#Floral Silk Sleep Mask

[yandere-paramour]

Jamie's Wedding Night

"Are you comfortable, Sir?" The maid smoothed the turned-down covers and turned to him expectantly, "Do you need anything? Another blanket or something to help you sleep?"

"N-No," Jamie sat on the edge of the bed, pulling at a loose thread in the lining of his nightdress, "I'm fine. Thank you."

"Please have a pleasant night, and congratulations on your marriage to Lady Asteria," The maid bowed and left.

Alone in the large bedroom, Jamie pulled his legs to his chest and lay his head on his knees. His stomach churned. He had eaten little at the reception dinner, claiming a "nervous stomach" that his... wife did not fully accept, and the staff had refused to give him any more than a single glass of champagne on her orders. He wasn't drunk; not even he had that little of a tolerance. The nervous stomach he claimed was far from untrue, it felt like he could vomit or faint or something at any moment.

Asteria, she would be coming soon. Once the wedding guests started to take their leave, Asteria had taken Jamie by the waist and politely excused him, instructing the maids and manservants to take him upstairs and prepare him for the wedding night. He was whisked away, helped to undress from his outfit and veil, and made to sit and relax while the staff scrambled around getting things ready.

The bath was relaxing. The maids had really gone all out, filling the hot water with scented oils and Epsom salts. The manservants lifted him (unnecessarily, Jamie might add) into the bath, guiding his head onto a bath pillow. They put a cooling gel mask over his eyes, blocking out the soft light, and multiple pairs of hands massaged his entire body while another washed his hair. By the time they actually got around to the gentle scrubbing they used to clean him, he was almost boneless with relaxation. They cleaned every inch of him, every inch, and Jamie was mortified, but he was much too powerless and hesitant to stop them. He was simply glad the cleaning stayed external.

After the long bath, the servants patted him dry, massaged unscented lotion into every inch of his skin, and dressed him in a green silk nightshirt, the hem hanging to his knees. The fabric was soft, keeping him both cool and warm at the same time. He was deposited right in the middle of the bed, clean, ready, and waiting to be taken.

Jamie fiddled with a rose petal, feeling the softness between his fingers. He liked roses well enough, especially white ones. These were red, but the sentiment was nice anyway.

Honestly, the whole room was nice. The room was dimly lit, just light enough to read by. Lit candles added extra ambient light and had a pleasant side-effect of making the room smell floral and dreamy. If not for what he knew would be taking place later that night, Jamie might have felt relaxed or even a little sleepy.

The doorknob jiggled, and Jamie froze, the petal falling from his hand.

"Beloved?" Asteria knocked on the door, calling to him, "I'm coming in now."

Moving slowly, Asteria let herself into the room, locking the door behind her. Her white heels, matching her white wedding outfit, clacked against the floor as she walked over to him. She was taller than him in those heels, but only by an inch or so. She sat on the bed, not quite touching him, but still close. He fought the urge to cower away from her. After all these months, he still felt awkward with her. She took off her heels, giving her feet a slight rub.

"It's hell being in these all day. You'd think I'd be used to them by now," Asteria flexed her feet back and forth, "Did you have a nice bath? The maids treat you well?"

"Yes, it was nice. They were very kind, thank you," Jamie spoke softly, inclining his head in thanks.

"That's good. They should be nice, you are their new young master."

Jamie didn't know how to respond to that, so he stayed quiet, back to mindlessly pulling the thread on his hem. They sat there in silence for a minute, Asteria rubbing her feet and Jamie watching her, unconsciously flexing his own feet as well.

"Well, I'm going to go grab a quick shower and get ready for tonight," Asteria stretched, popping her back, "Do you need anything? I have all the streaming channels, let me get you the remote."

"No-" Jamie scrambled to stop her, then flinched back before they touched, "I don't-I'm not"

Asteria held up a hand, "It's alright, you don't have to. How about I call for a cup of relaxing tea for you? And you can try to read a little. I had your books brought this morning."

He followed her gestured hand to the second shelf of the right nightstand where his books were waiting. Jamie ran his fingertips over the well-worn titles that had only yesterday been on the shelf in his bedroom at home, feeling oddly touched.

"Y-Yes. Thank you."

Asteria gave him a smile, called for a nearby maid to bring Jamie a cup of tea, and went to the bathroom by herself to wash up.

Embroiled in the prose of a novel he had read 20 times over, Jamie started to relax. He thanked the maid who brought him a cup of tea, and the warm liquid easily slipped down his throat, warming him from the inside out. Earl Grey, his favorite. The familiarity of his preferred tea combined with an anticipated story calmed him enough to not notice Asteria until she was right next to him, bare skin glowing in her pale peach chemise.

"Jamie?"

Her sudden voice and the gentle hand on his shoulder startled him and he jumped, book falling to the floor. Asteria caught it with ease, closing the novel and setting it on his nightstand calmly.

"I-I apologize-" Jamie started, "I didn't hear-"

"No, it's my fault, don't worry," Asteria sat on what he presumed was her side of the bed, "I should not have started you. Are you alright?"

"I-I am fine, thank you."

"Good. It would not do for me to have my darling husband distressed on his wedding night."

Just like that, the uneasiness in Jamie's stomach was back. He wasn't so naive that he didn't know what happened on wedding nights. He knew he would be expected to... perform, to remove his clothing and bare himself to this domineering woman who had forcibly taken the reins of his life in such short months. The thought made him nauseous, made him sick to his stomach in such a fearful, visceral way. He sat rigid, watching Asteria dry her long hair, mind suspended in another world of unwanted touches and forced pleasure.

When Asteria was done, she called Jamie's name, trying to get his attention. When he didn't answer, she moved closer, careful not to startle him again. Her lovely husband was lost in his own thoughts, a worried expression on his face. Asteria longed to comfort him, to remove all traces of stress and strain from his fragile mind, keeping him happy, healthy, and shielded from harm's way with her for the rest of his life. The wedding had eased her fears, satiated a little bit of that possessive part in her, but it could never be fully sated. Not with him upset like this.

Asteria was within inches of Jamie, and her fingertips ghosted over the peach fuzz on his cheek. Growing a little more concerned, she decided to take more drastic measures. Taking care to be gentle and stay chaste, Asteria placed a tender hand on Jamie's bare thigh, her fingertips barely breaching the hem of his nightdress.

With a horrified scream, Jamie flew back, head jerking, the middle of his spine thankfully hitting the protectively padded part of the headboard. Asteria's phantom handprint burned on his thigh like a brand, and he felt like vomiting. Fat, salty tears fell down his face, dripping onto the green silk of his nightdress. He apologized profusely, begging for understanding.

"P-Please, I-I'm sorry, I don't-" Jamie cried, his entire body trembling in fear, "I-I didn't mean to-"

Face unreadable, Asteria moved toward him and Jamie flinched again, trying to scramble away from her, but she was faster. In seconds, she had him by both of his bony shoulders, forcing him to look at her head-on. Jamie recoiled, unsure if he expected to be yelled at, hit, or something worse.

What he did not expect was for Asteria to manhandle his body into her lap, his back to her chest. He flailed in a panic, but she had her hands resting on the swell of his stomach, humming some tuneless melody in his right ear. She pulled a thick blanket up to his shoulders, wrapping him into a little burrito. It surprised no one more than him but he started to calm. The petrified apologies falling from his lips fell silent, his panicked flailing relaxed, and he leaned a little more comfortably on Asteria's chest. The room wasn't chilly, but the blanket was warm on Jamie's body. The gentle hand on his stomach turned into soft pats on his hair.

Against his will, Jamie started to feel tired. But was it really against his will? His courting, wedding, and reception were a long affair, and he had never truly protested. He met the Montclairs at a party, his parents had enthusiastically accepted Asteria's bid to court him, and then they accepted her marriage proposal. He was told in no uncertain terms that his marriage would be happening so he should submit like he always did, and he did.

But this position felt kind of... comforting in a way. Asteria, a woman who he thought was an oppressive tyrant who had met Jamie, courted him, and married him all in the span of a year, was holding him like a baby. He was warm, comfortable, and honestly felt a little safe.

"Are you feeling better now, my love?" Asteria pressed a gentle kiss to Jamie's forehead, and to his surprise, disgust did not rise within him.

"Yeah... I'm okay now... I'm sorry," Jamie peeped.

"It's not your fault," She caressed his cheek, "I moved too quickly. I apologized."

"But... it's our wedding night."

"Look at me, Jamie," Asteria took his chin gently but firmly in her hands, turning him to look her in the eyes, "Just because it is our wedding night does not mean you cannot refuse me. If you're not ready, you're not ready."

"I'm-what?"

"I will not violate your consent. I would never. I will not care for you in that way until you ask for it yourself."

"Oh," Jamie squeaked, "T-Thank you."

"Don't concern yourself with that, darling boy. You've had a long day," Asteria rested her hand on Jamie's cheek, peering worriedly at his face, "You'll need to rest for a few days to regain your strength. I think it would be best for you in the manor, but if you behave well, I can ask one of the manservants to take you on a nice walk in the garden."

This flood of information overwhelmed an already exhausted Jamie, "O-Okay."

Asteria settled them both lying down in bed, Jamie tucked securely into her side, resting his head on her moderately-endowed chest. She stroked the bridge of Jamie's nose with her fingertip, causing his eyes to instinctually close, "Sleep, my dear husband. You're safe now. I'm here."

