#the courts for boiling and baking

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

The Prince's Offerings

1 “This is what the Lord GOD says: The gate of the inner court that faces east must be closed during the six days of work, but it will be opened on the Sabbath day and opened on the day of the New Moon. 2 The prince should enter from the outside by way of the gate’s portico and stand at the doorpost of the gate while the priests sacrifice his burnt offerings and fellowship offerings. He will bow in worship at the threshold of the gate and then depart, but the gate must not be closed until evening. 3 The people of the land will also bow in worship before the LORD at the entrance of that gate on the Sabbaths and New Moons.

4 “The burnt offering that the prince presents to the LORD on the Sabbath day is to be six unblemished lambs and an unblemished ram. 5 The grain offering will be half a bushel with the ram, and the grain offering with the lambs will be whatever he wants to give, as well as a gallon of oil for every half bushel. 6 On the day of the New Moon, the burnt offering is to be a young, unblemished bull, as well as six lambs and a ram without blemish. 7 He will provide a grain offering of half a bushel with the bull, half a bushel with the ram, and whatever he can afford with the lamb, together with a gallonh of oil for every half bushel. 8 When the prince enters, he must go in by way of the gate’s portico and go out the same way.

9 “When the people of the land come before the LORD at the appointed times, whoever enters by way of the north gate to worship must go out by way of the south gate, and whoever enters by way of the south gate must go out by way of the north gate.  No one must return through the gate by which he entered, but must go out by the opposite gate. 10 When the people enter, the prince will enter with them, and when they leave, he will leave. 11 At the festivals and appointed times, the grain offering will be half a bushel with the bull, half a bushel with the ram, and whatever he wants to give with the lambs, along with a gallon of oil for every half bushel.

12 “When the prince makes a freewill offering, whether a burnt offering or a fellowship offering as a freewill offering to the LORD, the gate that faces east must be opened for him. He is to offer his burnt offering or fellowship offering just as he does on the Sabbath day. Then he will go out, and the gate must be closed after he leaves.

13 “You must offer an unblemished year-old male lamb as a daily burnt offering to the LORD; you will offer it every morning. 14 You must also prepare a grain offering every morning along with it: three quarts, with one-third of a gallon of oil to moisten the fine flour — a grain offering to the LORD. This is a permanent statute to be observed regularly. 15 They will offer the lamb, the grain offering, and the oil every morning as a regular burnt offering.

Transfer of Royal Lands

16 “This is what the Lord GOD says: If the prince gives a gift to each of his sons as their inheritance, it will belong to his sons. It will become their property by inheritance. 17 But if he gives a gift from his inheritance to one of his servants, it will belong to that servant until the year of freedom, when it will revert to the prince. His inheritance belongs only to his sons; it is theirs. 18 The prince must not take any of the people’s inheritance, evicting them from their property. He is to provide an inheritance for his sons from his own property, so that none of My people will be displaced from his own property.”

The Temple Kitchens

19 Then he brought me through the entrance that was at the side of the gate, into the priests’ holy chambers, which faced north. I saw a place there at the far western end. 20 He said to me, “This is the place where the priests will boil the restitution offering and the sin offering, and where they will bake the grain offering, so that they do not bring them into the outer court and transmit holiness to the people.” 21 Next he brought me into the outer court and led me past its four corners. There was a separate court in each of its corners. 22 In the four corners of the outer court there were enclosed courts, 70 feet long by 52 1/2 feet wide. All four corner areas had the same dimensions. 23 There was a stone wall around the inside of them, around the four of them, with ovens built at the base of the walls on all sides. 24 He said to me: “These are the kitchens where those who minister at the temple will cook the people’s sacrifices.” — Ezekiel 46 | Holman Christian Standard Bible (HCSB) Holman Christian Standard Bible ® Copyright © 2003, 2002, 2000, 1999 by Holman Bible Publishers. All rights reserved. Cross References: Genesis 13:14; Exodus 20:9; Exodus 29:39; Exodus 29:42; Exodus 34:23; Leviticus 2:4; Leviticus 14:21; Leviticus 23:38; Leviticus 25:10; Numbers 28:9; Numbers 28:11-12; 1 Samuel 8:14; 2 Samuel 6:14-15; 1 Chronicles 9:18; 2 Chronicles 21:3; Ezekiel 40:17; Ezekiel 44:3; Ezekiel 45:17; Ezekiel 47:1; Daniel 8:11; Luke 1:10

#the prince's offerings #the courts for boiling and baking #sacrifices at appointed times #Book of Ezekiel #Ezekiel 46 #Old Testament #HCSB #Holman Christian Standard Bible #Holman Bible Publishers

[anyroads]

OK you know what, if we're gonna talk about Bake Off then fuck it, let's do this.

It used to be this wholesome, lovely show! We used to watch it for the bakers! And the learning! And the light banter and occasional bit of coy innuendo! What happened?

Channel 4 happened. When they bought the show they made a number of changes, most of them Not Good™️. Not just in the sense of them resulting in a lot of 😬 and 🫠 moments, but in the sense of how they changed the show's purpose, atmosphere, and brand.

Look, I know most people are just like, "whatever, it's just a baking show," and yeah, sure. But it's one of the UK's most successful TV exports, and where it once shifted the tone of reality competition to being wholesome and supportive of contestants, it's since moved towards creating tension at the contestants' cost. So aside from the fact that most people watching it signed up to watch a nice show, it has also shifted the goalposts of what that even means. And that, lovelies and gentlefolk, is some bullshit.

I decided to break my rant analysis into four main parts: theme weeks, the hosts, the judges, and the bakers. Let's get to it!

Theme Weeks:

If you watch Bake Off, you know the show's always had a specific theme for each week. The staples that come up in most seasons are:

cake

biscuit

bread

pudding/dessert

pastry

patisserie

Less common but consistent are things like caramel and chocolate week.

Then there are the fun episodes! When GBBO was on the BBC, this started out with things tea week, tarts, pies, tray bakes, basically little tangents still focused on emphasizing specific baking skills. In Series 6 (still on the BBC) they had their first nation-focused theme week with French week -- fairly innocuous given that a lot of patisserie is French, France and England share much more culture than either cares to admit [Norman Flag dot gif], and it was a nice change from watching Paul make the bakers do recipes that involved boiling things while talking about how wonderful boiled doughs are (are they, Paul? Are they?).

The show kept mixing it up with innocuous themes like advanced dough and alternative ingredients weeks, European cakes, Victorian week, batter week, and botanical week. And while it was frustrating to watch Paul Hollywood mispronounce things like the Hungarian Dobos Torta and lecture bakers on babka when he clearly knew nothing about it (or about Jewish baking in general, go off Past Me), the show's general attitude was that the judges had their own opinions, which were separate from the immutable facts around the chemistry of baking (more on this later) and shouldn't affect how bakers are judged.

After the show moved to Channel 4, the number of themed weeks increased and more of them focused on specific countries. In 6 seasons on the BBC, there were only two country-focused theme weeks, and in 5 seasons on Channel 4 there have been five. And while they've also had themes like vegan baking, roaring 20s, the 1980s, spice week, etc. the show has really started to go hard on exoticizing other cultures in outright disrespectful and racist ways. There's been Italian and Danish week, German, Japanese (it wasn't, it was East Asian week), and now Mexican week (which doesn't touch on interspersed Jewish bakes that didn't get a theme week, like versions of bagels and babka set as technical challenges that were borderline hate crimes and mansplained by a guy who has no idea how to make either and once wrote in a cookbook that challah was traditionally eaten during Passover). Each time the hosts played up the theme with racist bits and jokes that can be used as evidence in court if your case is "why should shows with scripted content have a professional writing staff."

Which touches on other issues the show has now...

The Hosts:

When GBBO was on the BBC, the show was hosted by ✨Mel Giedroyc✨ and ✨Sue Perkins✨. They encouraged the bakers! They'd hold stuff for them sometimes! They were interested in them! If a baker had a breakdown, they would start singing copyrighted material to render the footage unusable! When the show moved to Channel 4, they left, though I'm not unconvinced that Channel 4 offered them impossible to accept contracts to force them out so they could rebrand the show. They replaced them with Sandy Toksvig and Noel Fielding. Sandy was a lovely host in the vein of Mel and Sue, and she and Noel had a relatively sweet rapport, but she left a few seasons ago and was replaced by Matt Lucas.

Noel Fielding is mostly known for his quirky brand of comedy, a sort of British Zooey Deschanel who's goth from the neck up, an upperclass British gay divorcee from the neck down, and basically an early 60s Beatle re: trousers. Matt Lucas has almost definitely never watched a single episode of GBBO and his most redeeming quality is his thinly veiled contempt for Paul Hollywood.

The two treat the baking tent as their personal playground. Far from the supportive attitude of Mel and Sue, they tend to get in the bakers' way during the most stressful moments, especially when they try to do hilarious "comedy" bits (I can't not put that in quotes) like Noel's talking wooden spoon thing, or Matt talking over Noel to do time calls. During theme weeks like Japanese and Mexican week, they do culture-specific bits that are both racist ("just Juan joke" and "is Mexico a real place?") and unsurprising, given that both Matt and Noel did blackface on their respective sketch shows and absolutely could and should have known better because it was already the current fucking century.

All this to say, there's now a separation between the bakers and the hosts, as if they're on different shows. The hosts are doing their own thing and the bakers are doing GBBO. The show has gotten meaner to the bakers, and the hosts aren't there to support them anymore, they're just there to be comic relief. Because when you refocus your show on stressing the bakers the fuck out, you need a forced laugh I guess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

The Judges:

First of all, a sincere congratulations to Paul Hollywood who managed to squeeze I jUsT cAmE bAcK fRoM mExIcO aNd YeT sTiLL pRoNoUnCe PiCo De GaLLo As 'PiKa De KaLLa' and I aM aN eXpErT oN s'MoReS wHiCh aRe MaDe WiTh DiGeStiVe BiScUiTs AcCoRdiNg tO mE, aN eXpErT oN s'MoReS, just two in a giant pile of astoundingly wrong hot takes, into a short enough time span that they all aired within Liz Truss's term as Prime Minister. A true man of accomplishments.

In the interest of fairness, I need to preface this with a disclaimer that, due to the fact that I've been watching Bake Off for most of its run, I'm biased. Specifically, I can't stand Paul Hollywood's smarmy, classist, egomaniac ass because he's proven time and again he's more interested in looking smart than actually knowing what he's talking about. Since the show moved to Channel 4, they've changed the occasional handshake Paul would give bakers to the HoLlYwOoD hAnDsHaKe™️. It's gone from being an emphasis of someone's skill to a goal, a reward, and one that emphasizes the judges' place above the bakers.

The judges used to function as teachers, imparting their skills and insights to the bakers. When the show was on the BBC, the voiceover leading to a judging would focus on the bakers' work being finished, saying how it will now be evaluated based on their skill and how well they met the brief. The voiceovers now, on Channel 4, focus on the judging (literally saying something along the lines of, "the bakers will now be judged by Prue and Paul"). There is a clear distinction Channel 4's producers have made, to mark that the show is now about whether or not the judges approve, not whether the brief was understood and executed well. On the BBC, it was irrelevant whether the judges liked a particular flavor, as long as the bake was well-made. Now, the bakers are expected to know the judges tastes and cater to them, which is frankly bullshit. A judge doesn't have to like a flavor to know whether or not it was executed well, ie. is it carrying a bake and was it meant to etc.

The judges have been turned into a brand. Cynically, Channel 4 knows that by building them up and focusing the show more on them, they can exploit their image more for profit. In the process, they've become much more biased and their own biases have come out as well. Most recently in the flaming dumpster fire that was Mexican Week, Paul Hollywood tried to intimidate a baker by telling them he had just gotten back from Mexico (which must have been a fruitful learning trip if he couldn't even learn how to pronounce pico de gallo correctly). Where do I even start with this? Here's an amateur baker from England (the show specifically casts middle and lower middle class bakers for the most part??) who likely can't afford trips to Mexico, who lives in a country with incredibly limited access to Mexican cuisine, who is expected not only to understand the cooking and baking traditions of a completely different culture but to do so well enough to play with it and do something creative with it. On top of which, one of the judges is now using his privilege of traveling halfway around the world as some kind of leverage, as if this were a bar that any amateur British baker could clear.

Prue, meanwhile, has openly asserted her biases against cultural flavors and textures, prioritizing her own personal preferences over them, as if they were in any way relevant to the skills and knowledge necessary to execute the tasks she sets to the bakers. She has also been consistently elitist, criticizing bakers for choices they made that were clearly informed by their experiences within income brackets that are too low and foreign for Prue to comprehend. She once had a go at a baker on a Christmas special because his Christmas dinner themed bake didn't have a turkey, even though it was clear from the stories he shared of his own Christmases that his family likely couldn't afford one. "It's not really Christmas dinner without a turkey," Prue said into the camera angrily while sitting on a chair made of live orphans and telling the ghost of Christmas Future to come back when he had another museum gift shop necklace for her to round out her collection.

The show is no longer about which baker has the best skills. It's become about which mortal can appease the gods of Mount Olympus, ie. the judges.

