#Opalescent Daydream

[ask-crescent-crescendo]

Ohh- well I hope you have a good night !

Crescendo ask) Hey hows the party going for you ? I thought I'd come join too !

[baubled]

prompt: Effie teaches Haymitch a new skill

[[I'm quite happy with this one, thank you for the prompt. I hope you enjoy it. No warnings again, just don't fall into the pit of emotion that's opening between them.]]

“I need your help, please, Haymitch.”

Effie watched him blink away whatever webbed thoughts had taken him away to his daydreams as she crossed the dining car to where Haymitch was sitting, slumped, in an arm chair. He’d been there for an hour or so, gazing out the window as the Districts rolled by. She’d crossed behind him half a dozen times or more, and he hadn’t looked up once. They were due to arrive at the Capitol with their tributes in under an hour, and through a series of misfortunes Effie had discovered that one of the buttons on her pink elbow length gloves had been lost. Normally it wouldn’t have caused her any trouble, but the things were fingerless - flowing lengths of ribbon and lace wound intricately around her fingers like so many rings. It would take an age to get them off and back on again, and only a minute or two to replace the button.

He didn’t say anything - at least not quickly enough to make her regret asking - so she perched on the edge of the chair nearest to his and leaned over to drop her pocket sewing kit into a hand he’d only flung out to catch it just in time. She checked the twin of the injured glove for placement, tugged the fabric gently so it was taut, and extended her upturned forearm to him. A perfectly manicured, opalescent pink nail found the place the last button had been and caressed the space lightly, “Just there will do perfectly, thank you.”

It was only then that she looked up at him and caught his expression. He looked possibly more confused than she’d ever seen him look, and that was truly saying something. For one thing she recognized now that the contemplation she had interrupted had been deep - he appeared to have just been roused from a particularly long nap only to immediately be asked to solve one of Beetee’s many puzzles. But he didn’t need to say anything. Context clues were a strength of hers, and she had borne witness to too many suits without buttons - too many jackets with little holes in them and dress shirts that she’d had to throw out entirely when he wasn’t looking - to not know what the hold up was.

She had a choice. She could ridicule him for his lack of knowledge, tut at him like a school teacher, or she could do something else.

Her eyes met his for just a moment, held his gaze long enough to communicate her understanding, and she collected the kit from his still upturned palm. “What do you think for our two this year,” she said softly, opening the little metal case and taking from within a glistening silver needle, a length of pink thread, and a pair of sewing scissors, “they’ll try to put them in mining gear again, I presume, but I think I can intervene this time.”

“I think it won’t matter what they’re wearing,” he was watching her measure the thread, cut it, tuck the scissors back into the case and set it aside. She threaded the needle herself, and then held it back out to him.

“You never think it matters, dear, but trust me it does. For many people in the Capitol it will be their first time seeing little Ely and Susan up in person and the impression needs to be striking.” Effie watched Haymitch take the needle, his forehead creasing as she once again offered him her arm and indicated where he ought to put the first stitch, but he was caught off guard, too. It was her fifth year, and the first time she’d referred to their tributes by name since the 56th - when her first shot at nailing her job was over in the first five minutes of the games. It’d been a slaughter, and since then she hadn’t been ready to get too close to those kids whose lives she trapped between her perfect, beautiful fingers.

“Don’t get too attached,” he warned her, with something akin to softness in his tone, and he took hold of the fabric with one hand, slipped the needle into it just beside her finger with the other.

“I just want them to have a chance,” Effie’s voice was breathy as she spoke in hushed tones, uncertain of where the children actually were inside of the train. They were both slight things. Too young. Too hungry. They would never win unless some miracle struck the other Victors down in one fell swoop. They would never win. Haymitch paused what he was doing - unsure of what the next step was and unsure of what was happening there between them. It had been years since Effie had opened up about anything. She’d mostly avoided being alone with him since he had so thoroughly wrecked her first day as Escort, drunk himself into oblivion on the train and gathered the skirts of her dress into his hands just to pull them apart once the kids were asleep. All the whiskey in the world hadn’t been enough to stop him from hearing her crying through the wall that night.

She had made that dress. Just like she’d made the one with all those hand painted petals back when they were eighteen. As he tore apart the new one he had remembered how careful she had been with the old. He had known that she would know he remembered. He’d wanted it to hurt.

Haymitch glanced back at the glove. Focused on not piercing her porcelain skin with the needle on accident, and watched her move her finger to where it ought to come back out through the fabric. They were both quiet for a moment, only the rock and sway of the train against the tracks serving as the soundtrack as Effie silently showed him where to place each needle point. She paused only to produce the button itself out of a pocket cleverly hidden near her hip. It was simple - silver and round, but he had such trouble trying to thread the needle through the first hole that Effie held it steady as he tried to do the second one. His hands shook. The woman took the button back into her palm and closed her hand over his for a long moment. She watched his face while he watched her hold him there. But he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“We can do this, Haymitch. Together.”

It wasn’t clear to him if she meant they could save their tributes, one another, or just sew on the damn button. It didn’t matter. She held the button steady again, between her thumb and pointer finger, and this time he managed it - though he still shook. “Just loop it through another few times, please?”

When he was done he retrieved the scissors from the little box again and trimmed the thread, but when Effie moved to pull her arm away he caught her by the wrist. Looked her in the eye and found that she had forgotten herself entirely. There was a certain sense of being unguarded that she could tell he didn’t want to let go of - though it would need to dissolve as soon as they stepped off of the train. Everyone would be watching them. Some more than others. His thumb traced a circle on her skin through the fabric, and there was so much she wanted to say. To admit to him. It was the first time she had ever come close to telling him the truth - why she’d stopped writing. Why she’d stopped calling. That it hadn’t been her choice, but it was the only way to keep him safe.

Instead, she said, “I should go make sure they’re prepared.”

Haymitch nodded, dropped his hold on her, and looked back out the window. It was only then that she noticed the full glass of bourbon sitting on the side table beside him. The melting ice clinked against the glass as the train tottered around another curve in the track. Effie blinked once, twice, and stood to go. His voice reached out to her, though, as she approached the doorway, and she turned to find him looking over his shoulder at her, “You forgot your stuff, Trinket.”

“You keep it, darling,” she murmured, watched the endearment sink into his skin and begin to smooth out the ridges she’d made of their love. “I’ll come find you when it’s time.”

Only the door closing softly between them kept him from seeing her press her back to the wall on the other side, to gather herself and her breath from the heap they wanted to fall to on the floor.