"Goodnight Asteria," Jamie's sleepy voice was soft and relaxed, and he snuggled more securely into his... wife.

"Goodnight beautiful boy," Asteria kissed him again, "I love you."

"I... love you too."

[popculturealtar]

Magical Girl Hero Series: Neo Queen Serenity

*Disclaimer! This will all be considered UPG, and I may add to this list at a later date. This is meant to be very basic and bare bones, more of a starting point than anything. All information has been gathered from divination, channeling, and research into Neo Queen Serenity.*

Usagi Tsukino is the main character of the anime and manga Sailor Moon. She is the Sailor Guardian of love and justice, and the reincarnation of Princess Serenity of the moon kingdom Silver Millennium. Neo Queen Serenity is the title Usagi takes as an adult and mother in the distant future.

Neo Queen Serenity is a considerably more serious spirit than her younger counterpart, Sailor Moon. She is solemn, and cares greatly for her family. She can be worked with as an entity/spirit, a deity, or a hero.

Concepts:

The moon, love and passion, justice and righteousness, lunar magic, crystal magic, youthfulness, family, weddings.

Signs and symbols:

The full or waxing moon - Connected to her imagery, during this time her power is strongest

The crescent and waning moon - Connected to her imagery, during this time her power is weakest

The new moon - Connected to her imagery, during this time she is asleep

Cats (specifically white, black, or grey) and masks or disguises - Connected to her family

White, translucent, transparent, or silver crystals, rocks and stones - Connected to the source of her power

The lotus flower - Connected to the source of her power

White, grey, silver, and gold - Connected to her appearance

The Empress, The Fool, and The Moon tarot cards - Connected to her story

Offering ideas:

Moon imagery, cat imagery, crystals, rocks, stones, floral imagery, the above tarot cards, love-themed paraphernalia, silk or satin, gold and silver jewellery.

Devotional acts:

Keeping track of the moon phases.

Petting a cat.

Asking out your crush on a date.

Going to a wedding.

Practicing lunar-based magic.

Prayers.

Working on healing from past traumas.

Cheering up a friend, or supporting them.

Playing video games (this is more for her past self, but I included it).

Fighting for justice.

Wearing devotional jewellery and garments.

Meditation.

Getting a good night's sleep.

dividers by @/saradika

[crimelrd]

𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 ﹕ 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰

𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑.

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟, 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 ﹕ at  first  it  was  just  a  face  but  then,  something  more...  the  face  shifted  and  changed  until  it  was  not  your  own.  how  could  it  even  belong  to  you?  you  cannot  look  away.  you  are  darker  than  you  had  ever  realized.  that  thing  haunting  you?  it  is  you  as  well.  it  twists  and  turns  until  it  is  the  "you"  you  recognize  once  again.  you  just  saw  your  shadow  and  you  did  not  look  away.  you  are  brave  and  i  am  proud  of  you.  once  you  acknowledge  it's  firm  presence,  you  can  understand  and  heal.  do  not  look  away  and  you  will  learn  to  live  in  harmony.

tagged by @vcnenum & @the-heros-sidekick

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐔𝐋𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 ﹖

tagged by @fireburial, @vcnenum, @shadowpunk

𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐈 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑.

Bold what your muse has done.

fallen for a character in a movie book | lied about their age | went through a “twilight phase” | finished an entire jaw breaker | been kayaking or canoeing | bungee-jumped / skydived | experimented with their sexual orientation | stolen something | done a successful handstand | skipped class | flown on a plane | gotten drunk | gotten high | taken nudes | sent nudes | kissed someone of the same sex | kissed a stranger | been in a fist fight | been in handcuffs (for any reason) | fallen asleep at the movies | taken part in a talent show | cut their own hair | experienced sleep paralysis | tried lucid dreaming | thrown up on a roller coaster | chipped a tooth | gone hunting | had a bad allergic reaction | worked at a fast food restaurant | looked through someone else’s phone without permission | changed a diaper | eaten an entire pizza by themselves | been pulled over | eaten out of a trash can | played candy crush

tagged by @the-heros-sidekick

𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐌 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒.

Bold what applies.

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 ﹕ love poems. flickering candles. conversations in the meadow. roses. midnight meetings. silk dresses. long phone calls. spilling your heart out. curtains blowing in the breeze. cheap paperbacks. the sun’s reflection on the water. smooth jazz. waiting for something to happen. blushing cheeks. kisses in the rain. faded polaroids. noses bumping. floral perfume. a restless spirit. oil paintings on canvas. hiding under an awning during a thunderstorm. candlelit dinners. horse drawn carriages. sunset views. smeared lipstick.

𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ﹕ streetlights reflected on rainy pavements. a phone alarm. rapid texting. the smell of smoke. aggression. the natural instinct to fight. dramatic reunions. distant gunfire. funerals in the rain. the coppery scent of blood. solitude. fierce protective instincts. doomed to fail. driving too fast. near death experiences. inner turmoil. running through crowds. expensive watches. tired eyes. overnight plane rides. cold cups of coffee. dangerous secrets. lying through your teeth. bullet holes.

𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 ﹕ a distant farmhouse. congealed blood on the hardwood. ice picks. tilted headstones. bare feet on the carpet. splintering wood. masks that hide who you really are underneath. quiet summer camps. ghost stories. locked rooms. sharp knives. a full moon. the scent of rust. grasping hands searching for something to hold. last minute decisions. bags under your eyes. a cross hung on the wall. crawling maggots. the carcass of a dead animal. an abandoned hotel. blood-soaked clothes. broken bones. the sound of glass shattering.

𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ﹕ gnarled rope between your fingers as you hold on for dear life. glittering gold in a dark room. snakes. an incoming sandstorm. the consequences of your actions. hidden secrets. an unopened door. a leap of faith. squeezing your best friend’s hand. shelves of dusty books. ancient curses. the smell of fire. crumbling buildings. complicated puzzles. mystery novels. footsteps echoing in a large room. smudged lenses on glasses. warm skin. doing what’s right. dirt under your fingernails. scribbled notes. cobwebs blocking your path.

𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐘 ﹕ friends you’ve known for years. crowded comedy clubs. crescent moons. open mics. out of tune pianos. a messy desk. leather messenger bags. stacks of papers. huge sweaters. bitten nails. ordering takeout every night. dog-eared pages. unmade beds. hand movements and broad gestures. the smell of the subway. colorful graffiti on brick buildings. big dreams. enthusiastic phone calls. rejection letters. the heat of stage lights. pulling pranks. restless sleep. cold showers. laughing until you’re crying. half-finished ideas. tiny apartments. velvet curtains. cheap alcohol.

tagged by @schwarzpulverherz

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 ﹖

𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 ﹕ a  single  image  reminding  you  of  someone  or  something  you've  lost,  something  you  don't  want  to  live  without.  you  can't  seem  to  move  on,  to  accept  life  has  changed,  to  live  again.  you're  trapped  in  the  picture,  in  the  past.  maybe  this  was  a  lost  family  member  or  friend,  maybe  this  was  a  sickness  that  isn't  going  away,  maybe  this  was  sinking  into  depression.  but  you  can't  help  but  remember  how  life  was  before,  how  life  after  will  never  be  the  same,  and  can't  help  but  feel  that  nothing  in  the  future  will  be  able  to  fill  the  hole  the  past  left.  nothing  lasts  forever… right?

tagged by @chaoticmvse

𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅

tagged by @hochmvt & @zeitrcisende

feel free to steal whatever you like ﹗

[covenofthearticulate]

It's half 6 in the morning and I haven't slept, so have some sleepy vampire thoughts

- Louis wearing a scented, satin eye mask, and his outrageously expensive, matching set of floral, silk pajamas that he all but rolled his eyes at when Armand got them for him but now he rarely sleeps without them

- While at Trinity Gate, Louis is not always entirely sure if Armand slept beside him or in his own room/coffin as he will sometimes retire long after Louis is asleep and be gone by the time Louis wakes. But Louis is glad that Armand knows he has an open invitation to join him in his bed if it brings him comfort

- Louis can cat nap in almost any position, sitting fully upright book in hand, standing up, doesn't matter. He will however deny that he was sleeping if interrupted

YEEEESSSSS sleepytime louis thoughts are my favorite thoughts omg i love these so much!!!

akjhsdbsldfhv this is a wild thing to read at night because, I shit you not, I own a lavender-infused satin eye mask that I do, in fact, wear to bed every night LMFAO!! I love that though, like honestly even if they don't need it for the Death Sleep, maybe Louis is more sensitive to light than the others so he likes his lil sleeping mask 🥺 and honestly yeah, I think Louis either goes to bed wearing a ratty, oversized, worn-out TVL band tee and nothing else, or he's going full Ebenezer Scrooge with a matching pajama set

also YES armand always has an open invitation to join louis in bed!! sometimes I like to think that armand sleeps in on purpose so that he can be there when louis wakes up (lestat does this too lmao) but when he's not there, louis absolutely checks for signs of armand— are the sheets rumpled on his side of the bed? did he leave anything on his night stand?

also oh my GOD i'm obsessed with louis being able to sleep anywhere, imagine all the court meetings he's snoozed through while still sitting completely upright at the table afsdxacedjghfvjh

[cleromancy]

HI I WOULD LOVE TO SEE SNIPPETS OF THE EX CHILD STAR AU

thank you anon 🥰 sry it took me a few days to post this lol

cws: references to mental health problems and a previous suicide attempt, and lasting trauma from exploitation. uh, and past drug use.

