location: the park

closed starter for: @backmaskcd (denny)

she must've looked like a crazy person, circling intently around the swing set so she could figure out where the squeak was coming from. all it really needed was a tightening of a few loose bolts and maybe a quick oiling, but violet could only help with one of those currently. even then, she was having a hard time locating exactly which part needed her attention. with a sigh she stepped back, hands on her hips and head cocking to the side. that's when she noticed someone staring at her.

"it's squeaking," she muttered, lips pursing in distaste. "it's squeaking and it shouldn't be."

The last day of the Faire, the sky was overcast, with rumbles of thunder in the far distance. As Mayor Nat stepped up to the podium set up in front of town hall, a small crowd gathered to hear the announcement. She proceeded to declare Pandora Flowers as the winner of the costume contest, and withdrew the sword to present to the winner of the tournament, Morgan Vovk.

Before she could, though, Quinn Buckley from the commune ran up on stage and grabbed the microphone from the podium.

“Listen! You have to listen. This, all of this, is because of a being far greater than us! It sent the creatures from the woods to test us! To separate the weak from the strong. It judges us because it wants us to be ready before it reveals itself. We have to listen! We have to—“

Sheriff Henry attempted to take the microphone from her, but she struggled against him, still shouting into the microphone.

“It’s real! I felt its presence! Those that listen will be saved!”

Thunder rumbled, closer than before, much closer. A loud crack of lightning illuminated the sky, blindingly bright. Beyond the clouds, briefly visible in that split second, loomed a shape, unrecognizable and massive, both bulbous and gangly. As quickly as it appeared it was gone, and what remained was the sizzling body of Tristan Wilde, struck by the lightning. The sky opened up, then, as thunder boomed directly above, and rain and hail pelted the town.

“It’s there! You all saw it! It’s real! We have to submit!” Quinn wailed, as Henry attempted to pull her off the stage. “I can prove it! I can walk amongst them untouched! I’ve been chosen! You can be chosen too!”

Her cries fell away in the deafening downpour, and those that had gathered scattered to find shelter in the nearest buildings. Whether or not they saw something or, if they did, if they believe what they saw, remains to be seen.

The storm raged on through the night, as the creatures wandered the streets unperturbed by the rain and hail. The lights of the town flickered and then, as lightning staggered across the sky, everything went dark.

(Those that ran to find shelter found themselves stuck for the night. Below you’ll find the (randomly selected) groups. You can choose for your characters to have seen the shape in the sky, to have not seen it, or to have seen it and not believe it.

Everyone can continue/finish their event threads, as all this took place on the final day of the Faire (the 29th). You may also time-jump threads, headcanon threads, or make new threads for the plot drop. The event officially ends on August 5th, at which time please do not make any more event starters, however you can continue all threads until completion.)

Town Hall

Aslan “Dodger” Ozdemir Bocephus “Beau” Romero Birdie Tilton Cain Barlowe Eagan Connolly Emma “Em” Dunford Evangeline Cruz Falco Romero Fletcher Cole Helena Theriot Hex Sif-Sidon Jessica Sinclair Kirby Louis Ryan Nickleby “Nick” Dalton Ocean Quinn Odette Abbott Olivia Hart Poppy Sarasa Prudence “Pru” Wheaton Ransome “Rance” Slade Saffron Aubert Scout Garcia Sierra Nevada Starlynn Flowers

Fire Station

Absinthe Capone Arachne Arthur “Arty” Drake Conrad Greene Corvin Delancey DJ Cruz-Dutton Harlow Cole Hawthorne “Hawk” Romero Izan Castillo Katarina “Rini” Roberts Lachlan Ramirez Logan Ferguson Lorcan Hara Luciana “Lucy” Rivera Mercy Wainwright Pandora “Andy” Flowers Phoenix Romero-Sawyer Rainn Scott Reggie Alson Ricardo Reider Ruben Hobbes Samantha “Sammie” Thompson Sebastian Keane Tae-Hyun Cho Theodore “Teddy” Collins Zain Madan

Police Station

Andrew Richardson Antonio “Toni” Estrada, Jr. Celia Ortega Elijah Atkins Emrys Rosser Finn Cunningham Halley McGillivray Hunter Hilton Jahi Karim Jane Doe Jareth Reid Kestrel Sideris Lincoln Abernathy Luke Matthews Mateo Suarez Morgan Vovk Pascal Mendoza Quinn Buckley Salem Salazar Vincent Lewis Violet Beauregarde William Monroe Wolf Lykaios Zachary Ryan Zarina West

Huntsville Bank

Alexander “Xander” Garcia Cabell “Cab” McCay Cassius Romero Catherine Wayne Christopher Winters Briana Ryan Dahlia Cruz-Dutton Frances “Frankie” Wallace Gabriel “G” Westfall Genesis “Sissy” Boone Harvey Langston Josie Reigh Mallard “Duck” Romero Mason Greene Maya Rae Mylene Karimi Raj Aiyangar Raphael Knightley Riley Saunders Sandra Quispe Sare Holmes Sasha Medvedev Spencer Holmes Valeria “Val” Moreno Wylie Bateman

Post Office

Avery Cowling Benjamin Cade Bowie Bardot Bram Williams Carter Behrens Cassandra “Cassie” Slade Eilana Kapur Freya Atkins Guillermo “Mo” Reyes Jasmine “Minnie” Sinclair Lennon Davies Leo Brockton Liam Jefferson Matthew Walker Mia Vazquez Monet Vogel Nathaniel Dawson Ondine Konar Paloma Ortiz Reed Hendrix Silas “Cyan” Canne Tari Park Wren Romero Xavier Cade Zoë Clark

Huntsville Library

Artemis Hayes Axel Addams Calloway “Cal” de la Luna Casey Nestor Claire Forbes Clara Jones Finch Sanders Floyd Blackward Hank McGillivray Iniya Beckett Ivy Oberon James “Jamie” Brennan Jeconiah “Jack” Abbott Jett Liu Kieran “KB” Barnes Michael “Mikey” Beauregarde Nicolas Garcia Parker Russo Peter “Rusty” Craven Peyton Wilson Reza Kogoya Roman Forest Rosemary “Rose” Felton Sicilia “Lia” Flowers Tamaraa Jillian “Jill” Adler

morning begins with your lips

AO3 Link

The Mighty Nein was a group that one could describe as existing in a constant state of flux. Sometimes they appeared competent and sometimes...well. Precious little in their lives remained as a fixed constant, including themselves. They were always changing and shifting one way or another, and it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It did, however, make it rather difficult for allies and enemies alike to keep up.

There was, however, one consistent constant - even if it was a minuscule detail. Beauregard Lionett always woke first in the morning.

Her training was a hard thing to shake, and life on the road did not lend to sleeping late most days. Beau also wasn’t in the market for changing her sleeping habits. So she woke moments before the dawn each morning and went through her usual workout.

That morning found them in a tavern, Caleb having used up too many spells the day before to cast their tower. It was a fairly nice tavern, so none of them minded. Beau sat herself at a circular table in the corner with coffee and some food (thankfully they had bacon here), and waited for everyone else to arrive.

The rest of the Nein arrived in a particular pattern - one Beau kept intricate familiarity with. About twenty minutes after she got back from her workouts, Caleb would show his face, slightly haggard, but awake. His inner alarm clock benefited him in waking up on time. Veth often followed close on his heels, especially since they frequently shared a room.

Fjord came next, no more than ten minutes after Veth. Beau suspected his life at the docks had ingrained the habit into him over the years of work. Jester and Caduceus were a toss up because sometimes Jester arrived first, others it was Caduceus, and sometimes both appeared at the same time. No matter what the order, the clerics always arrived to breakfast looking perky and put together.

Yasha always woke last, and Beau knew it was because the Aasimar always struggled to fall asleep at night. She slept late every morning, and usually just rolled out of bed, straightened out her clothing, and came down to breakfast.

A consistent morning routine that Beau knew by heart, a practice in a punctual routine that soothed like meditation. A promise kept the same way the sun rose every morning.

Sure enough, Beau sat in her seat, nursing her coffee and savoring her bacon as Caleb trudged down to the tavern. His tired blue eyes scanned for her, his feet carrying him her way once he located her. Beau watched as he gave the barmaid his quiet request for breakfast on his way over. The wizard dropped into his seat beside her and yawned a greeting.

Beau slid what remained of her coffee his way in silent commiseration. His fingertips were ink stained, which meant he probably had gotten little sleep, the fool.

Veth came bounding over minutes later, cheerful and sleep rumpled as she perched on Caleb’s other side. Stretching up on her tip-toes, the Halfling planted a sweet kiss to his cheek (a practice only done occasionally) before hollering an order to the barmaid that hollered back.

“Morning,” Beau said as she tugged a piece of bacon into two, trying to make it last longer.

“Morning,” Veth returned, fiddling with her crossbow already. Beau didn’t ask what she was attempting this time, just monitored the mechanism in case it misfired.

Their conversation didn’t extend much past that as Veth continued fiddling and Caleb tried to keep his eyes open. Beau was content with the familiarity.

They had barely finished exchanging pleasantries when Fjord arrived, yawning but alert. The half-Orc caught Beau’s eye with a nod before he wandered over to the bar. She watched him exchange pleasant conversation with the barkeep for a few minutes, probably gleaning some information about the town or surrounding area. He did this sometimes when they got to new towns none of them had heard of or been to before, and it almost always helped.

Beau tracked Fjord’s movements as he left the bar with a coffee, making his way to their table. The barmaid arrived with Caleb and Veth’s plates as Fjord sat down on Veth’s free side.

“Whatever you’ve got works for me,” Fjord said pleasantly, his effortless charm pulling a smile to the woman’s face. She bustled away, and Fjord suppressed another yawn as he turned to the table.

“Barkeep says the town’s been calm ever since the war was called to truce. Decreased presence of guard, not as many brawls in the streets and bars, and trade has been up. I don’t think there’s much going on here if we want to move on later. We might have some luck in the market for rations, but beyond that,” Fjord ended with a shrug.

Beau appreciated his forethought in matters like these, because she sometimes got caught up in the bigger picture. Her mind worked in ways better attuned to connecting threads and digging up nuanced details. Sometimes she could ground herself enough to get shit done in the present, but it was hardly ever regarding mundane day-to-day plans.

