a ball for daisy

am i the moon to her sun? 

fuck no. (i could never reflect as brightly.)

all i know how to be is her sky—

to give her this vast expanse, 
maybe a rainbow or two in spring,
some stars over her shoulder. 

—a canvas for her light that envelops me completely.


she’s my wife. my sun. the person i thought about. in the end. // f.o.

lwd & skop challenge. day 7. ryke & daisy. 


We had to scan an ink drawing we did and color it in PS. Brought me back to highschool because before I started using SAI that was my default way to create art haha!

We had to draw a ‘bouquet’ and it could be anything we wanted just so long as it was ‘bouquet’ shaped, sooooooo I drew a cute little ball python curling round some daisies and did color variants

Both black and colored lines, I’m gonna put these on Redbubble this weekend because I want cute snoots to put on my folders

plus I’m just super proud of my snoots

shageku-deactivated20171015  asked:

Hi! Can I ask you why you like Gochi and Vegebul? Aaand you're so creative! I love your style o(^v^)o

Hiii ^___^ I like Gochi and Vegbul because they remind me of Micky & Minnie + Donald & Daisy xD !! 

I think this video pretty much sums up how I see them. LINK  💗 

PS: I know there is a lot more to their relationship and it’s deeper then just that but it’s fun to simplify it as such~ 

And thank you so much!! ( ;;_____________;; ) I worked really hard to get it to a happy place /// 

knowall7k  asked:

Don't know if you are accepting prompts, but here's on for a Percababy one, based on an image I saw on internet. Daisy can stop crying in her crib, so Percy just jumps into her crib with her and she snuggles on him.

I am absolutely always accepting prompts for percababy ♥ 

thank you for the prompt, my friend!!


The little video monitor on the nightstand blinks to life. It’s the light that wakes him, through the frizz of Annabeth’s hair as she sleeps beside him; he blinks, and levers up onto an elbow, and blinks again. On the screen, in her nursery, Daisy wriggles around in her crib, a tiny little tired thing, sleepy and sniffling. Blearily he watches her, holds his breath.

She starts to cry.

Annabeth is out cold, and Percy is out of bed. She’s already been up a few times that night, and by the gods, does Percy know she needs her rest. Sometimes, Sally’s told them, it’s okay to let babies cry it out, to soothe themselves, to fall back to sleep on their own, but he just–he can’t. It’s dark o’clock in the morning, and he can’t lie there and listen to his daughter cry. He knows all too well what it feels like to be alone in the dark, and now that Daisy is old enough to recognize his face, his voice–now that she knows who he is, knows that he’s her father, that she loves him and trusts him–

He takes a few steps down the hallway, through her open door, and past Mrs. O’Leary, who’s been keeping close vigil at her bedside.

“Hey, hey, sweet girl,” he says, reaching into the crib. Daisy wails. She’s got her little fists balled up, and her feet kick blindly through the air, and she’s warm and red-faced and angry, and a little part of Percy’s heart breaks a little, seeing her cry. He tries to rub her belly for a few minutes, and then sings her some terrible rendition of a song Sally used to hum him to sleep with.

When she doesn’t let up, Percy sighs.

They’re both exhausted, and the only thing left to do is heft himself up into the crib with her.

It’s a sturdy thing, carefully designed and built, and easily holds his weight–big enough to hold him, to allow him to situate himself around Daisy and pull her close.

She cries, and cries, and Percy brushes his fingers carefully through the gentle wisps of her hair, across her round cheeks, down and up the curve of her tiny nose. She smells like fresh laundry and milk and Annabeth and baby. He kisses the soft shell of her ear.

“Shh,” he says, easing her fist open, slipping his finger into her hand. She grips him tight, turns into his chest. She hiccups; her cries quiet. He melts, kind of a lot, and curls closer around her. “Shh. Nothing to be afraid of. I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

And for a while, he lies awake with her, watches the rise and fall of her tiny little chest, the pout of her lips, the miracle of her life, warm underneath his hand. He lets his palm rest against the entirety of her stomach, and he rubs his thumb across her chin, and he smiles at her, when she looks up at him in the dim light. They sing each other the same lullaby, he thinks, as he hums, as she hums–it’s enough to know she’s there with him, to feel her close as he drifts back to sleep.

(reposting for @dahalloween’s day for spirits and possession - an old ficlet, but one i never posted to tumblr. Cole tells a knock-knock joke.)

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

He doesn’t know. Varric’s head is full of people who are real and not real and all of them hurt, and Cole doesn’t know how to untangle it. But the knock-knock jokes help.

“Okay, kid, try it again like we practiced.”

“Two pairs beats one pair. Four of a kind beats two pairs. She slips the ace of dragons into a thigh-high boot, calls to the barman for another round. Blondie stares at the table, angry, always angry.”

“Focus, kid. You can’t beat four of a kind with bad memories.”

He says the memories are bad, but he doesn’t want to forget them. He wants to spin them into stories, familiar faces hiding behind fake names. Maybe if he tells the story enough times, it’ll have a different ending.

Maybe this time when Blondie tries to give him an old and tattered pillow, he sees a message in it. This time he says the right words, and tomorrow Blondie’s dark mood is gone and they’re all back to playing cards. It was just another of Blondie’s bad days. They happen. They pass.

Cheer up, Blondie. You’re making me cry just looking at you.

I almost killed a girl.

You’ve killed two hundred and fifty-four by my last count. Plus about five hundred men, a few dozen giant spiders, and at least two demons.

It’s not the same.

Why? Because this one you feel bad about? Maybe that’s the problem.

Those were the wrong words.

The Hinterlands are burning, and Varric’s adding it to Blondie’s score. Or maybe his own score. He should have found the right words.

Another one for me! How many have you got, Hawke?

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”


“Cole who?”

“It’s me, Cole. That is my name.”

“No, no. You’re still not getting it. Sorry, kid.”

But hearing the name helps the hurt, because he’s Cole, which means he’s real, he’s a person. And sometimes when Varric looks at him, he’s seeing someone else who was stuck halfway between person and spirit.

Varric asks him how he can fight with all that hair in his eyes, and he raises a hand and pushes it back, but then he stops because Varric’s seeing someone else raising his hands, tying his hair back. Nevermind. Stick with the hat. The hat looks good on you.

In Varric’s memories, he’s keeping the gangs away from the clinic door, and making sure Blondie actually shows up for cards with the guys, and they talk and they joke and they laugh even when it’s just Varric doing the laughing, and he makes sure Blondie remembers to be a person too, not just a cause.

Even when it makes Blondie angry. He is Justice, he says. You can’t claim to support one and not the other.

But Blondie and Justice are as different as the older brother who both is and isn’t here anymore, and Varric doesn’t give a shit about the cause, he just wants his friends to be safe. Well-placed bribes and balls of twine. People and demons always end in trouble. Too many Daisies in this garden.

“I am good, Varric. I am me,” says Cole. “You don’t need to worry, but thank you for caring.”

“Al…right? Well, let me know if you ever… er… yeah.”

Cole understands how to tell a knock-knock joke. The punchlines are all there in Varric’s head. But hearing a punchline isn’t what Varric needs. Varric needs to help him be a person.

The jokes work better this way.

“Try it again. You’ll get it.”

“Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”