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misskitxx · 15 days ago

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Necromancer Jayce who brings Viktor back to life AU

Necromancer Jayce x Zombie Viktor, heavily inspired by this work

Viktor is dead.

Jayce does not know how to exist in a world where that is true.

The words are a blade lodged in his ribs, twisting deeper every time he breathed. Dead. A clinical term, sterile, a word for dissections and autopsy reports. It doesn’t belong here, in the oily lamplight of their shared lab, where Viktor’s shadow still lingers in the smudges of equations on chalkboards, in the half-drunk cup of tea gone moldy by the sink.

Jayce had refused to let them take the body.

He’d barred the door, roared at the councilors, the enforcers, even Heimerdinger’s mournful whimpers. “You don’t get to bury him,” he’d snarled, hammer sparking in his grip . “You didn’t know him. You didn’t love him.”

Dead. A lie. A mistake. A joke in wretched taste. The lab reeks of formaldehyde and copper, of lilies left to wilt beside the lab table—their petals browned, stems slumped like broken necks.

Now, Viktor lays on their workbench, bathed in the cold glow of alchemical lamps. Jayce had washed him himself—slowly, reverently—scrubbing the blood from his lips, the soot from his hands. But death was not kind.

Jayce spends days watching him rot.

By the first night, Viktor’s skin is still warm, his lashes casting delicate shadows as if he might wake any moment. He kisses Viktor’s knuckles, his throat, his eyelids—begging the universe for a flinch, a sigh, a miracle. Presses his ear to Viktor’s chest, listening for a heartbeat. Nothing comes. “You’d hate this,” Jayce mutters, voice raw. “The theatrics. The… the waste of time.”

Viktor at his desk, sleeves rolled up, scars silvered by lamplight—a lattice of old burns, surgical incisions, the jagged kiss of shrapnel. Jayce traces them with his thumb, teasing. “You’re a walking disaster.” Viktor doesn’t look up from his schematics. “And you’re a distraction. But here we are.”

The second night, tries shaking him awake. By the third one, rigor mortis turns Viktor’s limbs to stone. Jayce pries them open anyway, intertwining their fingers together. “You’re being sentimental,” Viktor’s ghost seems to chide. “Sentiment is inefficient.” Jayce laughs, sharp and broken. Presses his lips to Viktor’s, desperate, hoping that somehow, somehow— and vomits into the sink.

Midnight in the lab, Viktor’s mouth hot against Jayce’s collarbone, teeth nipping, breath hitching. “You’re insufferable,” Viktor murmurs, but his hands are already fumbling with Jayce’s belt. “Insufferably brilliant,” Jayce corrects, pinning him to the desk. Papers scatter. Viktor laughs—a rare, unguarded sound—before silencing him with a kiss.

By the fifth, rot arrives in blooms. A violet stain spreads beneath Viktor’s collarbone, the skin splitting like overripe fruit. His lips shrivel, browning at the edges, and Jayce catches himself leaning in—still, still—hoping to taste the iron-sharp wit on his tongue. Instead, his mouth fills with the cloying sweetness of decay. By the sixth, Jayce can’t bear it.

Viktor’s finger tapping a petri dish, alive with microbial swirls. “Decay is just another form of energy,” he says, grinning. “We could harness it. Redirect it.” Jayce leans against him, cheek to his temple. “You’re mad.” “And you’re staring at my mouth.”

By the seventh, he breaks.

Viktor’s hands rest on his chest, fingers curled inward like withered petals. His lips are cracked, his throat shadowed with the bruises of rot. He is still, so horribly still. He has never been still. Viktor, his lovely Viktor, could have seemed so to a stranger. Not to Jayce—never to Jayce. Because Jayce has been reveling in his every microexpression: the pout of his lips when he thought, the subtle lean on his cane in extortion, the hands—those hands that he would catch, mid-air, and pepper with kisses as Viktor was busy explaining his new theories. Animated. Expressive. Alive.

He reaches out, almost expecting warmth, but Viktor’s skin is cold. It should not be cold. Sure, Viktor has— had certain issues with his blood circulation, and Jayce would always curse at him when he’d press his ice-cold feet against his own warm thighs. Viktor would grin, a beautiful, mischievous sight.

He swallows back bile and presses his thumb against Viktor’s palm. He remembers this hand, remembers tracing the scars along his knuckles in the late hours of the night, murmuring half-formed apologies into the space between them.

"You work too much," Jayce whispers, pressing lazy kisses to the ridges of old burns, of past failures. "You’re going to wear yourself down to nothing."

Viktor huffs a laugh, curling his fingers around Jayce’s own, squeezing just once. "And yet, here I am.”

