#that's MY particular shade of light greenish-blue

[coffe-book-club]

˚₊‧꒰ა sweet like a pain au chocolat ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

info: sweet boyfriend tom kaulitz x girlfriend fem! reader

disclaimers: none in particular. just a lot of fluff, sweet things and a little bit of smut.

she sleeps on top of him, the late october sun shining through the shutters of his room.

his mother is preparing dinner in the kitchen downstairs and he's simply lying on his comfy and cozy bed. enjoying the sun, enjoying the warmth of her body, basking in the glow of happiness that only first love can bring.

his soft hands gently caress her long wavy hair, slowly running his fingers through those soft curls. her warm breath lightly tickles tom's toned chest, his lips are slightly parted and a light snore escapes the girl's soft lips. his hands are rubbing circles in the small of her back while she continues to lay on his chest. he try and stay still, not wanting to wake her. but her warmth, the smell of her hair, the sound of her breathing as she sleeps is driving him nuts. he's lean down and kiss her forehead and then, not knowing or caring if it wakes her, he kiss her mouth.

their soft lips touch gently, a small smile forms on the girl's lips but she doesn't wake up. in fact, he snuggles closer to tom's bare chest, slowly caressing the right side of his neck with his fingertips. tom close his eyes and exhale, taking in her sweet scent. her head lays on his chest and tom wrap his body around her as he pull her closer to him and let the sun's rays warm they both. his soft hands continue to gently scratch circles into her back and he let out a soft and slightly tired sigh as the moment is so calm and peaceful. the gentle light of the mid-october sun shines lightly on their naked skin. the shadows of the two sweet boyfriends dance gently on the greenish wall of tom's bedroom. that sweet smile does not disappear from the girl's soft lips, but persists. abandoning herself to the sweet and slow caresses that her boyfriend reserves for her.

the girl's right hand slowly lowers, caressing tom's shoulder and collarbone with the tips of her fingertips. lowering himself further and further, until she gently touches his small pink left nipple. “uhm...” the girl's nails, painted a pale blue. they slowly tickle tom's pale skin, sending a long, sweet shiver down his spine and lower stomach.

tom start to kiss her neck as the sun's rays slowly transition into the shade of dusk, her hair falling freely around her face and her body still tightly pressed against his. the sound of her breath tickles his ears. he let a gentle moan escape as he feel her nail's caress across my pale skin.

the girl's eyes open slowly, and then close again to try to get used to the light of the sun again. a sweet moan leaves the soft and juicy lips of the sweet girl, lying next to tom, with her small body and still completely naked. tom's soft lips leave sweet wet kisses on her thin neck. the smile does not leave his lips and the memory of what happened between the two sweet lovers. resurfaces in the girl's mind, causing countless shivers of pleasure down her back and lower abdomen. he hold onto her as i look up at the sunlight beaming through my blinds.

he lean back against the headboard and caress her hair with his left hand, running his fingers through her curls and kissing the back of her neck on occasion. this warm saturday afternoon just might be one of the best days of his life, if not the best. he whisper, “i love you, y/n” before kissing her neck again.

the sweet girl's heart slowly melts at tom's words. like a knob of butter, on a mountain of soft, hot pancakes. wrapping both of his arms around tom's shoulders, lightly stroking his long dreadlocks. - “i love you too, my beloved tom” she lets herself be kissed, sweetly and slowly. letting herself heal all her internal wounds by his loving kisses. he moves his face slightly, to be able to kiss tom's soft cheek. they lightly touch the tip of his nose, then rub it lovingly. he shift slightly, leaning my body into hers. he can hear her slight snoring but he love hearing it. tom feel his chest vibrate with her heartbeat and it drives he crazy. she's so... perfect. they spend the majority of their time in his bed, doing a vast array of things; he lost count as to how many times they had fun there. he sigh, his smile only growing and he close his eyes as he embrace her body against his, enjoying her warmth and their love.

the soft green blanket, is the shell of their love in this moment. tom is above the girl's naked body, supporting himself with his left elbow so as not to hurt her. gently caressing her soft, round breasts with his right hand. the girl's arms are wrapped around tom's shoulders, caressing his soft skin. his dreadlocks are loose and fall gently downwards, lightly touching his girlfriend's beautiful body. he lightly pinches the girl's swollen and sensitive nipple, a soft, sweet moan leaves her soft, swollen lips. “oh... tom” he hold her closer to him as his free hand gently runs through her hair. he lean over and start running the tip of his tongue across her chest, making him way from her collarbone to one breast and then the other. he hear her moan again as her breathing grows heavier before biting her nipple gently with his teeth. a slight chuckle leaves his mouth. she tilts her head further, sinking into tom's soft pillow. his good scent floods her nostrils, clouding her mind and entering a delicious state of pure desire. sweet and long shivers spread along his back and lower abdomen. her boyfriend's penis is getting hard again, little by little. gently stroking the inside of her right thigh. making her arch her back, with the desire to feel him inside her again. wanting to feel full of him and connected to her boyfriend once again.

tom slides his tongue along her stomach, kissing and licking her. he looks up, bathed in her beautiful eyes “are you ready for round two?”

hii 🧣 how are you? i can't wait for december. christmas has always been my favorite holiday. decorate the house with christmas decorations, drink hot chocolate and hot herbal teas in beautiful cups, prepare the gingerbread house... i also made dark chocolate chip cookies 👏🏻✨ but unfortunately i have permanently lost my old profile @/lilfloo, i discovered that i can't have it again and i was very upset, also because i was very fond of that profile 😩 i apologize for any grammatical or spelling errors, but english is not my native language. xoxo flo.

[minusgangtime]

Scientist log: the spook cafe gang

Teal: found another group of creatures,this time they were a pair of two demons,a werewolf,a vampire and a..swamp monster I guess. For the first demon,teal,I wanted to make him something equally as vial,so I had my assistant make him look like a zombie,several stitch marks were sewn onto his body,his shoulders were removed to expose his bones,though you can’t see it cause of his long sleeves,though the stitches seem to have caused his skin or furr to become paler,apart from crying a bit in the beginning,nothing seems to have changed.

Mangus: he in particular almost bit my assistant from self defense,but she was able to catch him. I got a bit creative with him,I made him into a multi link. First,my assistant ended up attaching three tail like metal wires onto his back,the two smaller ones are tucked under his shirt while he uses the big one as a third arm. Then I had her add elements to him,fire,water,ice and poison,my assistant injected all theses elements based chemicals into his skin,this caused his arms and legs to become irritated,turning a light shade of red,blue,white and purple,but again,since he’s wearing long clothes,you can’t see it. This gave him to power to control and manipulate these elements even giving others a poisonous bite if he wanted to,however,there was a cost,the amount of chemicals and magic in his system caused his eyes to go black with his pupils glowing a light red,as well as them bleeding he also got a much more intense hunger,revenging any food he could get his hands on,maybe that’s how he became so fat,for a while he appeared to have lost his vision,however,my assistant readjusted his glasses so that he could see again,as they had broken when he was captured,she says that before,he looked really hostile toward her,hissing at her,but when she put on his readjusted glasses,he stopped,she says that he looked stunned,what did that fatso see in her,kindness? HA! Not that anyone would be kind to her.

Pico: with this swamp monster,I decided to make him a monster that does belong in a swamp,my assistant sawed off his legs and replaced them with a snail like tail,attaching a snail shell to his back and attaching gills to his sides and cheeks,I essentially made him into a sea snail. Though,there’s side effects,his tongue became a bit longer from the aquatic functioning of his body and his skin became more aqua greenish,normally he is quite slow,for a while he kept himself in his cell,miserable,however,one day,my assistant ended up giving him a cauldron and random ingredients and his book,that had fallen off him when he was knocked out,she told him that someone had told him he really liked making potions so she brought him all the stuff he needed,I noticed there was a immediate mood change,as he went from depressed,to back to normal,it seems like he might’ve used a speed potion on himself cause after this,everyday,he’d zoom out of his cell,and zoom back into it at bedtime. Since he’s a seasnail,he can slip right into the water tanks if they’re not covered up and talk to whoever’s inside.

Petunia: the other demon in the group,by her outfit,she seemed like a waitress,and seeing how robots seem to be a lot of waiters now,I got an idea. My assistant chopped off her legs,and replaced them with a metal pipe,turning the pipe into a big long metal cord,she attached them to the roof. Petunia can’t walk on the floor,instead,she rolls around on the ceiling,allowing her to be really fast like a roller skater,however,she didn’t seem bothered by this change,as she helps serve the experiments and hostages in the cafeteria,not even looking tired. I believe she’s the one who asked my assistant to give pico his potion making equipment,and she says ever since she did that,she would often find a random treat and drink at her door ever since then,I think it’s her.

Bodie: since he is a werewolf,I got an idea what if I made him even MORE powerful? I had my assistant inject chemicals into his blood stream,this made his veins very visible and his eyes looking more animalistic,he has more strength and middle in his arms and legs,that is hard to see cause of,again,his long clothing. He can’t dent walls and break bones just by punching,he’ll,in his werewolf form he becomes even stronger,his body becoming nearly as big as his cell itself,and his strength and speed is increased,though his behavior becomes a bit more aggressive,he’s more easily agatated and can impulsively scratch those who anger him in this state,though his IS still himself,so he apologizes immediately after and so far,there’s no record of him biting someone. So far,there dosent seem to be much of a difference of behavior,other than him being a bit more confident after his experimentation.

-mod shelby

(Oh man- 👀)

[ethicsbutcher]

❛   hospital .   my  muse  is  told  that  yours  is  in  the  hospital .

the hospital felt bright and luminous ; light reflected off the white walls and floors , blinding any poor soul who had had to claw their way out of the dark depths of unconsciousness . the world must seem like a blur to those people . furniture and architecture would become one in that awful pale limbo ( it reeks of antiseptic , everything lacks flavour , everyone is laying a little bit too still ) , the occasional flash of greenish blue people breaks through the corridors , rushing through in croslite shoes , adding more morphine , checking your vitals , helping you to turn over ...

but hannibal ought to stand out from that plastic heaven ; his suit is a deep shade of mahogany and his shoes do not promise the buyer the sensation of " walking on air " . the good doctor sits next to charlotte olesen's hospital bed . he must have been there for a while . the small book he holds open on his lap is half-read and , even though last time he checked on the young woman she was still out of it , dr. lecter continues to read through the pages out loud .

" ── while i was an honourable man in her eyes , she did not love me . but the minute she understood what i was , when she breathed the true and foul odour of my soul , love was born in her – for she does love me . well , well ... " hannibal turned the page of the little black book and smiled . " there is nothing real , then , except evil . "

heavily-lidded eyes raise to glance at ms. olesen . while she had laid there , unconscious and wounded , charlotte hadn't looked very different from any other girl . hannibal had considered her frail condition and pondered FLIPPING A COIN . but something had compelled him not to do so ── dr. lecter did not hold any particular emotions for the small wounded bird laying in that hospital bed but he too had breathed the true and foul odour of charlotte's soul and made predictions on its' catastrophic potential .

to rid the world of ms. olsesen's existence would have been a very unfortunate mistake .

" morning , charlotte . "

[theslyvoid9]

top 5 colors but be very specific

Okay took me a day to get around to it But 5 very specific colours i like in no particular order 1) This very specific shade of greenish turquoise from a Ando Keskküla painting titled "õhtu" or "evening"

2) The yellow/orange of warm coloured lights during snow or rain at night time

3) The rustic warm orange/red of certain brick, it has to be the perfect amount of weathered and old or else i don't like it

4) Faded light blue, specifically faded light blue skies with soft clouds to go with it

5) This tone of warm yellowish green moss that grows on rocks around here

honorary shoutout to rust in a very specific shade of orange, the specific tone of pink/orange of clouds in sunset, blue of the ocean after a storm and the magenta pink of one of my jackets

[onwardintolight]

So I’ve somehow managed to avoid having to change my desktop tumblr theme ever since I first joined this hellsite in 2011... but sadly, my resolve is weakening and that era might soon be coming to an end. For some reason certain posts keep being inverted, or the formatting is just randomly weird, I have no idea how to fix it and I 😭

[killingitreservoirdogsstyle]

christmas with you/vic vega x reader

Hi everyone! This is a request from @rorygilmorewannabe, that I thought was wonderful. Sorry it took so long, school and being unwell suck. I did try despite my being under the weather, and I’ll redo it if you’d like. This is a one shot fanfic of a Christmas themed story about Vic Vega/Mr. Blonde with a female lover. As always, I've tried to make the reader as gender neutral as I can, but go right ahead and change the pronouns to fit your desires!

There are no trigger warnings for this particular fanfic, its all just lighthearted Christmas fun and fluff!

Quick legend: Y/N=your name, H/C=hair colour, and S/C=skin colour. Enjoy, and let me know if you want to see more!

All around Y/N, the essence of Christmas was around her. It enfolded her in a warm embrace, a nostalgic feeling that brought childlike vigour to her. Whether it be in the songs blaring from the radio, the smell of gingerbread baking, the twinkling lights of the store displays, or the tangibility of joy in the air, it was like an old friend to her. Every time this season of mirth arrived, she could not help the bubbling happiness that overcame her. Most people she knew found her excitement to be pleasant. It was in the spirit, after all. Through all the troubles of the year, this was the time for peace and togetherness, a chance to revive the soul from its listless bearing of the burdens of life. The mindless carrying on that we all do to get through the day. Christmas was the time to let walls drop down as you enjoyed one another’s company. It was almost like an escape for some people, though Y/N preferred not to think about it that way.

It was the first week of December in Los Angeles, the cold having already set in. The sun shone as normal in the Californian city, beaming in through the windows of Y/N and her boyfriend’s apartment. She was hard at work decorating the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. In a comfy pair of jeans and his fading black Stealers Wheel tank top, she hung ornaments from the green boughs of the tree, the scent of evergreen thick in the surrounding area. Gilded tinsel flashed in the light, reflected like the gold of an Egyptian royal’s jewelry. Varied baubles dangled on the branches, statuettes shaped like reindeer, spheres embellished in their greenish red hues, familiar Yuletide characters grinning at her from where they hung. In thin strings, multicoloured lights shone as they cast shadows on the wall behind. The puffy red garland lay neatly in a box at her feet.

That comes next, she thought. Hopefully it can happen when Vic comes home.

The smooth velvet vocals of The Drifters crooning White Christmas filled the room, Y/N joining them without effort. She swayed her hips, grasping at imaginary billowing ballgown skirts/flowing coattails by her side. Dancing in elegant steps, she twisted in a solitary waltz around the Christmas tree. On she danced, too wrapped up in her fantasy to see her boyfriend pushing open the door to their apartment. Vic Vega held a paper grocery bag taut against his chest, of which was bursting full with the food for their coming feast. Turkey, potatoes, gravy sauce, plums, stuffing, candy, and of course, your favourite Christmas dessert. His sunglasses covered his sparkly blue eyes, the shades glinting. He’s bundled in a thick black parka with a pair of casual slacks and his enormous winter boots. Shades of rosy red tint his cheeks and nose. It’s been unusually cold in Los Angeles for December, freezing at times. People were chalking it up to climate change, others a government conspiracy, and even some blaming the lack of Christmas spirit. Whatever the case, he was annoyed by the cold. He stepped inside, a wave of hot air rushing over him from the furnace. Kicking off his boots, he tromped into the living room. 

“ Sugar, I’m home!” he started to call, but stopped when he saw Y/N. Bing Crosby’s Mele Kalikimaka played, the soundtrack to which she was dancing. Her S/C skin glistened with sweat, her H/C hair messy from the exertion. In his shirt and tight jeans, he couldn’t help but ogle at how gorgeous she was. How on earth he had scored her, he had no clue. Still, he wasn’t going to squander it. He chuckled, striding over to were she was. From behind, he pulled her into his arms. Y/N knew that grip all too well, and she melted into it. 

“ Hey, baby,” she breathed, turning to face him to bury her head into his chest. His cologne was potent, along with his natural musk of cigarettes and hair gel. 

“ Mmm... You were gonna keep dancin’ without me, hot stuff? What have you been up to?” she gestured to the tree, making him smirk. 

“ Why am I not surprised?” he laughed. She giggled too, relaxing into his arms. They stood in an embrace for a few moments, enjoying each other’s touch. When they pulled away, he threw up his hand towards the grocery bag that was resting on the couch. 

“ I got what we needed.” he said. “ No trouble at all.” 

“ Perfect! The tree is almost done, I’m gonna set up the gifts under the tree, and then I was going to put on a movie. You wanna help me?” 

“ You bet, baby. Oh, before I forget, Eddie called,” her eyes lit up at hearing her best friend’s name mentioned. He had the same reaction as well.

“ Oh! Did he say if he was coming for the Christmas weekend?” she continued hanging ornaments, Vic lifting the garland out of the box. They began putting the final touches on the tree, talking as they did so. 

“ And I quote: “ Wouldn’t fucking miss it for the world, Toothpick.” Him and Joe both, they’re real excited, Y/N. I couldn’t get Eddie to shut up.” he was gushing, wrapping the garland around the tree. 

“ That’s awesome. I was really worried they wouldn’t be able to make it.” he hummed, placing his hand on her shoulder.

