#my skin tone marker died for this

[patchiesocks]

“oh.”

i am obsessed with the way mumbo died. it was so pathetic. he placed down a tnt minecart and walked into it out of nerves and anxiety of not being able to kill anyone. he stared in silence at the carnage he left behind, his ghost hovering above. he was the first one out, because of course mumbo was going to be the first one out. it's not about a curse, anymore. it's about living out of spite and dying in stupid ways and not having final words that are more meaningful than making a statement about another player. he did not get to say goodbye to his teammates. he tripped over himself and died. it was pathetic and beautiful and exactly how mumbo was supposed to go.

[huevobuevo]

Gunk ass stankman

Is it obvious that The Spirit of The Cabin is my favorite genloss episode?

[catofthecanals289]

all the lights

a maxiel drabble for my beloved @lilyrizzy Happy Birthday, the world is suhc a wonderful place simply for having you in it. I love you so much. (contains medical stuff and mpreg [sort of, it’s complicated])

The answer is no. It was ’no’ twenty minutes ago and it’s still a no now.

Daniel doesn’t want to leave. He is not going to leave, that’s what he told them when they asked for the first time, the second time, but the third –

“Sir,” the nurse or midwife or doctor, Daniel doesn’t know, doesn’t care says, having sat down on the chair next to him. “Surgery will take a bit longer still, you are not missing anything by going up to the unit. But you are missing something by stay here. Please, consider.”

What’s there to consider? Daniel doesn’t ask.

He presses his lips together, tilts his face away, fixing his eyes on a spot on the floor. His leg keeps bouncing, his hands clam and sweaty, grasping each other. His heart hasn’t stopped hammering against his ribs for hours. Not since he woke up to Max’s panicked voice, finding blood between his legs.

Days have passed since that moment, but according to the clock, it’s not even been two hours.

“Sir,” the woman says again, brows drawn together when Daniel glances at her.

“Max’s here. So I’m here,” he says tightly, voice feeling rough, unused.

Has he spoken since they took Max from him? Since they wheeled him into the operating room? Since he called Max’s name, desperate, and Max turned his head, skin pale, eyes wide. He’d opened his mouth but the door had shut before he could.

“And your daughters are upstairs,” the woman pushes.

Daniel –grimacing, eyes squeezed shut- nods. “Yeah, well.”

“They need you.”

“Right.”

He shakes his head, lips pinched together.

“They do.”

“For what?” he looks at her again and he can tell she’s taken aback by his cutting tone, but-

She puts her hand on his shoulder, a small, cautious smile on her lips, eyes almost pleading. “You’re their dad. They need you.”

“I’m- Right, yeah. No. I-” He shakes his head again, leg bouncing, heart racing. He can’t fucking look at her. She must think he’s a terrible person and maybe he is. Maybe he’s been a terrible person throughout this entire pregnancy but- “I need to be here. I need – Max.”

He gestures in the direction of the operating room.

They weren’t ready. This wasn’t supposed to happen. So soon. And not like this.

32 weeks, that was the goal. 32 weeks so the babies would be big enough to not- So they’d be stronger. Their lungs, and- And so much. Daniel listened to the doctors, he swears he’d listened, but- They have a calendar at home at the fridge and just the day before yesterday Daniel crossed off the 28 week mark. They only just-

Max had watched from the bed, directing Daniel, handing him the marker, hand on his bump and he’d told Daniel, when Daniel had counted the weeks that were left and only gotten paler, that everything would be okay. That he was excited to meet them. Their girls. And wasn’t Daniel?

But Daniel is a terrible fucking person and all he wanted, all he wants now, is for Max to be okay.

“We can make a new one,” he’d told Max when they first found out, terrified and confused beyond anything. “We just- Max. Max, c’mon. Please.”

He’d wanted an abortion. They’d told them it was safest. That Max- Max’s body wasn’t made for this. He had the parts, yes and none of them fucking knew until- But his body wasn’t fucking meant to do this. It was dangerous. He could die. None of the do doctors, none, none of the experts and specialist-

But Max had wanted to try, hadn’t wanted to make a new baby through surrogacy, or have one by adoption. He’d wanted this. Their miracle baby, growing inside his body against all odds and logic. And Daniel had nodded and said “okay,” and there were moments where he’d thought he could do this, could be a dad. But he was wrong. He was so fucking wrong. He can’t do any of this. There is still blood on his hands and if Max dies-

“Wouldn’t Max want you to at least go see them?” the woman asks voice even gentler now, and fuck, Daniel has to wipe at his eyes again. “When he gets out of surgery, he’ll want to hear how they are doing.”

“You can tell him,” Daniel croaks, tasting salt on his lips.

He doesn’t know shit anyway. Even if he went to see the girls, he- What does he know? Jack shit. He doesn’t- They don’t even have names yet. They couldn’t decide and now-

“He’ll want to hear it from you,” she insists, and she’s right, but-

“He might fucking die,” he says, trying and failing to smile. “He might not ever hear anything I tell him ever fucking again, so-”

“So all the more reason to,” she cuts him off. “Sir, there really is nothing you can do here right now. But you can do this.”

 He can’t. He really, really can’t. Every step he takes makes him feel more sick. He’s lead through a corridor. A door, another door, another corridor. There are signs and numbers and he can’t read any of them, can’t look at the pictures on the walls a t the people they pass, not that there are many. It’s still- The sun hasn’t even risen yet, it’s not-

“Congratulations, c’mon in,” a woman, smaller than the one before says, kind smile on her lips, paired with her words it feels almost mocking though.

He stares at her and right, they are in front of a door, two names written on colorful cards.

Verstappen 1, Verstappen 2.

“What-” he says, gesturing to the cards.

“Oh, because there weren’t names yet. Or have you picked?” the woman says.

Her name tag ready Hailey, Daniel can’t remember if she told him or when he’s been handed over to her, his head is still spinning and he’s pretty sure he might throw up.

“We- No. We hadn’t- We thought we still had time, I-“

“That’s okay, don’t worry,” she says, offering another smile. “Lots of parents haven’t decided on names yet when it’s baby time. Even if it’s full term pregnancies. Just tell us when you know, yes? Now.” Her smile widens a little. “Would you like to meet your daughters?”

“Just- I need to go back downstairs?” he says, turning to look where- but he doesn’t know. Which direction was he- How is he going to get back? He doesn’t-

There’s the nurses’ station right there, eyes on him, whispers.

“Well, how about we just go in and I introduce you, yeah?” Hailey says, unperturbed. “Now, I need you to take off all jewellery on your arms and hands. Watches, bracelets, rings – that includes wedding rings. Then please wash your hands very thoroughly at the sink and then when your hands are dry disinfect them. This is very important you need to do that every time you come here. No exceptions. We also need to talk quietly. No loud noises in this room please.”

He nods.

She opens the door.

“So, the girls are doing well,” Hailey says, as they walk up to the first of the – the incubators. The lights are dim in the room, but there’s still some sort of blanket over it, but she removes it and then- “This is number 1. She and her sister both need some help breathing still, which is to be expected at 28 weeks. They are also very small for their gestational age, which we assume is due to the conditions, which- Well.”

She smiles, a little awkward now.

The conditions. She means Max’s womb. Max’s hormonal situation. The way the placenta attached, how it couldn’t- Max wasn’t made for this. Or not- Only sort of. Just- It wasn’t ideal. Not for Max or the babies. Just a fucking fuck up from nature and now Daniel is a father and so is Max but Max might die and there is a tiny little creature lying in a plastic box in front of him, stuff strapped to its little face, frail, twig like limbs tucked in close to its body, chest rising and falling so quickly, wires everywhere and-

“So she’s got 725 grams, and her sister is at 680 grams, which-”

“I don’t know what that means, I don’t-” He shakes his head, throat tight, stomach twisting.  

She’s- His- Their girl. She’s- She’s so fucking small, he doesn’t-

“Oh, 25.57 ounces,” Hailey explains. “That’s her. And our little lady over there, she’s got 23.98.”

“That’s-”Again he shakes his head, having to turn around. “That’s too small. That’s not- No. That’s-”

“That is very small, yes,” Hailey allows. “But, sir. Right now they are doing well and we are monitoring them. “They get some help breathing, but thanks to the RDS prophylaxis your- The mo- Your partner received their lungs are doing pretty well. The girls are both breathing on their own. They received surfactant already. No brain bleeds so far, and-”

“Okay, yeah, I- I gotta go back downstairs,” Daniel cuts in. “I’ve got to- Max- My partner, he is still in surgery, so.”

“Oh.” She blinks. “Oh, sure, yes, but, if you- Well, it would be so incredibly beneficial for your babies to get skin to skin contact? It’s- We call it kangaroo care and-”

Daniel laughs, he can’t help it. It’s a shrill, crazy little sound  and before Hailey can say anything there’s a cry.

A tiny, barely there, barely audible cry, coming from behind Daniel. Coming from  - her.

She-

Daniel turns around and there she is, her little miniature face twisted into a grimace, little mouth quivering and the sound she makes- IT shatters his heart-

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, love,” he whispers quickly, desperately, hands flying, helpless in front of the plastic wall. “I’m- Shit. What-  Just- Because I’m Australian, I was-”

He looks at Hailey, terrified. She needs to do something, she needs- His little girl is crying. She’s crying and she’s just so small.

“It’s okay, you just startled her,” Hailey says softly. “The loud noise. It’s okay. We’ll just- You know she is still adapting. She’s not- We always say they need a little bit, to truly arrive, you know? To the world? Everything is so much for them. The noise, the light, everything. So we try our best to shield them, but positive stimulation is just as important as shielding them from negative one. And part of that is skin to skin. It’s- She needs you, sir. They both do.”

She’s still crying. It’s a pitiful little sound, not like the baby cries Daniel remembers form Isaac or Izzy or Leo.

“But Max-”

“Labor and delivery will call us,” Hailey says. “They’ll inform us and we’ll inform you. I promise. Now, please. It’s really, really so important for your babies. ”

 She tells him to take off his shirt. She puts him in a chair that reminds Daniel of a sun lounger except he’s not getting a tan. His heart is beating out of his chest. He’s lying there shirtless and terrified and Hailey and another nurse who introduced herself as Abby hand him tubes and wires and then- then There’s first one baby on his chest and then another. Two tiny little creatures. They tell him to hold him. Put his hands on their backs as they sort out the wires and tubes and everything and his fucking- One of his finger is bigger and longer than each of their legs and their hands-

“Are they- Is this-” This can’t be right. This can’t be- They are too small for him to hold, to lie on his chest and be covered by towels. They fucking- There’s a heating lamp, they need- “Shouldn’t they go back in the boxes?”

„The incubators?“ Abby asks, frowning. “Oh, no, not his is best for them. Skin to skin. With mom. Or dad. It’s the best for them really. Helps them stabilize their temperature and heartrate, breathing, everything.”

“Yeah, but-”

Daniel feels so helpless, useless. He’s just- He’s nothing, no one. He just- They don’t even know him. They grew inside Max, they know him, his heartbeat, his voice, Daniel just-

“They know your voice too,” Hailey says, almost like she’s read his mind. “So you can talk to them quietly. Sooth them if they need it.”

But they don’t. They are both quiet now. Both just there where the nurses put them on Daniel’s chest, bellies down, heads tilted towards each other, little hands on Daniel’s skin, it’s- It might be the most surreal thing Daniel has ever experienced. Three hours ago it was just him and Max in bed together and now he’s alone in a hospital room with their daughters and Max-

“Can you call?” he asks, keeping his voice low, despite its tremble. “Down to- Ask how he’s doing? Max? He-”

“Of course.”

 Two hours pass before the door opens again and it’s not just Hailey or Abby, but both of them as well as two other people in scrubs and a bed. A bed with Max inside and a number of things attached. IV pumps and stuff, Daniel thinks, but he has no eyes for any of that. Just Max. Max who seems to barely be able to tilt his head, looking around, looking for-

“Max,” Daniel croaks and on his chest one of the babies splays her fingers, almost making him choke up again. “Maxy, hey. Hi. How-”

“I’m okay,” Max croaks, voice hoarse and barely there, probably because of the tube they had shoved down his throat for surgery.

