fog yeah

[6] 

I didn’t talk about the Country of Fog here but apparently that was a mistake because GUESS WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. 

Sadly this isn’t actually a surprise, because a couple of people accidentally spoiled me on this months and months ago, but I think we can all agree that on the grand scale of things this is a very small and inconsequential spoiler and it could have been much worse. 

But still. HI MIYUKI NICE TO SEE THAT YOU ARE TINY AND, IN FACT, ALSO A QUALITY NARUTO ENTHUSIAST. 

I APPROVE. 

Vernon: To Love And Love Again

Summary: you hear his voice on the radio and suddenly your whole world is falling apart (aka I took soulmate aus to a kind of dark but predictable place lol enjoy) (so many words… so much slow burn…. reader/vernon stuff doesn’t even start until like 4k words in and this fic is only like 4.2k words so…….)

-Admin Princess


It was a Friday evening when the sky came crashing down around you. It was a quite figurative crashing down of things, but to you it felt like the whole world had suddenly just fallen. Like gravity didn’t exist anymore, or maybe the force of it had been increased by a hundred. You couldn’t tell. You could only hear the echoing of his voice through your head, as haunting and terrifying as “You’re listening to the Friday Wind Down. I’m your DJ, Vernon” can sound.

The mug in your hand slips from your fingers, the sound of shattering porcelain being nothing but a minor noise that is taken over by a ringing in your ears. Dahyun looks up from her seat on your couch. She’s wearing one of your sweatshirts and the leggings that you love on her, and her hair is tied up in a loose knot on the top of her head. On most days, you would find this look quite adorable, but today it’s a nuisance.

“Baby? What’s wrong?” She asks.

You ignore her question. “You turned the radio on?” You say, stepping around the mess of coffee and glass to slam your hand down on the power button.

Keep reading

Fan fiction: Proper Ventilation

Proper Ventilation

By: Shantelle, SheWhoFacesTheSun

The Get Down Fanfiction

Pairing: Dizzee x Thor

Word Count: 6,138

 

Part 1

Summary: Dizzee explores his inner world on his way to meet Thor.

Blistering sunshine and city noise poured though the window as Dizzee Kipling rolled over in bed, the sheets sticking to his skin. Opening his eyes slowly and gently, he faced a new day. The sun heated his chest, seeming to light him a flame with an itching burning, energy. Down the street the sound of drums and tambourines echo loudly between the tall buildings and dirty stairwells.

Man, drum beats in the air this early and it throbs my heart in time to it, thinks Dizzee to himself as he squints, trying hard to study his unchipped nails, the polish glinting in the new angles.

 “Dizzee? Dizzee, are you awake man?” comes Ra Ra’s voice from the narrow hall, “Mom made breakfast. You better hurry up if you want some.”  

Dizzee lazily pulled himself from the damp sheets, reaching up to tug at clumps of his kinky afro. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and smiles. His lips still managing to appear pouting despite his grin and rosy cheeks. Shaking his head, he dresses quickly, trading his sweaty night clothes for his striped bell bottoms and a wine colored fitted muscle shirt. Standing at full height, he slips on several beaded and corded bracelets, a ring and his two favorite necklaces.

 After a quick stop to the bathroom, and feeling mildly refreshed, Dizzee sits down at the already full table. He trades smiles with his little brother Boo Boo, who has a face full of eggs. “What’s up brother?”, he asks with a glint in his eyes, “Get enough sleep?”

Ra-Ra looks up, and nudges his shoulder, “Stop Boo, leave him alone. It’s too early.”

“Nah, he had a late night too. I wanna hear more about this Thor guy,” Boo said, his eyebrows bouncing obnoxiously, clearly betraying serious his interest, even though his voice is still light.  “Is he nice?”

“I said leave it,” answers Ra, looking Dizzee in his eyes and noticing his big brother let out a sigh of relief. Even Yolanda glanced over at his sharp tone. Picking up his fork, Dizzee looks around the bustling room, enjoying feeling of fondness and affection that blossomed in his stomach. Yolanda shimmied in her seat as their dad crooned an old song to her from his place at the head of the table.

“You girls are coming up so quick. I can’t believe it. This Jackie man, he’s good? That good?” Dad questions, his deep voice sounding jazzy, although his words were straight forward.

“Yes Dad! Of course he is. I told you we gonna be big disco stars! We’ve been practicing so hard. Its like it’s meant to be. Mylene was right,” Yolanda responds. Her hair seeming to vibrate with excitement.

“Cool it girl, I believe ya. My babies all have talent. Look at me,” He gestures grandly to himself, then tapped a beat out on the table top, “I’m simply magnificent myself, why wouldn’t you be, Sunshine? Look around, we’re all stars! Even Boo Boo.”

“Hey! I’m the funny one. With the quickest hands on the block,” Boo jeers, pretending to hit a punching bag above his messy plate. “You need to be ready to keep hittin’ them books when school starts back up,” Dad yells with a cool smirk painting its way across his face.

Mom smiles to herself too, as he turns back and continued sing-talking to Yolanda. Ra Ra rolls up his current comic and finally digs into his pancakes. Dizzee can’t help but think of his family as mosaic of color and sound. Zeke was right to compare the Get Down Brothers to different instruments. Everyone has beautiful unique sound. And what is sound without color, in a section of the world this clouded with darkness, fear and temptation?

“What do you boys have planned for today?” Mom asks, slipping into her own seat.

“Well Ma, since you asked so kindly,” starts Ra Ra, as he tapped his rolled up comic book on his skinny thigh, “I’m going to chill with Shaolin and see if we can come up with some kind of business plan for the Get Down Brothers now that he’s been given the clear to deejay again.” Ra liked Shao but wasn’t too sure Shao liked him or his brothers. He was determined to find out and make some money in the progress. Ra Ra understood great teams didn’t just form strong bonds instantly, not even in comics, but he wanted to see how far they could grow in this city of broken dreams and concrete hearts.

