#frosted vinyl for glass

[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

[celestialsam]

San Francisco Exterior Vinyl

[yourperfectlittleanarchist]

Transitional Porch

[rustedhearts]

let it snow (70s!steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: what happens when you're snowed in with your best friend (and there's a lot of sexual tension)?

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the only living boy in indiana ✶ christmas carols✶ the library

tags: fluff, mutual pining, best friend!steve

"oh, the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful, and since we've no place to go: let it snow! let it snow! let it snow!"

— let it snow! let it snow! let it snow!, dean martin

somewhere in indiana. december, 1976.

“That snow’s really comin’ down,” Steve mused from his bedroom window.

You glanced up from your book, splayed on your stomach against his duvet. “It’ll be fine.”

Steve let his drape drop back into place over the window, frosted with ice and fogging with the heat from his radiator. He wandered back toward the bed, flopping beside you and jostling the mattress. You huffed into your current chapter.

“Not worried about missing your date tonight?”

You shrugged, flipping the page that you haven’t even read. “Eh. He’s kind of boring anyway."

"Well, yeah," Steve scoffed, twisting to lay on his back. The blankets bunched up with his shifting. "His name is Peter."

"Your name is Steve."

Steve's head snapped your way to sharpen his eyes in a glare. "Hey."

A slow, sideways smile plucked at your lips. You turned back to your book and stifled a giggle, though it burst free when his fingers poked your side.

"Wanna go in the basement? I need a light and Mom'll kill me if she smells it up here."

You closed your book around your finger and gazed at him over your shoulder. "They won't be home for hours."

"It lingers, sweetheart."

“Gross.” You scrunched up your nose and tried to ignore the pulsing ache in your chest. Bless the cold for keeping the heat from rushing to your face. “Don’t call me that.”

Steve rolled off the bed and to his feet, rushing the door and paying no mind to your distaste.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he called, already halfway down the hall. "We can dip into some of my dad's scotch."

So half an hour later, Steve was on his second Winston—the first stubbed out in the glass ashtray on the coffee table—and you were nursing a mug of scotch. Your mug had Santa on it, and you traced his beard with the edge of your nail as Steve fiddled with the stereo.

"Don't have any Christmas tunes," he'd muttered once you settled in the freezing cold basement. "But we can break out the winter music."

"And what do you consider 'winter music?'" you asked.

He lit up a Winston and clenched it between his teeth, already rifling through his baskets of vinyl. "Anything as cold and dreary as this damn town."

Now, Steve was bopping his hips to a jazzy tune found on a very old record from early high school. You remember the day he found it at the record store. It was during his "blue period," where all he wanted to listen to was jazz and blues.

You hid your grin behind another sip as Steve made finger guns toward the ceiling in time to the trumpet of the song, though a giggle burst forth into a gulp of scotch. His head snapped your way, one finger gun coming to pull his cigarette away.

"I hear your giggles, Miss. Grinch," he teased, swinging his leg over the back of the sofa to sit on the edge.

You swallowed down the pungent liquor, wincing when it stung. "I'm not a Grinch. I just don't like Christmas the same way you do, you know that."

Steve blew a cloud of smoke though his teeth. "Yeah, never understood that, by the way."

"Not for you to understand, Hair."

Steve narrowed his eyes at you, pointing the ashed end of his cigarette your way. "Don't call me that."

You quirked a brow, chin tipping up defiantly. "Or what?"

Steve cooly mouthed at his cigarette a moment more. He carefully slid down the back of the couch until he was seated near your socked feet, leaning forward to stub his second Winston out. As it died out in the mess of ash, Steve hooked his arm around your knees and yanked you close.

"Steve," you warned, voice knocked a pitch up. "Don't!"

It took everything in you not to spill your scotch as Steve's thin fingers prodded at your sides. He knew just what spots to press on, just where to squeeze and jiggle to have you twisting and writhing in a fit of laughter. The kind of laughter that had you aching with soreness. The kind of laughter that sent you back to infancy together.

