#GO FRUIT COLORED PLASTIC PEOPLE!!

[marzipanandminutiae]

You don’t like 1920s, 1940s AND 1950s fashion? Damn what did the mid-century do to you lol. K but seriously why not the 50s? The skirts had volume and were long-ish (at least in high fashion) and blouses were well structured and fitted and often had embroidery or embellishments.

Obviously I don't hate ALL of it; no era is a monolith. But there are a few things these eras have in common that I hate:

The rise of synthetic fabrics, AKA Using Plastic To Make Clothing. We're now at a place in terms of clothing where its actively harder and more expensive to wear natural fibers than to wear clothing made entirely of a substance that leaches into our water, holds odors, makes us sweat more, doesn't generally last as long or admit as much repair over time as most natural textiles, and just Kind of Sucks all around except for a few very specific purposes. Synthetics weren't invented in the 1920s, and natural fibers were common in all of these eras than they are today, but it was definitely increasing amounts of "BUY THESE NEW EXCITING PROGRESSIVE MODERN FABRICS!!!" throughout the early and mid-20th century. Which pisses me off in principle.

Less practical garments unless you lived a very specific lifestyle- namely, access to washing machines and a willingness to launder clothing after just one wear. Modern clothing is just not great unless you have access to very frequent washing (see above re: holding odors more than many natural fibers) and barrier garments to keep sweat away from them and stretch the time between washes aren't a thing anymore for most people. In the eras mentioned, everyone was getting so excited about machine laundry capabilities- and who wouldn't? washing machines ARE a huge boon! no denying that! -that they shifted away from modes of dress designed to minimize the necessity of laundering outer clothes. Except now, with concerns about the aforementioned microplastic leaching from washing machines draining into municipal sewers and less mendable clothing- washing is a huge strain on garments, and wears them out faster if you do it too often -we need to be getting back to the system of having fewer but higher quality garments and washing them less often. Except we can't. Because some idiot in the 1920s said "whoopee nobody will ever need linen combinations or chemises that actually serve a purpose anymore!" and the subsequent decades continued it.

The silhouettes generally do not spark joy for me. 1920s actively makes me fly into a rage and scream into pillows, with the exception of robes de style MAYBE. 1940s...well, let's say there was a reason the New Look was so popular, and that's "no more boxy utility wartime clothes." I will give 1940s the hair prize here, though, because I like it better than any other decade 1920s-50s. I actually DO like the New Look! ...but not its combination with the bullet bra; yikes. This is highly subjective.

Some of the textiles, patterns, colors, and common embellishments used are just not my thing. I don't go in for Bold And Graphic And Geometric anything, usually. With a very very small number of exceptions. Polka dots and florals are also not my thing (unless the florals are on a dark background). Plastic jewelry? Hard pass. ~Fun~ motifs like fruit (except pomegranates which have Goth Appeal), the poodles on a poodle skirt, household objects, transportation, etc? No thank you; reads too Kindergarten Teacher for me. Again, not universal or exclusive to those eras- witness the 1880s chicken-print dress I saw an illustration of once -but more prevalent, to my eyes.

Hair. 1920s bobs make most people's heads look blocks. I love a good bob, but those are not Good in my opinion. 1920s Up Hair is usually meant to mimic a bob. 1930s was only a little bit better. 1940s, as I've said, was skirting the line for me and marginally acceptable. 1950s took us right back to a solid Nope with either short poodle cuts or pageboys as the main options for adult women. An occasional chignon maybe, but nothing else that appeals to me personally. just not great all around.

All of these eras were holier-than-thou about the Victorians and their fashion, which I love, so I'm petty about it. Yes please tell me more about how your plastic bullet bras or potato sack dresses are inherently superior to Grandma's elegant and comfortable long wool skirts with the perfect center back pleating. Oh, the 1860s were the ugliest fashion period ever in your opinion? Fascinating. I am setting your car on fire.

I actually DO like the New Look...which is heavily inspired by mid-19th century fashion, so that's not really any big surprise. Still has the issues with synthetic materials and the end of practical undergarments, though. Also, why stop at mid-calf for everyday skirts? Instep Or Bust You Cowards.

[rotworld]

7: Night Shift

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

you work in one of the tourist traps along a popular beach pier known for its party scene. it's a night like any other. you have no idea about the unusual party crashers who are about to show up and ruin everything.

->original work. explicit; contains non-con, graphic descriptions of violence, feral behavior, hard vore, mind control, terato, non-human genitalia.

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Last week, it was “Greek Gods of the Sea.” Togas and tridents, mostly, some seashell bikinis, a few fake beards stuffed with plastic starfish. They drank too much and cranked the music too loud, but that’s nothing new. Everyone knows what to expect from the Lucky Rock Pier Party People Association (“Lurpppa” to the local news, “Trouble at Ten O’Clock” to your fellow boardwalk employees, “Those Fucking Kids” to beachfront property owners). 

You wear headphones most nights anyway, desperate to keep the shrill, repetitive carnival songs of the pier funhouse from being seared into your brain. They don’t bother you much because the sign at the front says there’s no bathroom and all the hot dogs and funnel cakes are further down the boardwalk, but a few will trickle in just for something to do. If they spot the freezer, they’ll huddle around the glass and stare like the Mona Lisa’s in there, agonizing over a choice between an ice cream sandwich or fruit pops. 

Tonight, it’s a glow party. Neon beach balls and glow stick arches. You can’t hear the noise they’re making through your headphones but you can feel the bass throbbing through your feet. Someone’s probably going to call the cops again. The tourist family population retreats this time of night so it’s just you, the handful of shops still open this late, and Trouble at Ten O’Clock. This one’s more fun to watch, at least, bright and colorful like the spill of noctiluca. They’re vivid in glow-in-the-dark body paint, covered in luminescent stripes, swirls and splatters. 

A few of them come stumbling up the pier earlier than usual. Three women in different halter tops, painted with matching curly cues and butterflies on their faces. One of them wanders off to look at the tote bags. Another, much more inebriated, leans heavily against her friend. The designated driver, you assume, who drags her to the freezer to pick out something to eat. You glance down at the beach and see one of them sitting on Lucky Rock, the jagged chunk of stone sticking out of the water not far from shore. You’re not sure how he climbed up the slippery, steep sides but he’s definitely not supposed to be up there. The people on the beach are way too excited about it, gathered around cheering and hollering. 

Three ice cream sandwiches are dropped on the counter in front of you. You lift one side of your headphones and shrieking noise rushes in, the glow party just as raucous as you expected. “Will that be all?” you ask. The woman nods. Her friend starts to fall over and she has to support her weight against her shoulder. You ring up the total and she groans. Everything on the boardwalk is three times the price it should be, but she adds a tote bag when the other woman wanders back with one and tosses their ice cream inside. “Thanks, come again,” you call, sliding your headphones back on.

Ten minutes until closing time. Not much to do but sweep out the sand gathered in the doorway and tidy up the disaster zone a horde of children made of the stuffed animal section. Sharks and dolphins on the top shelf, turtles on the second, fish and starfish on the third—

Something moves in the corner of your eye. Startled, you turn and find a man ambling slowly through the store. A stray from the glow party, you think at first. Then you look again, paying attention this time. He looks like all the partygoers down on the beach, a silhouette with luminescent edges, but he shouldn’t. Not under the store lights. He’s midnight blue from head to toe beneath intricate glowing patterns, chest and shoulders speckled with small dots like cyan freckles with larger spots along his sides. Thin stripes trace the outlines of muscle beneath the skin, turning into a spiral pattern at his hips. 

Which you can see, you realize, because he’s naked. No swim trunks. No speedo. He’s wet and dripping all over the floor like he just crawled out of the water, a puddle slowly growing beneath his feet, and you can follow the course of every droplet as they roll slowly down curves and valleys of lithe swimmer’s muscles. Some of the lines on his torso are moving, you realize. Horizontal squiggles on either side of his abdomen flinch and pulsate. 

Gills, you realize. The pieces come together all at once in your mind. Despite working the boardwalk as long as you have, you’ve never seen a sea muse before. Most people haven’t. They’re skittish, you’ve heard. They prefer quiet coves and grottos, places humans have a harder time reaching. Safer that way if they decide to shed their tail and sun themselves for a while. This one certainly doesn’t seem bothered by the commotion down at the beach, poking through the t-shirt rack with long, clawed fingers. He doesn’t look much like the pictures you’ve seen, either, but all the pictures are of muses lurking in tropical reefs, big-finned and colorful like bettas. Beautiful like him, but not bioluminescent and not quite so large. He must come from deeper, colder waters. 

You set down a stuffed octopus as gently as you can but he hears it, turning swiftly to face you. Your heart races. He has the large, eerie eyes of an abyssal creature, glowing half-moons gleaming underneath wide silver irises and black sclera. Nobody prepared you for what to do in this situation. Do you play dead? Raise your arms and make noise to scare him off? What you mistook for slicked back hair is some kind of shimmery membrane. It flares out like the neck flap of a cobra in a threat display, but it starts to sag and flatten the longer you stare at each other. His eyes move slightly in their wide sockets, looking you over head to toe. 

An uncannily human smile spreads across his face. He makes some odd gestures towards you. His mouth moves. He’s talking, you realize, trying to communicate. You almost lift your headphones off but your brain catches up at the last second. You don’t know a lot about sea muses but you know enough to keep your ears covered. 

He blinks, staring at you in almost comical wide-eyed confusion. Then he smirks, his gills fluttering with laughter. He starts pacing back and forth, slowly inching closer like a shark circling prey in the water. He’s between you and the door so you inch towards the register counter instead. Maybe you can slip out the back? 

He stops suddenly, leaving some distance between you. He speaks again, tapping the side of his head and pointing at you. You shake your head and he frowns, but he doesn’t give up. You watch, morbid curiosity overpowering your fear, as he starts to move in a slow, seductive manner. It’s some kind of dance, you think, arching his back and extending the membrane on his head again, bioluminescence glittering on thin, translucent flesh. He holds your gaze as he runs a hand down the center of his chest, over his stomach, down to his pelvis and—

You’re not entirely sure what you expected to see between his legs, but it’s still a bit of a shock. The thick, jutting member is deep indigo at the base and a lighter aquamarine down the length. It barely resembles a human cock except in its vaguely phallic silhouette, oozing from an engorged sheath that dribbles cloudy slime. The shaft is smooth with a gentle upward curve, thick and shuddering with unnatural flexibility. It narrows to a soft triangular tip. Two additional appendages unfold from his hips. They remind you of crustacean legs, rigid and insectoid. They bend along two joints, pawing at the air with their sharp claw tips. 

The sea muse makes a thrusting motion. The tentacle-cock wraps around his hand, drooling like a tongue. His bioluminescent patches flash and dim like a flickering candle. You’re no marine biologist but it feels safe to assume this is a mating display.

“Uh. No? No thanks,” you say.

He grins. You see a row of daggers for teeth. He speaks slowly and your heart skips a beat when you clearly read the words, Are you sure? on his lips. 

“I’m sure. Thanks anyway.” Maybe you should be flattered. You’ve never heard of anyone getting hit on by a sea muse. He lets out a big, disappointed sigh, extra dramatic so you can’t miss it, and gives himself one last stroke before he moves on. You half-expect the cock to slither back into its sheath, but it stays obscenely hard and straining upright between his legs.

To your dismay, he doesn’t leave but instead pokes around the shop some more. He wanders to the left, examining surfboard keychains and hibiscus shot glasses. He wanders to the right, squinting at the postcards. Eventually, he makes his way to the freezer and slides it open with some difficulty. His head membrane flares out wider than you’ve ever seen it the first time he sticks his hand inside. You wonder if he hissed. He tries again, pinching a fruit pop in its colorful package between his claws. He rips the plastic open.

“Hey!” you say. “You can’t just—”

He looks back over his shoulder at you, eyes narrowed and membrane spread in warning. You turn away and continue to mind your own business. 

The glow party seems to be winding down. The beach balls are all sitting in a pile. Some of the glow stick arches have toppled over. The pounding bass isn’t shaking the pier anymore. You see a lot of people lounging in the sand, rolling around, stretched out together, a bunch of them writhing—

Oh, you think. That’s bold, even for Trouble at Ten O’Clock. There’s no mistaking those thrusting, grinding, back and forth movements for anything else. There are a few couples scattered around but most of them have settled into a spot worryingly close to the water, seafoam rushing around them whenever the waves come surging up the beach. They tangle together in passionate motion, kissing and caressing and fucking like it’s the last night of their lives.

