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marvelstoriesepic · 2 days ago

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Beneath the constellations

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Bucky x Scared of needles!Reader

Summary: You are a needle-phobic but somehow agree to get a small, meaningful friendship tattoo with your best friends Darcy and Jane.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Needle phobia; mild panic; anxiety; physical discomfort; descriptions of a tattoo needle; nervous rambling; comfort

Author’s Note: This again is a request from one of my sweetest mutuals! I adore you, my dear and I hope you like what I did with your interesting and so creative idea ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Your knee is bouncing. Your heart is racing. The design is folded up in your hands - a little tattoo that is so simple, tiny, meaningful - but your palms are sweaty and you can’t stop assaulting the inside of your cheek with your teeth.

The walls of the tattoo parlor are soft with shadows. Dark navy paint. There is low music humming along but it’s not soothing anything inside you. Sterilization hangs in the air and there’s also ink and something smoky - cedarwood or sage. It stays at the back of your throat like a ghost you swallowed by accident.

The waiting room is actually pretty aesthetically pleasant but you feel like choking on your own spit.

The cold vinyl bench beneath you vibrates with your leg rapidly moving up and down and up and down.

“I can’t do this,” you mutter lowly. “Oh my god. I’m gonna pass out.”

Darcy, sitting on your left, gives you a smile that doesn’t ease you at all. “You’re not getting open-heart surgery, babe. You’ve got to chill your beans.”

Jane, sitting on your right, grabs your leg to still its movement. She probably got annoyed at being shaken with the whole bench. “It’s so small, I’m sure you will barely feel it,” she tries to reassure you.

Darcy nudges you. “And it will stay on your body forever.”

“This is not helping at all, Darc,” you half whine, half grumble. “Can’t we just make this temporary, or something? Like, I don’t know, draw it on with a sharpie?”

“Hell nah,” Darcy complains. “This is for life,” she goes on, pointing wildly at all of you three. “We are going to seal the deal. Make it forever, officially.”

You want to laugh. Or scream. Or run. Or disappear.

A part of you thought this would be fine. That you could sit here like a normal adult with a normal nervous system and be needled with grace and honor. That the tattoo you promised you’d get with your best friends - the tiny one, the subtle one, the one you talked about under a summer sky, lying on your backs in a parking lot eating cold fries - would somehow feel like a small ceremony. Like something important.

Instead, your palms are damp and your stomach is a washing machine of dread and iced coffee. It turns round and round and round in circles, making you instinctively look for a nearby trash bin.

The door creaks open.

And then he walks in.

Bucky Barnes, according to the framed certifications on the wall. Also according to Darcy, who not-so-subtly whispered oh my god he’s hot when you walked in earlier and now leans in to your ear, to whisper “oh my god, he’s even hotter in person.”

He’s broad-shouldered and tall. Black tee, black jeans. Arms inked to the wrists in clean, complex lines. Geometric patterns like armor. You spot a white wolf curled around a blooming branch. A forget-me-not. The tattoo work is detailed. Almost luminous. An artwork of constellations on his skin, coiling like a secret he’s allowing the world to glimpse.

He looks at you.

You stop breathing.

“You ready?” he asks, voice a low rasp.

You make a sound that might be English. Might be a prayer. Might be a dying animal.

He blinks, then smiles. Just a little tug at the corner of his lip.

“Maybe one of you should go first,” you say to your friends quietly, voice barely hanging on.

“It’s not the gallows, babe,” Darcy muses, nudging you again.

“I know, but I-”

Jane cuts you a dry look, interrupting. “You made us matching Google Calenders for this.”

“I was drunk on sentiment and pinterest,” you argue but it’s useless.

“No stalling. You can’t back out now.“

“I’m not backing out,” you grumble. “I’m delegating the trauma.”

But they’re not moving. Not budging.

You indignantly get up. Slowly. Darcy leans over and smiles sharply, mischievously. “Hey, just ask if you can hold his hand during the act.”

You choke. On air. On dignity. On the sudden imagine of his fingers wrapped around yours. And you’re up, throwing her a last glare that lacks all the heat.

You turn to Bucky and he is full-on smirking now. Though his voice is not mocking.

