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twstbookclub · 1 year

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mc in epel & rook's fic is my spirit animal fr, love how you protray rook and epel

... could you write about pining (and desperate) vil? 👀

oh my god, thank you! i try my best thinking about how the guys would act whenever i write them, so seeing you say that... i'm just really happy right now ;; i also try really, really hard to make a unique mc for each fic. with how the boys are though, it's hard to try and put in an mc who's not a fighter in a way.

also!! thank you for giving me the chance to write for vil. i was a bit stuck on what i want for him, until you came along. when i think of vil being desperate and pining for someone, he'd be the type to find excuses to be with them lmao. just use his position as housewarden and his acting skills, and you got yourself a vil who can fool anyone into thinking he has no ulterior motives to be with the one he likes. well, except for rook. as a man who has the pride of a professional, he wouldn't let anyone know he's weak for them.

anyway, i hope you enjoy this! this was inspired by how much i want vil to do my makeup, and for all the times my friend did my makeup. i had so much fun writing this, hehe.

you have no idea how tempted i was to write vil as blatantly desperate and pining for the mc the entire time.

Of Makeup and Subtlety

Summary: You should've known that you'd have to follow Pomefiore's rules during your stay there. Although... does Vil really need to do your makeup? Why is it taking so long? POV: 2nd Person Pronouns: Gender Neutral Admin/Writer: Cressa 🦋 Tags: Fluff, Romance, Makeup Session, Vil Schoenheit being Lowkey Touch-Starved and Desperate, Mention of a Sleeping Grim Word Count: 1,788

“Hold still,” Vil clicked his tongue, pressing the chub of your cheeks between his thumb and index finger. “You’re going to ruin all of my hard work if you don’t stop squirming.”

You grumbled and resisted the urge to roll your eyes. You two have been sitting before the vanity mirror for hours. Yesterday, Vil insisted on doing your makeup for today, and the pity on Epel’s face said it all.

You decided to ignore the ominous smile that stretched across Rook's face—as if he knew something you didn’t.

You knew Vil long enough to know how much he took his beauty routine seriously. The man wouldn’t even budge when you told him about the possibility of being tardy to class. He needed to do his and your makeup, after all.

“Then, we wake up at dawn,” Vil said, looking at you with that determined fire in his eyes. “Come now, Prefect. While you’re under my care in Pomefiore, you have to look your best. I won’t let one smudge of lipstick stain our dorm’s reputation when it comes to beauty.”

That’s what he said. Now, you’re stuck awkwardly sitting in front of Vil as he held your face. Your chin rested on the web space between his thumb and index finger. The regal blond frowned and squeezed your cheeks once you scowled.

“Vil, it’s the ass crack of dawn. You woke me up earlier than expected, and you know I’m not a morning person.”

The sun laid dormant, the beginning of dawn as silent as the Pomefiore Dorm. No sane person would wake up at this hour, except for Vil apparently. The housewarden in question huffed, whether in amusement or exasperation was beyond you. His grip on you softened as he dabbed and slid the makeup sponge over your cheeks. Despite your grievances, it didn’t deter Vil at all. He kept applying the liquid foundation like a mother ignoring her child’s tantrum.

“I’ve told you beforehand, yet you refused to sleep early—” Vil shot you a deadpan look as he continued pressing the sponge on your skin— “Like I suggested.”

You shrunk in your seat, feeling small from Vil’s scolding. He sighed, blinking the annoyance away from his eyes. A calm, almost calculated, gleam took its place. He set the sponge aside with a pleased smile as his thumb caressed your cheek.

“I knew I bought the right shade for you.”

You owlishly blinked, brows raising high at Vil’s words. “When did you even find time to get the right shade?”

“Just yesterday.” Vil hummed, the pleased smile turning into a self-satisfied one. “Never underestimate my eyes. One look at you, and I could tell which shade and colors compliment your skin.”

You swore you felt Vil’s fingers tense on your jaw. Maybe it was because he had to keep your face still from all your talking. A defeated sigh escaped you as you slightly shook your head.

“Alright, alright. Can we please finish this already?” You grumbled, fidgeting in your seat. “I might get pins and needles if I stay like this any longer.”

Vil rolled his eyes and twisted the cap of the concealer open with a flourish. “One cannot rush beauty, Prefect.”

“Professor Crewel’s whip says otherwise.”

Vil’s hand never left your face the entire time. His breath ghosted over your skin every time he leaned close. The gentle stroke of the brush over your closed eyelids; the soft caresses on your cheek as Vil applied the blush; the occasional press of his thumb as he spreads the product on your skin—the blond was lost in his own concentration. Every time his thumb slid across your skin, his touch lingered as his eyes drank in your features. In your honest opinion, he was looking a bit too long for comfort. With either a brief nod or shake of his head, Vil would either add, lessen, or change something in your makeup.

Bottles of foundation, concealer, and creams lined the tabletop. Eyeshadow palettes and compact blushes were left open as he worked his magic. Vil’s pale hand was streaked with color swatches and mixed shades. The stains somehow looked beautiful on his skin, which was surreal. It should be illegal at this point. The sun began to peek over the earth, and streams of sunlight shone through the window of your room. A streak of light revealed a curled-up figure in the shadow of your bed canopy. Somehow, Grim slept through all of your conversations with Vil.

Half of you was jealous of Grim for being able to sleep longer. The other half, though? You’d rather not admit that Vil’s attention and touch felt nice. You’ll take that secret to the grave.

A heavy sigh shifted your focus from the sleeping furball to Vil, brows furrowed and lips pursed. His fingers held your face again, turning it this way and that. The senior must’ve seen something because he picked up the eyeshadow brush again.

“It looks like I missed a spot.” Vil squeezed your cheeks and looked down at you with taut lips. “Be a dear and close your eyes for me?”

“Okay,” you sighed, frustrated and impatient. You bit back any snappy remarks, knowing how much effort Vil put into making you look pretty. It’s been hours, morning has already broken, and he’s not done yet. You have to give him credit, though. Your makeup surprisingly doesn’t feel heavy, even after the excruciatingly long process of putting it on.

You closed your eyes with your hands on your lap. Shuffling reached your ears as Vil’s breath warmed your skin again. Is it because of how hot his breath is, or is it the flush of your cheeks?

The brush swept across one of your eyelids in gentle strokes before the steady press of Vil’s pinky replaced it. After what seemed longer than necessary, Vil finally switched to your other eyelid. The hand on your chin tilted your head upward, still feeling hot from his breath ghosting over your skin. Vil’s thumb caressed your cheek as he did, making your breath hitch at how close he is. Your heart jumped into your throat and, suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Vil told you as his hand left your face. You could hear the pop of a container being opened, then you felt him cup your jaw and tilt your head again. “Slightly open your mouth for me.”

You did as told, feeling something smooth and thick glide across your lips. Trembles wracked your body at how unbelievably close Vil was. The tips of his hair tickled your cheeks, and his breath felt warmer. The hand applying the lip gloss rested on your cheek. You hoped that he couldn't feel how hot your face was at the moment. You almost gnawed your lip if it weren’t for his tight yet comfortable grip on you.

“Smack your lips,” Vil’s stern tone echoed in your ears. You did as told again, biting your pursed lips to stop them from quivering. When your lips made an audible pop, you heard a pleased hum from the blond. Not a moment too soon, multiple sprays of water greeted your face. A setting spray, you remembered Vil calling that tiny bottle of water on the vanity table. Hands held your shoulders and turned you around. Your head spun a little when he said, “You can open your eyes now.”

The moment your eyes fluttered open, you saw a different person in the mirror. Gold glitter dusted your eyelids, framed by your long lashes courtesy of the mascara. The smokey eyeshadow and meticulously drawn eyeliner emphasized the color of your irises. Your blemish-free, dewy face looked back at you with full, glossy lips that parted in surprise. You could barely recognize yourself. Hell, will anyone know this was you when you walked out of Pomefiore?

“I…” You stopped yourself from touching your skin, afraid to wipe off Vil’s hard work. Your hands stayed on your lap as you continued looking in the mirror. Your eyes sparkled and your skin glowed as your room bathed in morning light. You’re not entirely sure if the sparkle was because of the light, but…

“I’m beautiful…”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Vil gaze at you with a smile and something soft, an indecipherable emotion, in his eyes. A whisper in the wind prevented you from pondering about the odd expression.

“You always are.”

Your eyes widened at his words. It seemed like Vil didn’t intend for you to hear it. Before you could speak, Vil gave your shoulders a squeeze and lifted you from the chair. His smile from earlier disappeared, replaced by a pleased and shit-eating grin. You bristled a little, knowing that he’s proud of your reaction and the fact that he was right to do your makeup.

This smug, gorgeous bastard.

“Off you go, Prefect,” Vil hummed, shooing you away from your own room. “Wake Epel up for me, would you? Our dorm’s self-care routine should be starting right now.”

“You already have Rook for that,” you sighed, but started heading towards the freshman’s room anyway. When you reached the door, you paused with your hand on the knob. You pensively bit the inside of your cheek, pride and common courtesy warring in your mind.

“Thank you,” you muttered, glancing at the Pomefiore housewarden over your shoulder, before you hurried out of the room with red ears and long strides.

Still and silent, Vil simply stood in front of the mirror. A smile graced his lips as his eyes softened, adoring and longing. A sigh slips past his lips as his heart slowed to a calm beat. He took the liquid foundation and peered at the manufacture date, the black ink stating its creation from a few months ago. The rest of the containers displayed the same month on their manufacture dates, hidden from plain sight.

“That was close,” Vil chuckled, gripping the bottle tighter, before he placed it back, “I can’t let the prefect know how much I pay attention to them, can I?”

His pride as a professional would be damned if you found out how fond he was of you. After all, it wasn’t easy to scour every shop and boutique for the perfect colors. Nothing less for the person Vil adored and longed for every second of the day.

A sleepy mewl snapped Vil out of his trance. With a sigh, the Queen’s visage returned to its stern beauty as he prepared himself for a grouchy, troublesome Grim. No one could ever know, and it would start with furiously brushing the cat’s fur to distract him from the makeup on the vanity table.

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alezangona · 2 months

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The Shadow of Khansar (Salaar Fic)

Part 9 - The Monster and His Master

Part 8 | Part 10

Notes: Definitely NSFW

The next few months pass by in a blur, albeit a productive one. Khansar’s funds are carefully allocated across various administrations with special emphasis placed on programs pertaining to education, public health, and infrastructure. The government’s focus on foreign policy allows them to settle contracts with various energy management companies across the world to provide solutions for the electrical and water shortages occurring in their external agricultural territories. The continuous expansion of global strategies provides opportunities for reallocation of employment through various industries including manufacturing and trade, though Khansar stays vigilant in maintaining a diplomatic image by hiding its more profitable ventures away from prying eyes.

Change doesn’t come as fast as Varadha initially hopes, the truth being that mistakes occur more frequently than not and it is enough to give him pounding headaches that won’t subside. Moments of high stress are all it takes for him to retreat into himself, gaze faraway as he analyzes every possible solution over and over, a heaviness settling into the line of his shoulders.

During breakfast one morning, when Varadha is toying more with his food than eating it, Baba finally cracks.

“The responsibility of this kingdom is not yours alone, Beta. There are entire organizations and administrations working alongside you to find solutions to the issues we are facing. Let them do their jobs, while you do yours. Not every burden is yours to bear.” Then he lets out a small smile. “Anyway, it’s important for you to learn the importance of a good stroll over a hasty run. What you’re doing now is establishing a strong foundation for Khansar’s growth and longevity. Take that for granted and you’ll give way for its fall.”

Varadha doesn’t finish his breakfast that morning and he doesn’t miraculously stop worrying either. Still, he begins to notice just how much people care. It isn’t just his face worn from sleepless nights and early mornings. It isn’t just his eyes that contain a spark of determination in the face of challenges.

The reassurance is enough to let him sleep a bit more peacefully at night. It also helps that he feels less alone than he has in years. Particularly in moments of leisure that are spent in the presence of his loved ones.

Morning garden strolls with Baba as he talks about his life and his Noor.

When she’d leave for her business meetings, I wouldn’t know how to handle myself. So anxious and restless till she came home. Time used to stand still without her, but in her presence, every day would pass by faster than a strike of lightning, and just as beautiful too. I’ve had years with her… it still doesn’t feel like it was enough time. She’d be proud of you, if she was here to see you now.

Afternoon chaturanga sessions with Baachi as he curses out Varadha for winning every round.

I still look over my shoulders sometimes, waiting for someone to fuck with us. We’ve endured years of humiliation and it feels like there’s more to withstand. I’m still not used to the way people look at us with respect when we leave the palace. I’m thankful for what we have Anna, and I’m scared to lose it too— Fuck! Again? What’s the point in playing with me when you keep winning anyway?

Evening movie nights with Deva as they curl up on the couch, shedding their responsibilities and falling into domesticity.

I don’t know how I did it, but I’ve managed to convince Amma to come back to Khansar. I think the only reason she’s even budging is because I’ve been begging her to come back with me and telling her it’ll be different under your rule. Even then, she’s hesitant about staying anywhere in the capital. I don’t know if I can convince her to stay in the palace, not without putting her ill at ease. After everything she’s done for me, I have to draw the line on her behalf at some point. I’m thinking of getting her a place at the outskirts of town. I’m going to hate not seeing you every night, though.

That doesn’t end up becoming a problem for too long. The first night that Deva stays away at his mother’s new house, Varadha tosses and turns for hours on end, restful sleep alluding him. His cranky mood the next morning has the entire palace walking on eggshells. That is, until Deva enters the council room later on in the day for one of their meetings. They stay on different ends of the room, but when their gazes meet, the exhaustion drains visibly from their bodies and the palace is able to breathe once more.

“Come home with me tonight?” Deva asks once they leave the room, walking shoulder to shoulder. Varadha’s step falters for a second before he goes back to matching Deva’s stride.

“What?” Varadha carefully observes their surroundings, staying alert until he’s sure there’s no one else around them.

“For dinner, you idiot.” Deva’s lips quirk. “Not some clandestine meeting of lovers.”

“Can’t fault me for checking, Bangaram. I never can tell what’s going on in that filthy mind of yours.” Varadha shrugs, biting the inside of his cheek to hide his smile.

“Yes, because I’m dying for a chance to ravish you in my mother’s home.” Deva rolls his eyes, but takes a step closer to him anyway, bending down so his gravelly voice can whisper. “Though… why bother with the wait when I can fuck you in that closet instead?”