Here he is. But not really.

Jayce clenches his jaw and forces himself back to his feet.

The book is waiting.

He does not remember finding it, only that it was there when he needed it, slick leather beneath trembling fingers, pages thick with time. The words slither into his mind, curling around his desperation like a vice. Necromancy is not magic—it is defiance, an affront to the natural order. The price is steep.

He does not care.

This is heresy, the kind that got men burned in Piltover’s history books. But Viktor’s corpse stares at the ceiling with milky, clouded eyes, and Jayce thinks, What is heresy to a man who’s already damned?

It is a cruel thing, ancient and hungry. The words crawl beneath his skin, curling into the raw spaces between grief and madness. He should not listen. He does not care.

Sacrifice the living. Mend the dead.

The ritual calls for blood.

His own.

Jayce strips to the waist, the lab’s chill biting his skin. The dagger glins—Viktor’s dagger, the one he used to pry open Hextech casings. Its edge still bears flecks of his fingerprints, still nicked from the day Viktor sliced his thumb and swore in two languages.

Blood wells from Viktor’s thumb. Jayce grabs his hand, sucking the cut clean. “You’re ridiculous,” Viktor mutters, ears reddening. “And you’re bleeding on the blueprints.” Jayce grins. “Call it a collaboration.”

The first cut is a confession.

He drags the blade down his sternum, hissing as blood wells. ”Vertical incision… to bridge the veil,” he recites, voice steadier than his hands. The next cuts are symbols: jagged glyphs over his heart, spirals down his ribs. His blood drips onto Viktor’s body, sizzling where it strikes rot, knitting muscle where it meets bone.

The dagger bites deep. Flesh splits. Blood spills in thick, sluggish rivers down his arms, over his ribs, staining the floor beneath him in crimson offering. His hands shake, his breath comes in gasps, but he does not stop. The sigils must be carved deep, must be perfect.

The final cut is a vow.

Jayce slices his palm open, presses it to Viktor’s. Their blood mingles, black and crimson. The room thrums, pressure building until the windows shatter. Glass rains down. Viktor’s chest jerks, and Jayce stumbles forward, pressing his shaking hands to Viktor’s face. The cold is worse now. It leeches into his fingertips, seeps into his bones. His throat is raw. His skin burns.

“Come back to me,” he breathes, voice breaking.

Continue reading on AO3!

#jayvik #jayce x viktor #viktor arcane #arcane jayce #jayce talis #jayvik fanfic #jayce x viktor fanfic #arcane #jayvik fanfiction #jayce brings viktor back from the dead #he comes back craving his flesh

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sisalrian · 1 year ago

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ex russian nobility braginski siblings, 1930

#veraverse #george devalier #russia hetalia #aph russia #aph #hetalia axis powers #hetalia fanart #my art #art #doodle #ivan braginsky #ivan braginski #lily of the lamplight #jealousy #hetalia world stars #vera lynn #natalia arlovskaya #katyusha #auf wiedersehen sweetheart

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thebiscuitlabryinth · 1 year ago

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[prev]

Nowadays, Pure Vanilla has gotten used to his sleep fluctuating wildly between turbulent dreams and sleep like the void itself has swallowed him whole. It seems like a game of chance whenever he rests his head down, and neither option leaves him any less tired the next morning.

Today, his dreams are absurd, swirling and spilling into each other, and vividly upsetting in a way he can't identify. He shut his eyes tight, but that doesn't block out the rest of his senses. He can hear begging, crying, shouting, and the scent of something burning and wilted lilies clashes in the air, creating a suffocating smell that winds around him slow. It is awful, but it is slightly less so, now that he knows how to recognise when he is in a dream. More importantly, he has a question, and he is more than aware of Shadow Milk's lingering presence.

"You founded the study of Dark Moon Magic, didn't you?"

It is a soft question, but one that is sure of itself. Instantly, the sounds and smells and sensations that had been plaguing Pure Vanilla disappear. Pure Vanilla keeps both his eyes closed for the time being, just in case. Tonight, his staff is absent like a missing leg, and he misses the added security of being able to look through it.

"Oh, come on! Don't interrupt the scene, we were just getting to the good part!" Shadow Milk's voice responds with frustration, the sound coming from all sides. It is precisely because it comes from all sides that Pure Vanilla keeps his eyes closed, not quite trusting that the shards of his nightmares have been fully swept away. He doesn't want to find out what Shadow Milk could possibly consider to be 'the good part' amidst the sounds of suffering and anguish.

Instead, Pure Vanilla sighs. "It was your choice to stop everything when I asked that, wasn't it? You can't blame me for that."

