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saltsicklover · 8 months

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Title: Fated to Run - Fated to Fly ꨄ︎ Part Three

Read Part One and Two

Part 4 Coming Soon (Like really soon)

Prompt from THIS ASK

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Fem!Reader SOULMATE AU

Word Count: 4800+

Rating: T

Warnings: Swearing, Crying, History, Beau being a Good Dad, Icemav is here, Still No Bobby

The wind whips past us, the warm California sun dusting over my skin. I can feel the undersides of my eyes and down my cheeks beginning to chap with the newfound wind against my tear washed skin. I can't help the continued scrunch of my eyes as we walk. Between the sun and the stinging of my skin, my expression stays wrinkled tight with distaste.

Though I've been on more air fields than I can remember, I still feel like a stranger here. Amongst the jets and the pilots, the mechanics and the helicopters, I feel so small. Like the ground could open up and swallow me whole with no consequence. I know I don't belong, but I walk along anyway, step for step with my father who practically owns the ground we walk on and the skies above.

The hanger is large and imposing, just as they always are. Tall buildings meant to swallow jets, blocks wide and just as deep. The hanger is painted that same sad taupe hinted gray color as everything else, yet it's more imposing than the rest. There's a metaphor here, somewhere. Something about soulmates and their ability to blend into the background until they are standing right in front of you, suddenly the only thing in your view. Yet, the only thing that my mind can fixate on is the stuttering of my heart and the sweat collecting in my palms.

A section of the hanger is set up with tables and chairs, all perfectly pushed in and lined up. It's a classroom of sorts, the fresh air carried in through the open doors of the hanger. If I cared about this part of the world, the Navy that is, I could get lost in the diagrams scrawled across chalk boards scattered around the space. I could zone in on something to distract from the tension in my body, though it seems to be the only thing keeping me standing. It takes an extra moment for me to pull myself back to reality.

At the front of the room, a man leans up against a table, back to us while another man sits in front of him, legs up on the table. They are both in uniform, though their body language is excessively causal. They don't notice as we approach, too wrapped up in each other to care about how their conversation carries through the hanger.

"I know it's going to be a change, Mav, but it's going to be good,"

"You know me, Ice, I'm not good at staying in one place,"

Then, my father coughs, a subtle way to express our presence. He's always been a man of subtly if he could help it. That has the pair turning to us, their conversation now on hold. The man sitting doesn't get up, but he pulls his feet down from the table. His mop of brown hair is un-styled and no doubt out of regulation, but the Captain's bars sit dutifully upon his collar speak louder. The other man is all striking eyes and light hair, face full of wrinkles but in the way well conditioned leather is. Warn and loved. I would recognize him anywhere, though our history is nothing more than brief snippets of memories now, of history past and gone.

"Excuse us, Captain Mitchell," My father sounds all business, and then his eyes catch the blond man, "Admiral Kazansky, sir," I seem to be the only one who picks up the waver in his voice.

"Cyclone," The pair speak in time. Their eyes flash to me then back to my father, their expressions natural. I focus in on Kazansky. His lip twitches just a bit, almost cracking into a grin. But he's better than that, the COMPACFLT is much too skilled in the interpersonal relationships that come with his position to let a smile slip. The three men bounce glances between them. The stern expression that Captain Mitchell once held is breaking, eyes twinkling as a subtle smirk curls across his lips.

"Oh!" My father almost exclaims, turning to me, "This is my Daughter. Birdie, this is Captain Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, and the Commander of the Pacific Fleet, Admiral Thomas "Iceman" Kazansky,"

The introduction has the Captain rising form his seat. He leans over the table, one hand planted firmly to the top whilst the other extends my direction. There is no care for the files spread out over the top, just his palm pressed firmly to the surface. His smile is all crooked teeth and kindness. I return the smile, ignoring the way my father fights off a grimace. The Captain commands the room, from the angle of his shoulders to the way confidence bleeds from him. He thrives with each new set of eyes directed straight at him, and I am no exception.

"It's nice to officially meet you, Pete," I shake his hand firmly. I hope he can't feel the layer of sweat that coats my palm. If he does, he doesn't mention it. There is no questioning of my phrase, either, like it's almost expected that people know him, officially and otherwise. I can no longer hide my own smirk, as incomplete pictures from my memory are snapping together, finally whole. This is Pete, Tom's soulmate, his husband, his wingman. After this brief introduction, the pieces are falling into place. I have heard my fair share of stories about this very man, but nothing like what someone might expect. Where there are usually tales of heroics and jets, Tom has filled those spaces with tells of their private life.

I know that Pete texts Tom constantly, even though Tom hates anything having to do with cellphones. Pete "Maverick" Mitchell drinks whole milk, something that Tom can't wrap his brain around. He washes the dishes with wash cloths instead of sponges. Little details, intimate but not private information, and it rolls around somewhere in the back of my head.

"The pleasure is all mine, Birdie," I believe him wholly, no question in my mind that he takes pleasure in meeting me- in watching my father squirm. His smile only grows. His eyes are flicking between me and my father who is standing just over my shoulder, a foot or two away. I turn my attention to the man next to Pete. Tom, as he introduced himself to me when he first met, is nothing but shinning eyes and a grin of ambrosia. He rolled his eyes at me, a laugh dancing from his lips the first time I called him Admiral Kazansky. I never have quite figured out the humor there.

"It's great to see you again, Tom," I ignore the confused glances as I greet him, stretching my hand out towards him. He rolls his eyes fondly.

"Get that hand out of here!" Tom chuckles, pushing himself off of the table, "Who do you think I am? Come around here and give me a hug, Little Bird!"

He embraces me, taking me into the fullness of his hug. He bleeds warmth in the way Pete bleeds confidence. I take it in, letting it swallow me whole. There's a scent that clings to Tom's clothes, something that I've never quite been able to place. It's rich and clove full, over taking my senses. There is something special about a hug from the Iceman. He asks how I've been, his lips pressing into my hair. I'm still smiling, somehow impossibly wider as I pull back to meet his eyes once more.

"Well, Tom," I chuckle in turn as he takes my hands in his own. "I-" There's a hesitation. Even with the adrenalin of reuniting, anxiety still has it's claws dug deep into my skin. I drag my teeth over the fullness of my bottom lip before continuing. "It happened, and I'm..."

"Somewhere between bargaining and boycotting?" His eyes scrunch at the corners, long lines of skin creasing with knowledge and understanding. There's such a kindness in his eyes and it threatens to break me open. Tom has always been able to read me like this. It used to freak me out, in the beginning. He could look at me for less than a minute and surmise just what was thrumming through me, even if confusion seemed to cloud my own understanding.

"Cut that out!" I laugh gently, squeezing at his hands with my own. He squeezes back, that knowing look plastered behind his glasses. "I hate it when you do that, you know," I don't.

"What can I say," he winks. He still holds me close, closer than any newly introduced folks should. I dodge the rhetorical, focusing my sights elsewhere.

"With everything you've told me, your soulmate being the man who irritates my father to high heaven really makes sense," I shoot a look over to Pete. He quirks an eyebrow. I can feel my father's eyes square and solid between my shoulder blades. The Admiral is laughing, the sound a bit scratchy against his throat, but it's whole and happy. "How's your health?"

God, that's a scary question, but I can't keep it tucked under my tongue. His expression goes soft, soft in the way melted candles are when their wax is hardening after the flame is blown out. There's a strength being regained there, beneath it all, cooling. I can see the ice cold, no mistakes veil flicker behind his eyes and it's a comfort. a familiarity from long time past.

"I'm good, Little Bird," He grips my hands a little tighter, thumbs pressing into the tops of my hands, "Scans are clear, have been for a few months now. I'm good,"

"I am so beyond happy for you, Tom," I pull him into another hug, tighter this time. I mumble into his collar, for the both of you. He squeezes me tighter. It's a thank you, if I've ever felt one. It only lasts a moment before my father is clearing his throat again, no doubt confused and likely feeling awkward watching his daughter embrace one of his heroes so freely. I look at Pete first, who looks confused too, but more interested than anything, before turning to meet my father's eyes.

My father looks like he's ready to speak, but his mouth only opens and closes a few times before he scrunches his whole expression. No words are said. I stand next to Tom, wanting to bounce on the balls of my feet out of pure nervousness. I don't. Mostly because I don't want my father to give me that disapproving look- and because standing next to Tom is more comforting than I remember it being.

"Are either of you gonna clue us in?" Pete supplies, a hint of joy behind his voice. Between the look on Tom's face, all kind and warm, and the look on my father's, confused and frustrated, there's no doubt in my mind that Pete is having an absolute hay day with all of this.

"I worked at the USO in Pensacola, and did stints out in D.C, and Maryland with the org too, and Tom just so happens to spend a lot of time stuck at the USO," I giggle a bit, nervousness bubbling through the explanation.

