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syneilesis · 1 year

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[fic+art] From Her Mouth of Strawberry

From Her Mouth of Strawberry

Ikemen Vampire | Vlad x Main Character/Reader | M | 2.7k words

ao3 link

So this is what everlasting love feels like.

An epilogue of Vlad’s Romantic Ending route. With art.

A/N: OH MY GOD I MADE IT. SOMEWHAT. HAPPY NEW YEAR. I post this as Lady Gaga plays in my neighbor's house. I wanted to finish and post this before I get Jossed in a couple of hours. Vlad's sequel is coming! So early, wow! Forgive the quality of writing in this one; I wrote parts of it with a clear mind, I wrote most of it dizzy and sleepy and trying to concentrate while my neighbors sing merrily in their karaoke (70s-80s songs is 👌, I approve). Title and the quoted verses are from Charles Baudelaire's Les Métamorphoses du vampire. Very apt, very apt.

I also have art for it! Which I'll include in a reblog, so as not to disrupt the flow of reading.

Tagging and shoutout to @akintosalt and @evil-quartett, who have witnessed my descent to madness finishing this fic and whom I have greeted as 2023 sauntered here with pomp and swag. This is for you guys! 💖

On the first morning of eternity Vlad is next to your side on the bed, elbow folded against the mattress, his upper body and head lifted to watch you slowly part your eyelids. The sun shimmers through the tall windows of his room, casting a long thick line across the carpeted floor, like golden lava that would sink you if you dip your feet in. The diffuse glow of the natural light hits Vlad’s skin and hair, his eyes shining like revelation.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

Something in your heart blooms, warm and soft under his radiance. There’s a little ache in there, too, a light squeeze that’s almost exquisite in its significance.

His other hand leaves its place and migrates to your face, knuckles ghosting along the corner of your eye down to your cheek then to the corner of your lips, and you tilt slightly to place a kiss there. Vlad smiles, and he leans down to press his own lips to yours. He opens his mouth and you taste strawberries.

When you separate, you smile back at him and say, “Good morning, Vlad.”

Outside, birds twitter among the freshly blossomed garden flowers, and Paris wakes languidly into the arrival of spring.

The days following your transformation march on like a steady drumbeat, rhythm never ruined. It’s as if nothing momentous happened; the world feels the same, still is the same, but Vlad knows that everything has changed. It’s in the way he views the world now. Before, it treads on the path leading to destruction; but next to you, the world seems to radiate renewal. The lens with which he sees things shifted, allowing diffraction, the direction of his ambition spreading into a dream, encompassing every scope, every shape, every color.

Before, Vlad was a god carrying the fate of the world on his lonely shoulders. Now, he has descended from the heavens to walk among humans.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit weird—I can feel the sharpness of my incisors against my tongue—but not bad weird.”

“Ah. If you encounter any problems, don’t hesitate to tell me.”

“Of course.” A pause. “Hey, Vlad?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad—I’m glad that we found each other this time.”

An exhale of a laugh. “I’m glad, too. Didn’t we promise each other? I’ll find you wherever you are, whatever it takes.”

Years—decades, centuries—flickered by like a rapid flipping of pages. Empires rise and fall, and Vlad observed the milestones of mankind with the benevolent glint of a ruler surveying his kingdom. He’d been to plenty of places, all in search of the girl who saved him. He’d looked for her under the rust-colored roofs of Firenze, amidst the resplendent natural beauty of Zhongguo, against the tropical heat of Las islas Felipinas, and dozens more—the beat of the heart seeking for an echo, the one with the warmth of embrace and the mellisonant voice that dripped with pure light.

He recalled: they never did finish that conversation, did they. The one where she was about to part something. Sometimes, as he lay down on his bed, before he drifted off to sleep, Vlad wondered what she’d say. It must’ve been important, because her face was pulled taut, almost crumpled into tears, like she couldn’t wait for the words to cascade out of her mouth. That was probably his only regret. When he returned to the mansion, drenched in snow and blood, she was already gone, a wraith whisked off by the biting wind.

