take it.” She moved two steps closer, til the box was within reach of his hand.

And with a brief hesitation, he reached up and took the box from her, pulled the ribbon off it, and opened it.

Elain was consumed with the strangest twirling in her gut, a spiral of anxiety and excitement. Gods. Dear gods. It was stupid. So stupid. Unutterably stupid, in fact. How could she have thought that it would be enough, when she had never accepted his gifts with anything but awkwardness, that this tiny thing would say everything she wanted it to?

Her cheeks flamed. She wondered if this was what it was to slowly choke…to asphyxiate under the weight of her own mistakes.

And still it was quiet. Finally, desperately, she dragged her eyes up from where her fingers twisted with anxiety and —

— and he was looking at her, his face a mix of gratitude and grief. Their eyes locked so tightly she almost heard the click of a key.

“A hyraeth,” he murmured, pulling the little pin from the box. The jeweler had fashioned it from a single piece of bright yellow amber that caught the light like honey, but also gleamed like sunshine on water. Elain had selected it herself. The etchings on the edges were done in black lacquer, faceting the surface of the amber just like the patterns on butterflies’ wings. The jeweler had done a lovely job, but her stomach corkscrewed into her legs nonetheless. Did he not like it?

“Well, not a real one,” she said hurriedly. “Just their likeness in a pin for your hair, or your lapel. But I thought you might like it…they’re from the Autumn Court,” she blurted, realizing she was babbling and cursing herself roundly for it, trying to lower her voice, which - drown her in the damned cauldron - was so much louder than was necessary.

“I know,” he said. “From the Vilderavian Groves, at the borders of Summer.” His voice fractured ever so slightly at the edges.

Her eyes widened. “Have you seen it?”

“Yes,” he replied, and there was a reverence in his voice that rippled through her like wind through grass. “Long ago. Just once. They alight on the great trunks of the hemlock trees in a shimmering mass. An ocean of tiny wings, all amber and gold and black, whispering among the green foliage. It’s a special place; the only evergreen spot in Autumn. And the sight — the whole forest alive with trembling light — is magnificent. There’s nothing like it.”

She nodded. “It made me think…” She spread her hands in defeat. That home is a journey, rather than a place. That it might not obey borders or rules, but seek its own way across barriers. That to find it, to keep it, one can endure unimaginable toil and turmoil. That there is magic in the smallest things. “…that you might someday find a place for your heart to rest. Unfathomable as that may be now.”

She could have sworn there was a gleam in his eyes, just for a moment. He closed his hand over the little pin. “It’s beautiful,” he said, softly. And then, so gently that had she not been straining toward him with every cell of her treacherous body, she would not have heard him: “I think you’ve fathomed me quite well, Blossom. Thank you.”

His eyes slid down to her lips, so close…the moment brief and shimmering, a bubble on the wind…

…and it shattered, burst by the arrival of Nyx, screaming in uninhibited toddler glee as Cassian mock-chased him through the hallway and past the open doors. Lucien started and stepped back. Elain very nearly followed him, so strong was the pull of the bond’s tidal undertow in her ribs, but she knew it was too late. Misery blooming in her heart, she turned to go.

“Happy Solstice, Elain,” he murmured.

She looked back over her shoulder, and saw him standing in the pool of light from the lamp. In that moment, he seemed aglow himself somehow. A living sun.

“Happy Solstice, Lucien,” she replied; and, unbidden, unsought, a smile rose to her lips. He returned it, shyly — and low in her gut, an ember, dormant under the ash of everything that had happened, flickered into a tiny flame.

It was nothing, she told herself sternly as she climbed the stairs to her room. So small. But even a tiny light could bring a traveler safe home.

Elain could feel the heat blooming on her cheeks…a light tingling in her fingertips…but somehow, she couldn’t help but feel excited. She knew the dreams would come. But perhaps, even before the dreams arrived, there could be a decision first.

She collapsed against her door, fist pressed trembling to her mouth, as though to stuff the helpless giggle back down her throat, all unguarded from the fizzing happiness inside her. Gods, it was intoxicating. Had she truly forgotten what it was to feel joy? It was a light in her veins. Liquid, effervescent sun on the longest night of the year. She pulled the two winter roses from her bodice, tearing the lining slightly as they relinquished their hold. She tenderly set them down on her nightstand into a glass of water and busied herself undressing…not noticing, as she shucked off the little jacket and unfastened the silk of the bodice, draping the dress over the door of the wardrobe, that the flowers were uncurling, roots extending from the stems faster than any normal plant; leaves stretching out to fill the rim of the glass.

The rustle of the branches in the hedges outside grew louder. It could have been the wind; or a bird sleeping, stirring in its nest; or perhaps a thousand whispers. The moon was the only witness; and she was as silent as she had been since the birth of the planet beneath skies roiling with sulphur and fire, waiting, watching as everything beneath unfolded in miniature.

Back…

We will have it all back.

#elucien #acotar #elain archeron #fanfic #lucien vanserra #prythian #gwynriel #feyre archeron #anti rhysand #elucienweek2023 #winter solstice

[cleromancy]

HI I WOULD LOVE TO SEE SNIPPETS OF THE EX CHILD STAR AU

thank you anon 🥰 sry it took me a few days to post this lol

cws: references to mental health problems and a previous suicide attempt, and lasting trauma from exploitation. uh, and past drug use.

*

If you had asked Dick twenty-four hours ago about his apartment, he would have said it was fine. Not too modest, not too ostentatious, not so public he has to worry about creeps but not as isolated as the villa. He's so glad they sold the villa. Nicest place he's ever lived, and if he'd stayed there one more day he'd have been peeling off the wallpaper muttering about ex-child stars trapped inside, creeping. Where he lives now is within walking distance from a friendly little corner store where he picks up cereal and almond milk and anything else he doesn't want to wait to get delivered, which is convenient, and a somewhat-longer-but-still-doable hike away from Dick's favorite store in L.A, a tiny little candy shop that only stays afloat out of sheer spite. The owner, a cantankerous old man that Dick loved immediately upon meeting, roasts Dick mercilessly every time Dick comes in, but he also keeps Dick's standing order of the tragically discontinued Triple Xtreme Face Pucker Nuclear Warheads in stock just for him, so Dick wouldn't buy them anywhere else even if he could.

And as long as you have that and a laundry room, you're golden. If Dick had to leave his apartment to wash his socks he'd just lie down and die, or else wear a lot of dirty clothes.

So normally if asked, Dick would conclude that the apartment is, actually, better than fine, maybe even pretty good, and then he would change the subject.

It's just hitting Dick now that he's lived here for seven years now and he doesn't think he's ever actually looked around. They hired somebody to move his stuff into storage while Dick was still in inpatient and somebody else to decorate the apartment so it would be livable right when he got out, before he got around to picking up his stuff (he keeps meaning to do that). Moving in, all Dick cared about was getting a burrito the size of his face and sleeping on sheets that didn't smell faintly of industrial bleach masked poorly by something artificial, vaguely floral, and marketed as *Mountain Breeze.* In the grey haze it hadn't occurred to him to wonder if maybe the decor was itself a little too grey.

"Or whatever color they call this," Dick says to himself, staring down an oversized decorative vase with a few sticks poking out that you'd think would be silk flowers or something, but instead have these fuzzy little puffballs attached for some reason. "Gray-beige? Taupe? Greige? Why do I even have you." He tilts it to one side. It's shockingly heavy. "Why do I have *six of you.*"

Looking down the hallway it's obvious that the interior design team had a vision, and that vision was "innoffensive, featureless neutrality." There are just enough wall hangings to qualify as "minimalist" over "austere," black and white photographs of bland still lifes in featureless frames. Some kind of hanging tapestry except it's solid white with hanging tassels. Grey-toned floor, lighter grey-toned floor runner. The end result sails right past "boring" into "escaped psych ward patient" territory. Which Dick resents. He did his time, thank you very much, and waited until his official discharge like a good boy. That's probably why he didn't notice until now, psych ward home away from psych ward home.

Yeah. Let's blame that. The fact that he spent his first year out of the hospital doing nothing but trying to beat his Tetris high score in his underwear and scouring the internet trying to find the tragically discontinued Triple Xtreme Face Pucker Nuclear Warheads had nothing to do with it.

"He's going to think I'm a serial killer," Dick realizes.

He's most of the way through Tetrising the unwieldy, surpringly heavy vases into the tiny cubicle the guest bathroom calls a shower—and he'd like to know whose idea *that* was when anyone with a lick of sense would have just made it a half-bath—when the buzzer for the lobby goes off.

"Crap," Dick mutters, taking half a step away from the tower, which wobbles ominously. He lunges to steady it. "Crap!"

He casts around for a surface and sets the last two vases on the toilet lid and the sink respectively, the stupid little Q-tip stick things rattling mockingly inside, then dashes out to tell the doorman that no, Roy's not a stalker, yes really, yes Dick wants you to let him up please, yes he is serious, yes he is sure. He has enough time to sprint back to the bathroom and make sure his hair is okay and confirm that at least he doesn't *look* as sweaty and disheveled as he *feels,* but thankfully not enough time to start worrying if he might be due early for another round of fillers or if his hairline might be receding or if the skin under his jaw might be sagging. He looks fine. Everything's fine.

When the doorbell rings, Dick has to pretend he doesn't know who's on the other side to get himself to finally open the door. His breath still catches when he sees him.