“He lost a lot of blood,” someone Daniel doesn’t know says. “And we are admitting him to the ICU so this is just for ten minutes tops, I’m sorry, but-”

“Let’s just sort this,” Hailey cuts in, smile on her face.

There’s a flurry of motion then, pushing around of equipment, adjusting tubes, wires, everything and it seems like a whole lot of work but Daniel doesn’t care because by the end of it they have somehow managed to fit Max’s bed next to the chair Daniel is in, the tubes of baby 2 sort of half under Max’s pillow who looks even paler than before, exhausted and only half awake.

“Hi,” he says, and his hand-

“I can’t,” Daniel whispers. It kills him not to reach out, not to take Max’s hand, but. “I got-”

“Oh,” May blinks and then Abby leans over pulling back the towels a bit so Max can see the girls. “They are so little.”

“Yeah.” Daniel nods, but he manages half a smile, tears gathering in his eyes again. “They are. and they’d really like names, I think. And meet their papa.”

“Oh,” Max says again. “Hi, babies. It is your papa.”

[retro-with-a-twist]

¡WARNING!: VERY long post ahead!

I was recently asked to do a tutorial for two friends, and I figured I’d share it here! It’s on how I personally use markers and colored pencils for portraits, so if that’s something you’re interested in then this is for you!

I must preface by saying this is my first tutorial/guide thingy and I’m no professional, but hopefully it helps some! This is only one way of going about it, don’t worry if it’s not your way!

Without further ado, let’s do this! And remember: Trust the process!!!

First, the angelic (😏) reference:

Now, we all see tones differently. I also am using the Art Alternatives Portrait Set, which is limited in tones. So, this won’t be completely picture accurate- which is okay! Essence over accuracy!

Alright! Here we go!

Step One: the sketch!

Typically I do the sketch in the person’s undertone, usually pinks or purples. However, for whatever reason I was compelled to try blue on this one, and hey- what is art if not random attempts at creating beauty?

And just like the color scheme, the sketch isn’t 100% accurate. But again, it’s all good!

But anyways, the reason I do my sketches in colored pencil is because it doesn’t smudge like graphite does, and it actually blends into the marker. I feel it’s smoother, and it provides some undertones as you start layering with marker.

Step Two: base tones

This is where you wonder if you just destroyed the entire drawing. I promise you that you didn’t! Basically what I do here is I put pinks down wherever I see pinks in the reference and lay down where the skin is the darkest. I find that it blends better when it’s underneath the base layer.

Step Three: the base layer

Here, all you do is throw down the skintone over the entirety of where it goes, in this case the face. I typically try to leave out highlights, but sometimes the marker bleeds and covers things I didn’t ask it to. In this case, that was the eyes. Oh well!

One thing to notice here is how you can still see the colored pencil beneath the sketch. That’s a very useful guide for when you begin detailing.

Step 3.5: uh

This isn’t necessarily a marker step, it’s just me letting the ink dry and working on other spots with pen and colored pencil. Also, I do like to go over the pink areas a few times to make them less stark.

Step Four: beginning detailing

Now, black is a tricky color on the face, because it can either smudge on everything and turn it gray, or work really well. I used a colored pencil here, and began going over the blue colored pencil spots and lines that were visible under the marked, which started to bring out his face. I also covered the highlight on the nose that had been left alone thus far.

Step Five: THE™️ details

If there’s anything I’ve learned in my five years of drawing, it’s that the highlights and darkest points are what really make the piece. Pure white, bright highlights (like the ones in the eyes) are awesome, but lately I like smudging them out a little bit so that they’re gentler.

If there’s anything you want to hit, it’s the whites of the eyes with the white gel pen, and the pupils + nostrils with the black fineliner.

I have shaky hands, but I use them to my advantage in stippling the darkest part of the eyebrows and in the line of the lips with the fineliner- it just adds a little bit more depth :)

Hair is its own thing, I just sort of wing it. Black hair especially is not the easiest for me, just because I find it difficult to bring out the shades in it. It’s not done at this step as I was trying to figure out how I was going to finish it.

I will also blend things out with both the skintone marker and a pink colored pencil just to get stuff to be smoother. If you’re going for semi realism/realism like me, I highly recommend taking a reddish brown to do some freckles/skin texture with. You can’t see it too much in this picture, and I didn’t want to overdo it since Cas/Misha doesn’t have that many freckles as far as I can see, but it does make a difference.

Step Six: everything else

I did the jacket in colored pencil as well as the fake id!

If you have any questions let me know, I’m happy to help!

Hope this is a decent guide :)

[sir-subpar]

Apparently Tumblr deleted this post so here I am posting it again.

Nifty Redesign!

Is it Niffty or Nifty??? I need answers

So far- My fav redesign I've done!

Details under the cut!

Here's what I learned researching her:

From what I was able to find, Nifty died in the 1950s at the age of 22. She's Japanese, boy crazy, and hyperactive.

She's meant to be based off of a ladybug. She's obsessed with chores but is secretly very dirty: even crushing bugs with her bare hands.

.. yet she doesn't look anything like a ladybug. Which boggles my mind concerning the fact that many ladybugs are red or brown, and have patterns, yet Viv doesn't take advantage if that at all??

Overly complicated patterns mixed with the color red are Vivziepop's favorite thing of all time. Why doesn't Nifty look anything like a ladybug?

So, I decided to give her more bug features, I took a little bit of inspiration from things like The Jetsons and 1950s wallpaper patterns. I wanted to mix ladybug, hotel staff, and 1950s housewife together (since she's so boy crazy, I figured she'd want to look like her time periods standard of the quote on quote: "ideal woman" if that makes sense.)

I decided just to use my skin tone markers for her face, because I didn't want to make her the same white color that all the other characters are, and I did not want to make a Japanese character yellow. (Yes I know that they made her Japanese *after* making her yellow, but still.) I also made her hair black, but I kind of kept the Jetsons style hair. I'm aware that show technically came out in the '60s, but a lot of the fashion in that show was very 50s inspired

I did however, use yellow for some of the accents to the outfit like her gloves. Since yellow did seem to be like a popular color in the 1950s from what I could tell. Though it was a very colorful time period in general lol

I've seen some people give her a feather duster tail, and I honestly thought that was super cute so I did the same. I gave her four legs to match the bug thing and to make sense of how fast she is. And I gave her antenna, she's a bug, she should have them.

I gave her a ladybug themed apron.

I mostly used color palettes that were really popular on dresses from back in the day. And I gave her lipstick, since I noticed it seemed to be kind of popular back then, but maybe that's just me over thinking it.

So yeah, what do y'all think?

Next up I'm either going to do Cherri Bomb or Velvette. Velvette has been incredibly difficult, I want to cry aaaa

Edit: here are some of the early concept / reject designs I did. Lmao

Like I said, usually I have to draw a character a few times before I'm happy. And I don't want to make it seem like I think I'm so brilliant when I'm doing this. I'm showing you guys part of my process, including my mistakes

At some point I was going to make her a praying mantis. Because they're really cool bugs, but then I realized cleaning was going to be much harder with scythe hands

[americanphysco]

What I Took

An Essay by Heather Sellers

From my mother’s house, in 1982, when I left for college—for good: her prized crimson cashmere sweater, which she never wore (Orlando, average temperature in January: 70 degrees Fahrenheit), the most collegiate item in our house, which I washed in warm water, which turned my t-shirts, sheets, and underwear pink, all of which I put in the dryer. I pulled out pink everything and the now tiny sweater. I wore it proudly. I called it a “snug.” I wore it with ultra-tight black jeans, black boots. Hair in a ponytail, long earrings I hand-made out of fishing tackle, as though I intended it all to be just this way.

A bowl with a rooster on it, cream on the outside and inside the most interesting shade of ochre, a color I associated with my mom’s happiest days, the 1950s, when she was a reporter, then a teacher, making a weeknight dinner, laughing with my father about this or that.

A blue floral pillowcase. From a set she used so much the cotton had worn to shining, was smooth as silk. How much I wanted my head where her head had been, my cheek against hers.

Her one gown, a color with no name, palest cinnamon mixed with skin tones, tulle. It never fit me. I wanted to give the dusty dress a proper life at college dances and in ballrooms someday when I was tiny and slender as she was, which never happened, could never happen.

Her father’s wood rosary, carried in a pouch in my purse. Her father, Patrick “Buck” Keating, died on Christmas Eve when my mother was fourteen.

I was never the same again, my mother said.

When I came back from university to visit, the first thing she said was: “I know you’ve stolen some things from me and I want my belongings returned.”

I looked my mother in the eye. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

I didn’t take her jewelry or money or even the paperwork I needed from her to get financial aid. I wonder now at what she chose, this seventeen-year-old girl that I was: a pillowcase, a sweater, a dress, a bowl, and a rosary. Are these the archetypal elements of woman to a girl? Mostly, I didn’t take. I assembled. I assembled just enough to make a complete and good sentence, trying to create a story a girl could live in.

My mother always said to me: You could be so pretty if you tried.

What I took from my father’s house: nothing.

He, and every thing, every body, in that place smelled of smoke, gin, perfume, decay. Damp to the touch.

But wait. Wait. I did take something.

From his blue bedroom, from on his dresser. But it could have been from anywhere in the house, he strew porn magazines in the living room, bathroom, foyer, kitchen counter. I took the fall issue of the magazine Easyriders, containing the only such girl of his I ever came across, a girl who looked almost just like me. She was photographed, in her modest poses (am I airbrushing clothes onto her with faulty memory?) in mossy woods and dry fields, somewhere in the south—kudzu, pine trees—and paired with a gleaming motorcycle, of course.

The way the light fell through the trees, so familiar.

Her motorcycle was small. Similar to one I’d had, a Kawasaki 200. She looked like a junior high school student. She was so small, long wavy light brown hair. My hair. The only small-breasted girl I ever saw in those magazines.

Summer turning to fall, naked under her leather jacket.

I wanted to put my arms around her. Friend. It wasn’t her naked body that captivated my attention, but rather how she was doing life, her body along for the ride. I took her from my father’s house and with me to college.

Talisman. Marker. Back-up plan.

And I took from my father so much that was invisible to me, and I wouldn’t begin to see any of that until decades later.

[tmrrwppl]

"I wish you'd stop trying to destroy yourself in some misguided effort to feel worthy. "

some angst idk y’all i like crying

Her hands twitched, nearly crushing the box she was storing away in the supply room, marker-labelled 'lightbulbs' in her neat writing. As it was, she heard multiple pops as they did not survive the pressure that had blown out of her fingers. She swore, giving the box a violent look before it flew across the room, slamming into the wall to his right and dropping into the trash bin with a crunch of glass.

What a waste of a run.

Finally, she spun on her heel, staring him down, fully aware the eyes they shared and that anger. Constantly boiling under her skin like a sickness, and because he was half right, she was destroying herself, but not to feel worthy. Why would she want to feel worthy for them. The ones who had hurt her? She was on edge because she didn't want more people to die. Destroying herself was the sacrifice.

"Last I checked, we're in the middle of a war, Roger."

She wasn't sure how the words came out so calmly, she wanted to scream them at him. He who should understand the most-- since he helped start the god damn thing before she was even out of diapers!

"An' last I checked, I'm the only one of us who knows how to run supplies... without gettin' shot at." The southern drawl was thick, her tone dangerous, forewarning her uncle of her imminent explosion. Oh, she was not like his family in that, she was from way down south with the cottonmouths and gators. Hurricanes and swamp lights. The violence of the ocean. The ghosts that hung in the spanish moss on the breeze.

The anger in her mind came from his side, but the heat in her blood was all her, and her raising... where she was regularly told she was not worthy and useless.