[zeestarfishalien]

go to work

[spotify link]

The beginning of it was subtle. Danny just started talking less. Tucker and Sam attributed it to lack of sleep, which was true to a certain extent. He seemed to attack things with a peculiar single mindedness. Slowly his time spent relaxing with Sam and Tucker, just messing around and being a kid, became less and less. They assumed he was catching up on sleep or stuck in yet another ghost fight. By the time they realized what was happening, it was too late to stop him.

Got a feelin’ creepin’ under my skin

It began with a bad week. Sleep was something Danny could only daydream about in the brief moments he had to think. It’s ghost after ghost after ghost and then it’s assignment after test after quiz and in that time Danny managed to slip into sleep long enough to reach REM stage twice. With his mind shutting down he kept only two things in mind. Schoolwork and Hero work. All else fell to the side as his mind latched onto those things with a singleminded focus. He doesn’t remember much from that week, only the knowledge that if he stopped he’d breakdown right then and there and be of no use to anyone.

My mind hits a new trauma every rest of my head

The dreams are the worst part of sleeping. Not dreams…nightmares. Most days Danny is more tired after sleeping than before. He just smiles and gets back to work. Words fall from his mouth with most of them forgotten before they finish leaving his lips.

Kind lips get twisted dipped in poison

He knows he’s flinching anytime his parents come near but Danny can’t quite bring himself out of the fog in his mind long enough to control his instincts. Is it words of love or hate coming from them? He can’t stay focused on the conversation long enough to know. Is he “beloved Danno” or “ghostly menace?” Does it matter? They’re both him. He deserves it right? If he can’t protect everyone he’s useless. He can’t let himself become an annoyance so he has to go to work work.

Don’t care if I’m really ready

Go to work work

And my everything is unsteady

The fear of becoming Dan presses at the edges of his consciousness and so Danny throws himself harder into work. He can’t be idle. If he stops, then he has time to think and if he has time to think then the panic will set in.

My sanity slips and all the straws runnin’ thin

At some point school falls off his priority list. He retreats. He’s either in Amity fighting ghosts or in the Zone fighting ghosts. He barely remembers his name sometimes, but names don’t matter when you’re working. He doesn’t deserve a name if he can’t protect the town. He can’t fail, he can’t fail, he can’t fail…

Go to work work

If they hadn’t been assured that this was the same ghost, the heroes present would swear that this was something entirely different.

The spirit before them barely resembles the young boy he once was in life and early death. Teeth sharp for ripping and tearing flesh from anything too close to that wide jaw. Skin an eerie opalescent blue that seems almost translucent in the sun. The symbol on his chest is nearly obscured by the long white hair that hangs in lank strands over his face and chest. His limbs are either more of a suggestion or things too long and with one too many joints. Or even worse a joint that moves the wrong way.

The thing before them can barely be called human adjacent, but the kids who dragged them in insist that he’s still alive and human even if only half.

They watch as those needle sharp teeth rip another ghost’s arm off and they find themselves struggling to reconcile the image.

[Edit:] Feel free to add onto this or change it and take it in a whole different direction

[askdaisydandfriemly]

I love that eyebrow wiggle!!!! XD

Thanks for drawing! I may draw a response later. ;)

Ludustella: Quick, perform CPR on Midnight!

....Well. That worked.

[dyxtd21]

Pink Opal aesthetic moodboard!!

1010000 1101001 1101110 1101011 100000 1001111 1110000 1100001 1101100:

Appearance: Pink Opal is a vibrant and captivating figure, combining the edgy look of a modern hacker with the whimsical, lovesick demeanor that makes her truly unique.

Body Coloration: Her entire body has a vibrant hot pink hue, making her stand out in any crowd. Her skin has a slight opalescent sheen, reflecting light with a subtle shimmer.

Hair: Her hair is a wild cascade of hot pink curls, framing her face in a chaotic yet charming manner. The tips of her hair fade into a lighter pink, adding depth to her look.

Gemstone: Her princess-cut gemstone is prominently located on her right palm, glowing softly with a gentle pink light.

Attire: Pink Opal's attire is a perfect blend of hacker chic and romantic whimsy, reflecting her dual nature as both a tech-savvy genius and a lovesick dreamer.

Hoodie: She wears an oversized hot pink hoodie with intricate patterns that resemble circuit boards. The hoodie has a large hood that she often pulls over her head while working on her computer.

T-shirt: Underneath, she sports a fitted graphic tee with a heart and arrow design, symbolizing her lovesick nature.

Pants: Her skinny jeans are a darker shade of pink, ripped at the knees, and adorned with patches and pins of hearts and roses.

Footwear: She wears hot pink combat boots with light pink laces.

Accessories: Her fingers are adorned with various rings.

Personality: Pink Opal's personality is a complex mix of intelligence, vulnerability, and romanticism, making her a fascinating and multi-dimensional character.

Tech Genius: She is an exceptional hacker, able to breach the most secure systems with ease. Her skills are unparalleled, and she often uses them to fight against injustices or to uncover hidden secrets.

Lovesick Romantic: Despite her tough exterior, Pink Opal is a hopeless romantic. She falls in love easily and deeply, often getting lost in daydreams about her crushes. Her lovesick nature sometimes distracts her from her work, but it also fuels her creativity.

Loyal: She is fiercely loyal to her friends and loved ones, always willing to use her hacking skills to help them out of tough situations.

Emotional: Her emotions run deep, and she can be easily hurt. When she's feeling down, she immerses herself in her work to cope with her feelings.

Quirks:

Love Letters: She often writes anonymous love letters to her crushes, leaving them in places where they might find them. Her letters are filled with heartfelt and poetic language.

Hacking for Love: She uses her hacking skills to find out everything about her crushes, from their favorite movies to their childhood dreams. While some might find this creepy, she sees it as a way to connect with them on a deeper level.

Playlist Creator: Pink Opal loves making playlists of romantic songs, which she listens to while hacking. The music helps her focus and express her emotions.

Personal Blog: She runs a secret blog where she writes about her feelings and experiences, using it as an outlet for her lovesick heart.

[glasswinggames]

OHO???? Writing prompts? Then I send one in for my most beloved Jedrek, perhaps the mc is enraptured with how he appears in photos(they.....have some form of camera right? I assumed so with the magitech and what its capable of in this game), even outside of the little reporting work they do, so more often than not they end up staring at him like hes a piece of art- maybe this happens so often the mc spaces out- a vague prompt but I figure u can work more with this since im giving a specific interest for this prompt

Omg I love writing Jed!! 👀 And this prompt!!

Also they do have matech! The exact design of the camera is still being workshopped but I'm kinda imagining it having steampunk type vibes!

Writing below expand more line! Thank you for the prompt! 😘

For extra fun tidbits I was listening to In the Middle of the Night by Elley Duhé when writing this! (That's my go to song for Jed!)