Roy, casual as ever, pushing a pair of Ray-Bans he told Dick he shoplifted as a teenager up his forehead. His crow's feet, because he stopped getting fillers at twenty-five, except *his* are laugh lines, not stress wrinkles, less those *Where Are They Now?* specials they used to do on VH1, more Paul Newman aging like fine wine. His crooked smile, and he doesn't whiten his teeth anymore either, teased Dick when he drove him for his root canal that he was destroying his enamel and then held his hand when they put him under. His scuffed bomber jacket, older than either of them, which sparked half a dozen anecdotes about an Uncle Hal when Dick brushed his fingers against a faded patch on the sleeve. His henley with three buttons undone, straining over the curve of his chest. His jeans tight around the thighs, a little threadbare in places after over a decade of wear. The whole of him, broad and easy in the doorway, unapologetically imperfect, smiling.

Dick just wants this to go well so *badly.* "Hi."

"Hi yourself," Roy says, shifting a little. "Can I come in?"

"Please."

Roy closes the door behind him, bending to unlace his boots. Dick's eyes catch for a second on the strain of his thighs against denim, and the nervous inane smalltalk on its way out of Dick's mouth dies on his lips.

Roy kicks the second boot off and straightens up, dusting his palms off on his thighs, which probably shouldn't make Dick's mouth fill with saliva the way it does. He's looking around the entryway, curious. "Nice place."

*Don't mention the vases.* "You think so? I keep meaning to update a little."

"Yeah, man, it's nice," Roy says easily, and he's lying but Dick can barely tell, which is kind of him. "You want to show me around?"

No, Dick does not want to show him around. No, he does not want to discover alongside Roy what other modern minimalist nightmares the interior design team saw fit to install in case Dick got too overstimulated by non-neutral colors and tried to kill himself again.

"I want to show you the media room," Dick says, which at least has the benefit of actually being true.

*

The "whoa" Roy lets out when they enter the media room is gratifying. It's most people's reaction when they see it. It's always gratifying.

"Is that a pinball machine?" Roy asks.

Dick grins. "You wanna play?"

"Hell yeah, just. Later. You have so much cool shit here, show me all of it—"

Maybe the other reason Dick barely knows what the rest of his apartment looks like is because this is where he spends most of his time. Freshly discharged from the hospital, Dick had scarfed down his face-sized burrito, faceplanted on the bed, slept like a log for about two days straight and woken up not entirely sure what year it was or why. He looked around the room, remembered it was his, flicked on the lamp on his bedside table and didn't like it any better in the light. It was the smooth plasticine decor that Dick's belatedly come to realize populated the entire apartment, featureless, meaningless, trying desperately to be mature by being entirely devoid of interest. *My bedroom pays taxes,* Dick remembers thinking. *My bedroom has a 401k.* He grabbed his meds from his bedside table and stuffed them in his sweatpants pocket before wrapping himself in the big gray down comforter and dragging it to what he supposed was the den, flopping on the couch and sleeping for another six hours, eventually waking with the cap of PRAZOSIN - 10MG - GRAYSON, RICHARD J digging into his hip.

Time was sort of soupy a lot of the time back before he got his ADHD diagnosis, because of the brain fog. For the longest time his psychiatrists kept adjusting his Wellbutrin dose pretending they thought that had a chance in hell of working while Dick sat listlessly in their offices, missing meth. It wasn't until later when Jason Todd of all people dragged him to a specialist (because "if I have it, you definitely have it" successfully nettled Dick into going just to prove him wrong, except of course it turned out the bastard was right) and Dick found a new psychiatrist who was halfway competent and put him on Adderall that he really felt at all present again. The psychiatrist he has now, who is from hell and who doesn't let him get away with lying and who is incredibly good at her job, was the one who told him how much meth and ADHD stimulants have in common chemically.

Dick sat very still. Then he pointed to the throw cushion on the couch. "Can I borrow that for just a sec?"

"Take as long as you need."

Dick grabbed the pillow, buried his face in it, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

But for a while, yeah. Time was soup Dick was mostly afloat in. He spent it floating here.

Now that Dick is looking for it, he notices the gray in the floor and the walls, the aggressive featurelessness of even the window frames, but he likes the rest of the room enough not to mind. At one point he'd been irrationally angry at the pile of mail he'd put off opening for over a month, and he'd been going through a minor fixation with auction websites at the time, and there was an old, probably busted Ms Pac Man arcade machine up for sale and for some reason Dick latched onto it. For some reason winning the auction of the stupid Ms Pac Man machine was very briefly the most important thing in the world. And he did win the auction, because nobody else wanted the janky old thing, and to Dick's shock and delight it actually *worked*, and suddenly he had a project.

At first he bought and fixed up old arcade fixtures, classic games and pinball machines mostly but he dabbled in anything; he'd even gotten his hands on an air hockey table once. Then he'd get bored or run out of space, sell a bunch of things or even give them away if he was too sick of looking at them, and before terribly long he drifted away from arcades specifically. That part he credits to a film projector he ran into at a flea market and fell in love with, which prompted him to spend possibly obscene amounts of money on the sound system and improving the acoustics. He fell in love with a lot of objects, those days, maybe because he wasn't talking to *people* much. Not people who knew him well, anyway. He was on first name terms with his favorite antique dealers, one of whom inexplicably set aside an old Gibson electric guitar he found, a gorgeous machine in a charmingly 60s shade of Robin's egg blue, because he said it reminded him of Dick. Either because he somehow knew Dick would love it, or else because he knew Dick was a sucker with way too much money.

It didn't matter. Dick *did* love it, and he *is* a sucker with way too much money, and he *did* go straight home to almost give himself tinnitus playing every three-chord classic he knew at a truly unwise volume.

(Dick even replaced the original couch in this room because he kept falling asleep on it and his physical therapist threatened to quit over the havoc he was wreaking on his back. He's still not thrilled that he doesn't really sleep in bed ever, but the new couch isn't threatening to do permanent damage to his spine. Win/win in Dick's book.)

So. Not a home arcade, not a home theater, not a home studio. Scavenged bits and salvaged pieces, nostalgia probably in excess, anchors in time. Whatever magic they put in the air at antique stores and estate sales and really good museum exhibits, Dick managed to bottle a breath of it and take it home with him. When he finally started letting people into his life again, the unabashed delight often on their faces, walking into this room full of outdated obsolete frivolous things, sharing it with them… it's good. It feels good.

"Does that ancient popcorn machine actually work?" Roy asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning.

Dick matches it. "Yeah, and it's gonna knock your socks off."

*

So Dick gets the popcorn going and shows Roy around and silently laments that there was no way he could get his hands on film reels of The Muppet Show. Roy was almost as much of a geek about some of these machines as Dick was, and Dick had made it his whole personality for a while.

"It's just that there are some antique collectors that really don't mess around," Dick explained to Donna the week before, twisting and untwisting his napkin in his hands. "And I'm a competitive guy but some of the markets are totally cutthroat, and film people and puppet people are both intense. So this was better."

"Yeah, *and* it'd be insane to drop that kind of money on a first date," said Jason through a mouthful of bacon cheeseburger, Mister *we're not brothers we just played them on TV.* Dick had invited Donna to lunch, Jason had loudly said he was too busy to come, Dick said he wasn't invited, and Jason's schedule suddenly cleared up, *viola,* miracles do happen.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Dick told him.

"Die," Jason suggested pleasantly.

'Just played it on TV.' Sure.

"And it's not a date," Dick added belatedly, stomach swooping.

Jason had opened his mouth to probably say something horrible, as is his way, and instead let out a hilarious squeak, turning to Donna next to him in the booth with massive betrayed Bambi eyes.

She ignored him, continuing to pour Sweet-N-Low packets into her half-empty coffee as if she didn't just stomp on his foot under the table. She didn't really like coffee until it got to the consistency of artificially sweetened sludge. When they were young Donna was always on top of what was *in*, considering it part of her full-time job to appear effortlessly sophisticated; she skipped the teen-preteen fashion beat and shot straight to the big leagues by fifteen. They were putting the equivalent of a *sophomore in high school* on best dressed lists alongside grown-ass women. It should never have happened. No one should have *let* it happen. One time even before all that, Dick and Jason stole a box of Krispy Kreme donuts from catering and absconded to her trailer to share and she had a panic attack. Years later she described her youth as being in a room full of invisible mirrors at all times. Those days she wouldn't be caught dead with anything less chic than an espresso from whatever new *it* cafe just opened. And there she was, two decades later, blithely desecrating two-dollar-fifty diner coffee with enough aspartame to kill a cart horse in front of god and everyone. She was probably Dick's favorite person in the entire world, and he went into a little trance for a moment, watching her graceful hands with horrified fascination.

Finally satisfied, she took a sip of her monstrosity and hummed, satisfied with that which she hath wrought. "Wait and see," she suggested. "If it goes well, it can be a date."

"And everyone says *I'm* the crazy one," Jason griped, rubbing the prison stick-n-poke tattoo on one thumb with the other.

"Well, if everyone says it, it must be true," Donna said warmly, knocking her shoulder against Jason's.

#dc #roydick #dick and jason #dick and donna #ex child star au #dick grayson

[epithvts]

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .   the  continent  welcomes  ADRIUS  KACHRYLION  of  THE  MOUNTAIN  HOME,  the  HIGH  LORD  of  THE  WINTER  COURT.   when  the  HIGH  FAE  is  glamoured,  he  bears  a  resemblance  to  DANIEL  SHARMAN.   the  37  /  666  year  old  CIS  MALE  is  reputed  to  be  DEBONAIR  and  SOLICITOUS,  but  a  decade  of  war  has  left  them  AUSTERE  and  RECLUSIVE.   if  created  by  the  cauldron,  they  would  be  made  in  the  likeness  of  A  FEATHER  -  LIGHT  CROWN  THAT  BRINGS  A  WEIGHT  FAR  TOO  HEAVY  ;  THE  FAMILIAR  SCREECH  OF  METAL  AGAINST  METAL  INITIATED  BY  A  HOARSE  BATTLE  CRY  ;  THE  GRADUAL  LOSS  OF  HEAT  ON  AN  ABANDONED  HEARTH.   whispers  throughout  prythian  claim  that  their  allegiance  lies  with  THE  WINTER  COURT,   where  they  conspire  to  PROTECT  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  WINTER  COURT  AND  ENCOURAGE  PROSPERITY  BETWEEN  ITS  PEOPLE.

