Curio gazed into the reflective surface of the cabinet, but only saw the contours of the dim room behind him. His eyes darted to the hazy figure in the kitchen chair beyond where his reflection ought to have been. “Draw me again. It isn’t fair that you get to see me, but I can’t even see myself.”
The girl ran a hand through her tousled hair, disturbing the halo of cold moonlight being cast upon it through the window above the sink.
She sighed and took in the odd figure before her. Curio had never been particularly well groomed, though she admitted inwardly that it’d be hard to keep oneself tidy without the ability to use a mirror. “I’ve drawn your portrait nearly every night for the past 3 months, and you always reject it. I’m also starting to run out of graphite,” she added, weakly.
Curio spun fluidly, trapping her with a pale glare. “I reject your portraits because they aren’t very good. Though I supposed they’re getting better.” His nostrils flared slightly as if his small compliment had taken a great amount of effort.
“Fine! Fine. But you’re letting me go back to sleep after this.” She rose to fetch her sketchbook, fully aware that she wouldn’t be allowed to return to bed until dawn chased the shadows away.
On the tenth day they see the sun. Scully wants to take this as evidence of — well, something — wants to write it down or take a picture, but instead she just goes outside and stands in the sudden warmth, unmoving. She supposes she’s gone this long without the sun before — those gloomy Washington winters — but before this, she’d never doubted that it would return. Mulder and Will follow her out, blinking into the brightness.
“Whoa,” says Will.
Everything is covered in fine white ash and the light reflects off every surface, blinding. It looks like the first snowfall. Clean and bright.
She shivers in the heat.
Mulder winds his way to the garden at the side of the house and plucks a leaf of lettuce. He blows on it and some of the ash flies off and settles to the ground.
“Do you think it’s toxic?” Will asks.
To no one’s surprise, Mulder sniffs at it, then sneezes. “Only one way to find out,” he says, and takes a bite.
Scully winces. “Mulder…”
“It’s fine, Scully. Tastes like charcoal.”
“Oh, good,” she snaps. Typical. He used to do this kind of thing all the time, no matter how many blood-borne pathogen training sessions the Bureau made him attend.
She eyes him warily for the rest of the day, waiting for something to happen. That first day is still vague in her memory, a blur of blood and terror, but there are things she remembers. Open wounds, men hemorrhaging in the street, a woman coughing up an impossible quantity of thick black liquid and then falling into it, and her skin—
Scully blanches. She’d tried to help, of course she had, she’s a doctor and she is not afraid, but everything happened so fast. They were all people who’d escaped the city. She can imagine it: the relief they felt to get out before the barriers went up. The horror when they realized it wouldn’t make any difference.
That night she stays up watching him. In sleep his brow eases; he looks younger, unconcerned. In ten days she has forgotten how to pray, but she has remembered how to keep vigil.
In the morning the sun is gone, and Mulder is still fine. If that’s the trade she’ll take it.
•where do you live? Minnesota. Oh isn’t it cold up there? Yes. Very. Every year a certain amount freeze to death out in or winters. Every year a corpse in found, blood frozen in its veins.
•you hear about Minnesota nice. It covers up the Minnesota sad, Minnesota angry, Minnesota hurt that comes with the dark and cold we have every year. Seasonal depression.
•land of ten thousand lakes, murky water, kids are taught at a young age to swim. Diving into chilled water the caress of weeds against your leg as you touch the muddy clay bottom, inky movement out of the corner of your eye shoots you to the surface. It’s always better deeper where the weeds don’t tickle your legs. That’s where they can look up at you, watching your shape reflect against the surface.
•the shore of Lake Superior, deep, dark, dangerous. The “beaches” are unforgiving. The waters icy. Fining the perfect stones on the shore, rolled smooth. Stand on a large Boulder and drop with a plunk.
•the north was lively, people were proud to call it home. When the mining slipped away so did the pride and the people. Ghost towns blemish the land like scars on the face of a giant. We’ve pitted parts of our wart in search for something precious. Always digging.
•stay still enough in a forest during winter you’re suddenly hyper sensitive to the world around you and you realize though it seems dormant it is very much alive. Frozen breath hangs in the air, an animal calls wildly with effort in the distance.
💄 ---because the only person he would actually kiss, would be himself //asidefromselfloathinglol
Taking a step out of the shower, his white bangs flattened out and obstructing his view a bit, he swiftly takes a towel and dries himself, first feet and abdomen, then chest and arms, taking a second one solely for his hair.
Stepping in front of the large mirror right above the sink he regards himself, mouth drawing a snarl. His fingers quickly brush his hair back in place, erasing the image he has just seen from the reflective surface.
That’s what it should look like…
A small chuckle leaves him, the corners of his mouth lifting. He leans forwards… giving his mirror image a small peck.
…. Wait why did I…
Grumbling, he throws the towel on the ground, quickly leaving the bathroom, forgetting this incident ever happened.
Leandra has yet to learn of her son’s new relationship. Brief bit of handers fluff.
