#only dope fashion

[sheltiechicago]

Marchesa Fall/Winter 2008 | Kawasaki Daishi. (Image via Marchesa and wine-montrachet)

Images Reveal How Much High Fashion Is Inspired By Architecture

Gareth Pugh Spring 2009 | Sir Norman Foster, Hearst Building, NY. (Image via Only Dope Fashion)

Dolce & Gabbana S/S 2012 | Cathedral Notre-Dame de Reims, France. (Image via Where I See Fashion)

Balenciaga Spring 2008 | Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao, Spain. (Image via Scarfe Unravels)

[snackugaki]

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

someone fucked up and led me into their backrooms which is a long preface to say that this has resulted in having a goddamn

TMNT x Gargoyles x Ghostwriter x Spiderman

fucking mega-fuck-my-carpal-tunnel-i-guess crossover comic one shot and there's vaguely an idea of an antagonist to thwart.

...but mostly I wanted to draw them arguing which bodega has the best chopped cheese and for Donnie, Lex, and Ghoswriter to be chatting over ICQ on their li'l Compaqs and IBMs

let my brainguts rest, i beg on my knees

[yidiyada]

I am about to say something that is gonna sound so backhanded but like I really hope Gigi Hadid stays modeling into her old age cause she really would have such an air about her.

Look at these pieces from Chanel

Like obviously Gigi is 29 and her fave just looks older at that show because she’s just given birth and also yeah she fucked around and found out with some fillers but like I think it totally works for this look.

Those pieces only look good when worn with a more mature face and would look totally tacky on some 19 year old model.

People have been giving her shit all year for not being as skinny or as young as she was before before yk giving birth and shit but I’m totally into it. She DOES look comepletely different from her it girl hilfiger years and she DOES look older and I think it’s really working for her and I wanna see more.

[pictjoe]

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[stan-joe]

When the monster high posts get through my queue you didn't see them I never did that

[luminousbug]

The Wind Bag Jetpack is objectivly awesome and makes sense, the problem is the animatic

A lot of people have issues with the WBJ, for various reasons. In my opinion, most of this debate would not be happening if not for how the animatic was executed. The concept of odysseus using the wind bag as a freaking jetpack is certaintly unexpected, but he is the guy with the smarts and wild plans, so of course. And its DOPE AS FUCK. Plus, it makes sense, as the wind bag was also what "defeted" Poseidon last time and it was given by Hermes, the guy whose one only other appearence was to give Odysseus a powerup for a differnt god based boss fight. Nice paralels and all that. You can certaintly argue about it, everyone has their opinions. But i think the main backlash to all this is based on the animatic

Before i tear it apart, know i do not hold anything against anyone involved, I just think it wasn't good, at all

The two issues:

The 3D

This entire scene is obviously anime inspired, that is very obvious. Epic is anime inspired in general. But apparently no one on the team got the memo that 3D anime are... like that. This entire thing screams "that one scene an anime blows its entire budget on", but 3D doesn't leand to that, everything looks like action figures, and not even nice looking ones

The Events

WBJ is awesome, but it SHOULD NOT have been an actual jetpack. It just got on his back and acted super boring as he sword slashed a full god and somehow that worked. What should've actually happened was that Odysseus was holding onto dear life as the WBJ went OFF. Like, he could barely control it, it is the power of a god, but manages enough to dogde attacks. He also should've definatly blasted Poseidon with it a bunch, maybe powered his sword on it and maybe more gods blessed it with power and when opened, it shows their associated birds. That last one could definatly be a nice tie up with god games, to see them assist. But the WBJ would be the primary weapon, smashing Poseidon into a rock, epic(heh) anime fashion, as a finishing move before the bag deplates and he lands. Everything goes on as normal afterwards.

So, Epic animatic makers, go do your magic!

[koiiiji]

random windbreaker headcanons

tw : no, kinda cute, x reader not included

⊹ Wooin believe in mbti types, if it says that someones mbti type doesn’t match with his, he will believe it.

⊹ Hyok ultimate stand is pokemon. he wants to be pokemon.

⊹ Harry actually dog enjoyer who prefers animals to people bc they are loud and use doping. and dogs don’t use doping. Noah always argues with him bc actually cats are cooler.

⊹ Mahon was super naive person in some ways. like it was enough to say something with straight, serious face and he will believe it.

⊹ Sangho drink water or strong alcohol like whiskey, vodka, soju or something that have degree higher than 30°. nothing else. it always either water or alcohol. and he hates cocktails. if u guy who drinks cocktails u r gay, his honest opinion, i just asked him!!

⊹ Juhwan actually have a shark. there is an app, where you can “buy” a shark and you can see its location. so Juhwan owns two sharks, their names is Bobby and Sam. he was really upset when Bobbys tracker lost and he can’t see his shark anymore :( Bobby was his favorite one

⊹ deep inside Juwon really lonely person, so partly he actually enjoys that he have Vinny’s company and at some, really rare moments actually think about him as his younger brother (then he have a call from his partners from dark business and everything goes back)

⊹ Juwon actually get tied of people really fast, so he doesn’t really have friends, only business partners like Sangho and some people like Umi, who was with him in university

⊹ TJ have tiktok playlist that contains hard brazilian phonk, the ones from epic anime edits, and he listen it in headphones and imagine himself as an anime hero

⊹ Minu was questionable about his preferences. before he met Mia he always spent biggest part of his time with boys from zephyrus and June, and he wasn’t interested in girls around him. he used to think maybe he had a crush on Vinny or June.

⊹ Aria really enjoys history classes and have best marks at this subject.