Nature vs Nurture, indeed.

"So yeah, I'm gonna keep doin' what I do. I have been burnin' my entire candle for years and I haven't died yet. But I promise you, it's not cause I want to feel worthy. I don't give a damn about that. It's 'cause if I don't do it, we all fuckin' die down here or out topside. Because that's what used to happen once John started bringin' more in. This war y'all started... that's why I do it. Except now I get the distinct pleasure of bein' the pariah 'cause whoop-de-doo, my father was the one tryin' to hunt us down like animals."

"And you let that happen with this bullshit plan of y'all's." Her finger pointed right at him, her head tipping to the side, directly accusing him with her words. "Why the fuck would I want to 'feel worthy' to anyone. At this point none of y'all even deserve it."

[caesarflickermans]

What do you think about the way character appearance being portrayed or narrated in THG novels?

What's your opinion about THG movies casting? Especially Katniss' and The Seam residents casting?

Is it important that Seam and Merchant residents of District 12 have different appearance in the screen? Yes/No? Why?

What do you think about division /dynamics between Seam and Merchants in District 12?

Thank you :)

@curiousnonny

This has been sitting in my ask box for months rip but the stage play has been announced so now I want to indulge despite the shame

What do you think about the way character appearance being portrayed or narrated in THG novels?

I liked the implications Collins left us with. The dynamic between the Seam and Merchants is our first introduction to the class markers in the story. Many people, me included, perceive those markers to denote race as well, that with Katniss describing a consistent "Seam look" which consists of black hair, grey eyes, and an olive skin tone. In contrast, Prim and Mrs. Everdeen look like they come from the Merchant class due to their light hair and blue eyes (THG, 1).

This reflects dynamics we have seen all throughout the world, but especially in the United States. Racial tensions leading to people living in separated areas, with the wealthier people being white, and those ostracised being people of colour.

I like the implication of Katniss having Indigenous roots. This ties to the oppression Indigenous peoples still face, with many having been shoved aside to make room for settlers to live prosperous lives on their lands. The Seam is exactly such a place all while it sits close to nature itself.

Katniss even mentions how people have become so distanced from nature that "a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest apples" (THG, 1). People who might otherwise have had a different relationship with nature have been entirely severed from it, taught to fear it and rather remain in the confined bounds of the place that does not grow anything.

Katniss ties to nature are, albeit common tropes, nonetheless an important symbol for her connection with nature: "I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley [...] Gale says I never smile except in the woods." (THG, 1).

Nature is where Katniss turns to when she needs to survive. When her father dies in January, Katniss is left with weeks of starvation before she finds hope in Peeta's bread and the dandelion (THG, 2). The former symbolises heat, warmth, and most importantly: fire, while the latter is a sign of survival. Katniss can only survive in nature, with nature, living off of nature. I cannot help but think of the trail of tears and the reservations that have separated Indigenous peoples of America from their usual resources and brought them in environments that did not yield harvest nor where proper hunting grounds.

What's your opinion about THG movies casting? Especially Katniss' and The Seam residents casting?

All the racial tensions were gone in the movie, which is an immense pity. At the same time, this was 2011-or-so, where casting even a white female lead seemed revolutionary. I am looking forward to their stage play to see if we will get a brown Seam!

That said, I find it strange that the movies don't stick to at least all brown hair for the Seam. Woody is bald, so a brown wig would have been fine as well. Alas, that means that the Merchant-Seam divide is lost in book to movie transition.

Is it important that Seam and Merchant residents of District 12 have different appearance in the screen? Yes/No? Why?

It sure is. I find it an important means of showing how racisms will always exist in this world, and there's no way to deliver this better than actually having them look different enough to tell there is some kind of divide. Book to movie adaptions have always something lost in translation, so I'm interested if they will be more accurate in the stage play!

I don't buy that hair colour and green undertone is a markedly important enough factor to be able to differentiate between people. It only needs one brown-hair dominant gene hitting hard to ruin that logic for a large enough Merchant population to make it a redundant means of telling people apart.

I will also say this: There was a time in history where a certain demographic hated another demographic, but they looked very close in appearance that without a specific symbolism, you couldn't tell them apart. I'm saying, the Nazis needed specific symbols, be it the yellow star, the J in the passport or the name changes to accurately tell who is and who isn't Jewish. Coincidentally, you didn't have that "problem" in the United States where appearances were different enough. I wonder which one Collins was implying here, cause last I recall Katniss only ever referred to the appearance, not being called Seamniss Seamerdeen.

Now, I don't care for debates around this topic anymore, but let's just quickly go through them:

"Olive skin tone means tanned". It's literally a green undertone, that which everyone of any race can have, see the Wikipedia article denoting that this can range to brownish skin as well as the info graph in there.

"They put a white girl on the cover". And the girl has brown-to-black eyes, so it's clearly not an accurate representation anyhow. Beside the fact that I doubt Collins was talking with Scholastic on how their cover artist should do the cover.

"Collins said Katniss and Gale weren't intended to be biracial". A sentence later she also said there was a lot of ethnic mixing. Further down they mention it is a multi-racial society and that Collins did not see a specific ethnicity when she wrote Katniss and Gale. This includes white.

"The casting call only called for caucasian people so that means she was perceived as white by Collins". This was 2011-or-so where Hollywood was worried about white female lead movies underperforming. Clearly, this isn't the same case anymore today—see TBOSAS.

"But Collins said Jennifer Lawrence was the perfect Katniss (or something I don't remember the quote)". She said that Jennifer Lawrence can act well and that the way she acts embodies Katniss. She never specifically said "this is how I've pictured Katniss".

I read Katniss as brown and that's all I need for my own perception, no matter what some ignorant people are yelling at the top of their lungs, because no argument that I can bring forward is going to convince them. If someone's day is ruined because they see someone draw a brown Katniss, then that's on them.

What do you think about division /dynamics between Seam and Merchants in District 12?

I've already partially answered this one, but it is very important to understanding the way Katniss perceives herself and the world around her. The merchants are the first "enemy" we have who Katniss feels opposed to, only to learn that they aren't her enemy.

At the same time, of course, they inform the class struggles we know. The lack of interest in aiding those below you, and the ways poorer white people have abandoned their black/brown counterparts to advance their own standing in society. It shows the complicity one can have in racist structures without themselves being well off in comparison to higher classes.

[reverend-dog]

Quills

Janice sprinted for the bus, and skipped up the step just before the doors shut. The driver paid her no attention; of course not, in their line of work they confronted the oddest forms of humanity every day. None of her fellow passengers appeared to stare or make any comment either. Janice chose an open seat and random and sat. Only a matter time, she thought.

“It’s none of my business,” a voice spoke over her shoulder, “but you’re not doing yourself any favors.”

There it is.

Janice turned in her seat. The man’s face described decades spent in the elements, liver spots like town markers. Snowy whiskers hid in the deeper wrinkles, too deep for a razor to reach. Cloud-colored eyes peered from behind horn-rimmed glasses, and his baseball cap claimed veteran status.

“Excuse me?” Janice asked from reflex.

“Your hair.” The man waved a hand that might once have boasted muscle, but now hung with slack skin. “I mean, I get you wanna make a statement, but I hope you didn’t pay too much for that do, and I sure wouldn’t go back to that barber. You’re a pretty girl and that’s a real nice outfit, but --” He waved his hand in the general direction of Janice’s scalp again. “Pardon me for saying it looks like you got a porcupine on your head!”

The criticism fell like hail. Nearby conversations died, and people stared as if the man’s words gave them permission to stop pretending. Janice huddled in her seat, shoulders hunched, and dipped her head. What had she expected? Her scalp tightened, and she felt a rustling.

Should have stayed home, she chided herself. Called in sick. ‘Sorry, can’t make it in today. My hair’s turned into quills.’

“Now, hey,” the man continued, “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. Just maybe you wanna give these things a bit more thought in the future, you know?”

The non-apology stung worse than the critique, moreso because of the injustice of his assumption. Janice hadn’t asked for this. She just wanted to live her life, certainly didn’t want to be the center of attention. Why or how she woke up like this defied explanation. I would have stayed home, except for that stupid, mandatory all-hands meeting!

And now here was Mr. All-American Senior Citizen White Male Privilege, with his assumption that everybody needed and were eager to receive his ineffable wisdom.

Janice’s throat worked, and words forced themselves out without her will. “Nobody asked you.”

The man reared back, indignation flowing through his wrinkles. “Well!” he exclaimed. “If you’re gonna be that way about it --”

Janice sprang from her seat. Her quills sprang out and forward around her face. She loomed over the man. “Yes,” she told him, “I am going to be that way about it! ‘It’s none of my business,’” she mimicked his earlier tone, “so why did you make it your business? How I choose to dress or style my – hair doesn’t affect you in the least, so the least you could do is ask if I want your opinion! Consent, get it?”

Silence reigned on the bus. Janice realized how many pairs of eyes were trained on her, and also saw a few phones pointed her direction. She wondered what sort of spectacle she presented, quills erect. Freak? Is that what people were thinking?

The old man regained himself, Boomer indignation coming to the fore. He stood up and stuck out an admonishing finger, ready to put Janice in her place.

Thap!

Something colorful, hard, and fast bounced off the old man’s head, sending his veteran’s cap flying. Eyes snapped toward the back of the bus, where a slight, stooped woman stood, throwing hand extended, bare foot balanced on her toes, the rest of her weight on her cane. She wagged a finger at the man.

“Callate!” she commanded. “Siddown! She no bother you, you essteeffyou!”

The bus erupted in laughter. The old man fumed as he bent to retrieve his hat, and resumed his seat, unable to respond to an undeniable senior. Another passenger fetched the abuelita’s chancla, while the old woman blessed Janice with a smile and a benedictive wave.

Janice felt her quills lay down along her skull as she resumed her own seat. A warm glow lived in her chest. I’m ready, she declared to herself. Bring it on, world!

[bluebeetle]

first two art fights!!! my skin toned copic i used the most died after this tho so i may switch to using pencil crayons or paint for a few art pieces bc some people rly dont have a lot of options for not-pale white characters :/ i was gonna mix it up anyways tho esp since my good inking pen also died, the one that doesn't smear with the alcohol markers sniffs sniffs.

anyways hoping to get more done soon, its been a rough start of the month with the whole unemployed thing really hitting hard now

[xsapphirescrollsx]

Outsider pt 1 (6/19)

Outsider Series

Chapter 6 Unbroken Fragments

The City of the Dead was a place of worship for Wakanda. An ancient temple erected to home their ancestors. A longed for heavenly connection that offered those left behind only acceptance instead of ascension. A vast complex of catacombs stretched along the land surrounding a tower dedicated to Kings of the past. It housed their family in hopes that they find peace within a town of their own.

The bodies of Tiakan and Drea now laid here.

Killmonger made it his mission to destroy any resemblance to unity that would seize the compliance he inflicted upon the people. He would have killed Ramonda. He would have slaughtered Shuri. The scholar of war, fire and death worked in his favor and he never hesitated to take it a step further. Though he wanted freedom, his cool calculated demeanor longed for the inevitable bloody battled for independence. Barren eyed vengeance passed for benevolence. The poverty in his soul only exacerbated the waking nightmare that was his existence. Tattered skin that bared marks of death made the best of them cower under his rule.

But not Tiakan, who died protecting Drea.  

King T’Challa allowed their remains to be buried within the halls of the Kings as they served their people at great cost. The irony of resisting an outsider, by once declared outsiders was not lost on Awenha.

She could smell the heavy fragrance of burned heart-shaped herb float up from the bowels of the tower. She sat planted on the ground facing the marker of their graves. Unshed tears collected and then fell down her cheeks. The flame flickered up from shiny new torches and danced in the dark. Through the shadows that twisted she saw a figure approach. In one motion Awenha wiped the tears from her face and welcomed the visitor.

