#frosted vinyl for glass

[ishatechadvertisingbd]

Frosted Glass Sticker Design, Printing, and pasting service in Dhaka. Phone - 01844542499

[roaringcersei]

Seattle Modern Exterior Large minimalist white three-story vinyl exterior home photo

[ramblegalore]

Wood in Seattle Large trendy gray two-story wood flat roof photo

[syoddeye]

Unknowns. Price & Reader.

let loss reveal it cw: referenced addiction , alcohol mention

You don’t expect it.

The message comes through while you’re folding laundry, a steady snowfall frosting the window panes. Your phone is half-buried under a pile of socks, and you nearly miss the buzz.

>> Hey.

You stare at the screen for a moment longer than you should, trying not to read too much into it. Then, another:  

>> Got a minute?  

You do. Of course you do. Your wild and thrilling Saturday night consists of delicates and mismatched socks, with Parts Unknown in the background. Daydreaming of eating seafood out of Bourdain’s hands in Naxos. You’re not even halfway through the chore or the episode.

> sure, what’s up?  

The three dots appear, then disappear. Long enough to make you wonder if he’s going to back out of whatever he needs. But then:  

>> Could we meet?  

A dozen thoughts flash through your mind. 

Is he in trouble? About to drink? Already has? 

You should forward him up the ‘chain’. Someone who knows what they’re doing like Donovan or Robel. But, he reached out to you. And to your knowledge, this is the first time he’s reached out to anyone. That’s not an easy decision to make, and he’s chosen you.

No pressure.

> yeah. where? now? 

Again, a pause. Then:  

>> Don’t know. Somewhere quiet. Closer to you is fine. Preferably ASAP.

ASAP. 

Hoping you don’t come to regret it, you send the name of a pizza place a few blocks from your flat. Small, nothing fancy. This time of night it should be safe.

> i’ll be there in 20.  

You don’t expect a response, but one comes as you change out of sweats:  

>> Thank you.

John’s already there when you arrive. You recognize his car.

The snow’s slowed, but the evening’s damp and cold, and plasters your hood to your head. John’s sitting near the back, away from the windows, shoulders hunched slightly. He’s a big man to shrink himself like that. His coat’s folded over the back of the booth, and his hands are wrapped around a glass of water, half-empty.

You don’t smell anything besides the pizza.

He doesn’t look up until you’re standing at the edge of the table.

“Hello,” you say softly. “You alright?”

He glances up, tired but alert, and offers the barest smile. “Evening. Fine and you?”

“Fine.” You peel your hood off and unbundle while he waves the lone server over, whom you seem to upset when you only order water and a slice of cheese.

You slide into the seat across from him, the cracked vinyl sinking under your weight, and toss your coat aside. He looks…beat. Frayed at the edges like he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days. He looks like that a lot, actually. Most times you see him. You don’t ask, though. He’s firmly established himself as the type who likes his privacy, and, knowing how it feels to be badgered, you keep your mouth shut.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Of course.”

A beat of silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable but not warm and fuzzy, either. You don’t know the man in front of you. Not a thing beyond his name, what little he’s shared, and your assumptions. 

And yet, out of all the numbers he must have collected over the months—he called you. 

Boggles the mind, truly.

He clears his throat.

“Had a rough week at work,” he starts. “Lot of bad shit. Was hoping to…” He pauses, jaw tightening, and when he speaks again, he’s quieter. “Could you just…talk?”  

Talk. Huh.

“Talk about…?”

“Anything.” His fingers drum against the side of the glass. “I need to hear someone…normal speak.” He shakes his head, a dry, breathy sound slipping out. Not quite a laugh. “I don’t know,” he mutters, eyes narrowing, not at you, but like he’s annoyed with himself for not knowing how to ask for what he needs. “Start with your day. Big stuff. Small stuff. Whatever you’ve got.”

You choose to ignore the pointed use of ‘normal’ and push aside a pitying ache that creeps in. He doesn’t need that.

“Alright. Talking.” you say, leaning back slightly, folding your hands in your lap. You smile a little, trying to lift his spirits. “But stop me if I veer into no-go territory.”

And so you talk. About the mundane and pointless things that don’t matter. Details you wouldn���t even note in your journal.

Like how the neighbor’s cat has taken to sneaking into your garden again, flattening your pot of herbs to bask in the sunlight. How you spilled coffee all over yourself this morning and had to change your shirt, which made you miss your bus. Sneaking through the back door at work to avoid your supervisor. And then, how you picked up an early shift tomorrow because your coworker begged and bribed you with a free lunch.

John interrupts you once, at that part. “And does your job know? The folks you work with?”

The meaning is clear, tucked carefully between the lines. 

Like so much of what’s said within your circle—coded in half-truths and omissions, a language rooted in shame. You’ve been told that, eventually, you’ll outgrow it. That once you’re far enough along, you’ll feel comfortable speaking more openly. But you’re not there yet.

You shake your head. “No. They don’t know.”

John nods. A slow, knowing motion. No judgment, only understanding.

Your cue to continue.

You weave the small threads of your day into something light, inconsequential, a boring tapestry of nothing meant only to fill the space. And somewhere along the way, it works. His shoulders lose tension. His fingers still against his glass. He doesn’t speak, but his gaze drifts, landing on the streetlamp outside the window. There’s something almost remarkable about it. Like you’ve lulled him into a trance.

But the spell breaks with the jingle of the door. A group of unmistakably drunk younger men spill inside, loud and unsteady on their feet, their laughter like jackals. The scent pungent and unmistakable.

It smells disgusting. Yet—

John snaps back to attention.

His posture shifts, straightens. Shoulders squared, spine stiff. His eyes flick to you first, then over your shoulder, and he flexes his fingers around his glass.

You try to keep talking, pretend not to notice, but the change in volume makes it difficult. The conversation behind you grows, overlapping in raucous amusement. Your words falter, trailing off.

The men aren’t paying either of you any mind—too caught up in their own world, slurring jokes that probably aren’t all that funny. But John watches anyway, and it’s a whole new side of him. Purpose to his stern gaze. It conjures another dozen questions.

His fingers tap once against the side of his glass before he exhales, “You set? Think I need to leave.”

“Yep. Same.”

Though he gets his coat on quicker, he waits and makes you walk ahead of him. The men haven’t done a thing besides exist obnoxiously, but you’ve got more than an inkling that John isn’t the kind of man to take chances anyway.

You guess that’s why a question finally gets away from you.

“What do you do?” You blurt out while you loiter outside, tightening your hood. Wanting to disappear into your coat.

He doesn’t answer right away, but pulls a cigarette from a pack, eyes meeting yours with an unreadable look. A tired, guarded, and a touch unimpressed stare. You backpedal. 

“If you don’t want to tell me, of course that’s fine–”

“Military.” Oh. “That’s it.” Yeah, that’d do it.

You nod as if you catch his drift. Understand him completely, like a great veil’s been lifted. You rambled on about your gig, from the uniform to the sale on cat food, giving him a glimpse of the happily dull life you lead. And he’s given you three clipped words, shutting down the conversation before it can go any further in that direction.

Progress, though. You add to your internal file. John the addict. The soldier.

“So. Rough week at work.” Christ, why are you still talking? “No wonder you’re tired all the time.”

John huffs a laugh, a wry little grin tugging at his lips as he cups his hand around his lighter, shielding the flame from the wind. He takes a slow drag, and exhales smoke into the night air.

“You got no idea.”

You rock on your heels. The smoke drifts between you, a thin ribbon curling toward the sky and vanishing into the dark.

“I’m guessing you can’t talk about it,” you say. Not really a question.

“No.”

“Is it–” Job related. A safe assumption. He’s probably seen some shit. Done some shit. Lost people. You bite your tongue. “Got it.”

You’re both quiet for a while, standing in the glow of the streetlamp. Snow seeping through your jeans. The pizza place behind you hums with drunken laughter, but out here it’s just the wind and his breath.

“Why me?” you finally work up the nerve to ask. “Out of everyone. Why not Donovan or–”

“Because you’re undemanding. Unassuming.”

You blink. “That’s…a compliment?”

He turns slowly where he stands, scanning the fogged restaurant windows and back around to the emptying streets. “You don’t pry. Don’t try to step in. When you beelined for me that first meeting, I thought you would, but you didn’t.”

You remember. The pull that made you walk straight to him. Not to probe, not to help—just to acknowledge. A hello, not a rescue. Be nice to the new guy and all.

Heat floods your face. No argument there. You had gone straight for him.

“The others at the hall are…well-meanin’,” he grits out as kindly as you think he can. “But they—like everyone else—keep asking if I’ve talked to someone. If I’m eating. Sleeping. And I’m sitting there thinking—fuck’s sake, I’m a grown man. Don’t need someone holding my bloody hand.”

It’s the most emotion you’ve seen out of him, and it’s anger. Frustration. Completely normal, but outside the church, it gives you pause.

Don’t need someone holding my bloody hand. 

That sounds familiar.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur automatically. A buffer. People like hearing apologies, even when they’re not yours to give. 

“Don’t be,” He replies, giving a firm shake of his head. “Not your fault. I just needed to hear someone talk. Not lecture.”

You nod, pulling your zipper as high as it’ll go. “Well. My life is not exactly riveting, but I aim to please.”

That earns an actual chuckle from him, low and brief. He glances at you sidelong. His face pink from the cold.

“Careful,” he says, almost fond. “I might make a habit of this.”

[rottenpumpkin13]

Sephiroth: quiet midnights, gleaming steel, faint incense smoke, the scrape of a whetstone, books lined perfectly on a bookshelf, cold rain against bare skin, polished black leather, bitter ginger tea at dawn, weighted blankets in winter, sharp ice crystals, scratched classical CDs, weathered angel statues with missing wings, sharpened pencils in neat rows, morning fog over empty streets, delicate frost patterns on windowpanes, steel-gray skies before snow, silent films in empty theaters, cat footprints on documents, mathematical equations, unopened mail, clean sword oil, abandoned chess pieces, mint tea leaves.

Genesis: spilled red wine on white papers, chipped maroon nail polish on piano keys, gold bangles clinking against wine glasses, vintage vinyl at dusk, steaming mulled cider with cinnamon sticks, smudged eyeliner after theater rehearsals, leather-bound books with gilded edges, dark chocolate with sea salt breaking under his teeth, dog-eared poetry collections, playing cards scattered across silk sheets, cherry candy staining his tongue red, cologne bottles on antique vanities, melted red candle wax on love letters, fresh ink bleeding through parchment, caramelized apple pie, packed jazz bars at 2am, velvet curtains, stage makeup, worn dance shoes, red leather gloves, theater tickets.