“So, shopping and hit the road?” Beau said, tearing her bacon into smaller pieces again.

“Sounds like a plan,” Fjord nodded, sipping at his coffee. The barmaid arrived then with the half-Orc’s food before she bustled off again.

Beau settled into her seat, one leg thrown over Caleb’s lap as he chipped away at his plate. Veth began needling at Fjord in teasing conversation, the half-Orc indulging her with fond exasperation. Beau watched on and chuckled now and then, thoroughly entertained.

Veth had just convinced Fjord to play a game of boulder parchment shears for his last piece of sausage when Caduceus and Jester arrived. The clerics were discussing the benefits of talking to the massive oak tree they saw on their way into town as they took their seats. Jester flounced into the seat beside Fjord, Caduceus sitting on her other side as they kept talking. The pair paused long enough to greet the table before getting back into it.

“I’m just saying - morning guys! - we should try it,” Jester said, eyes boring imploringly into Caduceus’. “Maybe the oak will be friendly!”

“Of course we can try,” Caduceus agreed, setting his staff to lean against the table. “But in my experience, oak trees are always rather stuck up.”

Beau decided not to question how many oak trees Caduceus spoke to in his free time. The barmaid swept up to their table again, distracting the clerics momentarily.

“I’ll have some potatoes and tea, please,” Caduceus drawled with a pleasant smile.

“Do you have any pastries?” Jester asked predictably, violet eyes wide as she twisted in her seat.

“We’ve got muffins?” The barmaid said, eyeing Jester’s bright, eager eyes warily.

“I’ll take three!” The Tiefling chirped. “And a glass of milk, please!”

“Sure,” the barmaid nodded before sweeping off.

Beau gnawed on her bacon as Jester and Caduceus resumed their conversation, Fjord dejectedly losing his sausage to Veth’s victorious crow. Caleb started tapping an absent rhythm against Beau’s knee, and she let him. All was as it should be thus far, Beau’s eyes wandering to the stair as she waited for the last piece of the puzzle to fall into place.

Yasha’s absence when she had been under Obann’s control was a jarring discontinuity to Beau’s routine. She had been off kilter for more than one reason the entire time Yasha had been away. Beau hated to remember those days. As much fun as they had on some of their adventures, there was always that missing piece, that quiet snark that never piped up in conversation. There was no one at her back in those fights, no familiar battle cry, no unyielding support that Beau could fall back on with absolute trust.

She knew Yasha was last to rise, but the passing minutes never failed to pulse in Beau’s veins with anxiety. An irrational yet rational fear that she would never show.

Beau counted the minutes, tuning out conversation, absently aware of Caleb’s pattern against her kneecap.

Yasha stumbled down the stairs, tugging her tunic into order as she made her way over to their table. A surprising amount of tension bled from Beau’s shoulders with every step closer Yasha took. Jester came up from devouring her muffins long enough to greet Yasha, crumbs falling out of her mouth as she did.

“Mornin’ Yafa!” Jester managed through her food. The Aasimar offered the Tiefling a sleepy smile as she headed for the only empty seat between Caduceus and Beau.

“Good morning,” Yasha murmured as she rounded the table. Her eyelids still drooped with exhaustion she had yet to shake off. But she smiled small and warm at them all, her eyes landing on Beau as she stepped up beside the monk. Fondness made Beau feel like her heart was melting in her chest as she grinned up at Yasha, tipping her head back to catch her eye.

Yasha bent down and planted a quick, sweet peck on Beau’s lips, the monk’s smile curling wider as Yasha pulled away with a murmured, “morning Beau.”

The Aasimar wandered off to the bar a moment later to get a drink, yawning as she did. Beau happily went back to her bacon, picking it into pieces and popping them in her mouth. It took her a few moments to realize that something had changed.

Looking up, Beau froze with bacon halfway to her mouth when she found everyone at the table staring at her in stunned silence. Caleb’s tapping against her knee had ceased, Veth’s mouth was hanging open with sausage half-chewed. Fjord and Caduceus were giving her matching stares that were somehow both knowing and awed. Jester looked as if she were two seconds away from combusting into glitter.

“What?” Beau asked, somewhat defensively.

“Beau!” Jester exploded, squealing loudly. “You didn’t tell me you and Yasha finally talked!”

Beau’s cheeks grew hot, and she put her bacon down slowly. “Talked about what?”

“You kissed Yasha like it was a normal, everyday thing!” Veth said, thankfully swallowing her mouthful of food beforehand. “When did that happen?”

Beau froze, eyes going wide.

Oh.

“Uh...just now.”

“What?” Fjord said, brows furrowing.

“It happened just now,” Beau said, quiet and struck.

“Oh my gosh,” Jester gushed, practically vibrating in her seat. “That was your first kiss with Yasha? And it was that easy? And we all got to see it? That’s so romantic, Beau!”

Beau’s eyes flit to where Yasha stood at the bar. The Aasimar had twisted around to look back at the table, eyes wide and mouth agape. Clearly, she had come to the same realization as Beau. That same fondness from before softened everything in Beau’s countenance near instantly, and she smiled across the tavern at Yasha. She watched the Aasimar blush as she grinned back, turning to the barkeep to order when they came up to Yasha.

“I guess it is pretty romantic,” Beau whispered.

Veth and Jester squealed with each other as Fjord and Caduceus went back to their breakfasts. Caleb gently pinched the inside of Beau’s knee where her leg was still across his lap. He smiled when she looked at him and squeezed her ankle.

Beau’s chest felt full to bursting when she realized that her happiness could spread so easily among this family she had cultivated. She settled into her seat as Yasha came back and held her hand under the table for the duration of their meal.

This was something new Beau wouldn’t mind adding to their routine.

PART I

One thing rang true and that was the prediction of the brutal blizzard of November 28th. Everyone prepped the best they could with the remembrance of how last Winter had ruthlessly blanketed their homes. There’s a frenzy for backup generators that get bought up in the Chicago stores for the anticipation. The first ominous whistle of the wind, and the pebbles of ice fall on the eve of Thanksgiving. Power flickers in each home giving them a moment of awkward darkness, before the backup generators kick in. The power companies in the city promise to have everyone serviced, but they start to service the scattered patches on the outskirts of the city first .

Most joked that was the brutal blizzard they had prepared for, until Mother Nature dropped her poker face. The ships with cargo became stuck in the harbor due to the icy fortress that froze over the gigantic lake. No lights of passing planes in the sky, as the wind turned into a sinister howl. Darkness engulfed the entirety of the city, except for a strip of hotels in neutral territory. The footmen of the families alert them that there seem to be only a handful of hotels that seem to be around. Meanwhile the temperature dips in the homes of those unlucky, and they must face a brash decision to not become the ice sculptures akin to the people of Pompeii. 

Multiple phone calls are done, and just as their phones are about to die they get a booking. A hotel that mentions that the accommodations might be crowded -- However, they can host your groups and promise warmth as long as the storm doesn’t shut them down. Everyone packs up their children, pets, and housemates to journey to the only solace that isn’t sold out in all Chicago.

After a restless eternity everyone was given a room number with their baggage ( human and otherwise ). The group of people that checked guests in alert them that there is a room for the animals to stay in kennels or they may accompany the others up to the room. Just when everyone was annoyed after being crowded in the lobby, and having to wait decades to get from one floor to another in the elevator.  It doesn’t help there’s always that one asshole that tries to asphyxiate everyone with their heinous flatulence. 

They FINALLY make it into their hotel room. Massive enough and customized with multiple full sized beds. No television, the heat blares up, it’s the poster child of the most bare necessities room. While everyone claimed a bed and stared haughty towards the guests that had ended up in the same room with them. A loud crackle followed by a slight rumble of their feet had the lights in the hotel rooms go off. The hotel doors seemed to have powered down, and anyone that tried to leave them --found they wouldn’t budge. A soft wheeze emitted from the heater in the room, and for a moment that’s the only noise in the room with you until the profanities start to flood. Winter wasn’t the only one that had prepped for the evening. The Walshes and their affiliates watch on with hidden elation as their plan goes into motion.

Part I will run from November 28th until December 3rd. Under the cut will be the groupings as well as some additional notes for this event.

Please don’t make any new starters open or closed that don’t pertain to this event while it’s happening. Normal replies can be done while the event is running, but it gets confusing timeline wise if people have additional threads that they start that would belong after the event timeline.

For this event specifically, the weather in Chicago is fictional. After the event you can feel free to glance at the Weather app and RP it out that way!

Animals will also be boarded at this neutral hotel. Keep in mind if the animals are left at your residence with the current temperature and no heat they will likely pass away.

Keep in mind that if your character has children (unless they are Walsh affiliates) they  likely have their kids in the room with them or any other NPC’s. If the character is a Walsh it was their choice to have them be ‘stuck’ in the room with them or left with a babysitter provided by the council.

For information on the bold names check the Walsh Discord channel. 

PREP PLOT SLOTS CHOSEN

 LIAM WALSH & IVY IVASHKOV volunteered to carpool with a hotel van to the hospital for sedatives and other harvesting supplies. AUDREY ROUSSEAU is already at the hospital and helps them fill the van before they all ride back to the hotel together. DAVUT DEMIR & KILLIAN WALSH are tasked with going to The Westin and sabotaging the hotel in time for the storm. They are told to do whatever necessary to make sure the hotel can’t accept any more guests before they return for the night. DARREN MURPHY took a smoke break after unloading only one of the supply vans at the hotel. LINCOLN DAWSON caught them smoking—as opposed to working—and made DARREN MURPHY finish unloading two other vans while they watched. 

ASLYN WALSH collected the weekly stash owed from the business owners at Magnificent Mile. She delivered the money to the council without prying eyes of local law enforcement or rival gangs catching on. ARMANDE IVASHKOV & another associate, had the dirty work of cleaning up the old blood stained hotel rooms used for organ harvesting the night before. They made it presentable before opening night. Their efforts were doubled when other affiliates weren’t aware of the chore, and had set off to bloody the room with a fresh harvest session.TARON LYNCH & JOANNA "JOEY" O'SHEA are instructed to sabotage the backup power generators on the north side. Surprisingly, they didn’t get caught. CAOILAINN WALSH had to “check” everyone into the hotel—AKA, assign each guest to a room. Everyone converges in the lobby and watches them impatiently, and the later it gets, the more aggressive the crowd becomes. ASLI DEMIR & FLETCHER HARGRAVE met with Jean Jaques “JJ” Baptiste and persuaded him by discussing terms of agreement for him to temporarily close Romanet Hotel the night of the massive storm.