~*~

The first dinner at Amma’s ends up being more awkward than Varadha thought possible. As inviting as she is, there’s a prying gleam in her eyes as she observes the two of them, trying to gauge what could’ve happened during the past few months for her son to willingly return to this godforsaken place. To move her here as well. He finds himself trying to impress her for some reason, telling her about all the changes he and his team are trying to bring about to the city. If he was being honest with himself, for a moment it felt like the words were being forcefully ejected from his mouth, anxiety refusing to let go of the trigger. However, when there is a lapse in conversation after dinner while they put away leftovers, Varadha catches a glimpse of Amma looking at him with a relieved expression. He doesn’t know what it means, but is able to breathe easier when she sends him off with a box of leftover chepala pulusu (fish curry) and tells him to come visit again soon.

The weekly dinners end up becoming a reprieve for Varadha when he starts to realize just how much he feels like a kid again under Amma’s roof. Gone are his responsibilities of being Karta when he steps into the threshold. She acts with him as she always had, feeding him exorbitant amounts of food, reprimanding him for not sleeping enough, and even going to the extent of massaging his scalp when he confesses to her of the pounding headache he’s suffered with for days.

His eyes close at the feeling of her fingers running through his scalp, the smell of medicinal oil oddly pleasant and soothing as she works the tension out from his muscles. Amma continues to talk to him, voice low and pleasant as she urges him to take better care of himself and something breaks inside him. A ball lodges in his throat and he can feel wetness forming behind closed lids. When they flicker open, Deva is standing in front of him, a glass of water in hand. Concern immediately clouds his features and he shifts his body forward, only to stop when Varadha discreetly shakes his head, a wobbly smile forming on his lips.

“Stay here with us tonight,” Amma commands, unaware of the plight he’s facing. “The second you go back to that palace you’ll spend the night overworking yourself and I refuse to let you run yourself into the ground. Deva, go set up the guest room and don’t let him leave till tomorrow morning.”

Later that night, once Amma is asleep, Deva sneaks into Varadha’s room, crawling into bed and holding him tight.

“Are you okay?” Deva sighs against his ears when Varadha doesn’t answer immediately. “Amma ki chadastham ekuvara, anthe (Amma is just stubborn, that’s all). I’m sorry if what she said hurt you at all.”

“No, she didn’t do anything wrong.” Varadha gulps, pressing back into Deva. “Amma gurthukuochindi, ra (I remembered my mom).”

Deva doesn’t reply, choosing to press a kiss into Varadha’s hair, wrapping his entire body around his lost king and trapping him within the confines of his limbs. Varadha sleeps more peacefully that night than he ever has during the past few months.

The next morning as Amma sends them out of the house, she stops Varadha in his place, a hand wrapped around his arm.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you two since you were children. Karta and Salaar aside, when it comes down to it, you’re just two kids who’ve been forced to grow up too soon. Don’t let those titles define you for the rest of your life, nana. Don’t make the same mistakes as…” The way her gaze digs into his is enough to make him understand, so he nods back, a promise in his own right.

She lets him go.

~*~

The peace doesn’t last long, it hardly ever does in a world like theirs.

They start hearing of various raids across India that begin to interfere with their black market trade. Before they can consider taking action, casinos, brokerages, and banks partnered with Khansar are stormed in an effort to prevent money laundering and other illegal activities. Trucks containing various goods such as weapons and drugs are stopped en route, all the material seized and confiscated by the government. A frenzy erupts in the capital as calls are made to various seeds and contacts planted in India, demanding answers for the sudden crack down. The answer, it turns out, is rather simple.

The government of India aims to fight back against crime… to fight back against Khansar.

It’s not an answer that sits well with anyone. Definitely not Varadha as everyone in his court looks to him for answers. Tensions rise every day in Kotagada as the Doralu debate with their Karta about the best course of action to take to preserve their economy. In the end, there is nothing but disdain as the court adjourns, no real solution to be found.

For the time being, the best course of action is to be more discreet and careful than usual. They run checks on their supply chain to prevent security breaches. Only certain businesses are given access to trade after a thorough inspection process. Different routes are established, intricate and ever changing, with smaller shipments being sent out at a time. Overall, it’s not a perfect system, but it’s enough to get them by.

~*~

Deva’s eyes stay firmly planted on the ground and he hopes that Baba will finally break the silence. He doesn’t. He holds his cap in his hands, leaning back against the chair as if his age has finally caught up to him. Bilal doesn’t seem to be of much help either as he paces back and forth, carefully avoiding Rhinda who scowls at the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

The creak of a door opening snaps them to attention. Varadha steps out, face void of any emotion as he jutts his chin.

“You can go see him now, if you’d like.” Baba doesn’t wait for him to finish the sentence before he disappears through the door.

“I didn’t even know he could move that fast.” Rhinda tries to joke, but no one laughs. He doesn’t look too amused either as he falls back into his chair.

Varadha makes his way to the large window, fists clenched at his sides. Within seconds, Deva is next to him.

“The name of Khansar was enough to stop them not too long ago. Now they’ve attacked us at the heart of it.” Varadha’s hand clasps ironclad around Deva’s tattoo. “I want them dead. Each and every person who dared to lay a hand on him.”

“As you command, Karta.”

“The thought of Khansar alone should terrify them. Touch what belongs to us–”

“You pave the path to your own destruction.”

The Karta’s fist drops back down to his side and his weapon is released.

~*~

Death for anyone who stops the seal.

That is what Deva declares. No one in court bothers to argue. Not when it was a law that would benefit their own economy. Even if they did object, they wouldn’t challenge the monster who just committed a massacre to please his master.

Rakshasudu.

That is what they begin to call him. Not to his face or the Karta’s. Not in scorn either, but in awe of the sheer power that he exudes. The new name becomes a declaration of acceptance.

A violent man for a violent city.

~*~

“A symbol. All that it brands, belongs to you.”

The simple phrase from Deva’s lips ignites a raging fire within him. Varadha’s eyes darken in the confines of the room, gaze honing in on the devil’s mark stamped against Deva’s bare chest.

“Come here.” Varadha commands. He watches as Deva saunters towards him, the glow from the lantern casting shadows onto his rugged physique. His fingers ghost against the seal, drinking in the intricate artwork that decorates tanned skin. The eyes of the devil leer into him, ferocious teeth barred in contempt. It was nothing more than a small circle of ink, able to fade away with the swipe of a finger. Yet, it possessed the ability to shake an entire nation to its core.

So much power in such a small symbol.

And the man who imbued it with that power stands before him, beautiful and pliant, his face sculpted to express unbounded devotion.

Varadha’s hand darts out, fingers wrapping around the underside of Deva’s jaw as he tugs him closer. Deva breathes sharply, surprised by the action, but doesn’t move. He waits patiently, unblinking as Varadha leisurely devours the length of him. In a sudden flash, Varadha turns him around so that Deva’s back is pinned to his front. Deva catches a glimpse of the image in the mirror planted across from him, a pathetic whimper leaving him at the sight.

Varadha’s eyes penetrate through the reflective surface, dark, calculating, and aroused. His fingers dig into Deva’s pulse point as his other hand travels down the expanse of his torso, nails scraping against sensitive skin, eliciting a feeling so strong that Deva’s eyes flutter shut and he arches back into Varadha, desperate for a taste. The furthest he can get is the brush of his lips against the side of Varadha’s jaw before he draws back with a tut.

“Salaar,” The warmth of his breath fans against Deva’s ears, the smoky tone exhilarating him further. “My Salaar. So beautiful when you give yourself to me like this.” His hand slips further down, stopping at the bulge between Deva’s thighs. His fingers dance against the sensitive flesh, featherlight touches that have Deva working to hold back keens of frustration. That is, until Varadha palms him through the fabric of his jeans, the firm touch causing Deva to release a low moan.

“Va–” The name catches in his throat when Varadha’s grip tightens around his neck significantly. Varadha’s lips begin to explore the curve of Deva’s nape, sharp bites that prick into his skin, only to be soothed by the gentle slip of his tongue. Varadha hums softly into him, slotting his hips against the curve of Deva’s ass and pressing into him just enough to let his arousal be felt. Slowly, the hand that is wrapped around Deva’s throat begins to descend. Within no time, Varadha works Deva out of his jeans, hands circling against the heavy length of him.

“Open your eyes and watch what I do to you.” He growls, teeth catching onto Deva’s ear. Deva’s eyes flicker open at the order and he digs his teeth into his lips at the debauched image of him in Varadha’s arms. Hair askew, pupils blown, skin marked by claiming bruises. He lowers his gaze to where Varadha’s hands are pumping him unceremoniously, his thumb circling against his slit, collecting precum and spreading it across the throbbing surface. It doesn’t take long for Varadha’s hands to become coated with the evidence of Deva’s arousal and the sight itself makes Deva tremble with need. “You look beautiful like this. Pliant in my hands, flushed beyond belief, desperate for release.”

Deva hisses as Varadha tugs against his balls, the mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming him enough to close his eyes for a chance of reprieve.

“Open your eyes, Salaar. I won’t tell you again. Take your eyes off the image of what I’m doing to you and I won’t let you come for me tonight.” The warning incites panic and Deva’s lids snap open, catching the merciless grin on Varadha’s face. “Good boy.”

The motions of his hands speed up around Deva’s cock with varying pressure and Deva is forced to watch himself break, tremors spreading across his overstimulated body. His chest heaves with panting breaths, muscles clenching in an effort to hold back his inevitable release. As he watches from tear-filled eyes, Varadha’s reflection reshapes itself in the mirror, a smug curl of his lips as it dawns on him what Deva is doing.

“Such a good boy, holding yourself back for my sake. I didn’t even have to ask, did I? You’re just that desperate to please me.” The throaty chuckle causes Deva to flush deeper and dig his fingers into the soft material of Varadha’s clothes.

“Please.” Deva groans, on edge. A tear rolls down the corner of his eye and satisfaction paints itself across Varadha’s features.

“Come for me, my beautiful Salaar.” A gasp leaves Deva’s lips, his cock twitching as the sticky residue splatters against the skin of his stomach. His eyes close and he leans back against Varadha, spent as his orgasm flows through his system. He can feel Varadha’s arms wrapping around his waist, lips brushing against his ears as he whispers sweet nothings while pleasure settles into his bones.

By the time Deva is able to ground himself enough to open his eyes, he catches sight of Varadha’s gaze drilling into the seal stamped against his chest. A shudder of pleasure rocks through him when Varadha pushes him onto the bed, his hand curling around the dark mark, a wildness in the depth of his kohl rimmed eyes that has Deva hardening once more.

“Mine.” Varadha places a searing kiss against his lips, stealing his soul from within the confines of its cage. Deva gives back just as much as he gets, wanting nothing more than to have Varadha understand that his entire life belongs to him and only him. By the time Varadha pulls away, stripping out of his shirt, Deva’s kiss-slick lips whisper back words of reassurance.

“Yours, always yours.”

#salaar #varadeva #devaratha raisaar #varadha rajamannar #salaar fic #salaar fanfic #khansar

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goodstuffexe · 5 months

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Guys Secret Life is just Life Series insanity mode I love it so much damn

Like the twirls and mingles and how ppl are forming ally ships just for one session because of their tasks DAMN makes SO GOOD ENTERTAINMENT so fun omg I cannot put it in words

And the fucking BEST PART is that I watch like 3 episodes a week and I have SO MUCH STUFF FOR THE COMING WEEKS AND MONTHS TO CHEW ON!!! Like whaat the heck I still don't know what's the deal with BigB most of the times I've seen him interact with ppl and and and I have to watch the 3 dudes who died now cause they died but then I probably miss the whole thing that happend with the heart foundation this session or what happend to Cleo if she did manage to find out what task she has and what the reds where up to the last 2 sessions omg and and SO MUCH STUFF SO MUCH INTERACTION AND REN WAS THERE omgg I DON'T HAVE A CLUE WHAT ANYONE'S TASKS WHERE AND I WANNA KNOW ALL OF THEM BUT I CAN ONLY WATCH SO MANY PPL HUH

Holy hell they rly thought 'Hey guys how do we make this thing even better maybe Limited Life was falling a bit too short in some ways' and THEY DELIVERED SO HARD with Secret Life omg and cracked it up to 200 it is SO amusing to watch, I cannot stop myself from writing in caps, I can't stop laughing at those doofuses playing Minecraft, it's so entertaining I love everyone involved in this series and I love them more the more episodes I watch it is incredible and it makes me so happy :')

THANK YOU GRIAN MY BELOVED FOR BEING A CREATIVE MIND AND BRINGING PEOPLE TOGETHER SORRY FOR SO MUCH CAPS I CAN'T HOLD IT IN

I actually wanna draw fanart so bad but I have literally no clue how to draw anything homeboys and girls making me want to be an artist so bad

#can't praise it enough I was not ONCE bored this season yet and it just keeps on giving #I am being so serious haha the way they make me laugh in every possible way is just insane to me #best season yet change my fucking mind #like I AM A SUCKER FOR THE DESERT DUO but the way this season is just so different is SO creative and engaging #i just love them so much #secret life smp #secret life #life series #grian

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splendourofrecognition · 4 days

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I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul

Yet another song, flitting across my busy mind, without any clear trace as to where it arose from. Well, that's not true actually- it's a very windy day and the wind is currently blowing loudly as I type this, so I've found the link.

I keep thinking "I must keep track of that" or "that observation feels important, I must put it somewhere to reflect on another day." Yet, where to put it, how to track it and when to reflect? It's absurdly confusing and I don't have a systematic way of doing it. Amazing, too, how many moments occur on any given day that feel important. The truth is that I can't possibly track everything I want or mull over something at a later date...so some of this is a discernment predicament. First discern, then decide, THEN keep track/reflect later etc. I think I'm reflecting on this particular point in order to avoid all the others, which are the actual things I need to be reflecting on. Right now.

My NHS job is weighing on my body and soul. It has been, for such a long time. Only as I take small steps to extricate myself am I becoming more aware of the cost of this burden, the way it robs me of my energy, leaving me little left over to show love to myself, my family, my friends- all the things I actually care about. I feel sad and heavy when I reflect on the zero-sum gameness of life; that if your attention is in one place, it is absent in another. How much has already been lost, swept up the torrent of my fears around self-worth and all during the first years of Ruby's life that I (and she) will never be able to return to.