Angeal: petrichor on summer mornings, fresh ground coffee beans, sunrise training sessions, polaroid cameras with worn straps, mismatched lucky keychains, pencil sketches in margins, old photos in cracked leather wallets, soup simmering on stovetops, buzzing radio stations between cities, dappled sunlight through garden leaves, evening cicada songs, autumn leaves crushed underfoot, soft worn flannel shirts, pressed flowers, acoustic guitars, wrinkled maps with coffee stains, soil under fingernails, homemade bread, herb gardens, worn pottery, recipe books, wooden spoons, patched jeans, morning dew, pocket knives.

AGS: loud laughter, discarded pizza boxes, arguments dissolving into jokes, snorted milk, tangled legs under a blanket, whispers in a packed room, empty mugs littered around a table, quiet yawns, bitten apples, ring tones, a half-finished puzzle scattered across the floor, a messy kitchen, heads on each other's shoulders, rock-paper-scissors, scattered dice, sour candy, bumping elbows, the glow of a tv screen, borrowed hoodies, stolen phone chargers, dirty dishes, arms around shoulders, inside jokes.

[littlest-w01f]

Home Celebration

Sylus x Reader

SYLUS MASTERLIST

LADS MASTERLIST

Summary: It is your love's birthday, you decide to do something special and intimate for the two of you

Cw: Cute fluffy stuff, very self indulgent, nudity

a/n: IT'S HUBBY'S BDAY YAAAHAHHHHDJJSIENDKENDKSNDKSM TIME TO PARTYYYYYY WOOO HOOO also the card is what I would've sent if it didn't have a 60 character limit

As the big day was here, you couldn't contain your excitement. You had been secretly planning Sylus' birthday for weeks now, determined to make it a memorable one. Evening light spread through the curtains as you bustled around the kitchen in the N109 zone, carefully arranging the colorful cupcakes you had spent hours decorating with intricate swirls of frosting and edible glitter. A delicate cake stood proudly on the counter, adorned with a majestic dragon and a mischievous kitten playing together, a whimsical design that perfectly captured both you and Sylus.

It was the day before his birthday, so he was asleep, giving you the full space to set everything up for when he woke around night.

You folded a handmade card you had written and kept it gingerly in a basket, placing the cupcakes on a spiral stand. The cake in the center.

You heard Mephisto caw at you, and you turned to smiled, "Does it look good, Mephie?" You asked the mechanical crow.

Mephisto let out a series of caws, sounding quite like a real crow, in response to your question. His shiny black body glinted in the soft evening light as he flitted around the festive arrangement, his beady red optics scanning every detail with interest. After completing his inspection, Mephisto landed gracefully on the edge of the spiral cupcake stand, tilting his head to regard the colorful treats.

"I'll take that as a yes." You said, gently stroking the smooth metal feathers along the crow's back.

"Ah, just me and the bird my boyfriend uses to stalk me preparing for his birthday." You smiled, moving around, setting the used utensils in the sink to wash.

Your hands moved deftly as you tidied up the kitchen, the clink of dishes in the sink providing a soothing background melody. Despite the late hour, a warm glow emanated from within you, a sense of contentment and anticipation for the special day ahead. As you scrubbed away at a stubborn stain, your mind wandered to happy memories with Sylus, lazy Sundays curled up reading together, lively nights filled with laughter and music, listening to his vinyl, quiet moments of tender affection.

A sudden realization made you pause, a small smile playing on your lips. It struck you then, how much this whole elaborate celebration felt like a declaration of sorts, a statement of the depth of your feelings for him. You thought about all the little gestures, the personal touches, the way you'd poured your heart into making this day unforgettable.

As you cleaned, you heard the shower turn on from your shared room above, you smiled at Mephisto, "He's up."

"Oh... This is it." With a mix of nervousness and exhilaration, you placed the glass dome over the elaborately decorated cupcakes and cake, sealing in the sweet aromas and vibrant colours. Stepping back, you took a moment to admire your handiwork, a swell of pride and love filling your chest. This was more than just a birthday celebration, it represented the culmination of your emotions, a tangible expression of your feelings for Sylus.

As the sound of the shower continued from upstairs, you couldn't help but imagine him emerging, fresh and clean, ready to be surprised by your thoughtful preparations. The anticipation built, your pulse quickening slightly as you mentally rehearsed the reveal. You glanced at Mephisto, who cocked his mechanical head, as if sensing your eagerness.

With a deep breath, you began ascending the stairs, each step echoing softly in the still, now night, air.

You looked at your phone, a few hours till midnight, till his birthday, he'd slept longer tonight. You smiled, looking around his room, seeing the silhouette of his form in the steamed shower.

As you entered Sylus' bedroom, the steam from the shower created a hazy veil, obscuring most of his form. However, the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders against the foggy glass told you he was still under the soothing spray. You tiptoed closer, drawn to the sight of him, even partially hidden. His tall, lean frame seemed to exude a quiet strength, a robust beauty that always left you breathless.

This moment, watching him in such intimate repose, felt almost sacred. You decided to savour it, to commit the image to memory, a treasured snapshot of the man you loved.

As silent as you could, you entered the bathroom, leaving your electronics behind as you entered the bathroom, eyes fixed on his form as he ran his hand through his wet hair under the spray, his back flexing, you couldn't tear your eyes away as they went down, to the curve of his ass, to his thick thighs.

Your gaze traced the lines of his powerful physique, drinking in the sight of his toned muscles rippling beneath his skin as the water cascaded over him. The way his broad shoulders sloped into a narrow waist, the tantalizing curve of his rear, the solid mass of his thighs, every contour seemed etched specifically to drive you wild with desire.

Despite your best efforts to remain discreet, you found yourself subtly shifting, angling your body to better appreciate the view without being too obvious. The heat from the shower enveloped you, and for a fleeting instant, you considered joining him, letting the warm water melt away the chill of uncertainty that had settled in your core. But you resisted the temptation, knowing this moment was meant to be a surprise.

"Are you done admiring and ready to join me, kitten?" Sylus purred, turning his head to look at you, a smirk on his face.

Before you could answer you felt his evol grab you by the waist, pulling you in the stream, drenching your clothes.

A startled yelp escaped your lips as Sylus' strong arms wrapped around you, effortlessly pulling you under the torrential spray. Water soaked through your clothing, warming you to the bone, yet you couldn't help but giggle at the sudden, playful intrusion into your daydreaming.

Sylus' smug grin only widened as he held you close, his large hands splayed across your lower back. "Caught you staring, did I?" He teased, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down your spine despite the warmth of the shower.

As the warm droplets pounded against your skin, you felt your cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. "M-maybe a little," you admitted, your voice barely audible over the roar of the water. "But I couldn't help myself. You're just so... distracting."

When he noticed the shower landed directly on your face, he turned you both together so that his shoulder protected you from the harsh spray. "Now that you're here... Let's make the most of it," Sylus finished, his words dripping with innuendo as he leaned in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. The steamy atmosphere, the sensation of his hard body pressed against yours, the lingering taste of his mouth on yours, it all conspired to ignite a fire within you, a hunger that only he could satisfy.

As his tongue delved past your lips, exploring the depths of your mouth, you felt your knees weaken, your resolve crumbling under the onslaught of his passion. Your hands slid up his slick torso, fingers tangling in the damp strands of his hair as you lost yourself in the embrace, the world narrowing down to the two of you, entwined in the steamy cocoon of the shower.

"Sy..." You sighed, leaning into the kiss, hand lacing in his damp hair, "Ha-happy Birthday, baby..."

"Mmm, thanks kitten," Sylus murmured against your lips, his voice roughened by desire. "Though I think we can make this a birthday celebration neither of us will ever forget."

His hands roamed your curves, fingertips grazing the hem of your shirt before slipping underneath to caress the warm, damp skin beneath. "I've got a present for you too," he added, a wicked gleam entering his eyes. "And it's not something you can wrap up and put under the tree."

"I'm supposed to get you gifts... Not the other way." You smiled, reaching for his shampoo, lathering some in your hands. "Come here..."

Instead of coming closer, Sylus sank to his knees before you, the move putting him at eye level with your waistline. His intense gaze met yours as he waited for you to begin washing his hair, a subtle smile playing on his lips. The position allowed him to gaze up at you adoringly, his eyes sparkling with mischief and affection.

As you worked the shampoo into his white locks, your fingers massaging his scalp, Sylus let out a contented sigh. "This feels amazing, kitten," he breathed, nuzzling into your touch. "Maybe you should start charging for these massages."

The intimate act sent a thrill through you, and you couldn't resist leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of his head, inhaling the scent of his shampoo mingled with the dampness of the shower. "Consider it a birthday gift,"

Your heart ached with love for the man kneeling in front of you, you smiled as you continued to pamper him.

As you rinsed the shampoo from Sylus' hair, your fingers lingered on his scalp, savoring the sensation of his skin beneath your touch. The tender gesture spoke volumes about the depth of your affection for him. In that moment, surrounded by the misty veil of the shower, it felt as though nothing else existed except the two of you, lost in the intimacy of the act.

Sylus gazed up at you, his eyes shining with gratitude and adoration. "Thank you, kitten," he whispered, his voice filled with love. "You always know just how to make me feel special."

Emotion welled up inside you, threatening to spill over. You bent down, pressing your forehead against his, the steam from the shower making a soft background.

With his gentle strength, Sylus scooped you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest as he stepped out of the steamy bathroom. The cool air hit your skin, causing goosebumps to prickle across your exposed skin. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on tight.

Once in his room, he set you down on the plush couch, quickly retrieving a large, fluffy towel from the linen closet. Sylus began drying you off, his skilled hands rubbing the terrycloth over your skin in soothing circles. You closed your eyes, revelling in the warmth of the towel and the gentle care of his touch.

You shed your wet clothes as you watched him dry himself. "Wear something good..." You smiled up at him.

Sylus raised a brow at you, "Something planned, huh, kitten?" Sylus' eyes sparkled with intrigue as he listened to your suggestion, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Oh, I think I have just the thing," he purred, disappearing into his closet.