"Little Bird and I have spent a lot of time together over the last couple of years, over cold sodas and prepackaged food," Tom laughs at the memory, "I don't think anyone plays a better game of Pinochle than this young woman right here,"

"I've had a lot of practice, thanks to you, Tom,"

My father, with still furrowed brows and lips pressed into a line, gives us a curt nod of understanding, signaling his readiness to move onto a new subject. As fun as it to watch my father wriggle under the intense stares of the other men, I still smile sheepishly at him. I know this is not even close to why we walked all the way out here in the first place. My nerves are shot, thinking about it all. I don't know how much longer I can smile and pretend that my thoughts aren't racing a thousand miles an hour over this whole situation.

"What brings you two out to the hanger this afternoon?" Tom asks, lacing his hands politely in front of him. Pete sits atop the desk now, looking just as interested to help as Tom does.

"Mav, roster up," My father directs, cutting to the chase. His features are stern and even, leaving nothing to be deciphered through them. Maverick quirks a brow.

"What?" Maverick asks with a cock of his head.

"I'll explain when you're through," Dad waves his hand non committedly, "Roster up"

"Bradshaw, Seresin, Tra-"

"With first names, if you could, please, Maverick," My father interrupts with a mildly defeated sigh.

"Do you want them in alphabetical order too?" Pete asks, smirking. My father just shoots him one of those looks. Tom and I both bite back chuckles. Mine is nervous, Tom's is nothing but bright.

"Bradley Bradshaw, Jake Sersein," Maverick starts slow, pretending like he is trying to remember just to get further under my father's skin. He even counts them off on his fingers. "Natasha Trace, Rueben Fitch, Javy Machado. They are our main pilots, with Robert Floyd and Mickey Garcia as our main WSO's. We also have a backup team that we call in from other detachments if-"

"Robert Floyd," The words are directed at me, cutting Maverick off. He's spoken the name like an Epiphone. My father's eyes meet mine, eyebrows raised. "I told you there was no Rhett,"

"But I know what I saw, Dad, and Rhett is in that photograph," I counter back feeling defensive and confused, but I know what I saw. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, even as I bury my face in my hands. It shouldn't be this hard; Rhett is in that photograph, even if they want to fight me on it. I'd die on this hill.

"Rhett?" Maverick interjects. A hand is placed on my shoulder. I pull my gaze from my hands. The hand belongs to Maverick. He's leaning towards Tom and I, hand on my shoulder to offer a sort of comfort. "Rhett Floyd? Bob's twin brother?"

Consider me wrong... and dead. Dead wrong.

"Oh, for fucks sake," My face is landing right back into my hands as I sink to the ground. The tension in my body is no longer enough to keep me standing. Pete is over the table in a second, sinking down to the floor next to me. Tom's hand is planted firmly over the lip of the tabletop above my head to keep me from smacking my skull against it.

"Birdie?" Pete asks gently, putting his hand back onto my shoulder. I can't find the words or the heart to explain it all again.

"This Bob," I sniffle, my voice still muffled by my hands, "Does he know Hagman?"

"Hangman" My father corrects.

"Yeah, they know each other," Pete confirms, his voice softer than before. I lean my head against Tom's thigh as my father pulls a chair out to sit, to be closer to my level.

"Want to tell us more, kid?" Tom's voice is low, gravely and it wraps around me like a warm wind.

The words are stuck in my throat, the letters making a home in the folds of my vocal cords. I want to speak. I want to pick the words from the swollen flesh of my throat and piece them together in some sort of serial killer magazine cut-out letter for the world to read. Maybe they could print it in the paper. The carbon smudges and inky fingerprints could then find their way to Bob. To Jake. To Rhett. To the men who sit with me now and wait so patiently for me to put my own tongue on a plate for their sheer understanding.

These men, Pete, Tom, and my father have taken so much grace with me and with this whirlwind of a shit show. Tears swim behind my eyelids, threatening to roll down my cheeks. My tongue is still at home behind my teeth, but somehow words are creeping up coated in bile and anxiety.

"I met Jake and Rhett at the airport in Dallas this morning," I manage after a few moments. I've spread the whole interaction out in my brain, cutting pieces like I'm editing an old film reel. Cut this, keep that. If only there was a way to reshoot a scene, cut something better than the flimsy film I lived. I can't speak another word, instead I thread my fingers into the neck of my t-shirt. With an uneven sigh, I pull the neck down, revealing the sentence scrawled delicately across my collarbone.

Oh, it's just Bob.

Tom doesn't look. I don't either, but my father and Pete are focused in on the ink. There's a beat of silence, like everyone is holding their breath at the same time. Nobody dares say anything. I just burry my face in my hands again.

"And you've never heard this before?" Tom inquires, assessing all of the details. I can only shake my head no. My less than dignified response is met with hums of understanding.

"Did it feel like this with you guys?" I ask the room, "So... fucked?"

And then Pete laughs. He fucking laughs. There's the swift sound of a hand hitting the back of a head, and then Pete counters back with a groan. I can hear my father fighting back a giggle, but I don't pull my hands away to see anything. I can hear enough; the darkness of my caged fingers seems to be the only thing to keep the drowning feeling from taking over again.

"Oh, kid, you've got no idea" Pete is chuckling again. No hand smack to the back of the head this time. That gets me to peek out from behind my fingers. "Picture this," Pete makes a dramatic gesture outwards with his hands, setting the scene, "It's 1986, night before we are to report to TOPGUN and Goose and I were at the O Club. It's a bar- and back then, people were smoking inside-"

"Get to the point, Captain," My father mutters.

"Anyway, I'd know Goose for forever by that point. We were in that damn bar for the first time, talking like usual and he looks at me and goes You wanna know who the best is? and I swear all the color drained from my face in that moment. We had gone to that bar to let loose before training started and instead of getting to drink and relax, Goose had to mother me,"

I can't lie and say that Mav's story doesn't make me feel a bit better but all I can manage is a hum in acknowledgement. No more words come.

"I had the pleasure of finding out moments before, that same night," Tom chimes in from above me, my head still laid against his thigh. "Slider, my RIO, found out that Mav and Goose slid into the class at the last second. I didn't have any idea that it would have turned out the way that it did. Not with my sentence."

"Hey, we did not slide in," Maverick's voice goes slightly tighter, laced with annoyance.

"Sliders words, not mine, first of all. And second, Slider had pointed across the room and told me he had to go accost the new guys, then pointed to you and Goose. I'd known about Goose through Slider, but when I asked him who else he was going to torment he looked at me and said the hot brunette."

The laugh that escapes my lips catches us all off guard. My father is laughing too, right along with me. Tom joins in a second later, a chorus of laugher around a smug Maverick who's mumbling about still being hot.

The wind shuffles through the large open door of the hanger, lukewarm by the time it reaches us. But Maverick's hand on my shoulder is warm, as is Tom's thigh beneath my cheek. My father looks at me as if I were the sun. His eyes not quite meeting my own. His narrow eyes crease the skin around them, a shallow biological attempt at reflecting some of my emotion right back at me. It's stifling, even under the abnormally chill of the fall evening as we are tucked into the back of the hanger.

It's safe here, if only for a fleeting moment. My heart broke open next to my severed tongue, both resting atop a sliver platter. But these men are not vultures, they are not here for the taking. Instead, they are art restorers and surgeons and everything soft, comforting and warm. They serve only to take the broken and severed pieces of myself and repair them. To put them back into the cavernous spaces of my body that yearn to have them back. The same parts that yearn for bourbon, God, and Bob.

And maybe that says something about me; the inability to keep my own broken parts together and how they cut into my skin when they were mine and mine only to hold. But here and now, these men holding pieces of me with gentle hands whilst they share pieces of themselves. It gives me hope. Hope that everything is going to be alright. It can be heard in the laughter.

"Hey Dad, Pops, Cyclone and... stranger? What's all the laughing about, and why are you on the ground?" A new voice breaks us out of our haze of laughter. I'm wiping at my eyes, a bit startled at the presence of a new person. He's tall, mustache clad and pure muscle. He saunters over to us, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his flight suit.

This man carries himself with the kind of confidence only overly cautious people exude. Shoulders square but slumped in on himself. His steps have a small hang-up when he catches my eyes, a wariness stemming from somewhere unseen. Maybe it's the way I, a stranger, am triangulated between his superiors all too casually.

"Hey Baby Goose," Mav greets him, warm crooked smile and squinted eyes. It's fonder than the smile I received. "What are you doing here?" The first questions from the stranger was dashed- but the nickname connects another set of dots in my brain. I look up at Tom and mouth Bradley? in silent question. It's met with a proud smile and a nod. I know of Bradley. Of course I know of Bradley.

I know of him in the same way I know of Pete, little fragments of information in the back of my brain. He likes mustard, a lot. Has an affinity for terrible Hawaiian shirts. Flies just like Mav, though Tom only admitted that after he'd been awake for a little over thirty hours. An ex college baseball player, and a current baseball fanatic. Bradley Bradshaw is Tom Kazansky's pride and joy.

