#Spice Extract Market

[sinkovia]

Yes, Lieutenant: I

Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

Violence, suggestive themes.

Yes, Lieutenant Masterlist

Under the scorching sun, the team gathered in a huddle as Price provided the final briefing for the mission in Al Mazrah. Intelligence had pinpointed the location of Iván Espiga, Valeria's new right-hand man.

The stakes were high – capturing him was crucial for extracting any information about Valeria's potential hideout following her escape from Alejandro's prison.

As you move swiftly through the labyrinthine streets of Al Mazrah, your eyes flicker over to Alejandro, engaged in small talk with a local vendor.

Vigilant, you keep a watchful eye on his back, prepared for any indication of trouble. The urgency to find Ivan before he slips away from the city fuels every step.

Navigating through the bustling market, you seamlessly blend in with the local populace, your senses attuned to the surroundings. The air is thick with the scents of spices and the murmur of haggling voices.

Alejandro and you find a momentary refuge under an overpass, your eyes scanning the crowd for any signs of Ivan's presence. Amid the ambient sounds, your radio crackles to life, interrupting the tension.

"Bravo 1-1, this is Echo 3-1, how copy?" Alex's voice crackles over the comms, and you glance at Alejandro, your silent communication understanding the urgency in the situation.

"Alex, talk to me. You pick anything up?" Alejandro queries.

"Affirmative. You see that big tower with the bell. It's south, about half a click away from our entry point." you and Alejandro began to move.

"I see it. We are down the street from it. Two minutes. How far are you and Farah?"

"About five minutes. Do not engage, wait for Ghost and Soap to rendezvous."

"Copy, out."

As you approached Ivan's supposed safe house, the atmosphere grew tense. Guards were everywhere, and infiltrating without being seen would be a challenge. Taking cover behind crumbling walls and rusty vehicles on the side of the safe house, you instinctively took the safety off your weapon, ready for any unexpected confrontation. 

In the distance, a faint whistle caught your attention, and you saw Soap with Ghost following closely behind, both crouched behind some barrels. Glancing around the perimeter, you signaled to them that it was safe to cross over and join you.

Soap approached your side, speaking softly. "Aye there, lass. Are Alex and Farah here yet?" 

You turned to Soap and nodded your head. "They mentioned they were slightly behind the rest of us. They're probably still making their way over," you replied, noticing Ghost crouched behind you, his gaze fixed upon you. 

Despite his hunched position, his dominating presence was evident, his towering figure, broad shoulders, and muscular frame drawing your attention. As you held Ghost's gaze, his brown eyes burned a hole through you. Even in the midst of tension, he exuded a calm demeanor that caught you off guard.

A deafening explosion rocked the air, ripping you from your thoughts. Peering over the wall, you witnessed the front gate of the safehouse blown up, and men in civilian clothing rushing through the debris. The chaotic scene sparked questions – was the safe house under attack by a rival gang?

Gunfire erupted from every direction as bullets whizzed past, kicking up dust and debris. The team ran for better cover behind the safe house, adrenaline surging through your veins. Ghost turned around, and all attention focused on him.

"This is our only chance to infiltrate while we still can before Ivan catches wind and leaves. Soap, I want you to breach the back door so we have a way in. Alejandro and I will clear the first floor, Y/N and Soap will find the stairs and clear the second."

Soap quickly planted and detonated the door, the team moving in unison. Bullets found their marks, dropping cartel members one by one. With the path clear, you and Soap advanced towards the stairs, leaving Ghost and Alejandro to handle their assignments.

Slowly ascending the stairs, you and Soap took out a few enemies, clearing each room systematically. As you opened another door, a man lunged from behind, slicing your arm. Reacting quickly, you slammed the door against him, sending him sprawling back into the room. Soap entered from the room across, pointing his gun at Ivan.

"It's over, Ivan, we have you like a cornered rat," Soap's Scottish accent cut through the tense atmosphere.

While Soap remained oblivious, you noticed Ivan's hand slowly reaching for something next to him. Your eyes zeroed in on a small pocket knife, just inches from his grasp.

Acting swiftly, you grabbed a throwing knife and aimed for his hand. The knife went through his hand and embedded itself in the floorboard below, incapacitating him from reaching the weapon. Ivan screamed in pain, unleashing a string of curses.

"Ahora sabes cómo se siente, perra. Mira lo que le hiciste a mi brazo" (Now you know how it feels, bitch. Look at what you did to my arm). You turned your arm to show him the small cut he had inflicted, and he sneered through the pain.

"Eso no es nada comparado con mi maldita mano. Te voy a matar, perra" (That's nothing compared to my fucking hand. I'll fucking kill you, bitch). You laughed as you retrieved handcuffs from your vest and secured them on his wrists. Rendezvousing with Ghost and Alejandro downstairs, Ghost noticed your arm.

"You alright sergeant?" you look at him a bit confused before you realize he's talking about your arm.

"Oh yeah, it's just a graze L.t I'm good" You hold eye contact for a couple of seconds before breaking away to walk outside through the back door you breached. You all made it back safely to the exfil where Price was waiting.

The mission in Las Almas spanned three days, and you are eagerly anticipating a much-needed shower. After checking your weapons back in, you make your way to your room to get a change of clothes and your shower bag. You head towards your personal shower, turning the knob you wait for it to warm up. However, after running cold water for about five minutes, you curse to yourself.

"The hot water probably isn't working on this side of the base"

For fucks sake. With a sigh, you collect your belongings and navigate your way toward the communal showers. It's 3 am, so fortunately, the area is pretty empty with everyone else heading to bed or watching the interrogation with Ivan. As you turn on the water, you shed your clothes, allowing the warm cascade to envelop your body. The sensation of scrubbing and lathering your hair fills your senses, the fragrance of your shampoo adding a refreshing touch.

Lost in your own thoughts, your peace is abruptly interrupted by the sound of someone entering the shower area. The walls dividing each shower stall aren't particularly tall, granting you a clear view over the top. Curiosity piques, and you cautiously peek your head over the wall, spotting the familiar sight of a Ghost mask.

"Im guessing your shower was cold too huh?" you remark, turning back around to rinse the shampoo from your head.

"Shit was colder than the motherland" he states in his brooding voice, eliciting a laugh from you. Ghost's rare sense of humor always brought a welcome respite from his typically solemn demeanor.

"How's the arm?"

"It was nothing, won't even leave a scar" he hums in response. Both of you shower in silence, and as you turn off the water, Ghost does the same. Reaching out to grab your towel, you realize with a mental curse that you left it behind in your bathroom.

Frustrated, you turn to Ghost, "Hey, Ghost, could you do me a favor? I left my towel in my bathroom. Would you mind getting one for me from the cabinet?"

He steps out of his shower stall, only in a towel that dangerously hangs low around his waist. The alluring sight of water droplets cascading down his chiseled chest captures the soft glow of ambient light. Each droplet follows its own path, delicately tracing the contours of his well-defined muscles, only to vanish upon reaching the edge of the towel.

You watch the subtle movement of his muscles beneath his skin as he reaches into the cabinet to grab a towel. Before you can register the intensity of your gaze fixed on his exposed torso, he stands in front of your shower stall, towel in hand.

"And here I thought I was the one with a staring problem," he teases, a blush heating your face as you hastily take the towel without uttering a word.

Oh god, what the fuck is wrong with you. Ghost just caught you staring at him like some hungry ass dog. You mentally let out a string of curses as you begin to dry yourself off. Quickly changing into the fresh clothes you brought; a pair of black sweatpants and a short-sleeved black shirt.

Slipping on your slippers, you step out from the shower stall. You make your way towards the counter adorned with a small mirror. Ghost emerges from his own shower stall, now dressed in a combination of sweatpants and a form-fitting short-sleeved t-shirt.

"I'm sorry for staring earlier, it was rude and I shouldn't have done it" He halts his approach towards the door, diverting his path to stand directly in front of you, his imposing figure towering over your smaller frame. A sense of vulnerability washes over you as you instinctively try to retreat, only to find yourself trapped by the counter.

"Why were you staring?" he asks, taking another step towards you, his hands firmly planted on either side of the counter, effectively caging you. Caught off guard by his question, you struggle to find the right words.

"I, um, I-I don't..." you stumble over your words, flustered by how close he is and the intensity in his gaze as his head tilts slightly to the side, his eyes land on your lips.

"Come on, Sergeant, use your words," he urges, his tone laced with a hint of teasing, igniting a rush of heat to your face. You find yourself at a loss for words, paralyzed by the way Ghost is addressing you.

"I don't know what to say, Lieutenant," you finally exhale, almost in a whisper, lifting your gaze to meet his eyes that meet yours with unwavering intensity.

In a daring move, he raises his hand, his fingertips brushing against your jawline, trailing down to your chin. With gentle yet deliberate force, he cups your chin, his thumb grazing over your bottom lip.

"Should I help you then sergeant?" he mutters, causing your heart to race within your chest, and your knees threaten to buckle beneath you. 

"Yes," you breathe out, releasing a shaky breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

"Yes, what, Sergeant?" Ghost's grip on your chin tightens slightly, not enough to cause pain, but enough to assert his dominance in the moment.

"Yes, Lieutenant," you mutter, your cheeks growing warmer at the closeness between the two of you, acutely aware that anyone could enter the showers and catch you in this compromising position.

"Good girl," he utters, his free hand lifting his baklava to rest atop his nose. Before you can fully absorb his features, his lips press against yours. On instinct, your hands rise, one resting on his shoulder and the other on the back of his neck to let you deepen the kiss. Bodies entwined in a heated exchange, you both press closer, driven by a ravenous desire for one another.

His hand trails down from your jaw to your throat, giving a gentle pressure that elicits a breathy moan of pleasure. With a sense of urgency, he hoists you up and settles you on the edge of the counter, stepping into the space between your legs, you felt him press against you. 

Whose horse is that?

The friction between you causes a low moan to escape your lips as desire courses through your veins. You've never had sex with anyone before but you know if this is where it's heading, you would let ghost be your first. Your tongues melt together in a frenzied embrace, exchanging kisses that leave you both breathless, gasping for air.

As you part, gazing up at Ghost through hazy eyes, he looks down at you, his gaze shifting from your eyes to your lips, down to your body, and back up again.

Something changes in his expression, his lustful look morphing into the cold, distant gaze he always carries. He releases his hold on you and abruptly pushes himself away from you, turning and leaving the showers without explanation, disappearing into the unknown, and leaving you alone.

[buffetlicious]

If all Zong Zi or Rice Dumplings look the same to you, you’re not alone! Zong Zi (粽子) or Bak Chang are a variety of glutinous rice dumplings traditionally eaten by the Chinese during the Dragon Boat Festival (端午节). Here are six types of popular Zong Zi from various dialect and ethnic groups in Singapore.

Hokkien Rice Dumpling (福建咸肉粽) - One of the most common Zong Zi that can be found in markets and stores, the Hokkien Zong Zi is wrapped in bamboo leaves is recognized by its dark appearance from soy sauce infused rice and distinct aroma from the five-spice seasoning. Usually made with pork belly, salted egg yolk, chestnuts and dried shrimps.

Cantonese Rice Dumpling (广东咸肉粽) - The ingredient that sets Cantonese Zong Zi apart is the filling of mung beans or green beans. One can also order a variation with a salted egg yolk. The glutinous rice is also seasoned with salt and garlic oil instead of soy sauce.

Nyonya Rice Dumpling (娘惹粽) - The Nyonya Zong Zi is the most distinguishable rice dumpling for its bright blue tip that is typically made from the extract of the butterfly pea flower. It is also sweeter in taste and aroma because of its pandan leaf wrapper and candied winter melon.

Teochew Rice Dumpling (潮州粽) - The savoury yet sweet taste of a Teochew Zong Zi comes from various ingredients such as red bean paste or lotus paste, fatty pork belly, earthy mushrooms and dried shrimp. Chestnuts are also added to the dumpling for texture.