“I’mma go down to the arcades, win myself enough tickets for some candy and meet myself a fly girl,” he chuckles loudly to himself, rubbing his hands together. “Whatever Boo, no girl want you. Take some time this summer to focus on growing,” Yolanda wise cracked before sipping her orange juice. Ra Ra stifled a chuckle while passing Dizzee the tray of cooling bacon.

“Its cool Boo,” starts Dizzee in a mellow tone, “You might be small. But you’re not small. Hear this man, you are the universe in delirious undulation. You flow.” 

 Boo Boo stares, then blinks and shakes his head laughing. “You weird. If you mean I’m flier than Michael Jackson, I can dig it.” Ra Ra smiles, turning the page of his book adding in, “Good weird my man, the best kind of weird. Its like your super power Dizz.”

Dizzee glanced at his brothers, spacing out a bit. Everyone is always calling me weird. They are always laughing at me, he thinks to himself, but I’m just trying to think deeply for all of us. We are all but fireworks in this great universe. I am reaching for new treasure in daily life, using words to spread love and become art. Life is art. Right? Maybe my mind is just flying freely, fearlessly. He takes a long sip of his warming orange juice.

“Dizzee? Dizzee?” enters his mother’s voice through the hazy fog of his thoughts. “Yeah?”

“I asked what you were going to doing today? I don’t want you getting into any more trouble. I want my babies safe. This summer has already had its fair share of madness.”

 His mother face was soft with worry and gentleness. Dizzee loved his mother. They both carried tender spaces within them and saw opportunities for creativity when others saw only ruins. Like the moon, they both went through phases. And in the darkness of night and the overwhelming brokenness of this metropolis, people just mistook it for weakness.

 “Uh, I’m just gonna chill at The Writer’s Bench and walk around a little.”

“Just walk around he says,” injects Dad, “Don’t believe that for a hot minute. Don’t be spraying all over the city. Keep them hands clean boy.”

Dizzee looks down briefly before saying, “I won’t. I told you I’m into pop art now.”

Everyone began to clear the table and walk their dishes over to the sink. “Yo, Dizz, you really going to The Bench?” whispers Ra as they start rinsing their plates off shoulder to shoulder.

 “Yeah, Thor wants to meet back up so we can plan a piece together.” Ra looks out of the corner of his eye, skeptical. “Really? I don’t want to be in all in your business man but,” he pauses, “forget it. I just want you to be yourself.” Ra may always have his nose in a book but he’s rarely out of the loop, and is always looking for hints in the world around him. For him life is a comic book and we’re all discovering our powers, second by second. He refuses to miss any of character development.

 “Honestly man, fuck. Reason is powerless in the face of…,” Dizzee trails off, staring out the window into the bright blue sky. Ra Ra examines his face intensely, then looks away. “Do yo thing. Good luck on your next piece. I’ll see you later.” Ra steps back and dries his hands on the towel near the windowsill, slapping Dizzee’s shoulders before walking back to his room. Dizzee stands alone in the empty kitchen, soaking in the residual energy of every member of his family. He feels full but he also feels empty. It’s like there was a hollow space inside of him. He feels emotion pass though it, briefly sustaining him, but never satisfying him as deeply as he instinctually knows it should. Picking up the same old towel, Dizzee dries his hands, noticing his polish chipping off in smooth pieces. He immediately experiences the loss.

 Stopping in the small living room to grab his messenger bag, checking for his sketch books, LSD tabs, drawing markers and graphite pencils. I’ve got all that I need right here, he thinks as he slips quietly out the door, making sure it’s locked tight.

The hallway is much dimmer than his home was, and it feels chilled in the darkness. Walking gracefully, Dizzee shoves his hands into his pockets and starts down the stairs. Seen and unseen. Moving and unmoving. I am that, he thinks as his feet pound out a fast cadence. “Should I take this trip now?” questions his voice within him. He stops in the doorway to the street, and pulls out a tab of LSD and slips it into his mouth. He wonders only for a moment if he looks like a young brown god savoring the moment before taking an offered delicacy, and tastes his own finger tips as it starts to dissolve.

Dizzee sighs, feeling his conscious self relax and release with his measured exhale. Time to run from all which is comfortable. Forget safety. From this point on I’ll be a little mad, whispers his mind again.

The sunshine again lights Dizzee’s skin with fever, as he breezed from darkened hallway of his building. Gingerly swinging his arms in time to his heart beat and foot falls, Dizzee took off down the side walk, noticing the slow shift of color saturations as he traveled. Grays melted into whites. The varying shades of Bronx browns and blacks shimmer and glitter. The noisy voices of people and machinery ebbed and flowed with his focus. It’s like he could flip in between many invisible lens as his head turned back and forth.

Several minutes into his journey Dizzee’s mind takes notice of the moisture gathering in his top lip. Stopping at the cross walk, he slips his tongue out sensuously, and samples himself. Behind his eyes he imagines Thor, his own vigilant suitor, dancing in the afterglow of their kiss. The very ozone around them was so tight and high with their nervousness and delight. They were drunk on each other. A harsh push from behind almost sent him to the dirty ground.

“Hey faggot, some of us got places to be!” The shout comes a man, built of narrow bones and thin, rigid muscles. He was completely decked out in red checked pants and a tight brown printed button up. His eyes were completely blocked by large, dark sunglasses. For a second, Dizzee stops breathing. His head snaps around and his eyes darken with grief before he puts on a cordial smile.