"I'm here for the hop you schedualed," Bradley says like it's obvious knowledge, "Oh, and Hangman made it back this morning. He's in the locker room getting changed. I think I saw Phoenix and Bob pull in too,"

"The hop?" Tom asks.

"The hop?" Pete asks too, a little more urgently. Those two little words are bathed in question and a bit of panic.

"Yeah... The hop that you schedualed? Are you okay, Mav?" Bradley asks, eyes focused on Pete. The older man just nods, his eyes darting around like he's trying to remember scheduling the hop in the first place.

"He's fine, Baby Goose," Tom reassures his son, but doesn't clue him in to anything else.

"Bob is here?" My father asks, suddenly swerving the conversation in a whole new direction. Of course my father would be the one to speak up about the fact turned issue that we all clocked the moment the words left Bradley's lips. Ever the mediator and coraller of the vagary, Cyclone makes my business his business, even more than it already had been. My father's always been able to make sense of the world, even when I can barely tell left from right.

And right now, left abandoned me somewhere between the airport and the gate to base. No doubt forgotten like a wallet in between the seats of the taxi. Right, as far as I'm concerned, has achieved sentience and think's it's main objective is to tell up or down apart and its bad at it's job.

"Yes, Bob is here. Everyone should be here this evening. Are you here to observe the hop, Admiral?" There is a confusion to Bradley's voice. It sounds like he is doing his best to act casual, yet professional in front of his superiors.

"Not exactly, Lieutenant Bradshaw," My father sighs, pointing a finger towards me, "The woman between your fathers is my daughter Birdie, and we are..." He trails off, trying to find the words. With a roll of my eyes, I stick my hands out in an attempt to ask for help getting to get to my feet. Bradley takes the hint, stepping forward to grasp my hands and pull me up from the ground.

This close, Bradley is all tepid touches and musk. A small hickey peaks out from under the collar of his flight suit, but it looks like it was made half hearted- left pink and speckled rather than bruised dark and purple with passion. Bradley holds my hand an extra second or two, maybe longer. I'm lost in the pattern of his skin for a moment as he steadies me on my feet.

A squeeze of my hands before he releases them brings me back around.

"Thanks, Bradley," My soft smile is met with his confused look. Eyebrows are dropped low over narrowed eyes.

"How do you know my name?" The question is clipped short by the tightening of his throat.Definitely anxiety masked as confidence.

"I know a lot about you, Bradley," I chuckle. As stressed out as I am, even with the run down feeling weighing at my shoulders I still find it somewhere within me to make jokes. "Tell me, Bradley, do you still have that blanket with the awful duck pattern all over it?"

I watch Bradley's eyes go wide, mouth falling open. There's stunned, there's scared, and then there is whatever look Bradley Bradshaw is giving me right now. I'm barely keeping it together, but Tom and Pete are losing it. Big, loud laughter fills the air.

"They're," Is all Bradley can manage after a moment, his eyes scanning my face feverishly, "...geese"

The look on his face is good, but the worry flashing behind his eyes makes me ease up.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry! I'm friends with Tom! He likes to talk about you, a lot, and I saw my chance to fuck with you and I took it, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you!" I finally apologize, the look on Bradley's face becoming too much to take. I do giggle, though.

Bradley looks over my shoulder at Tom with narrow eyes, "I hate you, for the record,"

"I know you do,"

"Who do we hate?" Fuck, I know that voice. I recoil a bit at it, my face scrunching up as far as it can. I bristle but I stand strong.

"My Pops," There's faux anger in Bradley's voice, "He's letting his friends use personal information against me,"

"Oh, in that case, I'm sure you deserve it, Roos," Jake jokes, "Who's the-" Then his eyes meet mine as he appears from behind Bradley. "Birdie!?"

"Wait, you're Rooster?" The nickname clicks.

Bradley exclaims at the same time, "You're Birdie?!"

"God, this world is too fucking small!" I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. I turn to look at Pete and Tom. Tom shrugs while Pete just chuckles on. It's like they both know, or knew, something I don't and are basking in the pure knowledge of it.

"You okay, Birdie?" My father asks, pushing himself up from his seat.

"I'm okay, Dad," I reassure him. He lowers his voice when he gets closer, asking again if I'm really okay. I shrug, but nod, doing my best to flash him my most convincing smile.

"You're Cyclone's kid? Cyclone's Birdie?" Bradley asks, "The woman Jake met this morning?" I nod in acknowledgment, my smile faltering. "Oh my God, that means you're Bob's-!" Bradley's words are halted by a swift elbow to the ribs. I swear I can feel the pain of it too, radiating somewhere between my ribs. Maybe it's just the anxiety.

"You told him?"

"I did, I'm sorry," Jake starts, almost tripping over his words. "Can we talk? Privately?"

"We better," I counter back, no venom but all bite. Jake and I break away from the group, walking away from the classroom set up. Eyes linger on us for only a moment. The lukewarm air blowing in from the open hanger door is cooling the closer we get to the exit. He takes me by the elbow, leading me out of the hanger and down the sidewalk. We finally stop between the hanger and another small building near the gate to the airfield.

TAGLIST

@kmc1989 @inky-sun @harperdoodle @possiblyexisting @eloquentdreamer @ravenwtfbro @jessicab1991 @muddwheelz123

#saltsicklover #ftrftf #bob floyd x reader #robert floyd x reader #bob floyd fanfiction #bob floyd angst #bob floyd x you #bob floyd soulmate au #soulmate bob floyd #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun soulmate au #robert bob floyd #beau cyclone simpson #background icemav

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timeguardians · 6 months

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WHAT COLOR IS YOUR AURA?

take the linked quiz from the perspective of your muse(s)

Tagged by: @historiavn

Tagging: @avictimofthejazz @misfitpuzzlepieces @storminmyveins @surgcns or @f1ftyone @palaceofmuses @chaoticrebels @forthewinn @forcenexus @redheadarcher @agentnamed @agentpeggycarterrogers @suavegenius @kylo-wrecked @defextivelernaean @silently-judgingyou @messeduphood @brooklynbred @reverdies @sirenclown @sirensought @ricketyhearts @ofhowlingcommandos

Brianna Wayne: Batwoman

Crimson

rose vines, blood, apples, velvet, sharp nails, galaxies, dripping jewelry. your essence is crimson: you are the strong, defiant and avoidant. you crave some sort of deviation; to walk in another's footsteps feels mundane, a waste of your time. you are possessive and never look back at the things you've lost or forgotten. you are the rebel. you are the one who will change the world. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of red, blush, garnet, and bronze, who share your impassioned existence. you are also drawn to the confident souls royal and gold, who will help you grow and show that not everyone seeks to break you. however, you may struggle to get along with the slow-acting personalities of navy and umber who never seem assertive about anything.

Violet Mikami

Yellow

daisies, road signs, bumblebees, lemon merengue, bicycles, polaroids, awnings. your essence is yellow: you are precise yet shy, putting band-aids on your cuts alone. you demand much of yourself; your self-expression feels tempered by a mold you're intended to fill. you seek an anchor to hold and keep your doubt at bay. you are the dutiful. you are the one who rises after you fall. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of cream, gold, honey, and chartreuse, who share your loyalty and compassion. you are also drawn to the sturdy red and brown, who will help you grow and learn to not question your own judgment. however, you may struggle to get along with the overly-involved personalities of pink and green who are unconscious of their own feelings.

Jamie Micheala Rogers

Ashen

old newspapers, smoke, quiet cities, pale cheeks, pebbles, chalk, the clouded moon. your essence is ashen: you are warm but vacant, an empty canvas waiting to be painted. your heart is soft; there is a peace that seems just out of reach, but it is worth striving towards. perhaps lost, you comfort yourself by what you can, and you are never unwelcome. you are the dreamer. you are the wanderer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of chiffon, hickory, beige, and ivory, who share your aspirations for goodness. you are also drawn to the inspiring and kind lavender and peach, who will help you grow and open you to find yourself. however, you may struggle to get along with the strong-willed personalities of periwinkle and tawny who put themselves first.

#muse: Brianna Wayne #muse: Violet Mikami #Muse: Jamie Michaela Rogers

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amadaans · 7 months

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WHAT COLOR IS YOUR AURA?

MOIRA O'DEORAIN.

crimson. rose vines, blood, apples, velvet, sharp nails, galaxies, dripping jewelry. your essence is crimson: you are the strong, defiant and avoidant. you crave some sort of deviation; to walk in another's footsteps feels mundane, a waste of your time. you are possessive and never look back at the things you've lost or forgotten. you are the rebel. you are the one who will change the world. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of red, blush, garnet, and bronze, who share your impassioned existence. you are also drawn to the confident souls royal and gold, who will help you grow and show that not everyone seeks to break you. however, you may struggle to get along with the slow-acting personalities of navy and umber who never seem assertive about anything.