ROOMS

ROOM #1: Arlo Flores, Fletcher Hargrave, Ira Evans, Jesse Valencia, Theodore "Teddy" Cohen

ROOM #2: Anastasia Sahin, Billie Washington, Josephine "Josie" Leon, Mathias Attano, Taron Lynch

ROOM #3: Andrea "Andy" Perez, Asli Demir, Blythe Sweetwine,Braden Kahale, Margeaux Saint Claire

ROOM #4: Alejandra Ruiz, Armande Ivashkov, Harlow Dumas,Jackson Marston, Lev Vasile, 

ROOM #5: Gwen Arnolds, Hana Faust,Jean-Jacques Baptiste De Romanet, Jessika Delmonica, Oisin Donnelly

ROOM #6: David Sharpe, Juno Song, Layla Jiminez, Nadia James, Nicola Faust, Peyton Bridges

ROOM #7: Callan Quinn, Effie Faust, Igor Vasile, Letitia "Tia" Valentine, Rosalie Halliday, Sutton James

ROOM #8: Addison Mckinley, Anton Volkov, Aries "Rhys" Rigsby, Cecilia Cavendish, Esmeray Demir, Lucian Faust

ROOM #9:  Aslyn Walsh, Catriona O'Shea, Oliver Faust, Tulsa Jane Honey

ROOM #10: Genevieve Bisset, Lee Malkovich, Levi Bohan, Maisie Kane, Saskia Vasile

ROOM #11: Amara Ricci, Auron Wright, Christine Li, Holden Mercer, Sloan Washington, Stefano Vitorri

ROOM #12: Edith Cohen, Ellis Rowe, Lavrenti "Lav" Vasile, Lincoln Dawson, Silas Hale

ROOM #13: Fabian Drake Kalashnyk, Carrigan Connolly, Cassidy Faust, Monika Adler, Nicholas Krieger

ROOM #14: Erin Cerci, Lada Antonovna, Leonid "Leo" Vasile, Rahi Kumar, Zoe Washington

ROOM #15: Abel Washington, Dominika Romanov, Faith Williams, Olivia Madden, Rosalia Leon, Cassandra Conally

ROOM #16: Atticus Mercer, Diamond Washington, Killian Walsh, Lorelai Faust, Oakley Butler

ROOM #17: Audric Noire, Mikhail Morosov, Noah Etkin, Nova Deveraux, Viktoriya Vasile

ROOM #18: Anatalya Vasile, Darren Murphy, Julia Faust, Konstantin Vasile, Violet Madden

ROOM #19: Davut Demir, Katarina Vasile, Veronica Pierce, Vincent St James, Zane Washington

ROOM #20: Beauregard “Beau” Griveaud, Blair Faust, Caoilainn "Callie" Walsh, Milo Arrington, Zedekiah Vasile

ROOM #21: Dante "Sebastian" Faust, Liam Walsh, Marissa Atkinson Orion Anderson, Vitomir Kipriyanov

ROOM #22: Andrew "Drew" Whittmore, Callum James, Ivy Ivashkov, Marie-Anne Beaulieu,  Nikolai Volkov ROOM #23: Audrey Rousseau,Barnaby Eaton, Constansia Fournier, Edie James, 

ROOM #24: Birdie Mendoza,Eleanor "Elle" Eaton, Joanna "Joey" O'Shea, Katya Ivanova, Wyatt Leon

I put a spell on you

characters: MollymaukxCalebxFjord

Summary: PWP / NSFW , I blame @feylen 

Listen, I have no excuse for this and I’m truly sorry. 

AO3

Shit.

“Gods, shit.” Fjord put his hand on the table, carefully trying to find his balance. He’d been drinking for a good while, drowning out some unpleasant memories and the events, which led him here. Innocents turning into flesh eating zombies, exploding chest, gore everywhere. Not how he’d planned his travels to continue. Or his life for that matter. 

Sometimes you just needed to unwind a little and search for happiness at the bottom of a mug or two.

Beauregard had taken off with Yasha, after challenging her to an armwrestling duel. Who had won? Fjord couldn’t remember, because Jester’s and Nott’s cheering had distracted him and who knew, which shenanigans those two were up to now.

“Feel like company?” Mollymauk’s brightness hurt. 

Candlelight flickered on his pierced ears and horns, on golden threads carefully woven into the fabric of his clothing. Fjord felt his cheeks heat up and blamed himself for sitting too close to the tavern’s fireplace.

He grunted and kept his eyes down. “You’re not trying to sell me glimpses of my future?”

“Dearest Fjord, you’re smart enough to see through my humble tricks.” Mollymauk’s canines looked too sharp when he smiled. “And I would never waste my talents on someone like you.” “Like me?” Fjord lifted his gaze to find those unnerving eyes on his face, slowly traveling up his chin, to his lips, lingering there just a few seconds. Mollymauk leaned closer with his voice full of honey. “Smart, handsome, a terrific fighter and tired of my antics.” “I’m not tired…” “Tsk, you are. A bit at least, but I’m not here to talk about that.” He didn’t answer and Mollymauk seemed to find this rather amusing. Strong fingers touched his. “You need company. I need company. It’s as simple as that.”

“So? We can surely talk? Jester taught me a new card game, too. I mean, if you’re interested.” Fjord rubbed his neck. 

Mollymauk smiled again, but it seemed less confident. He cocked his head and some stray strands of hair blocked his right eye. “Lets talk somewhere more private? I already feel everyone looking at us and I don’t know, if I’m in the mood for an audience.”

“Upstairs?” Fjord pointed towards the staircase. 

A nod. “Yes.”

Madness. 

Fjord cursed himself for being unable to refuse such an invitation. The Inn offered a bunch of clean rooms. Nothing more and less and he’d been sharing with Caleb and Mollymauk anyhow. 

Not that he thought much about furniture and how the floor creaked beneath their weight right now.

Mollymauk pushed Fjord towards the bed and pressed his thighs against him, once he’d found a comfortable position on his lap. Rubbing himself against the half-orc in the process. “Don’t hold back. I don’t mind a little pain.” A tongue on his jaw, teeth scratching his jawline.

“I’m not some cowering virgin or easily hurt.” As if trying to prove his words, he licked Fjord’s husks.

His own voice sounded strange to his ears, too thick with need. “Don’t make promises that you can’t keep.”

“I won’t.” A voice like smooth velvet.

Fjord chafed his teeth alongside Mollymauk’s jaw, causing the purplish skin to darken. His moans fit his heartbeats.

And then the door opened. Both of them stilled in their movements. Too shocked to leave their embrace.

Someone stopped midstep. The floor creaked. 

A cough. 

Fjord had his hands on Mollymauk’s backside, still holding him in place.

Caleb’s voice was a mere whisper. “I… Oh. I can come back later?”

He turned around and Fjord didn’t know what made him open his mouth, but the words came out, before he’d time to think about them for too long. “You can stay.”

“I can?” Caleb closed the door.

Mollymauk nodded.

Shit.

Caleb opened his coat, pulled his shirt over his head. He looked tired, maybe more so than usual and his body lean from living on the road with reddish hair forming a trail from navel to crotch.  

Mollymauk kissed him again, all teeth and eagerness and he lost his concentration.

Fjord would never have guessed the eagerness of Caleb to join the two of them, or even finding himself with two of his companions in such a position. Ale and wine had made him lightheaded and too eager for a touch and a kiss and some much needed stress relief.

The tiefling’s tail snug around his middle, horns pressed against his forehead. Entirely too warm beneath his touch. Fjord tasted honey on his lips and wine and salt.

He felt himself getting hard.

And then Caleb joined. He acted surprisingly sure of himself with his body warm and pressed against Fjord’s side.

The bed was entirely too small for the three of them. And his skin too hot for his shirt, but Caleb helped with that, and Mollymauk offered enough space to get rid of it. Soon a heap of clothing and armor formed on the floor and Fjord found himself on his back, with a tiefling and a human hovering just above him. Mollymauk gleamed, still, even with the dim light, and Caleb’s eyes looked bright and alive for once.

“We’re doing this.” Fjord tried to ignore his nervousness, the feeling of wonder and excitement. His tongue pulsed with the rhythm of his heartbeat.  

Caleb nodded and positioned himself between Fjord’s legs. “We do.”

And then a mouth wrapped around Fjord’s cock and his own lips formed a moan and he reached for Caleb’s hair, pulling him closer to his body. A clever tongue started to lick the tip of his cock, the veins alongside it.

He couldn’t see Mollymauk in this position, but felt the bed shift with his weight.

Swollen lips encircled him whole and clever hands cupped his balls. Too hot, too moist. And teeth graced his cock, sending small jolts of pain throughout his body, A vulgar popping sound filled the silence between their breaths and moans. Fjord’s grip tightened on Caleb’s hair, pulling at the red strands. It earned him a moan, which vibrated against his cock and thighs.

Mollymauk was on his feet and rummaging through his belonging. Clearly looking for something and smiling, as he held a bottle between his fingers. Fjord didn’t ask and met Caleb’s gaze and raised himself to his knees. His back protested against the sudden movement, reminding him of a half forgotten injury. 

But Caleb took the hint and got on all fours, resting his weight on his arms and legs. His blue eyes were filled with the darkness of his pupils and Fjord watched the tiefling pulling Caleb’s hips towards him.

A golden ring pierced Mollymauk’s sensitive flesh. Any other time, Fjord would have asked about it, but he found his eyes drawn to the jewelry and his lips suddenly dry.

“Impressive, I know.” Mollymauk’s whole appearance seemed impressive.

Slender and muscled, a criss cross of scars on his chest and arms. Sigils of the dark path that he’d chosen for himself. Well, he surely wouldn’t question such choices. Not with his own decisions. 

Caleb raised his head to look around and couldn’t suppress a laugh. “I’ve always wondered about that.” His lips seemed swollen and red and Fjord missed the moist heat on his flesh.

“My cock?” Mollymauk chuckled.

Caleb licked his lips. “That too.”