“Hey man. It’s all cool. It’s all cool,” he countered. The older man wipes his hands on his pants and swerves around him smoothly.

Dizzee’s feet move lethargically, as the sheen of tears forced him to blink. If only this hot place could speak with the language of love. But it’s too much of a slaughterhouse to hearts like mine, he thinks to himself as he carries forward to the subway. How can I fly if I’m always picking myself up and need patch my own wings?

Again, Dizzee enter the darkness, leaving the sunshine hanging between the horizon and the Bronx’s smog painted skyline.

Like an unnatural cave, the subway station smells of urine, trash and the pungent funk of sweaty, sour bodies. He could feel the odor crawling over his still warm flesh, cementing itself to his clothes like expired perfume. His lungs struggled to expand as the sounds fluctuated in intensity around him. The clicking of a woman’s heels stood out first, like shrill punctuation. He could see the sound. It was red and bloody and mature. He could hear the swoosh of the doors opening, suddenly reminding him that he had some were to be. The counterfeit lightning flickered above, making Dizzee picture the ceiling being filled with fireflies and dimming flashbulbs.

For an instant he could feel his jaw slacken and his body calm before he came back to into himself. His bag bounced against his hip as he slipped deeper into the crowds. As Dizzee weaved with confidence through the tightly paced space, the dark stains on the ground swirled into lively pastel colors between the feet of his fellow patrons. In the empty space across the tracks Dizzee could see what looked like steam curling up from the railways. The graffiti on the pillars wiggled, jerked and twitched whenever Dizzee glanced their way. He felt less like himself but he could appreciate his world without judgment. He easily pictured himself as an alien among a new species, like shades of himself, walking across the surface of his consciousness. Dizzee pulled a thick marker out his bag, and rolled it in between his palms. It helped him think.

“To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man,” yells a homeless man, wearing grungy khaki pants and a large cross pendent, laid out beside a pillar. Dizzee examines his face, noticing how his wrinkles appear to thaw like ice cream and slip into a younger mask, one lacking pain and weariness. Looking to his left, he spots a couple trying to discover each other with hands, eyes and finger tips. The two were are molded to each other like wet clay. With every second, they appeared to grow big and bigger until he finally walked toward them, passing silently, only for them to expand in details before they started to shrink back down to nothing but star dust and ash.

Every thing around him seemed to slow down, and pulse, as his train came into the station. His breath stops. When the doors slid open, and he immediately sees himself reflected in the scratched up windows. He looked sad. His faced shifting and appeared to liquefy then suddenly snap back into shape. Shaking his head, he stepped on. Looking around he found an empty seat and leaned back, happy to feel the cool metal and plastic against his skin.

The train wasn’t too crowed and the chatter of the passengers wasn’t too loud. The inside of the car was coated with thick lines of graffiti. Bubble letters and sharp words were stacked on top of each other, overlapping and dancing on the walls. Dizzee watched them. There was a pale girl sitting across from him. Her thick unruly hair was pulled into a side pony tail, and sprinkled with steel gray bobby pins. Dizzee noticed that the cover of her book was in Spanish.

He secretly admired the shapeliness of her thighs in her bellbottoms, and wondered if they were soft and doughy in the tight denim. Farther down, a group of kids laughed and joked, poking each other and sliding in the seats. Laughter is so pure, he thinks, giggling to himself. One kid split off from the group, walking over to Dizzee.

“Hey, wanna piece of candy? We got extra,” he says. The boy looked older than his friends, about 10 or 11 years old. He wore a pair of bright white knee socks and a too-small tee shirt.

“Yeah, little man. I’ll take a piece. Thanks,” answers Dizzee, as a Sugar Daddy sucker fell into his palm. The boy reaches out and pats Dizzee’s large afro.

The boy nods his head, like he’s agreeing with himself about something and grins, bopping back to his friends. Dizzee looked down at the candy, studying the waxy paper like it held the answers to the universe. Opening it slowly, he relished the sugary smell of the caramel. He leisurely put it in his mouth. It tasted like the sweetest thing in the entire world and it was like time slowed down, allowing him to apprise the different textures of the treat. He could feel his tongue and cheeks maneuvering over the thin layer sticking to his molars, and with great effort, he felt it release and get pushed to the back of his mouth.

The train continued to move for what felt like hours. Reaching into his bag, Dizzee pulled out his sketch book. Unlike the one for his signatures, it was worn around the edges and the cover was held on with thick strips of duct tape. He flipped past Rumi quotes, original poems, and realistic portraits. His brothers have only see his train burners. He would never expose them to his realer stuff, fearing critique and laughter. People prefer you exist as they have always expected you too, never stepping out of those lines, he thinks.

He pauses on the parts were pages have been ripped out. Those are the one he tries to hide even from himself, tucking them away in the attic with his cans of Krylon, waiting until the day he felt brave enough to see those thoughts in the light of day.

Dizzee pulls out a box of pencils a starts to sketch, his lines fine and delicate. Inside of him lies a door that he keeps locked. He starts to draw the alien in the top hat, feeling the shallow grooves in the paper were the pulp dried loosely. What is it you fear the most, he asks himself quietly? Rejection? Reality? Don’t they say the truth will set you free? What is my truth? I don’t have the answer to that yet for I am but a pilgrim still, he finishes.

The intercom crackles with static. A grainy voice announces Dizzee’s stop as next. Quickly placing his things back in his bag, Dizzee stands ready to pass the threshold. Looking around the car one more time, he casts his gaze toward the girl and the kids and the wiggling graffiti. His face appears vacant. The doors slide open and he moves forward. Swoosh.