BASICS .

full  name.  adrius  kachrylion . age.  thirty  seven  /  six  hundred  sixty  six . birthdate.  december  24 . hometown.  the  mountain  home . current  location.  under  the  mountain . status.  unmated . orientation.  heteroromantic , heterosexual . occupation.  high  lord. abilities.  winnowing ,  glamouring ,  ice  manipulation ,  beast  form . siblings.  two  younger  brothers ,  one  younger  sister . pets.  a  black  cat  named  bear  that  parades  around  the  mountain  home . languages  spoken.  the  common  tongue . allegiance.  the  winter  court ,  the  kachrylion  family .

APPEARANCE .

hair  color.  white . eye  color.  blue . height.  six  foot  two . scars.  none . style.  typically  can  be  seen  in  greys  or  blues .  almost  always  with  some  kind  of  icy  crown  atop  his  head .

MISCELLANEOUS .

zodiac  sign.  capricorn . hogwarts  house.  gryffindor . alignment.  lawful  neutral . strengths.  solicitous ,  benevolent ,  calculated ,  debonair .   weaknesses.  reclusive ,  austere ,  overzealous ,  impatient . aesthetic.  a  feather  -  light  crown  that  brings  a  weight  far  too  heavy  ;  the  familiar  screech  of  metal  against  metal  initiated  by  a  hoarse  battle  cry  ;  the  gradual  loss  of  heat  on  an  abandoned  hearth . media  inspiration.  kallias  (  a  court  of  thorns  and  roses  ),  jack  frost  (  rise  of  the  guardians  ),  cedric  diggory  (  harry  potter  ),  jon  snow  (  a  song  of  ice  and  fire  ),  hiccup  haddock  iii  (  how  to  train  your  dragon  ),  edward  cullen  (  twilight  ),  dorian  havilliard  (  throne  of  glass  ).

BIOGRAPHY .

tw  abuse ,  torture ,  neglect ,  murder

you  come  into  this  world,  not  as  a  product  of  love  but  as  an  obligation  of  responsibility.  you  learn  quickly  enough  that  there  is  no  love  shared  between  your  parents,  only  sovereign  duty.  you  are  their  first  born,  the  heir  to  the  throne  of  the  winter  court,  and  nothing  more.  

you  are  robbed  of  your  childhood,  the  boy  who  once  dreamt  of  fairytales  and  fables  that  your  wet  nurse  fed  to  you  as  a  child  dead  before  the  age  of  five.  everyday  was  spent  either  in  the  library  with  tutors  from  several  courts  and  different  realms  or  in  the  courtyard  training  from  the  world's  most  skilled  teachers.  you  look  on  in  longing,  seeing  the  way  play  and  imagination  came  so  easily  to  the  other  children  at  court.  

plenty  of  times,  you  have  been  rejected  of  love.  from  your  mother,  whose  want  was  to  just  be  left  alone.  had  always  made  it  obvious  how  much  she  detested  being  the  high  lord's  brood  mare.  your  father,  much  of  the  same.  by  the  age  of  seven,  you  had  already  reduced  him  to  nothing  but  your  sire.  funny  how  you  begin  to  realize  that  blood  does  not  equate  to  family.  

just  as  your  schedule  for  lessons  were  strict  and  non  -  negotiable,  so  were  the  punishments.  often  times,  fueled  from  nothing  but  the  small  friends  you  made  at  court  and  your  innate  curiosity,  you've  ventured  into  town.  the  life  past  the  walls  of  the  mountain  home  had  always  piqued  your  interest.  and  you  longed  to  be  one  of  them,  to  share  the  food  from  their  table  and  create  memories  of  your  own  with  the  people  your  family  has  governed  over  for  centuries.

but  your  father  has  always  set  himself  on  a  pedestal.  that  night,  as  you  return  back  to  the  mountain  home,  lighter  than  a  feather  from  the  bit  of  life  restored  into  you,  your  father  waits  for  you,  with  a  whip  in  his  hand.  you  get  fifteen  slashes  that  night,  for  each  gold  coin  you  freely  gave  to  your  people.  though  never  on  the  face,  for  your  face  was  a  representation  of  the  family,  of  your  rule  to  come.  appearances  were  always  his  priority.

though  the  adventures  never  cease,  despite  the  frequent  additions  to  the  scars  on  your  back.  as  a  young  fae,  you  make  it  as  far  as  the  mortal  lands.  eager  to  learn  about  the  humans  and  their  lives.  there,  you  meet  a  woman,  who  smiles  far  too  kindly  at  your  kind.  she  offers  a  warmth  that  puts  out  your  frigid  ice.  a  love  that  you'd  never  known  before.  your  first  love,  a  human  woman.

but  nothing  goes  amiss  to  your  father.  and  soon  enough,  you  are  gifted  with  her  head.  no  son  of  mine  will  ever  mate  with  vermin.  the  words  fall  on  deaf  ears,  the  head  heavy  in  your  blood  stained  hands.  that  day  marks  your  death,  despite  the  way  immortality  sings  in  your  blood.

it  doesn't  take  much  for  you  to  pick  a  side  in  the  war.  your  heart  still  torn  from  loving  that  softhearted  woman  from  all  those  years  ago.  you'll  never  forget  the  way  she  made  you  burn  with  a  fire  unmatched.  and  so  when  azrael  takes  a  stand,  you  make  him  your  brother.  the  bond  you  share  with  the  heir  is  unlike  any  other,  it  brings  you  back  to  your  childhood:  blood  does  not  equate  to  family.  

the  throne  is  yours,  as  you  were  bred  to  take.  but  the  long  road  of  recovery  after  the  tyranny  and  malicious  rule  of  your  father  is  extensive.  nevertheless,  you  love  your  people.  and  you  would  rather  set  your  own  self  on  fire  than  to  watch  them  burn  ever  again.

TLDR  ;  a  boy  bred  for  the  sole  purpose  of  being  the  heir  of  the  winter  court.  lacked  love  growing  up.  severe  punishments  for  childish  amusements.  fell  in  love  with  a  human  woman  that  his  father  murdered.  has  finally  secured  his  throne  and  working  towards  gaining  the  love  of  his  people  <3

#prythian.intro #murder tw #abuse tw #torture tw #neglect tw #SIGHS .... #HE WASN'T .... SUPPOSED TO BE THIS SAD ......

[helenapsent]

Hi! I saw one of your post abt Thrax! I also absolutly find him to be mesmerizing as well! I was wondering if you had any osmosis jones OCs? If ”yes” what are they like? Their roles? Their personalities? And so on! The oj fandom seems so small compare to the other fandoms out there, so its great to see some people knowing abt osmosis jones !

Hiya~

That's good to hear! As for the OC… I've been thinking about it and I have a couple of images. Alas, I don't have pictures of them, but I can describe them.

These two individuals are viruses of two diseases (I was basing this on the ones I had as a child and teenager):

1) Galago. She is a bacterial angina virus. Her appearance somewhat resembles that of a white sea jellyfish except for some of the limbs (legs, arms, and body). She is tall, thin (almost like a matchstick), has three pairs of eyes, and her face expresses complete unruffledness (in other words, she looks like a person who doesn't care about anything at all). Galago usually wears a long-brimmed hat, a white cape with a high collar, and an austere red dress with gold beads. She can be recognized by the white patina that trails behind her. She doesn't kill leukocytes (she prefers not to mess with them), but if someone catches her eye, Galago will immediately grab the cell and infect it with her breath, causing it to turn into a puddle state and be unable to recover. The Galago's path lies through her mouth, which is also the target of her infection. It covers the tongue with a plaque, then infects the tonsils, inflames the pharynx, and then heads for the throat: it sees fit to destroy it.

Temperament: As I said before, this person doesn't care about anything. She doesn't stand out in any way, you won't see a display of her emotions. She always keeps her self-control toned down. She is cold-blooded, mysterious and cautious. And yet there are times when she can be unhappy: when medication interferes with her mission.

Oh, yes, I'll add one more thing: she is mute and speaks only in sign language. It is impossible to get any sound out of her. At most you will hear a hiss or a wheeze.

2) Nevos. Is a pneumonia virus. Usually appears in case of an air/respiratory-transmitted infection. She has a large branch bundle with an infectious substance on its head. Her eyes are black with yellow pupils, and her mouth is in an unclear shape, either sewn up or slimy. Her skin has an unpleasant yellowish hue. It can resemble a common cage in some way, and it can change its body shape, but it cannot change its appearance like them. Nevos wears a baggy, dark, neon-colored jacket, a dirty-colored top, and a leather skirt. She has ring-shaped earrings sticking out of her ears. She also, like Thrax, has a habit of wearing black glasses. However, unlike him, she prefers not to take them off. Her mission: to infect the lungs. Once she passes into the lungs without any problems, she takes on a certain "tree-like shape". It settles in the trachea, and then stretches its limbs throughout the bronchial ducts, infecting the alveoli. Sometimes with this case, she asks Galago to help her with the distraction, and she does manage this task. But when it comes to "figuring things out" (who took advantage of who, or not) they often start to quarrel on this basis, due to which Galago can either leave the body (this is the bad case) or continue to follow Nevos (this is the good case). As for ordinary white blood cells, Nevos is quite capable of maintaining communication with them. She does not neglect their existence, and at some point she can persuade one of the cells to help her, but if that one eventually figures out the "evil" plans, Nevos will easily devour the cell. Basically, she is known for often devouring ordinary cells in order to sprawl over the bronchi at the expense of their properties.

