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#scars earrings sharp nails eyelashes gold

infintasmal · 9 months

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Paimon / Appearance.

Because I think Paimon's 'pre-djinn' design is indistinguishable from the humans, I wanted to give a reference for how I picture her to look prior to becoming a djinn. For reference, this is her canon appearance (toplessness warning). I base Paimon's species off of the Apsara from Buddhist and Hindu folklore with some avian-esque influence. I imagine Paimon's appearance to be a combination of elements from both forms as the djinn appearances tend to be exaggerations of the individual's true features.

Complexion - Paimon has a medium skin tone, light tan, with neutral-pink undertones. She has clear skin and lacks any significant scarring. Most comparable to medium beige.

Face - Large eyes, thick lips. She has a heart shaped face with high cheekbones and soft features.

Hair - Waist length, thick black hair. Slightly wavy but the length and weight drags it straight. She takes good care of her hair, mostly wearing it down but occasionally braiding it or wearing it in a ponytail. She is usually seen with a golden headpiece, encrusted with red gemstones as pictured in her reference images. The headpiece was from her mother.

Eyes - Deep violet, large, round and upturned. She has long and thick eyelashes.

Figure - Curvy, hourglass, large breasts and wide hips. She is toned and lightly muscled as she spends much of her time dancing. Her height is 5'7".

Makeup - Paimon wears thick winged eyeliner, some colored shimmery eye shadow. She likes wearing graphic liner at times. Rouge. She favors red or berry toned lips. She has both her finger and toenails painted.

Piercings - Paimon has several piercings. Both lobes, upper lobes, helix, side labret, both nipples, and naval. She wears predominately gold jewelry and likes adorning connective chains for her ears.

Features - Paimon's ears are pointed. Her eyes are often described as bird-like or having an inhuman feeling. She is slightly faster and more agile and flexible than a human and her senses are enhanced. She has particularly sharp vision. While she is not nearly as feathered as Focalor, she has tufts of feathers on her forearms and calves, as features in Hakuei's djinn equip. Her feathers are nearly black but in light you can see a violet tone. Her nails grow to a natural almond point. Her canines are slightly pointed. These features are indicative of those in her species.

Clothing - Paimon wears a lot of jewelry as pictured in her reference image. All jewelry is golden and accented with either red or purple gemstones. Large earrings, a thick necklace, several rings, upper arm bands, an assortment or bangles on both her wrists and ankles, some adorned with small bells. She has a golden headpiece as a sign of her status as matriarch. She wears a tight, cropped golden bodice and a long black skirt with slits going up either leg. She wears accented waist chains and belts to accent the skirt There are feathers and beading woven into the skirt. She is barefoot. She jingles when she walks and dances. She has feathers braided into her hair and uses them as accents in her clothing. Her people dress similarly though perhaps not as ornate. Many of her tribe will oftentimes be shirtless. This includes Paimon although she will cover herself up when entering the human's territory as she recognizes this is not commonplace among the other species. Casual nudity is normal among her people. She is often times seen carrying a feathered trident-esque staff as seen in Hakuei's djinn equip. However hers features violet feathers. It was her mother's staff, passed down by the tribe leaders. The feathers and gemstone are changed with each matriarch to personalize it.

#∞࿚ paimon ( i'll send a storm to capture your heart. )#one day ill comm someone to draw her

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untowonder-gone · 2 years

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DETAILED APPEARANCE INFO

head:

FACESHAPE: a pleasing heart, wide at the forehead and narrow at the chin. a considerably attractive face. CHEEKBONES: high, sharp and but not particularly prominent. LIPS: bow shaped, with a slightly thinner top lip and a soft, full bottom lip. velvet soft, never without moisturizing lip balm. bottom lip is often chewed on, causing some mild swelling. SKIN COLOR: cool ivory white with peachy undertones. thin skin provides more of a burst of pink upon her cheeks, knuckles, knees, toes and fingertips, and reveals blue veins just beneath the surface along her inner arms and atop her hands and feet. though without visible blemish, if she could permanently scar, her skin would carry such beautifully. SKIN TYPE: naturally dry, thin skin, which would wrinkle with age, if Marianne could age naturally. made soft and supple from extensive skincare routine and moisturizing products endorsed by Vil Schoenheit. EYE SHAPE: round, doe eyes. narrow at the edges, and wide in the middle, giving her a wide eyed, innocent stare. EYE COLOR: soft violet, leaning into lavender. EYEBROW SHAPE: narrow, sculpted blonde brows. well taken care of. EYEBROW COLOR: pale gold. EYELASHES: sweeping off-white lashes, thick and lush, long in length. top lashes are surprisingly thick, however bottom lashes are sparse. NOSE SHAPE: long narrow nose bridge, and a slightly upturned tip. typical, european nose. HAIR TEXTURE: well maintained, incredibly soft to the touch, near feather light. sleek and smooth, and so very soft. HAIR COLOR: once a soft golden hue with hints of amber at the ends, now an icy platinum blonde, nearly feather white. the cause for this hair color shift is believed to be tied to her exposure to other’s unique magic. HAIR LENGTH: initially waist length, thick and heavy, with soft delicate waves prior to brushing. however, her hair has grown considerably during her time at NRC, now reaching well below her knees, and has lost much of it’s heft, now being far more airy. EARS: small, round ears, with small disconnected earlobes which show no sign of piercing.

upper body:

SHOULDERS: narrow bony shoulders. ARMS: long, sinewy arms. lacking in muscle definition. STOMACH AREA: soft, with no clear muscle definition. LOVEHANDLES?: no. CHEST/BREASTS: wide, perky, a little more than a handful. without support of a brassier or other undergarments, her breasts manage to remain somewhat pert, retaining much of their shape. thin skin allows blue veins to be seen just beneath the surface. NIPPLES: outward facing and pink. BACK: slightly curved lower back, but otherwise ridged and straight with good posture. HAND SIZE: long, slender hands blessed by thin fingers. they give an almost dainty, feminine appearance. their lovely pallor and pink undertones make the blue veins appear rather aesthetically when not hidden by gloves.

lower body:

HIPS: average size hips, with slightly visible hip-dips. BOTTOM: a full, soft peach shape, more than a handful to hold. THIGHS: attractively wide, holding the highest fat distribution. soft and squishy, a comfortable lap to use as a pillow. CALVES: small calves, no notable differences in musculature. LEG LENGTH: 25″ inseam.

other:

BODY HAIR: nearly, if not entirely white, practically invisible or unnoticeable. SCENT: adorned in a perfume which is a mix of honey, sugared violet, jasmine, and sandalwood, overtop scentless shampoos, conditioners, and soaps. beneath the surface, however, is a fine scent of ink and paper. HAND NAILS: painted in shades of watery pink or raspberry, with a lovely petal pink nail bed, usually neatly trimmed. however, those with an eye for detail will notice teeth markings, and clotted blood spots marring her nails. TOENAILS: just as lovingly taken care of as the nails upon her hands, though absent are the teeth markings and blood spots. VOICE: warm honey, soft and gentle, within the higher range. carries little to no accent. HEIGHT: 157cm | 5′1″ PIERCINGS: N/A TATTOOS: N/A. WEIGHT: 50kg | 110 lbs BRA SIZE: 83cm | D36.5 JPN | 30C US SHOE SIZE: 20.8cm | 4 US PREFERRED CHOICE OF SHOES: oxford heels or similar aesthetics. ankle straps, ribbons, bows, she is quite the fan of pretty aesthetics. CLOTHING STYLE: classic victorian inspired attire, somewhat caught between an antiquated appearance and a lolita visual. although there is some bleed into more casual, soft almost cottage-core-esque flowing gowns, or light capri pants and flowing blouses. GENERAL BODYSHAPE: hourglass

#⋆⁺₊⋆ 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞 ›› ㅤ ❝ jam to-morrow and jam yesterday but never jam to-day #⋆⁺₊⋆ 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚 ›› ㅤ ❝ you are haunted by memories that linger #/ very very long post and pretty detailed #/ honestly was a lot of fun

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sorcererrezan · 3 years

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unconvinced

congratulations on outdoing yourself yet AGAIN with chapter 7 @ataleofcrowns 💛 you are truly on another level queen 😌✨

prompt: “Then tell me, how can I convince you?” (list here) pairing: X/crown rating: spicy T 😏 word count: 1,929 summary: ‘It would be so easy to make him kneel for you, the way he clearly wants to—’

Crown Navid shows Xelef that two can play his game.