The platform was bustling with people but Dizzee ignored them and headed for the stairs. Exiting the tunnel, he could smell rain and steam. The sky was still bright blue, but the ground was littered with wet trash and oily puddles. Each puddle is made of a thousand rain drops, each one holds a story of its journey, he thought, staring down as he walked. The sounds of passing cars pulled him out of his thoughts once again. On a small stoop he spots a beautiful couple kissing. They were both so beautiful, and intriguing. The woman had long, thick dreadlocks, and wore a loose lavender sundress. The man had dark cocoa brown skin that appeared to glowed in the light. He was all hard lines and tough muscles. She was soft, supple and yearning. Her feet were bare, and her toes were painted a cool shade of turquoise.

Could I hold her like that? Would she lay, soft sides exposed in my arms? What does she smell like, paprika and chocolate or sugar cane and lemonade? I would love to feel her nimble fingers rooming through my kinky curls, he thinks. Suddenly his focus shifts.

What if I was her, he thinks, his chest tight with apprehension. Would he feel just as solid as he looks? My hands would pass gently over his swollen arms and come to rest on the nape of his neck. Would his mustache tickle? Would I enjoy the texture of his chest hair against my own body?

Dizzee looks away suddenly feeling ashamed of himself. These are the thoughts he tries to purge onto paper and put under lock and key. But maybe they aren’t bad thoughts. Maybe they are just a different side of himself, a side that has always been there. Like the shadow behind his smiles, it’s just a part of him that he doesn’t quite know yet.

Dizzee keeps walking, priding himself on only looking back at the beautiful couple once. The giver or the receiver. He could be both with ease. He would fit either role. He could trade places with many characters of love. Again, he thinks of Thor and breaths deeply.

Dizzee continues walking, and decides to cut through a small park on a whim. Any park in this city is a splendid oasis. It’s a break from the stone and steel. This particular park had several wide flower beds, smelling of pollen and infatuation. He saw pansies, daisies, rose bushes and many brightly colored tulips. Their petals were perky and healthy despite the intense heat of the summer. He walked unhurriedly through the greenery. Here he felt at peace. Unbound by his name, free from his sadness, and time.

A bee drifts into his line of sight and steals his attention. Dizzee’s mind split then, into a thousand multicolored fragments. Linking and unlinking, as the bee drifted to a daffodil. The flower had a masculine face, and the bee kissed its way down the style in the middle. Dizzee kneeled down on the path, waiting for it to emerge. When it did, it was covered in dusty, yellow powder. The bee danced and shook happily, bouncing back into the humid air. Dizzee followed its journey closely, still kneeling. The bee took off toward a daisy. This time its face was lady-like, and landed gently on its cheeks. The bee kissed this one too. The yellow dust sticking to it again, thick and bright.

Here in this garden, Dizzee accepted himself. He was like a bee. I have seen your descent, dear garden bee, he spoke to himself, now I will watch you rising, for love is like a water. Who decided if the pond or the river is more fit to taste? Men. Women. Men. Women. Men. Both. Feelings.

Dizzee grinned and continued walking through the twisting path. Eventually the foliage gave way to the hard concrete of the city. Back on the sidewalk, Dizzee continued toward The Writer’s Bench. He past several store fronts. Some of the signs painted in windows, and others were brightly printed on cloth. Trash stuck in wet, ugly clumps in the gutter. He was passing a window that had posters advertising hair products when he noticed a panel of vivid colors. Nail polish.

Glancing down at his hands and saw that almost all of his was gone. Dizzee’s own blank nails were pale, even ovals. Why not start over, he thought to himself, opening the door.

The space wasn’t very big, but it was packed full of inventory. Dizzee’s eyes skimmed over the many shelves and counters. He was impressed. It was like any art store, but instead of walls and canvas, they focused on bodies and hairstyle. Walking down the narrow isles he swept his finger tips over the stiff bottles and small jars.

“Hey honey, you lookin’ to buy? Or to browse?” came a rich voice from the back. Dizzee nearly jumped out of his skin. In the back isle, on a small wooden step ladder, stood a gorgeous man. Not beautiful in the way Dizzee had been uncovering, but in the conventional way women were. The man was tall and slender, like a dancer. His skin was a reddish brown and enhanced by tastefully applied cosmetics. Dizzee loved that his hair was stretched into lovely corkscrew coils down past his shoulders.

“Uh, I’m just looking around man,” Dizzee answered, try hard to make his voice sound relaxed.

The stunning man stepped down, spreading his arms flamboyantly.

“Welcome to the Beauty Emporium, a place that nurtures beauty, style and grace in every member of the human race,” he rhymed. This dynamic, showy man was amazing.  He sauntered toward Dizzee. The store was currently empty, so Dizzee was his only audience.

“Well, Honey, what are you looking for today?” he questioned. Dizzee stood awkwardly, feeling a mixture of fear and fascination, much like he did in the art gallery party nights ago. He held his bare nails up, shifting his messenger bag to his left shoulder.

“My hands are my tools, and I come here seeking an expression of new beginnings,” he answered, his voice cracking a bit.

The man walked until he stood in front of Dizzee, gently grabbing his hands. He turned them this way, and that several times.

“Honey, you are indeed a little work of art. You must be searching for some color in a world that’s not always so bright,” he finally said, taking in Dizzee’s androgynous features and clear complexion.

Dizzee rarely met people that understood exactly what he meant, and in such a short interaction.

“My name is Eugene,” said, letting go of Dizzee’s hands. He turned and walked behind another small counter. Eugene bent down and pulled out several glass bottles of polish and a smaller version of the chart in the window.

“I’m Dizzee.”

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance Mr. Dizzee,” responded Eugene. “Take a look at this chart and see what catches your eye. Have you worn nail polish before?” the question standing out over the closing and opening of several drawers.