“They will not be forgotten.” King T’Challa’s controlled and unruffled political tone was absent as he spoke. He moved toward her from the darkness of the crypt. She noticed his ceremonial robes fit for a funeral, though he seemed to drop most of his public persona as he casually waved. Awenha lowered and raised her head slightly, her eyes dropping to the ground until finally settling back upon their graves.

T’Challa sat near resting his arms upon the top of his knees. She felt the burden of his gaze and turned to him with watery eyes.

“You were always their focus, Awenha. Parents have a very humorous way of expressing their pride in their children. Some choose to hold on to secrets. Others give their children free reign to discover the world as it is.”

Awenha remained silent. His normally stoic expression cracked into sadness. The mask of duty slipping in front of her a memory surfaced of a boy who hung on his father’s every word. How he must have felt at the discovery, she wondered. To see the fruition of such an unspeakable mistake by the person you cherished.

“I will not order you to continue your father’s work. But I will hope instead, that the tradition can only be accepted if you truly want it.”

In the past she was always thinking of a way out. Five years away from Wakanda, felt like freedom. The ability to casually wander the world was treasured. But the world had bit back. She returned home to Drea, who loved Wakanda, and so now she loved it. Even when the tribe elders glared, or heard the hushed whispers as they passed. It all seemed trivial now. She could take it.

“T’Challa, the agreement between Titanis and the Golden Tribe will remain intact.”

She turned back in reverence at the graves, a small contemplative smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.

“I wonder how many people have open agreements with Eternals.”

“With one Eternal.” Awenha corrected. “I’m third generation, cousin. I hardly count as an immortal being, T’Challa. See where my father rests? He’s not coming back. ”

A part of her wished it was not true. But she had never heard stories, family histories, or anything really other than the possibilities of power spoken between the three of them. She was cut off from ever knowing the truth of the past, the command that comes with wisdom eluded any semblance of an answer.  

The King shifted his weight and crossed his legs in front of him. “I have you been contacted by N’Juri?”

Awenha shook her head and grim expression crossed her face as she became lost in thought. N’Juri, her beloved grandmother had been silent for more than twenty years. In her mind, she could not rectify a mother’s absence to the fate of her son. She felt the well of anger in her belly spike. They had been alone since N’Juri left. Scattering only vague directions to continue to explore, grow in their power, and resist leadership roles. What power? Awenha scoffed to herself. For nearly her entire life she believed that N’Juri’s wisdom was the embodiment of maternal love. But as she sat at the plots of Earth, the feeling the contempt eroded any admiration she held. The woman never conveyed anything that Awenha would consider of importance. What good is Eternal genes if you still end up dead? She thought as reality ebbed at the illusion.

 “N’Juri is with Titanis now.” She managed to say between pursed lips.

“We are still your family, Awenha.” He spoke proudly as he rubbed her shoulder gently.

And it was the truth; she knew it was true even in the face of these events. The Golden Tribe had always accepted their small family no matter how far removed from the last King they descended. Their alien qualities were scorned by many who were outraged. And because of their presence others who sought refuge in Wakanda were never offered sanctuary. The method was weak. The approach though reasonable to Wakandans only returned full circle and her family paid the price. At least, she thought woefully, her pain was shared this time for many Wakandans had suffered as well.

“So.” He interrupted her thoughts as he spoke and dropped his hand from her shoulder.

Awenha turned to him, hollow eyes watching him intently. T’Challa’s face was turned at the graves of her parents but his dark eyes slide to meet her gaze.

“What are we to do with Sergeant Barnes?” 

“Did Shuri tell you?” Awenha asked patiently.

“She told me what I needed to know. That is another reason why I am here with you now. I am sorry I have not come to you sooner.”

“I have sat with this long enough.” Her words breathed out in relief. “His actions were not his own. I have accepted it. Absolution may not be for everyone but it is enough for me.”

One weight lifted from her spirit while another sat waiting for another day. The sentiment of anger connected with mentioning the soldier had dissipated. She was finally glad that the hysterical sorrow that had lived in her had departed. Though now replaced with grief, she was at least content that her dreams could be free of him, hopefully.  

“Fulfill your promise to Rogers.” She spoke.  “Sergeant Barnes deserves to live life.”

The Merchant Tribe lands of Wakanda were renowned. Pious vast mountains reached for the sky in the distance, a fathomless deep lake pooled in fertile plains lay surrounded by tall forests. Sergeant Barnes awoke within a thatched roof hut made of mud. The faces of young children with yellow and white paint around their eyes poked at his chest. Whispering to each other back and forth and giggling above him Sergeant Barnes opened his eyes. The children jumped in fright and giggles as they ran out of the hut.

He sat up feeling fully recovered from his mat and looked around his room. Nothing much had changed from the previous day; the same group of kids would follow him around when he left for food. Sometimes he would stand by the river and finally for the first time in years simply could think without the torment of not remembering.

His memories flowed to his consciousness as he thought on them. The fact that he could remember his mother’s face brought joy back to his life even in the moments of his the darkest recollections.

Sergeant Barnes’ got to his feet as he felt the dirt of the land underneath him and adjusted the front of his garment. The light of the morning sun in Wakanda was a real beauty. Anywhere he found himself was met with warmth and fresh air. He looked around the four other huts near him. The children gathered around a slender woman in a white jacket. They giggled harder as he approached then with one last look from the children they ran back to their homes.

“Good morning Sergeant Barnes’.” Shuri said with a warm smile.

She had been in his mind, helped him to erase what HYDRA had put in his head. Formality was for the rigid, and he felt anything other than stuck in tradition.

“Bucky.”

Understanding the dropping of regulated names she nodded thoughtfully.

“How are you feeling this morning?”

“Good.”A near undetectable smile shifted his expression but hung in shiny eyes as he stared at her. “Thank you.” His tone was softer than before but heavy with appreciation.

Her eyes brightened at his response a big toothless grin appeared and a mellow chuckled escaped her lips.

“Come.” she patted him on the chest playfully as she walked away. “There is much more for you to learn.”

Shuri pushed the release button on the pad she held, the snake motion of the wires attached to Bucky’s stub slid back into the diagnostic portal.

“What’d you think doc?” He asked with a playful light smile across pink lips.

“It’s working perfectly, of course. I just wanted to make sure your nervous system was accepting the interface panel.”

Shuri pushed long thin braids over her shoulder as she sat the pad down and sat astutely in the stool before the station. Bucky watched her movements amazed with her quick stroking of the screen. Her eyes analyzed the report as she pushed and slid to the next screen.

While she preened over the read out that popped up red on the screen Bucky eyes went to the floor. He wondered what the day held of course, but more so if there was a chance of seeing the woman from his dream.

He definitely remembered the curly mass of hair around an oval face and those tender brown eyes. But disappointment stayed with him when he realized the sound of her voice was fading.

“So.” Shuri said suddenly bring Bucky out of his reverie he looked back at her.

Shuri swung around on the stool her arms crossed with a single booted foot pushing her body left to right as she watched him. Bucky’s hair hung long around his face, icy blue eyes considered her as his thumb rubbed the first and third finger.

“What about your memories? Do you remember your life before what this organization did to you?”

Bucky’s eyes fell to the right his brows pinched in thought. He pushed by the thoughts of the woman in his dream to a time before his draft. Steve was standing at his door step rain drenched rat looking fellow with an amused look on his face. He had made ten bucks on a bet that Gordie Stewart couldn’t ride the trunk of a taxi longer than ten minutes. The dumb-ass busted his face on the pavement after two.

A smile formed on his face at the memory before looking back at Shuri.

“I do.”

Shuri returned his smile in kind.

“But I have this memory from the last time I was activated.” Bucky started but hesitated when he considered the young scientist’s age. “I attacked a woman in Berlin. I think I saw her here, when I was sleeping. I think.”

Shuri sat forward listening to the man her brows arching in shock as he continued.

“Is that possible…” Bucky shook his head with weathering grin to his sanity as he reconsidered what he was saying. Maybe it was just a figment or perhaps a shadow of what was left of his innocence.

“You see this woman in your dreams currently?”

Shuri stood with her bright eyes trained on Bucky’s confused expression. With a lost gaze he looked to her once before lowering them his fingers.

“I saw her last night.” A slight scoff escaped his lips. “But the memory or whatever it is, it’s becoming less clear.”

Even now as he pulled up the color of her skin it seemed less alive than the last. Bucky struggled to hold on to the last frame of her smile as even in this very moment the surrounding she stood in disappeared.

“She is real.”

Bucky perked up his eyes his expression brightening with hope. Shuri chuckled as she pulled the stool closer to the bed and sat back down.

“She lives here. But-But-!” She waved her hands as he started to speak. “She needs time and space. Otherwise she would have been one of the first faces you saw when you awoke.”

His face fell as hope drained from him before Shuri’s imploring eyes.

“Focus on your healing Bucky. She is doing the same. In time I think you will see her again, and not just in your dreams.”

He focused on the drop of water on the floor instead of the sensation. The mission was to inflict damage physically and mentally through means determined by programming. In a damaged society women find loss of security to be the most paramount risk. Taking it away would be enough to warn off any other attempts at her subterfuge.

He could smell her hot skin as his blank eyes moved to watch her. The water from her face flung as she shook her head. She cried out when he forced it the sound threatened to halt his advances within so he shut her mouth.

Bucky floated somewhere in between here and then as he looked out his own eyes helpless to stop it. His body felt the rush of gratification, his body wanted the release, and it was his body that wanted it to last longer. A thick film of lust covered and mixed with his waking mind. He didn't want it to end.

Bucky screamed but nothing was heard as he stood above her. Another scared woman he had successfully threatened. Though the method was new the effect worked.

The ringing, the god damned ringing, high pitched and deafeningly resounding shot through his brain. He was in the lock box room again the strike team watched Pierce watch him. Then another place green with trees busted into focus it was Steve laying on the ground covered in bruises. Passed the man lying unconscious the sound of water dripping from his hair hit his arm.

Then he was back, staring at the drop of water on the concrete floor. It wasn’t just water he thought with horror, it was tears.

Bucky shot up from his bed, sweat casting a slick sheen across his naked chest as he heaved in large batches of air. He slumped back down as a wail of sorrow moaned through the hut, tears poured from him as he lay wracked with emotion. The smell and feeling of her skin lingered on his senses, the ache of release stayed with him even as he willed it away. The taught muscles of his back flexed and receded with each eruption of new tears.

He hurt her. The woman from his dream and the woman from the JCT were one in the same. Guilt turned to pain as he tried to catch his breath. His hut made of mud was cool though warm air breezed through the cloth door. He made his attention focus on the smell of the grass and nearby lake. His breathing slowed, tears sporadically traced down his face into a ruffled beard. With a rough hand he wiped at them quickening the drying.

He pressed his eyes shut willing the image of her from the darkness of his mind.

“Please pull me from the dark.” He spoke to the night.

Like a cool refreshing gust of wind over a hot face he could see her standing there. Satiating the empty feeling that shame had carved out. Full lips parted into a smile that took his breath away, long black curly hair moved as if in water, surrounded by a blurry white radiance. She looked like an angel, he thought. Infinite and perfect to him, with shades of colors he never saw before as she watched him in return.

Bucky was starving, but not for food. But for the moment that never happened. He wondered if he was asking for too much. The old dreams of young adulthood, those minor pursuits and wants were lost to him now. He wanted her. The woman, who had touched his broken mind and did not shrink back from the challenge even when she knew his identity. And she was real, not this blurry image he kept dragging back up. 

He tried to recall the images their sharing of history. The fast colors that surged through him focused as she unreservedly opened up herself. An invitation, he thought. A sweet, delicious peek into the person who called to his inner indecisiveness. The fear and hesitation within him moved out of the way for her. And he felt a bit peace with who he was and what he had done.

