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[eikaebana]

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[arjudy224]

Teachers Pet

Intern x Batfamily

Part 2 of Outreach Gala

The bartender flashes me an incredulous glance.

"Is that a no then?" I inquire with a half smile.

Before he can respond, a vine slithers up his leg, immobilizing him. I roll my eyes. Typical. Eyeing Dick's drink, I ask

"You gonna drink that?"

He shakes his head before sliding the drink down the bar.

Preparing to down the glass, I wince a little in preparation. A wave of artificial sweeteners flood my senses, but no alcohol. That bastard... It's Diet Coke.

"You should really get out of here." I whisper in his direction, "Get some help.

When no one responds, I stifle my laughter. I should have known better. From the corner of my eye, I spot Dr. Harris sneaking out the back door to grab reinforcements. His dark brown eyes meet mine. An understanding passes between us. He needs time. I nod in agreement. Marching through the party, I carefully avoid the eager vines trying to wrap around my legs.

The room falls into silence as I stumble past the poor partygoers. Comissioner Gordan's eyes grow wide in warning. I flash him my most reassuring smile.

"Dr. Isley," I call out weaving through the dozens of guests, "It's not very polite to show up two hours into the gala. We've been waiting for you."

Poison Ivy's glowing green eyes regard me curiously.

Before I can react, 4 stray vines wrap around my limbs rendering me motionless. Her eyes narrow in recognition.

"Ms. L/N, you've grown into yourself quite nicely."

I consider our history. 4 years is a considerably long time in adolescence.

"Well, that's a relief. I was afraid that I peaked with braces."

A small forms in response.

"Are you still picking fights with those boneheads in your class?"

I laugh. Some things never change.

"In some ways, "I respond with a grin, "Now, I mostly try to convince them of their errors through diplomacy."

One of the loose hanging vines carefully caresses my cheek. Peeling through my memories, I struggle to remember Dr. Isley as a Professor. Most mornings, I rolled into class like a zombie. Her labs were interesting though. Halfway through the semester, a group of police officers raided the lecture during an exam. I woke up quickly once her vines began strangling the police force.

"The plants speak of your kindness."

A string of followers blossom at my feet. My face gets hot.

"That's nice to hear. I haven't been able to grow anything since moving back to Gotham.” I joke awkwardly, “I was about to sample the water treatment plant again.”

More vines reach my waist. I shift uncomfortably,

"Don’t you see? Kindness isn't enough."

A few manage to wrap around my neck. The slow restriction around my airway causes me to start panicking.

"Dr. Isley...." I choke out, "You are hurting me."

The room starts to spin. Gasping, I struggle pathetically against the brick wall of vegetation.

"You have so much potential,” She mutters in my ear, “I could use someone with your talents.”

Red spots my vision. No. No. No. A pink flower grows out of a vine. A cascade of glittering aerosol sprinkles down from it. For a moment, my body goes limp. A wave of serotonin replaces my panic. She chose me. Imagine the change we could create. I smile- a real genuine smile.

Her hair.... Has it always been this silky? And her eyes... I've never seen that shade of green before. Everything about this woman feels wonderfully comforting and exciting all at once. In the natural world, when things are this potent they usually warn of poison.... but how could something so beautiful be bad?

When she kisses me, I don't protest. My knees go weak. A yearning, unlike anything I've ever felt, courses through my veins. A loud crash echoes across the gala. Dr. Isley pulls away too soon. I collapse in a wave of sorrow. Why would she leave me so soon? The rejection floods back painful memories of past lovers. Several vines hug me in support. Crouching, Pamela brushes my hair back before facing her foe.

"We'll finish this later. The adults are talking."

Tag list- @nosyrobin, @jjsmeowthie, @epicyOn, @gaychaosgremlin, @rory-cakes, @luna-zendra-star, @b4tm4nn, @anuttellaa

[inbarfink]

Congratulations! You are now a Magic-User!!

[from-memphis-with-love]

Just Because - an Elvis Presley oneshot

Synopsis: When she wrote Elvis Presley a letter so many years ago, she had no idea he'd become her destiny.

TW: None! This is a fluffy story about Elvis and his new bride on their wedding night. Enjoy <3

Las Vegas glittered outside the window of the Flamingo Hotel, a carnival of neon and promise. Inside suite 702, Elvis Presley turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, standing back to let his bride enter first.

"Well, Mrs. Presley." Elvis dropped the room key on the side table and loosened his black tie. "Think we gave ‘em enough of a show?"

Lizzie kicked off her white satin heels, wiggling her toes against the plush carpet. Her wedding dress - a simple, elegant sheath - whispered around her ankles as she moved.

"If I had to smile for one more camera, my face might have cracked." She massaged her cheeks. "Pretty sure my jaw is permanently damaged."

"You looked beautiful the whole time," Elvis said. "Even when Senator Wilkins talked our ears off about his hunting dogs."

"I counted," Lizzie said, laughing. "Seventeen minutes about beagles. I timed it on your watch."

"Atta girl. Always paying attention to the details." Elvis shrugged off his tuxedo jacket and slung it over a chair.

The suite was extravagant even by Vegas standards - a sprawling living room with a crystal chandelier, plush white couches, and a panoramic view of the Strip. Flowers covered nearly every surface, congratulatory bouquets from friends, fans, and industry people. A table by the window held a pyramid of champagne bottles and gift boxes wrapped in silver and white.

"Did ya see who sent this?" Elvis called, holding up a bottle of champagne from the collection and wiggling his eyebrows. 

Lizzie unzipped her small suitcase on the king-sized bed. "If it's the one with the red ribbon, that's from Frank."

"Sinatra knows his champagne." Elvis studied the label. "Think we should save it?"

"For what?" Lizzie pulled out her nightclothes, neatly folded. "Another special occasion? Elvis, we just got married. I think this qualifies."

"Good point." He searched for glasses. "Although technically, we've been married for" - he checked his watch - "eight hours and twenty-two minutes. The special occasion ship might have sailed."

"Are you saying our wedding night isn't special?" Lizzie arched an eyebrow.

"I'm saying" - he popped the cork with practiced ease - "that every night with you is special, so we'd better start drinking now or we'll have a serious backlog of champagne."

Lizzie laughed, the sound warm and real in the artificial perfection of the suite. She turned back to her suitcase, unpacking with methodical precision. A sundress for tomorrow, toiletries, a dog-eared paperback.

As she lifted out a pale blue nightgown, something slipped from between the folds - a piece of faded pink stationery that fluttered to the carpet.

Elvis, crossing to hand her a glass of champagne, bent to pick it up.

"What's this?" He turned the worn paper over in his hand. His eyebrows lifted as he read the envelope. "Elizabeth Colasanti Presley." He whistled low. "Been practicing that name for a while, honey?"

Lizzie lunged across the bed. "Give me that!"

Elvis held it up, just out of reach. "September 1956," he read from the top corner. "Dear Elvis Presley." He looked at her with growing delight. "Is this what I think it is?"

"It's nothing." Her cheeks flushed pink. "Just something silly."

"Don’t look like nothing." He unfolded it carefully. "This paper's been folded and unfolded a hundred times."

"That's private." But there was no real fight in her voice.

"Not if it's addressed to me," Elvis countered, eyes twinkling. "Besides, what kind of secrets could my wife be keeping on our wedding night?"

He perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing the letter across his knee.

"'Dear Elvis Presley,'" he began, his voice in a singsong imitation of a young girl. "'I saw you on Ed Sullivan last Sunday. My daddy says you're corrupting the youth of America.'" Elvis glanced up. "Your daddy sure changed his tune."

"Keep reading." Lizzie hugged a pillow to her chest. "It gets worse."

"'I told him music that makes people feel something real can't be bad.'" Elvis paused. "That's pretty profound for a teenager."

"I had my moments."

"'When you sang "Don't Be Cruel," I felt like you were singing just to me-'"

"Oh God." Lizzie buried her face in the pillow. "Skip ahead."

He ignored her. "'My mama's been sick, and sometimes your songs are the only thing that makes the house feel normal. Like there's still good things in the world.'" His voice softened. "Lizzie..."

"I was sixteen," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. "We found out mom had cancer that spring. It was a rough time."

Elvis continued reading: "'I know you'll never read this. But sometimes I imagine you're just a regular boy from Tennessee, not a star, and we might run into each other at a soda shop. You'd smile at me, and I'd finally work up the courage to tell you how your music makes even the bad days better.'"

His eyes moved down the page. "'I'm going to be somebody too someday. I'm saving up for design school. Maybe one day I'll make costumes for your movies, and you'll never know that the girl fixing your collar once wrote you this letter.'"

Elvis looked up at her, his expression soft with wonder. "'Yours truly, Elizabeth Colasanti.'"

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Elvis carefully refolded the letter.

"How long have you been carrying this around?" he asked.

"Since I wrote it." Lizzie lowered the pillow, her embarrassment fading. "It's my good luck charm. I take it whenever I'm starting something new. First day of design school, first apartment, first job..." She shrugged. "First marriage."

"You never mailed it."

"Of course not. Famous people don't read fan mail from nobody girls in Maryville."

"I read my fan mail." Elvis looked wounded.

"You read some fan mail. You get thousands of letters a week, Elvis."

"Still." He tapped the letter against his palm. "Funny how things work out."

"Funny strange or funny ha-ha?"

"Both." He nodded toward her suitcase. "You keeping anything else I should know about? Lock of my hair? Chewed gum?"

"Very funny." She snatched the letter back. "You know very well I didn't even talk to you until Blue Hawaii. I wasn't some obsessed fan."

"Blue Hawaii." A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "You never did give that handkerchief back. I kept waiting."

"You remembered that?" Lizzie looked genuinely surprised.

"’Course I did. It was my lucky one. Had Dodger embroider EP on it and everything."

She moved to her suitcase and carefully extracted a small fabric square from an inner pocket. "You mean this old thing?"

Elvis stared at the worn handkerchief. "You actually kept it? All this time?"

"It was my something blue today." She placed it in his palm. "I figured after the wedding I should finally return it."

His fingers closed around it. "Three years for a handkerchief to find its way home. That might be a record."

"I did try to return it the next day," Lizzie said. "But you were filming that beach scene-"

"-and you decided to keep it instead."

"I was going to mail it to you."

"Sure you were." He tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. "Hold that thought."

Elvis went to his suitcase, digging beneath his clothes until he pulled out a wooden box about the size of a cigar box. A small crown was burned into the top.

"What's that?" Lizzie asked.

"Just a little collection." He sat beside her on the bed and opened the lid. Inside were dozens of folded notes, ticket stubs, and small scraps of paper.