Minutes later, he emerged wearing a fitted black dress shirt, the fabric clinging to his muscular torso. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his forearms. Dark jeans hugged his hips, topped with a crimson jacket over his shoulders and polished leather boots completed the ensemble. As he strode towards you, you couldn't help but drink in the sight of him, feeling a flutter of excitement in your chest.

The vibrant crimson hue of the dress you wore accentuated your complexion, drawing attention to your features and the sparkle in your eyes. The knee-length hem flared out around your figure, creating a flattering silhouette that highlighted your curves. Delicate lace trim adorned the neckline, adding a touch of femininity to the otherwise sleek design.

As you stood there, radiating a captivating blend of innocence and allure, Sylus approached you, his gaze roaming appreciatively over your form. "Kitten, you look absolutely stunning," he breathed, his voice low and husky with admiration. "That colour suits you perfectly."

He reached out, tracing a finger along the curve of your hip, his touch igniting a spark of desire within you. "Now what have you planned?"

You smiled, pulling him with you downstairs, to the decorated kitchen, "Happy birthday!" You presented with a "ta-da" hand gesture.

Sylus' eyes widened in delight as he took in the festive scene before him. The kitchen was transformed into a veritable wonderland, every surface adorned with vibrant red balloons, twinkling fairy lights, and colorful streamers. The air was heavy with the sweet aroma of freshly baked goods, and the centerpiece - a magnificent cake topped with a fondant dragon and kitten duo - caught his attention immediately.

"AH! Sweetie, this is incredible!" Sylus exclaimed, spinning around to face you, his expression a beautiful mix of surprise and joy. "You really outdid yourself!"

He pulled you into a fierce hug, burying his face in your hair as he inhaled deeply, savoring the moment. "I love you. I love you. I love you." He repeated, his voice muffled against your skin. "This means the world to me."

"Wait... There's more!" You smiled as you reached into the basket pulling out a popper. You twisted it, making sparkles pop out.

As the colourful sparks rained down, Sylus laughed with unbridled delight, clearly enjoying the whimsical surprise.

When the last sparkler fizzled out, leaving a trail of glitter on the countertop, Sylus turned back to you, his gaze soft with affection. "Oh, kitten, you're going to spoil me rotten," he teased, reaching out to playfully tug at a strand of your hair.

You pulled and held up the card you'd made. You opened it, clearing your throat, you looked over the words you had written for him, a flush rising on your cheeks, "Umm... I wrote you something... You read it..."

Sylus' eyes softened with tenderness as he took the card from your trembling hands, his fingers brushing against yours in a reassuring touch. He unfolded the paper, his gaze scanning the handwritten words with a reverence that made your heart swell. He began to read, "Happy Birthday, Sy, I can't believe you just told me when it was while even Luke and Kieran don't even know it. I send all of them away so your birthday date doesn't get spoiled."

He looked up from the paper, and then said his own thing, "Well, of course, I'd tell you anything. Nothing of mine should be a secret to you, sweetie."

Sylus continued, his voice low and heartfelt, "From the moment I met you, I knew you were someone special. Your kindness, your generosity, your unwavering support - it's been an inspiration to me every single day. You make me want to be a better person, I'm so grateful to have you by my side, kitten."

He looked down at your card again, his eyes shimmering with emotion. "I love you more than words can express, Sy. You're my home, my safe haven, my partner in every sense of the word. You're my dragon who's kept my heart captive and I never want you to let me go."

"The thought of you away from me makes my heart hurt, I want nothing more than to be with you forever, lost in your arms. You bring me comfort I never thought possible, you make me forget all the bad in my life. You are one of the few good things in it, when I'm with you, I know I have a soul I can count on. I enjoy our time together more than anything. I love being yours."

He stepped closer to you, looking deep into your eyes, "Oh, sweetie, you're the one who owns my heart. And this Dragon will never let his Dragon Li go. No matter what. You gave me your heart and I'm keeping it."

Your breathing hitched at his words. Sylus' declaration hung in the air between you, heavy with promise and devotion. His intense gaze held yours captive, the depth of his feelings evident in the burning intensity of his stare. You felt like you were drowning in those oceanic eyes, suffocating under the weight of his love.

Slowly, deliberately, Sylus reached out, his calloused fingers brushing against your cheek in a feather-light caress. The gentle touch sent shivers racing down your spine, your breath catching in your throat as you leaned into his palm.

"I need you, kitten," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. He knelt on one knee in front of you, pulling a velvet box from his jacket.

You gasped, seeing the box, "Sy..." Your eyes stay on that box, heart hammering so quick you could hear it in your ears.

When he opened it, there was a candy ring pop inside. And with that, the moment between you changed.

Sylus chuckled at your reaction, a mischievous glint in his eye as he revealed the unexpected contents of the velvet box. The candy ring pop sparkled in the light, its bright colors a playful contrast to the formal setting.

"Well, I figured since you already have my heart, I might as well give you something sweet to go with it," He quipped, his grin infectious. "Besides, I thought this would be a fun twist."

He popped the ring into your hand, his fingers brushing against yours once more. The sugary treat was surprisingly heavy, the weight of it a physical representation of the promises and commitments it symbolized.

"Oh my god..." You gasped looking at the ring pop, set on your ring finger "I THOUGHT YOU WERE PROPOSING!"

Sylus chuckled from where he was on his knee, "Oh I plan to." He stood up, close, your body pressed against his, "But when I do, It'll be my moment. And mine alone."

Sylus' words sent a thrill through you, his proximity and the promise of a future proposal igniting a fire within your soul. You leaned in, your lips hovering mere inches from his as you searched his eyes for any hint of deception or hesitation. Finding none, you melted into him, your mouth claiming his in a passionate kiss.

As your tongues danced, Sylus' strong arms encircled your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. You could feel the rapid beating of his heart, mirroring the frantic pace of your own. The world around you faded away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the intoxicating embrace of love.

When you pulled away, you brought up the ring pop to suck on, pointing to the cupcakes, "Try it!" You said through the candy.

Sylus grinned, amused by your playful suggestion. He plucked the ring pop from your lips, bringing it to his mouth and sucking on the sweet candy. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he savored the flavor, a satisfied hum escaping him.

"Mmm, not bad," he murmured, handing the ring pop back to you. "Although, I think I prefer the taste of you." His words were laced with suggestive undertones, a clear invitation for further exploration.

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Sylus reached for a cupcake, popping it into his mouth and closing his eyes in blissful enjoyment. Crumbs dusted his lips, which you promptly licked clean with a teasing flick of your tongue.

With a smile you placed a candle in the cake, "How old are you turning again? 29? 300? 600?" You asked teasingly.

Sylus chuckled at your jest, shaking his head in amusement. "Just 29, kitten. Though I suppose I'd be quite ancient." he joked, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as he brushed a stray curl behind your ear. "But with you by my side, I feel younger than ever. You keep me young, kitten. Keep me alive."

"Sap." You playfully hit his bicep. Lighting up the candle. "Here. Make a wish."

Sylus captured your hand, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin of your inner wrist as he peered at the flickering candle flame. For a moment, he simply breathed in the scent of vanilla and chocolate wafting from the cake, savoring the intimate atmosphere.

Then, with a soft smile, he closed his eyes and made his silent wish, his free hand finding yours and intertwining their fingers. The warmth of his grasp seeped into your skin, a tangible reminder of the unbreakable bond you shared.

When he opened his eyes again, they shone with a quiet contentment, his gaze locked onto yours. "Whatever comes next, kitten, I'm exactly where I want to be. Right here, with you."

He cut a piece of the cake, his evol lifted the piece, keeping it over your lips as he brought down his head do kiss the dessert between you both.

The moist, velvety texture of the cake melded with the sweetness of Sylus' lips as he fed you the decadent treat. His warm breath ghosted over your skin, sending delightful shivers down your spine. The intimate act felt almost sensual, a private language spoken only between the two of you.

As you savored the flavors, Sylus' eyes never left yours, his gaze burning with a smoldering intensity that hinted at the desires simmering just below the surface. The air between you crackled with electricity, each heartbeat pulsing with the promise of untold pleasures waiting to be explored.

In that moment, the rest of the world fell away, leaving only the two of you, lost in the throes of forbidden passion and the knowledge that nothing could ever come between you again.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

tagged by @imogenkol and @ellswips this week, thank you both <3

Shadow Dance only has a few chapters left in it (most of it only outlined) so I figured why not share a bit of the opening to the engagement fic coming for the ship that is always on my mind as of late. If you are actually a cod canon enjoyer, as a heads up, this takes place during the final scene in MW2 during the bar scene in Chicago. This is still quite rough, and written in Price pov, so things may still change:

Sitting in the dimly lit corner booth of the back alley Chicago bar, he leans back, one arm stretched over the top of the seat, sharing a clandestine drink with one of his oldest and most trusted friends – Ironic, considering she was CIA. The music drips from the speakers, the low buzz emitting from the neon around them catching on the hairs of his arms like static. Lifting his glass to his lips, he sips as his enigmatic gaze is riveted to the scene across the length of the bar from him, watching his boys – and her – play darts like they were back home at the pub. All smiles, laughing as her head tosses back at one of Soap’s off color jokes. Something coiled in his belly, warm and alive, fending off the liquor’s bite and replacing it with a soft, fluttering creature that only seemed to nestle its way into him when she was around. The hard man with the rich, caramel center that drowned and tenaciously bound around her. Clinging, claggy. Proprietorial.

“Got something on your mind, John?” Kate asks, swallowing down her sip of bourbon with nary a hiss. Resting back in her seat, she crosses her arms over her chest, looking at him dryly.

There’s no hiding his ulterior motives from Laswell, the only other person who can read him like a children’s picture book that’s more visual than text (sub or otherwise) is Rory, and he’s not entirely sure whether that’s something he should consider himself lucky for in this case. 

“What makes you say tha’?” He shifts his shoulders against the worn vinyl of the backrest, an irritating squeak coming from it that fractures his resolve momentarily, his brows beginning to furrow.

“You’re staring.”

He forgets himself sometimes when it comes to Rory. For all his love of control, maintaining a steel trap of a mind, concocting plans and machinations, he always seems to be blindsided by the woman who’s been at his side for the last five years. It still surprises him how she can turn him into a fool with a look, a word, a smile. Melting him like butter in the heat of her sun-bright love and her radiant desire.

“Observin’.”

“Potato, patahto.”