"Bzzt! Wrong! I can blame you because you did interrupt. It doesn't matter what I did in response, a disruption is a disruption." Shadow Milk declares loudly, voice a little rougher, as if he was daring Pure Vanilla to argue back. But his voice is now only coming from one source, right in front of him, so Pure Vanilla cautiously opens his eyes to check the surroundings.

He finds himself in the library of Blueberry Yogurt Academy, and nostalgia eagerly rears its head within him, somewhat surprised. He's stood beside a littered table, surrounded by the deep blue bookshelves of his youth and the comforting smell of aged paper. The details blur a little past that, some of the shelves lighter, more like the bookshelves in his chambers in the Vanilla Kingdom, leaving it less like a perfect replica and more like a collage made out of bits and pieces of his lifetimes' worth of memories, but it is mostly the Blueberry Yogurt library.

Shadow Milk is across the table from him, tutting when Pure Vanilla takes too long to reply. He leans his elbows on the table, propping his chin on the bridge of his linked fingers. "Sneaky, silly-Vanilly, trying to use me to get out of your funny little nightmares. Very, very sneaky."

"It worked, didn't it?" Pure Vanilla says, a bit stiffly, because that had never been his main intention, mostly because Shadow Milk isn't nice enough for him to think it would work. No, his main intention is genuine curiosity, and that is exactly why he continues to prod. "...You didn't answer my question."

"Because it's a stupid one." Shadow Milk hums back, tilting his head to the side. He tilts it far enough that his cheek is now resting against his hands instead of his chin. "You should be able to figure that out yourself. Didn't I already tell you where my home is?"

Pure Vanilla doesn't answer for a moment, laying a tentative hand on the edge of the table as he tries to squint at the papers across its surface in the dim lamplight. It takes him a second to realise that they're all forbidden texts on Dark Moon Magic, and when he does, he murmurs back. "It's better to clarify than assume, isn't it?"

This time, Shadow Milk is the one who doesn't answer for a moment, instead staring at him with those piercing eyes. Pure Vanilla can feel more around him, behind him, lurking in the shadows pooling in the nooks and crevices and he can't help it – he shivers slightly.

That reaction must be enough for Shadow Milk, because he snorts, and pushes off the table to lean back, kicking his feet up onto the table and right on top of texts, which is already enough to make Pure Vanilla wince. Poor library etiquette aside, the movement is horribly uncanny to watch, partly because he is leaning back onto thin air instead of a chair, partly because he moves so quickly it's like his limbs snap into place, and partly because his smile is stretched far too thin as he does so.

"Of course I did. I'm very talented, you know." Shadow Milk announces smugly, his eyes never leaving him. They narrow slightly, all of them in suspicious synchronisation, and he raises his eyebrows expectantly. "But I must admit, I am crumbling to know why you brought it up."

Whys are always difficult to answer, especially for something as difficult as motives, which can morph and change over time. Pure Vanilla hates lying, but he hates lying in front of Shadow Milk even more, because he seems to recognise every single one and Pure Vanilla doesn't want to give him the satisfaction.

But he really can't admit the core of the matter to his face. He can't admit that ever since he glimpsed the ghost of Shadow Milk's past, he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. He can't admit that he is actively trying to glimpse it again, and what better way to try and draw it out than with any scholar's pride and joy – their work?

"It's impressive. I, myself, have mastered White Magic over the years, and I certainly contributed to its development, but I cannot claim that I created it as a school of magic." Pure Vanilla explains instead, and it isn't a lie either, just lacking all the details. He fidgets a bit, tugging at his own sleeves, adding quieter. "Dark Moon Magic is forbidden too, so there aren't many detailed sources left on it. I want to know more about its founding."

I want to know more about you.

There is another lapse of silence, and Pure Vanilla is tense with tentative hope. After all, if Shadow Milk was really against the topic altogether, he wouldn't have gone through the trouble of plucking him out of his nightmares.

Shadow Milk's smile is sharp like a knife, clashing with the casual way he folds his arms behind his head, almost languid as he finally muses. "Oh, really? That doesn't sound right. I'm sure there's enough details lying around to get the gist of it. After all, you've used Dark Moon Magic before, so you must know something about it already."

Pure Vanilla flinches back, and it isn't a surprise that he knows about that too, not anymore, but it still leaves him with unstable footing. Regardless, he doesn't let that scare him off the topic, which he suspects is exactly why Shadow Milk said it. "...I've only really used it once, and I don't remember much about what happened. So I may know something, but that something is rather little."

It's a confession, and the truth. His brief tangle with Dark Moon Magic is a complete blur in his own mind, watered down to blinding sensations and a heartache so intense he had felt like he was crumbling. Theoretically, he knows enough about Dark Moon Magic to hold a conversation, but he remembers nothing about it in practise.