—

Liar.

It’s what the earth spirits had said, but now, ensconced in his palace, where he has invited in those who are merely curious about him at best and possibly strategizing his murder at worst, Navid hears it in his own voice.

The control he has maintained since Ishrah and Siham opened his doors this morning squeezes around his chest. It pinches and he can feel his heart bursting out of the gaps of its hold, turning into spikes.

Navid’s eyes thin into slits of piercing gold. His tone, now devoid of its casual charm, is flat. Unamused. “I’m not convinced.”

Xelef, just as persistent, gauges him. Navid can pinpoint the exact moment the sellsword decides on his next tactic, green eyes shifting hues like a turning emerald.

“Then tell me, how can I convince you?”

Just as much as Xelef is surely leaning on his sensory abilities, Navid’s awareness of the situation rises. Above his disrespected aggravation and Xelef’s agile contortions he can see the conflict between his own present and Xelef’s past. In the back of his mind he notes a sense of affronted duplicity—isn’t this the same man that warned him against self-destructive paralysis, the one that saw through his worries leading up to today and offered reassuring distraction?

Why can’t Xelef use that insight to understand the position he’s put a newly coronated Crown in, instead of to devise an escape from the consequences of his impulses?

Xelef steps close, as skilled at wielding a weapon as he is his own body. Navid’s thick brows furrow at himself, at the way his reaction betrays him, heart rabbiting in response to the enticingly deep fragrance clouding the mercenary, the ridges and valleys of his form set in such a tantalizing display. Navid can feel the heat from Xelef’s bare chest even through the rich fabric of his ceremonial robes and the magic imbued in them. Xelef’s hand on his shoulder is a reminder of his size and strength, of his willful potential to overpower.

“Shall I beg you again, on my knees this time?”

Every single thing about him is a distraction.

If Xelef wanted to keep up their easy flirtation from this morning, he shouldn’t have soured it by testing the limits of Navid’s control. But now that he has…

An open palm finds the heated skin of Xelef’s abdomen, gliding across hard muscles; callouses catching on the random, puckered skin of his scars. Navid can hear Xelef’s rushed inhale before it turns into a low chuckle. He lets his lips brush against the goosebumps on Xelef’s neck before he murmurs, breath hot on his ear, “Kneel, mercenary.”

The last word is a sharp hiss, accompanied by the bite of his blunt nails on Xelef’s bare skin. The muscles underneath his touch jump as Navid pulls him down, fingertips gliding up his torso along the way. Xelef would look almost reverent, on his knees before him like this, if it weren’t for the devious gleam of getting what he wanted in his eyes.

Navid’s lips twist into something wicked.

“Beg for my forgiveness,” he repeats, voice husky, one hand cradling Xelef’s jaw in a commanding grip. Navid feels powerful. Different from the ways before when he has bent Xelef to his will because this time, there’s no perceptive audience.

Distraction or not, this is all for him.

Xelef bites his bottom lip and Navid eyes the plumpness of it, gaze sharpening in vindication as the man in front of him lets out a shaky, almost whining, exhale.

“Please forgive me, Navid,” dark eyelashes flutter in a practiced way that Navid is nonetheless susceptible to. The use of his given name throws him off guard, widening his stare. Another distraction, or an attempt at sincerity? Only the Void knows for sure.

Navid nods, letting some of his cool charm return in an inviting smile. The hand on Xelef’s jaw slides to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through the smooth locks of his hair. “You look good like this, Xelef.”

“So do you,” he eyes Navid hungrily, not even hiding the lascivious way his stare roves from right below his waistline, up the slim taper of his waist, the flare of his shoulders, then lingers on his lips before making eye contact and meeting fire with fire.

Navid’s smile shifts into a smirk and he tightens his hand into a domineering fist, pulling Xelef’s hair, holding him in precarious place as he leans over him. He makes a show of sliding his eyes from Xelef’s to his mouth as he bends closer then closer still, until the mercenary’s long lashes flutter closed in anticipation.

Their lips are separated only by their breath when Navid tugs—not gently—and Xelef lets out a choked half of a groan.

“Don’t ever deign to undermine me like that again. Especially not amongst these vultures,” Navid spits the last word out, voice testy and dangerous in a way Xelef has never heard before. He conceals his unspoken ‘I need you on my side.’ in another jarring pull of his hair, forcing Xelef to bare his throat to him. “Do you understand, Pale Sword?”

From his vantage point he can see Xelef’s desperate swallow, can hear the submission in his shaky exhale of a response. “Yes… my Crown.”

“Good.”

Navid breaks away like a glacier’s cliff dropping into the sea. For half a second Xelef crumples, not expecting the loss of support so immediately, before his muscles clench and he regains his balance. Spirits help him, but he is not immune to the way Xelef’s abdominals, framed by the rich textures of his formalwear, dance under his tanned, hairy skin.

Navid keeps a calculated, cunning look on his face as Xelef rises on his own, eyeing him in equal parts defeated respect and surprised annoyance.

“I suppose I deserved that,” comes the begrudging admission. Finally, Xelef’s sincerity outweighs Navid’s doubts.

“Don’t mistake my reciprocation of your attention for naïveté,” Navid pins him with a knowing stare, a reminder that as much as Xelef can see through him, he can see the same. And to let him know that, even still, he wants to continue cultivating this “whatever you want it to be” that’s growing between them. Navid doesn’t know what Xelef’s romantic past looks like—and doesn’t much care—but if Xelef wants to keep courting his favor, he needs to know that there are harsh lines that Navid will not allow him to cross.

“I’m sick of people hiding things I should know from me.”

The last part comes out more resentful than Navid intends, tinged with his turbulent reflections about his parents’ debilitating omissions and how exhausting it is to think of learning to divine the nobility’s nebulous motives and intentions.

“You’ve known me for mere days, and you expect me to bare all my secrets to you because I helped you once?” Xelef snaps back, patience run ragged after Navid turned the tables on him. It stings. The fatigue of the day’s emotions slams into Navid all at once, his hurt the delayed catalyst.

He takes a deep breath, recentering himself. Is his pride worth it? They’ve both made their point. And he doesn’t quite yet know where the line for Xelef is, when taking advantage of their attraction to each other morphs into something destructive.

He sighs. So many calculations today, mind overstuffed by the endless observations he’s made to try to perceive everyone around him. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Navid shrugs, closing himself off from the weight of it all. He never asked for any of this responsibility, still doesn’t understand why the spirits chose him. Did they do it with the person he could’ve been before he spent a decade on the run in mind? Or with the decorated shell of a man he is now, desperately trying to fill his insides after those he trusted to protect and guide him failed? Maybe he really is naive, for dreaming that his problems could be solved simply by finding his sorcerer and finally becoming the Crown.

“You’re right, after all. We’ve only known each other a short time, and we’re not friends. I’m only your employer, right?” If Xelef wants to shield himself with that context, so be it. Navid is just as good at hiding.

“Navid…” Regret paints Xelef’s face an unfamiliar expression.

“It is what it is. You have your secrets. I have mine.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Xelef,” he interrupts tiredly with an open palm. “It’s alright. I understand. Just don’t get me killed.”

Navid forces a smile to soften the jibe, retreating back into performance. Xelef opens his mouth as if to say something, brow bunched as he seems to sway between decisions.

“I’ll just see you—”

“The Mîrs of Rojan and I have a long, bloody history together. I don’t want to speak of Behram, but…”

Xelef holds Navid’s gaze, still wavering for a beat before choosing his path. Something parts behind his eyes, something that allows both of them to see. How alike they are. How tired. How terrified and cautiously hopeful.

Xelef tells his story about Behram’s predecessor. Navid listens raptly, fully aware that this vulnerability could be fleeting, and hangs onto it. The part of him that doesn’t ache for Xelef as he unravels the tragedy of his childhood is grateful for the distraction from his own maelstrom of trauma and emotions.