Something about it unsettles you. They’re being so rough with each other. This isn’t a slow, sensual orgy but a frenzy. Mindless, animalistic rutting and forceful movements. You see mouths open in silent screams. Some of them aren’t moving. Some of them are trying to crawl away but they’re being dragged back by the ankle, the hair, the arm, pulled through the dark sand. Why is the sand so dark? And wet, glistening where the tide hasn’t risen yet. 

The horrific realization grips you slowly. You’re in denial. You must be having a nightmare. A man tries to claw his way up the beach but someone else pins him down, straddles his back. You don’t see what happens, can’t make it out in the dark, but the paint on his body stretches and splits, and the sand darkens in a liquid motion under him. A woman arches her back in the throes of ecstasy, surrounded on all sides by eager, thrusting bodies. They’re biting her, you realize. Their heads lower and blood splashes the sand. Through all of it, she squirms and rakes her fingers through the sound as though she’s never felt pleasure like this before. Someone crawls between her legs and she opens them eagerly, loops them around the waist of something that is not human, you realize. None of the ones surrounding her are. They glow more brightly in more precise patterns, membranes pulsating, gills fluttering.

Your headphones are ripped away, clattering uselessly to the floor. You hear an awful cacophony of moaning, screaming, begging, and weeping. You think, for just a second, about running. Your muscles tense and your heart races. Where? For how long? You don’t know but you’re willing to try. 

“Where are you going?” says the sea muse and you can’t move a muscle. His voice is low and melodic. You hear the ocean when he speaks; the hiss and splash of the shallows, the heavy drone of the deep. “Hm? Do you want to join them?” You hear the wet slap of his footsteps for the first time as he comes closer. His hand grasps your chin lightly, barely applying any pressure, but you feel compelled to turn around. To look up at his sharp-toothed smile and the gentle pulse of his bioluminescence. “My shiver is down there. Frenzying,” he says. He turns your head to the side, just far enough to glimpse the gruesome scene on the beach, then returns your gaze to him. 

“Please don’t,” you say hoarsely, your throat constricted. “Don’t make me, don’t—” 

“It’s been so long,” he says, and your mouth snaps shut. “Since I last came ashore.” He walks backwards, his fingers still ghosting against your chin, and you follow. You don’t want to but your legs move on their own. His voice is addictive. You hang on every word and you hope he never stops talking. The silence between makes you tremble. “Even longer since I last mated. You can see it. You can tell how long I’ve waited, if you look.” 

You don’t want to look but your eyes betray you, gaze lowering to the slithering thing between his legs. It curls around itself impatiently like a snake. Another glob of slime slides slowly from its sheath and dribbles on the floor. The way it moves frightens you, the base twitching and undulating, slug-like. 

“You want this,” he says. He takes another step back and you rush forward. He strokes beneath your chin. 

You shake your head desperately. Your mouth is trying to shape the word “yes.”

“You do. You want this.” His back hits the register counter and he leans against it, spreading his legs wide. “You want to taste me,” he says, his voice dipping lower. 

You drop to your knees so fast it hurts, feeling the blooming sting of new bruises. It doesn’t matter that you’re terrified. It doesn’t matter that the thing bobbing in your face is like nothing you’ve ever seen before. You open your mouth and suck the strange, pointed head without hesitation. The sea muse moans and your thighs quiver, inner muscles clenching on nothing. You have to hear it again. 

“You need it,” he purrs, thrusting shallowly. You bob your head, taking him deeper every time. He hits the back of your throat quickly, his cock eager and probing at the inside of your mouth. “You need me to spill inside you. You need everything I have to give.” You moan and choke around his length. His hand rests on the back of your head, forcing you down further. His thrusts get harder and faster, crushing your nose against his slick abdomen. 

Some part of you is screaming at the alien movements of his cock, how it nudges and prods and tries to snake down your throat, but you can’t focus on that. He doesn’t let you. Every grunt and moan, every hiss of praise, makes the fear even more distant. 

“You need—oh, yes,” he groans, clutching your head with both hands as he pounds into your mouth. “You need to mate with me. You need—mm, suck on me, suck on the tip—fuck, you need my milt. I have so much and you need all of it.” 

You make a humiliating, needy sound when he suddenly pulls you off of his cock. It slips out of your mouth reluctantly, the tip sliding back and forth against your lips. He drags you to your feet by the forearm, shoving you against the register counter. He bends you over it, tearing at your clothes with his claws. You cum when he blows softly against your ear. You’re still shivering, clawing mindlessly at the counter when he kisses and licks the shell, sliding his tongue into every little dip and groove. 

“Do you want me?” he whispers. You hear a slick sound, a grunt, and then his hand is at your entrance. He uses the pads of his fingers but he’s not very careful. His claws prick your thighs as ass while he smears thick, warm globs between your legs. “Hm? Do you want me?” 

“Yes,” you sob. You arch your back and try to press your hips back against him. He makes a growling sound against your ear that makes your knees buckle, nipping the lobe playfully. 

“You want to be fucked?” One hand reaches around and roughly works your sex, spreading a warm, tingling sensation. “Want to be filled with milt?” 

“Yes!” 

His cock slides along the curve of your ass, teasing you. Then it slithers down, sliding into just the right angle with the tip pushed against your entrance. “Good human,” he purrs, and your eyes roll back in your head. His tip presses inside and then he’s thrusting hard and fast without warning. More slime drips from his sheath and slides down his length, the tingling slickness easing his punishing rhythm. It wouldn’t matter if the lubrication wasn’t there. You can’t do anything but lay there and gasp and meet his thrusts, needing his cock inside you more than you need to breathe. 

Those sharp, grasping appendages hook around your thighs. You feel them lock into place, their grip tightening until you’re right up against the sea muse’s body. His thrusts don’t slow at all. If anything, he’s even rougher and faster, deep humping thrusts that make you tremble and scream. He keeps talking through all of it no matter how winded and breathless he gets, keeping you right on the precipice of orgasm after orgasm with filthy whispers and wet, open-mouthed kisses against your ear. 

“So tight,” he hisses. “You feel so good, squeezing me like that. You want it so much. I’m going to give you everything. You’re going to be so fucking full.” His hips stutter, losing rhythm. You cum again just as a rush of warm wetness pulses inside you, spurting every time the sea muse thrusts. Thick, creamy liquid churns and foams at your entrance, a trickle dribbling down your thigh. You hear a few drops hit the floor under you. The sea muse rides out his orgasm with long, loud moans that send you over the edge again and again. He crushes you against the counter, hips rolling. One last, slow thrust fills you with another hot gush of his strange cum. 

He breathes heavily. His hips sway while he’s still sheathed inside you and his cock curls just the right way to make you sob for mercy. “Hm? You think we’re done?” he murmurs. “I told you. It’s been a long time. I still have so much more to give you. And you want it, don’t you? You need it?” 

“Yes,” you say, your voice quivering and broken. The sea muse starts to fuck you again and all you can do is let him.

You don’t know when it ends. It could be minutes, or hours, or days. The passage of time is measured in breaths and heartbeats and orgasm after orgasm. The floor is slick and sticky under you, a white puddle of milt steadily growing. You think he bites you but you don’t know. It all feels good, especially when he tells you how perfect you are, how sweet and submissive, how well you’re milking his cock of everything he’s saved for this moment. He makes you ride him once, seated on the counter while he bounces you in his lap. He digs his claws into the meat of your ass and leaves marks. 

You don’t know who finds you. Someone else who works the pier, probably, too horrified and embarrassed for both of you to stick around. The Coast Guard sweeps the water but the sea muses are long gone, leaving nothing behind but the mangled leftovers of their frenzy. The bodies glisten in the sand, torn to shreds like a burst whale carcass. By sunrise, the flies and the seagulls are swarming. You’re escorted to an ambulance with a blanket over your shoulders. The first person to look you in the eyes tells you, very quietly, that you might want to quit your job and consider moving inland. 

“Those are mating marks,” he says. You don’t know how he can possibly tell, given that they’re everywhere. Jagged, oozing circles dot your shoulders, arms, thighs and back. “Because they’re at a very precise depth. Meant to scar, not to kill. That means it’s going to come back.” They tell you not to look at the water but you do, one last time, before you leave. You don’t see anything. That doesn’t mean anything. The water’s deep and it seems to go on forever.

That night, in a hospital bed, you have a dream of someone singing to you. It sounds like the ocean filling your ears.

[melinoe-dearest09]

ME ADMIT STUFF

1. Would you have sex with the last person you text messaged?

2. You talked to an ex today, correct?

3. Have you taken someones virginity?

4. Is trust a big issue for you?

5. Did you hang out with the person you like recently?

6. What are you excited for?

7. What happened tonight?

8. Do you think it’s disgusting when girls get really wasted?

9. Is confidence cute? 10. What is the last beverage you had? 11. How many people of the opposite sex do you fully trust? 12. Do you own a pair of skinny jeans? 13. What are you gonna do Saturday night? 14. What are you going to spend money on next? 15. Are you going out with the last person you kissed? 16. Do you think you’ll change in the next 3 months? 17. Who do you feel most comfortable talking to about anything? 18. The last time you felt broken? 19. Have you had sex today? 20. Are you starting to realize anything? 21. Are you in a good mood? 22. Would you ever want to swim with sharks? 23. Are your eyes the same color as your dad’s? 24. What do you want right this second? 25. What would you say if the person you love/like kissed another girl/boy? 26. Is your current hair color your natural hair color? 27. Would you be able to date someone who doesn’t make you laugh? 28. What was the last thing that made you laugh? 29. Do you really, truly miss someone right now? 30. Does everyone deserve a second chance? 31. Honestly, do you hate the last boy you were talking to? 32. Does the person you have feelings for right now, know you do? 33. Are you one of those people who never drinks soda? 34. Listening to? 35. Do you ever write in pencil anymore? 36. Do you know where the last person you kissed is? 37. Do you believe in love at first sight? 38. Who did you last call? 39. Who was the last person you danced with? 40. Why did you kiss the last person you kissed? 41. When was the last time you ate a cupcake? 42. Did you hug/kiss one of your parents today? 43. Ever embarrass yourself in front of a crush? 44. Do you tan in the nude? 45. If you could, would you take back your last kiss? 46. Did you talk to someone until you fell asleep last night? 47. Who was the last person to call you? 48. Do you sing in the shower?49. Do you dance in the car? 50. Ever used a bow and arrow? 51. Last time you got a portrait taken by a photographer? 52. Do you think musicals are cheesy? 53. Is Christmas stressful? 54. Ever eat a pierogi? 55. Favorite type of fruit pie? 56. Occupations you wanted to be when you were a kid? 57. Do you believe in ghosts? 58. Ever have a Deja-vu feeling? 59. Take a vitamin daily? 60. Wear slippers? 61. Wear a bath robe? 62. What do you wear to bed? 63. First concert? 64. Wal-Mart, Target or Kmart? 65. Nike or Adidas? 66. Cheetos Or Fritos?67. Peanuts or Sunflower seeds? 68. Favorite Taylor Swift song? 69. Ever take dance lessons? 70. Is there a profession you picture your future spouse doing? 71. Can you curl your tongue? 72. Ever won a spelling bee? 73. Have you ever cried because you were so happy? 74. What is your favorite book? 75. Do you study better with or without music? 76. Regularly burn incense? 77. Ever been in love? 78. Who would you like to see in concert? 79. What was the last concert you saw? 80. Hot tea or cold tea? 81. Tea or coffee? 82. Favorite type of cookie? 83. Can you swim well? 84. Can you hold your breath without holding your nose? 85. Are you patient? 86. DJ or band, at a wedding? 87. Ever won a contest? 88. Ever have plastic surgery? 89. Which are better black or green olives? 90. Opinions on sex before marriage? 91. Best room for a fireplace? 92. Do you want to get married

[homoquartz]

welcome to class

lesson one, most words and objects can be sorted into two categories. for the sake of clarity, we'll call the categories kiki and bouba. let me give you some examples:

KIKI

all even numbers

italics and exclamation points

english, math, history, and gym

north, east, up, and right

morning and afternoon, the sun from sunrise to sunset

summer and autumn

(specifically may through november)

thursday and sunday

sharp, dry, hot, bright

squares, triangles, and stars

warm colors, including pink

mammals and birds

insects

indoors

natural materials (rattan, wicker, wood, etc)

coffee, cigarettes, and needles

classical art and portraiture, percussion and string instruments, but not piano

people who shake your hand without a shred of kind intent

the smell of a library, cinnamon, and citrus fruits

ambition

money and business professional clothing

powering through the discomfort in hope it will be fun at the end

the feeling of falling in love

the words "thank you" and "forgiveness"

the beginning

BOUBA

you guessed it - odd numbers

bold, underlines, and question marks

and yes, science, art, and language

south, west, down, and left

evening and night, and of course the moon

winter and spring

(specifically december through april)

monday, tuesday, wednesday, friday, and saturday

round, wet, cold, dark

circles and trapezoids

cool colors, including green

fish, amphibians, and reptiles

microscopic organisms

outside, especially when it rains, including outer space and all its planets, but not the concept of infinity

metal, stone, and plastic

soda, pills, and wax

abstract art, finger painting, and sculpture, as well as wind instruments

people who keep fucking up

the smell of the backseat of my parents' car, mint, and fruits like apples, pears, and plums

gentleness

co-ops, nonprofits, hiking boots, and sandals

letting go, having fun, and then spending hours in spiraling regret

the feeling of loving and being loved safely and fully

the word "please" and also "i'm sorry"

try it yourself! ska, techno, and jazz are bouba. pop and classical are kiki. your warm hands are kiki, and my flop sweat is bouba. a cut is kiki, but a punch is bouba, and the blood is always kiki regardless, until it curdles. when it dries, it's kiki again. eye contact is kiki, and a kiss is kiki too. a long hug is bouba, especially if you cry. bouba is the lump in your throat, and kiki is the cough to clear it. the deep breath in is kiki. bouba is the one you breathe out. and i forgot one last thing:

the end

[kedreeva]

*rubs my face with both hands* Some Guy(tm) on FB inserted himself into a conversation I was having with two other people about a chicken being conditioned to peck a pink piece of paper, to post a link to Some Blog Post about why chickens peck at red. A post which was full of misinformation (or at best, info with zero citations for scientific proof) about how you shouldn't wear red when attending chickens because it makes them Mad and how if a chicken sees red its instinct is to peck it to death because they kill each other in the wild if someone gets wounded to protect the flock (...) and how waterers and feeders have to be red to draw the birds to them and so on and so forth in a truly stunning display of ignorance.

So since this person CLEARLY wanted to engage, I engaged. I asked why chickens with red combs don't get immediately pecked to death, why don't we have to blukote their combs to save their lives if they'll peck anything red to death? What about red chickens? Roosters with red feathers? Why do chickens drink out of black pig bowls or waterers with purple, pink, green, yellow, white bases (all of which i have and were used fine)? Why do they peck at the FOOD in the red bottomed feeder, instead of the red plastic?? Brown eggs are colored with a red pigment, how do any of them ever survive this violent desire this person thinks they have for red??

They're pecking at red because red = fruits/berries/meat in the wild. They peck each other to death in captivity when they don't have enough space to get away and they're BORED. They feather pick and go for blood when they're missing vitamins or protein. They peck at blood more because they are omnivores, they literally eat bloody stuff and they're too stupid to realize THIS bloody stuff is their friend. Their brain is the size of a walnut, they're just not differentiating between "this blood came from WITHIN my friend" and "This blood is ON my friend from somewhere else." Like yeah they might peck at something red to see if it's food (and continue pecking when it tastes like food), but they're not hulking out at the sight of red things. Geezus.

Anyway now he's pissy because I didn't roll over and tell him how smart and right he is. Because he thinks his chickens are literally pecking at his red shoes because they think he's a weakened flock member they must kill for the good of the flock.

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Soup Kitchen

Prologue =-= Next

Author's note: Su'cona's debut in Husbandry.

Warnings: Let me know if I need to add any.

Summary: Su'cona is lost and found. Soup Kitchens are a nice thing.

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams,

Tagged continued: @sleepyfan-blog, @whorety-k

Su'cona had been wandering on this planet for a while, he's kept count of the days, he's tried to send a message on the Vox and all he'd gotten back was static and he'd been glad to find some form of civilization, but none of the base line humans spoke any of the languages that he knew.

He'd listen to them quietly, he'd run out of rations, hydration and nutrition three days ago, and his stomach had started to complain to him loudly. Also his headache was reaching a wicked crescendo, as it made light of the sun, or artificial light agonizing, even with his helmet protecting his face.

He stopped as he smelled something really good and his stomach gurgled angrily at him as he headed towards the source of the delicious smell. There were a bunch of base line humans, some were nicely dressed and handing out brown paper bags filled with food, to humans that had a much rougher appearance.

He slowly, carefully approaches, there was also a nearly free standing cooking area that had a large cauldron of soup happily burbling and one of the humans who were in nearly identical uniform of some kind was carefully ladling out soup into bowls that other humans were gratefully taken with the paper bag of longer shelf-life lasting food.

One of the people handing out the free food spots him and gives him a bright smile and waves him over. Su'cona carefully approaches them with a tilt of his helmet and they offer him a steaming bowl of soup and the bag of food, a fruit, some vegetables, a sandwich of some kind in sealed plastic, and a metal can filled with something carbonated.

He gratefully accepts both things, even though he knows that it won't be nearly enough calories to fill his belly full, at least it will do something to keep the hunger partially at bay.

He takes of his helmet and murmurs, "Thank you kind one."

They babble at him and he nods to them, as he sits down and carefully eats the soup, it tastes so good, it's warm, hot and filled with vegtables and some kind of meat, the texture reminds him of poultry.

Then, he carefully eats the sandwhich, fruit, a bright red skinned fruit that was about half the size of his palm. He bites into it, eating half of it in one go, its sweet and crunchy and he finishes it swiftly. While the vegtables are a bright-dark green and have the taste of clorophil and growing things.

The metal can that has the metal drink is colorful, and he can tell that there is writing on it, but he doesn't read the local language, so he cracks it open how he sees the base line humans around him do and takes a sip, it fizzes and bubbles and is incredibly sweet with hints of citrus in it that is almost overwhelming, yet he's not going to let it go to waste as he finishes the whole fizzy drink in several large swigs. He carefully takes the refuse to one of the large trash bins nearby and then heads back over to the human.

"Is there a way I can help?" He asks them.

They talk to him in the local's tongue that he doesn't understand yet, before they gesture for him to help with moving some supplies, they look heavy, for a base line human.

But is easy enough for him to pick up and carry with his superior strength, he takes it to where they gesture and gently sets it down before starting to help serve base line humans in, what he hears is called a 'zoup kitchen'.

Giving food to those less fortunate is a good, kind act. One that his gene-father would be happy to participate in. One that he's happy to help with as they serve other base line humans for most of the day. He continues to help and some of the humans are almost tearful in how grateful they are for the food.

The leftovers are easily, happily handed over to the less fortunate humans who happily tote the rest of the food bags with them to other parts of this city. He helps the Zoup Kitchen staff clean up and he's happy to help.

One of the humans that is apart of the staff for the Zoup Kitchen, for some reason he feels like he should follow them. A warmth spreading in his soul as he got to watch them work and help others. Like a chain, or something looping around him and tying him to them.

It didn't feel forced, and from what he can tell of the base line human, they seem to be unaware of this strange spontaneous bond that has formed, and they don't seem as if they are a Psyker.

Several days later, and he continues to help at this Zoup Kitchen in order to have something to fill his belly with, an Ultramarine shows up and blinks at him and they talk about the State of Things, and he says goodbye to his human for a moment- he will go with the Ultramarine to the nearest base for more information, before going back to his human.

Learning about when and where they are is… quite the shock. Also, learning about how the Space Marines are from, as near as anyone can tell every when and everywhere and that… well… He wonders just how messy things might, could get with the Space Marines from before the Heresy, while those during and post Heresy have a lot of… dark, grim portents to inform the others as needed.

[eternalchiyo]

Everlasting Spark ~MANIAC 02~

Chiyo didn’t feel like going back to her room to sleep anymore. Living with the Mukami messed with her biorhythm, as they often were awake during the day, completely different from the Sakamaki who would usually sleep at that time, not to mention that she now was scared to get another strange dream if she drifted back to sleep. She really didn’t want to risk it.

Maybe a walk in the garden would help her think about something else.

Even though it was early in the morning, the sun was so bright she had to shield her eyes. Warm, spring sunrays tickled her skin. It was a strange experience, being out and about at this hour, the world looking so much different than at night.

Once her eyes had adjusted, she finally was able to walk around and look at the plants. There were several rose bushes, but she noticed that there were quite a few apple trees growing there as well.

Cursed fruits.

She walked a bit further and found that there were a lot of other vegetables and fruits growing there. A strange noise came from the strawberry field, and she couldn’t help but look, curiosity taking over. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Yuma crouching in the dirt. Hoping that he hadn’t noticed her yet, she turned on her heel in an attempt to make a swift escape. Every time she saw that guy’s face, she felt like she was back in that forest, watching Shuu cry out for his dead friend while the world around them drowned in flames.

“Oi, Sow! Watcha doing there, runnin’ away like that?!”

Chiyo stopped in her tracks, wincing.

“I’m not goin’ to eat ya, so don’t act like I’m tryin’ to do that every damn time ya see me!”

She turned around reluctantly and saw how he was walking in her direction. Great, she thought to herself. And she thought she was doing such a good job avoiding people too, especially him.

“Why do ya always do that?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Lookin’ at me like yer seein’ a ghost!”

Chiyo frowned, looking up at him skeptically. He was tall and big and generally did not seem like that boy from long ago, well except for his face of course. That one looked almost the same, as if you transplanted it directly from one body to the other. Yuma himself did not seem to remember anything though, up to the point Chiyo started to doubt herself. They did say there was at least one Doppelgänger of oneself existing at the same time, after all.

“Yer actin’ the same way that NEET does, ‘s creepin’ me out to be honest…”

So, Shuu had managed to run into him as well, huh? Did he not remember him either? But if Shuu also acted this way, then maybe Chiyo was not going crazy. Or at least not because of this.

“You just… remind me of someone…” Chiyo said.

Yuma raised his eyebrows. “Must’ve been some guy, makin’ y’all react like this.”

Oh, you have no idea, she thought to herself.

“Anyway, if yer gonna just stand around here like that, make yerself useful and help me in the garden for a bit,” he said, turning towards the patch of strawberries. Chiyo thought that they would taste delicious in crêpes.

Without being able to protest, she soon found herself in the very same strawberry field. Sitting in the dirt was not her favorite past time by far. Good thing the dress she decided to wear wasn’t light colored. She looked at the tiny bushes bearing fruits, the vibrant green leaves in stark contrast with the deep red of the strawberries. When was the last time she saw such a natural looking fruit? Has she ever? All of the fruits over in this world were neatly packed in plastic and back at home she only ever looked at food that was already served on the table, on the rare occasion she decided to eat it.

Harvesting all of these seemed like a tough job. Not one she was particularly keen on doing either. Then again, she’d take whatever got her as far away from Ruki as possible right now; he did not seem like someone who would go crouching in strawberry fields. However, she hardly knew him, as recent events highlighted painfully, maybe he was a strawberry enthusiast; who was she to tell. At the thought of him she rubbed the side of her neck where she had been bitten before.

Yuma looked like he was fully in his element, doing garden work. It was as if he was still the same as he used to be back then. Shuu sometimes used to tell her a bit about the ‘adventures’ he went on with Edgar. How they would collect firewood in the forest and how Edgar would teach him how to properly use an axe. He would also share the apples from his own garden with him. God, she hated apples so much because of this! They sometimes used to be the exclusive topic of the day even! What a downer in her mood... and it hadn’t been that great in the first place.

She and Yuma collected strawberries in silence for a while until Chiyo decided to break it:

“Can I ask you something?”

“Huh? What is it?”