Dizzee stepped up to the glass counter and looked over the chart closely. “Um, only once? Is that okay? I mean I’m…,” Eugene had been watching him closely from the corner of his eyes and cut him off with a practiced eases.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to clarify,” Eugene said, shaking several of the little bottles jammed between his long fingers, much like Dizzee would rattle up his spray paints.

“We are all free to try out new things, or keep a single routine.” Eugene gestured to himself.

“You know, give the people something to look up to. I personally like to switch it up and keep it fresh. I like not being what people expect,” he proclaimed tugging on his dangling earrings with a smile. Eugene seats himself on a stool behind the counter, and does a little spin, chuckling.

Dizzee stared in awe. This soul is here for its own joy, he thought, and finally allows himself to unwind. “Yeah, that’s exactly how I try to be in my art. I spray all city, praying to uplift the people looking for the beauty in the insanity.”

“Graffiti? How fascinating. What are your favorite colors?” Dizzee considered his options, looking up from the chart, pointing to red, blue, and green.

“I wear these colors the most,” he answered. Eugene meet his eyes. “I thought this was about new beginnings. Why keep repeating the same old thing?”

Dizzee thought about Thor, the art party, and the bee. He thought about the alien in the top hat, his buttons and patches. He thought about boundaries, boxes and freedom. Finally, after what felt like years, he looked at Eugene. Brown eyes meeting, finely lined browner eyes.

“I think I’d like to wear yellow or purple,” he answers.

Eugene flips his curly hair, and undoes the top two buttons of gray and white flannel. “As an entertainer myself, I must ask that we go a little fancier. Your hands shall put on a show, a personal spectacle. I have Glittering Gold and Spirited Plum. Give me your hands love.” The names were a little showier than the actual merchandise but the names did make Dizzee smile.

Dizzee rested his hands out flat on the counter, and Eugene started painting. The store was still quiet but the sounds of the street crept in, muffled and subdued. The shop smelled like his mother, warm and comforting. The hum of the countertop fan was relaxing as well. Eugene seemed to understand that Dizzee was lost in thought and embraced the silence as well. Dizzee thought the polish smelled stronger than his aerosols. On trains Dizzee was free to spread his thoughts across the city without opening his mouth. There he was a living myth. When his trains pass, he feels accomplished and could breathe easy. His nails made him brave, and these colors made him feel beautiful too. Men. Women. Those tried of being what people expected them to always be. They should brave, beautiful and free.

“Now, sit with me for a few minutes and let these little beauties dry. I don’t want you rushing back into the streets and messing up all my good work,” Eugene said, capping the polishes.

“If I may be so forward,” Eugene asks with a smirk and twirl in his seat, “What else are you exploring today, besides new colors?”

Dizzee had hopped up on the counter, letting the artificial breeze from the fan cool his sweating face and was surprised to hear another question come his way. Thinking, he flexed his hands, observing how his thin tendons rolled beneath his tawny skin.

“I think I’m on a journey. I haven’t left the city limits, not physically any way, but my spirit is soaring to new heights. I met somebody. This somebody,” Dizzee pauses to sigh, “they make me want to be more than I thought I could ever be. And it’s new and scary and infinitely magnificent all at once.” Dizzee’s eyes began to water and he felt several tears dribble down his cheeks. Eugene leaned beside him, and reached one hand up, cupping Dizzee’s cheek. Using his manicured fingers, Eugene lightly he wiped away the tears.

Eugene shook his head. “Oh Dizzee. You poor, innocent thing. You’re just finding your wings. I know you are afraid. But when we come into this world, we are meant to learn. We don’t come out the womb complete and all knowing; otherwise, what’s the point? I’m going to try and meet you where you are.”

Dizzee wiped his nose on his wrist and sniffled, carful not to pull on his bracelets too much.

Eugene pulled Dizzee into a hug, then started pacing in the small space behind the counter.

“You can be driven by fear or by love. I want you to continue to embrace life, be art and love yourself. You are already beautiful. You are already at your destination because you’re where you are supposed to be. Don’t put any ideas on a pedestal or crawl through the world on your knees, hiding the parts of you that are Glittering Gold in the shadows. You should bloom, Dizzee. You do not need to earn freedom. Just breath and shed tears of healing, not fear.”

Dizzee looked a Eugene like he was preaching the gospel. This man was a beautiful angel. Dizzee understood that Eugene was different, different like birds of the art show party, that kind of different. Dizzee saw a light in this man, that also glowed in himself. And that was great thing.

He who cannot discover himself, cannot discover the world, Dizzee thought to himself. The two of them shared this moment, acknowledging the depth of their conversation with smiles. They shared a synchronized inhale and exhale, allowing their emotions to settle without force.

Dizzee looked again at his nails. Glittering Gold and Spirited Plum. New beginnings. New wings. Freedom to breath and just be. Dizzee could do that. He could see himself as the light, not just in it.

 

“Hey man, that was really deep. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my chest,” Dizzee says, watching Eugene as he straightened up one of the messier shelves. Dizzee rarely tells people how he feels, preferring to keep things to himself.

“That’s good to hear honey. I know we just met but I’m glad I could but you at ease,” Eugene answered. Eugene, too felt much lighter knowing his words helped somebody.

“Now come here. Let’s see if them nails are dry. It usually takes longer because of the humidity, but we’ll find out together.” Dizzee hops down, careful to hold his hands way from his body. Eugene, again, takes Dizzee’s hands in his, turning them over and holding them toward the light.

“Well, honey, their all dry. I won’t keep you much longer but I do want to give you some free samples,” Eugen says as he steps back behind the counter, this time walking closer to the register.