“ I know, I know, hon. I cleared off everything from today to the New Year, so that I’m home with you. I wouldn’t miss Christmas with you either, Y/N.” she smiled, hugging him tight. 

“ I love you, Vic.”

“ I love you too, Y/N. Let’s get this house all decked up for the Holidays, huh?” 

[copper-dragon-in-disguise]

Hi! I do have more questions now that I've read your detailed reply and thank you so much for that!

You said TV characters and such have colors and textures as well—what about star wars? 👀 Disaster lineage in particular or anyone you wanna say! Also do countries have colors and textures too? Feelings?

(and because you were kind enough to let me know my color is blue :')) is it because of my icon? What kind of blue? 👀😂)

okay so! i shall admit that, though I do actually follow you, I am not in fact that much of a star wars fan (I like the original 3, the rest vary from enh to *disgusted screaming*. TCW is fine tho).

however! obi wan is sort of a warm brown. cody is orange, obviously. both anakin and darth vader are red, the same color as darth vader's lightsaber. ashoka is the same blue as the strips on her lekku.

with merlin characters: merlin is a really dark blue, sort of like the tumblr blue but a little darker if that makes sense. arthur is the camelot red color. morgana is plum. gwen is sort of a light pink or a light purple, mordred is almost the same color as merlin but also a bit lighter.

doctor who, as a whole series and all that is related to it, is tardis blue. The individual seasons are defined by their intros, doctors, and companions. That being said, Nine is a dark maroon. Ten is either blue or brown, depending on the episode & his suit, with the default being brown. Eleven is bright yellow. Twelve is also red, but its a very different shade than Nine. I haven't seen enough (or any, besides gifs) of Thirteen to tell exactly what color she is, but I think its a buttery yellow. Martha is red-violet, and Donna is dark red (but is an entirely different color from Nine and Twelve). Rose is a really light sandy yellow. The Master is some sort of darkish blue, and Missy is dark lavender (an entirely different color from purple. maybe. sort of).

countries are weird; historical things, like ancient rome; ancient egypt, stuff like that, all have colors (at least the ones I know anything about). Modern day places don't really have color, with a couple exceptions. Greenland is green, for what I sincerely hope are obvious reasons. Canada is the same color as their side of niagara falls, and I wish I had a more specific description for that but I do not. Ireland is a sort of very dark, pretty green. Wales is a dragon (i know thats not actually a color, but I don't know how else to describe it).

Ancient Egypt is sandy yellow or teal, depending on which era (the old kingdom is sandy yellow, the middle & new kingdoms are teal); Ancient Rome is maroon. Ancient Greece is a light blue and white marble swirl type thing. A few of the emperors of Ancient Rome have specific colors (Nero is a wine colored purple and Augustus/Octavian/Octavius is sometimes orange and sometimes blood red, depending on how stupid he's being. Constantine is a mildly darker blood red. Diocletian is a medium gray) (You likely do not know who any of those people are except maybe Nero, that's fine, I wasn't really expecting anyone to, they were all Roman emperors.) Julius Ceaser (who was not technically an emperor!) is ivy green. Cleopatra is plum, the same color as morgana. Leonardo da Vinchi is yellow, the same color as sunflowers. Assorted other historical figures have colors, as do some, but not all, eras of history.

For instance: the Renaissance is red. In the middle east the middle ages are light blue, but in europe they're gray. The Black Death, or Bubonic Plague, is not black, its a greenish-yellowish.

I have many more color associations but for the sake of this being like. short ish (something this already is not). i shall not list them.

Your color is a light sort of sky blue, mostly due to your icon, but also because of your user (light as the sun? sky blue? get it? no? yeah, thats fair), and with some quick googling is Pantone 2985 C:

[real-fanta-sea]

Prompt for the kiss no. 71

Prompt: "Not to be cringe or anything, but I really like the idea of the kiss 71 (height difference kisses where one person has to bend down, and the other is on their tippy-toes)...where Trevor is his true height. i.e. Ogg's height and Michael has to stand on his tiptoes to snog him."

I'm sorry, anon, but I saved the post as a draft and it just vanished into thin connection. So, I have to answer this way.

This work is more of a spur of the moment thing, but I kinda like the way it turned out, being it just my emotions spilt onto paper. If you'd like, you can read it on AO3 here, or under read more. I hope you'll like it as much as I enjoyed writing it! :)

tw: kissing, child abuse memories

It's been three weeks already.

An unhealthy greenish glow of flickering light tubes and the icy breath of an industrial refrigerator made him shiver as Michael, gliding on the orbit touching stars in his mind, put yet another box of ready-made microwave hamburgers into his shopping cart. If he were not a regular in this particular shop, he would have got lost. It resembled an anthill with seemingly infinite shelves and aisles, bursting with the merchandise, even though the depressed lights covered everything in the same shade of decay green. The same life outlook was shared with most of the shadows roaming around whose name tags qualified them as proud employees of Flormart.

It's been three weeks, and he still stuck around, hanging on his every word.

Michael pushed his cart further from frozen goods, and the pictures swirling and smearing all around transitioned from photoshopped vegetables to flashy fireworks of chips and other guilty pleasures he planned on indulging in later on. Some people would find the height of the shelves menacing, but to Michael, it was just a memory that pulled him from the orbit back to earth and placed him in the middle of a football pitch. The smell of sweat building up underneath his helmet. The crunch of the crisp lawn under his feet. The spotlight following him whenever he scored. Cheering faceless crowds in time with busty faceless girls' pompoms. But most of all, he felt happy again - needed, cherished, innocent, and with a bright future awaiting his embrace. But then, just as he crossed from the snacks aisle to the alcohol quarter, the football stadium lights flickered and turned bright red. All the faceless girls turned around, their mouths gaping as if someone dislocated their jaws, and the cheering turned into a hellish cry of pain. Where their eyes were supposed to be, he saw a flair, screwing itself deeper into their skull, and a stream of scarlet goo drip down on their immaculate white dresses.

It's been three weeks, and somehow, his puppy-like behaviour didn't irk him yet. Quite the opposite if he were honest with himself - he felt strangely peaceful in his company.

Michael gulped in a desperate attempt to wash down the horror that invited itself under cover of a happy memory. Shaking his head only did so much and dispersed the spectators and cheerleaders alike, in the same way shaking a snowy paperweight would. Michael's chest constricted as he felt unable to breathe in properly, people splatting and exploding upon impact all around him in his mind. Suddenly, he felt a pull under both of his shoulders and found himself flying towards the pitch-black sky, where instead of one moon, two shone down on him. As he flew closer, they shrunk into two amber irises - and Michael immediately knew who pulled him out of the memory. As he crashed into a mass of pink candy cotton clouds, his vision blurred just to clear up when he felt a solid surface under his feet and someones hot hands in his. Somehow, he found himself looking at the tips of abused old pair of sneakers he was wearing, the same pair Michael knew he wore that faithful day at the airstrip. A moment later, a couple of dark blue, equally run-down ones stepped into his field of vision. He slowly let his sight slide up on crumpled jeans, the hem of a military jacket, a pair of dog tags hanging around a slender neck, a sharp jaw, a pair of full dark lips and finally, to the pair of amber eyes, eyes that radiated worry, care and, at the same time, something he could only read as love and utmost devotion.

It's been three weeks since the incident, and anytime he woke up from a nightmare that played in his mind over and over again, he was there to soothe him; he was there waiting for Michael's tears to dampen his naked shoulder. He didn't bitch about it and didn't tell a soul in the morning.

Michael let out a shaky breath. Stopping his feet from casually continuing in their stroll proved harder than he thought, and he leaned on the shopping cart handle, running fingers through his hair. He couldn't decide what mortified him more - the creativity his brain proved to possess when playing out the horrible things he has witnessed in just a few years of his fresh adulthood, or the way it put his acquaintance on some fucking pedestal and presented him as the alpha and omega of his thoughts and desires.

"Hey Michael, are you ok?"

Speaking of the devil... "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I just.." Michael breathed in again and turned towards the source of the voice, trying to display a small smile by twitching his tired lips "I need a smoke, that's all."

It's been three weeks, and he got that tingling feeling in his guts already. He could barely tolerate touch or prolonged eye contact without getting goosebumps and that ticklish feeling solidifying and slicing right into his groin. Michael wanted to believe it was just his weird head showing gratitude for saving his ass, but anytime he found himself in the company of that amber-eyed twink, the longing grew worse.

"Hey, how about a bottle of something to wash the cig down?" said the guy and his oversized jeans jacket hanging from his shoulders cringed into weird shapes as he took one of his hands out of his pocket and pointed his thumb towards the shelves. He looked so adorably dishevelled in all jeans, and with his silky hair framing his hopeful face, Michael couldn't have said no to anything he would suggest. Instead of mustering the strength to say no, Michael threw another smile towards his companion and turned his back to him to choose the dream crusher he wanted to numb them with before they went to bed.

To someone who grew up in a functional family, all the labels and bottle shapes would seem the same. To Michael, however, to choose the right brand and size meant the same as selecting the bananas or avocados of the proper ripeness would for them. It was a work of art; he learned so much in the ten years of living with his stepfather. While scrutinizing the shelves, index finger and thumb scrubbing on the sides of his chin absent-mindedly, he remembered how they would come to the similar shop together, he and his mother's second husband, and how he slipped behind the shelves. At the same time, Frank chatted with the clerk, and he stuffed his lunch box with a large flat bottle of Chief's Heritage Fire Water whiskey. He had to carefully close it to avoid disturbing the aluminium foil that served as a guard from the primitive electronic protection device they had to pass through on their way out. Michael would then tuck his stepfather's sleeve, babble some cute nonsense to get candy from the unsuspicious clerk, and after they paid for the two packs of cigarettes and a beer, they would leave. Frank would let him chug on whiskey then, and if he were in an exceptionally good mood, he would let him sleep through the night without beating the shit out of him.

Finally, spotting the whiskey he knew so well on one of the top shelves, Michael attempted to grasp it but only managed to graze his fingertips against the bottom of one of the bottles that rocked gently upon touch but otherwise didn't move an inch. "Fuck", he uttered under his breath, cracked his neck and stretched onto the tips of his toes, steadying himself by holding onto one of the lower shelves. But, again, he could only touch the bottle but not get a good hold of it. He even contemplated climbing the shelves to get it, as if the shame of his disappointing height haven't already painted his cheeks bright red and didn't make him want to leave the shop right away. Just as he braced himself for the climb, eyes fixed on that damn bottle, a gentle touch of someone's hand squeezing his shoulder made him turn around. It was Trevor's hand, and even though Michael still had to look up to meet his eyes, the small sympathetic smile put him in ease in a blink of an eye.

"Chief's, huh? Good choice, Mike!" the praise in his voice made Michael shiver, and he desperately tried to ignore the warmth he was receiving through the palm still steady on his shoulder and which upset his heart into beating twice as fast as ever before. "My old man used to drink this. It tastes like cat piss but knocks you out good for the buck." Trevor's grin felt like a warm touch sunrise after countless years of freezing darkness. Michael couldn't help but soak in the warmth, allowing himself to lose himself in the feeling completely. "Let me get it for you, eh?" he heard Trevor say from somewhere near, and before he could object, most of the light was obstructed by a jeans-clad chest.

It was then when Michael closed his eyes and tried to get hold of the situation. Trevor, the guy he only knew for three weeks, pushing Michael's back onto the shelves as he leaned for the bottle but also pushing his chest almost to Michael's. If it weren't for a couple of inches of hot air and fabric between them, their bodies would brush against each other. Michael could only gulp when he opened his eyes again, and his mind provided him with the maddening picture of Trevor's naked lean chest, peppered with dark brown hair as if puberty marked its way down towards his groin with it. Michael's head was spinning when he looked up to see Trevor still busy fetching the bottle. Michael's racing imagination saw him grabbing the guy's head, crashing lips with his and dissolving into what he thought would be the best kiss he would ever receive. Michael gulped again. He had to have him.

He was anxious about the way it was too easy to raise both his hands and grab fists full of other man's jacket as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Michael didn't fight it when he felt his muscles pull on the fabric and only turned his gaze up to where he expected Trevor's eyes to look once he would feel the movement of his clothes. Michael didn't have to wait for it at all, actually; the puzzled expression was already waiting for him to drink it up. However, he couldn't maintain the contact for too long as his eyes focused on something completely different; the dark lips, deliciously parted in the unspoken question. The distance between his own and them unnerved him, and in the sparking silence, Michael again propped himself onto the tips of his toes, pressed harder on the fabric to steady himself and, closing eyes, pressed his lips to Trevor's.

For a delicious moment, the world fell apart as if some invisible force made the dimensions crash down. The trembling soft firmness against his lips sent shivers down his spine with each cautious move. Whenever Michael recalled the moment years later, he could always sense the faint smell of cigarettes, petrol and sun mixing between their bodies and the way the ground shook and cried under his feet when he felt Trevor's palms slide down his sides and pull him closer, effectively sweeping him off his feet.

Trevor seemed to be relishing at the moment as much as Michael was, but when he felt solid ground under his feet again, and the pair of arms letting go of him, Michael reluctantly broke the kiss with a coquettish wet pop and tried to catch his lost breath. Then, leaning against the shelves again, he only dared to peek up when his cheeks stopped burning from what felt like a mixture of acid and a marathon run. Trevor's face might as well have been a mirror, for he looked down on Michael with eyes wide, face red and lips wet and trembling as if he didn't get a grasp of reality yet. Michael couldn't help but let the anxiety scream right to his face in the voice of his stepfather - and there were thousands of things he might have ruined then and there, just because he didn't fight his stupid queer side, because he let himself kiss another man, because by the twisted chain of mistakes he fell from what could have been a good life to longing after a rabid smuggler in the middle of a liquor aisle.

Just as he was about to duck under Trevor's arm and run away from the voice and feelings of shame it brought about, he was stopped by a gentle, almost shy touch of a hot palm on his cheek. The slender fingers brushed against his face in such a delicate way Michael's heart skipped a beat, and closing his eyes, he leaned into the touch, seeking the soothing silence it brought with the warmth. The hand fit his cheek like a glove, Michael mused as he relaxed into slow movements of fingertips on his temples. Right there, at that moment, everything felt so right, so natural. Why has he deprived himself of the delicious heat for three weeks when somewhere deep inside, where the beating of his heart always gave away the truth, he knew he needed it from the start - well, Michael didn't know. Instead, he slid his arms around Trevor's waist and buried his face into his chest.

"Michael?"

The vibrating echo of his name, spoken in such a husky yet caring way, made Michael squeeze his arms around Trevor even tighter. He sought the last bits and pieces of it before he dared to speak up himself, afraid of spoiling the delicious contentment of the moment.

"Let's get out of here."

A gentle kiss on top of his head and long arms lacing his shoulders later, Michael found himself too far from Trevor for comfort. But even with the newly gained distance between them, a quick glance sideways has provided him with a sight of a beaming smile and a fire deep inside Trevor's eyes that made his own lips twitch into a happy upwards bow. As they rolled into the checkout, Michael has noticed the world has changed as well. The depressing shade of green has somehow transitioned into a welcoming warm white; the shadows that they passed by on their way in suddenly bloomed into happy faces. The various packings of goods exploded in all the colours of the rainbow. As Michael and Trevor emerged into the darkness of the parking lot, ready to relive their revelation in thousands of ways, Michael has felt at peace with himself for the first time in forever. The days of the inner night were over.

[ayamari-no-goshi]

Eidolon 10 | (T)

ff.net | AO3

Fandom: Danny Phantom (DP)

Summary:  AU: What started off as the result of a simple act of rebellion ends up causing his life to spin out of control. How will young Danny cope with the results as well as a past that has a strange habit of coming back to haunt him.

Warnings: rated T for violence, mentions of death, kidnapping, and various other things

Parings: hints of Danny/Sam much later on

Notes: originally uploaded to Ff.net. Cross-posted to AO3 and tumblr

10. Aftermath

"So… What do you think he is?" Tucker asked her as they made their way to the kitchen to grab some lunch. It was about noon, and since Danny was still not awake -or showed any signs of waking, he had decided to put food on the top of his priority list. "Don't get me wrong. I'm thankful Danny went all glowy and beat that thing, but something that weird… And you got to admit, it was pretty weird…. Couldn't have come from a human."

"'Glowy'?" Sam asked while trying not to laugh. Oddly enough, it did help to lighten her bad mood brought on by exhaustion, fear, and paranoia. After Danny had somehow magically transported them back to her front yard and passed out, she and Tucker managed to sneak back into her house while carrying him and make it into her room undetected by her parents. Tiring as that and the chase from earlier was she was unable to convince herself they were safe and began constantly checking the window for any signs of the creature. Needless to say, by morning, she hadn't been able to fall asleep.

He just shrugged as he opened the large kitchen door and allowed Sam to pass through first. "I don't know what else to call it. I guess 'luminous' could work, but it doesn't really fit either."

"And 'glowy' does?"

"Probably not, but at least it's specific."