“Then why did you help me?” Navid asks, feeling the gulf of his status between him and Xelef more distinctly than ever.

“I… had my own reasons,” he doesn’t meet Navid’s eyes when he answers. Though it’s not the reassurance that he wanted to hear—that he did it for more than just the potential of gold or vengeance—at least it’s the truth.

“In any case, does this sate your curiosity a little bit?”

Navid recognizes the attempt at lightheartedness as a tool, though just like with his own attempt earlier, it’s outweighed by the ghosts that linger around them both.

“Is this usually how you leave people sated after kneeling for them?” It’s not quite the same playfulness that’s usually between the two of them, not after what they’ve found out about each other today, but it proves that they can bounce back. Move forward, together.

“No, but today was a special occasion,” Xelef smiles, though it looks dim on his face. It flickers away, making room for the solemnity in his voice. “You should know—I told you that because I wanted to.”

“I do know.”

Navid reaches for Xelef, this time with no ulterior motive, but someone clears their throat before they touch.

“Yes?” Navid tries not to let exasperation color his tone—the guards don’t deserve his ire. Still, he can’t help but be disappointed at the interruption, especially since this feels like some sort of breakthrough between him and Xelef.

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Imperial Majesty.”

Ah, right. The banquet and its accompanying expectations. Navid sighs, imagining the steam rising from the bath he plans on sinking into after all this. Alone.

“You go on ahead,” Xelef concedes. “I think I need some time to myself.”

“Will I see you later?”

“You can’t get rid of me that easily,” relief flushes out Navid’s discordant emotions, and he holds on to the smile that Xelef sends his way to bolster him for the rest of the night. “You haven’t paid me yet, after all.”

“I’m good for it,” Navid hopes his returning smile, laden with the complications of things said and unsaid but sanguine nonetheless, does the same for Xelef.

#a tale of crowns #xelara/xelef #x/crown #interactive fiction #atoc prompt #atoc spoilers #otp: for you i'll try my very best #fic #oc: navid riahi #congrats again bestie 😘#the distractions to lovers HIT SO FUCKING HARD IN CHAPTER 7 #i am LOVING the progression of the romance and the direction it's going #the payoff is gonna be DELICIOUS #just had to stretchhhhhh out that scene and explore a delicious what if 👀#also yes this is THEE navid with the bedroom eyes #i know y'all have seen his portrait 😏#alt title: X fucks around and finds out

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aroaessidhe · 2 years

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Character descriptions from Bitter by Akwaeke Emezi

from my char desc database for fanart, link in my pinned post!

Bitter

steel ring in her lower lip

closer cropped hair

hard cheekbones and bare eyebrows, the same wide mouth

Bitter glanced down at her pinstriped overalls and her paint-splattered sweater.

doesn’t wear earrings, does wear makeup

Blessing

Her jeans and hoodie were covered with colorful doodles, flowers and suns and rainbows

She was a tall girl in a neon-pink hijab, which framed her soft face. Her lashes were a mile long, and tiny iridescent stickers were scattered over her cheekbones.

all holographic stickers and flawless eyeliner

Blessing was in a full floral set—from her hijab to her bright sweatsuit and holographic sneakers. The air outside was crisp and cool.

Alex

Her lean arms were covered with little keloid scars from burns and cuts because she worked with metal

in her usual all black,

pink glasses

Eddie

spikes swinging from knots at the ends of her purple braids

in tiny denim shorts and a neon-pink crop top, her eyes outlined in matching pink eyeliner and her spiked purple braids pulled up in a ponytail.

her braids sea green with gold cowries at the tips [when she and bitter were dating]

a bright yellow romper, her braids twisted up into two large buns. her eyes hidden behind round sunglasses

Aloe

short dreadlocks

He had a gap between his two front teeth, a wide mouth, and long eyelashes. Bitter tried not to stare at the way his dark skin gleamed over his cheekbones, the broad slope of his shoulders, the cut of his arms, the way his chest stretched out his T-shirt.

He was wearing too much denim—blue jeans and a denim shirt with a denim jacket over it.

Miss Virtue

had a deep voice, a shock of steel hair, and the most eerie gray eyes, and she was always dressed in the sharpest suits they’d ever seen

extraordinarily tall

ghostly gray eyes

She was wearing a blood-red dress with severe lines, and her silver hair was pulled away from her face, cinched into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her lips were a deeper red than her dress, and when she smiled at Bitter, her teeth seemed almost sharp.

in a white snakeskin suit with matching boots. Her face was calm and almost pleasant, but her gray eyes looked slightly feral. She was sipping tea from a delicate china cup

Miss Virtue hid a smile and smoothed her hands over her suit. Her nails were blood red against the dark mossy green

Ube

tall blue-black boy in a wheelchair, the one with a voice like a prophe

Theron

His face was burned into Bitter’s memory: the pasty skin and thin blond hair, the hawk nose, the unnaturally white teeth

Miss Belphina

A dark-skinned woman with gray hair and soft wrinkles around her eyes was seated on a low wooden stool, surrounded by a semicircle of young children on cushions and colorful mats

Her gray hair flared out wild and curly from her scalp, and she was wearing a purple suit the color of smashed berries.

Sunflower

A woman stepped into the kitchen soundlessly, wearing glistening black sandals and a crisp midnight agbada that cascaded off her shoulders, its folds draped with a casual elegance. It was embroidered with shimmering thread, as if electricity ran through the fabric

Sunflower’s head was shaved bald, smooth dark skin wrapping around her skull. Her earlobes were thick with clusters of diamonds, tracking all the way to the tops of her ears and casting a light that made it seem as if small galaxies were orbiting around her head.

Sunflower’s cheekbones were sculpted ridges cutting through her skin, and her eyes were dark

Sunflower flashed a little smile, showing a gap between her front teeth that was also bridged with diamonds.

Vengeance

The figure was much larger than she’d expected—its scaled head alone was about half the size of her body, with seven narrow and opaque eyes, all a feline yellow with black slits. Its neck snaked out from the painting, a streak of wax gleaming down its red throat, jagged white eggshells marking its spine, going on forever before the torso emerged with a slick hiss. The creature looked like it was made out of compressed smoke that was having a hard time staying together; it kept giving off thick gouts of gray and white that would then pull back to the body. It was eclipsing Bitter’s room, its head bending against her ceiling as the rest of its body broke out of the wood, long limbs and hooked claws.

A handful of figures stood in the middle, shaped like people, but made of nothing like flesh. There was a glimpse of feathers tipped in blood, delicate sheets of fire, metal, and mercury. In the front stood a figure made of smoke, with a scaled head and seven yellow eyes.

scaled head and yellow eyes, egg-white spine and long claws, its whole length of smoke.

#bitter #akwaeke emezi #i rly want to draw vengeance and bitter and blessing at least!!#char desc database

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trailshome · 3 years

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Could you describe what each of the ros look like and what they usually wear? Loved the game and I also think you are very sweet.😚💕

//asdasda stopppp!! you anons are the sweet ones!! omgg... no there aren’t tears in my eyes hnnng 💖 💖

Finlay is a statuesque Fyvar whose features are very angular. With sharp cheekbones, a narrow chin, and a wide jawline, they are often described as rather attractive, almost hero-like in the way they glower down at their enemies. They have a wide, flat nose between evenly spaced, narrowed, golden eyes and often furrowed red eyebrows. Their plump lips are often painted, on occasion, in dark shades of purples and reds.

They keep their flaming red-orange hair pulled back into a ponytail of soft, corkscrew curls. Twin braids, usually braided in their spare time, dangle against their sharp jawline and draw emphasis to their downward, sharp, pointed ears. Finlay comes to a height of 6'7" or 200.66 cm, they are about as tall as their race comes with a well-muscled, defined build from years of training and travel.

They tend to dawn gleaming armor the color of snow with the church's spiraling insignia emblazoned on the flattened chest piece. When not wearing their armor, they tend to prefer loose shirts, well-fitted athletic pants, form-fitting, thin shoes. On occasion, they will don a cropped tank top and chest binder (read: sports bra).