⊹ Vinny doesn’t understand concept of dating. like you just met random people and start see each other every day and then maybe marry and have kids? are you insane? you just see random person and think “oh u cool, u r my boyfriend/girlfriend now”. he genuinely think people are weird.

⊹ Shelly 100% high fashion enjoyer and maybe even wanted to be a model, but she is not tall enough, so before coming to Korea she was insecure about her height.

⊹ aside from apples Hajun enjoys cucumbers. they are like apples in vegetables world.

⊹ Kaneshiro hates iqos. same with sangho, either normal cigarettes or pipe with tobacco. no third option.

⊹ Jay Jo enjoy Gordon Ramsay shows. especially old “kitchen nightmares” where he travels across US and mock cafe owners.

[hey-hamlet]

Unhinged animal crossing rabbit hole.

ive been playing animal crossing new leaf again, because as dope as new horizons is the villagers feel a little flat in comparison with past games.

Anyway, i've fallen into a strange rabbit hole of like. villager identity politics. they clearly self identify with their own species (a peppy villager in new horizons will mention a "fashionable [species] monthly" magazine. In the original game, tom nook will mention a "mammal strike" when calculating the debt for your first home loan, and Hopkin's photo quote says something alone the lines of "a wise mammal avoids danger". Are there like. taxonomic based class structures. Is biological essentialism a right wing talking point - also, almost every business is owned by a mammal, with the exception of really only the Roost (i'd argue that the museum is a not for profit) and maybe Club Lol, but Dr Shrunk did have to come begging to the mayor to get signatures so...

Are semi-aquatic villagers like octopodes and frogs oppressed?? is there equal representation for non-mammalian constituents??? The only interspecies romance we see in game is Lottie's (otter) crush on Digby (dog) in happy home designer - all other couples (Kapp'n and Lelani, Reese and Cyrus, whatever is going on between Pete, Pelly and Phylis) are between the same species. I think villagers, in older games, will talk about rumours of one villager having a thing for another but I can't find any dialogue dumps so I can't find any evidence of this.

Also! You as a human - at least the lazy (or maybe smug?) villagers will refer to you as their 'favorite human', so it's probably not taboo to mention species at least. In the gamecube game your mother questions why you'd even want to live with animals - "don't they smell bad?" so there is clearly discrimination between species, even if its not at an institutional level. Also - all of (most of, but like - thats all representative stuff) the museum artwork depicts real human painted artwork, with humans in it. Interesting aside - why does no-one know the correct name for the artwork? Why did some random guy get it on his boat with his other sketchy wears?

[ace-touya]

Present Mic Family Headcanons!

I headcanon that Hizashi’s parents got a divorce when he was in middle school, his mum got custody, and they moved house and he moved schools.

It was in that new middle school where he met Oboro, who was his first friend in a long while because he was kind of a loner in his previous school too because people found him annoying and weird.

He has two older twin sisters, Setsuko and Sara. All threw of them have really bad eyesight and wear glasses. They also all have the Voice quirk, and inherited from their dad. Their mum, whose quirk is being able to see colours that humans can’t see, sees a lot of her ex-husband in her children - especially Setsuko, the older twin.

Sara is the younger twin but she’s more mature. She’s a hopeless romantic, had a job as a waitress when Hizashi was a teenager, and was parentified, taking care of her siblings a lot. Her and Hizashi are inseparable, and he gets his sense of humour from her.

He gets his fashion sense from Setsuko, who was a lot less responsible than Sara, despite being older. She was kinda the problem child and moved out as soon as she got the chance, cutting contact with her mum and only keeping minimal contact up with her siblings. She’s the lead guitarist in Deep Dope, the band Kyouka likes.

Hizashi’s quirk is the strongest out of all the Voice quirk users in his family as he’s the only one who put effort into training the ability.

Setsuko and Sara both met Shouta and Oboro, and attended Oboro’s funeral with Hizashi. Sara absolutely adores Shouta, and cried at their wedding. Setsuko isn’t a particularly big fan of Shouta but she’s glad Hizashi is happy with him.

They’ve both met Hitoshi, and both adore him. Sara’s contact name for him is ‘Mini-Shou’. It was actually Hizashi’s idea to adopt him. Setsuko hasn’t met Eri yet, and all she knows about her is the very minimal amount of information Hizashi’s spoken about on his podcast and radio show, which is just really small stories - he hasn’t even revealed her name online.

On his podcast Hizashi has also mentioned a third child, one who isn’t his biologically or legally, but is his kid emotionally. Setsuko has no idea that he’s the same child who she’s seen news headlines about - the ‘UA first year kidnapped by the League of Villains’, or the ‘Middle Schooler survived Sludge Villain’. Sara’s met him in person though, and Katsuki’s anger issues reminds her a lot of her twin.

[lex-jots]

From a Taste for Danger (Charlie/Reader)

Charlie remembered the fight he and his parents had when he broke the news that he was failing one of his classes. “How could the same kid who spent hours practicing kickflips—” his dad spat the word, and Charlie winced, “—go on to fail English 101?”

For Charlie, it's a perfect night for a good old-fashioned pity party. Lucky for him, Casper arrives just in time to break up the wallowing.

AO3

Charlie didn’t consider himself a risk-taker. Just… mildly rebellious.

He’d been having a beef stroganoff dinner with his folks in the beige-themed dining room. There was a plastic floral centerpiece on the table. It was normal. His Pop asked him about his day (fine, apart from the feisty old lady with the Coke bottle glasses, whose shrill voice he could still hear in his head after messing up her order), and how Pete was (also fine, if cranky due to the shrill old lady). His mom went on about what’s-her-face from Human Resources, and how she was a bitch sometimes but she was going through an ugly divorce so his mom was trying to lend her some grace, and Charlie hummed and nodded along to her rant. His dad not-so-subtly brought up juco, and Charlie not-so-subtly excused himself from the conversation and the table to wash dishes.

