softersinned
wild. brutal. inevitable.
independent & private witch / vampire original character. written by marianne, 25+.
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1.15 // 1.21
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God damn it. I’m saying I love you and I miss you and I want you to come home, and I don’t care where home is.
JUSTIFIED – 6x07 “The Hunt”
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*sexily runs through the big gothic castle*
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𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐀 ; 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 . ( a series of kiss prompts . some nsfw material present . )
❛ 01 . a kiss to say hello .
❛ 02 . a kiss for the first time .
❛ 03 . a kiss after a long time apart .
❛ 04 . a kiss to apologize .
❛ 05 . a kiss to forgive .
❛ 06 . a kiss during a fight .
❛ 07 . a kiss to say what you can’t say aloud .
❛ 08 . a kiss in secret / a forbidden kiss .
❛ 09 . a kiss to prove a point .
❛ 10 . a kiss against a wall .
❛ 11 . a kiss on a rooftop .
❛ 12 . a kiss that seals a marriage .
❛ 13 . a kiss before one goes away .
❛ 14 . a kiss in the shower .
❛ 15 . a kiss that comes out of nowhere .
❛ 16 . a kiss first thing in the morning .
❛ 17 . a kiss last thing at night .
❛ 18 . a kiss during combat .
❛ 19 . a kiss during a fake relationship .
❛ 20 . a kiss out of desperation .
❛ 21 . a kiss on the cheek .
❛ 22 . a kiss on the forehead .
❛ 23 . a kiss on the back of the hand .
❛ 24 . a kiss on the neck .
❛ 25 . a kiss on the fingertips .
❛ 26 . a kiss on the stomach .
❛ 27 . a kiss to end the sexual tension .
❛ 28 . a kiss over a scar .
❛ 29 . a kiss over a wound .
❛ 30 . a kiss to say goodbye .
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@cragsnow said: a kiss attempting to convince the other party to stay .
It's not that important that she go. Lady Whatsit and Lord Whomst will no doubt survive the tragedy of the two of them missing a dinner party. Still, she thinks it only fair, if she puts up a token show of resistance; their would-be hosts will never know, but she'll know, and she can chalk it up to good manners and good behavior.
This is proving difficult as Felix hovers above her. She's on her bare stomach, propped up on her elbows and looking straight ahead, lest he glance up and notice that she's smiling quite so widely at the attention he pays to her. She can hear him moving, though, the rustle of sheets against his skin, and she feels a strong hand at her hip, holding her in place, before, moments later, there is a mouth brushing the base of her spine.
Her toes curl. Her fingers, too, digging into her upper arms painfully. Her smile widens until it almost hurts. "Darling," she says, quite prettily, "you are utterly insatiable," and she hears Felix make a noise of agreement before he drags himself barely an inch higher, nose brushing along the line of her spine, to press another kiss there. "If you don't stop, I'll start to think you don't want to get out of this bed."
She looks over her shoulder just as he lifts himself from her, enough to be seen. One of his eyebrows is cocked, and his grin is crooked and just a little too wicked. Her toes unclench and the arches of her feet start to tingle.
"Unless that's exactly what you're hoping for." He lowers his head again as she speaks, seeming to enjoy sound of her voice as it becomes breathier, more strained. "For us to stay here."
He makes a noise against her skin as he trails higher still, this one in agreement, and Astoria stretches languorously beneath him. The hand at her hip trails higher along her side as Felix moves up her spine, and when he's nearly touched her shoulder, he reaches around her front, takes her jaw gently in his hand, turns her towards him so he can reach to lay the next kiss at the corner of her mouth.
"It's something to think about," she breathes. "We couldn't do this if we got out of bed right now, for example."
His mouth finds hers and Astoria loses all sense of time, all awareness of everything else happening; he releases her jaw only to help guide her to roll over beneath him without breaking the kiss, so he can keep her gently pinned to the bed. Her arms wind around him, and she realizes, a little belatedly, that she's not disappointed. She isn't sorry about the missed opportunity to be seen, to be admired; she cares nothing for whether or not they'll be thought of as rude, or if it will impact his social standing at all, and therefore her unimpeded access to society.