*

If you had asked Dick twenty-four hours ago about his apartment, he would have said it was fine. Not too modest, not too ostentatious, not so public he has to worry about creeps but not as isolated as the villa. He's so glad they sold the villa. Nicest place he's ever lived, and if he'd stayed there one more day he'd have been peeling off the wallpaper muttering about ex-child stars trapped inside, creeping. Where he lives now is within walking distance from a friendly little corner store where he picks up cereal and almond milk and anything else he doesn't want to wait to get delivered, which is convenient, and a somewhat-longer-but-still-doable hike away from Dick's favorite store in L.A, a tiny little candy shop that only stays afloat out of sheer spite. The owner, a cantankerous old man that Dick loved immediately upon meeting, roasts Dick mercilessly every time Dick comes in, but he also keeps Dick's standing order of the tragically discontinued Triple Xtreme Face Pucker Nuclear Warheads in stock just for him, so Dick wouldn't buy them anywhere else even if he could.

And as long as you have that and a laundry room, you're golden. If Dick had to leave his apartment to wash his socks he'd just lie down and die, or else wear a lot of dirty clothes.

So normally if asked, Dick would conclude that the apartment is, actually, better than fine, maybe even pretty good, and then he would change the subject.

It's just hitting Dick now that he's lived here for seven years now and he doesn't think he's ever actually looked around. They hired somebody to move his stuff into storage while Dick was still in inpatient and somebody else to decorate the apartment so it would be livable right when he got out, before he got around to picking up his stuff (he keeps meaning to do that). Moving in, all Dick cared about was getting a burrito the size of his face and sleeping on sheets that didn't smell faintly of industrial bleach masked poorly by something artificial, vaguely floral, and marketed as *Mountain Breeze.* In the grey haze it hadn't occurred to him to wonder if maybe the decor was itself a little too grey.

"Or whatever color they call this," Dick says to himself, staring down an oversized decorative vase with a few sticks poking out that you'd think would be silk flowers or something, but instead have these fuzzy little puffballs attached for some reason. "Gray-beige? Taupe? Greige? Why do I even have you." He tilts it to one side. It's shockingly heavy. "Why do I have *six of you.*"

Looking down the hallway it's obvious that the interior design team had a vision, and that vision was "innoffensive, featureless neutrality." There are just enough wall hangings to qualify as "minimalist" over "austere," black and white photographs of bland still lifes in featureless frames. Some kind of hanging tapestry except it's solid white with hanging tassels. Grey-toned floor, lighter grey-toned floor runner. The end result sails right past "boring" into "escaped psych ward patient" territory. Which Dick resents. He did his time, thank you very much, and waited until his official discharge like a good boy. That's probably why he didn't notice until now, psych ward home away from psych ward home.

Yeah. Let's blame that. The fact that he spent his first year out of the hospital doing nothing but trying to beat his Tetris high score in his underwear and scouring the internet trying to find the tragically discontinued Triple Xtreme Face Pucker Nuclear Warheads had nothing to do with it.

"He's going to think I'm a serial killer," Dick realizes.

He's most of the way through Tetrising the unwieldy, surpringly heavy vases into the tiny cubicle the guest bathroom calls a shower—and he'd like to know whose idea *that* was when anyone with a lick of sense would have just made it a half-bath—when the buzzer for the lobby goes off.

"Crap," Dick mutters, taking half a step away from the tower, which wobbles ominously. He lunges to steady it. "Crap!"

He casts around for a surface and sets the last two vases on the toilet lid and the sink respectively, the stupid little Q-tip stick things rattling mockingly inside, then dashes out to tell the doorman that no, Roy's not a stalker, yes really, yes Dick wants you to let him up please, yes he is serious, yes he is sure. He has enough time to sprint back to the bathroom and make sure his hair is okay and confirm that at least he doesn't *look* as sweaty and disheveled as he *feels,* but thankfully not enough time to start worrying if he might be due early for another round of fillers or if his hairline might be receding or if the skin under his jaw might be sagging. He looks fine. Everything's fine.

When the doorbell rings, Dick has to pretend he doesn't know who's on the other side to get himself to finally open the door. His breath still catches when he sees him.

Roy, casual as ever, pushing a pair of Ray-Bans he told Dick he shoplifted as a teenager up his forehead. His crow's feet, because he stopped getting fillers at twenty-five, except *his* are laugh lines, not stress wrinkles, less those *Where Are They Now?* specials they used to do on VH1, more Paul Newman aging like fine wine. His crooked smile, and he doesn't whiten his teeth anymore either, teased Dick when he drove him for his root canal that he was destroying his enamel and then held his hand when they put him under. His scuffed bomber jacket, older than either of them, which sparked half a dozen anecdotes about an Uncle Hal when Dick brushed his fingers against a faded patch on the sleeve. His henley with three buttons undone, straining over the curve of his chest. His jeans tight around the thighs, a little threadbare in places after over a decade of wear. The whole of him, broad and easy in the doorway, unapologetically imperfect, smiling.

Dick just wants this to go well so *badly.* "Hi."

"Hi yourself," Roy says, shifting a little. "Can I come in?"

"Please."

Roy closes the door behind him, bending to unlace his boots. Dick's eyes catch for a second on the strain of his thighs against denim, and the nervous inane smalltalk on its way out of Dick's mouth dies on his lips.

Roy kicks the second boot off and straightens up, dusting his palms off on his thighs, which probably shouldn't make Dick's mouth fill with saliva the way it does. He's looking around the entryway, curious. "Nice place."

*Don't mention the vases.* "You think so? I keep meaning to update a little."

"Yeah, man, it's nice," Roy says easily, and he's lying but Dick can barely tell, which is kind of him. "You want to show me around?"

No, Dick does not want to show him around. No, he does not want to discover alongside Roy what other modern minimalist nightmares the interior design team saw fit to install in case Dick got too overstimulated by non-neutral colors and tried to kill himself again.

"I want to show you the media room," Dick says, which at least has the benefit of actually being true.

*

The "whoa" Roy lets out when they enter the media room is gratifying. It's most people's reaction when they see it. It's always gratifying.

"Is that a pinball machine?" Roy asks.

Dick grins. "You wanna play?"

"Hell yeah, just. Later. You have so much cool shit here, show me all of it—"

Maybe the other reason Dick barely knows what the rest of his apartment looks like is because this is where he spends most of his time. Freshly discharged from the hospital, Dick had scarfed down his face-sized burrito, faceplanted on the bed, slept like a log for about two days straight and woken up not entirely sure what year it was or why. He looked around the room, remembered it was his, flicked on the lamp on his bedside table and didn't like it any better in the light. It was the smooth plasticine decor that Dick's belatedly come to realize populated the entire apartment, featureless, meaningless, trying desperately to be mature by being entirely devoid of interest. *My bedroom pays taxes,* Dick remembers thinking. *My bedroom has a 401k.* He grabbed his meds from his bedside table and stuffed them in his sweatpants pocket before wrapping himself in the big gray down comforter and dragging it to what he supposed was the den, flopping on the couch and sleeping for another six hours, eventually waking with the cap of PRAZOSIN - 10MG - GRAYSON, RICHARD J digging into his hip.

Time was sort of soupy a lot of the time back before he got his ADHD diagnosis, because of the brain fog. For the longest time his psychiatrists kept adjusting his Wellbutrin dose pretending they thought that had a chance in hell of working while Dick sat listlessly in their offices, missing meth. It wasn't until later when Jason Todd of all people dragged him to a specialist (because "if I have it, you definitely have it" successfully nettled Dick into going just to prove him wrong, except of course it turned out the bastard was right) and Dick found a new psychiatrist who was halfway competent and put him on Adderall that he really felt at all present again. The psychiatrist he has now, who is from hell and who doesn't let him get away with lying and who is incredibly good at her job, was the one who told him how much meth and ADHD stimulants have in common chemically.

Dick sat very still. Then he pointed to the throw cushion on the couch. "Can I borrow that for just a sec?"

"Take as long as you need."

Dick grabbed the pillow, buried his face in it, and screamed at the top of his lungs.

But for a while, yeah. Time was soup Dick was mostly afloat in. He spent it floating here.

Now that Dick is looking for it, he notices the gray in the floor and the walls, the aggressive featurelessness of even the window frames, but he likes the rest of the room enough not to mind. At one point he'd been irrationally angry at the pile of mail he'd put off opening for over a month, and he'd been going through a minor fixation with auction websites at the time, and there was an old, probably busted Ms Pac Man arcade machine up for sale and for some reason Dick latched onto it. For some reason winning the auction of the stupid Ms Pac Man machine was very briefly the most important thing in the world. And he did win the auction, because nobody else wanted the janky old thing, and to Dick's shock and delight it actually *worked*, and suddenly he had a project.

At first he bought and fixed up old arcade fixtures, classic games and pinball machines mostly but he dabbled in anything; he'd even gotten his hands on an air hockey table once. Then he'd get bored or run out of space, sell a bunch of things or even give them away if he was too sick of looking at them, and before terribly long he drifted away from arcades specifically. That part he credits to a film projector he ran into at a flea market and fell in love with, which prompted him to spend possibly obscene amounts of money on the sound system and improving the acoustics. He fell in love with a lot of objects, those days, maybe because he wasn't talking to *people* much. Not people who knew him well, anyway. He was on first name terms with his favorite antique dealers, one of whom inexplicably set aside an old Gibson electric guitar he found, a gorgeous machine in a charmingly 60s shade of Robin's egg blue, because he said it reminded him of Dick. Either because he somehow knew Dick would love it, or else because he knew Dick was a sucker with way too much money.