I watched my mom do this and vowed to not do the same. Yet, here I sit. Ravaged by a feeling that I might die soon, both literally and figuratively. It sounds so dramatic, really. But that doesn't shift the truth of it and truth is where I'm trying to make my peace. When I first saw Ros, I knew work (specifically, the NHS job) was a pernicious forcefield pulling me under and likened it to Japanese knotweed; a weed so forceful and rapacious that seeks to find cracks in structural foundations and push its way through. Full of destruction and growth. I knew in that moment, too, that my mom was somehow woven into this weed. During our subsequent sessions, she appeared like an apparition that slowly gained opacity as I ventured back into those painful memories. At one point, going so far as to banish her with the words of Gollum, "Leave now and never come back." What, or who, was I trying to banish? The belief that you must sacrifice all that you love at the altar of "responsibility" (code for patriarchy and capitalism). Uphold the status quo, at all costs, even your own life. Do what others tell you to, even if you don't value their opinion. The measurement of society is real and you will be judged at every move; your worth determined by your ability to uphold your white, middle-class, monotonous life, devoid of creativity, spontaneity and joy.

This has a quality of a self-fulfilling prophecy. By worrying from such a young age that I would become my mom, I thereby put into motion the machinations to do just that. But...why? How did this come to pass, when it was diametrically opposed to what I was seeking in the first place?

And if I'm repeating the cycle, where does that leave Ruby? I'm modelling something to her, just as my mom did to me. The messages are unpredictable and I can only speculate, but what I do know is that she's viewing her mom going to work at a job that genuinely feels as if it is killing her at times and for what? Because she's "supposed to" do it...according to who? It would be all too easy to cite money at this juncture- the undebatable reality that our world requires money, for everything. It also has to be said that I don't have to go to a job that destroys my life force in order to make money and have in fact being going to various other jobs that provide what I need, without killing me in the process. So why have I hung on? Should I just hand in my notice?

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ofmoonlily · 8 months

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❰❰ PULL ❱❱ sender pulls receiver close to them

An Extremely Self-Indulgent Meme (Physical prompts based around some of my favorite tropes / physical actions in threads. Send this + reverse to change which muse does which action.) | Accepting | @bymargrace

They've ventured a long way, trekking the gravely terrain, through the fiend-ridden wood and scaling the cliffside with utmost caution. The relic they discovered weeks prior was meant to be placed in a certain sequence; coordinates they've deciphered after a long and tiring brainstorming session Yuna prays they never endure again.

Beads of sweat rolled down the summoner's temples as she struggled to keep up with the adventurer, yet grateful for Joshua's prowess in combat to fend off the occasional slobbering beast and clearing a path for her to take spontaneous breaks and heal up their team.

As they clamber up the rocky cliffside, Joshua pulls himself upon the lip of the ledge, discovering a flat surface to navigate without a need to continue their taxing hike. Offering his hand, he assists the summoner onto the level expanse before scouting the area with a hand hovering over his brows. As Yuna finds her footing, she dusts off her attire free of sand and dried mud before administering another dose of healing upon Joshua with the graceful movement of her staff, which grabbed his attention.

Yuna giggles, about to advance towards him. Before she was able to, she felt something shift underneath her feet, a vibration she couldn't quite place. She looks all around her, a noise from below gradually rising. Alas, it was too late for her to realize that a crack had penetrated the thick slab of earth, breaking away from the cliff's ledge and sending her falling.

Only, she wasn't falling.

A gloved hand intercepted her with a swift grab before she could pierce her fragile body upon the sharpened rocks down below. A gentle, yet firm grasp curled around Yuna's delicate little wrist, pulling her closely into his chest and stepping away from the crumbling ridge. She hadn't realized she clamped her eyes shut until she opened them. The side of her face nestled comfortably against her hero's warm chest, prompting her to pull away very slightly and peer upward's to Joshua's concerned visage.

Mismatched irises widen. A rather large rose colored tint gradually spread across the apples of her cheeks.

Joshua towered over her.

Of course, Yuna was aware the man was lengthy from the start, however being this close to him really put it into perspective. Their faces were merely inches from one another, causing Yuna's heart to hammer erratically against her chest, growing more violent when their eyes met. She took them time to really experience the raw compassion he held in his very foundation.

His arm had been tautly wrapped around the small of her back, holding her close and so comfortably against his frame. Fragile hands rest against his chest as they remain in this peculiar position. Joshua asks something, then. Likely along the lines if she'd been hurt, or if she needed something of him.

"I---N-no. No! I-I'm alright. Really!" She could not physically tear her gaze away from his. No matter how hot and red her face appeared. "I-I'm…sorry for worrying you." It wasn't like she didn't know already, but Joshua was dashing. From the depths of his soul to his outward appearance. Yuna felt her chest swell in a strong reaction to the sudden appearance of his smile.

What…were they doing again? H-How long has he been holding her like this?

Nevertheless, Yuna takes the liberty to hook her slender arms around Joshua's broad shoulders and rises on her tippy-toes to place a gentle kiss upon his cheek - gratitude towards his interception, and guiding her safely along the perilous roads. "Thank you, Joshua. I don't want to think about what could have happened had you not been here to intervene.

"Again, I thank you, thank you so very much."

#answered #bymargrace #v: xvi: show your flames #//awwwwwwwww #long post tw

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wilder14sutton · 2 years

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Copy Psp Games - What You Will Need To Know

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notveryshrugemoji · 3 years

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Aforementioned green shirt

#this is who I talk to in therapy #that poor sweet little bean #trigger warning ⚠️ I’m talking shit in the tags #the first time I told someone I wanted to kill myself I was wearing the green shirt.#Michael had me sit and talk with *her* this week #and it’s like that session put a crack in my foundation #like how the whole house is shifting #looking at that picture makes me realize that I remember nothing from this time #the trauma is repressed severely #it’s like when you *know* the word! it’s on the tip of your tongue!#I know it’s there #I just can’t quite get it #obligatory reassurance that I am doing fine #I’m not good or doing well but I’m surviving #I think I’m going to take tomorrow off work #I need to take care of myself

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zealous-whispers-of-us-redux · 3 years

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homecoming

(A/N: I tweaked an old, unposted [on this blog] fic of mine for @multi-stann and her 1k writing event. I picked the smut prompt: "Love the taste of you, but I need more.”) :)

Warning: demon sex and desecration in/of a church. Please don't read if that offends you!!

SMUT AHEAD

Intoxicating dreams. The feeling of her mouth around his cock. His teeth sinking into her plush bottom lip. Heat racketing up his spine until all he knew was her. Wrapping a hand around her neck and feeding on her pleasure as he fucked her. Taking anything and everything she would offer him. He missed her. He missed her.

He...

Bucky jolted awake in the confession booth. Sweat dripped down his face, and he could still feel the flames of Hell licking his skin. He was hard in his slacks. Crossing himself absently, Bucky muttered a few prayers under his breath because this was happening again. He knew what it all meant. He has been away for centuries, but his past was finally catching up to him. The more vivid the dreams, the closer she was to finding Bucky. And the closer she was to finding Bucky, the more his true nature rose within him as his body fought against the angels' invisible chains. Bucky was hungrier than he had been in a long time, but the runes on his skin made him unable to leave the church, let alone go out and feed.

He checked his watch, and as he expected, it read 3:17 a.m. Bucky's heart thumped excitedly in his chest. He knew that she knew where he was. Finally, she had found him, and she would rescue him from this hell. He opened the door to the confessional just as she blew into the church, stalking nearer and nearer until Bucky could take her in for the first time in years. She looked just as beautiful as he remembered- wild and passionate with eyes that glowed from within. With each step she took, the floor cracked underneath her feet. Crucifixes clattered to the ground, and the stained-glass window shattered, raining colored glass down onto both of them. The statue of the Virgin Mary cried, and she grinned.

"There you are," she said, and Bucky could not take his eyes off of her.

"You found me," he croaked in the language he never forgot, no matter how many beatings he took.

"You’ve been calling out to me for ages, but your jailers kept you well-hidden. Even my father couldn't see you."

"They summoned me," said Bucky bitterly. "They summoned me, an' they stole me as a barginin' chip."

"If they think they can stop this, they're wrong. It is only the beginning. My father has gathered his troops. I asked him to wait until I found you. Lord Belial wasn't happy with me, but I came for you anyway. "

Bucky squirmed at the innuendo, his gaze dropping to her mouth. His stomach rumbled, and she must have heard it because she smiled. He reached out for her, and she threw herself into his arms. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, breathing her in.

“You do remember me, don't you?” she asked, sounding vulnerable in a way he would never expect.

“How could I ever forget my baby?" Bucky asked.

"How come you haven't left this church if you remember me?"

"The runes." He gestured to the symbols carved into his skin. "I can't leave."

"You can leave if the angels who created the runes are dead."

"What did you do?"

"They gambled away their vessels, and I burnt them to a crisp," she said, baring her teeth. "It was a fitting punishment, Father said. If they thought they could take away what is mine, they were wrong if they thought they could hurt you without retribution. They deserve worse than what I gave them."

"You-"

"You're free, Bucky," she said firmly, placing her hands against his cheeks. "What will you do now?"

Bucky kissed her, and it was like slipping a key into a lock. He had forgotten almost everything about his old life, except for her, but she saved him and was now giving everything back. He vividly remembered Hell again, remembered how it was not as dreadful as the angels brainwashed him into believing it was. It was his home. It was hellhounds and halls of crystals glittering in the low lamplight. It was decadent food that demons didn't need but ate anyway. It was her naked in his bed, waiting for him to return from corrupting souls on Earth. It was sex all the time, whenever Bucky wanted. She was as insatiable as he was.

“Welcome back,” she said.

“It's been so long,” Bucky replied, pawing at her greedily. “I need ya right the fuck now. I'm starvin.'”

“Remember when we fucked in that church in Romania? Right under the statue of their precious Mary?” she asked.

“Hell, I’ve missed you."

As they kissed again, Bucky felt her heating up under his hands until tendrils of flame erupted from her skin. She pulled back, and Bucky saw her eyes alight with hellfire. He gathered her closer with a groan, knowing he would never get burned. She kissed him again, clawing at his hair as she swung herself into his lap. The confession booth swayed dangerously, but both ignored it. Bucky sunk his teeth in her bottom lip, and she snarled, scraping her nails over his scalp in retaliation. They pulled apart to blink at one another, then she dove to take off Bucky's shirt. Her fingers burned his skin so good, leaving red streaks that would fade quickly. Bucky could feel it crawling under his skin again, the hunger for sex that he hadn’t felt in ages. He wanted; he wanted to feed off of her pleasure and make her scream.

“I see those pretty black eyes,” she said, drawing Bucky’s gaze from her bare chest. “I knew they wouldn’t succeed.”

“Missed you,” Bucky growled, sucking her jaw so fiercely that he drew blood, “Take yer panties off for me.”

“Ask me nicely.”

She dug her nails into his pecs- a warning. Bucky rolled his eyes as he carried her out of the confessional and into a booth.

“Please take off yer panties. Sweetheart,” he said.

“Okay, darling, whatever you say," she replied.

“Disgusting. Don't ever call me that again. An' take your fuckin' panties off, huh?"

“You're such a dick."

"Hey, leave me alone! It's been two hundred years."

She shoved Bucky’s shoulder, trying to push him off of her enough so that she could wiggle out of her bottoms. Bucky ignored her unspoken command. He grabbed her wrists and slammed her arms over her head.

“Keep ‘em there," he said.

“How am I expected to take my underwear off? Think things through, will you?” she said.

“Yer bein’ unusually bratty today.” Bucky wrapped his lips around one of her nipples. “Ain’t had anyone put you in yer place for a while, I guess.”

“Oh, please. My father is one of the seven kings of Hell. If anything, you should submit to me. I remember how much you liked it when I made you beg at my feet like a hound."

“It's been decades since I’ve had ya underneath me. Now that I have ya, I ain’t just gonna give that up so willingly. Stop bein’ a brat."

“For Baal's sake, just do something instead of talking about it."

“No swearin’, we’re in church,” Bucky said. “An’ keep yer arms above yer head. No touchin.’”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“An’ shut that mouth a’ yours too. You don’t want me to gag ya, do you?”

"Who the fuck has been going around and telling lies saying I wouldn't like that?" she asked with a smile.

Bucky softened. He knew he was probably looking at her like a dumbass, but she was so beautiful and here for the first time in a long time. Bucky wouldn't want his first feeding session in centuries to be with anyone else. If a beast like him could love, he was sure he would love her.

"Missed you," Bucky said softly, tucking his thumbs in the waistband of her panties and stuffing them in her mouth. "So much."

"Missed you too," she mumbled.

"Did you make 'em suffer?"

"You know I did. They hurt you."

She said everything he needed to know in just seven words. His hunger overwhelmed him, and Bucky blacked out until all he could see was her. Flames tickled him as Bucky leaned down to kiss a fiery trail down her stomach. She growled at him in an ancient tongue, and the foundations of the church shook at her words. The statue of Mary cracked in two the louder her words got, but Bucky ignored it, not content on just eating her out- he wanted her screaming. But she was a hard one to please. Bucky could rarely get her to scream when he ate her out, no matter the amount of coaxing he tried.

"Love the taste of you, but I need more," he said, his tongue flicking over her clit. "We still gotta topple that statue."

"Come up here and fuck me. It's been so long."

Bucky left the plush comfort of her thighs and made his way up her body, pressing kisses along the way.

"I know it has, babe," he said, kissing her forehead in a display of comfort that they were both unaccustomed to. "But I’m here now, an’ nothin’ can pull me away from ya again, you hear me?”

"I'll kill anyone who tries," she said.

Bucky grinned sharply. "That's my girl."

"Not yours," she countered.

"No?"

He reached down and drew her legs up around his waist. She locked her ankles together, holding him there so tight he could not move, not even to get inside her. He growled, trying to break free.

"I'm not yours," she repeated.

"If you fuckin' think for one second you ain't mine, you're wrong."

"I'm a fucking demon. No one owns me."

"Never said 'owns.' I said mine. Now, you gonna lemme fuck you or not?"

"No. How is it different?"

Bucky groaned, dropping his head onto her chest. He pressed a few kisses at her breast, bit her nipple.

"C'mon, gimme a break. I'm starvin.'"

"No, not until you tell me."

"Fuck's sake. You're mine, an' I'm yours, okay? An' I don't wanna feed on anyone else, ever again. You're enough for me."

"Okay."

"You don't have to reciprocate."

"I put a war on hold, and I killed three angels to find you," she said flatly.

"Yeah," Bucky said, his vessel's heart fluttering. "You did."

She loosened her grip on Bucky, allowing him to slip inside her for the first time. His body shuddered in delight at feeling her again. He could taste her pleasure in the air, and his tongue flicked out to gather it from her lips as they kissed. Bucky knew he wasn't going to last long, but he would be (more) damned if he finished before she did.

