#enamel mug with name on

[luciferanalyzestar]

It has officially been a year and the ultimate package playbills have still not been shipped out to the buyers! 🎉🥳To celebrate this “event”, drink some water. Stay hydrated.

Viv’s silence on the missing playbills is still odd and makes me side eye her more now. She makes tweets about stupid shit like a ship name being used for an overpriced print but is quiet as a mouse when her loyal and dedicated fans ask her "Where are the playbills?"

It is easy for A24 to produce shirts, trading cards, mugs, and posters in mass quantities and have been shipped out in a timely and reasonable manner but producing a booklet is a challenge for them.

If I bought the ultimate package, I would be contacting my bank and disputing the charge. A24 is on that bullshit with not allowing refunds because they shipped out the other items that came with the package. The playbill was the main reason fans bought it. The keychain, enamel pins. and trading cards were not that special.

If you are a critical fan and want merch but do not want to give A24 [and Viv] your money, go on Etsy and support a small fan business instead. All the items I got from fan artists have been amazing and worth the wait.

[whipped-for-kpop-fics]

Seventeen & matching/couple items

💕Who; seventeen (individually) x gender-neutral reader 💕What; soft thoughts about the couple items they'd have with their significant other 💕Wordcount; around 1.5k altogether 💕Warnings; none! I didn't even swear in this, go me

-2024 Masterlist-

A/N; this wasn't supposed to be a whole thing which is why there's no capitalisation, plus it's almost 2 am so I am not about to go through and change the style now

seungcheol; definitely rings. i imagine something simple and in silver with both of your initials on the inside so it's more subtle but he can still look down at it when he needs the strength you give him but he's also always giving you his hoodies/jackets/hats and will buy another of any you refuse to give back so you wind up matching that way too but only intentionally in private. cheol likes to show you off but only to those he trusts and loves because he only wants you to feel the love you deserve

jeonghan; jackets, like matching bomber-style jackets with cute embroidery and maybe your names embroidered on them somewhere. but he often steals yours so you have to wear his just so that he can see his name on you he'll definitely come up to you one day like "babe, let's get matching tattoos" only to show you a packet of temporary tattoos he got for some change in a machine. the designs are all clearly aimed at children but you both wind up with arms dotted in these cute little matching images

joshua; something sweet and handmade because it means more. yes, im talking about his handmade bracelets, or beaded keychains you made for each other one lazy afternoon full of giggles as you make each other the most atrocious keychains in a competition to make the worst just for the fun of it. yet you both still adore the keychain gifted to you because the other made it and wear it proudly on your favourite/daily bags omg mugs, every morning(if you live together) he gets up earlier than you on purpose just so that he can make sure that he can make you both your morning beverages(regardless of if you drink hot drinks or not) in the matching mugs. he smiles sleepy and content at you every time without fail as he watches you sip at your mug with the sweet phrase on that matches his own

junhui; i don't know why but i suddenly imagined matching plushies and that feels right. maybe you happened to both win the same one during an arcade date in a claw machine but now you both sleep with that same one on your bed even if it's for an anime neither of you has watched i don't imagine jun purposely getting matching items because it wouldn't really occur to him as he's never felt the need to boast, he's happy with you and he hopes you're the same though when you're out together wandering around stores and see little decor you both like, he'll rush to buy you one each so your living spaces matches. (he's really just slyly making your homes similar enough that it won't seem like such a difference when he asks you to move in)

soonyoung; i actually think he'd be quite subtle with it tbh. he'd give you a tiger plushie keychain to attach to your bag and he'd have a matching one of your favourite animal on his own and will always fiddle with it mindlessly and think of you. so it actually wears out quite often and he has to geta new one. though he keeps the damaged ones in a secret box under his bed because it'd feel like throwing a piece of you out, he really does link the cute little plushie to you so much he might also like something like bucket hats/beanies that match but in simple designs/colours so although you two know they're purposely matching, others will just see you both in plain black bucket hats and think nothing of it other than an easy to happen coincidence

wonwoo; wonwoo would definitely want something just for you two that isn't necessarily an obvious couple item. maybe a cute little enamel badge on his favourite jacket and you have the same on your daily bag also matching gaming headphones because how can i not mention that? even if you don't really game, he'll buy a set he's had his eyes on for ages aimed at couples, with the matching stands and keeps both on his desk so he can look over at your one even if you're not there. always makes him smile to himself and perk up even if he's about to rage quit a game

jihoon; another simple subtle kind of guy. i'm imagining something like braided leather-look bracelets with silver beads with a heart etching which he only takes off to shower/swim and will glare at any stylist who tries to convince him to remove it another one with matching headphones but in this case it's more that jihoon bought you a pair specifically for his studio so that you can listen to what he's working on with him without any outside noises disturbing your peace like can happen with the speakers. sometimes he subtley removes his own when he plays songs you already know just to hear you singing along softly while you do work on your laptop without realising he's listening to you utterly enamoured

seokmin; necklaces, probably multiple of them but his favourite is one of those where you shine a light through the gem and it projects a chosen photo onto the wall or something. the amount of times the others have found seokmin tucked up in a dark corner somewhere awkwardly trying to use the light on his phone to shine through the necklace without removing it is unreal. cute boy just wants to see the first photo you two ever took together for comfort <3 but i also imagine that one upon a time you two were in a store and he saw novelty hats and he didn't manage to slyly buy them for you both because he kept giggling so you found out before he made it to pay but you let him buy them because he looked to happy. so now you both have a novelty hat hanging proudly in your homes, you don't wear them but it makes you both smile to look at

mingyu; everything. he'll want every possible matching couple item. hoodies, bags, hats, rings, bracelets(im emotionally attached to the one he gives reader in this fic i wrote), necklaces, phone cases. omg phone cases, that's his favourite and you can bet there's multiple of them and he matches them to his outfit so every morning you get a selfie of his outfit, but not the case because he likes to make a game out of seeing if you'll guess the correct case to put on your phone that day to match (you always do)

minghao; i feel like he'd like matching necklaces or bracelets, something delicate and simple but full of meaning for you both. he'd especially love a necklace long enough that he can hold the pendant over his heart as he thinks of you when you're apart and hopes you're thinking of him too but he'd also like to make something, maybe one of you buys an embroidery kit one day for you two to try something new together and you personalise matching premade little zip bags(coin purse/toiletry bag idk what you'd call them) to gift each other. obviously as it's your first attempt at embroidery, they don't turn out that great but minghao proudly carries him around all the time with whatever little items he may need during the day and doesn't want to lose in his bag

seokmin; i have no idea why but my brain said shoes and now honestly that seems so random but i can't let it go now so you have matching shoes, a variety to match a range of outfits. They may not be exactly the same(though some are) but they're similar enough to work. seungkwan always smiles dopily to himself then plays it off and side eyes you when you tease him for it, though he's realyl fighting hard not to smile because he really loves the unique way to match with you also matching scarf/gloves/hat sets for the cold weather because he loves bundling you up so you're all cosy snug. the matching aspect is just a happy bonus and definitely always leads to loads of selfies with your matching pink cheeks and noses barely in view under the thick scarves

vernon; t-shirts, band tees, graphic tees, plain ones. just t-shirts. it started because you always stole his and he didn't realise it was because they're his so he bought you the same ones and took his back, only for you to swap them out next time. but he knows now and buys two of pretty much every t-shirt he buys though makes sure to wear one a handful of times before giving that one to you because he knows you like things he's worn he's also the type i think to like carrying a photo of you two in his wallet/tucked hidden into his phone case, like a photobooth one and obviously you have the other half of the strip in your own

chan; honestly, i think chan would just be happy to do whatever you want with matching. he thinks it's cute as hell to match with his partner but he won't really be the one to actively bring it up, just hint "oh look, babe, that couple have matching jackets, isn't that cute?" until you get the hint and ask him to get something matching with you, though he still has you lead it just anything at all would be his favourite regardless of if it was just a cheap prize keyring from the arcade or expensive brand new phones just to match, he won't care so long as he gets to show off that you two belong to each other

A/N- if you liked this, don't forget to let me know so that I know to try and do more things like this & also reblog so others can enjoy it too!

And if you have ideas/suggestions for seventeen content, feel free to send me an ask to help inspire me to write! (or just scream at me about the ideas if you want and I'll likely scream back with a continuation with your own thoughts tbh)

[camelidae]

Art tour of my room/studio! I caught the bug for buying little pieces from other artists to brighten up my space a few years ago – it’s addicting! (and wonderful!) I want to make sure I get everyone’s names in here (at least the ones who have an online presence), so be ready for a long post! 

It always feels a little ignomious hanging art in my bathroom, but I get distracted brushing my teeth a lot so it’s important there’s nice stuff to look at! I love my big crocodile print by Amanda Myers so much. He’s so Green and so lovely and he has so many teeth to contemplate while I brush my own.

I felt a little bad putting this magnificent tiger by Paleopanthera (paleopanthera.com) above the toilet, but the colors just work so nice and it makes my bathroom look so rad ;~; Do you think the tiger’s mad at me? Does he look mad?

I got this little scrollwork shelf from ScrollSawArtbyBC (etsy) and I love it so much! Makes a perfect little nook for my sink things~

And who is this peeking out from some of my nature treasures? Why it’s one of Becca Jane’s little blue snakes (BeccaJane.com). One day I’m going to save up my pennies and buy one of her big beautiful platters and on it I will serve the prettiest of pastas~

Also adorning my nature shelf is this beautiful mix-media plaque by Cephasparagus (insta). She also seems to adore collecting little bits of nature like an aesthetic magpie - my kind of gal!

I have a bevy of these little animal prints by Amanda Myers (Admers on etsy) on my walls – I love how combine with my pressed leaves and flowers to bring that "forest hermit" vibe I've always strived for.