An imperceptible little curl at the corner of his mouth, one tucked beneath the bristled whiskers of his mustache, barely sneaks by unnoticed as his eyes flicker over to Rory once more, her lilting giggle dancing over to him along the waves of bluesy guitar that carries it like a life raft. She is warmth personified, glowing in the haloed amber light of dimmed sconces and neon liquor signs, the blues and pinks shining in her hair like she’s some sort of goddamn fairy. An ethereal being that his calloused hands have no right to touch and yet still she opens like a flower to him as if he were the spring that chased away the nip of frost keeping her bud sealed shut. He realizes then that he’s never seen her in a light that doesn't suit her. From rise to set, the shadow of night, the pallid luminescence of moonlight, the beaming desert sun, firelight, and everything in between, the woman herself seems to glow from her core like the molten center of the earth and he’s desperate to feel that benevolence on his skin. 

“You’re off the clock, John. You’re allowed to have your eyes on her. I’m certainly not going to hold it against you.” Laswell glances back behind her at the rest of the 141 taking a moment of reprieve from a war that was ready to build to yet another crescendo. “You’re a lucky man.” She turns back to face him and smirks, tilting her head to look up at him from under her brow. “Let’s just hope you don’t screw it up.”

His brow knits together, creasing all the lines in his face, deep set and weathered, but the smirk remains. “Certainly not my intent.”

“Judging by the way you’re looking at her, I assume you’ve got a whole other intent in mind.”

Scratching at the side of his nose, shifting in his seat, he crawls his arms forward across the table and lowers his voice conspiratorially. A secret shared between friends. “Been thinkin’ ���bout askin’ her to marry me.”

“Really?” Laswell sat forward in her seat as well, ready to insert herself in the juicy gossip.

“‘S a long time comin’.” He’s willing to concede that fact. Most men would have dropped to their knees and crawled on hand and foot to catch themselves a woman like her. However, most men weren’t also restricted by arbitrary military laws, ones that he had already skirted around this long, keeping what they had as a secret. But, as with all things, eventually the truth will out. “You know I’m not the romantic type, not gonna say she’s the one, but…” His head tilts sharply, underlining the unspoken implication.

“It feels right.”

Nodding, John collects the condensation lined tumbler in his paw and rubs the pad of his thumb through one of the rivulets that slide down the glass and his mind drifts to the image of the curve of Rory's lower back and the way it meandered into the rounded line of her hips as sweat drops traveled the course down to the swell of that perfect, pert little arse. “Don’t wanna lose that one, Kate,” he says, using the glass in his hand to direct attention towards the subject of the conversation. “Not ever.”

“So you’re finally putting a ring on it.”

“Yeah, s’pose I am.” Sighing, he pulls the beanie off his head and brushes his hand through his hair roughly. “You and Sam, how’d you go about it?”

“Are you asking me for relationship advice?” Brow cocked, Laswell’s eyes narrow as she stares at him, ready to make him sweat.

“Maybe.”

“This goes a little beyond a work friendship, John. Thought we had rules about mixing business and personal.”

He meets her look with an entirely flat reaction, except for the dry ice burn of his eyes from beneath the shadow created by his heavy brow, but she remains unfazed by him and sighs. “Well, to be honest, it was Sam who asked me to marry her.”

“Huh…” He takes another sip of his drink and swallows heavily, feeling it stick in his throat. “Wasn’t expectin’ tha’.”

“She was insistent about it too. Sat me down at one of the tables at her restaurant, made me my favorite meal that wasn’t on the menu, and then got down on one knee. Couldn’t say no to that. She knows the way to my heart. Just… keep it simple.”

“Yeah, don't want to do somethin’ over the top. Romcom shite aint my thing, and Rory wouldn't want to be Love Actually'd. Not her style either.”

“You know her better than anyone else. Just ask her.”

“Just ask her?" He questions, brows lifting comically as he scoffs at the mockery of a command. "Easier said than done. Need to make sure it's right for her.”

“You're making it harder than it needs to be.”

“Maybe I am. Only fittin’ though, considerin’ that's how she was before we got caught up in all this together.”

A low hum purrs in Laswell's throat. “Smart woman.”

John's eyes flashed dangerously at the jab. “Still got ‘er though, didn’ I?”

“Smart woman with a soft spot that you take full advantage of.”

Across the bar, Rory turns, looking at him from over the rim of her glass as she takes a drink, smiling as she swallows. Her eyes glimmer like large reflecting pools, the light sparkling in their dazzling depths the color of the finest whiskey and oak leaves in summer. Unlike his that seem bottomless, a yawning chasm like the Marianas Trench that grows deeper and darker the farther one goes, her gaze is bewitching, a doorway into a heart that needs to be gently cradled and a mind that needs to be tenderly stroked and reminded that there are those worth relying on (even if he doesn’t always merit that honor, but fuck if he doesn’t try).

“And who could bloody blame me?” He murmurs, not taking his eyes off his pretty Lieutenant, having a wordless conversation just through the way they exchange glances.

Huffing out a quiet laugh, Laswell pushes her glass of melted ice to the side. “She knows you're up to something.”

“She always does.”

COD taglist [opt in/out] (no pressure to interact): @aceghosts @silkcrows @devil-kindred @taciturntraveller @sukoshimikan @voltac @thedeadthree @voidika @chadillacboseman @efingart @alypink @roofgeese @g0dspeeed @simplegenius042 @strangefable @direwombat @la-grosse-patate @josephseedismyfather @statichvm @clicheantagonist @tommyarashikage @inafieldofdaisies @raresvtm @cloudofbutterflies92 @justasmolbard @finding-comfort-in-rain @cassietrn @carlosoliveiraa

[slippinninque]

🍲A Place to Rest🛋️

In which you get a little help.

Prt.3 Prt.2, Prt. 1

Dudley x blackfemreader

Warnings: little-to-no romance, hurt-comfort vibes, very angsty so please be mindful of what you consume, some cursing, depiction of mental health struggles, allusions to suicidal ideation

Dudley keyed into his place and moved aside for you to go forward first.

“Please excuse the mess, call myself clearing out some junk and, well–y’know how it is.”

You and Dudley crowded the space at the front door, you still wiping your feet on the mat while Dudley hung up his coat on a nearby rack. 

It did look like Dudley was in the middle of some near spring-cleaning and got side tracked. A few boxes here and there, folded linens ready to be washed or put away after being dried. All evidence of someone who thought they would be back within 10 minutes. 

A barely-there-mess in your opinion, nothing like the battlefield you left behind your closed door. 

Dudley broke into your thoughts with, “If you could?” 

He was pointed down to his sock-clad feet and you hurried to toe out of your boots. It was a clumsy affair, one hand going up on the door to steady yourself as you wouldn’t put down your planter. Dudley didn’t stick around to feel anyway about it as he rushed off to prevent a very delicious apartment fire. 

He did call for you to make yourself at home on the couch. 

Slowly, you came into the living room. It was the same layout as your place but you swore it was bigger, wider, familiar. You and your planter wandered, the sound of Dudley’s humming coming in and out as you moved to and fro. A place you passed by, scents you’ve caught before. You thought you would be self conscious in pajamas, robe and fuzzy socks in a house that wasn’t yours but that zing of anxiety was batted away by your curiosity.

There were pictures everywhere. Of people, of animals, of places–had Dudley gone to all these places? Met all these people? You had to believe it, there were as many polaroids as there were framed pieces. In between the moments of Dudley’s life were his interests, a radio, a record player, and a keyboard signaled to you that maybe he was a lover of music. 

A keyboard caught your eye as you went past. Just a hunch.

Further in the apartment you also found bookshelves that didn’t just have books. You saw vinyl records, statues and figurines, memorabilia and just a little bit of everything. A corner that was completely overrun with plants from the luscious to the prickly, some you would bet Ms. Rose would love to have for herself.

There was even a big and tall window that was like a portal into another, snowy world. The city stretched out before you like twinkling stars stuck in cotton. You held the planter tighter, turning and walking fast away from the gust of wind that vibrated the glass.

You found your way back to the living room, staring at the back hall with suspicion lapping at corners of your tired mind. So much space…was that right? 

Dudley came back with a mugs in both of his hands, setting one down to move around some throw pillows to give you enough room. You were caught off guard by Dudley handing you a mug, it felt nice against the chill of your hands. When you settled the planter on your lap, you jolted from the cold of the planter.  

“Ah, you can put that down wherever you want.”

The thought of its weight being gone, your hands being free–you only nodded but did not move the pot from your lap. 

He only shrugged and grabbed a small remote from the table to switch on the stereo you missed beneath the TV. Jazz filled the air, a slow piano following along with a horn you couldn’t place. You bet Dudley could have. Or your Dad.

You looked down at the soil in your planter. The layer of frost hadn’t begun to defrost yet, probably wouldn’t for a while. 

“May I?”

You hadn’t realized Dudley had been standing there with an afghan. You stalled, looking up at him with your throat tightening.

“You hadn’t taken your coat off, so I thought you would be more comfortable with a blanket,” Dudley’s voice was soft, “Keeping it on is fine too, ‘course, I just want to be sure you’re comfortable.”

You looked down at your planter. The bottom was dirty from being outside for season after season, you didn’t want to dirty up–

Dudley put down the blanket for a moment, “I can hold on to that for you, if you like.”

It wasn’t a bad idea and you could have it right back once you made yourself comfortable. You put your pot into Dudley’s hands and kept your eyes on it as you stripped out of your coat, draping the blanket over your shoulders at once.

“There! Now you look like you got a host that cares.”

You stared at him, surprised that you wanted to smile, “What were your parents like?”

“My parents?”

“For you to be like this?”

“Like what?”

You rubbed your forehead, slowly and in a circular motion as you tried to remember how to talk like a normal person, “So…gracious.”

Dudley let out a rich chuckle as if you said a real knee slapper, “I’ll tell you what–my Pops would be surprised to hear someone say something like that.”

“Really? Was he really strict or something?”

Dudley placed the planter onto the table right in front of you before going back towards the kitchen, talking to be heard over the more upbeat jazz song that replaced the earlier one. 

“Well, my Pops was–is–like every father ever. Always had the highest hopes for all his children. Trying to figure out how much space to give–lessons to teach. That sort of thing. With me–he said I was too busy. So he gave me work to do.”

The sounds of moving silverware and muted cupboards lulled your mind into a lazy crawl.

You laid down on the comfortable couch, keeping your feet off the cushion but hovering in the air. You could see Dudley from there. You listened to him as kept that delicious scent in the air and told you about all the duties his father delegated to him and his busy hands.