But in those memories shared he saw the woman without the angelic façade. She was human and her fallibility was matched by her willingness to over come conflict. He got to know her in those fleeting moments, the real woman. He would not stop himself from wondering about her safety, if she was happier now or if she too had dreams that plagued her sleep. He had set his sights on her along time ago. He had decided to let the fear of obsession fall away. And now that he knew she was real. He felt the pull to be closer to her more than ever. She was the person he desperately wanted to be in his life. Someone who understood that the monster was forced on him. That the part of him she touched was good, though twisted. He had to believe he was more than what happened to him, despite how the trauma manifested. And he had to believe that this connection wasn't one sided.

Bucky drank from the memory greedily while urgently needing to feel some of what she had. It made him feel alive and hopeful for now, but it was getting harder to retain the powerful feeling of her. He wanted more than what his mind could offer. 

But he would have to settle for a fading recollection, for now.

[pixelatedrose]

Forgot to post this rip ;-;

Anyway-

Los Nevadas Quackity design baybee~~

[icefire149]

Oh no the goat man made his way into my sketchbook

[dickgraysonisnothereforthis]

I’ll Make it Work With What I’ve Got

Jason todd x vampire!reader

word count: 7,900 words

Welcome to the squeak-well of To Each His Own! I got carried away, so it’s almost 8000 words, but I had a lot of fun writing it, I hope you like it!

Let me know if you think I should write another one of these (I actually have 1 more planned but i’m always open to more ideas!)

trigger warning: reader’s mother has died, light smut

***

“Okay, ah, favorite...book turned movie adaptation?”

You sigh, repositioning your head on Jason’s chest. The two of you are lying in your bed, making the most of a night off that worked for both of your schedules. “Jason, I told you, I never really got into movies,” you say tiredly.

“Right, right, sorry.” You can’t see Jason’s face, but he’s stroking your hair. It feels...nice, you decide.

“I did see Greta Gerwig’s Little Women, though,” you admit, mumbling into his chest.

“Haha, see? I saw that one, too!” His voice is bright, happy. You look up at him, smiling fondly despite yourself. Jason’s attempts to get to know you are mostly annoying, but sometimes adorable.

“Now you ask me,” Jason instructs.

“But I don’t care.”

He slaps your ass, lightly, and you make an affronted noise at the back of your throat. “Play fair, doll.”

“Ugh, fine. What’s your favorite book turned movie adaptation,” you parrot tonelessly.

“The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.”

“I didn’t realize they’d made a movie out of that,” you murmur. You used to have the biggest crush on Edmund growing up.

“See,” Jason’s voice is thick with satisfaction. “Maybe we do have things in common.”

Frowning, you pinch the skin around his ribcage lightly. “Are you just listing things from when I was human so I’ll have read them?” you ask accusatorily.

“Maybe,” he says shamelessly. “Except that is a really good movie.”

You know your line, and you bite back saying it to be an ass. “I’ll have to watch it sometime on my own, without you.”

“Whatever makes you happy, doll.” Unconcerned, he pushes a finger into your mouth, so he can feel your teeth sharpen against his skin.

Jason’s reaction to your markers of difference has been a mixed bag. Sometimes he ignores them altogether, treating you as almost entirely human. Other times, he seems to delight in exploring all the ways your weird vampire-ness shows itself, watching fascinated as you drink bottles of blood, asking you to use your fangs in bed. You hate to admit it, but the variety in his attitudes towards you leaves you excited, wondering which one you’ll get whenever he comes over. You also quietly enjoy his fascination with you, it’s like discovering parts of yourself all over again.

“Your turn to ask,” he prods you.

“Pass.”

“Fine. Something r-rated this time.” He grins at you. “Tell me about the time you lost your virginity.”

“That’s pretty vanilla,” you say. Jason shrugs. He must really want to know.

Old habits die hard. “I don’t remember,” you lie easily. You’ve managed to get away with this one a few times before, but Jason sees through it.

“Liar liar.”

“Can’t I be unknowable?” You grouch. “Don’t I get to exercise my ethereal and otherworldly and private nature just a bit?”

“Then you’d be a shitty girlfriend, sweetheart,” Jason says easily.

You roll off of him. “Well, maybe I don’t want to be your girlfriend.”

Jason tenses, but he keeps the easy tone of his voice. “Okay, then. I guess I’ll leave.”

“Can’t we just keep having sex?” You say wheedling.

“Nope.” Jason flips to his side, stares you in the eye.

“Why not?”

“Because I say so. Don’t I get to be difficult sometimes?”

“No,” you say disgustingly. “Only me.”

Jason rolls his eyes, and you kind of want to punch him. “You’re not very good at being self-aware,” he says.

“Oh, and you are?” You challenge.

He laughs, surprising you. “That’s a fair hit, but you don’t know enough about me to know that.” He waggles his eyebrows, then rolls on top of you. You hiss at him.

Momentarily distracted, he says “One day you’ll have to do that under different circumstances.”

You rub against him, and he sighs. “No, we can’t just keep on having sex.”

“And why not?” You say, making big eyes at him.

Jason leans down to whisper in your ear. “Because I think you like me more than that.”

“Yuck!” you shout, flipping him off of you and onto the floor. You hear a “thunk” as his head hits your bedside table.

“Fucking christ,” Jason mutters from the rug below. “You’re such a baby.”

“I’m older than you!” You say indignantly. “I thought men weren’t supposed to be in touch with their emotions, let alone other people’s, let alone other unknowable creatures of the night’s!”

Jason crosses his arms on the side of the bed and leans his chin on them, grinning. You take a moment to admire how muscle-y his forearms are before he goes in for the kill. “That was a very 50′s housewife thing of you to say.”

You really want to punch him now, and content yourself with growling at him angrily.

“Haven’t you read the Feminine Mystique?”

“You’re my least favorite human ever,” you sulk. “I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want you to put your dick in me anymore.”

“Now I know that’s not true,” Jason says, climbing back onto the bed. “I’m going to ask you another question now, okay?”

You mumble at him, throwing a hand in the air.

“What was your favorite food?” he asks. “You know, back when you could eat?”

You still, as only one of your kind can. Minutes tick by as you remain frozen in place on the bed. You don’t even breathe.

“Babe?” Jason asks uncertainly. He pokes you, you shake your head. “Okay,” he says. He stays silently beside you, you don’t know for how long. You got shitty with time once you passed age 50 and still felt like a twenty year old, unchanged. You don’t know how long the two of you lie there, but it must be a while because you can see the sky brightening out your window. Jason moves to secure your blackout curtains, and you sigh, letting your muscles relax.

“Want to tell me what that was?” Jason asks you. He stays standing by the window.

“No.” You turn your face away from him.

“Y/n,” he sighs.

“Y/n can’t come to the phone right now,” you mumble.

He chuckles. “Cause she’s undead?”

You shoot him an annoyed look. “What?”

“Never mind.”

You’re not in a joking mood. Silently, you get out of bed, crossing the room to go to the kitchen. Jason follows you, which is not what you want, but he stays quiet. You open the fridge, pull out the b-negative you opened last night and take a swig. Wiping your mouth, you say: “you need to leave.”

“No,” Jason says stubbornly.

You raise an eyebrow. “Babe, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” he pleads.

“Well I don’t want your help,” you answer defiantly.

“Fine. I did something to make you upset, if you tell me what it is, I can avoid it in the future.” He speaks slowly, like he’s talking to a toddler. You scoff in his face, turning away, but he puts his arms on either side of you, pinning you against the fridge. You stare him down.

“Is this how it is with all vampires?” He complains. “You never tell each other how you’re feeling and just hope they catch on?”

“Pretty much,” you shrug. “If you make enough passive-aggressive comments they’ll figure it out eventually. And we have time.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” he informs you. “Tell me what I did wrong so I don’t make the same mistake again.”

“Ugh, fine,” you groan, as if he’s not going out of his way to protect your feelings. You go quiet, though, as your thoughts return to the matter at hand.

“Y/n,” Jason prompts you gently.

You put your hands over your eyes, do an about-face to the fridge when that’s not enough. “I don’t like talking about it,” you say into the cold metal of the fridge. “But, uh, thinking about me eating...” you trail off, shaking your head.

“Okay,” Jason says easily. He puts his arms around you, and you melt, putting your weight on him. “I’ll try not to bring it up anymore.”

You nuzzle your head into his cheek. “Thank you.”

*** The thing is, it’s hard for Jason not to bring up food. He catches himself about to do it half a dozen times, slips up countless more than that, mentally kicking himself as he sees you shut down and turn away when he asks you your favorite pizza toppings, what your least favorite vegetable was when you were a kid, if you want a hot dog from the street vendor you pass on a walk.

He apologizes every time, and you accept it stiffly, but he’s got to do better, he knows he does. It’s not like he doesn’t know why this is such a problem. He’s not always so self-aware (although compared to you he’s fucking Socrates), but this one is obvious. Since there were times where he went without it when he was younger, food has always been something sacred to him. Something to cherish, something to put time and money into, something to share with the people he cares about. A steady food supply means safety, eating itself means security and love, and cooking is something he does for his family and his, albeit few, partners, and he wants to do it for you, too.

It’s something about the simple anticipation of needs, of something most people always need, plus the ability to make it special and exciting and good, to tailor it to the other person and be able to say “I made this, I hope you like it.” Functional and indulgent, practical and artistic...what can he say? Jason’s a street rat, he loves food different from most people, and it makes him upset that he can’t share it with you.

Dick is the one to eventually bring it up, when they’re in the cave after a night of patrol. “So, how’s it going with the Dracul-ess?” he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Jason sighs, shrugs. “Eh.”

Tim, who’s clacking away at the computer, cocks him a look. “Trouble in Transylvania?”

Jason mumbles something unintelligible, wanting to talk about it but also not wanting to bring it up on his own and look like he needs help. There are rituals to these brotherly conversations.

“What’s going on?” Dick asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Blowing out a long stream of air, Jason says: “she doesn’t eat.”

“Uh, yeah,” Tim says, looking at Jason like he’s an idiot. “That’s sort of what it says on the label.”

“Hold on a minute, Tim,” Dick says, frowning. “So what if she doesn’t eat?”

“She also doesn’t like to think about herself eating. Or talking about food in relation to her at all.”

“So what?” Tim’s already turned back to the computer. Dick eyes his back for a moment, turns a worried, questioning look on Jason. Want me to get rid of him? He’s always known Jason better than he’d had any right to.

Jason shakes his head. He’s pretty sure they can have this conversation without having this conversation. “Why can’t you tell her why it’s important?”

Pulling at his collar, Jason turns the question over in his mouth. “It’s not something I...” it’s not a part of my history I’m particularly proud of. He hates this about himself, that after all of this, after everything he’s been through, the shame of dipping below the poverty line still burns in his throat. It would be better, he knows, if he didn’t get his second chance in a family of blue bloods, the difference in the lives Before and After, and even After Still looming large in his mind in a way that it never has and never will for Dick, or Tim, or even Damian.

“Right,” Dick says. “Aren’t you trying the whole honesty thing on for size?”

Jason chews on his lip. “That’s true, but...I don’t think she’ll understand.” Most people who haven’t gone hungry won’t, and Jason’s pretty sure you’ve never had to go through that. “She’s obviously dealt with...with stuff, but nothing like this.”

“You’ll never know until you try,” Dick offers.

Jason laughs low in his throat. “I guess you’re right.”

“Can I join this conversation?” Tim spins around in his chair. Jason looks at him warily. “Maybe. You have one chance.”

Rolling his eyes, Tim says: “I think there are two problems here. You need to explain what Dick just laid out, but you also need to find another ‘love language,’” he puts air quotes around the final words, “instead of food, for your special vampire friend.”

Jason stares at him. After a moment, Dick chuckles lightly. “Smartypants Timmy, got it in one,” he says quietly. 

“How did you know that?” Jason demands. The ‘about me’ is unsaid.

Looking at the ground, Tim shrugs. “You’re over here a lot, and you sometimes bring things you make,” he mutters.