It didn't matter. Dick *did* love it, and he *is* a sucker with way too much money, and he *did* go straight home to almost give himself tinnitus playing every three-chord classic he knew at a truly unwise volume.

(Dick even replaced the original couch in this room because he kept falling asleep on it and his physical therapist threatened to quit over the havoc he was wreaking on his back. He's still not thrilled that he doesn't really sleep in bed ever, but the new couch isn't threatening to do permanent damage to his spine. Win/win in Dick's book.)

So. Not a home arcade, not a home theater, not a home studio. Scavenged bits and salvaged pieces, nostalgia probably in excess, anchors in time. Whatever magic they put in the air at antique stores and estate sales and really good museum exhibits, Dick managed to bottle a breath of it and take it home with him. When he finally started letting people into his life again, the unabashed delight often on their faces, walking into this room full of outdated obsolete frivolous things, sharing it with them… it's good. It feels good.

"Does that ancient popcorn machine actually work?" Roy asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, grinning.

Dick matches it. "Yeah, and it's gonna knock your socks off."

*

So Dick gets the popcorn going and shows Roy around and silently laments that there was no way he could get his hands on film reels of The Muppet Show. Roy was almost as much of a geek about some of these machines as Dick was, and Dick had made it his whole personality for a while.

"It's just that there are some antique collectors that really don't mess around," Dick explained to Donna the week before, twisting and untwisting his napkin in his hands. "And I'm a competitive guy but some of the markets are totally cutthroat, and film people and puppet people are both intense. So this was better."

"Yeah, *and* it'd be insane to drop that kind of money on a first date," said Jason through a mouthful of bacon cheeseburger, Mister *we're not brothers we just played them on TV.* Dick had invited Donna to lunch, Jason had loudly said he was too busy to come, Dick said he wasn't invited, and Jason's schedule suddenly cleared up, *viola,* miracles do happen.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Dick told him.

"Die," Jason suggested pleasantly.

'Just played it on TV.' Sure.

"And it's not a date," Dick added belatedly, stomach swooping.

Jason had opened his mouth to probably say something horrible, as is his way, and instead let out a hilarious squeak, turning to Donna next to him in the booth with massive betrayed Bambi eyes.

She ignored him, continuing to pour Sweet-N-Low packets into her half-empty coffee as if she didn't just stomp on his foot under the table. She didn't really like coffee until it got to the consistency of artificially sweetened sludge. When they were young Donna was always on top of what was *in*, considering it part of her full-time job to appear effortlessly sophisticated; she skipped the teen-preteen fashion beat and shot straight to the big leagues by fifteen. They were putting the equivalent of a *sophomore in high school* on best dressed lists alongside grown-ass women. It should never have happened. No one should have *let* it happen. One time even before all that, Dick and Jason stole a box of Krispy Kreme donuts from catering and absconded to her trailer to share and she had a panic attack. Years later she described her youth as being in a room full of invisible mirrors at all times. Those days she wouldn't be caught dead with anything less chic than an espresso from whatever new *it* cafe just opened. And there she was, two decades later, blithely desecrating two-dollar-fifty diner coffee with enough aspartame to kill a cart horse in front of god and everyone. She was probably Dick's favorite person in the entire world, and he went into a little trance for a moment, watching her graceful hands with horrified fascination.

Finally satisfied, she took a sip of her monstrosity and hummed, satisfied with that which she hath wrought. "Wait and see," she suggested. "If it goes well, it can be a date."

"And everyone says *I'm* the crazy one," Jason griped, rubbing the prison stick-n-poke tattoo on one thumb with the other.

"Well, if everyone says it, it must be true," Donna said warmly, knocking her shoulder against Jason's.

[trauma-report]

𝙛𝙞𝙡𝙢 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙘.               bold:  always  applies.   italic:   sometimes  applies.

𝙞. 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚.      love poems.  flickering candles.  conversations in the meadow.  roses.  midnight meetings.  silk dresses.  long phone calls.  spilling your heart out.  curtains blowing in the breeze.  cheap paperbacks.  the sun’s reflection on the water.  smooth jazz.  waiting for something to happen.  blushing cheeks.  kisses in the rain.  faded polaroids.  noses bumping.  floral perfume.  a restless spirit.  oil paintings on canvas.  hiding under an awning during a thunderstorm.  candlelight dinners.  horse drawn carriages.  sunset views.  smeared lipstick.

𝙞𝙞. 𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣.      streetlights reflected on rainy pavements.  a phone alarm.  rapid texting.  the smell of smoke.  aggression.  the natural instinct to fight.  dramatic reunions.  distant gunfire.  funerals in the rain.  the coppery scent of blood.  solitude.  fierce protective instincts.  doomed to fail.  driving too fast.  near death experiences.  inner turmoil.  running through crowds.  expensive watches.  tired eyes.  overnight plane rides.  cold cups of coffee.  dangerous secrets.  lying through your teeth.  bullet holes.

𝙞𝙞𝙞. 𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙧.      a distant farmhouse.  congealed blood on the hardwood.  ice picks.  tilted headstones.  bare feet on the carpet.  splintering wood.  masks that hide who you really are underneath.  quiet summer camps.  ghost stories.  locked rooms.  sharp knives.  a full moon.  the scent of rust.  grasping hands searching for something to hold.  last minute decisions.  bags under your eyes.  a cross hung on the wall.  crawling maggots.  the carcass of a dead animal.  an abandoned hotel.  blood-soaked clothes.  broken bones.  the sound of glass shattering.

𝙞𝙫. 𝙖𝙙𝙫𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚.      gnarled rope between your fingers as you hold on for dear life.  glittering gold in a dark room.  snakes.  an incoming sandstorm.  the consequences of your actions.  hidden secrets.  an unopened door.  a leap of faith.  squeezing your best friend’s hand.  shelves of dusty books.  ancient curses.  the smell of fire.  crumbling buildings.  complicated puzzles.  mystery novels.  footsteps echoing in a large room.  smudged lenses on glasses.  warm skin.  doing what’s right.  dirt under your fingernails.  scribbled notes.  cobwebs blocking your path.

𝙫. 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙮.      friends you’ve known for years.  crowded comedy clubs.  crescent moons.  open mics.  out of tune pianos.  a messy desk.  leather messenger bags.  stacks of papers.  huge sweaters.  bitten nails.  ordering takeout every night.  dog-eared pages.  unmade beds.  hand movements & broad gestures.  the smell of the subway.  colorful graffiti on brick buildings.  big dreams.  enthusiastic phone calls.  rejection letters.  the heat of stage lights.  pulling pranks.  restless sleep.  cold showers.  laughing until you’re crying.  half-finished ideas.  tiny apartments.  velvet curtains.  cheap alcohol.

tagged by: @heartofglass-mindofstone tagging: I don't know who hasn't been tagged, so just steal it if you like to

[girlypopbops]

my wishlist atm:

༻ bling phone camera lense covers

༻ white Tommy Hilfiger LEXXA sneakers

༻ new black kanken bag

༻ disposable cameras for senior yr of college

༻ EOS vanilla cashmere shea butter

༻ new black & white wildflower phone case

༻ black & leopard slippers

༻ black bonnet & shower cap

༻ silk black & white floral pjs

༻ oversized cashmere zip up hoodie

༻ aquaponic black electric tooth

༻ the bell jar by Sylvia Plath

༻ everything I know about love by Dolly Alderton

༻ all about love: new visions by Bell Hooks

༻ transparent & black post it notes

༻ black sleeping mask

༻ new sunset lamp

༻ black fluffy rug

༻ chunky silver jewelry

༻ maroon framed glasses

༻ new black Stanley

༻ black version of the 5 minute journal

༻ new workout long sleeve top

༻ I love being delusional t shirt

༻ maroon and silver belt

༻ leopard print button up

༻ leopard print pants & short skirt

༻ oversized black and white stripe trousers

༻ y2k scarves

༻ sparkly pants

༻ metallic cow boy boots

༻ candle warmer

༻ clear drawer organizers

༻ white oversized silk button up

༻ clear glass plates

༻ cocktail making kit

༻ atomic habits by James Clear

༻ hair masks

༻ red acrylic nails

༻ were not really strangers

༻ nice record player

༻ tv & LED strips to go behind

༻ vinyls : GUTS, hit me hard and soft, blonde

༻ coffee cup jelly cat

༻ mushroom lamp

༻ stick candles

༻ cannon g7x

༻ bangles

[ober-affen-geil]

Genders from "Willow" (2022) that I would like to steal

+ bonus

[begin image description

All gifs are characters from Willow the 2022 high fantasy series.

Gif 1: Boorman sits tied to a central pole inside a thatched wood dwelling, his arms are behind him. He has long wavy black hair and a thick beard. His legs are spread casually in front of him with his knees bent and his feet tucked next to the stump he sits on. He is wearing brown leather pants and a red leather vest over a white linen shirt. Scorpia leans against the pole next to him looking bored. Her hair is up in bantu knots and she wears a chunky necklace among other jewelry over a skintight green cold shouldered shirt, a colorful woven vest, and green linen pants with a knife at her hip.