“How did you… end up with Ruki and the others?”

She tried to ask her question sensibly, not knowing what or if it would tick him off. Last time she saw him before his ‘death’ he was running into the village fire like the moron she thought him to be. And Shuu never mentioned Edgar having any siblings, that coincidentally also were Vampires, so this was not a natural arrangement. Chiyo had barely managed to hold Shuu back from going after him; Shuu was an idiot too. A kindhearted idiot-kid.

And she was a coldhearted monster, because she would have never run into a fire to save any of her family. But wasn’t that exactly what she had always strived for? Being like the Vampires back at home, who had little remorse for people dying? Would those four guys ever run into a fire to save each other? It was quite obvious they weren’t related by blood, yet they still called themselves brothers and lived like a family. What a curious thing.

“Aren’cha a curious one…” he said eyeing her suspiciously, gaze locked into a frown.

Chiyo shifted uncomfortably and shrugged; she had never liked being observed like this, much less when the person looking at her in that way was actually supposed to have been incinerated centuries ago. Speaking with ghosts had never been on her list of things to try, even when her actual house was haunted by them frequently.

“You don’t think four people that aren’t really related to each other, living in a big mansion, pretending to be a family is bound to raise this exact question?” she asked. She had no idea where her sarcasm came from, she really should have held her tongue. This guy was massive, her own small frame tiny in comparison, and she was sure that if he wanted, he could tear her head off and play ball with it easily. And she liked her head being located on her shoulders.

“Ya clearly don’t know shit ‘bout family if ya go on spoutin’ garbage like that,” he said. He picked a few more strawberries and placed them into the basket before looking at her again.

“There’s a buncha things that make for a way stronger bond than blood, ya know?”

Chiyo would have loved to say something in return, but the truth was… Yuma was right. She had no idea what a real family was! Her own father hated her, and her mother was dead. And if she weren’t dead, she would probably hate her too.

“So those things you are referring to…”

“Make us family,” he said.

So, he wouldn’t tell her how he met Ruki. Not that she was really that surprised, they barely knew each other, after all. It was worth a shot though, she really wanted to know how they came to be this way. How did they stay hidden in the demon world for so long? There just was no way they went undetected like that. Sure, there was no way to know every single Vampire, but Chiyo liked to think that she had quite good intel, with being invited to banquets and other festivities. This manor did not exactly make her feel like these guys were poor either, so it was unlikely that they just were unimportant like that. If they were unimportant, they wouldn’t be here interfering with King Karlheinz’s sons in the first place. Granted, the past few decades she had avoided any ball in Eden in fear of running into Shuu, so she might have missed some things. Though, the king’s sons were as clueless as her.

The longer she stayed here the more it added to her confusion. She came here with questions that she wanted answers to; answers apparently nobody was willing to give her. Why couldn’t she be more patient or menacing… she could probably get answers out of everyone if she were menacing and scary. Yet everyone kept comparing her to tiny dogs instead – even Yui.

“I think I’m gonna go,” she said standing up and patting at her dress to get all the dirt away as best as possible.

“Giving up already? Damn ya aristocrats are all the same, huh,” he scoffed.

“The sun is giving me a headache.”

It was true, her head suddenly was pounding aggressively, and her vision started to get blurry. Black dots started dancing in front of her eyes and she felt faint. She groaned, rubbing her temples in an attempt to make it go away. She heard Yuma in the distance, calling out to her as she lost her balance and lost consciousness.

The headache came before she even opened her eyes. Moaning she sat up in… her bed? And she was in her pajamas?

“Damn it… what happened?” Her hand immediately went to her head in an attempt to soothe the pain in her temples.

“Ya passed out cold, like some damsel in distress.”

Yuma put down a bowl of something steaming hot right next to her before slumping into the chair across the room.

“Wha… what are you doing here?” she asked. Chiyo felt like her personal space had been violated again. And by a dead man no less! The way he so nonchalantly sat in that chair, resting his ridiculously long leg on top of his knee, thrumming with his fingers on the armrest and looking at her with this scrutinizing look. Couldn’t he just leave?!

“Weird way of thankin’ someone for bringin’ ya a meal, after bein’ out for a whole day,” he said and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Chiyo’s head snapped towards the tray with the bowl that had been placed next to her moments ago. It looked like savory rice porridge, with a fried egg on top. It smelled delicious, although Chiyo wasn’t sure if it was because it was actually delicious or because she hadn’t eaten in a long while.

“I…” suddenly she felt stupid. He was showing her kindness, and she acted so hostile towards him. In no way was he obligated to look after her. He could have just left her outside, but he didn’t…

“Don’t look so suspicious about it, I made it, so it’s not as good as Ruki’s, but’s still edible,” he said.

Chiyo took the bowl into both her hands; it felt warm and comforting. She looked up at the man across from her.

“That’s not it… I…” she sighed, “…thank you.”

Saying these words was ridiculously hard for her. She felt so embarrassed she could feel her cheeks flush as she ate the porridge.

“The hell are ya blushin’ for? It’s not a romantic gesture, so don’t even think about me in that way! Ruki would kill me if that happened.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

She looked up from her meal in confusion. Quite frankly, she wasn’t sure which part of his statement she was more surprised about. The fact he’d think she would ever consider seeing him that way or the fact that Ruki would disapprove of it happening.

“Huh?”

“What do you mean Ruki would kill you…?”

“He barely allowed me to carry ya inside, took care of changing yer clothes and all himself. Honestly, I know that guy said you were important or some shit, but I think the way Ruki behaves is way too much.”

It seemed like he was thinking out loud more than he was actually talking to her, but it also raised even more questions. ‘That guy’ said she was important? Who? And more importantly, had Ruki Mukami actually dared to undress her while she was unconscious?!

Heat rose to her cheeks as a thought of the scene invaded her head. Clearly, she was wearing bed clothes, which meant at some point her other clothes must have left her body, and if she could trust Yuma’s words, it was Ruki who took over after she was brought to this room. The possibility that he undressed and dressed her with closed eyes was really slim.

Suddenly she flung the blanket out of her way and stomped out of the room after discarding the empty bowl on her bedside table. She could faintly make out Yuma’s yelling in the distance, but there was a ring in her ears that made every sound seem extremely far away, almost as if she was underwater. She made her way over to Ruki’s room and threw the door open without knocking.

“Ruki!” she yelled at the man who sat in a chair, reading a book.

He looked up at her and raised an eyebrow.

“Guineapig,” he said.

Chiyo entered the room, the door closing with a loud bang behind her. She was furious!

“How dare you just undress me while I was unconscious?! None of you have any decency, do you?”

Ruki’s expression seemed unfazed by her outburst, bored even. He shut the book with one hand and sighed before standing up, looking down at the girl.

“I understand you are upset. Fine, I shall take note that next time you end up ill and bedridden I will just let you sweat it out covered in mud and dirt. And after you recover you then can take care of the dirty bed sheets, if you have no regard for the hard work of others. How does that sound?”

Chiyo drew away from him. She had nothing good to respond to that.

“Y… you know that’s not what I mean…” she said. Why did she have to feel so small every damn time she talked to him?

“Do I now?” He took a step towards her, and she flinched.

“You cannot possibly be upset because I saw your body while I changed your clothes, because if you were…” he looked her up and down, “you would not have come here barefoot, wearing only that sheer night dress of yours.”

The girl gasped and looked down. The light fabric was slightly see-through, the realization making her wrap her arms protectively around her upper body. She felt like her face was burning up at this point, but she still looked up at Ruki with a frown. If anything, it was his fault for choosing a nightgown that was like this!

He made another step forward and she forced herself to stand still, pretending like she didn’t want to run away as far as she could from this man. The way he made her feel scared her.

“I do wonder,” Ruki said.

Suddenly his arm wrapped around her lower back and pulled her into him. Out of surprise she lost her balance and put her hands on Ruki’s shoulders instinctively. Her chest was pressed firmly against his now, the fabric rubbing uncomfortably against the sensitive skin.

“…are you pretending to be this innocent on purpose?”

His dark eyes were studying her, as if she was some sort of mystery to be solved. Analyzing her every move, her every action. She could feel the need to squirm under his gaze, yet she was also unable to look away. Her breath quickened and her cheeks felt even hotter than before.

“Lilith is a natural temptress after all,” he said in a low tone as he lowered his head, stopping right before their noses could touch. It was as if a magnetic force drew her closer to him. She wondered; how would his lips taste on hers? Would they be just as cold as Shuu’s?

Shuu.

She swallowed hard. There was something carnal in her that really wanted to push her over the edge. As if it was cooing sweetly into her ear to forget everything and just give herself to the man right in front of her. That man whose arms were wrapped to firmly around her, taking her breath away but also giving her balance.

But thinking about Shuu tugged on her heartstrings. She couldn’t kiss anybody other than him, could she? She closed her eyes, hoping to regain some sort of composure this way. Ruki’s face was still right in front of hers and she could feel his breath on her skin.

“Let me go…” she whispered eventually.

And he did.

She looked at him in confusion until she regained a sense of self again. When she realized what had just happened her eyes widened in shock. She gasped and took a few tentative steps back, panting heavily. Then she turned on her heels and ran out of the room, shutting the door behind her loudly.

Her feet wouldn’t stop running until she reached her room and was able to lock herself in it. She slid against the wall, her whole body trembling. Nervousness? Arousal? Who could even tell?

Oh, this wasn’t good at all!

[imustbenuts]

Seadall, localization, food, EABS culture, and discussion of Eating Disorder. Trigger Warning.

tl;dr: Seadall is pandering to an East Asian Beauty Standard, technically does not have eating disorder, but is bordering on Disordered Eating, and both the writers and localizers know it.

Our first official male dancer of FE has a bit of a obsession over controlling his diet to a concerning degree. But is it actually an Eating Disorder? No, I don't think so. From my pov, this has everything to do with his job, a Dancer and the dreaded East Asian Beauty Standard (EABS).

EABS idealizes the fair skinned (asian colorism rAAAAGH), the lean and thin. Any level of fats or flaps are no good and is considered undesirable, or worse, a sign of one's gluttonous and even slothful character. IRL, that sentiment has become less pervasive, less judgemental and less awful than 10 years ago, but it's still around. Hell, it's in our Fire Emblems! Average out the body shapes of all dancers or even characters in FE and you'll see what I mean.

(are you in hell yet.)

This EABS is especially prevalent in 1 genre of media that comes pouring out of Japan and Korea... The Pop Idol scene. In Japan, the idol industry can be traced back to the 1960s, and though it has propped up the EABS, this standard's roots goes FURTHER back to even pre-colonialism era, to China and the Tang Dynasty where willowy female bodies were ideal. (That's 618-907AD.)

And when I say EABS, I will include the surrounding countries outside of Japan too. Similarities in culture and all that. Hence East Asian. (Don't be mistaken though. South East and South Asia also has to deal with this shit.)

But hey. I'm still talking about female EABS, right? Where does Seadall fall into this?

Uhhhh. Jumpscare. Surprise K-pop.

(ps i dont know k-pop as well so idk who these ppl are im sorry waaaaug)

Dancers and the Idol Industry

It's easier to see on the female side, but uh, that specific body shape is often achieved through extreme dieting. The body fat % is so low that the dancer's lower ribcage can be seen. Before shooting the dance or a performance, these idol's agencies will notify them to slim down to a certain goal, like say drop 2kg (4.4 lbs) or 4kg (8.8 lbs) in x time, and this is typical. Guys here are no exception.

Weight is manufactured. Looks to some extent (plastic... surgery....). The clothes too, are intentionally picked. Exposing the belly is common since it's the quickest indicator of skinniness.

But hey, I actually lied about the dieting part. It's not really dieting as it's actually straight up starvation, tbh. To lose that weight, the dancers/idols will often eat as little as some protein shake, a few fruits and maybe potato for fiber. Yes, it's as hellish as it sounds, and no, these people are unable to fully function with a calorie intake like this. Source for this claim will be in a video at the bottom of the post by youtuber chaebin n out, titled "How K-POP Destroys Your Body". So.