"You know who could help you with that?" Shadow Milk asks, seemingly unbothered, but the words curl with open mockery and a smirk. He tilts his head back slightly so he can look down on Pure Vanilla and throws his arms out dramatically. "Our beloved, newly coronated Guardian! She has plenty of experience with–"

Pure Vanilla's heart lurches painfully.

"Don't talk about her!" He interrupts, voice bursting out louder than he expected and panic fluttery in his chest. He doesn't want to hear him tear at her old wounds, even if she can't hear it herself. He knows how vulnerable that cry makes him seem though, and he fumbles to lower his voice to something softer, less shaky. "Don't– please, I'm asking you for a reason."

Shadow Milk giggles, a strange grating sound that climbs higher with each breath, until he is laughing in earnest. He curls into himself, arms wrapped around his middle, and the position looks painful with his feet still planted on the table. Pure Vanilla watches him warily, a little shaken by the mention of White Lily, and wonders if maybe, he was wrong about what he thought he saw in Shadow Milk. He has been seeing more things that aren't there, recently.

His laughter stops abruptly. The stillness that follows is jarring, but doesn't last long.

Slowly – so slowly that it is unnerving, for someone who typically moves as erratically as him – Shadow Milk reaches forward with one hand and plucks a scroll up from the table. He unrolls it with a lazy flick of his wrist, the other end tumbling away over the edge of the table and across the floor. It is a smooth movement, Pure Vanilla notes through the pounding of his heart and his scrambled nerves, a practised motion that speaks of thousands of opened scrolls.

Shadow Milk peers over at the contents of the scroll with an empty, disinterested expression, his legs melting through the table until he appears to be sitting somewhat politely again. The sudden switch to this from his near hysterical laughter leaves Pure Vanilla disturbed, unsure if this is progress or not.

"I wanted to strike a balance between Black and White Magic." Shadow Milk says, his voice a disconcertingly low murmur, almost monotone. While his main eyes remain steadily on the scroll, the rest are eagerly burrowing into Pure Vanilla from all sides. "Black Magic draws from the void, making it unpredictable and destructive by nature, but full of potential. White Magic draws from the moon, primarily, and other celestial sources, making it safer and easier to use, but limited in its purity. If I could find the middle ground, I could harness magic with more flexibility and power but less unpredictability."

Shadow Milk pauses then, his eyes sliding up to stare right at Pure Vanilla, and his lips quirk upwards. When he speaks again, his voice gains a little more character but remains mainly flat, like a poorly-delivered theatrical monologue. "The dark side of the moon was the obvious choice for a source of that kind of power, because it's the natural overlap between the moon and the void. Once you figure out a source for magic, it's simple to find a way to draw from it, and to make it simpler, I had access to the knowledge of the Witches at my fingertips. All I had to do was write everything down, and the school of Dark Moon Magic was born. Easy-peasy!"

Shadow Milk throws the scroll to the side with little fanfare, not even sparing a glance at those ancient texts as they land in a heap of old paper on the floor, uncaring of if they damage or rip. And why would he? They both know this is a dream, and even if it wasn't, he had written that scroll himself.

Pure Vanilla would have cared, dream or not, if he wasn't wholly distracted, reduced to only a wide-eyed blink.

Because Shadow Milk may feign a bored face and voice, as if reading off a report or a particularly uninspiring script, but when their gazes meet, his eyes glitter like shooting stars, sparking with pride and passion and something else.

It captivates Pure Vanilla, the very same shine that comes with a breakthrough for every researcher. It is exactly what he had been hoping to see again, but the sight still leaves him feeling unmoored, even if pleasantly. Intruige and hope swirl within him, and he suddenly finds himself desperate to hold onto this ghost of the past, to make it stay longer and help it spill into the present.

"What does it feel like?" The question comes out before Pure Vanilla can think it through, focused on continuing the conversation before Shadow Milk can pick up his showmanship again in full. "Dark Moon Magic, I mean."

Shadow Milk huffs, a playful grin settling on his face again, and a sickening mix of dread and disappointment trickles through Pure Vanilla as he watches him lean over, crushing more texts beneath his palms. For a scary moment, he expects him to make another quip towards his previous use of the magic, or worse, bring up White Lily again.

He doesn't. Shadow Milk kicks his legs up behind him, so that he is laying on his stomach in mid-air, and cheerfully asks, "How about I show you?"

He doesn't wait for Pure Vanilla to process what he said, let alone reply. He reaches out and ensnares Pure Vanilla's hand, the one normally occupied with his staff, and laces their fingers together. Pure Vanilla doesn't reciprocate the hold, surprised, but only tries a small unsuccessful tug in response.