Gif 2: Elora is outdoors in the woods, watching a monarch butterfly flit in front of her. She holds out her hand to it and waits to see if it will land on her palm. She has long blond hair flowing freely over her shoulders with one chunk of it her natural red. she is wearing a green knit shawl and cloth "sleeves" that fall over her thumb and are tied at the top of her arms.

Gif 3: Graydon leans against a tree outdoors, idly spinning a knife in his fingers. His black hair is shaggy around his ears and neck, and he has a goatee. He is wearing a blue and black striped woven shirt that is rolled up to his elbows. He turns to look at Boorman who has walked up behind him. Boorman is wearing a red vest over a white linen shirt with leather shoulderguards. He wears an armguard on his left forearm and his right shows a tattoo and a thick silver bracelet. He is wearing several rings and pops his eyebrows up at Graydon as he pauses.

Gif 4: Jade, surrounded by a crowd in a clearing in the forest, finishes a somersault away from Scorpia and quickly stands and turns to face her again. She braces and swings a powerful hit at Scorpia with her face twisted in physical effort. She has tightly curled red hair down to her shoulders, with the front pulled back, and wears a blue tunic over leather pants, with a red undershirt and light leather armor over parts of her torso.

Gif 5: Kit crouches defensively next to a part of a stone wall, her sword held above her in protection. Sorsha suddenly slides into frame, deflecting the metal whip that was headed for Kit. She holds her sword confidently at her side, glaring at the threat off screen. She is wearing a yellow silk robe over blue sleep garments, and her hair is half up in clear disarray.

Gif 6: Inside a dimly lit castle room, the blacksmithing queen of legend lifts her welding mask with a breath of relief. She wears a gauntlet on her right hand and forearm which is otherwise bare, and a gorget and full arm coverage on her left. She is streaked with soot and grease.

Gif 7: Kit stands in a bedchamber in a castle, looking down at a partially unsheathed sword that she is holding. Her hair is cut in a shaggy pageboy and she is wearing a linen tunic over pants with a leather torso guard acting almost as a corset around her middle. She is nearly silhouetted by the light streaming in through the windows behind her.

Gif 8: Anne and Hubert sit in handmade Adirondack style chairs outdoors by a log cabin. Both women are wearing worn denim work clothes and floppy brimmed hats. Anne's shirt is red and tucked into a her pants by a wide leather belt, her hat brim is pinned up on one side Australian style. Hubert is wearing blue pants and shirt, leather work gloves, and has a large axe resting across the arms of the chair she is leaning back in.

Gif 9: Airk is sitting on the ground in the Immemorial City with one leg straight out in front of him and the other bent. He is leaning against the base of a fountain, his hands limp and his head tipped back. He is wearing skintight pants with a semi translucent floral patterned shirt tucked in and undone down his chest with a two-tone jacket (studded leather guards around the shoulders and forearms) over it. His hair is shoulder length and layered, and he is wearing several necklaces and a ring.

Bonus gif: Boorman hefts his stave with a very large blade, half his height and a handwidth wide, so that is rests on his shoulder with the blade up. He grimaces at the weight and opens his mouth to sass the group. He is wearing leather studded shoulderguards over a red vest and white linen shirt. His long hair is loose around his shoulders.

end description]

[d3adshot]

𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐌 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒 ( bold what applies! )

𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴. love poems. flickering candles. conversations in the meadow. roses. midnight meetings. silk dresses. long phone calls. spilling your heart out. curtains blowing in the breeze. cheap paperbacks. the sun’s reflection on the water. smooth jazz. waiting for something to happen. blushing cheeks. kisses in the rain. faded polaroids. noses bumping. floral perfume. a restless spirit. oil paintings on canvas. hiding under an awning during a thunderstorm. candlelit dinners. horse drawn carriages. sunset views. smeared lipstick.

𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽. streetlights reflected on rainy pavements. a phone alarm. rapid texting. the smell of smoke. aggression. the natural instinct to fight. dramatic reunions. distant gunfire. funerals in the rain. the coppery scent of blood. solitude. fierce protective instincts. doomed to fail. driving too fast. near death experiences. inner turmoil. running through crowds. expensive watches. tired eyes. overnight plane rides. cold cups of coffee. dangerous secrets. lying through your teeth. bullet holes.

𝙷𝙾𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁. a distant farmhouse. congealed blood on the hardwood. ice picks. tilted headstones. bare feet on the carpet. splintering wood. masks that hide who you really are underneath. quiet summer camps. ghost stories. locked rooms. sharp knives. a full moon. the scent of rust. grasping hands searching for something to hold. last minute decisions. bags under your eyes. a cross hung on the wall. crawling maggots. the carcass of a dead animal. an abandoned hotel. blood-soaked clothes. broken bones. the sound of glass shattering.

𝙰𝙳𝚅𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙴. gnarled rope between your fingers as you hold on for dear life. glittering gold in a dark room. snakes. an incoming sandstorm. the consequences of your actions. hidden secrets. an unopened door. a leap of faith. squeezing your best friend’s hand. shelves of dusty books. ancient curses. the smell of fire. crumbling buildings. complicated puzzles. mystery novels. footsteps echoing in a large room. smudged lenses on glasses. warm skin. doing what’s right. dirt under your fingernails. scribbled notes. cobwebs blocking your path.

𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴𝙳𝚈. friends you’ve known for years. crowded comedy clubs. crescent moons. open mics. out of tune pianos. a messy desk. leather messenger bags. stacks of papers. huge sweaters. bitten nails. ordering takeout every night. dog-eared pages. unmade beds. hand movements and broad gestures. the smell of the subway. colorful graffiti on brick buildings. big dreams. enthusiastic phone calls. rejection letters. the heat of stage lights. pulling pranks. restless sleep. cold showers. laughing until you’re crying. half-finished ideas. tiny apartments. velvet curtains. cheap alcohol.

tagged by @gottesgrauen

tagging @imrauschdertiefe @kettensaege & everyone who hasn't done it by now (i know i'm late)

[brooklynislandgirl]

stolen from: @triicksters stolen by: tag, you're it!

𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐌 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂. bold always applies. italic sometimes applies.

i. romance. love poems - flickering candles - conversations in the meadow - roses - midnight meetings - silk dresses - long phone calls - spilling your heart out - curtains blowing in the breeze - cheap paperbacks - the sun’s reflection on the water - smooth jazz - waiting for something to happen - blushing cheeks - kisses in the rain - faded polaroids - noses bumping - floral perfume - a restless spirit - oil paintings on canvas - hiding under an awning during a thunderstorm - candlelight dinners - horse drawn carriages - sunset views - smeared lipstick.

ii. action. streetlights reflected on rainy pavements - a phone alarm - rapid texting - the smell of smoke - aggression - the natural instinct to fight - dramatic reunions - distant gunfire - funerals in the rain - the coppery scent of blood - solitude - fierce protective instincts - doomed to fail - driving too fast - near death experiences - inner turmoil - running through crowds - expensive watches - tired eyes - overnight plane rides - cold cups of coffee - dangerous secrets - lying through your teeth - bullet holes.

ii. horror. a distant farmhouse - congealed blood on the hardwood - ice picks - tilted headstones - bare feet on the carpet - splintering wood - masks that hide who you really are underneath - quiet summer camps - ghost stories - locked rooms - sharp knives - a full moon - the scent of rust - grasping hands searching for something to hold - last minute decisions - bags under your eyes - a cross hung on the wall - crawling maggots - the carcass of a dead animal - an abandoned hotel - blood-soaked clothes - broken bones - the sound of glass shattering.

iv. adventure. gnarled rope between your fingers as you hold on for dear life - glittering gold in a dark room - snakes - an incoming sandstorm - the consequences of your actions - hidden secrets - an unopened door - a leap of faith - squeezing your best friend’s hand - shelves of dusty books - ancient curses - the smell of fire - crumbling buildings - complicated puzzles - mystery novels - footsteps echoing in a large room - smudged lenses on glasses - warm skin - doing what’s right - dirt under your fingernails - scribbled notes - cobwebs blocking your path.

v. comedy. friends you’ve known for years - crowded comedy clubs - crescent moons - open mics - out of tune pianos - a messy desk - leather messenger bags - stacks of papers - huge sweaters - bitten nails - ordering takeout every night - dog-eared pages - unmade beds - hand movements & broad gestures - the smell of the subway - colorful graffiti on brick buildings - big dreams - enthusiastic phone calls - rejection letters - the heat of stage lights - pulling pranks - restless sleep - cold showers - laughing until you’re crying - half-finished ideas - tiny apartments - velvet curtains - cheap alcohol.

