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#caloric counter
fooltofancy · 2 years
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i love kittens but god.
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snakerdoodlle · 1 year
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Is love supposed to hurt this badly?
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Hanahaki AU anyone?? I just thought doing something like this would be fun :) I had my bestie help me with the flowers because idk shit about the meanings of flowers god bless. I really really like this one I think it looks very nice!!
⭐️ No reposts
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Articles, reports, and studies about agriculture are likely to contain some version of the following sentiment: “The population is expected to grow to almost 10 billion people by 2050. We must double food production in order to meet demand without hiking up prices. How are we going to produce enough food to feed all of these people without destroying the planet?” Increasing food production to meet the demands of a growing population is presented as the ultimate conundrum. Proposed solutions are predominantly centered on increased reliance on technologies to maximize yields and feed ‘all of these hungry people’ as the population grows, accelerating at a seemingly unstoppable rate. Whatever new technologies or techniques are introduced, they are, first and foremost, measured along the metric of increasing yield. This narrative isn’t just misguided — it depoliticizes the problem, shifting blame in a dangerous way. The reality is that we have enough food on the planet to feed every human being a calorically complete and healthy diet. Contrary to popular belief, hunger is most often caused not by a lack of food but by a lack of access. With the amount of food we produce today, we could feed the highest population prediction of 10 billion people by 2050 — today. This has much more to do with economic inequality than anything to do with population. The people who cannot afford food are most often the people involved in growing it. The vast majority of the world’s impoverished people, most of whom live in rural areas, are involved in agriculture. This seems counterintuitive, but many farmers worldwide are net food buyers, meaning they do not subsist on the food they grow, they sell their crops and use that money to buy food for their families. When prices for crops are too low to offset input prices, when farmers face barriers to accessing markets or credit, or they are forced into exploitative contracts or other arrangements, farmers do not have adequate funds to purchase food for themselves and their families. This is the result of the long process of industrialization that has displaced millions of rural people and removed them from their traditional agricultural practices, replacing polycultures with monocultures. Perhaps the other most damning piece of evidence to counter the narrative that we must ramp up production to end hunger is that some cities have already ended it — without increasing yield. Belo Horizonte, one of the largest cities in Brazil, managed to virtually eliminate hunger through a network of policies addressing different facets of the issue. They expanded school meal programs; partnered with local small farmers to deliver produce to underserved parts of the city at fixed prices for staples; created subsidized restaurants where people could eat affordable, dignified meals, and a host of other policies. It never took more than 2 percent of their annual budget, and the whole transition took less than 10 years. It didn’t require corporations ‘innovating’ or developing expensive technologies. It required political will, the strengthening of governance systems, declaring food as a right of citizenship, and correcting for hunger as a market failure. We are choosing not to end hunger. Presenting it otherwise obscures the fact that it is, at its core, a matter of political will — not a matter of ability.
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writingseaslugs · 1 year
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Heartslabyul: Pocky Game
Sup! The long awaited Pocky Game for all the other dorms. I already did Diasomnia, and I will say these are going to be a bit shorter than what I did for Diasomnia. I mainly made those ones long because I wasn’t expecting to do every single dorm. Still, I hope you enjoy this fluff. Also the introduction is the same for each of the dorms, so if you’ve read it once, don’t feel pressured to read it again.
Disclaimer: All characters in this series are aged up. For more information about my version of this world and the type of reader you can expect, please do a quick read of THIS post.
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Heartslabyul: Pocky Game
Apparently, no matter what world you end up in, there will always be some delicious biscuit coated in chocolate that comes in a stick form. You discovered it one lovely day when shopping for some snacks at Sam’s, and the moment you noticed them, you grabbed several boxes. They were a delicious treat, but there was something else you wanted to do with them. You chuckled as you got home, putting the bag down and grabbing your phone, messaging a certain someone if they wanted to hang out and have snacks.
“Hey, henchman!” Grim said, crawling onto the counter and going through the bags of snacks and other miscellaneous groceries you two needed for the week, “Did you get my tuna?” he said before pulling out a box of pocky, “Oh, what's this?”
“They’re pocky, and you’re not allowed to eat them all. I bought plenty of boxes. You can have one, but the rest are mine.” You said, knowing that Grim would certainly steal more than one box. He opened it up and took a bite, humming at the taste before going to scarf the entire box down. You just sighed, shaking your head in disappointment. He went to snag another box, and you didn’t have the heart to stop him.
You felt your phone buzzing and checked it, seeing you got confirmation for snacks and chill. You chuckled, grabbing two boxes and stashing them in your coat pocket as you started to get ready to head out, “Grim, I’m heading out. Please unload the groceries…your tuna is in one of the bags.” You said, gesturing to the small pile. Grim perked up, deciding to just tear through them until he got what he wanted.
“Whatever you say, henchman!” Grim said, not bothering to ask where you’re going.
“Aaaaaaand?” You trailed off, wanting him to give you a proper answer.
“I’ll do the groceries…” Grim said, and you hummed another ‘and?’ at him. “Aaaaaand thank you for the tuna,” he finally said. With that, you grabbed your house keys and began making your way over to Heartslabyul.
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Riddle Rosehearts
You knew Riddle would appreciate the sweet treat, so who better to share it with than the dorm leader of Heartslabyul? Riddle was punctual as ever, waiting at the entrance at the dorm in order to escort you to his room. You happily took his arm that he extended to you, making your way to his personal room.
“So what is it, you wanted to show me?” Riddle asked, looking at your pockets. You had just stuffed the boxes in your coat pockets without much thought, and it was pretty obvious with how they bulged out.
“Pocky!” You said with a chuckle, “Or something similar to it. I think it has a different name here, but it’s the same exact thing. It was popular back in my world.” You explained to him. Riddle hummed, seemingly content. You two entered his room as you pulled out the snacks and opened up the mini bag inside the box.
You held out one of the treats to him. Riddle grabbed it then motioned for the box as well. You rolled your eyes, handing it to him. You could practically see him doing the math inside of head to find out how much he could eat while staying within his daily caloric intake.
“I see, so it’s a biscuit dipped in chocolate?” Riddle said, taking one in his mouth and chewing on it. “It’s simple, yet effective. I’ll need to see if Trey can recreate it.” Riddle said, a soft smile on his face.
“You know, back where I came from, there was a game that was often played with them.” you began, peeking Riddle’s interest.
“And what is the game?” He asked and you took in a deep breath and quickly explained the rules to the game. You could see Riddle had a faint blush on his cheeks as he cleared his throat, “I see, so it’s a game played by couples?”
“Couples or friends…” You said before grabbing a stick between your fingers, “Wanna play a round?” You asked and Riddle sighed and shook his head. Still, he got closer to you and watched as you put the stick in your mouth. He placed his lips on the opposite end and you two began nibbling away at the sweet treat.
Once you got closer enough, you took the last bite and grazed your lips against Riddle’s. The man pulled back, placing his hand over his lips as he stared at you. He cleared his throat and looked away, “I think that’s enough of that for the day.” He said, but the blush on his face was making him go scarlet.
You chuckled, placing another stick against your lips, “You sure?” You taunted with a wink. Riddle sighed then took your chin in his gloved hands and placed his lips on the opposite end. Guess the game wasn’t over.
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Trey Clover
“What did you want to show me?” Trey asked as he held the door open leading to his room. You happily walked in as you took a box out of your pocket. You waved it near him, showing him the contents. Trey perked up, taking the box and reading over the label.
“I think I’ve used these in the past, for decorations on a cake. They’re pretty good.” Trey said, handing it back over to you. You smiled and opened the box up in order to grab one of the treats.
“These were pretty popular where I came from, even had a game to go alongside it.” You explained, handing him a stick. Trey seemed curious as he sat down at his desk.
“A game?” He asked and you nodded your head before explaining the rules. Trey finished the stick and then looked over at you. He adjusted his glasses while speaking, “Did you perhaps want to play the game with me?” He asked.
“Sure do! Now come over here.” You chuckled, patting the spot next to you on his bed. He chuckled and shook his head.
“How about you come over here instead.” Trey said, motioning you towards the desk. There was nowhere to sit since Trey took the chair, but you walked over anyway. Before you could say anything, you felt him grabbing the back of your thighs and pulling you onto his lap. You let out a small, startled squeak as you looked at him.
“L-like this?” You asked, feeling your face heating up. Trey chuckled as he grabbed a stick from the box that was still in your hands. He grabbed one of the sticks and popped it into his mouth. You took the other end and the game began. In a few seconds you could feel Trey’s lips against your own.
Trey’s hand went to the back of your neck, keeping you in place while he deepened the kiss, his tongue licking at the chocolate on your lips. You shivered under his touch as you felt him let you go. You looked at him with a flustered expression, noticing him smirking.
“Shall we go again?”
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Cater Diamond
“What’s the snack you brought in today?” Cater said, hanging off his doorway as he looked at you with his boyish grin. You chuckled as you took out the box and waved it in his face. Cater took it and looked it over before frowning.
“Sweets?” he asked and you shook your head.
“They’re not overly sweet, I promise. Besides, there’s another reason why I brought them to share with you.” You explained as you took the box and ducked under his arm to get into his room. Cater was now intrigued as he closed the door behind him and walked over with his hands tucked in his pockets.
“And what’s the reason? They Magicamable?”  Cater asked, taking a seat next to you on his bed. You shrugged, opening the box and grabbing one of the sticks from inside of it.
“Kinda; where I come from there’s actually a game that goes with eating them. Probably a marketing ploy, but it got popular in a lot of shows.” You explained to him before quickly explaining the game. Cater seemed to perk up at the ending where you could kiss someone if you got to the end.
“You know, if you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just said so.” He teased before grabbing a stick from the box and placing it against his lips. He made sure it was the biscuit part so it wouldn’t be too sweet. He’d happily let you nibble on the chocolate end.
“Isn’t this more fun though?” You asked as you placed your lips on the other end. Cater just hummed, already nibbling on his end of the stick. It wasn’t long before your lips were colliding. Cater didn’t hold back, placing a hand on your cheek and dipping you on the bed, deepening the kiss until you were left breathless. Only when your lips were bruised and swollen did he let up, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek.
“You’re right, this is a fun game…but I think we can do without the stick, eh?” He said and you huffed before going back in for another kiss.
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Ace Trappola
Right as you were about to leave, you heard your phone buzzing. You picked it up without thinking, seeing it was Ace. His voice filtered through, “Hey, you know what, how about I head over to Ramshackle?” Ace asked and you sighed.
“Got in trouble?” You asked. Ace scoffed, telling you to stop being dumb. He hung up moments later and you shrugged, deciding to take off your shoes and chill on the couch. Ace didn’t bother knocking when he came inside, You watched him kick his shoes off and head over to where you were.
“So what are we eating?” Ace said, his signature smile spread over his face.
“Pocky…or whatever this is called in your world. In my world, it’s pocky.” You said, motioning to the boxes on the table. Ace perked up, going over and opening one of the boxes and grabbing one. He wasted no time trying it and he seemed to be enjoying the flavor.
“These are pretty good…we gonna watch a movie, or play a game while we snack?” Ace asked, plopping onto the couch.
“We’re playing the pocky game, actually.” You said, opening up your own box. You grabbed one of the strawberry pocky out and put it in your mouth. You motioned for Ace to come over. He was confused at first before it clicked in his head. He shot you a smirk before putting his mouth on the other end of it.
It didn’t take long before you could feel Ace’s lips against your own. Still, you managed to get the last piece and quickly parted from him, “I won!” You chuckled, causing Ace to become confused.
“How?” he asked, before realizing it was a game after all.
“Whoever gets the last piece wins. If the stick breaks, whoever has the longer half wins. Since I got the last piece, I win.” You explained.
“Rematch; right here, right now.” Ace said, grabbing a chocolate one now. You chuckled, playing along and wrapping your lips around the other end. You began nibbling it again and managed to steal the win again. Ace groaned as he got another stick.
This time, when your lips collided, he made sure to snag the last piece while also biting your bottom lip. You gasped at the sharp pain. Still, Ace pulled back looking pretty proud of himself.
