#[ replies. ]

[yingren]

@roaringdr4gon ( cont. )

"it is only the aesthetics that differ between the materials i listed. the inside will be made from the same refractory mortar and firebrick to contain the heat. you won't be able to see it." he sighs, running a hand through the pale locks of hair he hasn't bothered to tie up today. that much should have been obvious he thinks, although he bites his tongue in front of the high elder. "marble would perhaps suit your tastes?"

[ladyintree]

@warpainte  [...] everything was supposed to go back to ‘normal’ now.     she won the election against the odds,  the blackmailer was dead and no longer threatening to dig up their past,    mikayla was out of town and no longer taunting tai with their a history that no longer felt like history,    and tai assumed with all the stresses put to rest,   that she was finally done sleepwalking again,   and she could brush it all off as a fluke.    it was just the stress of the election,  the blackmail,   the blast from the past,   nothing more,   nothing real to worry herself with.   the rest was supposed to be simple   —    there was no reason for her family not to return to her now,   so that tai could finally repair that piece of her life as if it were that simple,   not taking into account that simone had her reasons for staying away — even before what exposed what tai herself was not aware of happening in their own basement.

simone’s warning forced tai to face what she had been avoiding  —   that this wasn’t just as simple as sleepwalking over temporary chaos,   it wasn’t as simple as accidentally letting their dog out,   it wasn’t as simple as a waiting it out until it was all over,  for her family to return to her as if nothing happened,   like taissa wasn’t struggling and hadn’t betrayed them.     something darker was going on here,   something taissa has told herself for 25 years now that she didn’t ever believe in —-  so why is it here,    and what does it mean?    sammy’s doll,    a picture-perfect image of her son,    along with their pet dog,   topped off with a symbol that used to make her angry,   horrify her,   and give her some strange sense of hope all at once.   in some way,   she does know what it all means:    it means that she was right to tell her family to leave,   and it means that simone was right to want to keep sammy away,   and worst of all,   it means simone is right about tai being sick.   she’s not ready to face that,   not ready to face her. 

is this what you wanted?    the words play on repeat in her head,   only from a dream,   but when she looked at simone in that hospital bed,   it’s all she can think about.   simone had done nothing but support her over the years,   but the idea of her trying to get tai help made her feel trapped,   completely out of control of her own life,   and tai refused to listen,   only making it so much worse in the process.   she was fine before simone exposed the altar in the basement,   she was convincing herself she was thriving,   that she was finally back on track —-  but now,   ever since seeing it for herself,   she’s only spiraled more,   to the point where she’s barely standing on her own anymore,   barely conscious,   and making no commitment to wait here with her wife.

she doesn’t remember how she got here.   that should terrify her,   because it means she’s only losing more control,    but for a moment,   she’s not thinking about that.   she’s never been here before,   but she knows exactly where she is —-   standing in front of mikayla’s home,   moments away from knocking and facing her again after she’d said goodbye just a few days ago,   assuming it was forever.   it’s finally starting to hit her what she’s really doing:    she’s almost ready to admit that she needs help,   but not from the person who’s been offering it,   trying so hard to give it to her even when tai doesn’t deserve the support from her.   no,   she came here because she’s always been drawn to her,   the person who has helped her before,   even when she didn’t know how,   because she wasn’t trying to give her help in ways that tai found so debilitating.   she helped her because she understood her —-  which is something tai has never given her wife the opportunity to do,   because the way she’s presented herself since rescue has always been so calculated,   so much so that even she could convince herself that was who she really was.   being around mikayla again only reminded her that it wasn’t,   that she was always going to be the person she was out in that wilderness with her —-   so now she's here,   despite no real welcome,   despite no preparation,   despite no reason for mikayla to actually give her the time of day,   but with as much as she’s lost even after assuming her life was finally settled,   this is the only place that feels right to be.    