If lying on his couch was too much, Dudley did not seem to mind. You imagined what baby Dudley would look like in a garage, work-shed, or a carpenter’s shop. Picking up fallen screws and sweeping up shavings, maybe talking his Daddy’s ear off about all the places he’d go…

“He always told me one thing more than the most, mostly after we’ve had a disagreement,” Dudley paused in his stirring, head tilting towards the ceiling as his pitch changed an octave deeper.

“Don’t want to listen? Fine then. Go where you like. Go, so I can know where to find you.”

“Hm?”

“Eh, that’s watering it down alot. Pops can be a little long-winded, like his son,” He turned and winked at you before going over to open a cabinet, “Either way, I think that’s a parent’s way of understanding that pesky ‘free will’ we all have.” 

Your brows came together, confused by his intent. Dudley seemed to have misplaced something in the kitchen from the way he stood in there with his hands on his hips, staring into the cabinet with a furrowed brow.

“When someone who loves you or even wants to love you, they will learn the places where you will go to find you. That is what I mean.”

“What if you go to shitty places? Places they don’t want to see you at? Will they still–

Dudley cut you off with a clap of the cabinet, “Yeah, they will be.”

Your mouth snapped shut and he met your narrowed eyes with a set of his own, only his smile was different. This man was impervious to your iciness, your indifference, your anger, and then your silence. Still, he looked at you as if there was nothing but time on his hands and he wanted to spend it on you. Every time you checked the clock on the radio across the room, it was as if the minutes forgot to move across the screen.

“What made you make that flower pot?”

“Oh…erm…it was a while ago..”

It was a nice day and you went for a walk, it was something like out of a movie. This happened in the summer, if you recall correctly. You found a flyer for a ceramics class and you just went. The whole day felt magical, finding your way down to the course and going through the steps of forming the clay on the wheel. 

“It was something new to me and it came out…decent.” You looked down at the pot on the table. It wasn’t too special aside from the leaf patterns that you carved and stuck onto its sides. It was different shades of green and speckled with golden flecks of paint. It shone brightly in the sunlight.

“Sounds like you're pretty proud of it.”

“There were a few better ones.”

“I'm sure there were but none of them looked like yours, right?”

You made a face in his direction, Dudley catching it with a laugh as he came over with two bowls filled to the brim.

----------

✨Ending notes✨: Still going strong with this one, I guess I really go to get this one out 😅 tell me if my formatting is too bad too, lol this is very healing for me and my homegirls (who are also me😌) and i hope ya'll will tell me what you think! thank you so much for reading! 💓✨💖✨💓✨💖

💓Taglist💓: @megamindsecretlair @sageispunk @blackerthings @notapradagurl7 @theereina @miyuhpapayuh

@harmshake @ms-angiealsina @kindofaintrovert @ellethespaceunicorn @mcondance

[zelphafrost]

Soul's Home

I birthed vinyl floors and Shiplap accent wall You said “Brilliant!” But I felt my soul fading.

Bleached out And compartmentalized In this industrial structure Metal and too much glass

Intense craving For old wooden floors That have seen years Of anguish and tears

Ancient turret rooms Where hours were Spent reading Long novels

Wrought iron fences Topped with spikes Designed solely To keep out Malevolent entities

Yellowing wallpaper Stained by Pipe smoking Beside an ancient hearth

Bright Butler’s Pantry With cabinets for Laughing children To hide in

I shall lie In the attic dust Whilst the essence of Such a place Fills my being To completion

~Zelpha Frost 2023

[theseshipsshallsail]

Summary:

Today had been exhausting. To put it mildly. A thick layer of snow enveloped the Upper East Side when Oliver left for work; extending his regular ten minute commute to a miserable, half-hour schlep. His office radiator was on the fritz - everyone and everything demanded his undivided attention - and to make matters worse, he’d skipped lunch entirely due to an irate phone call from his parents.

HEAD ABOVE WATER (IN THE EYE OF THE STORM)

There’s a wash-thin t-shirt from his pre-grad days draped over the dresser mirror: one of several incorporated into Elio’s casual wardrobe since his much-anticipated move to the States. A Yawn is the Body’s Silent Scream it declares in faded, vinyl lettering, yet when Oliver’s jaw cracks twice in as many minutes the bone-deep contentment that follows feels nothing short of euphoric as he smothers the sound in the petal-soft skin of his boyfriend’s freckled forearm. 

To his right, a constant drip-drip-drip emanates from the brownstone’s fire escape. An occasional heavy gust rattles the frosted panes. As with most evenings, next door’s television drones low and muffled beyond the party wall, but their bedroom itself remains a bastion of calm: silent, by and large, save for the unbroken susurrus of their steady inhalations. 

The ubiquitous creak of worn-out box springs. 

The lub-dub ballad of the adagio heartbeat cushioning his cheek, soothing him into a trance-like inertia.

Elio doesn’t mind, however. Not if his indulgent chuckle is any indication. Just carries on humming his latest composition whilst weaving those clever fingers through Oliver’s sweat-damp hair: holding him like he’s the most precious thing in the world.

“Close your eyes, amore mio,” he whispers at length; each caress an unspoken reassurance in the marginal space between them. “You’ve earned it, no?”

“I shouldn’t…” Oliver mutters, receiving a stubble-rough kiss to his muzzy forehead. “Those Ontology papers -”

“Aren’t due back ‘til Monday,” Elio reminds him: headstrong as always. “And you’ll have all weekend to grade them, regardless.” 

An admirable proposal: though easier said than done with such welcome distractions.

Today had been exhausting. To put it mildly. A thick layer of snow enveloped the Upper East Side when Oliver left for work; extending his regular ten minute commute to a miserable, half-hour schlep. His office radiator was on the fritz - everyone and everything demanded his undivided attention - and to make matters worse, he’d skipped lunch entirely due to an irate phone call from his parents. 

They still haven't forgiven him for cancelling his engagement. For refusing to be railroaded into the status quo. He’d honestly thought himself immune to their bigoted condemnation, but listening to his father rant about selfish perversions soon rendered his appetite nonexistent, and by the time he’d limped back to their Morningside apartment - feet throbbing, migraine building, throat scraped raw by the frigid, December air - Oliver would be the first to admit he was circling the proverbial drain.  

In any event, the rich aroma of basil and marinara greeted him like a warm hug when he locked the front door behind him; Mafalda having gifted them a folder of handwritten recipes to combat the mostruosità ingrassante of American cuisine. Elio - wearing the blue-and-white sweater Oliver’d purchased in Sicily - was curled up on the couch with a German copy of Don Quixote, yet shimmying free of his blanket burrito the shameless clothes thief marked his place in the dog-eared pages, returned the novel to their brimming bookcase, then pointed imperiously at the kitchen table.

“Siediti,” he’d commanded, ushering him into the nearest chair. 

“Eat,” he’d implored, plating up some Pasta alla Norma before pouring a glass of wine. 

Straightaway, Oliver’s stomach growled like one of Pavlov’s dogs, and grabbing his fork he’d speared a chunk of roasted eggplant - groaning in undisguised relief when Elio set about removing his water-logged shoes and socks as he offloaded his petty grievances between absent-minded bites. 

He has a vague recollection of downing the leftover pinot in a single swallow. 

Of an unwavering grip urging him to stand: guiding his leaden limbs towards the moonlit bedroom. 

His memories grow a little clearer after that, and Oliver smiles as he nuzzles the dusky peak of Elio’s nipple; breath escaping on a sigh when a calloused thumb skims the ridge of his gently rising rib cage. Smiles even wider at the blatant reminder of oil-slick palms bestowing a tender massage. The feathery brush of bee-stung lips mouthing southwards that preceded a truly exquisite orgasm.

He’d offered up a grumbling protest at Elio’s insistence he need not reciprocate - though Heaven knows he was far too drained to actually try - and snaking both arms around his partner’s slender waist he’d melted into a boneless embrace; arching like a satisfied tomcat as ghostly fingertips mapped the crest of his liquified spine.

“You’re out for the count,” Elio murmurs then, tracing the curve of his ticklish earlobe. The mottled birthmark adorning his shoulder. “So do as I say, d’accord? Rest. Récupérer. Let me take care of you for once…” 

Again, he means to argue. And very nearly does. But the Hispanic rhythms of their lively neighbourhood aren’t the only things dulled by the unseasonal blizzard, and as Oliver’s muted senses drag him further under, he finds himself immeasurably grateful for the man who’s no longer a dream.

No longer a memory.

His Elio. His malakh. The other half of his earthbound soul.

[raccoonfallsharder]

fistful of sunlight a fluffy lil domestic oneshot

short story masterlist | main masterlist

domestic fluff | no use of y/n | oc!reader | oneshot | word count: 3,832. for @starriidreams, based on their original character, jazper. check em outttt ♡

after a surprising day of work at the knowhere clinic, princess jazper returns to their home with rocket, only to find that the captain of knowhere has been working on a little surprise of his own.

WARNINGS: brief description of surgical procedure in sceond paragraph only. rocket says damn/dammit a lot; reader is referred to as princess 2x (because reader is literally a princess). some limited physical description of reader (most notably, having gold palms/fingerpads/facial markings and an adorable lil toothgap). i've never written for someone else's oc like this before so i hope i do them justice ๐·°(⋟﹏⋞)°·๐

Mister Kraglin had cut off his thumb.

You’re not even been quite sure how, but Mister Kraglin had cut off his thumb. It hadn’t been a job for a medpack — those are generally reserved for life-threatening injuries involving major trauma, and a medpack would have only healed up the stump anyway. No, Mister Kraglin had cut off his thumb and had shown up sobbing at the Knowhere clinic door, and it had been your job to soothe him and reseal every vein and artery, to string the nerves and tendons back together like loose threads on a sweater, and finally to laser stitch the skin in place, bandage it up, and brace it with one of the adjustable vibranium-and-vinyl splints that Rocket had made — per your request — for situations just like this one.

It had sent a stinging ache in your heart to see Mister Kraglin so upset. The former Ravager is more vulnerable in his pain than young Mister Adam or even any of the Star Children — at least while he’s safely at home on Knowhere — and you’ve gathered that this behavior might be due to the hollowing lack of any kind of person-to-person comfort he’d ever received as a child. You yourself are all too familiar with some of that feeling — emotional self-sufficiency and a wrenching desire for affection, bordering on need — in spite of the privilege inherent in being adopted into the Relvoith royal family. 