“Looks like I won.” He chuckled.
“Rematch; right here, right now.” He didn’t need to be told twice.
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Deuce Spade
You headed over to Heartslabyul and noticed Deuce waiting out in the gardens. The sky was already dark, but there were some lanterns lit, illuminating the rose maze, “Everyone is in the room right now, so I figured we could eat out in the gardens…if you’re fine with that.” Deuce asked, scratching the back of his neck.
“Sounds good to me.” You hummed, following Deuce as he walked through the maze. As a member of the dorm, he learned his way around and seldom got lost. He soon had you at one of the many tables, scattered about that was used for mini tea sessions.
“So…what did you want to show me?” He asked, noticing you already pulling out a few boxes from your pockets. You laid out three different flavors for him to choose from, “I don’t think I’ve seen these before…” Deuce contemplated before going for the banana ones.
“They’re popular back where I lived, had a game and everything.” You explained, grabbing yourself your favorite flavor and opening the box.
“Really?” he asked, trying one of the pocky. He hummed at the flavor, deciding he liked it and grabbing another one, “What’s the game?”
“Oh, it’s like a kissing game, but friends played it all the time. Normally in groups. Even popped up in anime and manga all the time.” You explained to him, causing Deuce to pause. He looked at you with wide eyes, wondering if you wanted to play the game. You caught wind of the unspoken question and put a stick between your lips and motioned him forward.
Deuce awkwardly came closer and wrapped his lips around the other end. You could see the cute blush coating his cheeks as you slowly began nibbling on the other end. Soon you felt the warmth of his lips against your own and you couldn’t help but lean more into it. He tasted sweet and his lips were softer than you could’ve ever imagined
All too soon, he was pulling back and looking at you. You noticed the smirk now lacing his face and, despite the large blush, he looked confident.
“Did you want to try again…I don’t know who won or lost.” he said and you chuckled.
“Must’ve been a tie…let’s go again.”
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Are you a fan of Diasomnia like me? I bet you are if you read my content (we love the boys in this household). Want to support a visual novel that will feature Diasomnia dorm, has multiple routes and endings, as well as some spicy visual scenes? Check out @twstfournights and if you want info, check out their announcement post!
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blindingmyfaith · 5 days
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Could you please tell me the name of the calorie counter website you had?
hi!! the website i used was this one
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anon-e-miss · 1 year
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Shaping You - 7 Weaving Threads
“It’s okay!” Jazz caught Prowl in his arms before his humiliated consort could flee. “Ya didn’t forget yerself, Prowl. Ya fuelled, that’s all.”
“I made a porcineacon of myself,” Prowl counter. It broke Jazz’s spark to hear the self-hatred in his consort’s voice.
“Hardly,” he argued and stroked Prowl’s chevron. “Ya ate yer fill. No shame in that. The way yer armour’s cut, it don’t see like was meant to fuel at all.”
“Since I cannot help myself, it was designed to stop me from over indulging,” Prowl replied.
“Is takin’ more than three sip o’ energon o’er indulging?” Jazz asked.
“If it makes me grotesque?” Prowl asked as means of answer. “Yes.”
“Y’re not grotesque,” Jazz replied. “Yer gorgeous. Voluptuous. Every one o’ yer curves is perfection.”
“My curves are just brands of my excesses,” Prowl said, flicking his servo over his thigh with disgust. Jazz smoothed his servo up Prowl’s thigh. “What are your subjects going to think of me?”
“Remember, I told ya, we like our curves in Polyhex,” Jazz replied. He held Prowl’s servos and smiled at him. “They’re gonna be happy to see the Prince Consort is healthy ‘n fertile.”
“Fertile?” Prowl frowned.
“This,” Jazz said, cupping the curve low on Prowl’s belly, the evidence of their lovemaking. Prowl blushed a deep scarlet and Jazz kissed his cheekplate. “Is the sign o’ a fertile frame ‘n a productive bond. ‘M thinkin’ its playin�� a part in yer armour not closing.”
“Oh,” Prowl looked down at himself. “I do not believe I have seen this on any Praxian.”
“Probably ‘cause Praxian armour compacts it,” Jazz replied. “Don’t sound like a pleasant thing to me.”
“I cannot see your Aunt like this,” Prowl sighed. “I am indecent.”
“‘M gonna grab ya a sheet from the berth,” Jazz said. “‘N cover ya up. Won’t bother her, Prowl. Not even a little.”
It bothered Prowl. Jazz could see it and feel it. He went to the berthroom and stripped the top sheet off. When he returned, Jazz wrapped the sheet around Prowl, tying two corners below Prowl’s doorwings. The results were what Jazz would have imagined a witness of the nomadic tribe creating from memory, see receptive mates among the tribesmecha. The traditional wrappers his kinsmecha wore were made from fabrics with bright and intricate patterns. This sheet was more material than a wrapper was meant to have but more would probably make Prowl more comfortable anyways. In calor, Jazz would bring Prowl a proper wrapper and see if it suited him better than conventional armour in the hottest quartexes of the desert.
“What if it falls?” Prowl asked, arms crossed over his chassis.
“It won’t,” Jazz promised. “Y’re gonna find different types o’ wrappers ‘n kilts are common garb here, especially in calor. I learned to tie a wrapper from my ori, seen ‘m fight in one. The knots’ll hold.”
“You... go without armour?” Prowl asked, shocked.
“When it’s proper,” Jazz replied. There was a clear knock at the door. He rose from the couch. “Here she is. Don’t worry Prowl. She’s gonna like ya.”
“I hope so,” Prowl murmured.
“Auntie!” Jazz exclaimed as he opened the door. “Ya outdid yerself.”
“I tried my servo at some more recipes from Praxus,” Dipole explained. “‘N I got pressed energon for everyone. The cantine’s got yer consort’s brew. He likes it dark.”
“Ya ne’er waste yer time figurin’ how mecha like their press,” Jazz smiled. “Lemme take that tray from ya. Must weigh as much as ya.”
“I know you’ll insist,” Dipole replied. “Don’t go and drop it. I won’t ever let you forget.”
“Oh I know,” Jazz laughed. He turned back into the room and saw Prowl watching. “Come inside, Auntie. I wanna introduce ya to Prowl proper.”
“My pleasure,” the femme replied. “Dearspark, are you overheated again? I can get some ice energon for you.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself,” Prowl said, blushing sweetly. “My armour won’t close. I fuelled too much.”
“Ya did not,” Jazz gently corrected as he set the loaded tray on the low table in front of the couch Prowl was sitting on. “That torture device ain’t cut to fit ya. It’s the problem, not ya. Auntie Dipole, this is Prowl, my beautiful consort.”
“I know from my kitchen you like your pressed energon like the enforcers take it,” Dipole declared, pouring a mug for Prowl as Jazz sat down. “You never ordered anything else.”
“I should not have even had that,” Prowl said, taking the cup and smiling a little at the ominously dark fuel. “But my helmaches if I don’t have it. As it was, with just this, that armour barely fit.”
“That’s just cruel,” Dipole said. “Armour isn’t meant to be a punishment. I don’t know what your favourite fuels are yet so I brought a little of this and that to make sure you liked something. I haven’t made steamed lotus buns before. You let me know how what you think of them and I can play around with the recipe.”
“You did not need to trouble yourself for me,” Prowl said. Jazz placed one of the amber custard filled talc buns on a plate for Prowl and gave it to him. “Thank you. These are one of my favourites.”
“What else, Dearspark?” Dipole asked. “Everyone needs their favourites from time to time and they don’t always think to ask for them so I like to know, so I can make sure everyone is taken care of.”
“I like dumplings,” Prowl said. “From any culture. If you take dough and fill it with something, I like it. I have a weakness for rust sticks.”
“There’s a femme in town who makes the best sweets,” Dipole replied.
“Mirror is amazin’,” Jazz agreed. “There’s a line ‘round the block for her shop on Prima-tur.”
“What specifically about Prima-tur?”  Prowl asked.
“She sets out trays of treats to sample,” Jazz explained. “Treats mecha on the roughside o’ life can’t afford. She makes sure everyone can have a treat.”
“That is very kind of her,” Prowl said.
At first, Prowl only nibbled at the fuel but Jazz could see Dipole was taking no offence. Prowl was embarrassed he could not fit his armour and nothing Jazz or Dipole or anyone could say would make that go away. But as they spoke, he relaxed a little and Dipole took advantage. She asked him his opinion on different flavours of different fuels and with this be of underhanded guidance, Prowl ate a proper meal. Jazz was relieved. It was more easily done by Dipole then him. He never wanted to see Prowl starve and deny himself again. His consort needed his energy and his vibrancy to help Jazz bring Polyhex back to prosperity. How could Prowl carry a bitlet for him if he was starved? No, they needed to get Prowl comfortable taking his fill of fuel. Ori would have no use for a consort who fainted whenever he was called to work and that was a battle Jazz did not want to fight.
“I’m thinking you have Hotwire coming by for an armour fitting?” Dipole asked.
“Yeah,” Jazz confirmed. He was on his second steamed lotus bun. The silky bun and sweet filling was one of his new favourite fuels. “Even if Prowl’s armour wasn’t out to crush’m, it’s ununtrium. Too heavy ‘n too hot for Polyhex. Don’t know how they didn’t know. They trade out here.”
“They knew,” Prowl replied. “I have no doubt. My originator insisted on ununtrium due to its value. They wished to showcase their wealth using me as their billboard.”
“‘M sorry, Prowl,” Jazz squeezed his servo. Prowl hardly even dipped his doorwings.
“It is an ostentatious waste,” Prowl sighed. “I never wore ununtrium at home. It would have been seen as tacky to wear such armour to the Hall of Justice.”
“What had ya at there?” Jazz asked.
“I was an attache to the Lord of Law,” Prowl explained. “It would have been unsightly of me to serve something as menial as the enforcers.”
“Did ya like it?” Jazz asked.
“Aspects,” Prowl replied. “I would not have dared where ununtrium there. Question of my professionalism due to how I was armoured came up often enough as it was.”
“What didn’t they like?” Jazz asked.
“Me,” Prowl replied. “My originator would come to me raving about some complaint. It did not matter what shape or style of armour I tried. Something about it was always indecent.”
“I think your originator had some frame image issues that he put onto you,” Dipole declared. “You could have be covered from knees to neck and he would found a reason to complain.”
“He did complain,” Prowl murmured. “When he inspected my bonding armour. He wanted it cut lower down my legs but the designer set it was not possible if I was to walk.”
“I don’t think I like that mech,” Dipole grumbled.
Auntie stayed for moral support as Hotwire arrived. They nibbled on the snacks she had brought with her as the detailer had Prowl try on a dozen or more different cuts of girdle and chestplate. It suited the shape of his legs to have the girdle cut high on his hips and would let him move freely and quickly. Jazz did not think Prowl appreciated the newfound mobility yet. The curve of his hips was traced to perfection with none of that ugly, extra padding to make Prowl look straight and shapeless. After much back and forth, they settled on an adjustable waist, set higher at the moment, to make Prowl more comfortable. It too hugged the voluptuous Praxian’s soft belly, rather than squishy it and Jazz liked the subtle display it did of his contributions to his consort. Prowl’s chestplate was entirely revamped. Gone was the flat, crushing plate and in its place was a bumper that hugged his wells and showed off his broad, strong shoulders and wide, proud doorwings. Together, they showed off Prowl’s beautifully lush hourglass shape.
“Are you sure this is acceptable?” Prowl asked after he and Jazz were finally left alone. Jazz nodded his helm.
“It’s armour fit for a prince’s consort,” he replied. Prowl was only wearing the mock up for now. Hotwire would use fine crystals for his headlights and accents. He would not look like a pauper’s consort but neither would he look like a greedy bride.
“There is no season where ununtrium armour is appropriate here?” Prowl asked.
“No,” Jazz replied. “It... ain’t just the weather it’s.... just ain’t somethin’ done here. Ununtrium is for medical use, for construction. It’s too valuable to waste on armour.”
“I am amazed I did not have oil thrown on me,” Prowl sighed.