Fjord pressed his eyes shut. His thoughts were a mess, his body close to the edge. Goosebumps spread on his arms and legs. “Less talking perhaps?”

“You’re an eager one?” The tiefling’s tone spoke of gentle teasing.  

He coated his finger in some kind of thick oil. A faint smell of violet reached Fjord’s nose. Such a strange scent, but sweet compared to their sweat and the alcohol on their lips.

Fjord saw Caleb tense, as Mollymauk shoved a finger inside.

“Fuck.” Caleb pushed himself against the tiefling. Careful at first, and faster with a second thrust, moaning some unintelligible things. Hips against fingers, eyes closed with desire, long lashes dancing on his cheeks and such a marvelous sight. One that would surely hunt Fjord’s dreams from now on.  

Another finger and Caleb propped himself on his elbows. His breathing quickened, small, subtle gasps and flushed flesh. A drop of precum glistening on his reddened cock. Fjord grabbed his hair again and gently pushed down Caleb’s head. The wizard hummed against his cock. Some old, forgotten melody. 

Who fucking cared at this point.

Mollymauk grabbed Caleb’s hips and pulled him towards his body. Fjord felt his lips stiffen against his cock and held Caleb in position, as the tiefling joined their bodies for a second time. A wet sound reached his ears and Fjord felt his cheeks heat up with the image that formed in his head. Blood thrummed through his veins and he let go of Caleb’s hair, instead fisting his fingers into the sheets.

The wizard almost swallowed him whole, head bobbing up and down his length.

And Mollymauk’s fingers left red lines along Caleb’s skin, digging too deep. He closed his eyes and they found some kind of rhythm.

He came. Fjord bit his lip, but the sound of their moans a melody of its own, and his hips buckling against Caleb’s lips, come filling the redhead’s mouth and dripping down to his chin.

Mollymauk began to move faster, as if he tried to catch up with Fjord. He threw his head back, long neck glistening with sweat, and groaned their names. His movements didn’t stop, though. He pushed and pulled, fingers clawing even deeper into Caleb’s hips. 

Caleb followed close, spilling himself on the bed, body going slack between Fjord and Mollymauk. His hair was a mess and stuck to his forehead. A lazy smile spread on his features.

Fjord woke up a few hours later.

Linens clung to his skin. Surely not the season to sweat through his sheets, but he looked to his side and found Mollymauk comfortably snuggled up against him and Caleb taking up the rest of the space. Lying between the two of seem felt like being trapped between fire and flames.

He spotted some small scratches and bruises forming on pale and lavender skin and wondered how they’d explain them. A bar fight?

Words died on his tongue, as Mollymauk wrapped an arm around his waist and he closed his eyes for a second time.

UPDATE REDO WHATEVER YOU WANNA CALL IT

 Tagged by:myself

Rules: You can tell a lot about a person by the music they listen to, put your MP3 player, iTunes, Spotify, etc on shuffle and list the first ten (I might do 20) songs, then tag ten people, NO SKIPPING, you must also include your favourite lyrics from each song! It’s Tough To Be a God It’s Tough To Be a God,but if you get the people’s nod Count your blessings,yeah Keep ‘em sweet That’s our advice Honor To Us All We’ll have you,washed and dried Primped and polished ‘til you glow with pride Trust my recipe for instant bride You’ll bring honor to us all Deliver Us Yal-di ha-tor veh ha-rach Al ti-ra veh al tif-chad My son, I have nothing I can give, but this chance that you may live, I pray we’ll meet again,if he will, Deliver us! Evermore Now I know she’ll never leave me, Even as she fades from view She will still inspire me Be apart of everything I do Wasting in my lonely tower Waiting by an open door I’ll fool myself she’ll walk right in And as the long long nights begin, I’ll think of all that might have been,  Waiting here for evermore! (sorry I love this part) The Plagues You who I called brother,how could you have come to hate me so? Is this what you wanted? Then let my heart be hardened, And nevermind how high the cost may grow, This will still be so, I will never let,your,people,go! Colorbars Soon we’ll televise our C-O-L-O-R Now leave me blinded,and erase my memories Rotary dial  Time after time after time after time,  I can tell you this(Oh!) Time is just a-ticking away(Now, hey, now) For you, for you Nevermore, forevermore Love is nothing but a waste Join hands in a beautiful marriage It’s driving me mad! I can tell you this(Oh!) Life is just a-ticking away (Now, hey, now) For you, for you Threaded cords and sewing words Say “I do” and end the world Baby, now, for the 87th time It’s driving me mad!(another long one sorry) La Vie En Rose And when you speak,angels sing from above Everyday words seem to turn into love songs, Give your heart and soul to me,and life will always be, La vie en rose Love Like You Look at you go, I just adore you, I wish that I knew, What makes you think I’m so special Happy Days I’m all yours, I’ll do anything! So kiss my tongue make everything better,show me you’ll be with me forever Still our happy days will never be granted, ‘Cause even if it’s never said, I know it’s true You want me dead (FUCK IT LET’S DO 20) Augustus Gloop Although of course, we must admit, He will be altered quite a bit, Slowly wheels go round and round, And cogs begin to grind and pound, We’ll boil him for a minute more,until we’re absolutely sure Then out he comes,by god,by grace,a miracle has taken place, This greedy brute,this louse’s ear, Is loved by people everywhere, for who could hate or bear a grudge, Against a luscious bit of fudge? All I Ever Wanted I am a sovereign prince of Egypt, a son of a proud history that’s shown, Etched on every wall! Surely this is all I ever wanted,all I ever wanted... Evelyn,Evelyn We grew up so very close A parasite needs a host I'm only trying to do what is best for us Well, I never asked for this, I never wanted this All that I want is some time to myself Looking in your eyes, I'm coming home Just get away from me, please just stop touching me You're always trying to be somebody else Now I realize I'm not alone Well, you're only scared of me But you never cared for me Why don't you let me free? 'Cause you'd never dare to be 'Cause you never listen, you're always insisting (I'm just/just stop) reminiscing, I feel something missing I just want (you here with me my privacy), God (can't we just get along/won't you leave me alone)? (sorry long) Mike Teavee It rots the senses in the head It kills imagination dead It clogs and clutters up the mind It makes a child so dull and blind (So dull and blind, so dull and blind)He can no longer understand A fairytale in fairyland (A Fairyland, A Fairyland) His brain becomes as soft as cheese His thinking powers rust and freeze He cannot think he only sees (He only sees, he only sees) Veruca Salt  A fish head, for example, cut This morning from a halibut. An oyster from an oyster stew, A steak that no one else would chew, And lots of other things as well, Each with a rather horrid smell. Star of the Show  I don’t think the show is ending, Everybody’s still applauding I don’t see the point in painting merry smiles on my face You know it’s rude to stare This really isn’t fair  Your helium infected voice, Please shut up you make too much noise Violet Beauregarde (FUCK THIS ONE’S HARD) For years and years she chews away Her jaw gets stronger every day. And with one great tremendous chew They bite the poor girls tongue in two And that is why we try so hard To save miss Violet Beauregarde Chewing, chewing all day long chewing, Chewing all day long Chewing, chewing, chewing, chewing, chewing, chewing all day long Housewife Radio Memories inside my heart are there to grieve Color-coded by the love he gave to me Ah, his voice, it speaks to me through the radio Pressing spotted fabric on an ironing board Losing bobbins under tables, is it so? Every day, it feels like seams are more than torn Buttoned patchwork, thread that's tied in knots Hand-sew everything with kind intention Liquid sound waves pour from my eyes My heart cries out to you in desperation 7AM is when the station plays its sounds Listening to the speaker while the patterns sew into place Unmistakably, he'll return alive His colors ought to show again I Dreamed a Dream He filled my days with endless wonder, He took my childhood in his stride! But he was gone when Autumn came, And still I dream he’ll come to me, That we will live the years together, But there are dreams that cannot be! And there are storms we cannot weather. Trust In Me I understand you have your reservations, Not knowing what I’ll ask from you,there’s reason to think twice, But I give you my word you both will be safe and sound, Although you’ll soon learn magic never comes without a price!

closed starter for: @backmaskcd (rex)

these days, violet tried to stick as close to rex as possible. huntsville was home now, and while she felt comfortable and at ease for the first time in her life, she was also scared most o the time. it seemed that the little tucked-away town had more secrets and darkness to it than violet originally realized, and that thought alone was terrifying. but currently the couple was out and about, wandering the aisles of the library so violet could stock up on more reading material in preparation of hiding away for the next few days.

"hey, i think i found a comic book," she chuckled, feet dragging so she could locate where rex was. "looks like it might be batman, but i could be wrong. i wasn't exactly allowed to like superheroes growing up so i'm pretty clueless."

Combined Aesthetics: Chandler Beauregard and Violet Hoy

This is sort of starts from the beginning of their friendship to the start of the OT3...Forgive me, PLEASE FORGIVE ME. But like, they are such a beautiful relationship, ok? @tegansexual‘s Chandler and Violet are basically perfection. (then again, any friendship with Violet is basically perfection? So, I guesss...Chandler and her are definitely no exception!) Also, I’m horrible at describing the two of them, but there should be some laughs there. These are kind of just mini-stories, but I hope you all like them.

-The first day they meet, and the first week really, is just CHAOS. He’s overly friendly and she’s overly snarky and cold. She’s serious, and he’s being silly and sweet. (also see the thread in which @ask-sechandler has for his intro and how Violet reacts to him and back)

-But Chandler is stubborn af and continues to try and become her friend no matter how much pain her sarcasm causes him.

-It’s a lot of pain, but at some point, he realizes that him and Violet are actual friends, that their starting relationship has changed. She’s still teasing him and being mean, but there’s that warm/affectionate tone in her voice that you get from a good friend when they are messing with you and you just know. 

-Of course, he still can’t get her to say that they’re friends. Everytime someone mentions them being friends, they get a brutal: “we’re not friends” that makes everyone wince at the sudden blunt/honest/cruel answer. And he can’t get a compliment out of her when he tries to. “did my ballet routine look good?” “you messed up on your second pirouette” “i did not!” “also, the piece you’ve chosen doesn’t match what you’re choreography is, it’s too fast paced” The shit she gives him when he messes up...

-Their relationship continues like that for a while, then Chandler just gets used to it. He becomes less affected by her taunts, she becomes more comfortable around him and opening to just joking around with him and less denial of his offers of hanging out.