It was a nice, normal dinner, and he was grateful for it, he thought as he paced impatiently around his acid green-painted room.

After a few minutes of pacing, Charlie scrubbed at his face. He didn’t get why he couldn’t just be happy. It had been this way since he was young, too. There was something about sitting in that beige dining room and gossiping like a normal, Hallmark middle class family that was like sandpaper on his skin. Or… under his skin? Like that scene in Nightmare Before Christmas where the burlap sack guy was really just a bunch of bugs pretending to be a person. Sitting at the table made the bugs under his skin crawl.

Was that a weird thought? That was probably a weird thought.

Maybe it was a comparison thing. His mom and pop had respectable jobs, college degrees, and success, versus him, the oddball, fuck-up kid who worked at a pizza joint and smoked dope sometimes and schmoozed off their generosity.

Charlie stopped pacing. No, he thought sternly. He was working an honest job, just like them. Charlie might not have had much to brag about, but at least he had that much. It was something. He nodded to himself and continued pacing.

He really did feel like an oddball, though. Like a puzzle piece that never quite fit into his parents’ perfect picture. Always a little too loud, or a little too quiet; always caring too much about stuff that didn’t matter, or too little about stuff that did.

Charlie remembered the fight when he broke it to them at that very dinner table that he was failing one of his classes.

His dad had rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How could the same kid who spent hours practicing kickflips—” he spat the word, and Charlie winced, “—go on to fail English 101?”

Charlie’s face had burned, but he crossed his arms in silence while his mom said with infuriating gentleness, “Obviously he’s not incapable of being dedicated, it’s just…” She had trailed off.

He’d only been thinking about it, but the pity in her voice made him decide that night: he was going to drop out, find another way to make it. His own way.

Charlie forced himself out of his trance, massaging the back of his neck. That one was still sore. And it could go deep, too, if he let it. He must have been in a self-pitying mood.

Charlie liked to imagine all his thoughts as shoe boxes. He put that memory in a box, carefully shut it, then put it down. Not tonight, he thought. He had a mental rule about pity parties after nine o’clock. He didn’t always follow it, of course, but wallowing too much could really, really suck.

Maybe those moments of stark normalcy bugged him so much because now he knew what the alternative could be: chewing on ice cubes to stave off the gnawing in his belly because he had exactly four bucks in his pocket and still needed to pay up the next day, somehow; laying under a park bench while he racked his brains for “friends” he could cash in a favor with so he could crash on their couch for a day or two; bleeding in a seedy alley, waiting for his tunnel vision to close in—

Charlie snapped that mental box shut and dropped it in a dark corner.

Man, he really was in a self-pitying mood. He needed to snap out of it or he’d just be a sad little rodent curled up in his room all night. What was that saying? Count your blessings or whatever?

Charlie held up a finger for each blessing. A home. A bed. Parents who gave a shit. A job. Pocket money. Food. Plumbing. Threads. Casper. Hey—Casper!

Charlie pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped them a message, knowing damn well they were nearly nocturnal: you up??

There was something about Casper. They were like a magic cure for that oddball, sandpapery, bugs-wearing-human-skin feeling he sometimes got with his family.

Their response was immediate: duh lol.

wanna hang?

omw

He blinked; he hadn’t even asked if they wanted to hang at his (parents’) place or theirs. They were like that sometimes, though: once they got an idea in their head, they just… went for it. It was admirable. And pretty hot. Especially when they got that determined glitter in their eye…

Charlie grinned as he put his phone back in his pocket and laid on his bed, hands behind his head.

Not five minutes later, something knocked loudly on his window, and Charlie jumped almost a full foot in the air. Sure enough, Cas was at the window, a bit sweaty and waving innocently.

“Jesus, Cas,” Charlie gasped as he opened the window. “You can’t knock that loud or one of these days I’m gonna have to change my pants, and that’ll be embarrassin’.” They laughed, and so did he, adding, “You got here quick.”

“I was in the area,” they said, holding up their board.

 So he had interrupted their night skate session, and they’d dropped what they were doing just to come see him? Charlie felt his face bend into a dopey smile.

“And you hurried over here for me? D’aww. C’mere.” They leaned forward and he kissed them, not minding the saltiness one bit. “So, are you comin’ in or am I comin’ out?”

“You’re coming out.” They gestured behind themself. “I found a great spot for hill bombing. I’ll even let you borrow my pads so you don’t break anything important.”

Charlie laughed, grabbing his beanie from the pile of clothes on his bed. “Well, aren’t you a sweetheart tonight?” He hoisted his board into the crook of his arm, then clambered out the window as carefully as possible so his arm didn’t get shredded by grip tape. “So long as I’m not exceeding, like, twenty miles an hour, I think I’ll be good.”

When he planted his feet on the lawn, Cas grinned at him in that way they liked to when they picked on him. “Congratulations.”

“Huh? On what?”

“On coming out.” They were fighting laughter.

Charlie blinked stupidly until it hit him. Then he hit them on the shoulder, and they threw their head back laughing.

“Yeah, yeah, you little shit,” he grumbled with fake annoyance, but the twisting in his lip was a dead giveaway of how much he actually enjoyed being picked on. “I’m not even gonna ask how long you’ve been sittin’ on that one. But, hey, I respect your commitment to the bit.”