“Hey,” Jazz held him at the shoulders and reassured his consort. “It ain’t like that.”
“I am sure it was for ones suffering from fuel insecurity,” Prowl replied. “To see a foreign title hunter garbed in precious metal bonding to their war hero prince.”
“Prowl,” Jazz sighed.
“It can be melted down,” Prowl said. “Can it not be? Would it be improper for me to donate the armour for the rebuilding efforts?”
“They’d be in awe o’ it,” Jazz replied. He hugged Prowl to him. “How about ya ‘n me take a tour ‘n we can see were the need is greatest. We can see where yer armour ‘n dowry can do the most good.”
“I would like that,” Prowl replied, relaxing into the embrace. “I want to help Polyhex. In every way I can. It is my home now. They are my mechanisms now.”
“Remember how ya said I wasn’t yer dream mech ‘cause yer dream mech was a humourless brute?” Jazz asked.
“Yes?”
“Darlin’, I can’t call ya my dream mech either,” Jazz replied. “I might o’ imagined a beauty, ‘n ya are. I might o’ imagined a savant, ‘n ya are. But I could not o’ imagined that Praxus would give me such a generous ‘n devoted angel for my consort.”
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Mareven Scrap Idea
Maven after his death, falls into a limbo which is in a form of an alternate reality. Where he finds an version of him marrying Mare. No one could see him, hear him, only his otherself could:
He was stunned to say the least. Watching from a safe distance, aother version of him gently smiling at Mare, with his hand outstretched, luring her to the alter.
The other Maven couldn't take his eyes of her.
Maven can't blame him, Mare looked exquisite in her wedding gown, even the silver paint didn't damper her beauty.
Maven moved, needing a better look at both of them. Watching Mare move with fluid grace, yet her eyes were a storm of emotions. Fear, doubt but, as her eyes settle of the other Maven, it sparked with hope.
He was quiet for a while, as a distant memory passed through him. His Mare used to look at him like that as well, before all the horrors him and his mother put her through.
But this Mare looked at his other self with more than just hope. Love. Admiration. Trust.
He watched as his other self held Mare's hand. He expected her to pull away, grimace and even spit in his face.
Instead, she held his fingers tightly.
He felt a stab of jealousy. She looked at him the way he always wanted her to. Her love for her only friend, her companion, the ancher that kept her grounded in this sea of Silver.
Maven couldn't take it. He wanted to rip those two apart. He wanted to warn them. He wanted to yell at himself. He wanted Mare to end him again. All his emotions pulling him in different directions, but all he could do was watch and wait.
So he waited in the dark. Under the balcony of his and Mare's room.
"Those two sure are taking their time." He mumbled bitterly. Thinking how ridiculous this situation was.
Then he heard the door open. He considered waiting to see if its safe, but then realized no one could see him. He only hid to give them some privacy.
So he walked out of the shadows, as he turned to look at the balcony, hoping to see Mare in her nightgown bathed in moonlight, only to be greeted by himself looking down on him, his pale hand gripping the railing.
They both stared at each other for a moment.
Then the other Maven flicked his bracelet, summoning a ball of fire to illuminate them both.
"So I wasn't seeing things." The other Maven murmured. Blue eyes staring daggers at him.
Maven only signed, not bothered by his own fire aimed at him. "Ah". He tilted his head to the side. "So I wasn't as invisible as I thought I was."
Other Maven only looked annoyed and insulted. "Is this a joke? Another crude prank by a bloodhealer?" His words rushed as his face starts to flush silver. "And to do this on my wedding night!"
Maven opened his mouth to correct himself. "Well-"
"As much as you managed to look quite similar to me. You are far too thin, too gaunt and too poorly dressed to pass as a Nortan Prince." His other self hissed through his teeth.
Bastard. Maven for a moment wanted to throw a fireball at himself or better yet, his Mare wielding a letter opener.
He only scoffed and countered. "You are correct. I am no Nortan Prince. Most of my subjects address me as 'Your Highness' and all know me as King Maven Calore of House Merandus."
Other Maven's face contours into anger and even pity. "You deluded fool."
Throwing a fireball at him, only for it pass through his chest. It didn't hurt, but it did tickle.
His other self frowned puzzled, his posture becoming tense.
Maven chuckled, his voice sounding too smug, considering his current state. "And this fool, ruled over Norta and ended the 100 year War with the Lakelanders."
The other Maven looked at him again, observing him. From his pale, gaunt face to his plain clothing.
Other Maven raised his brow, his mouth lifting in a scowl. "Am I suppose to envy you?"
Maven only looked past his other's shoulder, peering into the dimly lit room.
He could picture Mare peacefully sleeping in their bed. Her brown waves spread around her like a dark halo and her lovely face pressed against the pillows. He could sense the cool, midnight air around them. She must be freezing.
"No." His voice soft, almost a whisper. "But I do envy you."
Then take it. A small voice in his head whispered to him. The small remnants of his mother's gift.
Those three simple words gave clarity to his jumbled mind.
He did took his perfect brother's birthright. Stole the crown that was never ment to graze his brow and ruled Norta for months.
By some miracle, he felt his heart beat fast in his chest, as he thought of a plan, a purpose.
Maven's musing was cut short when he heard the familiar sound of grinding teeth.
He looked back at his other self. Teeth bare, eyes filled with wrath. Maven could sense the waves of heat radiating from him. It seems he read his thoughts.
"Don't you dare." The other Maven flicked his bracelet, blue flame running up his arm burning his sleeves.
Maven glanced at the raging flames. Unimpressed by his other's poor attempt of a threat. They both know its not their flames that made others fear them. Yet the determination in his eyes, made it perfectly clear. He will not make it easy.
No matter. He has decided. He will steal this life.
Tagging: @vrana-s @mavenne cause Maven's Roman Empire is marrying Mare
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coentinim · 17 days
Note
For some reason, I headcanon modernAU! Jean-Baptiste to be interested in Japanese cuisine, mostly because of it's electrolite content, but be kind of grossed-out by raw fish.
Canon Jean-Baptiste and Charles-Henri would be faced with young boys trying to buy human fat from them, and at M. Hardy's school, there was a reduction in how much the boys spent on vinigar to counter dizziness.
For my magical girl verse, it has a lot of flying carriages and dirigeables, most of them not heated. Because of that, station food tends to be both filling and calorically dense. Foods are usually eaten cold, exept for drinks, with a choice of spruce tea, black tea or bone broth, sometimes soup-purée, really anything that can easily be stored in a pourable termos and is smooth enough to not get clogged. The main dish of such station foods or brought-in lunch would usually be cold, composed of either whole-grain bread or rice, accompanied by some potted buttered meat, fish or vegetables (stuff that has been boiled in butter and conserved in clarified butter), or with a nut sauce for those who prefer vegetarian. Those who don't like butter can bring in fish marinated in sweet-savory sauce. Sauces would usually be egg and fat based. Hard-boiled marinated eggs can be added as a side dish, and for desert, a mini-cake with a current and cream based frosting.
On Holidays, they might have a thanksgiving or chistmas special (for example, corn-bread with a galentine of turkey with a mashed pumpking and inerds filling, or for christmas some nice buttered and potted bird or trout flavored with fruit, or as a galentine and served with béarnaise sauce with some chrispy bread and a side of pickled chestnuts, or some wholegrain bread sourdough with smoked oysters and mayonaise)
1. This is so me, I love Japanese food but I'm scared to eat raw fish. I just don't trust the cooks and sellers.
2. Okay??? What is the question here
3. I'm hungry now
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blog-name-idk · 2 years
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Everything Falls (Into Place) | 01
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**Banner by the incredible @bangtansmauyeondan
Pairing: OT7 x Fem Reader
Genre: College!AU, Roommate!AU, Fluff, Humor, Smut
Summary: Your new roommates are unbearably nice and unbearably hot. Good thing you're an adult who is fully capable of platonic friendships with the opposite sex, right?
Word Count: 1398
~~~~~
Well, today sucked. Catching your now ex-boyfriend banging your roommate was bad enough, but in your bed? That was just uncalled for. You sighed as you opened the door to your favorite coffee shop and slunk inside, mind still reeling. It was too early for alcohol, so you were going to settle for as much sugar and caffeine as they could into a large coffee cup.
The sight of the barista working, Taehyung, perked you up a little. His warmth in his smile could thaw a thousand icy hearts, and from what you had seen of him, he was kind and endearingly goofy. He was also one of the most beautiful people you had ever seen.
"[Y/n]!" He greeted cheerfully when he saw you, lips widening to the signature boxy smile that had girls flocking to this coffee shop from all over campus. "The usual?"
"Hey, Taehyung," you greeted, managing a tired grin that you hoped distracted from what were probably red, swollen eyes. By the way his smile dimmed, you weren't successful. "Actually, can you get me the most caloric monstrosity you can come up with? With two shots of espresso and extra whipped cream?" His eyes widened at the deviation from your usual black coffee or plain iced americano, and a tinge of empathy entered his eyes.
"Coming right up," he promised, and immediately began bustling behind the counter. You watched idly as he worked, though your mind quickly went back to your own dilemma. Well, you were definitely moving out now, you weren't about to keep living with someone you couldn't trust. Luckily, the lease was in your roommate's name only, so it was up to her to find a subleaser. Otherwise she'd be the one eating the cost of your half of the rent. You silently thanked the patron saint of lazy college students for this small blessing.
"One [y/n]-special, on the house." Taehyung's deep, melodic voice broke you out of your reverie. You automatically reached for your wallet before registering what he had said.
"What? That's really sweet of you, but don't have to go to the trouble of doing that," you said in surprise. He just smiled and pushed the cup towards you.
"It's no trouble to cheer up a pretty girl," he insisted. It once again took you a moment to process his statement, and you reflexively looked around, confused. He couldn't be talking about you, could he? You could clean up pretty nice, sure, but you weren't exactly feeling like the belle of the ball at the moment.
Feeling like an idiot, you pointed at yourself for confirmation and you felt heat rising on your cheeks as he nodded in amusement. You could tell he wasn't even hitting on you, he was just stating what he perceived to be a fact. He wanted to cheer you up, and you were pretty. Just that realization pulled a more genuine smile out of you and you accepted the drink with a quiet thank you.
"There it is," he said, adorably pleased at having cleared some of the dark clouds from your expression. "I hope your day gets better."
"Thanks, Tae. You're the best," you said gratefully, taking a sip of the confection and missing the way his grin widened at the unexpected nickname.
You left the cafe feeling much lighter than you had when you entered, that small act of kindness giving you the strength to begin planning. The beverage was indeed horrifyingly sweet, but the shock of it was what you needed to clear your head. The next step was to talk to someone about it, obviously. The first thing you had done upon finding your (ex, you reminded yourself) boyfriend and roommate scrambling to put on their clothes was to robotically grab your backpack and laptop and go straight to the coffee shop. You pulled out your phone and rolled your eyes at the number of missed calls and texts. Ignoring them, you called your older brother.
"[Y/n]!" He said cheerily, picking up on the second ring. "What's going on?"
"Hey Jackson," you answered, your brother's voice adding another layer of balm to your wounded heart. "Um, I need some advice."
You spilled out the entire story of how you had gone to work on a group project, only to realize you had the wrong day scheduled, and come back to… that whole thing. He was furious, as you knew he'd be, and the only thing that was keeping him from beating the ever loving shit out of your ex was that he was currently studying abroad in France. Which was why you had decided he was the safest person to call.
"Focus, bro," you scolded, trying to calm him down. "Right now I need to figure out the most pain-free way to find a new place and get the fuck out of there. I can probably crash on Mina's couch for a couple days, but she lives in a studio so that won't be sustainable."
"You're right," Jackson sighed. "I'll ask some friends and see if anyone needs a subleaser, and you should do the same. I will say you seem to be taking this surprisingly well."
You paused as you considered what he said. It was true, actually. While you did feel hurt and betrayed, it was almost… distant. You somehow felt more annoyed at the disrespect and the inconvenience of moving than anything else. Well, you would take that over being heartbroken because of some cheating jackass.