Though she would never admit it out loud, he did have a point. When Danny had taken a stand against the monster, ghost… whatever it actually was, it almost looked as if tendrils of greenish-white energy was wrapping around him. As it became more noticeable, it gave his body the illusion it was actually glowing. Even more startling was the change in his eyes and hair color. His eyes changed to a toxic shade of green which shouldn't exist in this world, and his hair had become a brilliant shade of white with a silvery sheen. After Danny had passed out, the white color seemed to seep out, leaving behind his naturally black hair after a couple minutes. Hopefully his eyes had returned to their natural color too.

"Anyway… what do you think we should take up to Danny?" By the time he spoke, Tucker had already started putting together a rather impressive lunch meat and mayo sandwich on one of the white marble counters. While Sam could not even look at the growing monstrosity, she was impressed by the knowledge he had of her kitchen. He had been over way too many times.

She thought for a moment as she searched one of the polished mahogany cabinets for some supplies of her own. "Well… probably bland foods like toast or rice would be best. Since he tends to get sick after anything weird happens to him, those are the only types of food that shouldn't cause any problems…"

"I didn't… even think about that…" he replied between chews, much to Sam's dismay. "Whatever that power… or weirdness is, it really seems to do a number on him."

"Yeah… and let's just hope it doesn't kill him in the process."

This particular episode had been particularly bad for Danny. Before carrying him into the house, she had checked his vital signs only to find no sign of life. His pulse was nonexistent, his breathing had ceased, and his body was freezing to the touch. Both of them had begun to panic and tried to remember what they could of CPR. Luckily for Tucker -what was it with guys and CPR? - Danny let out a shaky breath even before they got a chance to start.

Unsure what to make of the situation, they just stood there, dumbfounded, for a moment before deciding to take the seemingly unconscious and not dead boy into the house. If it was any other person, she would have called an ambulance without a second thought, but there was no way such strange events could be explained or probably even treated by a doctor. Besides, if he seemed fine now, it was unlikely a doctor would be able to do anything. Originally, they decided whoever woke up first would make sure Danny was still among the living, but with her being unable to sleep she checked on him regularly. His breathing and pulse seemingly remained steady, but his body, though a little warmer, still remained very cool to the touch; Combined with his naturally pale skin kept causing her to compare him to a cadaver.

An awkward tension filled the air for a moment while they made their lunches. Unnerved, Sam was about to say something, but a strange look from Tucker stopped her. "What's wrong?"

"Sam… this might sound weird, but what if that's the point? What if this power that's taken hold of him really is going to kill him?" he asked as he put his sandwich down and looked her in the eyes. "Didn't Danny say something before about how the ghost you two saw in the cemetery said that he didn't belong to this world? And didn't it also suggest he didn't have a lot of time left? And didn't that thing that chased us last night call him 'Ghost Child'…. I don't know about you, but it just seems like, if you think about it, everything's suggesting he's going to die."

"Tucker, how can you say something like that?" she snapped while trying to prevent any emotion, save for anger, from crossing her face. During her vigil, similar thoughts had crossed her mind, but she tried to completely ignore them. She had noticed Danny always seemed drained and weak after the power manifested, almost as if his 'energy or' life was its power source. It seemed quite possible it could kill him if it continued, but the cryptic hints they kept getting suggested maybe that was what the power needed.

No! She wasn't going to think like that! Nothing as horrible as that was going to happen to Danny. They were going to somehow figure out how to help him, and she didn't need such terrible thoughts floating around her mind. She cringed as she once again tried to suppress them. Having the idea be said aloud seemed to somehow confirm it, even with absolutely no proof. "Let's just focus on finishing so we can get back to Danny. I wonder if he's awake yet…"

"If you say so… but before we do that, can you please explain why your toaster's floating?"

Sam had to chuckle as she watched Tucker begin to panic and quickly put space between him and unassuming yet levitating toaster. Glancing at it to make sure it was actually plugged in and in use; she shrugged and moved over to retrieve its contents. "It's from Denmark. This usually happens."

"Wait… what?"

….

Surprisingly, when they returned to Sam's room, Danny was awake and sitting up on the deep purple bed. He looked terrible. His blue eyes were dull, and the dark rings under them attested to just how tired he really was. His body was also incredibly sore and stiff, but nothing more seemed to be wrong with him. Sam couldn't help but be relieved. As she watched him thankfully accept the tray of food, it seemed as if there would be no lasting problems from the night's events.

After finishing his light meal, Danny hesitantly asked what happened the previous night. Unsure where to start, she looked to Tucker for some help, and within a few minutes, the combined effort of the two got him up to speed. He accepted it silently, though Sam did notice he kept looking down at his hands. It was almost as if he was checking to make sure they still looked the same. It unnerved her slightly, but she tried to push it aside as she suggested a good break from all the weirdness would be a monster movie marathon. Both Danny and Tucker gave her looks suggesting they questioned her sanity, but after a few minutes of persuasion and a mention of the room sized television in the entertainment room, they happily changed their minds.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It was official. The best way to recover from a mysterious paranormal fight was to sit and watch movies in Sam's gigantic theater. Not only did Danny get to relax in some of the most comfortable chairs he had ever encountered, but the ability to laugh with his friends as they poked fun at the terrible effects further alleviated the stress weighing down on him. Surprisingly, they were able to get through three movies without being interrupted.

After glancing at fancy clock hanging from the wall, he realized it was almost dinner time. "Hey, I should probably be getting home soon. Knowing Winston, he'll be getting worried."

"Do you think you're up to walking home?" Sam asked as she gave him an appraising glance. "You're welcome to stay another night."

A chuckle escaped him as he thought about her parents' reactions to the suggestion. Although he had only briefly met them, something told him the couple was already not too fond of him. "I think I can handle it." That was an obvious lie. His body still felt as if he had been put inside of an industrial dryer on spin mode, but how else was he going to get home? He didn't want to impose on Sam, Winston would start asking questions, and he certainly didn't have the money to call a taxi. "Besides, the walking might help with the stiffness."

"Or it could make it worse. Seriously dude, you should be taking it as easy as you can. Kicking some serious butt can be really tiring." Tucker's tone was playful and encouraging, but Danny knew he was trying to hide his own concerns about the strange event. Judging by how Sam and Tucker were acting when they entered the room after he woke up, the two most likely had a serious conversation about what happened. Though they tried to make him feel as if nothing was wrong, he could sense their worry.

He was about to start arguing but Sam quickly cut him off. "If you really think you should leave, at least I can do is to have my driver give you a ride home. I mean, you did save our lives."

"Thanks… but are you sure..? Wait, you have your own driver?" he asked, unsure if he had heard her correctly.

Sam fidgeted for a moment before answering. "Well, he's technically one of the drivers for my family, but I'm on better terms with him than my parents…. So, he's kinda unofficially mine."

"There's more than one…? Never mind." He cut himself off after a moment. "I don't want to know the specifics." The lives of the rich were hard to comprehend.

…..

After about a half an hour, the three of them were in the back of a stretch limo complete with its own mini bar stocked with several foreign drinks. Neither Sam nor Tucker actually needed to come, but they refused to let him go home alone. Danny just figured it was their way of showing concern. Though he didn't really need it, he didn't mind as their presence made the short ride more enjoyable.

When he arrived home, he was expecting a quite scene. Winston's silver Chevy would be sitting in the driveway, and while Winston himself would either be tending his modest garden or doing some paperwork in the study. But, instead of normalcy, chaos greeted him.

Yellow police tape had been placed around the perimeter of the yard and across the open front door. Several police cars were sitting, not only in front of the house, but also in his and the neighbor's driveway. A few officers were standing in the yard talking to each other while wearing serious expressions. Another was entering the house along with a couple people in white uniforms. Before the limo could even come to a stop, Danny jumped out of it and ran to the house, only to be stopped by some of the officers.

"I'm Danny, Winston's charge," he nearly shouted after one of the officers grabbed him while trying to explain he could not enter a crime scene. "What happened? Where's Winston? Does he know? Is he alright?"

"Wait, you're Wolf's kid?" another office asked as he approached. "We put out an alert saying you were missing. So you weren't in the house last night?"

"No, I…"

"Excuse me, Sir," Sam interrupted as she and Tucker ran over. "Danny was with us last night. He was staying over my house."

"He's not in trouble, is he?" There was a noticeable shiver within Tucker's voice, but he was doing his best not to show any other sign of nervousness. "Because we can totally vouch for him! We were with him for most of the day yesterday."

The officer held up his hand as a signal to let him talk. A trouble look crossed his face as he removed his hat and ran his free hand through his graying hair. After collecting himself, he held his hand out for Danny to shake. "I wish we could have met under friendlier circumstances, but I'm Sergeant Ross. We were called to your house after one of your neighbors called in some concerns about the safety of your dad. They thought they had heard gun shots last night but shrugged it off until they realized they never saw him leave the house today. We even received a confirmation from his work that he never arrived."

Danny bit his lip as he listened quietly. Winston almost never missed work, even if he was very sick. So, knowing that, something had to have gone seriously wrong, and Danny wasn't exactly sure if he was ready to find out what.

"I hate to say it, but it was a good thing we did decided to check on him," Ross continued as he looked him in the eye. "Your dad's currently in J. Marley Central Hospital and is being treated for several severe injuries from… what we think was a home invasion."

"No... That's impossible…" Danny stuttered after a few confused moments. "Winston's an ex-marine… He would have fought back. No one could have done that much damage…"

"Son, take it easy. This isn't the time for this…"

"You don't understand! Winston can take care of himself! There's a gun under his mattress for goodness' sake! He's always been prepared for something like this to happen! Some lame burglar couldn't have put him in the hospital!"

"Wait… did you say that Wolf owned a gun?" Ross asked carefully. "What kind was it?"

"I'm not exactly sure…. It's not like I saw it every day or anything," he replied gruffly as he tried to keep his feelings quelled long enough to try and answer the question. It wasn't like the officer had anything to do with Winston being hurt, but he certainly didn't want to be answering any questions. "I know it's some type of hand gun…. Maybe it's a .28… The box of bullets was sitting in the shelf on the study."

A concerned expression crossed the Sergeant's face as he called over to another officer. "Have any of the men found a firearm in or around the premises?" When the man shook his head, Ross' expression became grim. He then told the man to grab a couple of the other officers and search the area again, as well as finding a record of Winston's gun registration. After the other officer left, Ross turned back to Danny. "Well, I can't say I'm pleased by this new information… But I'm glad you mentioned it." He gave the boy a searching look before he spoke again. "I'm going to need to take you down to the precinct so you can give your official statement and maybe answer a few questions. Then we're going to need to go through your house and see if anything has been stolen."

"Wait… now?" Danny half demanded, half choked. "You're not going to let me see Winston first?"

"He's in the hospital…"

"You told me that, but you haven't told me anything else!" He had to fight to keep his voice and hands under control. Something in the back of his mind told him the officer would not appreciate it if he started waving his hands around while he was agitated. "Winston's all I have! I need to see for myself just how bad it is. I'll answer any question you have afterwards, but please, please let me see him first!"

"I can't let you do that."

"Why? Wait… I know what's going on… You think I did this." His eyes narrowed as he pointed at the officer. "I can't believe you! You're supposed to be trying to find whoever did this to Winston! Instead, you're wasting your time looking at me. I wasn't even home last night!" He took a breath to try and calm down for a moment as Tucker put his hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. With each breath, he could feel himself shaking in rage. "If anything, you should be looking at that Masters guy…"

It was the officer's turn to be suspicious. "…You don't mean Vlad Masters, do you?"

"I think so… He and Winston don't seem to get along…"

"And don't forget! He's the one who snuck into your house that one day!" Tucker added as he gave a shudder. "That's the day we heard Mr. Wolf yelling. No offense dude, but he's really frightening when he's mad."

"Tell me about it…"

"Back up a minute," the officer interrupted while rubbing his eyes. "You're telling me, Vlad Masters broke into your house. What business does someone like him have in your house?"

Could this officer be any more irritating? Danny had to bite back a sarcastic reply as he answered the officer. "He said he was checking up on Winston since he had to reschedule a meeting… with I guess one of his assistants. According to him, our front door was open, and he went inside to make sure everything was okay." As the officer wrote down something on a little tablet that was pulled out of his pocket, Danny decided he had enough. "Look! I'll answer any of your questions later, but I'm not doing anything else until I get to see Winston!"

….

After a twenty minute standoff, Danny finally got his way. An irritated Sergeant Ross had escorted him to the hospital after finally realizing he wasn't going to get any answers. After the two stepped into the waiting area, he ran to the nearest available teller and practically demanded to know where Winston was being treated. After an agonizingly slow few minutes, he finally got an answer.

In retrospect, running as fast as he could through the halls was probably one of the worst things he could do in the hospital, but he really didn't care. He easily managed to avoid any obstacle he encountered. Who knew there would be so many movable computers, monitors, and people in those maze-like hallways? When he finally reached Winston's room, he was met with a wall of people. Several doctors all wearing dark expressions seemed to be deep in discussion as they blocked the only door into the room.

Unsure how to interrupt the doctors, he was happy to realize Winston's room had a window. Peeking in, he felt his breath hitch as he realized just how serious the attack on his guardian had been. Winston was unconscious and hooked up to a respirator. Several monitors were hooked up to the man, and two IV bags, one of blood and one of clear fluid, were also put in place. What little bit of skin was not covered by bandage or machine looked bruised and swollen. The overall image made Winston look like he was fragile enough to break if he was touched. Danny had to try and hold back tears as he wondered who could have done such a thing.

"How the hell did you get here so fast?" an out of breath voice asked from somewhere behind him making him jump. He turned around to see a rather winded Sergeant Ross giving him a searching look. "I couldn't go more than a few feet without out running into something."

Danny didn't say anything as he turned back towards the window. He didn't want to have Winston out of his sight for more than a few minutes. He just had this feeling something terrible would happen if he did.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but are you part of Winston's family?" A person wearing a white coat came into the periphery of his vision. Curious, he turned to see a young female doctor extending her hand to him. "I'm Dr. Sabo, and I'm currently in charge of managing him while he's here."

He hesitantly took her hand and explained who he was. "How… how is he?" Even he could hear the unease in his voice.

"That's the big question, isn't it?" Dr. Sabo frowned as she looked towards the window. "I hate to say it, but it's hard to tell at this point. Winston received several odd wounds from the attack."

"Odd…? How so?" the sergeant asked, surprising both Danny and the doctor.

She bit her lip as she tried to find the words to describe her thoughts. "It's the first time any of us have seen wounds like that. They almost seem to be large bullet wounds, but the edges of them act more like burns. And, to make matters worse, we were unable to locate any residual bullets there might have been. We're really at a loss for what happened to him."

"Will he be able to answer any questions?"

"I'm not sure. Winston, although stable, is in a terrible condition. He's going to have to be watched very carefully over the next several days. We're going to do our best to see that he heals, but it will be up to his body to make sure he recovers. From what I can see of him, he appears to be in very good shape for his age, so we're hopeful… but, you can never tell."

The world started to spin as Danny listened to the doctor go into more details about Winston's condition with the sergeant. He allowed himself to slide down the wall and sit as he tried to get some sort of grasp on the situation. He never thought he would be in this situation. He had once joked that Winston was too strong to ever be taken down by anything other than a renegade bus, but this had shown him Winston was human, just like everyone else.

Danny couldn't take it anymore. In an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, he buried his face in his hands and allowed the tears to come. It was a small comfort, but if he was going to have to deal with the police over the next several hours, he was going to need to be as strong as possible.

=======================================

Anyways, a couple things:

J. Marley Central Hospital is not a real place… at least I think so. I named it to keep in line with the ghost theme of the show. Jacob Marley was the first ghost who appeared to Ebenezer Scrooge in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

Dr. Sabo and Sergeant Ross aren't all that important. They're really only there for this section.

And, can I just say that hospitals are the most confusing things on earth? Cuz, they are. There are at least fifteen hospitals within an hour and a half of my house, and all of them are mazes. The floor plans are ridiculous. You can't walk through them without encountering workers, movable computers and/or other medical devices, and let's not forget the robots. Don't ask about that last one. It is really funny to see them having a Mexican standoff though.

[flipper-kisses]

Higher Education

Rami x OC Veronica, Charlie Hunnam 

Word Count: 1446 

Tag list- none yet 

Warnings: swearing, mentions of parental death, car accident, college.    

Chapter 1 - Move In Day       

          The August sun was shining brightly when I pulled into the parking lot next to my brand new home- the dorms of Evansville University. My three hour drive had left my legs cramped and my stomach empty. I had zero desire to unload all of the stuff in my car, so I joined the line of students waiting to check and get their dorm room keys.  

           "Heads up!" I turned quickly toward the sound of shouting and saw a football hurtling towards my face. Instinctively I reached up and caught it, then looked around for the horrible quarterback. A tall guy with long blond hair jogged over to me, hand outstretched.

         "Sorry about that," he said with a smile, and a hint of an accent I couldn't quite place. "Great catch."          I handed the ball over. "I've got two football obsessed little brothers."         The guy looked me up and down. I was wearing navy blue shorts and a gray Nirvana T-shirt with my white and navy Adidas sneakers.         "I'm Charlie," he said and stuck out his hand.         "Veronica," I shook it. "Your boys want the ball back, I think." I nodded toward the group of guys he'd been playing with on the sun drenched lawn.         "Right. See you around then, Veronica." Charlie winked and jogged back to his friends. I watched for a second, one in particular catching my eye. Totally my type with dark, spiky hair, dressed in a black short sleeved shirt and gray shorts. I raised an eyebrow and turned back to the check in table.