W̵͓͍̏͝e̴͉̾ḽ̷͈͐ĉ̶̠̝͋ö̶̤́m̷̲̒ê̶̬ ̶̧̅ṭ̷̘͑͑ö̵͇́ ̸̛͖̑h̵̳̿͝ė̶͕͉l̵̜͖̇͗ḻ̶̑!̴̪͊̉

Ok, but that's K-pop. What about J-pop?

Japan, where FE rolls out from, have J-pop, which is slightly different. J-pop idols also suffer from EABS but afaik it's not as extreme. Many contemporary J-pop idol groups like Atarashii Gakko!(left) and Babymetal(right) also Do Not make thinness a major selling point with their costuming. This is usually done through hiding the midriff, where belly fat most easily forms. (EABS is still in effect though, don't be mistaken! There could be just as extreme cases out there I'm not aware of ;_;)

So it seems like people kind of agree that obsessing about weight and developing body image issue is messed up.

Hopefully now I've established what is going on irl for Seadall's influences, and what is considered normal or extreme. Relatively anyway. (I hate EABS so much hhggr)

Let's detour to...

Food! Staples! What's normal?

An average meal in Japan consists of a variety of veggies, tofu and a serving of protein, which results in lower fat intake. Also, RICE is a major staple in these meals, so assuming the writers are approaching it with the best intentions, and how Engage's normal might appear to native Japanese audiences, JP Seadall's worry only seems to be on oily food intake and is not overly concerning to me.

In fact, here is an example of a staple set meal (teishoku) I ate over there last December. Yum yum:

Overall a very lean meal. So it's likely Seadall eats something similar-ish and not just greens.

Another important point is that in (East) Asia/Japan, oily food is seen as unhealthy and contributes greatly to cholesterol. This aversion to oily food is driven somewhat by EABS and... Health. I also promise most people are actually chill about this. ...Most people! Meat is yummy! Gyukaku and Ikinari Steak is popular and popping! That's why Seadall likes it after all.

So this is where Seadall's writing starts to contrast. For the most part in the EN version, he only worries about meat. In JP, it's technically oily food, which meat falls under, and he's worried about putting on weight.

Why the extreme worry tho...?

The logic for why all these matters so much to him is this: if a dancer is surrounded by other dancers who are reinforcing this EABS (mirroring the standards of the real world), then their only choice to stay relevant and keep their job is to commit to the same dietary choice and uphold the same EABS, or even have a EABS outperforming the standard.

Because a Dancer's job, or rather, Seadall's job is to pander to people's ideals of beauty. Hence his supports where hair and skin and food becomes a topic.

If he fails the standard, according to the J-pop and K-pop industry, he kind of fails at his job. Is it fair? Fuck no, but no matter what opinion we may think of the standard as outsiders, it remains that there is a LOT of social conditioning and manufacturing going on leading to... all of that. I scream too. I scream a lot, internally.

So what does Seadall look like to someone in this East Asian sphere...?

To the writers credit, they do push for Seadall to indulge more food that makes him happy for at least his mental well-being through the other characters.

This also happens to fall in line with Engage's low key theme of cherishing the moment.

With all I've explained, Seadall might come across as warning to those who over-worry about oily food consumption and trying to pander to an EABS to... chill the fuck out. That it's ok to just go eat some delicious yakiniku if you want to! Go off! If a female character who is concerned with this comes across as too vain, then let's have a guy do it and hope the point lands for the (potentially female) players.

And with all these missing context, it's very easy for one who isn't clued into this sphere assume that Seadall has some eating disorder or that the writers are advocating it. I don't think that's happening here at all. The localizers likely are aware of this missing context and have toned it down several levels for EN release. Wise move, tbh.

(progressiveness can be relative btw. something to keep in mind @_@)

So, is Seadall coming close to some kind of Disordered Eating? Possible. From what I see I think the writers are trying to push Seadall away from it, and trying to stop it from becoming a full blown Eating Disorder. Personally, again, I don't think he has an Eating Disorder.

However! Your Mileage May Vary. I only hope for my opinion and understanding to help inform others, not override it. What's normal for me isn't for everyone, and vice versa, but it's important to remember where Fire Emblem originates from.

And here's the last thing I promised: the video essay if you really want to dive into it:

And that's about it.

Hope this was interesting! Thanks for reading. 😄

EDIT: the Chinese net sphere is the exception to all of this, EABS is especially bad there

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 1

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter One: Vermont

[ Series Masterlist ][ Next Chapter ]

Series Summary: In her time tramping across the United States, Charlie Wanderlust has found life on the road to be challenging, but rewarding. When she makes enemies with a powerful figure, a bounty is put out for her capture. Din Djarin, a long-haul trucker and occasional bounty hunter, takes the job as a means to gain financial stability. Their paths cross, and as a result, the winding route of their lives are forever altered.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 3.3k+

Content / Warnings: modern-day au, alternating pov, second person pov, slow burn, vagabond ofc, dog grogu, enemies to lovers, bounty hunting, violence, swearing, truckers

Notes: Heeeeyyyy buddy. Rated explicit because the whole series is just gonna go under that umbrella, I don't care to get into nitty-gritty of rating systems with each chapter lmfao but it will eventually be explicit. I made a Spotify playlist for the series and cross-posted on AO3 (un: glitter_deity), links to both are on the masterlist! OK BIG KISSES HAVE FUN!

Charlie’s Rules for Living on the Road, RULE #3: Keep your wits about you. 

The tiny bar you’re in is shabby and crowded. All-American beer signs reflect red white and blue off the nicked-up mahogany bar top that’s so sticky and rich it reminds you of maple syrup. Fitting, considering you’re in Vermont, of all places. 

It reeks of expired hand sanitizer. A strange combination of rubbing alcohol and rotting fruit that your nose doesn’t really know how to sort, but you just know you hate it. Thought it would be worth gagging through, but apparently not. 

Despite how crowded the small dance floor was during your set, the tips were a fucking joke. Sixteen dollars. 

Anyway, Rule #3. 

The Paul Bunyan-esque bartender who agreed to let you play for tips must recognize that his patrons are cheapskates, because he approaches you from behind the bar and says, “Tough luck. Want me to make you a drink?” 

“I’ll take some water.” 

“Can make something harder if ya want. On the house,” he offers, pressing his wide palms against the bar.

“How about,” you click your tongue against the roof of your mouth, then tilt your head at the hard plastic menu display standing erect between his splayed hands, “some mozzarella sticks?” 

He raises a thick reddish-brown eyebrow at you, “Sure.” 

A satisfied smile spreads across your face and you lean against the bar, propping your chin up on your fist, “You’re a lifesaver. What’s your name?” 

“Jim,” he scoops ice into a tall glass and sprays water into it. 

A man wearing tawny carhartt overalls and a blaze orange stocking cap approaches the bar. Jim tosses a cardboard coaster in front of you and sets your water glass down, then ambles over to take his order. He tends to a few more customers and you surreptitiously size up their wallets. 

Once the demand for his attention wanes, Jim slides a parchment paper-lined basket of sizzling mozzarella sticks across the bar to you. 

“You’re a fucking saint, Jim, thank you,” you crack one open, revealing the gooey, cream-colored innards. Steam bursts from the chasm and scalds your fingertips. 

When you hiss and drop it, Jim chuckles, “Careful, they’re hot.”

“Thanks for the warning,” you tease, flashing a playful smile. 

He pulls up the sleeves of his heavyweight green and black flannel, “So what’s your deal, where you from?”

“I’m from everywhere, and nowhere,” you sigh, then meet his unamused dark eyes and explain, “Kind of a roamer. I’ve been tramping around the country for a while.” 

“All by yourself?” Jim raises his eyebrows, and when you nod he frowns, “Ain’t that kinda dangerous?” 

“Nothin’ I can’t handle. Get to meet all kinds of people, see all kinds of places. Always an adventure. It’s real living.” 

“And how long you been doin’ this?” 

“A few years now,” you answer, poking at the busted mozzarella stick to test its warmth, “Are you from the area?” 

“Born ‘n’ raised,” he looks around the bar, surveying the faces he must have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

“Do you like it?” you pinch off a piece of the fried food and pop it into your mouth. 

“Ain’t too bad,” he shrugs, “It’s familiar, ya know. It’s my home.” 

You hum in acknowledgment as you swallow your food, then press your elbows into the bar and lean forward, “Ever think of leaving it all behind? Seeing what’s out there?” 

Jim shakes his head and chuckles, “No ma’am, that’s not for me.” 

“Why not?”

“You’re just a curious thing, ain’t ya?”

Before you can retort, Jim is flagged down by another thirsty patron. You scarf down the greasy, scorching hot mozzarella sticks as he makes more drinks, then you push the bar stool out and call over to him, “Hey, can I leave my stuff here while I use the bathroom?” 

He glances up at you and nods in the affirmative. 

On your way back to the bar after your bathroom break, you stroll by a stack of heavy winter jackets sitting unattended at a table. It’s been on your radar since a group of four tossed them down about an hour ago. Since then, the jackets have only been revisited when their owners found their beer pitcher dry and in need of a refill. You couldn’t help but notice the sea of green inside one woman’s wallet before she returned it to its (terrible) hiding place. 

RULE #8: Take care of yourself. 

You squint up at a sign on the wall while your hand plunges into the pile of jackets. Your fingers brush up against the metal clasp of a wallet. You unfasten it and feel around for two bills, slipping them up your sleeve before walking away.

Adrenaline thuds through your heart, flooding your body with a weightless, buzzing energy. No matter how many times you’ve stolen, it’s still a rush. 

When you return to your seat, you heave your rucksack over your shoulders, then your guitar strap, adjusting it until the guitar is safely fastened at your back. 

“Taking off?” Jim asks as he clears your empty food basket from the bar. 

“I suppose,” you meet his gaze and flash him a cordial smile, “Gonna see if I can find a place to set up camp.” 

“You’re not sleeping outside, are ya?” he frowns, “Gonna drop below freezing overnight.” 

You shrug, “I’ll be fine.”

“Aww hell, I can’t let you do that,” he protests, then ushers you closer, “Tell ya what—There’s an empty apartment upstairs, why don’t you sleep up there? No furniture, but I figure you have a sleeping bag or something, yeah?” 

You search his face, trying to read his intentions and determine whether or not this is a safe offer to take. 

He must recognize your hesitation, because he adds, “I’ll give you the key, you can deadbolt it from the inside. Just leave it unlocked in the morning, ok?” 

“Really?” your eyebrows press together, “That would be… fucking amazing, actually.” 

He tugs a key ring from his front pocket and wrestles one of the keys off, then slides it across the bar to you, “First unit around the corner. Don’t make me regret it, ya hear?” 

Din slides his pen into the logbook’s spiraled spine and tosses it onto the empty passenger’s seat. He taps the tablet mounted on his dash and pulls up the load board, surveying available pickups in the area. 

After factoring in fuel prices and time on the road, he determines that none of them have a particularly high net gain. Not enough to take his 1999 Peterbilt 379 in for the repairs it so desperately needs, anyway. 

With a dissatisfied sigh, he pulls the cell phone from his pocket and dials Karga. 

“Din, my old friend, to what do I owe the pleasure?” the man’s jovial voice booms through the speaker. 

“Do you have anything in New England?”

Karga hums to himself. Din hears a few computer mouse clicks and the rapid clack clack clack of a keyboard, then Karga responds, “Let’s see here, I have a few bail jumpers, nonviolent offenses, in Maine, New Hampshire…”

“How much?”

“Five thousand for Maine, ten thousand for New Hampshire.”

“Anything bigger?” 

More humming, some clicks, then, “Ah! Look here, there’s a private bounty, last seen along I-89 in Vermont. Deliver dead or alive to Portland.”

“Portland, Maine?” 

“Oregon.”

“That’s too far.”

“It pays one-hundred fifty thousand.” 

Din raises his eyebrows. He’s silent as he considers this. His truck is in a tenuous state, but if he can make it there, he could get every repair needed. Hell, he could buy a whole new truck and still have excess money to donate to The Academy. 

“I’ll take it.” 

After hanging up, Din gets a new email notification on the mounted tablet. He leans forward and opens the message from Karga listing the details of the bounty.