She realizes that she isn't even particularly concerned that they continue doing this all night. She thinks she'd be quite happy simply curled up with him, asking about his day, asking about the last book he read, asking about the news or the weather. Yes, she thinks: she simply wants to be with him, and that's the concerning thing, isn't it? That her primary reason for not wanting to leave, for not caring about the dinner party or anyone's opinion, is that if she leaves, she'll have to untangle herself from him, and the thought of doing that is... well. It's simply unthinkable.
Astoria pulls him a little closer, kissing him a little harder, and the dinner party is wholly, entirely forgotten.
#cragsnow#answers.#(gonna need a tag for them tbh i'm real invested in them already)#(she's so annoying and she's even more annoying when she's this smitten with someone. good luck felix. ur gonna need it w her.)
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@saintsdawn said: [ braid ] sender braids receiver's hair.
They have such lovely hands. It's all Stori can think about, as they settle behind her, their knees bent on either side of her and Stori gingerly settled between their thighs. (Not entirely true: she's thinking about their thighs, now, too.) Those lovely hands, carding through her hair, fingers working out the countless tangles, picking out the twigs and leaves from her curls. She closes her eyes but that makes it worse: dulling one sense only makes her aware of all the others. And she hears Florence's blood, smells Florence, their skin and sweat and hair, and it's driving her half mad.
She opens her eyes, rolling them up to the heavens, and she berates any god listening in on her thoughts for putting her in this position when they have a world to save. The low hum of Florence's voice as they work through her tangles makes her dizzy, and Florence's nails scrape gently across her scalp and she has to bite her tongue to keep herself from purring out loud.
"You're very good at this." Her voice is strained; she wonders if Florence can tell. (They let out a laugh, quiet enough that a human might not have heard it; so, yes, she thinks they can.)
Florence's hands separate her hair into three parts and they begin braiding, tightly enough that the hair won't fall loose but not so tight that it hurts. Yes, they're quite good at this, and with each careful brush of Florence's fingers against her jawline or her neck, Stori nearly shudders with need, with desire, with hunger. She lives for these moments: the rare touch, so carefully delivered to avoid any unnecessary pain; Florence's full attention on her, so heavy she can feel it like armor around her shoulders; their breath against the back of her neck when they lean close, too close, and Stori tries desperately not to whine out loud.
Some piece of her, aching to be let out, says that this is possible. That this could happen every day. That she could wake beside Florence and let them be the first person she sees, fall asleep beside them with their image in her mind and their name on her tongue; that she could simply turn around now and close that distance between them, her hair be damned, could take that perfect face between her bloodied hands and breathe them in and kiss them the same way she would make love to them. Ravenous. Insatiable. And yet so, so tender, and devoted, and even, yes, loving.
(Did she know how to love, before all of this? Had she ever done it before? Or did she spring from the womb fully formed and utterly incapable of it? Was it her companions who taught her? Florence themself?)
But she cannot bear to break the spell: the calm that envelops her as she settles, aware only of Florence's proximity and the familiar scent of their skin is simply too precious to her, too rare. Instead, she waits, hands balled into fists on her thighs, as Florence finishes. It is a gesture of kindness, an offer made to assuage some of the constant pain the Curse has left her feeling in her joints. She might cut her hair soon, if it continues; the whole process of its upkeep is too much work, though these moments make up for it by far.
"Thank you," she says when the braid is finished, hanging down her back and tied off with a strip of leather she'd cut from a fallen enemy's glove. She clears her throat and turns to face Florence, and her eyes wander every perfect angle, every beloved line. She wants to trace the tempting curve of that mouth, to bite the marble column of that throat with the intent to mark rather than to wound, so that everyone who looks at them knows where Stori spends her nights. She wants to sit like this forever, breathing them in, watching them move with such utter adoration it makes her feel honestly, truly sick.