        "Hi!" A bubbly brunette greeted me. She wore a name tag that identified her as the Resident Assistant. "Name?"         "Veronica Mason."         "Oh, hi Veronica! I'm Lauren, your roommate!" She stood up and gave me a high five. "Here's your key and we are room 323 on the third floor. I'll be around after all this check in stuff dies down then we can grab dinner later?"          "Sure, see you in a bit!" I pocketed my key and heaved a sigh, thinking about all the stuff in my car I needed to bring up. To the third freaking floor. No elevator in the building. I strode past the guys playing football, and all the freshmen with their parents unloading their things. I was transferring in as a junior, which made me very nervous. Everyone had already had two years to establish friendships with everyone on campus. I felt very new and very alone. I didn't have my parents with me, in fact, I didn't have any parents at all. They passed away in a car accident when I was 14 and I'd lived with my grandma ever since.          My thoughts continued to race as I opened my trunk and took out one of my totes. I started lugging it across the quad, sweating in the midwestern heat. I dropped the heavy tote under a tree and sat on it, catching my breath.          "Fuckin a," I muttered to myself. "This is going to be impossible."          "Hey," a shadow blocked the sunlight and I looked up at the owner of the deepest voice I'd ever heard. "Do you need some help with that?"          It was the cute guy playing football with...what was his name again? Chris? The one with the spiky hair and black shirt. Now with him so close up I could see his eyes were an interesting shade of greenish blue and they stood out against his tanned face.         "Yes, please," I replied gratefully and stood up. He was only a few inches taller than me, and absolutely gorgeous. He hefted the tote into his arms.         "Where am I taking this?" Mr. Handsome asked.         "Third floor of that dorm, 323 is the room number."         "Okay," he said and started walking towards the dorms. I expected him to drop the tote where we stood when he heard he had to go up three flights of stairs, but he didn't. I followed him, and we carried it up the stairs together. When we reached my room, I squeezed by him to unlock the door.         "You can put the tote in front of that bed, I guess. Thank you so much for your help. I appreciate you!" I said with a smile.        "That cant be all you have."        "No, I have much more in my car. But this was the heaviest. I can handle it."        "Let me help you. It will go much faster," Mr. Handsome kindly offered.        "Well...okay. I feel bad though. You don't have to do this. Shouldn't you be moving your own things in?"         "I'm a senior. I moved in yesterday. Plus, I threw the ball that almost nailed you in the face. So I figured I owed you one."        I laughed. "You have a shitty arm!"       "Good thing I'm a Fine Arts major," he replied dryly. I grinned and stuck my hand out.       "I'm Veronica."       "I'm Rami. I'm so sorry I almost knocked you out with my shitty arm."        "No worries. I guess we should get the rest of my stuff?"        "Let's do this," Rami replied and headed out to the stairs. —        Several hours later, I was unpacked, settled in and sitting on my bed, laptop open and reviewing my class schedule. A soft knock on my door snapped me back to reality. I climbed off my raised bed and opened the door to find Rami standing against the wall.          "Hey you," I said with a smile. "What's up?"          "Just wanted to see how you were doing. You had a crap ton of stuff to move in."           I laughed. "Yeah, I'm pretty much all settled. Want to come in?" I stepped aside to allow him in.           "Looks good in here," Rami looked around. "You work fast. My room is still a shithole!"           I had strung up twinkle lights on the wall high above my side of the room. Posters of my favorite bands crossed my wall and I set framed photos of me and my parents, me and my brothers and me and my grandma. Rami slowly walked around my side of the room, taking in everything with his intense eyes.           "Is this your family?" He asked, gently touching one of my frames. "How come they weren't here to help you move in?"          I wasn't one to share my sob story the first time I meet someone, but he had to ask.         "Well, my brothers are still in high school. They're sophomores."         "Twins?"          "Yup. And my parents- they died when I was 14." I looked away. I was in the accident as well, I'd survived. They didn't. As much as I knew it wasn't my fault, I lived with guilt every day. Rami touched my elbow.          "I'm so sorry for prying. I didn't know."          "It's ok. I just don't talk about it much."           "I have a twin brother, and an older sister. Are these guys complete hell-raisers like my brother and I were?" Rami swiftly changed the subject. I smiled, thinking of those two idiots at home, missing them and their incessant teasing. I also did not miss the fact that there were two guys out there that looked like Rami. It seemed a bit unfair to the rest of the men in the world.             "They like to switch on people for sure, but they're actually really good guys. My grandma did an incredible job with us."             "This her?" He pointed at my favorite picture I had of her. It was from the early 1940s and she was about 19 years old. She had on an adorable knee length dress, cinched at the waist in the style of those days and sassy heels.            I nodded, already missing her terribly. But she was the one who understood my need to leave and be on my own. She'd encouraged me to come to a school 3 hours away, because she knew how desperate I was so start my own life.            "She's beautiful. You look just like her."            I blushed at the compliment and Rami looked at me with a lopsided shy smile. My stomach decided that was the opportune time to let everyone know it was dinner time. Rami laughed and I covered my stomach.             "I was going to ask if you wanted to get dinner with me and my roommate tonight, but If you're not hungry," he teased.           "I was supposed to eat with my roommate, but she got called into an RA meeting. I was going to head down there alone," I shrugged.            "There's no reason for you to be alone on your first night here. Come with us. I promise no flying sports equipment will be involved."

[myheartjamie-claire]

📚Excerpt From

Outlander

Diana Gabaldon📚

•

The heavy door squeaked on its hinges, and I was alone with Jamie. Alone and afraid, and very, very doubtful about what I proposed to do.

I stood at the foot of the bed, watching him for a moment. The room was dimly lit by the glow of the brazier and by two enormous candlesticks, each nearly three feet tall, that stood on the table at the side of the room. He was naked, and the faint light seemed to accentuate the hollows left by the wasting fever. The multicolored bruise over the ribs stained the skin like a spreading fungus.

A dying man takes on a faint greenish tinge. At first just a touch at the edge of the jaw, this pallor spreads gradually, over the face and down the chest as the force of life begins to ebb. I had seen it many times. A few times, I had seen that deadly progress arrested and reversed, the skin flush with blood once more, and the man live. More often…I shook myself vigorously and turned away.

I brought my hand out of the folds of my robe and laid on the table the objects I had collected in a surreptitious visit to Brother Ambrose’s darkened workshop. A vial of spirits of ammonia. A packet of dried lavender. Another of valerian. A small metal incense burner, shaped like an open blossom. Two pellets of opium, sweet scented and sticky with resin. And a knife.

The room was close and stuffy with smoke from the brazier. The only window was covered with a heavy tapestry, one showing the execution of Saint Sebastian. I eyed the saint’s upturned face and arrow-punctured torso, wondering afresh at the mentality of the person who had chosen this particular decoration for a sickroom.

Indifferently rendered as it was, the tapestry was of heavy silk and wool, and excluded all but the strongest drafts. I lifted the lower edge and flapped it, urging the charcoal smoke out through the stone arch.

The cold, damp air that streamed in was refreshing, and did something to calm the throbbing that had started in my temples as I stared into the reflecting water, remembering.

There was a faint moan behind me, and Jamie stirred in the draft. Good. He was not deeply unconscious, then.

Letting the tapestry fall back over the window, I next took up the incense burner. I fixed one of the opium pellets on the spike and lighted it with one of the wax tapers for the candlesticks. I placed it on the small table near Jamie’s head, careful not to inhale the sickly fumes myself.

There was not much time. I must finish my preparations quickly, before the opium smoke drove him too far under to be roused.

I unlaced the front of my robe and rubbed my body quickly with handfuls of the lavender and valerian. It was a pleasant, spicy smell, distinctive and richly evocative. A smell that, to me, conjured the shade of the man who wore its perfume, and the shade of the man behind him; shades that evoked confusing images of present terror and lost love. A smell that, to Jamie, must recall the hours of pain and rage spent wrapped in its waves. I rubbed the last of it vigorously between my palms and dropped the fragrant shreds on the floor.

With a deep breath for courage, I picked up the vial of ammoniacal spirits. I stood by the bed a moment holding it, looking down at the gaunt, stubbled face. At most he might last a day; at the least, only a few more hours.

“All right, you bloody Scottish bastard,” I said softly. “Let’s see how stubborn you really are.” I lifted the injured hand, dripping, from the water and set the soaking dish aside.

I opened the vial and waved it closely under his nose. He snorted and tried to turn his head away, but didn’t open his eyes. I dug my fingers into the hair on the back of his head to prevent his turning away, and brought the vial back to his face. He shook his head slowly, swinging it from side to side like an ox roused from slumber, and his eyes came open just a crack.

“Not done yet, Fraser,” I whispered in his ear, trying as best I could to catch the rhythm of Randall’s clipped consonants.

Jamie moaned and hunched his shoulders. I grasped him by both shoulders and shook him roughly. His skin was so hot I nearly let go.

“Wake up, you Scottish bastard! I’m not done with you yet!” He began to struggle up onto his elbows with a pitiful effort at obedience that nearly broke my heart. His head was still shaking back and forth, and the cracked lips were muttering something that sounded like “please not yet” over and over again.

Strength failing, he rolled to one side and collapsed facedown on the pillow again. The room was beginning to fill with opium smoke and I felt mildly dizzy.

I gritted my teeth and plunged my hand between his buttocks, gripping one curving round. He screamed, a high breathy sound, and rolled painfully sideways, curling into a ball with his hands clasped between his legs.

I had spent the hour in my chamber, hovering over my pool of reflection, conjuring memories. Of Black Jack Randall and of Frank, his six-times-great-grandson. Such very different men, but with such startling physical similarities.

It tore me to think of Frank, to recall his face and voice, his mannerisms, his style of lovemaking. I had tried to obliterate him from my mind, once my choice was made in the circle of stone, but he was always there, a shadowy figure in the recesses of my mind.

I felt sick with betrayal of him, but in the extremity I had forced my mind to clear as Geilie had shown me, concentrating on the flame of the candle, breathing the astringency of the herbs, calming myself until I could bring him from the shadows, see the lines of his face, feel once more the touch of his hand without weeping.

There was another man in the shadows, with the same hands, the same face. Eyes filled with the candle flame, I had brought him forward, too, listening, watching, seeing the likenesses and the differences, building a—a what? A simulacrum, a persona, an impression, a masquerade.

A shaded face, a whispered voice, and a loving touch that I might bring to deceive a mind adrift in delirium. And I left my chamber at last, with a prayer for the soul of the witch Geillis Duncan.

Jamie was on his back now, writhing slightly against the pain of his wounds. His eyes were fixed and staring, with no sign of recognition.

I caressed him in the way I knew so well, tracing the line of his ribs from breastbone to back, lightly as Frank would have done, pressing hard on the aching bruise, as I was sure the other would have. I leaned forward and ran

my tongue slowly around his ear, tasting and probing, and whispered, “Fight me! Fight back, you filthy scut!”

His muscles tightened and his jaw clenched, but he continued to stare upward. No choice, then. I would have to use the knife after all. I knew the risk I was taking in this, but better to kill him myself, I thought, than to sit quietly by and let him die.

I took the knife from the table and drew it firmly across his chest, along the path of the freshly healed scar. He gasped with the shock of it, and arched his back. Seizing a towel, I scrubbed it briskly over the wound. Before I could falter, I forced myself to run my fingers over his chest, scooping up a gout of blood which I rubbed savagely over his lips. There was one phrase that I didn’t have to invent, having heard it myself. Bending low over him, I whispered, “Now kiss me.”

I was not at all prepared for it. He hurled me half across the room as he came up off the bed. I staggered and fell against the table, making the giant candlesticks sway. The shadows darted and swung as the wicks flared and went out.

The edge of the table had struck me hard across the back, but I recovered in time to dodge away as he lunged for me. With an inarticulate growl, he came after me, hands outstretched.

He was both faster and stronger than I expected, though he staggered awkwardly, bumping into things. He cornered me for a moment between the brazier and the table, and I could hear his breath rasping harshly in his throat as he grabbed for me.

He smashed his left hand toward my face; had his strength and reflexes been anything like normal, the blow would have killed me. Instead, I jerked to one side, and his fist glanced off my forehead, knocking me to the floor, mildly stunned.

I crawled under the table. Reaching for me, he lost his balance and fell against the brazier. Glowing coals scattered across the stone floor of the chamber.

He howled as his knee crunched heavily into a patch of hot coal. I seized a pillow from the bed and beat out a smoldering nest of sparks in the trailing bedcover. Preoccupied with this, I didn’t notice his approach, until a solid clout across the head knocked me sprawling.

The cot overturned as I tried to pull myself up with a hand on the frame. I lay sheltering behind it for a moment, trying to get my senses back. I could hear Jamie hunting me in the semidarkness, breath rasping between incoherent phrases of Gaelic cursing. Suddenly he caught sight of me and flung himself over the bed, eyes mad in the dim light.

It is difficult to describe in detail what happened next, if only because everything happened a number of times, and the times all overlap in my memory. It seems as though Jamie’s burning hands closed on my neck only once, but that once went on forever. In fact, it happened dozens of times. Each time I managed to break his grip and throw him off, to retreat once more, dodging and ducking around the wrecked furniture. And once again he would follow, a man pulled by rage from the edge of death, swearing and sobbing, staggering and flailing wildly.

Deprived of the sheltering brazier, the coals died quickly, leaving the room black as pitch and peopled with demons. In the last flickers of light, I saw him crouched against the wall, maned in fire and mantled in blood, penis stiff against the matted hair of his belly, eyes blue murder in a skull-white face. A Viking berserker. Like the Northern devils who burst from their dragon-ships into the mists of the ancient Scottish coast, to kill and plunder and burn.

Men who would kill with the last ounce of their strength. Who would use that last strength to rape and sow their violent seed in the bellies of the conquered. The tiny incense burner gave no light, but the sickly smell of opium clogged my lungs. Though the coals were out, I saw lights in the darkness, colored lights that floated at the edge of my vision.

Movement was becoming harder; I felt as though I were wading through water thigh-deep, pursued by monstrous fish. I lifted my knees high, running in slow motion, feeling the water splash against my face.

I shook off the dream, to realize that there was in fact wetness on my face and hands. Not tears, but blood, and the sweat of the nightmare creature I grappled with in the dark.

Sweat. There was something I should remember about sweat, but I couldn’t recall it. A hand tightened on my upper arm and I pulled away, a slick film left on my skin.

Around and around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel. But something was wrong, it was the weasel chasing me, a weasel with sharp white teeth that pierced my forearm. I hit out at it and the teeth let go, but the claws…around and around the mulberry bush…

The demon had me up against the wall; I could feel stone behind my head and stone beneath my grasping fingers, and a stone-hard body pressing hard against me, bony knee between my own, stone and bone, between my own…legs, more stony hardness…ah. A softness amidst the hardness of life, pleasant coolness in the heat, comfort in the midst of woe…

We fell locked together to the floor, rolling over and over, tangled in the folds of the fallen tapestry, washed in the drafts of cold air from the window. The mists of madness began to recede.

We bashed into some piece of furniture and both lay still. Jamie’s hands were locked on my breasts, fingers digging bruisingly into the flesh.

I felt the plop of dampness on my face, sweat or tears, I couldn’t tell, but opened my eyes to see. Jamie was looking down at me, face blank in the moony light, eyes wide, unfocused. His hands relaxed. One finger gently traced the outline of my breast, from slope to tip, over and over. His hand moved to cup the breast, fingers spread like a starfish, soft as the grip of a nursing child.

“M-mother?” he said. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. It was the high, pure voice of a young boy. “Mother?”

The cold air laved us, whirling the unhealthy smoke away in a drift of snowflakes. I reached up and laid the palm of my hand along his cold cheek.

“Jamie, love,” I said, whispering through a bruised throat, “Come then, come lay your head, man.” The mask trembled then and broke, and I held the big body hard against me, the two of us shaking with the force of his sobbing.

It was, by considerable good luck, the unflappable Brother William who found us in the morning. I woke groggily to the sound of the door opening, and snapped to full consciousness when I heard him clear his throat emphatically before saying “Good morning to ye,” in his soft Yorkshire drawl.

The heavy weight on my chest was Jamie. His hair had dried in bronze streaks and whorled over my breasts like the petals of a Chinese chrysanthemum. The cheek pressed against my sternum was warm and slightly sticky with sweat, but the back and arms I could touch were as cold as my thighs, chilled by the winter air gusting in on us.

Daylight streaming through the uncurtained window revealed the full extent of the wreckage I had only dimly realized the night before; smashed furniture and crockery littered the room, and the massive paired candlesticks lay like fallen logs in the midst of a tangle of torn hangings and scattered bedclothes.

From the pattern of indentations impressing itself painfully into my back, I thought I must be lying on the indifferently executed tapestry of St. Sebastian the Human Pincushion; no great loss to the monastery, if so.