“Oh no that’s okay. I have money to pay,” Dizzee starts, reaching into his pockets for the few dollars he kept on him. He was happy the the colors they’d chosen, and looked forward to coming back for more.

“It’s fine honey. Think of it as my treat, from one artist to another,” Eugen replies with another secret smile, “And hopefully, I’ve also made you into a new regular Mr. Dizzee.”

“Definitely,” Dizzee answered. Eugene pulled out a small red bag and put in five small bottles of nail polish. They clinked and clacked together as they were passed over to Dizzee, who accepted them with an easy grin. My spirit is opening a new door, he thought, and what if the wall is an illusion?

Eugene pulled Dizzee into a quick hug and walked him over to the door. “Don’t be afraid to come back Dizzee.”

“I look forward to it,” replied Dizzee, stepping out the door. The hanging bell rang behind him.

The street was just as busy as it was when he entered the Beauty Emporium, but Dizzee barely noticed as he continued his walk toward The Writer’s Bench. The tab of LSD was losing its effect but Dizzee continued to notice the roses among the figurative thorns of the Bronx. Women gather in small groups, gossiping and laughing. They had wide smiles and sparkling eyes. Kids splashed joyfully in the cold spray of an open hydrant. They were all soaking wet, slipping and dipping, and their curls were kinking almost instantly. Dizzee smiled and ran though the spray, playful waving his hands in the air. He truly felt his sadness being washed away.

After a few more minutes, Dizzee started to descended the stairs into subway. He traded hellos and hand shakes with a few guys chilling on the dirty steps. They were the keepers of the gates. They were an eccentric group archangels with nothing better to do, especially now that school was out. They watched for any police coming to harass suspected writers. The best look outs.

The subway here was still dirty, the most common colors being brown and gray in the dim light but the artist managed to be pinpoints of color. They each had spirited personalities. They all had something to share or to prove in this area that feed on the dreams of it youth. As Dizzee approached the bench he held his breath. These were his compatriots in the ongoing creative struggle. Yet, with them I still feel alone, Dizzee thinks.

The Writer’s Bench was buzzing with conversation. Kids were discussing the importance of color and how certain textures effect its shine. The older artists were talking about the legal crack down on those that carry the Krylon cans. Each voice was full of emotion. Dizzee learned so much here. It’s here that we create our own purpose, he thinks.

“Aye, Rumi. What’s up man? I thought you had gone ghost,” said Crash, standing to exchange a hand shake with Dizzee. Crash was a cool white guy with a great style. And were there was Crash, his friend Daze wasn’t far way. To many artists they were known as the Chill 2. Unlike Dizzee, they didn’t spray all city, instead choose to focus on claiming the Bronx and Manhattan as main their street galleries. Dizzee loved that they were a harmonizing team of bright paints, bubble letters and wild style.

“Nah man, just working on some new ideas,” answered Dizzee, swinging his bag over his shoulder and sitting down. The wood of The Writer’s Bench was engraved with the names of its most regular visitors, curse words and boughs. Dizzee ran his fingers over the chiseled grooves, imagining the tools that made them. Pens. Knifes. Razor Blades. Pencils. Your weapon of choice reflects a bit of who you were, Dizzee thought.

“Mind sharing what you’re planning? We saw that last burner you put out. Pure greatness,” Daze said. Daze pushed his glasses up his nose. His brown skin appeared dewy in the heat of the subway station.

Dizzee took in their excited expressions, trying to decide if he should tell them the truth or a beautiful lie.  

2

Saturday

  “Oh?….It’s really not that bad….Fog?….yes….yeah…I know, it is everywhere….haunted?….wolves….bats…vampires?!?!….Lourdes, you have a vivid imagination! The worst that can happen here is if you trip on a stick you didn’t see because of how thick the fog is!” Lourdes can be such a baby sometimes! She won’t even visit me because of how creepy she claims this place is!

whats this??? A magical orphaned baby on your dashboard doorstep??

AU where Dumbledore leaves harry at a much friendlier household than the Dursleys. PS zoom in if you can theres some cool detail I promise

Reblog to adopt him and save him from 17 years of abuse

Don’t Trust Me (Part 8/End)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You are captured by S.H.I.E.L.D and possess a strange ability and knowledge of a foreign threat. When the Avengers are called in, they decide to help you. But can you be trusted? Besides the eminent danger, there is an annoyingly handsome guy with a metal arm who just loves to push your buttons.

Catch up here

Word Count: 4100

Warnings: Age of Ultron spoilers, possible language, angst

A/n: At the end (finally!!) Thanks to everyone who stuck around, you guys are the best :)))

You awoke in a hospital bed, presumably the same one you had been in before. Your mind felt hazy, like a fog had descended into your brain.

Hello, (Y/n). You gasped, looking around the room for the source of the voice, but all you saw were sterile machines and a few chairs.

Honestly, (Y/n). Sometimes I really do wonder about you. The voice was inside your head.

“The serum,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. The voice in your head laughed, a strange sensation that almost caused physical pain.

Ah, you are correct. Perhaps you aren’t so ignorant after all. These next few days will be quite fun, don’t you think? The voice seemed horribly familiar, and you shuddered at the thought. What? The voice purred. You don’t like the idea of me in your mind? Come on, (Y/n). I’ve always been in your mind. Now I can just control it.

I’m not scared of you, Lucian, you thought.

Pity. You should be.