The Bakers:

Remember when the show was about them? Channel 4 doesn't! Because this is a reality competition show, the bakers are chosen both based on their skills, as well as cast-ability. They're cast as characters, distinct from each other, from different areas, age groups, ethnicities. All of them are amateurs. All of them are middle or lower middle class. They've ranged from college students to supermarket cashiers to prison wardens to scientists.

Something I noticed when the show moved to Channel 4 is that the baker who goes home in the first week is always wildly behind the rest in skills. I have no proof of this other than my eyeballs and deductive reasoning skills, but I think that Channel 4 deliberately casts a ringer each season who they think will be an easy send-off in the first week, just to get the audience's feet wet.

Anyway, like I said, this show used to be about the bakers - about them building skills and learning, and having walked into the tent with a self-taught foundation and understanding of the processes and chemical reactions involved in baking. When the show was on the BBC, the end of each round had some (often brief) moments of tension - will they finish in time? Will they get their bakes on the plate before time is up? Did they forget to add sugar to their batter and only remember at the last minute? In the end, they usually managed to finish and we'd all breathe a sigh of relief and think, yeah! You go, Bakers Who I'm Rooting For!

Now, on Channel 4, the end of round drama has been stretched to be so much longer that they've composed extra music for it. The bakers often seem out of their depth, whether because the instructions for the technical challenge are too vague (bake a lemon meringue pie??? As if anyone in the UK under the age of 60 has had one in the last decade???), or because they were expected to bake something that required a more than a basic foundation they weren't told of. Often it seems like they just aren't given enough time, a tactic used by reality competition shows to manipulate contestants into giving the cameras more dramatic content. On top of all this, the hosts get in their way, instead of helping them plate their bakes. As has been pointed out before, when everyone fails the challenge, the real failure lies with whoever set it.

In conclusion:

The show no longer exists to teach the bakers - and the audience - skills or knowledge. It now manipulates contestants for dramatic effect and prioritizes showing conflict over wholesome content. Channel 4 sees the bakers as social media content they can churn out season after season, and don't care about them because in a few months there'll be a new batch to exploit. Meanwhile, the judges are also out of their depth, co-opting recipes from other cultures and butchering them horrendously, while the camera gives them nothing but status as they hold bakers to the expectation that they learn how to make things very much the wrong way. If you saw any of the tweets about Mexican or Japanese week, or read my post on how Paul Hollywood isn't allowed to go near babka ever again, you'll understand.

So what would fix all this? Scrap the current judges and the hosts altogether. Bring back Mel and Sue, and replace the judges with expert bakers who have a love of their craft and want to share it with others. The draw of GBBO used to be its warmth and comfort - if Channel 4 isn't going to start its own version of Master Chef For Bakers, then it needs to stop trying to find a balance of how it can insert that vibe into GBBO. It can't. That's not a thing. Stop trying.

#GBBO #paul hollywood #prue leith #the great british bake off

[wordy-little-witch]

Omega Buggy Hours

• his normal scent is pretty mild all things considered, but he works with his chemicals and stuff so much that he typically smells like his workshop and sea salt. But beneath it all, his natural scent is like freshly baked lemon cake, something vaguely vanilla.

• he doesn't really have the urge and drive to have kids of his own, but he does adopt most of his crew into his pack.

• the Buggy pirates on their own are a pack, and they all answer to their captain. Socially, it's highly uncommon for a pack to be lead by an Omega, but their crew is already absolutely off the rails from normal anyway. They're all happy with it.

• the one and only time a newer Alpha tried to usurp Buggy, the crew began absolutely cackling. Buggy humored him. He even offered an old school brawl. It lasted four minutes, and three of which were Buggy toying with him before wiping the floor with his ass. Cabaji knows better now.

• Crocodile and Mihawk, upon joining up with Buggy's group, still do not know that the clown is an Omega. It was known in Impel Down, but the preventions for mating there boil down to a typical collar and medications as meal times (when they were remembered). Croc just knew Buggy had a collar. Some Betas even got those. Buggy kept his on out of choice and self preservation.

• Mihawk inevitably called Shanks one night on Karai Bari, dramatically yet stoically bemoaning the clown and his antics, wondering aloud why none of the visibly and obviously stronger Alphas in his group ever Challenged him. Shanks laughs, then goes serious when he says, "be careful if you decide to do it. You really would not enjoy what happens next." Mihaw takes it as an allusion to the responsibility. It is not.

• Luffy absolutely knows Buggy is an Omega but he also could not be paid to give a single fuck. Why would he? He was raised by an Beta woman who commanded her bandits, of which included all sorts. His big brother is an Beta (Ace) and an Alpha (Sabo) and he's an Omega himself. He doesn't care. Gender doesn't equal strength. Shanks taught him that, too (even if he already kinda knew)!

• Buggy's Heats are sporadic - a byproduct of his mental and physical conditions. They're... essentially akin to menstrual cycles, where ovulation and hormonal influxes occur.

• Croc and Mihawk, when they find out the Truth, are flabbergasted, and have a brief stint where they both make an attempt at Manners. Buggy explodes at them for it. They argue. Buggy proposes a mild Challenge - not for control or dominion over the Pack, but to prove a point. They agree.

• Buggy actually has time to plan, plot and arrange the exchange - his specialty. The thing about Buggy is that his talents lie less in all out brawls and more in stuff akin to espionage and tampering. Crocodile goes first, and Buggy takes him down and out within the hour. Mihawk suspects the other of holding back until he sees the expression and flush on Crocodile's face.

• they flip from Polite Manners to Blatantly Pining within an evening. Buggy doesn't even notice. They're both weird, even for Alphas, so he just thinks the new normal is a weird middle ground where they tolerate him but don't belittle him.

• Mihawk calls Shanks, half drunk one night, and asks for advice on courting. Shanks barely holds back the smug I told you so, and instead he asks if the one the dark haired man is interested in is more into traditional practices or more... whimsical things. The smirk is still very much blatant though.

• Crocodile meanwhile is so angry and annoyed and aroused, a dangerous combination. He starts buying little generic gifts and just. Either throwing them at Buggy with a scowl or leaving them in his room.

• frankly, it's a whole hot mess.

• Buggy goes to his squad for advice, and is blindsided when Galdino just casually goes "Oh it seems like they're courting you"

"They're WHAT"

• awkward pining. Stupid gay old men.

• Buggy decides enough is enough eventually and outright asks them if they like him. Crocodile sputters. Mihaw agrees, no hesitation. Buggy nods, grabs Mihawk and yanks him into a kiss. Croc gets his turn right after.

• Shanks wants to he invited to the wedding.

• Luffy ALSO wants to be invited to the wedding.

• Rayleigh and Crocus both don't even know there is a wedding to be invited to until Buggy sheepishly calls them and the next day there are two old men on the island like "where is my little boy"

Just.... shenanigans teehee

#omega buggy #buggy the clown #one piece #one piece au #cross guild polycule #cross guild

[lulucutie2nitexd]

I'm back with a Diluc request and am in the mood for Vindictive!Reader. When Jean started her affair with Diluc, she had assumed that you were a meek, submissive housewife she can easily browbeat into divorcing Diluc. So, when Diluc tells her that you want to meet up because you found out about their relationship, Jean decides it was the perfect chance to bully you into divorcing Diluc. Much to her surprise, she finds a confident, assertive you; a you who declares that while you accept her relationship with Diluc, you have no intention of giving up your title as wife, so Jean will have to settle for being the concubine.

Orderly roles.

Unfaithful (bit possessive) Diluc x Vindictive Reader ❤️

Also reader x whatever character you insert

Tw: cheating, hints of sexual advances

Reader is gender neutral however there is hints of being female and them having kids with Diluc

Not proofread btw

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

Your mirrage was perfect, up until the point you noticed that your husband was acting unfond of you. Even Infront of your own children he is not kind to you like he used to be. The gentle yet well put together man you once knew and loved separated from you more day by day. You knew it hurt your kids, you know it'd hurt yourself to leave him too. Unfortunately what bound you to Diluc was the fact you're financially dependent on him.

So when you found him undressing a particular beautiful, strong and resilient blond woman you didn't even bat an eye. You just kept doing what you where, wether it be reading or baking you'd stay away from them. You've always known you're just her replacement, so why would you even bother to be upset to begin with? You've seen the way they look at eachother, even on your wedding day. You love Diluc, but he is definitely not yours by heart.

Unfortunately for Jean, he's not hers legally either, and what She did not plan on was your stubbornness about leaving diluc. From attempting to bribe you to bullying you to divorce him, but you did not budge. Going as far as offering to have the knights fund you to be able to live comfortably without diluc and yet you turned it down every time. Effectively putting Jean in her place with every rejection.

By then some of the towns folk where starting to notice the separation. Thus some young men began to attempt to pursue you. Courting became quite common when it came to other men, and yet for some reason it upset Diluc. If you talked to a handsome young man, striking simple conversation Diluc couldn't help but feel jealous. But he didn't understand. Something else he didn't understand is why you wouldn't leave. Partly that he secretly doesn't want you too.

Eventually you meet a fine man, strong and sweet. You found yourself falling for him, spending time with him or to bake him treats. He'd take you on adventures and teach you things you never thought where possible. He was aware of your relationship, you told him everything because you trust him. With that, is how you began to also pursue this man. And it made Diluc's blood boil. Diluc couldn't understand why he's be mad.

Shouldn't Diluc be happy that he can be with Jean alone finally? Despite everything you never divorced him. Jean wasn't quite happy about this situation, and neither was Diluc. Diluc's heart aching knowing you're with another man, and yet he doesn't know why, he doesn't know why after he's cheated for so long, tried to leave you and such. And yet he feels so upset. Perhaps he's mad that he was replaced.

Although you considered taking your kids and running away with your lover, you decided to rub salt in the wound and come home to make dinner every night to spite diluc for ever cheating. Sure you may love each other deep down inside, but he brought thus into himself. It's only payback for him cheating on you. All that is to come from this is an annoyed Jean and a emotionally wrecked Diluc.

Diluc wasn't good enough anyway considering he never spent time with you or his family.

#genshin impact #angst #genshin x reader #x reader #angst with comfort #comfort #fluff #diluc ragnvindr #diluc #genshin #diluc x you #genshin diluc #angst fanfic

[lendmyboyfriendahand]

Trans Celegorm

Celegorm was born female. Strong-daughter hasty-riser, whose hair looks just like her grandmother. 

Celegorm at ten knowing she is different somehow from the other girls. It’s not just the privileges of rank, or her discomfort with the expectations of a princess of the Noldor. Something about the role in society that Celegorm is supposed to take up just sits wrong, as much as she tries to ignore it.

Celegorm’s period starts at 12 and she hates it, hates her body, hates knowing she’ll never grow as tall and as broad as her father or Maedhros. Her body is built for giving new life, so Celegorm learns how to take life instead. She asks to join Orome’s hunt and is told she’s too young. She does everything she can to practice the skills anyway.

Celegorm is accepted to join the hunt at 15, when she manages to sneak up on Tilion. Running with the maiar who view her as weak because she’s an incarnate who didn’t build her muscles from the atoms up to be the best at snapping a deer’s neck, not because she’s a girl. Celegorm not knowing why this feels better, but at least she can fight and track when her head gets too full of circling thoughts. Celegorm can sneak up on anything, and learns quickly enough how to avoid leaving a blood trail of her own whether it’s from a scrape on her arm or from her cunt.

Celegorm trying to feel good in her body, and succeeding in the moments when she’s clothed, or when she’s not being judged. But now her tits have grown and she hates them, hates how they get in the way of her bow unless she binds them down, how when she goes home Maedhros says it’s improper to wrestle with her (and maybe he’s just stuffy and formal now, but also Celegorm is a very hands on fighter.) Celegorm hates how everyone expects her to wear clothes that are wrong, tailored to emphasize the chest not the shoulders, flowing and getting in the way. Sure, everyone has to wear robes at court, but then Father can come home and just wear an apron and trousers in the forge while Celegorm can’t.

Celegorm at 17 realizing she wants to be a man.

Celegorm at 17 thinking no one will take her seriously, she’s not even of age, and has always been weird anyway. Everyone will say it’s just about not fitting in to normal society.

Celegorm realizing that even her parents don’t truly understand her – no, him. Not in this at least. Sure, Feanor bakes according to his mother’s recipe, and Nerdanel wrestles huge blocks of marble into place. But Feanor is a man and Nerdanel is a woman.

Celegorm figuring screw it, they can’t stop him.

Celegorm is skilled with a knife by now. If he cuts the lumps off his chest, no one will be able to tell he’s a girl from a distance. And if someone is close enough to see between his legs, they’re close enough for Celegorm to punch.

Celegorm will run away to the forest for a couple years and come back outside Alqualonde. Just another elf who had to take a break from cities to live in nature, it’s not that rare. Another wild man of the hills.

Nerdanel first realizes that Celegorm is trans when she opens her daughter’s room to find Celegorm about to conduct amateur surgery. Celegorm has put thought and preparation into this; he has a sharp knife and boiling water to clean it, and a pile of boiled rags (the remains of his bedsheet), and a chair set up in front of the mirror. The chair is draped in another sheet, and there’s a towel on the floor. Celegorm has a thoughtful look and is drawing on his breasts with charcoal, trying to plan the cuts. He needs to save some of the skin, can’t ruin his own hide, and he needs to avoid arteries though he’s never butchered anything with an elven shape…

Nerdanel panics and yells. After establishing that it’s not a suicide attempt (“If I wanted to die, I’d just go provoke a bear, Mom, it would be far less hassle!”), she’s still rather concerned. And Nerdanel knows that if she takes Celegorm’s knife, Celegorm will just find or make another. So even though this topic really out to be considered for longer in her opinion, Nerdanel doesn’t say that.