“Oh, c’mon.” Casper swaggered across Charlie’s (parents’) lawn. “You love it.”

“Yeah, I do,” Charlie said, following them.

Casper visibly paused, eyes wide and starstruck. It was Charlie’s turn to laugh; for some reason (one he never pried too much about), they always seemed shocked at how easy it was for him to just admit how much he adored them.

“You should see your face when I talk all sweet to you,” he said, imitating a chef’s kiss. “Price-less.”

“Shut up, man.” But there was no barb to their words, only a sheepish smile.

Charlie took a second to just… bask. In them. In the uncomplicated, guiltless joy. In how normal and right he felt, and how they felt to him. They were so good at pulling him out of those cycles of wallowing, even when they were kids. Like it was effortless. Did they know what they were doing? He hoped so. They deserved to.

“Hey, Cas?” Charlie slowed almost to a stop. They slowed with him.

“Hm?”

“Thank you. For comin’ over. I mean it.” He reached for their hand and they took it, nodding once, brows drawing together with understanding. “I was thinkin’ about stuff, and I got to thinkin’ too much, so… it really means a lot to me.”

“Anytime.” They squeezed his hand. “And I mean anytime.”

Charlie took a breath, soaking in the gravity of anytime. They had all the time in the world, now. There was no one he would rather spend it with. And knowing that they felt the same…

“Thanks, babe.” He swallowed back emotions. “Thank you.”

Cas smiled, held up their twined hands, and kissed his knuckles. Their lips were chapped, but gentle. “Anytime.” They swung their hands back and forth. “Now let’s go show that hill who’s boss.”

They held hands as they jaywalked in front of his parents’ house.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA— CHAPTER THREE: TOAST

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic: TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, mild Daddy kink (it'll all make sense).

This chapter is chronologically the third in the series

Keep reading after the cut

Daybreak: you come to in a spare room in Hannibal Lecter's house, as dark about you as a bloody inner mouth; pain decants itself between your thighs, and you remember what was done to you, in the punishing night.

You rise on your knees and scream in despair at your violation, at your abandonment, at your misfortune in falling tail-side of a coin flip, condemning you to the treacherous care of two men engaged in the pretence that there is some benevolent end to this.

Yet it occurs to you, from the sylphs of memory, that perhaps only one of the pair is pretending: Will Graham, still so glued to the principles of society that he put up a hero’s protest against the rape. He had shaken like a rib-kicked dog after fucking you, face-down, on this very rock of a mattress, while Hannibal’s firm hands guided you onto his colleague’s cock, so gentle, so deathly that your cunt still throbs sickly at the thought of them.

Their beauty, their talent, so fabulously cruel, arranging your suffering to their aesthetic approval—

Dr Lecter didn’t accept you for inpatient care to better you, but to ruin, and make worse all the dun and violet horrors of your tortured mind. You are a jewel in the hand of a god of death to be held captive; you must serve to survive, or else perish for your pride like the girls in all the recent headlines, never to be found till you are roaches and dust.

Will and Hannibal will not have you starve to death, but they might well be your decay in another fashion, now that you are the bruised and buckle-kneed prey to their hunter dreams. You hate the devil-horse drag in your stomach as you think of their hands on you, making a doe of you in their degradation.

You scrub the bedsheet between your thighs, choking at the dirt-salt scent of the stain the endeavour leaves behind. Standing up, you feel strain and bruising in every limb; you stagger about, taking inventory of the studiously bare surfaces, locked drawers, a barred window, an en-suite bathroom with its absence of a razor. There is a toothbrush and paste, expensive soaps, which you are obviously expected to use.

The sight of them reminds you that you are here on an indefinite stay, that according to your loved ones—and likely to the law—you are precisely where you need to be. No one will guess at your abuse, beguiled by the beautiful sham of the prestigious doctor and his accolades. They will think you fortunate, to have been accepted at such a discount, for your family is not rich, and had, in fact, been overjoyed by Hannibal’s gracious reception of their plea to see you.

They’ll want you to do well, here, to strengthen, to thrive, but how can you, when the doctor and his friend will fuck you for your failings, and dope you into drunken insensibility, should you protest?

You cling to the sink and cry until you heave, clammy and juddering in a fit of abject despair. Then, with slow, weary resignation, you wash, scarcely wanting to touch yourself, to feel where you are most hurt.

You return to the bedroom, noticing immediately a set of clothes laid out on the quilt. Cold touches the back of your neck as you realise that Dr Lecter must have put them there, likely heard you sobbing through the door.

How smug he must be, to have provoked you into so amusing a reaction.

Fear strikes a sort of sense in you, and you dress quickly, hating how soft and luxurious the garments feel upon your skin. You crave your own clothes, the comfort of the known, of routine. Yet as you try the bedroom door and let yourself cautiously out into the chill hallway beyond you’ve made the decision to go along with Dr Lecter’s treatment until an opportunity to escape comes to you, which you know it must, being that he is not God, and cannot watch you in perpetuity.

The house is, of course, quite beautiful, grand, and dark, and full of art, magnificent and elaborate; you are intimidated by Dr Lecter’s commitment to beauty, and wonder at your place within it. You feel cheap and inelegant, cumbersome as you blunder from room to room in search of your keeper. He did not take you in for your beauty, you think, with a grim and bitter certainty, unless it is the breaking of your mind beneath his ministrations that is lovely to him.

The sound of an instrument winds through the house, sinisterly pretty, like something played in the court of Marie Antoinette. From the quality of the noise you discern that it is a recording; you had noticed a harpsichord in Hannibal’s office, and wonder if this is a piece he himself has composed to make elegant even the sonic elements of his home.