Steve swooped the mug out of your hand and placed it on the coffee table before it could fall—but only so he could ignore your giggled protests to stop as the pair of you slipped off the couch. You tumbled to the hard floor together, a mess of limbs on concrete.

Soon, you were pinned under his heavy weight. His hands stopped tickling and rested stilly on your waist. They slipped under your sweater in the commotion, and now his palms braced your bare flesh without barrier. You could feel him between your legs—the sheer size of him, pushing your thighs apart and stretching them to sting. The outline of him pressed against his jeans.

The laughter subsided to breathless sighs. You gazed up at his pink-cheeked face, splotched with excitement. Your stomach was in your throat. The record stopped spinning some time ago, and now the empty scratch of needle turn crackled through the empty house. The end of your nose was frozen from the cold, but the rest of you was on fire pressed up against Steve.

Steve: your best friend.

"You're so soft," he whispered.

Your breath hitched. His thumb started to move in odd patterns under your shirt. You were suddenly and extremely aware of your hands around his arms—and how firm his biceps were under his sleeves. Every breath that touched your face smelled like Winston smoke. There was a tear in the rug underneath you and it was tickling your cheek.

"Th-thank you."

His thumbs continued. The breathing shallowed. The record spun on an empty track. His eyes were such a pretty color—or, an amalgamation of many colors all in one pretty iris.

You swallowed thickly, mouth suddenly dry. "I-I should go. Still...try to make my date."

Steve nodded, though he, too, was lost in your eyes. He never noticed how pretty the shape of your eyes were. How long and dainty the lashes were, how they brushed your cheeks with every blink. Did you know? Had you walked around with all this glorious beauty his entire life?

How could he have been so blind?

"Steve," you interrupted. "Get off me."

Steve scrambled to release you of his weight, rolling to his feet and brushing off his jeans. He helped you up—a gentle hand around your arm—and watched you grab your coat from the hook near the door. You've had that coat for years—the fur-lined collar and cuffed sleeves were full of lint and cat hair, and there was a button missing at the bottom.

While you were fishing for your gloves in the pockets, Steve moved the lace drapes over the back door and peered up the steps. There was about three feet of snow blocking the door, and as he watched, more piled over the staircase and across the yard.

"Uh...not sure you should go out in this," he announced.

You flicked your hair out of your face with mittened hands and huffed. "What?"

"The snow's pretty bad—"

"We live in Indiana, Steve. I've seen plenty of snow."

Steve dropped the snow and stepped away, arms folded over his chest. "Is Peter really worth getting stuck in a snowstorm?"

You cocked your foot out, mimicking his folded arms. "Maybe. He-he might be. I don't know."

It was the way his jaw tipped up at you, how his brows raised and nestled together, how his lip curled into a grin akin to the sixteen year old that never got told 'no.' It was the way your heart thumped in your ears with deafening force.

You weren't sure you could be around him right now. Not without wondering how his lips tasted. Not without wondering why he'd never told you he loved you.

"Really? What's his last name?"

"Good question. I'll ask him tonight." You rolled your eyes and whirled around, heading toward the basement steps.

If Steve wouldn't let you leave that way, you'd just go out the front.

"Hey—seriously, you're not going out in this."

"Oh yeah?" you huffed, stomping up the stairs. "Who's gonna stop me?"

A heavy arm hooked around your waist, knocking the air from your lungs with one quick pull. Steve hoisted you back down the steps, and it was only when he placed you back on your feet that you started kicking them. You got one good hit in the thigh before backing away to glare.

"What the hell is your issue?" you spat.

Steve threw his arms out—fucking Christ, his shoulders were broad. His hands were so big, and he had the prettiest pink flush to his face after all that play fighting and struggling.

"I'm not letting you go out in that."

It took everything in you to muster a squint and shoot it at him. You were sweating bullets in your buttoned-up coat.

"Well, I'm going."

Maybe you wanted him to grab you again. Maybe that's why you tried to push past him and dart up the stairs. Maybe you wanted to be chased, manhandled, held by those big, rough hands—Steve couldn't think of any other reason for your second attempt at escaping.