“We can take our time,” he says gently, and gestures toward the door that will, as you can imagine, lead you to the torture chamber. Yes, that’s dramatic. Yes, you don’t care. Yes, you are spiraling.

After sending your friends a panicked look and them not that supportively giving you thumbs up in return while grinning brightly, you follow him as if you’re approaching your own funeral.

You walk like you’re made of wires and wet paper. Trailing behind him into the back room, your chest beating out the morse code for panic.

The chair is deceptively comfortable. Everything is clean and neat and doesn’t smell scary but your heart is beating so loud, you think it’s bruising your ribs.

He sits down on a stool, brings it closer to you with one hand, and adjusts his gloves. He moves slowly, most definitely for your sake.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “I’m being ridiculous.”

“You’re not,” he says, soft and even. “You’d be surprised how many people get nervous.”

You inhale. Exhale. Fail.

“I’m Bucky,” he says easily, glancing at you with eyes the color of melted steel and winter storms. You give him your name and he smiles. “What are we doing today?”

You fumble with the paper in your hands, clumsy movements lifting it to show him.

It’s stupid, honestly. Three tiny constellations in a delicate arc. Only a little bigger than a thumbnail. Barely enough to be called a tattoo.

He leans closer to look. His knee brushes yours and you hold your breath.

“I know it’s small. It’s dumb. I mean, not dumb, like-”

Bucky waits.

Silent. Patient. The corner of his mouth tilts up.

“It’s three constellations.” The words tumble out of you, messy and fast. As if trying to explain your favorite dream to a stranger who wasn’t there. “Mine, Jane’s, and Darcy’s. We got stranded once during a road trip, out in the middle of nowhere, and the car battery died. So we laid on the hood, freezing our asses off, and waited for a tow truck under this crazy clear sky. Jane started pointing out stars and we found our constellations. And we just talked. About everything. So we-”

You stop.

Because you’re talking too much. Because your face is hot. Because he’s watching you as if he’s listening.

And Bucky only smiles. Just this small, warm curve of his mouth that feels like praise.

You blink too hard. Look down at your hands.

“It’s silly.” You just can’t help explaining yourself. “I know it’s barely anything. And it’s not even a real design, really. I’m not even supposed to be here, I mean-”

You stop again. Press your lips together.

He’s still looking at you. Calm. Not judging. Not laughing.

“You were saying?” he asks, voice quiet.

You breathe in a shaky breath.

“I’m scared of needles,” you admit embarrassed. “Like. Deeply, irrationally scared. I had to get a flu shot once and almost took out the poor nurse with my bag.”

Bucky huffs out a short and amused laugh, but his eyes are genuine and sympathetic. He nods like that’s the most normal thing anyone’s ever said.

“It’s not dumb, sweetheart. Nor is it silly.” You’d be on the floor if you were standing up. “I like it,” he says earnestly. “Three stars. Three best friends. Kind of poetic.”

“Yeah, it’s-” you stammer. “It means a lot to us.”

“That’s nice to hear.” His eyes rake over you so intensely, so sincere. “Some of the best tattoos I've done were barely the size of a freckle.”

You don’t know if he’s saying this to make you feel better, but either way, you are not sure it helps.

You feel like your skin is trying to slip off your body.

He opens the packaging with quiet and sure movements that still seem to be a little slower than he would probably be normally.

“I tattoo six-foot-tall dudes who pass out cold,” he starts soothingly. “You’re sittin’ here, scared, and still doing it. That’s brave.” He says it so simply.

You stare at him. Try to believe it.

“May I?” he asks, looking up at you, and gesturing toward your arm.

You nod. Too fast.

He reaches out carefully like you’re glass and holy.

His fingers are warm. Gentle. He adjusts your wrist, turning it slightly toward the light. It feels like gravity has shifted. Like the earth tipped a little, just to watch this happen.

His thumb brushes against the inside of your forearm, where your pulse is having a complete existential crisis. His touch might be absentminded but it sparks something that goes way too deep. A tremor. A stormcloud. A sigh under your skin.

“Right here okay?” he asks, voice low.

You swallow. “Yeah. That’s good. That’s perfect.”