The stained glass folk flower piece is from Leadleaf_ (insta) - it really makes my little terrarium corner look cozy and magical!

I got my Artistic License and my Poetic License from Kenspeckle Press (kenspeckleletterpress.com) - they didn’t even make me take an aesthetics test or metaphorically parallel park. (Plus another beautiful thank you card from Amanda Myers.)

The little kitty mug from Heikala (heikala.com) is what I drink iced cocoa from almost daily. I like how the ice clicks on the enamel <3

I still maintain that the embroidered flower pendant from DandelionDoiley (etsy) is the cutest thing that I own. Feels like holding a jewel! And the Hope pendant from BonbiForest (etsy) is such a lovely design with cheerful colors <3 The hummingbird I got from a local artist on a trip to Yellowstone, and the gold pendant is from a local artist where I live!

[rainbowfic]

You can:

use either or both prompts as given

use either or both lists for prompts

use the name of either or both lists as a prompts

complete as many or few days as you want

write, draw, craft, or anything else!

There's no deadline and this is just for fun. I'll reblog this with links to the lists if you want to explore.

What's RainbowFic? We're a community of original fic writers on Dreamwidth using prompt lists named after colors (for a very VERY loose definition of color). Our lists range include song lyrics, quotes from books and tv, themed words, contrasts, and a whole lot more (we have over 400!)

Text version of the list under a readmore

Text version:

Day 1: Royal Purple #11 Further beyond / Iceberg #12 Snowman

Day 2: Lilac #25 Freesia / Opera Mauve #20 Curtain call

Day 3: Lavender's Blue #2 Mermaid / Periwinkle #14 Enamel heart pendant from a garage sale

Day 4: Caramel #8 Gummies / Vert #16 As the lord/lady asks

Day 5: Midnight #6 Furtive / Psychedelic Purple #15 I know I'll never be the same

Day 6: Lotus #19 Truthfulness / Ignition Yellow #10 There are some nights I wait for someone to save us

Day 7: Green Go #21 Rideshare / Gold #12 The only way not to think about money is to have a great deal of it

Day 8: City Street #4 Highway / Greenstick Fracture #9 I got the velocity and now all I need is the mass

Day 9: Paprika #8 We've got something kinda funny going on / Harvard Crimson #14 Library

Day 10: Danish Red #2 The Snow Queen / Amaranth #5 Stars

Day 11: Pull Me Over Red #1 Parking ticket / Daffodil #5 Flowers

Day 12: Fluorescent Pink #19 It doesn't matter who they are, I won't forgive anyone who tries to stand out more than me / Parrot Green #13 Call

Day 13: Crane White #18 Tell your daughters do not walk the streets alone tonight / Spirits of Saturn #15 Overgrowth

Day 14: Cherry #12 Grapes / Skylight #4 Smoking on the fire escape

Day 15: Calcite #4 Soft/Hard / Burgundy #2 Varietal

Day 16: Yellow Submarine #17 The long and winding road that leads to your door will never disappear / White Opal #2 Dream

Day 17: Tigers Eye #8 Eerie empty spaces / Moonlight #1 Liminal

Day 18: Baby Blue #4 Sling / Red Dress #5 You need to find a new solution, adaptation or retribution

Day 19: Gunmetal #14 Crossbow / English Violet #3 Since I cannot prove a lover, to entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain

Day 20: Heirloom Silver #2 Heirloom / Brown #5 Brown bagging

Day 21: Coomassie Blue #1 Repressor / Folly #14 Relax, I saw it on TV

Day 22: Fuzzy Wuzzy #3 Hugs /Alien Green #6 This is where you pucker up and kiss my ass

Day 23: Fawn #4 Cat / Grand Ink #20 With a mug of hot tea and some Vicodin in my bloodstream, I look up from my book to watch the bugs outside the windows

Day 24: Royal Blue #2 Queen / Spirit Purple #19 Screw the binary gender system

[idolatrybarbie]

series masterlist

pairing: marcus pike x alex dozie (fem!OC)

word count & rating: 4.5k | mature

summary: alex dozie, everyone.

tags: angst, takes place in 2014, complicated relationships, background american politics, some emotional violence/potentially triggering relationship dynamics.

notes: @atinylittlepain | extra! extra! read all about it: marcus pike, past, present and future pathetibabe.

Spring. The temperature outside is mild. Rain showers take over the usual Lake Champlain gloom. It’s still sad outside, but at least there’s a little bit more substance to it. The sky is crying, and Alex can appreciate that. For how much it rains, she wonders if it is grieving.

Something—someone shifts in bed beside her. Opening her eyes slowly, it takes a minute for her eyes to focus. When an arm snakes around Alex’s waist, she doesn’t need to see to know who it is.

“Reg,” she croaks. Reg like register, or Reggie—that’s his name.

“Lex,” he whispers back. His breath tickles the shell of her ear.

“How long have you been up?”

“Hmm, ‘bout an hour,” Reggie tells her.

“And what time is it now?” Alex asks.

“Almost 6:30.”

Alex freezes, blood running cold. She twists out of Reggie’s grip, sitting up in bed to give him the harshest glare she can muster this early. Except she doesn’t have the time, so she only squints at him in vague annoyance before throwing the covers off her long legs.

“I’m supposed to be up at five,” she sighs. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You looked so peaceful,” Reggie smiles. It forces her to smile too, despite herself.

“Peaceful or not, I’ve got a seven o’clock class.”

Alex scurries into the bathroom, unwrapping the silk scarf around her head. Her straightened hair falls to her shoulders, choppy bangs bleached and dyed black at the ends. The rest of her hair shines with the bathroom light, a bright silver blonde reflecting everything thrown at it. She rubs a makeup wipe over her face, forgoing a decent cleanse in the crunch of time.

A shortened version of her usual morning routine goes as follows: deodorant, followed by a spritz of perfume; pinning her hair back as she smears on the slightest bit of makeup; throwing together an ensemble of decent-looking clothes while she scratches at her enamel with a toothbrush.

She doesn’t have time for contacts, grabbing her glasses from the nightstand. Reggie has done his due diligence in making her a coffee, black with two sugars. He hands Alex a bright blue travel mug and her brown leather carryall. It really does carry all—notes, pens, loose tabs of chewing gum. You name it, she’s got it.

Alex kisses him on the cheek, leaving a red-brown pair of lips on his skin.

“I’m going to kill you,” she says, all play.

“You’re gonna need a lawyer for that.”

“Point there. Know any good ones?” Alex asks. She smiles again, because Reggie makes it so easy, and says, “I’ll see you later.”

The walk from Cushing Hall to the law department’s cozy little building is a cool fifteen minutes. The rain stops as she makes her way, maneuvering around puddles in her short-heeled boots. Quaint boxy buildings surround her, the campus built like a brick maze between manicured lawns and concrete sidewalks. She can almost see a glint of sunlight reflecting against the clear windows as she passes them by.

It’d been a big swing choosing school out here; Vermont was far from the dusty heat of New Mexico and the warm arms of her mother. She’d turned down the acceptance to a community college right outside her hometown of Rio Rancho. It was a good school, Mrs. Dozie always told her. A Nigerian immigrant herself, she only wanted to see Alex succeed. It was good, sure—but Alex wanted better. The best. To be it, have it, live it; all of the above. Just over 100 thousand dollars in combined loans and scholarships later, she was set to graduate magna cum laude in a few short months.

The door opens at her pull, the floors still bright and sparkling from a lack of early morning foot traffic. A tangle of suits sit in the cushy lounge chairs nearby, hanging around. Business majors, maybe, waiting for their first lecture of the day. A check of her watch—a knockoff Calvin Klein her mother gifted her at the ceremony for Rio Rancho High’s class of 2010—tells Alex she is already late for her own.

She doesn’t have the time to notice the rain starting to pelt against the windows again, a light tingle in her ears as Alex speeds up with each step. When she reaches Rutherford Hall, she slips into room 104 with practiced silence. Alex takes a seat at the very back of the lecture hall, pulling a notebook and one pen from her varied collection, trying to catch up. When Professor Cartier takes a moment to switch between presentation slides, she pops a piece of gum in her mouth to chew.

Just a few more months, she thinks.

Professor Cartier calls on her to stay back after class ends. “Miss Dozie, if I could have a minute?” he asks at the front of the classroom.

Alex nods with a weak pull of her lips, swiping her things into her bag. She clops down the many steps to his podium with an iron grip on the leather handle. Standing tall in his impeccably tailored suits, Cartier was the only Black faculty member in the criminal justice department. Of all her professors, he is the man Alex holds in the highest regard. It’s not easy to get where he is.

They both start to speak at the same time.

“Please, go ahead,” Cartier says.

“I’m sorry for showing up late, I still got all of the content and I promise, it won’t ha—”

“Miss Dozie,” he says, stopping her. “Alex. You’re fine.”

The breath trapped in her lungs drains from her slowly. He’s never called her Alex, not in all her four years.  “Alright then.”

“I wanted to congratulate you,” the professor says.

“Well, thank you,” Alex says. “…for what exactly?”

“The scholars' brunch,” Cartier says it like it’s an obvious thing.

“I’m confused.”

“Don’t tell me they didn’t tell you?” At Alex’s silence, Cartier shakes his head with the suck of his teeth. It makes Alex chuckle lightly through her nose. Her mother has the same habit. “For your noted academic excellence, you’ve been invited to a scholars’ brunch with the mayor of Burlington.”

“Oh,” Alex says. She tries to look grateful, putting on a show of holding her hand up and clenching it in a fist of faux excitement. “Yay.”

“I know. Sounds pretty fuckin’ boring, huh?” Professor Cartier asks.

Alex laughs, a little uneasy, a little endeared. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Well, it’s a great opportunity, anyway. It’s less invitation and more expectation if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Alex nods. “I can grit and bear a few tea sandwiches with Rob Yorkdale, Professor Cartier.”