So, he snatched you up again. This time, you ended up dangling over his shoulder, and your feet were quicker to react this time. But your struggles were futile and adorable, and Steve chuckled when he brought you back to the cement floor and blocked off the stairs with a stiff body.

Once standing, you flicked your hair away again. Steve pushed his sweater sleeves up to his elbows. Cords of muscle flexed in his forearms—those strong, wide forearms. The scotch was starting to take effect. The room was getting smaller and hotter by the second, and you couldn't stop watching his lips grow pinker with heat.

"You have to stop touching me," you breathed out, so much softer than you wished it would sound. But you had no strength around Steve when he was at this proximity.

He pushed his hair out of his eyes, swallowing. He almost seemed in pain. "Then stop looking at me like that."

Your mouth ran dry. The room regained its frigidity in an instance. The sizzle of saliva down your throat passed between you.

"Like...like what?"

There was an ache growing in your chest that you were starting to resent. A hollow, weeping ache that squeezed with all its might when Steve looked down and shook his head.

"Nothing."

You watched him a moment. Scuff his shoes through the dirt on the floor. Wipe at his nose the way he does when he's nervous. Tuck his hands into his pockets and roll his shoulders. Meet your eyes only to duck away again.

"What if I...just go home?"

Steve scratched at the back of his neck, tousling his hair. "I'll-I'll walk you."

You nodded. "Okay."

Steve bundled in his coat and scarf, slipping on a pair of ratty old gloves before you pushed your way out the front door. Though you only lived a few houses down, it as a difficult trek. You had to hoist your legs with every step, kicking snow up the back of your jeans and under your coat. The wind whipped flurries at your face and numbed your mouth.

By the time you made it to your own front door, you were shivering and no less flustered than a few minutes ago. You turned around as you reached for the knob, finding Steve at the top step, waiting.

"Thanks for walking me."

Steve shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded. His smile was tight-lipped. "Sure."

You opened the door and slipped inside. Steve watched you kick the snow off your boots against the wall and shimmy your coat onto the hook. He watched you trudge to the steps and ascend them slowly, lost in the world of your own thoughts.

He stepped back and shuffled through the mound of white on your front lawn. He stopped in view of your bedroom window on the second floor, and watched the glass turn yellow in the lamplight. You passed in front of the window on your way to the bed.

Steve echoed a white breath into the air.

Maybe one day.

[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.

[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

[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

[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.

[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

[astarab1aze]

REPOST — DON’T REBLOG. BOLD any which apply to your muse ! feel free to add to the list !

WHAT ARE YOUR MUSE’S AESTHETICS ?

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. violet. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. bubblegum pink. sky blue. pale jade. coral.

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. dewdrops. shadows. blood. animus. divinity.

WEAPONS — fists. legs. shortsword. longsword. broadswoard. buster sword. dagger. spear. bow & arrow. crossbow. pike. hammer. twinblade. shield. poison. blowgun. bolas. guns. bats. traps. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. acid. explosives. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katana. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. claws. teeth. stealth. strategy. summoning an ally. sniping. rifles. shotguns. improvised weapons.

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

NATURE — grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. sunflowers. tulips. lavender. wisteria. petals. cherry blossom. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. fungi. ocean. river. frozen lake. meadow. valley. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. crystal caves. underwater. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. snow. mist. pond. sky.

ANIMALS — lions. wolves. foxes. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. dodo. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. rabbits. penguins. praying mantises. crows. ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. scorpions. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. ladybugs. scarabs. hummingbirds. cicadas.

FOODS &. DRINKS — sugar. salt. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. vodka. beer. coffee. sake. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. blackberries. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. ambrosia. eggs. milk. stew. whiskey.

HOBBIES — music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. composing. cooking. baking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. war tactics. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. accordion. strings. violin. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. flute. bells. exploring. tea ceremonies. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. skateboarding. motorcycle riding. car driving. eating. sleeping. climbing. running. jogging. parkour. soccer. studying. people watching. shopping. alchemy. collecting.