Lizzie picked up a faded receipt. On the back was her handwriting: Coffee, black. Two sugars. I noticed. She looked at him. "You kept this? It was just a coffee order."

"It was the first time anyone had paid attention to how I take my coffee without being told." He shrugged, almost embarrassed. "The little things matter."

She sifted through more papers. "There must be fifty notes in here."

"Fifty-seven." He didn't hesitate. "Including the one you left on my dressing room mirror after our first fight."

"Our first fight wasn't a fight," Lizzie protested. "It was a minor disagreement about your inability to be on time for anything."

"Sure felt like a fight. You didn't talk to me for three days."

"Two and a half." She picked up another note. "'Elvis - Dinner at 7. Not 7:05, not 7:15, and definitely not 7:45. Some of us respect punctuality. - LC.'"

He grinned. "You were so mad."

"You showed up at 8:30."

"But I brought flowers."

"Dead flowers. You left them in the car with the windows up. In August."

Elvis laughed, the deep, genuine laugh that so rarely made it to television or film. "I did, didn't I? God, you're the only woman I know who would've thrown them straight in the trash."

"I have standards."

"You certainly do." He nudged her shoulder. "Lucky for me, punctuality wasn't a deal-breaker."

Lizzie's fingers found a movie ticket stub. "Our first real date."

"Was that a date? I thought you were just taking pity on the poor ole lonely movie star."

"You asked me to go. You paid for the tickets. You bought me popcorn. That's the textbook definition of a date, Presley."

"Huh." He took the ticket, studied it. "Guess I've been dating you longer than I thought."

Her expression softened. "Remember what you said after the movie?"

"I said a lot of things. I was nervous."

"You said, 'It's nice seeing a movie without being in it.'"

"I meant it. That night..." He hesitated. "That was the first time in years I felt like a regular guy."

Lizzie picked up another scrap of paper. "What's this one?"

He glanced at it. "List of baby names."

"Baby names?" Her eyebrows shot up. "Whose baby names?"

"Yours and mine, someday." He took the paper gently. "You fell asleep in my trailer last year, and you were talking in your sleep. You said we'd have a daughter with hair like mine and your mother's eyes."

"I don't remember that."

"You wouldn't. You were out cold. Lettie Ann and Celie Jane, those were the names you said."

"And you wrote them down?" Lizzie looked at him with soft surprise.

"Told you. The little things matter." He touched her cheek. "You matter."

In that moment, Lizzie saw not the Hollywood draw or the magnetic presence that dominated every room, but the boy from Tupelo, Mississippi who'd once been as ordinary as she was. She leaned in and kissed him softly.

"Who would've thought?" she whispered against his lips. "The fan and the star."

"I'm not the star tonight." He kissed her back. "Tonight I'm just the luckiest man in Vegas."

"Now who's being profound?"

"Must be your influence." His smile faded to something more serious. "You know what's crazy? If the Colonel hadn't insisted on those sequined costumes for the charity show, and if the regular costume designer hadn't quit in a huff, and if they hadn't hired your boss as a replacement..."

"...and if I hadn't been assigned to your dressing room..."

"...we never would have met." He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Thank God for small miracles."

The mmemory rushed back, vivid as yesterday:

The Blue Hawaii set, 1961. Lizzie sat in a corner of the costume tent, struggling with a torn Hawaiian shirt. Her first week as a junior costume assistant, and she was already drowning in a sea of alterations.

"Need that in five, Colasanti!" Mr. Hanson barked as he passed by, arms laden with garments.

"Yessir," she mumbled, jabbing the needle through the fabric with more force than necessary.

She'd been working since five that morning. Her fingers were sore, her back ached, and the humidity was making her hair curl in ways that defied professional appearance. But she wasn't about to complain. Jobs like this didn't fall into the laps of girls from Maryville who were seven credits short of a design school degree.

"You're new here." The voice came from behind her, casual as a Tennessee breeze.

Lizzie nearly stabbed herself with the needle. Elvis Presley stood not three feet away, wearing street clothes instead of his costume, twisting a ring over and over on his finger.

"Yes." She managed the single syllable. "First week."

"Tough break, getting stuck with the repair pile." He nodded toward the mountain of clothing beside her. "Hanson's got a reputation."

"He's just particular." She defended her boss automatically.

"That's a nice way of putting it." Elvis smiled, and it was different from his album covers. Even better in person. "You from back home? I can hear Tennessee."

"Maryville," she admitted. "Nothing special."

"I've played Maryville. Good people."

"I know. I was there." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "At the Parkway Theater."

Something lit in his eyes. "No kidding?"

"You wouldn't remember." She bent her head back to her work, feeling foolish. "It was sold out."

"The Parkway's not that big." He leaned against the workbench. "Good acoustics, though."

"Need something, Mr. Presley?" Mr. Hanson emerged from the racks of costumes, his voice sharp.

"Just checking on my blue shirt for tomorrow." Elvis straightened. "The one with the palm trees."

"Being pressed as we speak. I'll have it delivered to your trailer within the hour."

"Thanks." But he made no move to leave. Instead, he watched as Lizzie fumbled with the needle, her hands suddenly clumsy under observation.

"Colasanti!" Hanson snapped. "That's the third time you've threaded that needle. Stop wasting time."

Lizzie's cheeks burned. The needle slipped again, and she pricked her finger. A bright bead of blood welled up, threatening to stain the pale fabric.

"My fault," Elvis said, stepping forward. "I was distracting her with questions."

Before anyone could react, he pulled a pale blue handkerchief from his pocket and gently pressed it to her finger.

"You'll want to use peroxide on that," he said to her, his voice quieter now. Then to Hanson: "Got any of those blue and green shirts for the backup dancers ready? I'd like to see one."

Hanson hurried off to find the requested items, leaving them momentarily alone.

"You didn't have to do that," Lizzie said.

"Do what?" Elvis winked. "Just looking out for the costume. Blood's hard to get out."

She tried to return the handkerchief, but he shook his head.

"Keep it for now. Might need it again in this place."

As he turned to go, she noticed the embroidered initials in the corner: EP.

"I'll return it," she called after him.

He glanced back, that half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "I'm counting on it."

But she never did.

"Earth to Lizzie." Elvis waved his hand in front of her face. "Where'd ya go?"

"Just thinking about that first day." She smoothed the handkerchief between her fingers. "You were kind to me when you didn't have to be."

"I'm always kind to pretty girls from Tennessee."

"Uh-huh." She rolled her eyes. "That's why you have such a sterling reputation."

"My reputation is greatly exaggerated." He sniffed with mock offense. "Unlike my talents."

"Modest, too."

"Never claimed to be modest." He gathered the scattered notes from the bedspread, returning them to the box. "Just talented."

Lizzie watched him, this man who now belonged to her in a way the teenage girl who wrote that fan letter could never have imagined. Not just the most famous man on the planet, but the man who kept handwritten notes and remembered her coffee order. Who'd asked her father's permission to marry her with the same nervousness as any other suitor.

"Hey." Elvis grabbed a sheet of hotel stationery from the desk. "We should write a new one."

"A new what?"

"A letter." He found a pen in the desk drawer. "To mark the occasion. Your letter brought you to me. Maybe this one..." He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious.

"Maybe this one what?" Lizzie prompted.

"Maybe this one carries us forward." He sat beside her, their shoulders touching. "I'll start."

He wrote a few lines, then passed the paper to her. Lizzie read silently: To my wife on our wedding night. I used to think fame was the best thing that would ever happen to me. Then I met a girl from Maryville, Tennessee. 

"Your turn," he said.

Lizzie took the pen, her handwriting a stark contrast to his bold scrawl. I used to think loving your music meant I knew you. Now I know that the real Elvis Presley talks in his sleep, can't match his socks to save his life, and makes me feel like the most important person in any room.

She passed it back. Elvis read her words and smiled. "I don't talk in my sleep."

"You absolutely do. Mostly about food."

"Lies and slander." But he was already writing again.

They passed the paper back and forth, adding lines, building something new together. Outside, the lights of Vegas continued their electric dance, but in suite 702, time seemed suspended.

I promise to cherish our quiet moments above all else - the ones where it's just us, with no cameras or crowds, Lizzie wrote.

I promise to always hear you, even when the noise of everything else gets too loud, Elvis added.

Lizzie finished the letter with a final line: I promise to keep every moment, good or difficult, like a note in a wooden box - safe, cherished, and ours alone.

She placed the pen down. "There. What do you think?"

Elvis read over their joint creation, his shoulder pressed against hers. "I think we write pretty well together, Mrs. Presley."

"It's strange, hearing that name." She turned to face him. "Good strange."

"I like how you say it." His voice dropped lower. "Like it's just another name, not something that comes with a whole lot of baggage."

"To me, it's just your name." She reached up to touch his face. "The name of the guy who saved my button-sewing career."

He laughed quietly. "Is that all I am to you? A career savior?"

"Among other things." The space between them had shrunk to almost nothing.

"What other things?" His eyes held hers, gentle but intent.

Instead of answering, she kissed him. This time, the kiss was honest, a little clumsy, and entirely theirs. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, tender as if she might break.

When they pulled apart, the air between them had changed. Three years of knowing each other, of careful waiting, of building something real beneath the spotlight's glare - it all converged in this moment.

The truth was, they'd come close before. In the darkness of his car after late-night drives, in stolen moments between filming scenes, even once in her small apartment when a thunderstorm had knocked out the power. They'd explored each other in countless ways over these years, his hands and lips teaching her body things she'd never known to want. But they'd always stopped short of this final intimacy - this sacred line that Lizzie had determined to save for marriage.

"Lizzie." His voice was rough at the edges. "We don't have to-"

"I know." She smiled, though there was a slight tremble to her lips. "I want to."

A single tear slipped down her cheek before she could catch it.

"Hey." Elvis brushed it away with his thumb. "What's wrong?"

Lizzie took a shaky breath. "I've never done this before."

"I know, honey."

"But you have." It came out smaller than she intended, almost a question.

Elvis hesitated, then nodded. "I have."

Her eyes dropped, and something like a pout formed at the corner of her mouth.

"No, no." He tilted her face back up. "That's not a bad thing, Lizzie. It just means..." He paused, searching for the right words. "It means I know how to make it good for you. I'll show you."

"You'll show me?" The tension in her shoulders eased slightly.

"I'll be gentle," he promised. "We'll take it slow." His fingers traced the line of her jaw. "I want this to be something you remember for all the right reasons."

Lizzie nodded, leaning into his touch. "I trust you," she whispered, and the simple truth of those three words seemed to affect him deeply.