But not for you. Dick is spearing him with a look, and Jason’s ashamed enough to glance away, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. He wants to dispel the tension. “Whoever thought skinny over there would know anything about relationships,” Jason can’t resist the dig, and it does the job: Tim looks up, stone-faced, and sticks up his middle finger at him.  “I’m helping you,” he reminds him.

“Right, right. I need another love language. Go on.”

Tim makes a face. “That’s all I got.”

“No examples of love languages for us, Doctor Love?” Dick jokes.

“Maybe you could...kill a goat for her and drain its blood, I don’t know! Can she even have animal blood?”

“Maybe we let Dick take it from here,” Jason turns to his older brother, whose face goes serious. “I don’t know,” he parrots Tim. “You have to ask her.”

Jason frowns. “Can’t I just try out one until it sticks? Like buy her shit, or something?”

“You could, but you might also make another mistake,” Dick reasons. “That isn’t your fault, you’ve never been with a capital-v Vampire before. Signals are going to get crossed, you need to accept that. If you communicate, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Sighing, Jason says “she doesn’t do communication.”

“Well, it’s either that or the door.”

“Great. This’ll be a snap.” He picks up his Red Hood helmet and shoves it into his gym bag, setting his motorcycle helmet onto his head and going over to his bike.

“You’re welcome,” Tim shouts after him as he peels out of the cave. He grunts loudly over the engine, makes a mental note to bake Tim some cookies or some shit, to thank him, and to make a point.

Riding out of the Manor, he gets on the freeway and turns his motorbike toward downtown Gotham, and your apartment. He’d like to get this over with.

The whole way there he tries to think of the best way to say this to you, how to phrase it in a way that won’t make you recoil or reject his vulnerability outright. He is, in a tiny part of his heart, worried that the front you put up of pretending to dislike him and being uninterested in his life isn’t a front at all, and you genuinely don’t care about him. Not the way he cares about you, not at all, and you won’t be willing to work with him on this, to let him explain himself and try and find another way of showing he cares about you. That you won’t want to accept his care. He tries to shut down these thoughts whenever they slither into his mind. At least he’ll know, he reasons, whether you really care about him enough to try and make this work or not. At least he’ll have some idea of what’s going on in your head.

He parks outside of your building, fishes his phone out of his pocket to send you a text. Outside, can I come up?

Your reply comes a few minutes later: Sure... You text like the octogenarian you are. Steeling himself, Jason makes his way through the doors and into the elevator, hitting your floor. Nerves jump in his throat the whole way up, and he tries to swallow them down.

You’re in your underwear when you open the door to your apartment, grabbing him and pulling him in for a searing kiss. It’s unbelievably distracting, and Jason tumbles, disoriented, into your apartment, completely forgetting the reason he came in the first place as you lick into his mouth.

“Hi,” you whisper against his lips, moving away from him to shut and bolt the door. Distance brings clarity, and when you turn back to him with a hungry look in your eye, he takes a step back. “Babe, wait.”

You raise an eyebrow. “We need to talk about something,” he says apologetically, knowing you won’t like it.

You don’t disappoint. “Ugh,” you scoff, striding across your living room and plopping down on your couch. “Why do you humans want to talk so much? Fine, what do you want?”

He settles himself next to you, enough distance between you that you won’t feel cornered. “I want to explain why I keep messing up with the food thing.”

You tense, going cold and rigid as stone, as you do every time this comes up. Jason sighs. “I know you don’t want to talk about this, and you don’t have to. I just want to tell you why I keep bringing it up, even when you told me not to.”

You give a cautious nod. Jason smiles at you briefly, then feels his face go stiff. Now comes the hard bit.

“Food is important to me because...because when I was growing up, we didn’t always have it,” he admits. He’s staring at his knees in front of him, he can’t look at you. “I grew up in Crime Alley, my mom was a druggie and my dad wasn’t around. My mom would disappear for days. Sometimes I didn’t eat.”

That’s all he can tell you about this time in his life, but he thinks it’s enough. Exhaling, he continues. “Food has always been important to me, and now I like cooking for…for people I like. That’s why I keep bringing it up.”

He looks to you, worried. Your eyes are closed, your face scrunched in concentration. Finally, you sigh, open your lids and let your gaze focus on his. “Thank you for telling me that,” you say in a clear, quiet voice. “I’m—I’m sorry that happened to you.” Your voice goes tight. “I’d kill your mother, for leaving you in that situation.” Your words are fierce, eyes wild. The threat goes down ugly in his throat but lies warm and heavy on his heart, like a comforting blanket. He sucks on his teeth, keeps his voice low so it won’t break. “No one has ever said that to me.”

Your eyes find his again, strength and power and care in your gaze. “I would,” you vow. “Anyone who ever hurt you, who could hurt you again.”

He smiles wetly at you, and you take him into your arms, letting him rest his head on your chest. He breathes shallowly for a few minutes. “Thank you,” he says, tapping light patterns on your arm. “For letting me get that out.”

He risks a look up at you, sees that your expression is still angry and fierce. “Leave it, doll. It is what it is.”

You sigh, card your fingers through his hair. “Whatever.”

He hums, lets his eyes close. This is without a doubt the best-case scenario of this conversation, he’d never dreamed he’d end up here.

He remains in your arms for as long as you let him. The skin over your breastbone is cold, and your fingers keep tangling painfully with knots in his hair, but he doesn’t mind.

The moments tick on. “My mother was a cook,” you say quietly above him.

He tries to move, to lean up to look you in the eye, but your hand in his hair goes rigid, holding him in place. “No, don’t. Just let me—”

Jason closes his eyes, tries to go lank again, even as every synapse in his brain focuses desperately on what you’re about to say next. You never open up, ever, and Jason’s not about to fuck this chance up.

“You have to understand, it was the time,” you continue. “That’s all women did, cook and clean and build a home. Most of my relationship with my mother was learning to do all that, but cooking most of all. That was what we did together, that was her legacy. She was a housewife in the 50s, she didn’t do anything else. And now—”

You cut yourself off with a growl. “Now I can’t use what she taught me. Not to make a family, not even to take care of myself. Nothing. It’s like...it’s she wasn’t even there. Alive. And I can’t eat and remember the time we spent together. It’s just…”

You trail off. Jason rubs circles onto your thigh, trying to convey comfort and support. “I just don’t like thinking about it,” you say in a child’s voice.

His heart breaks for you. “I understand. Thank you for telling me.” A beat. “I don’t like that you’re in pain,” he admits.

He feels one of your nails dig into the flesh at the base of his neck. He wonders if you drew blood. “Leave it,” you say.

He nods into your chest.

After a while, you clear your throat, remove your hands from his hair. Jason sits up, tries to catch your eye, but you’re looking anywhere but at him.

He looks away from you, stretches himself out on the couch and tips his head back to the ceiling. He can’t resist teasing you a little. “I thought that went really well.”

You scoff, get up off the couch and begin pacing the room. He’s not sure he totally understands your hang-ups about being vulnerable with him. Something something, getting close to the thing you eat now, something something the thought of looking lame in front of your coven, et cetera, et cetera. It’s been nothing but a pain in his ass, but he tries to wait patiently as you get whatever it is out of your system.

“Okay,” you announce. “Are we done? Can we go fuck now?” You gesture to your underwater, fix a somewhat inviting, somewhat forced look on your face.

“Nope,” Jason pops the p. “We still have something else to talk about.”

“What the fuck?” You stamp your foot and hiss at him. “Are you fucking serious?”

Jason laughs at you outright, and you stamp your foot again. “Jaaaaasssoooon,” you plead. “Talking is dumb.”

He likes the way his name sounds in your mouth, wheedling as it is. “We need to find another love language for me.”

You scrunch your nose. It’s adorable. “What the fuck is a ‘love language?’”

“It’s a way for me to show I care about you,” he explains. “Shit I can do for that expresses affection or something.” He can’t believe he’s the mushy one in this relationship.

You put your hands on your hips. “Why do you need a new one?”

“Because I can’t use my old one.”

“What’s your old one?”

“Food, dummy,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I just told you.”

“I actually think I should be the only one allowed to roll their eyes.” Your eyes light up. “Maybe that can be your love language!”

“It’s something you do, not something you don’t do,” he explains pompously, trying to make you laugh.

You giggle. “I have a joke,” you say.

He raises an eyebrow. “This should be good.”

You wait for a moment, thinking. “It’s not ready yet,” you sigh. “It’ll come to me.”

“Can’t wait.”

“About this love language thing, I like having my pussy eaten,” you offer. “What about that?”

“I already do that,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And it needs to be like small, everyday things.”

You walk over to him, begin playing with the collar of his shirt, pressing yourself close to him. You’re bored, he can tell. He’s exhausted your attention span.

“Maybe if you do it now it’ll give me ideas,” you say conspiratorially. You grab his hands, begin to pull him toward your bedroom.

“You’re relentless.” He follows you anyway.

“And you’re one gorgeous man,” you say with a wink. Jason’s heart flares. “And you haven’t even told me how good I look in this set!”

You take a few steps back and pose for him.

He looks you over. “Y/n, you’re wearing ratty old underwear and your one nude bra.”

“But I’ve never worn this combo,” you say gleefully. “Isn’t the whole point of having a boyfriend so that you have someone to tell you you look hot? Aren’t you shirking your responsibility?”

“You look hot,” he says dutifully. “Thank you,” you nod, grabbing his hand and yanking him towards the bed.

Later, when you’re curled against one another and waiting for your breathing to slow down, you clear your throat. “I like music,” you whisper, apropos of nothing.

“What?” Jason’s still in his post-orgasm haze.

“Ugh.” You wriggle against him.

“Sorry, sweetheart, you literally blew my brains out there, I need a moment.” He shakes his head obviously. “Run it by me again.”

“I like music,” you say again.

Jason feels this is important, so he swallows his impulse to say “okay....?” He tries to figure out what you’re getting at. “I need another clue, doll.”

You stay silent for a moment. “I’m not...very good, at finding new music.”

Ah. “Lightbulb,” Jason says cornily, and you elbow him.

“I can help you find good music,” Jason says. “What kind of music do you like?”

“The Beatles.”

Jason turns to you. “Is that seriously the latest band you know?”

You turn your eyes downcast. He knows you well enough by now to know this is how you blush. “I don’t know how to find new music.”

“The radio? The internet?”

“I’m not good with technology!” you insist.

“Babe, you have a cell phone,” Jason points out.

“I mostly use it to play Atari Breakout.”

Jason stares at you. “You’re kidding.”

You shrug. “What?”

“How did you find an 80s video game on an iPhone?”

“Crystal downloaded the app for me! I told her that I remembered seeing it in an arcade.”

Jason rolls over on his side, leans up on his elbow. “How is it that you, a 70 year old vampire, needed the 200 year old vampire from her coven to figure out how to work a cell phone?”

“I just...kind of bid technology goodbye? After I turned? I was too lazy to keep up with it.”

Jason can tell this isn’t the full answer, that you’re avoiding something, but he doesn’t press. “Okay, do you want me to also help you with a cell phone? Is this also the love language?”

“Eh,” you shrug. “I know how to text and call, and I mostly just text and call you.”

Jason lets that warm his chest, pokes at you until you roll your eyes. “Why do I need to know how to use a phone to hear new music?”

“Spotify, iTunes, there are ways to listen to music on your phone.”

“What about a radio?” you ask.

“I can buy you an old-fashioned radio, but I think you can get on your phone, too.”

“I want the radio,” you say decisively.

“They still have records, you know.”

“Well, I know they’re still around, but I don’t know where I’d get a record player.”

“No, they still make vinyl. Like, new ones. It’s back in style now, I can go out and get you a record player today.”

Your eyes light up. “Really? Can you do that?”

Jason feels himself soften. “Yeah. You want me to go now?”

“Well...” you roll on top of him, slide your hips against his. “Not right now.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jason grins cockily, walks his hands up your back. “And what do you want to do right now?”

“I want you to do that thing with your tongue,” you sigh happily.