Temperament: She is quite sociable. Because she is usually in a positive mood, no one can tell if she is a virus or not. However, what can give her away is her sarcasm, because behind her phrase: "lol I'm not deadly" there are disgusting actions (eating cells and infecting alveoli). She's like a ticking time bomb - delaying infection until she's full of cells and suddenly decides to retreat to some safe or desired area. Sometimes she can be overly emotional, which can often hurt her and mess up her relationship with any of the cells, and yet she tries not to let this happen. Also, like Galago, she gets angry about medication interfering with her activities.

Well, I guess that's all I can tell you about them :D perhaps in the future I will depict them, but for now I have only a verbal description 👌

#helen thinks #my asks #anon asks #osmosis jones #osmosis jones oc

[mask131]

Cold winter: The Wintersmith

THE WINTERSMITH

Category: Fantasy literature / Pratchett’s Discworld

There is a folk dance in England and Wales called “The Morris dance”. A very popular entertainment in rural areas and villages, usually performed during spring or summer festivals, it is a centuries-old tradition dating back to Henry VIII, Edward VI and Shakespeare, and yet still practiced today. There are many different groups and associations perpetuating this tradition that got with times its own terminology, its own subgenres and a variety of different choreographies. The dancers gather to move according to the sound of a fiddle or a pipe and tabor (more recently, instruments such as melodeon and accordion are allowed), holding sticks, swords and handkerchiefs they must move and clap according to the rhythm of the music, and dressed all in white (or sometimes with other bright colors such as green and blue) with bells-covered clothes.

In Terry Pratchett’s Discworld, the Morris dance is also a rural tradition beloved by the folks of mountains, hills and villages – always celebrated in spring. But there is another dance… A secret dance nobody talks about. A dance performed in autumn, deep into the shadows of the woods. A Morris dance where the dancers are dressed in black and where the bells make no sound. It is the Black Morris, and the same way the “white” Morris welcomes in spring summer returned, the Black Morris celebrates in autumn the coming of winter. The white Morris is merry, festive and joyful ; the black Morris is quiet, austere, and yet just as beautiful and powerful as its spring counterpart. But much more dangerous, as a young girl learned one day…

Tiffany Aching is a young witch in training, and one day her mentor, a much, MUCH older witch (more than a hundred years old) introduces her to the dark and silent Morris dance of autumn. But not understanding fully the implications of the ritual, charmed by the grace and intensity of the dance, and seeing that there is an empty spot left in the middle of the dance, she throws herself into it, dancing with the silent and black-clad Morris men… And gains an unwitting love.

For you see, there is always in the Discworld’s Morris dance an empty spot left in the middle of the dancing crowd. For it is a place left so that two beings can dance… two immortal, natural, powerful beings, the dual anthropomorphic personification of the seasons known as the Summer Lady and the Wintersmith. In the springtime Morris the Summer Lady comes to dance with the old, aging, dying Wintersmith, while in the Dark Morris the Wintersmith comes to dance with the fading Summer Lady. And as Tiffany Aching jumped into the dance, without knowing it she usurped the Summer Lady’s place in the dance, and danced with the Wintersmith… for disastrous consequences.

The Wintersmith had never danced with anyone else than the Summer Lady before… It was the first time he saw another female being place itself as his equal, dance with him to welcome his return… and he immediately fell in love. Or at least THOUGHT he fell in love – for the Wintersmith, despite all the almanacs depicting him as an old ice-covered man, is not comparable to a human being, he is barely a personification. He is winter itself, he is the gales and the blizzards and the avalanches and the frosts, and lacks much of the “anthropomorphic” part in “anthropomorphic personification”. And so he lacks human emotions… but he felt something he could only interpret as love.

The result is disastrous... Imagine mixing the awkward first love of a teenage boy who never saw a girl before, with the disastrous consequences of winter itself deciding to live with you forever and never leave. Tiffany herself realizes with horror what she did, when the snowflakes are all suddenly shaped like her face, and when gigantic iceberg-sculptures of her start floating on the sea, and when she discovers that by taking the Summer Lady's place in the dance, she actually usurped her very role and existence, preventing her from waking up of her winter sleep... The Wintersmith's love for her might very well plunge the world into an endless ice age.

But even more worrying is that the Wintersmith, to try to be able to “love” Tiffany better, starts searching for a way to become HUMAN. It wanders throughout the world, searching for the key to the mystery – how can a sentient season become a human being. And, possessing a snowman built by children (which in the Discworld are either an unconscious form of worship of the winter spirits such as the Wintersmith, or a primitive leftover of the time of the Ice Giants – but more about that later), it asks them how to become a man… And the children tell him a little poem everybody knows, a nursery rhyme all kids know about, and that goes as such…

“Iron enough to make a nail / Lime enough to paint a wall / Water enough to drown a dog / Sulphur enough to stop the fleas / Potash enough to wash a shirt / Gold enough to buy a bean / Silver enough to coat a pin / Lead enough to ballast a bird / Phosphor enough to light the town / Poison enough to kill a cow”.

Trusting these words with the naivety of a semi-occult semi-natural embodiment of ice and snow, the Wintersmith starts collecting those various ingredients (with due tests to make sure they fit the recipe), in order to build himself a human body… But despite all of his efforts, being just natural elements and a sentient weather, the Wintersmith cannot understand the last three lines of the rhyme, that yet are the most important of them all… “Strength enough to build a home / Time enough to hold a child / Love enough to break a heart”.

- - - - - -

While the Morris dance is not an invention of Terry Pratchett, as I pointed out before, his Dark Morris is indeed a pure invention… And yet, said invention became so popular and well-known that the Morris clubs and Morris associations actually decided to invent a real-life Dark Morris in honor of Pratchett’s invention. And thus, life imitates art…

“The Wintersmith” is the third book of the “Tiffany Aching” series, a series of young adult fantasy novels centered around the titular Tiffany, a witch-in-training who has to faces the various supernatural (or too-natural) dangers offered by the work of a witch in the Discworld. Note that while the Tiffany Aching books started as their own individual series, a spin-off of Pratchett’s main fantasy series for adults, the Discworld books, with time it became more and more part of the Discworld series to the point it is now the last of the cycles forming the vast work that is the Discworld books.

Interestingly, the Wintersmith is not actually the only spirit of the winter weather to have appeared… For you see, in earlier books of the Discworld series, Jack Frost himself appeared. He appeared briefly in “Reaper Man” (about the Grim Reaper deciding to quit his job) and in “Hogfather” (about someone’s attempt at murdering the Discworld’s equivalent of Santa Claus, and Death being forced to replace him), as the spirit responsible for drawings the “frost ferns” on the windows… At least until the events of “Hogfather”, where he was encouraged to explore his creativity and start drawing things other than ferns on windows. Like paisley.

And just as interestingly, the topic of why people build snowmen was explored much, much earlier in the Discworld series… in the very first books. While in the Wintersmith book, the snowmen are tied to the existence of the Wintersmith (who uses them as rustic bodies he briefly possesses), in the early Discworld stories we learn that their existence might be because humanity’s unconscious spirit remembers the Ice Giants… The eternal enemies of the Discworld’s gods, that the latter banished forever due a petty neighborhood feud of music being played too loud at night and a borrowed lawnmower never returned; and whose return will herald the Apocralypse (Discworld’s apocryphal apocalypse). And when we see them return, bringing with them an eternal ice-age certain to kill all living life on the Discworld, riding giant glaciers as if they were horses, the narration points out that they have obviously, something in common with the snowmen children build around the world every winter… if said snowmen were giant-sized and slightly more humanoid, made entirely of ice, much uglier, and much more vicious looking.

#cold winter #the wintersmith #wintersmith #discworld

[bigfan-fanfic]

Temple of Desire - Part 1

Obikin Bingo Event for @obikin-events Prompt: BDSM Club Synopsis: A year or so after becoming a Jedi Knight, Anakin's former Master brings him to a certain establishment on Coruscant for an advanced form of training.

Author's Note: Basically, felt like a bunch of the prompts could fit the idea of Obi-Wan being involved in Anakin undergoing a Jedi-Order-approved pleasure-fest with lots of kinkiness. This is mainly setup but I had fun writing it. More to come!

Anakin twitches a little, having become unaccustomed to tight clothing after spending so long in combat fatigues and armor or the flowing robes and tunics of the Jedi. Not helping this fact is the sight of Obi-Wan dressed similarly, his body clad not in robes or in armor, but in tight fabric. Black leggings similar to the kind the Clone Troopers would wear beneath their armor, his arms on display due to the sleeveless rust-and-gold vest he wore, a metallic armlet circling his bicep, his chest obscured by the sheerest of fabric, diaphanous and rippling in the slight breeze. His boots seemed high, impractically so, stretching all the way up to his thighs as opposed to somewhere more practical. Anakin himself is dressed similarly, though less bold, his torso covered in form-fitting navy, his hands in gloves, and his boots at a far more comfortable length. After years of Jedi robes and tunics, however, Anakin feels almost uncomfortably exposed.

"Calm yourself, Anakin." Obi-Wan murmurs, slowing his pace to fall into step with his former Apprentice.

"I don't know how you can be so calm when everyone on this lane can see your entire chest." Anakin snaps, but breathes slowly before giving a contrite look at the raised eyebrow Obi-Wan flashes him. "Sorry, Master. I just - I thought you said that we were going for training?"