Shadow Milk's grip is an oppressive pressure, tight but not quite painful. He presses their palms together firmly, and Pure Vanilla gasps.

Magic bursts through the contact, rushing through his jam in a dizzying, warm flood. It is thicker, heavier than the magic Pure Vanilla is used to, thrumming and twisting as if it has a mind of its own, almost scratching at his dough as if trying to consume him, and he can't even concentrate on it because– because–

He can see everything.

Pure Vanilla really, truly can. He can see Shadow Milk's curling smile in front of him, he can see the Faeries having a feast, he can see Black Raisin greeting the moon from one of the Vanilla Castle's towers, he can see Dark Cacao striding through the citadel, he can see White Lily going through her morning routine, he can see his own sleeping body, and places and Cookies he doesn't have the presence of mind to recognise, all simultaneously. He doesn't know what to focus on, doesn't even know how to focus on anything, and his head hurts like it is falling apart.

This is how Shadow Milk has been watching me, he thinks deliriously, the only thought he can manage as he drowns in his sights.

And then, in a snap, he is back in the library with only one scene to see. His vision swims a little at the edges as if it didn't get the message, and he wobbles in place.

Shadow Milk is still holding his hand, but the grip is slightly looser, and the stream of his Dark Moon Magic is gone like a whisper. His grin is sinister and too big for his face, but his eyes still burn like stars.

"Fun, isn't it?" Shadow Milk coos, giddy like it is a shared secret, lifting Pure Vanilla's trembling hand and brushing a kiss to the back that buzzes with Dark Moon Magic. "My very first masterpiece."

Pure Vanilla wakes up disoriented, with a ringing headache and an itch in the back of his hand. White Lily notices his poor state almost immediately when she sees him – wonderful as she is – and she asks if he had a nightmare with that gentle, concerned slope to her brows.

Pure Vanilla adjusts his grip on his staff, leaning against it more than usual.

"No." He assures her lightly, not quite the truth and not quite a lie.

[next]

#oops this was longer than i expected #i mainly just wanted an excuse to wax lyrical about possible interpretations of their magic systems <3 #sm is having the time of his life btw. pv? not so much #writing this is like a tightrope act between pv's idealistic hopes and sm-related psychological disturbance #pure vanilla cookie #shadow milk cookie #shadowvanilla #vanilla milkshake #pureshadow #echo paradox au #the biscuit library

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sophie-hatter-jenkins · 6 months ago

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Auburn

A microfic written for Day 1 of Jily Week 2024, run by the very lovely @sunshinemarauder and @kay-elle-cee, and inspired by the theme Love is in the Hair - one of those iconic 'wow' moments!

647 words

Rated G

A flash of red catches James Potter’s eye for the very first time.

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James Potter was twelve years old the first time he really noticed Lily Evans’s hair. Obviously, he’d seen it plenty of times before, just like he’d seen Sirius’s hair or his Mum’s hair. The difference was that he hadn’t ever looked at it properly before.

The day it happened, he and Sirius were in their usual seats in the Potions classroom, at the bench in the back right corner; the one that was least visible from Slughorn’s desk and therefore offered the most potential for messing about.

Sluggie had finished his opening lecture on the topic of Swelling Solution - or at least that was what James assumed he’d been talking about, since that was what was written on the board, but he honestly hadn’t heard a word; he’d been too busy scribbling notes to Sirius. In fairness, Swelling Solutions did sound like they could be quite entertaining, and the idea of slipping some into the pumpkin juice at the Slytherin table convinced him that it might be worth actually putting a bit of effort in for once.

He and Sirius played Spell, Shield, Serpent to decide who had to go and get their ingredients from the supply cupboard. Sirius lost, and made a rude gesture at James as he scraped his stool back along the stone floor. James smirked at him, then started to flick through his textbook looking for the right page, when a flash of red caught his attention; Evans, sitting next to that greasy loser Snape at the bench immediately in front of him, had flipped her hair back over her shoulders.

Her hair, he noticed, was remarkably thick and shiny, and James idly considered asking what Sleekeazy products she used. It was a very unusual colour, too. Auburn, he thought it was called; not an obnoxiously bright red, like the Prewett twins, but a darker, richer shade altogether. It seemed to change as she moved her head, the lamplight creating rose gold highlights and purple-plum shadows amidst the rich chestnut.

As he watched, she picked up three sections from near the front, and began to weave them together, nimble fingers dancing a fascinating waltz down her head. She deftly pulled more and more strands into the pattern as she went, and the repetitive movement was oddly hypnotic. It left James entranced.