Or perhaps because of it.

And so, you had soothed him with the softest words you could dream up, worried they might’ve sounded stilted in the formality of the Relvoith tongue. But the universal translator must have worked well, or perhaps the overly-decorous language hadn’t mattered in the end, because Mister Kraglin had sniffled and dried his tears with the back of his uninjured hand. Then he’d given you a wobbly and tremulous half-smile, thanking you so fervently that an observer might have thought you’d saved his life.

Unfortunately, the result is that you are exhausted — feet aching and eyes tired, a dull headache starting to form behind your golden eyes by the time you reach the open casement leading to the door of the apartment rooms you share with Rocket. One of the raccoon kits — the smallest of the litter rescued from the Arête — is waiting on the threshold, grooming itself. It’s only the tiniest bit larger today than it had been on the day you’d inadvertently adopted it, and it lifts its head as soon as it breathes in your scent, ears and nose twitching. Its tail flips from one side to the other when it sees you, and it immediately begins to generate the fast-paced hollow clicking noise that you’ve come to understand means that it’s purring.

“Hello, littlest one,” you say, crouching, and it immediately launches itself onto one of your soft thighs, and then into your chest. You cuddle it against you as you stand, pressing your mouth to the crown of its head, and open the apartment door.

The apartment is a little tattered, but it’s home: the place you and Rocket have made for yourselves, carved out of a little patch of Knowhere. There’s a broad series of patchwork-windows made of frosted and colored glass, and they shine like jewels when the artificial lights outside slant into a manufactured sunset. In certain hours, they cast a glowing, muted rainbow glow onto the rest of the main room. One wall is lined with Rocket’s inventions and tools, and the ceiling is edged in strings of tiny gold plasma-orbs that he’d pinned to the wall while perched on your shoulders. The doors on the kitchenette cupboards had been falling off when the two of you had moved in, so you’d replaced them with miniature curtains made of patterned fabrics and gauzy muslin and a treasured panel of Spartoi lace you’d found in Sanna Orix’s shop. The sofa is a soft corduroy, the color and texture of a purple night-sky, velvety and only a little frayed at all the seams. It had been one of Rocket’s discoveries. He’d made Mister Drax carry it from the Bowie all the way to your little apartment, just because he’d thought you might enjoy it. One arm of the sofa is draped with the rumpled softness of an old quilt — a gift from the citizens of Knowhere to their new Captain and his princess. It’s patched with squares offered up from each of the Guardians, and others, too: red flannel and a dove-gray fabric from Star-Lord’s childhood shirts, a scrap of leather from Mister Nebula’s uniform. Another square had been thieved from an armored vest left behind by Miss Gamora, after she’d been stolen away and sacrificed by Thanos. A couple of rectangles of fabric, cut from the plush baby-blanket that Groot had kept in his pot when he was still small, and little pieces from a strained button-down shirt that Mister Drax had decided to wear for a cycle just so he could have something to contribute to the quilt. There’s a patch from Cosmo’s suit, and another from young Mister Adam’s singed Sovereign cast-off, and silver-threaded stars embroidered in sloppily by young Miss Phyla and each of her siblings. A few splashes of delicate floral prints from Miss Ssssaralami and worn yellow canvas from Mister Blueliver and even an intentional splash of cosmic-green gin from Mister Howard.

At least, you assume it was intentional. Mister Howard claims it was intentional, and you’ve never been particularly adept at spotting lies.

In short, there’s not an inch of your little apartment that isn’t brimming with the soft shadows and glowing warmth of memories that you and Rocket have made together.

Unfortunately, you don’t have long to enjoy the peace of the small space. You can already hear Rocket cursing and muttering inside the next room, and it makes your own ears twitch with concern.

“Shoulda just paid Ssssaralami to do it. No, no, I wanna do it myself. Moron. Like you forgot you were a mechanic, not a frickin’ artist. Frickin’ paint in my damn fur. Better come out—”

“Rocks?” you call softly, snuggling the raccoon kit in against your chest again. The raccoon’s purring never stops, and its coat is a plush and velvety spray against the underside of your chin. “Are you well?”

Rocket’s head pops around the side of the bedroom door: fur mussed and flattened on one cheek, a splotch of purple dripping into the fur between the base of one soft ear and the crown of his head. There’s a smudge of luminous yellow-gold on his nose, glittering and so vibrant and warm that it almost looks like a wedge of amber over a candleflame. His eyes, bright as red stars and sunsets — all the holiest things in the universe — narrow on you immediately.

“You weren’t s’posed to be home for another three hours,” he growls accusingly.

The raccoon kit pats the golden swirl on your cheek with one flat paw, then headbutts you under the chin for more cuddles. Its purring grows louder.

“Mister Kraglin cut off his thumb,” you tell Rocket, wide-eyed as you take in the violet and sunshine smeared into his fur. Most of him is hidden behind the doorframe, but one hand grips the edge, and you can see gold and purple crusted around his claws. “It was the most excitement the clinic has seen in a while,” you admit, “and we have closed early as a result.” You feel your head tilt. “Are you… painting something?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment — eyes dropping to take in your white-and-red uniform — before he sighs: utterly beleaguered. “Trying to,” he mutters, and rolls his eyes. “Was supposed to be a frickin’ surprise.” He wheels back from the door, gesturing with that dark-clawed, paint-spattered hand. “C’mon in, Starlight.”

You carefully set the littlest raccoon on the sofa, and make your way deeper into the apartment.  

Your breath trips out of your lungs when you cross the threshold into the bedroom. It’s been utterly transformed in your few hours away.

It is, you think in wonderment, like walking into the heart of an amethyst. 

Layers of paint — from the ashen lilac of the sky just after the sun goes down, all the way to the richest midnight-purple — fold over each other in veils of haphazard brushwork, scraped across each other as if the painter were trying to create something deep and glimmering. It’s true that there are some splashes of color on the cracked bone-tiles of the floor, and little ripples where the purple had dribbled too thickly down the walls — but he’s covered the bed with a canvas that you recognize as borrowed or stolen from Miss Ssssaralami, and the plasma-orb lamps are similarly protected. A shabby box sits in one corner, full of wires and frosted glass, but you’re too entranced by the purple walls: the illusion of velvety, luminous depth — the sense of swimming in an endless night sky, or diving into the rift at the end of the universe. 

And against the purple — all misshapen and erratic, in clusters and lopsided sprays, different sizes and spaces between each one — shine a hundred golden stars. They’re gleaming and metallic, shimmering with the same crushed glitter-dust smudged across Rocket’s nose, sparkling and brilliant and warm.

You touch one lightly with the golden pad of your fingertip, awestruck.

“You are an artist,” you say solemnly, awestruck as your eyes travel around the room.

Rocket scowls and shuffles the fur of his forearm against the end of his nose — then looks down to realize he’s smeared more gold paint on himself. A strangled roar of outrage climbs in his throat and hisses between his teeth, gravelly and shrill, and you blink down at him over one soft shoulder.

He looks like he’s ready to pull out fistfuls of his own fur, panting.

“I’d call you a liar if I didn’t know how frickin’ bad you are at it,” he seethes, glaring around the room as if the walls have personally insulted him. “It’s a damn mess.”

You tilt your head. You don’t generally find his aggravation humorous, but it is often endearing — and you know him well enough now to understand that sometimes, a little gentle mockery will make him feel safer.

“Small One,” you tease lightly, letting a smile curve your full lips, flashing your white teeth and the slight gap between them at your beautiful Captain, “the imperfections are what make it so lovely.”

His eyes narrow at you again, distant crimson suns, and for a moment he continues to fume: fists clenched, sharp teeth gritted. He is flawless nonetheless: his casual Knowhere-clothes spattered with bright sparkling yellow, now, and streaked with purple. One whole whisker gleams gold in the artificial Knowhere light that streams through the circular window, open over the head of the bed. 

He sighs suddenly, his jaw and shoulders and hands all loosening, and you can see now that his palms are streaked with gold paint, too. 

You’re always soft for Rocket, but everything inside you suddenly feels even softer: more pliable, more tender. You let your smile shift from playfulness to pure, gentle wonder as you gaze around the room again: jewel-toned, sequined and filigreed with suns and stars made even more sacred by the fact that they’ve come from his own hands. He’s even included some lopsided versions of the holy constellations you grew up studying in the Ositamet sky, which you hadn’t even realized he might remember from your stories. That same place in your heart that had ached over Mister Kraglin’s tears suddenly trembles and heats, overflowing with sunlight. You think it might pour out of your skin. In fact, you can feel it: the warmth in your cheeks, the tip of your ears and nose.

“You’re blushing,” Rocket notes drily, and your brow creases.

“Relvoith do not blush,” you say sternly. Which is true, after all — it’s not as if you can lie, even if you’d wanted to.

Rocket only rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You’re — gold-dusting, then. Sunbursting.”

You touch the warm swirls in your cheeks, knowing they’re bright as the stars he’s painted onto the walls. 

“I am overwhelmed,” you admit to him softly. You can feel your eyes sting with tears as you turn slowly, taking everything in. Your voice is hushed. “I think perhaps this is the kindest, most generous thing that anyone has ever done for me, Rocks.”

Even though your eyes are on the skewed stars, you can feel the tension leave the little room when he sighs again. 

“Yeah, yeah, princess,” he gruffs out. “Just — got sick of hearing you talk about wanting to redecorate.”

Now you do look at him, tilting your head. “I think that is a lie.”

He scowls, but there’s nothing hard in it at all. His sun-ruby eyes have turned into something soft and melting. “Just a little one.”

You cast another smile at him before turning your attention again to the starscape painted all around you.

“Why did you choose purple for the sky?” you muse after a moment. “I like it very much, but I would not have expected that choice from you—”

“Reminded me of you,” he mumbles, and when you glance at him again, he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other and looking away, scrubbing at his gold-dipped whiskers with the back of his wrist in the way you’ve come to recognize means he’s embarrassed. “Your uniform-thing, the first time we met. It was, uh, purple and white.” He clears his throat, and your smile turns into a delighted grin.

“You were feeling quite sentimental, then,” you tease.