"Come on, move," she said, her nails pricking his back.

The pace Bucky chose was brutal, and she moaned, arching her back. He remembered now the way she’d never utter more than a moan. No matter the amount of coaxing, Bucky could never make her scream. She had passed out from him fucking and feeding on her a few times, but even then, all he managed to get were a few calls of his name. It kept him desperate to please her even though she was the one feeding him.

"Go faster," she sighed, her head tipped back enough so that Bucky could get at her neck with his teeth.

"I gotcha, babe. Wan' my hand?"

"Yes, please."

Naturally, Bucky obliged. He wrapped one of his big hands around her neck, squeezing gently and then harder. Her mouth fell open against his as he fucked her, and they stayed like that, panting into each other's mouths. And Bucky wanted so much for someone to burst in and see them like this, see him fucking her into the ground and feeding off her desire.

He pulled out of her when he got an idea. She speared him with a glare, but he calmed her down, urging her to get to her hands and knees. Bucky smacked her ass, and she muffled a cry into her forearms. The flames on her skin burned hotter and hotter the more Bucky spanked her until sweat was pouring down his chest. He gathered her hair up in his hand and dragged her up from the floor, curling a possessive hand around her throat. Flames licked his skin wherever her body was pressed to his. Bucky could feel it rising within her, and he gasped at the taste of it after so long without. It was the best drug in the world.

"C'mon, rub your clit for me, and scream when you come. You know it makes it taste better," he demanded.

"Make it worth my while, and I will."

"You wan' it? I'll give it to you," Bucky said, squeezing her neck until she was gasping. "Now, come for me. Gimme it."

It only took a couple more sweeps of her fingers over her clit and a quick kiss from Bucky for her to come. He kissed her to muffle her screams, drinking her down, thirsty for everything she could give him. He continued fucking her through her orgasm, his eager pants ringing around the church.

"Again, again, gimme one more. So hungry, babe, you taste so good," Bucky panted.

It didn't take long for her to come again, and Bucky fed on her, moaning as he felt her slipping down his throat. He licked his lips and pushed himself entirely inside her, holding still until she triggered his own orgasm.

"That's a good girl," Bucky cooed, kissing her to get the last of her orgasm.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked, looking upside down at him.

He snuggled closer. "Yeah."

"Are you pulling out or what?"

"Nah, wanna stay here for a minute or two. Missed this. So happy y'found me. You saved me."

"I always will," she said, scowling.

Bucky laughed, burying his face into her hair.

"How's Hell, anyway?"

"It's good. Will you come back with me?"

"I'll go anywhere you want me to."

"We'll get those runes off your skin."

"'Kay, but later. I'm still ravenous," said Bucky.

She grinned, all sharp teeth and fire in her eyes.

"Come on, then. Let's go to a real bed."

"Lead the way," said Bucky, flipping the bird toward the Mary statue that lay shattered on the ground.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #demon au #incubus!bucky #demon!reader #smut #angst #maybe??#multi-stann’s 1k writing event

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scorchieart · 2 years

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Midnight Snack-Attack

Midnight Snack-Attack | AO3

Characters: Yves Kloss, Luke Randolph

Rating: G

Summary: In the middle of one of his midnight snacking sessions, Yves receives a visit from the last person he wanted to talk to.

Warnings: contains minor spoilers from Yves's route, and *very* slight mentions of blood/gore (like 1 line), overeating

Word Count: 5,356

A/N: The idea came to mind as I was reading through my second playthrough of Yves's route and noticed Luke popping up a lot more than I expected him to. Another thing I wasn't expecting was this story to come out to over 5000 words, but here we are.

************************************************************************

A warm breeze fluttered over the palace of Rhodolite signaling the arrival of summer. Hurried footsteps and the occasional clanking of metals emerged from the kitchens, and you would think that the cooks were in the middle of preparing a feast fit for the entire court, if you ignored the fact that it was past midnight and the halls were empty.

Old cupboards hung open and their contents spilled out on the countertops. Stacks of used bowls and utensils piled high as shrubs filled the sink while discarded plates coated with mixtures of sauces and creams littered the floor. The open window above the stove brought in occasional wafts of balmy air and sleepy cricket chirps, though they weren’t enough to mask the heavy scents of baking nor the loud sounds of munching emanating from the center of the kitchen.

Yves Kloss sat on the floor amidst a towering array of pastries, phyllos and other baked delicacies. He unceremoniously devoured sweet after sweet in between bursts of incoherent mumbling and grumbling, pausing every now and then only to toss aside finished plates and reach for new ones.

“Stupid Jin… munch… stupid Clavis… crunch… stupid Nokto… munch… everything’s just… chomp… a joke to them…”

Crumbs spilled freely as he shoveled a couple of dolces into his mouth, reminiscing about his brothers’ activities. It was only Tuesday, and yet the troublesome trio had already managed to make him want to barricade himself in his room until the weekend. Between the precariously planted pranks, incessant taunting, and nonstop immaturity, Yves was sure he had aged a decade over the past two days alone.

He grunted and reached for a bowl of petit fours, aggressively popping one into his mouth for each misdemeanor of theirs he recounted. Halls lined with haphazardly littered banana peels.… Brazen displays of flirting around the palace.… Garden reduced to a minefield of pitfalls.… Irresponsible misappropriation of the rules.… Where were they finding the time for all this foolishness, and why hasn’t Sariel put a stop to them yet?

He gloomily bit into a frosted éclair, not caring as the custard filling dribbled down his hand and onto his sleeve. As much as he wanted to complain about his brothers’ recent surge of tomfoolery, he knew perfectly well why Sariel was lagging in his supervision. The man had recently been burdened as the foremost authority for maintaining order within the palace on top of his usual ministerial duties. Coupled with keeping a close eye on peculiar happenings across the kingdom, supporting the princes’ actions from the background, and the fact that Foundation Day was less than a week away, Yves was sure Sariel was even closer to his breaking point than he was.

A puff of powdered sugar wisped before Yves’s eyes as a sigh escaped his lips. It wasn’t just those three; it was as if everyone in the palace wanted to take a crack at him these days. Just that morning, Leon skipped out on their faction meeting without a word for an impromptu stroll around town, and when Yves berated him for his selfishness upon his return, Leon brushed him off saying he was worrying too much. Later during training with the soldiers, Licht pushed himself even harder than usual and ended up twisting his wrist, but when Yves told him to take it easy he coldly responded, “We’ve lost the luxury to do so anymore,” and went straight back to swinging his sword. Then at dinner, Sariel reported that Obsidianite troops were spotted assembling near the border, to which Chevalier grimly declared he would eliminate them all if they got too close despite Yves’s suggestion that they employ a wait-and-see approach.

And to top it all off, the King had to go and drop dead.

No, that’s not right… it’s not as though the King had wanted to leave them in the middle of it all.… It’s not as though he wanted Rhodolite to be in such a state of disarray upon his death…. It’s not as though he wanted to stick them with the issue of his succession on top of their other dilemmas…

It’s not as though he wanted to keep that fact that he had an eighth son secret from them for twenty years…

Another soft breeze rustled through the window, and Yves watched with growing apathy as it carried a few wayward crumbs into the air. He sat against the counter and aimlessly counted the number of mid-air loops they made before falling back to the floor.

It was only a matter of time before someone was called in to select a new king; it’s not like they could hold on for long without one, what with the nobles questioning the late King’s whereabouts more often every day and the increasing threat of their neighbors on the horizon. A new Belle would be joining the palace soon, but were they ready for her? Was he ready?

His arm automatically extended to retrieve another sweet when a loud crash broke him out of his stupor. The shock made his whole body jerk and his head collided with the edge of the countertop, making him gripe loudly in pain. Whoever caused the crash must have been startled to hear him as well, because he could hear the unmistakable sounds of boots pivoting in his direction and the clank of a sword unsheathing.

An intruder, at this time of night? Yves hitched his breath and stilled the hand that was rubbing his quickly forming bump.

Well, it would make sense that if someone wanted to sneak in they would do it under the cover of darkness, but why enter through the kitchen? What if the cooks were still making preparations for the next day, or some servants got held up with their cleaning? Not to mention the fact that the kitchen was located near some of the busiest hallways of the palace; it would be near impossible to slip around undetected.

Whoever it is must not be very bright, thought Yves. After all, with such a loud entrance they were practically begging to get caught. He reflexively reached for his belt, only to remember that he did not have his saber on him; he had left it in his bedroom while undressing before deciding to let off some steam with baking.

The intruder slowly began inching towards him. Yves quickly swiveled his head left and right in search of a knife, a whisk, a rolling pin, anything he could use to defend himself until his eyes fell on all his batter-coated baking tools lodged in the sink far on the other side of the room.

The footsteps grew closer. The pain in his head increased dramatically with his heart rate and he squinted at the stacks of uneaten muffins and danishes, desperate to conjure up some way to fight back. Maybe he could throw them and blind the intruder long enough to reach through the door — No, most of what remained was too solid and would just bounce off — Then he could try vaulting over the counter and slipping past — No, he’d be wide open and get sliced instantly — What if used a plate as a shield — Oh come on, it couldn’t even cover his face!

The footsteps stopped. The only thing left separating them was the counter Yves was perched under.

Was this it? Was he going to be done in before Belle ever had a chance to meet him? Before he could ever show her… show his brothers… show his kingdom what he could really do?

The wood of the countertop squeaked as the intruder leaned over.

Yves hid his face in his knees as his head throbbed violently, visions of his brothers flashing through his mind. He saw Leon and Chevalier glaring down at his grave, eyes full of disdain…. He saw Licht drooping in the distance, his expression darker and drearier than Yves had ever seen…. He saw Jin, Clavis, and Nokto laughing derisively as they tossed the king’s crown between themselves, devouring the last bits of dessert he left behind.

His face grew hot. It was burning so rapidly that he almost forgot the pain in his bump. The only thing he could think of was not giving those three hoodlums the satisfaction of him dying before the real battle even began.

He jolted his head, grabbed the nearest dish (which happened to be a crostata) and swung it straight upward. A deafening howl reverberated throughout the kitchen as the plate made contact and smashed, and Yves sprang up over the countertop and struck his arm out, groping several times in the dark, before his hand finally connected with a wrist and he moved to wrestle the weapon out of the intruder’s grip.

He could feel his grasp slipping occasionally through his cream-covered fingers and he inwardly cursed for allowing himself to stuff his face so messily. If he made it out of this, he vowed to never participate in another late-night-grub-gorge for as long as he lived.

At last, he could feel the intruder’s fingers loosen away from the hilt. If he could just make one last pull —

Clunk!

For the second time that night Yves felt as though his head was splitting open. His grip slackened and he tumbled backward, a familiar mop of messy red hair flashing in sight before he fell.

Yves landed on his back with a taut “Oof!” His rear and head both ached considerably, but he forced himself to sit up and peer around the counter, gasping as his suspicions were confirmed when he recognized the low groan that emerged from behind.

“Prince Luke! What are you doing lurking around the kitchens in the middle of the night?” he yelled.

“Urk! — Making sure no one was planning an attack in here!” Luke Randolph called. He had fallen backwards too, though he was unfortunate enough to have tripped onto a spread of half-eaten pies and fruit tarts along the way. Luke vigorously wiped away at the crostata on his face enough to gape at Yves. “What are you doing lurking around the kitchens in the middle of the night?”

Recovering from his shock, Yves quickly stashed the rest of the uneaten dishes out of view behind the counter while Luke struggled to sit up. Luke’s upper half was dripping with flakey crusts and berried fillings, yet the dirt that caked his boots and trousers hinted that he spent much of his day outside. Yves figured the loud crash was from him flinging himself in through the window.

He pushed the last muffin tray out of sight just as Luke straightened his back. “It’s none of your business what I do with my time. And what do you mean ‘planning an attack’?”

“I heard a bunch of angry grumbling and some names. ‘Thought someone was planning to attack a prince.”

Yves was thankful that the room was dark when he felt his ears redden. How much had the boy heard, and did he happen to see him gorging himself so indecently? “W-Well, as you can very well see I am perfectly fine and there is no one else here, so you can just go back to your room now.” Yves motioned towards the door and subtly brushed stray crumbs off his shirt.

But Luke made no motion to leave. Instead he scrunched his eyes and scanned the room before resting them on Yves’s forehead. “You sure about that? Looks like ya gotta ‘couple nasty bruises on your noggin.”

Yves pouted and pointed to his wounds. “You gave me one of these, or have you already forgotten?”

“Well, that makes us even then,” said Luke, patting his own forehead. He picked the fruits and scraps off his chest and tossed them jovially into his mouth. “For real Evie, I thought you were some kind of assassin or something!

“Don’t call me that,” Yves hissed.

Luke flinched and a raspberry slipped out of his fingers. “Oh, I heard Nokto call you that in the office. I figured you guys all had nicknames for each other.”

Yves glared at him. “Half the stuff that comes out of that silver-tongued fox’s mouth is senseless drivel, and the rest is just slanderous poppycock.”

“Oh, he seems alright.” Luke’s face fell and he began rubbing the wrist Yves seized before. “Chevie and Clavis do it too and, I dunno, I thought it might be nice — I mean, it’s easier than calling each other ‘Prince’ all the time, yeah?”

Yves’s scowl deepened and he turned away to roll up his soiled shirt sleeves. This was the first time he spoke with Luke alone and he already grew tired of the boy. It was one thing to sneak up and headbutt a prince in the dead of night, but if Luke wanted to place his loyalties with his faction members and blindly follow them, then Yves had nothing more to say to him. Maybe those three would step up and take responsibility for their new comrade and leave him to focus on his own problems in peace.

A sharp pain stung in his skull and he inadvertently found himself reaching for his head to mimic Luke’s ministrations. Just peachy, he thought, another problem to add onto his ever-growing pile of woes.

“So, uh, can I have one of those?”

Yves gave a little yelp when he turned and found Luke kneeling directly beside him, eyeing the trove of desserts longingly.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yves stammered, pretending he was too preoccupied with his wound.

“What? I’m talking about — Oh, I get it!” Luke’s green eyes sparkled with the naiveté of a child that solved a riddle. He sat on his knees, straightened his posture, cleared his throat and spoke in a loud, clear voice, “Might I please sample one of your appetizing looking delicacies, Prince Yves?”

Yves’s wound pounded more irritably. Was Luke mocking him somehow, either about his manner of speaking or his midnight snacking? He felt the temperature in his face rise again and he clenched his fists to keep from launching at the boy.