-When this happens, they hang out outside of lunch and class. He comes over to her dorm to hang out with her and discovers...her room is an absolute mess. He wants to scream really...for someone so responsible and focused her desk looks like a hurricane blew through it. “There’s a coffee there! You don’t even drink coffee! Wait a second, whose glasses are those?” “hmmm....Ella’s? And no Chandler, you aren’t allowed to touch my desk.” “-_- let me clean” “no”

-He also finds out that she never sleeps? Or eats properly? “i don’t eat breakfast” Chandler freaks out. What happened to determined, aloof Violet? She was sensible? Why is this girl getting no sleep or food? Eat some damn breakfast. Chandler tries to get her to eat and sleep, but it’s not usually successful...Violet doesn’t like being bossed around like that.

-When Violet find out that he likes Tegan, mischievous Violet finally comes out. She gets this smirk on her face, and you can bet your entire life savings that she’s going to have some fun and matchmake them/tease the fuck out of him. Chandler is impressed that Violet’s personality has changed again, and also scared by her power if he wasn’t before.

-He tries so hard for her to actually go outside. Finally, he thinks that maybe he should ask her like a normal person to do something fun with him that’s in her comfort zone. He knows from Henry that she does like sweets, so he asks her if she wants to go some ice cream or something. Surprisingly, she says yes first thing. Really she was waiting for him to directly state that he wanted to do something not nag her or hint at it.

-Whenever they go out for ice cream, they share a banana split. Violet ends up stealing all of his whipped cream. The first time this happens, he is not prepared. Afterwords, he brings a canister of whipped cream with him when they go out, just to spite her, and add more.

-Speaking of stealing, she’s always stealing his clothes. It doesn’t matter if the shoes are the wrong size, or the jacket is just slightly too big, it’s hers now. Also takes all his nice pens or school supplies because she’s always losing hers. Chandler freaks out when he can’t find all of his stuff...then he sees one of his favorite glitter pens hanging out of the pocket of one of his old denim jackets. She mostly gets away with it though, mostly because she does look great in them, and forgets to tell her off. 

-She refuses to go do anything active Chandler proposes, mostly with half-assed excuses and snark, until Chandler says “fine! do you have any ideas?” and she goes “biking” Chandler this time, tries to come up with a half-assed excuse, because he’s a horrible bike rider. “i mean...i’d like too...but um...I don’t have a bike.” However, Violet can see through all his bullshit, all the time. “I see. Luckily for you, Ella has a bike you can use.”

-Chandler:

-He can’t say no anymore. But, when he falls off Ella’s bike and bruises his knee, he’s so embarrassed that he considers running all the way to the school and hiding. 

-But? Violet...doesn’t? Tease him?!?!?!? WTF?!?!?! She starts laughing, but it’s not mean, she’s giggling and smiling like a pure angel as she helps him up. And she’s trying hard to stop the whole time and act like her usual self but...”pffffttt....stupid....if you can’t ride a bike properly, you should have told me...” Chandler is officially killed, first by the fact that he’s laughing and embarrassed, and two that...

-Oh shit. She’s cute. His laughter dies and so does Violet, the moment she thinks that he’s no longer having fun. She rethinks her feelings toward Chandler, and bites her lip, suddenly uncomfortable. Chandler is having a panic attack at his realization that he likes both Tegan and Violet.

-But Violet is back to her usual self, cold and sarcastic. She hops on the bike and tells Chandler off for being careless. Chandler takes it easily, having had expected that. He doesn’t notice her clenching her fists or grinding her teeth as she waits for him before leaving. Because she was starting to like him, to trust him...but now she’s doubting that she should.

-But that angst is for later, for...idk man it’s for later. Sofi will probably convince me to give her children a happy ending. For now, have some more fluff.

-If Chandler curses, Violet tells him off...then provides to curse herself.

-Violet does like playing Violin for Chandler to dance too, although she won’t admit it. She comes to all his shows, that’s for damn sure. He reads all her writing and loves it. #Violetissupportiveanddeservessomefuckingsupportaswell

-She doesn’t like getting hugs from him at first, but gradually gets used to it. Doesn’t like sharing the blanket when they watch movies together either. Chandler has some work to do. 

-Violet doodles all over his homework or books. If he falls asleep or takes a nap, she’ll doodle on him too. Not mustaches or things on his face. Legit pretty art covering his arms and wrists. Swirls, flowers, just...cute little things. If you get her to pull up her sleeves, you can find matching designs on her arms.

damn this is long who tf read all this shit like wow good job guys Hope you guys enjoyed! Sorry there’s so much of this lmao. Love you all!!!

HARRY STYLES - SIGN OF THE TIMES [6.58] It's Songs-English-Lads-Haven't-Done-A-Proper-Video-For-Yet Thursday!

Edward Okulicz: Harry Styles is embarrassing. His tattoos and social media posts inspire me to shake my head at how silly he is. But he's got fans who worship his choices as much as his face; he's a pop star, and being a good pop star often means being polarising and different things to different people. His solo debut's absurd scale is matched by its overreaching lyrics and on-brand earnestness, recognisably the work of an idiot who got a butterfly tattoo on his stomach and who once plaintively asked his listeners, "is it too much to ask for something great?". The world needs Harry Styles to be the great pop star that he almost is; I'll upgrade this to a [9] if he has a second song this massive, and to a [10] if he quits music after this goes to Number One. [8]

Alfred Soto: It took no time for this elegant pony to record a solo debut as long and ugly as his hair. Signifying nothing but its power to impress with its "range," his falsetto depends on its cushioning among other weaker voices, none of which are present here. "Epic" is not a compliment but a value-free descriptor. [4]

Will Adams: When I was a young, budding music lover, I somehow got it in my head that songs could only be good if they were longer than 3:50. At 5:41, "Sign of the Times" is not only a baffling single choice, it's an extension of Younger Me's short-sighted thinking. I don't begrudge the slow tempo, but the unnecessary repetition of the pre-chorus and Styles' stubborn inability to cut around anything make it a slog. The turgid 70s rock-isms don't help, nor does Styles' following the trend of most of his former bandmates that serious = good. [5]

Katherine St Asaph: The timing of a David Bowie pastiche invoking a Prince album would seem incredibly crass had Styles not set himself up for this ever since he started wearing fedoras and soutache and Johnny Depp hair. Is it terrible to give points just for ambition? Even though this is basically just a Jason Mraz ballad blown up Violet Beauregarde-style(s) to arena size, or a warning shot for Styles' impending Bruno Marsification of classic rock? [6]

Katie Gill: Zayn is mystery, Zayn is the sexy one, so he releases "Pillowtalk." Niall is light, Niall is the cute one, so he releases "This Town." Harry is love, Harry is the hot one, so he releases... a six minute slightly prog, slightly glam, utterly flamboyant arena rock jam that pushes the song all the way up to eleven. And yet it's a bit to be expected? I've got an entire essay on how Harry Styles pushes back against the cult of masculinity through exceedingly specific style choices, much in the vein of Prince, who ALSO has his Sign o' the Times, and it's not a coincidence Harry announced this single the day of that album's anniversary. Likewise, masculinity through style, brings to mind David Bowie, the person who everybody's going to be comparing this song to. By the way, I fall more towards "Life on Mars" on the Which David Bowie Song Does This Actually Remind You Of Spectrum. "Sign of the Times" is unexpected but entirely expected and I just really love it and want to listen to it over and over again, okay? [8]

Scott Mildenhall: Not the Robbie, but the Briyan, only ten times as pompous. A thuddingly un-self-aware debut full of elliptical platitudes that may well have meant a lot when written, but land like helium balloons. Off they float into the ether, ground control to rocket man and all that, but wait -- the luxuriously leaden arrangement brings him right back down. It all feels shockingly misguided: he's reached Be Here Now on single one. [5]

Joshua Copperman: When I heard that Harry Styles was releasing a glam-rock production from Jeff Bhasker, I was expecting "We Are Young" part II. Instead, it's artsy, dramatic, and really, really serious. It's a bit too long and overblown (towards the end becoming what I imagine Be Here Now to sound like, should I ever want to hear it in full), but "Sign of the Times" nonetheless represents a shift in style that works quite well. And if the idea was to attract fans of Springsteen, Joel, and Bowie, that worked well too - my dad's a fan of this song, and didn't even care about Styles' origins. [7]

Thomas Inskeep: Songs I hear in the DNA of "Sign of the Times": Oasis's "Don't Look Back in Anger," Elton John's "This Train Don't Stop Here Anymore," Bowie's "5 Years," Suede's "Wild Ones." And if you told me that Noel Gallagher was playing uncredited slide guitar, it wouldn't shock me at all. This song is sloooooow, and dramatic, and defiantly off-trend, which is a big part of why it succeeds so strongly: it sounds nothing like anything anywhere near the radio right now. It's also triumphantly British, and grand, and Styles gives it the strongest vocal I've yet heard from him. This is the epitome of a boy-band makeover, only in the most unexpected manner he could've taken. Everything about this is great. [9]

Ryo Miyauchi: Harry Styles tries hard to make this say something by borrowing the markers of classic-pop greatness, but it never materializes into anything in particular. Weirdly, I admire this inflated, hollow brand of pop ambition, partly because I expected it the least out of Harry as far as solo One Direction singles go. There's something about feeling some kind of awe looking at this huge piece of meaningful nothingness. I can't put a finger on what exactly that something is either. [4]

William John: Somehow the rock opera touchstones, presumably intended to gussy up this naked dolor, only serve to enhance it; there's a sense of hopelessness, of eyeliner gushing, of feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of everything. "Sign of the Times" could do with a key change or middle eight, but its steadfast commitments to melodrama and aesthetic provide a commendable contrast to what's currently festering at the top of the charts. [7]

Maxwell Cavaseno: His stiff-upper-lip, sleeve-rolling attitude implies that in another decade, this kid will start spouting neo-con nonsense once success and worth has landed at his feet. And I'm very here for that future disappointment! Am I thrilled to be entertained by a fairly boring rock ballad,complete with sliding guitars and cheap choirs? No, but, as people persist in pretending Zayn is making music worth listening to, we have to recognize that there's dignity in realising you cannot go where the 'new' occurs, that you're perhaps a little out of step and will never be much more. Harry Styles, who was once in a group of boys who tried to make life so sunny, is telling us that death and destruction are not so bad. "Sign Of The Times" doesn't sound like much to seize upon, but it speaks to an inability to help that, more and more, plagues us all. [6]

