#ofignis

did u try kicking the ball in the goal

          he wakes to the first rays of dawn filtering through the filmy curtains, casting the gentlest of glows across the room, his own body, and that of the figure sleeping next to him. it’s a warm early april, the windows cast open to allow in fresh air and sunlight alike, and the throes of sleep still lap at his toes, hoping to pull him under once more; undeniably tempting, he must admit, but no more so than the form lain supine just adjacent, his lips parting around quiet, steady breaths. 

          arsenio’s fallen for him at an alarming rate, this doe-eyed frenchman with a passionate love for both the seaside and the world as seen through the viewfinder of his camera. it’s been a whirlwind romance, built on snatches of broken english exchanged between the pair and nights spent communicating far more fluently using only their bodies and the sounds of their breaths, skin against skin in the pitch dark until they inevitably succumb to unconsciousness wrapped in one another’s arms, jacque’s voice cooing sweet nothings in his ear.

send me a number 1-60. / accepting.

24: What does your OC smell like?

always, cigarette smoke. often smoke mingled with a certain material, like plastic or hair or flesh, as well. sometimes like blood, sometimes like the flowery laundry detergent jack uses, sometimes like both. he carries the smell of jack’s cologne, too, in the crook of his neck and the hollow beneath his ear, on his collarbones as well. occasionally like overpriced cologne, shoe polish and freshly-ironed linen, mixed with hair gel.

13: What is your OCs earliest memory?