MISCELLANEOUS — balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. clear. candles. mystery. growth. decay. war. peace. money. power. law. percussion. justice. clocks. ballpoint pens. photos. mirrors. lighters. pets. diary. journal. fairy lights. truth. deception. madness. sanity. death. sadness. wisdom. realism. happiness. optimism. pessimism. logic. loneliness. family. friends. clan. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. poison. drugs. kindness. love. hugs. kisses. spring. summer. autumn. winter. farmland. countryside. suburban. village. metropolitan. hospitals.

[sixisnotaprettynumber]

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁    𝙰𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚃𝙸𝙲𝚂 :

COLOR.       ——       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.

ELEMENTAL.      ——        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 & arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. power loader. flamethrower. metal rod. shotguns. needles.

MATERIAL.        ——        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.

FOOD & DRINK.      ——      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. landscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirror. 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. embracing. [[Tagging: Anyone who is interested]]

[bunnywalkcr]

prompt 002.

who: bunny / self-para when: september 28, 1990 where: the walker estate ; 12:41 am

In the wake of the storm, Bunny finds that she can't quite sleep.

The winds have died away and the skies have long since cleared. Even now, looking beyond the wide window beside her bed, Bunny sees the faint pinpricks of stars dotting the night sky. But when she closes her eyes, the stars vanish; suddenly, she's back where she was when the storm hit, with its howling winds and wayward whispers...

It was her love of coffee that had brought her downtown. And not just of a regular, black cup of coffee—something she could have easily made at home—but one of the seasonal lattes they made at The Ceramic Cup. Autumn always brought specialty flavors like cinnamon apple and chai spice to the local coffee joint; sweet drinks that could chase the chill from her bones on cold, grey days.

Not to mention, Bunny had fond memories of The Ceramic Cup: sitting in the sun-spotted café as a child, sipping strawberry milk through a straw; her mother drinking espresso from a tiny cup, her lipstick leaving a red crescent moon on its glossy side. Meeting boys in high school for first dates outside its glass doorway, sitting side-by-side with past crushes on the creased vinyl couches. It was a place that made her feel connected to the way things used to be. Even as she'd parked her cream convertible Chrysler TC in one of the angled public spots near the square and slid out of the driver's seat, she'd noticed the sudden weight of the clouds above her head. When she had left home, the clouds had been little more than a layer of white frosting covering the blue sky, with sunlight occasionally peeking through. Now, they seemed suddenly darker, swollen, charged with a pre-storm tension.

She'd wrapped her arms around herself as she'd turned the corner and marched up the sidewalk, the wind tugging at her hair with restless fingers. The warmth inside The Ceramic Cup was welcome; stepping across the threshold, Bunny let out a breath she didn't quite realize she'd been holding. But a shiver ran down her spine all the same as the door rattled shut behind her.

No sooner had she settled herself at a small table, a purple mug brimming with latte foam cradled in her palms, than she noticed the way the wind had picked up. Loose sheafs of paper and empty bags spun along the sidewalk in addition to brown and golden leaves. The top branches of trees bent unnaturally forward, as if being tugged on by a string. The tiny bell above the coffee shop's main entrance tinkled ominously in the draft that seeped through the cracks in the doorframe.

Bunny waited, coffee cup clutched between her breasts, watching through the window with wide eyes. She waited for the rain to break, for the thunder to boom, for lightning to split the sky. But the winds only grew more fearsome, howling and hungry as the clouds swirled above. When the windows started to shake, other patrons looked up, too—some with furrowed brows, some with anxious eyes. The door began to swing open and shut on its hinges, and a few customers rose abruptly from their tables to grasp the handle and pull it closed. Mugs chattered on the wooden shelves. Is it a tornado? one worried voice asked. Or an earthquake? another chimed in. Branches were wrenched free from the trees and the ground seemed to quiver. The worried voices rose, a swell of anxiety. One of the baristas shouted for everyone to take cover! Bunny was on her knees beneath the table before she realized she was moving. Around her, the uneasiness grew. The voices of her fellow patrons were muffled by the screaming winds. A baby began to wail, and a mother shushed it too loudly, frantically.

And then she heard the voice.