"That we are." Obi-Wan gives him a cryptic smirk. "And yet, this training shall require subtlety. Consider this a final chance for a Master to impart teachings to his Apprentice."

Anakin chuckles at that and allows Obi-Wan to lead him onward, until they turn onto a discreet avenue off of this main promenade. Much of Coruscant's city is lit in garish neon, but here, at a point between a rich district and a merchant quarter, the building, on its own plaza, seems nearly austere.

Sturdy columns, almost like one of the Senate buildings, and false firelight shining along the pathway to the entrance, Anakin is reminded almost of a miniaturized Jedi Temple, though with what Anakin could only consider Naboo architecture. With mounting confusion, Anakin enters behind Obi-Wan, taking in the way his Master gave a familiar nod to one of the two silent armored guards standing vigil at the door.

Though the Jedi take solace in their philosophy, the idea that by expecting all, they may be prepared for all, Anakin could not have controlled the surprise and shock coming off him in waves at the sight and sounds that awaited him.

Amid the whirl, Anakin's eyes fall on a smiling Zabrak male. He kneels, on a small padded cushion, completely naked, his lean body glistening with sweat. His hair, long and loose, is fanned out over his shoulders. He is bent forward, his head resting on the thigh of a Zeltron dressed in flowing white robes, who smiles beatifically at him as he strokes the Zabrak's horns. It takes a moment for Anakin to realize the Zabrak is bound, hand and foot, white rope shining over glistening skin the color of vermillion.

On a stage at the far end of the room, a crowd gathers to watch a pair of scenes. On one side of the stage stands a trio of Twi'leks, their bodies decorated in paint and artfully dressed in thin strips of leather. The male flexes and twists, allowing the crowd to cheer and ogle, before he steps back and the two females take control, frogmarching him over and bending him forward over a strange device that they efficiently manacle him to. The yellow female presses a thick bit between the male's teeth, buckling the thing behind his head, while the green one plays to the crowd, lifting a thin, flexible rod and twirling it with her fingers. Anakin lurches as he watches the green female raise the rod and deftly flick it through the air, making a crisp whistle before making contact with the male's rear, his head lifting as he moans into the gag. The crowd cheers. On the other end, a shirtless Nautolan male seems to be lecturing as he binds the hands of a human male with soft rope, teaching the small group watching him.

"Wh-what is this-?" Anakin tries weakly, but Obi-Wan's attention is diverted when a cry of "Ben!" reaches their ears.

Anakin is even further at a loss when he watches a human man in a shimmering silver tunic that reminded him of typical Jedi attire, with long black hair woven with colorful stones, kiss Obi-Wan full on the lips and hug him close, and Obi-Wan smile in return. "You sly demon, Ben, I haven't seen you for ages and ages!"

Anakin sees the man has no intention of moving away from Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan has his arm draped loosely around the man's waist. "Er..."

"Master Tavo, may I introduce my dear friend?"

Tavo gives Anakin a bright smile as Anakin opens his mouth to speak. "No need for names yet, friend. Come with me."

"What- what is this place? And who is he?" Anakin practically hisses to Obi-Wan, who chuckles.

"Patience, patience." is all he gets from his old Master.

They walk through a maze of private hallways until the noises of the crowd fade away, and Tavo leads them both into a spacious room dominated by a bed, but with a small sitting area. It reminds Anakin almost of a Senatorial suite, though of course far smaller. Tavo sits in one of the plush chairs and puts on a mock-disapproving glare. "Ages, Obi-Wan Kenobi. This is intolerable."

"My most sincere apologies." Obi-Wan replies easily, flashing Tavo a grin and sitting opposite him. He bids Anakin sit and chuckles. "What do you think of him?"

"Handsome indeed. Though nigh-unrecognizable from the war holovids." Tavo winks, which just throws Anakin further off guard.

Obi-Wan finally takes pity on him. "Welcome, Anakin, to Atavi, one of the most exclusive establishments on Coruscant. Indeed, perhaps, the whole Inner Rim."

Anakin narrows his eyes. "What is this place?"

Tavo's smile remains, though his eyes flash to something far more businesslike. "It is a club for exploration of the sensual."

"A brothel." Anakin scoffs.

"No." Tavo says instantly. "We do not deal in flesh here. Should any sex occur here, it is agreed upon by both parties. We teach. We demonstrate. We facilitate. And should a member of staff be willing, they may join. But we do not sell ourselves."

"I'm... unsure." Anakin admits.

Tavo nods, then flashes Obi-Wan a much harder glare. "Did you not teach him the rules?"

Obi-Wan has the grace to look (slightly) abashed. He turns to Anakin. "The Council has long had a quiet tradition, that they have recently considered reinstating. The Jedi Code forbids attachment, and yet there is the question of the needs of the body. Master Ki-Adi-Mundi himself has the allowance to marry and procreate for his species' survival. A similar question has arisen, that our apprentices may find it difficult to conquer temptation if never exposed to it."

Tavo rolls his eyes. "And so, when a Padawan or Knight reaches their species' age of mental and physical maturity, they will be brought here and offered the experience of physical pleasure, so that they may learn the difference between desire and attachment."

Anakin stammers a little, but Tavo continues. "Though many Masters have chosen to lead celibate lives, the Code forbids attachment, not sex. Even in ancient times, I do not believe the Jedi of old precluded themselves from pleasure."

"Should you consent, Anakin, Master Tavo shall assist you in experiencing pleasure, and I, as your former Master, shall be here to ease you and guide you if necessary."

"D-did you undergo this... training, Master?" Anakin asks skeptically.

Obi-Wan places a hand on Anakin's upper arm, and for a moment an image blooms in Anakin's vision of his Master, younger, beardless, lithe and flush with youth, gasping in ecstasy, a firm hand loosely gripping his throat and another rolling one of his nipples between two fingers. Obi-Wan arches, sweat flicking from his brow as the hand at his nipple follows the curve of his flesh down between his legs -

"I'll do it."

Tavo smiles, and stands. Obi-Wan gives an anticipatory chuckle. "Then by all means, Anakin, disrobe."

#obikinbingo23 #mildly spicy #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #obikin #occurs sometime after aotc but before rots

[apocalypse-eyes]

Disappearances

Dark rain to cold. To darkness. Cycling on uneven streets. Murderer asphalt downhill with wet eyes with blackness. I need to keep my head down. Headlights like white knives twisting in night. And sirens to relapse, to shrill call suicide. I'm riding between the heavy machines and can only trust my legs and stomach. Necessity is irrelevant to gunshots. I'm also huddled in a ravine, clutching my tools together. My rifle to my IFAK with gasping. I'm cashiering, I'm running. I don't know where I am but my body remembers strain. Rain in my eyes, it's usual. With sweat or my legs' ache. I don't remember my spine the way it pinches when I bend. A car alarm, a couple of shouts that combine into murmurs. I missed a pothole with my wheel. Another neglected wound in the city. You can't see these when you're walking or driving. They could kill me any second to throw this body under a car. Like the smokes of these past few years that descended yellow/black and thick suddenly. You could ignore them better in your home but I had to ride where I was going. I bought masks from a hardware store in 2017 to keep from choking in the streets. It's happening more and more that you can't see from where you are.

Skies the color of tainted urine I bought a gun in ignorance. Whatever research I do the future remains inscrutable. Inevitable. Illness and character defects are leading me deaf. Once in the week I see a mirror and I'm markedly different. I'm sinking through the abyss that I know well but do not understand. My anarchism is a living body sewed inside a corpse. I turn a corner and my wheel skids on wet. It could be my death but I re-correct. The meaning to any of this is useless. My headlight flickers and evaporates as I didn't charge it recently. I know I didn't. I can't keep pace with the system that surrounds me. I'm base reactions to reptilian chemistry every day. It'll overwhelm me and sometimes I'll find a break. I steal a watch out of Walmart. I put a bruise in their bodyguard and am anonymous. I'm overtaken with dreams while Earth whirs. This engine is horribly misshapen. Not attended to. There's no need on Earth to be aware of life. The laws of dynamics exact equations, exact austerity into a street of oil and slogans.

I could kick out your taillights. I could jump into your passenger window to finger out your eyes. This life is built of possibilities. Love is a continuum like the motions of downtown run to the bleak water of ocean. We don't mean anything when we wake in the morning, only a suspicious drone calls the night. The passage of time is our Britannia. The sink in a slick of doubt. My lips are full of flies riding between the bus and a redbrown truck. The voices in my head are a collectivization of those advertisement personalities I meet in my personal life. It makes sense to be inscrutable. My bag is full of a flashlight, a steel baton, pens and spray paint, my writing and reading, my other clothes and miscellaneous tools. It's 4:30pm in the same way that it is 7:30am. A little difference in the quality of sun but there's no midnight here. No cold quiet or drunkenness. I try to define myself and the chunks out of my bones reply. My late nights that are carved out of future say truth about my marrow. We're all together sinking deep behind economy.

Pull aside I'm at the door. Tires throw mud and slick around. Machine sounds howling, micro-howling inside funnels of sound. The wind is a system itself, like underwater with sub-bass and whales. Micro-patterns. Micro-constellations in the pores of a skin system. Skrying refractions in gasoline on the streetside. Infinitesimal patterns run through every moment in the mouth of a city. The window leaks pus. I think she still lives here. I think his name is Melvin lets me in and then I'm down the stairs, around the corner past the laundry room. A shut down with powder packed under it. A blue light bulb shows constantly. Her name is Ethel, or it's Judith. Her name before we became disappearances. I don't remember well. My bike is wet and cramped in here. It's hard to remember where I am sometimes when the rooms fit together I've been through hallways enough and the smell is always the same. Above the ground is one, below is another. Birds or insect smells, dead skin electricity or wet in the corners and cupboards.