“I’m happy to hear it.”

“When is it?”

“This afternoon.”

Fantastic. They must schedule it in the middle of a school day, on a Monday. Not like she has anything better to do! Oh, these hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt? Pfft, it’s nothing Mr. Yorkdale. Let’s talk about you, huh?

“You look more than thrilled,” Cartier says.

Alex schools her grimace into a neutral mask, raising her brows. Expectation, not invitation. “Do you think Professor Harris will mind me missing her ethics class?” she asks.

"I don’t think she’d even notice you weren’t there.”

Three and a half hours later, Alex wanders into the administration office. Dean Wesley is ready to greet her with a smile, parroting all the standard questions and statements lobbed at outgoing seniors: what a pleasure Alex is to have on campus and how much she will be missed, how Wesley does hope that she comes back for a visit indeed. By the time they make it to an unfamiliar conference room, it feels like the dean is practically pushing her out the door already.

The doors open together, revealing the other attendees of this lovely little gathering. Alex recognizes a few of them: Aditi Patel, second in their class this year, setting the curve for the past three. Rowan Michael's posh attitude and smug smirk disappear as Dean Wesley leads Alex inside the room, dated floral wallpaper and the lingering scent of dust surrounding them.

“Dean Wesley,” Aditi steps forward first, shaking hands with the older man as she gives him a polite, toothless smile.

Rowan stands from his seat, nodding as he spits out a clipped, “Sir,” with a nod in the dean’s direction. The others take their turns spewing polite greetings.

“It’s so nice to have you all here,” Wesley says.

“Sure,” Alex says. “Getting the gang together to celebrate our successes.” The sarcasm is lost on Dean Wesley, but Rowan shoots her a glare.

Alex has less of an issue with Aditi than Rowan, but she’s not exactly trading friendship charms with her either. Whatever. Weeks from now, they’ll never see each other again. She might as well have her fun.

It’s a few minutes of stilted small talk that Alex simply observes before the doors open again. Mr. Yorkdale waltzes through them, everyone standing at attention with his presence. Behind him, a couple of young men trail in. The guys from earlier, Alex’s hypothesized business kids. Her opinion of them as a collective goes up marginally; being the cronies of one of the wealthiest public servants in New England didn’t exactly notch them very high.

“Mayor Yorkdale!” Dean Wesley greets him.

The two men shake hands as the student crowd utters hellos in a polite cacophony. Alex’s attention slides over to the man standing just to Yorkdale’s left. Tall-ish with short dark hair, he is perfectly clean-shaven. He holds himself in a hunch, like he’s waiting for what’s next, grinding the heel of his shoe into the ground. Maybe it’s a nervous habit. When they make eye contact, the man smiles at her. She blinks, looking away again. Reggie flashes before her eyes, probably stealing her Netflix to watch Community before his 2:30 class.

“I’m so excited to meet and greet all of you,” Mayor Yorkdale says, addressing the scholars of this brunch. “Now, let’s eat!”

Like they were waiting in the wings, a flurry of cater-waiters have everyone seated with a plate at his command. In the organized chaos of everything, Mr. Cue Ball sits next to Alex. She doesn’t say anything, unfolding a pristine linen napkin and spreading it across her lap. Catering trays are wheeled into the large space, lining the walls before a short man and a tall woman make their way around the long table. Everyone is served with a choice of ham and cheese omelet or eggs Florentine, a slice of rye toast slathered with farm-fresh butter, and a tidy fruit cup of state-grown peaches and pears.

Cue Ball gets the omelet while Alex opts for the eggs Florentine…not that she’s paying him any mind. The mayor is talking, boasting about his accomplishments with almost seven years in office behind him. It will be another two years before the election; Alex won’t be living here, but if she were, she wouldn’t vote for him. She certainly didn’t the last time.

“So how is it?” someone asks. The question seems to come from thin air. Alex looks around for the owner of the voice, looking straight ahead and meeting Rowan’s sneer. Turning her head left, fork still in her mouth, she meets the smile of the mayor’s aide.

“I’m sorry?” she asks.

“How is it? The food,” he says.

“Oh, um—fine, I guess.” The yolk is globby against her tongue, sliding down her throat before Alex speaks again. “Sorry, do I know you?”

“No,” the aide shakes his head. “I’m Marcus.” Now she does.

“Alex,” she offers.

“So, Alex,” Marcus starts, keeping his voice a little lower as to not interrupt Yorkdale’s chatter, “what’s it like at Champlain?”

Are they really doing this? “Look, Marcus? I’m here to eat with the mayor. I’d like to get back to that.”

Marcus’ brows raise a little at her reaction. Alex can almost see the gears in his head turning. “My bad. Sorry,” he says. No smart line, no bitchy comment. An apology.

The simplicity of it, the genuine sentiment dripping from just three words has her cringing inside. He’s trying to be nice. “It’s good,” she says, popping a diced peach into her mouth with her fork.

“Pardon?”

“You asked what it’s like? It’s good,” Alex says. “Simple. Hard, but no one comes here without looking for a challenge.”

“Doesn’t seem like it would be difficult for you,” Marcus says.

“Hard isn’t difficult,” she shakes her head. Curious, she adds, “Why do you say that?”

“You seem up for it. You don’t strike me as the typical audience for the halls of an institution like this.”

Hm. Of course. Well, he isn’t wrong; Alex can count the number of Black staff and students at Champlain College on one hand. Still, the insinuation has her turning away again, tongue poking into her cheek. She ignores him for the rest of the meal, only politely passing the glass pitcher of orange juice to Marcus when it comes to their stretch of the table. He tries to hedge in a few more leading comments, but Alex stays silent. By the time they serve strawberry cream tarts, he’s caught the hint.

Breakfast finishes unceremoniously. The mayor shakes every student’s hand on the way out, his clammy palm engulfing Alex’s as she feigns a smile at him. As she walks out of the conference room, she can’t help but feel that the whole thing was an utter waste of time. Worst of all, she’s still hungry. The eggs were light, the toast dry. The fruit and tart might as well have been made of air.

The dining hall is packed at peak lunch hour. Alex makes her way into the line for the international foods station, hooking a white plastic tray under her arm. Dining hall staff are busying themselves all over the kitchen, one woman hauling ass to bring another tray of Alfredo tomato linguini to the service counter. When Alex gets closer to the front of the line, she greets them.

“Ladies, how are we doing today?” she asks easily.

“Runnin’ around like chickens without our heads, sweetheart. You know the deal,” Marlene says. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ll take some of that pasta if you don’t mind,” Alex says.

“Of course.” She nods, slopping a generous helping onto a porcelain plate. “Here you go.”

“Had breakfast with the dean and the mayor.”

“Ooh, hoity-toity. Fitting right in with that high society there, right hon?” another woman—Linda—asks.

“If only they knew how to cook.”

Marlene and Linda titter with laughter, smiling at her. This is the best part of her day. These women have kept her alive and fed for the past four years, keeping Alex sane on her worst days with their cooking. She thinks she’ll miss them the most.

Thank god, there is an empty table at the very edge of the dining hall. It’s just Alex and an empty chair across from her, away from the rest of the student body in a tight corner against the building’s far wall. She expects that someone will come along soon enough, asking to take the vacant chair to slide up next to their table. Spare parts, spare friendships that Alex hasn’t developed here. Sure, she’s got acquaintances—classmates she much prefers if she must take a pick of the litter. No one Alex feels a real affinity to.

Well, Reggie. She slides her palm-sized phone from the front pocket of her bag, thumbs flying over the smooth ridges of its buttons to send him a text.

What are you up to right now?

She places the phone on the table beside her tray, waiting for a buzz in response.

Surprisingly, it’s not some freshman with parents richer than God who takes the chair from her. No one takes it at all. The guy from earlier, what was his name? Marcus. He rests his right hand over the sturdy wood back of it, catching Alex’s attention.

“Anyone sitting here?” he asks.

Marcus doesn’t wait for her to answer, sliding the chair out to take a seat. Alex watches him carefully. He sets his tray down across from hers, chicken fingers and French fries in a pile on his plate.

He’s got a bad case of overconfidence. Sincere apology be damned, working at the mayor’s office has clearly gone to this guy’s head. She doesn’t say a word, watching him tear open a ketchup packet and squeeze its contents out over the starchy fries. When Marcus is done, he licks any remnants of the red sauce from his fingers.

Alex tries not to linger too long on the sight of his fingers in his mouth, focusing on the task at hand. He’s watching her watch him. He glances to the side, then cranes his neck to look behind him. Then he quirks his lip up, no teeth.

“Do I have something on my face?” Marcus asks.

At this, Alex smiles. She likes to play with her food first.

“Nope,” she says, popping the P. “You’re just fine.”

She twirls linguini noodles around the tines of her fork methodically, attention never breaking from the man in front of her. He shoves a few fries in his mouth at once. She only notices now that the sleeves of his pressed blue dress shirt have been rolled to the elbow, the expanse of his forearm bare. It draws Alex’s eyes to the rest of him. His shoulders are broad under the expensive linen, an extra button newly undone to expose a peak of his collarbone.

Her phone buzzes beside her. Alex ignores it.

“So, Marcus?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s it like working at the mayor’s office?”

Mouth half-full, he starts to answer the question. “It’s…good,” he says. With one word, he’s fallen right into her trap.

“Really?” Alex asks, taking another bite of pasta. She waits until she is finished. Chew. Swallow. Speak. “You don’t strike me as the typical audience for the halls of an institution like that.”

As she speaks, Alex watches ketchup drip off the end of a French fry already halfway inside Marcus’ mouth. It disappears behind the table, presumably landing on his pants by the way he groans.

“Shit,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, what did you say? Oh.” His brain seems to only be catching up now, realizing she’s taken his words from him.