Claire Biddles: I live in Glasgow, around 50 miles from the UK's stash of nuclear submarines on the west coast of Scotland. Glasgow parties hard and spends all its money on clothes and going out and dancing, and I've always thought this is something to do with having the possibility of being blown off the surface of the earth at a moment's notice woven into our consciousness. There's a low-level anxiety there, but there's also a drive to make the most of it, and a kind of relief: at least it'll be quick. We'll be the ones who die at the start of Threads, not the ones left behind eating our neighbours' limbs or whatever. Harry Styles' debut single isn't explicitly about the west coast of Scotland's very specific regional psyche, but it embodies it almost perfectly. "Sign of the Times" is the announcement of the inevitable end of the world set to the tune of "Life on Mars?", delivered louchely with a shrug, advising you to wear your Sunday best for the grand finale. Low-level anxiety, but mainly an eagerness to set a blanket down and watch it all burn, knowing you've done alright with the time you've had. It's a final blowout that's realistic rather than blindly hedonistic, and its excesses are rooted in the familiar -- it understands that we'd rather go out to a big sing-a-long than "Idioteque". I can only hope that in the moments between hearing the initial screams that signal my imminent death and my final, choked breath, I have enough time (an ambitious but ultimately necessary 5 minutes and 40 seconds) to listen to "Sign of the Times"; to let its reassuring but solemn take on the apocalypse ease me to the end. For dramatic effect I hope it's on a beach, looking out to sea like Harry on the single cover. I hope I get to see the scorched sky masquerading as a sunset, a soothing, simple pleasure in my final moments. "Stop your crying", Harry will say as he takes my hand in his -- chastely, appropriately, with his knowing crooked smile -- "It'll be alright". [10]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

The Alchemy of Novelty Potato Chip Flavors

New Post has been published on https://makesomethingtasty.com/the-alchemy-of-novelty-potato-chip-flavors/

The Alchemy of Novelty Potato Chip Flavors

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[Illustrations: Tram Nguyen]

Biscuits and Gravy–flavored Lay’s may have been the first bag of novelty potato chips I really hunted. I’m not going to say exactly how many stores I went to in search of a bag; all I’ll say is that it was more than one and fewer than five, and part of that sentence is a lie. I finally found them, quite by accident, on a family trip in the middle of Missouri. I bought a few bags. I won’t give you an exact number. Again, it was more than one and fewer than five. Again, part of that sentence is a lie.

Since then, I’ve searched big-box stores and pharmacies, sandwich shops and gas stations, looking to score potato chips that lay claim to the flavors of everything from chicken tikka masala to chicken and waffles. I sit down with a bag, a bottle of seltzer, and a notepad, and I take detailed tasting notes, as if a bag of Lay’s had a terroir. Sometimes, the flavors fizzle. When they pop, though, there is a shock of recognition, an alignment of idea and execution that amounts to a sort of magic, capable of inspiring a sense of childlike wonder. It’s like licking the wallpaper alongside Willy Wonka—the snozzberries really do taste like snozzberries.

Novelty potato chips walk a difficult path. Their task is not merely to taste like the thing, but to recall the Platonic ideal of the thing. Biscuits and Gravy potato chips ought not to taste like the biscuits and gravy I actually ate growing up, or the version you ate. Those versions might differ in myriad ways, and yet the chips must capture both, and all others as well. In order to succeed, a simple bag of chips must attain some quiddity, a –ness. Biscuits and Gravy–ness, Fried Green Tomato–ness, Crispy Taco–ness.

Those last two are among the newest crop of Lay’s novelties, rounded out by Everything Bagel With Cream Cheese, which isn’t worth your time. The Crispy Taco flavor, on the other hand, does everything a novelty potato chip flavor should do. The smell gets you first: It’s savory, filled with toasted corn and vague meat smells and the memory of the fourth-grade lunch line on Tuesdays. With novelty potato chips, the smell is often what gets you the most, like the spirit of the thing rising up and announcing itself directly in your brain. This is certainly true of other foods, but here, it can be a sort of bait-and-switch dividing line; the smell grabs you, the flavor shrugs you off. The best examples offer full olfactory embrace.

And that’s exactly the case with Crispy Taco Lay’s: the smell is a bear hug. And after that initial scented salvo, the individual, layered flavors of seasoned ground beef, crunchy corn shell, and prefab shredded cheese unfold in your mouth like Violet Beauregarde’s gum courses. “This is okay,” you think to yourself. “I can kind of see where they’re going with this, and it does taste kind of like a ta…”—and then it hits you, like a sucker punch to your sense memory: The strangely specific flavor of shredded, slightly oxidized iceberg lettuce rushes your sinus cavity, a bit of olfactory trickery that functions somewhat like a particularly effective Magic Eye poster. Holy shit, there’s a sailboat.

Of course, this phenomenon and its appeal are not limited to potato chips. Many of the currents of modern cuisine can be traced to the same sense of wonder, the same sense of discovery at finding that a thing is another thing entirely. Names like Adrià, Achatz, and Dufresne built legacies, at least in part, on the delight of unexpected recognition, the making of one thing into something else, and the toying with our ideas of flavor and of reality itself—Adrià’s spherified olives, Achatz and his edible campfires, Dufresne’s inside-out eggs Benedict.

If you’re not comfortable drawing a direct line between cappuccino-flavored snack foods and some of the greatest chefs in the world, then consider the humble jelly bean. I think it’s safe to say that if it weren’t for Jelly Belly, the jelly bean would occupy a space in the candy hierarchy just above licorice: esoteric, the favorites of oddball aunts and grandparents, but scorned by right-thinking children and adults. Instead, the humble bean occupies approximately 600 square feet of my neighborhood grocery store, where admirers load up on lever-released avalanches of Piña Colada– and Buttered Popcorn–flavored confections.

As with my beloved chips, the jellies are judged by the degree to which they capture the –ness of their subject. Even when they veer to extremes, dodging into the shock-factor territory of Potterverse flavor lotteries, the “success” of a flavor depends on uncanny likeness: Earwax-flavored beans that get the job done trump Earthworm-flavored beans that do not.

That said, one man’s Earthworm jelly bean is another man’s Crispy Taco potato chip. That’s why threading that needle, finding the right cues to recall a flavor for so many different palates and experiences, is key to the idea of novelty flavors in general.

This issue becomes even more apparent when you venture outside the idea of “mainstream American flavors.” When the snacking public has fewer samples for the flavor being attempted, the question of accuracy becomes murkier. Whose idea of “Chinese Szechuan Chicken” (vaguely offensive “Asian” font implied) becomes the defining flavor for a bag of potato chips marketed to a general American audience? If the chips manage to capture the numbing/tingling character that many consider to be the determinative element of the namesake cuisine, does that create Sichuan-ness, and for whom? Do diners raised on Americanized Chinese food determine the rubric for such a thing? Do novelty potato chips have to be “authentic”?

As with many things, the answer likely depends on perspective. The world of novelty chips is wide, weird, and wonderful. It extends far beyond the provincial bounds of a Kroger, even when that Kroger offers the highly sought-after Brazilian Picanha flavor. Oceanic treats that resonate for taste buds steeped in squid and shrimp paste might ring hollow for audiences predisposed to preferring flavors like Bacon Mac & Cheese or Mango Salsa, and vice versa. Beauty, as it were, is in the eye of the bag-holder.

Which brings us back to –ness, and to snozzberries. If you recall, none of the visitors to Wonka’s chocolate factory had ever tasted a snozzberry; they hadn’t even been aware of the existence of such a thing. The other wallpaper taste sensations played their parts and were well received, while the snozzberries get a salty response. In order for an ideal to resonate, it has to have been conceived of: You can explain a chair to someone who’s never sat, but you might find yourself hard-pressed to give them a concept of “chair-ness.” You can tell a man how to fry a green tomato, but you can’t convey to him the essence of “fried green tomatoes.”

I would argue that the essence of a food is a summation of sorts. A summation of all the fried green tomatoes you’ve ever eaten, yes, but also a summation of your thoughts about them. A summation of your memories of them, when and where you’ve cooked them, the people with whom you’ve eaten them. It is a personal history of taste and experience, and that is a powerful bit of magic indeed. It finds an echo in Sam Sifton’s wonderful and insightful Pizza Cognition Theory, but it’s developed over the entire span of your life.

It’s not just that first plate of biscuits and gravy that resonates in a well-tuned novelty chip. It’s the time you ate biscuits and gravy at your aunt and uncle’s place, before your uncle drove you through the central Texas hills on his Kawasaki, your 11-year-old heart beating through your chest. It’s the first time you made the dish on your own, scorching the roux a bit, but still proud. It’s the countless plates you’ve eaten at greasy spoons and fancy brunches, each one ranked and measured against the ones before, and serving as a measure in turn for the ones to come. It’s that, multiplied by everyone else who opens that bag, inhales deeply, crunches a chip, and sees a sailboat pop into view. It’s magic.

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The Alchemy of Novelty Potato Chip Flavors

New Post has been published on http://kitchengadgetsreviews.com/the-alchemy-of-novelty-potato-chip-flavors/

The Alchemy of Novelty Potato Chip Flavors

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[Illustrations: Tram Nguyen]

Biscuits and Gravy–flavored Lay’s may have been the first bag of novelty potato chips I really hunted. I’m not going to say exactly how many stores I went to in search of a bag; all I’ll say is that it was more than one and fewer than five, and part of that sentence is a lie. I finally found them, quite by accident, on a family trip in the middle of Missouri. I bought a few bags. I won’t give you an exact number. Again, it was more than one and fewer than five. Again, part of that sentence is a lie.

Since then, I’ve searched big-box stores and pharmacies, sandwich shops and gas stations, looking to score potato chips that lay claim to the flavors of everything from chicken tikka masala to chicken and waffles. I sit down with a bag, a bottle of seltzer, and a notepad, and I take detailed tasting notes, as if a bag of Lay’s had a terroir. Sometimes, the flavors fizzle. When they pop, though, there is a shock of recognition, an alignment of idea and execution that amounts to a sort of magic, capable of inspiring a sense of childlike wonder. It’s like licking the wallpaper alongside Willy Wonka—the snozzberries really do taste like snozzberries.

