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OTP moodboard/Aesthetics (1/?): Ceamos

All images (save for the fcs) are from Unsplashed.

Another on/off project from me.

amos-tow replied to your post:April Fools:[[MOR] - Fanden spent the day...

“Quinn set up an entire display of nothing and called it art. Nobody found it funny and Tybalt outright booed.” Lies. Tan thought it was hilarious and added it to the day’s tours. “This is my boss’s sense of humor, a rare and curious thing. No photos, please.”

“...Taniel gets a raise.”

#amos-tow #Tybalt shrieking indignantly

Gone was the hesitancy. Gone was the mild weirdness and the vagueness, and the plodding, rustic courtesy. Mossy became a sharp animal before Frankie's eyes the second the fox and crescent moon showed stark against the hunter's skin. Mossy overturned Frankie's suppositions about the tweeness of life amongst the fae with a single calculating glance. Daisy chains figured in Mossy's childhood alongside manacles and tethers. "What the hell did ye want so badly ye went t' /them/ for it?" Mossy asked.

Keeping his gaze focused on the horizon that glowed a vague violet against the backdrop of the indigo and emerald sea, Frankie smiled a dead man’s smile, all corpsey and cold.

Taking another long drag from the cigarette, Frankie spewed smoke between his lips and chuckled without humor, rolling the cancerous object between fingers yellowed by nicotine and blackened by gunpowder.

“What the hell did I want,” Frankie mused, drumming his fingers absently, the cigarette filtering a wispy question into the seaside air. “What the hell did I want,” he drawled, coughing and beheading the fag on the rocks beside him, squelching light and soot alike amidst open mussel shells and abandoned skate cases.

“A cure,” he said finally, dusting off his hands and staying put, sat on the dampened sand.

“Figured...they like an even trade,” Frankie muttered, more to the air than to the indignant, feral man to his immediate right.

“I just wasn’t bargaining on how exact their measurements are...”

#amos-tow

Perhaps unwisely, Mossy wasn't intimidated at all by the dour young man affecting a Beau Brummel look with a scarf. He didn't necessarily trust every changeling he chanced to meet, but Mossy never feared them the way he did almost everything else. Mossy measured the stoop of Frankie's shoulders and the intensity of his cigarette chomping. "...speakin' as your fellow creature, ye look in need of a fire an' tea. What th' hell happened? I asked after ye at th' Market, but folks was quiet."

Navy eyes narrowed to slits as Frankie debated, not for the first time, whether or not he could effectively put a bullet between Mossy’s eyes and stop his uneasy dancing once and for all. He didn’t mince words; Frankie didn’t. He didn’t waste breath and he sure as hell didn’t dally on the “familiarity” of shared origins. He wasn’t here to make daisy chains with Mossy; skip through the fields, lay in fairy rings and talk about life--no.

Excluding his fellow hunters, he was an island. And even then, it was more like they were a separate chain of islands, drifting further apart by the day and by continental drift.

And yet, this man--near-fey himself--persisted.

Wordless and tired, Frankie lifted a hand to drag the scarf down, flashing Mossy the tattoo on his neck--a fox; a moon, a familiar sigil if ever Mossy should know one, surely.

“That answer all your questions, or should I spell it out in the sand for ya?”

#amos-tow

amos-tow replied to your post:taniel-tow replied to your post: edan-tow replied...

Shhhh… Her mousiness is in no danger from Jackie. As long as she, like, wears a little hat or something so Jackie can distinguish her from other mice at a distance.

Mrs Brisby: -peeps gingerly out from under the coffee cup and waves a handful of her red cape around- .^. Does that help?

#amos-tow