“You know what, never mind,” Alex says. She picks up her phone and tosses it onto her tray, then grabs her bag.

“Where are you going?” Marcus asks.

“You can have the table.”

“Where’re you going to eat?”

This man and his fucking questions. “It doesn’t really matter to you, does it?” she asks.

“Why do you think that? I mean, better here than the bathroom.”

Their conversations seem to be circling each other. It’s frustrating.

Alex sets her tray back down a little too hard, the plate rattling against her baby blue Nokia. She sits again, crossing one leg over the other.

“Guys like you walk around places like this and get applauded for showing up. I would say I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you made it clear that you have—the same thing is not happening for people like me,” Alex says. “You pop out on Earth with a silver spoon up your ass just like the rest of them, but because you deigned to notice that I might be a little out of place here, we’re supposed to be…what? Friends?”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to. It came as the expectation. Look, I’m sure you’re great and everything, but I’m really not interested in getting to know some jag who saw The Color Purple off-Broadway and thinks he can hang with the Black chick.”

“You’re wrong,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“The silver spoon, you’re wrong. I mean sure, it’s there, but I wasn’t born with it. Certainly not a pleasure that it’s present,” Marcus says.

“Am I supposed to feel bad?” Alex asks.

Marcus chuckles, a harsh gust of air through his nose as his chest shakes lightly. He puts a chicken finger in his mouth. Chews. Swallows. Speaks. “You’re funny, you know that?”

“Hilarious,” she deadpans.

“I don’t know why they’ve got you here. Scholars’ brunch? Your talent’s wasted,” he continues. “We should get you a stand-up special.”

“We?”

“Yeah. A tight fifteen, you know, working the crowd. Who doesn’t love a beautiful woman telling jokes?” Marcus asks. Alex’s face grows hot, eyes glued to her pasta as he continues to talk. “You’re right. I can’t expect you to feel bad. Kind of a dick move of me. I don’t know you and you don’t know me.”

“Oh, I know you,” Alex says, sitting up a little straighter.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirms.

“Okay,” he says, pointing at Alex with a fry between his fingers. “So who am I?”

“Rich, for starters, but anyone who has eyes can tell you that. Harry Rosen button-down, authentic leather Prada lace-ups, but your pants… Banana Republic? My guess is you ran buck wild in Neiman Marcus and went a little over budget. That’s a 200-dollar haircut that you’ve let grow out so you know you’re getting the money’s worth, and maybe you’re hoping you can style it into bangs in a few weeks once it dips past your ears,” Alex says. “You didn’t want to come here today, and you don’t like working for the mayor, because the truth is…” She leans in closer now, voice barely above a whisper. “Deep down, you’re about as out of place here as I am.”

Alex sits back up again, playing with the blush pasta on her plate. “You’re just inauthentic.” When Marcus puts his other hand on top of the table, she sees it: the yellow-gold wedding band that circles his ring finger. And married, she thinks. Of course.

She finishes her food quickly, standing from her seat. Out of politeness—not that there’s much left—Alex offers him her hand to shake. Surprisingly, he takes it.

“Lovely to meet you, Alex…?”

“Dozie. Alex Dozie,” she says.

“Marcus Pike.” He drops her hand, and she walks away.

Very pushy, very proud, very married. Alex recites these things in her head as she drops off her plate and tray, and again some more as she leaves the dining hall. She finally checks her phone, a message from Reggie waiting for her.

Class was canceled, schedule is clear��come fill up my time for me?

Alex smiles down at her screen.

It’s another early morning when Alex is called into Professor Cartier’s office. His class has been canceled; an occasion never seen before in his fifteen years teaching at Champlain. When Alex walks past the threshold of his door, she can feel something off. He smiles when he sees her, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Miss Dozie, please,” he motions towards the seat across his desk.

Alex pulls it out, quickly sitting. “Professor Cartier, I don’t know what this is about,” she says.

“You’re not in trouble. We’re interviewing all of my female students this week.”

“Oh?” That sounds bad. Or if not bad, whatever the opposite of good is.

“It has been brought to my attention that my teaching assistant, Reginald Juneau, has been having a sexual relationship with one of my undergrads.”

“Okay…”

“I’m not asking if it was you,” the professor says. “But if you know anything, or there’s anything you’d like to tell me, this is a safe space.”

Alex’s heart pounds beneath her ribs. Professor Cartier…she can’t lie to this man. He’s a beacon in the department. She wants to be him one day; an accomplished Doctor of Law, a man who fought for what was right before coming here to help people like her learn to do it all over again.

She can’t lie, but she has to. The fallout if she came clean would be unimaginable. Alex didn’t come this far to have it all come crashing down like this.  She certainly can’t do that to Reggie.

 “I’m sorry, Professor. I don’t know anything.” It comes out easy, a lie that’s oil-slick the way it pours from her mouth.

“I figured you’d say that,” Cartier sighs. “You’re not the type to…” Whatever else he was going to say gets caught up in a vague handwave. The professor stands from his chair, ready to see her out.

“What’s going to happen to him?” Alex asks suddenly. “To Re—your TA?”

“Well, he’s under temporary suspension. Whatever results of the internal affairs investigation will determine whether he must leave.”

“But?”

Cartier shakes his head. “Even if nothing does turn up, the school isn’t in the habit of keeping on potentially…problematic staff members. Liability,” he explains.

“Oh, right,” Alex nods.

Her body goes numb, limbs operating automatically as she makes her way back to her apartment. How could this have happened? Did they get too comfortable? That can’t be it. Outside the confines of this room, they were never together. Nothing more to go off of other than pure speculation. Still, someone had. And now Reggie was going to lose his job.

Harsh knocks at the door pull her out of a fugue state. The sky is much darker now than it was the last time she checked. Alex makes sure to draw the curtains shut before she answers the door. Behind it is Reggie, of course it’s him. He looks mad. No—he looks angry.

“The fuck did you do, huh?” he asks, shouldering his way into the apartment.

Alex closes the door. “Reg—”

“Don’t start, okay? I know what you did, I just want to hear you say it.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Alex says.

“Yeah, huh? Then what’s this?”

He grips the back of her neck with a firm hand, pulling her close to a wrinkled piece of paper between his fingers. Through the tears, she can read the words Letter of Termination. It’s been signed by Dean Wesley.

“I didn’t do anything!” she says again. “I promise, Reg, I would never. I-I—”

“If you say you love me, so help me God,” Reggie spits.

“I would never do that to you. To us. Come on, Reggie, think about it for two seconds.”

“I’ve been thinking about it all day!” he yells. “You know what this’ll do to me, Lex? Ruin me. This will ruin me. All that work down the fuckin’ drain, and for what? A nice piece of ass.”

“Get out,” Alex says.

“What?”

“Get. Out. Of my apartment. Right now, Reggie,” she demands. “You think I’m guilty? Fine! Sure, I did it. Whatever you need to believe. Just get the fuck out of my place. I never want to see you again.”

Reggie huffs. “Can do, Lex,” he says, making for the door. He pulls it open, stopping at the last second. “Have a nice fuckin’ life.”

The door falls shut with a slam. Alex drops slowly to the floor, clutching at her chest as sobs wrack her body. Shoulders shaking, she huddles into a tight ball. Now, she’s alone. Alex is well and truly alone.

[harocat]

For the LBFaD Asks: 5, 6, 10

Please and thank you!

(I'm such a weirdo but I love knowing if anyone uses different fonts between writing and editing!)

5: Describe your writing space.

My desk! I have a laptop, mouse pad, and a pink kitty-eared mouse. My desk is pretty messy. I used to have it really nice with lots of enamel pins and decorations, but my cat Chai is addicted to messing with anything on my desk. The enamel pins became hazardous because he'd pull them out with his teeth and they're uh, sharp obviously. So those are being moved upstairs to the desk I work at (I WFH). There's a couple cubbies stuffed with little knickknacks and just random stuff and some mugs with pens et al. There's a little desk lamp, and I also always have slime on my desk. I'm a huge fidgeter, so I keep slime with me whenever I can to combat the nail biting, etc. I may do otherwise.

6: Does font matter to you when you write?

I just use the default font, which on google docs I believe is Calibri. I'd be okay with any standard font like that, arial, times new roman, etc. I wouldn't want to write in something quirky or a script though, of course.

10: What fanon fact/s did you make your mind up on while writing for LBFaD?

I don't have a 'set future' per se for DFQC and XLH like I do some of my other ships. Maybe it's because they'll live so LONG that it seems impossible to do. I do think they'd have children, and I have it in mind what kind of parents they'd be. I've always been of the belief that one of their children would have the capacity to wield hellfire, just so DFQC can have some more anguish and trauma (I'm normally quite nice to him, I swear). Of course they wouldn't pursue it, but the mere idea of it being possible would still tear him up inside.

This is a personal thing, but I don't like when XLH is referred to Xiyun post series unless it's in a professional capacity. Xiyun was sealed when she was a child, and everyone that Xiao Lanhua knows and loves that is alive, knows her by that name. She's been XLH longer than Xiyun. It truly doesn't work in my mind that she would, when its actually revealed she's still herself and she has her memories, want people to call her by another name.

I can see her going by Xiyun in goddess related diplomatic settings (specifically if she's appearing as the Xishan goddess. If she's there in capacity as the Moon Queen, I think she'd use XLH), but outside of that she's XLH to me.

But a part of me even likes XLH there as well. Something satisfying about Yunzhong in specific having to call her XLH; he can never forget for a moment that this is the woman that he tortured and hunted unjustly. XLH is not as spiteful as me though LOL

And this is not vagueing anyone. Lots of people have a different opinion than me.

At least I haven't seen anyone have DFQC call her Xiyun. I could not read that. She’s XLH to him (or Xiao Huayo of course).