“I said I don’t know what you mean, Prince Luke,” he said through gritted teeth.

Luke’s shoulders sank and he sighed loudly. “Are you kidding me? Man, I knew all those lessons were a waste!” He flopped back onto the floor, face in his hands, and moaned exasperatingly.

And people call me overdramatic, thought Yves. He stole a glance at the door and wondered if Luke would notice if he slipped away, but a loud rumbling stopped him midway from standing.

“Don’t tell me that was your stomach,” he said. Luke gave him a weak hum and rolled on his side to stare at the sweets again.

What was with this guy? First he comes barging into the kitchen with his sword drawn pretending to be some valiant hero, then he has the audacity to beg for food like some hungry pauper? Sure, he had only been at the palace for a few days, but it’s not like they were starving him! He could have easily come to the kitchen anytime during sensible hours if he was really hungry, and mealtimes were always set up in the roundtable room.

“Why weren’t you at dinner today?” Yves asked, craning his eyebrow.

“Uh, guess I missed it. Took a nap an’ lost track of the time,” said Luke. He was now straining his arms to reach past Yves to the sweet stash.

“When did you wake up?”

“Just now. I smelled the sweets and followed ‘em here. Come on, just one —”

“Dinner was over five hours ago!”

Luke retracted his hand at Yves’s outburst and glared up at him. “What’s your point?”

Yves tightened his lips to a thin line. How could this boy possibly integrate into the royal court? It was one thing to be born with royal blood, but the studying, mannerisms, responsibilities, and experience that came with the role take a lifetime to master. And that did not even include politics and dealing with citizens. Why, if the nobles had trouble accepting Yves into their circles, they would eat Luke alive. Perhaps it would have been better to spare him the harsh realities of his lineage so he could keep living his pedestrian life in peace.

But it was too late for that now. The truth was revealed and there was no shying away from it, not for Luke nor the rest of the princes.

Yves watched Luke’s feeble attempts to hook his finger on the rim of a plate of cookies and a slight pang twitched in his chest. He sighed, picked up the plate and brought it just above Luke’s head.

“I’ll let you have some if you stop whimpering like a helpless pup,” he said, trying to avoid Luke’s eyes which grew to the size of the cookies in anticipation. “And if you answer a few of my questions.”

Luke gave an ear-splitting grin and sat up, arms outstretched as if ready to play a game.

Yves balanced the plate on one hand and rested the other on his hip in an attempt to look as princely and imposing as possible despite his sullied outerwear. “First, why were you napping for so long today?”

“Oh, that? I was just tired from all the studying that Sariel-guy’s been making me do. ‘Gave me a mountain of books one day and said —” he straightened his back again and mock adjusted a pair of imaginary glasses — “‘This amounts to a comprehensive purview of the fundamentals and expectations of the royal family of Rhodolite, both domestically and internationally, over the past seven generations. I trust you will have their contents memorized by the end of the week’. I don’t reckon I’ve ever even read that many books in my entire life!”

The hold Yves had on the plate wavered slightly. He was no stranger to Sariel’s arduous (sometimes borderline demoniac) teaching methods, but this sounded like a task even the genius Chevalier would struggle to complete.

“You must have at least made some progress,” said Yves.

“Yeah… not much. He didn’t exactly say what would happen if I didn’t do it, but he was holding that whip of his real threateningly.” Luke shuddered for a moment. “I mean, if that’s the standard, I bet you guys can probably read books in your sleep!”

Yves sneered softly at the bit of exaggeration, knowing full well it was true for some of his brothers more than others. His mind wandered to Chevalier’s personal library and its countless shelves lined with his prized collection, then to Clavis and his pronounced hatred of all things literature, and finally on Leon and his struggle to get halfway through a single page without snoozing.

“Er — so, can I have one now?”

Still chuckling at the image of Leon’s head sagging in between a book, Yves idly picked up a cookie and raised his arm, but as he did he felt the previous warmth that filled the room slip away. He turned his head and froze when he came face-to-face not with Luke’s gentle eyes, but rather those of a murderous beast glinting ravenously in the pale moonlight, a sight completely new yet hauntingly familiar. In an instant Luke lunged forward, nabbed the treat, retreated to his seat, and devoured it in one breath. Yves’s jaw dropped.

“Oh dear Lord…” he whispered.

Luke patted his stomach and smiled sweetly, his eyes back to their usual composure, and Yves became exceedingly aware of the height difference between the two of them despite the fact that they were both still sitting.

“Man, talk about the reward being sweeter the longer you wait! Next?” said Luke.

Yves picked up his jaw and swallowed hard. “If you could do that… if I was just a little slower… you could have killed me back there!”

“That’s a bit of an over exaggeration. I was just aiming for the cookie, it’s not like I was gonna rip your arm off,” said Luke, raising his eyebrow.

“Not that!” said Yves, his voice rising considerably. “Before, when you were wagging your sword. You could have sliced me open! Or… or smashed my head! Or —”

“But I didn’t —,” urged Luke, but he stopped midway as though a realization dawned on him. “Oh… no… not again…”

But Yves could no longer hear him. His body shook violently as he tilted his gaze behind the counter where Luke’s sword lay, still covered in the remains of berry fillings and cream custards. He pictured them instead as his own blood and entrails… his arms slackened… the cookie plate shattered… the room spun around him… he clutched his stomach… a sudden light-headedness washed over him… he was falling…

He awoke to an incessant nudging in his cheek and an uncomfortable squishy feeling underneath him. He held his breath and reached his hand to his back, but exhaled in relief at the realization he had only collapsed on a bowl of jelly-filled doughnuts. Luke was staring down at him, concern reflected in his eyes as he ceased his poking and retracted his finger.

“You good?” he asked timidly.

Yves slowly sat up, the thumping in his head returning as he did. He wiped his arm across his forehead both to massage it and shield his face from Luke’s anxious gaze.

“Just tired…” he grimaced.

Before he could give Luke a chance to respond, Yves grabbed a nearby napkin and stood making his way to the sink. He pulled a bucket of drinking water from beside the windowsill and dunked the napkin into it, pleased to find it was cool to the touch. He wrung the napkin before applying it to his forehead with a hiss and closed his eyes as relief started to take over.

He couldn’t believe he fainted in front of Luke. He was sure the flash in Luke’s eyes was a reflection of the beastly side harbored within each of the princes, whether or not the boy was aware of it himself, but why did it frighten him so? This was hardly the first time he’d confronted one, and Yves was just as much of a noble beast as any of them were, yet he always came up short, be it in the office or on the battlefield.

A feeling of utter defeat washed over him as he moved the napkin to cool his crown, trying to drown out the loud shuffling sounds Luke started making behind him. He let any chance to at least get Luke to take him seriously slip away splendidly. And if none of the princes respected him, there was no possibility Belle would even consider such a weakling as a candidate for king.

“OUCH!” said Yves.

He winced when he accidentally applied too much pressure to his bruise. Resolving he’d feel better if he rested in his bed, it wasn’t like there was any use staying in the kitchens, he rested the napkin on his head and turned on his heel when Luke appeared in front of the doorway with an apologetic look, arms hidden behind his back.

Luke rocked in place momentarily before extending one hand to reveal a single cookie. “It’ll make you feel better,” he muttered and flashed a sympathetic smile. Too tired to claim he didn’t want his pity, Yves wordlessly accepted the cookie and nibbled it quietly.

Luke looked pleased at this and continued rocking in place, letting his eyes wander around the kitchen. When Yves finished the cookie, he opened his mouth to tell Luke to step aside, but Luke spoke over him.

“So, er — what’s the next question?”

Feeling a little more alert with the extra sugar in his system, Yves focused his eyes on Luke and noticed him pulling out the same cookies on a new plate from behind his back. He wanted to tell Luke he wasn’t up for playing anymore and that he could help himself to whatever was left, but his words caught in his throat when he saw the childlike smile grace Luke’s face again.

“Um, are you sure you want to continue? It’s gotten quite late,” said Yves, but Luke firmly shook his head and beamed.

“Anything to keep me from those history books. Besides, it’s fun talking to you.”

A warm sensation sprouted in his cheeks and Yves averted his eyes. This had to be a joke; after the little misunderstanding with their scuffle and Yves’s fainting episode, Luke was probably just sparing his feelings. Still, Luke had yet to dismiss his opinions or outright laugh in his face, and the pain in his head was starting to subside…

Yves sighed and took a seat in a chair by a table underneath the window, gesturing for Luke to follow. When Luke lowered the plate and seated himself across from him, Yves removed the wet napkin and studied the boy more closely. He was still covered with pastry remains (globs of jam and doughy crusts wildly stuck his hair on end in particular), but to Yves’s surprise he otherwise seemed undisturbed. In fact, staring expectantly with his chin in his hands, he actually seemed to be enjoying himself.

Yves diverted his gaze from Luke’s smile again and let it land on the small stuffed bear that dangled buoyantly from his lapel.

“Where did you get that?” he asked, pointing to the bear.

Luke followed Yves’s line of sight and smiled even wider. “‘Made it myself!” he proudly proclaimed, puffing his chest so that the bear bounced merrily.

Yves observed the stitching more carefully and noticed the nostalgic homemade-feel it aroused. “It’s very nice,” he said. He smiled softly and pushed the plate towards Luke. “Have two.”

Luke conscientiously craned his arms towards the plate and rested each hand on a cookie, keeping an eye on Yves the entire time. When Yves made no sudden reaction, he grinned, picked them up and took a hearty bite from both. “Ffanks!” he said while he chewed.

Yves watched the bear continue to bob up and down as Luke devoured the cookies.

“‘Course it was only a matter of time before Rhodolite’s leading fashion expert took notice. Game recognizes game, after all.” Luke licked the remaining crumbs from his fingers and gestured towards his ear.

Yves blinked when he realized his hand had unconsciously drifted to stroke his earring. He released it and felt the cool metal tickle his neck.

“Who says I’m Rhodolite’s leading fashion expert?” he asked.

“Well, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, you’re by far the most put-together person in the palace. But since you asked, Jin told me.” He hovered his hand back over the plate ready for his next reward. Yves nodded and Luke scarfed down another two cookies while he sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.

Was it true? Well, like Luke said, it was no secret that Yves spent a lot of time prepping his appearance every day, but he didn’t realize Jin thought so highly of his efforts.

“What else did Jin say about me?”

Luke slowed his munching and shrugged his shoulders. “Just some general stuff, I s’pose. You’re the fourth — no, fifth prince, you’re in the same faction as him, you’re a whiz in the kitchen,” he eagerly picked up more cookies for each trait he listed, “you get along well with Licht, you don’t get along at all with Nokto, your mom’s an Obsidianite princess, you like to play the violin —”

“Wait, back up a bit!” Yves shot up in his seat.

“Oh, the part about Nokto? Sorry if that upset you before. But you know funny thing, Jin called him a ‘silver-tongued fox’ too, but he made it sound like a compliment —”

“No, after that. You know about my ancestry?”

“Oh… yup.” Luke triumphantly eyed the collection of seven cookies he managed to stack into a tower.

“Does it… doesn’t that bother you?” Yves asked in a small voice.

Luke peered around his cookie-tower quizzically. “Should it?”

Yves made a pointed face that shouted ‘Obviously!’, but Luke interpreted it as a new question and reached for another cookie.

“Does it bother you that I grew up a commoner?” he retorted, eyes fixated on the tower as he carefully positioned his construction of the eighth level.

Yves opened his mouth to answer but stopped himself as he pondered the question. Yves recalled the dumbfounded look he wore when he first learned of Luke’s existence, the stinging betrayal he felt toward his father, and the sleepless nights plagued with apprehension ever since, but he never actually considered his feelings toward Luke. Jin was also raised as a commoner at first, but he managed to overcome his handicap and integrate within the ranks of royalty so seamlessly Yves often forgot his origins. Would it be the same for Luke?

He admitted he never went out of his way to interact with the boy since he arrived at the palace, but he chalked that up to their schedules never overlapping rather than some preexisting prejudice he may have harbored. Adding that to the fact that Clavis scooped him up for the diplomatic faction almost instantly, Yves never interacted with Luke beyond passing him the occasional dish during mealtimes in the roundtable room. As far as he was concerned, Luke was just another person he happened to be related to.

That wasn’t right either; it’s exactly how he described his Obsidianite relatives. At least Luke was talking to him instead of outright pretending he didn’t exist.

“No,” he said in a flat voice.

“There you go then,” Luke stated matter-of-factly. He set the eighth cookie on the top and sat back to admire his work. Once he seemed satisfied, he grabbed the structure from opposite ends, condensed it as much as he could without making it collapse, and brought it in its entirety towards his mouth.

Yves watched wide-eyed as Luke forced as much of the tower as he could into his open jaw. Some of the ends crumbled in the chaos and spilled onto the table, but that didn’t stop Luke from pumping his fists and letting out a victorious “hummh!” when he finally managed to close his mouth. Yves blinked at him several times before erupting with gleeful laughter. Luke tried to join in as well, but his attempts only ended up with him sputtering and spraying the table with even more crumbs.

Five minutes passed with uninterrupted mirth filling the previously lonely corners of the kitchen until the pair calmed down. Yves’s sides started to ache; he couldn’t recall the last time he let go and allowed himself to laugh so freely. He wiped away tears that sprouted in the corners of his eyes and looked back at Luke, who finally managed to swallow the entire cookie tower and was now bouncing in his seat.

“I suppose that concludes the interrogation?” he said, moving to stand.

“Haha, hold up, I can keep going!” Luke grabbed his arm and pulled him back down to sit.

“Alright, but I can’t think of anything more — Hang on, what does Nokto say about me in your office?”

Luke’s face turned pale and he immediately ceased his bouncing. “On second thought, I think I’m full.”

Yves frowned and pulled the plate of cookies (which had about a dozen remaining) towards himself, lifted it in front of his head, and tilted it so that the cookies slid into his mouth in one swoop. He fixed a hard stare on Luke as he gobbled the lot, and it was Luke’s turn to watch him bewildered.

Yves wiped his mouth with his sleeve and smirked. “In that case, how about you ask me something?”

And thus, the two princes talked animatedly for hours with the familiarity of old friends catching up after years apart. They spoke of hilarious exploits, rambunctious mishaps against authority, and perilous adventures across borders, neither of them making any mention of the upcoming Belle selection nor the looming threat of Obsidian, and Yves prayed that dawn would never arrive.