“Would you please get dressed and we can find a practiced surgeon in the city? You deserve the best care possible in changing your body.” Nerdanel compares it to how Celegorm had a personal trainer when building muscle as a child, to make sure he didn’t sprain anything. And does Celegorm really want to risk severing an artery, or cutting a tendon?

Celegorm agrees. Gender reassignment surgery isn’t actually a common thing in Tirion – most people who transition go for a years-long hormonal thing, or let the Valar build them a whole new body and move their spirit into it. But Celegorm knows this body, and he isn’t going to wait.

Specifically, by the time they go home they’ve talked to four different surgeons and found one with availability in the next week, assuming no one gets in an archery accident in the meantime.

Celegorm goes in. He gets his tits cut off. He sees no reason to get a cock – he’s already learned how to piss without getting it on his boots.

Celegorm eventually tries sex. He laughs at everyone who says you need a cock to be dominant. All you need is to be able to pin your partner to the bed and use them as a dildo.

Canon still happens. Celegorm still kidnaps Luthien and threatens her in an attempt to marry her. He’s not super invested in having kids, and if Luthien wants them he’s sure Melian can do some magic to make sure the babies share his blood. 

(Amras is also a transman. With experience, Nerdanel and Feanor notice early enough to get him puberty blockers.)

#my fic #my writing #silmarillion #silm #celegorm #hasty riser #trans Tolkien

[kimberly40]

🍎 Apple Butter- Apple butter “frolics” were major social events. In spite of the chores involved, the assemblage had relatively little to do; so they told stories, gossiped, sang, and otherwise enjoyed fellowship. Courting couples were given special attention, often given the job of stirring. The most popular stirring technique was to move the paddle twice around the sides and then across the middle. This old rhyme reminds the stirrers to follow this technique:

“Twice around the side

And once down the middle

That’s the way to stir

The apple-butter kittle.”

At some frolics, if the couple stirring bumped the kettle and splashed the butter, they had to kiss each other.

Apple butter was made in large quantities, using a copper pot over an outdoor fire. First, a couple of gallons of apple cider was boiled down to half its original volume. Then several bushels of peeled, cored, and quartered apples were added to the pot. Aromatic apples with a pulpy texture were preferred for making apple butter, varieties such as Royal Limbertwig, Buff, and Wolf River. A long wooden paddle, made of hickory with a couple of holes cut through the blade, was used to stir the boiling liquid. Half a dozen pennies were added to the kettle to keep the apple butter from sticking to the bottom of the pot.

Constant stirring of the liquid was required; it was an all-day job, taking as much as twelve hours. When a dollop of apple butter on a plate stayed put when the plate was turned upside down, the apple butter was ready to eat. The first tastes were eaten fresh and hot from the pot, spread on slices of home-baked bread. The rest of the apple butter, preserved by canning, was kept on cellar shelves to be enjoyed through the winter.

🍎 Other Interesting Facts Related to Apple Butter:

•If the fire wood touches the kettle the butter will burn.

•Oak makes the best fire for a butter boiling because it gives a steady heat without creating much flame.

•Copper pennies are placed in the apple butter kettle to scrape the bottom of the kettle and prevent the apple butter from burning.

•It was said that a young woman who splashed the butter when she stired the kettle would make a poor housewife.

•If you turn the crock upside down, without a lid, and the mixture stays in the container without running out or dripping, it is “real” apple butter. (If it pours out, it is “jelly” butter.)

•When the butter is finished and poured in the crocks, the person who gets the penny from the kettle should save it because it is a good luck token.

#appalachian #appalachian mountains #north carolina #appalachian culture #appalachia #western north carolina #the south #nc mountains #mcdowell county #mcdowellcounty #apple butter #apples recipe #traditions

[ennoshitas-princess]

The Beautiful Rose

Tobio Kageyama x chubby fem! reader Warnings: Oikawa being forceful to be with you, some swearing, centaur Kageyama, violent scene Synopsis: you are the girl everyone wants to be, and you catch the eye of the king of the court Word Count: 1,612 Hopefully you like it!! This has no spoilers really. Fantasy au (inspo beauty and the beast). Don't read if you don't like violence or triggered with gun shots.

You strolled along the dirt path of the village to go to the market in the little town to get things for your mother and brother.

A shade of a pretty pastel cerulean hovered above everyone's head. The emerald blanket soaked with the morning dew. The light magenta petals of the cherry trees fell like snow in the bleak winter months. The rays warming up the ground below, caused cats and dogs to shut their eyelids tight and take a longer nap.

Basket in hand, you continued to admire your surroundings of the vast beauty of nature.

“Bonjour, monsieur.” You wave to the owner of the stand, filling your nostrils with the sweet aroma of baked goods.

“Bonjour, belle demoiselle.” He replied back.

“What do you have to offer today?” You looked at all the items, making you drool.

You could not help yourself. Just a regular habit you had that continued to occur since you were small. The thought of eating one of these delicious delights, had you wanting to buy the whole stand.

“We have bagels, cookies, baguettes, loafs of bread, and cake.” He pointed them out.

“I will take these and the baguettes.” Your hand hovered over the cookies.

“Ah, your sweet tooth demoiselle, non?”

“Oui, monsieur!”

“À plus tard!” You wave to the baker.

“Salut!”

You walk off to bump into none other than the throb of the town, Touru Oikawa.

With a sigh, you shift to your left to continue with your errands, but stopped by him moving to his right to block. You move the other direction, and he does the same thing.

“Hey umm… Oikawa-”

“Please y/n, you know we are meant to be. Call me by my first name.” He pulled you close to his lean body.

“Look Oikawa, I cannot figure out any other way to express this. I do not like you romantically at all.” You bluntly shove him away.

His blood boiled at the remark, not knowing how much you mean to him. If he got with you, everyone in the village would be jealous about your relationship. Making him look greater and grander, even more than Alexander building one of the biggest empires in history in a short amount of time.

“Look y/n, you know how much-”

Before Oikawa could finish his sentence, you left him rambling to himself. In embarrassment, he stormed off, yelling, “well y/n, we all know you hang out with a monster.”

Oikawa, being himself, just let you be.

○◐❀❀❀❀❀❀◑○

Well, Oikawa wasn't wrong about what he said earlier that day. Everyone viewed him as one, but you saw his flaws as beautiful pieces of artwork in a mural in an art museum.

You go over to the forest to visit your friend, Tobio Kageyama. The hut just beneath all the dead trees, just decaying and bald. Flowers on the sidelines wilted from the lack of sunshine. The straw roof had a massive hole. So whenever it rained, poor Kageyama’s house got soaked.

You knock at the almost deteriorated wooden door. Just with your subtle touch, the door fell on the creaking floor with a thud, spooking the horned centaur.

Dashing towards the door, he saw your plump figure at the entrance.

“Oh, it's just you y/n.” He sighed.

“Yes, it's just me, Tobio. Look, I went to the market and got some things for you to eat. I got cookies, bread, some fresh produce, and guess what I brought?” You give him the basket.

“What did you bring for me?” He reached for it, his hand brushing against your soft tiny one.

Pulling the cold item out, he smiled.

“Y/n, you brought milk!” He shouted with joy.

“Of course I did. When you are happy, I am happy.”

The centaur picked you up and spun you around twice, hugging your soft curves. You were a cute plush for him of course. If someone bad happened to you, he would find a way to save or protect you.

You strolled along the river bed calmly, as the birds sang their song peacefully. The flow of the river brought some type of relief from Oikawa’s six hundredth proposal.

As you walk, you spot a rock to rest on. When you sat down, you heard a lot of rustling in the bushes. Frightened, you got up and started to run away.

“Wait, don't run… I didn't mean to scare you. Of course someone as pretty and kind hearted as you would rush back home.” A male voice sounded disappointed.

You inch towards the male slowly, awaiting to be attacked. When you look at the man closer, you see him hiding behind the shrubs.

“Umm… how dumb of me. I should introduce myself. My name is Kageyama, Kageyama Tobio. What is yours?” He still hid.

“Nice to meet you, mine is l/n y/n.” You tell him as you go where he hid.

“That is a pretty name for a pretty lady like you. I mean, well you are just pretty because you are a human- shit!” He snapped.

“Wait, come out of the bushes. I am curious about what you meant about me being a human. Are you one?” You raise a brow.

Clopping towards where you stood, you soon begin to realize he was not a human. He came out being a centaur. The thought of you running away came across poor Kageyama's mind, but surprised that you stayed in place, examining him closely with shining e/c eyes.

“You seem very fascinating! How did you-”Before you could finish that question, he replied with all honesty.

“I was put under a spell because of how I used to treat others in my village when I was king. I ran away and now, no one is ruling my kingdom.” He rubbed the back of his head.

You stare into his ocean eyes for a long time. Just as you were in a trance, he too was in one. Charmed by your squishy body, not knowing what to say or do, he randomly said, “wanna be friends?!?”

You break eye contact, blushing, “yeah!”

You two walked inside of his cottage to snack on the little treats.

○◐❀❀❀❀❀❀◑○

As you finished your snacks, a rustle in the bushes could be heard by Kageyama. He galloped towards the shrubs.

“Bam, bam, bam!”

You heard the gunshots from inside. Rushing out of your seat, you saw Kageyama on the dirt ground, breathing heavily. You turn your head up slowly from the centaur, only to meet up with brown eyes.

“Oikawa! Why would you shoot him?” You ran towards him and wept.

“I only did it for you, y/n. I bet he had you captured and under some mind game of his, only to keep you from me.” He reached for your arm, only for you to shake it off aggressively.

“I don't like you! As a matter of fact, I hate you!” You scowl at him.“I did it all for-”

“I don't care! I want you to leave me alone. I don't want you near me in any way. I am in love with him and you think I will love you after shooting him?” Your voice boomed throughout the forest.

Oikawa's mouth formed a small circle, opened from the news you gave to him. He couldn't believe that you loved a monster like Kageyama, but not love someone as handsome as he is. Scoffing, he turned his tracks to the road to the village, stomping his way back.

“Y-you love m-m-me?” Kageyama's soft voice spoke.

You look down at him from where you knelt down, just terrified of what could happen to him in the next minute.

“Kageyama, no matter what happens, I will never forget you, alright?” Your soft hand caressed his cheek.

“Pl-please don't tell m-me I am g-going to d-die?” He stumbled with his words.

“No, no. I am not saying that. If you happen to never return to your human form, I will still love you.” A tear rolled of your cheek like dew in the morning.

Kageyama suddenly closed his eyes and his breathing stopped. Waterfalls fell from your eyes as you saw your dear friend go limp in your arms, not holding himself up anymore. You wanted to go off in the village and get revenge with all the bitterness in your mouth, but something in your heart told you not to.

You closed your eyelids and felt some warmth in your hands. Opening them slowly, you saw him glittering proudly like a star in the night sky. You could have sworn that you were dreaming, but you pinch yourself only to realize you were wide awake.

He levitated in the air like a bird flying towards the glowing sun that warmed the ground. His torso turned back. His feet bare instead of hooves. His tail disappeared. Only the figure of Kageyama laid on the ground, fluttering his sapphire eyes open.“L-l/n-san?”

“Kageyama, you are alive and in your human form!” You hugged him tightly.

He glanced at himself up and down to see that you were right. He got up and spun you around like always.

“Yes, I am back to myself. L/n-san I simply adore you too!” He smashed his lips into yours.

Flushing in all the hues that existed, you did not hesitate one single but to kiss him back.

○◐❀❀❀❀❀❀◑○

As soon as your brother and mother moved into the palace, you and Kageyama got married. Weeks later, Oikawa got sentenced for trying to kill the king. Let's just say Oikawa could never look as handsome as he wanted anymore.

A/n: hey guys!! Thank you for reading another of my posts ☺️ hope you are having a good day!!

Hopefully you enjoyed!!

Thank you for coming!!

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All rights reserved copyright ©

ennoshitas-princess

Please DO NOT repost on any other platform!!

Reblogs are acceptable

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(divider below blue text belongs to @besitodefresas)

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #reader x character #haikyuu x reader #one shots #female reader #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu x you #kageyama tobio #haikyuu tobio #haikyuu au #fantasy au #hq #hq fluff #haikyu x reader #haikyuu kageyama #tobio kageyama #tobio x reader #chubby reader #kageyama x chubby reader

[babybluebanshee]

Stuff I've had to deal with as a city librarian - Halloween Spooktacular

Hello again boils, ghouls, and nonbinary werewolves! Your old buddy Blue has a backlog of whack-ass stories from her travels as a humble library clerk, so here's a big post fulla laughs, drama, and maybe a few bodily fluids tossed in for flair.