“Whatever,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes and turning away to begin peeling the canvas drape off the bed, revealing the fleecy turquoise comforter underneath, rippled with velveteen stripes. It’s a bit faded and ragged, and the mattress dips in the middle, but it’s a far cry from the piece of scrapmetal Rocket had been sleeping on when he had still been staying in his own apartment, just off the Guardians’ main office down the street. “You’re such a pain,” he adds, tossing the crumpled canvas into the corner and picking up the box of wire and glass you’d only vaguely noticed when you’d walked in. He sets the dilapidated box on the bed. “Wanna help me hang these? They’re not frickin’... authentic or whatever. Too expensive to get the real ones, all the way from Ositamet. Consider ‘em… off-brand, or whatever.” 

He clears his throat again: a tell you’ve come to recognize; an indicator that he’s nervous. You lean over, peering into the box, and your heart catches in your throat again: full of sunlight, overflowing. 

“You’re gold-dusting again,” he points out drily.

“How did you get these, if not from home?” you ask softly, lifting up one handful of bright-copper wire. He shuffles in tightly against your thigh, leaning one cheek into the soft plushness of your hip. 

“Sketched ‘em up,” he admits. “Wove the wire and made the little plasma-orbs on my own. Had Steemie save the glass from that old building they tore down in Exitar. Cut it an’ soldered it myself.” He swallows. “Wasn’t that hard,” he adds, trying to downplay the time and effort you suddenly know he must have put into planning every inch of this creation. “With the ships, I musta had to patch glass at least a hundred times before.”

But these handcrafted string-lights are not just patched glass. They’re perfect star-shaped lanterns, far more precise than the celestial bodies spangling the walls. And though not every pane of glass matches in color or texture, they’re worth more to you than any import from the palaces and streets of Ositamet. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “Let us hang them.”

Rocket doesn’t wait: he leaps nimbly onto the mattress and then springs to your shoulders. He’s heavy with screws and solder, bolts and plates, but his weight’s  still nothing for your strength. You gather the strings of lights in your hands and they clink merrily against each other as you travel the perimeter of the room. When you hand him the end of the twisted copper wire,  he holds the cord to the edge of the ceiling and fastens it into the bone-plaster with the soft, hollow thud of a bolt-gun. 

The two of you continue around the room, skirting the pan of purple-and-gold swirled paint still on the floor, full of sopping brushes. A manufactured Knowhere breeze filters in through the round window, along with the artificial sunlight; it brightens the still-drying stars, making the room glimmer all around the two of you. You soak in the lullaby made by the measured timpani of the bolt-gun and the pleasant chime of the star-lanterns in your hands, feeding them up to your beautiful captain. There’s the comforting feel of his strong thighs braced between your palms and shoulders: a warm, welcome weight. Your eyes are drawn to a spray of purple on the claws of his left foot, like nail lacquer — it curls the corner of your mouth in a whimsical smile but you don’t dare breathe a word of it right now.

By the time the stringed lights are garlanded all around the room, the artificial lights outside have already begun dimming, and the room is dusky and softly-shadowed. Rocket leaps off of your shoulders, fleet-footed, and taps the sensor on the wall. It’s normally synced to the plasma-orb lamps, but he must have programmed the star-lanterns in too, because they brighten into a quiet glow: every bit of illumination magnified by the glass, refracted into the occasional spray of rainbow-flaked light scattered across the starscape-walls, the velvety bed, the paint-spattered floor. With one foot, Rocket drags the soft, shaggy rug from where he’d shuffled it under the bed, and the room is almost back to normal.

Almost normal, but transformed into something divine.

You stand for a moment, and take in the coziness of the room, the glints of far-off skies and dreams, the shimmering warmth in your heart and the knowledge of how much you truly mean to the beautiful Captain of Knowhere.

He must be able to tell your thoughts are shifting into sentimentality, because he breaks the quiet with a dramatic sigh. 

“Now I gotta get all this damn paint outta my fur,” he laments, looking down at his purple-streaked feet and the shimmering yellow smeared across his forearm. When he turns his palms up, he groans, his whole head leaned back so he can curse the ceiling. The dark leather of both hands are glazed with sun-bright gold, as if he had fingerpainted the stars. 

“Dammit,” he curses, as his fists begin to curl all over again.

But you catch one narrow wrist, watching the way he shines. “Look,” you say with a sun-bright smile of your own, and his knotted fingers loosen in your gentle grasp. You open your own hand next to his. The pads of your fingers and creased palm are ashimmer just like his, like you’d both been caught with fistfuls of sunlight and stars. You turn your hand over top of his, and you lace your fingers into the soft spaces between his knuckles: gold pressed to gold, so bright that it’s a wonder that sunshine doesn’t fan out from between your clasped hands in glittering rays. 

Rocket swallows, whiskers and tail and ears all twitching, his glowing sunrise-eyes going soft in the dusky evening glow. “Starlight,” he says, and his voice is a husky rasp. “I wanted to tell you — but I ain’t good with words—”

Whatever he had been going to say is suddenly broken by the sound of a mechanical chime: the doorbell. You both look up, and it rings again.

“Dammit,” Rocket snaps for what must be the third time in just an hour or two. He tugs his hand from yours, stalking toward the door and flinging it open.

Miss Cosmo and young Miss Phyla are there, the former sitting on the step with a nervously-wagging tail. You can see Rocket’s shoulders ease, and you know it’s because he’s secretly soft for children and animals. Well, he seems to think it’s a secret, anyway. The sight makes you melt even more. 

“I’m so sorry, Jazper,” the Star Child says, apology written all over her childish face. “I know the Captain was planning a surprise for you tonight, but—”

“But Adam has broken the ocular cannon,” Cosmo pipes up, and her tail begins to move twice as fast. 

“The — what?” Rocket repeats, and you can hear the tension rising again in his voice. “What was he even doing with it?”

Miss Cosmo tilts her head as young Miss Phyla winces.

“Messing around,” the cosmonaut says, and her mechanical voice lilts in such a way that it sounds like a quote.

You move to lean by the door, and Rocket pinches the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Can’t get a frickin’ minute a’ peace—”

“It is okay,” you say with a wide smile. “I will be here when you come home.” 

Rocket glances up at you, and his expression is pained. “I don’t—”

“Uhm,” young Miss Phyla interrupts hesitantly, teeth bared in a sorrowful grimace, “I hate to tell you this, but your — your guest is making a mess?”

Both you and Rocket turn to find the littlest raccoon kit meandering through the apartment living space, then between the two of you, and right out the open door. In its wake, from the bedroom to the front door, trail a ribbon of paint-slick pawprints sinking into the bone-floor forever: shades of purple, smeared with starlight-gold.

Rocket stares after the littlest kit as it ambles away. His mouth wobbles in something torn between bone-deep exhaustion, and a desire to bare his teeth and commit murder.

The corners of your own mouth curl, and your shoulders shake with feathery laughter. “Go,” you tell your Captain, and lean toward him. Young Miss Phyla and Miss Cosmo have seen the two of you together often enough to know that everyone will be happier if they turn their backs and pretend not to know that you’re dropping a kiss on the crown of Rocket’s paint-spattered head. “I will see you later tonight.”

You’re rising back upward when his gold-dipped fingers curl into the collar of the clinic uniform you’re still wearing. “Wait,” he mutters, tugging you back down and levying a quick, fleeting flick of his tongue to the fullness of your upper lip. “‘Fore I go.”

It’s a ritual, at this point: the soft kiss, the tug at your collar, the brief lick or nip at your mouth. And then the question, rumbling up from the bottom of his lungs, low and warm:

“Who’s yer favorite Guardian?”

You smile, your lips just a breath away from his nose — the answer the same now as it’s always been. 

After all, you cannot lie.

“You are.”

thank you for giving me the chance to write this! it was such a fun idea and it was so interesting to work with someone else’s oc in this context, and try to integrate the formality of jazper’s language into the writing without making it sound unnatural (i hope i accomplished it!). i’ve never written for someone else’s character like this so i hope i did jaz justice ♡ thank you for trusting me with them. it was truly a privilege and i hope it was everything you were looking for ♡♡♡

short story masterlist | main masterlist

[whitevvings]

what are your muse’s aesthetics ?

[ bold / italicize any which apply to your muse ! feel free to add to the list ! remember to repost ! ]

[ COLORS ] red . brown . orange . yellow . green . blue . purple . pink . black . white . teal . silver . gold . grey . lilac . metallic . matte . royal blue . strawberry red . charcoal grey . forest green . apple red . navy blue . crimson . cream . mint green .

[ ELEMENTS ] fire . ice . water . air . earth . rain . snow . wind . stars . heat . cold . steam . frost . lightning . sunlight . moonlight . dawn . dusk . twilight . midnight . sunrise . sunset . dewdrops .

[ BODY ] claws . long fingers . fangs . teeth . wings . tails . lips . bare feet . freckles . bruises . canine . scars . scratches . wounds . burns . spikes . feathers . webs . eyes . hands . legs . sweat . tears . feline . chubby . curvy . athletic . short . tall . normal height . muscular . piercing . tattoos . facial markings .

[ WEAPONS ] fists . sword . dagger . spear . arrow . hammer . shield . poison . guns . axes . throwing axes . whips . knives . throwing knives . pepper sprays . tasers . maces . staffs . wands . powers . magical items . magic .

[ MATERIALS ] gold . silver . platinum . titanium . diamonds . pearls . rubies . sapphires . emeralds . amethyst . metal . iron . rust . steel . glass . wood . porcelain . paper . wool . fur . lace . leather . silk . velvet . denim . linen . cotton . charcoal . clay . stone . asphalt . brick . marble . dust . glitter . blood . dirt . mud . smoke . ash . shadow . carbonate . rubber . synthetics .

[ NATURE ] grass . leaves . trees . bark . roses . daisies . tulips . lavender . petals . thorns . seeds . hay . sand . rocks . roots . flowers . ocean . river . meadow . forest . desert . tundra . savanna . rainforest . caves . underwater . coral reef . beach . waves . space . clouds . mountains .

[ ANIMALS ] lions . wolves . eagles . owls . falcons . hawks . swans . snakes . turtles . ducks . bugs . spiders . snails . birds . whales . dolphins . fish . sharks . horses . cats . dogs . bunnies . praying mantises . crows . ravens . mice . ladybugs . lizards . werewolves . unicorns . pegasus . dragons . hamsters . butterflies . 

[ FOODS / DRINKS ] sugar . salt . candy . bubblegum . wine . champagne . hard liquor . beer . coffee . tea . soda . spices . herbs . apple . orange . lemon . cherry . strawberry . watermelon . vegetables . fruits . meat . fish . pies . desserts . chocolate . cream . caramel . berries . nuts . cinnamon . burgers . fries . burritos . pizza . ambrosia .