“Done.” He flips you over, taking a moment to admire you as you lie back against the pillows before leaning in and pressing his lips to the juncture of your neck. He searches for your heartbeat like he always does, and it never fails to thrill him when he doesn’t find it.

“Oh!” You say above him, giving him a short slap on the shoulder. “Jason, the joke came to me!”

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs, kissing down your chest.

“Pay attention, this is funny.”

“I am paying attention,” he assures you. He presses sloppy kisses to your breast. “Are you?”

“Yes. Okay, so you’ve just said something super pompous and cocky, right?”

“Yes, doll.” Jason gently takes your nipple into his mouth, running his tongue over it. You shiver but remain otherwise unmoved. “Okay, so my response is ‘one of us is talking like a member of the Victorian nobility and it’s not the vampire.’“

He can feel you looking at him expectantly, and he stops what he’s doing to look you in the eye. “It took you that long to come up with that?”

“Yeah, and it was hilarious.” You, smile, satisfied, then give him an eye. “Are you going to do that thing with your tongue or not?”

He rolls his eyes, dipping back between your legs. “Yes ma’am.”

—-

This is ridiculous.

You squint at the shelf full of every kind of canned tomato under the sun, squint at the decades-old piece of paper in your hand, and squint back at the tomatoes.

This is ridiculous. You’re positive they didn’t have this many kinds of canned tomato in the 50s. They’re mocking you, on the shelves.

This is stupid, this is stupid. This was a stupid idea, it’s been, what, 30 years since you’d been in a supermarket, it was stupid of you to come on your own, you should have asked Jason to come with you.

But then it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?

You sigh, unfolding your mother’s spaghetti bolognese recipe again and trying to figure out which kind of “tinned tomatoes” she’d meant.

Picking out canned tomatoes to make people food in the supermarket. If only your coven could see you now.

You shake your head, grimacing. You wanted to do something nice, okay? You wanted to do something nice for Jason, for the human your casually fucking except not-so-casually anymore. For the human you’re developing feelings for. God, you’re such a shitty vampire, someone should write a fucking romance novel about you.

You shudder at yourself, at the absolute parody-level of your life right now, then go and pick out some carrots.

It’s just...Jason’s been so nice, lately. He totally dropped the food thing, thank god, and now texts you at all hours of the day with internet links to songs he thinks you might like. It’s so sweet, and he gets so excited whenever you play the songs he’s recommended to you, he’s adorable. Even you can admit that to yourself.

And it’s made a difference. You’d forgotten how much music added to your life, how important it was to you. You didn’t realize how much you’d missed until you had it again, and now it’s always on in your apartment. Jason had set you up with a radio like you’d requested, and a nice set of speakers, and a vinyl record player. He’s taken you to late-night record shops three times in the past week, and you quickly re-familiarized yourself with your old favorites, the Beatles, the Monkees, Etta James and Billie Holiday. You’d been...afraid, to go back there. To revisit that part of your life, afraid of what it would dig up, throw in sharp relief. It’s been hard, a lot of difficult memories you’re trying to forget, but a lot good ones you’d genuinely forgotten and are happy to get back. You’re so grateful to Jason; it’s been amazing, having that in your life again. Jason’s amazing.

Jason’s amazing, and you want to do something nice for him. Also, you’d fucked up a little bit.

You cringe to yourself as you remember how he’d stormed out of your apartment a week and a half ago after you’d gone too far in your half-feigned disgust at being with a human. It’s just...it’s hard. You’re realizing that after you turned, you cut yourself off from everything that reminded you of being human, threw yourself into your new un-life, distanced yourself from what you were to try and accept the change. Obviously, it hadn’t worked very well, but you didn’t have a reason to confront your shitty relationship to humanity until you started dating one.

But that’s not Jason’s fault, a suspiciously human voice says.

You try to brush it away. It's very annoying that your conscience decided to resurface now, you thought you’d drowned that in blood ages ago.

Whatever. You knew you’d fucked up, so you’ll try to make it up to him using his ‘love language.’  And maybe some actual language, if the bolognese isn’t enough.

You check your grocery basket. Beef, garlic (thank god that whole thing was a myth, or else you’d never be able to use any of your mother’s recipes), carrots, stock, oil, onion, tomatoes, pasta (linguini, none of that useless spaghetti shit), cheese…that’s all of it. You have a pot, knife, and cutting board from the time you and Crystal had made blood-based spiced mead, and you’d borrowed a frying pan and grater from your neighbor yesterday. That should be everything.

Turning toward the checkout, you try to prepare yourself for the actual cooking. Grocery shopping was hard enough, but you’d been saved from difficult memories by the slight, bewildering differences time brought to the supermarket. It isn’t quite as you remember it from your childhood in the 50s. But you’ll have no reprieve once you’re alone in front of the stove, you’ll have your mother in your ear and memories breathing down your back.

Oh well. Jason’s worth it, you think with resolve, and force yourself not to shudder. He is.

You pay for your groceries, store them in your tote bag, and begin making your way to your apartment. It’s 6:30 pm on a winter night in Gotham, sun long gone down. The supermarket is only a 10-minute walk from your apartment. Convenient, you think wryly to yourself.

You try to resist the urge to text Jason and make sure he’s still coming tonight. He might be angry enough to bail, although he’s never done that to you before. You don’t know what the fuck you’ll do with the food if he does bail, but you’ll cross that bridge when you come to it. Maybe you can be a good neighbor and give it to them.

Rooting through your bag and pulling out your phone, you pull up your texts with Jason and try over-analyzing them to see if you can find any hidden meaning. A few days ago you’d texted “come by my place Thursday night? 8 pm?”

Three full hours he’d texted back “sure.” You scroll back through his other texts, trying to see if he uses periods anywhere else. It seems like he doesn’t, which makes you nervous. It doesn’t help that Jason’s way more well-versed in the details of text etiquette than you are.

You deliberate as you enter your building. Should you text him again? You don’t want to sound clingy, but you really, really want him to come.

Agonizing for a moment, you finally type out “still on for tonight” and hit send before you can think twice. You drop your phone into your bag, jam the elevator button furiously, and try not to think about how clingy and lame you must sound for the whole ride up.

Once inside your apartment, you carefully take each ingredient out of your tote and lay it on the counter. Then you peel off all your clothes, leaving them crumpled by your living room couch, and lay down on the floor in your underwear, hands over your eyes. You try to pull in deep, even breaths, to prepare yourself to face the kitchen. After a few minutes, you get up, pull on a pair of comfortable sweats and an old t-shirt. Standing in the doorway of your bedroom, you survey the kitchen.

This is going to hurt.

Unbidden, your mother's voice pops into your head. Well, don't just stand there! Always better to rip the band-aid off, sweetheart.

Smiling grimly to yourself, you step in front of the countertop, pull out an onion, the knife, and the cutting board, and begin to peel and dice the onion. You're braced for pain, tensed for a hit you know is coming, and the kitchen doesn't disappoint: memories of your mother swell around you. The scent of her perfume, the apron she'd wear whenever she was cooking, the way she'd pin her hair up. Just as you'd feared, she's all you think about, shoved to the forefront of your mind when you’ve spent decades avoiding the thought of her. More than once you have to stop what you’re doing, curl your arms around yourself, and let the memories drag you under.

It hurts, but isn’t all bad. You always resurface, and as time goes on you find that even the painful memories are tinged with melancholic love. Like with the music, you find yourself remembering things you’d forgotten, cheerful moments with your mother you’d buried when it was all too painful to think about. It’s nice, in a sharp way, to have her with you again.

And the cooking is nice. You’d half worried you’d lose all your chef muscles after so many years of not using them, but after twenty minutes in the kitchen, you’re cooking like you’d never left. As you move through the recipe, you keep remembering the tricks your mother taught you: crush the garlic first with the flat of the knife to get the skin off and release the juice, fry the onions and garlic in the same pan you’d used for the meat, deglaze the pan with white wine before throwing it all in the pot with the canned tomatoes to simmer. It stings, but you can’t help but smile as you approach each step in. The recipe and hear your mother in your ear. Peace fills you, just as it did when you could actually taste the food you were making. Putting together the meal is more than easy, it’s relaxing; you’d forgotten how much you enjoyed this. And with your mother in your ear, with love seeping through your brain, you can’t help but understand why food is Jason’s love language.

The buzzer on your apartment sounds. Speak of the devil—

You abandon the large pot you’d been stirring occasionally and go buzz Jason in without checking to see that it’s him.  As soon as you press the door button your nerves ratchet up again, and you bite your fingernails, pacing around your living room. What if he doesn't accept your apology? What if he thinks this is stupid? What if the food is bad because you couldn't taste it? What if he's allergic to--

A knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. Alright. You square your shoulders. Now or never.

You pad across the room and answer the door, peering meekly around it. Jason stands there, looking sullenly at the floor, and despite his expression you grin widely; you really weren't sure he'd show up.

"Hey," you say, letting some of your happiness leak into your voice. He barely nods at you, not looking up. Oh, well. "Come in," you open the door wider, let him slide past you into your apartment. 

Shutting the door, you rub your hands over your face, realizing you have no idea how to say this to him. "So Jason, I--"

"Did you cook?" He interrupts you.

You open your eyes to see him with his nose in the air, head turned toward the kitchen.

"Uh...uh, yeah, I did. It's pasta, I wanted to...I wanted to make you…" you trail off helplessly. For the first time tonight, he looks at you, and you see his eyes have softened, an easy grin around his lips. You rub your hand across your neck, shrugging lamely. Without your permission, you take a step forward. You've missed him.

He puts you out of your misery, closing the distance between you and pulling you into his arms. You throw your arms around him as well, breathing deeply as his smell washes over you. "Sorry," you mutter in a low voice.

He grunts at you in a low voice. You feel like it's not enough, so you say "I was mean, and I...I miss you," you confess.

He pulls back, and his face is all smile now. "You missed me?"

You force yourself to keep looking him in the eye, and nod. "Yeah."

He sighs happily, and you feel your heart warm. "I missed you, too." He looks toward the kitchen. "What's for dinner?"

You lead him toward the stove. "Spaghetti Bolognese, except its linguini because spaghetti is a useless pasta."

Jason lifts the lid of the pot, raises an eyebrow. "You made this for me, doll, so I won't argue now, but your classification of spaghetti is fucked. Can I taste it?"

"Yeah, please" You hand him one of the two spoons in your apartment. "I haven't been able to, so I don't know if it's good."

He dips the spoon in, blows on it and pops it into his mouth. You watch him anxiously until he smiles at you. "It's good," he admits. "I mean, mine is better."

You stick out your tongue at him.

"I uh, I know what this means, for you, " he says, looking at you seriously. "So thank you."

You nod awkwardly.

"Do you want to--?"

"Nope," you say, shaking your head vigorously.

"Okay. If you do want to talk…" you nod again, force a smile.

"Can I help?" Jason asks you, gesturing toward the kitchen.

"Oh, uh, I mostly--" you cut yourself off. Jason's eyes are lit up, and he's smiling widely. You think back to his reported love language. 

Okay, yeah. You can read the subtext. "Yeah, sure," you say easily. "Want to put on some water for the pasta?"

"I can do that," he nods, and you hand him another pot you've gotten from your neighbor. Together, you and Jason make the pasta, grate cheese, and keep an eye on the pasta sauce. It's nice, having him in the kitchen: you move around each other easily, and soon enough you're portioning out the noodles into a bowl and ladling a generous helping of sauce on top before handing it to Jason. While he busies himself with getting a spoon and fork, you pull out two wine glasses, fill one up with red wine for Jason and do half wine, half a-positive for yourself. Jason sets himself at your table, and you sit across from him, watching as he dumps parmesan over the pasta and digs in.

"How is it?" You ask, anxious again.

"S'good," he says with a mouth full of food, and you roll your eyes. He swallows. "It's good," he says again. "Thank you."

You nod and smile, satisfied, and Jason picks up his wineglass. "Cheers, doll." 