Lesilfae is a lean, figure with an average (if a bit softer) build. He tends to emphasize his sharp features by highlighting makeup and line his eyes with kohl. His cheekbones are soft, rising gently from his thin cheeks and tend to push his eyes upwards into a cat-like stare. His nose is Romanesque, broad and strong, with a sharp cupid's bow leading to average-looking lips, pulled into a false, thin smile. His lavender (sometimes thistle) color eyebrows appear plucked and gently shaped, giving him an ethereal, almost strange appearance. Two eyes, the color of jade, watch their patrons and customers with barely concealed pleasure.

Lesilfae keeps his hair in a long, immaculate, asymmetrical cut -- one-half long enough to brush his shoulder but the other half short enough to tickle his jaw. His hair is naturally straight but when wet, will curl ever so slightly. He has small, downward pointed ears as is custom for his race, with four thin arms. He keeps his hands soft with lotions and rubs, keeping his nails short and neat. He is on the shorter height spectrum for his race, coming at a solid 6'4" or 193 cm.

He tends to wear snuggly fitted vests with wide lapels, often of rich coloring, and fitted pants with heeled boots. Will, every so often, wear older, well-worn shirts and pants when he doesn't feel well. He has slightly, naturally tanned skin.

Galeon is a broad, bulky figure with long legs. His arms are well-muscled to the point that he often has to go sleeveless due to most sleeved shirts leaving him feeling restrained. He towers over his race at a shocking, 6'11" or 210.82 cm!! His body, while soft, is similar to that of a bodybuilder, muscled but with a healthy cushion of fat. He likes to keep his loose curls free and shaggy, often draping down over his eyebrows, and tangling gently with his long eyelashes. He's always smiling with his thin lips, cracked due to lack of proper hydration and heat. His nose, similar to Lesilfae's, is Romanesque, large, and hooked as though it had been broken at some point.

Galeon has a wide jawline, low cheekbones, and downward angled, almost sad-looking grey eyes, which are often narrowed by thick, messy fern-green eyebrows. His arms and hands are littered with scars, gained from his many years of healing the unfortunate ill. He has large, downward pointed ears, though one has a somewhat noticeable fold to its tip.

He has a preference for loose-fitting, sleeveless shirts with long armholes, that often expose his ribcage and stomach when viewed from the side. Galeon will also sometimes wear thin bandages around his chest and wound up his arms. He wears pants similar to drop-crotch pants, he finds them very comfortable and easy to move in! He has rich dark brown skin that’s darker than Lesilfae’s, but lighter than Finlay’s.

Hollond is a slim, short figure with a ballet dancer's build. Despite their short height, they have long arms with three-fingered (pointer, modified pinkie, and thumb) hands. Galeon often jokes that they are ''all legs and no height'', which is... pretty true. They have long thin legs, a smaller torso as is typical of Ynen. Their skin is a shade of icy, blue that darkens to green shade on their cheeks and nose when they blush. They come to the incredibly short, but average for their race, height of 4'9" or 144.78 cm. Hollond likes to keep their pearlescent (or white-blonde) hair loose, long (typically long enough to brush their ankles), and silky!

They have a flat nose that is level with their forehead (kinda like da2 elves??) with small, circular eyebrows often bent with disdain above shockingly blue irises and black sclera. They have thin, natural black lips and flat, herbivorous teeth. Their ears are often hidden by their hair, and sit naturally against their skull (as is typical).

Hollond prefers wearing tight, flexible leggings with a loose, billowing top that is sometimes tucked into an underbust corset. They have a flat chest, wider hips, and lean legs. Like their siblings (and quite a few other Ynen), they appear androgynous! Enjoys wearing nightgowns to sleep and around the home!!

Greta is a chubby gal with a thicker build!! Similar to Galeon, she's got a bit of a body-builder thing going on, where she's got a healthy amount of fat covering her muscle! Like her multicolored, luminous race, her skin is a shade of pastel/blush-pink with orange freckles dashed across her cheeks, nose, and shoulders. She's of average height for her race, coming to an easy 5'4" (or 5'3" depending on the day) or 162 cm! She likes to keep her cherry-red hair in a wavy, almost curly, jaw-length bob!

She has an adorable button nose, chubby, kissable cheeks, and large, violet-colored eyes. She has rounded eyebrows usually tilted upwards and a mischievous, plump-lipped smile! Her ears are long and feathered the same color as her hair. She likes to decorate her ears and hair in shiny pendants and clips, usually preferring them to be gold-gilded.

She likes to wear billowing shorts that tighten around her mid-thigh, loose shirts that she tucks into her pants, and a short, elbow-length cloak (often decorated with pins)! She enjoys wearing dresses and skirts when she's with her family or friends! Her fashion aesthetic? Cute AF!!

#asks #answered #long post #character appearance descriptions #clothes descriptions #fuck i love greta so gd much #asadsad #biased #I admit it!!#jkjk #chara: galeon hughes #chara: hollond ovara #chara: lesilfae #chara: greta #chara: finlay

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grabthemhorns-old · 4 years

Text

Obey Me! fic - Lucifer/MC NSFW

Hierarchy

Sub/Dom Restraint Lucifer/female MC Warnings: Blood Part One - Command

Lucifer and Ivy have had a quaint afternoon in the greenhouse planting roses, but in truth, Lucifer has been having a Bad Day, and craves the touch - and command - of his lover.

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“How old are you?” asked Ivy, pushing down the soil of her pot, careful of the delicate rosebud at its centre.

Lucifer paused, watching the dead leaf of his clipped rose, fall. “I stopped counting when I fell to Devildom.”

The words were simple, level, contained within the foliage of the greenhouse they’d spent the most of the afternoon in. It was warm here, and he’d shed his coats down to his black shirt, rolled to the elbows. They were hung up on a decorated peg by the door next to Ivy’s gold threaded scarf - a gift from Mammon.

Ivy lifted the pot onto the shelf with the others. All that was left was the rose bush in his hands. “I find that hard to believe,” said Ivy as she pulled off her gloves and leant against the counter, hip to wood. “Diligent, poised, perfect Lucifer doesn’t remember when he fell to hell?”

He plucked a leaf clean off its stem, casting its life aside. “The transition was...complicated.” He leaned forward on the table, claws pricking the wood top harder than he wished. “The war lasted years - years that merged into each other, that we don’t all remember individually - or want to. And the years down here haven’t all been...smooth.”

Nails gnawed at wood as he talked, picking deep, dark trenches to bury his words.

Ivy reached out, tentative, hand poised above Lucifer’s, before she touched lightly, the dim blue of the garden lights washing over the golden mark of her pact with Mammon.

They hadn’t told her about that part. That a mark would manifest on her skin upon creating a pact. It hadn’t been painful, just...odd. A tether to her demon, a brand of their bargain. Why didn’t they get one, she’d asked. “Because in the end, we offer more ,” Lucifer had said, simply. Proudly.

Sometimes she touched Lucifer’s when she was lonely, afraid...aroused.

Did he know? She never asked. He never told.

“You never talk about the war, the years that followed.” Her hand trailed up his exposed arm, indented with two large scars.

“I doomed my brothers, my sister, because of my pride, which became my definition .” Claws shredded the wood beneath his hand. Ivy held steady, held firm, feeling the demon beneath desperate for release.

“You don’t really believe that,” she said softly. “You stood against tyranny, and for what you believe in. It just-” It was hot where his wings spread out from at his back, Ivy could feel the heat burn through his shirt as she ran her fingers up, and down, braving the impending yawn of black feathers, sharp enough to cut. “It just...failed.” But they never came.

“I, failed.” His claws retracted, leaving behind shreds of wood at their tips.

Ivy said nothing. She touched one of his scars.

Lucifer flinched, a hazy memory yanked like a too long embedded thorn.

It’s not her fault.

He swallowed.

It’s not her fault you remember.

“I failed and what am I now?” Lucifer smirked. “Satan had it right, a glorified lap dog , with no mind of my own. All I do, I do for Diavolo.”

Ivy’s hand hovered above his arm. She’d felt that flinch, and she suspected. She was afraid to touch, afraid to unravel memories that weren’t hers to be unpacked. Lightly, she brushed his stomach, and looked up. “Is all you do, just for him?”