I knock. It's easy like a dream like my hand moves to its own meaning. I've been here before. I've done all of this before but I forget how the vision ends. A moth against the light. The air tastes like mildew here. She pulls the door open and her voice is there. Desolate immediate heat. I leave my bike in the hall.

***

"Andrew. You said something about Andrew."

We talked on the phone earlier. We sometimes do when the air is dry and quiet. Some times there is space to talk and others I curl into absence. Her room is full of machines and it feels like sweat. Skeletons of projects on the table, an archaeological strata and graveyard of murdered thoughts. Midi talks to herself and touches the knife inside her clothes. She points at a chair and kicks it slightly for me to sit down. The quality of light is weird like it's being filtered through multiple substances. Like we're deep under water talking amid a different atmosphere.

"Yeah... Andrew he's going to Montell this weekend with Bruce and her sister."

"Going to the pit?"

"Not the pit this time it's just a midpoint. Did you know anyone called Pisky?"

"Know where?"

At least six fans are perched around the room, heaving out dusty air from between collapsed accumulation. It feels rancid here. I'm inside of a body that's been allowed to die. So that it could be reanimated into something else. Midi patrols the room in twitchy patterns, looking into spiderwebs and her various objects and screens.

"From Osten. I don't know the person but I guess they fucked up and their pictures are going around."

Midi gets very slow and still the way I've seen her do. Picks up a jar of batteries and I see her imagine it shatter to the floor. She breathes with her eyes closed, thirty seconds before setting it back.

"Goddammit yeah I know Pisky. What did she do?"

"No idea. No one told me and I don't really care. She'll be dead though if she doesn't get across the border soon."

"When are you leaving? What time?"

Her nervous energy is dissipated, her usual self. Midi sits in her work chair and leans back, breathing. Her eyes are mostly closed.

"Early. Early-early, before the bars close."

She's doing math in her head, moving her lips. One of her spiders is gathering its web together in the corner, patiently consuming the threads to reset them. Her rooms are an ecosystem. One layer consumes another, all so she doesn't keep track of it. One of her fingers is missing, she told me before. Missing like a person, she doesn't remember what happens. She said it hurts to type, to manipulate her tools. She snaps to attention in her seat. Mouth tight, eyes dark.

"So we're leaving from Bruce's place at one thirty. Probably drop our shit off the morning before. I'll need to get in my storage unit, get the key back from Parsons... You didn't give me much time to work this out."

"I didn't know if you'd want to go."

"Pisky's a fucking idiot but I'm not gonna let them have her. And any of you... You're not crossing the border but why would you get that close without expecting me?"

"You keep saying we should keep more narrow near home. I just didn't think you'd support it."

"I... usually I don't, but not like this. It's not careless..."

She walks out of the room. I haven't seen Parsons for three or four months. I didn't realize she was still talking to him. His face was covered in blood when we were arguing. It looked like a small gash on his forehead but I couldn't tell in the dark of the alley. It wasn't a surprise that he left, but nobody was happy about it. Especially Rox. That was hard to explain when they got back in town. Parsons offline and Mandy was hiding out somewhere, barely talking to us. Midi comes back with her go-bag and a bundle of papers, drops them beside the door.

"You're asking me last aren't you, or are we gonna borrow Helen's car? That's five of us, plus Pisky. Is it just Pisky or anyone coming with her?"

"Just Pisky that I know. There wasn't a lot of chatter though. Just time, date, place mostly."

Midi nods and goes around the room, pulling little tools and objects from their remembered places in the mess.

[hymnoire]

There is a special connection between Kang Gaya and Fashion. if the heiress isn't known to spend that amount of time making clothes fly in the room in order to know what to wear, her elegance has never been denied. It is the cloth itself that she knows how to appreciate more than admiring herself in the mirros wearing it, it's the power they hold, it's the authority they give her, it's the social meaning they speak. Her wardrobe is stern yet powerful, made of black and white suits, blazers and red stilettos. Being an embassador for Yves Saint Lauren, Gaya represents the modern woman in business the brand invented, an androgynous style a little far from the "typical feminine", borrowing masculine cuts and movements : it suits her perfectly in her elitist political spheres. There isn't just Haute Couture there, with a strong dash of Ralph Lauren as well in her closets, casual caps, sweaters and boyfriend jeans she wears on her way to her lover's place or to play polo with some of her friends from the country club, chic and sportsy. Aeri's style ( @stillresolved ) and creations have a specific shine to them : dresses to turn women into diamonds - something Gaya sometimes lack due to her natural austerity. Her marketing team has been clear : Couldn't the heiress melt the ice of her aura... just a little? If Gaya has for too long denied all their advice that she judged sexist and old fashioned, their Elite spheres have been under hot waters these days, all of them had to watch their steps and in times like these, the public opinion becomes a weapon. The dress is a weapon. Both artists, Gaya admires Aeri's talents and well, dedication to her craft hence why she is proud to endorse her brand. In the middle of the atelier, Gaya is staying still, her eyes on the mirror as Aeri is inspecting the dress, walking around her with pins, studying the adjustements. "You know pink is the last color I would have chosen and yet I feel absolutely powerful in this one. It's beautiful." Speaks Gaya, her hands on her hips. her typical razor smile on her lips, already imagining stepping on the heads she aims to step on. "I can already see Dispatch headlines from here : Kang Gaya and Aeri, stunning, shining in Aeri Designs for La Maison Vermillion Anniversary. Followed by pages and pages of How Successful our personal brands are, how high our net worth have climbed." If anything, Gaya loves to gloat, her head high, her eyes then switching to Aeri. "You're not mad at me for calling you too late on this one, yes? You're still in to go against the BelSera?" BelSera, Bellamy And Seraphina, like a two headed monsters they named when they were younger. "I can tell they will be up to something. Plus, I'm dying for a little drama. It will be payback for my sabotaged auctions And for what Seraphina said to you during last month's family dinner. They can't keep getting away with everything."

#龍 : 𝐤𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐚𝐲𝐚. / the heiress. #龍 : 𝐤𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐚𝐲𝐚. / interactions. #KANG REBELS ITS THE KANG REBELS

[tamaradoubraomonibeke]

MP - Translate and Transform Conceptual research

Okay, this post will focus on articles I researched and how it answers some of the questions when I started this idea.

Question 1: Does color affect how we experience taste?

I was unable to allow anyone to taste my experimentations of monochromatic meals. Thus, to answer this question, I researched and looked at color theory for guidance.

I've typed out all the articles relating to this research. (summarising it won't give it the justice it deserves).

Note: Bold type is my opinion of the article.

First article

FOOD AS FANTASY IN ARTIST JEN MONROE’S MONOCHROMATIC MEAL SERIES

In 1997, performance artist Sophie Calle took up the challenge of creating single color meals every day for a week and then documenting it. The project, entitled “The Monochromatic Diet,” was inspired by a character named Maria (purportedly based on Calle), in Paul Auster’s The Leviathan (Interesting, I haven't read the book but I know Leviathan is a demonic sea creature created by God from reading the bible) , who takes on a similar color meal challenge.

Though unaware of Calle’s project before embarking on her own color meal, Jen Monroe has found herself creating art that focuses on a similar monochromatic rule. Initially learning about food through journalism and getting hands-on experience in various kitchens out of college, today Monroe is known by her friends and a niche section of the food world for her version of monochromatic edibles. The meals, which initially began as a casual thing to do with her sister for friends at their apartment, has since transformed into a ticketed event that has elevated the experience to an artful performance, inviting more strangers each time and collaborators eager to jump on board.

A salad of burgundy spinach, pickled chard, candied beets, nightshades and harissa for Jen Monroe’s “Red Meal.” Photo by Walter Wlodarczyk.

Her first attempt was “Black Meal,” (featuring caviar suspended in jelly) after she and her sister serendipitously both read J.K. Huyman’s À Rebours, first published in 1884, in which the main character creates a funeral banquet, using solely black foods. Since then, Monroe has taken on “Pink Meal” (Beet-pickled deviled egg, shrimp mousse), “Yellow Meal” (using pill trays to display saffron-rice, roe, and pickled ginger sushi), and “White Meal” (where she explored the use of white as a way of selling products like Apple through coded messages about purity).

An amuse bouche of tomato, cream, scallion and tobiko roe. Photos by Walter Wlodarczyk.

Mignardeise of strawberry cardamom hard candies in a jewel box for artist Jen Monroe’s “Red Meal.” Photo by Logan Jackson.

Working on each meal she tries, within the constraints of the color, to not only present idiosyncratic plating methods, but to create a balanced nutritional meal for attendees. During the process she scrambles around the city to places like the (now defunct) Manhattan Fruit Exchange or Indian speciality store Kalustyan’s, attempting to source obscure foods, like pink dragon fruits, instead of the more ubiquitous white version. Every detail of the meal drips the color in question, from the flowers to the wine, and, of course the guests’ and servers’ own attire.

Harpist Marilu Donovan for Jen Monroe’s “Red Meal.” Photo by Steven Acres.

Last month, her color meals project concluded with “Red Meal,” her most elaborate work yet. The menu for “Red Meal” included everything from a finger bowl with petals and rose water to steak, quail egg, lacryma vinegar, burgundy spinach, pickled chard, candied beets, nightshades, harissa, and strawberry cardamom candy served in little jewel boxes. The event was staged in the Bond Collective space in the Financial District (previous meals were held at Baby’s All Right) with an eclectic musical soundtrack; “Red Meal” featured surprise performances by harpist Marilu Donovan and the dreamy vocalist Aerial East sprinkled throughout the meal. Upon entrance, attendees were greeted with almost ambient wedding music by cellist Young Gun Lee. During GLASSER’s albanian folk song, the striking confrontational voice even prompted one guest to burst into tears at the table.