She’d just reached the nape of her neck when Sirius returned.

“How the hell is she doing that?” he muttered.

“How is who doing what?” asked Sirius, dismissively.

“Evans.” He nodded towards her. “Doing that with her hair, behind her head, without a mirror or a charm or anything.”

“Oh. I dunno. Oi, Evans!” called Sirius. “James wants to know what you’re doing?”

Quite unexpectedly, James felt his skin heat with embarrassment at the thought that Evans might know he’d been looking at her. It was the strangest feeling, one that was completely unfamiliar. James decided that he didn’t like it, not at all.

Lily shot them a disdainful look as she secured the tail of her hair with a band. “I’m plaiting my hair, obviously. You know, so it doesn’t get in the way while I’m brewing.” She looked pointedly at Sirius’s collar length locks. “Maybe I should teach you?”

Sirius looked horrified. “What? Like a girl? No way!”

Evans rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the ingredients on the bench in front of her.

“Why are you so interested in Evan’s hair all of a sudden?” asked Sirius, curiously.

“I’m not,” huffed James.

And he wasn’t. He had far more important things to think about after all, like Quidditch trials, for instance, and how he and Sirius were going to sneak their Swelling Solution out of the classroom without Sluggie noticing. Resolute, he started measuring out dried nettles to add to his mortar. He wasn’t going to think about Evans’s hair ever again; he was sure of it.

#jily week 2024 #jily #james potter #lily evans #missing moment #jple

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mintjeru · 6 months ago

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first encounter florist alhaitham for @viraseii 🌻 thank you for your donation to @hkvthm-action!!

open for better quality | no reposts | extensive brainrot under the cut (don't say i didn't warn you)

ok so i created an entire backstory for the two of them while i was drawing ;u; enjoy!!

kaveh and alhaitham go to the same university and kaveh, who is a year or so ahead of alhaitham, graduates at the end of this year

even though they have different majors (kaveh studies architecture, alhaitham studies linguistics), the two of them share a humanities elective course this semester

alhaitham sits in the middle or back rows and he usually arrives to lecture early so he can read his books in peace until class starts

he often sits with a notetaker in class but they're just acquaintances; alhaitham mostly keeps to himself

meanwhile, kaveh is a really proactive student so he sits in the front rows. he is often found conversing with the students around him.

as such, alhaitham knows of kaveh (the popular guy that keeps answering the professor's questions) but kaveh doesn't know of alhaitham (he doesn't really have a reason to turn around in his seat)

alhaitham lives in the area and he works part-time at his grandma's flower shop! he looked into flower language in his spare time because he liked the idea of tangible objects holding various symbolic meanings. it was similar to the signified-signifier concepts outlined in the semantics papers he read in his linguistics classes.

one day, kaveh comes strolling into the shop during alhaitham's shift because he needs flowers for a project

alhaitham mentions that they're in the same elective class and the two begin talking about the professor and their homework for that day. time flies as they're both intrigued by each other's ideas on the course concepts. by the time the next customer comes in and alhaitham is called away to help, the two walk away deeming each other an interesting conversation partner.

after that day, they begin to talk in class and spend time chatting in the flower shop

whenever kaveh comes by to buy flowers or a gift, alhaitham gives him a small flower as a bonus

it starts with a yellow tulip ("there is sunshine in your smile," it's the first thing alhaitham notices about him. he later finds that the corners of his lips tend to rise when kaveh is around.)

next is a goldenrod (encouragement, kaveh was struggling with a modeling project but alhaitham knew he was capable enough to make it work)

after that is a yellow calla lily (friendship and shared values, kaveh and alhaitham finished a group project and found out they received the highest grade in the class!)

and then a little sunflower (silent love, kaveh had fallen asleep on the library desk studying for their midterm the other night and while he would never admit it, alhaitham spent a significant amount of time admiring the way the lamplight cast a soft golden glow over his features)

at some point, kaveh asks why alhaitham keeps giving him flowers as that surely cannot be good for business. he also seems to keep picking yellow flowers.

alhaitham simply replies that it's better for the older flowers to go to kaveh, who can appreciate them, rather than for them to sit in the shop wilting. besides, they're the same color as kaveh's hair. not that alhaitham stares at the way his hair catches the sunlight or anything.

after finals are over but before the university's graduation ceremony, kaveh visits the flower shop once more

this time, alhaitham is waiting for him with a single red tulip

"this is a familiar sight. i remember the first one you gave me was yellow. are we moving on to red now?"

alhaitham responds to his question with another question: "did you know that the color of the flower affects its meaning?"

kaveh pauses for a bit. "oh, you mean in flower language? i think i've heard of that before, yeah."

alhaitham glances down at the tulip and then back up to kaveh.

most of the time, he doesn't care what others think of him. he's always been focused on his own interests and learning as much as he can, but it seems that things are different when it comes to kaveh. their relationship is fine as it is now, but why is it that he wants so badly for it to change?

it would be so easy for alhaitham to give him another excuse: the tulip matches the color of kaveh's eyes after all. but kaveh is graduating soon. he'll be moving away and given the distance, there's no telling how easy it'll be for them to keep in touch. if there's any time to bring his feelings to light, it's right now.