Hainanese Rice Dumpling (海南肉粽) - The Hainanese Zong Zi’s most distinctive trait lies in its portion. It is filled with generous chunks of pork belly, whole chestnuts, mushrooms, and seasonings of savoury additions like five-spice powder, dark soy sauce, and black pepper. It is also usually served with a dollop of palm sugar syrup, adding a nice balance of sweetness to its savoury and slightly spicy flavour.

Hakka Rice Dumpling (客家粽) - Steamed in bamboo leaves, the Hakka Zong Zi consists of preserved vegetable filling, juicy pork belly strips and savoury mushrooms. It is also sometimes filled with beans.

Zong Zi info from here and images from Ministry of Culture, Community and Youth.

[tremendum]

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Me and the Devil; v

(not my gif)

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previous next series masterlist

word count: 8.7k

summary:  "Paul's breaths are as sharp as yours; both of you like wild, scared beasts being hunted by something you cannot see. Something in the back of your mind tells you that you should not be wasting your anger on each other."

warnings: canon-typical violence, blood, v light smut, brief oral (m!receiving), choking, height difference mentioned (paul is taller), more mommy & daddy issues, nothing else i can think of but always lmk if you see anything.

notes: back with another chapter! Paul and r are once again Confused by everything that is happening, and keep going back and forth with each other,, But they're learning to use their words <3 Referendum is nearing closer and things are beginning to happen!:)

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Houses Prepare to Assemble for Landsraad Council

In preparation for next week's Space Trade Referendum, representatives from across the galaxy have begun to prepare their travels. This pivotal meeting, set to take place on the planet of Kaitain, will see the great houses Major and Minor deciding on crucial matters, foremost among them the future of space trading routes.

Along these decisions next week will be the final arraignment in the case of House Bourbon, as well as proposals to establish standardized protocols for resource extraction and deposit of space debris. Expected to be on the agenda is the recent and surprising disruptions in Spice supply, which has forced the Spacing Guild to explore alternative fuel sources in preparation for the increased traffic of intergalactic travel for the Referendum. Nexarite and Petroleum have been suggested by Guild engineers: Though Nexarite proves to have dimensional warping implications if used at lightspeed, petroleum is secondary and similarly less effective. 

Pressure has befallen Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, whose governance over the planet Arrakis holds him with the most power in the Spice trade; While petroleum may serve as a stopgap measure in the absence of spice, its inherent limitations underscore the urgent need for a sustainable long-term solution to the galaxy's energy consumption.

Will there be a decision drawn up at this Referendum, or will the scarcity of spice thrust the market power of these new fuel sources? 

- Collected Galactic News report sent to Duke Leto Atreides, 10191. Caladan. 

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You wake up with a gasp and fly upwards.

The sun is still slumbering - the sky a deep royal blue, castle so silent you can hear the waves crash against the cliffs below. You swallow breaths as they lurch down your throat, fighting off a cold sweat, a haunting; Paul's eyes - the fear, the recognition. Familiar.

You find the pitcher of water that was left for you and down almost half of it straight from the glass, letting it dribble from the sides of your lips as you gulp, the drops sliding over your damp skin and onto your trembling breasts. 

The wall is stagnant under your gaze - there are dried lingonberries that remain on your resting table, harvested fresh for you days ago. You don't know why you asked Hestia to keep them there when she was cleaning. Their sickly scent infiltrates your mind, stomach turning queasy. 

Mindlessly, you blink back the images of Paul's gasp, the blood flowing from his porcelain skin, the gritting of his teeth as he'd slumped against you. 

You're very troubled.

In a moment of weakness, you almost pull your robe on to seek Paul and tell him, but a nervous part of you suspects he may already know what you dreamt. The look in his eyes was so.. familiar; as if... 

You swallow hard. Perhaps you should have just told him. Told him all of it, even if he already knows it - about the breeding programs, about the selective mating, the Kwisatz Haderach; The reason it was so quickly approved for you to become Paul's child-bearer when Feyd-Rautha was no longer an option for you.

Fuzzily, you try to recall the nagging familiarity that his words yesterday had left you with. One of two, he'd said. You chew on your lip until it is raw. 

Guilt swirls in your stomach, but you stay put, sitting still below your bedsheets, staring silently ahead. I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. You repeat the mantra over and over until the sun rises over the cliffs, burning a bright orange and pink haze into the center of your vision. 

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Late in the morning is the Strategy Council - once again struck with a bout of fuzz-brain, you're half-asleep as you walk into the chamber, eyes seeking only one person. There has been nothing on your mind all morning - even when Hestia had entered to find you wide-eyed and spooked, when she had whispered of some castle gossip that you didn't listen to. 

Paul's chair is absent.

Your stomach drops as you slide into your own seat, blinking in surprise at the emptiness across from you. As Duke Leto enters and begins the meeting you try your hardest not to think too much about Paul's absence; Lady Jessica's eyes are on you intermittently, not serving to ease your worries. 

When Duke Leto speaks, the sound cuts through the hushed murmurs of the assembled council members. Your eyes meet his.

"Before we begin our discussion on the Space Trade Referendum, there is a matter of great importance that we must address." He's kind, stern; kind, in a way that makes you look back on your own incompetent, nearly absent father with regret. 

The Duke's gaze softens, "The arraignment of House Bourbon is set for the day after the Space Trade Referendum, and I believe it is imperative that we address it with you accordingly."

You blink in shock; you've all but accepted the fact that you might become a criminal within the next week and would have to beg the Atreides to buy your bail in front of the noble Landsraad Houses- you didn't expect to discuss it, though, and certainly not at a Strategy Council.

You've been ignoring this moment ever since news of the charges against your house and the consecutive assassination of your family had reached your ears; but there's no avoiding it now.

"Of course, sir," you reply, steeling yourself for the difficult conversations that lay ahead. "I'm ready for whatever measures need to be taken."

He nods. "The council and I have discussed it, and I am fully committed to advocating for your house's interests during the arraignment on behalf of House Atreides." He leans forward, "I plan to do everything in my power to convince the other houses to see reason and vote in your favor as well."

Given the political complexities surrounding the case, you raise your brows. "This might put you in a precarious situation, my lord," You start, throat dry. "I appreciate it more than you'd know, but..." You look around at all the faces; all of them but enemies to you weeks ago. All of them, loyal to the end of the House; the House that is claiming you as one of their own, even in the looming presence of what might come. "The Harkonnens are- well, they're powerful - not that House Atreides is not, but-" You flounder under the scrutiny of attention and for the first time, you feel small, embarrassed in front of them all. You're not sure what's gotten into you; gritting your teeth, you realize that Reverend Mother Helen has gotten into your head without even seeing you on her visit. 

"-We understand your concerns," Lady Jessica speaks up. "but you are now a part of our house, and we will protect you." 

You can't help the surge of gratitude washing over you; nodding, you concede. "House Bourbon has long been allies of House Atreides," Gurney Halleck says, his stern eyes meeting yours, "this is a return of the favor." 

"Thank you." You say, voice sounding almost warm for what might be the first time in front of the council, "Your support means more to me than I can express." You wish your mind was less consumed with your visions; perhaps then you'd feel truly appreciative of their gesture. You force a smile onto your face, hoping it comes across less as a grimace. The Duke nods, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"I cannot speak for the other houses," he admits, his tone somber suddenly. "But I fear there may be those who seek to exploit this situation for their own gain."

You expect nothing less, nodding in agreement. The great houses are not in your good graces, and you not in theirs. 

"Whatever the outcome, you have the support of House Atreides behind you." Duke Leto says firmly, eyes meeting yours with unwavering resolve.

As the subject is laid to rest in preparation of the upcoming off-world travel, you try your hardest to listen and absorb the information about the Referendum next week.

You'll be leaving at the end of this week, in only a few days - half of the Duke's council will attend for the Referendum and the conferences, and you must go for your own arraignment. 

Trying as hard as you can, you cast away the turmoil that spins around restlessly in your stomach - staring hard at Paul's absent seat, you can't stop thinking. Even as the meeting continues, you go through the motions and relay your own input with a hollow voice, eyes downcast. 

Pain in his voice, gasps of sharp, labored breathing. 

The glint of Feyd-Rautha's skin behind him as blood spills. 

You need to find Paul. 

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Your luck is struck within minutes of the council's conclusion.

Immediately after the Strategy Council is the first of likely many wedding planning meetings - significantly smaller in party than the Strategy Council, but infinitely more intimidating for you. 

You never got any say in your wedding with Feyd-Rautha; likely why you remained living on Giedi Prime for four cycles and never actually married. He chose rather to train and attend strategy councils about spice and Arrakis or more often concerns on-planet; when he did consider the wedding, he would often disregard your opinions and insist it was only important after you gave him an heir. 

Not that you've ever been keen to marry anyone, but what say does a girl have in such a matter? 

Nevertheless, you are more than relieved to attend, solely because you're sure Paul cannot miss this meeting; if anything, because his parents would chastise him like a petulant child. 

The Duke walks with you back to his own quarters, making conversation politely. You find a surprising comfort within his voice, even if you're still on edge - perhaps because of this, you actually succeed in making him laugh once as you mention your interest in learning to pilot a ship; He himself wanted to be a pilot when he was young, you learn. 

You settle into your seat with a grace you don't quite feel; the room is more intimate: in the Duke's new study, at a round table with five chairs, four of which are occupied within seconds. 

Paul's eyes have been on you since you crossed the threshold - an intent gaze that has you shifting, meeting his stare head on when you settle. He looks similarly spooked but there is an anger that simmers, bubbling low. 

You want to ask where he was this morning; why'd he miss the council, when he'd clearly planned to attend not twelve hours before? 

His own eyes scream at you; clearly, he also wishes to speak with you. You open your lips to say something, anything to him. Your dream - he has to know, he must.

But Duke Leto breaks the silence before you can. "Thank you both for joining us. This is our House Administrative Assistant, she helps us plan events." 

You introduce yourself to the woman; She is kind, very serious but jolly at the same time - you wish you could be more present, but your brain is not willing to cooperate. Perhaps as a defense mechanism - the prospect of planning a wedding is thoroughly uninteresting to you, to be tied inexplicably to Paul; More present than this, your thoughts and opinions are overclouded by the more pertinent threat of war, economic or otherwise, being planned by the very sisterhood you were raised to be a part of. 

They have their hands everywhere, especially in the great houses, and you do not wish to see the roles designed for you and Paul within their plans. 

It is then that you realize the last chair is likely for Lady Jessica, who has foregone this small meeting.

Vaguely, you wonder if the Duke and Paul can tell how unsettling she is to you; it's nothing against her, actually - her loyalty to her house as well as the sisterhood is admirable - but perhaps she reminds you too much of your past. Of your own mother. 

Easily, the coordinator launches into discussion, outlining the initial plans for the wedding; it will be an evening event, with most of the court and family invited - you barely hold in a sardonic laugh at this, looking solemnly at the ground. Shall we invite my father to walk me down the aisle? you think bitterly, recalling how hard his body had hit the sand in that arena, the sickening way his head snapped back. 

You listen as intently as you can, nodding along as she discusses potential venues, guest lists, and ceremonial traditions.

"And now, onto the matter of your family's traditions," the Coordinator says, turning her attention to you; it jolts you from your own thoughts, images of a blood-stained blade, a gasp for breath, brown curls. "We'll be sure to incorporate them into the ceremony as you see fit."

You hesitate, brow furrowing slightly - she does not seem like she's planning on listing them now, so you're unable to pretend you know what to expect; sheepishly, you clasp your hands against the table. "I must admit, I am not as familiar with my house's traditions as Paul is," you confess, casting a glance in Paul's direction. 

His eyes meet yours; tilting his head, his eyes almost chirp, I offered you the book. You glance back, I know. His lips press into a fleeting grin and for a moment, your stomach runs cold as if he'd actually heard you. But he hadn't. 

You can't ignore when the Duke's lips twitch into a subtle smirk of his own; you fight the flush of embarrassment that creeps into your cheeks as he takes in the information, nodding slowly. He mustn't misinterpret your bond with Paul as romantic interest - instead of a keen instinct for survival at all costs.