( Maybe, she thinks now, maybe it was just a voice inside her. Her hateful inner monologue adopting a new tone. But then, at that moment the voice had felt surely and entirely separate—something else, something other, something had invaded her her mind and violated her thoughts ).

I see the truth behind those carefully spun lies, the secret your family hides for you and the darkness you can't escape.

The voice faded almost as quickly as it'd come, drowned out by the rattling of windows and anxious cries of the people around her. But the impact of those words seemed to settle inside her, a weight in her bones. It made it hard to stand back up.

The wind had quieted soon after, and Bunny had emerged alongside others from beneath the relative shelter of their tables. Eyes had met with mutual expressions of fear and confusion. Hands had trembled and mugs had broken, shiny ceramic shards of green and pink and yellow across the linoleum. Bunny abandoned her own half-drunk latte on the tabletop, slinging her purse haphazardly over her shoulder to push through the front door of the coffee shop, into the mess that lay before her.

[v011d]

WHAT ARE YOUR MUSES AESTHETICS?

BOLD any that applies to your muse and italicize any that kind of applies to your muse. feel free to add to the list.

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 .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. violet. navy blue. crimson. cream. mint green. bubblegum pink. sky blue. pale jade. amber. tan. copper. bronze. magenta.

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. darkness. shadows. nature. aether. quintessence. blood. life. death.

𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 .claws. long fingers. fangs. teeth. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. neck. back. shoulders. legs. freckles. unseen bruises. canines. scars. scratches. wounds. burns. fingernails. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. muscular. piercing. tattoos. athletic. hair. fur. sleek.

𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐒 .scythe. fists. legs. sword. dagger. spear. lance. bow & arrow. hammer. shield. poison. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. baseball bats. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. mud balls. claws. teeth. stealth. strategy.

𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐒 .gold. silver. copper. platinum. titanium. rose gold. 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. ribbon

𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 .grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. sunflowers. tulips. lavender. petals. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. roots. flowers. fungi. ocean. river. frozen lake. meadow. valley. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. clouds. mountains. snow. mist. pond.

𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐒. big cats. wolves. foxes. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. crocodiles. ducks. bugs. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. penguins. deer. crows/ravens. mice. lizards. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dragons. monkeys.

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐃/𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 .sugar. salt. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. vodka. beer. coffee. sake. tea. water. spices. herbs. apples. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. lollies. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. surf ‘n’ turf. burritos. tacos. pizza. ambrosia. eggs. milk. ramen. chips. ice cream.

𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 .music. art. watercolors. gardening. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. writing. composing. cooking. baking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self-defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. CDs. records. vinyl. cassettes. piano. strings. violin. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. harp. woodwinds. brass. flute. bells. exploring. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. sleeping. climbing. running. jogging. parkour. studying. video games. comics. manga.

𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄. lingerie. armor. cape. dress. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. ankle boots. heels. leggings. trousers. jeans. skirt. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendant. hat. beanie hat. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. mittens. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. straw hat. visor. eye contacts. makeup. ribbons. hoodie. sweater. converses. tennis shoes. boxers. briefs. boxer briefs. shorts. cargo. cropped pants. crop top. cuffed pants. overalls.

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂 . balloons. bubbles. cityscape. light. dark. candles. growth. decay. war. peace. money. power. percussion. clocks. mirrors. pets. diary. journal. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. loneliness. suffering. family. friends. strength. comrades. assistants. co-workers. enemies. loyalty. smoking. drugs. kindness. love. hugs. kisses. spring. summer. autumn. winter. farmland. countryside. suburban. village. depression. longing. sloth. pride. envy. wrath. greed. gluttony. lust. melancholy.

TAGGED BY. No one.

TAGGING. @wickedslip @dgrayd @wieldsgravity @burninq @cardsknight and anyone else who sees this.

[marblecarved]

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. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katanas. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. power loader. flamethrower. metal rod. shotguns. needles.

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.

tagging: you ! if you see this on your dash and you would like to do it for your muse, feel free to steal this !