Seriously though, tw for bodily fluids, bugs, and PTSD

*A woman came up to the front desk and asked if we had a quiet area where she could make a zoom call and not disturb anyone. No prob, have people asking that all the time. The study rooms were all full, so she was pointed in the direction of the cafe. A few minutes go by, and suddenly everyone at the desk and the page in the shelves beyond it hears loud ass shouting coming from the cafe. Julie heads down to inspect, hoping it's not a fight she has to break up. Nope, as it turns out, the lady on the zoom call is leading an exercise class. She has a mat and everything, and was leading her class in aerobics when Julie got down there. We quickly moved her to a more out-of-the-way conference room.

*A children's board book was return to us with a bite taken out of it. The area was still wet. We do not know if it was child or beast that took the bite. We had to throw it away regardless.

*We had to bake almost all our DVD cases because we found two with bed bug eggs in them.

*A woman printed out some color pictures and asked if I could check to make sure they came out. I picked up the stack and the first one on top was of an angry-looking woman with her tits out. My surprise must have been pretty evident because the woman I was helping immediately turned red and told me they were for a court case.

*Like everywhere else in this god-forsaken country, homeschooling has been on the rise in these parts. As such, we get parents all the time coming in with printed copies of the curriculum they chose and asking if we have the books recommended by them. Whatever we don't have, we can usually get through inter library loan, but the catch with that is you can only have five going at a time. One day, we had a mother come in with a list of three hundred books her curriculum recommended, and she had us check out catalogue for all of them. Branson started helping her, but her shift ended in the middle of it, so I had to do the rest. It took forever, and we ended up only having about fifty of them because I guess this homeschooling curriculum hasn't been updated since the mid-2000s. To her credit, the mother was very exasperated with homeschooling in general and knows that her daughter doesn't want to do it anymore. Her husband is adamant that their kid not go to public school, however. I fought every urge to say that was fine for him to say when he clearly wasn't doing a goddamn thing to help her.

*There's a patron that comes in whom we know nothing about except that he's had multiple heart attacks and has massive anxiety about potentially having another. We know this because he tells us every time the library gets too loud for him, because he believes the noise will somehow "trigger" another heart attack. Normally, we would have no problem with that; heart attacks are scary, he has every right to be anxious about it and request quiet spots to hang out. However, the problem is that he takes it upon himself to police other patrons in the library who he thinks are being too loud near him. Some children were nearby, working on a puzzle and started getting a little rambunctious, and the dude yelled at the top of his voice for them to shut up and get away from him. We had to speak louder for a patron who was hard of hearing, and the death glare he gave us was chilling. He snaps at anyone who forgets to shut the sound off on their phone. The director finally had to tell him he can't harass patrons and to tell us if he has a problem with someone's volume. He's been better behaved since then, but any time we see him, we're instantly worried he's gonna flip out again.

*A little boy in a wheelchair came in with his family, and my god, that kid could zip around fast. His mom mentioned that she forgot to grab a book for his sister, so he rolled into the kid's area to grab it for her. He was back faster than a patron who could just walk in. And you could tell he was very proud of that fact.

*Shae gave me a Sylveon card about a year ago, and I wear it laminated on my lanyard (because I was originally gonna hang it from my rearview mirror but forgot). It's always a big hit with kids. One little girl, however, liked it so much she asked if she could have it. I chuckled and told her sorry, it was a gift from a friend. She merely replied, "no, I want it" and started making a grab for it. Luckily, she was on the other side of the counter and couldn't reach it, but it was still weird. Especially because her mother was right there and made no move to stop or reprimand her.

*My coworker Branson had to clean...something off the bathroom floor one night. She's adamant it wasn't poop, but also said it was so dried out she had to use a putty knife to scrape it off. Our best guess is vomit.

*I was working on a display at the desk and a little black girl came up to watch me work. We chatted for a little, her asking me all the usual little kid questions. Eventually, she asked me if I had kids. I said no, I liked being an auntie better. Plus, I wasn't married, so I couldn't have kids. She thought for a moment, then said "why don't you just buy one?" Branson was nearby and I heard her choke on a laugh. I was pretty close to losing it myself, and said, "I don't think it's very nice to buy a person." Luckily, her dad came up and they left shortly after, so Branson and I could finally laugh about it.

*A patron and his family got taken to court for not returning almost $200 worth of books and DVDS, after ignoring the four warnings we give people before we actually take that step (because at that point you're actively stealing city property). The patron was ordered by a judge to either bring the items to court or pay to replace them, so he brought them to the courthouse. The clerk was going to take them and the whole thing would have been over and done...except he wouldn't give them to her without a library employee present. He never gave a real reason except he was concerned the clerk would "do something" with the items. So without contacting the library or judge the clerk told him he could bring the books directly to the library. When the judge found out what she'd done, he called the library and told us what was happening, and to hopefully expect the guy in there that night. Predictably, we haven't seen him. This was almost a month ago.

*Branson got a phone call from the county jail, which is actually pretty common for libraries. Patrons get arrested and want to make sure their accounts are clear so they don't potentially get into further trouble with outstanding items. Branson goes through all the hold music and questions to finally get the patron on the line...and he'd dialed the wrong number. Branson felt so bad for him.

*A guy came in to use the computers. Donna was getting him set up, sitting at the desk, so she can only see him from about his torso up. He ended up needing help printing something, so I help him, and finally see the sidearm he's got in a holster on his belt. I tell him the library doesn't allow firearms of any kind, no, I do not care that he has a conceal carry, he can't have a weapon in a municipal building. He's kinda testy about it, asking why we don't have a sign. I tell him we do. He had to walk by it to get in the building. In fact, we have one at all three entrances. He smugly asks me to show him, because he didn't see them. Me, petty bitch that I am, make this fucker walk to all three entrances and show him each sign, then tell him as politely as I can to get rid of the gun before he comes back in. He huffily complies.

*I came into work one day and the director immediately called me to the back. He informed me that a couple was having a loud, angry argument on the patio outside the kid's area, and they called the cops for a wellness check because the woman sounded to be in legit distress. Like, rocking back and forth and screaming swears distress. Cop comes and presumably sends them on their way. We don't know for sure because he came, went out to talk to them, and just...left.

*A guy came in to pick up an inter library loan, and when Branson asked for his card, he said he didn't have one. Like, he wasn't a patron. Never mind how the hell he managed to get a fulfilled ILL without one. Branson informs him he has to get a card before he can check out the book, but it's going to cost him $15 since he lives outside city limits. He tries to pay with a check made out to him from someone else. We tell him that won't work. He leaves to get cash, but then immediately turns around and asks if he can just buy the book. I tell him no, since a) it's not our book to sell and b) we're not in the habit of selling books in the collection anyway. I ask if he'd like me to find it on Amazon for him, and he says no. He leaves and doesn't come back. Bonnie sent the ILL back, and we haven't seen him since.

*A lot of our patrons have conspiracy theory brain rot, so you can only imagine the fanciful tales we heard about the emergency test signal. There were theories it would "activate the nanites" in the covid vaccine and either kill everyone who got one or turn them into liberal zombies. My director had someone 100% seriously call it "the Satan signal". It would have been funny if it weren't so stupid.

#woe to the librarian #daily life with blue

[owlish-owlhouse]

They Used to Be Mine

...

They're imperfect but they try

Hunter watches your technique from the shadows as he was curious at all the fuss. And although he notices it's messy he sees why you've advanced ranks in the Emperor's Coven so quickly. You are clearly skilled and your magic is very powerful for your age. The covenheads seem more than impressed and excited to teach you.

They are good but they lie

After Hunter messes up a mission with you, you step in and take the blame before Belos can hurt him. The covenheads stare in shock as you stand infront of Hunter ready. As you stiffen and close your eyes ready to take the hit everyone holds their breath. Belos beyond angry but still having use for you simply dismisses you both. Hunters magenta eyes stare at you from behind his mask as you breathe outside the meeting room. You're terrified, yet relieved. Sending him a small smile, he gives you a nod still processing what just happened.

They are hard on themselves

You train for hours when you're not at school and you exhaust yourself to unhealthy lengths to prove yourself. Your magic is impressive and your work is always done but at what cost? The covenheads don't seem to notice your struggle as you hide it well but Hunter can recognize the growing eye bags and sluggish walk through the castle hallways. Your performance and grades never slip but he notices how your happiness does.

They are broken and won't ask for help

Struggling between school and the coven work your assigned you refuse anyone's help not wanting them to know you need any. Hunter watches as you run to and from the castle each day trying to balance your schools studies with your new castle duties. He wants to help but doesn't know how to reach out to you.

They are messy but they're kind

Hunter looks up as you smile down at him. He had knocked you in the face with his staff during training on accident and had badly injured your nose. It was bleeding as you held it with one hand and yet after knocking him down you reach with your other hand to help him up with a smile.

They are lonely most of the time

Hunter watches from the trees as you wave at your friends from school and watch other students leave to go hang out. You wanted to go with them but you can't because you had responsibilities. Sitting down on a rock you take out your mask staring at it before you bring your knees to your chest and close your eyes.

Hunter also sees how people seem to avoid you in the castle and how you don't seem to fit in anywhere. The other captains don't talk to you due to jealousy and the age gap, the scouts only listen to your orders, and the covenheads exclude you despite being your teachers because of your lower title and rank. The way you get excited to see anyone you consider a friend only to end up eating or studying alone leaves him with a broken heart.

They are all of this mixed up

As Hunter looks at a letter he wrote to you about his feelings flashes of you and everything he loves about you fill his mind.

Your smile.

Your laugh.

Your abilities.

Your kindness.

Your determination.

And baked in a beautiful pie

Holding the letter close with a fairy pie as Darius told him that's how teenagers court, he thinks of how he'll never let you be alone again. How you can be there for each other. You'll study magic in the library, train together everyday, do homework in your room, go on missions for Belos, sail the Boiling Seas and fly on airships exploring and conquering for the coven. Hearing a scream Hunter drops the letter and pie as he rushes towards where he knew you were.

They are gone but they used to be mine

You lay against the library floor body limp and partially mangled from the attacker that pushed you off the library balcony. Your eyes are open staring straight up while blood pools from your mouth. Looking for the aggressor Hunter spots them fleeing the scene of the crime. Cursing as you need medical attention and he didn't have time to waste, he lets the attacker slip away. Taking off his mask so you can see his face he begins to call out for help as he holds your hand.

They used to be mine.

Hunter sobs moments later when your hand goes limp in his, your chest no longer moving. As blood stains his cape he closes his eyes and begs for you to come back. Putting your cold hand to his forehead squeezing it tight the covenheads rush in too late to help.

He never even got a chance to make you his...

#tw: death #tw: blood #tw: abuse #toh gg #toh hunter #toh golden guard #golden guard #hunter x reader #toh hunter x reader #toh gg x reader #toh golden guard x reader #the owl house golden guard #hunter golden guard #the owl house hunter #hunter #hunter toh #hunter wittebane #the owlhouse hunter x reader #the owlhouse hunter #the owlhouse golden guard #the owlhouse gg #the owlhouse golden guard x reader #hunter the golden guard #song fic #toh incorrect quotes #incorrect owlhouse quotes

[spymasterspriest]

Chapter 8

The Spymaster & The Priest   A Gwynriel role reversal fanfiction

Masterlist, or read the entire series on AO3

After a good day and half they find themselves in another small town. They ended up spending the night at a verysmall inn. He'd nearly ripped the sheets from the mattress when he thought he'd heard Gwyn say his name in her sleep. Despite his fatigue, he'd found it difficult to fall back to sleep.

The next morning they broke their fast on hard boiled eggs and roasted potatoes. It's a satisfying though simple meal that leaves Az's belly pleasantly full and thoughts nostalgic. Gwyn buys two loaves of bread for the last stretch of their trip.

"Do you have any siblings?" Gwyn asks, mouthful of freshly bakes loaf as they head to the stables.

"Two. the youngest of three. No sisters," Azriel admits flatly. "What's it like working for the Night Court?"

"Loud," she says immediately, though her eyes are kind and her smile fond. "Never a moments peace." She stares off into the distance. "I miss them. We write, of course, but its not the same as being with them. They've become my family. Hopefully we'll be done with this book business soon and I can get back for a proper visit."

Azriel triest to imagine it, a casually dressed Gwyn socializing with members of the High Court, mahogany locks gleaming, sword at her side despite her fancy way of dress. Unconditional love for all around her. He blinks a few times, unsure of what to say. There were a few brothers in the temples that he knew well enough to call friends - but family? He knew a mother's love, but not a family's.

"Shall we get some practice in while its still early?" She inquires in a way that's meant to confirm rather than suggest.

Not a bad idea. She'd been right to suggest it before as it loosened his muscles for travel. He squints at her. They'd reached the stables, the interior warm and softly lit. Senka snickered at them as they entered, black eyes gleaming. Azriel huffs.

The spymaster suggested insisted on switching up their routine. Gwyn is utterly boneless in the way she moves and Azriel wonders if its an inheritance of her nymph side. They move slowly through their stretches, Az improvises by including his wings, smothering a groan as the muscles bunch and pull, warming despite the cool morning.

When he opens his eyes next, breathing routine finished, Gwyn is watching him with a gentle expression. In her hands are a pair of daggers from her own collection. And what a collection it was. He'd caught her one of the nights before cleaning them. He'd counted around thirty-four. She waits for him to come out of his stretch, eyes lingering on his shadows, or his chest, he wasn't sure. Shadows, definitely the shadows. She hands him a dagger.