[biitchcakes]

FILM GENRE AESTHETICS

BOLD always applies. ITALIC sometimes applies.

i. ROMANCE. love poems. flickering candles. conversations in the meadow. roses. midnight meetings. silk dresses. long phone calls. spilling your heart out. curtains blowing in the breeze. cheap paperbacks. the sun’s reflection on the water. smooth jazz. waiting for something to happen. blushing cheeks. kisses in the rain. faded polaroids. noses bumping. floral perfume. a restless spirit. oil paintings on canvas. hiding under an awning during a thunderstorm. candlelight dinners. horse drawn carriages. sunset views. smeared lipstick.

ii. ACTION. streetlights reflected on rainy pavements. a phone alarm. rapid texting. the smell of smoke. aggression. the natural instinct to fight. dramatic reunions. distant gunfire. funerals in the rain. the coppery scent of blood. solitude. fierce protective instincts. doomed to fail. driving too fast. near death experiences. inner turmoil. running through crowds. expensive watches. tired eyes. overnight plane rides. cold cups of coffee. dangerous secrets. lying through your teeth. bullet holes.

iii. HORROR. a distant farmhouse. congealed blood on the hardwood. ice picks. tilted headstones. bare feet on the carpet. splintering wood. masks that hide who you really are underneath. quiet summer camps. ghost stories. locked rooms. sharp knives. a full moon. the scent of rust. grasping hands searching for something to hold. last minute decisions. bags under your eyes. a cross hung on the wall. crawling maggots. the carcass of a dead animal. an abandoned hotel. blood-soaked clothes. broken bones. the sound of glass shattering.

iv. ADVENTURE. gnarled rope between your fingers as you hold on for dear life. glittering gold in a dark room. snakes. an incoming sandstorm. the consequences of your actions. hidden secrets. an unopened door. a leap of faith. squeezing your best friend’s hand. shelves of dusty books. ancient curses. the smell of fire. crumbling buildings. complicated puzzles. mystery novels. footsteps echoing in a large room. smudged lenses on glasses. warm skin. doing what’s right. dirt under your fingernails. scribbled notes. cobwebs blocking your path.

v. COMEDY. friends you’ve known for years. crowded comedy clubs. crescent moons. open mics. out of tune pianos. a messy desk. leather messenger bags. stacks of papers. huge sweaters. bitten nails. ordering takeout every night. dog-eared pages. unmade beds. hand movements & broad gestures. the smell of the subway. colourful graffiti on brick buildings. big dreams. enthusiastic phone calls. rejection letters. the heat of stage lights. pulling pranks. restless sleep. cold showers. laughing until you’re crying. half-finished ideas. tiny apartments. velvet curtains. cheap alcohol.

[talentforlying]

𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐌 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂. bold always applies. italic sometimes applies.

i. romance. love poems - flickering candles - conversations in the meadow - roses - midnight meetings - silk dresses - long phone calls - spilling your heart out - curtains blowing in the breeze - cheap paperbacks - the sun’s reflection on the water - smooth jazz - waiting for something to happen - blushing cheeks - kisses in the rain - faded polaroids - noses bumping - floral perfume - a restless spirit - oil paintings on canvas - hiding under an awning during a thunderstorm - candlelight dinners - horse drawn carriages - sunset views - smeared lipstick.

ii. action. streetlights reflected on rainy pavements - a phone alarm - rapid texting - the smell of smoke - aggression - the natural instinct to fight - dramatic reunions - distant gunfire - funerals in the rain - the coppery scent of blood - solitude - fierce protective instincts - doomed to fail - driving too fast - near death experiences - inner turmoil - running through crowds - expensive watches - tired eyes - overnight plane rides - cold cups of coffee - dangerous secrets - lying through your teeth - bullet holes.

iii. horror. a distant farmhouse - congealed blood on the hardwood - ice picks - tilted headstones - bare feet on the carpet - splintering wood - masks that hide who you really are underneath - quiet summer camps - ghost stories - locked rooms - sharp knives - a full moon - the scent of rust - grasping hands searching for something to hold - last minute decisions - bags under your eyes - a cross hung on the wall - crawling maggots - the carcass of a dead animal - an abandoned hotel - blood-soaked clothes - broken bones - the sound of glass shattering.

iv. adventure. gnarled rope between your fingers as you hold on for dear life - glittering gold in a dark room - snakes - an incoming sandstorm - the consequences of your actions - hidden secrets - an unopened door - a leap of faith - squeezing your best friend’s hand - shelves of dusty books - ancient curses - the smell of fire - crumbling buildings - complicated puzzles - mystery novels - footsteps echoing in a large room - smudged lenses on glasses - warm skin - doing what’s right - dirt under your fingernails - scribbled notes - cobwebs blocking your path.

v. comedy. friends you’ve known for years - crowded comedy clubs - crescent moons - open mics - out of tune pianos - a messy desk - leather messenger bags - stacks of papers - huge sweaters - bitten nails - ordering takeout every night - dog-eared pages - unmade beds - hand movements & broad gestures - the smell of the subway - colorful graffiti on brick buildings - big dreams - enthusiastic phone calls - rejection letters - the heat of stage lights - pulling pranks - restless sleep - cold showers - laughing until you’re crying - half-finished ideas - tiny apartments - velvet curtains - cheap alcohol.

[euphoric-melancholyy]

the tender small gestures of love (and the way they all add up)

A Max & Tisaanah (The War of Lost Hearts) Fanfic

Summary: Max takes care of Tisaanah after a long day.

Or

“I love you, Maxantarius Farlione,” she said, still breathless. She kissed him again, tasting herself on his lips. “Bed - let’s,” she moaned as he caught her lip in his mouth and bit down, leaving her momentarily dizzy with lust. “Let’s go to the bed.”

“I can’t carry you and step out of this tub without tripping and catching us on fire,” he mumbled between kisses, not ready to part for even seconds.

Tisaanah threw back her head in a laugh, and stepped out of the tub. He followed. She made a show of standing up straight, jutting her chin up and out.

“I’m ready to be carried now,” she announced, erupting into a fit of giggles when he slung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

Or

3,000+ words of shameless smut with feelings

AN: There were no fanfiction for my favorite book series of all time, so obviously I had to rectify this, while challenging myself to write ✨intimate smut✨

Huge shout out to Carissa Broadbent for writing the greatest books I’ve ever read, with the most amazing characters. Please, never read this if you find it.

Also on Ao3

Leadership revitalized and drained Tisaanah simultaneously. She loved the feeling of power, of knowing that her actions and words would be listened to, but she could live without the constant performance. She had hoped that part of her life was behind her, but nearly everyday she found herself sliding that mask back on, schmoozing with the royals of neighboring nations and the government of the Alliance. She threw herself into it with unflinching brutality, working from the wee hours of the morning until long after the moon crested high in the sky. It was mesmerizing to watch from the outside, and she loved it like a child. But it was in these times that she often forgot to rest, eat, or just stop and breathe.

So it was with dreams of sleep and a quick bite of whatever the kitchens had leftover, that she found herself walking to her room. In the background, she could hear the sound of running water.

“Max?” she called. He came around the corner donning a navy silk robe embellished in a floral pattern, and Tisaanah bit her lip to keep from laughing at the sight.

“The savior returns,” he quiped in butchered Therini. He had been practicing it more lately, small phrases here and there. She silently admitted he was getting much better, but the accent was still…rough.

“All in a day's work. What are you wearing?”

“Didn’t you know these are all the rage in Threll now? I’m a man of high fashion.”

“Mysterious and fashionable snake man?” She hummed, walking up to him and placing her hands on his chest. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“You forgot caring, attentive, best teacher that I’ve ever had.” He lists the attributes off with his fingers. It was a great test of her will not to burst into laughter at the quip, and the energy drained from her. It was the type of bone-deep tiredness that kept her restless, staring at the ceiling and trying to quiet her mind, the list of things she needed to do on a never ending loop. She frowned at the thought of another sleepless night, even if given the time to rest.

“I’m too exhausted to keep up with this level of humor.” She leaned into his touch, the warmth of him enveloping her and settling her in a way that even sleep could not. If she could not sleep, at least she could lay against him and listen to the pitter patter of his heart, his arms wrapping around her in a loose embrace, his knee tucked between her legs.

“About that. . .” He interlocked their fingers together pulling her with him around the corner to -

A bath, illuminated in the flicker of half a dozen candles. The scent of oils, lavender and something else she couldn’t place in her sleep deprived mind, wafted through the air. At the wide lip of the tub sat a tray full of fresh foods - fruits and bread, pork and cheese, and a bottle of wine.

If she felt tears in her eyes at the chasm of love in her chest, she’d blame it on the smoke from the candles, though it was barely there. This man, who had been working just as tirelessly as her, had prepared this for her. She could feel the heat of the water in the air from where she stood, the perfect scalding temperature. Her jaw dropped open in a choked “thank you.”

“Let me take care of you, my love,” he whispered, his voice reverent as a prayer. “Let me undress you.”

“You never have to ask,” she responded, just as softly. His calloused hands grazed her collarbone, their usual roughness masked by a thin layer of lotion that smelled of eucalyptus. She inhaled it, relishing how it mixed with ash and lilac scent of him as he slowly, so slowly, drew a path down and out, settling his hands on the lapels of her jacket. He removed her jacket first, undoing the buttons with a military trained skill, the thick material swooshing as it slid from her shoulders to pool on the floor. Her breath hitched as his hands went to her stomach, just above her waist. His nails lightly scratched at the soft expanse of skin there, the barest tickle of a caress, before he pulled her shirt up and over her head. As he continued to unclothe her, she watched him with a laser eye focus; the way his throat bobbed with every hitch of her breath, the broken lined-tattooed surface of his muscles straining with restraint, already needing to hold himself back. As his hands moved to the waistband of her pants, her stomach clenched. And when he finally slid her underwear down the length of her thighs, then her legs, the soft cotton tickling at the motion, she felt her breaths unconsciously hasten. And when she stood fully bare and exposed to the chill of the air, his eyes met hers and he smirked.

“I’ve kept it hot for you,” his voice was rough as he spoke, stepping to the side and directing her to the tub with a dramatic flourish of his arm.