CW: References to blood and m0rder

At first, you'd only kept the photograph to remember his face. So that even when your mind forcefully forgot his name, his gravelly voice, or the feeling of his hands brushing against your throat every time he wanted to remind you what he was capable of, you'd always remember what he looked like. It was never meant to be anything more than that, a preventative measure to protect yourself from the monster of a man who you'd come to… collaborate with. 

Yet, as you stare at the Polaroid like picture, tentatively perched between two fingers, you can't explain the feeling that curses you. For what should horrify you to your core, what in fact already horrifies the nation every time they see one of your articles, instead you find it hauntingly beautiful. The way he postures, ready to pounce on his victim, how the moonlight catches his hair to reflect an opalescent glow, how his pointed teeth bare in his cruel smile… it's artistic in a way.

Though, whether it's your own talent or the subject of your lens that you admire, is not something you find easy to answer. 

Your eyes flit between the photo and the almost perfect recreation of the scene that unfolds before you until the photo is no longer sufficient, your gaze completely entranced by the killer. You barely even notice the prey, their screams just a background noise at this point. You wonder, what scene must Jedrek be showing the helpless victim for his ruby eyes to gleam so brightly, to render him so full of delight that his pale cheeks flush in satisfaction, as his teeth bare, poised and ready to take his prize at the perfect moment.

You know you should take be taking pictures right now, but you can't bring yourself to trigger the camera; you're too lost in the terrifying beauty of it all. 

“Am I boring you, Kitten?” The gravelly breath against your ear breaks you from your daydream, and your senses are overwhelmed by the metallic smell as your space is completely invaded by the subject of your thoughts. Though his crimson stained lips curve into a smile, you can tell, for having been the one to capture his every expression, that he isn't happy.

“I was just distracted, trying to decide the right shot to take for tomorrow's edition.” You know he can hear that slight jump in the pace of your heartbeat when you lie, you know that he is almost breathing in the signs of your attempt at deceit, as is his nature, but you still try regardless. 

“I'm sure I gave you plenty, yet I didn't see you use that device of yours once.” Fingers against your jaw force you to look at him, and your breath can't help but hitch the same way it did when you first met. Every fibre of your being tells you to run, that he's dangerous, yet it's exactly that same part of you that thinks he's dazzling. A long, sharp finger trails down the artery in your throat. “Now, what exactly were you thinking? Oh, and I wouldn't lie to me again. Your heart always gives you away.”

“You're like a piece of art–” your words bubble out before you could even attempt to stop them, and you can't help but curse yourself for it. 

Unexpectedly, instead of teeth ripping through your throat like you'd braced for, it's laughter that tears through the air. 

“Jed?” Your voice ripe with disbelief, you daringly question the man who cackles with pure joy at your answer. 

Before you can react, his arms enclose you against the wall, the stone scratching at any exposed skin on your back, and he gives no opening for escape. His whole body casts yours in shadow, as if he suddenly grows several feet, and the only light that highlights you both is the ravenous glow of hellfire in his eyes. 

“You are such a strange one, I'm starting to think you're not half as afraid of me as you should be. Maybe I should rectify that.” 

“No!” Your voice comes out embarrassingly strangled. You've seen what he's capable of, and you had no desire to be on the receiving end, even if you did seem to have a tendency to enjoy watching the show. “I know exactly how scared I should be.”

“Ah that's the key word, should. You should be scared of me, but instead, I don't think you'd complain if I was to make you scream.” 

“No… that…” Your mind scrambles over the innuendo, trying to figure out whether he actually meant his implication or whether he was teasing you… again.

“Hm, turns out there's more ways other than fear I can use to make your heart race Kitten. How fun.” He seems delighted at the fact; he did always love something new and entertaining. “What else could I do to make it jump for me?” Fingers whisper against your shoulders, down your arms, interlocking with your own… and pinning your hands above your head. His grip is inhumanely strong, and no matter how much or little you struggle, it does nothing but appear to amuse him. “What if I was to do this?” His low voice somehow drops further as he leans in to brush just against the lobe of your ear. “You wouldn't know if I was going to make you relive every nightmare you've ever had,” whilst one hand remains to restrain your own, the other thumb runs against your lower lip. You can taste the iron stain left in his wake. “Or if I was going to kiss you.” He laughs, deep and low, “though who says I can't do both. Pleasure and pain both sound fun, don't they?” 

“Yet you do neither.” You gulp with whatever stupid bravado you decide to muster. Why are you so reckless? Did your sense of self-preservation just decide to go off on a holiday? Or are you just an idiot–

“I don't think you could handle it, and I'd hate for you to break too quickly.” His hand finds purchase over your throat, applying a warning amount of pressure.

“I'm not scared of you, Jedrek.” 

“You should be.” 

[suppuration]

so... on vesility and fumbling to articulate the interstices of my kintype, gender, sex, disability, and abandon knows what else

tl;dr housekin jokes were not jokes

i do have to wonder how commonplace it is to have "inanimate object" as part of one's kin definition

over the years, i've resonated with statuesᵗᵃˡᵏᶦⁿᵍ ʰᵉᵃᵈˢ, structuresᵐᵉᵗʳᵒ ⁿᵒᶦˢᵉˢ, and houseplantsᵈᶦᵈⁿ'ᵗ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ᵗᵒ ʰᵘʳᵗ ᵗʰᵉᵐ. i often feel more like a placeⁿᵒ ᵉˢᵗᵉᵉᵐᵉᵈ ᵈᵉᵉᵈ ᶦˢ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵉᵐᵒʳᵃᵗᵉᵈ ʰᵉʳᵉ than a person

i keep returning to thoughts most would consider object fetishism, i suppose is the best term for it. not quite object TF where the subject becomes an object, but rather a mundane fetishism of identifying as an object. (mundane, in the sense that it's everyday, that it's nonsexual, that it's not uniquely isolated to fantasies/daydreaming, etc.) i do have some degree of interest in the concept sexually, of things like object TF and furniture bondage, but they feel like distinctly different notions than what i'm trying to articulate through my kin/gen(der)/venn vesility

§ my current kintype is something of an eldritch, opalescent glass statue. capable of fluidity, but favoring inertia... and, where applicable, momentum. волосы еленыᶜᵒʳᶦᵘᵐ comes to mind. a psychologist recently described me as having a "stubborn gear shift [i.e. manual stick transmission]"... and, yeah. yeah. strong overlap between my disability, neurodivergence, and alterhumanity there.