"Try to stab me," she says simply.

"Sorry?" He blurts.

Azriel wasn't surprised at the direction of her teaching. It was smart that he learned some forms of self-defense. After the altercation at Rita's he understood why Gwyn kept herself so armed. Ok, maybe the amount of daggers she kept was a tad facetious. The world could be a cruel place and he was better off being prepared for it. Azriel gulps as her eyebrows raise as if she'd made a perfectly reasonable request.

"I want you," she says slowly, voice low. His thoughts immediately go there. "To stab me with this. There are places we will be going that will be less than hospitable to our presence. I don't want you to get hurt, so, you're going to try and stab me and I'm going to disarm you, probably rather easily," she chided arrogantly and Azriel's shadows bristled at the challenge. "Then vice versa, yes?"

"Gwyn," Azriel starts.

"Nope, Az," she interrupts with a shake of her head, hair spilling down her shoulder. "It's important to know how to take care of yourself. These  aren't even sharp. The worst you could do is bruise me," she explains, easing his unspoken concerns. "If you can even get close enough, that is," she teases with a wicked grin. "Now, stab me."

Despite his many faults, Azriel was not a coward. Her challenge struck his spine straight and pulled his shoulders back, wings spreading across the stable. The light shrouded, the horses whinny. Gwyn's eyes spark with warmth as she watches him.

"Show off," she says with a smirk.

"This is a terrible idea," he admits. She lets out a laugh and shrugs, taking a step back and motioning him forward with her hand.

Wrapping his fist around the weapon, he drives at her with all of his weight with his wings propelling him forward. He could be fast too. She steps to the side, Gwyn's body turning. His momentum carries him beyond her. A hand comes up to his wrist, gripping, pulling, sending him around in a circle.

Azriel staggers. Gwyn maneuvers around his wings as nimble as a cat. Using her grip, she pulls him down, bringing him to his knees, far more gently than she would have if they'd really been fighting. She keeps him there, hovering off balance, wings shifting, wrist pinched between her fingers. Her grip presses against the tendon at his wrist and Azriel hisses, fingers spasming. The dagger drops to the ground.

"You're instincts are good," Gwyn tells him, helping him to his feet. "You really came at me with some power. I like it."

"Yeah, well, dinner in the Tower would get competitive from time to time," Azriel deadpans, massaging his wrist. Gwyn laughs.

"And here I misread priests for serene," she tsks, picking up his dagger and handing it back to him. "Ok, let's do that again, but come at me slowly this time. I'll break down the moves and then you can try them on me."

It's excruciating to his wrists and hands, but as the continue to practice the exertion has relaxed him in the most pleasurable way. For a majority of the time he's able to deflect her attacks, the repetition triggering muscle memory. It's barely midday when they break.

"I'd say we've had enough," she concludes after his last successful attempt. Out of breath he stares at her. She barely looks bothered. "I'll be back in a bit, I need the privy before we go."

She makes a face at him, one he's come to recognize as her 'undone by mortal failings and annoyed by it' look. He gives her a lopsided grin and watches as she strides back to the inn, skin gleaming, hair bright. His shadows peer at her from over his shoulder.

A colleague. She was only a colleague. He'd agreed to assist her. He was here to help make her job easier, nothing more. This is what the reminds himself of over and over as they prepare to leave. They take flight, finally ready for the days travels. Within no time the buildings and farmland fade out of view.

Gwyn, feeling playful, rolls Senka. Azriel follows greedily, keeping close, hovering just above her. Close enough to hear her laughter. The spymaster attempts to shake him off, diving deep before arching back into the clouds. Azriel doesn't let her go. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay, gliding beside her like this, movements in harmony. He wants so very much.

"That was a great effort you made today, Az, truly," she calls out encouragingly.

Azriel nods his head in thanks. If she knew how desperately he'd been attempting to control his arousal, he'd probably done better. He wonders if she was just as rivalrous in bed, a lover who would meet his passions. Azriel stares off into the horizon, blue sky vast and seemingly infinite. Gwyn, thankfully, can't see the blush upon his face.

"You did a number on me when you started to use your shadows to predict my movements," she admitted. "It's a good strategy, you should remember to use it more."

He returns his gaze to where she sits astride Senka. She's rolling her wrist, unware of his stare, pulling down her riding glove to examine it. Azriel dives so fast he nearly crashes into her back, causing Senka to whinny in warning.

"Gwyn, did I hurt you?" he asks, horrified at the site of dark bruising. She looks up at him and shrugs.

"A bit," she admits, raising her arm above her head so that he might get a better look. Azriel's stomach drops - dark purple bruising blooms across her palm and thumb.

"Oh," he mutters, heart racing. It looked bad. It was-

"Az," Gwyn says firmly, snapping his focus back to the moment, calming. Senka rises just enough that she can capture his chin within her fingers. "I will heal," she tells him. "It's all right."

"I need to fix this," he begs. His eyes meet hers. She doesn't appear angry but he knows from experience that means little.

"My sweet shadowsinger," she hums, voice carrying in the wind. "I am well. See for yourself." Her hand drops from his face but remains above her.

Azriel takes her wrist, warm against his cool skin. Tipping her hand this way and that, he examines her from wrist to fingertip. There were no injured bones and her range of motion was good. He draws her fingers into his and leans in to press his lips against her palm. Her hand feels so comically small in his. Gwyn angles her head at him, a sweet twist to her lips and shyness breaks through her confidence. Azriel reluctantly lets her hand go.

"It won't happen again," he promises. "Forgive me."

She doesn't say anything for a moment and they simply just stare at one another. A heavy shift in the air gives the moment gravity. Gwyn lowers her arm and head, eyes returning to the sky. Something deep inside him settles, like a ribbon coming unknotted. He remains above her, wings beating steadily.

"No more apologies," she says after a while. "You are mostly certainly going to hurt me again when we practice. And you are not going to feel sad or guilty about it, understood?"

"Yes, Gwyn," he answers with a wry smile. "I promise."

In a feat that he would later convince himself was pure Pegasus cunning, Senka bursts ahead and up, tucking its wings tight and passes above him upside-down. He swears he feels her lips against the top of his head. Out of the corner of his eye he watches her dart into the clouds below and he's helpless to follow.

The woods were thick here, giving way to a largest forest Azriel had ever seen. Pine trees as tall as buildings push up from the ground like green feathered spears. War camps carve into the landscape, the architecture of some of the outer buildings crude in comparison to Velaris. The Illyrian mountains were no longer distant. A road could be seen below, the trees cleared to give way to carts and travelers on foot. The fresh smell of tree sap and snow cling to the air. As the camp interiors come into focus, he could make out dirt and cobbled roads. Women with small children scurried about and his thoughts turned to his mother.

They descend in silence, Gwyn looking alert. He hadn't considered what it would feel like to return here. The Illyrians were brutal fae. His High Lord had been attempting for years to bring progressive change to the camps, and with the help of his general, they'd seem some successes.

As they touch down, Gwyn remains atop Senka. The Night Court's spymaster was making her entrance. She gave no recognition to the stares and whispers. A few males even had the gall to point and look annoyed at her presence.

There are numerous Illyrians, more than Azriel had expected. They must be in one of the larger camps. The mountains were so close they felt touchable, snow blowing from their peaks. He walks alongside Gwyn, aware of the looks he too is getting. It takes some resolve to not shroud himself in shadow, gather his wings, and escape. Yet, the spymaster's gaze upon has his face turning upward towards hers.

"Doing all right?" she asks quietly and he nods.

"It's a lot," he admits and she gives him a beautifully reassuring smile.

"We'll stay on the ground the rest of the way. It'll be a bit till we get to our destination. You're doing great." He feels lighter at her confidence, giving him the ease he needed to observe the city.

Every structure was made of similar materials. Some had mulitple floors, walls of white stucco and pine logs. Rooftop gardens sat atop each, a common Illyrian feature, green shrubs pushing up from pots, some heavy with red berries. It wasn't as claustrophobic as Velaris. This place was wide, accommodating for wings. And the people! He hadn't been around his own for so long he forgot what it felt like to be less out of place; where wings and dark skin were the norm and not something exotic.

Azriel tries not to stare as a group of females pass dressed in subdued clothes, layers wrapping their bodies. An elderly male tries to entice them into his shop, which seems to carries a multitude of spices. A shout calling for the sale of herbs, drawing his attention to a woman with a cart. Some of the herbs Azriel didn't recognize. He catches bits of conversation spoken in his native tongue and wonders at the last time he'd spoken it himself.

They pass a cluster of wooden stalls, each one smelling of roasted meats or baked sweets and Azriel's stomach growls. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. Another stall nearby sold shaved meat with flat bread.

The sky is turning a soft lavender by the time Gwyn leads them through the main part of camp. A large building that looks more like an estate hall than the other homes, looms large ahead. The Night Courts emblem was carved into the stucco facade. The embassy was imposing and tall. An arched passage way emerges, opening into a square. A small fountain bubbles, surrounded by more berry bushes.

Up ahead a young stable hand waits for Gwyn, a broad smile upon their face. They speak briefly and Azriel's surprised to hear the spymaster speak Illyrian. She hands Senka over, hefting her bag from its back. Azriel follows her close as she pushes through a pair of heavy wooden doors.

The foyer spits them into a large room full of long tables, chairs, and people who look as if they could kill Azriel in a matter of minutes. In their sleep. Accidentally, even. He pulls himself up tall, refusing to hide and observes the room.

"Gwyn!"

The roar sounds from across the room. An immense Illyrian pushes back from a table and charges the spymaster, arms wide. Azriel tenses, expecting confrontation. Instead, Gwyn drops her bags and shouts back.

"Cass!"

They crash into each other. The Night Court's General lifts her off her feet in a crushing embrace, laughter bursting from them both.

A warning trills through his shadows just moments as a tap bounces against his shoulder. Azriel turns. A fae stands before him all pale skin and cold, brilliant grey eyes. Her beauty was as harsh as her demeanor. She spreads her hands placatingly.

"You," she says in common, "look new, and they," she points to the pair squeezing one another to suffocation, "will be at this for a while. Why don't you join me at my table. I'll get you something to drink. Call me Nesta."

Nesta Archeron. Eldest of the Archeron sisters. Mated to the Lord of Bloodshed. It was Lady Death herself standing before him.

"Azriel," he greets, unwilling to drop her gaze. Like staring into a predator's eyes, he worried if he looked away she might strike.

"The shadowsinger," she affirms, considering him from head to toe. He's acutely aware of her praising gaze sweeping over him. She reaches out to tuck her hand in his arm, tugging him alongside her as they make their way to a table laden with food and different sized mugs. "So, where did Gwyn find you?"

"I'm assisting her with an assignment," he tells her honestly. He lowers himself onto the bench after she sits. A slender, graceful hand places a mug of water before him. Still staring, he blinks at her. She arches an expertly shaped eyebrow. "We're tracking down some ancient books," he clarifies with a gulp.

"Right," she drawls. "Well, I'll grab the two of you some food if there's any left. My mate's troops are light on manners and high on appetite. They also might stab you over a hot bath, so there's that." She eyes him again, lingering on his wings. His shadows shutter out of sight. "You seem big enough to handle yourself." Her eyes catch on something beyond his shoulder.

"Nesta!" Gwyn's utter delight rings across the hall. She pulls the stiff female into her arms. Death succumbs to the spymaster and the two wrap around one another in an affectionate hug. "How are you?"

"Oh, you know," the other says casually, "same as always. Incredibly well read and growing deadlier by the day." She kisses Gwyn on the cheeks and presses her forehead against the spymaster's. "You look more at peace then the last time I saw you," Nesta says quietly with a gentle smile. "You will have to tell me about your adventures now that you're back for a bit. What the fuck did you do to your face?" She pulls back and taps a small silver scar at Gwyn's brow.

"I need to get a haircut tomorrow," Gwyn distracts, returning Nesta's kisses. "Can we catch up later? I'd like to settle in for the night." She looks past her friend to Azriel, who raises his mug at her. "I see you found Azriel while your mate had me preoccupied. He's such a softy." Gwyn squeezes her friend one more time before stepping from Nesta's embrace.

"Yes, well, that softy is sleeping in a separate room tonight after keeping me awake all night," Nesta says with a roll of her eyes. At Gwyn's slow blink and Azriel's blush, she clarifies, "with all his snoring." She glares at him and Azriel catches a twitch of a smile on Gwyn's face. "If you ever tell anyone what I just said I will stab you," Nesta threatens.

"I don't know what you mean." Azriel looks away and takes a sip of water. He reaches for some bread.

"I like him," Nesta says with air of proclamation. "You should keep him." She looks to the spymaster.

"I intend to," Gwyn replies, an absolutely feral grin upon her face, all teeth and affection. Azriel's cheeks flame and he shoves the bread into his mouth. Nesta smiles at him, as sharp as a shark.

"Let me get you some food before its all gone," Nesta says more to herself than them. "I'll be right back," she says, touching Gwyn's arm before stalking off to the other side of the hall. Gwyn watches her with a fond expression before turning to smile at him.