the person on mikayla’s doorstep is not the same woman she almost kissed nights ago.   while her confidence was already faltering that night,  it’s nothing compared to this —-   bags under her bloodshot eyes,   shoulders slumped,  hair a mess,  clothes disheveled.   the state senator elect is certainly a sight to see like this,   but one that mikayla will likely be able to understand all too well:    it’s the same sleep deprived,  panicked,  barely coherent girl she used chase through the wilderness many years ago.   tai isn’t considering what it will be like for mikayla to see her like this,   she’s not considering the fact that reaching out to her like this is entirely unfair given her refusal to do the same for all those years mikayla was in prison,   and she’s definitely not considering the fact that it could be her wife who answers the door instead.    all she’s thinking about is that she needs mikayla desousa.    it’s selfish,  inconsiderate,  but maybe brave,  too —  because as she reaches her hand up to knock on the door,   she suddenly freezes.   instead of knocking,   her hand moves back to her hair,   attempting to tame the curls before smoothing her sweater in front of her.   she clears her throat,   trying to recall the last time she brushed or teeth or changed her clothes — everything before getting off that train is a blur to her now,   and she realizes she’s entirely unprepared for this,   but it’s far too late to turn back now.   

she takes a deep breath, but her usual attempt to collect herself before a confrontation fails. she realizes now that there's nothing that can properly prepare her for this conversation, she can only hope that mikayla will understand without forcing it out of her — or worse, slamming the door in her face. she shrugs it off, because she led herself here for a reason, leaving behind the people she should have been catering to instead; it can't be for nothing. finally, she knocks on the door, the tired eyes lifting into something that's almost a hopeful smile as she waits for her.

the door opens, and her legs suddenly feel wobbly, her hand quickly reaching for the door frame just to hold herself steady. but her features contradict the rest of her exhausted body language, and she starts to smile upon seeing her, as if that's going to distract her from everything else that's wrong with her ( everything mikayla knows so intimately, even years later. ) tai makes no effort to try to explain herself, no attempt to make this any less weird than it is. all she does is give her a small nod, her voice innocently muttering a simple, ❝  hi. ❞

[zachwilde]

@corimmy: I remember that face

It's when I looked my best, right?

[toprayarc]

as water sinks through the back of an oversized t-shirt, spattered onto the bright and bold 'bite me' scrawled across the center, steam rolls out and away from the previously housed bathroom. swirls fresh scents against the rest of the apartment. at a moment's notice, mari comes sweeping out from the shower: grapefruit clung to the twists and turns of her hair, citrus squeezing out of the sides of her mouth. she's nothing but casual air, an allowance to her home, and a trust thickened with a now aforementioned absence.

"did you change your signature scent recently?" — @deadpoolurl.

wade's words spring upwards, wry. a commentary that brings a twitch of a lip, a pluck-up of a cigarette, and a swing to her hip: jutted outward, and sunk to lax states. "sure did, baby." a click of mari's tongue sounds, form navigating to lean over the coffee table — hands folding a lighter into her palm. "but don't get too u — used to it." a grin bares itself clean, a chuckle tempting at the back of her throat. "i'd hate to see you mourn such a brief encounter."

[topray]

AMANDA YOUNG, SPLAYED UNDER MARI'S MICROSCOPE: a body stitched together with the submersion of soft lips, sapphic hues, the slow pace of breath above their heads— [TILT YOUR HEAD, BABY. I BITE.] find the inseam of mari's sheets. the sewed together slip of her tongue. bring their bodies to a rhythm, a rhyme, a clash-clang of hatelovehateheretouchmehere— (desperation seeps in.) together, they create a broken balance. dazed dreams of once in a lifetime premonitions. mari's hands find the south of a shirt, amanda's palms tug at an expected exit, they both cease with secrets soured beneath their tongue. MARI CAN'T HELP BUT ACHE FOR MORE.

AMANDA YOUNG [@junksaw] : "you’ve been such a pain in my ass."

THE OTHER PARTY PLAYS TAG WITH REGRET. an indication of rushed intentions bounces against the other's features. batters sunken cheeks to flashes of lucidity. hate disguises a language neither of them know— ... GOOD THING MARI CAN READ BETWEEN THE LINES. "didn't think it was that b — bad, baby." her tone teases, but it's soft. low. the dim lighting of flickered emotion surfaces behind dark eyes. "i mean, i know i was a little eager, but—" a half-smile slips, and quiets. a tilt of her head sweeps a gaze over the other, and pauses. "amanda." a level response flails against any playful banter. tenderness twists at the bottom of mari's stomach. "was that— ... are you okay?"