§ i've experienced a wide array of phantom limb sensations since my teens, both the presence of extra-body limbs and the absence of those which are technically still attached to me. i can't quite define every single limb i think this body doesn't account for, but inversely, i resonate with the idea that i sometimes lose awareness/recognition of part or all of some limbs because i am at that moment mounted to (or even clipped into) a surface, and that surface cropped me. i felt the latter thing for a long time prior to ever seeing the illustration for it, but i feel like this magic card's art explains things quite well.ˣ in the painting, the merging was done for vengeance, but i typically view this aspect of myself as neutral

i just... frequently feel like i lack parts of myself altogether, and it's not like they've gone missing. it's simply that they were never there to begin with, or weren't supposed to be there at all?

§ this isn't to owe myself to any deprecation or pejorative, in referring to myself by it/its. i'm an object like your favorite shirt. a concept like a sunset witnessed from a parking lot. a place like comfort.

(i aspire to be, anyway.)

§ i consider some of my features similar to those typical of depictions of biblically accurate angels. however, i neither define my aspect as divine in any earthly sense, nor necessarily associated with any particular holiness. i've had people describe me in hagiographical conceit in the past, but i'm more of a relic or reliquaryᵇᵒʳⁿ ᵃᵍᵃᶦⁿ ʰᵉʳᵉ

§ i resonate strongly with many aspects of the conceit of baphomet. multiple kintypes and fursonas over the years have had caprinid features, and the goat is probably the animal i identify with most closely... (that, and rabbits. and jackalopes.) i only just tonight encountered the terms salmacian/aphrodisian, and it describes my sentiments quite succinctly, in that my transition goals are a blending of sex characteristics

my ideal bottom surgery doesn't look anything like a phallus, and most closely approximates nullo or negation. now that my facial hair has started to come in and my voice has deepened, my biggest source of anatomical dysphoria comes from having what i consider a small chest. i've extensively researched all my possible options for augmenting my breast size. i'm at a loss how to discuss this dysphoria with medical providers, in a way they'll understand that it's gender affirmative care.

unpleasant, then, for my most common repose to be comprised of little more than a bust

...bust. my gender is bust, isn't it

i lost my plot. i'm just... gonna hit send post and hope i'm entertaining

___________

occlupanids as included here:

talking heads: yeah i know just about every turn of this ergodic mess is steeped in fallout occultism. you're welcome to leave if you can

metro noises: i tonight encountered the term aldernic, which defines having or aspiring to have a form which deviates from societal norms. the coincidence sticks out to me strongly that 1. i resonate with fallout's metro sculptures, 2. this term aldernic as a means to describe my gender, 3. the fact i call the metromen in my fallout mall the aldermen.

didn't want to hurt them: vesica urentis

no esteemed deed is commemorated here: the atomic priesthood

corium: elephant-chan's upper biological shield

born again here: no longer just a false memory now

x art by tyler jacobson

[trickster-spirit]

opalescent quintessence

foaming to roam near

shores, clear waves swell

looming to break.

a sigh bright to skies.

light rising sun, wide

and vast as heart's speech.

beaching pleasantly.

a day in the spray

to stray playfully.

daydream me

somewhere rather nearer

to here than far, my dear.

by mauro_roberto__

[ginjones]

Dreamling for the Holidays! Happy whatever you celebrate Everyone!

Christmas shopping, for Hob at least, is now a relaxed affair. It starts on the first Saturday of September, when damp leaves flutter in their burnished hues, and finishes in the zephyrs grey gales of November. This year, gift buying is punctuated with a stroll through Hyde Park, then coffee with Sarah and Marlow the dog; a brief scoot to the New Inn to fix rotas, then back to the flat for dinner and scotch and Byron’s Hebrew Melodies- ‘She walks in beauty, like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies’.

Christmas shopping is categorically not the cataclysmic disaster it was two years ago when, only a month into his fledgling power as Hope of the endless, he had naively sauntered down Oxford Street in December and was immediately bombarded with the hopes and wishes of several thousand people. From a cursory glance at their aura-space, it became clear that the majority were hellbent on receiving the most expensive version of whatever had piqued their Pavlovian response. It was all a bit sad really. A hopeful celebration reduced to consumer fodder.

 In the thrum of the crowded street, Hob had found himself omitting a quiet, internal light which searched vacantly for direction. It found none. Pulled between his function to obey the will of the people and disinclined to offer his gift to the undeserving, he had panicked, abandoned his shopping, and ran to the marginal safety of the nearest pub.

It was an experience not worth repeating.

He had seen Dream in these recent months. Usually on gilded evenings where they would walk the hillocks of Hamstead Heath, their pathway illuminated in the jewelling light of early autumn. They would talk about Hope and how Hob was feeling and Dream, in his somnolent tones would tell him stories about the heavy burden of purpose; the arduous confines of duty. Then, when Hob would place an arm around his shoulder and sigh warmly, when he would send a little of his hope out into the world around them, Dream would smile at the change in the air and talk about presence and creation and magic. And everything, once more, would seem like a gift.

It was on one of these walks that he got the idea, and the signature white box was the easiest to find.

He had found it on Ebay of all places. It wasn’t as expensive as he had imagined but expense, of course, had not been the point. The gift itself, had been harder to track down. He had found it at last in a rundown antique shop near Columbia Road. A tiny little thing, mottled with the faint impressions of distant fingerprints, its paintwork faded, its silver motif browning with age. He held it up to the light and every one of its stories solidified and sang out. It was perfect. In pencil drawn font, the price read £12.

The shop owner, Sebastian Rossi, had not been home to visit his sister in 8 years. She grew tomatoes in her garden and played backgammon on Sundays and called Sebastian ‘piccolo leone’ even after all these years. Hob smiled at Sebastian and gave him £50.

He had hidden the gift in his flat for weeks on the off-chance Dream might make a surprise visit. He did in fact, several times, and Hob had been mindful to divert his attentions away from the little white box and the gift it contained. Hob had found, much to his chagrin, that his daydreams were still very much on display despite his ascension to endless. It was however, much easier now to simply hope them away, when Hob could physically see the threads of thought forming. Pass a hand over the opalescent swirl and sweep it gently from the air, fold it up and tuck the remnants away in his pocket.

Gift giving was not a tradition when he was growing up. Gifts, or any items not made for the sheer purpose of living and surviving, were few and far between. Instead, gifts came in the form of the first blush of springtime, when winter frost melted, and wild garlic bloomed. Or in the first mouthfuls of summer fruits and plentiful game, that made children plumper and bellies full.

Between 1851 and 1858 Hob, fresh off a successful investment in Singer sewing machines, had rented a house in Regent’s Park and employed the services of two maids. He had enjoyed treating them to the fancier linens when Boxing Day came around and would dutifully send out for orders of pink lace and taffeta.