“I wanted the whole meal to feel like a painting, so I thought why not actually have someone paint him while he sits on a couch with velvet flowers,” Monroe shares. The model was Kenyan-born designer and movement artist Jerome AB who not only posed for the painting but also offered one of the most interesting performances of the night by slowly tying himself with elegant an red cord—using the ideas of bondage to explore the perimeters of movement.

Photo by Steven Acres.

With each meal, Monroe thinks carefully about the emotional life of the colors she’s working with. There are certain colors that wouldn’t present Monroe with enough options to create a multi-course meal. While she’s still open to the challenge, she avoided a “blue meal,” (See, chefs constantly stay clear of blue meals but I wonder why?, is it because it'd look too artificial?) and others that were too close to colors she had already attempted. “I’m okay with red blending into orange. I think that’s what it means to work with and understand a color to its fullest…Leaning into the places where colors bleed, exploring where the color ventures out,” she says. Red comes with clear associations of passion, and, at its most extreme, death.

A chocolate box filled with edible red delights for Jen Monroe’s “Red Meal.” Photo by Rachel Fick.

“It’s a fascinating sex and death drive color,” (that's why I looked at color theory, it's important to understand the connotations as food with different colors don't taste different, spice them the same way and it tastes the same. However, psychologically, we associate these monochromatic meals with our ideas of colors before actually tasting it and that's when flavor comes in (experience of an edible that is associated beyond umami, sweet, sour, bitter and salty) she says. But more than that, it seems especially timely to be working with the color red. From iconic costumes featured in the 2017 adaptation of Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale” to its political associations with conservatism, one might argue, that a shade of red should be Pantone’s Color of the Year.

Prep for artist Jen Monroe’s last color meal includes red roses, cherry tomatoes, blood oranges and soy sauce packets. Photo by Logan Jackson.

As for future meals? Jen Monroe is looking to work with the idea for different companies. And talks of revisiting the project for a rainbow meal is certainly not off the table.

Events — BAD TASTE - Link to the restaurant.

Second article

How Does Colour Affect The Way We Eat?

It's often said that "we eat with our eyes" and science shows this is true - colour plays an important role in how we perceive and experience foods. But how does this happen?

Colour and taste

All of us subconsciously associate certain colours with distinct tastes and flavours. For most people, red is associated with sweetness, yellow and green with sourness, white with salt, and brown and black with bitterness. “The research shows that even infants only a few months old are already starting to pick up these associations between colour and taste”, says Charles Spence, Professor of Experimental Psychology at Oxford University.1

Reardon, Patricia, and Emily W. Bushnell. Infants' sensitivity to arbitrary pairings of color and taste. Infant behavior & development (1988).

“I believe that we learn these associations from the statistics of our environment – we quickly learn that sweet foods are more often pink or red, for instance.' Interestingly, in 2009, Professor Spence tested a clear blue drink on participants from the UK and Taiwan. The Taiwanese thought that the drink would taste of mint, whilst the UK participants thought it would taste of raspberry - showing they had picked up different associations from their distinct food marketplaces.

Baby-led weaning is an approach to introduce babies to solid food. It is all about offering the baby a selection of foods and letting them pick up according to their stimuli, allowing them to play with colours, textures and tastes, and feed themselves.

Colour can override flavour

These strong colour cues can even override the actual flavour of the food. Studies on social drinkers, wine students and wine experts have found that adding an odourless, tasteless red dye to a white wine causes it to be described as a red wine.

Morrot G, Brochet F, Dubourdieu D. The color of odors. Brain Lang. 2001;79:309–20.,3Parr, W.V., Geoffrey White, K. and Heatherbell, D.A., 2003. The nose knows: Influence of colour on perception of wine aroma. Journal of Wine Research, 14(2-3), pp.79-101. And when our colour cues are completely mixed up or absent, this can throw us into confusion. For instance, limited edition white Skittles (which retained the different flavours despite each being coloured white) had consumers baffled. Meanwhile, modernist chefs are starting to mix up colours to create unusual dining experiences, such as chef Heston Blumenthal’s confusing orange and beetroot jellies.

Using completely unexpected food colours is a frequent marketing ploy to gain attention and boost sales. These efforts include Burger King Japan’s all-black burgers coloured with bamboo charcoal and squid ink and a green tomato ketchup launched by Heinz to promote the first Shrek film. “Blue-coloured food and drinks are becoming increasingly popular amongst Instagrammers, bloggers, and food marketers. Because very few foods are naturally blue, these unusual products stand out on the shelf and hence capture our attention – we notice it,” (stand out for the aesthetics) says Professor Spence.

Advertisements for the food industry rely on food stylists, a professional who specializes in arranging the food and context in such a way that projects the desired flavour picture in the audience’s minds, highlighting the various ingredients and flavours of the foods by use of colour.

Can colour impact how much we eat?

But why are we drawn to unusual colours in food? One of the leading theories is sensory-specific satiety: if our senses constantly receive the same stimulus, we simply get bored. “Even if you love banana milk, for example, as you keep drinking it, you will eventually no longer want any more, you have become satiated,” says Professor Spence. “We can become satiated to flavours, but also to textures and even colours. This is why candy-covered chocolates like Smarties come in an array of colours, to keep our interest.” Numerous studies back this up – we generally help ourselves to more of a food product if it comes in a more varied array of colours.

Kahn, Barbara E., and Brian Wansink. The influence of assortment structure on perceived variety and consumption quantities. Journal of consumer research 30.4 (2004): 519-533. Curiously, one study found that participants consumed more yoghurt when three types were offered compared with one – even when the colour varied but not the flavour. Rolls, Barbara J., E. A. Rowe, and E. T. Rolls. How flavour and appearance affect human feeding. Proceedings of the Nutrition Society 41.2 (1982): 109-117. 

It appears we also tend to underestimate quantities when a variety of colours are present. In a study where participants were asked to try and pour out M&Ms until they reached a specified amount in a bowl, the participants poured 12% more into a bowl when the sweets were multicoloured rather than a single colour.

Redden, Joseph P., and Stephen J. Hoch. The presence of variety reduces perceived quantity. Journal of Consumer Research 36.3 (2009): 406-417. “We propose that a single colour makes the food appear like a single overall large mass whereas varied colours break up this large perceptual mass”, says Professor Joe Redden from the University of Minnesota, who led the study. “This suggests that people should be more vigilant when serving themselves varied mixes; more is there than they think.”

It doesn’t even have to be the food!

Various studies have shown that we even respond to colour cues in product packaging, plates and cutlery. In a study on popcorn, participants perceived a salty variety as tasting much sweeter when served out of a red bowl and a sweet variety as being saltier when served from a white bowl.

Harrar, Vanessa, Betina Piqueras-Fiszman, and Charles Spence. There's more to taste in a coloured bowl. Perception 40.7 (2011): 880-882. The colour of the surrounding environment can also have an effect: in one experiment, tourists were willing to pay more for a wine when they sampled it under blue or red light compared with green or white lighting. Oberfeld, Daniel, et al. Ambient lighting modifies the flavor of wine. Journal of Sensory Studies 24.6 (2009): 797-832.

Redware Dishes for Alzheimer's include bright red plates, cups and utensils because studies show Alzheimer patients increase food intake by 24% and liquid by 84% when using dinnerware with vivid colours.

Food and colour psychology - eating with colour can help dementia patients

Food and colour psychology are fascinating, but once we know about them, we can also find practical ways to benefit from them. One study found that patients with dementia were encouraged to eat more when their food was served from coloured plates.

Dunne, Tracy E., et al. Visual contrast enhances food and liquid intake in advanced Alzheimer's disease. Clinical Nutrition 23.4 (2004): 533-538. “Many people with Alzheimer's disease and other neurological conditions lose their sensitivity to contrast, so enhancing the contrast between the plate and their food and drink presumably meant they could see it better”, says Professor Alice Cronin-Golomb from Boston University, who helped lead the study. Perhaps we can all experiment with colour to make meals appear more appealing, particularly by emphasising the colours we associate with our favourite tastes. 

Third article

TASTE-COLOR SYNESTHESIA

Taste-color synesthesia is a fascinating and unique condition that has long intrigued researchers and the general public alike. In this article, we will explore the world of taste-color synesthesia, its possible causes, and its effects on individuals who experience it.

What is Taste-Color Synesthesia?

Taste-color synesthesia is a type of synesthesia where individuals experience colors when they taste different foods or drinks. For example, someone with taste-color synesthesia might perceive the taste of a lemon as bright yellow or the taste of chocolate as dark brown. These associations are automatic and involuntary, meaning that the individual experiences them without conscious effort or intention.

Possible Causes of Taste-Color Synesthesia

The exact cause of taste-color synesthesia is not yet fully understood. However, some researchers believe that it may be due to cross-activation between the brain regions responsible for processing taste and color perception.

The taste buds on our tongue send signals to the gustatory cortex in our brain, which is responsible for processing taste information. Similarly, our eyes send signals to the visual cortex, which is responsible for processing visual information. It is possible that in individuals with taste-color synesthesia, there is an overlap or cross-activation between these brain regions, leading to the perception of colors when tasting different foods.

It is also possible that taste-color synesthesia is due to a heightened sensitivity to the emotional or cultural associations we have with different tastes. For example, the color yellow is often associated with happiness or brightness, so it is possible that someone with taste-color synesthesia may associate the taste of a lemon with the color yellow because of this cultural association.