"so," kaveh starts. "what does a red tulip mean?"

alhaitham closes his eyes. he inhales, holds his breath for a second, and exhales. he makes his choice. when he opens his eyes again-

"a declaration of love."

kaveh stares at him, and for a second, alhaitham worries that he's made the wrong decision. but then kaveh breaks into a smile.

he reaches into his bag and carefully pulls out a red rose

"before you ask, no, i didn't buy this; it had fallen from one of the rose bushes on campus. i'm loyal to your grandma's shop, ok?" he offers the rose to alhaitham and cracks a bashful grin. "i may not be well-versed in the language of flowers, but i think this flower has a rather obvious meaning, don't you think? looks like you beat me to it."

alhaitham feels the blood rush to his ears as the two exchange flowers.

then, kaveh lifts his free hand and opens his palm. alhaitham places his hand in kaveh's, and their fingers intertwine. kaveh looks down at their hands and brushes his thumb across the top of alhaitham's. he smiles to himself.

"oh no, please don't tell me all the flowers you gave me were picked based on their meanings," kaveh sighs. "i can't believe i never thought to look them up."

alhaitham squeezes kaveh's hand and relishes in the warmth of kaveh's palm against his. "don't worry, i'll tell you starting now."

#kaveh #alhaitham #kavetham #hkvthmgotcha #genshin impact #fanart #myart #doodle #this is modern au so if you hadn't noticed-- alhaitham has hearing aids instead of his headset!#one thing about me is i will make my art so self-indulgent #also op you said either art or fic was fine and uhhh [gestures vaguely at the read more] i guess you got both from me!#hope they aren't ooc >< i just had a stream of consciousness hehe

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prussiacide · 7 months ago

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gil and rod in lily of the lamplight

#pruaus #veraverse #george devalier

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janeiscompletelyfine · 2 months ago

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Merry Christmas!

I don't actually know what I'm doing, but as a Christmas present to anybody who wants it, here's some Christmas fluff. Very PG.

It's almost midnight.... two minutes and forty seconds 'til, actually, if you happened to be at the Potter's House and happen upon one James Potter, who was holding a comically large pocket watch about two inches from his nose. Regulus was going cross-eyed just looking at him try to stare down that silly ticking piece of brass (why would you use that when you could just look at the planets? Fucking stupid.) Although. To be fair. The hair sticking in every direction wasn't helping matters.

"It doesn't count, you know," whispered Regulus into the lowlight. James looked up, moving his head in that clumsy, half-asleep way.

"Mmmm?"

"You were sleeping on my lap for two hours, Jamie. You didn't stay up till midnight."

"Reg!" James put on his classic affronted face, but he was so dazed that he just looked sort of confused. "I'm offended!"

"Go go to bed, Prongs!" shouted Sirius across the room, not looking up from the man sleeping in his lap, sprawled out across the couch in a mess of gangly legs and curly hair.

"No!" James sounded like a child; he even jutted his lip out. "I'm staying awake!"

"You've just been halfway around the world, Jam," began Lily, looking up from the game of cards she was playing with Mary , Peter, and Pandora on the big armchair by the window. "Your brain literally thinks it's four in the morning right now. There's no shame in it."

"Two minutes!" croaked James. Then he yawned, mouth open so wide that Regulus felt Barty's attention turn to his teeth.

"No." Got to nip that in the bud.

"Aw, Reggie. They're just so beautiful!" Barty's head lolled over the side of the couch, where his partner Evan was lying spooned by his side reading a ridiculously heavy book.

"James wants his teeth to stay in his mouth. Don't you, Jamie?"

"Uh-huh." James eyes seemed to be drooping. "I like my teeth."

"Bet Reg likes his teeth, too," snickered Sirius. On his lap, Remus stirred and muttered something that sounded like stop making sex jokes about your brother and James. Which was useless, anyway.

"One minute now," hissed Marlene, swooping across the room and drooping herself over James' shoulder. Her Queen t-shirt was covered in lipstick kisses. "Should we do a countdown?"