"Oh," Gwyn shouts, looking at the food upon the table. "These are my favorite!" She shoves a single meat pastry into her mouth and chews happily.

"Hey," Azriel startles when she makes out the pastry he'd laid out for himself, cupping his hands around it protectively. She laughs behind her hand, muffled by her full mouth, and turns to greet someone at the far end of the table. In the presence of her friends, she was glowing. Happy. He'd never seen her so at ease. She was-

"She's fucking amazing, right?" Nesta says, setting down a plate full of more pastries and a mug of water. He'd been so distracted by Gwyn he hadn't heard her approach from the kitchens. "A bit unfair, don't you think?"

"I-yes," Azriel agrees, startled by the way she'd picked up on his inner thoughts.

"She looks at you like your hung from the moon, shadowsinger. She's not that hard to read." Azriel opens his mouth to protest the direction of their conversation, but she cuts him off with a wave of her hand. "Most of us look at her like that. It's fun to see it work in reverse." She winks at him companionably and Azriel decides he rather likes Lady Death. Like the spymaster, she is not at all what he expected. He gives her a smile and nod, eyes moving back to Gwyn.

"The food is excellent tonight," Gwyn announces. "It smells like they got rid of the guy who refused to season anything. Drove Cass crazy." She pushes a plate of food toward him, snatches his mug and drains the rest of the water before pouring more.

Azriel raises a brow at her, and an intense, silent argument stews between them over the appropriateness of stealing another's beverage. As it's a battle fought mostly in eyebrows, Azriel loses.

After they finish their meal, he and Gwyn say farewell and head upstairs. Gwyn lives on the fourth floor, on the same hall as what looks like a rather impressive library. Rummaging through her bag she pulls forth a pair of keys and unlocks a door at the far end of the hallway. She pushes it open and gestures for Azriel to enter.

"Home sweet home," she singsongs.

#gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #azriel shadowsinger #ao3fic #acosf fanfiction #role reversal au #azriel x gwyn

[sacredsanguine]

5 Times Amer Doux Dreamt of Killing Nicholas Remington, and 1 Time He Didn’t

Little wonder that later that night, he dreams that Remington blood is as bitter as that chocolate.

Thank you @saviolum-sanguineus for beta-reading this fic for me! @kittenishdelights hope you're onboard the Nicholamer train too! Your pistachio chocolate scene suggestion was so scrumptious, lol!

He haunts Amer’s dreams: a figure of spectral black trailed by the cloying, metallic scent of blood. Nicholas Remington is a reaper whose scythe swings with the flash of his teeth, bared brilliant, searing white after softly swung whispers to a faceless throne. The blood spills whether Nicholas smiles or shouts—and his hands never bear the stains themselves. In his dreams, Amer steps out of the invisible, shadowed line that staff exists in, forces the Imperial Advisor to look at him with that poison-green gaze (not through him, at), feels his blood boil in his veins, and squeezes that black-collared throat until the poison flickers and fails. His scar stings like it’s been torn open when Amer wakes, breathing hard. His hands are clenched into fists in the sheets, crescent moons marking where his nails dig into the swell of flesh. The roar of the kitchen fires is never enough to drown out the screams of his past or the souls he knows will join it soon.

2. Lord Daddano always tests Amer’s patience, but (unfortunately for the chocolatier) he’s grown too accustomed to the sight of Andrey’s tongue swirling wetly around sticky fingers and the sound of entirely too enthusiastic exclamations of gourmet appreciation. It’s the sound of the Imperial Advisor’s voice and his sudden, unexpected appearance that makes Amer wonder if he’s finally tipped over the edge into hallucination.

He’s never known if the presence of Nicholas makes his dreams nightmares or the other way around. Either way, Amer has to lean into the familiar exasperation of watching nobles ignore him in favor of indulging in each other to ground himself. It’s a struggle not to pick up the sweet little knife beside him and drive it into the Advisor’s heart, exposed as it is; instead Amer clenches his jaw and rearranges his features into a smile he knows neither Nicholas nor Andrey will take notice of.

His palm is flat and pointed as the blade he wishes it were when he motions at one of the new pistachio-nougat confections. Its layers are robed in dark, glossy chocolate that’s almost as bitter as Amer feels when he lets himself think too much. Nicholas nods at the recommendation and Amer imagines that pale throat flexing under his grip as Andrey presses the little bite to Nicholas’s lips. Exposed heart indeed.

Nicholas watches—studies—Andrey with a singular intensity that makes Amer’s scar itch. It’s almost enough to make Amer believe his station’s invisibility would last if he lunged across the table and tore Nicholas’s throat out with his teeth.

Little wonder that later that night, he dreams that Remington blood is as bitter as that chocolate.

3. The macarons come out beautifully: smooth, evenly domed tops and tiny, clean feet, not a single crack to be seen in the airy pastel shells that hug rings of velvety buttercream and jam. They take two and a half hours to make, bake, and fill, and a day to mature in a temperature-controlled resting room before Amer hand-wraps them individually in pastel tissue paper and totes them over to the Remington estate in an enchanted silver box worth more than his rented room and the few possessions that fill it.

The cats enjoy them almost as much as Samael does. Amer, robbed somewhat of the perpetual invisibility of his station by his responsibility to introduce each course, despairs quietly in the corner of the room as the friskier of the little white kittens manages to dye himself and half the table pink with ruby chocolate sauce.

He half-expects Nicholas to be as harsh on his son as he is to everyone else in court; the Advisor’s unexpected, radical gentleness is so jarring it slips somehow back into the realm of terror. The same hands that have turned living beings into shapeless, broken bags of blood and bone wield a silver dessert spoon with the careless elegance of a hummingbird feeding from honeysuckle. Samael beams up at Nicholas, showing him some silly thing that the kittens’ pawprints have melded into on the tablecloth, and Nicholas smiles back with the fond, indulgent expression of a stained glass saint.

Amer focuses on the ruby chocolate pawprints until the light makes them gleam red as blood and he tastes his own from where he’s bitten his tongue.

That night, he pins Nicholas to the floor of his own dining room, hands tight around his neck and growing tighter; Amer realises it’s a dream not when green light bursts around him and his blood begins to flow backwards in his veins, but when Nicholas meets his eyes and croaks, “You’d murder a father in front of his son? Very righteous.”

Samael’s eyes are huge and watery, green just as piercing as his father’s magic as he stares at Amer from the doorway. His lip trembles first, followed by his shoulders as he wails, fat tears rolling down his thin face. Amer’s grip loosens, but Nicholas doesn’t move; instead, he begins to laugh—harsh and mocking, more crow-like than the songbirds his son takes after.

Amer’s stomach churns. Beneath Samael’s sobs he can hear the cries of children with dead eyes, the ones he tries to lay out extra blankets and smuggle a few sweets from the kitchens for at every meeting in the teaching hospital basement. Some of them cry at night, others scream in their sleep, and every single one of them would have a fuller family tree if the man laughing on the ground beneath him hadn’t whispered something in the monarch’s ear. He doubts Nicholas doesn’t know—he just doesn’t care.

It isn’t fair. It never has been. It never will be.

Good chocolate snaps when broken, with a loud, clear crack and a clean edge; Amer could identify it in a heartbeat. Maybe that’s why the wet crunch of Nicholas’s neck snapping wakes him up screaming.

4. The Ward trial is a catastrophe. Amer reads the summary of events in the morning paper, launches it into the wastebin furiously, and almost immediately fishes the crumpled ball back out to reread the article in a desperate bid to convince himself that the Butcher of Seraphine Estate would face more than a tap (calling it a slap is too generous) on the wrist.

His despair follows him like smoke billowing out of burnt sugar; it’s only when he shouts at Kezia for a split ganache undeserving of such wrath that he realizes the rest of his kitchen is staring warily at him much like he’d stared at any noble when his scar was still a wound. Amer sets his bowl of frangipane down—it smacks harder than he intended on the counter and he winces—and wipes roughly at his face with the towel at his waist.

“I’m sorry.” Amer can feel the heat of the kitchen fires pressing sweat from his skin, but the pounding dizziness in his head comes with a sensation of being frozen in place. “Send the commis and the dishwashers home for the day—”

“Already did, Chef,” Kezia says flatly; her face is taut with understanding straining at its limits. She’s already chopped the chocolate to fix the ganache; it scrapes off the board and hits the oil layer with a quiet rustle. “Figured it’d be worse for you to see them cowering.”

Amer exhales noisily and nods. Kezia is a better sous-chef than anyone could ask for. Her voice is quiet when she speaks next, still carrying the clipped urgency the kitchens demand. “Go home, Amer. You’re a danger here.”

She could mean anything: distraction around knifes, fires, and the latter two in crowded spaces is all too easy to trip into greater injury, but Kezia pins Amer with a gaze that’s just this side of knowing. She’s a better sous-chef than anyone could ask for, and a better observer too. He’s lucky they’re on the same side.

Amer walks home feeling like he’s fallen into a pale waking nightmare. When he finally falls asleep on a pillow that can’t take much more punching, he sees Nicholas on the stand in the courtroom. There’s blood everywhere; the judge is a headless thing slumped and oozing over a gavel.

There is a sword in Amer’s hand and he can wield it as easy and precise as a dowel spinning sugar for croquembouche; he flies from the benches up to Nicholas, screaming names of people who will never answer him again. The sword finds its target like a lost child running home; there’s a breath of startled resistance before the flesh and muscle parts for Amer’s blade, length sinking in with a wet squelch.

The taste of bitter chocolate interrupts Amer’s litany for the fallen; there’s a moment of silence, sweet as raw sugar, before those green eyes flutter back open and Nicholas bares those scythe teeth at him. It’s soulless, the Advisor’s polished face of personal war, and it burns in Amer’s chest like it’s going to tear him apart—Nicholas clenches his fingers and Amer stumbles forward as the hand buried in his chest rips aorta and vena cava asunder, then plunges deeper and bursts from his back, bloody heart clutched like a pearl; there’s a soft grunt that Amer only knows is his because of the way his lungs ripple around the air driven from them, and Nicholas smiles. It’s a soft in the way moonlight off even the deadliest of poisons is soft, and fixated in a way Amer recognises by the itch that prickles along his scar.

The sword in Amer’s trembling hand sinks in to the hilt, grinding against some fragment of rib when Nicholas squeezes his hand again; Amer’s face is close enough to his that the wet plop of Amer’s heart as Nicholas drops it to the floor is drowned out by his raspy whisper: “My beloved spoke the truth. I’m holding everything else against you.”

Amer wakes violently, hands pressing frantically at his chest as he sucks in air.

5. It would be wise to get to sleep early the night before the Day of Metamorphosis Parade, but Amer’s obligations are apparently dedicated to folly. He isn’t able to leave the kitchens until nearly two in the morning, visions of pastry cream and chocolate butterflies blurring over his vision as he stumbles home through dark streets. He falls into bed and sleep almost instantly, but the peace of a dreamless night escapes him.

It begins in the kitchens: cocoa butter melting while he scrapes pigments into powder with a curved knife, the smell of chocolate making his mouth and eyes water as he works. It tempers easily, eagerly popping out of the molds in glossy, perfect curves, and Amer smiles.

Nicholas is leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, when Amer turns around; the tray of quenelles clatters to the ground, painted white chocolate shells rattling like chips of bone. Nicholas doesn’t so much as blink at the mess, boredom carved harsh and haughty into his face.

“Two dozen dolorosas,” he says; his voice is as strident as ever, demanding in the way of a man who’s seldom been denied and accustomed to making examples of those who do.

He watches Amer work, green eyes hovering over his shoulder like the fangs of a beast as he whisks and melts and whisks again. It’s enough of a reminder of Daddano that Amer’s dream shifts around him for a moment, melting into slick shades of grey and pearly white before he finds himself at the dark, cool shelves of extracts and herbs kept away from the fires. Nicholas hasn’t followed him; Amer’s heart pounds in his chest as his fingers close around an unmarked, dark glass bottle. The liquid inside glimmers clear; even in his dreams, Amer knows that poison is rarely as obvious as storybooks make it out to be.

It will do nothing more than perfume the air with almonds until the chocolate crystallizes and turns its fragrance into fatality. This Amer knows in the watertight, ineffable way of dreams; it’s that same logic that presses him forward against Nicholas, holding the open bottle up between them as fire burns in his gut. He will slip his hand into the mouth of the beast to watch it choke; dignity is a small price to pay.

“Does this please you?” Amer asks, voice low and raspy—partially a conscious attempt to mimic Andrey’s forwardness but mostly thanks to histamines.

Nicholas’s face is still, a mask sculpted out of ice and disdain; he doesn’t bother inhaling before his words are sliding over Amer’s skin like the burning thaw of icicles. “You’ve forgotten yourself.”

But he doesn’t push Amer away; Nicholas raises a hand, looking rather like a cat toying with some bird trapped in a corner, and lets his fingers crawl up the edge of Amer’s jaw, gripping a little too tight for comfort. His eyes are clear, green boring into green like a candle held between two mirrors. “Get back to work.”

The hunger in his voice is cold enough to raise goosebumps on Amer’s skin, even with the heat of the kitchens.