Instead, she clears her throat and she stands, knocks her bent knuckles gently against Florence's shoulder. "Thank you," she says again. "I appreciate your help. I appreciate you."
She tears herself away before she can let herself think about that mouth, about parting those lips with her tongue and kissing them breathless, but she thinks about it all the same.
#saintsdawn#answers.#(the fun thing abt romancing durge stori is... she's basically trapping you in a vampire regency romance in act two.)#(you're getting jane austened. she's doing the 2005 p&p hand flex. she's throwing herself dramatically to the ground to stare at the sky.)#(she's lamenting how close you are and yet how far away. she's five seconds from writing poetry. if her hands didn't hurt she would.)#(she is overcome with love & emotion & romance & pent-up NEED.)#(on the plus side when physicality really IS an option then stori spends the next 3-5 business days. well. making up for lost time.)
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PROMPTS FOR ORDINARY THINGS THAT FEEL INTIMATE
* inspired by this post. these don't have to be romantic - you can specify romantic or not when you send them. in essence, these are simply intimate, affectionate moments to share with someone you love and care about. adjust as necessary, send 'reverse' for the reversal of the prompt
[ lean ] sender rests their head on receiver's shoulder
[ shop ] sender and receiver go to the grocery store together
[ brush ] sender brushes receiver's hair
[ tie ] sender helps receiver with their tie, either by putting it on or adjusting it
[ necklace ] sender helps receiver with the clasp of their necklace from behind
[ zip up ] sender assists receiver with zipping up a piece of clothing
[ unzip ] sender assists receiver with unzipping a piece of clothing
[ shoelaces ] sender bends down to tie receiver's shoelaces
[ swipe ] sender notices a smudge of something on receiver's face and gently wipes it off
[ braid ] sender braids receiver's hair
[ jacket ] sender takes their jacket off and hangs it on receiver's shoulders
[ puddle ] sender hurries to stop receiver from stepping into a puddle
[ drinks ] sender brings receiver a drink from a bar/their kitchen
[ feed ] sender feeds receiver's pet/s for them
[ cook ] sender and receiver cook a meal together
[ feed ] sender allows receiver to try a bite of their dish, holding their fork out for receiver to taste
[ teach ] sender, an expert at something, takes time to teach receiver how it works and how they can get better at it, too
[ readjust ] sender comes up behind receiver and readjusts their stance (maybe holding a gun, holding a golf club, aiming for something, etc.) to help them
[ makeup ] sender fixes receiver's makeup for them
[ bathroom ] sender and receiver go to a public restroom together and have a normal conversation in between the stalls
[ aloud ] sender reads aloud to receiver
[ refill ] sender refills receiver's glass without asking
[ massage ] sender notices receiver looks tense, steps up behind them, and massages their shoulders
[ listen ] sender listens to receiver explain something they're passionate about
[ silence ] sender and receiver comfortably exist in silence together, both of them working or reading or focusing on something different
[ food ] sender brings food over to receiver's house
[ hum ] sender hums along to a song receiver is singing
[ see ] sender sees something that reminds them of receiver and texts them a picture of it
[ admire ] sender stares at receiver across a room, silently admiring and appreciating them from afar
[ win ] sender lets receiver beat them in a game
[ puzzle ] sender helps receiver solve/put together a puzzle
[ carry ] after receiver falls asleep in an inconvenient place, sender carries them to a bed and tucks them in
[ kneel ] sender finds receiver sick in the bathroom ("tossing their cookies"), and kneels beside them, holding their hair back and cleaning their face
[ clean ] sender helps bathe receiver
[ wash ] sender helps receiver wash their hair
[ patch ] sender carefully patches one of receiver's wounds
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@sunderdust said: ❛ i need your help… and you need mine. ❜
The years have turned slowly, unrelentingly. It feels like forever, but the Beast knows it has been less than a century. Leave the Castle, and suffer the Urge: her filthy blood, her rotted heart, giving way to the most base desires to kill, kill, kill in her unholy father's name. Remain within, and remain herself—wretched and broken and wrong, but still herself. Better a Beast than just shy of a god, if she cannot command her own mind. She knows every inch of the Castle, each stone, each floorboard. Has read every page of every book. She builds her automatons and Sceleritas breaks them; she starves herself and Sceleritas brings her blood; all on her father's command. The Lord of Murder will have her submission, now or in a hundred more years, a thousand more years. She cannot have the peace that comes with death, and she no longer wants it.