Brother William stood motionless in the doorway, jug and basin in hand. With great precision, he fixed his eyes on Jamie’s left eyebrow and inquired, “And how do you feel this morning?”

There was a rather long pause, during which Jamie considerately remained in place, blanketing most of me from view. At last, in the hoarse tones of one to whom a revelation has been vouchsafed, he replied, “Hungry.”

“Oh, good,” said Brother William, still staring hard at the eyebrow, “I’ll go and tell Brother Josef.” The door closed soundlessly behind him.

“Nice of you not to move,” I remarked. “I shouldn’t like us to be responsible for giving Brother William impure thoughts.”

Dense blue eyes stared down at me. “Aye, well,” he said judiciously, “a view of my arse is no going to corrupt anyone’s Holy Orders; not in its present condition. Yours, though…” He paused to clear his throat.

“What about mine?” I demanded.

The bright head lowered slowly to plant a kiss on my shoulder. “Yours,” he said, “would compromise a bishop.”

“Mmmphm.” I was, I felt, getting rather good at Scottish noises myself. “Be that as it may, perhaps you should move now. I don’t suppose even Brother William’s tact is infinite.”

Jamie lowered his head next to mine with some care, laying it on a fold of tapestry, from which he peered sideways at me. “I dinna know how much of last night I dreamed and how much was real.” His hand unconsciously strayed to the scratch across his chest. “But if half what I thought happened really happened, I should be dead now.”

“You’re not. I looked.” With some hesitation, I asked, “Do you want to be?”

He smiled slowly, eyes half-closing. “No, Sassenach, I don’t.”

His face was gaunt and shadowed with illness and fatigue, but peaceful, the lines around his mouth smoothed out and the blue eyes clear. “But I’m damned close to it, want to or not. The only reason I think I’m not dying now is that I’m hungry. I wouldna be hungry if I were about to die, do ye think? Seems a waste.” One eye closed altogether, but the other stayed half-open, fixed on my face with a quizzical expression.

“You can’t stand up?”

He considered carefully. “If my life depended on it, I might possibly lift my head again. But stand up? No.”

With a sigh, I wriggled out from under him and righted the bed before trying to lever him into a vertical position. He managed to stand for only a few seconds before his eyes rolled back and he fell across the bed. I groped frantically for the pulse in his neck, and found it, slow and strong, just below the three-cornered scar at the base of his throat. Simple exhaustion. After a month of imprisonment and a week of intense physical and mental stress, starvation, injury, sickness and high fever, even that vigorous frame had finally come to the end of its resources.

“The heart of a lion,” I said, shaking my head, “and the head of an ox. Too bad you haven’t also got the hide of a rhinoceros.” I touched a freshly bloodied weal on his shoulder.

He opened one eye. “What’s a rhinoceros?”

“I thought you were unconscious!”

“I was. I am. My head’s spinning like a top.”

I drew a blanket up over him. “What you need now are food and rest.”

“What you need now,” he said, “are clothes.” And shutting the eye again, he fell promptly asleep.

{End of Excerpt}📖📚

[needtherapy]

soaring, carried aloft on the wind…continued 13

A story for Xichen and Mingjue, in another time and another place.

The Beifeng, the mighty empire of the north, invaded more than a year ago, moving inexorably south and east.

In order to buy peace, the chief of the Lan clan has given the Beifeng warlord a gift, his second oldest son in marriage. However, when Xichen finds out he makes a plan.

He, too, can give a gift to the Beifeng warlord, and he will not regret it.

Part 1: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13  … HOME

It’s on AO3 here if that’s easier to read.

NOTES: This chapter is Explicit.

For translations of the entirely fictitious Beifeng language, you’ll have to scroll to notes. I’m only going to translate something that’s not clear in the text. Sadly, there’s just not any other good way to do it on Tumblr!

Chapter 13

The weather shifts abruptly in autumn: one day sunny skies and crisp air, the next thick clouds and a biting wind that rolls down from the west. It’s a bittersweet reminder of the Cloud Recesses, but Xichen decides he likes it. He likes wool and fur-lined jackets, he likes the way the clouds are painted in shades of grey, and he likes the patter of rain on the canvas roof of his tent.

He’s busier now, too. The Ikarahu are moving again slowly, so slowly it is nearly imperceptible, but in the last two weeks, Xichen has noticed that the tent lines are shifting. Where he was once on the easternmost edge of the camp, he is now nearly in the middle, and the horse yards have moved from the northwest to the east, closer to Jinlin Tai. There are more in-camp injuries to care for and more battle wounds to heal. The Ikarahu are growing impatient, Xichen thinks, and he wonders how much longer the Jin can withstand the siege.

One evening—Xichen has lost track of the exact days—Huaisang, Qingyang, and Mingjue all come to dinner, and Xichen is immediately suspicious. Qingyang, in particular, has a wicked smirk on her face, and Mingjue looks far too pleased with himself.

“Zewu-Jun, it has come to my attention that you have kept a secret from us,” Huaisang announces. 

Xichen’s blood turns to ice. How could they possibly have found out? Would this dissolve the treaty? No. No. Regardless of whether or not he alone changed the terms, the Ikarahu agreed to accept it, to accept him. They must honor it. They must. He stumbles backward a step, and Mingjue reaches out to steady him, a puzzled look on his face.

“Weren’t you going to tell us it was your birthday?” Huaisang continues, and Xichen stares.

His birthday. Is it his birthday? He blinks, thinking. It could be.

“Is it the eighth of the month?” he asks, still numb from the vestiges of prickling fear. If so, he has been here a little over two months. Only two months. 

Huaisang nods. “Lucky thing I read treaties to put myself to sleep on lonely nights,” he jokes—Xichen does not flinch—and hands him a square wrapped in brightly striped fabric, followed by Qingyang, who hands him a short bamboo tube. 

Xichen has to sit, overwhelmed by the surprise. Birthdays were not important in the Cloud Recesses, although they were usually acknowledged with well wishes and small tokens. He isn’t sure how to react.

“Well?” Qingyang says impatiently, when Xichen doesn’t move. ”Open them!”

Xichen does, fumbling with the pleasure of gifts and the constant surprise of friendship. Qingyang has given him a drawing of himself and Mingjue during that first sword fight. She is a splendid artist and somehow captured the motion of battle with simple, elegant, perfectly placed brushstrokes. Even the negative space inside the brushstrokes speaks of movement and action. Xichen’s robes seem to swirl around him, sword arm arching back, and Mingjue is raising his ipira to block. Xichen touches the expressions on their faces: his looks intent and serious, but there’s the tiniest hint of a smile on Mingjue’s. Xichen is nearly speechless.

“Qingyang, why have I never seen your maps?” he asks, squeezing her hand. “They must be beautiful. This is wonderful, thank you.”

Huaisang��s gift is a book of music Xichen hasn’t seen before, some folk songs and some that look like power lurks in their notes. The pages all seem different, as though they came from different sources, and they are bound in a greenish-blue leather that looks like the deepest water of the river that flows through the Cloud Recesses. Xichen gapes at it. He has no idea how leather could be this shade of blue. It must have been exorbitantly expensive or made by magic. Or both. 

“It is too much, Huaisang,” he protests, but Huaisang waves him off.

“Trust me, I owe you more than that. This is the longest we’ve gone without anakau trying to throw me or anyone else off a cliff.”

Xichen has gotten used to Huaisang’s teasing and just smiles. 

“Thank you, anati,” he teases back, ruffling his hair and calling him little brother. To his delight, it’s Huaisang who blushes.

“Edas ahora,” Mingjue pulls Xichen to his feet and hands him a long tube with leather straps, itself an intricate marvel. “For you.”

Xichen looks at the wooden tube, the length of an iraho, carved and painted with fantastical beasts—lions with wings, tigers with two heads, fiery birds—all beautiful beyond words. He reverently traces the lines of one coiled dragon before he opens the case. When Xichen pulls out the iraho, all the air vanishes from his lungs. It is so much more than a sword. It is a sublime weapon, perfectly balanced, meant for an emperor or an immortal, not for Xichen. The scabbard and pommel are white jade inlaid with silver in a pattern that seems random, except it reminds him of something, almost like the crackle of frost. The handguard has a blue stone set in the center of the design. And the iraho itself—Xichen has never seen anything like the blade. The metal is cold and pale, rippling in the light as though it is alive.

“What...what is it?” he asks reverently, touching the spine. 

Mingjue says something, too many words for Xichen to follow, so Huaisang translates. 

“It’s an ice blade,” he says. “Only a few artisans in our country still make them, but this one…” He pauses, choosing his words more carefully than usual. “This one is older and different. It has a name, for one thing, Sikunadis. We think that’s because ‘tadis sikun’ means ‘‘bright heart.’ It has a sister, Kaumadis. ‘Tadis kauma’ is ‘dark heart.’ They’re old enough that we’re not entirely sure.” 

He nods to Mingjue, and Xichen realizes that he means the ipira Mingjue carries, which does have a similar pattern of fault lines, now that Xichen thinks about it, except that where Sikunadis is white, Kaumadis’s scabbard and pommel are black. Kaumadis’s blade is dark, although it has the same shifting, undulating appearance, and of course, the stone on its handguard is a deep crimson.

“They were created from the same vein of metal by the same master using the same magic, although as you can see, they took different paths during forging. They can hold magic, maybe even your magic, and they have continued to be in our family for generations.”

Xichen hears the words Huaisang is not saying and fully understands how precious this gift is. It is not one that can be refused, even if he were so inclined, and he is not. He wants to keep this beautiful sword badly, enough that he feels lightheaded with the desire. It occurs to him to wonder when and how Mingjue brought this sword to the Ikarahu camp, but he doesn’t allow himself to consider any of the answers his heart wants to believe most.

Xichen kisses Mingjue lightly, mindful of their audience, but he lingers to rub his nose against Mingjue’s. “Tiras mau, Etikuntiga.”

Judging by the expression on his face, Xichen isn’t sure Mingjue is going to allow Huaisang and Qingyang to stay for dinner—Xichen isn’t even sure he does—but Mingjue relents for the exact amount of time it takes to finish eating and then gives Huaisang a narrow-eyed look that makes Huaisang roll his eyes.

“Ipira’orhew Ikira, you are a tyrant,” he grumbles. 

Qingyang grins. She cups her hands and bows deeply. “Happy birthday, my friend.”

Huaisang takes Xichen’s hand and tugs, pulling Xichen down to kiss him on both cheeks. “To long life, swift horses, and blue skies,” he says, and then adds, more softly and mysteriously, “Thank you.”

He shoots Mingjue an aggrieved look, but Mingjue just waves his hand, shooing his brother, and Xichen bites his lip to keep from laughing. 

Qingyang doesn’t resist, laughing and draping her arm over Huaisang’s shoulder to lead him away. “Aurakat, I will let you buy me a drink to celebrate our dear friend Xichen’s birthday, and I won’t even complain when you inevitably whine about your tragic love life. Is that acceptable?” 

Xichen turns to ask Mingjue why Huaisang had thanked him, but the words are lost and the thought disappears as Mingjue meets him with hungry lips, ravishing his mouth as soon as the tent flap closes. The hands on his body are equally greedy, and Xichen steps into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Mingjue’s neck, pulling him closer, just as eager. Mingjue sweeps Xichen into his arms to carry him to the bed and lay him down, but Xichen stops Mingjue before he can get any further.

“I want to see your hair down.” Xichen touches the braids. “Kami teko parau?”

It’s not quite the right words, but Xichen hopes that between the two languages, it’s close enough. Mingjue’s reaction surprises him. His mouth curves into a wicked smile, and he tips Xichen’s head back, kissing him hard, thrillingly harder than usual, sliding his other hand inside Xichen’s robes to rest on his chest, just above his heart.

“Ani, aitapaho, iko eko paka,” he says, and Xichen hesitates.

“Should I not?” he asks. He’s never seen Mingjue’s hair down, only either tightly coiled or loosely arranged. Perhaps it is not allowed.

Mingjue’s smile broadens. “You may. It is…” The dimples deepen, and Xichen’s heart rate climbs. “It is a sacred vow,” he laughs and turns to settle on the bed between Xichen’s legs.

Xichen still doesn’t know exactly what he means, but he reverently touches the thick cluster of braids and tugs at it, looking for the circular pins that hold it. He collects them in a pile until the braids drop from their tight knot. They’re longer than Xichen expected, falling to Mingjue’s mid-back, and even plaited, they’re soft to touch. He runs his fingers through them and Mingjue makes a humming noise of contentment. Xichen’s fingers yearn to undo all of them, even though there must be close to a hundred. He wavers, still uncertain, and Mingjue looks back at him, eyebrow raised. He takes one of the braids and pulls off the thread that binds it, undoing the plait and shaking his head. 

Swiftly, Xichen starts unfastening the rest of the braids. Mingjue seems to be enjoying himself, exhaling like a purring cat and rubbing his hands over Xichen’s legs and inner thighs while he works, occasionally adjusting to lean against Xichen’s groin in a very distracting way.

By the time the last braid is undone, Xichen is nearly breathless with arousal. The unbound length of Mingjue’s hair is as sublimely beautiful as the rest of him, wavy from the braids, with a reddish hue in the golden light of Xichen’s tent. 

Xichen sinks his hands into the thick mass, scratching Mingjue’s scalp and running his fingers all the way to the edge. Mingjue turns his face to touch his lips to Xichen’s jaw. It is such a gentle, loving gesture, it ignites an immediacy in Xichen born of more than only lust. His heart, his soft heart, is pounding with unspoken words, and he suddenly needs to feel Mingjue’s skin against his. Xichen tugs at Mingjue’s clothes ineffectively, not exactly pulling any of the right places, but Mingjue obliges him, sliding off his jacket and generously removing his tunic without Xichen even needing to ask.

Kneeling to face Xichen, he shakes his head with mock sorrow. “Your clothes. Too many.”

So Xichen takes Mingjue’s hands and sets them on his belt. “Take them off,” he agrees.

Mingjue has become skilled at unfastening the many layers of robes and underclothes Xichen usually wears, and in exchange, Xichen has started wearing fewer of them. Today, he has only two robes, an undershirt, and the wide-legged pants the Ikarahu prefer. Mingjue grins when he realizes it and pulls Xichen’s shirt off with a flourish that makes him laugh. Mingjue leans forward to kiss Xichen, and his waterfall of hair covers them both, tickling Xichen’s neck and chest, turning the laughter into restless hunger.

“Xichen?” Mingjue asks, brushing his nose against Xichen’s ear, sending tingling sparks surging down his back and neck. “I want…with you...pikodau? Hm...sex?”

He sounds unsure in a way that makes Xichen smile, and he feels a little bad for what Huaisang’s efforts to teach Yuyan to Mingjue must be like. “We have. We do.”

Mingjue’s grin is a sideways tilt of his lips that makes him look charming and boyish, and Xichen tucks a loose strand of wavy hair behind his ear. “Yes, piko. It is good. Pikodau is different sex.” For once, Mingjue is the one who flushes, and he gives up trying to explain. “Trust me?”

Xichen does, especially here in this bed, where Mingjue is always attentive, always accommodating. And that blush, the one that scatters a rosy tint over the creases of Mingjue’s dimples—Xichen finds that he is willing to risk much for that blush. He wraps his arms around Mingjue’s neck and kisses him roughly, not certain what Mingjue is asking for, but certain he can trust him.

As is ever the case, he loses himself in the intensity of Mingjue’s demanding hands and mouth and hardly notices when Mingjue slips his pants down over his hips. He’s surprised when Mingjue rolls him on his stomach, though, and he’s thoroughly shocked when he feels warm breath on his buttocks. This is something new and strange and, he feels, entirely inappropriate. He doesn’t like that he can’t see what Mingjue is doing, but the hands on his back are soothing, even when they angle his hips up, and he relaxes.

Trust, he reminds himself.

“Mingjue, oh, no, please,” he stutters when he feels Mingjue’s tongue graze against his hole, but he leans into it anyway, his body reacting before his thoughts can process. When his dazed mind catches up, he corrects his words so there is absolutely no confusion. “Yes, please, ani.”

The first time Mingjue had touched Xichen there with wet, oil-slicked fingers, Xichen had nearly passed out. He wasn’t entirely innocent—he understood how such a thing could be necessary. It never occurred to him that it was desirable until he had heard himself moaning and pleading for more, and more, even more, and had climaxed with Mingjue’s fingers deep inside him. 

Now, though, he doesn’t even recognize the keening sound of his voice. The hard and soft feel of Mingjue’s tongue against him, dipping into him, is worlds and stars beyond his wildest spring dreams. Mingjue wraps a hand around Xichen’s waist, reaching to stroke his cock, too, and Xichen is made of fire, kindling wherever Mingjue is touching him. It’s almost too much to bear, but when he stops, Xichen falls back onto the bed with a disappointed whine he can’t quite suppress. The Ikarahu may not believe in gods, but at this moment, Xichen certainly does.