[promethies]

let me take a look at your injury. from penelope

he feels the barely there graze of her fingertips along the golden expanse of his muscles, where torn skin meets the ropes of muscles, carved carefully as an act to maim, but not kill. prometheus knows intimately what it means to promise death, knowing the cruel fate of it for too long, engulfed in centuries of pain. flesh flinches instinctively when she presses far too close to the tender wound, and there's a sharp hiss that escapes prometheus's gritted teeth. "it's not too bad," his timbre is gruff, low, yet softening at the edges in the presence of her. emerald hues, flicked with traces of gold specks, lands on the outline of her features, and instinctively, the tension that is wrought in his muscles dissipates slowly. "i appreciate it."

[kotaerukoto]

@boomermania replied:

FACTS MY BROTHER SPEAK THY SHIT INDEED

[redemptionmade]

@troublcmakcrs

   "D-di-did you know that if your tooth f-falls out, you can just... p-put it back?" Tweek gestures to the bloody premolar in Kenny's palm, then up into his own mouth, pantomiming slotting a tooth back into his red gum where his right central incisor rotted away a couple years ago. "If the roots are intact, it'll--it'll h-heal itself. Only if you g-get it knocked out... It d-doesn't work if you--nh--lose it fr-from decay 'n' shit."    There is a pronounced pause while he idly picks at what's left of his right eyebrow. "...Everything I've learned about the human body has been en-entirely against my will."

... what the fuck? how would he know that? -- well, the obvious answer was someone sucker punched a tooth out of him, but... he couldn't imagine anyone that really had beef with tweek. much less anyone who would get violent with him.

" .. hmph." he looks back down at the tooth that he had knocked out of him, and he considers what he was just told. hell, maybe tweek was onto something. knew something that kenny didn't. " -- so i just pop it back in?" another second or so of contemplation and he does just that, tilts his head up and presses the tooth into his mouth with a muffled shout of exploitatives. " -- SHIT!" he spits the blood that was pooling in his mouth and does what he can not to give in and press his tongue against the premolar. "... mhm.. i think it fits."

[faithchosen]

cont from.

knowing how incredibly important her little trinket was to the safety of the entire party, her sense of duty only grew. her head tilts, the anger still lingering upon her features. "ask astarion? why vhaal you must think i was born yesterday." she would never understand the why surrounding @demonwebs's need to invoke her anger and frustration. she doesn't trust him and it's not that she trusts lae'zel now either. they are just...on better terms.

"-i do not know what you could possibly want with it other than to spite me, are you not entertained? is the prospect of being turned illithid or getting killed by the dangers surrounding us boring to you?" shadowheart looks up at him, head tilting and walking closer. she hates it, this attitude of his, if she was any less patient and perhaps under a different circumstance she would do something about him. "i suggest you hand it to me, this is me being nice about it."

[yingren]

@lightning-etc-lord ( cont. )

“ fine. ” a terrible acceptance really, he buries half of his face into dark black fur, gives the feline a small silent kiss and holds onto her tightly. what a feeble attempt to regain some composure, hiding behind a cat as he stands there trying to process what jing yuan is attempting to convey. well, the general does it fairly well actually, it is ren that falls short when he doesn’t know what to answer. it’s not that he doesn’t trust jing yuan, something else is the issue here. the warmth on his face subsides eventually, at least enough for him to feel like he isn’t going to implode should he dare to look at the general again. he’s quiet for another moment & then his gaze darts to the ring. his chest feels tight and heavy when he frees one hand to reach for it & ren swears he’s either about to pass out of vomit, both outcomes would be terrible either way. 

“ when did you pick this out? ” there is a small smile on his face, faint but clearly there for a split second. ren plays with the ring, keeps it pinched between his fingers, brings it closer to study it and then hands it back to jing yuan. “ put it on me. ” a mumble & extends his hand. “ hurry. ”

[bhaalbie]

cont from.

dahlya stares, feels something very strange and unfamiliar tugging at her. she isn't shoo-ed away, and it only encourages this part in her to take part in whatever this is. @palespawn's hair seems to be glowing underneath the rays of sunshine cascading down upon them. astarion smiles and she finds herself endeared, if only slightly.

lying is such a wonderfull game. and it seems to drown the echoes of misery, pain and torture that plague her. the voice that commands for death and blood, she cannot pay any mind to it at the moment. "-why your cheeks, the tip of your ears, the tip of your nose...they're pink, turning red any moment now." her tone of voice isn't sarcastic, it's playful...following his lead. she does not know why, but she cannot see astarion's skin being the type to tan (maybe it was, dahlya will never know). she imagines the sun would kiss astarion in a very particular way. "-it suits you." she isn't sure she just means being under the sun, but rather the state she finds him in at this very moment. so different from when he is fed, after a kill, during a fight. it's a strange sight, if she was any other person she might think she's rather lucky to witness it. (she might be, she rather would not think about it)