"Is that right?" He asks his son, who nods curtly, almost indifferent.

Your eyes cast away, wondering when exactly it was that you started to see yourself on Paul's side; was it when he'd offered to share lunch, or when you'd seen those books about your house and homeplanet on his bedside? No, certainly not. Those are much too trivial; while charming, you know better than to trust a man on such frivolities.

Perhaps, more likely, yesterday - when he'd told you of the Bene Gesserit plans, of the visit - when you'd told him about his own mother. Or, the dreams.

While no amount of sexual fantasies could genuinely sway your opinion on an enemy (the Bene Gesserit in you has seen to it that sexual manipulation can only go one way), the other parts - the more unpleasant ones...  

You're rather restless.  - after the dream last night, you're not sure who to trust, or if you should tell the Duke; Paul may be the only one you can trust with this information, regretfully.  

"Whatever rituals you deem fit will be incorporated into the ceremony. We're planning for it to take place in a month, just before the end of the galactic year." Leto says, watching you for your response. "Perhaps you two can review them and work with our coordinators after you've decided what seems right." 

Paul nods dutifully, eyes flickering to you.

Your stare is intent, wishing to convey the urgency you feel to end this foolish meeting and get somewhere private, not caring one single bit about any rituals or ceremonies. It's all means to one end, isn't it? 

"Do you still have the book on Bourbon Customs, Paul?" You ask, voice just as emotionless as usual; it feels as odd as it sounds to discuss something that might normally excite a wife with the tone of such boredom, but you truly have way more important things to be talking about. You hope he can read between the lines you so delicately convey. 

"Yes." He affirms, perceptive and intelligent as always; sitting up, he starts to address his father and the coordinator, "Perhaps we can meet after the Referendum to further discuss the wedding - in the meantime, Lady Bourbon and I will discuss which of our house traditions we'd like to perform at the wedding." 

You let out a microscopic breath of relief at the pleased look on the Duke's face; he dismisses the small meeting, but Paul is rushing out of the room quicker than you can even stand. 

With as much effort as you can harbor, you exchange short pleasantries with the woman beside you and the Duke before rising to follow after Paul briskly, trying not to be too obvious. 

Within the dim hallway that leads to Paul's quarters, his cloth tunic looks nearly gray.

"Paul." You call, your shoes clacking on the stone as you try to catch up with his stride; pausing slightly, he allows you to catch up to him. Your name is breathed gently, his voice sharp with importance as he pulls you with him towards his room. 

You stumble to catch up with him, caught off-guard by the fearful, angry energy that radiates from him. He is calculating, quiet; this has not changed, but there is a heat in his sharp glare that alarms you. 

"It was you." His voice is quick, whirling around on you - for a moment, there is a darkness in his eyes you haven't seen. He doesn't have to elaborate for you to swallow, staring up at him.

"Yes." You affirm, "And you..." 

He nods so microscopically; your heart flips. It's silent, heavy with the realization in his silent bedchamber.

"It was normal, at first." He starts, shaking his head smally, "but then... suddenly we were standing there and- I felt it." He mutters, watching you intently. His jaw clenches. 

"I know it was you. You used this." He rips away your robes from your left hip and it slides from your shoulders; affronted, your hand comes to halt his wrist, snapping him away. He expects to see the same engraved hilt - you see it in his eyes - but, where there is usually the black leather of your nameday knife, today there is just your waistline.

He stares down, eyes cold. 

You couldn't bare to take it with you this morning when you left; you could barely stand to look at it as Hestia had dressed you.

His eyes rove over your figure slowly, as if expecting to find your blade snugly hidden in some curve of your skin; no avail, as he reaches your own strict gaze. There is heat in your abdomen, but you ignore it for the fear in your veins. 

He dreamt that you stabbed him. He didn't see Feyd at all. 

"I didn't..." You shake your head, "I didn't stab you." You insist. He looks off towards the wall above your head, sighing sharply, "You did in my dream." 

"-No." You argue, "He was behind you," Your voice is a hushed whisper, so close to him you can almost feel the warmth that radiates; there is a fuzzy electricity in the room that makes your fingers itch as you release the grip on his cotton-bound wrist, pushing his grip away from you. His hand flies back like it'd been burned by your touch, anger seeping through his lashes. 

"Feyd-Rautha." You clarify, your own jaw setting, "He was there, holding my knife." 

Paul's brows furrow. "You stabbed me. I felt you, with me. You were there." He insists, shaking his head. You swallow thickly, "I know I was there. You aren't listening to me."

"Why should I?" He snaps, staring at you with distrust, "If Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen was there, why didn't I see him?"  

"I-" You tug at your hair in exasperation, "Fuck, Paul, I don't know." you hiss. 

Such implications strike your heart with dread; and if your dreams with Paul are inexplicably intertwined, a beat of fright hits you - for once in your life, you wish beyond your world that Feyd-Rautha has been finding seamless, dreamless sleep recently. 

You are dimly aware of the slight chill upon your bare shoulders; the tank-top you've donned, cotton like Paul's, is breezy without your robes to cover your exposed skin, and the material pools lazily around your bent elbows from where Paul had disrobed you, searching for your dagger. 

"We can't risk telling my mother," he murmurs, his tone laced with urgency, "If she learns of our dreams, she'll never let us pursue Sabberon if the Harkonnens take it."

Begrudgingly, your fears are mirrored in his words and you run your hand over your face, "So we just hope she can see through our lies? Paul, you know just as well as I that it is a near impossible feat." 

Paul hesitates- there is a shadow in his eyes, a dark looming thought you wish to unearth. "She'll stop at nothing if it means going against the Bene Gesserit's plans for us. We just- we don't know which path that is."

Your voice is steely with resolve, "I won't let them dictate my future." Not when the rest of the galaxy is going to do so next week. 

Before Paul can respond, the distant sound of footsteps echo down the hallways outside and he guides you slowly backwards, away from the hall. Near the bedpost in his room, he stops and leans to whisper closer to you; his curls hang unruly in front of his eyes, not styled like it typically is. He looks slightly rumpled, as if poor sleep has rendered him consumed by thoughts. 

His eyes flicker to the bedstand and back down to your eyes, "I think you need to let my mother train you." 

You blink, inhaling sharply, "You don't know what you're saying." 

Somewhere in you, you know he's right. He sends you a look, "I do, and you know it. Even if we can't lie to her, we need to stay sharp. Maybe we can find out what the Sisterhood wants from these dreams, because they're clearly important to them. We have to be prepared for whatever happens." 

You lift a brow, "And if nothing happens?" 

"You believe this all to be in our heads?" He asks, eyes genuine; a plead, a small hope that perhaps all this danger and concern is for nothing.

Your sharp sigh is answer enough.

He continues. "You wouldn't have brought up the Harkonnen petroleum reserves for nothing. Or the materials on Sabberon. This threat is real, and even if it isn't, our dreams are." He insists this, and you cross your arms. 

"You sound like your mother." You snap. "She believes everything Reverend Mother Helen Gaius Mohaim says." 

He stares at you incredulously, "You were in my dream, were you not?" His voice is stern and it sets your teeth on edge. "Unless we unknowingly consumed Spice last night, I think that was pretty real." 

You are not a fan of the sardonic tone he takes - he's right, but it does not soothe your concern. Paul has been raised to become a Bene Gesserit by his mother - a male Bene Gesserit? The only reason for that lingers in the back of your mind; perhaps if you continue your learnings, you could remember. A phrase whispers to you, but you do not know what it means. The Shortening of the Way. 

You briefly entertain the thought that Lady Jessica has slipped something into your morning teas - some Spice-laden elixir that makes you and Paul dream together - but this is a childish thought, an escape from the harsh reality of destiny and fate. You know these things to be true, because you know it was woven into your DNA centuries ago. 

"I think this is a bad idea." You say honestly, relieved to have the freedom to argue with your husband-to-be without the real threat of having a throat slit or tongue removed. "Why should I trust your judgement?" 

He huffs smally, "Why should I trust yours? You try to kill me in half of my dreams." 

You glare sharply, "Well I haven't killed you yet, have I?" You snap, growling at him.  

His glare is sharp, hostile. "I know my house better than anybody, and I know my mother just as well." He says, "You and I will train with her together. We need to find their plans out ourselves, and this is the only way. We will just ensure Reverend Mother Helen Gaius Mohaim is none the wiser." 

"You are a fool if you think she will not catch on." You insist.

His jaw sets. "I have trained my whole life to make decisions like this."

"And yet, you make the wrong one."

"Watch your mouth." His voice is ominously quiet, taking a step into your personal space. "I will be your Duke one day." His chin tilts, ever prideful; you scoff. Defensively, you bristle. 

"-and I will be your duchess. That means but little to me, my lord." You retort, leaning towards him; You're close enough to smell the soap on his skin again, the anger, the fear that radiates in beats of his heart. "I did not ask to be here, if you recall." 

Even a sneer looks somewhat graceful on his face. "That means but little to me." He parrots back, eyes sharp, "You're here, so you will do what I say." 

Fury rages in you; his voice is deep, more commanding than you've heard yet - your jaw clenches, not backing away even with him towering over you. 

You're mine to keep. There's plenty of life left for you to serve - the voice in your mind warps, though, the ever-haunting rumble of Feyd's voice morphing into Paul's smooth, low one - fear and resistance sprout within you. 

It's an impulse, a trauma response. You barely think. Your hand moves, palm open flat - aiming to strike him on the cheek, to slap him hard. 

But to your shock, he catches it with reflexes quicker than you can imagine, fingers wrapping around your wrist just before it makes contact with his skin.

Eyes angry, his nostrils flare and the chimes that hang near his bedroom window tinkle gently as energy slips around you. His lips move before you feel the Voice. 

"Don't." 

The Voice sets your spine straight and your teeth on edge - still considerably weak in the skill, his command is combatted by your urge to drop your wrist as you stare at him, beyond bewildered. 

He told you yesterday that he's been trained by his mother - until now, you haven't really considered what this means - he possesses the skills to use the Voice. He is keenly intelligent and, by your suspicion, being trained by Thufir Hawat in more than just tutelage, but also as a Mentat; an unlocked secret tries to worm its way from the back of your mind. 

Your spine shivers. A phrase whispers in the back of your brain, a fear long-nestled and roused awake after years of hibernation: Kwisatz Haderach. The Shortening of the Way. 

You shake yourself of the sudden trance, trying to wrench your hand away but failing by his surprising strength and grip on your wrist. You know you should tell him but you're too presently angry, too absorbed in your own fear and pride. 

Using your free hand not caged by his hold, you shove hard against his chest, until he hits the wall with his spine and skull; wincing, his grip on you only tightens as you fight to free your hand. You glare at him, on your tip toes as you hold your palm flat against his heaving chest, feeling his heart thud against his sternum. 

"No man holds power over me." You say, pressing harder, wrestling your wrist away from him to no avail; he maintains a firm, furious grip on you, his eyes sharp, watching you. "You are no different." 

His breaths are as sharp as yours; both of you like wild, scared beasts being hunted by something you cannot see. Neither of you are truly trying to fight: Tired of running but knowing you've just started. Something in the back of your mind tells you that you should not be wasting your anger on each other. 

His eyes still have that sinister stare; serious, calculating. 

"It should not be a man you worry about." He whispers, head tilting down to you. His features are dark even in the light of day; "Despite what we feel about them, the Bene Gesserit give us power." His grip is tight; guiding with his heart, defiance in his eyes. Your lips part, arm relieving the pressure against his chest, still making sure he doesn't move otherwise. 

His brows furrow, jaw set. "You should be accustomed to living with the enemy, anyways." 

It's a slight against you; you grit your teeth - he's right, though. The Bene Gesserit is not an enemy, per se -both of you know this, but the sisterhood is dangerous, and if you aren't careful, this whole thing might completely backfire. 