A growl, low and feral rumbled from his chest, a chest that pushed Ivy against the worktop, the wood biting at her lower back. She looked up, the red of his eyes a slit against the monochrome of his beauty. “Let me see my brand,” he demanded, fingers clawing down the front of her chest, already unhooking a button, and another. He didn’t wait for an answer.

Of all seven brands, Lucifer’s was the most elaborate. And it had hurt, unlike the others, when it was etched onto her skin with an invisible hand. Lucifer had watched, plucking apart her shirt - just like now - as the delicate lines formed, it felt like the times she’d gotten a tattoo in the human realm.

And as he watched, she wondered how much control they had in their brands. Enough that the symbolism represented each brother individually, but beyond that, they simply appeared on her skin with the unseen magic that held their bonds together.

Until Lucifer.

It was as if he guided the lines himself, by eye, as if searing the skin himself with just a look. Ivy had been too afraid to touch it until she felt the pain settle, afraid it might cut away her finger. But she’d watched, curiously, as his wings were branded onto her skin - one set black, the other white. The bottom wings spread across the top of her breasts, moving as she breathed.

Just like now.

Lucifer traced the brand with a painted nail, glowing red beneath its demon’s touch. “You never use your...gift.” He paused at his last word, catching her eyes as he spoke, making sure she knew that it was exactly that. A gift, he’d given.

Ivy tilted her head, spreading her hand on his stomach, pushing.

He pushed back, claws extending against her bare chest. “Why?”

“I know you enjoy being in control,” said Ivy, delicately, watching the quiver in his touch. “So why take that away?”

There was little warning before Lucifer hoisted Ivy onto the worktop, knocking an empty pot to the floor with a gentle thud. But after, he just, stopped.

“Use it.” The words licked against her ear, low and longing as he clawed a hand through her ruby rose hair, the restraint in his touch a whisper against her neck. “Take it away.” A claw, two, pressed against the nape of her neck. “Before I lose it.”

Ivy could barely breathe.

She turned, their faces so close his eyelashes kissed her cheek, as he waited. And waited. The tremor of his composure, waning, as their eyes met.

Her voice cracked, shaken with desire and power , as she spoke. “I command you, Lucifer, to fall to your knees.”

And he did.

Dust and compost smeared his pristine trousers as the brand glowed at her words, pulling on the tether in their bond, and executing her command.

Lucifer looked up, arms tightly held at his side, awaiting her command. A shock of hair stuck to the edge of his lips, parted, the desperation of an order tucked behind, wanting.

Watching, waiting, Ivy unhooked the buttons of her shirt. Lucifer’s arms twitched against his invisible restraints. Again. Again.

Click. The last button of her shirt, and it slid open, the soft cotton catching on the peak of her nipples as she leaned forward, a wash of red hair her veil, as she gazed down from above. “Can you speak?”

“Yes.” Simple, weak. The single word almost lost behind his lips, shadowed by the fury in his eyes. Ivy knew each of the brothers reacted differently to their seals commands - a reflection of their power, she assumed. And with pride, something like this must be a struggle, despite the circumstance. And she hadn’t yet begun to consider the impact of their emotional bond either.

Lucifer was inches away from the edge of the worktop, and her spread legs. His eyes followed her every movement as she leaned forward more, an arm reaching out to pluck the lock of hair from his lips.

He bared a fang. Ivy touched, rolling a thumb along the sharp tip.

Hiss.

He tried to bite down, but he couldn’t.

Slip. One finger, two, tugged at his bottom lip, pulling away.

A sharp gust of wind almost knocked Ivy back against the glass wall as Lucifer’s wings snapped out loud and wide, as his horns curved to a dangerously delicate point, as he trembled, weighted by the power of his demonic visage, succumbed to its knees.

Breathless, Ivy touched a horn, clicking a nail along the deep ridges, indented by the moonlight. “How long can it restrain your power,” she asked, a quiver of fear coiling around her trepidation.

Lucifer simply stared. Crimson tipped eyes, fearless, cloying. “Why don’t you try and see?”

A challenge. A goad. She dragged her nail deeper against his horn, remembering from their first night together how sensitive they were. And from the way his bound body quivered, the touch did not disappoint.

“Take off my trousers,” she said, watching his deft fingers slipping open the decorated buttons. “And careful of those claws.” Ivy chided, pushing back a falling lock of his hair.

“These?” Slowly, achingly, he rolled down her trousers as commanded, dragging the tips of his claws along her thighs, just enough to mark, to let her remember their true hierarchy.

It was enough to make her forget his leash, for her to relinquish a thread of control as she quivered beneath the claws, revelling in the spike of pain that he knew she loved.

But just, a moment. A moment he’d pay for.

Naked, but for her shirt, she snapped to his gaze, watching the red flare in his eyes as she gave her command. “Hands behind your back until I say you can move them.”

She watched him test the restraint at once. Unyielding, but for the quake of his wings, curling around his body, seeking hers like a maw. The tip of a feather touched her arm. Ivy moaned, pressing her thighs against the worktop, the wooden ledge biting into her thick flesh.

“You won’t last,” whispered Lucifer, shaded by the canopy of his wings, the moonlight broken through the stipple of ruffled feathers.

Ivy smirked. “I don’t need your hands.”

Lucifer licked his fang.

“I command you,” she whispered, brushing her fingers against his cheek-

“Careful with your choice of words, Ivy,” lulled Lucifer as he felt her touch his lip, so close to a fang. It whispered for the lick of blood. “Demons make a meal of humans, in more ways than one.”

Ivy bit her lip at his teasing, but she knew the seal would understand her command. This, is where their emotional bond worked . It understood on a level more primal than words. Shuffling to the edge of the worktop, Ivy leaned down, close, tilting her lover’s head up with a pinch.

He was ravenous, the ruby in his eyes eclipsing the white. It painted his lashes, singed with the power of hell. She wondered what colour they’d been in heaven.

“I command you,” she drawled against his ear, silky strands catching her curled lips, “to eat me.”

All Ivy heard was a low, raw growl, before her legs were spread, sharply. She braced herself, looking twice as the ebony feathers of his wings wrapped around her thighs and held her steady, as Lucifer leant forward, looked up, and bared a fang. Before the flash of his eyes closed, and he drew his tongue along her damp slit, achingly slow.

Snap. Her hands clamped onto his horns, fingers slip, sliding across the rough ridges, bitten by battle, and worn by war, she touched their memories as she head his head, a loose guidance met by a growl of resistance, resistance that tightened the feathers at her thighs, turning the skin around the ebony, ivory.

Ivy, sang. Her moans kissing his ears with every stroke of his tongue, with every brush of his lips across flesh he knew; he knew just where to touch to pluck the melody of her song, timed to the beat of her heart, thrumming against the tips of his feathers.

Doing this beneath the seals command was...different. It was like a noose around his neck that would tighten in struggle with his power and pull him back down, down, if he stopped, and somehow, that made it better.

Lucifer paused, pulling back to simply watch. For a moment.

She was always so breathless. Loud. Void of shame. Her hands wrung with desperation as they twisted through his hair, his horns.

He shivered as he smelled blood drip, drip from her finger. She’d nicked it on the tip of his horn again. Lucifer licked his fang as he felt the noose tighten.

“You’re resisting it,” breathed Ivy, her staggered words delicious against Lucifer’s ears. She drew her hand along his horn. Lucifer could almost taste the blood as she smeared it across his horn, trickling over the moonlit ridges.

“You’d rather I comply?” he said against her thigh.

Ivy laughed, pushing him back down by the horns. He spread her thighs, more.

The floor bit into his knees, the cold forgotten from the heat of her flesh, of her thighs against his face, drowned in decadence. The earthy smell of the shifted compost was so distinct against Ivy’s familiar, heavy scent. Sweet, but tart - like blood.

Insatiable.

She moved, relentlessly. And the closer she got, the more his wings struggled to pin her in place, the sleek feathers imprinting her thick flesh. He felt his claws unsheathe on instinct the more she moved. Often, he’d latch on to her with a biting hand to keep her exactly where he wanted her. Her body was marked with his permanence, endlessly.

“Lucifer.”