EITHNE MARKEY.

ashen. old newspapers, smoke, quiet cities, pale cheeks, pebbles, chalk, the clouded moon. your essence is ashen: you are warm but vacant, an empty canvas waiting to be painted. your heart is soft; there is a peace that seems just out of reach, but it is worth striving towards. perhaps lost, you comfort yourself by what you can, and you are never unwelcome. you are the dreamer. you are the wanderer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of chiffon, hickory, beige, and ivory, who share your aspirations for goodness. you are also drawn to the inspiring and kind lavender and peach, who will help you grow and open you to find yourself. however, you may struggle to get along with the strong-willed personalities of periwinkle and tawny who put themselves first.

OPHELIA YATES.

honey. friendship bracelets, beehives, school busses, children's books, flower petals, honeyed toast, polaroids. your essence is honey: you are devoted and endlessly enthusiastic. your friendships are your security; you shroud yourself with people who make you smile and feel lost at sea without them. often you are quick to dedicate yourself to whatever hand feeds you. you are the companion. you are the confidant. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of peach, marigold, yellow, and orange, who share your love of teamwork. you are also drawn to the streamlined souls terracotta and chiffon, who will help you grow and discover your own confidence. however, you may struggle to get along with the heedless personalities of orchid and chartreuse who seem like fair weather friends.

tagged by: no one tagging: @sorrowsick (yan and rosie), @redridcr (tahno and charlie), @clawsextended, @miidnighters (hartley and lulu), @epistrefei, @hegrowth @chrcmatics (parker), @fangmother, @soulmissed, @rcjoice, @monmuses (ana), @torntruth (kristen), @starlyht (sol), @wildskissed, @unclejackworthing, @zheurgeist, & you!

#m. o'deorain.#eithne m.#ophelia y.#i love how generally accurate these ones are #love this quiz

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monstersinparadise-saga · 3 months

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Crackpots & Flapjacks

Book One, Part Two of Monsters In Paradise

(Read Part One Here)

Paradise, Washington turns out to be not as far away as I thought. By the time the sun has fully risen, I’ve arrived on the crest of a hill. To my left the road continues on roughly the same elevation; I can see a residential area beginning to emerge. They’re nice houses, most of them two-story, painted in a lot of pastel colors that seem more endemic to a beach town than the side of a mountain. Some of them have boats in the driveways alongside pickup trucks and medium-size SUVs and hatchbacks, and most of the hatchbacks have kayaks strapped to the top. Outdoorsy town, I think, although I suppose around here you’d have to be.

Along the right-side path the road descends to follow a river emerging from below, a winding path that is still residential but with houses that aren’t as nice. They’re mostly one-story or ranch style, and gravel instead of driveway. There are a few shops down there too, although most of them still look dark. One eyesore sticks out: a neon sign like you’d see advertising a bowling alley, except instead of pins it depicts a stack of pancakes with a pat of butter on top, and a redundant word, HOTCAKES, above it.

This catches my attention for two reasons. One, any local gathering place is a good way to trawl for information for the three main questions I need to urgently solve: who I am, how I died, and how I’m now walking around. I don’t expect a diner to be a place I can get much traction on question number three, but it’s a start in the right direction.

Two, I am undeniably starving. So starving that I am completely unwilling to contemplate how I have no heartbeat but still need food. Chalk that up to the list of mysteries for after pancakes.

As I go to make my descent, the unmistakable sound of an engine comes up from behind me. I keep my head low, but a large navy-blue van rolls to a stop beside me anyway.

“Hey there, stranger!”

The speaker is another man, young, with wild-looking hazel eyes and curly blonde hair that is mostly shoved into a grayish baseball cap. He’s got a toothy grin, minus one tooth on the right side of his mouth. “Fancy seein’ you again! You out for a jog?”

Oh God, we’ve met. He’s as unfamiliar as everything else, but he’s the best chance I’ve gotten so far to figure anything out. “Oh, uh… yeah. Just getting a workout in, you know.”

“How’s the t-shirt treatin’ ya?”

He can’t mean the worn-out AC/DC t-shirt I stole from a morgue locker, can he? Did he give me a t-shirt? Does he sell them? “Great,” I say weakly, hoping the response won’t raise suspicion.

“You want a ride down to Flapjack? I’m headed there myself, and no offense man, but you look dead on your feet.”

Fighting the urge to laugh, I accept, and he pops open his passenger-side door. I slide in and try to scan as much as I can for context clues.

It’s an old van, a manual transmission with hand-crank windows. Despite that, it seems to be running fine, as the man putters down the steep hill. Hanging from the rearview mirror is some kind of work badge and something else; a small keychain with what appears to be a small stuffed-animal Bigfoot.

“Those didn’t sell well,” the man says mournfully. “Said it looked too much like a regular gorilla or somethin’. I gottem on sale still if you want one.”

Casting a look behind me, there are racks of clothes built into the interior of the van, along with crates stacked on the bottom. From here I can see a few different designs, paired with bold, all-caps slogans like “I WANT TO BELIEVE” and “RESPECT THE LOCALS”, overlapping creatures’ silhouettes.

Well. That answers a few questions.

I decide to play my odds. “Remind me, what was your name again?”

He flashes that grin as the road levels out, bringing us to the strip of shops along the river. “It’s KP! And you’re – wait, wait, wait, don’t tell me…”

He pulls into a small parking lot right below the neon hotcakes sign and frowns in concentration. I hold my breath, hoping for a lucky break. He sighs. “Dang it. Hold on…” Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper from his pants pocket. “That’s right! Max!” He flashes the piece of paper at me, which has the name and a ten-digit number scrawled into it.

“Ah, that’s right,” I said, relieved. “I forgot I gave you my cell number.”

“Well I hope it’s not your cell number, man, what use I got for that? Ain’t service out here for miles. This is your hotel number, right?”

“Right. Of course.”

We get out of the van and head into the diner, which I can see from the sign on the door is called Flapjack, depicted in old script like a classic baseball team. A bell rings as we walk in – there aren’t too many people here, but KP waves to a woman at the counter. “Mornin’, Kris.”

“Morning, Kay! Usual?”

“Yes, please, and whatever my new buddy here wants.” He flashes me a grin, adding to me, “Got a big tip on my route this morning.”

Perplexed at how a t-shirt and souvenir salesman has a ‘route’, I just slide into a seat at the counter next to him. The woman comes up to me – she’s probably college age, and not wearing any kind of uniform save for a name-tag that reads Krista. She hands me a laminated menu and pulls a pen and pad out of the back pocket of her light-wash jeans. “Whatcha feeling?”

“Pancakes, please,” I say, scanning the menu briefly.

“Comes in a stack of three. That good with you?”

“Perfect.”

“Bacon or sausage with that?”

Automatically I say, “Sausage.” Somewhere in the back of my mind I feel another wave of relief – it’s almost the first real thing I know about myself outside my name, and that I’m not from here. Max, whoever he is, likes sausage over bacon.

“Sure thing. Coffee?”

“Please.” Before she walks away, I think to ask one more thing. “Oh, hey – I uh, got a little bit turned around this morning, and for the life of me I can’t remember which hotel I’m staying at. Do you recognize this number?” I nod at KP and he fishes the note out of his pocket again, showing it to Krista.

She looks at me quizzically, but takes it anyway. “Sure; I mean, if you’re staying in town there really aren’t that many options.” She pulls out a small booklet from underneath the counter, which looks like some kind of recommendation list for tourists: local trails, activities, and presumably, lodging. It’s a very thin booklet. “Yeah, this is the number for Paradise Inn. It’s right next to the welcome center; you can’t miss it.”

I thank her and she returns to the kitchen to place our orders. I’m tempted to go running to the hotel right now, abandoning KP and pancakes to go investigate my room, but hunger and politeness get the better of me. Beside me, KP chatters. I’m able to gather from the chatter that at the very least he’s lived in Paradise a long time, and he carries on a number of odd jobs alongside hawking cryptozoological souvenirs, one of which is delivering weekly copies of the Cascadia Spectator newspaper to its subscribers in the nearby area. After checking in on a few other customers dining in the booths, Krista comes back to chat, too, setting down two coffees in front of us in heavy ceramic mugs. I take a sip – it’s bitter enough that even if pre-death Max didn’t take cream in his coffee, I decide he does now.

“Any sightings this week, KP?” She asks, waggling her eyebrows conspiratorially.

He shakes his head. “Naw. Some guy over in Lewis County tried to sell me that he seen a flyin’ saucer the other day, though. Swore up and down, til I pulled up the NASA reports and showed him it was just some space junk fallin’ outta orbit.”

“How’d he take it?”

KP snorts. “Guy kept insisting. Anyway, he got real mad when I didn’t pay him.”

Krista turns to me. “KP offers rewards for reports on sightings of weird stuff,” she explains. “UFOs, Bigfoots, stuff like that.”

“It’s just Bigfoot, Kris. It’s the singular collective, like how lots of fish is still fish.”