There's a moment of silence as you consider his words, the weight of your situation pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket; Paul is right - you can't just go blindly and without training that can help you in the future, no matter how fiercely independent you both may be.

You almost relent, but in the silence your arm drops and Paul's - still holding your wrist tight - follows until he holds your arm stiffly between you. In the tense silence, your other arm slides off of his chest slowly, your eyes flickering to where his hand still holds your wrist; as if genuinely concerned you might unsheathe a hidden blade and plunge it into his stomach in the blink of an eye. 

"Paul?" 

The voice belonging to neither of you makes you jump in shock; Paul similarly jolts, both of your heads snapping to the entryway where Lady Jessica enters, a servant hovering nervously behind her with a laundry basket in her hands. 

"-I'd like to speak with you about-" 

Her words trail off as her eyes flicker towards the two of you; your face burns, jumping away from Paul as he drops your wrist like a dead stone, jumping from the wall. 

Your stomach flips in fear. How much did she hear? 

Paul glances at you sharply, your heart pounding; it was as if she knew that you were speaking of her and the Bene Gesserit. Had she heard anything? How silent was she when she arrived in his quarters? 

She averts her eyes at the sight of the two of you so close - at short glance, possibly appearing as if in some kind of embrace - but unfortunately her gaze lands on the bed right beside you; there is a faint blush coloring her cheeks. 

You share the fleeting glance with Paul, a silent understanding passing between you; Despite the true nature of your conversation, the proximity of the bed and the... intensity of how close the two of you could be easily misconstrued as something far more intimate.

Which might actually play in your favor. 

She presses her lips into a thin line, "-Apologies. I didn't realize-" 

Paul clears his throat, shaking his head. "No, Mother, you're not interrupting anything," Paul assures her quickly as he moves away from the bed; another quick glance at you once again shows his fear of being caught talking about her.

You wipe sweaty palms on your trousers, hoping she can't see your hands shake; The embarrassment of her and the servant thinking you were becoming intimate is better than her becoming suspicious of your whispers and secrecy. You're nearly shaking with fear at the prospect of her overhearing your plot. 

Thankfully Paul holds the same thought. 

"We were just... discussing some matters of importance." He utters, clearing his throat as he reaches to adjust the robe of yours he'd knocked askew minutes before. You play the part just as well as he does. Smiling sheepishly, you pull your robe tight around your frame and duck your head. 

Lady Jessica nods, eyes narrowing slightly. "Well, I was just hoping to chat with you while you walk to your weapons lesson, Paul," she said, her tone even, "I didn't realize you had company, my apologies. I'll leave you to it."

"-no, please," You interrupt as she turns; she stops, turning back to the two of you. You flash what you hope is a convincingly kind smile, pulling further away from where you stand next to Paul. "I was just leaving." You insist. Your heart beats hard in your throat still, but you turn to place your hands on Paul's shoulders. He stares at you, shocked as you lean towards him. If it were a different situation, you might've chuckled at the alarm in his eyes as you near him with your lips. 

Your breath hits his cheek as his head cranes down slightly to meet you, sensing what you're trying to do under the awkward attention of the others in the room. "Find me later." You whisper, barely more than a breath, against his cheek. His curls tickle your lips gently.

Playing the part you peck his skin slightly over the sharp cheekbone, eyes flicking over his shoulder to see his mother avert her gaze politely. You hope, to the servant and Lady Jessica, that it looks like you're bidding him a good day - a flushed, embarrassed lover caught in an act of passion and taking her leave. 

How simple life would be if that were the case. 

When you pull back from him fully, his cheeks are a dusted rose color - a good actor, then. He nods tersely, watching as you spin on your heels and bow to Lady Jessica, smiling at the servant slightly as you slide past them, hurrying down the hall towards your freedom. 

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Paul does find you later, in the afternoon when the sun is hidden by misty clouds.

Out in the gardens of Castle Caladan, the season is ending with the year and the plants that bloom are resilient to the less rainy months that come. Your feet are bare, your dress long as you stroll, unaware of his presence. 

Odd to see you so relaxed - your hands smooth over stone figures within the garden; he walks up behind you silently, murmuring your name when he's close. 

You jump slightly, acting fast; pressing with your full force, he's caught off-guard and shoved against the hedges which line the area. Catching his footing, his hands stop you - one on your hip, the other around your shoulder. His thumb dips against the hollow of your throat. 

There is a misty rain that falls lazily from the clouds in the sky; serene, quiet. Your breaths intermingle, your hands against Paul's chest. "I dreamt of you this afternoon." You say, voice faint. He hums, tilting his head at the fuzzy feeling. "Did you?" He asks; his voice is far away. You nod, leaning towards him like you'd done earlier - you brush his own lips instead of his cheek, and he feels far away. 

"I dreamt of you in a large throne room..." You whisper, lips just barely brushing over his, your hands roving over his chest. His own squeeze you; the one around your shoulder slides to hold your neck, the one around your hip holding you close. "One I've never seen before." 

Your lips ghost over his neck then, head tilting back to the misty skies. "There was spice in the sand that tracked in through the entrance..." You whisper, biting at his skin; he feels like he's floating. His hand squeezes the softness of your throat. 

"You sat on the throne atop the stairs," You whisper, suddenly sinking lower - your hands tug his belt, now on your knees before him. He does not fight the arousal that swirls within him, instead letting one hand gather your hair from your face. Your eyes are bright - for a moment, they're glowing a blue he's never seen, but you blink and it's gone in a hazy fog. He cannot seem to make out many features of your face, even as he blinks. It feels as if he'd swallowed cotton. 

"-and I, between your thighs." You whisper, lips moving to mouth over his trousers; he lets out a groan, growing more hard by your touch - his hand squeezes and he's not sure if it's against your throat or your hair; you let out a mewl either way and it floods him with desire. You've never made a noise like that before, and he would quite like to hear you make it again. 

Throne room? He starts to say - he is not so vain as to ever desire a throne to sit on - but the feeling of your warm mouth around his cock has him groaning, forgetting his words as he gasps-

Paul wakes up, sitting straight up -drenched in a cold sweat from the breeze that flows coolly through the open window. His chest heaves as he blinks at the wall ahead, disoriented and thoroughly discomfited. 

"Shit," He whispers to himself, head falling back against his pillow.

He can hear the misting beginnings of rain - he must have slept for a few hours, because the sky was clear when he returned from his lesson with Thufir Hawat, intending to lie for just a minute. 

The sun is hiding near the ocean; he must have missed supper. 

Groaning, he forces himself up and into the shower, where he stares ahead at the wall silently and lets the ice-cold water soak through his skin. 

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When he finally drags himself out into the castle, he has no luck tracking you down - done with lessons, you're likely in the dining hall or in your own room eating supper. 

He checks your quarters first.

Walking in hesitantly, he calls your name and casts his gaze to the ground, wary of what he might catch glimpse of should he burst in unexpected. 

"Paul?" A voice calls, but as he crosses the threshold into the room, he sees it is not you, but another familiar face. 

"Oh, hello." He says, nodding as Hestia stands near your dining table - packing up the remnants of dinner. He eyes the two sets of silverware and dishes, noticing a crumb on the corner of Hestia's cheek; You've been taking your meals with her nearly every day since you arrived here. "Have you seen her?" He asks, trying to remain formal. 

"Who?" 

He gives her an unimpressed look; she rolls her eyes with a sigh. She's surprised to see him, he can tell. It shows on her face. "She just left for the gardens," Hestia says, crossing her arms suspiciously. "Why do you ask?" 

His head tilts at her, "Is it odd for me to wonder where my betrothed is?" 

She gives him that look - the all-knowing one, the one that makes him wonder if they really are siblings. She knows him much too well. "Yes, it is odd, Paul." She's blunt; she'd never dare speak like this to him in front of members of the House court, but in their own time or with his parents, Paul insists they're equals. 

"I didn't even know you talked to each other." she snarks, lifting one brow.

Normally he might entertain her teasing, but his mood is quite sour on the subject of you and he'd rather not hear more chastising about your strained relationship with each other.

He shakes his head, turning to head towards the gardens.

"You should watch your tongue, Hestia." He says half-heartedly. He ignores her laugh as he leaves, walking quickly to find you. 

It doesn't hit him until he's in the garden, walking down a path that feels oddly familiar: It's just like his dream. 

Cheeks heating, he rolls his eyes; Coincidences won't kill me, he thinks, but you might. 

When he sees your figure, he's extremely relieved to see you completely bundled from head to toe and sitting on a bench, looking up at the darkening sky, squinting in the mist. When he's still a safe distance away, he calls your name. 

"Paul." You say curtly when your gaze finds him. You pat next to you - a surprisingly child-like action as you scoot yourself slightly. "Sit." 

He does. It's silent for a moment, in which the wind blows his curls around just as it does yours; it's evening, and this late in the year it is already growing dark. 

"I told your mother I'd like to train with her." You say, staring up at the sky again. "I don't think she heard what we were saying earlier." 

His shoulders relax at this; fear had shot through him at the prospect of his mother discovering the reason behind your sudden willingness to cooperate.

"She seemed pleased with me. She suggested we start after the Referendum." 

Paul expected his mother would suggest this; With only a few days until several members of their House leave for the Referendum and your arraignment, there'd be no real time to start again until after. He knows better than to say I told you so, but he wishes to. 

The thought of your arraignment has him turning to look at you, noting how your eyes look against the green of the grass, the dark of the sky, the soft light from the castle. 

"How do you feel about it?" 

You do that odd exhale from your nose again, shaking your head, "You must know how I feel about the Bene Gesserit by now, Paul." 

"No," He starts, tilting his head to look sidelong at you, "the arraignment." 

Your face changes, but you say nothing. He takes a breath. "The Baron is a cruel man." Paul starts, "You know we will do everything we can to make sure he does not sway the opinions of the other Houses." 

To his surprise, your lips morph into a soft smile; a rare one, very uncharacteristic of such a cold, strong woman; it doesn't make you seem any less fierce, though. "You're so much like your father." You say, voice shockingly reflective. He doesn't know why you choose to say it. A moment of hesitation before you speak again, surprising him with your words. "You're going to be a good Duke." 

Praise does not seem to come easy from you, nor does it from him; He lets himself be vulnerable for a moment and admits to himself that it is a good thing you are so headstrong and sharp-tongued. To keep him in check. He knows your argument earlier this morning was too far; both of you were anxious, stressed - truthfully, he's glad you are willing to push back. 

"And you'll be a good Duchess." 

In the quiet of the garden, not daring to meet each other's eyes, you huff a short laugh of doubt. He doesn't bother arguing with you about it. 

"I know House Bourbon doesn't have any real power over Sabberon anymore, but it is still by decree under my family's sovereignty." You say; he nods as he stares off into the hedges across the way. "-when I lose it officially next week, it cannot go to the Harkonnens." Your voice is hollow. "They are unfathomably evil." 

He knows - but, he realizes as your finger traces over a scar fading on your hand, he doesn't know like you do. He's seen that knife now in person and in dreams; he's studied enough to know the kind of ritual one must go through to get one. A nameday knife for a future bride of House Harkonnen - because that's what you were going to be, once upon a time. He's read about it, and it is not pleasant.

For a moment, he remembers you when you'd arrived on Caladan; teeth sharp and voice distrusting, a woman ready to lash out at any moment. A beast, you'd wanted everyone to think. 

You're not a beast. 

Confusing, dangerous, foreboding- sure. But you're just a girl, as he is just a boy; thrust into the hands of the powers way above your heads. There is real fear in your eyes when you speak of the potential for Harkonnens to gain power over the trading markets; real fear when you confess your dreams to him - real anger when he'd accused you of stabbing him; Real breath from your lips, upon his ear when you'd kissed his cheek earlier. Yesterday, real tease when you'd poked fun at his bedside reading choices. You are real, and you are stubbornly human. 

Giedi Prime had forced you to build layers and layers of walls around yourself; it's still quite disarming to see glimpses of the woman inside. 