Death, it turns out, dreams of itself wrapped in the delicate scent of almonds and a glossy coat of chocolate so dark it’s nearly black. Amer rolls out twenty-four perfect spheres of bitter chocolate—how fitting, that they’re already in mourning colors—and holds one up between thumb and middle finger.

Nicholas doesn’t part his lips; he raises a brow imperiously until Amer lifts the dolorosa to his mouth, then smiles that scythe-like smile, malicious in the way of a beautiful thing meant to hurt. His tongue is warm, teeth blunt but unforgiving as he holds the tip of Amer’s finger between them and rolls the chocolate deeper into his mouth; the tip of his tongue flicks against Amer’s fingertip, oddly whip-like, and for a moment the dream imagines that the skin there splits, blood sizzling.

Amer draws his hand back and smiles at the sharp crack of chocolate; there will be an instant of smooth pistachio and salt on the Advisor’s tongue before the bitterness blooms into eternity—Nicholas lunges forward, one hand curling harshly around the back of Amer’s neck, dragging him down so Nicholas can slant his mouth over Amer’s, fingers digging in enough to force a gasp out—

His tongue is hot, slicked with chocolate that tastes of blood or blood that tastes of chocolate; Amer bites down and tastes bitter iron and smoke, swallows down Nicholas and his death as they fall together to the floor, hunger and rage twitching between them.

Green holds its reflection captive until both mirrors shutter, emerald candle between them snuffed out as suddenly as waking from a nightmare—Amer jolts upright in bed, every breath and muscle in his body throbbing hard.

That afternoon, when he crunches the detonator in a sweaty fist, he can’t help but think of the way Nicholas laughs—sharp and splintered.

+1. Amer has never been particularly devout, but it does strike him as a sign that it was the third dream of his in which Samael appeared, and that it’s Samael who saves him, even if his life is paid for by the blood of those he’s torn from and a batch of pastel macarons. Kezia’s mutterings about what kind of man names his child “Poison of God” flash through his mind and Amer’s scar screams from its silent throne beneath the curve of his eye.

He pours himself into work as much as he can, hoping that exhaustion will be the end of the specter in his dreams: Amer’s nights know no such kindness. Every night, he finds himself on his knees with the taste of blood in his mouth, looking up at Nicholas and Samael like some corrupted version of La Pietà in Kezia’s church. The scent of gore holds him down, green burning into green; Amer finds himself in a wretched loop of looking up and meeting Nicholas’s dry gaze—to be seen by him in waking life carries only a dilute cousin of the satisfaction it does in dreams, the majority of its power turned to the induction of pitiless, fathomless rage.

Samael gazes down at Amer but does not speak. Amer is impaled by matching green gazes, his own rendered useless in the face of destruction; Nicholas is impassive as he looks down the bridge of his nose at Amer, and for a moment, monstrous, ravenous hunger roars above the pounding of blood around them. Amer cannot move. He cannot speak. All he can do is wait for the reaper to bring his scythe swinging down.

It never comes.

#nicholamer #s2g formatting this post was harder than writing the fic #written in nectar

[sacrilegious-skeletal-scribe]

community radio broadcasting

and four-odd horsemen who could use a little goddamn pep in their step (feat. R.E.M.)

‘sounds like the world’s ending,’ i say conversationally

head propped toward the sound of lives changing, somewhere behind camera b

radio spitting half-shaped static at my ears while i try to use them for updates

‘again?’ you reply, eyes flicking between reflections as we stall out

(you slotted the car between dirt-bitten paint and two-door sedans that would rather be anywhere else)

(i understand the sentiment)

‘it’s the end of the world as we know it'

metal on metal on plastic on sauna pokes through the last whine of the engine

music hissing away dutifully as I eye the key left in the disarmed ignition

and you lean into the headrest like a plastic beach chair neither of us bought, exactly

(and there is not dread wriggling down my throat each time i swallow)

i am a free man and i am here of my own volition and the afternoon is going well 

and the wind pushing sloppily at my face sure isn’t just moving the heat around

(and if i die in this parking lot at least my casket will not meet dirt unaccompanied)

just me, and you

(us; intwined fate, court jesters for whatever king has managed to wander past us)

baking in the front seat of a car that really should’ve eaten us by now

tossed hollering bodies into a guardrail

into a racing front bumper on a back highway with no street paint

spun out on a deer just as terrified of us as we are

(ole faithful, we grin, patronizing and confident, and this car really should’ve killed one of us, the way we drive it)

(like it’s holy, like we’re crashing a sunday service; sacrilege in poor singing and high spirits)

instead of us, intact, baking in a front seat

bathed in sunlight chasing the last dregs of midday heat

heat soaking into my arms through the menace of your open window

listing to radio waves that crackle more often than sing

‘it’s the end of the world as we know it’ 

there’s a quiet irritation between us, simmering in the heat mirage

and it is the heat, probably, this parking lot desert

or it’s the squealing we get at traffic lights, thinning brake pads we’re pretending not to hear

or the yawning canyon between the F decal and a dull plastic throat wound

a little red line to remind us about an engine running on dust

the clock-face reorders itself and I stake my eyes to it without seeing

modeling an expression that could’ve always been watching that loose inch of dashboard

(like it matters, like i’m not waiting patiently for the execution slot to tick over)

it’s nostalgic, almost

boiling softly in a front seat while inertia kicks at my heart rate

trying to hedge off enough of my emotional responses to keep the panic attack half-coiled in my stomach

a little nausea pulls the veil of familiarity together, really

while i steel myself for a sound chamber made of linoleum and ice

the kind of workhouse freezer that could make a CEO long for hell

but for now there is sunlight on my arms

(there was steam when we pried the car doors into entrances)

and the weight on my chest belongs to the afternoon breeze

the one sliding unevenly down my throat, nudging at my hands, my jaw, my clothes

‘it’s air’ cry the gnat swarms throwing themselves into the back window

‘it’s like breathing water’ you mutter, like it’s a revelation, like i’m not drowning in the seat across from you

like i won't have to get out of the car soon

‘it’s the end of the world as we know it’

‘shift ends at nine, right?’

‘-end of the world as we know-’

‘nine-thirty’

‘-’s the end of-‘

‘right’

‘-world as we know it’

‘it’s the end of the world as we know it’

#poets on tumblr #poetry #spilled ink #humidity #job desperation #emotional fallout of wage oppression and mild heatstroke #the pressing dread of late stage capitalism #y'all ever feel your soul dripping around your ankles waiting to be let into somewhere you don't want to go #fun fact! it took me long enough to finish it from when i started that it's started to cool off #it’s the end of the world as we know it #r.e.m.

[monochromeanswere]

i started a thing @urianius

It is of great disappointment that I, Finn, the greatest hero of all time must put together a letter apologizing for the damage I caused this weekend at your bakery. Lovely place by the way! My intentions were not to cause any harm, but instead to protect every patron from the evildoer lurking in the back of the shop, in the third booth from the end near the windows with the good view might I add! 

Now, looking back, there were plenty of things I could have done differently. Should I have attempted to break through a window? No, absolutely not, and I do apologize for the cracks I added to your otherwise pristine property. I also apologize for causing multiple customers to spill their drinks and food. Again, this was not my intention, but I still feel sorry for all the harm that I caused in the process of saving the day.

I am well aware that you think my actions were part of a prank or that I was just another college youngster playing around, but I assure you my actions were nothing of the sort! I was simply trying to protect everyone! Sure, I had the wrong guy, but my heart was in the right place, promise!

Anyway, please don’t take me to court. I can’t afford it. I’m begging you. Please. I’ll do anything. 

Signed, 

Your Local Superhero FINN!

He lets out a great sigh and flops onto his bed with a great deal of exasperation, running a hand through his overly bleached hair that had begun to really show its damage within the past month or so. That was an easy fix. Trying to fix his reputation was not going to be such an easy feat, after all. His letter to the cafe on the other side of the city had reaped no response and he was beginning to assume that the owner had ignored him. He didn’t understand entirely, surely they could understand that his intention was only to save the day! Then again, when he really thought about it, outside of the house work he performed nobody seemed to appreciate his good deeds. 

He knew he just needed his big breakthrough and he’d begin to resemble the likes of Clark Kent or even Spiderman (who was his personal favorite). On top of a grand heroic deed, he’d need a costume and branding just like the heroes he looked up to, but where exactly could he get those things? It wasn’t as if there was a store that provided the hero essentials, nor did he think that anybody would be willing to invest in a nobody like him.

Not yet, anyway. One day he’d be there! He’d make them all understand what a great hero he was! He just needed to beat the right criminal, foil the right crime and make sure his name made headlines. The question was how exactly he went about doing this. Unless he set something up, the chances of him stumbling upon the perfect crime was nearly impossible, he figured he had better chances at winning the lottery than that. For all his faults and general lack of intelligence, he was smart enough to realize that his dream wasn’t an easy one to achieve. 

See, Finn already knew he was a superhero, it was just that the general public didn’t understand it yet, but he was going to prove it to them once and for all that he was. In the meantime, he busied himself with odd jobs and typically spent his days beguiling grandmothers while cleaning their house and attempting to not destroy their kitchens when they asked him to assist with their baking. There were many reasons as to why he took on these odd jobs, but ultimately it boiled down to them being heroic acts in his own right. These people shouldn’t have to clean their own house! No, instead Finn, the greatest superhero of all time, could vacuum their floors and rid their apartments of those nasty dust bunnies that lurked in every corner.

On one hand, those thoughts would seemingly only serve to keep him sane, but in reality he genuinely believed that every act of his was one of the utmost heroism. There were those out there that called him a fool, a sham, and even a few who suggested he take a visit to the looney bin (what a horrible name to call it!) but he ignored all of them. Stuck within his daydreams, Finn carried out what he referred to as his missions with great enthusiasm and a zest for life that he found many lacked. He had wonderful friends and a few fans that would cheer him on, though it was clear to everyone but Finn that they were just playing along in hopes that he’d understand they were trying to ask him out due to his cute demeanor, not because they genuinely believed he was a hero.

Finn was blind, not in the literal sense, but it was thought he blocked out all negativity or any semblance of reality in his life. This was, perhaps, not a bad thing, but there were times where a nice slap of reality would certainly serve him well. The cafe incident was a great example. The man couldn’t even remember the name of the place and had only managed to write to them when his dearest friend supplied the name and address for him. Incidentally, they’d been there on the day of the incident. In fact, they’d been one of the many unfortunate customers to spill their coffee onto the floor. Finn had not noticed at the time, of course, but once his friend had a nice grip of his arm and dragged him away from the scene of the crime fuming he began to understand that perhaps he had acted a bit rashly. Even so, he determinedly told Sieun multiple times that she didn’t understand, it was all in the name of justice! Certainly she could understand that!

She did not. Instead, she basically grounded him. It was an unfair punishment in his eyes, but he listened like an obedient child. Most of the time, he was more akin to a petulant toddler, but when it came to Sien her word was law in his eyes. He would never do something to cross her, especially not on purpose. 

He didn’t feel the same about everyone he knew, which may come as a shock considering his desire to be a hero, but even those with their heads up in the clouds can see when someone is not so desirable to be around. For Finn, there weren’t many who rubbed him the wrong way, but when they did he often gave them the cold shoulder or outright attempted to bother them. There was one that worked at his local cafe that he visited frequently, a man named Charlie that Finn simply could not stand. It was something about the way Charlie held himself and the way that he spoke down to everyone around him as though he was the authority on everything in life. Charlie saw himself as a king, which was quite entertaining as his appearance suggested anything but. He had the looks of someone unsettling, always greasy hair and skin and he brought about a certain stench, as well. Finn was not one to judge on appearances, but there was something about Charlie that just made his skin crawl.

There was also the fact that Charlie constantly hit on the woman he’d fallen in love with. Just the thought of her alone was enough to make his cheeks flush red, but thinking of Charlie speaking to her made his nostrils flare and a sound of annoyance escaped him. On the list of nerdowells that Finn had unfortunately met, Charlie was currently his greatest enemy. That being said, outside of the one time that Charlie had insulted the hero directly to his face, he’d generally avoided all contact otherwise. Part of it was due to the fact he smelled quite awful. But mainly because Charlie was not the type of person you could mess with. Even if Finn did pull a prank it would only cause Charlie to lash out like an oversized child and Finn did not want to put anyone else through that sort of thing. 

#idk im just rambling #i miss him

[secretivemessenger]

You swine. You vulgar little maggot. You worthless bag of filth. I wager you couldn't empty a boot of excrement were the instructions on the heel. You are a canker. A sore that won't go away. I would rather kiss a lawyer than be seen with you. Try to edit your responses of unnecessary material before attempting to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able to access it more rapidly.

You snail-skulled little rabbit. Would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs. You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid, nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You're a fool, an ignoramus.

And what meaning do you expect your delusional self-important statements of unknowing, inexperienced opinion to have to us who think and reason? What fantasy do you hold that you would believe that your tiny-fisted tantrums would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake? You are a waste of flesh.

You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and obnoxious. You are the moral equivalent of a leech. You are a living emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a disease, you puerile one-handed slack-jawed , drooling meatslapper. You smarmy lagerlout git. You bloody woofter sod. Bugger off, pillock. You grotty wanking oik artless base-court apple-john. You clouted boggish foot-licking twit. You dankish clack-dish plonker. You gormless crook-pated tosser. You churlish boil-brained clotpole ponce. You cockered bum-bailey poofter. You gob-kissing gleeking flap-mouthed coxcomb. You dread-bolted fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill.