“Will you look at these gauntlets, Anders? Bet I could break a brick with these and not feel a thing!” Hawke was turning a pair of weighty-looking gloves in his hands, admiring as the sun reflected off their polished steel surface. While his rise in status had caused some disgruntlement among the nobility, the merchants at Hightown market were very fond of him, their opinion perhaps influenced by his habit of making rash purchases.
"Rather massive for your, eh, work, don’t you think?“ Anders smirked. "Certainly much lighter gear would serve you better.”
"Let a man dream, will you?“ Hawke retorted, feigning an offended tone. He then sighed, lowering the heavy gloves back on the counter. "No sale today, Olaf. Sorry.”
"I can’t believe you are actually listening to reason,“ Anders laughed.
"Enjoy it while it lasts.” Hawke softened his voice to divert prying ears. “I will grow resistant to your charm eventually.” He positioned his body so as to conceal their hands from the market crowd and subtly twirled his fingers around those of his fresh lover. A blush rose to Anders’ cheeks as their eyes locked. Hawke smiled coyly, stroking the palm softened by extensive use of healing magic.
“Are you lost?” It’s a question as much as it is a statement, coming from Jason’s lips. He’s been standing behind Tim for a while, biding his time and not trying to be quiet about it.
Tim ignores him and continues to stare down at the steely waters of Gotham River. He feels cold when he looks at it, the black city skyline reflected off a dull, dusky surface that swallows up the light instead of reflecting it.
Jason moves closer, until he’s standing behind Tim, but not close enough to touch him. He can smell the gunmetal, leather and sweat clinging to the other man’s body.
“It’s a bit cold for a swim,” Jason murmurs, his warm breath hitting the back of Tim’s neck and making him shiver.
“What do you think’s down there?”
He can feel Jason looking at him, and it’s a long time before he answers. “Nothing good, Timmy.”
“I heard a rumor once of a lost city, entire blocks of homes swept away in the aftermath of a seismic event,” Tim tilts his head up, away from the faintly rippling river.
“Why are you really out here?” Jason moves to stand beside him and their shoulders brush. “I didn’t know The Oracle dealt in urban legends.”
Tim looks at him them, and he’s surprised to see Jason isn’t wearing his helmet. He runs his eyes over the sharp planes of his face before answering. “Says the ghost.”
“You’re wrong,” Jason curls his lips into a cruel smile. “I’d say I’m closer to the devil.”
Tim can feel the air shifting between them like warm sand. Even as Jason starts to angle his face toward him, he thinks what a liar. Jason could have left Gotham and never looked back.
But he’s haunting his past life like a specter, throwing himself back into the shadows like he’s part of the night.
As their lips touch, the slow slide of skin against skin, Tim thinks about unfinished business and the could be’s and should have been’s and that Jason’s tongue tastes like fire.
Don’t all ghosts come back for revenge? Or is it the whispers of promised words, like the careful brush of fingertips across skin.
Diabolik Lovers More, Blood ~Kou Mukami After Story~
Hello, cuties! ヾ(・ω・ｏ) I don’t know if someone has translated this yet, but I needed it in my blog, soooo… here it is! It might be a bit tiring to read cause it’s a bit long, but… Here you have it in case someone is interested! I found it adorable, but lately I find anything Kou-related way too cute sob
On with the translation! (and I haven’t checked anything so beware, mistakes might eat you)
Kou: Yui, come here!
Kou: This lake is so beautiful… The water is superclear!
Kou: And look! The sky is being reflected in the
surface so you can see a really beautiful blue!
‘Wash the dish. Totally. Hold nothing back. Feel the warmth of the water. Look at the reflection of the light on the surfaces of things. Let your fingers touch the sides of the knife blade, the flat of the spatula, the rim of the dishpan. Don’t think about things. These thoughts are merely distractions and diversions from what it is you’re really doing. Feel what you are actually holding in your hands. Feel the genuine energy of your body as it engages in this activity. Notice the different materials that your dishes and utensils are made from. Concentrate on simply washing, rinsing and drying each spoon and plate, and you will begin to develop your own individual style of handling things. When you wash and dry a single spoon and give it your full attention, you are expressing care for the entire universe.’
- Gary Thorp, Sweeping Changes: Discovering the Joy of Zen in Everyday Tasks.
Notice how the Fox News and CNBC debate stages contrast from the drama of the CNN versions. The Fox News stage is flatter in comparison and more classic. The CNBC stage is super direct and kind of lacking in drama. Then again, I guess that makes sense as CNBC is a business network and FOX news’ audiences are more “traditional”.
But when you look at the CNN stages they’re so high stakes. With their reflective surfaces, light boxes and sharp media content, the design guarantees the to maximize the drama between candidates. In one of the designs they use Air Force one like it’s a trophy. Win the debate and win Air Force One.
I love how bold all of these are though and how no matter the camera angle, you always end up with strong lines, colors and with the candidate at the center of it all.
Message me if anyone knows who designed these. I would love to chat with them about the process and how these came to be.