"I won't let you down." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Not in this. Not ever."

She moved closer, her nervousness giving way to curiosity. "Will it hurt?"

"Maybe a little," he admitted, honest even now. "But then it gets better. I promise."

"You'll tell me what to do?"

The hint of vulnerability in her question made his expression soften. "You don't need to do anything but be yourself. That's all I've ever wanted."

She nodded, drawing courage from his steadiness. 

With the same deliberate care he'd shown that first day with the handkerchief, Elvis reached out and turned off the bedside lamp. In the semidarkness, the neon lights of Vegas filtered through the curtains, painting patterns across the ceiling.

"Come here," he whispered, and she did.

The first hint of dawn was breaking when Lizzie stirred awake. For a moment, she was disoriented. Then she felt the weight of her husband’s arm around her waist, heard the steady rhythm of his breathing, and remembered: She was Mrs. Elvis Presley now. The thought made her smile.

"What're you smiling about?" Elvis's voice was husky with sleep, his eyes still closed.

"How do you know I'm smiling if your eyes are shut?"

"I can feel it. You radiate when you smile. Like a little sun."

"That's the corniest thing you've ever said to me."

"Give me a break. It's not even eight AM." He opened one eye. "And I stand by it."

She shifted to face him, studying the familiar lines of his face, softened now by the dim light and intimacy. "Did you ever imagine this? Back when I was just the costume girl with the bleeding finger?"

"Not exactly this." His thumb traced the curve of her shoulder. "But I knew I liked you a lot.”

"I was terrified of you."

"No you weren't." He grinned. "You're not scared of anything."

"I hid in the supply closet three times that first week when I saw you coming."

"Yet here you are."

"Here we are," she agreed.

Elvis reached over to the nightstand where their letter lay beside the wooden box. "One more for the collection."

He folded the paper with careful precision and opened the box. As he placed the letter inside, something in his expression shifted, grew serious.

"You know it’s not gonna be easy, right? Being married to... all this." He gestured vaguely, encompassing not just himself but everything his name entailed.

"I didn't sign up for easy." She propped herself up on one elbow. "I signed up for you.”

"There will be lies in the papers. Rumors. People who want pieces of me that I can only give to you."

"I know."

"Tours, movies, time apart."

"I know that too."

"So why'd you say yes?" His voice held genuine curiosity. "You could've had a normal life with a normal guy. White picket fence, Sunday dinners, no flashbulbs in your face."

Lizzie considered this. "Remember that song you did? 'Just Because'?"

"Sure."

"That's why." She settled back against the pillows. "Just because."

Elvis whistled, a sound that conveyed both surprise and pleasure. "I've heard a lot of answers to that question in interviews. That might be my favorite."

"Good." She yawned. "Now go back to sleep. We've got brunch with the guys at eleven, and you're impossible when you're tired."

"Yes, ma'am." He settled beside her, his arm finding its place around her waist again.

Just before sleep reclaimed him, he murmured, "Lizzie?"

"Hmm?"

"I just remembered. You've got another letter to write."

"What's that?"

"Thank you note to Ed Sullivan. For getting us together."

[xxdemonicheartxx]

Most common funerary burials by flight:

Putting this one below the cut due to death mentions and burial descriptions I understand this can be a topic of discomfort no matter how vague one is when speaking on it <3

Arcane: opalization, the body is taken and layed in the shallows of intensely magic rich pools in a resting position, where it will rapidly opalize in a matter of weeks or months due to the volitile arcane energy of the land, sometimes individual scales are opalized instead and the rest of the body is cremated to be scattered amid their favorite place of study

Earth: mummification, the body is taken and embalmed, richly doused in spices, oils, and linen wraps, the organs removed are in canopic jars that resemble the dragon's own visage. Some earth mages practice petrification of the body as well upon request. Another practice is glass blowing cremated remains into colorful works of art, often colorful globes of glittering glass or glass sculptures of the deceased's visage

Shadow: the body is often cremated and the ashes greatly compressed into logs or bricks, before being soaked in spores and water to allow the mushrooms the the tangled wood to reclaim them and take them home. Other practices include burials or creating wrought iron burial markers. Celebrations of life are held around these burial sites

Light: due to the.... emperor problem.... graveyards have rapidly been destroyed and the fear of merging with Luminax sits like a stone in the heart of every imperial. Cremation is the most common practice as of now but celestial burials used to be common practice where the sun would always be able to touch you even in death (also known as sky burials) a new practice adopted from the earth flight includes taking these cremated remains and turning them into glass suncatchers

Plague: plague dragons believe that returning to the land you've survived is a must, dying of old age is a great achievement!! Often the body is returned to the land, buried or laid to be reclaimed by the ecosystem. Some more sentimental dragons or close loved ones will save scales or tan parts of wing membrane to carry close to their heart

Nature: burials are the most common practice, continuing to feed the shrieking wilds, some pathways have small markers or idols where loved ones frequent so that they can continue to pay homage in the labyrinthian jungle

Ice: ice dragons actually do not freeze their deceased, instead they take parts of membranes and tan them before tattooing a depiction of their loved one into their own hide, complete with a name, date of birth and date of death, its too cold to dig in this land so they cremate the remains and scatter them amid the tundra so in spring they can help the flowers return. The tanned memento is kept with a clan's priest, shaman, or spiritual leader with the rest of them, under expert care

Fire: forge pyres, often when fire dragons die their own heat resistance can make cremation a difficult process. So their remains are given to forge masters who are capable of reaching intense heat, working bellows and feeding the flames until the body is reclaimed by the flames. Other practices include caldera funerals, where the body is taken to be sunk in the lava of volcanoes or lava floes. Sometimes blackened skeletons can be reclaimed by loved ones in doing this

Wind: sky burials. The body is taken high up and laid under open sky for the sun and the wind to reclaim, it is believed that in doing this their spirit may continue to soar. Also refered to as celestial burials

Water: sinking of the body in designated graveyards is a common practice, often referred to as a burial at sea. Tiny tiny fragments of the dragon are often kept to be artificially put into oysters so that a pearl can be formed from their loved one's remains. Another practice is water cremation or Alkaline hydrolysis is another practice that is starting to gain traction

Lightning: the desert sand is not suitable for proper burials and grave markers aren't reliable in the shifting expanse, often the body is dehydrated first before undergoing electrical cremation, with no fluid the body will burn rapidly, the ashes then mixed with sand are placed amid one of hundreds of electrical storms with a tall metal rod in the center of the remains. To be struck by lightning turning them into "fulgurites" or "fossilized lightning" these unique and intimate structures are then returned to loved ones to be kept similarly to an urn

There are always exceptions to funeral practices. Dragons like obelisks and imperials often require additional care in the event the obelisk returns to stone or cremation is not an option for the imperial but these are the common or most popular practices in each region (non cannon)

As always I'd love to hear your own headcannons and takes too!!

[mysticdragon3art]

Happy White Day 2025! Remember to give your Valentine a white reciprocation gift!

I couldn't decide on a concept for a photoshoot, so I just tried anything I could think of, until I got sleepy.

FIGURES: Nendoroid Saber Prototype/Arthur Pendragon White Roses version. Nendoroid Devil Homura. Nendoroid Ultimate Madoka. Nendoroid Yor Forger. Nendoroid Loid Forger, uses bouquet from Nendoroid More Suits 02.

SUBJECT(S): White Day (when Valentine recipients give a reciprocal gift, usually white, as started by a marshmallow candy company). 3/14/2025 (one month after Valentine's Day).

PROPS: Single white rose prop from Nendoroid Saber Prototype/Arthur Pendragon White Roses version. Glitter foam sheet. Scrapbook paper. Artificial flowers. Nendoroid More Suits 02 set's bouquet of white flowers

[softlights-citylights]

coffee and clicks

link click x barista!reader headcannons characters [seperate]: cheng xiaoshi, lu guang, qiao ling

a new quaint little coffee shop just opened across the street from the Photo Studio.

cw none, written with a gn reader in mind wc 750

cheng xiaoshi

he's the type to get mostly milk and creamer. cheng xiaoshi cannot handle the bitter aromatic taste of americanos

cheng xiaoshi likes cappuccinos

he would sit in the coffee shop, sipping slowly at his drink while watching the barista work

time passes and cheng xiaoshi becomes a regular, spending his mornings sitting by the windows.

he couldn't imagine his morning routine any other way. he stares out the large windows with golden sunlight streaming in. cheng xiaoshi thinks about what it'd be like to have the barista as his muse

he starts spending more than just his mornings in the coffee shop.

cheng xiaoshi begins to make excuses to lu guang about why he's been busy recently. but lu guang sees right through his lies. he can see cheng xiaoshi through the windows of the coffee shop.

he sees that look of adoration in cheng xiaoshi's eyes and he doesn't question it when the barista begins to spend more time in the photo studio.

cheng xiaoshi asks out the local barista by bringing flowers as the sun is setting. a golden glow illuminates the back of his head as his cheeks turn red.

"Sorry if this is out of the blue, but I really like spending time with you."

lu guang

lu guang is careful about what he puts in his body, he tends to stay away from artificial and added sugars

he prefers his coffee black. if he does get a brew, it'd be an americano.

lu guang visits in the afternoon. its right around the time that he gets sleepy, tired of dealing with cheng xiaoshi's antics

he sits at a stool by the counter, sipping at his coffee and thinking how cinematic the barista looked taking orders and making drinks.

lu guang loves the way their hair glitters in the soft afternoon sun.

seemingly out of nowhere, lu guang invites them over to the photo studio. "would you like to develop some photos with me?"

in the evening, after closing up the shop, they head over to the photo studio. they're greeted by that little lucky cat placed on the counter.

lu guang greets the barista before cheng xiaoshi can even stand up from the couch in the back room.

his fingers are deft as he works away in the dark room, explaining the intricacies of film.

lu guang confesses with a note written on the back of a photo. its a photo of the barista, working away in the early afternoon. steaming mugs of coffee placed on the counter, blurred faces in the background.