Novelty potato chips walk a difficult path. Their task is not merely to taste like the thing, but to recall the Platonic ideal of the thing. Biscuits and Gravy potato chips ought not to taste like the biscuits and gravy I actually ate growing up, or the version you ate. Those versions might differ in myriad ways, and yet the chips must capture both, and all others as well. In order to succeed, a simple bag of chips must attain some quiddity, a –ness. Biscuits and Gravy–ness, Fried Green Tomato–ness, Crispy Taco–ness.

Those last two are among the newest crop of Lay’s novelties, rounded out by Everything Bagel With Cream Cheese, which isn’t worth your time. The Crispy Taco flavor, on the other hand, does everything a novelty potato chip flavor should do. The smell gets you first: It’s savory, filled with toasted corn and vague meat smells and the memory of the fourth-grade lunch line on Tuesdays. With novelty potato chips, the smell is often what gets you the most, like the spirit of the thing rising up and announcing itself directly in your brain. This is certainly true of other foods, but here, it can be a sort of bait-and-switch dividing line; the smell grabs you, the flavor shrugs you off. The best examples offer full olfactory embrace.

And that’s exactly the case with Crispy Taco Lay’s: the smell is a bear hug. And after that initial scented salvo, the individual, layered flavors of seasoned ground beef, crunchy corn shell, and prefab shredded cheese unfold in your mouth like Violet Beauregarde’s gum courses. “This is okay,” you think to yourself. “I can kind of see where they’re going with this, and it does taste kind of like a ta…”—and then it hits you, like a sucker punch to your sense memory: The strangely specific flavor of shredded, slightly oxidized iceberg lettuce rushes your sinus cavity, a bit of olfactory trickery that functions somewhat like a particularly effective Magic Eye poster. Holy shit, there’s a sailboat.

Of course, this phenomenon and its appeal are not limited to potato chips. Many of the currents of modern cuisine can be traced to the same sense of wonder, the same sense of discovery at finding that a thing is another thing entirely. Names like Adrià, Achatz, and Dufresne built legacies, at least in part, on the delight of unexpected recognition, the making of one thing into something else, and the toying with our ideas of flavor and of reality itself—Adrià’s spherified olives, Achatz and his edible campfires, Dufresne’s inside-out eggs Benedict.

If you’re not comfortable drawing a direct line between cappuccino-flavored snack foods and some of the greatest chefs in the world, then consider the humble jelly bean. I think it’s safe to say that if it weren’t for Jelly Belly, the jelly bean would occupy a space in the candy hierarchy just above licorice: esoteric, the favorites of oddball aunts and grandparents, but scorned by right-thinking children and adults. Instead, the humble bean occupies approximately 600 square feet of my neighborhood grocery store, where admirers load up on lever-released avalanches of Piña Colada– and Buttered Popcorn–flavored confections.

As with my beloved chips, the jellies are judged by the degree to which they capture the –ness of their subject. Even when they veer to extremes, dodging into the shock-factor territory of Potterverse flavor lotteries, the “success” of a flavor depends on uncanny likeness: Earwax-flavored beans that get the job done trump Earthworm-flavored beans that do not.

That said, one man’s Earthworm jelly bean is another man’s Crispy Taco potato chip. That’s why threading that needle, finding the right cues to recall a flavor for so many different palates and experiences, is key to the idea of novelty flavors in general.

This issue becomes even more apparent when you venture outside the idea of “mainstream American flavors.” When the snacking public has fewer samples for the flavor being attempted, the question of accuracy becomes murkier. Whose idea of “Chinese Szechuan Chicken” (vaguely offensive “Asian” font implied) becomes the defining flavor for a bag of potato chips marketed to a general American audience? If the chips manage to capture the numbing/tingling character that many consider to be the determinative element of the namesake cuisine, does that create Sichuan-ness, and for whom? Do diners raised on Americanized Chinese food determine the rubric for such a thing? Do novelty potato chips have to be “authentic”?

As with many things, the answer likely depends on perspective. The world of novelty chips is wide, weird, and wonderful. It extends far beyond the provincial bounds of a Kroger, even when that Kroger offers the highly sought-after Brazilian Picanha flavor. Oceanic treats that resonate for taste buds steeped in squid and shrimp paste might ring hollow for audiences predisposed to preferring flavors like Bacon Mac & Cheese or Mango Salsa, and vice versa. Beauty, as it were, is in the eye of the bag-holder.

Which brings us back to –ness, and to snozzberries. If you recall, none of the visitors to Wonka’s chocolate factory had ever tasted a snozzberry; they hadn’t even been aware of the existence of such a thing. The other wallpaper taste sensations played their parts and were well received, while the snozzberries get a salty response. In order for an ideal to resonate, it has to have been conceived of: You can explain a chair to someone who’s never sat, but you might find yourself hard-pressed to give them a concept of “chair-ness.” You can tell a man how to fry a green tomato, but you can’t convey to him the essence of “fried green tomatoes.”

I would argue that the essence of a food is a summation of sorts. A summation of all the fried green tomatoes you’ve ever eaten, yes, but also a summation of your thoughts about them. A summation of your memories of them, when and where you’ve cooked them, the people with whom you’ve eaten them. It is a personal history of taste and experience, and that is a powerful bit of magic indeed. It finds an echo in Sam Sifton’s wonderful and insightful Pizza Cognition Theory, but it’s developed over the entire span of your life.

It’s not just that first plate of biscuits and gravy that resonates in a well-tuned novelty chip. It’s the time you ate biscuits and gravy at your aunt and uncle’s place, before your uncle drove you through the central Texas hills on his Kawasaki, your 11-year-old heart beating through your chest. It’s the first time you made the dish on your own, scorching the roux a bit, but still proud. It’s the countless plates you’ve eaten at greasy spoons and fancy brunches, each one ranked and measured against the ones before, and serving as a measure in turn for the ones to come. It’s that, multiplied by everyone else who opens that bag, inhales deeply, crunches a chip, and sees a sailboat pop into view. It’s magic.

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The Alchemy of Novelty Potato Chip Flavors

New Post has been published on http://nielsencooking.com/the-alchemy-of-novelty-potato-chip-flavors/

The Alchemy of Novelty Potato Chip Flavors

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[Illustrations: Tram Nguyen]

Biscuits and Gravy–flavored Lay’s may have been the first bag of novelty potato chips I really hunted. I’m not going to say exactly how many stores I went to in search of a bag; all I’ll say is that it was more than one and fewer than five, and part of that sentence is a lie. I finally found them, quite by accident, on a family trip in the middle of Missouri. I bought a few bags. I won’t give you an exact number. Again, it was more than one and fewer than five. Again, part of that sentence is a lie.

Since then, I’ve searched big-box stores and pharmacies, sandwich shops and gas stations, looking to score potato chips that lay claim to the flavors of everything from chicken tikka masala to chicken and waffles. I sit down with a bag, a bottle of seltzer, and a notepad, and I take detailed tasting notes, as if a bag of Lay’s had a terroir. Sometimes, the flavors fizzle. When they pop, though, there is a shock of recognition, an alignment of idea and execution that amounts to a sort of magic, capable of inspiring a sense of childlike wonder. It’s like licking the wallpaper alongside Willy Wonka—the snozzberries really do taste like snozzberries.

Novelty potato chips walk a difficult path. Their task is not merely to taste like the thing, but to recall the Platonic ideal of the thing. Biscuits and Gravy potato chips ought not to taste like the biscuits and gravy I actually ate growing up, or the version you ate. Those versions might differ in myriad ways, and yet the chips must capture both, and all others as well. In order to succeed, a simple bag of chips must attain some quiddity, a –ness. Biscuits and Gravy–ness, Fried Green Tomato–ness, Crispy Taco–ness.

Those last two are among the newest crop of Lay’s novelties, rounded out by Everything Bagel With Cream Cheese, which isn’t worth your time. The Crispy Taco flavor, on the other hand, does everything a novelty potato chip flavor should do. The smell gets you first: It’s savory, filled with toasted corn and vague meat smells and the memory of the fourth-grade lunch line on Tuesdays. With novelty potato chips, the smell is often what gets you the most, like the spirit of the thing rising up and announcing itself directly in your brain. This is certainly true of other foods, but here, it can be a sort of bait-and-switch dividing line; the smell grabs you, the flavor shrugs you off. The best examples offer full olfactory embrace.

And that’s exactly the case with Crispy Taco Lay’s: the smell is a bear hug. And after that initial scented salvo, the individual, layered flavors of seasoned ground beef, crunchy corn shell, and prefab shredded cheese unfold in your mouth like Violet Beauregarde’s gum courses. “This is okay,” you think to yourself. “I can kind of see where they’re going with this, and it does taste kind of like a ta…”—and then it hits you, like a sucker punch to your sense memory: The strangely specific flavor of shredded, slightly oxidized iceberg lettuce rushes your sinus cavity, a bit of olfactory trickery that functions somewhat like a particularly effective Magic Eye poster. Holy shit, there’s a sailboat.

Of course, this phenomenon and its appeal are not limited to potato chips. Many of the currents of modern cuisine can be traced to the same sense of wonder, the same sense of discovery at finding that a thing is another thing entirely. Names like Adrià, Achatz, and Dufresne built legacies, at least in part, on the delight of unexpected recognition, the making of one thing into something else, and the toying with our ideas of flavor and of reality itself—Adrià’s spherified olives, Achatz and his edible campfires, Dufresne’s inside-out eggs Benedict.

If you’re not comfortable drawing a direct line between cappuccino-flavored snack foods and some of the greatest chefs in the world, then consider the humble jelly bean. I think it’s safe to say that if it weren’t for Jelly Belly, the jelly bean would occupy a space in the candy hierarchy just above licorice: esoteric, the favorites of oddball aunts and grandparents, but scorned by right-thinking children and adults. Instead, the humble bean occupies approximately 600 square feet of my neighborhood grocery store, where admirers load up on lever-released avalanches of Piña Colada– and Buttered Popcorn–flavored confections.