The needle glints in the light like a tiny sword ready to tear apart your skin.

“You sure?”

“No,” you say honestly, voice a little unstable. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

He chuckles under his breath and his smile changes, gets softer, younger.

You let out a breath. Try to remember the sky that night, the way the stars felt close enough to kiss. But there’s something else you’d rather kiss right no-

“I’ll go slow. And I’ll be gentle. Promise,” he says, almost under his breath. “Just breathe.”

You nod. Let him see the fear. Let him see you choose it away.

He turns on the machine. Your hand is shaking. The buzz rings in your ears.

He touches your arm again. Carefully. Steadying you. Taking in an exaggerated breath for you to follow.

“Tell me if you need a break,” he states softly, but there is something else in his tone. “Or, you know. If you want to hold my hand.”

You freeze. Not sure if you heard that right. Your brain is a flock of birds flapping around your skull.

“I- What?”

He smiles. Not teasing. Not smug. It’s soft. It’s kind.

“Some people do better with a distraction,” he says like it’s no big deal. So casual, but his undertone makes you promise yourself to punch Darcy Lewis later on.

You stare at him for a second too long, not sure if he is even serious. You feel like you’ve been thrown into a different body. One that’s nervous and melting and acutely aware of every square inch of air between you.

His palm lays open as an invitation. Looking so soft and callous at the same time.

“Can you even do this with one hand?” you ask cautiously.

He smirks. “You bet I can, darling.”

After a patient moment, you reach out, fingers finding his, and he shifts just enough to meet you halfway. His grip is loose and open, letting you decide how much to hold on.

And you do. Not tight. But not soft either.

It’s safe.

He starts.

The needle meets your skin sharp and sudden, but it doesn’t feel unbearable. You’re too focused on the fact that you’re literally holding hands with the hottest guy you’ve seen in a long while. Maybe ever. His thumb has started tracing circles on the back of yours.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Minutes stretch and snap and vanish but then it’s over.

The buzz stops. The silence blooms around you.

You blink down at your wrist, skin warm and reddened and wrapped in something tiny and starborn. Three constellations, nestled close.

He wipes it gently, thumb brushing away excess ink with a kind of care that makes you want to cry.

“It’s beautiful,” he says. Quiet. Like it’s just for you.

You don’t even realize he’s still holding your hand until he gives it a squeeze and pulls away to grab a mirror.

You almost say wait.

He places the mirror in your hand.

Your breath is lost somewhere deep when you look down at your inked skin. It’s so small. So perfect. Exactly what you hoped for, only softer now. As if it’s always been there. Meant to stay forever.

You glance up at him.

His eyes are warm. Curious. “Took it like a champ,” he says.

You shrug, a little shyly. “I didn’t faint. So that’s a win.”

He lets out a low chuckle. The sound does things to you.

“I’ve seen people pass out from paper cuts. You’re fine,” he assures.

You don’t know what to do with that or the heat pooling at your neck, so you look down again. Tracing the constellations with your eyes like you’re learning to read a new kind of language.

“Thank you,” you offer, and it’s not just for the ink. It’s for the kindness. The patience. The hand-holding. The compassion. “I love it.”

“No need to thank me, darling.”

He takes a few more moments studying you before peeling off his gloves and standing up.

You stand too. Your legs wobble a little, traitorous and unsure, and his hand hovers near your back.

You don’t say anything.

But you feel it.

All of it.

The warmth.

The hush.

The stars, still burning softly beneath your skin.

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saccharinedisaster · 2 months ago

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Chapter Two

Against his better judgement, Kyoutani looked her up. Her Instagram was easy to find, and fortunately for him, it wasn’t a private account.

Her layout was easy on the eyes, not a collage of filter-ridden selfies or thirst traps. It was aesthetically pleasing sunsets, sepia-toned pictures from coffee shops and libraries, and group photos with friends. The more he scrolled, the more intrigued he got.

His eyes flit to a recent update, another coffee shop post but instead of the usual close up of an overpriced iced latte, it was of her. A candid, probably taken by a friend. She’s bent over that heavy sketchbook she had came into the shop with, her hair was darker, a different color than last time—a muted chocolate brown now, wispy pieces in her face as she sketched.