You clink yours against his. "Cheen-cheen."

Jason takes a few more bites while you sip your wine, trying to figure out where to look. You don't want to just stare at him while he's eating, that feels weird, and a little gross. You compromise by looking at the table between, and eventually, Jason sighs.

"This is weird."

"Yeah, it is," you say with relief, looking up at him again. "What do we do?"

He makes a face. "This might be weird, but can you try sitting in my lap?"

You give him a strange look. "I just...I want to be close to you," he mutters. "Okay, then." You stand up, bringing your wine glass with you. Jason pushes his chair lightly back from the table, and you settle in his lap, leaning back against his chest. He peers down at you. "Is this okay?" You nod, eyes downcast. He was right, you're much closer to him now. Enough to make up for the fact that you can't eat the food, either. 

"Mmm." You draw your knees up to your chest while Jason resumes eating. "Is the chewing bothering you?"

"Nuh-uh." And it isn't. It's nice, sitting here with him. Jason eats, you drink, and you talk quietly as you finish your respective meals. Afterward, you stretch out on the couch while Jason does your dishes for you. You stare at the ceiling, enjoying how at peace you feel.

Eventually, Jason joins you on the couch, moving your feet and replacing them in his lap. "I liked that," you say definitively. The look he gives you is laced with something heavy. "Me too," he murmurs. "Thank you, for that."

You smile at him. "You're welcome."

The two of you sit in comfortable silence until something occurs to you. "How come you hadn't eaten dinner?" You hadn't told him you were planning on feeding him, and you're just now realizing how strange that was, for a human.

He moves his eyes from you, hangs his head. "I, uh. I'm not proud of this doll."

You survey him carefully until he speaks again. "I didn't eat purposefully, so I would have to leave and go get some."

And you would have to think about it. You turn this over in your mind.

"Are you mad?"

You remember how hurt he was when he first came over. "No," you decide. "I'm not."

"It wasn't cool of me," he says quickly. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Jason," you say, and mean it. He nods, and you lapse back into an easy silence.

After a while, Jason gets up. "Come on, doll," he says, taking your hand and pulling you off the couch. "I'm tired. Let's go to bed."

"Bed bed?" you say, confused. "Like, not fun-stuff bed?"

"Yeah, have you heard of it?" He chuckles quietly when you roll your eyes. "Babe, you just fed me so much pasta. I'm tired."

You sigh dramatically. "Fine." Actually, just going to bed sounds nice. You follow Jason into the bedroom, change into pajamas while he strips down to his boxers. You let him borrow your toothbrush after you use it, spit into the sink, turn off the bedroom light and climb into bed, Jason right behind you. Shuffling under the blankets, you turn so you’re laying on your side. Jason mirrors you.

For a while you just lie there, drinking each other in. Jason’s eyes are wide and open, his face relaxed. You’re sure you look the same.

After a while, Jason speaks. “Thank you for tonight.”

“My pleasure,” you hum, leaning forward to peck him on the lips. Resettling against your pillow, you say softly “goodnight, Jason.”

“Goodnight, doll.” You roll over, listening to Jason’s breathing until you fall asleep.

[roguelioness]

Harden your heart (to a cutting edge)

Solas finds her in the aftermath, blood still dripping thin and viscous from the end of her staff’s blade. The scent of iron lingers in the air, thick and harsh and metallic, coats his throat and lungs as he draws in a shaky breath at the sight before him. Neria has no reaction to his sudden appearance; the entirety of her focus is on the body by her feet.

He follows her gaze. There’s a wide, gaping wound in the center of the belly, revealing muscle and sinew, running deep enough to where he can see the spine. 

The dead elf’s face wears a mask of sneering hatred.

Neria looks up at him when he takes another step into the clearing, a twig snapping beneath his foot. There’s gore in her pale hair, matting the strands. Her eyes are dead and cold in the way grave markers are, her features  terrifyingly blank.

“He was a good friend,” she says, her accent marred by the split lip. Her voice is automated and monotone, devoid of any emotion. “I even loved him, once.” Her tone is chillingly even. 

Her toes are stained red.

“I was fourteen. He’d pull my hair and tease me and when he went hunting he would bring me back berries to share. I left for the Conclave so he would not have to.” The dull thud of her staff hitting the ground goes ignored. The fingers on her prosthetic creak, the sound louder than thunder as she closes them into a fist. 

“He called me a whore. A traitor. Said I sold my soul to the shems.” Her gaze flicks to the body at her nearby, charred beyond recognition. “She claimed I betrayed my people. Told me I deserved to die.”

Neria’s face is still empty, her aura vacant of the compassion that was woven through her being. The pit of his stomach opens up to an endlessly ominous maw.

“They were my clanmates, once.”

There’s so much, so much crimson on her armor. 

“But I must do what needs to be done.”

Her voice is still so lifeless.

“Are you here for me, Dread Wolf?” she asks, head tilted to the side. That same expressionless mask on her face. “Will you take your vengeance on their behalf?”

Five, he counts them, stone-still where they lie, and she stands over them all, battered and bloodied and bruised, with an arrow jutting from between her shoulders. The carmine fletching is a shade lighter than the scarlet-covered shaft.

Her kith, her kin, slain by her hand, slain because-

Laughter bubbles within him, high and hysterical. He turned her away from him, but took those  she called her own. When he twisted them to serve his plans, how did he not see that they would find her on the other side of the line he had inadvertently drawn?

What more vengeance can he take? His retribution is insidious, more sinister than death, having robbed her of the very essence of her nature. His hands clench into fists; his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth with shame.

“No,” he says at last; the word comes out thin and reedy but she does not react to this fresh betrayal, does not point out that they championed his cause and died for it and he will not avenge their effort. She doesn’t need to. The words hang over their heads like a guillotine, waiting for a signal for the blade to drop. He knows when it does it will sever whatever bond remains between them.

Neria exhales. A cold wind passes through the clearing, disperses ice over the crimson-soaked blades of grass. It rasps against his skin, sends alarm trickling down his chest.

“Very well.” The blade makes a grotesquely wet, suctioning sound as she slides her weapon into its holster. She turns mechanically, her back to him. Remains still for a second.

If he pulls that arrow out, he wonders, will she bleed? Is there any warmth left in her veins?

Silence glides in like an eclipse, entire and enormous. He cannot even hear her breath. She is a statue, feral, deadly, and he finds himself reaching out for her against his own volition.

She shifts. Moves. Strides away, her gait measured and deliberate.

She does not look at the bodies. She does not look at him.

Dread catches him by the throat, squeezes tight, tighter, leaves him choking in the frost-scattered clearing. Something has changed, he knows, can recognize it in the ebb and flow of the wind. The draft, the puff of air that is the earth’s breath, whispers to him that the person who walked into the clearing bleeds from treachery.

Solas gazes once more upon those who had belonged to Clan Lavellan.

What has he done?

[musingsofmyown]

Missing Case #010

    18 years ago…

  “Sherlock Holmes,”He shook the Detective Inspector’s hand,”Pleasure to meet you Lestrade.”

  “Likewise,” Greg turned and gestured for the ametur to follow him,”I saw how fast you figured out that last scene, let’s see if you can do it again.”

  Lestrade stood back and watched as the young man examined the body in front of them, Anderson was next to him,”You sure that this kid is a good idea?”

  “We’ll see,”to his surprise Sherlock stood up and closed the small compact magnifying glass,”What do ya got?”

  “I’ll spare the details that your forensics group would have already gotten,”He motioned to a spot on the body and started to rattle off a lot of facts that nobody had even begun to think of. His thoughts were detailed and precise, every fact leading into another and then some. Intricate pieces of information that literally nobody would think are important, but Sherlock made it sound like the most crucial part of the investigation,”Therefore the killer was the next door neighbour, might want to bring them in for questioning.”

  “Wait wait,”Greg had a baffled look on his face,”You got all that from a body?”

  “Yes, it’s not all that hard if you know what to look for.”

  “My team has never gone into that much detail, what’s your education Holmes?”

  “Doctorates in Chemistry, other than that, self-taught,”A small grin played on his lips.

  Anderson walked off and Greg stepped closer to Sherlock,”Listen, if you want to ‘help’ out on cases, you’ll have to get yourself clean.”

  “I have no-”

  “I know an addict when I see one Sherlock, I know how hard it is to stop, but you need to if you want to work with me.”

  “Right.”

.

  Four-and-a-half years later…

.

  “Hey there Sherlock, you doing okay? I saw you almost fall over at the scene there,”Gereg came up to him.

  “It’s nothing…” there was a tone of sadness in his voice,”the erm, victim, was a friend of mine back in Uny. I saw him a week ago with his kids and wife.”

  “Oh, Sherlock, I’m sorry to hear about that,”He knew what it was like to find a person you knew laying on the ground surrounded by yellow markers,”Were you close?”

  Holmes shook his head, and then looked at Lestrade with a curious expression,”Your wife is due soon, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah…”Greg took a step back, knowing good and bloody damn well that the last time he deduced something like that, the young man’s partner was giving birth as they spoke.

  Sherlock smiled,”Girl or boy?”

  “A little girl,”Greg was a bit relieved he didn’t say anything else.

  “That’s nice, I’ve always heard that girl’s are easier to manage in their younger years than boys. Then again, I was always a pain, still am,”he said matter of factly,”Also, your wife is about to call.”

  “What?” Just a moment later his phone rang and he answered,”Hello? Ya, ya, oh. Oh! I’ll be there in just a second! Yeah!”

  “You okay there boss?” Donovan asked, seeing that he practically jumped out of his skin.

  “Jen is going into labour!” He started for his cruiser and saw Sherlock standing where he left him,”Get in Sherlock.”

  “What?” the rookie walked over and gave him a questioning look.

  “Just get in!” He got on the passenger’s side and they went off with the lights and siren going,”I want you to be there.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because…”

  “I know it isn’t because I’m your frien-”

  “Sherlock?”

  “Yes?”

  “You are my friend, okay? I know you’re not one for ‘sentiment’ but you are in fact my friend. I am bringing you because you remind me of someone I wish my daughter could meet.”

  “Who would that be?”

  He drew a breath in,”My brother, Thomas. He died of a drug overdose a few years ago. Bright man, graduated from Uny with a PhD in Forensic Sciences.”

  “Oh,”Sherlock furrowed his brow,”Well, I’m sure he’d be proud of you, making a family of your own.”

  Greg nodded as they pulled into the Hospital parking lot,”Alright, stay here until I call you up.”

  “O-okay.”

  After about an hour-and-a-half of waiting, Sherlock got a text ‘We’re on the second floor room 211.’ He went in the elevator, and then came out of it facing room 205. After a moment of very brisk walking he reached 211 and lightly knocked on the door. Lestrade opened it,”Jen, this is Sherlock.”

  “You’re the darling detective Greg talks about all the time, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you Mr. Holmes.”

  “It’s Sherlock, please,”He sat in one of the chairs that sat in the room.

  “Meet Sterling,”Lestrade picked the baby out of the bassinet that sat next to the bed,”Sterling Opal Lestrade.”

  “She’s beautiful,”Sherlock smiled. His eyes widened when Greg sat the small child in his arms, but quickly relaxed when she looked up at him,”Where’d you get the names from?”

  “The first name is from Greg’s brother, Thomas Sterling Lestrade, and the middle name is from my mother Opal Leeway,”She beamed.

  “Hello Sterling.”

End Case-

[insert link]

^^Previous Case!!^^

(let me know if you want to be added or taken off!!!)

@atomiccollectorcreation-blog @train-mossman @tjlcarchives @neverquiteeden @rhasima @bisexual-confusion @whatnext2020 @helloliriels @totallysilvergirl @jobooksncoffee @safedistancefrombeingsmart @iwannahavefrecklessodamnbad @7-percent @timberva @everyonebeatmetothegoodnames @erinswriting @myfirstisthefourth @salmonsown