[ HOBBIES ] music . art . watercolors . gardening . smithing . sculpting . painting . sketching . fighting . skateboarding . writing . composing . cooking . sewing . training . dancing . acting . singing . martial arts . self-defense . electronics . technology . cameras . video cameras . video games . computer . phone . movies . theater . libraries . books . magazines . cds . records . vinyls . cassettes . piano . violin . guitar . electric guitar . bass guitar . harmonica . harp . woodwinds . brass . bells . playing cards . poker chips . chess . dice . motorcycle riding . horseback riding . eating . climbing . running . swimming .

[ STYLE ] lingerie . armor . cape . dress . tunic . vest . shirt . boots . heels . sneakers . sandals . leggings . trousers . jeans . skirt . jewelry . earrings . necklace . bracelet . ring . pendant . hat . crown . circlet . helmet . scarf . brocade . cloaks . corsets . doublet . chest plate . gorget . bracers . belt . sash . suit . coat . jacket . hood . gloves . socks . masks . cowls . braces . watches . glasses . sunglasses . visor . eye contacts . makeup .

[ MISC ] balloons . bubbles . cityscape . light . dark . candles . war . peace . money . power . percussion . clocks . photos . mirrors . pets . diary . fairy lights . sadness . happiness . optimism . pessimism . ribbons . loneliness . family . friends . assistants . co-workers . enemies . loyalty . smoking . drugs . kindness . love . hugs . 

[ tagging: all mutuals! ]

[bluexeyedkaiba]

what are your muse’s aesthetics ?

[ bold / italicize any which apply to your muse ! feel free to add to the list ! remember to repost ! ]

[ COLORS ] red . brown . orange . yellow . green . blue . purple . pink . black . white . teal . silver . gold . grey . lilac . metallic . matte . royal blue . strawberry red . charcoal grey . forest green . apple red . navy blue . crimson . cream . mint green .

[ ELEMENTS ] fire . ice . water . air . earth . rain . snow . wind . stars . heat . cold . steam . frost . lightning . sunlight . moonlight . dawn . dusk . twilight . midnight . sunrise . sunset . dewdrops .

[ BODY ] claws . long fingers . fangs . teeth . wings . tails . lips . bare feet . freckles . bruises . canine . scars . scratches . wounds . burns . spikes . feathers . webs . eyes . hands . legs . sweat . tears . feline . chubby . curvy . short . tall . normal height . muscular . piercing . tattoos . facial markings .

[ WEAPONS ] fists . sword . dagger . spear . arrow . hammer . shield . poison . guns . axes . throwing axes . whips . knives . throwing knives . pepper sprays . tasers . maces . staffs . wands . powers . magical items . magic .

[ MATERIALS ] gold . silver . platinum . titanium . diamonds . pearls . rubies . sapphires . emeralds . amethyst . metal . iron . rust . steel . glass . wood . porcelain . paper . wool . fur . lace . leather . silk . velvet . denim . linen . cotton . charcoal . clay . stone . asphalt . brick . marble . dust . glitter . blood . dirt . mud . smoke . ash . shadow . carbonate . rubber . synthetics .

[ NATURE ] grass . leaves . trees . bark . roses . daisies . tulips . lavender . petals . thorns . seeds . hay . sand . rocks . roots . flowers . ocean . river . meadow . forest . desert . tundra . savanna . rainforest . caves . underwater . coral reef . beach . waves . space . clouds . mountains .

[ ANIMALS ] lions . wolves . eagles . owls . falcons . hawks . swans . snakes . turtles . ducks . bugs . spiders . snails . birds . whales . dolphins . fish . sharks . horses . cats . dogs . bunnies . praying mantises . crows . ravens . mice . ladybugs . lizards . werewolves . unicorns . pegasus . dragons . hamsters . butterflies . 

[ FOODS / DRINKS ] sugar . salt . candy . bubblegum . wine . champagne . hard liquor . beer . coffee . tea . soda . spices . herbs . apple . orange . lemon . cherry . strawberry . watermelon . vegetables . fruits . meat . fish . pies . desserts . chocolate . cream . caramel . berries . nuts . cinnamon . burgers . fries . burritos . pizza . ambrosia .

[ HOBBIES ] music . art . watercolors . gardening . smithing . sculpting . painting . sketching . fighting . skateboarding . writing . composing . cooking . sewing . training . dancing . acting . singing . martial arts . self-defense . electronics . technology . cameras . video cameras . video games . computer . phone . movies . theater . libraries . books . magazines . cds . records . vinyls . cassettes . piano . violin . guitar . electric guitar . bass guitar . harmonica . harp . woodwinds . brass . bells . playing cards . poker chips . chess . dice . motorcycle riding . eating . climbing . running .

[ STYLE ] lingerie . armor . cape . dress . tunic . vest . shirt . boots . heels . leggings . trousers . jeans . skirt . jewelry . earrings . necklace . bracelet . ring . pendant . hat . crown . circlet . helmet . scarf . brocade . cloaks . corsets . doublet . chest plate . gorget . bracers . belt . sash . suit . coat . jacket . hood . gloves . socks . masks . cowls . braces . watches . glasses . sunglasses . visor . eye contacts . makeup .

[ MISC ] balloons . bubbles . cityscape . light . dark . candles . war . peace . money . power . percussion . clocks . photos . mirrors . pets . diary . fairy lights . sadness . happiness . optimism . pessimism . ribbons . loneliness . family . friends . assistants . co-workers . enemies . loyalty . smoking . drugs . kindness . love . hugs.

tagging: you if you see this/want to do this!

[altheia-featherstone]

OC aesthetic game

Thank you @anew-flame for the tag!

Rules: bold/color any which apply to your OC; remember to repost; feel free to add to the lists. 

Tagging: Anyone who wants to do it

*****

Altheia Featherstone

(The Arcana)

[ COLORS ]

red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. cream. mint green. cobalt blue. lime green. beige. turquoise.

[ ELEMENTS ]

fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset.

[ BODY ]

claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. sun-kissed. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. average. muscular. lean. piercing. tattoos. lithe. moles. dimples.

[ WEAPONS ]

fists. sword. dagger. spear. arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. whips. knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. pyre. teeth. rifles. words.

[ MATERIALS ]

gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amber. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. glass. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. rubber. synthetics. jade.

[ NATURE ]

grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. lavender. petals. thorns. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. dandelions. ocean. river. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. poppies. galaxies. stardust. sky.

[ ANIMALS ]

lions. wolves. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. crickets. bees. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantises. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. rats. livestock. foxes. bluebirds. deer. dragonflies.

[ FOODS/DRINKS ]

sugar. salt. bitter. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. french fries. ambrosia. honey. cheese. pasta.

[ HOBBIES ]

music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. wood carving. foraging. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. journaling. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. history. books. comic books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. flight. climbing. running. exploring. partying. yoga. potion making.

[ STYLE ]

lingerie. armor. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. sweater. boots. heels. sandals. leggings. trousers. cargo pants. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. flower crown. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. duster. trenchcoat. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. ties. uniform. fancy shoes. leather jacket. sport underwear.

[ MISC ]

balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. kisses. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. bittersweet. happiness. luck. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs. revenge. lust. regrets. passion. spontaneity. potty mouth. recklessness. practicality. hope.

[spudcity]

Rest Stop, Highway 91

Cars parked alongside a chain-link fence overlooking houses that have no view,    plates from three bordering states aglow       in the light from a hillside billboard    filled with a glass of milk—Holyoke just beyond the notch, slumbering    like a rain-soaked paper on the porch—      checkout boys from the local A&P    hanging up their aprons, clocking out on a night that is young only once    in a stranger’s car—the taste of skin       on clandestine tongues, freckled swirls    down creamy backs in constellations left unnamed, stiff cocks under boxers     crammed into that vinyl dark perfumed        by a four-inch cardboard pine dangling     above the illuminated dash, windows veiled with frost. They say the leaves will fall     earlier this year, like so many apples        plastered on the hill, wooden barrels     filling up with rain while children turn in their sleep—deaf to the sound of engines    running, their fathers behind the wheel.

– Timothy Liu

[wcrriorhearts]

YOUR MUSE'S AESTHETICS.

bold what applies to your muse and italicize what sometimes applies to them. please repost, don’t reblog !

colour :red. brown. orange. yellow. green. blue. purple. pink. black. white. teal. silver. gold. grey. lilac. metallic. matte. royal blue. strawberry red. charcoal grey. forest green. apple red. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. magenta. pastels. bubblegum pink. blood red. ivory.

elements :fire. ice. water. air. earth. rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. thunder. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. clouds. light. dark. shadow.

body : claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. ears. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. slender. trained. piercings. tattoos. strong. shape shifting. svelte. long hair. short hair. dark circles. big. small. prosthetic. experimented. cyborg. halos. horns. wolfish.

weaponry : fists. sword. dagger. spear. scythe. bow and arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. peppersprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. power loader. flamethrower. metal rod. shotguns. needles. words

material : bronze. gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. copper. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. yarn. slime. ivory.

nature :grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. holly. lavender. lilies. petals. thorns. sunflowers. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. snow. ice. roots. flowers. ocean. river. lake. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. swamp. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. stars. clouds. mountains. fungi. cliffs. sunlight.

animals : lions. wolves. black panther. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. roaches. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantis. crows. ravens. misc. lizards. frogs. bears. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dinosaurs. dragons. felines. foxes. centaurs.

foods and drinks :sugar. salt. water. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. vanilla. cookies.

hobbies :music. art. piercing. watercolours. gardening. knitting. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. fencing. riding. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self - defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. poetry. philosophy. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. cello. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. synthesizers. harp. woodwinds. brass. trumpet. flute. drums. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. climbing. tree climbing. running. vivisection.

style : lingerie. armor. cape. dress. robes. suit. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. heels. legging. trousers. jeans. skirt. shorts. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendants. hat. goggles. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. neck tie. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. pauldrons. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. pantyhose. stockings. thigh highs. eye patch. collar.

misc : balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirrors. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. realism. loneliness. anger. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. lovers. loyalty. smoking. alcohol. drugs. kindness. love. hugs.

tagged: @bigdaddydaemon tagged Rhaenyra tagging: @alyafae @unbeleveable @ironf0rged @emeraldxphoenix @razorfstand whoever else would like to do it!