For the prompt thing. Any character of your choosing as they see something that reminds them of happier times/ realize how much they enjoy this one moment that is happening. Think “smell the rosebuds”
Hi there! I did this with Dossiel (I feel like I haven’t written him in a while and I was hyped to have something that worked for him!!!), and I hope I got the spirit of the prompt, if not the letter? Anywho, hope you enjoy!!!!
The warm breath across his chest smells like coming home. Rise and fall, rise and fall, a steady rhythm of breath that he’s already matched his own to. Each one brings a slight, but predictable shift to their position.
The touch of a just-slightly-sticky cheek against his chest grounds him here, in bed, with him. The skin to skin contact lights up his nerves, sparking electricity from where they connect. He never wants to let go, let his beloved move away from him, lose contact with the best thing he’s ever felt against his skin in all eternity.
These are the moments Dossiel lives for. They are quiet and peaceful and he does not have to think or question. He doesn’t have to worry—the one being he loves is held right here in his arms. He can hold his whole world against his chest, and simply breathe in the scent of sunbeams and daisies and hope that drifts off his beloved.
His fingers card through the smaller angel’s hair, catching and then releasing the blond ringlets. The glow of the heavens picks up every tiny highlight in the color. Doss loves his hair, so soft, so mesmerizing with its loops and swirls. He could study his beloved’s hair for hours. He often gets lost there, following one strand until it twists around another, and another, tangling him up in the maze there. There are never dead ends or wrong turns on the honey-colored paths he traces across his love’s head.
This particular morning, however, his fingers wander, stroking the feathers of his love’s wings, one by one. Each is smooth, silky even. Pure white, like snow or a baby’s soul or clouds on a sunny day. Simple, like a riddle he knows the answer to. He gently curls a few fingers around a looser feather. It feels delicate and weightless against his hand.
The smile that quirks his lips is stained every shade of smitten.
Dossiel wakes up somewhere new. This place has bars, and no lights of heaven, and thankfully no beloved. He wouldn’t want his beloved here. He doesn’t even have to know where here is to know that here isn’t safe.
Where is here? He studies the room, eyes sweeping the bare walls, the golden bars rising up all around him. He notices that he isn’t sitting on the ground—in fact, whatever he’s sitting on swings and connects to the bars. It’s a prison cell, suspended, floating in the air, round… His brain is grasping at an idea, trying to place the clues together, trying to figure out what specific predicament he’s currently finding himself in.
It hits him after a second. He’s in a cage. He blinks, slowly, trying to understand.
Instead of processing, he looks down at his hands. He hasn’t moved them since waking up, hasn’t moved anything besides his eyes. There, resting lightly in his palm, is a discarded feather, delicate and weightless.
His fingers ache to feel those curls.