[toprayarc]

beneath the dirt, below the foundations, sinking through the divots of new mexico, lies corpses. carcasses. skeleton-bones of days, past. look close, and you'll find history: feuds, bonds, crimes of passion that go half-delivered. pulled triggers, painful deaths, and a cock-and-aim to tear through trenches. in these days, mari masters herself an archeologist. digs up drowned secrets, damning evidence, and buries the rest. she's nothing less than an investigator, no more than a murderer, but she gets her job done.

"what is this place?" — @bulldoged.

and she'll get it done well— with, or without the help of some sad-sack, used-to-be, criminal sidekick. mari's got no interest in depending on anyone. has no urge to find the sudden thrill in support. she's closed off, cut down, and cradling a shovel right under her arm before throwing it in her trunk. an ending, neatly sealed. "dump site." mari's tone is short: nothing but fact, flickering at the slight twitch in her lip. (annoyance, she knows, gets her nowhere ... and seemingly, gets jade everywhere.) "people c — come out here and get rid of shit they don't want anyone to find." a glance over, eyebrow raising. the trunk slams. "got any s — secrets you want to bury while we're here?"

[topray]

LET'S SET THE SCENE: mid-night, inky-black, the hot swarms of a summer bath. steam rolls over the streets. or, if looked closely, smoke. one or the other, the evening reverberates heat. sun, still stuck to the concrete. mari dai enters the frame with nothing but wide eyes, smeared lips, and a trembling spine. vacant with a hunger, hammering at her head. [IT'S LIKE— RAW MEAT, OR RAVENOUS TASTES, OR THE RAMMING OF HORNS AGAINST THE INSIDES OF HER STOMACH. LIKE BILE, OR BACKWASH, OR BLACK TAR STICKING TO HER THROAT. IT'S LIKE NOTHING SHE'D EVER FELT IN HER LIFE. IT'S LIKE NOTHING SHE'LL EVER FEEL AGAIN.] she's been alone for weeks. days. minuscule minutes that add up by the hours. swept along the side of her lip, mari drains the remains of someone's life. webs it across her tongue. her gaze, tearful, almost sings with relief. SOMEONE IS STARING, AND—

LOUIS DE PINTE DU LAC [@masteredinstinct] : "they saw you. but they won't say anything."

bared teeth create an animal. sharp fangs prick at the edges of her mouth. (red, crimson, carmine, burgundy—) THE COLORS GRADIENT ACROSS HER CHEEKS. FERAL, AND UNCONTAINED. "they better not." her hands swipe away spatters of blood. comb through the tresses of dark hair. her stare pierces, accusatory, as fists curl to her sides; her ribcage clenched into reactive states. "i'd hate to c — cause a scene."

[gankdemonsarc]

bitch.

"jerk."

[starcunin]

@weavesick ﹕ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭’𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 ? what are they … to one another ? gale might say that they’re friends , but astarion hasn’t had friends before. not a single one , not one that he can remember ever having. he doesn’t know how to do this , to do whatever it is that they’re doing here. they haven’t had sex , though astarion has made the attempt early on. they haven’t even kissed , but the spawn often catches his eyes lingering upon the wizard’s lips a little too long while he’s speaking— working too hard to not be distracted , and actually listen to the words gale says. and it’s strange , to actually feel like he wants someone for once. something that once felt like a necessary , vital thing to do , for protection ( and gale is a powerful wizard , after all , and someone who seemed easy to manipulate and control ) , now feels like something else entirely.

astarion has tried to convince himself that he’s still using gale , regardless of whether or not they are having sex. gale is still a person he could get close to , without being physically intimate with him. he could still flatter him , preen at him , tell him everything he wants to hear until he’s lapping it out of the palm of astarion’s hands , but— exactly when did it stop feeling like a lie ? when did the sweet nothings he whispers start feeling like somethings ? he can’t recall—

he only knows that the simple notion of gale dying , at the demand of a goddess who is only using him like a pawn , 𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦. part of him wanted to write it off as if it was just a pesky guilty conscience , for treating gale the exact same way. but there’s more to it than that , especially now , as the wizard sits absently on the ground inside of his tent. astarion knows there’s more to it than that— because he actually cares. that annoying gnawing at his chest , his stomach tied in knots , and he doesn’t know what love is supposed to feel like. he wouldn’t know it if it fell into his lap , but … if this is love he’s feeling , it’s fucking painful.