Mingjue reaches into the pocket of his discarded pants and pulls out a small jar. He pours oil onto his palm, coating his fingers into the small pool and spreading it along the length of his shaft. With courageous effort, Xichen moves his liquid arms and legs so he can watch Mingjue with hazy eyes, understanding now what he was asking for, and debates whether or not this is something he wants. It is not a long debate. It is, in fact, simple. Inexplicable and unlikely as it is, he wants Mingjue, any way he can have him. Every way he can have him. Not only for a treaty, not only for duty, but for himself. What monotony his life would have been, he thinks, if he had not made this choice, and he opens his mouth to tell Mingjue.

But the words dissolve in his throat as Mingjue kisses the corner of Xichen’s knee and asks again, asks with his eyes and his hands and his mouth. “Xichen, yes?”

In answer, Xichen lets his legs relax and fall to the side, a curving smile shaping brazen lines on his face and Mingjue’s hissed curse and groan. “Mingjue, yes.”

Less tenderly than usual, and more like he is fighting his own shaking desire, Mingjue slides his finger inside Xichen, distracting him from the momentary discomfort by kissing his neck and nipping the edge of his collarbone. He curls his other hand around Xichen’s cock again, and there is nothing but the pleasure that shivers in great sheets across his skin. Mingjue’s finger—fingers, now—move inside him, and Xichen is eager to moan, eager to urge Mingjue on with his voice. 

“Please, more, touha, ako,” he begs in both languages, and Mingjue chuckles, but it is tinged with an edge of barely restrained frenzy.

“Aitapaho, ek eko mau Sikunadis, my bright heart. Eina katu sima aki akiti eko?” Mingjue tells him between kisses. “Da atem okira auha di teko kiria.”

Xichen is throbbing, the blood in his body threatening to explode out from him. He can not think to translate anymore. He can not. He grabs Mingjue’s face between his hands and looks into his eyes, the nearly black circles wide with surprise.

“Mingjue, stop talking and just fuck me.” He’s never used the word “fuck” before, but this seems like the right time to start. “Etikuntiga...pikodau...ako.”

Mingjue’s groan is half whimper, half sob, and he drops his head to rest on Xichen’s chest, but he shifts, adding more oil, adjusting himself, and adjusting Xichen with trembling hands that are usually so confident and sure. He is hot and hard and wet against Xichen, and Xichen can’t quite comprehend how he can so powerfully want something he’s never experienced. 

With a shaky sigh that already sounds overcome, Mingjue enters him, gradually pressing in, and Xichen immediately thinks he’s made a mistake. This will not work. They will not fit this way. The fullness is uncomfortable and unfamiliar and not immediately enjoyable. But Mingjue is slow and patient, despite, Xichen notices, his muscles quivering with the effort. He takes one of Xichen’s hands and kisses the palm, nibbling the tips of Xichen’s fingers, which is enjoyable. Very gently, he leans his hips forward and Xichen gasps at how something uncomfortable can quickly turn into something absolutely imperative. 

“Aitapaho? Yes? Ereda sinedi?”

“Oh...…” Xichen manages, arching his back off the bed. It is better now, so much better, and the sparks that burst through him are different, in the way lanterns differ from the sun. “Ani, yes, continue.”

It is the last coherent thought he has, because Mingjue starts to move, pulling out of him and pushing in, and Xichen is consumed. He hadn’t known, he thinks. No one had told him that there could be pleasure like this in the world, that having someone—no, not just someone, Mingjue, only Mingjue—in his bed, in his life, in his body could so unmake him and fulfill him. 

The constant fireworks spread out under his skin, and he strokes himself, matching Mingjue’s speed, watching his eyes roll back, his mouth slack with panting desperation. He should not feel such pride in Mingjue’s passion for him, but he does, and a fiercely possessive sliver of his heart wants to see more. 

“Ah...Huan...let me...help,” Mingjue says, holding Xichen’s hand in his, sliding along Xichen’s cock with him, repeating his name over and over.

It's the first time Mingjue has ever used his birth name, and he pronounces it with two syllables, as it would be in Orera: who-ahn. Xichen hadn’t even realized how much he missed his name and missed what it meant to have someone know him enough to use it. Family. Friends. Confidants. Even if it is only through sex, even if it does not meant to Mingjue what it means to Xichen, feeling known is indescribable. Even when the sounds run together like nonsense, they still sound like music to Xichen.

Xichen’s breathing is ragged and panting uncontrollably, teetering on the sharp edge between pleasure and release, his mind whirling with thoughts and feelings too immense to capture in words. It will never be exactly this way again. He will change, he has changed, for good or ill, and he wants to capture this moment, this singular moment, to remember it forever, to shield him against the uncertainty of the future.

The sudden vehemence of his orgasm takes Xichen by surprise, flexing muscles across his body, even down to the arches of his feet. Everything feels dull and sharp at once, and he wants more and less, he wants to scream and laugh. 

Mingjue’s moans take on new, feral tones that vibrate through Xichen. He falls forward, catching himself on his hands and kisses Xichen madly, furiously. Xichen plunges his hands through Mingjue’s thick hair to the back of his head, anchoring his mouth, and he tastes like the fierce jubilation of love. In three powerful thrusts Xichen feels in his chest, Mingjue climaxes, clutching Xichen tightly to him and filling him with a shocking burst of heat before collapsing against him. 

Xichen vows to never move again. When Mingjue tries to shift his weight off of him, Xichen wraps his arms and legs around him and growls a warning, which makes Mingjue laugh weakly.

“No. Stay,” he commands, and Mingjue acknowledges with a chuffing exhale, tucking his head under Xichen’s chin.

Finally, though, even under Mingjue’s enveloping warmth, Xichen gets cold. Reluctantly, he gets up to clean himself and Mingjue before he leaves. It is how their evenings usually end, but this time, when they are done, Mingjue pulls Xichen back down to the bed.

“Wait. I have a gift.”

He gets a clay pot from the pocket of his long wool coat and opens it. The sweet scent of jasmine wafts from the jar and Xichen jerks upright. Mingjue grins at his hopeful expression, seeming pleased with himself. Sitting next to Xichen, Mingjue shows him the jar, and Xichen touches the thick cream inside that smells so powerfully of home, of the jasmine bushes that wind through the Cloud Recesses, the bees that form clouds around the flowers, and somehow also like the waterfall that crashes over the mountain. 

“How?” Xichen asks, his heart clutched tightly in the memories the scent carries. “How did you know?”

Mingjue touches Xichen’s hair and leans forward to inhale, nuzzling his nose against the skin behind Xichen’s ear. “It is how you smelled when we met. I could never forget.”

Xichen feels broken open and defenseless, and he doesn’t resist when Mingjue begins to rub the cream onto his back. All he can think about it is how he’s rejected calling this love, even in his own mind. He likes Mingjue, he’s foolishly attracted to him, but Xichen is always aware that he has no real choice but to be here. And he can’t ignore what the Ikarahu are doing—have done—can he?

Mingjue reaches his feet, rubbing them one at a time, and Xichen closes his eyes. He has been shown nothing but kindness, treated with nothing but love. No one here has ever raised a hand or voice to him, belittled his opinions, or treated him like an object to be attained. If he had chosen, would he have chosen any differently? Would he choose anyone else? Would he want a life without Mingjue in it?

Before Mingjue can finish, before he can start to dress, Xichen grabs his hand.

“Ahoraho, will you stay tonight? Stay with me?” he implores, trying out the word—beloved one—and it fits perfectly in his mouth.

The radiant smile Mingjue gives him makes Xichen realize he had only been waiting for Xichen to ask. 

Mingjue fits himself against Xichen, threading his fingers through Xichen’s under the warm blankets, and he feels safe, and loved, and wanted. Before Xichen falls asleep, with Mingjue’s breath on the back of his neck, Xichen wonders if this is what having a soulmate is like.

Like a hand linked in his.

Like the steady thump of a heartbeat next to his.

Like a gift he did not even know he wanted. 

What more could there possibly be?

Translation Notes:

Tiras mau. = My thanks.

Kami teko parau? = Brush your hair?

Ani, aitapaho, iko eko paka. = Yes, treasured one, only for you.

Aitapaho, ek eko mau Sikunadis, my bright heart. Eina katu sima aki akiti eko? Da atem okira auha di teko kiria. =  Treasured one, you are my Sikunadis, my bright heart. What did I do to deserve you? I will die happy in your arms.

Ereda sinedi? = Continue?

[alchemist-shizun]

Do cats exist? Debate.

Or: The Welcome To Night Vale au nobody asked for

Word count: 1,823

Taglist: @bookwormscififan @suffering-is-my-comfort-zone @pistachio-lan @pushussmollworld @be-more-chaotic @quietlypondering

Warnings: None that I can think of, there are references to the 4/9/16 episodes.

Characters: Virgil, Deceit, Logan(Mentioned)

Relationship(s): Implied Loceit (we have Dee pining a lot)

Summary: The town has a new favorite mascotte! That's right everybody, give it up for Virgil the black cat, about to charm his way to the conquering of the entire solar system. But, for now, he's sleeping and eating all day and giving out occasional love advice.

A/n: Me? Still refusing to give Deceit a name and just rolling with that? More likely than you think. Just so you know, at some point I wrote "Carlos" instead of "Logan". Another funny thing: I sent the first paragraph to a friend (Hi Gaia if you're reading!) that knows nothing about ts nor wtnv and demanded I absolutely sent her the fic when finished so, peak weirdness everybody. I had a lot of fun writing this, I kinda got in the vibe and just went for it, I could even say I'm somehow proud of how it turned out! But enough of me, I hope you enjoy this little piece 💖

✾

What was a perfectly ordinary day for Night Vale, with its wondrous citizens conducting their quotidian tasks and duties, the sun setting down maybe a slight bit later than the other days and the occasional pet kidnapped by ancient forgotten underground tribes that none should know about and that don't actually exist, couldn't end in anything but a perfectly ordinary night.

Deceit closed the door behind himself with a satisfied sigh; another eventful working day for the radio station had just passed and he let himself wander around the building in search of the bathrooms. Because, you know, sometimes they liked to change places.

Of course, his mere intentions were freshening up a bit and going home once and for all for the night, only that a looming figure above him darkened the room by covering the single source of light on the ceiling and caught his attention immediately.

When he looked up, he was met with a sleeping cat seemingly suspended in the air right next to the sink, which was his destination. Now, don't get him wrong, he wasn't exactly a cat person, but he wasn't a monster either and, well, he was going to wake the poor tired creature if he were to make too much noise!

Walking softly, Deceit made his way to the sink, eyeing carefully the floating creature.

Thoughts of the latest ongoing events traveled through his mind every so often mixing up with other inexplicable ones and just as much frequently going back to that amazingly stunning scientist.

Wasn't it remarkable how washing your face pulled you into an ineffable stream of thoughts in a matter of miserable seconds? Truly one of the quirks of the existence of life.

Deceit started walking back to the door when he heard shuffling in the air and low growling. He turned back to see the black cat on his back, still hovering above the ground, then rolling to get a good view of who had dared to intrude in his new territory.

He had to admit, he didn't realize it at first, but he would've gone back to that moment in the future and he would've labeled it as the exact instant he got raptured by those fascinating different coloured eyes, two little sparkly and attentive irises in the middle of ashen fur. The left one looked like a glacier, not that he had ever seen one close enough to determine its existence, but he could sense a chilly breeze at the sole thought; the right one, though, he wasn't sure. At first glance, it seemed green, only for it to then change to a light brown and, eventually, the more Deceit forced his sight, the more he thought he was seeing them at the same time in a weird yellowish combination. He decided to stop staring, as it wasn't polite.

Nothing of the animal's aura felt threatening, or alarmed at all. It was simply there, bouncing in the nothingness of the room, waiting for Deceit to make any kind of move with no particular expectation.

So he paced forward and gently reached for the cat with one hand: it didn't move, except for the slow calculated heaving of its chest with every breath. Deceit's hand reached the top of its head and, as soon as they shared contact through little caresses, the cat began to purr in contempt and closed its eyes, rubbing its head against his fingers as it decided it could trust him. A half-smile appeared on his lips.

« Oh my! » one of Deceit's coworkers stormed into the bathroom as soon as they saw the scene. « This is the most adorable being I've ever seen! »

Soon enough, a small pack of people was huddled around the cat as he (one of them stated he was, in fact, male) solely licked his paws and was offered food and water.

Now that was good news for the radio; Deceit was aware of the little classification of information that had been going on for millennia, thanks to Erodotus. First priority was a witnessed action, second place was for the action that a person heard from a witness and third came the determining of which could be categorized as potentially true events and which were definitely made up.

Sometimes there was a thin line between the two.

So, yes, as a witness, as soon as he got the chance, he was definitely going to update the town on their new claimed pet.

In a matter of weeks, he had become everybody's best friend and the town's listeners were always more than eager to be informed of how the adorable chubby boy of the radio station's bathroom was doing! Deceit himself couldn't stop sneaking out at times to give him a couple of treats.

I mean, come on, who could even resist those cute demanding eyes? Khoshekh's glare was too much to bear, he kept on getting what he wanted every single time. Gee, what an intelligent and charming cat he was. Who were humans against him? He could have ruled the world if he wanted. Was he going to? You could perceive a certain sparkle in his eyes ...

Maybe.

One day.

But at that time, he only cared for his precious treats and he was fine that way.

Five weeks had passed from the last update on the wonderful feline, when Deceit shut the door of the bathroom behind himself in a movement that reminded him much about the first time he saw Khoshekh.

His face fell in his hands.

« You need to know this. » Deceit's half-muffled voiced traveled through his fingers and reached the cat's ears. Something shifted in the air, but he was too busy pacing around the room and looking at the pavement tiles to realize what had happened.

The light of the room just a bit darker, the shade of the cat just a bit bigger.

Deceit trailed off, gushing about how Logan had called him and how he had acted like a total dumbass, but hey, if that was the price he had to pay to talk to him, he was more than willing to embarrass himself even more.

« For real, though. Can you believe I just said "neat"? Who even says it anymore? » he pinched the bridge of his nose as he heard a humming noise, a little too human to be coming from a cat.

Then again, Deceit was too lost in auto-commiseration to notice.

« Why don't you just ask him out? »

Wait, what?

He had been sure to close the door earlier, he hadn't heard none coming in at all, was he that lost in thought that he-

When his eyes turned to the door, there was none standing in its place, or coming either in or out.

Oh gosh, oh no.

Deceit sighed deeply. Did someone really turn invisible again?

« Over here. » the voice came back from behind him, which caused him to turn to the actual source.

Or not.

In front of him there was a boy definitely younger than him, completely dressed in black clothing and purple patches on his too big but definitely comfortable hoodie, which matched his hair color.

Now, where did he come from?

« Where's the cat? »

« What cat? There's never been a cat. »

Deceit notices the boy was floating mid-air and he had heterochromia. A blue eye and a greenish-brown one.

« You're absolutely right, my mistake. »

The boy crossed his legs and shrinked in his baggy clothing, letting his body be comforted by the softness of the materials.

« So, why don't you do it? » he repeated, looking down on him with a seemingly sleeping expression. Where those his dark circles right under his eyes?

« Oh, I don't think I could ever muster up the courage. »

« And yet, you're able to talk to the entire town at once. »

As much as that was true, Deceit felt deep down that there was no way one could compare Logan's stupendous existence with the one of an ordinary Night Vale citizen. There was really no way.

« He said he didn't need to meet me. » he retorted, clearly just making up excuses at that point.

« He did call you, of all people, though. »

Deceit's eyes widened at the realization. « Oh my god you're right. »

His head fell back in his hands as he replayed the entire conversation in his head for the billionth time, a quiet snicker from the boy filled the silence that was left.

The boy watched him talk to himself about infinite possibilities of where that was probably going.

Then, as if on cue, as if some kind of deity was watching down on them and deciding that was the best moment to strike with a train of coincidences, with a smile on their face so wide it might have fallen from the sky at any time, Deceit's phone rang again.

« It's him! » he exclaimed, surprise in his eyes. Another call? Was it Easter? Christmas came early?

« Go, have you privacy, it's almost time to go back to your room anyway. » how the boy knew that he didn't know, but he complied and excused himself, only to find his working place right next to the bathroom door.

It seemed that day was starting to favor him.

The boy in the bathroom waited.

He floated around the room, mostly by the sink, occasionally changing position. No other worker came by, apart from that lover boy.

He remembered him as the one to give him the most food and care, which would have explained his willingness to change form in his presence.

He had just started to drift back off to sleep, his head barely brushing the wall, when Deceit stormed back in with a huge grin on his face. Was that even a normal facial expression?

« I may have a date. »

« See? What did I tell you? »

He had barely time to speak as Deceit started explaining with a painstakingly accuracy every detail of the phone call and how Logan's voice sounded, so much that the boy could have perfectly imagined it and believed to have already heard it once.

« I need to get ready. » the man started making his way toward the exit.

« Isn't it tomorrow? »

« Yes, but I don't think I'm going to handle it if I don't mentally prepare myself for this. »

« Touché. »

After exchanging their goodbyes (and some food), Deceit was halfway through the door when the boy called out.

« And please, for the love of the glow cloud, tell them my name is Virgil! »

And Virgil hoped he had heard him, despite being lost in his own thoughts and scenarios.

He truly did hope.