Name: Charlie Wanderlust  DOB: Unknown, assumed to be aged mid-to-late twenties  Race: White Sex: Female Height: Estimated between 5’0” and 5’4” Weight: Estimated between 130 and 160 lbs Hair color: Blonde Eye color: Brown  Last known location: Near Williston, VT, Travel Plaza of I-89 10/14. Prior possible sightings: near Londonderry, NH, RMZ Truck Stop off I-93 10/12; near Newburgh, NY, Pilot Travel Center off I-84 10/8. 

Included are blurry CCTV stills of a petite woman, dressed head-to-toe in black, face mostly concealed by a bandana, stringy white blonde hair spilling down her back from beneath a beanie. The stills appear to be taken in some kind of warehouse, and show the subject pointing a handgun directly at a man whose hands are raised behind his head.

Another collection of photos, much clearer than the shoddy CCTV stills, show the target on her tiptoes, talking to a trucker through his rolled-down window. The snapshots depict them trading a plastic baggie and cash. A bloated dark green rucksack hangs off her back, and an acoustic guitar strap spans her chest, leaving the instrument hanging upside down, flush against one side of the sack. 

Din observes her profile and notes the pointed chin and hooked nose as distinguishing features that will make her easy to spot. He surmises that she’s using an alias, because there’s no way that’s a real name. Her posture and trigger discipline in the CCTV stills tells him that she boasts familiarity with gun safety, and is probably armed. She’s backpacking, likely hitching rides with, and selling drugs to, truckers.

When he pulls up a map on the tablet’s screen and traces the path between the sighting locations, he notices she’s trending north. Probably trying to cross the Canadian border, considering most bounty hunters won’t find the difficulties that would come with re-entering the United States worth it. Try explaining to the border patrol why a pretty blonde woman is being held against her will. That will go well. 

He zooms in on truck stops and gas stations further along I-89. The stretch of road he wants to search is approximately 200 miles away. It will take 3 hours to get there, maybe less. She doesn’t seem to be moving at a particularly fast rate, but her trajectory indicates she’s close to Canada. Probably only needs to hitch one or two more rides to get to the border. 

Din glances over his shoulder into the sleeper cab, at the wrinkly, white, satellite-eared French bulldog sitting at attention on his bed, “What do you think? Should we go catch a bad guy?” 

The dog tilts his head in response. 

“Come on, boy,” Din pats the passenger’s seat, then the dog hops off the bed in favor of the front seat. 

At 7 AM, just as you’re rolling your sleeping bag up, a knock sounds at the door, then the doorknob jiggles. 

You jump to your feet and approach the noise, hollering, “Yeah?” 

“It’s Jim.”

You unlock the door and swing it open to find the lumberjack bartender standing there with a steaming styrofoam cup in each hand. He’s wearing a new flavor of flannel long sleeve, this one checkered black and red, tucked into his dark blue jeans. His reddish brown hair is damp and slicked back, pale skin tinged pink by the cool air. Or rosacea. Or both. 

“Good morning,” you greet and step back to let him cross the threshold, closing the door behind him. The thuds of his heavy leather boots echo across the barebones efficiency apartment. 

“I got you a coffee,” he says and sets one of the cups on the kitchen counter. 

“Thank you so much, Jim,” you smile and meet his eyes. In the bright light of morning, they gleam a rich golden brown that feels warm and inviting. You drop your gaze and tuck a long strand of blonde hair behind your ear, then clear your throat before returning to your sleeping bag. 

As you roll it up, he tells you, “Figured I’d stop by and make sure everything went ok last night. You takin’ off this morning, then?” 

“That’s what it looks like,” you tie your sleeping bag tight with practiced efficiency, shove it into your pack, then zip it closed while muttering, “On the road again.” 

“Need anything else before ya go?” 

This man’s kindness and generosity is almost overwhelming. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s smitten with you. A concept that curdles your heartstrings.   

“Um… well,” you sigh and raise your eyes to meet his, “If you’re offering, I could use a ride to the truck stop off I-89.”

“Sure thing,” he grins, the apples of his cheeks pushing his eyes into crescents, “Ready to go now, or you wanna get some breakfast first?” 

“I’m ready,” you stand with a grunt and pull on your coat. He watches you do this, and when you glance up at him, he looks away and strokes his bushy beard, then takes a sip of coffee. 

Jim insists on carrying your bag out to his black pickup truck. You follow behind him, coffee in one hand, neck of your guitar in the other. The ride to Jolley Truck Stop is accompanied by a Sunday morning country music segment dedicated to Christian songs of the genre. The trees are all ripe with autumn colors, their leaves a gorgeous array of reds and oranges. 

“It’s so beautiful this time of year,” you comment as you watch the scenery go by, “Look at that foliage.”

Jim chuckles, “We have a name for the types of folks comin’ around here to look at the trees in fall.” 

“What’s that?”

“Leaf lickers.”

You swing your head over to look at Jim, who’s sporting an amused grin, then start laughing, “Leaf? Lickers?”

He snorts and nods, “Yes ma’am.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” you shake your head and look out the window again, “Have any exciting plans for the rest of the day?”

“Church, then a Patriots game,” he answers, “Where do you think the day’ll take you, Miss Charlie?” 

“Hopefully to Canada,” you murmur, “But we’ll see. Rule number six of living on the road: Embrace change.” 

“Good rule to live by,” Jim responds, flicking on his blinker to turn into the truck stop, “I’ll have to try that out for myself.” 

“You should, Jim,” you cast a warm smile his way, “Really, I mean it. There’s more to life than Milton. I think you’d like it out there.” 

When his truck comes to a stop, he shifts into park, keeping an eye on you as you open the passenger’s side door and hop out. 

You grab your rucksack and guitar, then tell him, “Thank you so much for your hospitality. I wish you the best of luck on all your future journeys, Jim.” 

“It was nice meeting you, Charlie,” he nods and gives you a wistful smile. 

With this, you slam the door shut and approach the sidewalk next to the truck stop, then take a moment to organize your belongings. After verifying you have all the things you need in the most accessible locations, you secure your rucksack and guitar on your back. Jim’s truck rumbles in idle for a while, but you don’t turn around until you hear him pull away. 

RULE #9: Do not get attached. 

Din is 5 miles out from the last place on his list, Jolleys Truck Stop, when the CB radio crackles to life. 

A voice cuts through, “Anyone see that blondie wandering around at Jolleys? Rusty Crawler, Over.”

“With the guitar? Interstate Blackbeard, Over.” 

Din’s heart skips and his spine straightens. 

“Aye-firmative, Blackbeard. She a lot lizard er what?” 

“Negative, Rusty, she has party favors.” 

He picks up his mic and asks, “Do you have eyes on her, Rusty Crawler? 38-91, over.”

“Do I ever, 38-91, wheeew,” the man jests. 

Din looks over at the dog, who was jolted awake by the radio. He starts panting, his buggy black eyes darting around the cab, little nub of a tail wiggling with excitement. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in question to his companion. 

“Boof.”

“Good,” Din chuckles in response, then turns his eyes back to the road.

You knock on the red Freightliner’s window and squint up at the driver as he rolls his window down, “Hey there. Are you looking for a west coast turnaround?” 

He grins and shakes his head, “No, darlin’, but I reckon I’m lookin for a friend if you’re offerin’ your company.” 

“Not on the table, I’m afraid,” you crinkle your nose and wave, “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Same goes for you, pretty girl,” he hollers at your back as you walk further down the row of idling rigs. An intuitive shiver runs down your spine; you suspect the man’s foul vibes are at fault. 

There’s a newcomer in the lineup: an old, silver Peterbilt, shiny with chrome details. The driver is wearing a black baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, but seems to be looking in your direction, so you wave. 

He waves back. 

As you draw near, he opens the driver’s side door and hops out of the cab. He’s broad-shouldered and tall. The sleeves of his black crewneck sweater pull taut around his chest and biceps. His posture is impeccable, his steps metered, and you’re immediately struck by the assertive energy radiating off him in waves. 

Another shiver creeps along your backbone. And it’s just an off kind of feeling that gives you pause, but you stop in your tracks. 

RULE #2: Listen to your gut. 

He puts one palm up towards you in a gesture of peace and says, “Charlie Wanderlust—”

“How do you know my name?” 

Your eyes flick to your distorted reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. The hair back of your neck stands at attention. You take a cautious backwards step. 

“I can bring you in warm,” he slides a gloved hand to the back of his cargo pants, “or I can bring you in cold.” 

Static booms in your chest. Your stomach plummets to the asphalt beneath your feet, and you scoff, “Fuck you, man, what the fuck are you talking about?” 

He tilts his head, as if to mock your feigned ignorance. 

A dog barks.

It pulls his attention away for just a second, but it’s long enough for you to turn and bolt in the opposite direction. 

All you can hear is your ragged breath and blood whooshing behind your ears and boots pounding against the pavement. 

Not just your boots. 

His, too. 

They get closer with every beat. 

A tug on your rucksack makes your heart gallop. You yelp and duck between two semi-trucks, pushing yourself as hard and fast as your legs can go. You reach the end of the rumbling trailer corridor and glance over your shoulder, only to find he’s not there. 

That moment is enough to blind you. 

It’s like you hit a wall, he’s just that fucking solid. 

You bounce off of him, and before you realize what’s happening, he’s slamming your face against a trailer door. His thick fingers tangle in your hair and close into a fist. 

“Fuck, that fucking hurts! What the fuck is your problem?!” you wail, thrashing in resistance as he rips off your guitar and tosses it to the ground with a twangy thunk that breaks your heart.

“Hey!” you bellow, “Be fucking careful with that!” 

The man strips your rucksack off next, dropping it at your feet. He grabs one wrist, pinching a handcuff around it, then the other.

“Stay there,” he pants, then picks all your worldly possessions off the ground and slings them onto his shoulders. 

He yanks the chain of the handcuffs, sending you stumbling back a few steps. You steady yourself, only for him to push you forward and throw you off balance again. Your vision goes red with anger. 

“Fuck you,” you spit through gritted teeth, “Fucking asshole.” 

He doesn’t say anything in response, just presses his hand between your shoulder blades and prods you onward. 

Rage bubbles between the layers of your skin. Every single insult in the book simmers at the back of your throat, but all that comes out is a strained growl. 

Then you put one foot in front of the other and let him lead you to your fate. 

[ Next Chapter ]

[twist3dw0nderland]

1. Would you have sex with the last person you text messaged? 2. You talked to an ex today, correct? 3. Have you taken someones virginity? 4. Is trust a big issue for you? 5. Did you hang out with the person you like recently? 6. What are you excited for? 7. What happened tonight? 8. Do you think it’s disgusting when girls get really wasted? 9. Is confidence cute? 10. What is the last beverage you had? 11. How many people of the opposite sex do you fully trust? 12. Do you own a pair of skinny jeans? 13. What are you gonna do Saturday night? 14. What are you going to spend money on next? 15. Are you going out with the last person you kissed? 16. Do you think you’ll change in the next 3 months? 17. Who do you feel most comfortable talking to about anything? 18. The last time you felt broken? 19. Have you had sex today? 20. Are you starting to realize anything? 21. Are you in a good mood? 22. Would you ever want to swim with sharks? 23. Are your eyes the same color as your dad’s? 24. What do you want right this second? 25. What would you say if the person you love/like kissed another girl/boy? 26. Is your current hair color your natural hair color? 27. Would you be able to date someone who doesn’t make you laugh? 28. What was the last thing that made you laugh? 29. Do you really, truly miss someone right now? 30. Does everyone deserve a second chance? 31. Honestly, do you hate the last boy you were talking to? 32. Does the person you have feelings for right now, know you do? 33. Are you one of those people who never drinks soda? 34. Listening to? 35. Do you ever write in pencil anymore? 36. Do you know where the last person you kissed is? 37. Do you believe in love at first sight? 38. Who did you last call? 39. Who was the last person you danced with? 40. Why did you kiss the last person you kissed? 41. When was the last time you ate a cupcake? 42. Did you hug/kiss one of your parents today? 43. Ever embarrass yourself in front of a crush? 44. Do you tan in the nude? 45. If you could, would you take back your last kiss? 46. Did you talk to someone until you fell asleep last night? 47. Who was the last person to call you? 48. Do you sing in the shower? 49. Do you dance in the car? 50. Ever used a bow and arrow? 51. Last time you got a portrait taken by a photographer? 52. Do you think musicals are cheesy? 53. Is Christmas stressful? 54. Ever eat a pierogi? 55. Favorite type of fruit pie? 56. Occupations you wanted to be when you were a kid? 57. Do you believe in ghosts? 58. Ever have a Deja-vu feeling? 59. Take a vitamin daily? 60. Wear slippers? 61. Wear a bath robe? 62. What do you wear to bed? 63. First concert? 64. Wal-Mart, Target or Kmart? 65. Nike or Adidas? 66. Cheetos Or Fritos? 67. Peanuts or Sunflower seeds? 68. Favorite Taylor Swift song? 69. Ever take dance lessons? 70. Is there a profession you picture your future spouse doing? 71. Can you curl your tongue? 72. Ever won a spelling bee? 73. Have you ever cried because you were so happy? 74. What is your favorite book? 75. Do you study better with or without music? 76. Regularly burn incense? 77. Ever been in love? 78. Who would you like to see in concert? 79. What was the last concert you saw? 80. Hot tea or cold tea? 81. Tea or coffee? 82. Favorite type of cookie? 83. Can you swim well? 84. Can you hold your breath without holding your nose? 85. Are you patient? 86. DJ or band, at a wedding? 87. Ever won a contest? 88. Ever have plastic surgery? 89. Which are better black or green olives? 90. Opinions on sex before marriage? 91. Best room for a fireplace? 92. Do you want to get married