And now here it was finally. Christmas Eve 2022 and Dream was sitting in the warm light of his living room, the only entity in existence who could make a battered couch look like a regal throne. They had spent the last few hours curled up together, reading silently. Dream, a copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations. Hob, The Black Tudors by Miranda Kaufmann.  It was a pastime they had both come to enjoy, especially as Hob’s power blossomed and their thoughts could interlink in a stream of words, allusion and metaphor. It was like reading two books at once although at first, the whole concept had been baffling. As the last page was turned, Hob placed the book down and went to fetch the gift from the cupboard in the kitchen. Returning back, he placed the little white box in Dream’s hands and curled up next to him.

“That’s for you.” Hob said, draping an arm over Dream’s shoulders and pulling him in closer.  “It’s just a little thing. I know you don’t celebrate Christmas or Yule or whatever, but I just thought you deserved something. So…”

“A gift for me?” Dream answered, in a soft tone that sounded like the ebb of the sea on a clear, crisp day. His finger traced over the golden embossment on the top of the box. “Pandora” he continued; confusion etched on his features for the briefest of seconds before Dream’s face lit up from within at the story beginning to form. He looked back to Hob and then, in a display of feigned dramatics, opened the box tentatively and peered inside. With careful movements, as if what lay inside was as precious as hope itself, Dream picked up the little dove ornament with its decorative band of silver stars and laid it gently in the palm of his hand.

“Got it in an antique shop.” Hob said “Like I said, it’s just a silly little thing but it’s supposed to represent…”

“You,” replied Dream in wonderment.  “The only thing that remained in Pandora’s box…”

“Was Hope.” Hob finished, smiling.  “The silver stars are you though. I wouldn’t be the man I am today, the…being I’m becoming without your guidance.”

They were quiet for several moments. Dream had closed the box carefully, almost reverently, and held it along with the ornament tight to his chest. The world outside would tell its own stories in the pale moonlight of Winter. December skies are often clear and somewhere, in the unfathomable stretch of night, mortal men would glimpse the celestial journey of a shooting star.

“It is perfect.” Said Dream.

I am too busy now to write much so I just wanted to go out with a bang and dedicate this to @moorishflower and @landwriter who are leagues above me in ability and storytelling. Thank you for all the amazing content that has inspired me to work harder and write better! x

[teratocrat]

beautiful chivalrous wolfboy swordsman is journeying to a secluded sunken valley in the Divine Wind Malachite Forest to train with his dear friend and mentor the enormous mushroomboy Opalescent Tower, a creature of great wisdom and compassion who for centuries lamented his sessile nature for impeding his ability to lend aid to anyone outside the forest where mortals fear to tread. now Opalescent Tower has thrown himself behind helping beautiful chivalrous wolfboy swordsman, teaching him all kinds of fungal techniques recorded in the mycelial archives of his people so that he may thwart evil wherever he finds it. but... does he perhaps wish they were more than friends? does he daydream of seeing wolfboy swordsman (beautiful, chivalrous) with spores delicately drifting onto his fur? could wolfboy swordsman ever hold any romantic affection at all in his heart for a 500-foot-tall mushroomboy anyway? he dares not ask even himself these questions privately

[medusatyts]

Dreaming of bubble rainbows #happiness #rhinestones #vintage #junk #treasure #romance #daydreams #opalescence #pastels #lovely #snow

[voidic3ntity]

through & through, the theological body dissolves, absolved in the acidic solution, however harsh; the hashish of arabic lineage, as motion drifts, reflective diffusion, echoing within each & all; sacred within the soma, so too, do all thou, the universal law: as above & so below, within & without, a symbol symmetry, fateful daydreams of liquid linguistics; opalescent division, far beyond, relaxation into that which is forever present, the motionless candid cadence of the voidic venture.

[lilaceas]

whispering wish by anna sui

italian lemon brings innocence & money & happiness. a bath of parfum watering fold warm & her complexity, explaining touches from silky clean & white powder... my porcelain neck straight while i drink tea as a rich girl at ladurée. bubblegum & bubbles & petals bloody wet... sunflower & rosemary, candy glittery & tender between breasts of mine. fresh apple néctar, bear appreciated such a gracious aroma too floral & fruity southern to nowhere after bleaching & creating an entire imaginary world i see myself a darling baby & soft boulevard princess wearing bustiers laced. tips of cuteness a princess daydream as megan & kate would melts. velvety strong notes fills every delicate little piece a pie everywhere i go & raspberries. always a favourite. angelic & subliminal with undertones that feels like a garden by midnight, jasmins in my sundae, a meadow high enough to mandarins expressing romantic desires & pancakes & honey by morning incandescent & opalescent.

[saphirered]

I just found your account recently! I love your style of writing, and you portray the characters so well! Can I please make a request (if it suits you!!) for Dorian, Opal and Dariax with a reader when they take a watch together by the fire and the reader tells them they look pretty in the light? Just some soft feelings, words, maybe a kiss...?

Welcome and thank you! Hope you like this one just as much as the others! 😘

(Dorian)

The sounds of the night are accompanied by the soft strumming of strings and a hummed lullaby just quiet enough as to not wake the fast asleep companions, save for you and the bard himself. Someone had to take first shift and neither of you were opposed so you were put in charge of keeping the fire going and assuring nothing would succeed at brutally murdering you all. The latter seems to have become a serious concern you could do without. But at least it gives you evenings like these. Who wouldn’t appreciate a private concerto from your favourite genasi bard?

There you are, seated comfortably on a log staring over the flames, captivated by the melody, the nimble and practiced fingers plucking at the strings with an airy grace, staring into the night. The firelight hits Dorian just right. He reminds you of the sunset, right before the last light leaves the sky, that mix between the blue fading dark, with hints of reflected orange and gold; an image of true beauty. Were it not for that beautiful song keeping you grounded, you might as well have drifted into the ethereal and forgotten your task entirely. You find yourself humming along.

You’re pulled out of your trance by Dorian himself whispering your name. By the looks of it you had missed the first few times he called for you, the song coming to a close shaking you back to reality. Dorian had been a little louder than he intended to and you watch some of the others’ steer. Both of you share a look and hold your breath until you’re sure they’re still fast asleep. He beckons you over, something to say and not willing to take the risk of speaking just a little too loud again so you step over the sleeping bodies and find your way to Dorian’s side of the fire, sitting down next to him on the makeshift bench of a fallen tree.

“Hey, everything alright? Not to offend but you looked a bit out of it. Copper for your thoughts?” Dorian whispers as he absentmindedly plucks at the strings.

“Just deliberating wether you’re some sort of siren in disguise enchanting those who’s eyes fall upon your dashing looks and hear your angelic melodies or not.” Dorian’s very glad it’s dark but the fire still allows you visual of the lovely shade of purple he’s turning at the cheeks. He stops playing and puts the instrument to the side, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you into his side. His plan to prevent you from seeing him so flustered fails as you only get a clearer view looking up at him with a smug grin.