[bright-side-of-the-moon]

Rose water and Jasmine

le interview from here. hilal, my riordanverse oc, is being interviewed by nina (moi)

nina: do you have a favorite book? hilal: well, i grew up with a small library of a lot of different books so they all have a special place in my heart, but my comfort reads are the secret garden and children of the new forest ^-^

nina: if you could change one aspect of your appearance, what would it be? hilal: ooh this ones hard. not sure if it counts but i kinda wish my enamel was a bit stronger. sensitive teeth suck, and its only gotten worse after taking off my braces nina: you wore braces?! hilal: why do you sound so surprised -_-

nina: you have a perfect day all to yourself! describe what would that look like? hilal: oh! i think id like to sleep in but my circadian rhythm says otherwise lol. maybe settle with a mug of something warm and get some embroidery done? and go for a walk around maghrib. nina: a lot of calm activities and relaxation then? hilal: thats the dream :')

nina: last question from me: hilal: er, who were these from?? nina: if you were to name this interview, what would you choose? hilal: not sure. is there a specific rule or something to follow? nina: nope do what you feel like doing :) hilal:... um, jasmine. like the flower. aaand rose. roses. rose. oh wait no rose water! rose water and jasmine please :D nina: care to explain? hilal: right sure yes. well my grandparents had a really big jasmine tree at the front gate, and when we visited in the evenings the air would be thick with their fragrance. nina: oh wow! hilal: it was really old too, like maybe 30 years? nina: oh wow!! hilal: and rose water because mama really loved putting it in desserts. its a very underrated flavour i think, and turkish rose jam is absolute heaven. the colour is so pretty! nina: thats really sweet, thank you for your time ^-^ hilal: ahlan wa sahlan :)

[ferrocache]

ok fic jumpscare. ftm!rosa. no tws

enjoy i guess .? if enough people want im might finish it. itll be a oneshot

Rosa found herself staring at her body in the mirror once again. This had started to become a regular occurrence. Everyday after getting dressed she would sit and stare at herself in the mirror. Something felt wrong... Something had to be wrong. But she didn’t know what. Maybe it was the clothes she wore, or maybe it was the way she carried herself, Rosa just couldn’t figure it out. After snapping out of the trance she had worked herself into she started to carry on with her morning routine. Slipping on her red blazer, with a couple enamel pins as decorations she took one last look in the mirror and headed on to the short walk to work.

Although Rosa’s relationship with Artem was good, great even, she couldn't bring herself to look him in the eyes. Nor could she look in anyone's eyes, lest they read her thoughts. She honestly felt bad for keeping her thoughts to herself, but she didn’t know how to put her feelings into words? How would you even go about describing something like this? She sped up her pace as she realised she had been standing still while thinking. To be honest, she found it embarrassing. Everyone else, especially in the NXX team, had their lives and themselves figured out, but why couldn't she? Was something wrong with her? 

She sighed as she walked through the office’s glass doors and gently waved to the receptionist before taking the stairs up to her desk. Papers had started to pile up on her desk, and multiple boxes of documents had accumulated around her workspace. She had been working on them but they just kept piling up and no amount of overnighters could make it bearable. Her colleagues had offered to help but she had declined all of them. She didn’t want to burden them with more work, not after she felt like she had started to weigh down on their good mood.

—

Eventually, Rosa was confronted. Artem had been keeping an eye on her and noticed that something was off. He had called her into his office multiple times but everytime Rosa had an excuse and needed to leave. "You've been acting.. Off. Is something going on that I should be aware of? You know that you can trust me, right?"Name glanced around to see if she could find a reason to leave, but eventually sighed as she slumped back into her chair.

 "It's just, well.." She paused, unsure how to explain. "I think that something might be wrong. I don't feel like myself anymore- I promise I'm not going insane I just.. Don't know." she blurted out the last part quickly and turned her head away to avoid eye-contact with her partner. Artem looked at her, noticing how her hands nervously intertwined with each other and the slight bouncing of her leg as she grew anxious. 

"I'm happy you can talk to me, but I'm unsure on how to help. It's not really my, er, field of expertise." He pushed his chair back and stood up. "You take 2 sugars in your coffee, right?" Artem gently asked before sliding his chair back into place and walking towards the coffee machine. Rosa hesitantly nodded and slightly loosened up her stiff posture subconsciously.

 "I just.. Don't feel.. Connected to who I was. I'm not really.. Rosa . I feel like a weird amalgamation of thoughts and feelings at the moment. I don't know what to do." Artem nodded, his back turned as he fiddled with the buttons on the coffee machine. Rosa sighed again. "I should probably go see someone about this." she muttered, looking into the rose-coloured mug that she had been given. Artem nodded again and sat back down. 

"Sounds like a good idea. If you need, you're always able to take time off from the firm and from the investigation team if it all gets too much for you. And also," He took a long sip of his coffee. "Please look after yourself." Rosa smiled slightly and nodded. 

"I will do my best, Mr Wing." 

—

It was 3am and yet she was still in a trance. The face that looked back at her from the mirror had distorted, becoming uncanny and much unlike her own. A pair of scissors lay on the bathroom counter caught her eye and before she knew it, she had cut her hair short. She shook her head a bit and pulled at the jaggedly cut strands, inspecting the damage before putting down the scissors and starting to sweep off the rogue chunks of hair that sat on her shoulders. Sure, it was a bit drastic, but it made her feel better.

She looked down and studied the way that her pyjamas stretched and folded across her body. It didn’t look right. Something about it was wrong.. Something always had been wrong, to be honest. Rosa had known this for a long time, but it never had started to drag her down until now. She flicked the lightswitch off and fell into her bed, loaded with blankets and stuffed toys she had gotten from her friends. Rosa thought for a while, about work, about the NXX investigation, about her life in general, and about what she was going to do tommorrow. She already had the day off, from Celestine insisting that Rosa take a break, but other than work there wasn’t much else to do other than chores. 

—

The rustling of the tree branches outside the apartment window woke Rosa up. The sun had risen, and it seemed about midday. She had planned to stay in all day and catch up on sleep, but after climbing down the stairs and discovering the fridge was empty except for a few day-old leftovers and some very sad-looking fruits, she very quickly changed her plan. Seeing her sorry excuse for a fridge she gently closed it and slowly climbed back up the stairs to put on clothes. It wasn’t anything fancy, just some sweatpants and a thick jacket as the wind had picked up. 

Staring at the aisles of groceries at the small shop nearby, she kneeled down to grab something before being interrupted. 

“Excuse me sir, did you-” The woman behind Rosa stopped abruptly and looked a bit panicked as Rosa turned around and looked at her. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry ma’am. Did you drop your wallet? I found one over there and was wondering if it was yours.” The stranger held out a red and gold wallet, with a rose embroidered on it. Rosa nodded and thanked the lady before going back to deciding what to buy. Something.. Felt right. Like all the pieces of a puzzle put together- But what was the puzzle? Was it being called sir? Was it having someone be kind?

The grocery store had been very quiet, since most people were working, but it still took a decent amount of time to grab everything she needed and check it out. There were some odd looks, reminding Rosa that she had, in fact, cut her hair very unevenly. Rosa noted that she needed to get it cut properly, lest she look like a failed craft project next time she saw a client. Only god knows what Celestine would say. 

Despite multiple reminders to clean up her hair, it completely skipped Rosa’s mind. That was, until, Rosa was called into a meeting after there had been progress on the current NXX case. Despite her best efforts, the attempt at a quick trim was no better than the original. Walking into the investigation team office was the worst part. Only Luke had shown up early, but that did not help. Immediately after Rosa walked in, the look on Luke’s face went from focused to barely holding back a laugh. After seeing the tired look on Rosa’s face, he attempted to hide his smile, but it was a little too much.

��Nice haircut, Watson.” 

“Thank you, Luke.” Rosa put down her bag and stretched before sitting down. Luke shuffled over and played with her hair. 

“It looks nice on you. Short hair.” Rosa put her hand on Luke’s to stop him from making her hair worse. 

“Do you think so? I cut it on a whim the other day. Not really sure if I like it or not.”

“It’s cute,” He petted her on the head and flicked his hand back before Rosa could slap his wrist. Luke leaned back in his chair and faced Rosa. “Reminds me of that time when we both tried to cut our own hair with safety scissors..? Back when we were little.” 

“Oh god, yeah.” She ran her fingers through it. “You think you can fix it?”

He shrugged. 

“I can try..?” He dug through his pockets and held up a pair scissors.

“Yes plea- Do you always have those in there..?” Rosa asked as she grabbed them off of him. 

“Yeah,” He gently grabbed a piece of her hair and inspected it. “I can work with this. I’ll.. Maybe move to the bathroom..?” 

[foulbearobservation]

bea coming home from a trip to england to see her parents tired and withdrawn. she'd turned down offers to accompany her from all three of them, had asked mary to drive her to the airport and pick her up upon her return.

she's contemplative and quiet in the aftermath, drifting from couch to dining table to bed like she's not quite present. they all trade worried looks over her bowed head, come to the silent mutual decision that lilith is best equipped to support her in the aftermath of whatever parental bullshit had gone down.

she measures out careful scoops of bea's favourite loose-leaf tea, fills the teapot, carries the setup on a tray into the guestroom, leaves it to steep on the vanity table as she sits on the floor, back pressed against the side of the bed, just within bea's peripheral vision where she's curled in a nest of blankets

"they're getting divorced," bea says finally, her voice hoarse with disuse, when lilith decants the tea into mismatched mugs, stirs just a touch of sugar into bea's, sets bea's on the bedside table and cradles her own between her palms.

lilith hums her acknowledgement, scratches a nail against the gap in the enamel of her mug, where ava hadn't quite fully finished it before sticking it in the kiln. nothing more seems to be forthcoming, so she swishes her tea and her words around in her mouth, swallows. "that's rather unexpected, is it not?"

bea's laugh is a bit choked. "that's one way to put it. but father is retiring, and they don't seem to feel the need to strain themselves any longer by remaining civil for the sake of keeping up appearances."