Keep reading

@airlock said: world of 776: if you don’t get everyone out of the portal before Alphonse, Embla traps them outside and you never get to use them again, also there’s fog of war and multiple enemy dancers

Honestly that would seem to be a sensible direction for Leif’s maps. They’ve already played up Ike as “the strongest of Heroes” (and I’m not inclined to quibble over that one– dude killed a goddess), so no future Lord can top that. Leif ain’t even the strongest person in his peninsula. From a lore perspective I’m also not sure what straightforward thing you can do to top the terror of the Mother of All Mercenaries bearing down on your troops, invincible.

But Leif can take a page from his FE13 incarnation and be the tricksiest of Heroes. Fog of war, yeah (please no) but also something like berserk staves and other bits of Jugdral-inspired awfulness.

Um, yeah. It’ll be fun. With a capital F.

No Words

Iris doesn’t have the words to express how she feels. 


            Iris stepped into the warmth of the tub. Barry had helped her with her dress before going back downstairs to clean up after the party. As the warmth of the scented water filled her senses, she felt herself relax from the tensions of the past couple of days. The reality of what Barry had told her really hitting home – she was going to die in four month - die. She was 28 years old and had four months left to live.

               “You really ok? You know you can talk to me right?” Iris could hear Barry’s words in the fog of the memory.

               “Yeah, I know. I’m fine, really” had been her reply. What was left to say?  They had discussed as a team what needed to be done, to move forward with the alterations to the future timeline. The intel Barry and Crisco had gather wasn’t just about Iris but also put Caitlin’s future in peril as well. Caitlin a valuable part of Team Flash but most of all she was friend. Caitlin deserved the chance for a happy future; life had already dealt her so much pain. What would more talk accomplish anyway – right?

               But, she knew what Barry had truly meant. They had conspicuously avoided the subject after his trip to the future choosing instead to run errands and finish last minute prep for their housewarming party. Barry had wanted to let her know in his own way that he was there for her, the way she had always been for him. She knew this of course, he knew she knew but she also understood his need to vocalize it.

               Iris sank deeper into the tub. How do you plan out the rest of your life in four months? How do you make your mark in the world, no wait – leave it in so short of time? She had so many hopes and dreams for her future. Before her changed relationship with Barry it was a career in journalism, to be the top in her field, award winning. Now with Barry in her life in this new way her focus had changed,  she still wanted to be the best in her career but now that future revolved around being wife to her soulmate, mother to their children,  seeing  them grow, having children of their own- her and Barry until death they did part. Her hand went to her mouth involuntarily at the deep realization that none of these those things were to be her future, not now.

               “Iris?”

               Iris looked up to see a concerned Barry looking down at her two glasses of wine in hand. He put the glasses onto the table by the tub and lowered himself to the rug eye level with her.

               “Iris, talk to me please,” his hands cupping her face a sense of desperation in his voice. It was then that she realized that she had been crying.

               What to say? There were no words, no words that could truly convey what she was feeling right now in this moment. So Iris did what she always did when words failed her, she acted. She reached out her hands to his face bringing his lips to hers in a fierce kiss. Biting at his lip, demanding entrance with her tongue, her nails digging into his hair now to bring him closer to make the kiss deeper she was likely hurting him but she didn’t care. Iris needed to him; she needed HIM to help her in a way words could not right now.

               Barry pulled from her embrace lips now swollen from her attack, his eyes searching hers. He nodded and rose to his feet and that’s when she noticed for the first time he was naked. He stood tall and strong before her – all lean muscle honed from his now accelerated DNA and years as the Flash. She studied him, his hair now tousled she remembered the softness of it beneath her fingers. The slight scar above his right eye left from a blow she had given him as kids when she challenged him to box and her punch landed him on the ground with his head hitting the pavement. Barry had ended up with six stitches and she had made him his favorite cookies for months after.  For a moment their eyes met those beautiful hazel eyes that showed so much emotion looked back at her so full of love for her and concern for her – because of her, it broke her heart more. She chose instead to study the multitude of freckles that peppered his nose and cheek, the lips she had possessed, the firm cut of his jaw hers eyes trailing his body as she stash each precious detail that was Barry Allen into her memory.  He was hers – or was, this was no longer promised to her. Her eyes finally came to rest on him as his desire for her came into full view. She reached out and touched him and then looked back up. His eyes had never left her then she moved and so did he.

               He folded his tall frame into the tub as Iris adjusted herself to straddle his hips. Barry grabbed her with gentle hands and she let out a whimper as she folded around him. She started to move soft curves against lean muscle.  Iris was frantic in her need, pushing harder driving him deeper. Her nails dragging into his back and drawing blood. She needed him to fill her, to fill this hole that was threatening to swallow her whole, then it hit – warm and electric, filling her senses, flooding her soul and she screamed – “BARRY”.

               Their foreheads were pressed together, their breathing in harmony in the aftermath of the storm when Barry spoke.

               “I think it’s time we move this to another venue. The water’s getting cold and my legs are starting to cramp up”, he quipped.

               Iris laughed a real honest to goodness laugh and kissed him again, this time slowly and tenderly. She stepped out of the tub and allowed Barry to untangle himself from the small space. He really was tall; she smiled at him warmly and was thankful again for loving this man and him loving her.

               Iris handed Barry a towel and they dried each other, hands warming places only briefly touched by the towel, eyes expressing what words need not. Then he had her in his arms and she placed her head against his chest as he took her to their bed. He deposited her onto and stared down at her like she was the most valuable thing in the world to him and then she reached up for him and he came to her. This time when they made love it was sweet and slow. As she had endeavored to visually remember every inch of him she now did the same with her hands. Iris mapped every inch, marked every surface committing to her memory now the tactile presence of her Barry, her love. This time when she soared upon the emotions only he could evoke she whispered his name in reverence for loving her, for him being in her life.