Her lips were plump, pursed as she focused on the pages before her. His eyes fixated on how soft her features were; the pretty pout on her lips, the sweet slope of her button nose, the delicate furrow of her brow.

Oh, brother. He was hooked.

She was beyond pretty, although understated. He knew that from the first moment he saw her back at the shop, but it only got more out of hand as he stalked her social media. He went from analyzing her coffee shop posts to jumping over to her best friend’s profile.

Candid shots of her out at the record shop on the other side of town, group pictures from the seedy bar a few towns over, and a quite mesmerizing beach photo opp.

Kyoutani’s breath hitched when he stumbled across that one.

Light washed denim shorts hugged her lush curves, showing off her thick thighs and the art that decorated them. One leg was covered in ink, the other was bare, for the most part, minus a couple wrapping around her ankle and calf. Both of her arms were littered with small patchwork tattoos, ones he didn’t see when she’d came in to book her appointment.

She had looked like she never stepped foot in a tattoo shop before, so this completely caught him off guard. Looks can be deceiving, and YN was definitely nothing he thought she’d be.

Short and sweet, but fiery and chaotic. The way she had shut Suna down that day, although politely, showed him that she was different. The way she ignored and shut down every single flirtation and sales tactic and stood her ground proved something to him. The way she flirted only with him, even just for a mere moment, shook him to his core.

A pretty thing like her was dangerous, but Kyoutani wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

Bring it on, pretty. Give me everything you’ve got.

Two hours later, he’s years deep into YN’s public instagram page, again. He’s been heavily stalking her, although he wouldn’t label it as that. He’s just curious, that’s all.

Nothing too crazy.

He’s been watching her tattoo progression, dating history, and how her style has changed over the years. He knows now that she used to date a very ugly man who, in his own words, did not deserve to breathe the same air as her. He knows about the idiotic matching tattoos she got with a college friend, who she’s no longer friends with. He knows that she prefers cats to dogs and has a gentle heart when it comes to what the public calls “pests”. He knows her coffee order and how she prefers huge sugar cookies over cakes and other sweet desserts.

Kyoutani feels like he knows everything about her and everything she has to offer. He’s hooked, obsessed, infatuated with every detail he finds.

This can’t go well for him, although he really could not care less about that

The bell above the shop entrance chimes and Kyoutani freezes, his hand pausing mid-wipe as he sanitized his station. It was 2:45 on the dot, meaning his next appointment was here. The appointment he’d been anticipating all week. Hell, the appointment he’d been anticipating since she walked into the store two weeks ago.

Finally, it was time.

He hears the sweet timbre of her voice as she talks to Kiyoko and he resumes sanitizing. He wanted his station perfect, in order, nothing in disarray.

“Your girl’s here.”

Like nails on a chalkboard, Suna ruins the tiniest amount of peace Kyoutani had. Dark, piercing eyes shot daggers at the man in the corner. “Fuck off,” Kyoutani spits.

“Touchy,” Suna snorts, arms folded over his chest. “And here I thought you were excited to see your boo thang.”

Kyoutani ignores the man and saunters up front, taking purchase in the door frame. His eyes land on YN almost immediately, taking in her appearance.

God, she was ethereal.

Clad in a thin oversized white sweater and black miniskirt, a white ribbon tied in a bow held her hair out of her face. Her legs were bare, giving him insight for the placement of the tattoo. His eyes raked down to her feet and his eyebrow quirked up.

Doc Martens? Interesting.

He didn’t take YN as the type to wear chunky leather boots. He never saw them in his extensive cyber research, granted her posts never really included anything below the calf. Maybe there was so much more he had to learn about her.

“You ready?” he finally greets her.

The way she looks over at him, and gives him the sweetest smile he’s ever received, makes his heart jump. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” the sweet pull of her voice makes his chest tighten.

Dear God, pull yourself together.

Kyoutani was positive this session was going to kill him, but at this point, he was willing to die at the hands of this woman. He was in too deep, way too deep enough to care.