"i would have thought keeping up appearances went out the window with their disowning you in all but name," lilith replies, blunt, letting it sit heavy between them. bea's strangled wheeze of a laugh lets her know she's hit the target.

"yes, well, it seems my absence was less difficult for them to explain away than their obvious disdain for one another." she tries for another laugh, but it stretches into a sob.

as a child* of divorce in the same way as this beatrice, fucked up of you to do this to me but also

🥺🥺 the way lilith doesn't touch bea, just makes herself visible and waits and fiddles with a mug made with love like 🥺🥺 they're so sweet I'm obsessed

[bohemiaisdeadbutimnot]

"LIQUID CALORIES"

Tease: After over a decade of self confidence issues related to the gaining, losing, and maintaining of weight, I've never given less of a shit about the dreaded, vilified "liquid calories."

Consider this mythic fear of these calories absolutely, officially relinquished. They've done more harm to my pride than to my body.

I'm no amateur. I've had a lifelong obsession with the magic contained in a beautifully pink Sweet&Low packet. I've had hundreds of mugs of black coffee. I've never had a red Coca-Cola can. I've sworn off beer and wine for few month periods and rededicated myself to clear liquor and tonics. I've done all that.

Of course, I still perform these (very American) practices in the name of self betterment as well as the celebration of the classics. I'm a traditionalist, and I give props where props are due.

But, after almost 23 years in this body, I think I'm finally starting to get it. Not the big "it," whatever that may be, but "it" as in my physical self. I'm starting to understand its workings, triggers, needs, and tolerance.

After the worst of my starving and binging, which engulfed my high school experience, I finally began to rehearse the act of relinquishing control. And, as if I shoved my own self out of my own nest, me and my altered mindset birthed the current me: a loud, buzzing social animal.

So now, I drink almost nightly and I sprinkle coffee drinks throughout my day as if tooth enamel is an infinite resource. And I simply do not care.

Like I'm no amateur, I'm no idiot. I plug my iced lattes and teas with milk and sugar into my little app on my little phone. But, I routinely select the options with the lowest calories, and refuse to record alcohol at all. I eat what I need to eat with less guilt, satiate my hunger throughout the day with dairy based beverages that don't weigh me down, and I go weeks and weeks without binging as a result.

The fear tactics this site spews out every year -every hour- without opposition are the same that were spewed 20 years prior. They will never permeate me simply because I've personally seen the same posts and read the same language for nearly a decade now. While such warnings of liquid calories or 1200 calorie "binge days" once landed deep within me, they now comes across as anthropological research I read as a detached, retired expert of the field.

I rededicate me to myself.

Also, as a young adult, I've never felt skinnier than I have after a night out and subsequent morning crap.

[delicatuscii-wasbella102]

“Enameling was an expensive technique that was précised only by independent studios. But in the mid-18th century a cheaper substitute was discovered. Staffordshire salt-glazed stoneware could be given scratched decoration, which was then filled in with cobalt blue. It usually consisted of rather stiff floral decoration, with occasional names and dates. Here a long inscription celebrates Britain's victorious alliance with the King of Prussia against the French.”

[andthorns]

task 01 — living spaces

mari's apartment is a sacred space to her, one where she can write undisturbed and be alone with her thoughts. she lives alone for this very reason, needing her own space where she can bask in the creative process without anyone disturbing her by asking her to clean the kitchen or go out to pick up milk. with its somewhat eccentric and cluttered decor, the apartment reflects mari perfectly, and she has built it to become a place where she can draw both inspiration and comfort in equal measure.

BUILDING. mari lives in a top-floor apartment in a three storey building closer to the side of town where the local residents live rather than her fellow students. her landlady, an ancient italian woman who is perpetually in a terrible mood, lives on the ground floor. the building is an old one, complete with creaking stairs and groaning pipes, but mari loves its character and many strange residents.

LAYOUT. the relatively humble apartment consists of a hallway, one bathroom, a small kitchen, one bedroom, and the living area, which is where mari spends the majority of her time — mostly due to the fact that this is the room containing her desk. the living space leads onto a tiny, rickety balcony overlooking the street below, and she has managed to cram a table and two chairs onto it so she can sit there in the evenings and watch the world go by with a glass of wine.

DECOR. mari has lived in the same apartment since the beginning of her sophomore year, and it shows. the decor is, to put it generously, eclectic. much of the mismatched furniture was there when she moved in, but she has put her own touch on the space with several second-hand items, framed prints on the walls, and a plethora of trinkets (see below). the resulting effect is bohemian and slightly chaotic, not helped by the fact that it's more than a little disorganised. mugs, papers, and clothes are scattered across every available surface, and books are stacked precariously in towering piles on the floor. though she makes efforts to tidy it all up every once in a while, she actually quite enjoys the mess, as it makes her feel like a real writer.

TRINKETS. since her family was cut off from her grandparents, mari has become something of a kleptomaniac. she never steals anything too valuable (with one notable exception, of course), usually just small items that people might not notice are gone, but over the years she’s amassed quite a collection. pieces that were stolen years ago — a little china elephant, a green glass ashtray, an enamel box that she now keeps supplements in — are displayed around her apartment like trophies. more recent acquisitions — a gold bracelet belonging to aileen, an engraved silver lighter that was formerly fitz's, a fountain pen taken from one of her professors – are kept locked in a drawer of her desk.

DESK. her desk is, to her, the most important piece of furniture she owns. it's the place where she does most of her writing, and so it took mari a long time and several discarded pieces before she found the one that was right for her. the heavy wooden desk sits under her window, and is piled high with books or items that she's using as her current inspiration, though a vase of flowers and a few half-empty coffee cups are usually present as well. the drawers are mostly filled with stationery, with the exception of the bottom drawer, which is filled with the treasures she's collected. the marchesa diamond also lives here in a small velvet bag, pushed to the very back so she doesn't have to think about it.

GUESTS. though mari is an introvert and sees her apartment very much as a place both to create and recharge, her door remains figuratively open for anyone who might need refuge. the couch is always available as a place to crash in emergencies, and closer friends (namely aileen) are welcome to share her bed. she doesn't often have romantic visitors, but once in a blue moon there might be someone she stumbles back with after a party.

[annwynisland]

Furniture Catalogue

Item names spelled in US English. Ctrl+F (find keyword) recommended. I can customize with Cyrus if specific color variant(s) desired.