"Can I come see you like this everyday?"

qiao ling

she likes to try new brews often. qiao ling asks for the barista's recommendation when she first walks into the store

if qiao ling had to pick a usual, it would be a caffe macchiato. she appreciates the little touches of latte art and does her best to drink around it.

qiao ling frequents the shop more than the other two, picking up coffee for her friends

at first, she doesn't stay long, taking her drink to go. but after some time, qiao ling begins to linger at the counter.

she leans her forearms on the counter as she talks to the barista quietly. qiao ling doesn't want to disturb the other customers, but they don't seem to mind the close bond that forms

qiao ling falls asleep on the counter in the afternoons. being a manager for two rowdy boys is no easy task.

she always apologizes after she falls asleep, a sheepish smile on her face.

the environment of the cafe is so calming that qiao ling just cant help herself. or maybe its the barista's aura that she enjoys so much. qiao ling isn't sure.

qiao ling never really had a direct confession. one day at closing time, she just asked the barista, "would you like to get hotpot with me?"

one meal turned into a weekly thing and qiao ling let it continue, happy with their simple little arrangement.

qiao ling begins to bring flowers and small trinkets to the cafe, decorating the space. qiao ling looks up from the floral arrangement she placed on one of the tables. "I feel like we are more than friends. "Can we be more than friends? Like, officially?"

a/n i really wanted to write some link click stuff. eventually i want to write some longer content that not just xreader hcs.

[resplendentoutfit]

Festooned in Flowers: A Victorian Fashion Trend of the 1870s and 1880s

Artificial flowers are much used both for hair ornaments and as trimming on the gown – the largest size roses possible made of silk or velvet in black, white, or different colors with the dewdrop effect of rhinestones or diamonds. – Vogue, 1901

Some dresses, such as the gown below, were trimmed with elaborate garlands of flowers.

Right: Gustave Boulanger (French, Portrait de Madame Lambinet, née Nathalie Sinclair • 1887 • Musée Lambinet, Versailles

Left: Rogelio de Egusquiza y Barrena (Spanish, 1845-1915) • The End of the Ball • 1879

Flower garlands appeared draped over the entire gown, or just the skirt of a gown. Flower clusters were also popular on the shoulder, the middle of the neckline, and on a strategic placement where the fabric was gathered. Sometimes it seems they were used everywhere at once.

The Art of Dressing Well. A Complete Guide to Economy, Style and Propriety, published in 1870 advises: 

“Yet, even in the full dress requisite for evening parties, the rule should be to dress well, becomingly, and appropriately, but not obtrusive, and above all, not gaudily, or too much. It is a crime against good taste to be too much in excess of the company, yet care must be bestowed upon the costume, the hostess expects it, and the guests observe its neglect. It is the test of good taste to be in the foremost rank of guests for appropriate dress, but never in advance of others." 

Hmmm...it seems to me through today's lens that the antique gown in the photo above is "too much".

Short, or what we now call cap sleeves, were essential for formal evening wear in any season, as were sleeveless dresses. Off-the-shoulder and low-necklines were also very popular.

Glittering jewelry was often worn – necklaces in double-strands, dangle earrings, bracelets, and pearls. Some fashion plates and gowns in museums show women wearing a thin velvet ribbon around the neck.

Long gloves were a must. Hats were not considered appropriate in formal wear but fancy comb and pins were. As stated above, fabric flowers were also often used to decorate hairstyles that were mostly up-dos. Feathers were sometimes also tucked into the hair. Some hairstyles were very elaborate. And then there is the ubiquitous fan; either held closed or open to show off a special design.

[chaeshortcake]

The Ultimate List of Junk Journal Supplies

꒰ ⪩ 📜 ⪨  ꒱   Paper and Patterns :

- Washi Tape

- Music sheets

- Sticky notes

- Napkins

- Openwork napkins

- Newspaper scraps

- Old book pages ( note: you can also use old books as a base for your junk journal )

- Pages from differently lined / colored notebooks

- Crumpled paper

- Ripped paper

- Coloured paper

- Decorative paper

- Gift / Bouquet wraps

- Fabric scraps

- Foil

- Colouring books

- Burnt paper

- Coffee soaked / stained paper

꒰ ⪩ 🖨️ ⪨  ꒱   Printouts :

- Your digital art

- Picrew avatars

- Paintings or Vinyls

- Chat screens

- Album covers

- Pinterest boards

- Spotify codes

- Sticker sheets

- Screenshots

- ASCII / Kaomoji

- Personality test results

- Vents / Rants from your notes app

- Whispers you liked or made

- Conversations you never sent

- Voice message waveforms

- Songs waveforms

- Tier Lists

꒰ ⪩ 🎠 ⪨  ꒱   Life Events :

- Business cards / Invitations

- Checks/receipts from stores (note: some may fade over time)

- To-do lists

- Shopping Lists

- Cookie messages

- Maps / Travel brochure cutouts

- Letters / Envelopes

- Newspaper articles

- Cut-out dates / Stamp dates

- Polaroids / Photobooth photos

- Your grades / Teacher's note (if not needed elsewhere)

- Verses from religious texts (handwritten or printed)

- Shopping or luggage tags

- Travel clippings

- Food/snack packaging

- Foil packaging from pills

- Price tags / Labels

- Lottery tickets / Coupons

- Clothes or shoe badges

- Recipes

- Postcards and envelopes

- Tickets

- Greeting cards

- Friend's handwriting / notes

- Childhood drawings

- Wishlists

- Expired id / student etc cards

- Expired SIM cards

꒰ ⪩ 🎀 ⪨  ꒱   Decorations & Fillers :

- Magazine/poster cutouts

- Magazine letters

- Crossword / sudoku cutouts

- Origami

- Tea / Sugar bags or sachets

- Daily / weekly etc. horoscopes

- Daily / weekly etc. affirmations

- Song lyrics / Poems / Quotes / Essays

- Calendar pages

- Old/expired photo film

- QR codes / Barcodes ( note: QRcodes can be interactive )

- Sketches / Small drawings

- Hand / Fingerprints

- Lip imprints

- Small flat crochet or knit decorations

- Children's tattoo stickers (temporary tattoos)

- Ribbons / Lace / Decorative threads

- Glitter / Rhinestones

- Googly eyes

- Hole-punched stars / flowers

- Cut-out hearts / stars

- Stickers

- Fruit stickers

- Eastern egg decorations (wraps, stickers, etc.)

- That circle cardboard from shoe boxes

- Broken CD pieces

- Candy wrappers

- Playing cards

- Can openers

- Used postage stamps

- Interactive windows/curtains (flip open surprises!)

- Angel numbers

- Puzzle pieces

- Tarot cards

- Flower prints

꒰ ⪩ 🌱 ⪨  ꒱   Nature :

- Pressed flowers

- Fall leaves / Pine spikes

- Tree bark

- Feathers ( artificial )

- Dried moss

꒰ ⪩ 💻 ⪨  ꒱  Media :

- K-pop photocards / Cutouts from albums

- Characters from your favorite shows

꒰ ⪩ 🔨 ⪨  ꒱   Other useful items :

- Thick 2-sided tape (adds dimension)

- Felt and Foamiran

- Decorative threads

- Buttons / Beads / Letter beads

- Pins / Paper clips

- Zipper bags

- Markers

- Stamps

- Perfumes

Dividers by : @huraxy

[prince-liest]

I am so freaking feral about orchids, you guys, please help. QQ It's becoming a problem. Anyway, meet my orchids:

This is my favorite phalaenopsis orchid in terms of color! I just really love the wine-red splotches on a white flower. Apparently this particular sort is a very prolific bloomer and is always shooting up spikes. I've only had her for a week or so and just repotted her recently, so I look forward to finding out!

This is my most recent acquisition - I got her for a measly $7 (pot included) at Lowes because the entire spike except for this very very bottom flower had been snapped off at some point! I've good luck re-blooming phals and I really love the soft violet and orange color combination, so I had to nab her.

THIS orchid, on the other hand, I have had since last November, and she is still holding onto the same flowers, which seems absolutely insane to me. In fact, I'm pretty convinced that the flowers that she did drop, she would still have if I hadn't given faulty instructions to my plant-sitter, which led to her and another orchid getting dehydrated and dropping half their blooms. Eight months of blooms! And no signs of stopping! And she's growing plenty of healthy new roots AND a new leaf!! I love her and I love how bright and cheery her flowers are.

These are my last two phalaenopsis orchids. The one on the left is a miniature that blooms purple. She's bloomed twice for me, but she was double-potted with a second orchid, and I was inexperienced and killed a lot of her roots while repotting her, so she's been recovering from that for like half a year. If you look closely, you can see that she's actually just started growing a new leaf, which I'm really excited for!

On the right is a very classic white phal that my mom gifted me. She's also bloomed twice for me, and is also in the middle of growing a new leaf. :)

These are my two oncidium orchids, which have since been repotted and mostly lost their blooms! I got the one on the left also heavily discounted because her blooms were already falling, but as you can see in the photo, she's literally in the middle of growing a new flower spike, haha. The one on the right is currently almost done blooming, and she might be my favorite of all because she's SUPER fragrant and smells amazing!

This is my Ludisia discolor, a terrestrial jewel orchid that I'm really excited to see unfurl her new leaf! She's in a lower-light area of my house and I'm hoping she does well there. If not, I have a different shelf I can move her to later with artificial lights.

And these are some baby Macodes petola cuttings I bought, lightning jewel orchids! The reason people grow them for their foliage is a little more visible in photos than it is with Ludisias, but still not true to real life - the white patterns on both actively sparkle under light! It honestly looks like they've been doused in glitter. These guys are all in sphagnum moss in hopes of rooting them. The cuttings were honestly much smaller than I thought they'd be when I bought them, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I'm keeping them under a glass cloche for humidity as well!

And that's it! Just wait until my violets and streptocarpus start blooming, though, haha. I just. Really love plants.

[eikaebana]

Explore our delightful selection of Artificial Glitter Flower Bunches, available in a variety of vibrant colors, all priced affordably. Shop now and add charm to your decor! https://shop.eikaebana.com

[isacksteban]

It Makes Sense — 2 (out of 2) (prev)

The wedding was set for July 20th, and the sun was high in the sky, casting a warm, golden light over the venue. Pecco and Domizia’s wedding was nothing short of enchanting. The venue was adorned with elegant decorations: white and blush flowers intertwined with shimmering lights, delicate linens draped over tables, and candles flickering softly in the summer breeze. Guests mingled and laughed, their glasses clinking in toasts of celebration, as the couple's love was honoured and admired.

Yet, amidst the vibrant festivity and the joyful faces of friends and family, Pecco felt a familiar knot in his chest. The sensation was heavy, a constant thrum of unease that had been growing ever since he had proposed to Domizia nearly four years ago. It was as if the elaborate celebration unfolding around him was a beautiful facade, masking an internal conflict that refused to be silenced. Every laugh, every smile, every congratulatory remark seemed to amplify the tension inside him, pulling him further from the contentment he was supposed to feel on this momentous day.