She felt too choked up to speak, so she silently walked the two steps to the tub, letting out a satisfied moan as she submerged her body in the water. She dunked her head in, and his hands scratched at her scalp moments later, massaging shampoo into it. Tisaanah hummed in contentment, relaxing under his ministrations. He grabbed a cup and filled it, pouring fresh water atop her head to wash the soap out.

“Stand,” he instructed as he stripped off his robe and stepped in to join her, rubbing soap between his palms before caressing her shoulders, circling them until the soap was white foam upon her fragmented skin. He kneeled down, and she jerked as he rubbed along the back of her knees, up to her thighs, and over her pelvic bone, back and around to her ass. As he worked, he didn’t speak, didn’t need to as she turned to accommodate the warmth of his hands, soap dripping down her body. Gods, being touched this way was. . .She didn’t have words for it, the gentle way he touched her, pouring his whole self into caring for her, cleaning the grime of the day from her skin, and somewhere deeper in her soul too. It wasn’t even sexual, not completely, but it didn’t stop the butterflies from fluttering in her stomach, and a tightening in her chest and her core where desire pooled. The intimacy of it all brought tears to her eyes, but still she didn’t feel like crying - didn’t know if she could stop if she started to release the pent up stress of the past several weeks in that way.

There were other ways she’d much prefer to release it all.

She watched the firelight cast shadows across his skin, the insides of his arms, his shoulders, chest, and legs, as he poured more water over her, washing the suds of soap away. “All clean,” he murmured, after pouring the water over her thrice more. Her eyes locked with his. “There’s food, too. I probably should have asked about that first, actually. I had -”

“I’m not hungry for food.” Tisaanah cut him off, lifting her brow in challenge. It wasn’t exactly true - she knew she needed food. It just wasn’t what she wanted, no needed, most right now. “You’re beautiful,” she breathed, eyes taking in the dark ink encompassing most of his skin, the muscles of his abdomen tightening with each inhale of shaky breath. She hated those tattoos most days, its ink a permanent reminder of the hell he had been through. But they were his, and theirs, and a part of him now, so how could she hate anything that was part of him? She supposed he felt the same way about her scars.

She could see the moment his mind changed course from getting her to eat and sleep to giving into the consuming lust, his already hard cock twitching.

“I’m not either. Let me taste you.” He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her. She started to kneel before him, but he urged her up and back. The tub sat against the wall, and she sat at its edge. He kneeled before her, looking into her eyes from between her spread legs. She could feel her breath quickening at the sight of him, and he had barely touched her. “This is about taking care of you, Tisaanah, not me. Let me. Just relax, and let me take care of you. You don’t have to do anything.”

“How can I say no to that, my mysterious snake man?” her voice was raspy, breathless, and she felt giddy with it. Drunk on the feel of his damp skin against her wet skin, the erratic beat of his heart against her flesh. Max groaned at her words, and she felt the vibration of it against her torso. He took one nipple into his mouth, biting then sucking before smoothing it over with his tongue. Rivulets of water still streamed down her skin, and he licked each droplet as it touched his lips, moaning as she bucked her hips up.

“You taste -” he repositioned himself, so that his head was level with her entrance, breath hot against her. “So fucking good, Tisaanah.” His tongue traced a path up her folds and back down again, stopping just before he reached her clit. Gods, she was going to explode at the slow, euphoric torture. “You work so hard, harder than anyone I’ve known, just trying to make the world a better place. It’s so -” his words cut off on a groan, her hips rolling to meet his mouth. “Sexy. I love you so, so much.” He spoke the words into the wetness of her sex, sucking her into his mouth between words.

Gods, she was burning for him. With him. Utterly and completely burning.

She needed more, needed him closer, needed his hand inside her, circling her clit with his thumb while he pumped his fingers in and out. She needed somewhere to put this overwhelming love that was burning within her.

As if he could hear her thoughts, he pumped two fingers inside of her, throwing his head back in a moan.

“You’re so tight, so ready.”

Her back arched and she cried out as he found his rhythm, heat building and coiling as his pace picked up. A dozen curses tumbled from her mouth, a nonsensical mix of Therini and Aren and his name, a plea and a prayer. It was too much and yet not enough, never enough even as she felt as if she would burst from her skin, layers of masks and walls disregarded for him and leaving her at the barest, most vulnerable version of herself. Always for him. Only for him, her equal, her home. As much as he teased her about being savior, he saved her too in more ways than she knew how to articulate, or will ever know how to express.

“Harder,” the word came out as a whimper, and his thumb obliged, pressing against her clit as he pumped his fingers harder, faster inside her, curling inwards.

“Come for me, love. Let me feel you come, let me taste you as you come.” And fuck, she didn’t know if she could stop now if she tried, tension coiling with each thrust of his fingers, every swipe of his thumb.

Gods, oh gods, she couldn’t - “Max I - I -” Her breath stuttered out as her orgasm shattered, seconds or minutes where she was nothing and no one and everything all at once, her control leaving as she rode wave after wave of pleasure.

As she came down, she felt his kiss at the side of her mouth, her cheek, whispers of sweet nothings - I’ve got you, you’re so fucking beautiful, so good to me, my love - into her damp skin.

Her clit throbbed in the wake of her pleasure, and already she wanted more of him. Her hunger for him had only grown, not been sated. He was a drug she’d never not need, a question and an answer, his heart a place for her soul to rest.

“I love you, Maxantarius Farlione,” she said, still breathless. She kissed him again, tasting herself on his lips. “Bed - let’s,” she moaned as he caught her lip in his mouth and bit down, leaving her momentarily dizzy with lust. “Let’s go to the bed.”

“I can’t carry you and step out of this tub without tripping and catching us on fire,” he mumbled between kisses, not ready to part for even seconds.

Tisaanah threw back her head in a laugh, and stepped out of the tub. He followed. She made a show of standing up straight, jutting her chin up and out.

“I’m ready to be carried now,” she announced, erupting into a fit of giggles when he slung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

Tisaanah’s laughter turned to moans as he placed her on their bed and kissed a line down her neck to her breast, toying with the peak of her nipple. Already, she could feel her orgasm building again.

It didn’t matter that they’d done some version of this a hundred times before - making love or fucking or just basking in the presence of one another, drowning in it until all she could feel or think or breathe was Max, Max, Max - it undid her. She was a thread, unraveling and wrapping around him until there was no beginning or end to either of them - a quilt sewn together in the deepest recesses of her soul. Shocks of pleasure shot up her spine, and she felt like she could combust with its heady feeling.

“Tisaanah,” Max moaned, as the tip of his cock teased her entrance. “You feel so fucking good. Like,” He slid in, just barely, and then out, his erection grazing the tip of her clit. She whimpered at the sudden loss of him inside her, of the too light hardness against the bundle of nerves. “Like home.” Her hips bucked up to meet his, and he bit at her earlobe, sucking it into his mouth. “You’re so wet for me.” The words were a vibration against her jaw, and her back arched.

It hurt, Tisaanah decided, to be loved this tenderly. To love this tenderly in return.

“Maxantarius, please,” she begged. She was not above begging now. Her desperation, her need for him had reawakened her, renewed in the fire of passion all the energy she had lost.

His hand gripped the inside of her thigh, tight enough to bruise. She smiled at the thought of bearing his mark from this moment.

“Fucking hell, Tisaanah,” he groaned, sliding in fully. He slowed, planting soft kisses along every surface he could reach, her temple, her collarbone, her jaw, her hairline, her neck. He gave her body time to adjust to the size of him, and the weight of him above her, before slowly, so slowly, beginning to move.

“Beautiful,” he said. Each thrust was punctuated by her cry of ecstasy, her whole body trembling as he continued his slow, sensuous fucking.

Too slowly. She needed him deeper, a mindless desperation crescendoing through her with shocks of pleasure.

Hooking her leg behind his, she shifted her weight and flipped him to his back. The jarring motion brought simultaneous moans from them both, and she rolled her hips harder, faster, than the pace he set.

“I want to feel you against every part of me,” she growled between kisses, sucking at his neck as he sucked at hers, his nails leaving red half crescent marks where he gripped her hips. “I want you to fuck me until it hurts, brand the thrust of your cock between my legs.”

“Fu-” he moaned, a full body shiver wracking his body. “Fuck!”

“Exactly, just like that,” she encouraged, unconsciously rolling her hips and sending him deeper with each thrust.

She could taste the salt of her tears she had been keeping at bay before she even realized she was crying, overcome with the intensity of this, and him, the feeling of rightness in being with him, his cock pulsing against her walls. Tisaanah basked in it, as pleasure coiled and tingled throughout her whole body, drowning in the feverish, frantic sounds of their ragged breathing, flesh pounding into flesh.

“Max, oh gods, Max -” It was too much, too much, too much -

She let herself go just as he did. And together they fell.

As her awareness came back to her, she felt the heaving rise and fall of Max’s breathing beneath her, his arms wrapped around her pulling her towards him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, kissing a tear from her cheek.

She laughed, a short joyous breath, “Never better, now.” She smiled as she said it, peppering kisses along his jaw and down his neck. “I think I will stay right here forever.”

“You won’t hear any complaints from me.”

“We will be like cement people.”

“Statues?”

“Statues! Yes.”

“Well, that sounds considerably less fun.”

In response, Tisaanah rolled her hips, moaning at the friction where he was still inside her.

“That’s not very statue-like of you,” he growled out. But before he could continue, she lifted up and off him, and turned to face him.