"My mother's half-sister is Lady Ginaz." You say; both of you know that he knows this, but you say it anyways, fingers picking at the concrete under you. "She's sent me letters again. They were destroyed before I could read them on Giedi Prime." 

He lets you speak, listening intently. House Ginaz; another old ally of House Atreides. 

"I think... if we end up needing anything, like more fighters," You lick your lips. More fighters- the prospect is indeed chilling; House Atreides has great legions of soldiers, but you're right. If they war against House Harkonnen, it'll take everything they can find to maintain power. 

"-I could try to convince her to send all of the Swordmasters." You whisper, sighing. A beat, then you quirk your lip up so fast Paul wonders if he imagined it. "We'll have to invite her to the wedding, of course." 

Your humor is dry and hollow, but it still makes Paul crack a wry huff. "Looking forward to giving input into every aspect of the event?" He asks, feeling a freedom to poke at your shared misery - it's the least of your worries, and it's not so bad if you're in it together. 

Your smile shows nice teeth, full lips. "It's a good thing our house colors are both green." You hum, turning to him, "No decisions to make there, at least." 

He nods, "More time to decide what kind of ribbon to use for the handfasting." 

You look off towards the same hedge across the way that he finds so interesting. "Whose tradition is that, mine or yours?" You ask. He blinks away a raindrop as it slides onto his eyelashes. 

"Yours." He affirms. You nod thoughtfully, and Paul is plagued with the visions of you below him, looking up with those wide, big eyes - just across the garden to the right. He blinks away the thought. 

"I thought you were Bene Gesserit when you came to Caladan," He says, "And I knew what kind of power you could hold over me if you were." 

You look at him, a fire in your gaze. "And you're not afraid of that same power your mother holds over you?" You retort. He sighs; both of you, quick to irritate. 

"She loves me. She'll try hard to protect me, and if she knows that we dream of death, she will not let us go to Sabberon." He says. "You don't love me. If you were Bene Gesserit, and knew what path the sisterhood intended for me - for us - you wouldn't hesitate to encourage it." He admits, and feels no particular heartbreak at the concept; you barely know each other. You look similarly unaffected. 

"I don't know the path." You sigh, "But I suppose I'll be Bene Gesserit again soon." You mutter, voice imbued with regret. 

The air is chilly, and a short breeze moves a curl into his eye. He brushes it away. "I know you don't think we're doing the right thing by training with her." Paul says, unable to ignore his thoughts on the subject. "But what would you have us do instead?" 

You sigh, shaking your head. "I don't know." He watches you, how your hair - unstyled, natural- glints under the night, moving with the breeze. "But it feels like we're walking straight into a trap."

Paul's brows knit together in frustration, his jaw clenched tightly. "We don't have a choice."

"I understand that," you reply, your own frustration bubbling to the surface. "You don't have to keep saying it. But how do we know what to do if we don't even know the Reverend Mother's plans? At what point do we start causing harm just because it's what we think we're supposed to do?"

 He shakes his head, head aching. He wishes to sleep; To wake up to find it was all a hallucination - to roll over in bed, and find none of this happened at all. "All we can do is play our hand and hope to come out on top." He says stiffly. 

You are bitter, crossing your arms. "That's easy for you to say," your voice is eerily calm. "It's all means to your end. You shouldn't know anything of the Sisterhood, but you've been taught. You've had everything handed to you on a silver platter."

The accusation hangs heavy in the air between you, a silent condemnation of Paul's privileged upbringing and the stark contrast it poses to your own struggles; he knows how hard you've had it - but at the end of the day, you are still a Lady, a highborn member of society, marrying into one of the most powerful houses.

He does not know why his mother has tried to train him in ways that only sacred Sisters should know; For a moment, he wonders if you know more about his own destiny and that overhanging prophecy than you let on. One of two candidates, a voice whispers in his mind; You have more than one birthright, boy. 

The air is significantly more tense, irritated - angry. He doesn't care to continue this discussion anymore.

"I don't know why you pretend to know anything about me," his own voice is sullen, sharp. It's foolish for him to waste his time trying to convince you that what he says is right - if, in the end, you might betray him anyways, going in circles is getting him nowhere. 

"Me neither." Your voice is cold. 

There is nothing left to say; in three days, his House will leave for the Space Trade Referendum, and you will be representing your House for the final arraignment.

Paul wants to sleep - to sleep, and not dream. 

He leaves you in the gardens, surrounded in the dark. 

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That night, when Paul dreams of you once again, below the great Pine that burns and cracks above his head, there is a hiss that blows in the wind. When you keen against his hands, your chest trembling and hands on his shoulders, there is a whisper, something that you cannot hear. 

A sense of duty surrounds him as images of the planet he's never visited flash before him. A knife, glinting - a hand, pale, curling around the hilt - your own sharp gasp of pain.

Some whisper in the dredges of his vision, you are too deep in the throes of passion to stir at the sound; Paul hears it clearly, though it is not meant for him. 

It is a deeply eerie voice - playful, sinister.

"I will never let them keep what is mine, my pet." 

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[herkonular]

SEVENHİLLSSHOPPİNG - MEGA+

Turkish cuisine is famous for its rich flavors and unique combination of spices and ingredients. Turkish cuisine has been influenced by many cultures such as the Ottoman, Middle Eastern and Mediterranean, resulting in a wide variety of dishes and flavors. One of the most popular aspects of Turkish cuisine is its desserts, known for their sweetness and unique texture. Two of the most famous Turkish desserts are baklava and Turkish delight. Baklava is a pastry made from layers of phyllo filled with chopped hazelnuts and honey syrup; Turkish delight, on the other hand, is a sweet, chewy confection made with starch and sugar, often flavored with rose water or other natural extracts. These traditional sweets are widely available in Turkish markets and specialty stores such as Seven Hills Shopping, which offers a wide range of Turkish baklava and other desserts. Turkish cuisine is known for its desserts as well as popular beverages such as herbal teas and Turkish coffee. Herbal tea is made from a variety of natural herbs and flowers such as sage, chamomile and rosehip. This tea is often consumed for its health benefits, including its ability to calm digestion, boost the immune system, and promote relaxation. Turkish coffee is a strong, rich coffee made using a special method of boiling coffee grounds in water and serving it without filtering. Turkish coffee is often served with a small glass of water and Turkish delight, making it a popular and enjoyable social experience. If you want to try traditional Turkish desserts and drinks, there are many options available online. Sultan Bazaar and Grand Bazaar Istanbul are two popular online retailers specializing in Turkish products such as baklava, Turkish delight, herbal tea, and Turkish coffee. These retailers offer a wide range of high-quality products, including mixed baklava flavors, saffron and specialty Turkish products. Hafız Mustafa 1864 Istanbul is another popular brand that offers a wide variety of traditional Turkish desserts, including baklava, Turkish delight and chocolate. Whether you want to pamper yourself with a sweet treat or enjoy a cup of Turkish coffee or herbal tea, there are many options to experience the unique flavors and traditions of Turkish cuisine. You can access the product you want through our website.

[wumblr]

there's this cruel irony of imperialism -- obviously many of them -- and there's a good chance somebody is going to call me either shortsighted, highfalutin, ungrounded, or reaching for saying this, but i've been thinking about the networked effects of extracted resources. first it was spice colonialism, then the spices all turned out to be too aphrodisiac and this eventually led to the industrialization of cornflakes

they used to construct elaborate fictions for conflict minerals, this item is unbelievably valuable and the only appropriate use for it is to commemorate a lifelong, monogamous and reproductive relationship (diamonds). now the conflict mineral (lithium) is an unnecessary substitute for an herb (tobacco) and it has become disposable

the nature and progression of imperialism requires continual growth and this means the conflict minerals can't maintain their value, they turn from precious heirloom jewelry to litter, simply because litter is less rare and so more profitable. first they had to mine the raw metals to build out an electrical grid, and then the materials to build roads and cars, and now that the grid requires baseload batteries parked in your garage we're throwing lithium on the ground. plastics have an irrevocable hold on the market simply because they're petroleum byproducts

cities could never have become as large as they did without the development of firefighting and now the baseload batteries are inextinguishable. progress of ever-smaller fragmentation for profit leads to contradiction. the city cannot move forward without the conflict mineral battery, but it can't put the fire out and it can't stop throwing them away, ostensibly to suppress use of an herb, once medicinal, now an adulterated vice. because adulterating it not only increases the rate of cancer but attributes it to personal choice, which is necessary, because otherwise it would be more attributable to the materials that keep the system running (uranium). it's incredible

the state with the lowest rate of cancer is downwind of the test site, because it's populated by yet another extremist christian wing of imperial progress, so extreme that they don't smoke or drink, because these personal choices have an outsized influence in comparison to the global contamination that the development of the bomb caused. a bit of the money made from the extraction of resources is put towards repayment for citizens of the imperial core, for exposure to the product that created their way of life, but the program expires and nobody cares because they seem to think it didn't affect them

anyway somebody threw a whole clock radio in my garden. i took the battery and now i can't do anything with it unless i want to figure out where to take it to be recycled. holding this blue plastic-wrapped cylinder of fire risk conflict mineral in my little hand and ruminating on it. do you think it traveled further than i have to get to me? i should never have left it sitting next to my keys i've been glancing at it in passing every day for weeks. of course you're not supposed to throw them on the ground, but i've already criticized the abdication of responsibility by corporations for the waste their products become. makes it into another issue of personal choice when they wouldn't have existed if they hadn't been industrialized

[fatehbaz]

Because most medicines were produced from [...] plants [...] these early “pharmaceutical monopolies” required full control of the production and trade of a species. Russia successfully managed the rhubarb trade in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, while Spain controlled the distribution [...] from Spanish America, mainly cinchona from Peru, in the same period. “True” cinnamon grew only on Sri Lanka, so whoever controlled the island could dominate the cinnamon trade. The Portuguese were the first to create a monopoly on the cinnamon trade there in the early seventeenth century. That monopoly was later optimized by the Dutch in the late eighteenth century [...].

“True” should indeed be in quotation marks here - the term reflects the historically contingent tastes of Europeans, rather than any botanical category [...]. The rarity of cinnamon in the early modern period made it one of the most coveted spices of that era, and European countries without direct access to the cinnamon trade tried to imitate, substitute, steal, smuggle, or transplant the “true” product from Sri Lanka. [...]

---

In the early modern period, cinnamon was also important both as an exotic commodity and as an important therapeutic substance. The Dutch East India Company (VOC), which controlled Sri Lanka between 1658 and 1796, was well aware of this. The VOC vigorously exploited the Salagama - [...] specialized Sri Lankan cinnamon peelers - to supply enough cinnamon, which for a long time was gathered from forests. Only after the peelers rebelled, leading to a war that lasted between 1760 and 1766, did the company revise its production policy. 

Experiments with “cinnamon gardens” (kaneeltuinen in Dutch) led to enormous successes, and the company eventually grew millions of cinnamon trees on plantations in the final decades of the eighteenth century. Meanwhile, competitors of the Dutch had come up with their own solutions [...]: Spain had started growing other Cinnamomum species on plantations in the Philippines, while France and Britain succeeded in transplanting cinnamon to islands in the Caribbean. But the Dutch monopoly was not simply threatened by outside competition. Smuggling, by peelers or VOC personnel, was strictly forbidden and severely punished. [...]

---

Hendrik Adriaan van Rheede tot Drakenstein (1636–1691) was the VOC administrator on India’s Malabar Coast when he started experimenting with cinnamon oil in the 1670s.

He concluded that the oil, which he extracted from the roots of local cinnamon trees, was of better quality than oil from cinnamon trees on Sri Lanka. Van Rheede reported these results in his entry on cinnamon in volume 1 of the Hortus Indicus Malabaricus, the twelve-volume book that was produced by a team of local and European scholars, and supervised by Van Rheede himself.