Would he find out what she’s supposed to say? Would he ever in his lifetime?

The question of thirst emerges right after. You know, based on your experiences with the residents in the mansion, that vampires can curb their bloodlust by drinking Blanc. Perfectly safe, perfectly moral. Food is an indulgence they all partake in, as evidenced by Vlad’s childlike preference for strawberries.

Charles offers to supply you Blanc, but you decline, insisting that you can provide on your own. It’s one thing to live forever; it’s another to be self-sufficient about it. Even if your life has upended and evolved, the same principles apply when trying not to be burdensome about it.

But it’s strange and baffling, this constant thirst. The others appear to be unsaddled by this dryness in the throat—or at least unbothered by it. This intensifies whenever Vlad is around, the itch clawing inside until it climbs to the roof of your mouth, and it all feels like sand, coarse and insidious, with parched tongue.

Of course, one look from Vlad and he understands.

“Drink from me,” he says later that night, when you’re seated side by side and only the moonlight reveals the expressions you have for each other. He takes your hand and nuzzles the inside of your wrist, eyes closed as if savoring the sensation of warmth. In bliss, reverential; his warm puffs of breath against your pulse sending heat all over your body.

He slants another gaze at you, this time beckoning, and you’re entranced by the hooded slits of red—passion, passion, burning passion in his blood-red eyes.

A tongue darts out. Licks the skin where your pulse is leaping against the wet, hot pressure. Vlad shuts his eyes and moans, ragged and so full of want that a shaky sigh escapes from you.

“Drink from me,” he murmurs again, the words pressed into your palm, and you can feel his lips shape the words against your skin. It tickles you, and you try to jerk your hand away but his grip on you is tight, intent on never letting go. “Love is tied to bloodlust,” he continues. “You desire my blood because you love me. I desire your blood because I love you. So drink from me, and I will drink from you.”

He unbuttons his shirt and exposes a shoulder. A portion of his scar peeks around the fabric. Softly, tenderly, he guides your head to his neck, and your lips meet his skin, clean but with a trace of sweetness, petals. The hand on your wrist remains, rubbing your pulse with his thumb.

“Go on,” he says, voice thick and encouraging. Even in love and lust Vlad is always the one who gives first.

“But,” you answer, your words muffled and hot; Vlad tilts his head back to provide more access. “Won’t this hurt you?”

“At first, yes. But I promise it will feel good for me and for you. Go on, take what you need.”

The sensation of fangs piercing flesh feels weird, but when Vlad’s blood bursts through and you finally get a taste of it, it’s a whole new thing altogether. Vlad gasps, a full-body shudder tremoring through him, his free hand grabbing your hips and tugging closer. You follow until you’re both pressed together, with nary a space in between. He reclines on the bed until you’re on top of him, still sucking at his neck for blood, the only sound in the room apart from his harsh breathing.

When your tongue swipes at the wounds Vlad groans, bringing both his hands on your hips and grinding. You both gasp at the hot pleasure.

“When she had drained the marrow out of all my bones, / When I turned listlessly amid my languid moans, / To give a kiss of love—” Vlad recites, almost like a mantra, almost like a prayer, his voice catching and clicking in the throes of ecstasy.

Vlad finds your eyes, hazy but lucid enough to ask, “Have you drunk enough?” A thumb caresses your lips and it glides easily because of the blood. Vlad inspects his thumb between you, fascinated before he brings it to his own lips, tastes his own blood. The sight of it makes you swallow, and the ache within you just grows and grows until it erupts and the words spill out of your lips like molten desire.

“No, I don’t think it will ever be enough, but that’s all right. What I want now—what I want—” You close your eyes and exhale a shuttered breath. When you look at Vlad again—his splayed hair like silver halo, his half-mast eyes drunk in pleasure, his parted lips stained with his own blood—all you see is a godling who deserves to be loved and worshiped like this. “What I want is to give you everything, so it’s your turn to drink from me.”