"Yeah, I guess… maybe it hasn't hit me yet. I'm definitely dreading going back to grab my clothes and school stuff though. What if he's there?"
"You should bring a friend or two," your brother advised. "I know there weren't any problems like that during, but people can do crazy things when they're emotional. If you want, I know some guys. They can straighten him out." You almost rolled your eyes at how mafia-like he sounded, but his advice was good. Maybe you had binged one too many Reddit relationship horror stories, but it was better safe than sorry.
"I'll see who I can rustle up. But if I can't find any muscley boys I'll take your meathead friends," you teased, enjoying his squawk of indignation.
"Just because we appreciate the benefits of a healthy work out, does not make us…" you smiled as he ranted at you, and the conversation lightened into your standard sibling jibes and banter.
"I should go, I need to call Mina and figure everything else out," you finally said regretfully, knowing that you'd have to have to undergo another round of explanations with your best friend.
"Yeah, sure. Tell her I say hi. I'll let you know if I get any bites about the housing situation."
"Thanks for everything, bro. I love you."
"I love you too, pipsqueak. Call me if you need anything."
"I will."
There was a pause, and before you could hang up, your brother quietly added, "you're too good for him, you know. He doesn't deserve you. And you didn't deserve what he did."
He hung up quickly, probably embarrassed at being a sensitive human being. You would have snickered if your eyes hadn't suddenly begun burning at the unexpected sweetness. It figured. Seeing the guy you were dating balls deep in another girl didn't make you cry, but a heartfelt compliment from your brother did. Feelings were weird.
You took several deep breaths, waiting for the hot feeling in your eyes to dissipate, before deciding to text Mina. You didn't think you could handle another full phone conversation in public. Luckily, she texted you back right away.
You Hey? Can I come over? And crash for a few couple days? Freshly single and need to avoid my place for a bit. I'll explain everything later.
Mina Whoa what? Yeah I'm home, come over whenever. I'll open a bottle of wine.
You Marry me.
Part of you dreaded the unearthly shrieks of rage Mina was sure to emit when she heard the story, but the rest of you was ready for her warm hugs and the abuse she was sure to spew at your ex. Just knowing people like her, Jackson, and even kind acquaintances like Taehyung were supporting you was enough to keep your back straight and eyes forward. You would be just fine.
~~~~~
Next | Masterlist
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shyprincessthoughts · 7 months
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Well, I woke up very this morning after consuming another massive meal before bed. I was very stuffed last night before bed. Everything was packed in nice and tight and legitimately one bite away from rolling into the sickness zone. But I didn't like the good greedy girl I am, I took my belly filled with an enormous 28-oz steak straight to bed for the relaxing to begin. I did not get up after that point. I fell asleep at some point, only to wake up feeling things starting to lose up. Only 1.75 hours later. In my mind, there is no way I could have been able to digest or even begun to digest that much food that fast. So I decided to roll over and go back to sleep before my brain caught on and kept me up the rest of the night.
Now in an effort to help me keep an eye on what I am consuming i downloaded that diet diary ap thingy. I also put a step counter on my phone so that I could be more accurate at the end of my days and see where I am headed and if it is in the right direction. Now here is the first confusing thing. It restarts the count at midnight. How is it that by 8am I have over 180 steps already? I know I get up to use the facilities, but it is legit maybe 10 steps from my bedroom? I am not too worried a out caloric wastage there because 182 steps is only 16.7 calories, but 182 steps is just unreal considering when I went to sleep the idea of 2 steps was 2 too many.
My bigger confusion though. My big round drum of a belly ball. It feels loose, but I still feel full. It has deflafed considerably, i did a full poke, grab and giggle test. It's definitely ready for more. but when I stadted to move around a bit it is definitely a lot heavier than usual. Curiousity got me so got up and stuffed myself into my do nothing weekend pants it really feels a lot weightier. I feel hungry again, I mean my belly is barking at me quite loudly. Gurgles and grumbles galore, but my appetite is not quite there yet. I know if I put my mind to it I could fill it back up, but I also know enough that I still need a bit of time. But back to the curious part. I stole the scale from my feeder and weighed myself 3 times to confirm. I have gone DOWN 2.2lbs on the scale. I ate 2.2lbs of food just before bed??!!
What the heck is happening here? Are all my efforts in vain? Or am I just still having a steak fever dream and should go back to bed and just rest some more? I want to get my one errand of buying new pants over before the mall gets too busy.
Maybe I am just stressing about how many sizes up I will need to go into order to be comfortable at home and work. I found out that my old brand of jeans has added a proper plus sized (I hate that word) line all the way up to size 30, so I may be spared from maternity shopping. But the mall has since opened up another shop that could also probably have my correct sizes, too. I have come to realize that it has been over 7 years since I last bought a pair of jeans. I have to do a full new set of measurements because the size I think that still fits me really doesn't and I don't just want more of the same issue I have now.
Maybe shopping while a little stuffed is the safest option? It is not like I am not going to put more weight on. Perhaps I should buy 2 pair at the right size and one a little bigger for my "fat days" even though I think they are gonna be more like my perfect fit goals.
Wow, deep thoughts for this hungry, but not hungry, stuffed but not stuffed, round but feeling deflated girl. There is definitely something happening in there. I just don't know what. I got out of breath making the bed, and now I can't get up from my current position in bed because I fell into one of my divets. Ugh. It's a good thing I brought some snacks so I could get this all out. If I get back to fully stuffed again. I can just roll like a ball out of bed... right?
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thefangirlofhp · 1 year
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Apaixonar—Chapter 20
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Back again after an entire year of absence, this story strikes once again with a new season! (I've discovered that thinking of it as a tv show with its seasons brings my fretting mind some peace lol)
More importantly, this chapter alone earns the warnings in this story. I cannot stress enough that some readers may find it disturbing considering it discusses suicide and death at some length. If I had to warn off a specific part it would be the second and third (this is made up of four parts). And if anyone would like to skip this chapter altogether but have a brief summary of the events that transpired, I'm happy to oblige. Remember that this is fiction, but your emotions are very real. Look after yourselves, lads.
[Previously on Apaixonar] <-if you'd like a refresher.
The cold of Velaris is best counter-measured by a hot drink of high caloric value that’ll rot teeth with decay and a perfectly plump roll of rich cinnamon from the boulangerie downtown—a remedy Elain has discovered through trial and error, and one she currently enjoys with a reluctant Cassian.
“Remind me how you talked me into this,” he mutters, holding the remains of what once was a perfect roll before his eyes. “The sugar in this’ll send me into a coma.”
Elain’s knees swing side to side briefly in a fruitless attempt at body-heat generation as she sips what was once scalding hot chocolate but now is only a lukewarm remnant as it swishes in her mouth. “I didn’t. The smell of happiness and will to live did.”
Cassian’s lips quip at the one corner they habitually curve at, the scar along his top lip adding further character to his smile alone. “True,” he concedes that at least, saluting the cold foggy weather before them mockingly before indulging a sip of a black coffee Elain convinced him to add a packet of sugar to.
The sigh that rumbles his chest as it leaves resonates deeply with Elain, who only smiles faintly at his eyes fluttering shut and his hand pressing the paper cup to his face. “Oh, Elain…”
“I know,” she nibbles on her cinnamon roll and stares at the cascading rain shower.
“You’re not helping me lead a healthier life,” Cassian mutters but sips some more. “I’ve been meaning to cut caffeine out of my diet.”
“You know it’s been scientifically proven that removing caffeine from your diet cuts out what’s estimated to be 90% of your will to live?”
Cassian chuckles, eyes still shut, lips still smiling and shoulders hunched. “Want to know how I know that’s bullshit for sure, without hesitation?”
Elain grins. “How?”
“Fucking Az is the most depressed man I know, and there’s not a form of caffeine he’s not addicted to.”
Elain can only smile faintly as she averts her gaze to her knees. “He is an anomaly in every way, so… doesn’t count.”
Cassian glances at her, before turning once more to the window before them viewing the cold of Windhaven in its foggy glory, Elain’s feet propped on the windowsill, curled in the café’s chair, and his own long legs stretched out before him. “Y’remind me of him, s’times,” he mentions quietly. “Don’t know how I missed it before, but you’ve got the same sense of humor. Makes me want to pull out my hair same way.”
“Yeah…” she says quietly, stares out some more and then glances at him. “Still hasn’t answered your calls?”
“Nope,” Cassian heaves a sigh before popping the ‘P’. “You?”
She shakes her head. “I’m going to his place.”
“Good luck,” the ex-soldier scoffs. “Tried that. He’s not there.”
“How’d you know?”
“Rebel’s at the neighbors.”
“Oh… Did Rhys mention anything?” 
“Can get about as much words out of Rhys as I can out of Az,” Cassian says darkly, then drinks more but only because he can’t seem to find anything else to do with himself. “Besides, he’s busy with work, I guess. All I could get out of him is Az got suspended while they investigate him and when I ask him for fucking what, all I get is ‘Fuck’s sake, Cassian, don’t ask’.”
“Do they… do they blame Azriel for… it?”
Cassian shrugs and stuffs the rest of his cinnamon roll in his mouth. “Don’t know. He’s blamed for something. I’ve got other fucks to worry about.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, it’s probably nothing, but I’ve missed Ben—haven’t heard of him for a long while and the guys haven’t seen him either.”
Ben who, if memory serves her correctly, is the man Cassian served four tours with, fought to the death in many battles and ‘trusted him with his six’—she knows from Cassian’s circles and her volunteering that Ben turned his back on it all since coming home from his last tour and hasn’t refreshed his contract once it’s ended. He’d yet to show up at a single gathering, and what she knows of him is that he’d gone into business, for what she cannot remember or no one knows. What she does know is that his absence has been an amputation Cassian cannot forget or get a prosthetic limb for.
Elain scooches closer towards her friend, their jackets rustling in the silence as she lays her head on his shoulder.
“Worry’s good,” she murmurs softly. Cassian’s incessant bouncing of his knee pauses.
“You’re the first ever person I hear to say that,” if anyone’s voice could smile fondly, Elain figures it would be Cassian. “How so, sunshine?”
“Means we still care,” Elain responds quietly, her hands curled around a now cold-hot-chocolate, her eyes bleary with lack of sleep, and her back aching from waiting for so long in cafes and parks in her search for Azriel. “Means our empathy’s not gone, means we’re still all right. In a time where I keep fighting off indifference, I feel glad whenever I worry for someone that’s not family.”
Cassian softly chuckles, turns his head to press a kiss to her hair before resting his head on hers. “You’re always full of surprises, sunshine. Maybe I’ll start thinking like you do.”
“Good luck.”
_____________________
Elain didn’t know what she was expecting when she knocked on Azriel’s door, but the sound behind the door telling her he’s there alone silences some worry in her that had been ignited long ago. Yet the sight of him knocks the breath out of her, still, when he opens the door.
It’s his ruffled hair, sunken eyes dull with tire, and his downturned lips that make her all the gladder she’s decided to show up, unannounced as she is—there you are, every part of her sings. I’ve been worried about you.
“Hello,” she breathes as his arm falls from the door and he stands resigned before her. Her gaze rakes over him like an apt scanner, taking in his sweater and the sleeves that bunch at his wrist, his jeans and bare feet.
His lips twitch, and the sadness of it—not a smile, not even close—the way Winnie’s lips wobble and pout before she’s about to sob, says more than enough. Her hand tightens on the strap of her purse, before her hands fall to her side.
There is only silence as his eyes bore into hers, and hers –wide, unblinking—stare right back. It feels to her like there are no words needed, because something is sparking the entirety of her chest, the space between them charges, near electric as his eyes say more than his lips can ever lie.
His lips tighten, his brows narrow, and his chest shudders lightly as he breathes in.
Her throat clogs up and damn her, she understands. Truly, the depth of it all. She can tell.
“Hello,” she repeats quietly and Azriel looks away with a small resigned nod as he steps back and gestures she come inside.
Gingerly stepping out of her shoes, Elain shuts the door behind her with a soft snap as he disappears down the hallway and she follows. Rebel steps out from his office, and hurries towards Elain like lightening is sparking her heels. Despite the tension in the room, Elain smiles and gathers the feline cat in her arms when she pauses at her feet.