A single whisper of his name slipped past her lips.

He curled his tongue, slowly, feeling every quiver of her body from lips, to lips. She tasted hot. Sweet. Decadent. There wasn’t enough time left to devour her whole.

Lucifer could feel her tremble, he could feel her thighs struggle against his wings, pinned to the wood, dimpled from the pressure. ‘Stay’ he mouthed against her slit. But what position was he in to demand?

She tugged on his horns once more, and he obeyed, feeling the breathlessness of the noose.

His tongue spoke his desire, locked away, untouched, and pressed tightly against his trousers - begging.

Crack.

The noose frayed against a surge of his power. Ivy felt it too, felt it radiate from the brand on her chest, glowing a soft red. She trembled, with more than pleasure.

Another moan, another cry, another twist of his hair through fingers, stained with blood. Lips pursed around her bud, he pulled, feeling the surge in pleasure. She was almost there. Nails scratching - “ Lucifer! -

And with one last touch, she was there, a silent cacophony of bliss spread through her body, curling her toes, arching her back in a paint of opulence, as if she spread her wings like the angel she was, beside the angel he used to be.

“Release me,” he demanded against her trembling thighs, the ends of his wings pricking the skin.

Ivy, breathless, looked down through her veil of ruby hair, met with an unwavering gaze. “I-I release you, Lucifer-”

She hadn’t even finished saying his name when Lucifer flipped Ivy around and pinned her against the worktop, cradling her bare back against his chest. He lifted her bloodied finger to his lips, and licked, drawing a fang along the broken skin. A moan touched his throat, hungry, raw.

His wings spread wide, blocking out the moonlight to a trickle, before wrapping around Ivy like a claw, the tips grazing her arms, her hands and tangling with her ruby hair.

Lucifer stretched a hand along her spine, up, up. “Time to put you in your place.”

#obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me shall we date #lucifer obey me #obey me masters #obey me main character #obey me mc #desdi writes #obey me fic

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hemo--goblins · 4 years

Note

I love the way you do Tyrians hair in comparison to the show, looks much more likely and natural and fitting for a feral man like him. Fangy and bright gold eye is also valid. I don't know how much else you edited but this is what I saw after like 2 seconds of looking

Thank you!! I like Tyrian’s base model’s hair for how nasty and greasy it looks, but I think something a little wild and messier suits him really well [not to mention I kinda learned to draw his bangs wrong and never fixed it so I wanted to see what his model would look like with those bangs].

For anyone interested, here’s everything I changed:

-Lower braid, starts near the nape of the neck instead of all the way at the top of the head

-Bass boosted eyebrows, I just made them a little more pronounced

-Dark circles around the eyes, really makes the yellows pop and adds to the feral vibes

-Yellowed sclera, and much brighter gold eyes. I also tinted the pupils with a faint pinkish purple, both for aesthetic and because I think it makes him look a little blinder. Not something I’ve made a habit of in my art, but I actually really like how it looks so I just might in the future.

-A little more eyelash, because it’s what he deserves.

-Rearranged piercings, I always draw him with 2 lobe piercings on each ear and a cartilage on the right ear [in the show it’s on the left but I’ve opted to ignore that because the right ear is the gay ear]

-Pointy teef, also I pulled his mouth into more of a grin but that was a really small thing that didn’t really change the features

-Sharper chin, because he feels like a pointy man even though his jawline is actually pretty round in the show? But I always end up drawing him with much sharper features and I think it suits him. I also tweaked the cheekbone line to fit the face shape better.

-The nose is also ever so slightly pointier. See above

-Painted nails, sharp. I like to think that Tyrian would take any opportunity available to him to weaponize whatever parts of himself he can, and also just happens to likes some things that are generally considered effeminate [like the long hair and the piercings]. Doesn’t make him any less of a dude, as far as he’s concerned.

-Extra scar peeking out over shoulder, I draw him with a lot more scars that are covered up by the arm wraps but most of the time when I draw him topless he has a scar that stretches across his upper back towards his shoulder. Another thing that I don’t habitually draw when he’s in his full attire, but considering how I draw him, it probably should be visible.

-Ever so slightly slimmer figure, this one you really have to look close for. I brought in his waistband so it lays more flush with the rest of his body instead of jutting out like that, made his shoulder a little smaller and made his chest a little narrower [in the area around his left hand and the end of his braid].

-Made the tail glowier, and also more of a pinkish purple, like his volume 7 aura and eye color.

-The tiniest, tiniest tweak is that the underline of his pecs I filled in with the same color as his scars because top surgery hell yeah

Honestly, doing this was really fun and I liked how it turned out, so I might do more in the future :-)

#tyrian callows #yes i LIKE that his base model looks greasy #hes a nasty lil trash man full of toxins and sludge #and u will perceive him as such #Anonymous

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grimmseye · 4 years

Text

A Bird in the Hand: Chapter Four

Read on Ao3 here!

Rating: T

Fandom: Critical Role

Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast (eventual)

Chapter Characters: Mollymauk Tealeaf, Essek Thelyss

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Molly Rez, Amnesiac Mollymauk, Oh My God They Were Roommates, Bath Scene, Nonsexual Nudity, Graphic violence,

This fic now contains spoilers up to Episode 97: The Fancy and the Fooled

— — —

His job was one that weighed heavy on his shoulders. The mantle he wore sometimes felt like a manifestation of that, in the way that it shrouded him, hid him, forced his posture stiff and heavy. But if there was something Essek could appreciate, it was the authority he was granted. A simple word and the guards were moving to do his bidding without pausing to question. This was what Essek built for himself. Regardless of his mother’s position, he was the one who had come to stand at the Bright Queen’s side.

What he retrieved were the blades that those at the Shadowspire failed to turn over. Mollymauk’s swords were made from carnival glass, curving blades that hooked towards the tips. Essek turned them over, uncertain just how well such material performed as a weapon. They looked more gaudy than effective, though they had to have gotten Mollymauk across the wastes. The glinting colors broke where dried blood still lined their edges, as though to prove it.

As he sheathed the blades, Essek turned to the guard who had produced them, saying, “Additionally, I would like to speak with those who were involved in Mollymauk Tealeaf’s arrest.”

Again, it was a bow and obedience without question. Essek did not fancy himself to be a leader, but respect was pleasant. Being able to work without intervention was quite pleasant.

He knew better than to expect instantaneous results, and yet luck must have been on his side for this day. When the guard returned it was with two others flanking her. A pair of male drow, one stocky, the other standing taller than Essek. They greeted him with respect, but the tilt of their ears betrayed nerves. “Shadowhand,” began the taller of the two, his voice gruff. “What do you require of us?”

Essek let his eyes drag over each of them, slow and precise. Each second delayed had them winding tighter. “You are the guards who detained and arrested Mollymauk Tealeaf, yes?” He asked. “The purple tiefling, charged with breaking and entering.”

The two exchanged looks before the taller answered, “Yes, sir. That is correct.”

“Then I would like to issue a warning.” Essek did not cast a spell. He only pulled magic under his skin, let the air weigh down and compress in their lungs. A warning, as stated. A promise. A threat. “I was informed of the excess force you used while detaining the tiefling.”

Quicker than expected, they broke. The shorter of the two burst out, “He was armed — There have been attacks — ”

“And I cannot imagine the threat he posed, laying in the street while you kicked his ribs in,” Essek drawls back. He peers down through his eyelashes, a coldly neutral expression that was far more dangerous than blatant anger.

Neither of them spoke. Good. Essek let his magic dissipate, the pressure easing as he turned to drift back through the halls with swords in hand.

He hailed a cab back through the city, spending the time ritual casting over the swords. Neither showed so much as a drop of magic — just gloss and color shaved down to a fine edge. It was suitable for Mollymauk Tealeaf.

They stopped outside of the Tranquil Falls Spa, Essek handing over a tip before stepping out to make for the doors. He didn’t frequent these places, only found it through asking about. The polished stone walls promised a lavish treatment, and the prices swore them to it. He’d redacted the numbers as he translated it for Mollymauk, listing out the services offered. Massages, with oils or hot stones, facials, body scrubs and moisturizers, nail treatments, hair waxing, just to name a few .