And like a giant wave he surges to crash against your lips, devouring your entire being. You welcome it, welcome him, your own hands unbuttoning the rest of his shirt then sliding inside to feel his skin, the hard planes of his muscles, the scar over his heart.

In this night of whispered sighs and ghostly touches, your heartbeats are in sync, and Vlad’s eyes glisten with pure want. Nothing else matters except the desire of flesh, your blood beating in want of him, and time dilutes and the world vanishes until only you and he remain.

The funny thing about memory was: accuracy wasn’t the point.

The expectant stare of the painter tilted sideways as Vlad stuttered into a halt, dreadful realization that he could no longer remember the face of his beloved savior. Sure he remembered the shade of her hair, waterfall brown that curled playfully midway. He remembered her pristine shirt, the color of snow before spilt blood—the color of her skirt. He remembered the shade of her skin illuminated by candlelight. But when it came to the most important thing of all: featureless light, uncrisp and blotchy.

It was funny because the way he felt about her was a solid, crisp thing, as palpable as the objects he could touch. The ember-warm ink-bloom that suffused his blood when she held him was indelible in his heart and memories; he could still remember the staccato rhythm of her heartbeat against his ear. Seedling-hope and ironclad belief tied together in her name. He’d find her, one day, even after the world ended, because he believed.

He remembered the sound of her breath before she opened the wardrobe that hid him from the world.

He remembered the buried sorrow between her words, threatening to claw out.

He remembered her hands, soft and delicate and yearning, and he ached to love.

He remembered her sweet scent—

He remembered her—

He remembered—

It’s been weeks since you’ve been cooped up in Vlad’s castle, adjusting to your new, eternal body and its needs, and now it seems to be the right time to venture out again.

So you visit the mansion.

The astonished faces of the residents when they see you are a sight to behold, and they pile on you like you’re their long-lost youngest sibling suddenly returned home.

Le Comte has to threaten Arthur and Dazai a spanking to pry them away from you. Sebastian declares a dinner party is in order, and it feels like the old days again, before Vlad came into your life and held your heart with snow-coated fingers.

Sebastian refuses your help to wash the dishes when you offered, arguing that the dinner was held in your honor and it’s silly to have you clean up after. Which is why you find yourself in front of the door that started everything.

Eventually Napoleon joins you in reminiscence.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, eyes not leaving the door.

But you turn to him, smiling when he meets your gaze, and say, “There’s no regret when it’s the destiny we chose, you know?”

Napoleon returns your smile, relief gracing his features. He ruffles your hair, the consummate big brother looking out for his siblings. “I’m glad.” He pauses, then adds: “Are you happy?”

That question bears no hesitation. “Yes,” you answer. “I’m very happy.”

Eternity is desire and ache and sorrow and loneliness—

He sinks his fangs into her flesh.

—and now it, too, is happiness.

One day, out of the blue, Vlad declares, “Let’s see the world.”

After consoling Charles and procuring assurances from Faust that he refrain from any funny stuff that Vlad elaborates:

“All the travels I’ve done in the past were always about searching for you. Now that we have found each other, I want to travel again—with you this time.”

And what can you say other than yes?

Decades pass in a snap of fingers, and Vlad’s enjoyed every second of it.

The world has become more precious: empires rose and fell, peace sustains its lilting melody, Vlad’s dream burns steady as life. Seeing the world tastes rich this time, a surprising burst of flavorful experiences—the sweetness of your smile against the backdrop of canola flowers in Jeju Island, the spicy car chase along Berliner Ring after getting accidentally involved in a casino heist, the tangy sunset after hours of café hopping in Vienna, the honeyed secrets exchanged under the bougainvillea-covered balconies in Cartagena.

Next to you the world teems with hope and faith, and Vlad tastes, this time, a robust future.