I smile. Suddenly I like KP a lot. “Got a high burden of proof, KP?”

“Sure do! I mean, anybody’ll do anything for a buck, you know? But folks still need motivation to come forward with stuff; they’re used to bein’ laughed at by the cops, or they’ve been intimidated by the Men In Black. But a fifty-buck reward will grease a lotta wheels.”

Krista disappears into the kitchen and returns with two steaming plates. She sets pancakes and sausage down in front of me, and a big omelette stuffed full of mushrooms, cheese, and peppers in front of KP, along with toast. KP takes a bottle of ketchup and squirts it liberally in a zigzag over his eggs, while I lather my breakfast with warm maple syrup.

“KP runs a blog,” Krista says helpfully. “The Watcher.”

“Been thinkin’ about a re-name,” KP says, mid-chew. “Not great SEO, if I’m bein’ honest.” He swallows, pointing his fork at a rack by the door. “Kris here’s probably the biggest fan; keeps printouts of articles by the door.”

While they talk, I try to eat as calmly as I can, but God in heaven these are good pancakes. Fluffy and tender and they taste like butter and a hundred-year-old griddle pan that someone’s been taking care of their whole life.

“It’s good for business,” Kris shrugs, though it’s clear from her expression that her interest isn’t purely pragmatic. “The more people come around looking for weird stuff, the more omelettes we sell. Besides, a lot more people like The Watcher than just me.”

“Just not people around here,” KP says under his breath.

I tilt my head between bites. “Locals aren’t a fan of you?”

“Naw. But it’s not their fault. This town was supposed to get a big leisure industry; there were plans for a big resort until not too long ago. But it all went belly-up.”

“Why’s that?”

“Protected species. Big population of – what was it, Kris?”

“White-tailed Ptarmigan,” Kris supplies. “It’s a kind of bird that makes its nest in the ground, and populations were found too close to the building site. In fact,” she adds, “It’s probably gonna stop damn near anything from being built around here for a long time.”

I nod slowly. “So people are sour about that?”

“Big-time,” says KP, now attacking his toast. “But I don’t care none. I looked up pictures of them birds; they’re cute – I’d rather have a Ptarmigan than a resort, anyway.”

Kris hums her agreement as the door swings open again. A dark-skinned young woman with her hair in long braids walks in, wearing a hoodie over what appear to be scrubs, paired with chunky sneakers. She walks behind the counter, giving a kiss on the cheek to Kris before pouring herself a mug of coffee.

“Hey, sugar. Long shift?” Kris asks.

The woman nods wearily. “Not too intense. Just a couple hiking accidents, mostly. And that flu going around.”

“You should really sleep before you study, you know,” Kris says, sliding her arm around the woman’s waist and giving her coffee a well-practiced stink-eye.

The woman doesn’t respond, just raises the mug to her lips – but she stops before she gets there, because she makes eye contact with me, and freezes.

Her recognition shocks me to my core. There’s something in her face; some combination of confusion, fear, and anger present on her face, though I can’t estimate how much of each.

There’s a big problem here, I can tell; and it’s one I can’t deal with until I know more about myself and why I’m here. I react, standing up quickly, leaving behind a quarter of a plate of pancakes and half a sausage link. “Thanks for breakfast,” I say to KP, before giving a short wave goodbye and setting off out the door, exhaling deeply as I leave the Flapjack Diner behind. A quick scan shows me that the welcome center, marked by a large flag, is up another small hill towards the mountain.

As I climb, the I see the silhouette of the Paradise Inn. A two-story, log-cabin-looking affair, it’s the picture of a quaint countryside hotel. There’s a parking lot with around eighteen spots, but only two of them are full. At the front desk, there’s a bald man with glasses leaning back in a swivel chair.

“Erm… hello. I seem to have misplaced my… room key,” I say awkwardly.

The desk guy raises an eyebrow. “Room number?”

“Uh…. Lost that too.”

“ID?”

“…You’ll never guess.” I smile weakly. “Left my wallet in the room.” God, I’m getting so tired of guessing and lying.

He snorts. “Mountain air got to your head, did it?”

“Actually, I took a fall on my run this morning. I’m fine, but, you know. A little fuzzy.”

“Well, I trust you know your name, at least,” the desk guy says, firing up an ancient-looking computer on the desk.

“Yeah. Max.”

“That’s right. Max. Paid cash.” He doesn’t ask a last name. Maybe it’s a small-town thing. “Right; you checked in a week ago. Room 12 – down the hall on the right.” He pulls a fresh key card from the scanner. “Try not to lose this one.”

I grimace. “Understood.”

The room, once I find it, has a Do Not Disturb sign on the door. “Guess I don’t like visitors,” I mumble to myself, before pressing the keycard to the lock and swinging the door open.

It’s spare in there – no television or anything; just a bed, a desk, a lamp on a small side table, and an old armchair. There’s a duffel bag on the bed, and again I’m disappointed as it fails to evoke any recognition. The clothes inside are basic – jeans, some plaid button-ups, the usual unmentionables.

The bed is mildly slept-in, but other than that, there isn’t much to go on. There’s an empty bottle of water and a crumbled wrapper from a gas-station sandwich in the trash can, but that’s it. As I’m about to tear my hair out in frustration, I realize – the drawer on the bed-side table is slightly ajar. I pull it open, and if I needed to breathe, the sight would have taken knocked the wind out of me.

There’s a wallet there, sure, but more pressingly – a sleek black handgun, and a badge with credentials.

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

SPECIAL AGENT MAX VALLER

“Oh, fuck.”

I pick up the badge, the weight of at least one mystery finally off my back. This is me. I have a last name, a job, a damn badge number. I could use the hotel phone and call the number listed right here and someone who knows me would arrange for me to get out of here, back to wherever I’m from, back to whoever might be missing me. I have a life, somewhere, and it’s right here in my hands.

Except.

Except I’m very dead.

I’m dead, but I’m not, and no one can know, or I’ll be stuck in a facility to be tested until whatever spark of life still within me is pulled out with tweezers. And then I’ll really be dead.

I’m sure of almost nothing, except for the fact that I really really don’t want to be really dead.

I shove the credentials back in the drawer and shut it. No one knows I’m dead, and it needs to stay that way.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of crackling behind me.

“Hands up. Turn around. Real slow.”

I comply, as still as I can. It’s the woman with the braids from the diner, standing in the door that I stupidly left ajar in my fervor for answers. She’s holding a taser, and the look on her face tells me she’ll use it.

“You want to tell me what the fuck,” she says fiercely, “a corpse I put on a slab not three hours ago is doing walking around town?”

(Read Part Three)

#monsters in paradise #creative writing #original fiction #oc #original character #short story #bigfoot #cryptids #cryptozoology #monster of the week

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neopronouns · 8 months

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colorgenders inspired by the results of a “What is your Aura” quiz ((https://)uquiz(.)com/quiz/pxTx2D/what-color-is-your-aura):

Sky: short poems, teacups, clear skies, diaries, dripping icicles, tears, tennis shoes.

Honeysuckle: succulents, key lime, glow-in-the-dark stars, blown glass, honeydew, garter snakes, notes in bottles.

Seafoam: clear water, milkshakes, crystals, agave, candy dishes, converse, seashells.

Yellow: daisies, road signs, bumblebees, lemon meringue, bicycles, polaroids, awnings.

Hickory: felled oak, brass, sunken ships, olive pits, graphic shirts, splinters, dark room.

Orange: guitars, fanta bottles, sunglasses, orange peels, butterflies, popsicles, paper lanterns.

Sage: herb clippings, matcha, bullet journals, mini backpacks, needle felts, pistachio, laptop stickers.

Teal: dyed hair, scales, doc martens, aurora borealis, stormy seas, kingfishers, agate.

Royal (blue): crown jewels, portraits, satin chairs, masquerades, nebulas, betta fish, secrets.

Gold: lion statues, coins, gold leafing, bound books, goldfinches, crowns, heart lockets.

Crimson: rose vines, blood, apples, velvet, sharp nails, galaxies, dripping jewellery.

Navy: brush strokes, suit jackets, midnight, comforters, star gazing, arctic waters, starlings.

Forest: fern leaves, greenhouses, cloaks, bookstores, pine trees, chokers, snake scales.

honey: friendship bracelets, beehives, school buses, children's books, flower petals, honeyed toast, polaroids.

Ashen: old newspapers, smoke, quiet cities, pale cheeks, pebbles, chalk, the clouded moon.

Garnet: Brooches, anthologies, stained glass, leaves, dining chairs, long robes, curtains.

Chiffon: stone walls, sweaters, moths, dusty lace, animal tracks, incense, throw pillows.

Red: leather jackets, cherries, bruised knuckles, roses, lipstick, fast cars, rose petals.

Magenta: splattered paint, glitter, childhood friends, neon, pleather, dance floors, crystals.

Amaranth: bundled flowers, ribbon, merlot, overcoats, gemstones, lipstick prints, red velvet.