“Maybe not a statue then, just-” she waves her arm in the air as if to encompass everything, something. “A thing that sleeps and fucks.”

He bursted out laughing, a full body cackle with his head thrown back.

“How poetic,” he added as his laugh subsided, smiling broadly at her.

“I am an amazing poet, Max.”

“Clearly.” He brushed her hair behind her ear with his finger, the sweetness of the touch sending goosebumps to the surface. “Stay right here,” he said.

She watched his retreating form, appreciatively staring at his ass with a glazed look. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of smoke wafting from the bathroom as he blew out the candles and returned moments later with a wet washcloth. The coolness of it against her entrance startled her as he wiped the stickiness of their sex away. After setting the washcloth aside on the bedside table, he rolled back over and pulled her atop him.

“In case I haven’t told you recently, I love you, Tisaanah.”

She relaxed into him, thinking back to the bath he had run for her, the food that now sat cold at its edge, and the reverent way he touched her, held her, made love to her. She thought back to the war, and how he’d fought for her when no one else had.

“I know. You say it with your actions everyday. You show me with more than words, better than words.” She wished she could bottle it, this bone deep contentment and bliss that overwhelmed her when she was with him. She could pour it in drops, soak in its perfume when the hard days won. She had never felt more fully known, and loved in every crevice of her damaged soul, than when she was with him. And when it felt like she could never do enough, be enough, for the world pulling her in a hundred directions, shouting its opinions in her face, she came to him. He made her feel cherished and safe. And in his arms, she let herself sleep.

[silverjetsystm]

FILM GENRE AESTHETICS /

BOLD always applies. ITALIC sometimes applies.

i. romance. love poems. flickering candles. conversations in the meadow. roses. midnight meetings. silk dresses. long phone calls. spilling your heart out. curtains blowing in the breeze. cheap paperbacks. the sun’s reflection on the water. smooth jazz. waiting for something to happen. blushing cheeks. kisses in the rain. faded polaroids. noses bumping. floral perfume. a restless spirit. oil paintings on canvas. hiding under an awning during a thunderstorm. candlelight dinners. horse drawn carriages. sunset views. smeared lipstick.

ii. action. streetlights reflected on rainy pavements. a phone alarm. rapid texting. the smell of smoke. aggression. the natural instinct to fight. dramatic reunions. distant gunfire. funerals in the rain. the coppery scent of blood. solitude. fierce protective instincts. doomed to fail. driving too fast. near death experiences. inner turmoil. running through crowds. expensive watches. tired eyes. overnight plane rides. cold cups of coffee. dangerous secrets. lying through your teeth. bullet holes.

iii. horror. a distant farmhouse. congealed blood on the hardwood. ice picks. tilted headstones. bare feet on the carpet. splintering wood. masks that hide who you really are underneath. quiet summer camps. ghost stories. locked rooms. sharp knives. a full moon. the scent of rust. grasping hands searching for something to hold. last minute decisions. bags under your eyes. a cross hung on the wall. crawling maggots. the carcass of a dead animal. an abandoned hotel. blood-soaked clothes. broken bones. the sound of glass shattering.

iv. adventure. gnarled rope between your fingers as you hold on for dear life. glittering gold in a dark room. snakes. an incoming sandstorm. the consequences of your actions. hidden secrets. an unopened door. a leap of faith. squeezing your best friend’s hand. shelves of dusty books. ancient curses. the smell of fire. crumbling buildings. complicated puzzles. mystery novels. footsteps echoing in a large room. smudged lenses on glasses. warm skin. doing what’s right. dirt under your fingernails. scribbled notes. cobwebs blocking your path.

v. comedy. friends you’ve known for years. crowded comedy clubs. crescent moons. open mics. out of tune pianos. a messy desk. leather messenger bags. stacks of papers. huge sweaters. bitten nails. ordering takeout every night. dog-eared pages. unmade beds. hand movements & broad gestures. the smell of the subway. colorful graffiti on brick buildings. big dreams. enthusiastic phone calls. rejection letters. the heat of stage lights. pulling pranks. restless sleep. cold showers. laughing until you’re crying. half-finished ideas. tiny apartments. velvet curtains. cheap alcohol.

stolen off of @ravmalakh

[hellgivenhasmoved]

𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐌 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂. BOLD always applies. ITALIC sometimes applies.

i. romance. love poems. flickering candles. conversations in the meadow. roses. midnight meetings. silk dresses. long phone calls. spilling your heart out. curtains blowing in the breeze. cheap paperbacks. the sun’s reflection on the water. smooth jazz. waiting for something to happen. blushing cheeks. kisses in the rain. faded polaroids. noses bumping. floral perfume. a restless spirit. oil paintings on canvas. hiding under an awning during a thunderstorm. candlelight dinners. horse drawn carriages. sunset views. smeared lipstick.

ii. action. streetlights reflected on rainy pavements. a phone alarm. rapid texting. the smell of smoke. aggression. the natural instinct to fight. dramatic reunions. distant gunfire. funerals in the rain. the coppery scent of blood. solitude. fierce protective instincts. doomed to fail. driving too fast. near death experiences. inner turmoil. running through crowds. expensive watches. tired eyes. overnight plane rides. cold cups of coffee. dangerous secrets. lying through your teeth. bullet holes.

iii. horror. a distant farmhouse. congealed blood on the hardwood. ice picks. tilted headstones. bare feet on the carpet. splintering wood. masks that hide who you really are underneath. quiet summer camps. ghost stories. locked rooms. sharp knives. a full moon. the scent of rust. grasping hands searching for something to hold. last minute decisions. bags under your eyes. a cross hung on the wall. crawling maggots. the carcass of a dead animal. an abandoned hotel. blood-soaked clothes. broken bones. the sound of glass shattering.

iv. adventure. gnarled rope between your fingers as you hold on for dear life. glittering gold in a dark room. snakes. an incoming sandstorm. the consequences of your actions. hidden secrets. an unopened door. a leap of faith. squeezing your best friend’s hand. shelves of dusty books. ancient curses. the smell of fire. crumbling buildings. complicated puzzles. mystery novels. footsteps echoing in a large room. smudged lenses on glasses. warm skin. doing what’s right. dirt under your fingernails. scribbled notes. cobwebs blocking your path.

v. comedy. friends you’ve known for years. crowded comedy clubs. crescent moons. open mics. out of tune pianos. a messy desk. leather messenger bags. stacks of papers. huge sweaters. bitten nails. ordering takeout every night. dog-eared pages. unmade beds. hand movements & broad gestures. the smell of the subway. colorful graffiti on brick buildings. big dreams. enthusiastic phone calls. rejection letters. the heat of stage lights. pulling pranks. restless sleep. cold showers. laughing until you’re crying. half-finished ideas. tiny apartments. velvet curtains. cheap alcohol.

[riighteouspath]

𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐌 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂. BOLD always applies. ITALIC sometimes applies.

i. romance. love poems. flickering candles. conversations in the meadow. roses. midnight meetings. silk dresses. long phone calls. spilling your heart out. curtains blowing in the breeze. cheap paperbacks. the sun’s reflection on the water. smooth jazz. waiting for something to happen. blushing cheeks. kisses in the rain. faded polaroids. noses bumping. floral perfume. a restless spirit. oil paintings on canvas. hiding under an awning during a thunderstorm. candlelight dinners. horse drawn carriages. sunset views. smeared lipstick.

ii. action. streetlights reflected on rainy pavements. a phone alarm. rapid texting. the smell of smoke. aggression. the natural instinct to fight. dramatic reunions. distant gunfire. funerals in the rain. the coppery scent of blood. solitude. fierce protective instincts. doomed to fail. driving too fast. near death experiences. inner turmoil. running through crowds. expensive watches. tired eyes. overnight plane rides. cold cups of coffee. dangerous secrets. lying through your teeth. bullet holes.

iii. horror. a distant farmhouse. congealed blood on the hardwood. ice picks. tilted headstones. bare feet on the carpet. splintering wood. masks that hide who you really are underneath. quiet summer camps. ghost stories. locked rooms. sharp knives. a full moon. the scent of rust. grasping hands searching for something to hold. last minute decisions. bags under your eyes. a cross hung on the wall. crawling maggots. the carcass of a dead animal. an abandoned hotel. blood-soaked clothes. broken bones. the sound of glass shattering.

iv. adventure. gnarled rope between your fingers as you hold on for dear life. glittering gold in a dark room. snakes. an incoming sandstorm. the consequences of your actions. hidden secrets. an unopened door. a leap of faith. squeezing your best friend’s hand. shelves of dusty books. ancient curses. the smell of fire. crumbling buildings. complicated puzzles. mystery novels. footsteps echoing in a large room. smudged lenses on glasses. warm skin. doing what’s right. dirt under your fingernails. scribbled notes. cobwebs blocking your path.

v. comedy. friends you’ve known for years. crowded comedy clubs. crescent moons. open mics. out of tune pianos. a messy desk. leather messenger bags. stacks of papers. huge sweaters. bitten nails. ordering takeout every night. dog-eared pages. unmade beds. hand movements & broad gestures. the smell of the subway. colorful graffiti on brick buildings. big dreams. enthusiastic phone calls. rejection letters. the heat of stage lights. pulling pranks. restless sleep. cold showers. laughing until you’re crying. half-finished ideas. tiny apartments. velvet curtains. cheap alcohol.