“Here.” You hand him a cone of ice cream that you bought from a street vendor across the pathway. The one you gave him has the color of flushed pink—strawberry—and yours is bright yellow—cheese. “Tell me what you think.”

There’s a bench a little far off to where you’re going. Vlad studies the ice cream carefully as he sits down, then he takes a lick. It’s light and sweet, a welcome chill on the tongue. The May heat melts it faster, and the ice cream drips down the cone, makes a small puddle in the fold of his index finger.

“This is delicious,” he says, and squints at your own cone. Cheese as an ice cream flavor is odd to him, but you seem to enjoy it. He swaps his hold of the ice cream and offers it to you with his right hand, his left raised to his lips, tongue darting out to lick away the melted cream. “Do you want to try mine?”

“Sure.” You lean towards his proffered hand and try the strawberry. In this close proximity, Vlad can smell your dulcified scent. A pleased hum escapes your throat. “This is good too!”

A first experience for Vlad: eating ice cream together with you as people relish their summer vacation, skipping with buoyant, dancer-steps, their laughter tickling his ears. Teenage girls steal glances in his direction, furtive giggling tucked behind coy hands. Vlad, indulgent, smiles at them, they laugh openly. You look on with amused affection in your eyes, ice cream gone, consumed.

“The last time I went here,” Vlad says, struck with a memory, “ice cream wasn’t introduced yet.”

“Oh? That’s a long time, then.”

“Almost three centuries since I’ve visited. Some buildings I recognize, but plenty have changed.”

It’s been a long time, indeed, but for Vlad, the passage of time runs differently from that of human perception. A blink, a sleep, a long pensive silence. Memories blur, betwixt one point and another. Just like his memories of your face, a gradual erosion attributed to absence and distance; but now, in this moment, Vlad knows that he will no longer forget.

A kilometer from where they sit, the sea murmurs, tranquil, and the people near it attempt to dip their toes into the water before it gets agitated. A month from now, typhoons will come, and the sea will rise and strike and beat the land with its ferocious waves. Vlad finishes his ice cream, the sweetness of strawberry and sugar cone lingering on his tongue.

“There’s a place here that I wanted to go to, but couldn’t the last time I came,” he says.

A beautiful smile blossoms on your lips. “Then let’s go there this time.”

He returns the smile with his own. “Yes, let’s.”

Another first experience: the heels of his shoes clacking against the stone pavement as children run and play tag, circling you and Vlad once, their chatter trailing in the air. His hand finds yours and entwines its fingers with your own, warm and comforting and real. It will continue in the years, decades, centuries—this solid and crisp warmth, this ink-bloom in his veins, your clear, unveiled face.

His dream of peace, of the world eternal, warless and free of destruction, held safe in your hands, beating on.

So this is what everlasting love feels like.

#fic #my fic #Ikemen Vampire #Vlad x Main Character #Vlad x Reader #ikemen vampire vlad #ikemen vampire vlad x mc #ikemen vampire vlad x reader #ikevamp vlad #ikevamp fic #the ice cream they're eating is sorbetes #sorbetes supremacy #cheese sorbetes supremacy

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adambstingus · 6 years

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IPAs for people who think they hate hoppy, bitter beers

(Courtesy of Otter Creek Brewing)

(Courtesy of Sixpoint Brewery)

(Courtesy of Founders Brewing)

(Courtesy of 21st Amendment Brewery)

(Courtesy of Dogfish Head Brewery)

Previous Next

Everyone loves IPAs, right? That was my theory when I started writing Complete IPA, my deep dive into the recent phenomenon thats seen IPAs take over tap lines from L.A. to Tokyo, Rio to Berlin and beer-soaked lands in between. But as I, uh, endlessly researched (hey, that double IPA aint going to drink itself), I discovered both bitter revelation and opposition: I dont like IPAs, I heard time and again.

Anchovies? Blue cheese? I get the intense dislike. Whats not to love about fragrant IPAs? Theyre flavor chameleons, tasting like rainbow sorbet or evoking pine forests, sipping as smooth as gelato or spiky with bitterness. Theyre blank slates for breweries experimental whims.