“...Coffee?” Azriel quietly croaks, standing hands behind his back in the living room and Elain shakes her head with a small smile, stepping through the arching doorway from the hall to the room.
She promptly freezes.
It’s a crime scene exploded all over his house in such a grotesque manner of odd reserved professionalism and the brutal nature of his profession. The television depicts a collage of graphic photographs; manila folders and files swarm virtually all space on the carpeted floor and the singular couch; printed photographs and official-looking documents with size 12 fonts and the General Ominous Feeling of Governmental Doom haphazardly litter the coffee table; his laptop, up and running on the coffee table with a flash drive connected to it, is open to what appears to be a report.
Elain blinks, but she’s frozen at the sight of the guns so innocuously placed next to the laptop.
She knows it’s not illegal to own firearm in Velaris, but she’s led such a sheltered life of…human, normal suffering where her life’s travesties were her mother’s suicide, her father’s neglect, her divorce… and now her school’s shooting, her daughter’s attempted murder. Seeing the firearm upfront is like existing in a reality where life and dreams are mixed together.
Her brows narrow as she stares at that black gun- Cassian probably knows the name for it, can tell her its caliber just by feeling it. She remembers what it feels like to be staring down the barrel of one, thinking of her daughter as she makes peace with dying and leaving her alone. The sound it would make, she wonders if it would be similar to the rifle that had ambushed her classroom. Pops or loud booms? Would it hurt the same?  
Rebel purrs in her arms and nudges her neck.
Elain blinks, repeatedly, turning her sharp gaze towards Azriel watching her closely, before he picks up the two handguns and the sight of them in his grasp awakens what feels like an epiphany in Elain.
See, look, she’s long since come to the terms she’s a visual person. She appreciates views and imageries more than she does words and descriptions, and recently she concedes her mind has been absent as of late. She doesn’t know when she’s fallen asleep like Aurora collapsing at the spindle—maybe her curse all along has been to fall in love with something that isn’t hers—yet the sight of Azriel, the truth of him; a haunting remake of a song once light, is the brush of a kiss that brings her a sort of clarity. All fairy tales originate from a darker core, she wonders if Azriel is true to that.
She looks again, truly looks, at his apartment, his work, and when she looks back to him she sees paranoia, a sharp edge, a man who’s been brought to light he cannot stand, and most of all she reads fear in his eyes. It’s not one of self-preservation, she’s long since suspected he is a failing misery at that front, but—if she dares think—it is something boyish, and if her instinct is true: it’s mournful.
Elain sharply inhales through her nose. “I worried about you.”
Azriel’s face is an arrangement so beautiful, so devastated and some blissful era ago, his eyes might have been allowed the kindness to gleam with tears. His teeth pull at the corner of his lower lip, and his voice is hushed when he speaks.
“I’m sorry.”
The way his chest caves with the words add more volume and emphasis than words can.
Elain’s fingers brush through Rebel’s soft fur. “I…”
Frankly, she had words prepared to say. There are many speeches she ran through her head as she drove over, words she handpicked and polished, yet they are insufficient in the reality where he is there, before her, alive, and all right—she cannot find herself wanting anything else from him.
“I worried about you,” she repeats softly, hugging his cat to her chest. “I needed you to be all right. Are you all right?”
He stands so still, at attention, hands behind his back like a stranger in his own home. “I’m sorry. I know it means nothing but I am.”
Her gaze softens. “For what?”
He looks down at his feet. “You honestly haven’t realized your life’s gone to shit because of me?”
“I also realize it’s been ten times better because of you.”
It’s the heat of her voice, throat tight, that makes him look up sharply.
Words fall short on her behalf but then; “Was it intentional?” she whispers. “Did you let him hurt us?”
“No.”
Her shoulders give a small shrug. “All our families are fucked up in a way.”
A strangled laugh escapes his throat, but it’s not the sound people make when they’re happy, or amused. “You’re seriously going to normalize that?”
“I think normalizing it makes it easier for me to deal with being shot. With having my daughter escape murder by sheer luck.”
“I’m sorry,” his voice cracks, his eyes glisten like she’s touched a frayed raw nerve mentioning Winnie’s miraculous escape. “I’m so fucking sorry. And I know- God, I know it changes nothing but I’m-“
“I know,” Elain steps close, until only his cat is between them and she can see the change brought to his eyes. She nods. There’s a missing gleam in his eyes she’s fallen in love with that’s lost. “I know you are. And I don’t blame you. I know you were staying away from him, and I know he hurt you. I could tell- you ran into him when we were shopping, didn’t you?”
Maybe it’s the fact she’s seen him, or that he believes no one could ever pay him the attention he gives to the world, or it is both, but there’s something that cracks like lines in dry earth in his beautiful hazel eyes.
Elain’s mouth is dry as a desert. “I realize we were used as a way to get to you... in whatever sick delusional way it was. I admit it took me time to acclimate myself to that but I know. I get it. I understand.”
“Do you?” he breathes out, full of doubt.
“Don’t do that,” she whispers back. “You’re the one person who’s not supposed to undermine me. You can’t think I’m blind or an idiot. You’re not supposed to-“
His hands abruptly rise, palms curling around her shoulders as he blinks and his lips tighten. “What kind of woman would understand the circumstances and still want me?”
Elain blinks and slowly bites her lip. “I don’t know if you’ve grasped this about me but I don’t take well to being told what to do. I don’t respond to threats; intimidation only angers me. I deserve—we deserve to decide if we want each other on our own terms.”
She strokes Rebel’s fur and glances down at the cat staring up at her. “I will only decide to stay with you or leave based on what you do, on who you are. Just because your psychotic brother doesn’t like me won’t mean I’ll back down. Dealing with in-laws who hate me is kind of what I do.”
It’s a wet laugh that escapes him. “Elain, you really don’t get it-“
“Hey,” she cuts him off firmly. “I know more than I let on, all right? I thought you understood that. I know you’re a detective and I know what that means—because you’re a clean cop, I know what that means, ok? The minute you helped Feyre get out, I knew what kind of a man you were—no one has the guts to publicly go after an entire gang and lock them up. Granted, I didn’t feel it all until now, and yes it terrifies me but what else did I expect?”
“Elain, please, listen to me, it was nice while it lasted-“
“I won’t let you break up with me for this,” her voice quiets as her brows narrow and she holds back her tears. “If you don’t like me, then just say it. If you don’t want to be with a woman who has a kid, say it. I won’t mind. But I won’t let you take this one good thing from me, because it might be exploited. Living in fear is everything our predecessors fought against-“
“Elain-“
“And you can’t lie, either,” her eyes brighten as she locks gazes with him. “I can tell, when you lie. So you can’t. Now take a deep breath, and tell me you never want to see me just because you don’t like me.”
His hands tighten on her shoulders. “If you knew, about me, you wouldn’t stay-“
“So tell me,” she insists. “I’m not marrying you, I’m just telling you that I won’t walk away for a reason that is not you or me. Now look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me because you don’t like me.”
He stares, mouth parted faintly, as his face struggles so visibly to communicate what he is feeling—but perhaps it is not a matter of communication, but an internal struggle where he himself is helpless against navigating the surmounting mountain of patterned reactions he’s been told are emotions. Is it an emotion still if it breaks formation? What of the fractured scatters of single isolated happenstances where they don’t fit in any structure?
Finally, he breathes. “This doesn’t have a happy ending.”
Elain smiles, a watery thing with a bubbly chuckle. “Oh look, you’re a seer. Can you tell me the lottery numbers?”
__________________
Some time later, Azriel mumbles something about making them a bite to eat and Elain lets him, because the way his clothes hang on him and his arm is a little slimmer than she remembers weeks ago is worrisome. She wonders when he lost his appetite in the previous days, and realizes she hasn’t seen him eat since a night at her house—seems ages ago now—where the height of their worries was finding out the identity of the traitor in the midst of their Spanish drama, when Azriel helped her back into her life and everything—well, most things had been all right.
“I’m not sure about you, but an eye carved out of a corpse doesn’t stimulate my appetite,” Elain raises her voice as she nudges aside photographs and makes some room on the couch. “I’m gonna put them away, okay?”
A short-fractured laugh from the kitchen. “Yeah, sure, just keep them together.”
So she does, examining them with surface-level curiosity as she straightens photographs out and piles documents together. Many of them date several years ago, others months, yet she doesn’t read the contents of the reports out of respect for the privacy each victim is entitled to. These are actual people, who’ve met devastating fates and deserve retribution and acts put in place to make sure it doesn’t happen again. She wonders if his job has any part contributing to that—it’d be a nice thing if it did. A nice consolation for his hard work to bring forth something preventative.
“Are those unsolved cases?” she asks, tapping government documents into a shapely pile in her lap. “Is this what you’ve been doing all this time? Cassian’s been hunting you through the entire state and you were here printing out documents?”
“No, I’m building my case.”
Her head snaps sharply towards the kitchen. “You’re being prosecuted?”
“Uh, no. At least not yet,” a clink of silverware follows the ominous addition and he raises his tone. “Those are crimes the Heptad is responsible for. I’m assembling it all into one big Pandora’s Box kind of case for it to be prosecuted. The minute I open it, everything goes to Hell.”
Elain frowns at a document from two years ago.
“I guess you can call them unsolved,” he then concedes. “Cause they’re not processed yet. But they’re all solved. I’ve kept them off the books for safekeeping—the station’s full of moles, it’s not even a secret. I can tell you who gets how much bribes and when. It’s in there too—all the accomplices. It’s kind of a big deal. I hope I’m not further fucking up your life by telling you, so just keep it to yourself.”
“I don’t understand.”
He emerges into the room with a mug of tea he hands her, the fruity aroma of Earl Grey making some part in her brain to smile.
“I didn’t know you drank tea,” she pipes softly as she faintly blows the surface. He leans back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes visibly tired and yet a little smile glimmers just for her.
“Figured if you ever stopped by I couldn’t let you sit without tea. Found a brand that sells a dozen of types in one box so… if Earl Grey’s not your thing, there’s eleven others.”
She smiles into the black liquid and pretends that the heat in her cheeks is from the tea’s rising steam. “So,” she clears her throat and nods to the grotesque television. “Safekeeping?”
Azriel heaves in a deep breath, one that makes his shoulders tremble as they rise and the slouch of his body against the wall speaks more of a physical exhaustion than a conscious stance projecting an image. A click on the remote changes the contents of the screen, to a complicated board depicting what Elain can only recognize as a mind-map.
“What is it?”
“The Fuckening.”
The spluttering laugh escaping her lips is highly inappropriate, yet it crackles in the room all the same. “I’m sorry. What?”
The small gleam in the side-eyed look he gives her is comforting—he’s still there, she tells herself, relieved. Her Azriel’s still there—as his lips wryly curl. “You heard me. My life’s work. Right there. The Fuckening.”
Humor is the way he copes, she reminds herself. So she doesn’t fight the smile on her lips. “Your fascination with the word is unbelievable.”
“Listen, it’s everything-it’s a swearword, it’s a term of endearment, it’s an insult, an expression of anger,” he pushes himself off the wall and she grins in response. There he is, their ranting contemplative hyper-fixated Azriel. “It’s eloquent. It’s appropriate in every context.”
“And you’ve taught it to my daughter.”
He jabs an index towards her, and she ignores the way it shakes. How his whole arm trembles—she’d give anything for it to be out of suppressed laughter instead of exhaustion. “French word for seal. See? ‘Fuck’ is like the starting point for all matter. It can be anything and everything—”
“All right,” her brows curve before she braves another sip. “What’s The Fuckening, then?”
He crosses his arms again, yet this time he doesn’t slouch or lean against the wall. Stands still. “It’s organized crime’s reckoning,” Azriel says quietly. “In Velaris, at least.”
“The seven gangs?”
“Mm. Past seven years, crime skyrocketed in the state,” Azriel reveals. “Out of nowhere. I went from a bored, burned-out detective pushing around paper for domestic cases to being dragged out of my bed at all hours for murders, heists, masked suicides. Each body we found was a thread tangled into a network of stories and events. It got rare for me to close a case as a simple homicide—well, as simple as homicide gets. Most of the ones I do are just threads I haven’t tugged on. And they’re all linked back to those seven assholes.”