A/N: this nearly took me out, but i finally locked in

#kyoutani imagines #kyoutani kentarou imagines #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu smut #haikyuu #kyoutani smut #hq imagines #hq smut #kyoutani kentarou #mad dog imagines #mad dog

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dont-offend-the-bees · 3 months ago

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I was tagged by @cosmicoceanfic to post a little bit of what I was working on last! Today I've been chipping away a tiny bit at the collaborative Ghostcat Howl's Moving Castle AU!

Thomas gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, sure, gang up on me. Kick me while I’m down. Go for it, hey; I’m an easy target.” Edwin could feel a headache coming on. “What in the world are you blithering on about…?” He watched, agog, as the wretched wizard sagged into the chair Edwin had just vacated. There was something rather aesthetically compelling about it, something of the master oil painter’s muse; the lamenting beauty and his riotous chestlock locks, surrounded by warm fiery tones and inexplicable baskets of half-peeled potatoes. Nude but for the look of anguish on his elegantly devastated face. “Why do I bother?” he mourned, tragically woebegone, sagging further and further in Edwin’s chair. Hands in hair, back bowed, bare backside all but ready to slide off the edge of the cushion if he slumped any further. “I mean, why even try, right? Why go to the hassle? Not like any of you even care.” “About your beauty regime? No, not especially,” said Edwin, dry as an old twig. Thomas groaned, wounded. “Guess I’ll just report to the king tomorrow, then, huh? They can shave it off in a fucking soldier’s buzz and I can go die on a battlefield someplace, ugly and alone. Sound good?” “Master!” Niko cried in anguish. “Bloody drama queen…” Charles muttered. “Or, you can take a little trip up the stairs and dye your bloody hair back again if you hate it so much.” Edwin put his hands on his hips, unimpressed. “Your choice; it’s no skin off my nose either way.” Thomas threw an arm over his eyes dramatically. “You don’t care!” he moaned. “I’m ugly and indentured and you don��t care!” “Simply untrue on all counts,” said Edwin through gritted teeth. “You’ve certainly managed to dodge all responsibilities thus far. And I sincerely doubt you —” He stopped himself, before he could say something horribly flattering like ‘I sincerely doubt you’ve ever been a mite less than beautiful a day in your blasted life’ and stoke Thomas’ ego to truly impossible heights. But it was, sadly, true. Even now, the supposedly ‘botched’ colour of Thomas’ hair was mutating further, away from the reddish hues and into something ink-black that on Edwin would have made him look pale and washed out, but on Thomas looked deep and expensive like crushed velvet or polished jet. Honestly, the nerve of the man! “Hmph. Oh, just — just pack it in.”

This one is such a blast I can't wait to share it, this scene's mine but Hayley and Lucy are killing it in that doc!! It's gonna be SO good!!!

Some no-pressure tags: my partners in wizard crime @dear-monday @tw0-ravens, also @kieren-fucking-walker @firstaudrina @williamvapespeare @theflirtmeister and anyone else who feels like sharing! 💛

#dead boy detectives #dbda #ghostcat #catwinland #tag game #this scene still needs a lil work #i might try and integrate charles and niko a bit more #but we're trying not to let it get toooooo long and unwieldy #....... trying.

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mintywolf · 5 months ago

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A Long Road Home - Page 84

Page 84

I remember where I was and what I was doing on the night of the 2016 election; it was exactly the same thing that I was doing during this one — trying to work on the next week’s comic page through the overwhelming sense of dread tightening around my throat. I even know what page it was, because like this one it is now forever trauma-etched into my brain.

It was this one, from the beginning of a darkly appropriate plot arc in which the protagonists have been arrested and are awaiting an unfair trial by their corrupt government. I was inking that night and before I went to bed I posted the lineart that second panel on its own to my tumblr blog because that message, “I can’t promise it will be all right, because I honestly don’t know if it will. All we can do is wait, and be brave,” was all I had to offer.

So I’ll do what I did then and keep making this thing I’m creating out of love, week by week, in the hope that it’s bringing joy and hope and comfort to whoever needs it. I love you all. <3

Chronologically I think I meant for this to be some weeks after they moved into their cabin. Laudna has added some character to the place by sewing patches onto the blankets and painting the plain white dishware they bought at that general store. Imogen’s cup is blue with stars on it and Laudna’s is red with rat feet prints.