Mollymauk had asked about massages with a happy ending and it had taken Essek a moment of confusion and then embarrassment before he’d assured him no, they did not provide such services here. Molly ended up picking a package deal and kissed Essek’s cheek in thanks.

He drifted to the front desk, saying, “Is Mister Tealeaf finished?” That spot on his cheek was warm, again. His lips had been somewhat chapped, which didn’t seem befitting of the tiefling one bit. He would probably appreciate access to the same paints and glitter that Essek used to decorate his own face for presentation purposes, only Mollymauk did it for the art and enjoyment, wholly for himself and the satisfaction of drawing every eye on the street.

“He is enjoying our spa for the time being,” the receptionist answered. “Would you care to join him?”

“Yes, thank you,” Essek answered, distracted. He didn’t realize what he’d said until she was beckoning to him, and his voice caught in his throat before he could pull it back. This would be another handful of gold out of his pocket.

He was given a soft towel and a robe and shown to a room with tall ceilings, the walls framed by pillars. A waterfall poured into a steaming, rectangular pool, one far too large for its singular occupant. Mollymauk looked like a cat in a sunbeam: completely bare, elbows on the edges of the pool, head tilted up and eyes shut in obvious enjoyment.

They opened, finding Essek as the receptionist said, “Enjoy your stay,” and bowed out of the room.

“Mister Thelyss,” Mollymauk called. He could hear the smirk in his voice, echoing amid the sound of running water. “This place is lovely. I’ve decided to forgive you for all past transgressions.”

“How… generous.” Essek found a bench to set the towel on, and then the sheathed blades, and then sat himself down beside them. He pulled a book out of the air, opening it at a marked page. Sticking around felt awkward, but leaving after only a minute inside would be worse. Though, who knew what the receptionist thought of him joining Mollymauk here, in private, after receiving an affectionate display. Enjoy your stay. Had there been an odd emphasis there, a too-sharp curve to her smile?

A splash of water caught his eye, making him startle as he found Mollymauk pressing himself up with his palms flat on the pool’s edge. Layers of thin scars drew paths for the water to run down his skin, down to the trail of dark hair running from his belly button, the rest hidden by the tile. He stared longer than he should before snapping his gaze up to meet Mollymauk’s.

“Are you going to get in the pool, or are you going to sit there like a creep?” Molly asked. His tail swept up, sending an arc of droplets over the pool’s edge.

“A creep,” Essek repeated. He frowned as he said, “I am not —”

“Sitting around in the corner while I enjoy my bath? My friend, you look like a grade-A creep right now.” He spoke with all his teeth. Even the premolars held jagged points, Essek noted with some fascination. He hadn’t encountered many tieflings before.

The truth was, Essek’s presence made things uncomfortable. All in or all out were his only options.

“You know, hot water is great for tension,” Mollymauk notes, pushing himself back to drift deeper into the pool. “And no offense, my friend, but you embody tension.”

Essek drew himself up to protest. Then he became acutely aware of the stiffness in every muscle, and slowly let himself unwind. “I am not tense,” he said, which was true as of that moment. Mollymauk scoffed. “But. Given that I have already sentenced myself to payment… perhaps I will dip my toes in.”

It gave him an abrupt, vivid flashback to being in the Nein’s home, the tree roots overhead, ears perked to catch snatches of conversation. That was where he’d first heard the name Mollymauk. What would he have done, had he not gone against his better judgement, walked away and never learned and then found this prisoner who had tried to break into their home.

Something unforgivable, he was certain. Though he wasn’t sure how much deeper he could dig his own grave. At least the current pit could still be filled.

He unclasped his mantle, folding it neatly on the bench. His fingers strayed to the hem of his shirt, pausing as he looked to Mollymauk — and found him turned politely around. It was surprisingly tactful. He slipped his shirt over his head, making sure the tiefling didn’t turn as he slid pants down his legs and left himself completely bare.

It was amazing just how naked he could feel, when there was someone else to see him. Usually so hidden, he couldn’t say what prompted him to walk to the edge of the spa and lower himself into steaming water. Maybe he was getting reckless, with the peace talks looming so near. That was unwise. That was dangerous.

He’d already crossed this particular line, though.

“Are you decent?” Molly asked.

Essek looked down. The water and steam obscured enough. “Yes,” he said, after a beat.

Mollymauk sat himself down on a step jutting out from the wall. He looked to Essek, not taking stock, but more of just a quizzical expression. “Are you still doing your floating thing in the water?”

Essek dropped an inch. His feet touched the tile.

Mollymauk’s cackling echoed through the room.

Against all expectations, Mollymauk did not spend the time pestering him with inane comments and crude jokes. Didn’t give him so much as a lascivious smirk, even when he caught Essek’s eyes on him — on places they likely shouldn’t be.

There was the guilt, again, deeper than before. Caleb had been unexpected, an attraction he’d been willing to entertain until it festered . Until it wasn’t just a keen mind and a handsome face he was appreciating, but the dimple when he smiled, the soft tenor of his voice, the passion bright behind his eyes. When he realized, he knew it was time to pull back, as guilt reared its head and gnawed at his organs and made affection a precursor to nausea. And now it turned out he couldn’t even stay loyal in his infatuation.

They slipped out of the spa, Essek retrieving his towel with a cantrip before he stood while Mollymauk had no shame in hoisting himself out on display for an audience of one. If it was intentional, or if the tiefling genuinely didn’t care about being nude, he could not determine.

With a towel around Mollymauk’s waist and all but Essek’s mantle adorned again, he handed over the swords. Molly slid one from its sheath, a smile lighting his face. “Oh, that’s so much better,” he breathed, drawing the other in hand. “I feel naked without these, you know?”

Essek’s eyes flicked over the low-hanging towel. “That must be terrible for you.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.” Mollymauk snorted as he adjusted his grip on each sword and gave one a toss. Essek moved back, watching as it spun once, twice, and landed neatly in Mollymauk’s waiting hand. “Very nice.”

There was something artful to it, as he tested their weight in each hand, spinning the blades and easing in and out of various poses. It was akin to a performance, as though he were showing this off for Essek to see, deliberate in each tension of muscle as it pulled at bone. Distracted as he was, he barely registered as Mollymauk slid leisurely towards him, lifting one blade so its tip pointed to Essek’s sternum, the other tipped over his shoulder and behind his back. And that was absolutely a pose, muscles stretched, chest swelling with each slow, deep breath, hair still wet and dripping across his shoulders.

Essek could almost feel his head spin. What did Mollymauk want from him?

“You hold those well,” he noted.

“Do you work with swords?” Molly asked, sounding like he expected the answer to be no.

“I received some training,” Essek said. “Enough that I can wield them proficiently. But I am not a swordsman like yourself.”

“Maybe I can show you a few things, then.” His smile was broad and easy. It sounded like an offer for something else.

Essek cleared his throat. “Perhaps,” he said, looking away. “You should get dressed. There are a few more stops to make before we head back.”

Mollymauk’s chuckle burned his ears as the tiefling changed into clean, dry clothes. The two of them exited together, Essek reluctantly handing over the gold he owed. If word of this got around — Shadowhand Essek in the baths with a nameless tiefling — gods, if the Nein heard, what would they think of him, taking advantage — as though that were the worst thing they could learn about him.

The clock indicated they were somewhere in the mid-afternoon as they pushed through the doors and back to the streets of Rosohna. The market square was a more lively place, the lights strung in shifting colors and voices all battling to be heard above the rest as one merchant after the next vied for the customers’ attention.

Mollymauk dragged him to a strawberry stand, of all things. Essek would eventually have to put a stop to all this gift-giving, especially when the rest of the Nein felt so entitled to his magic, the last thing he needed was for them to ask for money as well. But strawberries were copper out of his pocket, and it made Mollymauk’s tail curl in a way that had to mean delight.

The moment was short-lived, as red painted his vision.

He saw it, a sudden lurch in the crowd. The gnoll’s jaws were splashed with crimson, a macabre cousin to the strawberry juice on Mollymauk’s lips. Essek could hear flesh squelch and then the crunch, and half a man's arm was severed from his body. The first scream tore through the market.