Elain blinks at the mind-map of seven large branches, with each gang name. Vultures, Bloodhounds, the 18th, Anvil, Black Swan, Ravens, the 16th. “But they’ve always been there, right? They haven’t… They didn’t appear out of nowhere in seven years.”
“No,” he nods. “They date back to the twenties, after World War I. Back then, they were just a crew run by Alfonso McIntyre. They’ve always been in the state—bloody, downright filthy bunch of lowlife nobodies. Then they expanded as McIntyre’s empire grew, got masked by legitimate business, subbranches with their own leaders, but all seven answered in the end to the head of it all, like a king.”
“Oh, like the Godfather! So the king died seven years ago? Was overthrown?”   
“On the contrary,” Azriel lowers his arms, and steps next to her only to perch on the arm of the couch. “The seven have been minding their own business for decades—so there hasn’t been a need for a leader. Everyone just operated as their own entity, there’s been an understanding with the law enforcement. A weird co-existence. Till that guy shows up seven years ago and declares fucking war on God’s green earth.”
He points at the center where Hybern branches everything else.
“The king?” Elain traces her finger along the rim of her mug.
“The king,” Azriel confirms softly. “Hybern. Reins them all in, back into the original ruthless formation, ignited a competitiveness between them and now they’ve gone out of control. Ten years ago to have someone killed, you needed explicit permission, you couldn’t just go around and do it. Now… well, now assholes can kill kids like Bunny just because they decided to.”
Winnie. Elain sharply blinks away the potential tears and looks to Azriel whose shoulders hunch, hands in his lap, as he stares blankly at the screen.
“And here I am left behind having to tell people why their loved ones were murdered.”
Elain swallows heavily, averts her gaze to her mug of tea, cups it desperately to fight the chill of the topic off her back. He sounds so hallow with the haunting words, his life revealed to be much darker than she’s realized. She wonders what it does to a person, to be that man catching serial killers and consoling families. Looking at him now, he looks so young but somehow his job lies over him like a shadow-curtain of age.
“So you’re locking up the mob?”
“I’ll let you in on a secret, Elain,” she can feel him look to her. “I’m trying to. I’m not supposed to, but we’re risking our lives and careers for it. I lost Milo because of it.”
She quickly blinks away the image of Milo’s death. “It’s…I’m proud of you.”
Silence stretches long after her words, that she has to look at him only to find him staring with blatant surprise on his face that’s utterly profound it confuses her.
“What?” she asks.
“No one’s ever had that reaction. You don’t think I’m—I’m an idiot? Reckless? Suicidal? A naïve jackass kicking at something he doesn’t understand?”
“Well, why are you doing it? This,” she gestures to his life’s work. “If your life’s on the line, if you lost someone because of it, and people think you’re mad, why did you start it? Didn’t you anticipate it to be this dangerous?”
“I’m on the useless spectrum, Elain,” he mutters quietly that her head whips around so sharply and suddenly—You feel that way too? She wants to scream—at his confession. “I’ve been taking and living off people for years. I need my life to be useful to someone, if only once.”
“You’re not useless,” she finds herself saying. “How could you think that?”
“Let’s see,” his voice, hoarse and cracked, splits something severe in her heart. He holds up a finger, the beginnings of a count. But then he pauses, heaves a sigh and lowers his hand. “I just am.”
Azriel stands, feet dragging as he moves, hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders tense. “Doing this will be the most worthwhile thing I can do. I have the chance to do it, and I’ll be a selfish asshole if I don’t. This golden chance where my pressure points amount to zero? It has to be me.”
Elain frowns down at the still murky waters in her hand. “What makes you different?”
“Guy like me, with no strings attached?”
Her head snaps up sharply. “How are you different than any other human?” she repeats firmly.
He pauses. “I don’t get it.”
“You have the chance to do this,” she recalls, setting down her tea. “What do you mean by that?”
Azriel leans against the wall. “No family, loner, has enough advantageous connections, bit unimpressed with the concept of living… I can do what others can’t, ‘cause I got nothing to worry about.”
Elain slowly stands. “No family… So, the Blackwoods are what, friendly neighbors?”
Azriel blinks at her. “How’s anyone going to get to them in London? And Rhys’s more secure than I can make him.”
“But they’re your family,” Elain’s voice quivers, not with—is this anger? “You do have a family, Az.”
His lips part, words about to tumble before he holds them back and closes his mouth. This is the second time he’s refrained from speaking his mind.
“What?” she finds herself saying, sharper than intended.
He shakes his head.
“You had something to say, say it.”
“I don’t want a pity party,” he says quietly, yet firmly.
Elain heaves in a breath—when had her breathing gone off rhythm?—and turns to the screen. “So, loner…”
“Pretty self-explanatory—”
“I just spent an hour with Cassian in the cold, looking for you, he hasn’t gotten a single night’s sleep since the news came out,” her voice is sharp as a knife, but it seems to deliver her message adequately. “He’s been worried sick. I have. Nesta has. We’re worried sick cause we think your life is in danger with you being thrown in the open. My kid’s been asking for you nonstop for days. Loner, Azriel?”
“Elain,” he stands. “I misspoke. I didn’t mean to undermine your friendships—”
“What, then?”
“I just—all I said, I can do this job because-“ his tone softens, his shoulders hunch. “-because I got what it takes. I can give what—what others can’t. And it needs to be done—how many victims will I have to have nightmares about before I can’t stand it anymore?”
Elain pauses, hands grasped tightly, her shoulders stiffen and lock up with dread. “Give what, Az?”
His eyes squint, briefly. “I-“ he stammers, like this is the first time anyone’s asked or probed or cared—is it? She’d cry if it were. “Everything—”
“You think this’ll cost you your life.”
Silence.
Azriel stares blankly back at Elain, forehead creased, his lips pressed, but there’s no negation or disagreement. She wonders why he couldn’t say it—or wouldn’t, to her face?—as the words hang between them like a scythe about to drop.
She sharply breathes, the air cold and sharp as knives in her nose and a fine line down her chest. Her lips quiver. She presses them together.
“This is a slow suicide project.”
More silence.
Elain averts her gaze. Breathes deeply in yet it doesn’t feel enough. Blinks sharply at the ceiling.
“You can’t say that,” Azriel says quietly. “Not you too.”
“Oh, others have noticed, thank God,” her voice wobbles. “When were you going to tell me? Or were you just waiting for me to find out on some stupid Tuesday through the news, ‘Azriel Bougainvillea found murdered in a ditch, investigators think it’s a fair price—oh look, here lock up these five murderers. Cleaner streets, go VSPD!’. Just collateral, that Elain. Is that it, Az?”
“You can’t make it sound like that.”
“Like what?!” she shouts.
They both freeze, but Elain feels as if she���s opened a faucet to a tank that’s been filling up for years and years, quietly, sneakily building up…
“Like it’s nothing more than a suicide,” his brow narrows. “It’s not—”
“A suicide is still a suicide no matter the outcome, Az!”
His jaw clenches, she can see his fists clenching in his pockets as the knuckles protrude.
“Tell me this isn’t the case and I’ll drop this,” Elain whispers vehemently. “Look me in the eyes—tell me you want to live.”
His voice shakes. “Want to live? Jesus, Elain, do you not know me? Does anyone actively want to see another day? Every time I wake up, I just—I’m so tired of this. I don’t want to do anything, I haven’t felt alive ever—fuck it, other than when I was fired up on opium or snow did I feel at least like I can breathe. This isn’t a suicide project, the fuck? There are thousand quicker and easier ways, you think I’d choose this when it’s taking everything in me to do? Fuck if it just takes my life, that makes it ten times easier! This is me doing some good, meaning something for once in my goddamn useless life—”
“You are not useless!”
“You say that, but you’ve only known me a few fucking months! I’ve never done a single good fucking thing in my life—all I do is take and take, and I make people’s lives worse. Fuck, Elain, my own mother didn’t want me! I ruined Rhys’ relationship with his parents! And when I finally try do some fucking good, I get Milo killed. You think I’m particularly happy with this guy, me? I want him to live? Fuck it, if I can give the years on me to someone else, I’d do it gladly.”
“Oh my God…” her tears cloud up in her eyes, fog her vision—that’s fine, she doesn’t want to see him anyway, if he’s only going to die, why does she bother and hurt herself by getting attached? “You want this to kill you. You’re not resigned to the possibility, you wish it’ll happen.”
He freezes.
“You wish it’ll take your life, because then you feel like it’s a debt repaid? The world’s better of without you? Is that it?”
His nostrils flare, he presses his lips together, holds out his hands to the sides and with forced calm in his voice speaks next. “I’m saying… a high-risk job like this demands a sacrifice. And losing my life is just one option I’ve made my peace with. Extraordinary results demand extraordinary efforts.”
“Don’t glorify it.” Tears collect at her lower lid.
“Elain-“ he takes a step towards her, the movement snapping her into action as she shakes her head and holds up a hand. Azriel freezes.
“Don’t,” she’s shaking her head, stepping back. “I don’t want—you keep on glorifying your death, convince yourself it’s anything other than suicide, I don’t want any part of it. Just—”
She snatches up her bag from the couch and dashes to the front door, shoving on her shoes with cold shaking hands—he doesn’t stop her, follow her, deny anything—and marches out his apartment with as much of her heart held together as she can.
She won’t, will not, watch another person slip from between her hands.
If only I’d been stronger—
Her therapist had taught her well, she’s mended herself adequately, she’s learned to protect herself from being put into situations like this—oh God, but Azriel, why is he the last person she’d suspect? His smile so vivacious, so pretty, his laugh booming in her house, so full of life and unalike any man she’s ever met—
You know better than anyone how happy they look. They laugh, make you promises, no one else has a brighter smile, don’t they?
No—
You’d know. What did she keep telling you, Elain?
“My pretty daisy, you make life entirely worth it, baby.”
No, no, she squeezes her eyes shut as her fingers furiously jam the elevator button, her entire being shaking.
She wasn’t laughing though, on that balcony. So beautiful in white, her hair unbound. Mama had smiled to her death—
“No,” Elain sobs, jamming her fists to her chest as she chokes on the pure surge of emotions.
“Mama?” she whispered, dropping to her heels after successfully opening the door and wandering into the private hospital room. Her mother’s bed was empty, Feyre’s bassinet by it with the newborn soundly asleep. Perhaps in the bathroom, Elain figured as she strayed to Feyre and rose to the tips of her toes to grin at the baby. Peacefully swaddled in her blankets, hat on her little head and a cute button nose.
The bathroom was empty, door ajar and lights closed. That left only the balcony, whose heavy door Elain couldn’t open. The curtains billowed inwards and a breeze swept through. She was only two-years-old, yet everything about it is imprinted in her mind like a tattoo. The shade of beige, the tiled flooring, Feyre’s soft breathing. The feel of the curtain as she fought it to the side, discovering the heavy glass door in her path opened only a crack at the wall letting in a sharp whistling breeze. Papa was in the cafeteria with Nesta, they promised to get Elain sour candy.
Mama standing at the railing, atop the little chair Elain would sit on because the hospital bed and the chairs were too tall. Her nightrobe billowing around her, her hair unbound, so beautiful she remembers thinking her Mama was.
“Mama,” Elain tapped her hand against the glass. “’Emme out.”
“No, no, no, no,” she sobs, bowing over under the wave of grief breaking her back in its merciless will. Arms wrapped around her middle, she crouches right there and there, her chest cracking in two with each sob that rips her throat. The elevator takes its sweet time.
But Mama turning round, looking at her daughter over her shoulder. She wasn’t laughing, holding Elain against her hip and Nesta’s hand as they watch the elephant at the zoo wash itself and Nesta’s nose wrinkle. Mama looked so beautiful as her body turned on that chair, and the wind pushed her hair. Her lips smile, that one for Elain, her little daisy.