[blackroseaki38]

Coloring in the Lines

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Tim Drake in Dc Universe

Trope: Loss of Sight (What kind of sight was not specified. So, I decided on the loss of sight, more specifically, loss of normal colored sight)

An: Crazy this idea even came to me. Was driving home from work. Suddenly, at a stop light. I saw the red light, thought of an anime cake with strawberries on top. BAM. Imagine the strawberry drained of color. Colorblind. I know that is not how it works. But, I liked this idea so I did it.

Tim wakes up when the ringing of his alarm clock would not go away, like the constant ache in his head. Half asleep, he dragged himself out of bed to brush his teeth.

He decided to wait on getting dressed after he had something to fill his empty stomach since he hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast the day before. He grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on in his fridge, which was the slice of cake Damian forced him to take after last night's battle. How someone could look so murderous giving a small piece of cake still baffled him.

He took off the container's cover and sat down on his couch to eat. Tim was still tired and drowsy until the first bite of the sweet dessert hit him. The cool cream against the bittersweet chocolate, along with some kind of fruit, was refreshing enough to get him to open his eyes and see what he is eating.

Tim's eyes opened to see a slice of dark brown chocolate cake topped off with fluffy white cream, with a juicy red strawberry sitting on top. Suddenly, the bright red color of the speckled fruit started to drip away, like crimson blood bleeding out of a deep wound until there was no more color left. Tim's eyes widened in shock as the strawberry became a drab grey blob.

Tim stood up, letting the tupperware fall to the ground in a gooey mess at his feet. He ignored the mess to rush to his restroom, tripping over nonexistent items in his way. Tim slammed the door open and saw a pile of discarded clothing lying on the ground. The boy realized it was his suit, though it was no longer the maroon red color it used to be, at least in Tim's eyes.

Tim closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. 'It can't be true,' he thought to himself. 'I can't be . . . broken.' He opened his eyes, hoping his fears were misguided. Instead of seeing his icy blue eyes, all he saw were a pair of monotonous grey eyes staring back at him.

Tim fell to the ground, devastated at the new development in his life. How could this have happened? He tried his best to remember what happened the night before.

He was able to start his regular patrol when Oracle informed him that Red Hood needed help. By the time he got there, Nightwing and Robin had barely joined the battle. Of course, Jason protested he didn't need any help, but the bullet wound in his arm spoke otherwise. Since Bruce was still at home on bed rest because of his cold, which he got from his impromptu dive in the Gotham harbor, it was only the four of them against the crowd of goons.

Luckily, they were able to defeat the group before call Gothom PD. Once they were able to leave, they said their goodbyes before going their own ways after a quick talk. Robin gave Tim the container of cake while Nightwing tried to keep the injured Hood in his grip to take him back to the Batcave because of his injury. With a quick reminder for tomorrow's family dinner, the trio was off to their destination. Tim was able to get back to his own home, though the kick he took to the head was bothering him. Since there was no blood or torn skin, he decided he didn't need to tell the others since it wasn't serious.

Now, Tim knew that was a mistake. He should have told Dick and maybe then, his eyesight might have been saved.

Tim knew the statistics and how tricky head injuries can be. A lot of head injuries end up with people blind or deaf. He was lucky he ended up with being colorblind instead of having some other kind of . . . issue. He was not going to call himself disabled, because he was more than capable of doing lots of things.

Tim turned to take a look at the uniform by his side. He gripped the material in his hands, wondering how he can be a hero with this issue. He didn't even know the extent of his colorblindness, but he knew he could still see a few colors from how he could still see the yellow walls of the small bathroom.

Tim knew he could tell Bruce and he would do everything in his hands to help him. Get him to a specialist or help him adjust to not seeing certain colors in the world. But, he had a feeling that Bruce would do anything possible to keep him safe, even from himself.

He would force him to move back into the manor and stop his work in Wayne Industries. He would take away the things that made him independent. He would take away . . . Red Robin. He would be taking away . . . his identity just like Dick did.

'No! I can't let anyone know about this or they . . . will take away who I really am. I need to learn how to adjust to being colorblind or else I can expect to be locked up in Wayne Manor for the rest of my life,' Tim decided.

He got up from the floor and went to get his phone from the living room. He winced as he saw the mess he left in his panic, so he quickly cleaned up before he did anything else. On his phone, he was able to find a good eye doctor to visit. He called and made an appointment for the next day. Tim was going to lay down for the rest of the day, to wait out his life until the appointment. But, a text on his phone reminded him of something or rather some event.

Hey, Tim! Just reminding you about the dinner with the family tonight!

Tim groaned as he read Dick's text. Alfred was very upset that the family had been unable to meet up for a family dinner in months. So, Dick decided to have at least one family dinner a month to make sure Alfred is happy . . . and he still makes everyone his delicious cookies. Tim was about to get up when his phone let out a small ding. He checked the notification and saw it was another text, this time from Jason.

Hey, Replacement! Dick asked me to get a cake for tonight, but I forgot. And there is no bakery nearby for me to get one from. Can you get the cake instead? I can make a quick mango custard, you know? Your favorite! I'll order one ahead of time for next month! Just this once!

Tim just found out he can't see certain colors anymore and now his brother was asking him to get a cake during this crisis. 'It's not his fault. He doesn't know about what's going on with me. I'll have to bring the cake, otherwise, there won't be a dessert. Besides, I do like mango custard,' he thought as he sent Jason a reply.

The next hour was spent getting dressed and trying to locate the closest bakery. Once he was ready, he left his home to go to the bakery where he decided to get the cake from.

As soon as he stepped out in the world, he was surprised by how different things looked. The sky was dark and stormy, but he wasn't sure if that was just the way he was seeing it or the weather. He tried to ignore the changes, but he wasn't able to completely. He stopped by the closest store to buy a pair of sunglasses, hoping it would make a difference. They made everything an even shade of grey, but it was better than seeing random pockets of greyish items instead. Once Tim had arrived at the bakery, he took off his glasses knowing it is unusual for people to wear them indoors. As he was doing so, he received another text, this time from a surprising source.

Drake, where are you? We expected you to come earlier. Grayson is getting worried about you since you have been ignoring his calls. Even Todd has arrived before you. Come to the manor before Todd decides to go find you.

Tim sighed, wishing this day would just end already. He sent a reply to Damian, telling him he'll be at the manor within the hour. With that issue out of the way, he started to talk to an employee behind the counter. She led him to a section to choose a cake from.

"These are the cakes that are ready to be picked up. We always have a few cancellations, but the cakes that are already made are placed here. Anyone can buy these cakes without waiting, though there is a limited selection to choose from," she explained as they arrived at a fridge.

Tim looked at the cakes, but none of them seem to catch his eye. Some were for other occasions and others were dull in color. Finally, he found a blue cake with greenish-gold and white stripes.

"I'll take that cake, ma'am,"

The lady looked hesitant as she took out the cake to box.

"Are you sure, sir? We weren't expecting anyone to buy this cake in particular,"

Tim knew not everyone likes the color pink since it is associated with being something girls would like, but he wasn’t going to be late getting to the manor because of the color pink.

"Yes, I'm sure. Can we hurry this along? I need to get going," Tim said as he checked the time on his phone.

As soon as the cake was packed, Tim was out the door and on his way to the manor. Once he arrived, Alfred took the cake box from him and corralled him into the living room. Inside the main sitting area, Dick was trying to get Damian to watch cartoons, Bruce was trying to stop Damian from hurting his brother, and Jason was laughing his head off on the ground.

Tim let out a sigh of relief. The regular chaos of their family was enough to distract everyone from paying attention to him. He slowly tried to leave when a voice called his name.

"Tim!"

Now that he was caught, Tim gave up trying to get away and turned around to greet the group. Bruce, the only one who probably noticed him entering the room, got up from his seat.

"I was getting worried when everyone, even Jason, got here before you. Was there some kind of problem?" Bruce asked cautiously.

'What can I say, Bruce. Everything's fine, except for the fake our family has learned to ignore our problems by following your example. It's not your fault that I tend to be invisible to even my own family. It's my fault. And the consequences were waking up and finding out I'm now colorblind.'

Of course, Tim couldn’t say his thoughts out loud. But, that would open up a can of emotions that he would never be prepared enough to handle.

"I'm fine, Bruce. I had to stop by a bakery to get the cake Jason was supposed to," he responded, making sure to loudly speak his last few lines.

Bruce shook his head with a smile and led the boy to the sofa. Tim was relieved that Bruce didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, though sensing someone is colorblind is out of the question even for Batman.

"I said I'll make sure to order a cake next time!" Jason yelled back.

"Actually, you should just make something like you did today, Jay! I always love your cooking, especially your baking!" Dick said, turning his attention away from Damian, who was clearly relieved he wasn't going to have to watch the treacherous pony show anymore.

"I've already told you, Dickhead. I don't have a good kitchen in the safehouse I'm currently living in. Can't exactly bake without the right tools," Jason countered.

"The dining table is prepared. Master Bruce and Young masters, you may take your seats now."

Everyone stood up and started going towards the dining room.

"Young master Jason?" Alfred called.

Jason stopped and turned to the butler.

"Yeah, Alfred?"

The older man smiled, his eyes twinkling as he looked at the young man in front of him.

"I wouldn't mind sharing the kitchen with you. Your welcome to bake whatever you want in my kitchen. I haven't had your delicious scones in so long."

Jason let a small smile grace his lips for a few seconds.

"I'll think about it. But, thanks for the offer, Alfie."

Once everyone was settled into the dining room, they started to dig in. Other than Alfred's amazing dishes, there were a few other dishes that were brought Dick had brought some sushi from his favorite Japanese restaurant since his cooking would most likely be toxic. Damian made a surprisingly good vegetarian stew, though Tim hoped he did not use his unsanitary daggers. Bruce tried to explain how he wanted to make gelatin, but something went wrong and he bought a tray of lasagna instead. Jason brought the promised mango custard and no one had any complaints about his dish.

Finally, after everyone had eaten and most of the dishes were put away, Alfred brought out the cake. Everyone leaned forward to take a look once Tim took apart the cardboard pink box. Once the cake was revealed, everyone looked at Tim confused.

"Uh, Tim? Not to be rude, but . . . " Dick drawled off.

"Why the fuck did you choose that cake?!" Jason asked bluntly.

"Young Master Jason! Language!" Alfred scolded.

"Sorry, Alfred," the young man replied with a blush on his face. He was not used to anyone 'parenting' him, but he knew better than to argue with Alfred.

"While I do not agree with Jason's choice of words, but I would like to know why you chose this design in particular," Bruce asked as well.

Tim was wondering what the big deal was when Damian spoke up.

"Drake, if I were you, I would have chosen a much superior cake," he started off.

Tim opened his mouth to respond when Damian held up his hand to stop him.

"But, I do like your design as well. The Union Jack is a much more sophisticated design than the American flag," he finished.

Suddenly, Tim made the connection. White Stripes. A cross and a giant X in the middle. Blueish background. 'Oh no! I brought a United Kingdom's flag cake! What can I do?! I can't exactly explain that I was in a rush and my new eye problems caused to mistakenly pick up this cake!' he thought to himself.

"Tim, are you okay?" Dick's worried voice shook the boy out of his thoughts.

"I bought this cake because of . . ." Tim knew he would be found out if he couldn't explain this away, then he saw Alfred standing behind Bruce and he knew what he had to do.

"ALFRED!"

Everyone looked at Alfred, who looked calm opposed to the rest of the family.

"Alfred, you asked Tim to bring a . . . Union Jack themed cake?" Bruce asked the man.

"Of course not, Master Bruce," the unmoved man answered.

"Replacement, can you please explain so we can eat dessert and I can leave?" Jason asked, tired at the conversation.

"What I mean is . . . I bought this cake because Alfred is . . . BRITISH! And I saw this cake, so I thought it would be a nice idea to make Alfred happy," Tim slowly explained.

"That's a nice thought, Tim. But, you do know we live in America, right?" Bruce asked, concerned about Tim's sudden lack of geology.

"Of course I know, Bruce!" Tim responded, gaining more confidence the more he spoke.

"Alfred does everything for us, so why can't we do something for him? Since he is sacrificing his birth land, we should at least appreciate the country that gave us the Alfred we know today," Tim ended his rant, not realizing when his explanation turned into an inspiring speech.

"Tim, I was starting to get concerned about you . . ." Dick started to say, his words worrying Tim.

" . . . but clearly, I was wrong! I'm with Tim! We should be thankful for Britain! We should appreciate where Alfred comes from!"

Tim was glad someone here believed his story.

"And we should definitely get U.K. flag tattoos!"

And now he wished Dick wasn't the first one to believe his story.

"Calm down, Dick. No one is getting any tattoos," Bruce tried to shut down that line of thought.

"Speak for yourself, old man! I already have two!" Jason bragged.

"If Todd had a tattoo, I need to have a better one!" Damian inserted himself into the conversation.

"As I said before, no one here is getting any more tattoos," Bruce said once more, with a pointed glare at Jason.

Alfred let out a small chuckle, catching everyone's attention. Everyone knew Alfred only laughed or chuckled in either the most heartwarming situations . . . or the most amusing.

"What's so funny, Alfred?" Dick asked, hoping the butler would spill the beans already.

"Oh, nothing. It's just that . . . this conversation feels so familiar to how it went between me and Master Bruce so many years ago," the man let out with another chuckle.

"Alfred . . . " Bruce tried to stop the conversation, knowing where this was going.

"Really? Bruce wanted a tattoo?!" Jason asked, with a familiar smirk on his face.

"Oh, yes. I told him he was too young to get his skin 'inked' as he used to say," Alfred continued.

"I assume Father listened to you," Damian guessed, trying not to look like he was not paying attention when he actually was.

"Then you would assume wrong," Alfred responded.

All the boys gasped at the thought of Bruce . . . disobeying Alfred. Bruce groaned, knowing what the man was going to say.

"You don't mean," Tim trailed off.

"Master Bruce got the tattoo he so dearly wanted against my wishes. Though he dearly regretted his decision when his tattoo got infected. And he was very much embarrassed when Leslie had to come in to take a look at his tattoo.

"Why was it embarrassing?" Tim asked.

"Most likely because of where his tattoo was located," Alfred informed them with a smile.

All the boys tried to hold in their laughter as they realize what Alfred meant while Bruce covered his face with his hands in shame.

"Alfred, did you have to tell them every detail?" he asked with a red face.

"Of course, Master Bruce. Besides, I did not tell them every single detail, though if you want me to . . ."

"No thank you, Alfred."

Alfred turned to Tim, as the laughter died down.

"Master Timothy, the others may have been surprised at your choice of design for the desert," he started off.

"I, on the other hand, appreciate your choice."

Tim smiled, thankful that Alfred not only saved his excuse from falling apart in pieces, but also helped distracted the rest of the family unknowingly.

Thankfully, Tim was able to get through the night without any more incidents. The cake turned out to be so delicious that no one had any complaints, but they were reminded of how Jason's cakes were even better. Since Tim and Damian were the only ones who have not tried his baking yet, they requested Jason bake a different country-themed cake every month. Though he venomously rejected the idea out loud, everyone secretly knew Jason would be talking with Alfred about new recipes and different ingredients right after dinner.

After they all helped with the cleaning up process, they all relocated to the living room. Dick tried to get everyone involved in a board game, which Damian tried to destroy in order to prevent that from ever happening. Bless his demonic heart!

Jason was still in the kitchen, not discussing the german chocolate cake he was not making for next month's family dinner. Bruce had snuck off to the cave, to work on another late-night case. In fact, it was time for Tim to leave as well. He had some cases of his own to work on before patrol tonight. Not to mention his upcoming appointment with the eye specialist tomorrow. His best chance of leaving was right now while both Alfred and Bruce were busy.

Tim got up from his seat on the couch and started to go towards his old room in the manor. The best way to escape this family was to make them think he was staying. Instead, he was planning on leaving through the window. The tree outside his room was always easy to scale downwards.

He opened his room, expecting to come into the room and have a quick escape. Instead, he found a certain big brother waiting for him.

Jason was sitting on his wooden desk chair. He lifted his head and his eyes met Tim's.

"Well, well. Look what the cat decided to drag in."

"Why are you in my room, Jason? "

"Your room? That’s not true anymore! You haven't slept over at the manor in months now. You only stay over at my place when your injured and the others don't want you to be alone. So, why are you here?" Jason was curious. It was always bad when he got like this. He doesn't give up until either he got an answer or he loses interest, which was unlikely to happen. Tim had to get him off his back before he got too invested.

"Same reason as you. To leave before Dick brings out the monopoly. The last time we tried playing that horrid game, Damian tried to stab me when I started to win." Tim was not making this up. He still has nightmares whenever Dick brought up having game nights again.

"Sure, that might be one reason why you're in such a hurry to leave. But, you've been acting strange all day. First, you were the last person to show up for the get-together today. Second, you brought a British themed cake and even you wouldn't be oblivious enough to get something like that. And last, you're trying to escape while everyone is distracted. You knew I would be in the kitchen talking with Alfred. Dick and Damian would argue, but also bond together in their weird ways of verbal fights. And Bruce would be trying to kill himself without sleep again. The usual. Usually, if you wanted to leave, you would try to leave with an excuse about being at Wayne Corp the next day. Alfred would take your side, knowing you need all the sleep you can get. You would proceed to go home and not sleep, working on some project all night instead. That is not what happened today. You tried leaving, without saying goodbye or anything. That is not normally how you do things. Something's up and I want to know about it. So, talk."