The IPA is not one thing, its everything, with flavor combinations as infinite and inventive as Ben and Jerrys ice cream. Ive heard the complaints, the bitterness and booziness, staleness and uncertainty. Whatever your beef with IPAs, I guarantee Ive got one youll actually like.

Problem: You dont like bitter beers

Fix: Try the new-breed Northeast-style IPAs.

During the IPAs early millennium ascent, brewers escalated bitterness, constantly one-upping each other with beers so bitter you could barely finish a bottle. It was like sports bars serving ever-fierier chicken wings.

The newest member of the Alchemist Family! Cookie. pic.twitter.com/Y4nVcjhOUX

John Kimmich (@alchemistbeer) May 24, 2015

That fads phasing out. By using hops (especially varieties evocative of things like tropical fruit and ripe peaches) later in the brewing process, beer makers intensify fragrances and aromas, not bitterness. Keep the beer unfiltered for a foggier color and fuller flavor, maybe add oats and wheat for smoothness, and you have a template for the juicy new-school IPA thats sweeping the Northeast and the nation.

If youve had the Alchemists silky-smooth Heady Topper or any IPA from Hill Farmstead, youll like the dankly addictive Substance from Maines Bissell Brothers, or maybe Trilliums Congress Street IPA. Think: biscuits, sun-warmed peaches, sweet melons.

Many Northeast IPAs are hard-to-get, requiring a road trip. (Try this Vermont trek.) More widely distributed examples include Otter Creek Backseat Berner, a sweetly hazy stumble through pine forests and citrus groves, and Sixpoint Puff, as cloudy and resinous as a dorm room.

Moreover, the Northeast style has spread nationwide, with Colorado-based Odd13s Caribbean-fruity Codename: Superfan and Portland brewery Great Notion doling out hazy, hardly bitter hop bombs like Ripe and Juice Box.

Problem: IPAs all taste the same.

Fix: Seek out a new hop variety.

Pine trees. Citrus. Primo weed. Taste too many IPAs and they blur together like lunch at a cut-rate Chinese buffet. To escape the flavor fatigue, grab a pale ale or IPA humming with fresh varieties of hops, the flowers that impart bitterness, aroma, and flavor. Here are some hops to look out for:

Founders Mosaic Promise and Karl Strauss Mosaic Session IPA both showcase (you guessed it) Mosaic hops, which impart notes of blueberries, papaya, peaches, and pine.

IPAs for People Who *Think* They Hate Them: https://t.co/lasZsIfw5F from @JoshMBernstein & @bonappetit pic.twitter.com/QSGXitOkSr

Founders Brewing Co. (@foundersbrewing) August 31, 2016

Germanys Mandarina Bavaria hop adds orangey complexity to beers such as Skas Modus Mandarina IPA (it also contains sweet orange peels).

Like watermelon Jolly Ranchers? Youll love El Dorado hops, which star in Maine Beer Companys A Tiny Beautiful Something and Stone Delicious IPA, a gluten-reduced beer also containing the citrusy Lemondrop hops.

New Zealands fruity Nelson Sauvin hops provide a white winelike nuance in Widmer Brothers Upheaval IPA and SanTan Brewings MoonJuice, which also contains Australias peachy, melon-like Galaxy hops. Give it a go in Tasmanian IPA, from Schlafly, or Tallgrass 8-Bit Pale Ale.

Always want to be surprised by an IPA? Firestone Walkers canned and bottled Luponic Distortion features a new blend of experimental hops every 90 days.

Problem: IPAs are too strong.

Fix: Grab a session IPAor six.

Over the years, the IPAs baseline ABV has crept up to around 7 percent. Two or three pints can swirl eyes like peppermint candy. Thats to say nothing of the double, triple, and quadruple IPAs, rivaling Riesling and Cabernet for ABV supremacy.