“Is that your way of saying I’m pretty?” The first words may have been a bit more high pitched than he wanted to. You chuckle and feel Dorian’s knuckles jab playfully into your side. It doesn’t deter you from that smug sense of accomplishment remaining.

“Do I have to spell it out for you or would you prefer it in song?” You lean in, grabbing his chin and angling his face down closer to yours.

“I certainly wouldn’t be opposed-“ That’s all you need to hear before you close the distance, placing your lips on his. Dorian’s very happy you can’t see the blush grow or he might never hear the end of it. Your ability to get him all hot and bothered is something he both enjoys and fears but then there’s moments like these where he’s reminded exactly why he likes your occasional smugness.

(Dariax)

Dariax sits by the fire to preserve as much warmth as he can. The night is colder than expected and he had given you his blanket to stay warm yourself. He doesn’t regret the decision because you’re warm and comfy and that’s all worth suffering the cold but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish for some more warmth. Clutching his spear tightly to keep the blood flowing he stands sentry like a valiant guardian. Little does he know you’re still awake, or rather, awake again.

You hear the deep breaths being taken, sounds of movement; pacing. You open your eyes and there you are met with a sight you could wake up to more often. The gentle light of the flames highlight and shadow as they move in the breeze giving Dariax the appearance of a protector watching over you with an air of radiant divinity. There’s even a sense of grace. But you also see him shivering lightly.

Dariax watches you sit up and stretch your arms, blanket still in your grasp. You make eye contact and he offers you a smile. You pat the spot next to you on your bedroll and not one to question, Dariax does as suggested, sitting down next to you. You engulf him in the warm layers and feel Dariax relax just a little at the change of temperature. You lean your head on his shoulder and cuddle up against him as much as you can. He puts the spear aside and wraps one arm around you, the other holding the blankets close against himself. While he continues to keep watch you begin to drift off, not fully asleep, but more daydreaming of the divine sorcerer sitting next to you.

“You know you look real pretty, especially in the light of the fire, right?” You mumble and Dariax has to do a double take if he heard that right. Not that he’s not used to people calling him handsome or any variant of the term but more so you speak so openly and unrestrained.

“You sure you’re not still dreaming?” Dariax pushes back a laugh as he leans his head against yours. You’re cute when you’re sleepy and compliments like this from you are definitely something he could get used.

“If I am, it’s a damn good dream but I don’t think I am. You tell me oh-radiant one.” You smile leaning your chin on his shoulder and kissing his cheek feigning innocence and obliviousness. It’s definitely moments like these that have Dariax completely smitten by you and he’s not ashamed to admit it.

“One way to find out?” Dariax pinches you and you gasp. The audacity. You’re clearly awake now. Game over? Not yet. Dariax looks very proud of himself as you swat his arm but put your ‘dreamy’ face back on.

“Hmm. I don’t think I’ve been convinced.” Dariax does not like the mischievous grin peaking through. It’s a look he’s seen many a time and it’s always an omen for something you’re plotting. He fears for what he might have set in motion if you’re seeking revenge.

“Need me to pinch you again?” Dariax asks somewhat hesitant. Sometimes he’s really oblivious and it’s sweet but you might just have to take the lead here or you won’t get anywhere just yet. While Dariax is a very good flirt, being on the receiving end it may just take him a second longer to process. Don’t worry. You’ll help him out.

“I’ve got something else in mind.” You softly place your lips on his. That’s all the explanation Dariax needs. arm around you finds your back and pulls you just a little closer to deepen the kiss.

(Opal)

Opal is tossing and turning. What does she have to do for a nice and comfortable bed? The life of an adventurer is fun and all but she would really appreciate a soft mattress that doesn’t smell of grass, dirt or whatever other surface she has use as a base. Homegirl’s used to the fineries of societies so the life on the road is not and will never be her comfort zone no matter how many times she’s in the situation. She’s used to it though and she likes this life so she’ll accept and embrace every part of it.

Your attention shifts to the human at the sound of moving covers and groans of discomfort trying to find a more suitable position to fall asleep in as you keep watch. With a huff Opal sits up scrunching and readjusting, more like beating her makeshift backpack pillow in annoyance. She tries it one more time, putting her head down but still she doesn’t deem it right. Another huff and she sits up meeting your eyes. You offer her a nod and she grumbles, gets up and places herself next to you.

Grabbing a stick on her way Opal prods at the fire, the flames responding in a small burst of embers but you’re in safe range. Opal relaxes a little having found company in you and something to focus on rather than wallow in annoyance. She doesn’t say anything but the half smile she offers you is enough to make you feel appreciated for just being there.

Opal returns her focus to the flames staring into them getting caught up in her own wandering mind you watch. You can’t help but notice how the flames enhance the opalescent… everything to her, through a beautiful glow. She looks like a living breathing jewel. Just simply breathtaking. Don’t get this wrong, Opal is pretty no matter what. This is simply another angle you had never seen before, the way the light of the fire hits her features just right and how the flames reflect in her eyes, the sparks of ember changing that flow every so often, she’s a true visage.

“Hey, Opal?” She looks at you. “I just wanted to say you look lovely.” Opal lights up at the compliment with a warmth akin to that of the fire in front of you both. She knows damn well she’s gorgeous and looks aren’t everything but that doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy the compliments you offer her. If anything, she really enjoys it coming from you and makes her feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“Why thank you. I have to say you look amazing yourself. What can I say, this light does great things for us gorgeous people.” There’s a hint of jest in her voice as she brushes a hand through her hair, pursing her lips with a wink. You hold back a laugh at the joking self-obsessed tone she uses.

“Even the light of a fire dulls in comparison by the shine of the Gem of Byroden.” You hold the back of your hand to your head as if you’re about to swoon. The gesture sends Opal into a muffled giggle fit as you quickly cover her mouth.

“Shhh. Let’s not wake the others.” You whisper. Opal pulls your hands away, checking over the others as she kisses your palms and making sure the others are still asleep. Luckily they are. Unsatisfied with just your hands to kiss she pulls you closer and kisses your lips instead silencing your surprised squeal.

[soukokuwu]

↳ genre: angst

↳ characters: dad!chuuya, wife!reader, you guys have a child

↳ synopsis: a small look at how he handles himself in the aftermath of the catastrophe.

↳ warnings: implied death

↳ word count: 1,689

↳ requested by anonymous || Do whatever you want have s/o killed by one of Chuuya's enemies or die in childbirth idc which one you choose or how you do it JuSt maKe iT hURt

Chuuya sits in the living room, in the dim opalescence of the moon, picture perfect memories scattered on the coffee table before him. He takes a sip of shiraz as he carefully appraises the photo in his hand, thumb delicately grazing over the smile set on your face.