As you descend the staircase, one shaking hand squeezing the bannister, the music ceases, and Dr Lecter emerges from a doorway, artfully casual with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The expanse of skin revealed to you feels intimate, and as you remember the inferno of your flesh beneath those very arms, you retreat into the shadows of the stairway

He is lower than the devil, this man, yet possesses all of his cunning, and more.

“I am glad to see you this morning,” he says, pleasantly. “I was unsure if you would leave your room. It can be daunting, venturing into an unfamiliar place.”

You don’t answer, can think of nothing to say; it is like making conversation with a puma, more inclined to claw out the garnet hollows of your throat than entertain the vapidity of words.

Hannibal studies you, taking in your appearance in your borrowed clothes with noted pleasure.

“I have made breakfast,” he announces. “French toast: brioche, nutmeg, cinnamon, topped in caramelised sugar. Such simple sweetness is a necessary counter to so bitter a night spent under my roof. A shame that your first evening here was not as welcoming as it should have been.”

You find yourself repulsed by his manners, a taunting pretence of civility. This is a man who knows what he is, and carries himself with pride and comfort in that being; his abuse would be easier to bear had he been coarse, and mad.

“I’m not hungry,” you whisper.

A lie: you are always starving, a walking ache, thinking of little from daylight to darkness but the sustenance you cannot allow yourself, gluttony in the slightest morsel.

Hannibal looks at you with pity, and yet a cold and knowing pleasure, also.

“You must eat, little one,” he says. “Your health is my responsibility, and I am required to see that you fuel your survival, by whatever means I deem appropriate. If neither reason nor encouragement will bring down the battlements you have built around yourself, then I am not opposed to alternative methods of siege.”

You remember the feeding tube shown to you on the previous night, and sag against the bannisters, felled by the impossibility of your situation.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, let me go home. Why are you doing this?”

Hannibal moves towards the stairs and extends his arm to you, meaning to help you down, as though you would ever accept his assistance. His calm is a slaughterhouse silence, the echo of the chamber when all the killing is done, and it lies empty but for the recollection of screams.

"I'm willing to answer any questions you have for me," he says, congenially. "If you will do something for me, in return."

You step past him, avoiding his arm.

“I don’t trust you,” you say, softly. “What do you want me to do?”

The answer is a penumbra in his eyes.

"For each question I address, you must finish a mouthful of the meal I have set out for you. Finish the plate, and I will allow you a phone call home, to let your parents know that you are settled. It will be supervised, of course."

Suppressed, he means, a hand poised to snatch the receiver, should you speak ill of him and his trembling brute of a colleague. Yet you see that consent to Dr Lecter’s will is the currency that will buy you consolation, in this house, so you nod slowly, coughing down a lump in your throat.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll try.”

Hannibal smiles, the rictus of some corpse-eating entity.

“That is all I ask of you.”

Some minutes later, seated at a table in a room the blue of some under-sea cavern, opposite the man who aided in your assault, you think how pathetic it is that your greatest ordeal of the past day is neither your kidnapping, nor the attack, but the food oozing butter as though from some golden wound before you.

You cannot count the calories, which are surely around the seven-hundred mark, cannot imagine the fat and the filth contained on that slippery plate, an indulgence you haven’t allowed yourself in years.

“Can’t I have something else?” you plead. “This is too much. I can’t eat this.”

“I suspect that you would find an equal challenge in anything I put before you,” says Hannibal, though not unkindly. “I believe in setting a precedent for what difficulties you may expect, under my care, not only to take note of your strengths for study, but to enhance your understanding of your circumstances. Hunger is the power with which you have averted combat with every assailant of the mind. It is time you went to war, little one, and what better place to begin than at my table?”

The toast smells divine, this you cannot deny; you have heard, vaguely, of Dr Lecter’s mastery of the kitchen, one of many facts clumsily reeled off to you by your parents to assure you of his character and esteem. You know that if you allow yourself to eat there will be as much pleasure as agony in every bite; you percieve, suddenly, the parallels between eating this meal, and having been fucked, ingenious, insidious.

“I can’t eat it,” you say again, rather desperately. “You don’t get it. I can’t just... eat, like other people. I didn't choose to be this way.”

Hannibal looks at you with an expression so close to sympathy that you find yourself confused, unable to reconcile the care in his eyes with his sure evil.

“It's not your fault,” he says. “This mechanism is a friendly fire whose direction you cannot change. Nevertheless, you have no choice but to proceed against it. You may discover a certain liberty in having no other option afforded you.”

A tear rolls from your left eye, fracturing like a bead of glass on the tabletop. Hannibal utters your name so gently that you find yourself hardening against him, reaching for the fork out of spite alone, for all that your illness screams at the act.

You cut a slither of toast and look at it balefully, considering how much exercise and restriction will atone for the sin of swallowing. But eat it you do, ashamed of how delicious that sole piece is, how your stomach roars for the rest of it.

Dr Lecter watches you with the faintest and most odious smile upon his lips.

“I must congratulate you,” he says. “The greatest obstacle before you was to begin, and you have conquered it admirably.”

His praise makes it difficult to swallow. The urge to spit the bread back onto the plate is restrained only by what knowledge you may purchase, if you acquiesce.

“Are you a real doctor?” you ask, your voice small, difficult, coarse with tears.

“I am,” says Dr Lecter, plainly. “I assume that your implication is that my profession is a guise for my unconventional curiosities. In that case, I would argue that all workers are tainted by the passions that drive them. Would you discredit the teacher for the selfish pride he feels in imparting knowledge upon an ignorant pupil?”