[bidisasterevankinard]

Several Sentence Sunday

It should be seven yes, but I couldn't resist not to share all the scene I've just wrote in street dancer Eddie au. I love this so much

For mood that how they look and the song which inspired scene(I really recommend to put it on while you read)

“Wanna dance?” Eddie is already on his legs with his arm outstretched and in a slight tilt as if he was a gentleman inviting a lady to dance at a ball. His perfect red plump lips, which Buck knows now taste like fruit cocktails they drank and Eddie's favorite cherry lip balm, are folded into a bright grin Buck is always ready to kiss off. He hopes to do it soon, but now he wants to dance.

Buck puts his hand in Eddie's and he pulls him to the middle of the dance floor, without letting go of Buck's hand from his firm but soft grip. Eddie's hands are perfect as always, soft skin that Eddie moisturizes twice a day with banana body lotion, beautiful veins that are a little tense while they pull part of his weight on the dance floor, where only the two of them are in the spotlight. 

Eddie walks around Buck and stands behind him, snuggling so close that Buck doesn't feel a millimeter of space between their hot bodies. There are only his black t’shirt and one of Eddie's fucking tank tops between them, a loose white one that the dancer likes to wear to the club and to rehearsals with unfamiliar people because he likes attention to his body, likes to emphasize how good he looks, and his tops do an excellent job with this task. This white perfectly emphasizes the color of his tanned skin, which magically glows both in the light of the sun and spotlights, shades his dark brown intoxicating as whiskey eyes and dark soft locks of hair that everyone wants to pull in a kiss with this impossibly sexy man, and like all Eddie’s favorite tops, this one does not leave a drop of space to the imagination, not that Buck has not seen Eddie completely naked, and even more than once. Eddie knows how to make Buck salivate by looking at him and blue-eyed can't wait until Eddie will break him apart with his movements and then continue to take him apart somewhere else, making Buck see the stars in front of his eyes.

“Show me and everyone how I taught you to move those perfect hips of yours. Remember trust the music, your body, and me,” Eddie whispers, blowing hot air into Buck's ear, and then leaves a quick kiss on his neck and throws a nod to his friend, who at this moment turns on some kind of slow song. As soon as the song starts Buck can feel Eddie’s hips move and his yet soft cock rubs against his ass. Buck wants to play too, so without being shy even of the wolf whistles of the whole club, he begins to move his hips in movements that repeat the movements of his partner, dissolving into the music as Eddie taught him, but then the text begins and Eddie starts singing right into his ear and Buck moans softly.

“Used to be scared of the ocean 'Cause I didn't know how to swim I took one sip of your potion Now I'm just divin' right in,” Eddie's beautiful voice and light Texas accent, which is more noticeable when Eddie is a little drunk, gently wash over him like the waves of the ocean on a warm sunny day. Eddie, on the last line, moves one hand from Buck's pelvic bone, where he put them when they started to dance, so that now he hugs him across his chest, and his big palm lies on Buck's chest, gently rubbing his nipple.

“I heard your siren's call It was beautiful I am drowning But, please don't save me,” at the siren's word, Eddie makes an imperceptible movement with his hips forward, but Buck feels him rubbing against his ass even more, and directs his hips to meet the heat of his partner. 

In the last line, Eddie turns him over to face himself, to which Buck is ready to groan loudly for the whole club from the strength of these fantastic muscles, and how Eddie always shows Buck without hesitation how easily he controls him, and can play with his body like plasticine. Turning Buck to face him, Eddie puts his hands on his waist, and Buck puts his hands around Eddie's neck, there is no space between them again, only the clothes that Buck knows they will soon drop, and the energy that they share, which comes from both their bodies. It's the current, the electricity that Buck always wants to feel. He is ready for an electric shock, ready to die if it is in Eddie's arms, under him, or above him, while they give the best hours, minutes, and seconds to each other, reveling in the pleasure they give each other.

“I'm in too deep Can't touch the bottom with my feet Don't know what you did to me I can't breathe but I'm living I'm in too deep Can't touch the bottom with my feet Don't know what you did to me I can't breathe but I'm living,” Eddie punches through the entire chorus, then finally kisses Buck without stopping their movements, just adding a lip dance.

It's a long kiss that pulls all the air out of Buck's lungs, but he doesn't want to leave Eddie for as long as he can, he's ready to give up the air if he gets in return the opportunity to kiss Eddie always without looking up from his wild plush lips that know how to kiss him, so Buck loses his head always, that know how to give Buck pleasure that no one has ever given him, that know how to make Buck beg from just kissing his body, that know Buck's body so well that their master has a whole map of Buck's body made up only with his lips. 

Their tongues dance a pair dance to the music, exchanging the taste of cocktails that they drank just five minutes ago. But in the end,Buck needs to move away to take a breath of air, which is filled with the smell of Eddie, woody cologne, citrus shower gel, and the smell of cherries on his lips, because despite the fact that they do not resume the kiss, their lips are literally a millimeter away, so they can feel each other's hot breath on their lips.

They continue to move to the music, Eddie leads their dance, controls the direction of Buck's hips, indicating where he wants to turn his body.When the song ends, Eddie whispers into his lips, “Wanna go to the place without people?” 

“Show the way, cowboy.”

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[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Cerise, what a woman. I’d love to give you the image my mind inevitably created for her. I feel like she was one of those teens who carried so much trauma from her childhood, and was so so full of rage and she felt like she was destined for more, she was ashamed of being so desperate for money and luxury while having practically nothing. Leather jackets, cigarettes and small theft. I feel like she was one of those girls that wanted to have a motorbike but decided a car (a good car) would be more useful when she had big money —even though now she has a few cars and a few bikes. I also think she legally may have changed her name to Cerise, just because she wanted to be another person, she wanted to leave behind the girl she was to focus on the woman she is, no particular reason for that name, just because it’s elegant and it means cherry —a delicious fruit with a beautiful color, sexy, pretentious, vain. I also see her as a red head, probably as a part of that change she dyed her hair and got a perfectly made blowout. I don’t really have a reason for this one but maybe she wanted to leave everything behind so she completely changed her physical appearance, maybe some natural plastic surgery, training, to fit that image she had of an elegant woman. I see her wearing elegant outfits even to go to the grocery store to buy some bread and vegetables. Always a good nude (lily rose depp like) or red lipstick combo and a skin care and shower routine that lasts an hour every morning, just because. Lashes, eyebrows and nails always perfectly done. But internally, she still feels like she wants more, she deserves more, she’s ambitious, has little morals and maybe also is very cold and lacks empathy in some situations. She has lived many lives and will live as many as she had to, as a good survivor, that doesn’t mean she isn’t scared, but she will not hesitate to do anything if that ensures her own survival.

Honestly i’d love if you could give me some outfit inspo because i’d love to try and draw her, maybe i could include soap too. What do you think? Was i accurate? Please correct me if you think anything I said was wrong. I adore your writing, what a blessing to be able to read you every time. This story will stay with me, it destroyed the inspo block I’ve had for months. Thank you x.

AHH - this is so amazing, I love it. Some outfit inspo will be under the cut but I totally want to discuss characterization too because I love what you've brought up. And, omg, 100% - absolutely you can try to draw Cerise and Soap, I'm frothing at the mouth for them already.

Okay, characterization first (ultimately it's up to every reader how they characterize her, so don't take anything I say as law by any means, lol, but these are my own thoughts for her)! I agree with most of what you said! Cerise is totally burdened by her childhood and the trauma that follows it; she even explains that with her first encounter with pickpocketing her wrist literally got snapped back in two places.

She was never wealthy - never had money for anything to buy simply for the want to have it. She would see people with everything in the palm of their hand and become incredibly jealous/bitter at the fact that nothing she did would ever make any difference unless it was drastic.

Cerise 100% always keeps up appearances, she never wants to be perceived as anything other than beautiful or desirable, even if, deep down, she's utterly terrified that someone would get to know her on a personal level. She always flirts and talks so big about physical intimacy, but I think that it scares her just as much. Anything that can get a person close to her is like a threat and a danger to the empire she's built.

Ultimately, Cerise is a character who likes being alone because it's all that makes her feel safe, even if she's incredibly lonely. She openly admits she's vain and prideful, but I believe it stems from her own insecurities - she's a total dichotomy and a hypocrite of her own belief system.

She's prideful = she constantly needs herself to become better/do better

She's vain = she hates looking at herself in the mirror but still constantly does it

She's selfish = she openly talks about helping a man's wife when she required medical care

She's such a compelling character to me because she's utterly broken down and traumatized and she doesn't even realize it. She goes on about what she wants and deserves when the only thing she wants is to be loved and cared for like a human being. She's been so used in her life that everything has become a game of get-or-be-got.

Cerise is genuinely one of my favorite named reader-inserts I've ever created - it was so much fun writing her.

Okay, okay, ramble over - onto some inspo!!

I mentioned that Oxblood was her signature color in the fic, so just imagine these in that shade/hue/etc. Disregard skin color as well, this is just about the outfits!

I think these would fit what I had in mind - simple, elegant, but still has some personality to it!

If people envisioned something more out there/eye drawing we have these dresses-

Personally, I very much like the first of the eye-catching dresses, Cerise is a woman who likes a little flare - the sleeves are lovely and I like the corset add-on.

For jewelry, it's very much high-mass, Cerise was mentioned already wearing necklaces, earrings, etc. Many of which had gems, rocks, and fine metals. I'll leave that up to people's personal preference!

But I think that mostly covers Cerise, for Johnny I really just thought up a normal 3-piece suit except for the fact that he barely fit into it, lol.

But thank you so much for sending this in! It was so lovely. If you do end up drawing them, I would love to see it - I'm sure it'll be amazing!!