The ceremony had been flawless, with Domizia walking down the aisle in a stunning gown that took Pecco's breath away, her grace and beauty overwhelming. Yet, as he stood there exchanging vows, his mind wandered, reflecting on the years of preparation, the promises made, and the profound decision he was about to seal with a ring. The happiness of the occasion clashed with the turbulent thoughts swirling in his mind, making the day feel both perfect and painfully complicated.

Later, after the ceremony, Pecco found himself slipping away from the crowded reception, seeking solace in a quiet corner of the venue. The lively sounds of the celebration — the clinking of glasses, the hum of cheerful conversations, and the strains of romantic music — seemed to blur into the background. As he walked through the opulently decorated rooms and hallways, he felt as though he were moving through a dreamscape, the joy and laughter around him gradually fading into a distant echo.

Finally, he reached a secluded spot, a serene alcove nestled away from the main event. Here, the noise of the festivities was a faint murmur, replaced by a gentle stillness. Pecco leaned against a cool, stone wall, the texture rough against his back. The stone's solidity provided a momentary sense of grounding amidst the whirlwind of emotions churning inside him. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

This was the moment he had anticipated — a brief escape from the overwhelming spectacle of the day. The perfect event, with its elaborate decorations and orchestrated joy, now felt like an artificial veneer over the deeper, more troubling reality he faced. He had spent countless hours envisioning this day, imagining how it would unfold, but the reality of what he had committed to was sinking in, heavy and inescapable. In this quiet corner, away from prying eyes and the pretense of celebration, he allowed himself a rare moment of introspection. This was his chance to confront the internal conflict that had been building ever since he first proposed to Domizia, a conflict that seemed to loom larger with every passing second.

Just then, the door opened and Marco stepped through, his figure emerging abruptly from the blinding light of the reception into the darker, more isolated space of the garden. He wasn’t supposed to be here. His presence felt like a disturbance, a crack in the fragile, carefully constructed facade of Pecco’s day. Months of unresolved tension and silence stretched taut between them, making the moment feel heavy, suffocating even, in a way Pecco hadn’t expected or prepared for.

Marco’s eyes immediately found Pecco’s, and for a tense, suspended moment, neither moved nor spoke. The world around them dimmed, leaving only the bitter taste of their shared history between them. Marco’s arrival was an intrusion on the glittering celebration inside — a harsh, uninvited reminder of something Pecco had buried deep, though never quite deep enough. The silence between them grew oppressive, filled with things neither wanted to say but couldn’t ignore, a bridge of resentment and regret that tied their past to this uneasy present.

In the hushed quiet of the garden, the wedding seemed distant, irrelevant. The weight of their unresolved issues overshadowed everything. Pecco could feel the pressure building in his chest, knowing this confrontation could unravel everything he was desperately trying to hold together, not just for himself, but for Domizia too.

Finally, Marco broke the silence, his voice low, carrying an edge Pecco recognized all too well. “You look like you need some air.”

Pecco nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah, I guess.”

They stepped further into the garden, the cool air offering no real relief from the tension knotting in Pecco’s stomach. Marco followed close behind, no longer the confident figure Pecco once knew, but something more calculating, darker. They stopped beneath the large oak tree, its branches casting jagged shadows over the ground, the dappled light only highlighting the unease between them.

Marco's voice broke the silence again, this time harsher, more direct. “So, how are you, really?”

Pecco let out a harsh breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s all wrong. I’m trying to pretend everything’s fine, but it’s not. Nothing is right.”

Marco studied him, his gaze hard, not searching for understanding but pushing for something else. “Because of us?”

Pecco froze at the bluntness of the question. He hesitated, but there was no point in lying. “No- Yes. I just- I thought I could move past it, but it’s still there. Always there.”

Marco took a step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, but it was laced with something dangerous, something manipulative. “I never wanted to be just a phase, Pecco. We could’ve had something real. But you’re still running from it, aren’t you?”

Pecco’s throat tightened, his emotions churning between anger and a sick sense of longing. “I don’t know what to do. I’m starting something new, something better, but it doesn’t feel right. It’s like I’m leaving part of myself behind, but maybe that’s what I should do. I can't- I can't just go back and say no and stop the wedding, I'm a married man, Bez.”

Marco's eyes narrowed, his voice dripping with a mix of bitterness and temptation. “Maybe you should’ve listened to yourself instead of playing it safe. You’re just lying to yourself, Pecco. Domizia isn’t what you want. She never was.”

The truth in his words cut deeper than Pecco wanted to admit. Domizia wasn’t what he truly wanted, and hearing it aloud made it impossible to ignore. But it was too late, wasn’t it? The air between them felt electric, charged with all the wrong reasons, a dangerous pull that neither of them could resist.

Without thinking, driven by anger, confusion, and a twisted sense of inevitability, Pecco closed the distance between them. His hands grabbed Marco’s face roughly, not with tenderness, never with tenderness, but with desperation. Their eyes locked for a brief moment before Pecco crushed their lips together in a kiss that was far from gentle. It was frantic, fueled by unresolved desire and frustration, a collision of need and resentment.

Marco responded instantly, pulling Pecco closer, his hands gripping him with an intensity that bordered on possessive. The kiss was raw, almost violent in its urgency, as if they were trying to reclaim something they’d lost or destroy it altogether. There was no tenderness here, only a desperate need to feel something, anything, even if it hurt.

Pecco’s fingers tangled roughly in Marco’s hair, pulling him closer, and Marco answered with equal force, their bodies pressing together in a way that felt less like a reunion and more like a battle. Every touch, every caress, was a challenge, a test of who could push harder, hold on longer, and neither of them was willing to back down.

The kiss became a way to drown out everything else — the wedding, Domizia, the future. All that mattered was the now, the raw, unfiltered chaos of their connection. Pecco’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind spinning as they kissed with a desperation that felt like it was tearing them apart even as it brought them closer.

But it wasn’t healing anything. It was just a momentary escape, a brief detour into something darker, something that couldn’t last. And Pecco knew, deep down, that once the moment ended, all that would be left was the wreckage they had created together, and the inevitable fallout waiting ahead.

“I’m sorry,” Pecco whispered, pulling away from Marco.

“You're always sorry, amore.” Marco took a few steps forward, backing Pecco into the wall and then there was a hand hooking under his chin, forcing his face up. “The problem is you’re never sorry enough to actually make any changes.”

He tried. God as his witness, he swore he tried. The expectations of him just always seemed to change, they constantly moved the goal posts and he couldn’t keep up. He swore they didn’t seem to do this with anyone but him. They’d already decided he was a failure, a coward, and they were determined to make that a self-fulfilling prophecy.

“I know. I’ll do better. I will.” He knew that he couldn’t. He would never be better, and they’d never accept he was even trying to be better. But if saying it would placate Marco, it was worth lying his ass off about.

Marco didn’t reply, just pulled away with an annoyed sigh. Thankfully Pecco was well versed at this point in distracting Marco from his anger. He knew exactly what would turn this situation around.

He pushed off the wall, allowing himself to kneel on the pavement before Marco. His hands reached to Marco's hips, loosely clinging to his belt.

“Let me make it up to you,” Pecco purred, carefully tugging on Marco's trousers.

Marco huffed, reaching down to slap Pecco's hand away. Initially, Pecco assumed his advances were being rejected, until Marco hissed at him “hands behind your back.”

Pecco gave a relieved sigh, putting his hands behind his back like he was told. As he did so, Marco reached for his belt, undoing it and moving the fabric of his trousers down just enough for his cock to spring free. He was already half hard, clearly Pecco had began to get him fired up. Typical.

“Open your mouth,” Marco ordered, reaching one hand to stroke his cock slightly, trying to coax it to further harden. Pecco did as he was told, letting his mouth hang open, ready and waiting for what Marco intended to give him. Pecco tutted. “Of course you're still so good at doing what you're told, whore.”

Before Pecco could do or say anything in retaliation, Marco surged forward, lining his cock up with his open mouth and thrusting in. With one swift motion, Marco's cock hit the back of his throat, causing Pecco to gag.

There was very little ceremony and certainly no foreplay. Marco grabbed the back of Pecco's head, using his neatly styled curls as an anchor. The thrusts were fast and rough, barely giving Pecco a chance to prepare for the onslaught. He gagged a few more times, needing to get used to having a cock in his mouth after four years without it.

Marco didn’t pause, and Pecco was okay with that. He could handle it, actually he rather enjoyed it. Being dominated, being subservient and submissive. It excited him in ways it probably shouldn’t. The fact his own cock was stirring in his pants was a testament to that.

“Fuck. At least there’s one thing you’re good at,” Marco growled, throwing his head back and shoving himself in as far as he could.

Something about that made Pecco happy. It wasn’t exactly praise, but it was the closest to it he’d gotten from Marco in a long time. He purred around his cock, pushing the flat of his tongue against the length as Marco continued to thrust in and out. The loud groan told Pecco his efforts were appreciated. With Marco setting the pace so thoroughly, it was the only way he could really contribute.

He wasn’t sure how long they were there for, time seemed to mean nothing when he could feel his knees start to ache from where they rubbed against the stone floor. His jaw painfully locked in place as Marco used his mouth. The taste of precum smearing across his tongue with every thrust. Pecco desperately kept his hands clasped together, nails digging into the opposite hand in an attempt to stop himself from reaching down for his own cock. He hadn’t been given permission yet, and he knew Marco would be more than displeased if he disobeyed now.

Suddenly, Marco pulled Pecco forwards, until his nose was touching Marco's pelvis. Hands kept him still in place, as his mouth was filled with cum. The salty taste hit his tongue and the back of his throat immediately. Marco rocked his hips back and forth a couple of more times, before finally pulling out with a wet pop. Pecco closed his eyes and swallowed, hearing the unmistakable sound of fabric.

When Pecco reopened his eyes, Marco was turned away, fiddling with his clothing, replacing his cock in his pants. Pecco gave a happy sigh, and whispered “Ti amo.”

Marco stilled, going completely rigid for a few seconds. He then continued to put himself back into place, completely ignoring what Pecco had just said. It wasn't always like this, but that was okay. Marco didn’t have to say it back, Pecco could vocalise it for the both of them.

“I need to go talk to Vale, give some lame ass excuse as to why we'll be gone a while longer,” Marco snarled, finally turning back to Pecco and pointing at his face. “You will go to the grooms room and wait for me to return. I am not done with you. If I find out you have left at any point, you will regret it.”

Pecco took the hand in front of him, pulling it to his mouth as he kissed Marco's knuckles. “I’ll wait for you.”

Marco gave a cruel laugh, the sort where it was clear that Pecco was exactly where the other man wanted him. He patted Pecco's face a couple of times, the man leaning into it, begging for more, before straightening himself out, and striding towards the door.