[lyncotek]

Introduction to Glass Privacy Films In today’s modern world, privacy holds significant importance in both residential and commercial environments. Yet, striking a balance between privacy, natural light, and aesthetic allure poses a challenge. This is precisely where the versatility of glass privacy films shines through, providing a pragmatic remedy to bolster privacy without sacrificing style.

Understanding the Need for Privacy

Why Privacy Matters Privacy is essential for creating a comfortable and secure environment, whether at home, in the workplace, or in public settings. It promotes a sense of well-being and helps individuals maintain boundaries.

Traditional Privacy Measures Privacy concerns have traditionally been addressed using curtains, blinds, or frosted glass. While effective to some extent, these methods often come with limitations such as blocking natural light or detracting from the overall design aesthetic.

Drawbacks of Traditional Methods Curtains and blinds can accumulate dust and require frequent cleaning, while frosted glass may not offer sufficient privacy or design flexibility. Moreover, these traditional methods may obstruct views and limit the feeling of openness within a space.

What are Glass Privacy Films? Thin, adhesive films known as glass privacy films can be applied to windows, doors, or glass partitions to enhance privacy and control light transmission. Available in various designs, ranging from frosted to decorative patterns, functionality and aesthetic appeal are offered by these films.

Definition and Functionality Glass privacy films work by obscuring the view from outside while allowing light to pass through, thereby maintaining privacy without sacrificing natural light. They are typically made of polyester or vinyl material and can be easily installed on existing glass surfaces.

Types of Glass Privacy Films There are different types of glass privacy films available, including frosted films, tinted films, and decorative films. Frosted films create a translucent appearance, while tinted films reduce glare and UV exposure. Decorative films offer a wide range of patterns and designs to complement various interior styles.

The Benefits of Glass Privacy Films Glass privacy films offer several advantages compared to traditional privacy measures:

Enhanced Privacy Glass privacy films provide a high level of privacy without completely blocking out natural light. They obscure the view from outside while allowing individuals inside to see out, creating a sense of security without feeling closed off.

Versatility in Design Unlike traditional curtains or blinds, glass privacy films come in a variety of designs and patterns to suit different preferences and interior styles. Whether you prefer a minimalist frosted finish or a decorative motif, there is a glass privacy film to complement your aesthetic vision.

Natural Light Retention One of the key benefits of glass privacy films is their ability to maintain natural light levels within a space. Unlike opaque window coverings that block light, these films allow sunlight to filter through, brightening up the interior and reducing the need for artificial lighting during the day.

UV Protection Many glass privacy films offer UV protection, helping to block harmful UV rays that can cause furniture and flooring to fade over time. By reducing UV exposure, these films help preserve interior furnishings and prolong their lifespan.

Energy Efficiency By reducing glare and heat gain, glass privacy films can contribute to improved energy efficiency in both residential and commercial buildings. They help regulate indoor temperatures, reducing the need for air conditioning and lowering energy costs.

Applications of Glass Privacy Films Glass privacy films have a wide range of applications across various settings: Residential Use In residential settings, glass privacy films can be used in bathrooms, bedrooms, and living areas to enhance privacy without sacrificing natural light. They are also popular for glass doors and windows in entryways and staircases.

Commercial Use In commercial buildings, glass privacy films are frequently employed in office spaces, conference rooms, and reception areas to establish private meeting spaces without necessitating permanent walls or partitions. Additionally, in retail stores, they can be utilized to enhance store displays while ensuring privacy for employees and customers.

Healthcare Facilities Glass privacy films are ideal for healthcare facilities such as hospitals and clinics, where patient privacy is of utmost importance. They can be applied to windows in patient rooms, waiting areas, and treatment rooms to create a calming environment while ensuring confidentiality.

Factors to Consider When Choosing Glass Privacy Films When selecting glass privacy films for your space, consider the following factors: Transparency Levels Glass privacy films come in various transparency levels, ranging from fully opaque to semi-transparent. Choose a film that provides the desired level of privacy while still allowing sufficient light transmission.

Design and Aesthetics Consider the design and aesthetic appeal of the film, as it will impact the overall look and feel of your space. Whether you prefer a sleek, modern finish or a decorative pattern, there are options available to suit your style.