Periwinkle: knit hats, candies, tiny flowers, beads, teacups, washi tape, clouds.

Jade: islands, sketchbooks, rainy windows, pendants, puzzle pieces, tree frogs, sea glass.

Pink: cupcakes, sunglasses, pink sands, starbursts, pinky promises, flower crowns, ice cream.

Rose: lace, blown kisses, milk tea, paper fans, pillows, ballet slippers, fairy wings.

Amethyst: earrings, violet corts, parades, gemstones, insect wings, grape bushels, outer space.

Noir: drops of ink, eyeliner, crows, spiders, charcoal, painted nails, the night.

Cream: dandelions, marble, bottled coffee, hair ties, banana cream, bedsheets, sketches.

Beige: lattes, dry fields, footprints, easels, cat fur, pottery, fresh-baked cookies.

Pearl: abalone, perfume bottles, chandeliers, tulle, ball jointed dolls, satin, paint palettes.

Bronze: leather books, cowboy hats, foxes, candle jars, sword hilts, cobblestone streets, hourglasses

Amber: autumn days, freckles, torches, cabins, fossils, unbrushed hair, enamel pins.

Fire: sunrises, woven blankets, campfires, tigers, whiskey, monarchs, road trips.

Purple: geodes, club lights, ferris wheels, sunglasses, hummingbirds, eyeshadow, outer space.

Blush: lollipops, warm cheeks, lip gloss, flowers, flamingo feathers, painted nails, heart glasses.

finally done with all of these — they're queued!

#long post

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calledher · 2 years

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what color is your soul?

Hana ; ashen

Nari ; crimson

Dani ; jade

islands, sketchbooks, rainy windows, pendants, puzzle pieces, tree frogs, sea glass. your essence is jade: you are withdrawn and observant, like a sailing ship watching others pass. you struggle between giving too much and too little; it is a hard thing to be both authentic and loved. your sensitivity makes you gentle to others. you are the spirit. you are the philosopher. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of seafoam, teal, blue, and green, who share your thoughtfulness and creativity. you are also drawn to the purposeful chartreuse and fire, who will help you grow and connect to the world around you. however, you may struggle to get along with the ambitious personalities of wine and terracotta who push too hard.

Kairi ; wine

plums, nail polish, planners, theaters, pursed lips, mosaics, sewing thread. your essence is wine: you are ruled by determination to bring your grand vision to life. you are a pillar of your chosen family; reliable and moral, there is never a situation for which you are not prepared. you are an idealist and accept nothing less of yourself. you are the activist. you are the dutiful. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of amaranth, pearl, grey, and pink, who share your need to devote to a cause. you are also drawn to the expressive orchid and mauve, who will help you grow and learn it is okay to not live up to expectation. however, you may struggle to get along with the excessive personalities of jade and fire who do not know what they truly want.

Bora ; red

leather jackets, cherries, bruised knuckles, roses, lipstick, fast cars, rose petals. your essence is red: you are a spirit of intensity who effortlessly inspires others. you struggle to slow down; there is always another goal, another prize, to prove you are strong enough to them. you cannot stop speaking for the voiceless. you are the torch-wielder. you are the rebel. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of crimson, blush, terracotta, and fire, who share your unapologetic nature. you are also drawn to the free-spirited souls purple and yellow, who will help you grow and see that you can lighten your heart sometimes. however, you may struggle to get along with the internal personalities of blue and brown who are too methodical.

Yoonmi ; orange

guitars, fanta bottles, sunglasses, orange peels, butterflies, popsicles, paper lanterns. your essence is orange: dreams hold you aloft and inspire you to be better. you thrive on creativity; there is always a new inspiration that moves you and takes your heart. you draw friends but may show all of them the same smile. you are the restless. you are the adventurer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of apricot, amber, fire, and terracotta, who share your enthusiasm. you are also drawn to the pensive souls blue and green, who will help you grow and see which projects and emotions are worth your time. however, you may struggle to get along with the headstrong personalities of grey and purple who are too rigid in their perspective.

tagged by: @idleds thank you!! this was so much fun!! tagging: @makemerun @idolkills @lcvemaz @phantombs @fairynuit

#i got chartreuse #which is v different vibes to these gorls #; memes #m ; kairi #m ; nari #m ; dani #m ; hana #m ; bora #m ; yoonmi

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daydreamapothecary · 22 days

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What You Should Know About Chalk Paint

Do you wish to transform your old furniture or home decor? For this, you can invest in chalk paint. You can find various options such as neon red paint. This kind of paint is quite simple to use and is also quite versatile. Let’s discuss how it can be helpful. What makes chalk paint highly useful Chalk paint helps achieve that vintage look on different surfaces. It is preferred over traditional paint because of the following reasons:

Chalk paint requires no prep work. You can start painting the surfaces without any sanding or priming. Hence, you can complete your projects in less time.

Chalk paint seamlessly sticks to most types of surfaces. You can use chalk paint on wood, metal, plastic, etc. It will easily stick to the surface and also cover the imperfections.

Chalk paint is highly customizable. You can mix different shades to create a unique shade. You can also add water to get a smooth finish. It completely depends upon preferences. You can choose any option to transform existing furniture.

How to paint using chalk paint Chalk paint, such as deep navy blue paint is entirely safe to use. But you should follow a few safety tips. For instance, you should wear your gloves and goggles if you want to distress the paint. This will help prevent dust from irritating your eyes or skin. You can work in a properly ventilated area. This way, fresh air will be easily available. Store the paint safely where children and pets cannot access them. Remember the manufacturer’s instructions when storing the paint. How long can chalk paint last? Usually, chalk paint can last for a long time. But it depends on the storage techniques you use. You should store it in a cool and dry place. It would help if you did not let it come in contact with direct sunlight. Moisture, air, or heat can affect its quality. If you notice a change in color or smell, you should not use it. After painting it on a surface, it will look exceptional for many years. You need to maintain it properly by cleaning it regularly. You should not let harsh chemicals come in contact with the painted surface. You should also avoid scratches. About Daydream Apothecary: Daydream Apothecary is one of the most renowned companies that provide sage green furniture paint. On this website, you can find a variety of paint options for your projects. You can get the paint and products for your DIY projects or for painting your old furniture. To get more details, visit https://daydreamapothecarypaint.com/ Original Source: https://bit.ly/3zedfHU

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homeimprovementway · 5 months

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What Color Should I Paint My Armoire? Discover Inspiring Options!

When deciding the color to paint your armoire, consider your existing décor, personal style, and the functionality of the piece. Additionally, think about the room it will be placed in and whether you want to create a bold statement or a subtle, complementary look. Taking cues from the style of your furniture and opting for a neutral, classic color such as white, off-white, or black can provide timeless appeal while allowing flexibility for future décor changes. Modernizing an old armoire can be achieved with a fresh coat of paint, offering a simple yet effective way to breathe new life into the piece. By carefully considering these factors, you can confidently choose a color that will revitalize your armoire and enhance the overall aesthetic of your space.

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When it comes to giving your armoire a fresh look, selecting the perfect paint color is essential. The color you choose can completely transform the piece and breathe new life into your space. Let's delve into the art of choosing the right color for your armoire makeover. - White: Classic and versatile, white paint can brighten up any space and give your armoire a timeless look. - Gray: A trendy and modern choice, gray adds sophistication and elegance to your furniture. - Black: Bold and dramatic, black paint can create a striking focal point in your room. - Blue: Serene and calming, blue hues can provide a soothing atmosphere in your space. - Mint Green: Fresh and vibrant, mint green adds a pop of color and a sense of playfulness to your armoire. - Room Decor: Consider the existing decor in the room where the armoire will be placed to ensure the paint color complements the overall aesthetic. - Personal Style: Choose a color that resonates with your personal preferences and style for a more personalized touch. - Lighting: Take into account the natural light in the room as it can affect how the paint color appears. - Functionality: Think about how you use the armoire and select a color that suits its practical purpose. Give your old armoire a contemporary update by applying a fresh coat of paint. Consider using trendy colors like charcoal gray or navy blue to give it a modern twist. Pairing the new color with sleek hardware can also elevate the armoire's overall look.

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Transform your armoire with popular paint colors for furniture. Consider chalk paint for a shabby chic look, or go for a classic white finish. Choose a color that complements your decor and breathe new life into your old armoire with a fresh coat of paint. Trendy Milk Paint Options Milk paint offers a range of trendy options for revamping your armoire. Try hues like navy blue, dusty pink, and sage green to achieve a modern yet elegant look. Antique White For A Timeless Look A timeless favorite for furniture painting, antique white can give your armoire a classic and sophisticated appearance. This color also pairs well with various interior design styles, allowing for versatile decorating possibilities. Chalk Paint For A Rustic Vibe Chalk paint lends a rustic, distressed appeal to your armoire. Opt for shades like French linen, old ochre, or duck egg blue to achieve a charming, weathered look that complements shabby-chic or farmhouse decor themes. Transforming an old armoire with a fresh coat of paint can breathe new life into the piece, seamlessly integrating it into your updated interior aesthetic.