“Mama,” Elain sticks her hand through the space between the wall and the heavy door, and pushes. No avail. She was her daughter’s age. “’Emme out too. Wanna-wanna-“
“Lain,” Mama said softly, as Elain’s lips scrunched with determination and she pushed with her entire body at the door. It only brings pain to her wrist but it doesn’t stop her will to be with Mama.
“Mama-“ Elain stuck her feet in the ground and heaved at the door—if she huffs and puffs, will she blow the house away? “’Emme out-“
But Mama leaned back.
Elain pauses.
The empty balcony.
The curtain billowing behind her.
The whistle of the wind in her ear—like gale, a screaming gale in the current.
Her little curls nudged with the breeze.
Cold air on her damp lip.
“Mama?”
Elain shoved at the door with all her might, using her wrist as the connection. She grunted. Panicking? Shoved, pushed, feet firmly in the ground—“Mama?” where is her mother? They get hurt when they fall, is her mother hurt?
“Mama!”
A jolting shock of electricity and a snap vibrated in her hand, it made her freeze as her hand hurt all of a sudden, and it felt like she couldn’t move it anymore. Stuck in its pushed back position, Elain stared wide eyed at her hurt. Mama would definitely answer her now, now that she hurt herself.
“Mama!”
“Mama,” Elain whispers softly, covering her head with her arms. He’s slipping from her hands as well, isn’t he? She won’t have him, she won’t have him if he’ll only leave. He can’t leave as well. Not him as well.
The cry that leaves her chest contains everything therapy couldn’t fix, the sheer loss and devastation at seeing her slip from her fingers over and over in her dreams. She can’t do that to her Winnie. Let her have indestructible, invincible Azeel in her grasp, only to watch him set himself on fire.
Elain crouches in front of the elevator, and sobs into her knees.
___________________
“Now you look like you’ve gone and fucked every shit under the sun up.”
It’s relieving to finally hear Nuala’s voice light and humorous, even though she’s wielding it to poke needles into him, but at least it’s a normality, one he can rely on.
“Kinda my job to,” he answers, sifting through the files she’s presented him with. Nu’s fork spears through her cheesecake—cheesecake in winter, that woman, honestly—and she smacks her mouth as she chews and swallows just to piss him off. “And shut the fuck up.”
She slurps her coffee. A pair of woman passing by them recognize his face, if their nasty look and the loud “corrupt filth” one of them declares is anything to go by. Azriel remains slouched in his seat, having grown accustomed to the public’s less than favorable opinion of him if, again, the amount of hate mail he consistently throws into the bin is an indication. He’s had to delete his socials because it’d gotten pointless bothering even opening them.  
Aside from suspension followed by a prompt return-to-work-on-probation period and a thorough investigation, Azriel’s come out of this relatively, well, intact. Aside from the publicity and the way almost everyone and their mother now knows a fraction of his story that they think is the entire tale, and the fact that his undercover has been well and truly fucked up, he’d say he’s all right. In danger, at the end of his wits, at war with the fucking mob, but all right.
“I assumed—”
“Oh God, here we go,” he mutters.
“Shut up. I assumed this sudden motivation to get The Fuckening together was because of your cover getting blown up or that you were worried they’d kick you off it—but that’s not the entire story, is it?”
“No,” he reaches for his phone, opens it up and passes it over without looking up from the fine print of Nuala’s reports and statements. “I got that in the mail, night of. CD, untraceable, but it’s them. Nathan’s got a flare for theater that I really think he should have invested in, instead of human torture and mutilation but they’ve declared war so it’s only reasonable I line my soldiers up.”
Nuala’s silence says much. Then: “Your apartment?”
“Well they were kind enough to send multiple copies—my apartment, the motel I was going to spend a few days in, the safe house. Then I realized there’s no point hiding, they’d kindly expressed as much. They’re keeping me alive for a reason which I’m guessing is the fact that they know I have insurance and filth ready to spill and since I haven’t opened my fat mouth means no one’s firing the first shot yet which means—”
 She’s silent while she watches the video, her breath steady in the ambience of the outdoors café, merging with the mid-day’s noise. “They’re trying to clean house, and find whatever we have on them. One step ahead, I am, as always since I moved the evidence to an undisclosed place of my choosing—"
 Then, her breath catches.
“What the fuck—” she blurts, as the realization stuns the breath from her chest.
Yeah, he’d thought the same.
“Oh my god that’s you.” Horror colours her words, an emotion he feels desensitized to. Strange to be feeling generally calm and desensitized when his life’s gone to shit—expected outcomes, but still some part of him thinks: where are my feelings?
“Ten points to Gryffindor,” he mutters.
“What the fuck?!” she repeats in a hiss. “That’s—that’s how you got those scars—”
“Yeah. Just promise you won’t spoil my Joker act, all right? Wanna know how I got these scars?”
“Az, I didn’t know—”
“I really appreciate the fact that you’ve respected me enough to not look me up but don’t lie to my face and say you didn’t recently find out like everyone else.”
He finally looks up, to the strain around her eyes and the tightness in her jaw. “I didn’t want you to know cause I didn’t want it between us,” Azriel adds softly. “The fact alone’s messed up most of my relationships. Don’t let it now.”
She breathes in, till her chest expands to the fullest and she looks away. “It does fuck with me when I find out my best friend was tortured and imprisoned in a basement as a child, but it doesn’t change how I see you, Az.”
“Thank you,” he responds gratefully and looks down. “I’ll be honest, when they sent that CD it…felt like I was underwater, couldn’t find up from down. So I’ve been preparing.”
Nuala’s forehead wrinkles as she gives a small nod. “I mean it’s about time,” she sighs, shifting in her seat and crossing her arms. “You think now’s the time to—”
“Not yet,” he cuts in. “We still haven’t gotten anything on Amarantha or Hybern and we both know there’s jackpot.”
Nuala rubs her face. “We have enough, Az,” she reasons. “Charges that won’t let any of them see the light of day.”
“I don’t want to lock up the lackeys,” he quietly responds. “If their bosses are loose it’s all for nothing.”
“Not for nothing,” Nuala chides. “Take their crew away, what are they?”
He rubs his thighs, deep-set frown. “Whoever managed to build this can do it again, and can get their crew back. I need the brains behind it, Nu.”
His partner heavily sighs and buries her face in her hands. “Feels like a fucking disaster about to happen. The wait’s killing me.”
Azriel watches a car speed by, cold wind tousling his hair as he stares off into something more distant than reality but more solid than a dream. A cancerous wish made up of hope and poisonous ‘what if?’ that he’s never entertained. But he feels himself stare it down, the possibility, this new outcome amongst the others to consider losing or gaining. When he started his project, getting side-tracked by the opportunity of having his own family and the love of his life was simply an incomprehensible and impossible future.
He'd lined his ducks accordingly, calculated his steps and chances and realized he had a solid chance at succeeding.
He hadn’t accounted for wanting to fail, to have an After to live for.
No point wondering, though. The look in Elain’s eyes said enough.
Still, he stares down a hope he knows might end up killing him.
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novankenn · 4 months
Text
J/C - the Idols of Beacon
--==(Table of Contents) ==--
(Chapter 9 - Rules & Roles)
Joan and Carla were lounging about, enjoying another greasy feast from the cafeteria. Carla devouring her second bacon double cheeseburger, while Joan was inhaling an extra large bowl of poutine. Groaning, Joan put down her meal and rubbed her stomach.
“If this is how this, whatever this is, is going to be… I’m pretty satisfied.” Joan commented as she rose from the couch, and stretched, cousin her slightly too small t-shirt to rise up and expose her midriff and her just noticeable paunch. 
“I hate to agree, but this is a cakewalk.”
“Is my ass getting fat?” Joan asked as she slapped her hands on her ample, perky butt cheeks. “I think they are. What do you think?”
“Dude! I’m eating.” Carla retorted, “I’m not checking out your ass!”
“It’s just a question, and you’re the only one I can ask.” Joan responded.
“Why are you asking me that type of shit? I don't care if you think your boobs are getting bigger, or your ass is fatter… I don't care, and I don't want to know about it.”
“Bitch.”
“Seriously, dude, what the hell?” Carla asked, a tint of disgust in her voice as she tossed the remains of her burger on the take-out box covered coffee table. “ You’re acting like this whole thing is good. It’s not.”
“I’m just trying to make the most of it.” Joan countered. “We’ve got like three years and some to be like this…”
“Do not remind me.”
A knock on the door on the door to their lodgings ended the conversation, and before anyone could answer the door opened, allowing Goodwitch and four others access. The pair of magically altered young men stiffened at the sight of three. The fourth they had no idea about.
Joan seeing her former partner, then one of her former bullies and finally Coco… who she was very aware of started to invoke the ‘fight or flight’ response… heavily slanted to ‘flight’.
Carla was afraid of all three. Nikos for trouncing her and her team, Coco for being a looming threat of if her real identity ever was revealed that she would be on the receiving of the ass kicking of the century. Then there was Russel, her former teammate. Like Jaune, Carla was extremely entertaining the idea of making a run for it.
“Don’t.” the fourth member of Godwitch’s posse commanded as she strode past everyone and surveyed not only the pair of young women, their state of dress, and the condition of their living space. “Disgusting and depressing.”
“Um… who are you?” Joan stuttered out.
“Speak up, speak clearly, and speak with conviction.” the woman stated, her pink eyes focused on Joan. “I am your agent, choreographer, and vocal instructor. My name is Piper Hamelin, and you are?”
“Joan… Joan A?”
“Then I assume you are Carla W.”
“Y…yes?”
“I see.” Piper studied the pair for several minutes before speaking again. “The three students with me are your support team.”
“Support team? Why do we have…” Joan started to ask.
“Because you need one, and considering the state of this place, and your current appearance… you desperately need them. Sit.” Piper waited as Joan and Carla looked at each other as if having a discussion without words. “I do not have all day, ladies. Sit!”
Joan was the first to cave to Piper’s authoritative tone, with Carla soon following suit.
“So there are going to be several changes to your routine and habits, and you WILL follow my directions to a tee, or I will make things even more strict. Understood?”
The pair just nodded.
“Good. Ms Nikos has agreed to being your fitness instructor and has also been given the authority to monitor your caloric intake. This…” Piper pointed to the cluttered coffee table, “WILL no longer be happening.”
“Ms Adel has been chosen as your fashion consultant and stylist. She will dictate what you wear, especially when you eventually go on stage and start having public appearances… “Piper snorted before continuing, “She will ALSO be enforcing a strict dress code for all over times… you will not be dressed as slops or in other unflattering ways. Are you understanding these directives?”
Joan and Carla silently nodded.
“Finally, Mr Thrust will be your songwriter and composer. I will be instructing him in the style I believe you are best suited to perform in. You will not be required to play any instruments. You will perform using pre-recorded music.” Piper then opened her leather portfolio and pulled out several stapled together sheets of paper, and proceeded to hand a copy to each of them. “These are the rules and codes of conduct, along with weekly schedule, dress code, exercise plan, and meal plan. Read and memorize. Any questions?”
“I… um…” Joan started to stammer out.
“Good.” Piper cut her off. “Up… up, no time like the present to start.”
“Start?” Carla asked as she hesitantly rose to her feet.
“I need to hear your voices. So you will in turn sing a scale for me. Up and down.” Piper informed the pair, and then pointing to Carla. “You first.”
“Um…” Carla hesitant. “I haven’t… for some time…”
“It matters not. This is a test to sample your abilities. Once I have assessed you, I will work out a training plan. Now. Scale.”
Carla clears her throat and then in almost perfect pitch…
“Doh-Re-Mi-Fa-Sol-La-Ti-High Doh”
“Reverse.”
“High Doh-Ti-La-Sol-Fa-Mi-Re-Doh”
“Impressive, you still need work, but nothing constant practice will not fix.” Piper nodded. “We will also need to work on your projection and breathing. Very good.”
Piper fixed her gaze on Joan who rubbed the back of her neck, that instantly reminded Pyrrha of her missing leader Jaune.
“I’m waiting.” Piper spoke flatly.
“I can’t.” Joan replied.
“I don't care. Try. I need to assess your voice.”