Every year she spends under curse is a year she hates her father more. Every year she spends staring past the iron bars that mark the limits of the Castle's protections is a year she becomes more determined to destroy him. She needs the help. There is no doubt about it. She simply doesn't think there is anyone who would, who could, provide it.
Stori considers him for a long moment in silence, her body gone perfectly still as she does. Solomon is too clever by far, but also infinitely too foolish; he sees a challenge and he runs to it, even when he should be frightened, even when he should run away. He hasn't tried to kill her once, yet—at least, as far as she's seen—and since their encounter with the harpies he has seemed more and more open to the possibility of real partnership.
Even if the partnership in question will never work.
Pale fingers resume their drumming against the glass in her hand, and Stori shifts to stand in a single fluid motion. She sets the glass down and moves to the table without a word to pour another, which she holds out for Solomon patiently. "Jasmarin Shadow," she says finally. Her maker had good taste, at the very least. "You may never encounter another bottle in your lifetime, sweet thing. Savor it." Only when he's taken the glass does she consider the words as they deserve. I need your help, and you need mine. I need your help, and you need mine.
She does need him. She hates to confess to it, but it's true: she needs him more than she thinks she's ever needed anyone, because if she has to stay in this godsforsaken place any longer she'll lose her mind. And if he has any ideas of how to get out?
Well. Freedom is worth any cost, isn't it?
(And it's not that she's fond of him, she tells herself. Of course she's not fond of him. She knows better by now than to allow herself to feel any affection for him. For anyone.)
Silently, she picks up her glass again, and she raises it in toast. "To partnership, then," she says finally. "To us."
#sunderdust#answers.#i only want to be the sun for you. ( solomon x astoria )#(i hope they make each other's lives so difficult (': )
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@sunderdust said: ❝ so nice to finally meet you in person. ❞
He's not much like she remembers him. Then again, her memory of the day isn't entirely clear: the wedding ceremony had been less about a marriage than about solidifying an alliance, and within hours she was back on a ship to Ferelden. (No good father would have been willing to leave her in Kirkwall alone—an apostate wouldn't survive long there without protection, without family.) The entire day was rushed, the ceremony barely ten minutes long, and Solomon, awkward and uncomfortable though he'd been, spoke his vows and held her hand as he was directed and didn't make the process any more difficult than it was.
Truth be told, she'd been grateful for that: she'd have taken a nervous lad resigned to their shared fate over an arrogant man looking forward to it. The letters they exchanged in the aftermath were pleasant enough, if rarer than they'd have been with someone she knew already. Someone she honestly liked. Someone she'd chosen.
"It does feel like the first time, doesn't it?" Astoria's hand folds around Solomon's, and for a long moment, she doesn't let go.
He got taller. She did not. His hair is longer, she notes; there are a few wrinkles around his eyes when he smiles; his skin, golden under the sun, bears the signs of a few scars, no doubt from adventure and battle, and she thinks she catches a glimpse of ink peeking out from under his clothes. He's dressed well—not so magnificently that she'd suspect he's dressing only for her, but certainly well enough that he knows he's being looked at, and considered, and yes, judged.
Her hand slips higher, so she can brush her fingers along the soft underside of his wrist. She's changed, too. Gained some weight, after the civil war; the stress of being in Kirkwall, the Gallows looming over her, had made it difficult to eat much at all, as if she hoped that physical weakness would keep her magic in check. The crow tattooed on her back is new, too, a sign that she is a woman in the eyes of her Hold, bearing the Hold Beast on her skin. Her hair is shorter than it was when they last saw one another, curls vibrant and full, and her smile is wicked, and her eyes are bright. She looks healthy. So does he. In another life, they'd have picked each other, she thinks; now, they're left to navigate the choices made for them.