“I heard you talking to that man,” you say, pointedly ignoring the metaphor. “Your friend, Will? I know this isn’t just about treating me. What you did to me— you enjoyed it, both of you, and... and you’d do it again. How is assaulting me supposed to help me?”

Hannibal raises a delicate little coffee cup, ingesting its dark aroma before he drinks.

“If you wish me to respond, then you must eat.”

With a pained little shudder, you force down another mouthful, chewing it so many times that its texture is pulp as it goes down.

“There,” you rasp. “Answer me.”

A disgruntled gleam passes the man’s gaze, fading so swiftly that it might have only been a reflection from the windowpane.

“From consulting your records, and having spoken to you myself, I perceive your stubborn absence of response to sensitivity,” says Dr Lecter. “You rebel against it, interpreting any benevolent aid as its opposite. Under pressure— fear, anger, violence—you perform well, however. You submit to change in order to survive. Therefore, it is these methods that will most effectively control your disorder, and I see no shame in resorting to that which will foster the greater good.”

So many words, you think, with so very little honesty behind them.

“There’s some other reason,” you insist. “I know there is. Will Graham— why did you make him do it? Why does he have to be part of this?”

You saw off another piece of toast, suppressing a moan at the spill of salty butter across your tongue. Hannibal observes, knowing, without expressing it aloud, how much you love his cooking, so expert as to be a thing of art.

“I am as dedicated to Will’s growth as I am to yours,” says Dr Lecter. “There is a mutual benefit in his involvement in your care. He lacks confidence in his identity, and certain skills; I aim to coax it out of him.”

“You mean, make him messed up,” you snipe, cutting aggressive slivers from your toast. “Just like you. Like you’re doing to me.”

Your flared sense of injustice stifles the pain of having to eat, the agitation of it.

“Why me, out of all your patients? I’m not special.”

“On the contrary, your particular ailment intrigues me,” says Hannibal, pouring himself another measure of coffee. “As individuals, you and I are at direct opposition. I intend to foster an enthusiasm for eating in you that is akin to mine. The complexity of doing so possesses an allure in the frontiers that we both must cross.”

Your jaw pounds from the effort of mastication; you’ve long forgotten how it feels to eat so much.

“Will you let me go home when you’re... finished with me?” you ask, without much hope.

Dr Lecter’s face betrays little of his inner mind, so controlled as to be a pleasant blank.

“Once you are fully recovered, you will be free to leave at will. Until then, I must withhold your liberty.”

You eat, tortured by the repetition, and by the growing pain in your abdomen, unused to being filled.

“Who else knows what you’ve done to me?” you ask. “And what you’re planning to do?”

“Beyond this room, only Will is aware of my most unorthodox practices,” Hannibal replies. “Those unaccustomed to experimentation may find it distasteful, even disturbing.”

You push your plate across the table with a screech of porcelain.

“I find it disturbing,” you say. “You’re really just going to hold me prisoner?”

“Finish your breakfast, or I cannot give you my reply.”

“I can’t,” you say. “I feel sick.”

The French toast, cooling in its basin of fat, suddenly revolts you, and you wish that you were in the habit of purging, to bring up the sodden bread you’ve ingested.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” says Dr Lecter. “In that case, I am afraid you will not be permitted to speak to your parents.”

With an air of disappointment, he rises, coming behind you to take away your plate. Your dominant hand clenches your fork, and you wait for the man to lean down, offering you an angle to pierce his throat. You’ve never killed before, are unsure if you’d have it in you to drive home the slaughtering blow.

As it stands, you will never know.

Dr Lecter’s hand closes over your tensed arm, bringing it up against your windpipe, choking you with the pressure of your own wrist upon you. His body is a prison bar at your back; he holds you securely, and without any particular violence, as though doing nothing more unusual than shaking your hand.

“You did not yet strike,” says Hannibal, as you hack and cough for air. “So your punishment for considering my murder will be mild. You will sit in a corner and face the wall until I leave for my first appointment at the office. After this, you will return to your room, where you will stay until I come home. If you must behave like an unreasonable child, then I will respond, likewise.”

Fear makes you almost insensible as Hannibal’s lips draw close to your cheek.

“I am aware of your habit to regress, in such dire moments," he murmurs. "I heard the name that passed your lips, when Will withdrew from you—"

Daddy, you'd called him, in your hopeless vulnerability.

"—Your loved ones failed you, at some vital point, in your youth. We will not.”

He releases you, and in the adrenaline fog of regaining your breath you realise, with a flush of horror, that you are no longer hungry.

What else will be taken from you, child as you are in the ravenous dark of this house?

[kinardsevan]

what do we think about "darling"? I can see Tommy using that for Buck. It´s a little bit old fashioned but still so cute. I also need either one or both of them to refer to the other as "my man" at least once. bonus point if it happens with Buck getting possesive because maybe someone is flirting with Tommy

So I could absolutely see Tommy using darling as well. I don’t know that Buck would reciprocate, but he would love the way it sounds coming out of Tommy’s mouth. He likes it even more when Tommy uses it sarcastically when Evan is being a brat. I could also see Tommy using “dear”. Evan doesn’t like it at first because it feels antiquated and he’s like “we’re not 65 and retired”, but Tommy just slides it in every now and then. And then the first time he gets hurt on the job—it’s not even that serious, but he’s doped up on pain medicine—and Evan is emotional about seeing him in that state, he tells Tommy he can never get injured again, can’t die on him. And Tommy’s all “yes dear, you can go first”, and that makes Evan melt, come around on the name. Tommy doesn’t use it often, but occasionally he slides it into a text, or while they’re having dinner/dinner parties with their teams. Hen and Chimney are absolutely disgusted at how domestic that makes them sound, and it straight up nauseates Eddie because of how openly in love his two best friends are.