You are a fiend and a coward, and you have bad breath. You are degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just for knowing you exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go away. I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. I mean rock-hard stupid. Dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid so stupid that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. You are trans-stupid stupid. Meta-stupid. Some pure essence of a stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond the laws of physics that we know. I'm sorry. I can't go on.

This is an epiphany of stupid for me. After this, you may not hear from me again for a while. I don't have enough strength left to deride your ignorant questions and half-baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel. Duh. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a load of babbling was hardly effective.

True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us "normal" people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering. But we sometimes forget that there are "challenged" persons in this world who find these things more difficult. If I had known, that this was your case then I would have never read your post. It just wouldn't have been "right". Sort of like parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a demand on you.

You're an idiot. A moron of the highest order. You're so stupid it's a wonder and a pity you can remember to breath. Intelligent ideas bounce off your head as if it were coated with teflon. Creative thoughts take alternate transportation in order to avoid even being in the same state as you. If you had an original thought it would die of loneliness before the hour was out. On an intelligence scale of 1 to 10 (10 corresponding to the highest attainable IQ) you're rating is so far into negative numbers that one would need to travel into another quantum reality in order to even catch a distant glimpse of it.

Your personality is that of a rabid Chihuahua intent on destroying its own tail. Your powers of observation are akin to those of the bird that keeps slamming into the picture window trying to get that other bird it keeps seeing. You are walking, talking proof that you don't have to be sentient to survive, and that Barnum was thinking of you when he uttered his immortal phrase regarding the birth of a sucker. You are, at varying times, tedious, boring, and even occasionally earth shatteringly hilarious in your idiocy, routinely childish, moronic, pathetic, wretched, disgusting and pitiful.

You are wholly without any redeeming social grace or value. If God ever decides to give the planet an enema you'd better run like the wind because anywhere you stand is a suitable place for The Insertion. There is no animal so disgusting, so vile that it deserves comparison to you, for even the lowest, dirtiest, most parasitic member of the animal kingdom fills an ecological niche. You fill no niche. To call you a parasite would be injurious and defamatory to the thousands of honest parasitic species. You are worse than vermin, for vermin do not pretend to be what it is not. You are truly human garbage. You are a fraudulent, lying, predatory charlatan. You are of less worth than a burnt-out light bulb. You will forever live in shame.

You have nothing to say, and Godwin's Law does not apply when writing about you. You are the anti-Midas, for all that you touch becomes valueless and unusable. Mothers gather their children close when you appear. You are an aberration, a corruption, and a boil that needs to be lanced. You are a poison in need of being vomited. You are a tooth so rotten it infects the whole body. You are sperm that should have been captured in a condom and flushed down a toilet.

I don't like you. I don't like anybody who has as little respect for others as you do. Go away, you swine. You're a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a cad, and a weasel. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon. You are a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. Meaningful to no one, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts that sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done.

I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformity. I wretch at the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut. Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are a weed, a fungus, and the dregs of this earth. And did I mention you smell? Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won't have sex with you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot. You are a waste of flesh. On a good day you're a halfwit. You are deficient in all that lends character. You have the personality of wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted. You are the source of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.

You are a fiend and a coward, and you have bad breath. You are degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just for knowing you exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go away. I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. Maybe later in life, after you have learned to read, write, study, spell, and count, you will have more success. True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us "normal" people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering. It just wouldn't have been "right". Sort of like parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a demand on you.

You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful, cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable, belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal, fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic, brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame, self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, satanic, fraudulent, libellous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb, evasive, double-talking, devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic, fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased, suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim, crazy, weird, dystrophic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim, unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive, mind-numbing, abrasive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive, abusive, and socially-retarded.

Shut up and go away lest you achieve the physical retribution your behaviour merits.

Thank you for your kind attention to and expected cooperation in this matter.

Yeah I ain’t reading all of that- fuck you

#i read few things and it’s obviously and insult toward me #so fuck you

[dragongirldg]

Something something political set up by HIC.

HIC wanted to give June a Kismesis, and since she knew an associate relatively close to June’s age, she thought about profits of a political relationship.

It kind of worked, but not really the way she thought.

Somehow instead of black rom, it was red!

Caliborn came over to live with June, but she managed to keep him from moving in. So, to get revenge for this (and honestly kind of thinks she flirting with him) he decided to insert himself into her life anyways.

He somehow disguised himself as a human with a fake name, Caleb, and pretended to be a nice and friendly guy.

They now have to delicately balance this secret and play “nice” in front of everyone, as far as they know- they have no reason to beef. (They sound nice, but really it’s backhanded insults).

Now, not everyone know about aliens and most are hiding among the humans.

Karkat and a few nosy busybodies tended to make little mistakes here and there that almost reveal themselves because they can sense the tension far better than the humans can.

Prime example is June and her blatant flirting with Terezi while “Caleb” is right there. Jealous, “Caleb” always pulls June’s attention a way from her and getting a different and stronger reaction from June.

Karkat is the most at risk of outing himself because he makes June question him. He can’t help himself- the signs are all there! Their spades are a bit more red than he expected, but he could work with that! He could set them up for a confession. If June would admit to having something for “Caleb”.

They’re practically dating without actually dating already!

Which leads to the middle of the story.

After Karkat insisting that they are interested in each other aggressively to June, she was getting to the boiling point of her stress and it didn’t help that “Caleb” showed to give her a slight verbal nudge- she acted more defensively and he noticed.

“Caleb” backed off since June wasn’t being herself and watched her storm away with worry. To show that worry, he went over to her house that night to annoy the truth out of her.

Instead of the truth, he got an impromptu make out in the kitchen. He was confused as fxxk but tried not to say anything because she looked so angry that he might get another one. (In more frequent intervals.)

With a glare in her eyes, she struck up a deal with him. Intrigued with this new rule in their game, he asked what the deal entailed.

“You like my baking right?”, she hissed at him calmly.

“It’s not terrible- quite decent compared to your friends.”, he said.

“Then, in exchange for a plate of cookies will you quit involving my friends? They have nothing to do with this! They suspect you of something and I’m sure you don’t want this twisted game of yours to end.”, she snapped.

He pretended to ponder this deal when it was completely in his favor. He’s been meaning to get more intimate and personal with her; he is also getting a whole plate of cookies from her, and she never said to stop courting her altogether.

“Well, that sounds quite tempting! However, what makes you think I’m the one getting them involved? Your dumbaxx friends like to stick their noses where they don’t belong.”, he sneered.

“Between you and me.”, he left unsaid.

She did not pick up on that and huffed as she pulled him by his collar closer to her. He held her against the table she was pinned to, to look into her hateful eyes.

“I want nothing more than for you to drop dead, but as it stands I have no choice but to keep you in sight at all times. I trust my friends, but I don’t trust you.”, she growled out.

She stare became less heated and her shoulders dropped as she leaned back. She examined him for a moment; he felt her eyes burning his neck. She flushed when she felt his eyes burn her bleeding lips.

His fangs pricked her lips when they kissed and became as red as her cheeks in contrast to her pale skin.

She pouted and scrunched her face in thought. She played with his collar.

“I want an answer.”, she finally said, unable to wait.

He laughed as he snuggled close to her; the purring of his chest eased her into embracing him with a turn of her head and closed eyes.

“Sure, we work on the details later. But for now…”, he trailed off as he nipped her neck.

She tensed for a moment, before relaxing.

“Let’s go back to where we left off~”, he murmured.

They kissed again as June relented.

The rest of the story goes that June expertly hid her distant for “Caleb” from most of the humans and even some of the aliens, but being nice to each other doesn’t go well.

June pretending to be friends with “Caleb” led to them thinking more strongly that June was crushing on “Caleb” hard. The aliens could see that “Caleb” was crushing on June just as hard. They all groan in agony at the absurdity of it all.

June was always touching “Caleb” in some way, her hands never leaving him. “Caleb” was also staring and talking about June without end. He had nothing but nice things to say about her even when they were suppose to be negative.

Eventually June got caught up in the act and made the dumb decision to hand him the cookies when people were looking at them. The pressure from the question made her a flighty broad.

She couldn’t take it any more and gave up the act to say what she really thinks about him. Both sides, humans and aliens heard how hard she went off about him. She didn’t even notice how her words changed.

Her face flushed and a dopey smile curls up as her demeanor changed. She went from ragging on him to thinking he a little attractive to babbling about things she wished would happen. All of her compliments were backhanded (reverse of backhanded insults).

Through it all, no one said a dxmn thing because he walked in to the tirade half way in and simply leaned against the wall crossed arms to listen.

When it’s revealed that he was there, her face froze into her default smile as she looked a round the room. She began to legitimately cry, freaking them all the Fxck out.

Unable to handle her own feelings, she punched him in the gut before running off to her grandmother’s house (an actual castle).

Well Fxck, cats out of the bag.

Aliens are real and the majority of June’s family are alien royalty. She a motherfing princess.

So she wasn’t surprised aliens are real, that “Caleb” was one or that all of her friends that gave massive hints were any either.

Double Fxck, HIC changed her mind about political relationships.

“Ah Fxck, my B. I should have thought this through.”, said June from the rooftop as she was nested into HICs hair.

—————

End

Bye!

#cute #fanart #au #homestuck #john egbert #caliborn #calijohn #June egbert #calijune #HIC #karkat vantas #karkat #comic #terezi pyrope #terezi #black romance #red romance #kismesis #matesprits #moirails #auspistic #auspices

[ninjafoodtours]

5 Famous Foods to Try in Kyoto

Traditional culinary culture has flourished in Kyoto, and you may get a taste of history with Japanese course meals prepared as part of a traditional tea ceremony and vegetarian cuisine influenced by Chinese Buddhism.

The town's local cuisine (Kyo-ryori) is colorful and visually appealing, thanks to the expertise of Japanese chefs. Everyone should have the opportunity to sample traditional Japanese cuisine in the stately setting of Kyoto at least once in their lives. Of course, fantastic food at reasonable costs is available.

We've compiled a list of some of the top local cuisines and budget-friendly treats that Kyoto residents enjoy daily.

Yudof (Boiled tofu): 

Perhaps no food represents Kyoto more than you. It contains only tofu, water, kelp, and a dipping sauce. The kelp is put in the bottom of a stewpot, filled with tofu and water, and simmered. Tofu is scooped up and served with a dipping sauce, typically a ponzu soy sauce-based vinaigrette.

Hamo (Conger eel) 

The spikey-toothed hamo (conger eel) is a difficult adversary to deal with. Small bones span the length of its slim body. Chefs make half-cuts into the filleted meat to make it tasty - 24 cuts within each three-centimeter span. Hamo can be boiled, grilled, deeply fried, and even used in shabu-shabu or nabe stew. Cold, boiled ham served with a tart ume (plum) sauce is especially popular in the summer.

Tsukemono (Japanese pickles) 

Before the refrigerator, Japan kept its vegetables by pickling them in salt. When Kyoto was chosen as the nation's capital in 794, a slew of items from Japan began to arrive in Kyoto and at the imperial court. Local artisans attempted to refine these products, resulting in a varied range of Kyoto crafts, including tsukemono.

Kyoto's top tsukemono are three types of pickles: shibazuke, senmaizuke, and sugizuke. Shibazuke is a sour and crunchy pickled mixture of sliced cucumber and eggplant with scarlet shiso (perilla or beefsteak plant). Shiso turns the ingredients pink.

Matcha

Kyoto is a beautiful place to explore matcha because it is the birthplace of the tea ceremony. You may get frothy green tea at many tea shops on temple grounds or in popular tourist places, with or without the ceremony. In Japan, matcha is the most acceptable type of green tea. To improve its color, flavor, fragrance, and nutritional value, it is made from tea leaves cultivated under certain circumstances, dried, and ground in a similar environment. Everything here adds to the sensory experience of drinking matcha.

Matcha is also delightful in its various modern guises, like soft-serve ice cream, cake, biscuits, and crackers, which can be found around Kyoto.

Yatsuhashi

Yatsuhashi is the most famous Kyoto souvenir sweet. It's created of rice flour, sugar, and Nikki, a type of Japanese cinnamon. Warming the dough before shaping it into a thin, half-pipe form and baking it results in crisp, slightly challenging cookies that resemble little brown roof tiles. Since 1689, this type of yatsuhashi has been around.

Matcha and sesame tastes, as well as more recent additions like chocolate and banana, are available in addition to the traditional cinnamon flavor.

Do you want to find the best fish market in Tokyo? If so, Ninja Food Tours are for you. Our team members are natives who are motivated by the thriving culinary scene. Let us take you on a delectable journey filled with cuisine, laughter, and history. On Osaka food tours, you'll uncover Kyoto's hidden gems and sample authentic Japanese dishes you've probably never eaten. The tour price includes full-size meal samples as well as the guiding charge. The night trips also include two glasses of alcoholic beverages of your choosing.

#best food tours japan #food tour japan #best food in shinjuku #japan local tour guide #restaurants in kyoto #best restaurants in kyoto #ninja tokyo