"I'm glad you're home," she says, and she's surprised to find she means it. She could use an ally here. "And safe. We have much to discuss, husband." It feels strange to say; she says it all the same. "Will you be joining me to return home?" She does not expect that he's remained faithful, these past years, though she cannot help but be preemptively offended at the thought that he might take a lover tonight.
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i have been. thinking abt this quite a bit lately and thinking abt my preferences in developing & writing characters, as someone who writes primarily women & a lot of OCs. i've gotten accused of writing mary sues for the simple fact that i have characters who are good at things, and i've gotten accused of writing characters just for ships because romance really is my primary focus as a means of character development, and i understand very much the desire to push back against both by just becoming entirely unapologetic. and i think it's a good desire all around.
i also, however, think that we really rob ourselves of a wonderful experience by refusing to give our women & ocs in particular the kinds of weaknesses that make for really good storytelling. the fact of the matter is that people are inconsistent, they're complicated, they're bad at a lot of stuff as well as good at a lot of stuff. they're impressionable. they have a lot of give. and you have exceptions to that of course but the vast majority of people are not stone, they're not unmoving, they're not so wholly dedicated to every single principle and habit that they never budge no matter the circumstances surrounding them.
and like. it's just not as fun for me, to be writing with characters for whom the rules of the universe will never apply fairly, when my character is subject to them. it's not as fun if the character i'm writing with has no give, is never influenced, never makes mistakes. the mistakes, the conflict, that's what makes for a good story, more often than not, and in solo writing you make all those choices on your own but in collaborative writing you have to meet someone halfway for that. i bring up ocs & women specifically because i think there's a degree of over-correction that's especially present with people writing ocs and/or women: we have the natural urge to challenge the attitudes that set us up at a disadvantage! but i'm thinking a lot abt an anon i got calling me inconsistent with astoria and it wasn't hate, it wasn't out of line, but like... it was surprising, because one of the things i've tried to do with her over these last twelve years of writing her is emphasize her flaws. she is inconsistent. she is hypocritical. her flaws and her weaknesses aren't just in terms of what magic she can or can't do, and my comments abt her having a questionable moral code aren't just about her being willing to do Big Evil. and i understand where that anon came from for sure and i'm not at all upset about it, so if that was you i promise this is not an attempt to shame you.
it's just that when i think of my favorite fictional men i think about how they don't have to be. perfect. even men who are very much developed as fantasies of The Ideal Man get to be flawed, they get to be influenced, they get to learn. they get to start out knowing less than they do at the end of the story, and they have flaws and insecurities and inconsistencies. and it's a little disappointing that - as a woman, as a woman writing women, as a woman writing original characters - i feel like the expectation placed not just on me but anyone and everyone else in my position is that we achieve a sort of. Perfect Character. one we're so secure in and so sure of that they never change, never grow, are never influenced. they never fuck up from their model and their ideal. and that's a fucking bummer! because the great joy in storytelling comes with our characters fucking up and failing, it comes in their weaknesses, it comes in them learning, it comes in them changing. and idk! idk. i'm mostly just rambling right now. i have no intention of changing my approach. it's working for me and i'm having a good time. it's just an element of collaborative writing that i think you don't really get the chance to explore when you're expected to write the Quintessential Woman.
#ooc.#(like... that's why i make a comment abt overpowered characters in my rules. it's not that i don't appreciate extremely powerful characters#(it's that i don't particularly enjoy writing threads with characters who never have any give. i fucking LOVE powerful characters)#(but for me the joy is in watching them fail & have to change. that conflict in storytelling is my favorite. it's yummy!)#(idk man there is incredible joy in reveling in a character's many weaknesses & inconsistencies bc that's just what people are like)#(for me that's a really outright joyful experience & it's one i recommend very highly)
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@sunderdust said: kissing to pretend that you are in a relationship together.
"We don't have the time to come up with another plan, and we have to make sure I'm brought in with you—and this is all I can think about, so—trust me, please."