With a slam of the door, Marco was back inside, and Pecco was left still kneeling on the floor, waiting a second before rushing to where he'd been told to wait.

He smiled to himself, letting himself lean back against the back of the sofa. He held his hands to his chest, as if his feelings were so large they were about to burst out, and this was the only way to keep them contained.

But… there were no feelings.

There were no butterflies, no heart palpitations, no feelings of breathlessness. All he felt was a deep sinking emptiness. Like his chest was completely void, his entire soul having been carved out of his body. His hand curled up into a fist, taking a deep breath to try and ground himself.

This was fine. Everything was fine. This was just how he felt after every encounter they had, he was used to it by now. He’d wanted it this way. Sure, Marco wouldn’t say those three simple words back to him anymore, but that was just what Marco was like. He couldn’t say them, he couldn’t show affection because if anyone found out it would be seen as a weakness. Right? People change in four years. It's possible he just doesn't like physical touch anymore. That would explain everything.

Yet Pecco could not deny that he craved it. He craved Marco telling him he loved him. He craved soft touches and lazy mornings. Just the two of them holding each other close. Maybe if he was lucky, when Domizia was away, he’d get what he wanted.

He closed his eyes, ignoring the hollowness and the tears that rolled down his cheeks, and imagined a future where he and Marco did not have to hide anymore, one where he manned up and proposed to Marco. One where he didn't just promise his life to a lie.

“Do you, Francesco Bagnaia take Domizia Castagnini to be your lawfully wedded wife.”

No. That's what he should've said. That was the one word he needed to utter to be free. He swallowed it.

But what could he say? He couldn’t voice displeasure at the idea, that would just earn him even more trouble. He's the one that proposed. Even if he only asked for Domizia's hand in marriage out of fear, it was now his life and he'd have to suck it up.

And really, he should be thankful that Marco had kept quiet all these years. As in love as he was with Marco, sometimes the way the man made every action he took towards Pecco into some weird power play made Pecco's skin crawl. So, at the very least, for now Marco didn’t have that kind of control over his life.

New Years Eve, 2020. He spent the first 45 minutes of the last hour of the year in some disgusting motel room by the bar every one of his friends had gathered at.

“Fucking take it, you slut!”

Pecco hissed as the man thrust inside him with speed and power. The man was holding Pecco's wrists above his head with one hand, the other being used to occasionally grope and slap various parts of Pecco's body. The problem was this man was obviously still holding back somewhat, and Pecco did not want that. He wanted to be absolutely ruined by this man. He needed it. One last time. If he couldn't have Marco he needed someone to be at least half as cruel as him.

He didn’t know the man’s name. He never knew the names of anyone he slept with, besides Marco, and he was just fine with that. In turn, they never knew his name either, in this setting he was exclusively known as either slut, or whore, or bitch. He made sure to find men who just wanted one night of rough no-holds-barred sex. One night where they could be as degrading as they wanted to be, because that’s exactly what Francesco Bagnaia desired. He was tough enough to take anything they could throw at him.

Which is why it was annoying to him that this man was clearly holding back.

“Is this all you’ve got?” Pecco taunted, rolling his hips in time to the man’s thrust. When he saw the way the man’s face warped into displeasure, he knew he was about to get the reaction he wanted. “I can barely feel anything.”

The man responded by slamming the palm on his hand against Pecco's face, hard enough to make Pecco's head snap to one side. Marco hit harder.

Pecco laughed, “that’s more like it.”

“Fuck, you’re disgusting,” the man groaned, grabbing Pecco's chin and forcing him to look at him again. “You really just want to be used as an object, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Pecco replied with a dreamy sigh, a lewd moan escaping his lips as the man's cock hit his prostate. God he was so close, he just needed a little more.

The man pressed Pecco's wrists harder against the mattress, free hand roaming Pecco's body, now with renewed purpose. Feeling at Pecco's pecs, the touch was far more demanding, hard enough that it could possibly leave marks or bruises. Plucking at Pecco's nipples and stretching them far longer than he should have. Running his nails down his sides, hard enough that Pecco could feel blood bead from where the skin split. Occasionally returning to Pecco's face to slap him again.

This is what he needed. This is what he deserved.

All it took was one more hard thrust and Pecco was coming. He arched his back off the bed and groaned. The man didn’t stop though, just kept thrusting and chasing his own pleasure. It was only when he gave a loud groan that Pecco knew he’d also reached orgasm. There was no feeling of being filled, the condom made sure of that. He would forever be thankful to Vale for pulling him aside as a teenager and teaching him of the dangers sex could present. No one else would have done so.

The man jerked his hips back and forth a couple more times, Pecco could feel him growing soft inside him. Eventually, he released Pecco's wrists, pulling out and away.

Pecco lowered his arms to cover his face, making a satisfied noise. It had taken some provoking, but he’d gotten what he wanted in the end. He smiled to himself, panting and really soaking in the afterglow. The pleasure was still there, deep in his stomach, even as various parts of him began to ache from the rough treatment. That just amplified the bliss for him.

He was brought out of his stupor when he heard the sound of fabric rustling. He brought his arms down and shifted onto his side, watching as the man collected his clothes off the floor and began to put them back on. Pecco pouted slightly.

“Not going to stay for a second round?” Pecco questioned, resting his head on his hand and giving the most smolderingly lustful look he could give at that moment.

The man gave a tut and replied with “fucking hell, a bit insatiable, aren’t you?”

“So I’ve been told.” And he had. By many of the men he’d spent a night with. Thankfully a lot of them were as sexually hungry as he was, and were more than willing to go all night until Pecco just couldn’t physically handle any more.

“I have work in the morning,” the man explained, and Pecco couldn’t help but feel it was a weak excuse. Who goes out to a bar on a night they have to go to work? “So… Yeah.”

“Right. That's… fine.” He tried not to sound disappointed. He was, but he didn’t want it to show. It’d been a while since he found someone up for an all nighter, and he’d hoped this would be one. But hey. When exactly did Pecco ever get what he wanted? “Thanks for the night.”

“Uh. Yeah, you too.” The man finished putting his clothes on, doing an awkward half bow and half wave as he turned to leave out the door. Pecco watched him go, no point in chasing after someone who didn’t want to be there, especially someone Pecco had no intent on ever seeing again after that night.

But now, he was left alone in his room with only his thoughts for company.

And quite frankly, they tended to be fucking awful company.

His breathing hitched and his eyes began to sting. When he blinked to clear his eyes, he felt tears rolling down his face. This was so pathetic. He was a grown man crying over the fact that he was alone.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” he muttered to himself, placing his palm against his forehead. “So stupid.”

He closed his eyes, chanting the words so stupid to himself like a fucked up lullaby, waiting for sleep to claim him so that maybe in the morning he wouldn’t feel like such a piece of shit.

Suddenly Marco was behind him, pulling him out of his thoughts as he began holding his waist and resting his mouth near his ear, huffing softly before licking the lobe and nibbling. Every time his teeth scrape against skin, his mind flourishes like a flower finding the sun.

Pecco would look nice strung up with cords or ribbon or wire.

Body jittering as he struggles to breathe.

Skin would split and the sharp smell of iron would spill out, intermingling with the sticky perfume of cum and spit. He's pretty when he cries, so damn pretty — tears spilling over flushed cheeks, pouty lips quivering and glistening while he gasps for mercy, gasps for kindness, and then Marco will sink his fingers into his hips and fucks him so hard all he can do is scream and sob—

Pecco blinks, returning to himself as he hears the younger man speak up. "Missed me?"

Pecco's gone quiet, subdued in a way that makes his blood rush to his cock. "Yeah."

"I missed you," He repeats hoarsely, shifting so he was in Marco's lap in a manner he's come to understand as 'fuck me.'"Can we—I want—"

He has this problem where words seem to escape him whenever he's horny. Not that he needs any, honestly. Marco can tell exactly what he wants without needing a single word. He can always tell.

Still. It would help. Just a little. Or maybe he just wants to hear Pecco ask for it. It could go either way.

"Use your words," Marco says quietly, turning his head to suck on Pecco's neck. Pecco shivers, arms looping around his shoulders and yanking him closer, panting into his ear and clutching tightly.

"Bez, c'mon," He rasps, humping his leg, already so worked up even though all Marco's done is suck his neck. He grinds his clothed cock against Marco's thigh as hard as he can, to the point where starbursts of pain scatter across the nerve endings of his lower body because Pecco has always liked it best when it burned, just a little. He gasps, muscles straining as he works. "Please."

Marco's gaze is coolly appraising. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say Marco had forgotten how to speak, all higher thinking taking a backseat. It makes Pecco shudder to be seen like that. Taken apart, skin and blood and gore strewn across the table. An animal on display.

And then, a gentle hand slides down, past the hem of his pants and into his underwear, squeezing his cock. Squeezes and squeezes till Pecco's yelping and whimpering like a trembling, bleeding little thing. And still, he doesn't pull away — legs shaking, eyes watering, cock throbbing, and he doesn't pull away. Stupid, foolish boy.

"Is this what you want?" Marco asks, a little softer. When he strokes, Pecco almost crumples, folding onto himself and pressing his forehead against Marco's nape.

There's an almost soundless cry of relief. He sounds like a wounded animal. Marco presses closer, wrapping his free arm around Pecco waist and nosing his jaw.

"Bez," Pecco says, like a curse, like a prayer, like it's the only thing he knows and it might as well be, "Marco, Marco, Ma—" His hips buck up into the tightness of Marco's fist. No need for lube. Pecco leaks enough to make the glide easier. Wet as a girl, dripping everywhere.

"Cum for me," Marco whispers in Pecco's ear, rubbing his erection against Pecco's ass and exhaling sharply. "And I'll fuck you. You want that? You want me to fuck you?"

"Yes," Pecco moans, tossing his head back when Marco thumbs the slit. "Sì, sì, yes, Marco, please, please—" He digs his nails into Marco's arms, wailing as he cums, his release painting Marco's hand in a pretty, pearly white. He slumps and keens, babbling incoherently into Marco's shoulder, pawing weakly at him. "Please, fuck me. Please. It hurts. I can't, I can't, please—"

Inhale.

Exhale.

And then he's picking Pecco up, gripping the back of the sofa and forcing his back into an arch before bending over and pressing his hand against Pecco's neck, growling, biting back a groan when Pecco struggles fruitlessly beneath him, crying and squirming. There's an odd thoughtfulness within this mindless, instinctual brutality.

He ruts against his ass, purring, burying his face in his neck. He drags his hand lower, below his waist, and shoves down Pecco's dress pants and underwear so it's hooked in between his ankles, watching dispassionately as his skin jumps, muscle twitching.