************************************************************************

I really enjoyed writing from Yves's perspective. I'm sure he had a lot on his mind before Belle showed up to the palace, and he always seemed the least "beastly" of all the princes, so I imagine his isolation is what led him to his midnight feasting. (Side note, his metabolism must be through the roof!)

As for Luke, I'm not quite sure if I captured his personality correctly, but he was still very fun to write. Throughout all the routes currently available in the English version (up to Licht), he's probably shown up the least in total and he almost never mentions anything about his past. It's a shame, but that'll make it all the more exciting once his route does finally come out. It also makes me wonder if the King will ever show up in any flashbacks (got some choice words for him, let me tell you).

But for those who have finished his route in the Japanese version and find some errors in this story, chronologically or otherwise, my apologies.（◞‸◟）I'd really like to see if they tell us how Luke meets each of the princes, that'd be really cool.

Regardless, Yves and Luke's interactions in the game are precious. Good night!

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikeprince #イケメン王子 #ikepri yves #ikepri luke #scorchie writes #yves kloss #luke randolph

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cowboylikedean · 2 years

Note

She was really trying to hold onto that relationship at all costs until she was just done. It was her longest one and she thought it was actually going somewhere for a while. Her fans shipping her with other people clearly really bothered him (haylor most of all for obvious reasons) and I think it some of that anger probably got shifted to her as well, especially when she was on the 1989 tour and in that era so there was a lot to do with Harry going on. So she probably had some resentment towards fans because it was causing problems in her relationship. I think she still does to some degree because she was quite anti-shipper from what she said in the rep sessions I’m not wanting a ship name for her and Joe, making it very clear rep was about Joe etc, the comments about feeling like a doll in a dollhouse or a sim. She definitely cares less now because her and Joe are solid, they’re very offline and private so it doesn’t matter to them when she was maybe scared in the earlier days of them being public knowledge. I think she’ll always be a little bit “why the fuck can’t you just be happy that I’m happy and leave us alone???” to the more militant/overzealous ones though.

This feels like a good time to answer this, which has been sitting in my ask because there's so much I want to say

But yeah, I think the concept of shipping really bothered her and I've also said this the whole ass time but I really think that's why it is a bad thing for her to be holed up in fandom spaces. This is not healthy for her.

The rep era was wonderful because it was HER and US and who gives a fuck about the general public. Her being on tumblr during the rep era felt different to me and I turned my back on a lot of the anti-taylor-on-tumblr stuff that I said in 2015....... But since she's LEFT tumblr after this fandom was so incredibly invasive and seeing the monstrous way people have responded to that... I was right in 2015. I was just looking through my 1989 disconnect tag to find a post I had written where I explained that the fandom was a house and we built our foundation on loving Taylor and she being on tumblr put cracks in it and brought the building down.. But I can't find it. In reading back through the gloves fight though, I remember exactly what I meant.

I respect Taylor as a person enough to not try to shove her into a box and make her into an idea. She’s a person, which means we are not going to agree 100% of the time. She’s not an idea created from my life to live out my fantasies of what my ideal famous person is like… she’s her own human being. But just like that, she needs to respect me as a person enough to not try to shove me into a box and make me into an idea. None of us deserve that. We aren’t ideas created for her to live out what her ideal fans are like. We’re whole people. So we’re going to disagree.

She is, rightfully so, uncomfortable with being made into an idea rather than a person by the fandom. Shipping falls into that. But likewise, the fandom doesn't deserve to be turned into an idea either. We are not obligated to live out her fantasies of the perfect fans any more than she is obligated to live out our fantasies of the perfect famous person. And it's VERY hard to keep that balance and divide when she's here.

I think a lot of the tayvin bad was about this. And I think it was an unfortunately unavoidable consequence to Taylor being on tumblr.

#1989 disconnect #grey shirt #i spent a lot of time in this reply

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thefanficmonster · 3 years

Text

You Call It A Mess, We Call It Baking

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: Tons of fluff

Summary: A friendly argument via Discord leads to a baking session. Said baking session leads to a kitchen looking like it was the victim of a tornado. The lesson here is: don’t leave Corpse and Y/N in the kitchen together.

Requested by Anon, thank you so much for your request, hope I captured what you wanted well and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Corpse’s POV

I’ve been sitting in a Discord call with Y/N for about three years now, keeping her company as she’s editing some footage Sean sent her earlier. In the meantime, I’m reviewing the recently submitted stories by my viewers, reading some lines I find funny or downright terrifying to her.

“When I went in the kitchen to check on the cake, it was already out of the oven, a sticky note next to it on the counter that read: ‘smells nice’. My blood ran cold.“ I read the eerie sentence that is suggesting one of my most frightening scenarios - a stalker getting inside your house. I get chills just imagining what was probably going on in the sender’s head when they saw that.

“Jeez, it’s been so long since I’ve cooked something other than omelet.“ I hear Y/N reply absentmindedly, completely neglecting the fear factor of what’s going on in the story.

“Good job missing the point.” I chuckle, my eyes continuing to scan the email until my brain actually comprehends what she said, “Wait, you mean to tell me you have baked anything ever?! No offense, Y/N, but I was honestly doubting your ability to make an omelet as well. In all the years we’ve been friends I can’t remember you ever not saying ‘I hade takeout’ when I asked you what you had for dinner.”

The scoff that comes through my headphones is the most adorable thing ever. She’s one to easily take a joke and never get offended by anything, but I know how heated she can get with her sarcasm. If I’m being honest, I’m always here for it.

“There are many things you don’t know about me, Corpsy. A girl’s gotta have some aces up her sleeve.“ I can just imagine the narrowing of here eyes and the tilting of her head as she says that. She has a very specific way of expressing her thoughts. When we first met I accidentally made the comparison to one of those children’s books that have pictures, stories and small buttons for audio. That comparison has stuck with me and I look back at it very often. To fully catch her point, you don’t just listen to her. No, no, no. You focus on every change in her face and body. The way she looks away during certain parts of her speech, the way her voice plays with several different tones at once. Her posture while speaking. Just like those books - you don’t just listen to the audio, you look at the pictures and read the text.

“Well you know how much I like playing poker, why don’t you come over and throw those aces down.“ The last thing you should ever give Y/N is a challenge. She won’t only homerun it, but will never let you forget it either. When we met she was a girl with self esteem in the negatives, so seeing her brag about her achievements to me always brings me joy.

The details I’ve listed are pretty in-depth, aren’t they? That’s because I don’t want to let anything slip when it comes to her. This realization hit me early in our friendship and it was only like two years in that I finally connected the dots - this investment in her of mine was not simple nor platonic. Come to think of it, I reckon it never was.

“No way, I’m not changing out of my pajamas just to come to your house.” She laughs, once again making me picture her full body reaction to her statement.

I smirk, knowing I’m about to bring out my main weapon, “Oh come on, I’ve seen you in pajamas countless times. You can just admit you don’t wanna embarrass yourself. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

I can sense her fuming even though she’s like two miles away. “I’ll be there in 15.”

She hangs up before getting the chance to hear me lose control of the laughter I’ve been suppressing.

Man, I love this girl.

Y/N’s POV

“It’s on.“ I say as soon as the door in front of me swings open to reveal the smug smirking face of my bestfriend. The foundation of my tough, unbothered act is shaken up by the outburst of butterflies in my stomach which occurs every time I see him. I can never look at this man and not turn at least a little red in the cheeks.

It’s been long since I self-diagnosed with the malicious ‘falling for someone who would never reciprocate my feelings’ illness. I’ve been living with it for a while. What medication do I take? Dating other guys. One bad relationship after another, scolding myself that every one of them has been a desperate attempt to get him to change his gaze on me from ‘best friend’ to something more. Hell, I don’t even know how to define that ‘something more’. I once even tried to admit my feelings, but I was so vague and so incoherent that I didn’t understand myself, so how was he supposed to grasp my downright sad excuse of a confession.

“No ‘hello’, no nothing?“ He moves aside to let me in. I walk right past him with a sassy flip of my hair to mask the nervousness of being aware that his eyes were on me, “Rude.“ He murmured with an obvious smile in his tone.

He looks as cute as ever, black sweatpants and a black tee, hair messy as though he has just rolled out of bed. I can say with the upmost certainty that he’s the only one who can pull of that hairstyle.

I hide mine as I throw on the apron that’s hanging by his fridge, ready to take over his kitchen and put those aces of mine to use. I can’t help but furrow my brows when I see him enter the kitchen behind me and lean against the counter. That’s when I notice the counter is lined with all the ingredients I’ll need for the cake I had in mind.

“OK, what do we do first?“ he claps his hands together, straightening his posture as he gives me a expectant look.

It takes all my brain cells to prevent me from freezing up completely. I’m not usually like this, mind you, I’m a lot better at keeping what’s going on inside my head camouflaged. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I don’t have much time to dwell on that. If I do, he’ll pick up on it right away.

“Um, we are not gonna do anything. I will be here baking, and you will remain outside the kitchen until I’m done. If you need something, ask and I’ll bring it to you. I can’t have you sabotaging my project, impostor.” I narrow my eyes at him like he’s the most dangerous of threats. And he is, for my mental sanity.

He fakes a hurt expression, clearly fighting to the best of his ability to hide how much he’s enjoying messing with me. “We’ve known each other for five years, Y/N. Don’t you trust me?”

I lean over the counter to where we’re about two feet apart and whisper, “Not. Even. A. Little. Bit.”

He smiles, “You’re just trying to get away with making this cake by watching a YouTube tutorial. Admit it, you can’t even crack an egg properly.” His eyes are now as narrowed as mine as we stare each other down at a proximity that’s rapidly raising my body temperature and heartbeat. It’s not fair. I’m a mess around him so he automatically has the upper hand.

As expected, I give in, “You better not mess around though.”

After I force him to give me several different oaths, we start. I’m working on the batter, he’s working on the frosting. We decided to decorate it with crimson and dark purple frosting. We’re both really pick about the color shades so he’s currently struggling to get the crimson perfect.

“Let’s make it a layer cake.“ He suggests out of the blue, “Two layers, nothing crazy.“

I think it over for a moment or two before shrugging, “OK, but then you better grab a bowl and help me with the second layer. You know how to make the batter, right?”

He confirms that he does and walks out of my line of sight. I hear him open the fridge as I whisk the eggs I have cracked with the sugar.

“You want something to drink?“ He asks while rummaging through the fridge.

I decline, try to focus on the recipe that I have somehow memorized to the smallest of details. As I’m reciting the it silently to make sure I didn’t skip any steps with the batter, I feel something cold run down my back causing me to scream.

“What the fuck was that?!“ I turn around and glare at him just as the ice cube slips out from under my hoodie and falls to the floor. The fucker’s laughing whole heartedly, not giving a damn that he just gave me a mini heart attack. Mainly cause I thought it was a roach or something, and he know I hate bugs.

“You do realize how boiling red you are, right? You look like a lobster. I thought you needed something to cool you down.“

Instead of being annoyed, I do a full 180 and decide to play his game, “Yeah, I know...” I trail off, reaching my hand back towards the bowl of flour. Grabbing a a handful of the white powder I throw it at him before he can even catch on. Needless, to say, his outfit and hair aren’t so black anymore. “Ah, I knew your hair would look good with snowflakes in it, but you can never be too sure.”

“This means war, Y/N.” His smile is borderline malicious, getting me excited for what’s to come.

Him and I have always had these so called wars, but never like you’d imagine. We are silent, strategic, subtle. Neither of us knows when the other will attack until it’s too late. That’s why instead of going for a counter-attack right away, he heads to complete his mission of making the batter for the second layer.

All is quiet except the noises of the utensils clinking together every now and then. I keep a close watch on him out of the corner of my eye and I notice no sus behavior. That is until I see him take a spoonful of his batter and eat it. I whirl around at the speed of a gust of wind, eyes wide, “Do you want to fuck up your guts.” He ignores me as he takes another spoonful, bringing it close to his mouth. This time, I grab onto his arm causing the contents of the spoon to spill on my hoodie.

I roll my eyes, unbothered by the brown stain that by some miracle missed the apron and fell on my grey hoodie, “Don’t. Eat. The. Batter. Copy?“

“Paste.“ He nods, smirking with pride as he puts the spoon aside.

I sigh and return to my side of the kitchen, focusing on the next task: poring the batter into the circular baking tray which he, for some reason, has two of. He repeats the task soon after me and we put the two trays in the oven. I help him with the frosting, getting the shades close enough to what we had in mind.

After about five minutes of the crusts baking, a wonderful smell spreads throughout the kitchen. At this point, all we have to do is wait for the oven to signal that our cinnamon crust is ready to be taken out, wait for it to cool down and then frost the cake.

“It smells really good.“ He comments, turning his head to look at me.

I’m sitting atop the kitchen counter and Corpse is standing next to me. This is the only time him and I are at approximately the same height. The realization brings a thought to my mind, one that makes me feel like an evil mastermind.

“Hey, remember earlier when you said I couldn’t crack an egg properly?“ He hums affirmatively, “Well...“

The carton of eggs is within arm’s reach. I grab an egg, chip it off the side of the counter and crack it apart above his head, its contents coating his hair. “How’s that for a proper egg crack?” I ask victoriously.

He lets out a surprised sound, something between a gasp and a laugh. Shaking his head to get the yoke to fall down, he says amusedly: “I don’t know...you tell me.”

Too late for me to do anything. There’s milk all over me.

The malicious smile on his face is replicated on mine and now it’s really on. However, as we reach for the items meant to be out weapons, the oven dings.

Frosting the cake goes about as well as you expect: there’s more frosting on us than the cake itself.

“Let’s make amends, please. I’m so not looking forward to taking three showers tonight.“ I say, raising a white napkin and waving it around.

“Fair enough.“ He shrugs and we shake hands.

As I’m about to pull my hand back, he holds onto it, making me look up at him. Our eyes lock and I suddenly regain that same shakiness and vulnerability I always have around him. It never leaves me, I just manage to ignore it. The sound of my panic is muffled by the sound of my heart thumping the loudest it has ever.

Expectedly, he is the bold one who makes the first and final move. The move to end one era of us and start another. His lips touch mine and all fades. It’s just him and I. The friends who were never just friends. The cowards who suck at dealing with emotions. The fearful little kids that are afraid of rejection because we both mean so much to each other, to the point of suffering to prevent the possibility of losing one another.

We embrace who we are, finally admitting that friends is not what we are meant to remain forever.

The kiss might’ve been brief, but the meaning it carries makes it the most valuable moment of my life. One I’ll cherish forever. Something in his eyes tells me he will too. That’s all I need. That’s all we need. No words are necessary.