               Now as she laid here wrapped in Barry’s arms the warmth of his skin pressed firmly against her, her head rested on his chest, she listened to the fast pace of his heart that had now become the rhythm of her life.  She listened and reveled as always at the miracle that had made Barry the Flash, but it also reminded her now of how fast time flew, how little time she had left with him. The knowledge of that also empowered her, Barry’s being the Flash proved that anything possible even altering the future. She would not sit back and leave it for others to do. Iris West was going to write her own story – the future be damned!

Feeling like Hux imagine again >.>

I am so on fire with Hux x reader imagines lately. It’s the best fun to write those!! I hope you’ll like this one and sorry for eventual mistakes ;p I am trying to get my english going so if you notice some horrible mistakes, please, message me. I will be happy to know what I’ve fucked up : D

I am not sorry Dan. You are an idiot >.>

K, but imgine Hux getting drunk as fuck at the party.

First, he becomes more open. He’s always absolutely charming, but a little of alcohol makes him laugh more, and even share some stories, that include something embarassing for Lord Ren, everybody loves so much.

Later, the red headed man switches places to sit next to you and put his arm around you. You move closer to him, getting yourself comfortable, as he continues on telling his story, not giving a single fuck about sad Dan, that just have been told by Hux to “go sit somewhere else”.

After some time, he gets touchy and aggressive. Hearing that Dan slightly supports Lord Ren’s idea for clone army, Hux stands up and approaches him. Despite being drunk, he moves like he’s completley sober. Briskly and confidently. General stops next to the officer and hits him in the jaw. The punch is quick and seems to be almost effortless, but it’s surprisingly strong. You can hear Dan’s jawbone cracking as he falls down on the floor. “I will not tolerate your stupidity any longer” says Hux calmly. At first, you are shocked. You had no idea he is so strong, but then you chuckle. What else could you expect from Brendol Hux’s son?

As the party continues, Hux becomes quieter and calmer. Everybody is having a great time (except of Dan, currently residing at the hospital section). You are sitting on the sofa in the dark corner quiet tired of playing cards and having laughs with fellow-workers. Your eyes are closed but you force yourself to open them, when you felt somebody came to sit next to you. It’s Hux. “Are you having fun?” you ask. No answer. The man is loking at you like through the fog. “Yeah, I am getting pretty tired as well” you add and before you are able to do anything you can feel Hux digging his face in your neck and wrapping you with his arms. He refuses to say a thing. With his big body trapping yours, you are unable to move anywhere. All the general wants to do for the rest of the night is to stay cuddled up to you and have your hand running through his red hair. You stay like this untill he falls asleep and everybody leaves. Taking a look at him sleeping on your chest you think to yourself “Isn’t he the sweetest jaw-breaking cupcake?” tracing random shapes on his face with your finger. He have never got so drunk before. “He’s going to be so dead this morning. Now, how the fuck do I move?”

Lautrec’s master list

#77- “I’m your phone background? That’s cute” WWE Prompt

From @ashleyvc88 - “But I also need 77 with TJP”. @allgirlswrestlingclub


Y/n and TJP were sitting backstage at Raw. There was mutual flirting between the two of them, but neither made an actual move on the other. They were both young, and fairly new to the main roster. Neither wanted to mess up the other’s opportunity. TJP had become the Cruiserweight Champ, and Y/n was about to challenge Sasha for the Raw Women’s Championship. Y/n got up and started to stretch while they talked about video games.

“No, Outlast is a fantastic game! Scary as hell, good graphics, and an actual storyline!”

TJP laughed at her while she continued to stretch down to touch her toes, trying not to look at her, causing him to blush slightly.

“Whatever. Hey, could you tell me what time it is? No one has come to get me yet. I’m just nervous as hell for this match.”

She has her hands on the ground, getting body parallel to it, and stars doing push-ups. TJP grabs her phone and hits the home button, unlocking her phone.

“Its eigh-”

He stops mid-sentence and sees a picture of him holding his belt, from the CWC.

“I’m your phone background? That’s cute”

Y/n’s body freezes mid push-up and she stares straight in front of her. Shit! While stuck in her own mind, racing a hundred miles a minute, she didn’t even notice TJP get on her level, also in a mid push-up. 

“You okay down here?”

He looks at her and she shakes her head getting out of her fog.

“Yeah, I-I’m fine. Ju-Just nervous.”

They get up and she wipes her hands on her pants and grabs her phone, quickly running out of the room going toward gorilla. TJP chases her and grabs her arm before she can escape into the women’s locker room. He pulls her into him, crashing hips lips into her unsuspecting ones. Her body relaxes against his. The kiss itself is soft and quick, but filled with all their desire they have been withholding from each other. He backs away from her lips slowly, letting her open her eyes. He takes his free hand and goes into his pocket, pulling his phone out. He unlocks his phone and her smile widens like Cheshire cat. His background is of Y/n after her debut on Raw, smiling with her hands in the rock on gesture. 

“You are my background too y/n. Now, go kick some ass out there. I want us to be the new power couple.”

He kisses her again quickly before her theme music starts playing, releasing the kiss only to push her through the curtain and into the loud cheering of the WWE universe.


Ello!

   So here is another drabble from the WWE prompt! Please feel free to chose either Prompt (WWE or Writing). If WWE, please give me the number and which wrestler you would like, and I’ll make sure that number isn’t. Same goes for the Writing prompt; any fandom, any character and I’ll do my best to make it perfect for you.

   Inbox me, message me and I will reply!

Ciao loves <333

  • The Courier visiting Far Harbor: Haha yeah, deadly fog. Totally original environmental hazard. Never seen that one before, am I right guys?
  • Far Harbor Citizen: Stranger please this fog is killing us all
  • The courier shoving potato chips into his mask: Haha yeah reaaaallly original.