Jason may not be a good big brother, but he was a brother nonetheless. Bruce ignored the emotional problems he sees unless they interfere with their work. Dick loves to deal with emotional problems, but ever since Damian come on to the scene, Tim's had an easy time staying under the radar. Sure, the Demon kid needs a lot of help. But, is Jason and Alfred the only ones who can see how difficult of a time Tim is in right. He's the CEO of Wayne Corp at his age. His online classes keep him busy any time he's not at work. And being Red Robin takes up all his time during the night. When he actually sleeps, Jason doesn't know. Though he hopes to find out once he can worm his way into Tim's life, without letting him realize he has a heart. He had a reputation after all.

Tim didn't know what to do. Jason wasn't like the others. For some reason, he actually . . . liked him. Though he didn't know why, since he wasn't any more special then Damian or Dick, let alone Bruce. Recently, he reached out and now they both patrolled their areas together. In some ways, it made things easier since they got things done faster. In others, it made things difficult with Bruce. Luckily, Jason and Bruce were starting to get along more often or not. Which is one of the reasons Jason was even here today.

To be completely honest, Tim was not that afraid of telling Jason about his recent change in his eyesight. Unlike Bruce, Jason was more likely to let him continue doing things the way he wants. He was still used to hiding a lot of things from Bruce, even though they were on okay terms now. He just spent so much time hiding parts of himself away along with the things that have happened to him, that it was hard to turn off the switch in his head. Tim was sure he would encourage him to keep this all a secret then tell someone. Maybe he could tell him about this. He needed someone he could trust in his corner.

"Jason, I .... can't tell you. Here. Not right now. I'll talk to you on patrol tomorrow night. Can you just let me leave right now and I swear on my collection of coffee beans that I will tell you tomorrow."

The other looked at him with scrutinizing eyes, trying to figure out if this was some kind of trick or now. He finally saw what he wanted to see, because he stepped aside, leaving the window wide open for Tim to exit from.

Tim let his shoulders relax before he started towards the exit. He had one leg out the window, ready to scale the nearby tree down to leave. He turned back one last time at Jason and said one last word.

"Thanks."

As soon as Tim got home, all he could do was brush his teeth before he knocked out. He slept peacefully, letting himself forgot all about tomorrow and its incoming troubles. The impending eye doctor appointment. The unavoidable patrol confession scheduled with Jason. The secrets from Bruce and the others. None of that mattered at the moment. Right now, Tim let himself forgot about his color blindness as his dreams of rooftop tag continued.

To be continued ...... oR Is iT?

[softgrungeprophet]

johnny storm/human torch cocktail:

no measurements cause i don’t plan on making it and if you do you can figure it out yourself

hurricane glass, poco grande, or a tiki bowl if you really want

base of cachaça (mixer’s choice tbh but the paler color the better) or some kind of sugarcane white rum.... A mezcal might also be a good alternative choice for this... (for smokiness or deeper flavor) We want it to be as white or as clear as possible... so if you want to use an aged cachaça, go as pale as possible, or if you want to use a regular white rum instead... it’s up to personal taste/availability really but IDEALLY it should be cachaça and/or mezcal. You could try to combine the two, or combine rum with one of them, or just pick one... If it works, it works, if it doesn’t, my apologies. I have no guinea pigs on which to test this particular combo.

enough blue curaçao to make it blue and impart that laraha flavor. I’m not sure how strong the base is compared to this, or how much would be overpowering so, add enough to make it blue and to make sure it doesn’t taste like garbage. 👌 (off the top of my head i’m thinking like, 2 parts base, 1 part curacao.)

a bit of goldschlager or any clear cinnamon schnapps or spiced liqueur really...  I picked goldschlager because of the gold flakes and the clear color but you can use whatever u like depending on how sweet you want it, or even leave it out though I imagine the cinnamon goes with the citrus, goes with the base. ideally colorless regardless. Add as much as you think works, but probably not more than half as much as the curacao if that. Probably much less.

edible gold luster dust. Not too much, just enough to add a gold shimmer.

stir it all up. actually this might be a drink best chilled by shaking with ice and straining out so it’s clear before stirring in the luster dust.

light it on fire. (don’t actually do that)

hypothetically you would use a soaked and flaming sugar cube in an orange peel shell or boat. i won’t say to use lemon extract to soak the sugar cube because fire is dangerous but, that’s a thing. don’t do it though. and definitely don’t sprinkle cinnamon on it unless you are planning to burn your house down.

.....

this drink can flame on metaphorically in your heart.

if you’re making it without fire, which you most certainly should be, top it with a nice orange peel twist to make it look fancy

If you’re like me and don’t drink, the way I’d go for a virgin human torch (ha) would be a nice high quality ginger ale (aka not too sweet, with a little bit of kick) mixed with orange juice (optionally mulled in cinnamon and spices (and chilled)).... would not be blue unfortunately, though I guess you could use blue colored hawaiian punch (polar blast, i think) instead of orange juice, though it still might end up greenish depending on how dark your ginger ale is. getting very close to a virgin Blue Hawaiian here.... Some cinnamon simple syrup might still work here, I’d have to try it to really know, but it seems like it would probably be less good if you’re using tropical fruit punch lol especially if you use the other blue shade of hawaiian punch which i think is a berry fruit punch.... to be fair I don’t like berry fruit punches that much already but with cinnamon syrup and ginger ale it sounds extra nasty

you know what, for shits and giggles here’s spider-man, too:

use any clear glass or cup you have lying around, highball, martini, wine, children’s winnie the pooh cup with floating sparkles, whatever works

RED: lemon-lime soda of your choice mixed with cranberry juice cocktail

OR if you wanna be a little more Mature/less syrupy sweet, you can swap the sprite/7-up for club soda or swap the juice cocktail for pure cranberry juice or muddled cranberries and some squeezes of lemon and/or lime juice, maybe throw some slices in the glass too, why not, anything goes. If you fucking hate cranberries like me, you could also try some grenadine or chambord instead of cranberry juice... MOST of the flavor and sweetness is going to be from this portion so make sure you like the taste and levels of sweetness. Hell if you wanna use a totally different soda like orange soda or juice like fruit punch or raspberry cider, go nuts. This is a kitchen sink drink, like the kind you would make at 2 am in your apartment after a long day.

BLUE: some everclear or high proof vodka mixed with a bit of blue food coloring (yes i’m serious) poured over the back of a spoon to float on the top of the red base (everclear or vodka with food coloring SHOULD float on top of the sweeter and denser soda/juice base) You could probably use blue curacao again here tbh, or even better, UV blue vodka, which is raspberry flavored... I’m not enough of a chemist to know if that will float as well but I suspect it still should, cause it should still be less dense than sprite or juice. If you’re using chambord or a fruit liqueur for the red part instead of the cranberry/soda it should still be fine, cause UV blue is still... vodka... Curacao on the other hand miiiight not float as easily on top of something like chambord but it might still be workable? depending on the respective ABVs and stuff. i guess you could try to flip the colors and make the denser sweet base out of blue typhoon hawaiian punch and sprite or something and float the chambord on top. Whatever you desire.

simple syrup lemon juice + salt rim (is this gross? this might be weird)

toss in some ice cubes. maybe a straw if you want. do whatever.

and remember

with great power comes great responsibility

what i’m saying is use your brain, don’t get alcohol poisoning, and don’t drive.

this also doubles as a 4th of july drink

i’d drink a non alcoholic version of this--actually that’s a lie cause i don’t like cranberry but i do like orange sprite so 🤔 Virgin Spidey = tropical sprite... maybe some muddled raspberries or strawberries... OR grenadine... top with some blue typhoon hawaiian punch or a blue soda.  grenadine will probably sink to the bottom even if you use blue soda, since it’s a syrup and much denser, but you could also use the muddled fruit for a red layer tbh... yeah that works. doesn’t sound half bad either

i doubt anyone will make these but if you do god i wanna know if they’re awful/if they look pretty/take pictures

uhhh... i also have some other drinks not *based on* characters but just that they drank in a fic here: link to drinks

[curationstationdc]

Woodcuts in suburbia: melancholy, nostalgia, and resistance

Selbstbildness von vorn, Käthe Kollwitz © 2019 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / VG Bild-Kunst, Bonn

I associate woodcuts with a particular aesthetic: they loom from their perch on the bookshelf in the den, next to a collection of Hans Christian Andersen tales, whose worn buckram binding is effusing that sapid antique book aroma which pairs so well with coffee and cake. In the corner of the room, above a worn black leather chair designated for tv-watching and reading, a pathos dangles from its pot, fed by gentle streams of light emanating from the canopy of shade sheltering the backyard garden. On weekends and special occasions, the clinking of cake forks against china is punctuated only by an occasional “delicious!” — direct and accurate. This orchestration produces a distinctly Germanic affect, and one that I associate with the elderly; the particular family room I’m recalling belonged to my next-door neighbors growing up, former members of the Danish anti-Nazi resistance who had emigrated in the early 1960s. While I can’t be sure there was any deeper meaning behind their affinity for the humble woodcut, I do recall the medium’s prominence in their home. For me, something as benign as a flock of geese is represented with a degree of melancholy in these prints' impenetrable black shadows — an inevitability in this generation’s Weltanschauung, that everything beautiful carries with it a degree of pain, a nostalgia for the idea of a more civil world.

These beloved octogenarians were my first choice of role models, and I insisted on seeing them almost every day for the first 8 or 9 years of my life. They were old-school Democrats (or at least, that’s how their values system translated into American) in a largely Republican suburb of a mid-sized Upper Midwestern city. I can still place myself their 1950′s minimal traditional home: running my hands along their walnut furniture with polished nickel handles, greeted by a different antique clock in every room, tick-tocking at various registers, my slippered feet shuffling along a dull, greenish-blue carpet so typical of that era. Nothing in that home was remotely as paired down as today’s sanitized mid-century throwback, and the old neighborhood still retained a smidgen of character unlike contemporary expressions of manifest destiny. Lovingly tended beds of roses, pansies, and bleeding hearts flourished under the shade of maples, walnuts, and red oak. 

A young family admires their new home. Between 1950 and 1970, America’s suburban population nearly doubled to 74 million Camerique Archive / Archive Photos / Getty Images

For my neighbors, woodcuts seemed to be a culturally relevant way of displaying eerie alternative landscapes: a flock of geese, a school of fish, a sunset laden with a certain degree of subconsciously expressed Weltschmerz. For me, these woodcuts were inextricably linked to their stories of brazen defiance in the face of terror, which they seldom shared, always with a degree of pain and even embarrassment. Their democratic ideals to which they so proudly clung were the real source of their identity; it was from them that I learned it was OK to be gay, that everyone deserved a home and access to healthcare, that one lives like a society like a neighbor rather than just an individual. But it wasn’t until years after their deaths that I detected any degree of paradox in their suburban American existence, was able to chuckle at their nostalgia for the old country as expressed in their grocery cart (tubs of frozen Coolwhip to be served generously with home-baked apple cake, slices of summer sausage or cucumbers served on squares of cocktail rye, a far cry from the bakeries and delicatessens of northern Europe.) 

A woman and a boy visiting a man in hospital. Woodcut by Käthe Kollwitz, 1929. Credit: Wellcome Collection. CC BY

While I may associate woodcuts with the interior design choices of an immigrant family in the middle of the last century, its origins predate my concept of history. Woodcutting is thought to be the earliest print technique, originating in 9th-century China, arriving in Europe sometime in the 14th century. Woodcut has been a staple medium for prominent Northern European artists like Dürer since the 16th century. To produce a print, artists carve their image into a block of wood, along the grain, removing the parts that will not carry ink. The surface is then rolled over with a brayer and the image transferred to a sheet of paper through a press. The result in works like Käthe Kollwitz’s Selbstbildness von vorn (1922-1923), pictured above, is nothing short of haunting — well-suited to the violently introspective tone of German Expressionism. If you’re curious about the process, here’s a short demonstration:

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Phil Sanders, Director of the Robert Blackburn Printmaking Workshop, demonstrates the pressure + ink relief process

Woodcutting became a popular tool of activists in the 1910′s, when thinkers like Ernst Barlach were beginning to use reductionist, anti-naturalist figures to express their dejection at the rise of an alien world. In the case of Barlach, his art was often placed alongside politically charged writing in order to provoke emotional reactions to the realities of uprootedness, inequality, and disaffection in industrialized, urban Europe. It is Barlach’s rather proletariat answer to the questions of modernity, inspired in part by a kind of political realism emerging in Russia, that inspired German artist Käthe Kollwitz to take up the humble woodcut. 

Ernst Barlach, from an East German stamp, 1970. Would he have been pleased with his legacy?

I remember receiving a story on the couch in my neighbors’ den — I was about 10 or 11 — regarding the final days of the war: a fellow member of the resistance had suggested replacing the Dannebrog with the flag of the Danish Communist Party, the DKP, an idea that had shaken my neighbor to his core. For him, resistance had been an act of preservation, a defense of the right to be distinctly Danish, and all that it entailed, in an increasingly international world. How the inability to return to a Denmark before the crimes of Nazism must have felt, I can only attempt to imagine. To this day, I am astounded by my neighbors’ apparent lack of burnout in light of what they sacrificed, their resilience in living out their ideals and inherited melancholia with me under an umbrella on the patio. It seemed that, for them, past and present far outweighed considerations for the future.

My copy of Korsbæk Tidende (Korsbæk Official Journal), an educational accompaniment to the popular Danish 1970′s and 1980′s tv-series “Matador” about a fictionalized Danish town between 1929 and 1947. I inherited this collection of real newspaper clips that informed events on the show from my neighbor — I assume he loved the show.

To an extent, I have inherited their idealism, an obsession with a bleak past used to check the present, an index of unwavering values to be accessed at any time. It is only through a sense of history that I’m able to make sense of the communicative power of images today, how calculated distortions of reality made ubiquitous through mass production can make us more empathetic, braver in the face of a not-so-distant future. It's a future that cannot be understood with the tools we have been given, that will almost upend our perceptions and unsettle us, a future that demands our bravery. More than ever my beloved neighbors ever could have fathomed, the possibility that our sacrifices will be bastardized in the name of another cause is unparalleled in the digital age. And even more than they experienced, we have the incredible opportunity, and challenge, to transplant our ideologies across ecosystems, upending heir original contexts.

Simultaneous calls for universalism and individual freedom, the appeals of difference and homogeneity, the cogent argument of moral relativism against the call for a shared global narrative will, no doubt, continue to shake us in an era of unprecedented displacement and global climate change. Among other things, these challenges call for an art that, like the pervasive woodcut, infiltrates our purviews, and is attuned to the affect of contemporary life. It should carry with is a melancholic nostalgia, demand our empathy, blemish our idealized beauty.

If I limit myself to woodcuts, I'm reminded of the works of William Kentridge, Beatriz Milhazes, Leonard Baskin, Alison Saar, Irving Amen, Tony Bevan, Katsutoshi Yuasa, Assadour Bezdikian, Elizabeth Catlett, Lou Barlow, Leon Gilmour — I'm sure I'm missing countless others.

Retrospective Exhibitions on Käthe Kollwitz

Käthe Kollwitz, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C., 1992; Käthe Kollwitz: In Celebration of the 125th Anniversary of the Artist’s Birth, Galerie St. Etienne, New York City, 1992; Berner Kunstmuseum, Bern, Switzerland, 1946; Retrospective in honor of her 50th birthday at Paul Cassirer galleries, Berlin, 1917

Selected Bibliographies on Käthe Kollwitz

Knesebeck, Alexandra von dem. Käthe Kollwitz: Werkverzeichnis der Graphik. Band I & II. Bern: Kornfeld, 2002.

Prelinger, Elizabeth, ed. Käthe Kollwitz. Exh. cat. Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 1992.

Rix, Brenda D., and Jay A. Clarke. Käthe Kollwitz: The Art of Compassion. Exh. cat. Toronto: Art Gallery of Ontario, 2003.

Selected Bibliographies on Ernst Barlach

Laur, Elisabeth. Ernst Barlach: Sämtliche Werke, Werkverzeichnis I. Die Druckgraphik. Leipzig: E. A. Seemann, 2001.

Paret, Peter. An Artist Against the Third Reich: Ernst Barlach, 1933–38. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.

Selected Bibliographies on Ernst Ludwig Kirnchner

Dube, Annemarie, and Wolf-Dieter Dube. Ernst Ludwig Kirchner: Das graphische Werk. 2 vols. Munich: Prestel, 1980.

Gercken, Günther, and Magdalena M. Moeller. Ernst Ludwig Kirchner: Farbige Druckgraphik. Exh. cat. Berlin: Brücke-Museum, 2008.

Krämer, Felix, ed. Ernst Ludwig Kirchner: Retrospective. Exh. cat. Frankfurt: Städel Museum, 2010.

Lloyd, Jill, and Magdalena M. Moeller, eds. Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, 1880–1938. Exh. cat. Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 2003.

Wye, Deborah. Kirchner and the Berlin Street. Exh. cat. New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2008.