As with my beloved chips, the jellies are judged by the degree to which they capture the –ness of their subject. Even when they veer to extremes, dodging into the shock-factor territory of Potterverse flavor lotteries, the “success” of a flavor depends on uncanny likeness: Earwax-flavored beans that get the job done trump Earthworm-flavored beans that do not.

That said, one man’s Earthworm jelly bean is another man’s Crispy Taco potato chip. That’s why threading that needle, finding the right cues to recall a flavor for so many different palates and experiences, is key to the idea of novelty flavors in general.

This issue becomes even more apparent when you venture outside the idea of “mainstream American flavors.” When the snacking public has fewer samples for the flavor being attempted, the question of accuracy becomes murkier. Whose idea of “Chinese Szechuan Chicken” (vaguely offensive “Asian” font implied) becomes the defining flavor for a bag of potato chips marketed to a general American audience? If the chips manage to capture the numbing/tingling character that many consider to be the determinative element of the namesake cuisine, does that create Sichuan-ness, and for whom? Do diners raised on Americanized Chinese food determine the rubric for such a thing? Do novelty potato chips have to be “authentic”?

As with many things, the answer likely depends on perspective. The world of novelty chips is wide, weird, and wonderful. It extends far beyond the provincial bounds of a Kroger, even when that Kroger offers the highly sought-after Brazilian Picanha flavor. Oceanic treats that resonate for taste buds steeped in squid and shrimp paste might ring hollow for audiences predisposed to preferring flavors like Bacon Mac & Cheese or Mango Salsa, and vice versa. Beauty, as it were, is in the eye of the bag-holder.

Which brings us back to –ness, and to snozzberries. If you recall, none of the visitors to Wonka’s chocolate factory had ever tasted a snozzberry; they hadn’t even been aware of the existence of such a thing. The other wallpaper taste sensations played their parts and were well received, while the snozzberries get a salty response. In order for an ideal to resonate, it has to have been conceived of: You can explain a chair to someone who’s never sat, but you might find yourself hard-pressed to give them a concept of “chair-ness.” You can tell a man how to fry a green tomato, but you can’t convey to him the essence of “fried green tomatoes.”

I would argue that the essence of a food is a summation of sorts. A summation of all the fried green tomatoes you’ve ever eaten, yes, but also a summation of your thoughts about them. A summation of your memories of them, when and where you’ve cooked them, the people with whom you’ve eaten them. It is a personal history of taste and experience, and that is a powerful bit of magic indeed. It finds an echo in Sam Sifton’s wonderful and insightful Pizza Cognition Theory, but it’s developed over the entire span of your life.

It’s not just that first plate of biscuits and gravy that resonates in a well-tuned novelty chip. It’s the time you ate biscuits and gravy at your aunt and uncle’s place, before your uncle drove you through the central Texas hills on his Kawasaki, your 11-year-old heart beating through your chest. It’s the first time you made the dish on your own, scorching the roux a bit, but still proud. It’s the countless plates you’ve eaten at greasy spoons and fancy brunches, each one ranked and measured against the ones before, and serving as a measure in turn for the ones to come. It’s that, multiplied by everyone else who opens that bag, inhales deeply, crunches a chip, and sees a sailboat pop into view. It’s magic.

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The Alchemy of Novelty Potato Chip Flavors

New Post has been published on http://cucinacarmela.com/the-alchemy-of-novelty-potato-chip-flavors/

The Alchemy of Novelty Potato Chip Flavors

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[Illustrations: Tram Nguyen]

Biscuits and Gravy–flavored Lay’s may have been the first bag of novelty potato chips I really hunted. I’m not going to say exactly how many stores I went to in search of a bag; all I’ll say is that it was more than one and fewer than five, and part of that sentence is a lie. I finally found them, quite by accident, on a family trip in the middle of Missouri. I bought a few bags. I won’t give you an exact number. Again, it was more than one and fewer than five. Again, part of that sentence is a lie.

Since then, I’ve searched big-box stores and pharmacies, sandwich shops and gas stations, looking to score potato chips that lay claim to the flavors of everything from chicken tikka masala to chicken and waffles. I sit down with a bag, a bottle of seltzer, and a notepad, and I take detailed tasting notes, as if a bag of Lay’s had a terroir. Sometimes, the flavors fizzle. When they pop, though, there is a shock of recognition, an alignment of idea and execution that amounts to a sort of magic, capable of inspiring a sense of childlike wonder. It’s like licking the wallpaper alongside Willy Wonka—the snozzberries really do taste like snozzberries.

Novelty potato chips walk a difficult path. Their task is not merely to taste like the thing, but to recall the Platonic ideal of the thing. Biscuits and Gravy potato chips ought not to taste like the biscuits and gravy I actually ate growing up, or the version you ate. Those versions might differ in myriad ways, and yet the chips must capture both, and all others as well. In order to succeed, a simple bag of chips must attain some quiddity, a –ness. Biscuits and Gravy–ness, Fried Green Tomato–ness, Crispy Taco–ness.

Those last two are among the newest crop of Lay’s novelties, rounded out by Everything Bagel With Cream Cheese, which isn’t worth your time. The Crispy Taco flavor, on the other hand, does everything a novelty potato chip flavor should do. The smell gets you first: It’s savory, filled with toasted corn and vague meat smells and the memory of the fourth-grade lunch line on Tuesdays. With novelty potato chips, the smell is often what gets you the most, like the spirit of the thing rising up and announcing itself directly in your brain. This is certainly true of other foods, but here, it can be a sort of bait-and-switch dividing line; the smell grabs you, the flavor shrugs you off. The best examples offer full olfactory embrace.

And that’s exactly the case with Crispy Taco Lay’s: the smell is a bear hug. And after that initial scented salvo, the individual, layered flavors of seasoned ground beef, crunchy corn shell, and prefab shredded cheese unfold in your mouth like Violet Beauregarde’s gum courses. “This is okay,” you think to yourself. “I can kind of see where they’re going with this, and it does taste kind of like a ta…”—and then it hits you, like a sucker punch to your sense memory: The strangely specific flavor of shredded, slightly oxidized iceberg lettuce rushes your sinus cavity, a bit of olfactory trickery that functions somewhat like a particularly effective Magic Eye poster. Holy shit, there’s a sailboat.

Of course, this phenomenon and its appeal are not limited to potato chips. Many of the currents of modern cuisine can be traced to the same sense of wonder, the same sense of discovery at finding that a thing is another thing entirely. Names like Adrià, Achatz, and Dufresne built legacies, at least in part, on the delight of unexpected recognition, the making of one thing into something else, and the toying with our ideas of flavor and of reality itself—Adrià’s spherified olives, Achatz and his edible campfires, Dufresne’s inside-out eggs Benedict.

If you’re not comfortable drawing a direct line between cappuccino-flavored snack foods and some of the greatest chefs in the world, then consider the humble jelly bean. I think it’s safe to say that if it weren’t for Jelly Belly, the jelly bean would occupy a space in the candy hierarchy just above licorice: esoteric, the favorites of oddball aunts and grandparents, but scorned by right-thinking children and adults. Instead, the humble bean occupies approximately 600 square feet of my neighborhood grocery store, where admirers load up on lever-released avalanches of Piña Colada– and Buttered Popcorn–flavored confections.

As with my beloved chips, the jellies are judged by the degree to which they capture the –ness of their subject. Even when they veer to extremes, dodging into the shock-factor territory of Potterverse flavor lotteries, the “success” of a flavor depends on uncanny likeness: Earwax-flavored beans that get the job done trump Earthworm-flavored beans that do not.

That said, one man’s Earthworm jelly bean is another man’s Crispy Taco potato chip. That’s why threading that needle, finding the right cues to recall a flavor for so many different palates and experiences, is key to the idea of novelty flavors in general.

This issue becomes even more apparent when you venture outside the idea of “mainstream American flavors.” When the snacking public has fewer samples for the flavor being attempted, the question of accuracy becomes murkier. Whose idea of “Chinese Szechuan Chicken” (vaguely offensive “Asian” font implied) becomes the defining flavor for a bag of potato chips marketed to a general American audience? If the chips manage to capture the numbing/tingling character that many consider to be the determinative element of the namesake cuisine, does that create Sichuan-ness, and for whom? Do diners raised on Americanized Chinese food determine the rubric for such a thing? Do novelty potato chips have to be “authentic”?

As with many things, the answer likely depends on perspective. The world of novelty chips is wide, weird, and wonderful. It extends far beyond the provincial bounds of a Kroger, even when that Kroger offers the highly sought-after Brazilian Picanha flavor. Oceanic treats that resonate for taste buds steeped in squid and shrimp paste might ring hollow for audiences predisposed to preferring flavors like Bacon Mac & Cheese or Mango Salsa, and vice versa. Beauty, as it were, is in the eye of the bag-holder.

Which brings us back to –ness, and to snozzberries. If you recall, none of the visitors to Wonka’s chocolate factory had ever tasted a snozzberry; they hadn’t even been aware of the existence of such a thing. The other wallpaper taste sensations played their parts and were well received, while the snozzberries get a salty response. In order for an ideal to resonate, it has to have been conceived of: You can explain a chair to someone who’s never sat, but you might find yourself hard-pressed to give them a concept of “chair-ness.” You can tell a man how to fry a green tomato, but you can’t convey to him the essence of “fried green tomatoes.”

I would argue that the essence of a food is a summation of sorts. A summation of all the fried green tomatoes you’ve ever eaten, yes, but also a summation of your thoughts about them. A summation of your memories of them, when and where you’ve cooked them, the people with whom you’ve eaten them. It is a personal history of taste and experience, and that is a powerful bit of magic indeed. It finds an echo in Sam Sifton’s wonderful and insightful Pizza Cognition Theory, but it’s developed over the entire span of your life.

It’s not just that first plate of biscuits and gravy that resonates in a well-tuned novelty chip. It’s the time you ate biscuits and gravy at your aunt and uncle’s place, before your uncle drove you through the central Texas hills on his Kawasaki, your 11-year-old heart beating through your chest. It’s the first time you made the dish on your own, scorching the roux a bit, but still proud. It’s the countless plates you’ve eaten at greasy spoons and fancy brunches, each one ranked and measured against the ones before, and serving as a measure in turn for the ones to come. It’s that, multiplied by everyone else who opens that bag, inhales deeply, crunches a chip, and sees a sailboat pop into view. It’s magic.

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