Factors To Consider When Choosing A Paint Color

When choosing a paint color for your armoire, consider the room's decor, your style preference, and whether you're painting to keep or sell the piece. Opt for neutrals like white or black for a timeless and versatile look that can easily be modernized with a fresh coat of paint. When it comes to painting your armoire, choosing the right paint color is an essential decision. The color you select can completely transform the look and feel of your furniture piece and the entire room. To help you make the best choice, here are some factors to consider: Room Decor And Color Scheme The first factor to consider is the existing decor and color scheme of the room where the armoire will be placed. Take a close look at the surrounding furniture, walls, and accessories. It's important to select a paint color that complements the existing elements and creates a harmonious atmosphere. If the room has a neutral color palette, you have the freedom to choose a bold or vibrant paint color for your armoire to make it a focal point. On the other hand, if the room already has a lot of colors or patterns, opting for a more subtle or coordinating paint color for the armoire can create a cohesive and balanced look. Personal Style And Preferences Your personal style and preferences play a crucial role when it comes to choosing a paint color for your armoire. Think about whether you prefer a classic, timeless look or if you're more drawn to modern and trendy styles. Consider your favorite colors and how they can be incorporated into the room. If you want a calming and serene atmosphere, consider softer shades like pastels or muted tones. On the other hand, if you want to make a bold statement, vibrant and saturated colors can add a pop of personality to your armoire. Experimenting With New Techniques Choosing a paint color for your armoire also allows you to explore new techniques and finishes. If you've been wanting to try a distressing or antiquing technique, certain paint colors like whites or neutrals can work best for achieving that vintage look. Additionally, consider the type of paint you want to use. Different paints such as milk paint, chalk paint, or enamel paint can create unique textures and finishes. It's worth experimenting with different techniques to create a one-of-a-kind look for your armoire. By considering these factors - the room decor and color scheme, your personal style and preferences, and experimenting with new techniques - you can confidently choose the perfect paint color for your armoire. Let your creativity shine and transform your furniture into a stunning statement piece that enhances your living space.

Modernizing An Old Armoire

Revamp your old armoire with a vibrant new color palette for a modern touch. Choose from timeless neutrals like white or black for a sophisticated look, or experiment with bold shades to make a statement. Transform your furniture piece effortlessly with a fresh coat of paint for a stylish upgrade. Transforming With A Fresh Color Palette When it comes to modernizing an old armoire, one of the most effective ways is by giving it a fresh coat of paint. With the right color palette, you can completely transform the look and feel of your outdated piece of furniture. Whether you want to go bold and vibrant or prefer a more subtle and neutral tone, choosing the right paint color can make all the difference. Reviving Solid Wood Pieces Solid wood furniture has a timeless appeal, but it may not always fit in with your modern aesthetic. Instead of getting rid of your old armoire, consider reviving it with a new paint color. By adding a fresh coat, you can retain the natural beauty of the wood while giving it a modern twist. This way, you can transform your old armoire into a unique and stylish piece that seamlessly blends with your decor. Techniques For Updating Furniture When it comes to updating furniture, there are various techniques you can use to achieve the desired look. One popular option is chalk paint, which offers a matte finish and a slightly distressed appearance. Another technique is color washing, which involves thinning down the paint and applying it in a way that creates a washed-out effect. Additionally, you can experiment with different finishes, such as metallic or ombre, to add an extra touch of modernity to your armoire. In conclusion, modernizing an old armoire is a great way to breathe new life into your furniture and give your space a fresh look. By transforming it with a fresh color palette, reviving its solid wood features, and utilizing various techniques for updating furniture, you can achieve a modern and stylish armoire that complements your decor perfectly. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0REhCesVNXc

Tips For Painting Furniture

Looking to paint your armoire but not sure what color to choose? Consider the style of your furniture piece, the decor of the room it will be in, and any new techniques you want to try. Adding a fresh coat of paint can completely transform and modernize an old armoire, so don't be afraid to experiment with different colors. Preparation And Priming Steps Before painting your armoire, it is important to properly prepare the surface to ensure a smooth and long-lasting finish. Here are some key steps to follow: - Clean the armoire: Remove any dust, dirt, or grime using a mild detergent and water. Allow it to dry completely. - Remove hardware and hinges: Take off any knobs, handles, or hinges from the armoire to make the painting process easier. - Sand the surface: Lightly sand the entire armoire using a fine-grit sandpaper to create a rough surface for the paint to adhere to. - Fill in imperfections: If there are any dents, scratches, or holes, use wood filler to repair them. Sand the filled areas once dry. - Priming: Apply a coat of primer to the entire armoire. This will help the paint adhere better and provide a smooth base for the topcoat. - Sand again (optional): If the primer feels rough or there are any visible imperfections, lightly sand the surface again before proceeding with the paint. Choosing The Right Paint Finish The choice of paint finish can significantly impact the final look and durability of your painted armoire. Here are some popular options to consider: - Matte finish: This flat, non-reflective finish is great for a rustic or vintage look. It masks imperfections but may require additional sealant for protection. - Satin finish: With a slight sheen, satin paint provides a smooth and easy-to-clean surface. It is a popular choice for furniture that gets regular use. - Semi-gloss finish: This finish offers a shiny look and is highly resistant to stains and moisture. It is an excellent choice for high-traffic areas. - Gloss finish: If you want a bold and statement-making look, a glossy finish will provide a reflective surface that adds depth and drama to your armoire. Sealing For Longevity To ensure your painted armoire stays vibrant and protected for years to come, applying a sealant is crucial. Here are two common options to consider: Option Benefits Clear polyurethane Provides a durable and water-resistant finish. It comes in different sheen levels - choose based on your desired look. Furniture wax Offers a natural and satin finish. It enhances color and depth while providing a protective layer. Regular reapplication may be necessary. Before applying the sealant, make sure the paint is completely dry. Follow the manufacturer's instructions for the chosen sealant and apply it evenly using a brush or a lint-free cloth. Allow it to cure according to the recommended time before using or placing any objects on the armoire.

Step-by-step Guide To Painting An Armoire

Gathering Materials And Setting Up Before you start painting your armoire, gather all necessary materials and set up your workspace. Surface Preparation And Sanding Prepare the surface of the armoire by sanding it down to ensure a smooth finish. Priming, Painting, And Finishing Apply primer, paint the armoire in your chosen color, and finish with a protective coat for a polished look.

Enhancing Your Armoire With New Knobs

When updating your armoire, start by removing old handles and hinges for a fresh look. Consider the size and style of your armoire when placing new hardware for balance and functionality. Add character and personal flair to your armoire with one-of-a-kind knobs that showcase your style.

Finding Inspiration For Your Armoire Makeover

When it comes to revamping your armoire, finding inspiration is key. Whether you're exploring color palettes on Pinterest, gathering ideas for repainting, or seeking creative techniques like color washing, there are numerous ways to ignite your creativity. Let's dive into each of these aspects and get you inspired for your armoire makeover. Exploring Color Palettes On Pinterest If you're seeking inspiration for your armoire's new color, Pinterest is a treasure trove. You can browse through a myriad of color palettes, from bold and vibrant to serene and understated. Create a Pinterest board dedicated to armoire makeovers and start pinning swatches, room settings, and color combinations that resonate with your style and vision. Gathering ideas from this platform can help you narrow down the perfect color palette for your armoire. Gathering Ideas For Repainting Before diving into repainting your armoire, gather a collection of ideas that resonate with your taste. Look for inspiration in home decor magazines, interior design blogs, and furniture makeover tutorials. Consider the aesthetics of your living space, your personal style, and the ambiance you want to create. By gathering a range of ideas, you'll be better equipped to make an informed decision about the colors and styles that will suit your armoire best. Seeking Creative Techniques Like Color Washing For a unique and artistic touch, consider exploring creative painting techniques like color washing. This method involves applying a thin, translucent layer of paint over the existing surface, creating a soft, weathered effect. Experimenting with color washing can add depth and character to your armoire while allowing you to customize the look to complement your decor. Research various tutorials and DIY guides to learn more about this imaginative painting technique.

Frequently Asked Questions

How To Decide What Color To Paint Furniture? To decide what color to paint furniture, consider the room's decor, recent finishes, and desired techniques. Also, take cues from the furniture style and your goals, whether keeping or selling it. If modernizing an old armoire, a fresh coat of paint can do wonders. For large furniture, neutral colors like white, off-white, or black usually work well. When painting an armoire, gather materials, clean and sand the surface, prime the furniture, and apply a final coat. How To Modernize An Old Armoire? To modernize an old armoire, apply a fresh coat of paint for a transformative look. Choose a color that complements your decor and style, such as a neutral tone like white or black. Clean, sand, prime, and paint the armoire for a sleek and updated finish. What Color Should I Paint My Old Dresser? When painting an old dresser, opt for neutrals like white, off-white, or black for a timeless look. Antique Villa by Wise Owl is recommended for a more classic touch. How Do You Paint An Armoire? To paint an armoire, gather your materials and set up a spray shelter. Clean and sand the surface, remove the knobs, and cover the hardware. Prime the furniture and then paint it with your chosen color. This easy process can breathe new life into your old armoire.