Installation Process Look for glass privacy films that are easy to install and can be applied without the need for professional assistance. Some films come with self-adhesive backing for hassle-free installation on windows and glass surfaces.

Maintenance Requirements Consider the maintenance requirements of the film, including cleaning and durability. Choose a film that is easy to clean and resistant to scratches and fading for long-lasting performance.

Cost-effectiveness of Glass Privacy Films Glass privacy films offer several cost-effective benefits compared to traditional privacy methods:

Comparison with Traditional Methods Compared to curtains, blinds, or frosted glass, glass privacy films are often more cost-effective to purchase and install. They require minimal maintenance and have a longer lifespan, reducing the need for frequent replacements.

Long-term Savings By enhancing energy efficiency and protecting interior furnishings from UV damage, glass privacy films can result in long-term cost savings. They help reduce energy bills and prolong the lifespan of furniture, flooring, and other interior elements.

Case Studies and Success Stories Real-life examples and customer testimonials showcase the effectiveness of glass privacy films in various applications:

Real-life Examples Case studies demonstrate how glass privacy films have been successfully implemented in residential, commercial, and institutional settings to enhance privacy and aesthetics.

Customer Testimonials Satisfied customers share their experiences with glass privacy films, highlighting the benefits of improved privacy, natural light retention, and energy savings.

DIY vs. Professional Installation When it comes to installing glass privacy films, consider the following:

Pros and Cons DIY installation offers cost savings and flexibility, but professional installation ensures proper alignment and durability. Consider your skill level and the complexity of the project before deciding.

Recommendations For larger or more complex installations, such as commercial buildings or multi-story residences, professional installation is recommended to ensure optimal results and longevity.

Common Misconceptions about Glass Privacy Films Addressing misconceptions and concerns about glass privacy films:

Addressing Concerns Some people may worry that glass privacy films will make their space feel closed off or reduce natural light. However, modern films are designed to maintain a sense of openness while providing privacy and UV protection.

Debunking Myths Myths about the durability, maintenance, and effectiveness of glass privacy films are debunked, highlighting the practical benefits and versatility of these products.

Tips for Maximizing the Benefits To maximize the benefits of glass privacy films, follow these tips:

Proper Maintenance Regularly clean and maintain your glass privacy films to ensure optimal performance and longevity. Use mild soap and water to remove dirt and debris, and avoid abrasive cleaners that could scratch the surface.

Upgrading Existing Installations Consider upgrading existing glass surfaces with privacy films to enhance privacy, improve energy efficiency, and update the aesthetic appeal of your space.

Future Trends in Glass Privacy Films Looking ahead, advancements in technology and sustainability will shape the future of glass privacy films: Technological Advancements Innovations such as smart films and dynamic tinting will offer enhanced functionality and control over privacy and light transmission.

Sustainable Options As environmental awareness grows, there will be a greater demand for eco-friendly glass privacy films made from recycled materials and utilizing energy-efficient manufacturing processes.

Conclusion Glass privacy films offer a versatile and cost-effective solution for enhancing privacy without compromising style. From residential to commercial applications, these films provide benefits such as enhanced privacy, natural light retention, and energy efficiency. With a wide range of designs and installation options available, glass privacy films are a practical choice for modern living and working spaces.

FAQs Are glass privacy films easy to install? Yes, many glass privacy films come with self-adhesive backing for easy DIY installation on windows and glass surfaces.

Do glass privacy films block natural light? No, glass privacy films maintain natural light levels while enhancing privacy by obscuring the view from outside.

Can glass privacy films be removed without damaging the glass? Yes, most glass privacy films can be removed without leaving residue or damaging the underlying glass surface.

Are glass privacy films suitable for commercial use? Yes, glass privacy films are commonly used in commercial buildings such as offices, retail stores, and healthcare facilities to create private spaces without permanent partitions.

Do glass privacy films provide UV protection? Yes, many glass privacy films offer UV protection to help reduce fading and damage to interior furnishings caused by harmful UV rays.

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