Pecco looks over his shoulder, dark pupils swallowing the usual warm brown. There's a shine in those eyes, along with the glistening of tears. A bratty sort of light, daring Marco to do his worst.

Ah, his hands twitch, already knowing the right placement. The right angle.

His cock is thick and heavy and drools a decent amount. He inspects Pecco's hole, thumbing the rim. It’s slick, a bit loose. Pecco fingerfucked himself earlier.

Good.

He slams inside with no warning and doesn't stop till he bottoms out, filling him to the brim. It's tight and a little dry but Marco merely spits on his fluttering hole, rocking in deeper, as though he wants to carve out a space in Pecco's insides, made solely for him.

Pecco's legs tremble and kick out, catching in his restrained clothes, wriggling to find an escape, but there's none, and he only ends up sliding down to the floor, caught on the sofa.

Pecco shrieks, the noise tearing through his throat and reverberating off the walls. His hole spasms, attempting to reject the foreign object, but Marco forces himself inside, deeper, till there's no space between them, till Marco is balls-deep in Pecco's guts, panting into his nape.

"Always so fuckin' tight," He hisses out through his teeth, looking down to spread Pecco's cheeks, watching his hole clench around the length of Marco's cock.

"Hurts," Pecco cries, tears and spit and sweat, and then he's clawing at the sofa, fingers curling and nails scraping as Marco thrusts into him, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. "I can't, I can't, I can't—"

"You can," Marco breathes, pulling out and pushing in, grunting with the effort, and Pecco sobs, body jerking like a puppet on strings, unable to do anything but lie there and take it. Marco coos at him then, hands sliding up Pecco's shirt and tugging on his nipples, rolling and pinching, forcing him up so that Pecco's head rests on his shoulder, mouth wide open and eyes rolled into the back of his head, whining. "Pretty baby, pretty puppy—"

"All you want is my cock, eh?" Marco whispers in his ear, so achingly venomous that it's hard to believe he has even a shred of humanity in him. "Just a hole for me to fuck? For me to breed? Is that what you want, amore? Hm?" He sneaks a hand to Pecco's cock, tugging on it firmly, reveling in the sounds Pecco makes, pathetic and high and distraught. "Answer me."

He smacks a hand against Pecco's ass. Once, twice, until he's choking, until his words are a stammered mess, unable to tell fantasy and reality apart. His eyes are glassy and wide, lips spit-slicked and tongue lolling out. He struggles to reply, sounds only barely discernable.

Marco slams his head onto the back of the sofa and continues fucking like a machine, uncaring for the way Pecco shakes and squeals, his stomach swollen and abdomen bulging from the outline of Marco's dick. They both know what he's doing and that makes it worse because they’re both letting it happen. "Or is this good enough? You think you deserve this much attention?"

His nails dig into the skin of Pecco's thigh and pulls, leaving behind scratches that'll probably scab over in a few days or so — until they're torn again by another violent fuckfest when the older man inevitably comes crawling back because fucking Domi doesn't get him off this much. "You think you're fucking special? Huh, puppy?"

"M'sorry," Pecco manages to slur, seeking warmth while the rest of his world catches fire. "Sorry, sorry, 'm sorr— ungh—"

"You wanna be stuffed, huh?" Marco's grip on the base of Pecco's neck tightens, to the point where he can't breathe, and whatever coherency he had left flies straight out the window and into the well. "Bet I could put a few pups in here. You'd be a good mama, right? Then every time I miss you, I'd knock you up, stuff your hole full of my cum and you wouldn't be able to get away. How about that? You'd like that wouldn't you, slut?"

Pecco wheezes, cum dribbling out of his spent cock, coating Marco's hand and the material under him. There's an embarrassing, hysterical tinge to his tone, a shrill screech in the background.

He howls, shuddering. "Yes, yes, please, wanna be full— m'sorry, sorry, m'so empty, wanna be full, wanna be a m-mama, please, please—"

Oh? Well, that's new. And interesting. And so fucking hot that Marco nearly cums. But they can't have that, no, no. Pecco doesn't deserve it just yet. He's gotta have his brains fucked out first.

"Don't worry," He slows his pace so his words are clear and precise, even and calm, punctuating each word with a thrust, "I'll fix it. I’ll help you."

Pecco's noises dissolve into garbled sounds and quiet whines. It's cute when he gets like this. Incapable of speech, babbling, and warbling.

Marco wishes he had a camera. Would film this so he could replay it every fucking day and feel it all over again. Take pictures and frame them on the goddamn walls because Pecco may be a goddamn nightmare but he's so perfect that it hurts.

"You'd make a good mama, yeah?" Marco sighs, watching his cock sink into Pecco's ass, languid and easy. His orgasm's close, just barely out of reach. Pecco seems to feel it too, if the way he clenches down eagerly means anything. Such a sweet little thing. Marco needs to stop him before he goes and spoils it all. "Yeah, so fuckin' pretty, you'd be all mine then. Domizia wouldn't want anything to do with you if she knew how much you love being bitched and bred by me."

"Please," He croaks.

And maybe it's the way his hole flutters. Maybe it's the quiet plea. Maybe it's the way Pecco just exists for him. Whatever it is sends Marco over the edge, groaning a guttural sound, pressing his cock deep inside, hips twitching as he cums. Pecco shouts and weeps and claws at whatever's in reach, blissed out at the feeling of being filled and warm for what feels like the first time in forever.

Marco only indulges him once, petting his sweaty hair as he pulls out. Cum drips out of Pecco's hole, gaping and swollen. Marco thinks he looks best like this. Helpless. Legs spread. Full.

After that, he pulls Pecco over his lap, tapping his fingers against his quivering back to gain his attention. Pecco lifts his head and eyes Marco's fingers, licking his bitten, bloody lips. There's drool running down the side of his mouth and the only indication that he's alive are the short pants leaving his lungs, small and mouselike.

He reaches out, begging for Marco's fingers, swiping against his skin and watching, intrigued.

"Open up."

Pecco parts his mouth, allowing two fingers to be pressed onto his tongue, obedient and pliant. Marco smiles at him like one would smile at an infant. He wipes the excess spit and cum from his hole, smearing them around before inserting his now spit soaked fingers and making sure the rest of his cum stays in. He helps Marco onto his side, kissing his flushed cheek and the corner of his lips.

"Good boy," He murmurs, eyes shut as he breathes him in, fruity and sweet. He smells like ambrosia. Tastes like divinity. All you have to do is sink your teeth in deep enough to reach the center. Pecco turns his head so that his nose skates against his stubbly jaw, keening. This is the closest someone can be to a god. A filthy sort of holiness. "So fucking good."

Pecco hums happily in response, eyes closing. He's asleep the second Marco begins to run his fingers through his hair. The exhaustion begins to creep up on him too and he finds himself dead to the world soon after.

When he wakes, he's lying on the couch with his arm numb and Pecco curled up between his legs, cheek pressed to his chest. He grimaces at the sensation of pins and needles flittering up and down the length of his arm but doesn't move.

It feels oddly domestic. It makes him think of having children, and that's the kind of future that no longer works. He can't have a wife and a white-picket fence when he dreams of violence and sex and fucking Pecco till he breaks. He can't have any of it. He'll never understand how easy it is for Pecco to live a lie.

But when Pecco blinks dazedly and turns his face up, sleepy and smiling — when he greets Marco with a shy, "Hi," Marco almost wishes he could.

Instead, Marco forces a smile, ignoring the twist in his gut. "You’ve got ten minutes until the reception starts. Better get dressed."

Pecco blinks again, confusion clouding his expression for a moment before realization hits. He sits up quickly, disentangling himself from Marco, the warmth of his body abruptly gone as he rubs his eyes. "Shit. Ten minutes? I’ve got to—" He stumbles off the couch, glancing around the room for his change of clothes, panic flashing in his eyes. He throws on his shirt hastily, his movements frantic.

As he fumbles with the buttons, Pecco glances back at Marco, a question lingering in the air before he finally asks, "Are you… coming?"

Marco shakes his head, standing up and stretching out his stiff limbs. "No. I’m leaving now."

The words hang in the air, and Pecco freezes mid-button, his expression faltering. "You’re… leaving?"

Marco nods, avoiding Pecco’s gaze as he moves to the door, pulling on his jacket. "This isn’t my scene, Pecco. Never was." His tone is clipped, final, as if there’s nothing more to say.

Pecco watches him for a moment, uncertainty and hurt flashing across his face before he swallows it down. He nods slowly, turning his attention back to the buttons on his shirt, his movements slower, more deliberate now. "Right. I guess… I’ll see you around then."

Marco pauses at the door, his hand on the handle. He looks back at Pecco, still struggling with the last few buttons. For a moment, he considers staying, considers following Pecco back to the reception and pretending that any of this could ever be normal. But he knows better. They both do.

"Yeah," Marco says quietly. "See you around."

And with that, he walks out, leaving Pecco alone to face the lie he’s chosen to live.

Marco walks down the hallway, the sounds of the wedding reception muted behind him as the door closes. His footsteps echo in the empty corridor, each step taking him farther away from Pecco and the tangled mess they’ve made of everything. He doesn’t look back. He knows if he does, he might not be able to keep walking.

Outside, the night air hits him like a slap, cold and bracing. The sky is clear, stars scattered across the darkness, indifferent to the chaos that churns inside him. Marco lights a cigarette. He doesn't smoke, he's always thought it was stupid. He bought the pack as a joke at least a month ago. He never thought he'd resort to actually smoking one of thesr disgusting things. Either way, the sharp inhale grounded him momentarily. He stood there, letting the smoke fill his lungs, trying to focus on anything but the weight pressing down on his chest.

The wedding. The lie. The life Pecco is so desperate to live, even though Marco knows it’s all wrong. He flicks the cigarette away, watching as the tiny ember burns out in the gravel. He feels like that too — something small and burning out, insignificant against the bigger picture.

But it doesn’t stop the anger, the resentment that’s simmering beneath the surface. How can Pecco just… pretend? How can he lie to himself and to everyone else? Marco grits his teeth, shoving his hands into his pockets as he starts walking again, each step feeling heavier than the last.

In the distance, he can hear the faint sound of music drifting from the reception. Laughter, clinking glasses, the celebration of something Marco can’t even begin to comprehend. Pecco’s world, all wrapped up in neat little boxes, while Marco’s is chaos, fire, and everything that doesn’t fit.