ACNH Nintendo Switch

Alto saxophone

Analog kitchen scale

Anthurium plant

Antique bureau

Antique chair

Antique clock

Antique console table

Antique mini table

Antique wardrobe

Arcade seat

Artsy table

Baby panda

Ball

Baobab

Basic teacher's desk

Beach ball

Beach chairs with parasol

Beach towel

Bidet

Board game

Book

Book stands

Bottled beverage

Box corner sofa

Box sofa

Broom and dustpan

Bunk bed

Campfire cookware

Camping cot

Candle

Candle chandelier

Cans

Cardboard box

Carnations

Casablanca lilies

Cassette player

Cat grass

Chainsaw

Chalkboard

Champion's pennant

Changing room

Checkout counter

Chessboard

Clipboard

Clothes closet

Clothesline pole

Coffee beans

Coffee cup

Coffee grinder

Coffee plant

Colorful juice

Cone

Cooking tools

Cool sofa

Corner clothing rack

Counter table

Covered wagon

Crane game

Creepy skeleton

Cruiser bike

Cuckoo clock

Cup with saucer

Cushion

Cute chair

Cute DIY table

Cute sofa

Cute wall-mounted clock

Cute wardrobe

Cypress bathtub

Cypress plant

Decorative bottles

Deep fryer

Desk mirror

Dessert carrier

Diner counter chair

Diner counter table

Diner dining table

Diner neon clock

Dinnerware

Dinosaur toy

Director's chair

Dish-drying rack

Display stand

Document stack

Double-door refrigerator

Double-edged sword

Double Gloucester cheese

Double sofa

Drapery

Dreamy bed

Dreamy rabbit toy

Dreamy wall rack

Dual hanging monitors

Elephant slide

Enamel lamp

Evergreen ash

Exam table

Exercise bike

Exit sign

Fan

Fancy violin

Fax machine

Festival zongzi

Fireplace

Floating-biotope planter

Floor light

Floor seat

Fluorescent light

Folding floor lamp

Fortune-telling set

Freezer

Froggy chair

Garden faucet

Garden gnome

Garden lantern

Gas range

Gears

Glass jar

Globe

Handcart

Hanging cube light

Hearty ramen

High-end stereo

Homework set

Hourglass

Iced coffee

Imperial bed

Imperial chest

Imperial decorative shelves

Imperial dining chair

Imperial dining lantern

Imperial low table

Imperial partition

Ironing board

Ironing set

Judge's bell

Karaoke machine

Kids' tent

Kimono stand

Kitchen counter

Knife block

Lab-experiments set

Lantern

Large covered round table

Large magazine rack

Lily-pad table

Long bathtub

Magazine

Magnetic knife rack

Marimba

Metal can

Metal pot

Meter and pipes

Microwave

Mini circuit

Mining car

Mixer

Mobile

Modern cash register

Modern office chair

Monstera

Mop

Moroccan lights

Moss ball

Mounted blue marlin

Mr. Flamingo

Mrs. Flamingo

Mug

Oil barrel

Oil lamp

Outdoor air conditioner

Outdoor bench

Outdoor folding chair

Owl clock

Painting set

Papa panda

Paper-chain ceiling garland

Paper lantern

Paper tiger

Patchwork bed

Patchwork sofa chair

Pendulum clock

Pennant

Pet food bowl

Pinball machine

Pine tree

Plasma ball

Plastic canister

Pop-up book

Pop-up toaster

Popcorn machine

Porcelain vase

Portable radio

Pot rack

Potted starter plants

Premium nigirizushi

Pro coffee grinder

Puppy plushie

Rattan armchair

Rattan end table

Rattan low table

Rattan stool

Rattan table lamp

Rattan vanity

Rattan wardrobe

Retro fan

Retro stereo

Rice cooker

Rock guitar

Rocket lamp

Rotary phone

Round light fixture

Round pillow

Round space heater

Salad bar

Sandwich plate meal

Schefflera

School chair

School desk

Scooter

Scrapbook

Screen

Serving cart

Set of stockings

Sewing machine

Sewing project

Shaded floor lamp

Shaded pendant lamp

Ship-wheel door decoration

Shopping bag

Short file cabinet

Shoyu ramen

Silver confetti blower

Silver mic

Simple kettle

Simple panel

Simple shaded lamp

Simple table

Simple wall shelf

Siphon

Skateboard

SLR camera

Small mannequin

Small vase

Soft-serve lamp

Spaceship control panel

Spinning wheel

Square bathtub

Standing toilet

Strapped books

Studio spotlight

Study carrel

Study chair

Study desk

Study sewing box

Super-premium nigirizushi

Surfboard

Surichwi tteok

Table lamp

Table with cloth

Tabletop record player

Tangled cords

Tape deck

Tapestry

Tea set

Thank-you Mom mug

Throwback container

Throwback dino screen

Throwback gothic mirror

Throwback hat table

Throwback rocket

Throwback skull radio

Tin bucket

Tin robot

Tissue box

Titan arum

Tool shelf

Toolbox

Torii

Toy box

Traditional tea set

Train set

Transit seat

Tricycle

Typewriter

Upright speaker

Utility sink

Vacuum cleaner

Velvet stool

Vertical banner

Wall-mounted candle

Wall-mounted LED display

Wall-mounted phone

Wall-mounted TV (50 in.)

Water cooler

Weight bench

Winnowing machine

Wood-burning stove

Wooden pendant light

World map

Yucca

Yule log

[olivewinterleaf]

Chapter 2

(The Plan)

An unnecessarily heavily gilded horse-drawn carriage trundled through the granite-cobbled streets. Burning fossil fuels was for the lower classes.

Anyway, twenty horses later, Lord Rancidrimple had arrived at the museum, late as usual.

Emerging from the plush interior of the carriage, he was aided by an army of minions dressed in red velvet and wearing sinister blank masks over their faces, lest their true countenance offend the lord. The lord’s spindly body was then placed gently upon the red carpet that had been especially rolled out for his visit.

The tall, gangly lord tossed his golden hair to one side. He looked down upon Bulbous Bluster as though he were covered in excrement. Bulbous stood to attention in his peaked cap. As he held the door open, he tried to make himself taller. He failed miserably.

“Good morning, your honour,” he said proudly, over-emphasising the letter H, somewhat overwhelmed by the importance of the lord’s presence. “Your greatness, your illustriousness, your flawlessness...” he grovelled.

Lord Rancidrimple could only manage, ‘Grmph mornnn’, as he was too superior to speak clearly to lesser mortals.

Meanwhile, the army of minions removed the lord’s long minklet fur coat. This prompted another hair-tossing from the lord, culminating in an even higher position of his nose.

At this point, Pork-Rind arrived to escort Lord Rancidrimple to the meeting of the board of museum patrons, assembling today, as it did every month on the ninth day at nine of the clock. Except today was not the ninth day. And this was no ordinary meeting. This was a meeting that would change the world. Pork-Rind was beside himself with joy as he prepared to present his proposal to the patrons. Everyone was there - Sir Basildon Hornet-Nest, Lady Uphelia Puff-Powder...

He stood at the end of the long oak table and unveiled his grand plan.

A building to end all buildings, nay, a museum to end all museums. A museum that would be the envy of the world, attracting millions of visitors. There was one small problem. It would involve bulldozing parts of the present building.

Later, Lord Rancidrimple was being escorted about the museum. Gallery Attendant Sneerpot giggled to himself as he overheard the words ‘new’ and ‘building’ being bandied about in various combinations.

But it was mid-morning and it was time for Sneerpot to rush off for his tea break. His bald head whooshed past people in a blur of speckled flesh. He overtook everyone who got in his way between gallery and teapot, as though he were in some kind of hybrid walking-running race that no one else was aware of.

The other gallery attendants, who happened to be in the teapot room at the same time, groaned as Sneerpot appeared, seemingly followed by a cloud of dust that had gathered behind him.

“Bet you don’t know what I know?” Sneerpot teased, almost bursting into song. He was going to tell everyone what he thought he knew, no matter what:

“They’ve been having a meeting and that Lord Rancidface’s here. And there’s going to be a new building...” he could hardly breathe, with the excitement of it all, “...And we’re all going to have new uniforms and we’re going to be walking about with special portable receivers.”

“New uniforms, eh?” Attendant Stinkleton wheezed as he waddled to a chair with his large white enamelled tea mug. His enormously round stomach got in the way of everyday activities such as walking and talking, especially as the rest of him was quite small.

Sneerpot continued, “Yep. There’s going to be bottle-green shirts and yellow ties. Cravats for the women...”

“I am NOT wearing a green bottle!” Madame Pluchette shrilled.

“You’re just making it up. The privileged over-classes have been threatening us with new uniforms for years!” said a small male attendant, whose face changed colour depending upon the circumstances, and was apparently named Boil. He was semi-Chameleon, hence his tendency to change colour. Also his hair was raised in a sort of frond.

“It’s true! Why else would they be having a meeting that isn’t on the ninth? They never have meetings unless they’re on the ninth day and ninth hour. That’s always the way here!” cried Sneerpot.

No one could argue with that.

All the attendants were soon back at their posts.

The hours passed. A steady trickle of visitors came and went, displaying various levels of interest in the works of art and objects of historical significance. While, simultaneously, the attendants displayed varying levels of drowsiness, for it was against the rules to think. As far as the attendants were concerned, the most interesting thing about the museum was that the later in the day it was, the slower time would pass. So that by 10 minutes to closing, time had stretched to a point where it would actually take an hour to pass - time having somehow been distorted. And within that distorted 10 minutes, there would be more visitors than in the rest of the day put together. Funny that.

It was the following morning and the attendants were carrying out their duties, as was their lot in life. If you were deemed to be of the attendant class then that is what you did - the lot that other people would rather not do if they could possibly avoid it.

Attendant Cypher scratched her crop of bark-coloured hair. Then, methodically, she began waving a long stick about various display surfaces, obscured as they were by a layer of dust. The fluffy end of this stick supposedly picking up the particles from said surfaces. But all it did was move the dust slightly to one side so that it could creep back at some later date and create more work for future generations.

Stinkleton had a huge mop in his hands but it was strangely still. His hands were placed upon the mop as though he were pushing it, but the mop was immobile. On closer inspection, one could see why. His head was cocked at a peculiar angle, his greasy comb-over gradually unravelling, his face expressionless. On even closer inspection, past the large thick glasses he wore, his eyes were tightly shut. Stinkleton had apparently mastered the art of sleeping while standing.

Sneerpot barged past and rushed down to his own allotted gallery with a sloshing bucket of water, eager to begin mopping everything he could. Nothing was safe. Not even Stinkleton, who, more often than not, smelled like he could do with a severe mopping.

Meanwhile, a steady trickle of academia drifted through the museum, rather earlier than was usual, arousing the attention of Sneerpot. He lurked behind the glass cabinets so that he might better analyse the situation and arrive at another unwarranted supposition.

His bald head blended rather well with the collection of ancient Southern alabaster pouring pots inside the cabinets, such that he was barely visible. Not that it mattered much: attendants were not supposed to be noticed by those that were more elevated in life. That was why they were attendants.

In any case, there was definitely something going on. Why else would all the academics be heading in the general direction of Pork-Rind’s office? Why else would they all look so nervous and irritable? Sneerpot smirked to himself as all sorts of scenarios formulated in his mind.

Professor Argyle Bucket rushed through, flustered and sweaty. The back of his crumpled shirt hung out of his baggy trousers and grey tufts of hair stood on end all over his head, matted as they were by years of neglect. His bow tie was crooked too.

Sneerpot craned his head from behind the cabinets. “Good morning, Professor Bucket. How are things today?” he said with a light hint of mockery.

The professor didn’t answer. He waved his hand about and grumbled.

“Oh dear, Professor. I hope there’s nothing wrong?” Sneerpot’s voice grew louder and more sarcastic as the professor rushed away towards the offices.

All were finally present. The head of each department sat around a large table. It was heavy oak with stout legs and it was combined with matching chairs. The furniture was much too large for the room it was in, and it was a bit of a squeeze to get everyone around it.

There was Dr Travinion Wingnut, Custodian of Eastern Artefacts. He took up a lot of space by his mere presence. Not because he was overweight but because of his rugged good looks and forceful character. His slightly sunburnt jaw jutted out handsomely. In contrast, the rather thin Dr Dyspepsia Horsenffiffin, Custodian of Southern Artefacts sat very compact next to him, long grey hair and big glasses emphasising her small, thin body.

Fligbert Bimblecrumb, Custodian of Northern Artefacts sat at the end of the table, hoping no one would say anything to him unless it was about Northern art or a closely related subject. He sat in a warm glow of tweediness, his woolly hair reflecting a woolly-headedness, which was a common trait amongst the academic class.

And of course, the Custodian of Western Artefacts, Professor Argyle Bucket, who sat fuming at this enormous waste of time. He had better things to do than to pander to the whims of the new director, supreme or otherwise. Of course, the fact that he didn’t get the directorship of the museum for himself had nothing to do with it.

At last, Pork-Rind walked in.