Also here it is, the first appearance of the nightgown described in Remember Us:

The sight of it makes Imogen smile slightly, remembering how much Laudna had loved that threadbare thing. After a lifetime of the itchy wool and scratchy linen of northern Exandria, she had been absolutely delighted by the easy availability of cotton fabrics in Marquet. In a general store they had found a bolt of soft cotton cambric used for making handkerchiefs and baby clothes, and she had been unable to stop running her hands over it, to the consternation of the proprietor. They had bought a few yards and she’d made a blouse for Imogen and a nightgown for herself. It’s frayed around the cuffs now from constant wear, the seams mended under the arms and one elbow patched, but it’s only gotten softer with time. She remembers keenly the feeling of it between their bodies in bed at night.

(You can even see the bolt of fabric back on page 80.)

I think her OG outfit is probably linen, judging by the slightly crinkly texture of it in her official level 3 artwork, and the fact that she came by it in Tal’Dorei in What Doesn’t Break. Cotton grows natively in the warm climates that inspired Marquet (the Middle East and, as of C3, the American South) so it’s probably what most of Imogen’s clothes are made of, but it has to be imported to northern Europe (so, Tal’Dorei) so a finely-woven cotton material like cambric especially would seem like a luxury to Laudna.

Her nightclothes and underthings are white in disregard of her ~aesthetic~ for the same reason that Lulu’s are in Guardian; dark or brightly-dyed undergarments weren’t really a thing historically (for practicality, since undyed fabrics were the easiest to wash and also it didn’t make sense to spend money on dye for something not meant to be seen, and the not-unfounded belief that the dye would be absorbed into the skin; before the invention of synthetic dyes a lot of them were toxic) with the exception of a time during the mid 19th century when red flannel undergarments were considered healthy. (Which I will probably talk about on a later page since matching red flannel pajamas are a point of interest in Come In From the Cold.) And she dresses like a 19th century lady so she would absolutely wear a nightgown that makes her look like a Victorian ghost.

#a long road home #author notes

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typhlonectes · 6 months ago

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In China, a new generation of milk-tea chains—with design schemes that evoke everything from Communist-era factory floors to spaceships—sell not only beverages but also imagined worlds. In the past few years, hundreds of thousands of such stores have opened in China, boasting expansive menus filled with what are known as xinchayin, or “new tea drinks.” “With their fancy ingredients and highly involved storytelling, these businesses put Starbucks’ seasonal pumpkin spice to shame,” Han Zhang writes. At Chayan Yuese, a chain whose aesthetic celebrates the culture of antiquity, the staff greeted Zhang as xiaozhu (“your ladyship”). She ordered a “valley orchid latte,” and a brochure in the style of ink-wash painting instructed her to start with the “mountain peak” of the drink’s milky foam, before eventually reaching the “foothills” of richly mixed Ceylon tea. According to a report, by 2022, xinchayin chains had reached about 40 billion dollars in sales. “The extent to which xinchayin have swept China’s malls and smartphones in the past few years reflects a radical transformation of consumer culture, powered by immense reserves of labor, entrepreneurial ingenuity, investment money, and, crucially, an extremely competitive delivery infrastructure,” Zhang writes.

Read her full dispatch from China: https://newyorkermag.visitlink.me/7IHviv

#bubble tea #boba #china #culture #food

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another-lost-mc · 4 months ago

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What type of clothing would your ocs wear if they were human?

AZRA — Still wears suits when business requires him to, usually black or dark grey with pops of red or purple for colour. Silver or white gold jewelry, usually chain-link necklaces/bracelets or earrings rather than rings. When dressing casually, he wears a variety of colours layered under some sort of leather jacket with scuffed-up Doc Martens and stylishly distressed jeans, straight or slim leg. He has an assortment of more-expensive-than-necessary athletic clothes when he goes to the gym to work out (usually weight training or sparring).