He knows he should leave, disappear into the night and let Pecco deal with the mess he’s made. But a part of him — the part that’s still raw and aching — wants to turn around, wants to grab Pecco and make him see that this isn’t the life he should be living. That their fucked-up connection, as disgusting as it is, is more real than anything Pecco has with Domizia.

But he doesn’t turn around. He keeps walking, because he knows this isn’t a fight he can win. Pecco has already made his choice. Already said I do. And Marco… Marco is just a reminder of everything Pecco is trying to forget.

By the time Marco reaches his car, his hands are shaking. He pulls the keys from his pocket, cursing under his breath as they slip from his grip. He bends down to pick them up, taking a deep breath to steady himself before unlocking the door and sliding into the driver’s seat.

As he sits there, the quiet settling around him, Marco realizes something. It’s not just that Pecco is lying to himself. It’s that Marco wanted to believe the lie too. He wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could have something normal. That they could be something other than this toxic mess they’ve always been.

But that’s not who they are. And no matter how much Marco wants it to be different, it never will be.

With a sigh, Marco starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot. He doesn’t look back as

[crumbs-and-creatures-bios]

TLDR: THIS IS FOR MY SILLY AU CUS I NEED SOME WAY TO LOG ALL THESE BIOS EASIER

Current list of finished default sprite edits(Needs bios done)

Mozzarella

Hollyberry

Yew(Princess)

Wildberry

Snapdragon

Clotted Cream

Milky Way

List of cookies to make sprites for(Any requested cookies)

Pumpkin Pie (Started)(Is being difficult)

Shadow Milk

Burning Spice

Shining Glitter

Blueberry Pie

Butter Roll

Crunchy Chip

Tag list below read more

/./ Games /./

cookie run ovenbreak

Cookie Run Kingdom

Cookie Run tower of adventures

cookie run witches castle

cookie run ovensmash

/./ Species /./

☙ god/deities

🌟 godbeast

🌋 fire beast

🦈 seabeast

🦋 faerie

❄ shivering sunbeast/snow lion

☀ sweltering sunbeast/sphinx

☃ yeti

🐉 dragon

🍪 cookie

🧹witch/witch cookie/wizard/actual human

⚟ triform

🐺 werewolf

🦇 vampire

🐟 mermaid

🪦undead

🧟 zombie

🦴 skeleton

👻 ghost

🪽 avian

🔌 artificial life

🎌 hybrid/tribrid

/./ Kingdoms /./

🪢Unity

🍓 Poisonberry

🍫Bitterdough

🌻 Old Vanilla

💐 Flowering

🥀 Darkland

🌳 Faerie

🫓 Crème Republic 

🍦 Yogurcia

🧀 New Golden Cheese

🐲 Dragon Valley

/./ Villages, Towns, Tribes, Clans /./

Rambutan Village

Urchin Clan

/./ Other stuff /./

✵ Otherkin

👑 Royalty

/./ Bio status stuff /./

✔️ Finished

🚧 Unfinished

🛠️ Needs spare sprites

🔗 Needs links added

[bellysoupset]

Okay Soup, but now I'm curious, what smells do your OCs like the most? I know what scents they wear, but this...also any scents that make them downright sick?👀

Also a fun fact: whenever I want to write "like" my autocorrect goes "Luke" instead

@writing-whump

💕💕💕 i love your autocorrect, it know what's up!

(for real tho, I turned mine off because it kept trying to fill in with bellysoupset when I typed "be" and it was making me sooo paranoid)

So I didn't know the answer to this until I typed! Enjoy:

Bella: Anything mint! And the smell of the ocean, take this woman to the beach!! Bella also loves the smell of hair dye/bleach, it reminds her of home!

Luke: Coffee. He adores the smell of coffee, but he actually doesn't drink coffee because it upsets his tummy and makes him jittery😭 He loves cinnamon smell and whenever Bell wears any gloss cinnamon scented he's all over her. Freshly cut grass because of his field days!

Jonah: Adores the scent of freshly pressed clothes, with clothing softener, specifically cotton ones. He also loves the rubbing alcohol smell that all hospitals seem to have, Jonah is absolutely the type of person to apply hand sanitizer multiple times a day, just because of the smell (this means he uses a heavy duty hand cream at home and Leo kinda hates how sticky it makes his hands right before bed lol)

Leo: BOOKS! The older, the better! Leo is not even the biggest bookworm of the group, but he loves the smell of old dusty books. Anything that smells rotten like... fruity? Idk how to describe it, real people know that rotten weirdly sweet smell, is enough to make Leo GAG. In fact, bananas don't make it to their place because Leo thinks they're super gross when they start turning brown.

Wendy: She loves the smell of flowers! Her place always has fresh ones, jasmines, lilies and peonies, and by coincidence Vince's after shave is lavender scented and she's FERAL about it. Wendy hates the smell of sunscreen, but exclusively because that's what her mom's clinic smelt like and she has a lot of bad memories tied to home.

Vince: That kitchen smell of garlic, onions, basil and olive oil will never not make this man extremely happy. He also really likes the smell of nail polish, so he doesn't mind one bit painting Wen's nails for her, unfortunately she rarely asks 😭. (Little detail, Wendy does not have nail art even though she adores it, because she works in healthcare. She keeps them quite short and just with a thin coat of glitter. )

Max: Max is a pyromaniac at heart, so he loves the smell of a freshly blown candle, of fireplaces, but also GASOLINE. Inhaling that stuff like a crazy person. He likes the sea as well, like Bella does, that salty water smell. Hates when things are too sweet, such as those artificial strawberry scent/flavor in lollipops, just makes him shudder.

[noobsomeexagerjunk]

Personal QSMP design hcs and interpretations (PART 2)

9. q!Maximus

human. probably.

more or less the CC in the blockman-cubito's clothes

Ordo Theoritas symbol is on his headband he usually wears

a friend and follower of Sapo Peta, through him learning the ability to charm people into perceiving him differently (Biden) as well as perform minor shapeshifting (Valentina). This comes with the price of occasional possession by Sapo Peta himself (see JuanaFlippa trial)

has tattoos that mark this connection that glow whenever he exerts significant stress. can only otherwise be seen under blacklight (like in Las Casualonas!)

Max paints matching markings on Trump everytime they see each other to bless his son with protection. After Trump's death, he permanently marked his son's gravesite.

Actually he has a habit of doing this to things dear to him. He has debated placing said markings on SOFIA but decided against it just in case

keeps dandelions in his pockets in honor of Trump

Has sustained scars after being attacked by the binary entity

10. q!Philza

quite literally an angel of death. one of Goddess Misstrixin's many dedicated servants. in this universe they're in an open marriage

winged humanoid. has pointed ears, kaleidoscope irises, and a voice he can magically augment and shift to his will (speak w/ increased reverb)

he wears those beachy, vacation silk kimonos in his signature dark mint green color, alongside a matching bucket hat. under that is a sleeveless black swim suit with enchanting table embroidery

his wings are bird-like, black with a few iridescent feathers that glow red when he goes full angel. he's had carved emerald piercings placed on them for decoration and tribute to a friend long gone after getting clipped. if he cant properly fly for now, he might as well indulge a little

magical carved rubies are all over his person, shaped to resemble hardcore hearts. these glow when he fights or is about to do something powerful

Chayanne has one of these hardcore heart rubies and has incorporated it in his wear to match his papa

11. q!Forever

humanoid of unidentifiable species. perceived as human

Looks human minus the pointy ears and visible canines. Also demonstrates superhuman stamina and endurance, so uh

Dyed his hair blonde for the cosplay, with brunette roots showing

He has a rainbow of beach shorts and casual slippers to wear

very hairy man, refuses to shave

has an organic and extensive skin care routine; Richas likes the hugs from his soft skin

his tears are full of glitter and taste like soda pop

12. q!Baghera

anthromorphic duck person; the vibes are disney ducks crossed with big bird from seasame street

has a large messy feathery floof on her head stylized to resemble the CC's own hair

MC skin's hat + matching athleisure fashion. she is always drippy

some of her feathers are dyed to match the colors of her hat as accents

smells like the artificial fruit smells found in candy

Gave one of her feathers to Pomme as a token of remembrance

13. q!Missa

player equivalent to a skeleton. is a mismatched arrangement of regular bones and wither skeleton bones.

the mismatch is why he can be quite clumsy

under those robes, he is being held together by raw magic and wither rose vines. he has short black hair.

his bones have flower and butterfly engraving that glow aurora borealis colors under blacklight or when he's about to fight

fond of somewhat street hoodies and sweaters over draping robes.

there are sneakers under those robes, wander over yonder style

a lot of the drapery is held together by armor, an aesthetic Chayanne picked up for his own wear

the spaces between the bones double as extensions of his natural inventory space; they make good spots for hiding secret weapons!

14. q!Fit

human man who has seen it all. a mortal with the soul of an immortal

he is covered in scars from his previous adventures in 2b2t

currently in his clean shaven era, which includes not only being bald but shaving the most of his body hair to the point where his muscles sparkle like his head

A practical dresser but is a slut for fancy animal furs. Ramón shares this love for furs as well

Works out in his gym and is visibly getting more swole by the day

Loves showing off, especially if it involves Ramón's own work

15-16. q!Tazercraft (q!Pac & q!Mike)

Both human. Do not separate!

Pac and Mike are soul-bonded but they forgot they about it upon coming onto the island. (they also forgot the magical perks that come with that) This doesn't negate their package-deal relationship in anyway

Experimentation in the QSMP Chume Labs has made them increasingly susseptible to Murphy's Law for some reason. The island itself is not helping either

Pac likes to dress up while Mike will literally pick up the nearest piece of clothing. On occasion they will swap clothes

Despite the above, Mike is usually in safety gear more often than Pac during labwork, especially after the sting of Richarlyson's first life loss

They both have a picture of Richas in their pockets to look at whenever they're at work

They have telepathic communication powers but only with each other. Sometimes they can be caught just staring at each other when they are really arguing in each other's heads

17. q!Etoiles

anthromorphic cucumber!

the pattern of green on his body is composed of tiny little stars that are galaxy-like

has hair, a beard and glasses cartoon character style. He also has rubberhose limbs that can muscle up when he's fighting

under the glasses, his eyes are smudged over with a smoky powder that extends to resemble a blind-fold bandana mask thing. The eyes glow white during fights

wears the clothes of the blockman-cubito + armor

His armor is engraved with star shapes and space imagery

While in love with the thrill of adventure, he loves talking culture with Pomme just as much

part 1!

[peabah]

Amy Yao

Untitled, 2023

Artificial flowers, plexiglass, steel, epoxy and glitter 150 × 75 × 11 cm (59 × 29 1/2 × 4 3/8 inches)