She had been so certain that this would be perfectly fine, that she would be able to handle it. She thinks that she has, perhaps, never been more wrong.
Strong hands grip her sides, fingers digging into her skin; Astoria feels Solomon take in a shuddering breath beneath her as she lowers her mouth to his. They only have a few moments. Trust me, she'd begged, but how can she trust herself? Even just the firm grip of his hands has her dizzy. The first kiss she leaves against his lips is cautious, even chaste, and when she makes no move to take off his mask, as she'd done with her own, something seems to shift between them. His hands settle low on her hips, strong and unyielding as iron, and he watches her in silence, those beautiful dark eyes nearly hidden in the low light, lips parted with some surprise as she rips at the collar of her nightgown, tearing it until she bares a shoulder, her robe slipping down her arm.
"We have to make it look real," she urges, voice so soft she's near inaudible, and Solomon nods. He may not trust her, but he seems to believe her, now, and that's all she can really ask him to do—
—but when she kisses him again, all too aware of the approaching footsteps of the Emperor's men, he answers. Her own hands move to his chest, his sides, his shoulders, before she settles them almost helplessly at his neck, thumbs keeping his chin up and face turned towards her so that she can keep kissing him.
He tastes like heaven, she thinks vaguely. His breath is warm against her and his hands are strong, and when she opens her mouth to him he uses the leverage he has to pull her into him. She would lose her balance, were it not for the power in his hands, the cage of his arms around her, and the realization of it only makes her dizzier. She'd thought she would be fine. She hadn't anticipated this: that the idle daydreams, the bored fantasies, couldn't begin to measure up to the reality. Some part of her hopes desperately that they'll be interrupted soon, so that he understands the severity of the threat facing him. The majority of her hopes that they're left alone forever.
"They're coming," she warns quietly, lips moving against his as she speaks. "I swear, I'll get you through this." He simply nods, and she kisses him once more, tries to banish the heat, the hunger she feels for him, but it's no good. He's in her, now, the memory of his mouth and his hands burned into her, and there's no forgetting it, she knows. No forgetting it, no ignoring it, and any doubt she had about what she's going to do vanishes.
There is nothing, she realizes with agonizing clarity as his tongue sweeps past her lips, that she wouldn't do to keep him safe.
The Emperor's men throw the door open with enough force to break it, and she wrenches herself away from him. She doesn't have to feign the anger in her expression at the interruption, her hands still holding him like he's something precious, her chest heaving with every labored breath, her entire body trembling in his hold. The guards look at her in shock, all of them suddenly uneasy: she outranks every last one of them, one of the Emperor's favorites and dearest friends, and she is wound around an alleged traitor to the Empire, lips kiss-reddened and hair loose and shoulder bared and holding him with something not entirely unlike reverence.
"What," she growls, "the fuck do you want now?" They don't dare touch either one of them, but merely command that they follow without fuss to be seen by the Emperor, and the head of the guard averts his eyes as Astoria climbs out of Solomon's grasp and pulls her robe back up.
Yes. She would sacrifice everything for him. She will sacrifice everything for him, without hesitation, without doubt, without regret. She will see him survive this, whatever the cost.
She slips her hand into his, squeezes his fingers as she walks, the guards surrounding them as they march through the halls of her estate.
She kisses him again, when all is said and done, when the Emperor has accepted her apparent confession: that Solomon is her spy, that she has organized all of his communications with the rebels herself, that she trusts him implicitly. That he would never go against her. She takes his chin gently between her thumb and bent forefinger and she guides him down to her so she can kiss him, slow and sweet, like they've done this a thousand times before, like they'll do this a thousand times after. She kisses him and she feels her heart pounding like it means to break free from her chest.
She kisses him like she loves him. Foolish, she knows, to let herself think this way. Worse still to let herself sink into him when he returns the kiss, equally gentle, equally warm.