You were so beautiful.

No, not like those typically featured starving adolescents on countless magazines, covered in so many products they barely appear human. Not in that way. You were much more.

Your kind of beautiful was a smile so freely given, a sign of how tender your soul was. It was that spark in your eye — the one that showed him you were always up for an adventure. They held such an intelligence and serenity that he couldn’t help but be prisoner to them. Your kind of beautiful was a mind singularly practical and sagacious.

Your kind of beautiful... was who you were.

And the most precious beauty you graced him with in this life, he thinks, would be the faint memory of your voice muttering out an “I love you”, a phrase that rolled off your tongue so smoothly like birdsong, forever echoing in his heart.

He spends every night like this, as he has for the past twelve years. A nightly routine, brought about by a nameless sadness which is always born of moonlight. And each time, the colours of the day will fade into the black, and it gets dark with unutterable sorrows.

Your death haunts the recesses of his memory. What was supposed to be the happiest day of your lives turned into his worst nightmare. Chuuya can’t remember how many times the scene plays back in his head; the doctor apologising and the sounds all turning into muffled feedback right after, the blood staining your hospital gown, the sounds of his screams muffled by the blanket covering your hollow shell and the gentle touch of Kouyou trying to pry him away from you. It didn’t matter how much he held on to you anyway, Chuuya had already lost you to death’s grip.

The incomparable happiness he felt just a few hours before had given way to immeasurable grief. And he was conflicted, so conflicted, because in another room, she was crying too. So he did what a father was supposed to do — he straightened up, cradled his little baby in his arms and hushed, telling her everything was going to be alright.

One of the first few sentences he had ever said to his newborn baby, and it had to be a lie. Because how was he supposed to know if everything was really going to be okay? For the first time since he’s met you, Chuuya had felt utterly lost, despondent. Every day since that moment, he has felt his mind being beaten into the ground because of the catastrophe.

Not to say there aren’t happy moments — how could there not be? He lost you, but he also gained an amazing daughter who, he realised after some time, was quite like you.

The first few years had been extremely hard on him. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know if he was doing it correctly, he didn’t know what else he should do. He had thought the two of you would figure it out together, learn how to be parents together. Turned out to be just another unattainable dream. But Chuuya considers himself lucky. Even until now, the mafia takes care of her as they do him, because she is, by extension, a part of him. She keeps him sane, grounded, particularly during her waking hours. She is not only his miracle but also someone who never fails to distract and beguile his soul. When he spends time with her he can’t help but be completely absorbed in it, in her.

There’s so much that reminds him of you. Why wouldn’t there be? She is your daughter too. Although, she has his eyes (he silently wishes she got yours, so that maybe, somehow, he might see a glimpse of you from time to time). But there are other, more significant, things that reminds him of you. Her smile; the way it slowly and sometimes unwillingly (when she’s feigning being mad at him) shapes into a grin, before the silence gives way to a laugh of jovial significance. It’s not just in its melody — it’s in the way her face changes into a vision of unrestrained mirth. Just like you. Even her, as a person, reminds him of you; the way she manages to touch someone’s life just with mere words (he’s very surprised at this, considering how she’s still just a kid), and the way she protects those she loves with utmost enthusiasm. Even the way she manages to make Chuuya, the hot-headed brute with short temperament, have a patience worthy of admiration, is remarkable in itself.

It’s only in the night that he allows himself to feel about you; to let it out. It’s only when his daughter is asleep that he allows himself to crumble under the pressure of trying to hold it together for them both. Never once does he allow himself to falter in the face of his daughter. Chuuya feels the undeniable need to be her pillar of support, an iron wall that would never break. He can’t let her see him like this, ever, lest she worries. And she would, because she is exactly like you. If he can’t protect you, the least he can do is to safeguard what you left behind — the family.

“I miss you,” he utters into the night, well aware that no one is there to hear him, to respond to him. His eyes are glued to your face.

“I miss you so much.”

But someone does hear it. She has heard it ever since that night two years ago when she woke up due to a little nightmare about fictional monsters. But she met an even greater one that night. The one that haunts her father until the dawn breaks each day. She hears him sobbing every night through the little crack in her door, the door that faces the living room, allowing her a small peek at her father’s shoulders trembling, his crimson locks — now mixed in with several white hairs — a disheveled mess against his body. She knows he goes through this every night — mind in a daze and wandering in a mist of memories.

It’s when she realises that her father is just like her — not a villain, not a hero, just human.

Have you ever felt responsible for something that wasn’t your fault? For something that you had absolutely no control over?

Because that’s how she feels. She feels responsible for her mother’s death. She feels that it’s her fault her father is miserable. She feels if she wasn’t born that none of this would have happened. And she only blames herself… because she knows it’s true. Without pregnancy, you wouldn’t have died. Without a baby, you’d still be here.

And every moment there’s a chorus of conflicting thoughts playing in her mind: “I’m the reason mommy’s gone”, “I wish I could meet you, mommy, daddy loves you a lot”, “I should’ve been the one, not you”. There are more, but she’s lost track of them as the years passed.

Her misty eyes train on the back of her father’s head. Should she finally talk to him about it?

“Daddy?”

Cerulean eyes shoot to the clock on the wall. 1.12am. He wonders why she’s even awake but he pulls it together. This is no time to be panicking. He clears his throat, subtly wiping the tears away from his cheek.

Keep up the act.

“Yes, my little princess?”

She skips toward him in spite of the somber mood. Anything that can make her father smile, no matter how small, she will do it. But the real tension comes when she opens her mouth seeking the truth.

“Is it my fault mommy is… dead?”

Many a times Chuuya had wondered what was the right thing, the best thing, to say in a situation like this. But somehow, in this moment, now that she’s actually asked him the very thing he wished he would never have to address, he knows exactly what to say to put her at ease.

“Honey,” he calls as he carries her up to sit on his lap. “It could never be.”

He lifts an index finger to boop her on the nose, just to watch as she adorably scrunches up her face in response.

There it is — the same reaction as you.

“Wherever mommy is, she’s glad you were born. And you weren’t there but, the moment she laid eyes on you that day you were born? I promise you, I’ve never seen her happier than she was.” He plants a kiss on her temple. “She loves you, little lady, and so do I. So don’t worry your pretty mind with this, okay?”

The relief they both feel — it’s unbelievable. A huge burden off their shoulders. And he carries her into bed, tucking her in as he usually does, but this time he stays beside her, lulling her to sleep, just as he did you — tenderly, softly, like she’s the most precious thing in the world. And your daughter? She feels safe, warm, tranquil.

...

Or so she would have.

But she’s still a child.