Effects of Taste-Color Synesthesia

Taste-color synesthesia is a relatively rare condition, with only a small percentage of the population experiencing it. However, for those who do experience it, it can have a profound impact on their perception of the world around them.

One potential effect of taste-color synesthesia is an increased sensitivity to taste and flavor. People with this type of synesthesia may be able to detect subtle differences in taste that others may not notice. They may also be more discerning when it comes to their food choices, preferring certain flavors or combinations of flavors based on the colors they perceive.

Taste-color synesthesia can also affect an individual's memory and creativity. Because the associations between tastes and colors are automatic and involuntary, they may be more likely to remember specific tastes or food experiences based on the colors they perceive. This can also lead to increased creativity in cooking or food presentation, as individuals with this type of synesthesia may be more likely to experiment with color combinations in their dishes.

Challenges of Taste-Color Synesthesia

One of the most significant challenges of taste-color synesthesia is that it can be distracting and overwhelming. When someone with this type of synesthesia is eating a meal or drinking a beverage, the colors they experience can be so vivid and intense that it can make it difficult for them to focus on the taste and texture of the food. This can lead to a sense of sensory overload, making it hard to fully enjoy the experience of eating or drinking.

In some cases, taste-color synesthesia can also be a hindrance when it comes to social situations. For example, if someone with this condition is out at a restaurant with friends or family, they may find it challenging to engage in conversation or focus on the social interaction because they are so focused on the colors they are experiencing in response to the food they are eating. This can lead to feelings of isolation and frustration, as well as difficulty forming connections with others.

Another challenge of taste-color synesthesia is that it can be unpredictable. While some individuals may experience consistent colors in response to certain tastes or flavors, others may find that their synesthetic experiences change over time. For example, they may associate the taste of coffee with the color brown one day, but the color purple the next. This can make it difficult to navigate daily life, as someone with taste-color synesthesia may have to constantly adjust to new and changing synesthetic experiences.

Additionally, taste-color synesthesia can be a source of confusion or misunderstanding for those who don't have the condition. Because it is such a rare form of synesthesia, many people may not be familiar with it or understand what it entails. This can lead to feelings of isolation or judgment from others, as well as a lack of awareness and support for those who have the condition.

Despite these challenges, taste-color synesthesia can also have some positive aspects. Many individuals with this condition report that it enhances their enjoyment of food and can even make eating a more exciting and pleasurable experience. Some may even use their synesthetic experiences to create unique and creative food combinations, or to explore new flavors and tastes.

There is also a growing community of individuals with taste-color synesthesia who connect and share their experiences online. These communities can provide a sense of understanding, support, and validation for those with the condition, as well as a platform for creativity and self-expression.

Conclusion

The answer is no. Color doesn't affect the average human's tastes. This articles not only confirmed my suspicion but is definitive proof. I personally can't tell the difference between a red, green or yellow pepper when it's cooked. However, the concept of synesthesia explores how some people experience the world in a different way like actually tasting color. Thus, I should have found some-one with this condition to discover a world which lies beyond the one I live.

Question 2: Aside from a boring editorial and comic, did I have any other ideas to visually illustrate the relationship between color and flavors?

After much research, I've learnt the User Experience encompasses more than digital buttons. It also displays learning your target's audience and how they'd want to be related to. Make them feel something no-one else has.

This is why I once had the idea to display messy illustrations similar to the one for my presentation (refer to the MP presentation). Imagine a messy illustration of color gushing out. Obviously, it won't be the same thing. The reason for this idea is humans are conscious of how they eat in front of others (that's why I put my hand over my lips at times when I'm eating to avoid someone looking at my lips or my mouth is slightly ajar. Some people also hate low-chewing, oozing sauce from a burger or licking your hands right after that tasty meal). With an illustration of someone messily eating a monochromatic, it bridges the gap of believing that monochromatic meals belong to the upper class or is necessarily fine dining. Now, I know it appears that I'm encouraging bad habits but fast foods such as KFC and Pepsi China have done ads similar and it's to encourage people being THEMSELVES because everyone's too overly-cautious and we are not achieving the things we should be. Also, food is supposed to feel FUN to eat!

Below are ads displaying messy eating;

Ad 1:

Droga5’s identity for Karma Kitchen conveys the “visceral, messy business of cooking and eating”

The London-based company aimed at the delivery-only food and drink market saw a surge in lockdown, and after a huge injection of funding, has rebranded and plans to expand.

Words Jenny Brewer—Date: 12 January 2021

Never has the phrase “right place, right time” rung so true as it does for Karma Kitchen. The catering start-up by sisters Gini and Eccie Newton launched in Hackney in 2019, aimed at meeting all the needs of delivery-only food and drink businesses – sourcing everything from staff to storage space and equipment. Then, of course, lockdown hit and virtually every food and drink business had to pivot to delivery-only. Pitching for funding to expand, the company hoped for £3 million and raised a smidgen more at £252 million. Now it has rebranded, courtesy of Droga5, with a vibrant new identity including “visceral” photography by Maisie Cousins, and hopes to branch out around the UK and Europe.

The identity itself aims at the restaurant owners and the like, tapping into the chaotic and fun energy behind the scenes. Branding centres on a set of vibrantly coloured graphic assets, which take the form of kitchen equipment – bowls, pots, pans and woks – in profile, creating long strips in various shapes. Some of these are emblazoned with simple, capitalised typography stating the name, tagline “commercial kitchens to rent” and website, plus other info. Others are filled with closely cropped and frankly slightly gross photos of food, taken by the brilliant Maisie Cousins, which “have nothing to do with overly styled food porn and everything to do with the visceral, messy business of cooking and eating,” says the agency in a statement. These can be seen in all their glory in other assets throughout the identity, as richly colourful as the graphic colour scheme they complement.

Chris Chapman, head of art at Droga5 London, says the identity “reflects not only the ingredients of a Karma Kitchen but also its communal start-up energy,” and aims to bring to life what it’s really like inside a commercial kitchen, in an exciting and diverse way. The identity is being rolled out across the brand’s marketing including out-of-home and digital campaigns, aiming to encourage awareness of the company and for potential clients to book tours.

GalleryDroga5: Karma Kitchen identity (Copyright © Karma Kitchen, 2021)

Ad 2:

The New Messy Burger from KFC (youtube.com)

Ad 3 :

Messy millennials in Pepsi APAC campaign | Advertising | Campaign Asia

Learning outcomes reached

Primary research in learning outcome achieved as I couldn't carry out useability testing. (A1, A4, LO1,LO2)

#visual communication #learning #brief #research #majorproject #translate and transform

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

WIP Wednesday

The beginning of JGY’s point of view in the next chapter of Soldier, Poet, King.

-/-

Jin Guangyao knows, logically, that of course the way that he lives is not normal. Normal people don’t spend their days holed up in a deteriorating sprawling military facility centering their life around the same twenty-or-so people on any given day and mind-bogglingly massive interdimensional murder aliens. He knows this, and he’s never once claimed to be normal, not even before his life was exactly that.

But stepping out of the austerity of the ‘dome into the streets of Shanghai still feels like waking out of a vaguely unsettling not-quite-nightmare only to be doused immediately in sticky sweet, neon-colored alcohol and way too much cologne.

“Ooo Yao-ge, this way!” Nie Huaisang shouts excitedly, tugging on his arm. His face is splashed with so many colors it’s difficult to settle on one, but his teeth flash red in the glare of the closest bar’s advertisement, something bold and oversized that he doesn’t bother to read. Jin Guangyao lets himself be towed around, for once, and simply does his best to avoid bumping into the people crowded into the street with them — there’s far too much bare skin and cleavage and cocktail-redolent laughter for his liking and he thinks longingly of his partners likely getting settled in for the evening right this very minute in their quarters.

Nie Huaisang tugs him to the left at some signal Jin Guangyao can’t identify and Jin Guangyao follows, down a short alleyway and into the next block of neon highrises. Here in the heart of the city they tower over everything, level after level of pleasure and fun advertised in every shade of neon imaginable, each one somehow searingly bright enough to make his teeth hurt. Down here, in the pulsing belly of it all, Jin Guangyao feels himself drowning, getting lost in the throngs and looking up into the night sky so far away it’s nearly impossible to see. Criss-crossing wires and sky bridges and the forced perspective of visual noise gradually fade up up up into the blackness of space and leave him dizzy with vertigo if he looks for more than a moment.

Jin Guangyao drops his eyes back down to Nie Huaisang’s back just ahead of him in the crush and reminds himself of their agreed-upon task for the evening as a distraction.

“Ahh here we are!” Nie Huaisang finally cries, releasing Jin Guangyao’s wrist for the first time since they left the ‘dome in favor of throwing his arms wide as if to hug the building they’ve stopped in front of. As far as their surroundings go, this place sticks out like a sore thumb. Not a hint of neon on the place, not even a backlit sign. Instead, a flickering spotlight — dim and yellow, the cheapest bulb money can buy — offers up a dingy epithet with no other context. White background, big black letters: The Pilot.

Predictable.

“A-Sang,” Jin Guangyao interrupts, smile fixed just where it should be. “I am not here to prevent your being stabbed for the sake of a subpar back alley blowjob -“

“That was one time, Yao-ge, and that guy only nicked me a little! I’m telling you, if our friend is in Shanghai, which I have every reason to believe he is, then he’s here.”

Jin Guangyao eyes the bar again, just as dubiously as the first time. The place is a black hole amongst all the glittering allure of the nightlife around it, a shabby brick-and-mortar nothing little hole in the wall. Unfortunately, this all tracks far too well for Jin Guangyao to doubt his friend.

#the untamed fanfic #WIP Wednesday #Jin Guangyao #Nie Huaisang #soldier poet king

[benson11benson]

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