My man: Evan uses this a lot. Initially, just to irritate the shit out of Gerrard, and even at the behest (a little bit) of the rest of his team, because outwardly, Evan refuses to be seen as flappable to Gerrard. He’ll do anything to keep the attention off of Hen and Chim because they’ve suffered enough under Gerrard. And he absolutely refuses to see his best friend or dad be bullied.

Except, maybe he takes it a little too far. The others tell him to lay off when it starts to become clear that Gerrard doesn’t give a shit if anything happens to him (truly, he doesn’t care if they all die in a fire. Then he could have a brand new team and he’d ensure he could hand-pick het-cis-white men.)

But Evan being Evan, goes Full Buck when some kids get stuck in a fire (or something tragic like that), and nearly dies getting them out. And this time it’s Tommy freaking out at the hospital…until he lays eyes on Gerrard, who’s only showed up to make it look good to the chief when he comes asking about what happens. It takes the whole team to hold him back in the waiting room because he’s yelling at Gerrard that the man is only doing this because of him. Something to the effect of “you’d destroy anything that is mine. And he is mine.”

And then later, when Evan is settled in a room and can have visitors (because again, he’s injured, but it’s not serious), Chimney tells him to go get his man, and the comment makes him laugh a little, because Tommy realizes why Evan has been calling him that for weeks now. And when he gets into the room with Evan, he’s kissing both of his hands, wrists, arms, cheeks, just repeatedly telling him “you can’t break this because it’s mine, and I need it”.

As for when he would finally call Evan “my man”, he would use it in an entirely different context. While Evan uses it to everyone in lieu of Tommy’s name, Tommy uses it with strangers, any time they get the privilege of witnessing Evan go Full Buck. Handing out candy at a Trunk or Treat dressed in a full costume? “That’s my man”. Trying to do a bull ride for a full 8 seconds (Evan says it’ll help in the bedroom)? “That absolute idiot is my man, and I love him”. Making the rounds at one of their dinner parties (that Bobby and Athena somehow end up hosting), a cheeky “that’s my man” as Evan swoops around the group, being ridiculous with his friends. On the news while Tommy is on shift, talking about something the chief wanted press for, to his friends/colleagues “that’s my man” (because the probie dared to point out that he’s hot).

When Evan decides to testify against Gerrard in the hearings for his pension/job/etc., Tommy gets the privilege of also attending. Someone on Gerrard’s team dares to ask who this guy is. Post-hearing, Tommy is waiting for Evan to come out and he spots those people again. Proudly, “that is my man”.

[unbizzarre]

BARRAYARAN COSTUME DESIGN

The process for costume design:

Had fun looking through a whole bunch of reference images to try to create a costume set that reflected the strong sense of tradition with midieval-esque holdovers from hand textiles that would have had to be the norm during barreyars period of isolation, while also accounting for the wealth of the current barreyaran aristocracy and their access to modern galactic trends and clothing. I also didn’t want the midieval influences to be generic-fantasy-vaguely-european-bulshit, so I also tried to find reference images with styles, patterns, and silhouettes that where somewhat reminiscent of the French, Russian, and Greek cultural heritage barnyard first settlers may have brought with them. That being said, it wouldn’t make sense for any of these traditional garments to have been preserved with 1-for-1 accuracy from there earth origins over the many centuries (cuz like, irl traditional dress in these countries is less and less common) so I didnt want to just copy exactly historical garments.

OH! And then I also had to make sure the men’s clothing also reflected the pseudo-military affectations which Bujold has mentioned in multiple books as being popular in menswear amongst the vor cast. (Ex: the formal riding boots, and the two swords carried at formal events, or less formally vor “town clowns” also wearing casual clothing reminiscent of a military cut.) but! In order to do this, I had to think of both what would have been military uniforms both in isolation-barrayar and modern barrayar, and which aspects of each set of military uniforms would be incorporated into modern men’s fashion. Would any women’s clothing also reflect this warrior trend?

Finally, since all of this costume design was brainstorming for the dinner party scene, I wanted to make sure that the clothes matched the personalities of the people wearing them. Like aunt Alice and Professors Vorthis are both middle aged Vor-caste women, but will have vastly contrasting style. Alice being alice, her clothing will likely be both perfect for the occasion while also a sleek and elegant combination of the leading barreyaran fashions, while also giving a nod to traditional barreyaran costume at times as she is a representative of both the state and her old-vor house. The professora on the other hand, will probably opt for something comfortable and cozy, while not especially showy, as she is more concerned with her studies and gardens and is not super involved in the Vorbarra-sultana social scene.

Some of the reference images I used:

And many many sooooo many more. So much borrowed creativity from all over the internet I feel bad I can’t more accurately site all my sources 😞

Also some random cool aesthetic modern shit that I thought had fun sci fi vibes as well as some *sigh* generic-euro fantasy clothing cuz sometimes you need to be a little basic.

Also a lot of cool art by artists I love that is just dope costume design and totally all their work. Idk the names of a lot of them cuz I’m not really active on social media and only really see the images amidst thousands of others in my Pinterest hoard but I always recognize the artsyles and creativity and wind up saving them to reference art boards 🙈

Some that I do remember and love a lot are cy-lindric, Juliette, and Celia Lowenthall

[typekiku]

Number 1 reason why we need mahoyo 2 is because:

We the people, need to KNOW what took aoko from this

To this

And i won’t rest until i know what caused the death of her fashion sense…

Does Magic just kill your style? Lets look at the only other magician we have seen in the series

Kiscur Zelretch Schweinorg is DRIPPED UP ‼️

Like this the same dude who managed to defeat crimson moon you would think he lost his style but nah hes still as cold as ever?