He placed a large folder of papers on the table and opened it before speaking: “I have called you all to this meeting to announce an important development in the history of this museum... After consultation with the university and the board of museum patrons, I am happy to announce that my plans for the museum have been approved.”

“Your plans?” asked Fligbert, with a certain anxiety.

Followed swiftly by Professor Bucket booming, “What bloody plans?!”

“My plan - henceforth to be known as ‘The Glorious Plan’ - to reconfigure the entire museum, as I have deemed the museum, in its current state, to be wholly inadequate,” he snorted. “This will of course involve demolishing parts of the building and an extensive refurbishment,” he added, matter-of-fact.

“You mean vandalising the building!” screamed Dr Wingnut, face red with anger.

“It is unfortunate that a substantial part of the building must be demolished, but it is obviously in the way,” Pork-Rind added, in an arrogant manner.

Fligbert fidgeted nervously. “But what will happen to the collections?”

Pork-Rind waved his hand as though this was a minor consideration. “They will be temporarily moved, of course.”

“Never mind that!” shouted Professor Bucket, “Have you not considered the enormous risk you are putting the collection under?”

Dyspepsia cringed at the wrangle being caused by all this, and spoke quietly: “After all, perhaps there might be more room for all the artefacts that can’t be displayed at the moment.”

Pork-Rind smirked. “Ah yes. That brings me to another point.”

Fligbert gulped, “There’s more?”

“The collection will be re-arranged into a new way of displaying artefacts. This will involve commissioning a firm of consultants-”

“-WHAT?!” Professor Bucket fumed.

“This meeting is at an end!” declared Pork-Rind as he slammed his folder shut. And with that, he quickly retreated.

Meanwhile, the attendants had finished cleaning the galleries. They were now streaming down to the basement via a succession of stairs that meandered pointlessly down to a baffling series of gloomy corridors and shabby doors. The way was dimly lit by a string of naked bulbs due to the lack of windows. This was all rather confusing unless you had been an attendant for some time, especially as the doors were in the habit of shuffling themselves around so that they were in a different position each time.

It was one of these doors behind which was the teapot room. And it was in the teapot room that the attendants had their tea and regulation biscuit before re-emerging into the galleries, wearing their frayed red blazers. It was only then that Security Officer Bilious Bilberry would be ready to open the museum to the public.

Attendant Seed was sitting on the chair in the bottom of the Red Gallery that housed Northern artefacts. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Director Pork-Rind approaching. Seed quickly hid some small pieces of paper he had been doodling upon, and promptly stood to attention.

Pork-Rind swanned about the gallery, escorting the small group of ladies around the museum. This exclusive group consisted of women of a certain age. The sort of women who have time enough on their hands for intellectual pursuits such as fund-raising and being a friend of the this-and-that.

As Pork-Rind passed, he gave Seed a hard stare. Followed by another hard stare beginning at Seed’s riotously wiry copper hair and terminating at his pungent feet - a result of the plasticated shoes he had taken to wearing lately.

Seed seemed to be unaware of Pork-Rind’s disapproval and greeted him with nervous, stilted speech, eyes glazed over with the effort it took to form the words into a coherent sentence, hands shaking as he tried to ingratiate himself with the director...

Later, in the Bronze Gallery, Stinkleton sat in a corner, picking his nose rather insistently. Pork-Rind appeared with his entourage, pointing out some of the Northern sculptures housed in glass cases, while droning on about provenances. Until an overwhelming stench reached his snout as he passed close to Stinkleton. Pork-Rind’s eyes narrowed as he glared at him.

It wasn’t Stinkleton’s fault. He was after all, genetically predisposed to smell. Why else would he be named Stinkleton?

Next on Pork-Rind’s tour, was the Green Gallery full of Egyptoid artefacts.

“Why, it’s the Director! What a lovely surprise! Come to see how it all works then, sir?” mocked Sneerpot.

Pork-Rind was not amused by Sneerpot’s impertinence, and ignored him, addressing the group of ladies:

“Now, as you may have come to realise from our little tour, that the galleries are somewhat difficult to follow. This is one of the many reasons for the proposed redevelopment...”

Sneerpot’s prominent ears were visibly flapping in the direction of Dr Pork-Rind’s voice...

Rather than being in her allotted gallery, Madame Pluchette had taken it upon herself to get acquainted with the ladies. After all, she was a lady too. She handed out some leaflets as a vehicle to introduce herself. Before Pork-Rind had realised, she had not only included herself in the group, but had taken to interjecting at every opportunity, professing herself to be an expert, in a small way, on Southern sculpture and offering her assistance.

Dr Hector Pork-Rind grimaced as he tried to smile through his seething dislike of these attendants. And especially Madame Pluchette.

The day passed as usual with little incident.

For the attendants it wore on, punctuated by the occasional visitor query, which made little difference to the daily inertia. They were always the same queries.

There was the: ‘I’m going to ask that attendant a question they can’t possibly know the answer to, so I can feel smug and superior’ visitor.

There were two approaches to this situation depending on whether an attendant did, in fact, know the answer or not. However, many of the attendants were disinclined to ‘know’ the answer, on the grounds that they didn’t get paid to ‘know’ anything. Indeed, attendants knowing anything was actively frowned upon by the academic and administrative classes.

Then there was the: ‘Did you know there’s a misprint on that label?’ visitor. Then the visitor would either give a potted history of how they happen to know that there’s a mistake or launch into a tirade of accusation as though it had been the attendant’s personal blunder.

And the: ‘What ever happened to the dinosaurs? I’m sure they were here. When I was last in this gallery, 27 years ago...’. They had clearly got their museums confused.

All this would be interspersed with: ‘Where’s the toilet?’, ‘What floor am I on?’ and the classic, ‘I want to get out of here! Where’s the exit?’.

Of course, no day would be complete without the ‘last-two-visitors effect’. At closing time there would be two visitors lingering in a distant gallery, only leaving reluctantly at the last possible second, and then only very slowly moving towards the exit. But not without stopping at every artefact on the way out, and then prolonging the agony by stopping to leaf through various pamphlets at the information desk. Only after being told once again that the museum is closing, do they leave. Having arrived 15 minutes before closing time, they do so most indignant that the museum is closing and not remaining open especially for them.

Still, all in a day’s work.

Behind his small, round spectacles, he blinked and squinted. Much to Museum Administrator Humffrey Twink’s surprise, late that afternoon he had suddenly found himself administering no more. It had been decided by Pork-Rind to appoint him to manage the new Glorious Plan instead - what ever that was. Nevertheless, he was now the Glorious Plan Building Project Supervisor. But Humffrey Twink didn’t like surprises. He liked permanence and continuity. That is what the Imperial University of Nonagon stood for: no matter how the world changed, Nonagon was always there, the sun never setting and always forever well. But now things were changing and who knows at what cost? A new administrator possibly taking his place, bringing new-fangled ideas, no doubt. Humffrey adjusted his spectacles, buttoned his brown corduroy jacket and folded his almost-but-not-quite matching trousers into cycle clips. He cycled home to the village of Binbury on his bright red bicycle, his chestnut pudding-bowl hair wafting furiously in the breeze, as he fostered a simmering resentment with each turn of the peddles at having been pushed aside so cruelly by the new supreme director.

Binbury, so called because it was near the site of the municipal dump, was one of nine villages upon which the city of Nonagon had, over the time, slowly encroached. Nonagon itself had grown from an ancient settlement, with steep hills and cascading waterfalls, into a bustling city that soon made a reputation for learning throughout the land. One small school had evolved into a great seat of learning, accommodating some of the biggest arses in the intellectual world.

Over the centuries, it had acquired a mélange of architectural gems.

The centre of Nonagon was mainly in the fondanté style. Its distinctive feature of bonbon coloured façades and florid ornamentation made a splendid contrast to the streets, recreational areas and hills dense with trees. Other parts of the city were more often than not in the grand morphiloquent style - a vulgar architecture associated with old utility buildings and basic dwellings. And of course, the more contemporary antimorphiloquent style.

Humffrey Twink looked over his shoulder as he approached Binbury. From the top of the hill, he could see Nonagon’s bloated domes above the horizon, reflecting the almost setting sun with their gold and silver gilding. The sky had turned a comforting shade of pink with a few mauve clouds progressing slowly across it. He breathed a sigh of relief as he realised that the rest of Nonagon was still forever well.

He arrived at a small gate and pushed his bicycle over the short, narrow path to the cottage he called home. His identical twin brother, Halibut, greeted him.

Halibut happened to be the administrator of the Imperial University of Nonagon Centre for Scientific and Mathematical Querying. He was home earlier than usual to attend to the latest addition to their small collection of rare orchids, which was at a difficult stage in its development and therefore had to be treated with the utmost care.

They retreated into the cottage where the inside was covered with random acts of wallpaper in colours of varying persuasions. A couple of overly puffy brown leather armchairs in front of a log fire furnished the front room.

A collection of assorted objects of interest almost overwhelmed this room. Cabinets full of mineral and crystal specimens were wedged into every available space. Halibut was partial to a bit of tourmaline.

Every horizontal surface available was covered in an array of prisms, pendulums and perpetual machines. Mobiles and wind chimes hung obtrusively from every ceiling, glittering and pinging in the draught emanating from the back of the cottage, where the door had been left open into the garden and to a small tropical house.

Humffrey sank heavily into one of the armchairs and recounted to his brother what had happened to him. It was generally agreed that a trip to the Lime Barrel was in order, to calm Humffrey’s nerves.

Next door to Caramel Cup Teahouse was Lime Barrel Lodge, a local public house serving the population of Binbury almost exclusively. It was in the grand morphiloquent style and thus appeared somewhat bloated. The acid green interior put one in a mood to get pissed almost immediately with an evening’s absorption of alcoholic beverages.

A very large fireplace slowly burned away wooden logs, giving off a warm orange light as they smouldered away to embers till closing time...

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