Van Rheede’s assessment of cinnamon - in fact, the very publication of a multi-volume work about the flora of Malabar - infuriated the governor of Sri Lanka, Rijckloff van Goens, who had secured the cinnamon monopoly of Sri Lanka for the Dutch. Van Goens insisted that Van Rheede stop his medical experiments, claiming that the monopoly was at risk if the cinnamon trade was extended beyond the island of Sri Lanka. 

But Van Goens was not so much concerned about the therapeutic efficacy of cinnamon from either of the two regions. He was motivated by an imperial agenda and regarded the natural products of Sri Lanka as superior to anything similar in the region.

The experiments of Van Rheede, who was his former protégé, threatened not so much the botanical quality of the product, or the commercial interests of the Dutch East India Company, but rather the central position of Sri Lanka in the Dutch colonial system and the position of Van Goens as the representative of that system.

---

Even when Sri Lanka still only produced cinnamon that grew in the wild, the Dutch harvested enough to supply an international market and were able to dictate the availability and price level throughout the world. The monopoly, whether defined in commercial or pharmaceutical terms, was not easily put at risk by efforts like Van Rheede’s. Those involved in the early modern cinnamon trade were motivated by various reasons to defend or undermine the central position of Sri Lankan cinnamon: botanical, medical, commercial, or imperial. These motives often overlapped.

---

All text above by: Wouter Klein. “Plant of the Month: Cinnamon.” JSTOR Daily. 17 February 2021. “Plant of the Month” series is part of the Plant Humanities Initiative, a partnership of Dumbarton Oaks and JSTOR Labs. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[blissfulip]

Dopamine

On AO3

Viktor x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, dubious science, mostly canon compliant, no use of y/n, chemist!reader, eventual smut.

Cw: That weird guy being weird

Words: 1.6k

[A/N: tags and content warnings to be updated in each chapter, updates weekly. (also, let me know if you want to be tagged in fic updates!)]

Previous Next

Chapter 2: Walking through water

He slept in for the first time in over a year, and although catching up on all those missed z’s was a welcome feeling, as soon as he woke up and sat at his desk, the uneasiness of not knowing what to do rushed over him.

Walking through water instead of air, the feeling of resistance that accompanied every task Viktor worked on drove him up the wall. It was bad enough that he had no access to any of his equipment, but he was also not allowed to retrieve any of his annotations from the lab to take home, so he was left with a pair of notebooks and some blueprints he had in his briefcase. It wasn't enough. 

Resignation. He was usually capable of extracting even the smallest things from thin air, but the circumstances and the maddening lack of resources had finally gotten the better of him. Before long, he felt the onset of something he hadn’t experienced in years: boredom. The invitation of his brain to play, desperate for stimulation. But Viktor was lost, this wasn’t something typical of him, and he didn’t know how to quench this thirst. 

He rummaged around the few volumes he had on his desk—nothing he hadn’t read at length before. Cleaning was quick and fruitless, it turns out that not spending any time in your own home proved to be the best way to keep it clean and organized. And of course, the fridge was empty, he didn’t remember the last time he ate a meal in that kitchen, let alone made one, but at least this need for sustenance could be turned into an assignment, so off to the market he went. 

It was sunny out. Not scorching, but pleasant enough to make this short walk enjoyable. The bubbling sounds of children running around, two people fighting near the fruit stalls, and vendors trying to talk over each other, the citric scent that turned into earthy basil that turned into peppery spices almost overwhelmingly fast—it was nice, he thought, and he lazily dragged his feet along the market, lingering a bit too long before walking back to the dormitories with what he needed.  

Cooking was surprisingly enjoyable as well, and he tried (unsuccessfully) to find a justifiable reason as to why he didn’t do it more often. Soon enough, the meal was finished, the food eaten and the dishes done, and the gentle feeling of rich accomplishment he had felt so far melted away when he found himself bored stiff.

And when he accepted that this problem had no solution, his mind landed on you, the culprit. He recalled all the previous instances in which you had interfered with his work before, like the time you had burned your eyebrows off with some strange flammable substance and had the progress day presentations postponed, and the time you had used all the magnesium alloys for an (excessively scaled, he thought) ‘experiment’ and left him without any for the pieces he was manufacturing, or the time the first hextech intern he ever hired had a complete meltdown over you rejecting him and had to be transferred. Granted, that last one wasn’t your fault, and Viktor never really held it against you, but it was just another case in point to prove that if something was related to you, it would probably be a problem for him. 

When memoirs are written about exceptional minds in history, there’s always something about all the trials and tribulations they had to endure—the obstacles on their way to greatness. And it’s not like Viktor thought he would ever get something like that written about him, but if he did, if he ever invented something revolutionary enough to warrant something like a memoir, it pained him to think that there would probably need to be a whole chapter about the pesky chemist that constantly tormented him. 

Even when he wasn’t working, you were there, a constant. Your thunderous laugh and the clicking sound you always made when you were in deep thought, your sarcastic remarks and the eternal self-satisfied grin you carried. Viktor found himself thinking about that way too often. 

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

The notification on your door to be present at the conference hall the next morning ruined your mood. You had been having quite the day off and were already making plans to get back to reading all the poetry books you had bought at the fair last summer, so the sudden promise of work had you deflating like a balloon. 

You noticed that the hall was packed, and that it probably wasnt equipped to host the entire roster of researchers the Academy had. You tried to distract yourself from the claustrophobic feeling brewing in your stomach by chatting with Moira about the crazy date she'd had the night before. Unfortunately, you were not going to get to the best part, since Heimerdinger came up and tapped the microphone lightly before she could talk about the guy's bad table manners.

"Attention, please, everybody! There, quiet down, please. Yes, thank you.” He started. “I’m sure you might all be wondering why I have gathered you here, and I am happy to announce I have great news to give you!”

Murmurs could be heard from various places along the hall.

“As you all know, the Academy had to make the difficult decision to close the laboratories temporarily due to the recent explosion at the manufacturing facilities. We know how distressed and impatient you must be to go back to your work and how frustrating the prospect of an entire month of idleness feels to brilliant people like you all,” he paused, seemingly for effect. “Thus, the Academy has decided to organize a seminar with some of our brightest minds at each of our research divisions, which will take place at the conclusion of this month-long absence of activity.” 

The quiet muttering gradually became a cacophony of confused exclamations and flat-out grunts of annoyance, but after people started to quiet down again, he continued.

“Everyone will be required to attend, but only one person per department is to be voted internally, both to be involved as an organizer and as a speaker. I shall leave you to it now, and expect a list of the chosen people at my desk by the end of the day, as well as one update at the end of each week leading to the date of the event. Good luck, my dears!” 

With that, he jumped off the platform he had been standing on to reach the microphone and left the room, ignoring any and all clamors of bewilderment. After some minutes of complaining, though, the people from each department begrudgingly got together to get the voting over with. Some of them chose randomly, others put it up to an actual vote and chose the person everyone thought was a better speaker, and others had volunteers. To your dismay, you were chosen to speak on behalf of the chemistry department. And, not surprisingly, Viktor volunteered on his end. 

No more than 30 minutes later, everyone else had left, except for the chosen people. A man from Biology you weren’t familiar with, Lara from Arts and Performance, a lovely older lady from History and Anthropology, Corso from Language and Literature, that weird guy from Poli-sci, Viktor, and you

The morale was not up the walls, even though you were all happy to have something to do, having to organize an entire workshop conference as well as the presentation each one of you had to give felt like more work than you would normally do at your respective labs. Not to mention, you knew this was nothing more than a copout for the academy, throwing this at you so that you didn’t get any free time without them having to get involved in any organizing themselves. 

Regardless, after a short talk, you decided to split into three groups. One would be in charge of the scheduling and agenda; the second would take care of the venues; and the last would take care of advertising, leaving Lara to design and print the flyers and posters. 

“Let’s team up, sweetheart, I know this amazing place downtown where we can organize everything.” You came to learn that his name was Asher, and you thought that name was not fit for how much of a sleaze he was.  

“Oh, I’m sorry, but I’m banned from that part of the city. I caused a three-way collision between 2 horses and an electric bike; there were no casualties, but I can’t be within a 3-mile radius of there.” You said with a deadpan expression. 

“What? Seriously?” He asked. Everyone else was either completely confused or mildly horrified, but Viktor knew you well enough to let out a small huff. 

“Of course not.” You chuckled and then picked up one of the folded-up pieces of paper Lara had been writing on for everyone to draw a name from. 

It was your turn to be horrified when you unfolded the paper and read Viktor’s name on it. After the initial shock wore off, however, you could’ve sworn you felt something akin to relief. Perhaps it was due to being saved from having to go with Asher, or maybe it was because Viktor was the only person there that you knew, even if you didn’t get along. 

But as it usually happens, any positive sentiment you ever harbored towards him came to a halt as swiftly as it came, when you heard him grunt in displeasure. You weren’t in the mood to throw any jibes at him in front of everyone, so you simply rolled your eyes. 

“1:00 p.m. tomorrow at the café near the night market. Bring a notebook, I left all of mine at the lab.” You said not bothering to look up at him as you gathered your things to leave the hall. 

You interpreted his silence as agreement. 

[channel4sims-cc]

TS4: Animated Sign Override - Welcome Back, Jin!

Sul sul ^^

I guess all K-Pop fans probably know that Jin from BTS will be discharged from his military service on June 12th.

He'll be the first BTS member to be discharged.

So I made this sign override to celebrate it!

You need "City Living" expansion for it to work. You can see this sign around San Myshuno, especially at the Spice Market neighborhood :)

Some pictures of Jin will be displayed with the text "Welcome back, Jin! 아미에게 돌아온 걸 환영해 (Welcome back to ARMY).

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

ABOUT THIS MOD:

❤️This mod will only conflict if you have another one that overrides this sign that comes with City Living. You'd have to remove it from your Mods folder before using Jin's override.

The only mod of mine that conflicts with it, is the "brazilian objects override".

❤️As I said above, you need "City Living" expansion for it to work. If you don't have it, don't worry. There's a base game K-Pop mod coming soon for everyone :)

❤️ Download, extract it and put it in your Mods folder. When you don't want this override anymore, just delete it from your Mods folder :)

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

It's just a simple way of celebrating this day :)

For those who are ARMY, I hope you'll have a lot a fun with Jin's comeback and welcome him well 💜

I hope you'll enjoy it a lot!

Happy Simming! And welcome back, Jin! 💜

*-* DOWNLOAD (free/no adfly) *-*

[burade]

Cheese is a food derived from milk that is produced in a wide range of flavors, textures, and forms by coagulation of the milk protein casein. It comprises proteins and fat from milk, usually the milk of cows, buffalo, goats, or sheep. During production, the milk is usually acidified, and adding the enzyme rennet causes coagulation. The solids are separated and pressed into final form. Some cheeses have molds on the rind or throughout. Most cheeses melt at cooking temperature.

Hundreds of types of cheese from various countries are produced. Their styles, textures and flavors depend on the origin of the milk (including the animal's diet), whether they have been pasteurized, the butterfat content, the bacteria and mold, the processing, and aging. Herbs, spices, or wood smoke may be used as flavoring agents. The yellow to red color of many cheeses, such as Red Leicester, is produced by adding annatto. Other ingredients may be added to some cheeses, such as black pepper, garlic, chives or cranberries.

For a few cheeses, the milk is curdled by adding acids such as vinegar or lemon juice. Most cheeses are acidified to a lesser degree by bacteria, which turn milk sugars into lactic acid, then the addition of rennet completes the curdling. Vegetarian alternatives to rennet are available; most are produced by fermentation of the fungus Mucor miehei, but others have been extracted from various species of the Cynara thistle family. Cheesemakers near a dairy region may benefit from fresher, lower-priced milk, and lower shipping costs.

Cheese is valued for its portability, long life, and high content of fat, protein, calcium, and phosphorus. Cheese is more compact and has a longer shelf life than milk, although how long a cheese will keep depends on the type of cheese; labels on packets of cheese often claim that a cheese should be consumed within three to five days of opening. Generally speaking, hard cheeses, such as parmesan last longer than soft cheeses, such as Brie or goat's milk cheese. The long storage life of some cheeses, especially when encased in a protective rind, allows selling when markets are favorable.