he almost hoped gale hadn’t heard him , pale fingers combing through brown waves , dancing across the tanned flesh of his neck. these little touches weren’t new , astarion touches gale often. in little ways , here and there. astarion had no idea how much these little touches would mean to him , but here he is— touching. wanting to touch. wanting gale to know he is here with him. astarion holds breath that he doesn’t need to breathe upon gale’s ‘what?’ , unsure of what to anticipate. and perhaps annoyance isn’t exactly what the spawn had been expecting , not after saying one of the first purposefully genuine things he’s ever said to the wizard , to which astarion can’t help but react a little defensively , if only to protect feelings he doesn’t quite understand yet.

astarion bats away gale’s accusatory finger just as it’s jabbed in his direction , and suddenly his sentimental demeanor has vanished. the mask has returned. he doesn’t know how to do this. he doesn’t know how to care for people. let alone people who might quite literally blow up in flames , ❛  oh , yes , very good— i’m so happy i’m the one being ridiculous here— because for a moment there , darling , i was starting to think you might actually be considering it.  ❜ his words are half sarcastic , and half unreasonably miffed that gale seems to be angry ( unreasonably because gale should be angry. he should be furious. he should be telling mystra to go fuck herself ).

but he’s done none of that. he hasn’t even said that he wasn’t considering it. which only tells astarion that he is. and gods , something about it lights a flame beneath the spawn’s backside. ❛ i was just trying to be sweet to you , but if you want me to be frank— only a fool would do what mystra is asking you to do , ❜ and the words sting his own cold heart as they leave his lips , and as much as he means them , he wants them to be different. less harsh , ❛ i refuse to believe that someone as powerful as the goddess of magic ( the title is uttered with such contempt ) only has one solution to our little cult problem , and that solution ends with you exploding all over bloody faerûn. ❜ his voice is somewhat stern , there’s clearly emotion in his undertone , as much as he tries to hide it.

[acepts]

WHEN THE AIR RUNS HOT & YOUR VOICE GROWS COLD,   you know your ma may as well roll over in her grave.   (bein’ polite is a hayashida trait, she’d say. no point in being rude where you can’t afford it—   and we can’t afford much.)   but what she wouldn’t understand,   what you barely understand yourself,  is that ryder’s got something stuck to his mouth that you wanna pry right out. like a big ol’ botfly stuck to his cheek, spittin’ out maggots ‘n mutters ‘n all that ugly stuff you don’t feel so good about. makes something in your stomach turn, even just thinkin’ about it. every sentence he’s got, you gotta chase down with some smoke. none of that skunky stuff,  that chemical shift,  but just plain ol’ tobacco trickled down by the flick of a flame. something to take the edge off,   because one thing about ryder is this:   HE’S ALL EDGE.  sharp ‘n sticky like the back of an apple’s sticker. granny smith, gold delicious, crimson crisp,   you get the picture.   if you were any more of your father’s son,   dirt rimmed and crop heavy,   you think you’d be better at resisting it. him. both of you,  in whatever this is,   smogged out on a front porch that sounds like cicadas in the summertime. both of you buzzin’, in one way or another.

RYDER [@atracts] : "maybe you hate yourself, ash."

THE OTHER THING ABOUT RYDER,  the thing you don’t know how to say,  is that he don't mean to be cruel but he ain’t know how to be kind, neither.   you watch the edge of your cigarette eat itself away, blowin’ sparks and stars into the night as it rustles a nearby wind-chime.    “or maybe i jus' hate you.”   it’s an empty statement to make when you’re studyin’ the slope and slant of his jaw, imagining the way you could leave bite marks right along its divots, but you don’t care. YOU HAVE ENOUGH SECRETS TO HIDE THIS ONE, TOO.   “folks say those lines get messy, easy.”  you scoff, and your voice joins the chorus of early evening air. you listen for the chirps signaling to the sky’s downfall. your downfall, too.   you blink away.   “—don’t matter much, anyway. hate’s too strong of a word to use for anythin'.”   a beat.   “even you.”