"Go," she says softly, brushing the backs of her fingers against his jaw, a display of affection and intimacy that has one of the guards coughing uncomfortably and Judicael scowling, jealous rather than suspicious, annoyed rather than angry. "I'll come and see you when we're finished here."
He looks back at her as he leaves. She aches.
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Constantly obsessed with the concept of a man forced to be a myth. What do you do when every step you take is embedded into the text. Every word you say prose to read. You're part of something bigger than yourself. The narrative tugs you along like water currents. There is no time to rest, to be human. You must be great, you must be legend
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"Believe it or not, sweet thing, I appreciate you more than the fireplace." But he's gotten a grin out of her, and the kiss he leaves at her shoulder prompts a delighted shiver, as does the suggestion. Astoria stretches languorously, before she pushes herself to sit upright, gathering her hair over one shoulder as she does to try and work through the knots left by his earlier attention. "And much as I enjoyed the first round, I'm afraid I'll need a moment or two more before my legs will obey me again." Not that she has any complaints, of course. Astoria lifts a hand, grasps Felix's chin firmly, draws him back for a second kiss. "And you've been quiet. Tell me about your day. You were meeting with the ambassador, weren't you?"
❛ i like being close to you. you’re warm. ❜
@softersinned — sent from this prompt (x) still accepting!
‘ that might be the fireplace, perhaps. ’ the rug that that they're laying on, body tangled together as they recline, has been placed next to the open fireplace for a reason. in the winter months, when the bed linens are not enough to keep him warm, he'll lay here and allow the heat to radiate over his body. and in situations like this, when company has joined him in his rooms, it makes for the perfect post-coital relaxation spot. ‘ but i'll gladly take the compliment. and in return... ’ he leans down to allow his lips to find the soft skin of her shoulder, pressing a light kiss there in response. ‘ how adverse would you feel towards a round two? ’
#cragsnow#thread: cragsnow001#(unfortunately he is simply Too cute for words. i love him. does he know this.)
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@sunderdust said: [ CARESS ] for sender to kiss one of receiver’s scars
He has become her mirror. It's a strange thing, to know so little about her own appearance: she saw her double in Shar's gauntlet, has seen his illusion of her, but there are still details that simply cannot be replicated. Her doppelgänger's eyes were lifeless and empty; the illusion didn't bear the details of her tattoos. And Stori wonders what it is that she highlighted when she knew what she looked like, what she emphasized when her own face was familiar to her. How she did her hair. Which of her scars she hid and which she displayed.
Solomon makes a map for her, strips away her armor and her insecurities alike and charts that which remains unknown to her. The scars that cover her body. The intricacies of her fading tattoos. The freckle near her hip she'd had no idea about. He is an artist, lips and teeth and tongue and most of all those hands, those beautiful long hands that drive her to distraction, trailing over every inch of her, sinking into her skin, tracking each mark and angle, the surface of her damaged flesh treated with all the reverent attention of a congregant at prayer.
"This one's new," he says, and he presses a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of her jaw. "From the battle with the Netherbrain. A small one. No more than an inch long. Curved, right here." His fingers trace the line, and Stori lets out a quiet hum of pleasure. There are so many things she cannot remember, but she thinks that even if she had the whole of her past at her fingertips, she would forget any touch to her skin but his.
The past months have been quieter than she'd have guessed: adventuring is less exhausting, when the fate of the world is not at stake. The room in Athkatla is dark, lit only by the fire and a few candles; the curtains have been drawn tightly, Solomon's concern for her safety perpetually on display. Still, he is detailed in his studies of her, learning by touch what might escape his sight.
"When is it my turn?" she asks, voice faint and trembling, and Solomon lets out a laugh against her skin before he trails farther down, pressing a kiss over the jagged scar across her throat.
"So impatient," he teases, and she lets out a petulant whine that he can only silence when he kisses her, properly this time, his mouth on hers and her fingers tangling in his hair.
"Good," she murmurs against his lips. "Stay right here. This is all I wanted." Her impatience is the only problem with his endless project to know her: there comes a point when anywhere is too far away from her, when she feels as though she's starving the longer they don't try to occupy the exact same space.