Conclusion

When it comes to deciding on the color for your armoire, take into consideration the style of the piece, the room it will be placed in, and any new techniques you want to try. A fresh coat of paint can completely transform and modernize your old armoire. Whether it's a neutral or a bold color, the right choice can breathe new life into your furniture piece. Read the full article

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shekindacreepytbh · 1 year

Text

Summoned

Two teenagers summoning a being from an another dimension, what could go wrong?

Bryn was excited. Except excited didn’t even begin to cover it. He felt like he was made of pure energy, could feel sparks dancing under his skin.

He wanted to shout, to laugh, to throw himself around the room in pure ecstasy and beat his fists against the floor.

Instead he tried to contain himself, grinning from ear to ear as he moved quickly about the room in preparation.

He arranged the candles in a circle on the floor, tall black wax with a faint odour of sulphur. The wick was a dark red thread, soaked in blood for seven days before he’d painstakingly laid them in the mould and added the dark wax.

Next came the candles in the corners.

In the eastern corner stood a dark oak candlestick carved like a twisting branch with a forest green candle atop it. That was earth.

In the western corner was a sleek glass candlestick, images of crashing waves and frolicking creatures adorned it. The candle itself was a mix of blues, delicately pale at the top fading into deep navy blue darkness. That was water.

In the northern corner the candle stick was clear glass. It had been cleaned and polished to be perfectly see through, almost making the candle look like it was floating. The wax was a swirling mix of greys and cool white with a long dainty wick. That was air.

Finally in the south was his favourite, fire. This candlestick was carved from onyx, the black mineral taking the shape of flames writhing and twisting towards the sky. Clouds of smoke had been carved near the top, parting to reveal a vibrant orange candle.

Once the candles had been placed it was time to lay the sigils.

Using bone white chalk he began to paint the symbols, moving slowly and carefully.

He drew mathematically perfect circles around the black candles, holding his breathe as he slowly dragged the chalk along the floor. The lines connecting the small circles where perfectly straight, no sign of smudges or even a grain of chalk misplaced. In the centre of the candles he draw a large five pointed star.

Satisfied with his work he sat back, now came the difficult part.

He took an ornate clay pot from his collection of supplies, just outside the room, and twisted off the lid.

He was greated by the smell of blood, a thick metallic fragrance that lingered in the back of this throat. He dipped a finger in the pot and withdraw it slowly, watching the thick liquid drip slowly back into the pot.

Unable to help himself he stuck the finger in his mouth, moaning deeply as the blood coated his tongue and mixed with his saliva.

He moved to the exact centre of the room and held the pot firmly in both hands. Slowly and carefully he began to poor the blood, moving in a straight line to the northern corner of the room. Once he’d laid a thin trail of blood he stopped, using his finger to draw a line in blood down the grey and white candle.

He returned to the centre of the room and repeated his actions, this time heading to the southern corner. Once all four corners where done he was left with only a small amount of blood in the pot which he placed gently besides a black candle.

All that was left to do now was don his robe and wait for Marith.

He didn’t have to wait long, moments after he finished with the blood she came bursting in. Her eyes where wide with same excitement he felt and she was clutching a large dark tome to her body.

The tome was beautiful, bound in dark leathery skin with a large five pointed star on the cover. The black paper was gilded with gold, pure white script sprawled across the pages. Numerous enchantments and rituals written in languages not dead, just sleeping.

They locked eyes over the tome. ‘Are we really doing this?’ her face said, ‘Fuck yeah we are’ his replied. They shared one last grin filled with adolescent excitement before pulling up their hoods and moving to stand either side of the large circle he’d drawn.

As Marith began to read he started lighting the candles, bowing his head to every flame and letting the smooth tone of Marith’s voice fill his mind.

When it came time to light the candles in the corners he could feel the power building, humming around the room making the air thick and electric.

He picked a black candle from the circle and began moving to the northern corner of the room.

Merith shouted as he lit the northern candle, placing the black candle to the swirling grey and letting the fire spread. The flame took violently, glowing white and flickering urgently in some other wordly breeze they couldn’t feel. Scents he couldn’t place wafted in on gentle breezes, the smells of people and cultures long lost or not yet begun.

Merith shouted again as he lit the southern candle, a guttural sound then seemed to carry across the room and mix with the power humming in the air. The wick on the red candle seemed to explode outward, a great flame billowing out and wrapping around his arm as he pulled away. Dark smoke was billowing out of the flames and dissipating with a faint hiss when it reached the ceiling.

By the time he reached the western candle Merith was chanting at the top of her lungs, her voice over lapping with others that seemed to be spilling out of the tome itself. He held the flame to the cool blue wick, a moment of worry that the flame wouldn’t take. But then it did, a beautiful blue flame with purple edges that didn’t flicker upwards. Instead pouring like smoke down the side of the candle stick, gathering on the floor in a strange smoky puddle.

He could barely contain his excitement as he approached the eastern corner, ears buzzing with energy barely acknowledging Merith’s demented howls and guttural snarls.

As he placed the flame to the wick the candle seemed to shudder, before the wick itself began growing. It started wrapping itself around the candle stick, burning with a deep mossy green flame that flickered with yellows and deep browns. The wick was growing and twisting like a vine, the second it made it to the bottom of the candle stick it would turn and begin climbing up again. He could smell the deep damp scent of dirt coming from the flames.

The room was very much ablaze with colours and energy. His eyes darted about, barely able to take in everything.

It was happening, they where finally doing it and it was working!

He moved to stand opposite Merith, locking eyes with her and belatedly noticing he was chanting and shrieking with her. His mouth forming the words and making the sounds unconsciously.

As they chanted the tombe rose from her hands, the pages flying back and forth violently as the book floated to the middle of the room.

He felt he might spontaneously combust with excitement as the pages began glowing, the book coming to settle on the floor in the centre of the circle atop the blood.

The blood he had painted along the floor began moving, seemingly being absorbed by the book. It ran along the floor like a rapid stream before seeping into the glowing pages.

The light coming from the tome got brighter still, hurting their eyes and spilleing out from the tome towards the ceiling.

Before their eyes the light shimmered and twitched, slowly taking a strange but vaguely familiar shape.

With once last flash of blinding light, followed by a large cracking sound, everything stopped.

The energy was gone, the incredible displays of smoke and colour coming from the corners of the room stopped dead. The magic that seemed to line the air was gone and the tome sat limply on the floor, no more blinding light.

Bryn and Merith didn’t care, too busy starring in horror at the deformed creature standing over the tome.

It was unlike anything they’d ever seen, it was just… wrong.

It didn’t have enough eyes! And the eyes it did have seemed soft and wet, it’s dark black pupils surrounded by some odd coloured ring.

It’s mouth was too small, lined with strange pink flesh it was opening and closing. Making sounds they’d never heard before and showing glimpses of odd stumpy teeth.

It’s arms seemed almost normal, the same pale colour as Bryn’s own but with strange blue markings lining the inside.

It’s lower half was hideous, strange arm-like appanages wrapped in flesh and half covered by strange fabrics. A twisted parody of hands at the bottom of the long flesh tubes, small stubbed finger-like appendages wiggled grotesquely.

“It’s….. hideous.” Merith’s voice shook with fear and disgust, moving closer to him as she spoke.

Hearing her voice seemed to spark something in the creature, it moved alarmingly fast on its odd not-arms, coming to the edge of the circle and making more of the strange sounds at them. It reached a hand out towards Bryn and he noticed in horror its nails where unnaturally short and flat, disappearing horrifically into it’s own flesh.

“Send it back. I’m serous Mer, send it back.” He could hear the fear in his own voice too, making him high and nasal.

Merith was frantically flipping through the tome when the creature began to move again, pacing about inside the circle still making those sounds. It’s pale flesh seemed to be changing colour, taking on a pink tint around it’s face.

It turned out sending it back was relatively simple, they simply lit the candles in the opposite order, chanting softly as they did so.

The creature went quiet as it began to glow, looking curiously at it,s limbs as it once again grew too bright to look at.

There was a similar flash and loud cracking sound, as the light faded away there was nothing left but the tome. Still open to the page on summoning, seemingly undamaged by the whole ordeal.

Merith collapsed in an exhausted heap on the floor and he slowly lowered himself besides her.

He placed his hand on her back and rubbed soothing circles beneath her black leathery wings. Using his other hand to run his claw reassuringly through her hair.

“They did warn us that humans are terrifying.” He said gravely.

#horror story #horror #short story #creative writing #writing #under 2k

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