Suddenly, our bubble bursts as a result of his ringing phone. He lets go of one of my hands and takes his phone from the counter.

“It’s Dave”, he smiles, picking up the call and turning to get me in the camera frame. “Hey Dave, look who’s here with me.“

I wave at the camera and at the baffled face of Dave. “Hi!”

“What, in the name of God, is that mess?“ He raises both his eyebrows as his eyes scan us and the kitchen behind us.

“You call it a mess, we call it baking.“ Corpse and I look at each other and smile, blushing as red as the streak in Dave’s hair.

“Am I missing something here? Did I call at a bad time?“ He asks, still struggling to rationalize what he is seeing.

“Yeah, you actually did. I’ll call you back.“ Corpse dead-ass hangs up on him, putting his phone away before turning to me, “We have more important matters at the moment.“

He kisses me again, this time more confidently. His arms wrap around me and prep me up on the counter, insinuating that this kiss won’t be as short as the last.

#corpse husband #corpse #husband #corpsehusband #corpse husband fanficiton #corpse husband fanfic #x reader #reader #fanfiction #fanfic #corpse simp #request #requests open #romance #friends to lovers #love

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collisiondiscourse · 3 years

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battle scars || a deku & class 1-A drabble

(A quick drabble talking about members of class 1-A, the scars they share, and the love that heals them. TW for descriptions of violence and both external and internal injuries.)

There isn't a single hero that Deku knows of who doesn't have scars.

They aren't stigmatized, no not at all. No one who's ever seen a hero in action before thinks that scars are ugly. In hero society, scars are celebrated. Admired, adored, worshipped--whatever connotates the wearer to something positive. In a world where suffering and self-sacrifice are glorified, scars are a mark of beauty.

Even then though, Izuku Midoriya can't help but think that his scars are better off hidden.

He knows, god does he know, that everyone has their own wounds and injuries. Little divots here, the occasional prosthetic there--everyone he knows is marked in some way that reminds the world that they are still human where it matters. They aren't gods or faces off a product--just average traumatized people who unfortunately love humanity more than they love themselves.

Class 1-A being no exception.

Mina, for example, has burns. Big burns, small burns, burns of all shapes and sizes that litter her body like the pattern of the hero costume she wears. A few too many evil scientists with interests in chemistry like to think that their knowledge gives them the upper hand, but the Alien Queen always proves them wrong.

One of her horns is chipped, and when she gets drunk she admits that her sense of sight might be going. Sometimes, the scars sting, but the sweet ache of her body as she nails another dance routine reminds her that there's more to the world than how people look. When she begins to forget that, Kirishima claps loudly as she lands another pirouette.

Kaminari is dotted from head to toe in Lichtenberg scars. It's something that surprises no one, and something the blond feels no shame in showing off at any given moment. The lightning patterned marks are most prevalent along his forearms and palms, every hug from him feeling rough but safe nonetheless.

Occasionally, due to one too many brain fries, he'll have days where his mind doesn't seem like it's all there and memories fade like footprints in the sand. On those days, Denki lays down and Jirou runs her hands through electric blond hair while humming a soft and sweet tune.

Kirishima's scars run like cracks. They splinter and have ridges that look very much like his own quirk. Most of them are very faint and shallow, getting more focused and deep around his chest and forearms as he held firm against countless unrelenting attacks.

After one too many nosebleeds, the red-head finds out that he's way more prone to internal wounds from the way his organs deal with shock absorption less adaptively than his skin and bones do. Eijirou's tense muscles eventually learn to relax under the gentle caring massages from an exasperated Mina.

Iida, on the other hand, has a prosthetic. An unfortunate and horrible incident left him missing half a leg after pissing off a Stain-inspired villain who was a little too much like her idol. He's much less scarred (a benefit of his full-bodied armor), but Deku still sometimes sees the way he struggles to breathe.

Internal scars from internal wounds similar to Kirishima's make his body sometimes forget that he's stopped running. Tenya wears these scars with responsibility and blushes whenever he greets an enthusiastic Hatsume Mei for his monthly prosthetic maintenance check.

Uraraka has scars all over her fingers. Nicks and slices from where people tried to render her quirk useless by taking off a finger. She has a star-shaped mark on the right side of her forehead from where a building caved in and shattered her helmet.

Neat little slashes run up and down her ankles and soles of her feet from lucky shots people had before she floated away. Ochako wears these scars with ferocity and pride, adorning them in pink band-aids that Toga sometimes scratches at when the brunette comes to visit her in jail.

Todoroki is... a little different. The scar over his right eye is a lot more faded, yet still there. It grew up with him, healed and faded at the edges like the wounds in his heart, but not forgotten because of how it made him who he is. He has burns of all types adorned around his body--caused either by his own quirk or others.

He also often gets sick when he overexerts himself like the hopeless workaholic Big Three member he is. Yaoyorozu and Inasa visit him on those sick days, bringing light and chicken soup into his big empty home.

Bakugou's a lot similar to Deku. Their families and friends have noticed that if you put a diagram of their bodies side by side with markings of their injuries, it wouldn't exactly be a mirror image, but seemingly two parts of a puzzle clicking together. The blond had all sorts of scars around his body, a hazard that came with the title of Japan's Symbol of Victory.

There were deep lashes on his back, marks of muzzles and handcuffs from attempt after attempt of kidnappings and ransom hostages. On his forearms were twin bracelet scars, from an especially ruthless villain that attempted to cut his hands off in an effort to eliminate his quirk. Over his torso were two faint pink marks shaped like explosions, both from the first time he sacrificed himself for Deku.

Bakugou had similar aches on his shoulders and neck from overuse and recoil whenever he'd pushed himself too quick and too soon. Kacchan would scoff at the notion of hiding his scars and treat the pain with a quick home-cooked meal, fingers twitching when Deku would plop himself on the counter and ask about his latest shift.

But Deku?

Deku hid well. He hid because it was his habit to deceive and alter his appearance--covering things up with a simple black arm band because in the grand scheme of things there were some secrets best left unseen. Deku wore long sleeves and concealer over his skin like it was a suit of armor, hiding the rawest parts of him because even as he grew and climbed his way to the top, a part of him always remembered that the burden he carries is too heavy to let be seen.

So he hides.

He hides the way burns litter his skin from trying to contain the inferno that is OfA and walking through fire to bring civillians home. He hides the Lichtenberg scars and the way green lightning sometimes crackles hard enough to make him flinch as he fights his way through unbeatable hoards of enemis. He hides the prosthetics, the way his arms gave out on him quite a while ago, forcing them to be replaced and improved. He hides the way people have tried to tear him apart and steal his burden for themselves.

One for All was his greatest gift and most painful curse.

Some nights he trembles and shakes, muscles spasming in effort to just simply keep going. Shivers run up and down his spine because with every injury his blood circulation worsens and worsens until cold and pain is all that he feels. Izuku will sometimes walk around, scars hurting and throbbing hot white under his skin, and look for medication that dulls the ache and makes him go a little less crazy.

Hands mindlessly running over bumps and edges, scars from villains and friends and debris and growth spurts. He would stand in front of a mirror like a house of cards and pull himself apart, reflection making him detest himself from how gnarled and ugly and imperfect he was.

"--No, my boy. Not imperfect." The tall and gaunt figure of his old mentor would tut. Thin and skeletal fingers would grasp the bottom of a white shirt and lift it up, gently revealing a scar so deep it almost looks like a crater. "Not imperfect at all. For people like us, your scars make you far more than just a hero."

Deku, of course, would hum in resignation. He looks at All Might--no, Toshinori Yagi with a skeptical look and the retired hero would smile.

"You are... a miracle."

And just like that, Deku would be brought back to being 14 years old, quirkless and desperate. He's on his knees, looking at the Symbol of Peace in his true form--thin and pale but still oh so powerful. A voice tells him that there is a destiny he has far greater than he'll ever realize, an adventure that awaits him through the old skinny man with unruly blond hair.

Izuku didn't see weakness that day, no.

He saw hope.

So now, even as Pro-Hero Deku hides away the parts of himself that are broken and raw from the world he protects, he finds his cure all the same. In the arms of those who are warm and familiar, Deku sheds his armor, his foundation, his long sleeves--

and he is simply Izuku.

He is Izuku who gets spa days and yoga sessions with Ashido, Denki, and Eijirou that stops his muscles from spasming on days where it gets unbearable. He is Izuku who gets tender massages and hearty midnight snack runs with Ochako and Tenya when nightmares and visions just won't let him sleep. He is Izuku who gets soup and warm borrowed hoodies from Shouto and Kacchan when stress makes him keel over and shudder at the thought of working. He is Izuku who gets big warm hugs and a fierce movie marathon with his loving mother and mentor who is his father in all but name.

He is Izuku, riddled with scars that still heal.

#bnha #mha spoilers #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #denki kaminari #mina ashido #eijirou kirishima #tenya iida #ochako uraraka #katsuki bakugou #shouto todoroki #izuku midoriya #codi.docx #tw violence #tw injury

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nwbeerguide · 2 years

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Dogfish Head Craft Brewery announces release of Mandarin & Mango Crush and 120 Minute IPA, now redesigned.

Press Release

Milton, Del. … National Beer Day is just around the corner and Dogfish Head Craft Brewery is giving drinkers a reason (or two) to celebrate! The brewery excitedly announces the release of Mandarin & Mango Crush, the second beer out of its annual Off-Centered Art Series, and return of its fan-favorite 120 Minute IPA with new bottle artwork. Making their ways to taps and shelves nationwide, folks can track down a 6pk/12oz bottles of Mandarin & Mango Crush or 4pk/12oz bottles of 120 Minute IPA using Dogfish Head’s Fish Finder.

The second beer to release from Dogfish Head’s 2022 Off-Centered Art Series, a yearly lineup of four limited-edition beers featuring artwork by a single collaborative artist, Mandarin & Mango Crush is a citrus-forward fruit beer brewed with boatloads of tart mandarin oranges and juicy Alphonso mangoes. Clocking in at 6.0% ABV, this lightly-sweet, hazy gold-colored brew boasts a refreshing, citrusy tartness and a crisp, dry finish for a sip of summer in every bottle.

Featuring artwork by Max Mahn, a well-known printmaker and illustrator from Missoula, Montana, Mandarin & Mango Crush is a beer-centric reimagining of the beloved coastal “Crush” cocktail, which is a simple combination of spirits and freshly-pressed juice obtained by ‘crush’-ing the fruit with a hand-powered press. Mahn brings this vision to life his warm and lively label artwork containing a classic citrus juicer surrounded by fresh fruits, providing drinkers the opportunity to imaginatively taste the beer before cracking open a bottle.

“With roots deep in coastal Delaware, the Crush cocktail has been one of my go-to summer sippers for quite some time, so helping recreate that iconic, beach-town libation in craft beer form was a really fun and collaborative experience for our brewing team. This beer is so refreshing, unique and sessionable; other than Punkin Ale, it might be my favorite seasonal Art Series beer we have ever made,” said Sam Calagione, Dogfish Head Founder & Brewer. “And while I’ll definitely be drinking some Mandarin & Mango Crush beers as the weather warms, for those slightly chillier days, I’ll be reaching for a 120 Minute IPA. After putting this beer on a short hiatus in 2021, we got an overwhelming outcry from the social media atmosphere asking its return. Well, we heard you and we’re doing just that – 120 Minute is back!

Making its return with new, black and metallic gold bottle artwork, 120 Minute IPA is Dogfish Head’s unfiltered and abundantly hoppy Imperial IPA. After being continually hopped with a copious amount of high-alpha American hops throughout the boil and whirlpool, it is then dry-hopped with another slew of hops for even more off-centered goodness! The Holy Grail for Hopheads, 120 Minute IPA (15-20% ABV) is bursting with sweet, almost candy-like aromas of citrusy, piney, floral hops complemented by a hoppy and slightly resiny flavor profile.

For more on Dogfish Head, the release of Mandarin & Mango Crush or the return of 120 Minute IPA, please visit www.dogfish.com.

…

Dogfish Head Craft Brewery:

Dogfish Head has proudly focused on brewing beers with culinary ingredients outside the Reinheitsgebot since the day it opened as one of the smallest American craft breweries more than 26 years ago. Dogfish Head has grown into a top-20 craft brewery and won numerous awards throughout the years, including Wine Enthusiast’s 2015 Brewery of the Year and the James Beard Foundation Award for 2017 Outstanding Wine, Spirits, or Beer Professional. A Delaware-based brand with Dogfish Head Brewings & Eats, an off-centered brewpub and distillery, Chesapeake & Maine, Dogfish Head’s seafood and cocktail spot, Dogfish Inn, a beer-themed inn on the harbor, and Dogfish Head Craft Brewery, a production brewery and distillery featuring the Tasting Room & Kitchen and Dogfish Head Distilling Co., Dogfish Head is a supporter of the Independent Craft Brewing Seal, the definitive icon for American craft breweries to identify themselves to be independently-owned and carry the torch of transparency, brewing innovation and the freedom of choice originally forged by brewing community pioneers. Dogfish Head currently sells beer in all 50 states and Washington D.C. For more, visit www.dogfish.com, Facebook: @dogfishheadbeer, Twitter: @dogfishbeer, and Instagram: @dogfishhead.

from Northwest Beer Guide - News - The Northwest Beer Guide https://bit.ly/37fEKCS

#Beer #News #Brewery

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haifengg · 3 years

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A = Affection (How do they show their affection?) Ten would tease a lot. A lot. Also he would take a bunch of pictures of his s/o every time they go out or on dates.

B = Bad Day (What could ruin their mood? How are they when they don’t feel overall positive?) Ten having a stressful day at work is literally every other day in his life. But the days he comes home or shows up for dates in the most terrible mood are the days something was off during dance practice. And doesn’t really has to be his fault to begin with. Just training sessions that felt odd or maybe the group didn’t work as well together. On those days he just wants to go home. If he was supposed to meet his s/o on a date he would still show up but ask them if he could take a rain check. Ten would not postpone by text or anything but he would ask to reschedule.

C = Crush(What’s he like when he’s simpin’? Why do I use words like simpin’?) “Teasing is a sign of affection.” He really isn’t hiding it in any way. If his s/o doesn’t see it they are truly blind. Someone please tell them.

D = Dream (What do they dream of doing with their s/o?) His dream would probably be something rather grown up, like being able to spend time with his s/o and on projects he loves doing equally. Maybe even his s/o participating. If he can’t make that happen he would pay a lot of attention and put in a lot of effort for his s/o not feeling neglected in any way because he loves his work but he loves his s/o as well.