There is an artifact they need to hunt down. It's the entire reason they're here. Something enchanted to protect her from sunlight, if the rumors are true, and they haven't the faintest idea whether or not they are. But it hardly matters when they find themselves like this, wound together, the sheets twisted around their ankles and Stori pressing closer and closer still with each contented sigh into her mouth.
She could stay like this forever, spend endless hours tasting his kiss. This morning, she thinks she just might try.
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@sunderdust said: do you ever feel like your life has turned into something that you never intended?
"All the time."
Her voice is soft, near inaudible. It's the first time she's allowed him to affect her quite like this: she'd taken hold of his hand to help him across the broken steps and the damaged floors and the warmth of him has seeped into her, left her all too aware of how little life she has in her.
"I grew up in the mountains." She doesn't remember much of those days, and so she speaks of it rarely; her history is a secret even to her faithful, and so she doesn't fear that sharing this will expose the truth of who she is. "When I was a girl I imagined that I'd always be in the mountains." With my family, she almost says, but there's no way to explain that, is there? They died when I was young is only technically true, and having murdered them herself as an adolescent is the sort of omission that crosses into a lie.
(Why does it trouble her? To lie like this? To lie to him?)
"I never imagined I'd be this." A vampire. A bhaalspawn. A goddess. She waves a hand vaguely at herself before she tips her head back. They sit on the roof of the tower, having broken in together, and she tries not to look at him if she can help it. She doesn't want to think too hard about the warmth of him beside the cold of her. "There are many things I regret, and there are things for which I am endlessly grateful, but—I never expected it. I never expected any of it."
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↪ 𝑲𝑰𝑺𝑺 ﹠ ᵀᴱᴸᴸ . ( a collection of 50+ kiss prompts . feel free to specify the initiating muse . potentially nsfw content within . will be updated .)
finally kissing the person you’ve been pining for .
a kiss shared during a game ( truth or dare , spin the bottle , etc ) .
kissing your lover to show you forgive them .
neck kisses that turn into love bites .
wiping away your lover’s tears as you kiss them .
a kiss to prove you don’t have feelings for them .
a last kiss before one goes away .
biting your lover’s lip amidst a kiss .
an emotional kiss bringing one party to tears .
a kiss while being reunited after a long time .
kissing your lover in a moment of sheer joy .
a kiss while slow dancing .
sharing a spontaneous kiss with a stranger .
an abrupt , heated kiss during the middle of a fight .
kissing them to shut them up .
a kiss to wake your lover up in the morning .
sharing a kiss in a heavy downpour of rain .
kissing your partner to seal a marriage .
a possessive kiss that is meant to stake a claim .
a kiss to resolve suppressed romantic/sexual tension .
a kiss attempting to convince the other party to stay .
kissing the top of their head as you hold them .
a risky kiss between forbidden lovers .
stolen kisses while hiding away from a crowd .
a kiss that leaves lipstick stains .
a kiss shared on a rooftop while the sun sets .
a flirtatious kiss on the back of the hand .
sneaking off to a public bathroom to make out .
a kiss on the forehead as the other sleeps .
an ( accidental / mutually ) drunken kiss .
caging your lover against a wall with your arms to kiss them .
a kiss after joining your lover in the shower .
a kiss after receiving good news .
a tentative , exploratory kiss between friends .
a kiss shared between enemies during combat .
kissing your lover after believing you’d lost them .
a kiss after a devastating event , meant to comfort .
a possessive kiss in front of a jealous third party .
kissing your lover under the night sky while stargazing .
a kiss between two people in a fake relationship .
a kiss that seals a promise .
kissing your lover lazily first thing in the morning .
holding your lover by the jaw to kiss them .
kissing the tears from their cheeks .
a kiss to your lover’s stomach as you travel down their body .
an abrupt kiss that you melt into after a moment of hesitation .
sleepy , domestic morning kisses in the kitchen while making breakfast .
a rushed kiss before one party leaves for work .
a kiss shared while holding your dying lover .
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