Even aoko looked dope as hell the first time she used the fifth magic

Nasu we absolutely must get down to this travesty! so long as i breathe i will mourn the lack of info on what happened to our beloved aoko and shizuki but thats something else

[stari-hun]

Under the Oak Tree has this special quality of somehow having no chemistry but having very interesting and compelling characters. It’s Riftan. Riftan is the issue. They want a historical series but they’re ignoring that the core appeal of a historical series is an easy meet cute of an arranged marriage, fancy social etiquette, and most importantly the fashion. Riftan isn’t a historical ML in the way people like it cause he’s not just a gentleman wearing historical inspired clothing and or armor, he’s genuinely a misogynist controlling man and I’m like 😭😟 spooky. It’s giving that one sentient gingerbread man book that was randomly set in like the Victorian era with an extremely abusive husband that’s NEVER warned about in most of the reviews.

Like you come into the series and see a FL who’s neglected and mistreated by her family and ur like dope, this is a trope since the founding fanfics of Wattpad. The trope is ex common but it’s like a Sold to One Direction kinda thing, it’s a core part of the history of modern writing. Angst is such a popular genre and people love whump, like it’s good. ITS COMMON BUT ITS GOOD. People love overdone tropes cause even if it’s done a lot it’s easy to do well. Under the Oak Tree does SO well with Maxi’s trauma and she feels like such a human character. But then Riftan is just like- The appeal of the whump is that someone comes in and comforts the person and saves them from their past life. Riftan fr just comes in picks her up without a word, no communication, no nothing, constantly angry at her because she’s fearful of him and had no idea about their engagement (despite knowing that her father hated him and wanted him dead, so there would’ve been no reason to give her hope that she’d be saved from her household by a man soon to die). He’s just not comforting or appealing outside of sex appeal and smut TT, like he literally isn’t around for the first like what? 80 chapters unless it’s getting mad at her, degrading her and telling her to just be a decoration, or smut. LIKE GIVE US SUBSTANCE. Than her distress with him all the time is so scary and unnerving TT , it literally feels like for the first 2 seasons that she’s literally just having a fawn response around him and that’s why she seems to handle his presence. Not to mention that entire arc where any time she’d try to talk to him and have a genuine conversation as partner, he’d just kiss her and shut her up which was SOOOO weird.

He’s just SOOOO. It’s so weird. They only seem to like being around after 100 chapters. AND EVEN THEN IN THE TRAVELING TO THE SEA ARC HES UNRIGHTFULLY RUDE RUDE TO HER. literally anyone who spent all of their time locked up inside and doing close to no movement besides walking around and collecting plants for close to a year would struggle with a journey like that. In fact Maxi was a whole trooper, I’ve spent a whole day on horseback before and I literally couldn’t walk the next day and I was aching for 2 after that.

The appeal of the angsty insecure protagonist with a past like that is that the new environment welcomes them with full acceptance and love. RIFTAN ISNT LOVING SHIT. HE LIKES THE IDEA OF MAXI AS A NOBLE LADY. Sure we’re likely gonna see a generic plotline later of ohhh I met you as a child and you changed meeeeeeee, forgive all my bad traits and how I hurt you let’s make out ~~~~ but NO???? I REFUSE TO TAKE THAT TBH. He causes her so much more distress and it feels like another “My Husband Who Hates Me Has Lost His Memories” , like just a female protagonist enduring extreme constant emotional distress and trauma at the hands of the male lead but we’re supposed to just support their romance because ohhhh he doesn’t know what he’s doing despite being a full adult with autonomy and the life exp and capabilities to understand his actionssss. Noooo support their romance even though he’s constantly putting her in bad situations and she’s never been as happy with him as she does with women she’s just met in that hour.

TLDR: I wish authors would stop being insane and making their status of in the closet everyone else’s issue in the historical genre. Like pls stop cooking up the most divine wlw then force feed us abusive comphet, I see you, please free yourself babe.

[mr-nauseam]

-DoveSnow-

Playlist under construction. Random data:

1. It began as a joke. Is not a joke anymore 😔 but the concept was Clemensia got a crush over the really pretty cousin of her friend Snow, who clearly is not a weirdo she only befriend bc HE GOT THE CONTACT OF SUCH A GORGEOUS GIRL KSKSKSKS. But thats to me the basis, I found kinda cute the idea of Clemensia having a platonic crush in someone she never get to meet. Like they have talk sometimes, and Coriolanus have told her some things abt Tigris but shes mostly in love with someone from his head. Tigris def didnt know abt this until years laters and not think to much of Clemensia as nothing but the nice girl was friend of Coryo like others.

The thing of drama come all from my head abt two facts: 1. Tigris is the only person aside from the involves in Clemensia accident that know what happen to her!! 2. I dont remember in which fic I read the idea of Clemensia into PR!! And I found the concept very dope. This an area that will make sense will cross paths with people working in the fashion industry like Tigris!

And thats were things began to be interesting to me. They get go chance to meet each other in very different circuntances and became friends and more. I really like some deconstruction of Clemensia having to fall in love with a real Tigris with flaws yk? And for Tigris was this concept of the little ankwards of date someone younger, in contact with her cousin while their relationship began to be tense, very the less person u would expect in the world will be important.

But thats it ✌️ Coming the povs!!