ZEE — He wears a lot of layers and avoids showing his bare upper arms/shoulders/chest completely. He will not go shirtless or wear sleeveless shirts in public or around strangers. He likes wearing scarves. His style is rustic in a purposeful, trendy sort of way - like he's filming a GAP commercial for people that live in a log cabin out in the woods. As a human, he has some colour blindness so he sticks to dark, neutral tones he can mix and match easily. He is very fussy about what fabrics he wears.

KARASU — He fits the nerd without much fashion sense trope. Very bland wardrobe, a lot of frumpy cardigans and straight-leg pants or dark-washed jeans with sensible shoes. The one suit he has, when he's forced to wear it, is perfectly tailored and puts the rest of his clothes to shame. The rare eccentric or stylish pieces hanging in his closet that he ignores (but doesn't have the heart to throw away) are gifts from Mammon.

TENEBRIS — As a human, he's still very tall and lean so he pulls off the dark and brooding vampire in a long coat aesthetic very well. He's a bit more adventurous with his colour preferences - browns, reds, purples, the odd splash of pink if it fits. He also wears gold jewelry, usually a ring and a necklace or two along with his trademark hoop earrings. He has the confidence to know he looks good but doesn't try to flaunt it. He carries a notebook with him at all times, usually in a cross-body bag he slings over his shoulder.

BELIAL — He probably has the most eccentric wardrobe out of all the OCs. Some days he wears stunning bespoke designer suits and gold and silver jewelry fitted with glittering gems worth a small fortune. Other days, he looks like he's wearing a (very expensive) peasant shirt, or some frilly blouse with lace, or a total mix-up of things that he probably found at the local thrift shop. He has an outfit for every occasion and every mood. (He considers the ridiculously-expensive suits 'easily replaceable' so he wears those when he's doing business.)

FLEURETY — Unlike poor Karasu, Fleurety knows how to play up the warm and welcoming professor vibes. His tasteful and cosy-looking clothes make him approachable even though he might have two PhDs attached to his name and a sharp wit to match. He spends a lot of his time outdoors so on his days off, he might wear a threadbare shirt or a slightly-tattered sweater with some jogging pants - things he doesn't mind getting a bit dirty or ripped if he goes for a hike or spends time in his garden.

METATRON — He's a bit of a preppy academic type and looks completely at home in a university library or behind a teacher's desk. Not much fashion sense though, as he prefers to feel comfortable rather than look good. Button-down shirts or loose sweaters pared with slim-leg pants or jeans, white Vans (that he keeps clean, of course), and little or no jewelry (usually only ear piercings). His fingers seem to be perpetually smudged with ink stains. He likes exercise, usually swimming, and doesn't realize that his wardrobe does his body a great disservice by hiding it underneath layers of ill-fitting clothes.

SERAPHIEL — He prefers comfort over fashion and dresses according to the event. Most of the time he wears a henley or tee with loose jeans or jogging pants. His work suits aren't tailored, bought off the rack probably, and they don't accentuate his height or muscular frame very well. He wears reading glasses that aren't very fashionable either and don't suit his face shape, but he's not really bothered by that. He's overdue for a fashion intervention but his friends aren't much better at that sort of thing than he is.

GABRIEL — He loves fall and winter best because he has a collection of sweaters and turtlenecks that he adores. Skinny jeans or slim-fitting slacks show off his long legs and he accentuates his height even more with a very fashionable, if slightly dramatic, long coat. He's intelligent and confident and smugly aware of it and that reflects in the clothes he wears - stylish, properly fitted, and not a single loose thread out of place.

URIEL — He likes athletic or casual clothing best. Soft cotton tees with jeans, simple button-ups with slacks, that sort of thing. Some of the dramatic elements of his wardrobe are his leather boots and jackets, usually accented with heavy silver chains or accessories. He makes an effort to coordinate his outfit with Gabriel's for date nights or business events.

HABUHIAH — Think of her like a modern-day hobbit. Her clothes are sensible and well-fitting but not flashy or expensive. She prefers function over fashion although she has a preference for earth-tones with the odd pop of bright colour. She loves sun dresses and high-waisted jeans with blouses or tunics. At home, she wears her favourite trousers that are getting worn in the knees and a gardening apron lined with tools that probably cost more than most of her wardrobe does.

#jes.replies #jes.oc asks

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