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caipirinha2013-04-12 07:59 pmEntry tags:
( muselist | originals )
TOTAL | 30
MALE | 16
FEMALE | 14
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caipirinha2012-08-04 07:41 pm( open | oh la la )
 ( a ) drop me a prompt/blank comment, whatever you fancy ( b ) ask me for a character/lol/RNG ( c ) receive porn c8 |
caipirinha2012-07-27 12:56 am( open post )
  it's morning. maybe that sun has risen, maybe it hasn't. ( a ) drop me a comment here with a character of yours, one that i am familiar with, one that i'm not - anything and everyone is welcome here. if you want, you can also leave a prompt to go with it - an image, a quote, lyrics, anything you want. it can be something to add to the morning prompt, or it can be completely detached from it, whatever you want! ( b ) state which of my character you'd like me to tag you with in the subject line. if you haven't got anyone in mind, then just say RNG and i will random you up a character ( c ) LET'S HAVE A BALL my body is ready for everything come at me bros and brosis..es... whatever just come here and let me love you intensely and all that c: |
caipirinha2012-07-22 12:10 am( meme )
and receive a completely honest answer.
what do they ask?
romanticism2012-06-14 09:14 pm( a swanky order conference )
| [ These events lose their charm very quickly. They all follow the same dreary pattern, beginning with a slight sparkle of class in the sweeping ballrooms hired out in the interests of accommodating the rather large Order contingent, but always ending with the usual lack of consensus and cloud of bickering. For an organisation as broad and all encompassing as the Order, there are few matters that they actively agree on. As an operative with something of an intolerance for flying and similar forms of travel, Oxford finds himself constantly wondering why it is that he is often chosen to attend these events. This particular journey would have been near excruciating - as it is taking place in Washington D.C - were it not a happy coincidence that a certain teleporter owed Oxford a favour (most teleporting operatives often made clear that they were not a courier service or handy travel alternative), but as the end of the conference draws nearer, Oxford is left with the uncomfortable prospect of returning to the UK. His flight is tomorrow, at quarter to midday, and it is the very reason that Oxford is quietly lurking in the low lighting of the small, elegant hotel bar. He has had about three drinks too many, and it has not put him in the most forgiving of moods. In the past hour he has been accosted by a variety of attractive and urbane looking individuals, and while this usually would have ended with Oxford vastly enjoying his last night in this otherwise incredible city, he has been unusually unreceptive to the attention of others. No one can slip past the dreaded thought of having to be on a plane tomorrow. (Yes, this is an absurdly petty reason for Oxford to be in a sulk, but sadly, he specialises in petty - and he really loathes flying.) Having shot off yet another awkwardly worded and slowly written text to Cambridge - a quick and irritable comment on how his standards seem to have suddenly shot up to be on par with Cambridge's own in the past evening - Oxford toys with the idea of another drink. He isn't particularly drunk, as such, just a combination of being perhaps more brutally open that he might usually be, and a touch on the sleepy side. Well, it's early still. There's time enough to drink oneself into a temporary coma, if necessary. ] |
romanticism2012-05-06 10:09 pm( private log | oxford&cambridge | surprising gifts from space )
| [ There is a dark intimacy to Oxford's bedroom. It's one of the smaller rooms in the house, with just enough room for his ridiculously large bed, a wardrobe and his writing desk. The curtains are heavy and dark, never closed fully so that just a little morning light can fill the room in the mornings. The bed is perhaps the most striking feature, though, with its sheer size and rich, mahogany frame. Oxford has always believed that whether you are alone in a bed or sharing it, space is a sure necessity, and there is more than enough available amongst his thick, soft duvet. Though it might seem an odd choice, his walls are a dark navy - in part to honour his university, and inadvertantly his job - unlike the cream corridors and other rooms of his house. He has always preferred the twilight to the dawn, and the colour reminds him of it, the way it creeps over the sky towards the horizon after the sun has set. His Chelsea townhouse is decorated properly, politely and neatly, but the bedroom, he has always thought, need not conform to the requirements of elegant styling. It is his own, the place he ultimately returns to, and he will have it as he likes. There's nothing like waking up knowing you're exactly where you want to be. Oxford stirs, blinking away the sleep from his eyes, uttering a soft noise under his breath as he stretches out his arms and legs, fingers curling in the (always) white sheets. After taking a few minutes to collect himself and his thoughts, he gives the man next to him a pointed little nudge with his foot, quite oblivious to the fact that there is in fact a rather specific looking tattoo now present on his chest, over his heart. The writing beneath it very much looks like the legible version of Oxford's own handwriting. Their presence, on the other hand, would be something of a surprise. ] |
caipirinha2012-04-30 11:59 pm( voice testing | 001 )
quiet. these aren't white, luxurious sands. they are beige, and coveted by few, flecked with the occasional pebble, and patches of long wisps of grass. the air is very clean and fine here, far away from industry and pollution. the only sounds to be heard are the cries of gulls overhead, the rustle of the wind amongst the grass and the lapping of the waves against the shore. there's a brisk, chilly breeze here, and the sky is overcast, with heavy clouds looming on the horizon, bearing rain. but it's very peaceful here. all you have is sand, sea, grass and sky. nothing else. it's awfully quiet. |
caipirinha2012-03-15 10:52 pmEntry tags:
( v e r s e ) a delicate agreement
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