There is some debate as to the best way to store cheese, but some experts[who?] say that wrapping it in cheese paper provides optimal results. Cheese paper is coated in a porous plastic on the inside, and the outside has a layer of wax. This specific combination of plastic on the inside and wax on the outside protects the cheese by allowing condensation on the cheese to be wicked away while preventing moisture from within the cheese escaping.

A specialist seller of cheese is sometimes known as a cheesemonger. Becoming an expert in this field requires some formal education and years of tasting and hands-on experience, much like becoming an expert in wine or cuisine. The cheesemonger is responsible for all aspects of the cheese inventory: selecting the cheese menu, purchasing, receiving, storage, and ripening.

[blubushie]

im gonna be real with you i do NOT know what vegemite is what is that

On a literal level, it's yeast extract.

Remember how I said Aussies love beer? In order to make beer you need yeast. It's a whole bloody process, but the gist is that when you're done brewing the beer, you get a bunch of leftover yeast. This is normally completely useless, but in 1902 a German bloke named Justus von Liebig came up with the bright idea of "Wait, instead of wasting the yeast, why don't we just eat it?"

"That's a stupid idea because it tastes terrible and no one would eat it," everyone said, but von Liebig wouldn't be deterred! So he slapped some spices in there for flavouring and bam, edible yet still disgusting yeast extract.

The poms liked this idea and as poms are wont to do, they stole it. Branded it Marmite, and shipped it out to Commonwealth countries around the world.

That worked out all fine and dandy until WWI hit and the poms suddenly found themselves in desperate need to conserve this wonderful (ech) source of Vitamin B. They saved it for the troops only. Most of the breweries were shut down in the war and converted into munitions productions and depots, so for a time Marmite was merely a ghost of the past for civilians.

Until the Aussies came along.

"Oi!" some bloke said to some other bloke, "It's been a year since the war ended. Where's our fuckin' Marmite?" But alas, his longing went unanswered.

So he said fuck all that noise and decided "Well, fuck the poms, we'll make the shit ourselves!"

So they did. Fred Walker, (a M*lburnian, ech) decided to hire a bloke called Cyril Callister to figure out how the fuck the poms made Marmite, and instead make something even better.

And, as Aussies love our beer, he turned to Calton & United Brewery, who happens to be the brewery WHAT MAKES VICTORIA BITTER. (It's a conspiracy, do you understand?) They also make Foster's, but we don't discuss fucking FOSTER'S on this blog.

So he took yeast extract, mixed it with TOO MUCH FUCKING SALT, added some celery and onion extract, and bam: breakfast tar! Then he gave his daughter--WHO WAS NAMED SHEILAH--the job of naming the new, better Marmite. And she went "Well, there's veggies in there, innit?" And he just nodded. "Call it vegemite."

AND SO VEGEMITE WAS BORN.

It hit the market in 1923, immediately failed, and in 1928 went under a rebrand of "Parwill" ("Because if Marmite [ma might] then Parwill [pa will]) and this didn't last long--it was changed back to Vegemite in 1935.

In 1925 Fred Walker helped found Kraft, an American company (Kraft cheese, anyone?) So Walker used Kraft's newfound success to promote Vegemite. This... actually worked, surprisingly. In 1939 the British Medical Association officially backed Vegemite as a great source of Vitamin B, and when WWII hit, it was included in civilian rations across the country. By the late 1940s, Vegemite was found in 9/10 Australian homes.

And it stuck. Its billionth jar was sold in 2008, and in 1984 it was the first-ever product to be electronically scanned in an Australian checkout.

We're all happy little Vegemites!

[snapmite1998]

### Dryden Vos: The Face and Force of Crimson Dawn's Criminal Empire

#### Overview

Dryden Vos, the charismatic and ruthless figurehead of Crimson Dawn, serves as both the public face and operational manager of the organization's vast criminal enterprise. As a loyal servant to Darth Maul, Vos is responsible for overseeing and coordinating the syndicate's illegal activities, ensuring that Maul's vision for Crimson Dawn is executed with precision and brutality. His role as manager of Crimson Dawn’s criminal operations makes him a crucial link between Maul’s strategic objectives and the day-to-day activities of the syndicate.

### Role and Responsibilities

1. Figurehead of Crimson Dawn

- Public Persona: Dryden Vos is the visible leader of Crimson Dawn, often engaging with allies, rivals, and potential recruits. His suave demeanor and charm mask a dangerous and calculating mind, making him an effective negotiator and strategist.

- Symbol of Power: As the public face of the organization, Vos embodies the power and menace of Crimson Dawn. His presence alone is enough to command respect and fear, reinforcing the organization’s reputation across the galaxy.

2. Loyal Servant to Maul

- Subordinate Role: Despite his prominent position, Vos is unequivocally loyal to Darth Maul. He understands his role as an executor of Maul’s will and upholds the Sith Lord’s vision for Crimson Dawn with unwavering dedication.

- Communication and Coordination: As Maul’s trusted lieutenant, Vos ensures that directives from the top are effectively communicated and implemented across all levels of the organization. He coordinates closely with Maul, providing updates on operations and seeking guidance on strategic decisions.

3. Manager of Criminal Operations

- Operational Oversight: Vos supervises the various facets of Crimson Dawn’s criminal enterprise, including smuggling, extortion, assassination, and black market trade. He ensures that these operations run smoothly and profitably.

- Coordination with Syndicate Allies: Vos manages relationships with key syndicate allies, such as Black Sun, the Pyke Syndicate, and the Zygerrian Slave Empire. His diplomacy and strategic alliances are crucial in maintaining and expanding Crimson Dawn’s influence.

### Key Activities and Strategies

1. Expansion and Control

- Territory Acquisition: Under Vos’s watch, Crimson Dawn aggressively expands its territory, seizing control of key locations and resources. He employs a combination of brute force and cunning tactics to outmaneuver rivals and secure valuable assets.

- Enforcement: Ensuring compliance and order within Crimson Dawn’s territories requires a firm hand. Vos oversees the enforcement units tasked with maintaining control, using intimidation, coercion, and violence to quash any dissent.

2. Resource Extraction and Exploitation

- Rich Resource Harvest: Vos orchestrates the exploitation of world resources under Crimson Dawn’s control, including mining operations for valuable minerals, spice production, and rare art collections. These activities are key revenue streams that fund the organization’s operations.

- Slave Trade: As part of Crimson Dawn’s nefarious practices, Vos manages the capture and sale of slaves, working with allied organizations to traffic individuals for labor and other purposes. This brutal trade enhances Crimson Dawn's economic power and extends its influence.

3. Smuggling and Black Market Operations

- Contraband Movement: Vos oversees extensive smuggling networks that move illegal goods across the galaxy. These networks transport spice, weapons, stolen artifacts, and other contraband, making Crimson Dawn a central player in the black market.

- Fleets and Transport: Managing the logistics of this trade involves coordinating fleet movements and securing safe transport routes. Vos’s strategic planning ensures that Crimson Dawn remains a step ahead of law enforcement and rival factions.

### Personal Attributes and Leadership Style

1. Charismatic and Calculating

- Persuasive Charisma: Vos’s charm and eloquence make him an effective leader and negotiator. He can inspire loyalty among his subordinates and sway potential allies or rivals to his advantage.

- Strategic Mind: Behind his suave exterior lies a strategic genius. Vos is always several moves ahead, calculating the implications of every action and decision to maximize benefit for Crimson Dawn.

2. Ruthless and Unforgiving

- Brutal Discipline: Vos maintains strict discipline within the organization, dealing harshly with failure and dissent. This approach ensures that his subordinates remain loyal and effective, while competitors and enemies are dealt with mercilessly.

- Relentless Ambition: Vos embodies the ruthless ambition of Crimson Dawn, striving always to expand their power and influence. His methods are ruthless, and he is unafraid to employ extreme measures to achieve his goals.

### Impact and Legacy

1. Strengthening Crimson Dawn

- Consolidation of Power: Under Vos’s management, Crimson Dawn has become a formidable force in the galaxy. His efforts have consolidated the organization’s power, making it a dominant player in the criminal underworld.

- Expansion of Influence: Through strategic alliances and relentless expansion, Vos has extended Crimson Dawn’s reach, ensuring that its influence is felt across vast sectors of the galaxy.

2. Legacy of Fear and Control

- Enduring Reputation: Dryden Vos’s brutal and efficient leadership style has left a lasting impression. His legacy is one of fear and control, with Crimson Dawn’s reputation for ruthlessness deterring potential adversaries.

- Succession Planning: Recognizing the importance of continuity, Vos plays a role in grooming and identifying future leaders who can carry on Maul’s vision and the ethos of Crimson Dawn.

### Conclusion

Dryden Vos stands as a pivotal figure in Crimson Dawn’s rise to prominence, balancing the public role of figurehead with the behind-the-scenes management of its vast criminal operations. His loyalty to Maul, combined with his charismatic and ruthless leadership, ensures that Crimson Dawn remains a dominant force in the galaxy's underworld.

Through his strategic oversight, efficient execution of operations, and ruthless enforcement, Vos embodies the ethos of Crimson Dawn, driving the organization toward Maul’s vision of a new order where power and fear are paramount. As long as he stands at the helm, Crimson Dawn will continue to thrive, expand, and instill its reign of terror across the galaxy.

[radiocheck]

another bc i can

again piarles - "i brought you flowers." "for what?" "there has to be a reason?" 🌹💐🌷

(i'm a sucker for these dorks giving each other flowers)

Markets covered by bright orange and green umbrellas lined the wide cobbled streets of Milan, selling just about anything you could dream of. Charles passed through them slowly, his baseball cap and sunglasses on to try to avoid being recognised as he perused stalls of vibrant and aromatic spices, from vivid orange turmeric to the reddest chilli powder, book stalls selling beautiful old hardbacks with gold lettering, or art stands ranging from huge, detailed canvases of the Italian countryside preserved in oil paint, to a kindly old man sitting and sketching caricatures. At the end of the street he came across a flower stall, sweet smelling and overflowing with blooms of every shape and colour he could imagine. Charles paused and sniffed a bouquet, smiling faintly. Pierre was always buying him flowers, whether it was for a birthday, anniversary, or to celebrate a race win, but Charles felt ashamed to think back and realise he wasn’t sure he’d ever bought some for Pierre.

“I can customise them, depending on what you’re trying to say,” the lady sitting in the stall addressed him in Italian, her eyes wrinkling at the corners with the warmth of her expression. “Who are they for?”

“Someone I love,” Charles said honestly, touching one of the petals of a lily nearby with the tip of one finger. “I just thought he’d like them.”

The lady smiled as if she understood more than he said, and got to her feet. “The white lily symbolises pure love,” she told him, carefully lifting a few from the bunch in which they stood. “Fitting, no?”

She built him a bouquet of white lilies, apple blossom, daisies, honeysuckle, and red chrysanthemum, telling a story of love, devotion, and preference above all else. Charles marvelled at her hands as she composed them into a beautiful bunch, tying them together with a pink ribbon. The smell coming off them was incredible, and he thanked her profusely, leaving an extra tip before taking the bouquet and continuing back towards home.

Pierre had been in a meeting with Alpine, so Charles had gone for a wander around the city in the meantime, enjoying the markets and sunshine and getting an ice cream, but now he couldn’t wait to get back to Pierre and give him these flowers.

He let himself in, ditching cap, keys and sunglasses in a bowl by the door. His face instantly bloomed into a smile when he saw Pierre was already back. “Calamar, I brought you flowers.” He suddenly felt half shy, stretching the beautiful and lavish bouquet out to his best friend, his lover.

“For what?” Pierre laughed, surprised but happy, taking them from Charles and smelling them in the same way Charles had done in the stall. “They’re beautiful.”

“There has to be a reason?” Charles didn’t know why he was blushing, but he was, and he tucked himself into Pierre’s side to hide it. “You always bring me flowers, and I just saw these and thought you would like them.”