"Come back here," came the response from a disgruntled Dorcas sitting on yet another armchair. The low lamplight shone bright shadows on her face. "I'm cold."

"Don't leave her now, Marls. Not after all this," laughed Lily, tossing one red ponytail over her shoulder.

"Same goes for you." Mary poked her best friend in the side. Lily did another one of her signature laughs, and grabbed Mary's hand in hers. She smiled. Regulus only knew one person who could light up a room with just a grin-- his Jamie, of course-- but Lily was pretty close. At least lit up the corner.

"Fifteen, fourteen," came the muffled countdown from Remus. "You have to kiss me when it's Christmas, Pads."

"Kiss you? Scandal," came Sirius' reply, a grin spreading uncontrollably across his face. "I'll get ready."

"Thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine," counted Barty, much faster than nessecary. Slow down, came Evan's squashed response.

"Eight, seven, six," counted Marlene and Dorcas in unison, Dorcas's head on top of Marlene's, fingers wrapped together like a braid.

"Five, four, three, two," chirped Pandora and Peter, dropping their cards, faces alight with excitement.

"One," whispered Regulus. He couldn't help but smile. Then--

"James? James?"

James had passed out cold. Regulus laughed and pressed a kiss to his forehead-- he could hear about the Christmas kiss in the morning.

Yeah so I actually have never written pure fluff before but here it is, hope you enjoyed! 🎄 Merry Christmas Tumblr, thanks for a great year and here's to many more!

❤️Jane

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boggie-things · 2 years ago

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At five years old, Robin Buckley says her favorite color is pink when asked by her kindergarten teacher.

It seems like the right answer, it's what all the other girls say (except for a few who say purple, but Robin thinks of the flowers at her grandma's funeral earlier that year that were a sickly shade a mauve), so it must be hers as well.

She doesn't mind wearing it, but she thinks it's bright, easy to call attention to. She gets scolded in second grade by Tammy Thompson when she says it's really just a shade of red, after that she decides she doesn't like it as much anymore.

In fourth grade she says it's green when her mom asks for a color to paint her room. It's the color of outside and Robin likes to play there.

Her favorite shoes are forest green and she sits in the green section at lunch with her best friend Barabra Holland. It's a good fit.

But in sixth grade Tommy Hagan tells her it's a boy color and if she likes it then she's a boy. And so Robin changes it again. This time it's yellow.

Yellow is a safe color, neither gender seems to claim it and it's the shade of the sheets on her bed where she spends most of her time now that Barbara seems to prefer hanging out with Nancy Wheeler.

Yellow is the color of the stray cat that she feeds eyes and the shade of the lamplight she likes to read under at night.

She changes it to red in tenth grade when she hears Tammy Thompson say she likes it (even though she got mad at Robin for her earlier suggestion of pink being a light shade of it), and she really thinks it's the right one too.

It's the color of her beloved converse and the shade of the only makeup she owns, the scarlet lipstick her aunt got her for her fifteenth birthday.

It's a color of her Scoops uniform and the dry erase marker she uses to mark down Steve Harrington’s numerous fails at flirting.

It's the color of blood staining her shirt and dripping from Steve's face on the Fourth of July, 1985. The color of fireworks being thrown at a monster made up of red flesh and the color of the ambulance lights that flash as she sits in it.

After that she doesn't have a favorite color. It changes whenever someone new asks, alternating between the ones of her past.

It's green to Steve and pink to the mother renting a movie for her daughter. Yellow for Dustin and for a project in English class.

It's never red though.

But then 1986 rolls around and it's suddenly blue. The color of the sky and her favorite shirt is navy. The color of a denim jacket and the waters of Lovers Lake.

The color of Nancy Wheeler’s eyes looking at her in the library. Cerulean in the sun and cobalt as they trek through hell.

Bright azure when reflecting fire and the sparks of flying bullets. Soft maya blue under hospital lights.

They're shining admiral when they meet hers outside the Wheeler house two weeks after it all. Her tears match the rain when they kiss. Baby blue when they finally part.

It's blue when Nancy asks as they lay together in their apartment just outside of Boston. She jokes it's for the ocean that they had visited that summer, but later she tells her it's for her eyes.

It's blue like the ring she proposes with, cheap but full of meaning. Blue like the lilies of the Nile and bellflowers of Nancy's bouquet she tosses in the air.

Sapphire like their daughter's name and the chair Robin sits in when she reads to her. The color of her cookie monster cake for her first birthday and the rims of Nancy's reading glasses.

Blue like the dress she's buried in.

Blue like the flowers on their side by side graves.

#no im fine why do you ask?#bog drabbles #ronance drabble #ronance #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #robin & nancy

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