Instead of sacrificing sobriety for flavor, breweries have created low-alcohol, high-aroma IPAs that are about as boozy as Bud Lightbut about a million times more flavorful. Try Evil Twin Citra Sunshine Slacker, as bright and tropical as a Caribbean vacation; 21st Amendment Down to Earth, reminiscent of toast topped with berry jam; or a Founders citrus-spritzed All Day IPA, a party beer sold by the 15-pack suitcase.

Problem: IPAs never, ever taste fresh.

Fix: Check for the bottled- or canned-on date, or hit a brewery for a release.

To savor an IPA as the brewer intended, you should drink them close to their birthday.

Deciphering freshness used to be difficult, the date code a hieroglyphic string of numbers and letters. Increasingly, breweries utilize a simplified best by or packaged on code, commonly found on a beer bottles neck or label, or a cans bottom. Generally speaking, IPAs are ideally enjoyed within 90 days. And seek out beers stored cold, far from sunshine.

Instead of stalking a delivery truck, you can also look for Stones Enjoy By series of IPAs. Their expiration dates37 days after packagingare built directly into the label, while Sam Adams similarly themed Rebel Raw double IPA has a 35-day shelf life.

Problem: You dont know what an IPA tastes like

Fix: Try a fruited IPA.

Buying IPAs has never been easieror more mystifying. But labels dont always accurately describe the liquid inside, sometimes leading to disappointment. To hedge your bets, look to the new breed of fruit-infused IPAs. Done deftly, adding blood oranges, grapefruit, or pineapple can accentuate the inherent fruity profile of hops. Fruited IPAs are never subtle, sure, but they are truth in advertising, a trusted commodity.

Try Dogfish Heads brand-new Flesh & Blood, tart and zesty with lemon pulp and blood orange juice, and New Belgiums Citradelica sweetly tropical love letter to tangerines. Also, Ballast Point has spun off several variants of its tropical Sculpin, including pineapple and grapefruit versions that taste like never-ending summer vacation.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/ipas-for-people-who-think-they-hate-hoppy-bitter-beers/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/176711439537

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allofbeercom · 6 years

Text

IPAs for people who think they hate hoppy, bitter beers

(Courtesy of Otter Creek Brewing)

(Courtesy of Sixpoint Brewery)

(Courtesy of Founders Brewing)

(Courtesy of 21st Amendment Brewery)

(Courtesy of Dogfish Head Brewery)

Previous Next

Problem: You dont like bitter beers

Fix: Try the new-breed Northeast-style IPAs.

The newest member of the Alchemist Family! Cookie. pic.twitter.com/Y4nVcjhOUX

John Kimmich (@alchemistbeer) May 24, 2015

Problem: IPAs all taste the same.

Fix: Seek out a new hop variety.

Founders Mosaic Promise and Karl Strauss Mosaic Session IPA both showcase (you guessed it) Mosaic hops, which impart notes of blueberries, papaya, peaches, and pine.

IPAs for People Who *Think* They Hate Them: https://t.co/lasZsIfw5F from @JoshMBernstein & @bonappetit pic.twitter.com/QSGXitOkSr

Founders Brewing Co. (@foundersbrewing) August 31, 2016

Germanys Mandarina Bavaria hop adds orangey complexity to beers such as Skas Modus Mandarina IPA (it also contains sweet orange peels).

Always want to be surprised by an IPA? Firestone Walkers canned and bottled Luponic Distortion features a new blend of experimental hops every 90 days.

Problem: IPAs are too strong.

Fix: Grab a session IPAor six.

Problem: IPAs never, ever taste fresh.

Fix: Check for the bottled- or canned-on date, or hit a brewery for a release.

To savor an IPA as the brewer intended, you should drink them close to their birthday.

Problem: You dont know what an IPA tastes like

Fix: Try a fruited IPA.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/ipas-for-people-who-think-they-hate-hoppy-bitter-beers/

0 notes