“I love them.” Pierre wound his arm around Charles’ waist, drawing him close and resting his chin on top of his head as he admired the bouquet. He was touched more than he knew how to say. Charles was always sweet, and never went short on showing Pierre how much he loved him, but he was also the first boy Pierre had been with, and with that came the territory of re-negotiating in himself what role he played in a relationship. He was used to buying flowers, but not to getting them, and it stirred a fierce love inside him for this beautiful boy – his first and last real love. “And I love you.”

Charles extracted himself from Pierre just enough to be able to see his face, the smile on his lips and the surprise threat of tears in those bright blue eyes. That expression – that was why he’d bought Pierre flowers. He leaned in and kissed him, taking care not to squish the flowers between them. “Je t’aime, calamar.”

[sailtomarina]

My friends think we’re dating

For the past few months, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy had traipsed all over muggle London taking in its food scene from familiar Parisian cuisine to the pungent spices of takeout Indian, and even to American pizza that Draco simultaneously loved and hated for its greasiness. Theirs was the tentative start of a friendship between former enemies now coworkers. When the Malfoy heir expressed curiosity at her lunch one day, a plate of Pad Kee Mao, she discovered his appallingly limited palate, one accustomed to the whimsy of house elves and professional chefs. He laughed in disbelief at the idea of street food, and at first didn’t believe her that entire night markets existed for the pleasure of eating. So Hermione took it upon herself to introduce him a couple of times a week to something new—for his own personal growth, of course. The change in her schedule didn’t go unnoticed. “My friends think we’re dating.” Draco’s hand froze momentarily before resuming its movement towards the box of doughnuts between them. He carefully plucked a powdery white one from the side and considered the dark red ooze at its tip before taking a small bite of the confection. How he could gracefully eat a powdered jelly doughnut without a single spot or smear afterward, Hermione could not for the life of her figure out. “Is that a problem?” Cool grey eyes probed into hers after he finished his last, impeccable bite. “Isn’t it for you? Putting aside the fact that we’re just friends and you don’t even like me like that.” Her words trailed off near the end, and she picked up her coffee mug to nervously sip at the now lukewarm beverage. She grimaced at the bitterness of the over-extracted beans. Draco smirked at her reaction and placed a few packets of creamer in front of her. “This is why I suggested we get our coffee elsewhere, Granger. Everyone knows the coffee at doughnut shops is absolute shite.” He tilted his head as he watched her tear open and pour a couple into her mug before continuing. “And what if I do like you like that?” Thunk. Creamy brown liquid sloshed over the rim and she cursed as she fluttered around for napkins to clean up the spill. “Don’t tease me like that, Malfoy!” “I promise you, I’ve never been more serious. I do. Like you like that.” With a wordless wave of his hand, the mess on the table vanished. He then reached across and threaded his fingers with hers. Hermione stared at their hands before taking a deep breath to somehow steady the pulse threatening to beat right out of her chest. A chuckle coupled with his thumb rubbing a warm trail across her knuckles left her breathless in anticipation. He let go of her and before she could protest, he picked up her sad excuse of a coffee and drained it all. “I thought these meet-ups were purely educational? Just a step towards your muggle knowledge? Also, why did you drink my coffee?” She waved her hands first at the pastel pink box and coffee mug, voice far more shrill than she’d like to admit. “Yes, I do appreciate these forays into the muggle food scene, but there is and has always been an ulterior motive, Hermione.” The switch to her given name had her gaping in the most adorable manner, and he couldn’t resist his follow-up question, one he’d been waiting to ask but now felt appropriate given her friends’ meddling. “Would you date me? And hopefully not long after, allow me to court you?” “I—I suppose that would be—yes, I’d like to—” without even waiting for her to finish, he swept her up with him as he stood, shrunk the rest of the doughnuts in their box to place in his pocket, and made for the exit. “Excellent. There’s a lovely little coffee shop we can go to wash out this swill.” His hand grasped hers tightly, but his pace measured a gait to match her smaller one. “What, so now you’re educating me on muggle coffee?” She had recovered her composure enough to tease him with a light nudge to his elbow, and he cast an appreciate grin down at her before wrapping an arm tightly around her at the apparition point. “Yes, and on so much more.” ---

Note: I absolutely suck at brevity. I know Drabbles are supposed to be short, but I find it nearly impossible to keep my scenes sub-500, much less 100. Practice makes perfect?

[mcrinmyhead]

Cheese??

Cheese is a dairy product produced in a range of flavors, textures, and forms by coagulation of the milk protein casein. It comprises proteins and fat from milk (usually the milk of cows, buffalo, goats or sheep). During production, milk is usually acidified and either the enzymes of rennet or bacterial enzymes with similar activity are added to cause the casein to coagulate. The solid curds are then separated from the liquid whey and pressed into finished cheese. Some cheeses have aromatic molds on the rind, the outer layer, or throughout. Over a thousand types of cheese exist, produced in various countries. Their styles, textures and flavors depend on the origin of the milk (including the animal's diet), whether they have been pasteurised, the butterfat content, the bacteria and mold, the processing, and how long they have been aged. Herbs, spices, or wood smoke may be used as flavoring agents. The yellow-to-red color of many cheeses is produced by adding annatto. Other added ingredients may include black pepper, garlic, chives or cranberries. A cheesemonger, or specialist seller of cheeses, may have expertise with selecting, purchasing, receiving, storing and ripening cheeses. Most cheeses are acidified to by bacteria, which turn milk sugars into lactic acid, then the addition of rennet completes the curdling. Vegetarian varieties of rennet are available; most are produced through fermentation by the fungus Mucor miehei, but others have been extracted from various species of the Cynara thistle family. For a few cheeses, the milk is curdled by adding acids such as vinegar or lemon juice. Cheese is valued for its portability, long shelf life, and high content of fat, protein, calcium, and phosphorus. Cheese is more compact and has a longer shelf life than milk, although how long a cheese will keep depends on the type of cheese. Hard cheeses, such as Parmesan, last longer than soft cheeses, such as Brie or goat's milk cheese. The long storage life of some cheeses, especially when encased in a protective rind, allows selling when markets are favorable. Vacuum packaging of block-shaped cheeses and gas-flushing of plastic bags with mixtures of carbon dioxide and nitrogen are used for storage and mass distribution of cheeses in the 21st century.

But yeah.... I loooooovveeee ChEEEEEEEEEEEEEse 🤤

[m1ntted]

do u like cheese .

Cheese is a dairy product produced in wide ranges of flavors, textures, and forms by coagulation of the milk protein casein. It comprises proteins and fat from milk (usually the milk of cows, buffalo, goats, or sheep). During production, milk is usually acidified and either the enzymes of rennet or bacterial enzymes with similar activity are added to cause the casein to coagulate. The solid curds are then separated from the liquid whey and pressed into finished cheese. Some cheeses have aromatic molds on the rind, the outer layer, or throughout.

Over a thousand types of cheese exist and are produced in various countries. Their styles, textures and flavors depend on the origin of the milk (including the animal's diet), whether they have been pasteurized, the butterfat content, the bacteria and mold, the processing, and how long they have been aged. Herbs, spices, or wood smoke may be used as flavoring agents. The yellow to red color of many cheeses is produced by adding annatto. Other ingredients may be added to some cheeses, such as black pepper, garlic, chives, or cranberries. A cheesemonger, or specialist seller of cheeses, may have expertise with selecting, purchasing, receiving, storing and ripening cheeses.

For a few cheeses, the milk is curdled by adding acids such as vinegar or lemon juice. Most cheeses are acidified to a lesser degree by bacteria, which turn milk sugars into lactic acid, then the addition of rennet completes the curdling. Vegetarian alternatives to rennet are available; most are produced by fermentation of the fungus Mucor miehei, but others have been extracted from various species of the Cynara thistle family. Cheesemakers near a dairy region may benefit from fresher, lower-priced milk, and lower shipping costs.

Cheese is valued for its portability, long shelf life, and high content of fat, protein, calcium, and phosphorus. Cheese is more compact and has a longer shelf life than milk, although how long a cheese will keep depends on the type of cheese. Hard cheeses, such as Parmesan, last longer than soft cheeses, such as Brie or goat's milk cheese. The long storage life of some cheeses, especially when encased in a protective rind, allows selling when markets are favorable. Vacuum packaging of block-shaped cheeses and gas-flushing of plastic bags with mixtures of carbon dioxide and nitrogen are used for storage and mass distribution of cheeses in the 21st century.

in short.... yes. im very much a lover of cheese. cheese. give me cheese..

[nrcnewspaperclub]

A tropical thumbprint is a recipe I came up with. I called it a Hawaiian thumbprint for my marketing chunk of the project, but it's like a traditional jam thumbprint cookie but it has tropical flavors and is encrusted with coconut and freeze dried pineapple!

anyways, recipes;

Almond Spice Version 3 2 cups flour 1 tsp baking soda 3 tsp cornstarch 4 tsp almond extract 1 tsp salt 2 Tbsp cinnamon 2 Tbsp nutmeg ⅔ cups chopped almonds 1 cup butter ¾ cups brown sugar ½ cups granulated sugar 1 tsp vanilla extract 1 egg Preheat oven to 350°F Cream butter, sugar, and extracts. Add egg and stir to combine. Sift dry ingredients into the bowl mix to combine. fold in ⅓ cups chopped almonds, Roll dough into log press ⅓ cup of almonds into sides of dough log and wrap in parchment paper. Slice into 32 slices. Bake for 8-11 min

Hawaiian Thumbprint Cookies Version 3

3 and ½ cups flour

¾ cups butter

1 tsp vanilla extract

11 teaspoons pineapple jam

16 macadamia nut kernels, cut in half

2 Cups freezed dried pineapple, powdered

1 egg

4 oz unsweetened coconut flakes

¼ tsp salt

¾ cups sugar

½ cup monk fruit sweetener, divided

Preheat oven to 350°F Cream together one egg, vanilla extract, butter, sugar, and 6 tablespoons of the monk fruit sweetener. Sift in dry ingredients. Combine. Fold in one and a half cups freeze dried pineapple powder. Place onto parchment paper and roll into a tube and wrap in parchment paper. Chill in the fridge for half an hour. While the dough rests, beat the egg in a small bowl. Mix together coconut flakes, chopped macadamia nuts, monk fruit sweetener and remaining pineapple powder in a small bowl. Place some of the coconut mixture into a small plate.Cut dough into 32 equal disks.Dip each disk into egg mixture, then dip into coconut mixture and place on a parchment paper lined baking sheet. Repeat until all discs have been dipped, refilling coconut mixture when depleted.Press your thumb or the back of a rounded teaspoon into the disks. Fill holes with 1/3 tsp of pineapple jam, then press a macadamia nut half on top of the jam, flat side down. Repeating for all cookies. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes

Orange You Glad Cookies Version 3 2 and ½ cups flour½ tsp saltThe juice of 1 and ½ navel oranges3 Tbsp of orange juiceThe zest of 1 and ½ navel orangesThe zest of ½ navel oranges3 Tbsp orange extract1 cup butter3 Tbsp powdered monk fruit sweetener1 and ¼ cups sugar ½ tsp baking powderOne eggPreheat oven to 350°f Beat one egg, extracts, butter sugar, and flour, add juice of 1 and ½ oranges and zest of 1 and ½ oranges. Sift in dry ingredients and combine. Split into 32 parts. Flatten each segment into a disk. Put on a parchment lined pan. Bake for for 9-11 min. While cookies are baking, mix monk fruit sweetener with a Tbsp each of orange juice and orange extract. Once cooled, glaze cookies and top with a pinch of orange zest.

they were all designed to be low sugar, but you can substitute monk fruit sweetener for powdered sugar if you wish

🍋, oranges are clearly the superior citrus, source; My last name is a kind of orange, and I'm clearly superior to you (🍋) :p

-🍊

frantically scribbling all of this down, these all sound delicious.