E = Experience (How experienced are they in terms of relationships?) I always kind of assumed that he might not be the most experienced person when it comes to relationships but I can reassure that would be able to adapt to quickly. He is a very easygoing character and following the case his s/o is as well - it’s really a no-brainer.

F = Fights (What is it like to fight with them?) Ten strikes me as a stoic but peace loving person. What that means is that he would rarely fight. He would try to avoid confrontations because he knows he is not good at it and tends to say hurtful things to get his point across. Even if he doesn’t mean them. He would always go and a apologise immediately after but things have been said. If there is a disagreement he and his s/o would probably end up googling whatever the fight was about to check who is right. If he was wrong, he will admit it bitterly and move past that topic or avoid it in the future. G = Gifts (What type of gifts do they give their s/o?) Lots and loads of self-made crafted gifts. Art. Sneakers he scribbled on. Self-made jewellery. A collage phone case with the theatre tickets of the movies you went together or the first concert ticket he gave his s/o so they could see him perform. (With loads of memories of that very secretive high-touch event)

H = Hugs (Do they hug their s/o? How often?) I don’t think he is a big hugger? But that might only be my opinion.

I = Intimacy (How romantic are they? Do they have problems with intimacy?) Ten’s problem might be that he is way too confident. To the point where he suggests a couple of things without thinking about what his s/o might feel about it, because he doesn’t see how anyone could have a problem with it. Though once he noticed that he didn’t take their thoughts into consideration he would retreat quickly and apologise, asking for their opinion. This would only happen very rarely. Ten still is a very supportive and caring person.

J = Jealous (Do they get jealous? How do they act when jealous?) Oh boy does he get jealous. And he will let them know. It will turn into that sort of situation or maybe even a fight, where he wants his s/o to apologise to him but his s/o says they don’t have to apologise for having other friends besides him. K = Kiss (Are they a good kisser? What’s their kind of kiss?) If he is a good kisser ... I am not able to tell. But in my opinion his favorite type of kiss would be a playful interruption when he has his s/o in his arms and they are telling him a story and he randomly interrupts them. All the time.

L = Love (When do they say they love you? How often do they say it? Do they prefer to say or show it?) In the beginning Ten said it very seldomly and even as the relationship deepens and they grow fonder of each other he will find different ways of letting them know. Maybe there is this one Sticker he always send which eventually has the same meaning and weight as those three words. Just way more intimate and private since it has this lovely definition only for those lovebirds.

M = Marriage (Do they want to get married? If so, what kind of ceremony?) In my opinion Ten doesn’t really has an urge to get married. If his s/o wants to he’s cool with it and as far as a ceremony goes I think he would prefer something unconventional and simple. Like a ceremony at a temple(?) or a field wedding maybe?

N = Night out (What type of dates do they like to go on? How often do they like to go on them?) Random dates. Nights out with Ten could end up in a dreadful hangover the next morning or hours of stargazing. One never knows what they got themselves into.

O = Out of the ordinary (What’s something they don’t normally do with/for their s/o?) He rarely fights. Disagree? Yes. Agree to disagree? Mostly. But rarely fight. P = Place (Where he first met them.) At a gallery. They were looking at the same installation and at one point his s/o said something to themselves which randomly cracked him up. Just by then they noticed Ten and got into a conversation with him, that would last for the next 4 hours. Q = Questions (Do they ask their s/o their opinion on things? Do they share theirs?) Doesn’t ask opinions. Kind of this If-you-don’t-like-it-don’t-buy-it Kind of person. the choices he males for himself are the ones has to deal with and if his s/o isn’t cool with it - they might not be the right match for him. Don’t get me wrong. I am not saying he doesn’t care at all. He just thinks that his s/o should love them the way he is. Regardless of what tattoo he is getting or what horrible shorts he’s wearing.

R = Random (How spontaneous is their relationship? Do they do things on the spot or plan ahead?) Ten strikes me as a very spontaneous person. Even if it’s his s/o’s Plan he will go with them and do what they’re up to. If this spontaneous idea should suddenly get canceled maybe due to weather or national holidays the two of them forgot about Ten will quickly find something else to do. S = Sleep (How do they sleep with their s/o?) He Will. Steal. Blankets. T = Turn-Ons (What attracts him to people !NOT SEXUAL!) The spark between him and his s/o. Understanding each other non verbally and maybe even laughing in sync. Watching a show and reacting the same way? He’s all in.

U = Unique (What makes them unique as a s/o?) His shameless honesty. V = Vulnerable (How long until they can be vulnerable around their s/o? What are they like in this state?) If Ten can’t be vulnerable around their s/o they wouldn’t be his s/o and there wouldn’t be a relationship to begin with. Being able to let his guard down is the foundation he is building every close relationship on. W = Weather (What would he do during a cloudy and rainy day?) Lots of books. We all know he is an educated man. So if the weather is locking him inside his house, keeping him from going out - he will welcome this opportunity with open arms and read or maybe FaceTime his family? X = Xylophon (What does he think about their s/o’s taste in music? Is it different?) He is, like Johnny, very open in terms of music. He would try everything once and maybe even include into his playlist what he likes.

Y = Yuck (Is there anything that might bother their s/o about him? Any flaws?) Maybe he tends to be a horrible perfectionist from time to time, with a few things. Maybe he gets to tied up in work. Ten once said he needs a lot of work to function but I can see that his work-life-balance sometimes just isn’t as much in balance as one would assume.

Z = Zoo (Pets they would have)

Definitely a cat. Or 2. He would train them like dogs tho.

Taglist

@kpopsnowball @starrdustville @jeonghanmoon

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Masterlist

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the-voltage-diaries · 3 years

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Το Βόρειο Αστέρι μου - Lucifer x Diavolo

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Το Βόρειο Αστέρι μου: Greek for ‘My Polar Star’

Word Count: 1859

A/N: I don’t know what this is. All I know is that @simpingw0lfi3 refused to do it, so I did. Of course, please don’t expect this to be perfect because... it really isn’t.

Vote of thanks: @akaiiro-yume for checking and correcting all the grammatical fuck ups I did, making sure I didn’t stop writing this halfway and going through any mental breakdown I might have had instead for me. And, of course, @some-ikemen-snob for making sure this SCREAMED Lucifer energy this way and that. only for now, but ily both.

Devildom 14th February, 20XX Saturday, 7:57 PM

Dear Diary,

I suppose I've never written a journal entry such as this in the past, for I haven't found either the desire or the will to task myself with writing my thoughts down in a manner wherein I speak to an inanimate object. That said, I have been told writing is, in a manner of speaking, therapeutic, and I believe I could do with some of that right now. It would be false to assume I don’t still harbour any inhibitions towards using my time in this manner, especially when I'd much rather be by Diavolo’s side. The very same Diavolo who, as a matter of fact, happens to be the subject of this writing session today. Strangely enough, and if I recall correctly, he was also the one who introduced - which is putting it rather mildly - me to the “art” of journal entries. I admit, I haven’t given this activity the kind of gravity which was probably expected out of me, but then again, today is a little different from the rest. I'm not entirely certain as to where to begin, but I do believe I have been told in situations like these, one should do whatever... feels right.

Diavolo is... well, where do I even begin? He is the future of Devildom, as a few might call it - myself included. While he does appear to be quite the cheerful and at times careless lord, it’d be a lie to deny that he is just as wise and compassionate underneath that wave of buoyancy radiating off of him. Honest to a fault, but with his moral compass always pointing towards the best interest of those around him. I’ll admit, sometimes it proves to be rather difficult to believe that he indeed is a demon. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to compare him to the Polaris considering he does quite radiate the charisma from himself, shining admirably amidst a dark sea of onlookers. While in name he rules over all the demons in the land of Devildom, the right set of eyes won’t take too long to deduce the eloquence with which his fingers reach out to the soul of every single resident of the land, holding them together better than gravity ever bound humans to the earth.

Saying that is all there is to him would be a lie whiter than the wet snow, making its way to the tips of my fingers and sliding off gently onto this page. That, of course, doesn’t mean describing how I feel towards him is no herculean task. There are some cases when a language - no matter the plethora of vocabulary it offers - just isn’t sufficient enough, and this certainly is one of those cases. For the time being, let’s just owe my lack of articulacy to the bond of mutual respect and trust Diavolo and I share, built over centuries upon centuries, braving the ravages of time, and even perhaps the less than pleasing antics my brothers tend to pull. But while the impression the ruler of all demons and I tend to emit may seem to be distanced by a careful degree of professionalism, I don’t believe anybody knows that that might not be the case. Even Diavolo himself. Doesn’t come as a surprise, really, for they simply can’t know.

Why do I believe that to not be the case, then? Well, I would wonder why I felt so strongly about it had I not known the reason myself. The very same reason which is now a secret so surreptitious that I can’t help but consider burning this piece of paper once I finish writing to ensure it is never revealed to another set of eyes. Such dastardly is the nature of this emotion, tricking one into its delusive warmth, encompassing them with the belief that nothing truly is impossible, that what they feel might just be true and meaningful enough to be returned by the other they feel for, only to cackle with glee and turn away when the reality doesn’t match the fantasy it was believed to turn out to be. The very same emotion which in layman’s terms is apparently called... love.

I’m not entirely certain I understand the extent of its exquisite existence myself, to be truthful. All I know is no matter how intensely I try to shut the door on its escaping fumes, it turns futile the second I lay my eyes on the man in question. While the rest of the known universe sees an omnipotent leader binding everyone together, making them sing the same tune in harmony, I see what I can only consider an anchor, grounding me, making it so that I can’t ever fall into the abyss of the darkness that breathes inside of me and float away. He is the quintessence of the best of what the world has to offer, with his golden eyes sparkling like stardust, weaving their ever-lasting magic into the hearts of whoever they come across - be it human, or demon, or angel - wrapping them in their never-ending warmth, letting them sink into the depths of benevolence they promise. His hair are the cerise of a raging inferno, sheltering beneath their canopy a quick, sensible, erudite mind. His smile is but a warm culmination of everything optimistic and positive, like a flame inviting moths to it, reaching out to give their innermost yearnings a hand to grab on to and never let go. Simply divine. And this is where the paths diverge, I suppose.

They see a to-be Demon King, I see Diavolo.

But alas, love is a fickle mistress. Getting too lost in the charm of her alluring arms will only result in a doom of them wrapping around your neck, enticing, until you realise their hold is tightening. Not to hold on, but to suffocate. I might have gotten so lost in that fiery gaze that I didn’t notice it start to crawl along my skin, leaving a charred, burnt path in its wake. The very anchor which I believed to be the one to ground me and hold me close etched itself deeper into the oceanic floor of delirium, drowning me. The threads of his stardust wrapped themselves around me and clutched hard enough to strangle. Before I knew it, the symphony of something meaningful became the cacophony of a nightmare.

This red thread strung through itself earlier today the series of events I’d rather forget. I’ve known how I feel towards Diavolo for a while now, and I had been searching for an opportunity to come clean and let him know about it for the last few days. Not to say I hadn’t gotten said opportunities at all, but one could owe it to me being too prideful to admit I was finally opening up to the idea of accepting feelings and... emotions. Around that time was when Solomon let slip a few details about the significance of Valentine’s day in the human world as an annual occurrence to celebrate romantic love, friendship, and admiration, and with enough persistence, Asmodeus managed to convince Diavolo to declare the day as an official holiday. Just a few hours ago I walked along the empty hallways to Diavolo’s office, knowing him, Barbatos and I to be the only ones in the building, still choosing work over any form of inactivity. By then, I had talked myself into finally telling the most powerful of all demons about the feelings I harboured towards him. I am a little embarrassed to admit that I was indeed a tad hopeful, wishing for the feelings to be returned. Once I reached the door to his private office, my hand settled above the smooth hardwood to give it a knock. And that’s when I noticed that the door was already slightly ajar. I heard a voice inside, other than Diavolo’s, and I took the liberty to glance inside, only for my hopes to come crashing down when the realisation struck me: I shouldn’t have done that.

Inside his office, Diavolo sat in his seat with his mouth pressed against another, a hand trailing across the small face with dark green locks framing it with elegance while the other held on to the person’s waist, pulling him closer. My eyes widened when the smaller man of the two let out a muffled whimper, perched on Diavolo’s lap. Barbatos. I felt my heart squeeze out a pained croak at the sight, and even though every single nerve in my body begged me to move away and forget I ever saw anything, my legs didn’t move. They stayed glued to their spot on the floor even as I felt it crumble beneath my feet, just the way my eyes stayed on Diavolo. My lip trembled with a longing I never thought I’d experience when Barbatos intertwined his fingers with Diavolo’s, smiling into the kiss they shared, like the perfect harmony which was always meant to be. It was when Diavolo broke the kiss, eyes meeting the other’s and whispers of love and confessions floating across the room until they settled on my ears, that I finally felt the mask crack. The facade I had worked on for centuries to lay the foundation of crumbled as my fists clenched, letting myself have a moment of weakness when a lone tear of frustration, delay, anger, and self loathing dripped down my cheek. I looked up at the ceiling, a voiceless laugh tumbling across my lips at the cognisance that the Polaris I was reaching out for, shining proud in the middle of a dark, cloudless sky, was beyond my reach, and... never supposed to be mine. How far I could stretch, how willing were my fingers to make one last attempt to touch it’s light and bask in it - all of that didn’t matter anymore.

I exhaled a shaky breath, blinking once as I tucked away whatever it is I was going to tell Diavolo in some corner of my mind, crushing the key with a hard snap of my fingers. My eyes found Barbatos again, glazing over with a heartfelt wish for him to find his happiness, at least. It was with one last aching smile towards Diavolo and a euphoric laugh spilling from Barbatos’ lips that I turned on my heel, shaking my head at the fate I was handed. Needless to say, I hold no malice towards either of them - they’re both precious to me, as much as I dislike admitting it.

I believe I have shared more than what was required, and I shall burn this piece of paper lest anyone finds it. One might call it wishful thinking on my part, but I do pray that watching the last signs of anything I harbour towards the one who wasn’t meant to be mine from the start burn as the embers of the fire consume it whole makes me put a lid on my feelings once and for all, for they were never supposed matter. They weren’t supposed to exist to begin with.

After all, only a prince deserves a fairy-tale with a happy ending, and I am no prince.

Lucifer.

#Obey Me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #diavolo x lucifer #diavolo x barbatos #dialuci #obey me swd #obey me... fic?#letter?#diary?#idk what this is #a measly attempt at angst #obey me angst #dialuci angst #FIRST OM FIC JFC

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