The doubt of the practicality of the ideal situation etches itself in her mind, securing a permanent spot in the back of her head. Fear takes over, and she snaps out of her daydreams, closing the room door instead of going to talk to her father — coming back to the nightmare where her father cries himself to sleep at night, all alone on the couch, then to sleep in a cold bed; coming back to the nightmare where her father lives with the monster.

The monster called pain.

And unfortunately, that’s a monster they both share. And will share, for as long as they live.

@yokelish @gogolparadise @fyowyn-writes

[wafflesrock16]

Shakarian Western AU (part 2)

I’ve had a couple requests for a continuation on my previous western drabble, so ta-da! As a fair warning, it gets a bit steamy toward the middle. >=}

It was the dead of night. Brilliant swaths of stars burned overhead and deep blue shadows from the canyon walls stretched and warped in the firelight. Coyotes cried in the distance, the mournful sound echoing through the rocky fortress where Shepard and Garrus had been forced to retreat. 

Normandy snorted and shook his head in response to the coyotes. Widow, Garrus’ lacerta, lay nearby chewing on the bleached femur of a dead deer they’d come across earlier that day. If the howling bothered the giant lizard, Widow hid it well. 

Shepard rested her chin on her knees, eyes focused on the fire; the soft snap of the twigs and glow of embers. There was no shortage of kindling down here, where the Attican River still flowed full and tumultuous through the labyrinth it’d carved over the millennia. 

There were rabbits and deer and dorcas and other game hiding in the canyon brush and meager trees. They’d seen plenty of tracks in the wet mud of the riverbank and Widow always managed to find new and fascinating scat to sniff, much to Garrus’ annoyance. 

We can hole up here for weeks--months if we have to, Shepard mused, eyes still trained on the fire. Omega’s gangs couldn’t hunt them forever. Besides, they’d taken heavy casualties in the shoot out at Kima Corral. Shepard was sure Garm was dead--even a krogan couldn’t survive decapitation. The Blood Pack might have lost interest after their leaders’ death, but that still left the Eclipse and Blue Suns. 

“Hey.” Garrus’ tall figure appeared from the gloom beyond the firelight. “My turn to take watch,” he said, coming to sit next to her. 

Shepard hummed in reply but didn’t move. 

Garrus took a stick and stoked the fire, causing a miniature tornado of embers to whirl in the cool night air before blinking out. From somewhere nearby an owl screeched. Garrus leaned back on his elbows with a sigh, staring off into the darkness. Turians had far superior night vision to humans. Several times during their partnership Shepard had seen his eyes reflect in fire or lamplight, shining an eerie opalescent white. She didn’t find it unnerving like some humans she knew. It was actually something of a comfort to know Garrus was watching out for her. Them. Well, she was included in them she supposed… Shepard shook her head to dislodge the confusing--and increasingly frequent thoughts--about Garrus and his feelings for her. 

She moved to mirror Garrus’ relaxed position, leaning back and tilting her head up to watch the swirling nebula that burned like Saint Elmo’s fire in the heavens. The stars had always been her companions. A Citadel Deputy traveled alone unless the situation called for a partnership. Shepard was used to the solitude, the constellations and Normandy her only counterparts. 

Garrus made a gentle purring noise and Shepard turned to see him regarding her with an expression she couldn’t easily read. His eyes glittered like sunlit oceans and his mandibles were pulled down in a turian smile. He seemed relaxed but she’d known him long enough to read the tension in the taut lines of his body and subtle flexing of his feet. 

“Something on your mind?” she asked.

“Hmm?” Garrus seemed to snap out of a daydream. “Oh, no, I umm.” He cleared his throat, mandibles pinching tightly against his face. “Just…” He glanced up at her before coming to some internal decision. “You look beautiful in the starlight,” he said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper. 

Shepard’s eyes went wide as she felt her cheeks flush. She absently tucked a strand of her loose hair behind an ear. “Thank you,” she muttered. Should she say something else? Tell him she thought he was ruggedly handsome? That his voice did things to her that’d make a madame blush?

“Well, you should probably try to catch some rest,” Garrus said into the silence that stretched between them like a yawning chasm. He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck and refusing to make eye contact. “We’ve got a long day of riding ahead of us tomorrow if we wanna make that eastern ridge we talked about. It’s a good vantage point for a sniper, and will allow us a full view for miles.” He coughed awkwardly into a closed hand. “You can use my blanket if you want, it’s kinda cold away from--”

She flung herself at him, seizing his plated face in her hands and pressing a searing kiss to his mouth. Garrus went ridged in shock before wrapping her in his arms and kissing her back as best he could. A low, sultry vocal rippled through him, sending heat to pool in Shepard’s abdomen. 

They toppled backwards, Garrus leaning over her and running his slender blue tongue along her pulse. Shepard gasped, hands flying to his shoulder and behind his head to keep him close. Her fingers inadvertently pressed against a soft patch of hide beneath Garrus’ fringe. The dark, drug out moan that elicited was lust incarnate and had Shepard clenching her thighs together. 

“Spirits, Shepard, I…” Garrus laughed breathlessly as he stared down at her, mandibles flared. “That, this is,” he lowered his head to press his brow to hers with a resonant purr. “Never knew you had a thing for turian bad boys,” he said, quoting her comment from weeks earlier. 

“And I never knew you had a thing for goody goody human deputies with messy hair,” Shepard returned.

Garrus pulled his head back and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “The hair comment wasn’t what I really thought, I was just annoyed…” He stopped speaking as Shepard moved to trace his colony markings with her thumb. Garrus relaxed into her touch, eyes closing and the purr from earlier returning louder than ever. 

“I think I love you, Garrus Vakarian,” Shepard heard herself say.

Garrus’ eyes flew open. She expected a witty retort or suave return, but instead all the infamous Archangel could manage was “Wow.” A three-fingered hand moved to brush away a lock of her hair. “What do we do now?” he asked in a hushed tone. 

“You really have to ask?”

“Well.” Garrus dipped his head. “There’s sleeping together, but this is...different. For me.”

She didn’t think she could love him more if she tried. Tenderly she reached for him, pushing aside his jacket. He flung it off, cradling her head as he licked her lips in question. Shepard groaned as their tongues met, her hips canting against him in unspoken demand. 

“Humans call it making love when it’s...different,” she whispered airily. 

“That I can do,” Garrus rumbled.

Overhead the cosmos swirled and the river rushed over stones and boulders. When rose-colored dawn beat back the chill of night, the fire had smoldered out and Shepard and Garrus lay pressed together beneath Garrus’ blanket, plate to skin and limbs entwined. Deep in dreams of star-crushed passion, Shepard registered one thing with the sunrise: She wasn’t alone anymore. There wouldn’t ever be a Shepard without Vakarian.