Joan also cleared her throat, her voice cracking instantly and causing everyone to wince.
““Doh-Re-Mi-”
“Enough” Piper frowned. “You are atrocious, but not completely. You will need extensive and intensive training.”
Joan looked utterly dejected, and Carla despite her normal attitude felt a little bad about Joan’s situation. Vocal training was rough, and Joan was going to suffer.
“Professor, I am finished.” Piper turned her head to look at Glynda. “I will be granted access to these quarters, and I need a sound proofed room, with a sound system, floor to ceiling wall mirrors, and barre. Is this doable, or do I need to arrange for facilities in Vale?”
“We have such a room. I will have maintenance refurbish and clean it.” Glynda replied.
“How long?” 
“A day. It is being currently being used for storage.”
“I also need three basic chairs, wood or plastic, and a mini-fridge stocked with water and sports drinks.”
“No issue.”
“Very well. I am finished here.” Piper let her eye linger on the pair. “I have to return to Vale, but I will be back tomorrow. Be well rested. It will be a long day. Ms Nikos.”
“Yes?”
“Adjust their schedule. They need to work off this garbage.” PIper indicated the collected take-out boxes, “Early morning runs, until I tell you differently. Is that doable? Does it fit with in your class schedule?”
“Yes, I can make it work. I normally take an early morning run, so it will be no issue to pick them up to join me.”
“Good. Get some rest, ladies. You WILL need to be well rested for tomorrow.”
Carla and Joan shivered as Piper, Pyrrha, Coco, Russel and Goodwitch exited the room, leaving the dejected and worried pair alone. Joan’s shoulders slumped as she without a word vanished into her room.
“This is bullshit.” Carla snorted as she as well headed into her room.
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venervea · 4 months
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Thunderhead 
Thunderhead are amorphous cloud-based beings with no typical shape. They can adopt a humanoid form, which many choose to do in the presence of other humanoids, but there's little chance of mistaking a thunderhead as anything else besides possibly an air genasi. 
They consume calories through osmosis, and can excrete in both liquid and gaseous forms.
Thunderhead are able to breathe through any part of their body. They do require oxygen, and will take one level of exhaustion for every hour they do not have access to breathable oxygen. 
Thunderhead don’t have organs of the usual sort. Their bodies are composed of densely magical nuclei that continuously cool the water from surrounding air. This is easier in colder climates, and this process requires caloric intake to counter all the energy that it takes. 
The nervous system of a Thunderhead is made of gaseous ganglia, which enable them to detect heat, sound, light, texture, pain, and vibrations. They speak with a constructed flute-like cavity and produce sound by forcing air through it. This causes many Thunderhead to have flitting or musical voices.
A thunderhead has no rigid ‘skin’ or shape, but with practice, they can create a mimicry of humanoid traits, including ears, horns, fingernails, wings, and hair. When relaxed, many will allow some features to fade and wisp around. The first features to relax are usually the hair, face, and hands, which Thunderhead report to be the hardest parts to mimic.
When a Thunderheads mass encounters material, it has four ways of reacting. 
Solid material, eg, an apple or an amethyst, will likely pass through a Thunderhead if you were to chuck it at them. However, the caloric benefit of the apple could be an appealing deal, so they might choose to ingest it and break the matter apart internally. (This process can be made to look like holding it and taking a bite out of the apple with teeth as easy as it can look like pushing it directly into their shape, but if it was being thrown through the Thunderhead, they would have to “catch” it internally before getting the chance to absorb any nutrients.) An amethyst would be more difficult to digest, so the caloric payout is usually not worth it when you can just sell the amethyst, but some Thunderhead may continuously consume amethysts to keep some of the lovely purple hue in their mass.
Liquid material, eg, rain or bleach. The molecular density is not as thick as solid matter, but will likely still pass through if being dripped over the Thunderhead. It would be harmless for a Thunderhead to consume rain or other water, (though salt water would make them feel ill from the sodium) and contaminated water will even be purified after being consumed by a Thunderhead. There is a market for Thunderhead water. If a Thunderhead consumed bleach, it would likely prove fatal, as the chemicals would eat through the magical nuclei and destroy them. This has not been proven, because no Thunderhead would try it.
Gaseous material, eg, oxygen, smoke, or mustard gas. Thunderhead are able to survive in very thin air, with their cloud bodies changing based on the altitude. Oxygen is instrumental to a Thunderheads long term survival and keeping their mass. Air-borne pollutants will usually change a Thunderheads color involuntarily, and can impose a dampening effect on their health and even their mood. An air-borne toxin like mustard gas would corrupt and cause cell-death to the Thunderhead, making toxicity in the air the most life threatening thing for them.
Energy material, eg, flame, lightning, or radioactive materials. Fire causes painful evaporation of mass. Lightning polarises the positive and negative electrons in the Thunderhead, which does still hurt, but can be stored and converted to electric discharge in some cases. Radioactive materials warps and mutates the cells of a Thunderhead as much as it would a carbon-based life form.
They do not need to sleep, but a long rest allows them time to recharge and reshape magical energy and physical properties. When practised regularly, many Thunderhead allow themselves an elf-like trance that allows for dreaming. If not practised regularly, the chance of sleep movement is more likely to occur, which typically involves floating to a nearby cloud and spreading the ganglia to the mass of the joined cloud, which is not so easy to remove once done and is disastrous to Thunderhead who have work in the morning.
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I want to share a cute Idea: Feedism ASMR mukbang/cooking YouTube channel run by two mutually gaining partners/spouses/datemates.
And I don't mean obscenely kinky, no, but certainly enough that if you're aware of feedism, you know these people are into it, but if feedism is a new topic to you, you'd likely not be aware for a bit that these people are getting fat on purpose. In fact, the rough calorie count for each dish would be listed in the description of each corresponding video.
Schedule would be daily, with each day different. Each video would start off with each person's chosen stage name displayed on top of them for long enough for people to read while one person, whoever it is varies, preps the kitchen, the other quietly watching TV, ironing clothes, or something else mundane. Then it would show one of the two cooking the meal, the only sounds being the sounds of food preparation, while occasionally panning up a bit to show the faces of the two partners as one comes up to the other and whispers just loud enough for the other's mic to hear about how the one cooking is spoiling them/doing a grand job/how much they love t the one cooking/and so forth while the one cooking murmurs a whispered response, a smile on both faces; sometimes, this is even punctuated by from behind hugs, love handle grabs, belly rubs, and/or kisses. Then it shows the one who didn't cook setting the table, then the two eating the food politely, though the mics do pick up on the crunching and other ASMR worthy eating sounds, nothing slob worthy, though, all while the two eat cleanly; if one gets food smeared around their mouth, the other would kiss it off. Ends with the one who didn't cook quietly thanking the other for cooking, sometimes with a kiss or urging the other to join them elsewhere for cuddles, belly rubs, and the such, then cuts to an ending card backed by some soft music, like something Vaporwave or Frutiger Aero, with links to the previous two vids and a message about how the recipe is in the description. Notes about substitutions due to dietary restrictions/food preferences are brought up in the form of text during meal prep or when servings are dished out, something like "[person/I] doesn't/don't like/can't eat [food] because [reason], so [other food] is used instead", and are also mentioned in the description. If a snack is made, it is served more informally, like on the couch, in bed, leaned over the kitch counter, and so forth.
Monday through Wednesday would be regular recording days, where a random meal, sometimes even a snack or dessert is made, and it's anything from typical meal dishes, to obscenely caloric monstrosities like deep fried brie with caramelized onions in the center or turning a meatloaf into a single sandwich where the bread is instead meatloaf. Thursday is when they do a recipe from a show/game/movie they like, with ending music being a fitting track from that same game/show/movie, and Friday is a day when drinks, not always alcoholic, but those are filmed at night, are made.
Saturday is a mega upload, where the whole day's meals, including desserts and snacks in between, are recorded. Sometimes this involves each other swapping who cooks what, sometimes they help out each other with every meal, or it's one person for the whole thing. Then after every meal/dish/drink is made, it shows them cuddling or otherwise being affectionate as they eat, sometimes going so far as to feed the other, punctuated with belly rubs and gentle praise. Then ends with the two on the couch cuddling till one falls asleep, on the floor gaming together with the volume on not quite mute, or even just doing some post meal cleanup; this happens between each dish, too, before fading out at the end to the aforementioned end card. These videos end up so long, but are great for those who like to binge food ASMR vids.
Sunday is the day when something light is made. Dishes ranging from a simple wedge salad, to s'mores in the fireplace, to eggs Benedict, to even homemade Chex mix being possible. The dish has to be light and reasonable, nothing like deep fried mac and cheese that got bacon wrapped and deep fried again, or a pizza with deep fried cheese as the crust. These are shorter videos, great for those who don't want the usual long content or Saturday vids.
Holidays, assuming the two partake in any are handled where the Saturday before is themed entirely around the holiday, with festive meals and drinks, ending with a festive end card with thematic music. Then the week of the holiday is taken off so there's time to celebrate.
But what if they want to take time off from recording? A simple community post about wanting to take a break for a certain day/stretch of time is sent out, with a brief explanation as to why, something like "[I/my partner/we] wanted to take a break/aren't/didn't feeling too hot right now/had an unexpected family event/wanted some vacation time."
And as the series continues, the two steadily get fatter. Waddles are cultivated, growing love handles get grabbed delicately from behind, belly rubs to aid in digestion, and bigger portions on all days aside from Sunday. Things like "you're getting fat/fatter, my love," "you spoil me sometimes," "that apron looks snug on you," "I'm getting fat/fatter because of you," and "I love my marshmallowy glutton" are spoken quietly with such adoration and affection, punctuated by belly rubs, love handle grabs, and other tender, loving ways to wordlessly bring attention to one's ballooning waistline.
Sometimes special mukbang only videos are made. They're recorded at night, and are themed around getting rid of leftovers, where one person sits in a chair, the other then straddles them, if it's still possible, and delicately hand feeds them the leftovers from that week. Soft eating sounds are punctuated by whispered words of praise, kisses, and belly rubs. Then they swap and the one getting fed becomes the one who feeds, and lovingly stuffs the other with the leftovers. These would end with some simple night sounds, like street ambiance or forest sounds like crickets and owls, and links to the videos that the food featured in the vid was originally cooked for.
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autistic-af · 2 years
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damn. we had a cat, our previous one, he was a real foodie...he absolutely loved food. he'd jump onto the counter if you werent quick enough with giving him food. it was really sad, because he was a real foodie, but he then was diagnosed with some type of cancer, i cannot recall what, but he then began to not really care and started to waste away. it was really sad and extremely difficult to witness. seeing him all weak and not eating, just sleeping, being so tiny...we obviously let him go, i just needed some extra days, which i now realise was very selfish done of me. and i do regret it.
I'm so sorry you lost your friend that way. 💔💔😢
I feel freaking horrible that my cats got fat. I misunderstood the dietary guidelines and vet had to explain that it was 85g per day, not per meal for a cat Tic-Tac's size. Luna gets slightly less. Cats are a special interest of mine and I missed this.
Hubby and I both have hardlined this. Hard food has been tossed, and treats are literally only for training sessions (which I've postponed until they're used to no long getting extra food). I honestly thought I was following the guidelines. The vet also explained how much caloric intake hard food is for a cat.
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hopeinanorexia · 7 months
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PROJECT CLEAR:
#Project-Clear
Some accountability. I have to hit reset. Sorry to disappoint. Tomorrow is a new day so I will try again. I restarted my day, minute, hour, and second counter. The app is originally intended for people with addicts to know their sober time. I think eating is an addiction so using it for my eating addiction. I named the counter for my food addiction, "Project Clear", because I feel clear minded when I am starving. Wish me luck! I am going to do it this time and not break; I can feel it. I can't make any guarantees though but I am feeling confident. I feel so much shame for eating. It all starts with one bite. Then you end up taking another and the downward spiral begins. Some people can eat some low caloric food but I need a strict water fasting method. No food at all or I will falter. I will post updates no matter what. Sorry I wasn't posting regularly. Please leave a message of encouragement for me if you want. It will be appreciated.
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