[green-mug-tomato-juice]

i pull the book out of my tote bag. i take this bag with me everywhere i go, and just the same carried the book with me for months. i wasn't reading; the book lay in the bag as a reminder, a sort of promise, that today would be the day i would read a few pages. that day never came, and now as i look at the book guilt washes over me, grief even, grief for the time i lost waiting for the day i start reading to come. i hold the book in my hands; a thin paperback, 150 pages. "giovanni's room". i read two thirds of it, and then the will to start the next chapter and eventually find out what happens to giovanni and david never came. i feel like i'm holding a small dead animal: fragile, helpless, its coat in horrible disarray from an accident suffered. only i know this is my doing. i let this innocent creature rot, and now i can't feel my hands. i flip the first pages, carefully, they are so soft at the edges i feel like they will crumble away with a single touch. i bend the folded corners in the opposite direction so they lay flat again. they don't though, because at the bottom of my bag the book was squished into a curved shape under my other, more important things. i've seen books that were a thousand years old, the pages brown and the ink pale and the language one that noone speaks anymore, yet this feels older somehow. like it aged a thousand years for every day of my neglect. i pick up the dog-eared page on which i stopped reading. david is welcoming hella back from spain. there's people chattering near me, and i can't concentrate to read and find out how it goes. their chattering isn't as loud as the voice in my head telling me to get my bloody hands off this hurt creature. i close the book, carry it in my hands upstairs to my room, lay it out in my lap, and begin taping the frail edges where they're ripped. it feels wrong, completely wrong, the way the pages feel like moss, soft and organic and soaked with atmosphere from every place i went the last few months. the tape is hard clear plastic, and i feel like i'm doing taxidermy on a teletubby. fur, a somewhat ancient invention of evolution, against a television tummy, hard and colorful and cold and lifeless.

as i flip on, i rub my sweaty thumb over the rolled up page corners, flattening them and softening them further by feeding them more moisture. they soak it up like it's their only life force, except it's their destruction, and i understand. we want comfort, we want to be soft, we want what makes us vulnerable. that's the inevitable conclusion to living. sometimes you get stuck in a warm, dark place, neglected by yourself, or others, or both, and you get so worn down that the bends, folds and ripped edges will last forever, patched up provisionally but never truly healing.

i look at the book from all sides, okay with the work i've done, and finally bend the whole thing in the opposite direction of its damage. it lays a little flatter as a whole, but the pages still strain like they want to go back to the position they were in at bottom of my bag, comfortable being forgotten in the dark, uncomfortable with suddenly being out in the light. i carefully lay it out on my nightstand, put my box of embroidery thread on top, forcing the corners into place, and for lack of better heavy items, put some fruit on top. two apples and three bananas. a strange towering weighted blanket for this creature that has unlearned being loved; that only knows love as something that squishes you away like a secret promise, making you as small and invisible as possible. but i realise then that even this book, this broken thing, is worth caring for. for how damaged it is, it still contains all the words to a story, one worth being told.

step 9: making amends. i want to find out what happens to giovanni. i will hold the book carefully, flip the pages carefully, lovingly, and lay it to rest under its weighted blanket when i'm done. until one day, maybe it can lay flat and relaxed all on its own again.

i get up, i shuffle because my back hurts, having sat bent over in guilt for too long. my spine will feel it for a day or two. but then i will need to lay myself out flat, under my own weighted blanket, and let the folded and bent and ripped parts of me relax, and slowly become able again to stand up straight again, head held high, and look people in the eye. as i've put this book back together, i've found the part of myself that needs taping. i pick up the pencil, ready to tell my story, just like the book will tell james baldwin's story again.

[cariantha]

MAKE ME ADMIT STUFF

Originally intended as a "get-to-know the blogger" ask game, but I think they would be fun to answer for MCs and LIs.

So, ask away!

Would you have sex with the last person you text messaged?

You talked to an ex today, correct?

Have you taken someone's virginity?

Is trust a big issue for you?

Did you hang out with the person you like recently?

What are you excited for?

What happened tonight?

Do you think it’s disgusting when girls get really wasted?

Is confidence cute?

What is the last beverage you had?

How many people of the opposite sex do you fully trust?

Do you own a pair of skinny jeans?

What are you gonna do Saturday night?

What are you going to spend money on next?

Are you going out with the last person you kissed?

Do you think you’ll change in the next 3 months?

Who do you feel most comfortable talking to about anything?

The last time you felt broken?

Have you had sex today?

Are you starting to realize anything?

Are you in a good mood?

Would you ever want to swim with sharks?

Are your eyes the same color as your dad’s?

What do you want right this second?

What would you say if the person you love/like kissed another girl/boy?

Is your current hair color your natural hair color?

Would you be able to date someone who doesn’t make you laugh?

What was the last thing that made you laugh?

Do you really, truly miss someone right now?

Does everyone deserve a second chance?

Honestly, do you hate the last boy you were talking to?

Does the person you have feelings for right now, know you do?

Are you one of those people who never drinks soda?

Listening to?

Do you ever write in pencil anymore?

Do you know where the last person you kissed is?

Do you believe in love at first sight?

Who did you last call?

Who was the last person you danced with?

Why did you kiss the last person you kissed?

When was the last time you ate a cupcake?

Did you hug/kiss one of your parents today?

Ever embarrass yourself in front of a crush?

Do you tan in the nude?

If you could, would you take back your last kiss?

Did you talk to someone until you fell asleep last night?

Who was the last person to call you?

Do you sing in the shower?

Do you dance in the car?

Ever used a bow and arrow?

Last time you got a portrait taken by a photographer?

Do you think musicals are cheesy?

Is Christmas stressful?

Ever eat a pierogi?

Favorite type of fruit pie?

Occupations you wanted to be when you were a kid?

Do you believe in ghosts?

Ever have a Deja-vu feeling?

Take a vitamin daily?

Wear slippers?

Wear a bath robe?

What do you wear to bed?

First concert?

Wal-Mart, Target or Kmart?

Nike or Adidas?

Cheetos Or Fritos?

Peanuts or Sunflower seeds?

Favorite Taylor Swift song?

Ever take dance lessons?

Is there a profession you picture your future spouse doing?

Can you curl your tongue?

Ever won a spelling bee?

Have you ever cried because you were so happy?

What is your favorite book?

Do you study better with or without music?

Regularly burn incense?

Ever been in love?

Who would you like to see in concert?

What was the last concert you saw?

Hot tea or cold tea?

Tea or coffee?

Favorite type of cookie?

Can you swim well?

Can you hold your breath without holding your nose?

Are you patient?

DJ or band, at a wedding?

Ever won a contest?

Ever have plastic surgery?

Which are better black or green olives?

Opinions on sex before marriage?

Best room for a fireplace?

Do you want to get married?

Feel free reblog for your characters too!

Source: @lost-head-adventure-deactivated

[cupidsdolll]

pumpkin

It’s not fall if you haven’t carved a pumpkin yet. There's no way, it’s one of the major events during the whole season, like literally almost everyone does it now. Not to mention, a couple of neighbors have already gotten theirs and have fake plastic ones out to hold the real ones in place. And sure, maybe it’s just a silly little tradition and doesn’t matter to most people, but there’s just something about doing it with someone you love that makes it so much better.

But you know Harry never had the best experience with Halloween and doesn’t necessarily want to do anything scary. He’s been hesitant to do anything Halloween related since you’ve been together and it’s perfectly understandable. So you beg and beg and promise it won’t be as bad, and you won’t even do a scary face like you really want to do. You tell him it’ll be a happy pumpkin to welcome everyone in instead of scaring them away, and even then you can still sense the uncertainty of it all in his body language. You pull out your secret weapon though, you stare at him all wide-eyed and pout your lips. You know he can’t say no to that face, all of his friends know. It’s his one weakness.

He sighs before agreeing, but the moment anything that might trigger him happens the event and festivities are done. You nod excitedly before hugging him tightly, expressing your thanks to him excitedly and promising that nothing’s gonna happen. You can’t wait to go to the small pumpkin patch and pick out the perfect pumpkin, carve out a silly little face, and share the magical moment (at least for you) with one of the main people in your life.

Within the next couple of days, you’ve finally freed some time in both of your schedules to go to the small pumpkin patch to pick out the most perfect one. As you two wander around, eyes roaming over all the options before coming across a tiny little pumpkin you can’t help but to coo excitedly over the little fruit.

“Haz!!! Look at the little pumpkin!” Your face lights up as you lean down to pick it up, holding it gently as if it were made of glass. He laughs fondly at the girl before following behind, his eyes full of adoration for you.

He can’t help but to watch you fondly even as his arms somehow became full of different colors of the tiny pumpkins, your mission to find the pumpkin to carve seemingly forgotten once you found out there was more than one of the smaller pumpkins. He can almost barely carry them all, and there’s no way you can find more. You must have managed to find all of the small pumpkins in the whole patch, and how did you even manage to just find them all and breeze by all the normal pumpkins?

After a couple of minutes and a few dropped pumpkins, you finally gave up on your hunt for the miniature ones and settled for a decently sized-pumpkin. Harry had to grab a heavy-duty bag from a man in the lot who held onto an armful of bags for this exact scenario it seems, making sure to thank him before returning to you and dumping all of your ‘pumpkin babies’ into it and holding the bigger one in his arms.

Once you both got home, you immediately had Harry call over his group of friends to invite them over to draw faces on the small ones, while you and him carved out your own to keep outside your house. Obviously, you didn’t have the proper things to carve out the pumpkin, so you used one of your bigger kitchen knives and had Harry hold onto a smaller one to do the face.

Once you managed to cut off the top and began scooping out the guts, you glanced beside you to see Harry with a look of disgust on his face. You laugh to yourself, while the sound of the other adults conversations fill the room. Some were filled with happiness, while some sounded annoyed like their partner wasn’t doing something wrong. You happily carved out the face, and Harry… well he just stood there holding the knife until called upon like a nurse in the operator room.

[sec0ndsec0nd]

🐇       —       blasting  nothing matters  by  the last dinner party  down  main  street  we’ve  spotted  bonni wang  sporting  their  signature  mischievous smirk.  the  twenty - eight  year  old  vampire / rabbit - shifter  who’s  been  in  town  for  on-and-off her whole life  often  can  be  seen  snooping around people’s personal business, lounging everywhere as a bunny,   collecting unnecessary junk or  working  as  a/n  owner  at  second chances.  people  say  they  display  friendly  and  possessive  traits,  but  we  rather  trust  their  vibes:  the smell of peeling an orange, wanting to be on time and always a few minutes late, cuddling the ones you love.  also,  we’ve  heard  they  love  fresh vegetables !   aren’t  they  fascinating ?

'𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪' 𝘣𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘺 …. 𝘩𝘢𝘩𝘢,, 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 ?

basics:

full name:  bonni ruby wang.

nicknames:  bo, bon, bonbon, bunny bon, boni bunny, bunnicula + give her more!

gender:  cis woman.

pronouns:  she / her.

sexuality:  panromantic + pansexual.

aesthetics:  the smell of peeling an orange, wanting to be on time and always a few minutes late, cuddling the ones you love

age:  28.

date of birth:  13th of september.

zodiac sign:  virgo.

residence:  lives with jasper ( roommie ). ex cave dweller.

occupation:  owner of second chances.

species:  vampire + ( bunny ) shifter hybrid.

appearance:

faceclaim:  chase sui wonders.

voice claim:  chase sui wonders.

height:  165 cm. ( 5'5 )

build: wider hips + average build, little pouch.

eyes:  brown.

hair: brown with two front blonde streaks ( also seen in her bunny form ).

piercings:  regular lobes, industrial on right ear + conch on left ear.

tattoos:  patchwork sleeve tattoo.

other distinguishing features:  freckled cheeks. bright smile.

style:  oversized-vintage t-shirts, comfy colorful socks, blue mom jeans, cable knit sweaters.

personality:

mental health:  undiagnosed adhd + add.

likes:  food, fresh veggies + fresh fruits !!! sunny days, lounging around, adventures, being nosy.

dislikes  cocky people, loneliness, the impending dread.

hobbies:  collecting weird things!!! , being in people's business, destroying things ( imagine rage room - ing freely outside of rage room ), going on adventures ( kind of an adrenaline junkie even if she is sooo scared ).

family:

mother:  alive.

father:  alive.

siblings:  11 sibling, 12 children total. bonni is somewhere in the middle !

spouse / lover:  single.

pets:  she is a pet.

about:

bear with me, bonni is a new muse and i mostly develop muses as time go by!

but! she comes from a biiiiiiiig family. mom is a vampire and dad is a bunny shifter. very odd combination, but it somehow works! they've been together for forty years and counting.

bonni both hates and loves her family + parents. it's complicated. they mostly have a good relationship and she visits them often (her parents reside in portum, siblings are all over the world)

bonni is stubborn, sassy, nosy but also friendly and very very loyal! if you befriend + form a close relationship with her she'll stick to you like a glue.

very big on physical contact. everyone's getting their face squished!

collects sooo many weird things - plastic ducks, barbie doll heads (just heads!), miniatures of wine bottles just to name a few! that also means, she is stealing /borrowing your stuff to her collections !

owns second chances after her parents transfered the ownership for her 18th birthday. they really said 'ur adult so here is a gigantic responsibility'

goes on, what she likes to call, adventures outside of portum. disappears for weeks and comes back with crazy shit - load of stories.

she is basically my tribute to all the weird awkward off - putting girlies <3