Essek’s hand dipped into a pocket, finding a marble before he froze. Too many people. He’d kill a dozen civilians —

Mollymauk broke from his side. Essek shouted, but he was gone, darting into the scattered crowd. Essek snarled to himself, finding a piece of iron as he gave chase. His eyes darted back and forth. One — three — seven people, all suddenly on the attack, all gnolls. He didn’t have time for questions. He could make sense of it later. Now, he counted out five bodies, pressed the iron against his palm as he traced out the sigils to hold.

Four locked in place, wild-eyed and fangs bared, and their targets scrambled for safety. The fifth, the first to attack with a severed arm still clutched in her jaws, swung her head for Essek and snarled.

And then she yelped as Mollymauk appeared and sliced into her face. The first swing dragged a cut across her snout, the second knocked the arm free. She shrieked and lunged for him, teeth fastening into Mollymauk’s arm and blood pushing between her teeth, the claws of one hand digging into his side as he forced the other back.

Essek dragged runes into the air, these ones burning black. The gnoll released Mollymauk as she howled, skin withering, rupturing, blood spurting from a hundred breaks in her flesh. Mollymauk didn’t take the out. He seized his freedom to cut into her abdomen with one blade, making to come down with the second as the gnoll shook herself and snapped forward —

Essek’s “No!” was lost under a gurgling cry. Her teeth caught Molly’s neck, clamping tight and squeezing . The market was almost cleared, now, two bodies falling under two more gnolls, a third fleeing. That was enough for him.

He scooped a cool, black sphere into his hand, and opened a black hole in the middle of the square. It swelled out, a mass of void consuming the space around it, hovering just where he knew it wouldn’t pull Mollymauk into its jaws. It was instantaneous, there-and-then-not. The darkness shrank into nothing. Two of the underlings had survived, the rest crumpled and broken. The escaping drow had gotten caught in the crossfire, but in the mangled state their body was in, no one would know it was his spell that killed them.

And he’d failed to get the gnoll off of Mollymauk. A cold, boiling rage curled up Essek’s spine. The force of it had just been enough to wrench the gnoll’s head back, letting Mollymauk tumble forward to flee. She gave chase, leapt for his back and put him on the ground. Molly writhed underneath her, twisting around to jam his blades into her stomach. One of them sank deep, its point sticking out the other side as the gnoll’s snarling twisted into a wail. The other she caught, seizing his wrist and slamming it to the ground as her jaws parted wide.

Her jaws snapped shut, inches away from his face. There was a beat before she reared back, clawing at her own eyes. Mollymauk kicked her away, eyes finding Essek and darting back for him as the gnoll scrabbled at her face.

“You — idiot —” Essek seethed, taking in the amount of blood coating the tiefling, soaking through his new clothes, down his back, from his eyes. He shouldn’t be standing.

One of his swords was glowing, Essek realized, belated. Distracted for that moment, he watched as Molly’s eyes widened and then overfilled with blood, pouring down his face like tears. A tug to his mantle was what alerted him to the two surviving underlings. As one recovered from their failed swing, blood seeping into the fur at the corners of their eyes, the other lunged. Essek flinched away from teeth, only for the sting of a blade to catch his arm.

“Mollymauk,” he snapped, grabbing the tiefling by the arm, pulling him along as they circled the gnolls. Step by step until — there. Essek wrenched a piece of crystal to his lips, releasing Molly to write ice and death into the air, and blew. His breath spiraled out in a blizzard, ice flaring out in a cone to engulf their two aggressors. When the winter faded, it left two frozen statues, held in a moment of agony forever.

But he hadn’t gotten the leader. She was there in an instant, grabbing at Essek and tearing into him . He barely felt the teeth clamp into his waist, or the talons raking down his thigh. It was furious indignation that burned him, Essek biting out, “How dare you,” in hissed undercommon as he pulled darkness into his hand to stab it down into her back.

And missed.

The gnoll released him just for the second it took to go for his throat. He heard Molly roaring his name, couldn’t process the sound amid the sensation of his bones creaking in her jaws. Unable to reach his components, he gasped a word and vanished, reappearing on his knees and cloaked in silvery mist, clutching his bloodied arm.

His head snapped up as he remembered Mollymauk, and he found him tearing the gnoll to shreds. Both his swords were coated in magic, one shedding a burning light and the other sharpened by ice. One cut nearly removed her arm from her torso, the second sent it to the ground in a bloody spray. His teeth were bared, white stained crimson, like he’d gone and taken a bite in his rage.

As she staggered back, gushing blood, eyes darting for an escape — Mollymauk surged forward. He was suddenly ethereal, a ghost pushing through her to cleave into her back, again and again and again . And at last, the gnoll’s eyes went glassy. She gasped once and then collapsed, the final body to fall.

Then Mollymauk buckled as well. Essek was too far to catch him, could only dart forward and drop to his knees beside him. The tiefling was still breathing, eyes still open, but the amount of blood he was losing — he wouldn’t survive much longer.

“Hold on,” Essek breathed, grabbing his hand and pulling them both away, leaving the emptied, bloodied square behind.

#essek thelyss #mollymauk tealeaf #essek #mollymauk #shadowmauk #shadowwidowmauk #widomauk #cr #cr fic #my writing

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gwenhvvyfar · 4 years

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DETAILED APPEARANCE INFO

Just for reference, Gwenhwyfar has no set faceclaim.

head:

FACESHAPE: rectangular face with a strong, angled jawline and a long sharp nose. CHEEKBONES: high, sharp and particularly prominent. LIPS: smear shaped. average fullness. pale pink, usually. SKIN COLOR: ivory white with cool pink undertones. thin skin provides more of a burst of pink upon her cheeks, knuckles, knees, toes and fingertips. SKIN TYPE: dry, thin skin, easily wrinkling with age. notable redness bursts around the edges of jagged scars from years spent as a hunter. EYE SHAPE: narrow, deep set eyes. EYE COLOR: violet, though the pupil has an unsightly red tint due to albinism. EYEBROW SHAPE: narrow, sculpted blonde brows. well taken care of. EYEBROW COLOR: pale gold. EYELASHES: sweeping off-white lashes, average in length. top lashes are surprisingly thick, however bottom lashes are sparse. NOSE SHAPE: long, sharp nose. upturned tip. HAIR TEXTURE: thick, velveteen. not terribly soft, but not overly rough in texture. HAIR COLOR: white, though blonde highlights manifest in certain lighting. HAIR LENGTH: waist length, worn with numerous braids pulling her hair from her face. always pulled back and tied off with a ribbon, making it appear only a few inches shorter than it is when loose. EARS: small, round ears. lobes are thick from wearing weighty jewelry.

upper body:

SHOULDERS: narrow shoulders. surprisingly strong, able to handle the weight of a full grown bloodsucking beast. ARMS: long, sinewy arms. lacking in muscle definition, but it is there beneath the surface. STOMACH AREA: appearing soft, only slightly trained by years of wearing corsets. LOVEHANDLES?: no. CHEST/BREASTS: wide, heavy breasts. without support of a brassier or other undergarments, her breasts do hang. there are stretch marks to be found along the sides of her breasts up to her underarms. thin skin allows blue veins to be seen just beneath the surface. NIPPLES: outward facing and pink. BACK: lordosis has caused her spine to curve unnaturally, however corsetry has acted as a necessary assistant in the health of her spine. HAND SIZE: long, slender hands blessed by thin fingers. they give an almost dainty, feminine appearance, even with prominent veins running along the tops of her hands. their lovely pallor and pink undertones make the blue veins appear rather aesthetically.

lower body:

HIPS: narrow hips, though there are notable hip-dips. BOTTOM: a full, soft peach shape. surprisingly perky. THIGHS: average thickness, nothing to write home about. CALVES: small calves, no notable differences in musculature. LEG LENGTH: 35″ inseam.

other:

BODY HAIR: nearly, if not entirely white, practically invisible or unnoticeable. SCENT: rosewood and clove, hints of tobacco lying just beneath. the chill scent of ice and snow, and even the fragrant blood. it maybe possible to smell moonlight upon her... but few have gotten so close to tell. HAND NAILS: clear with a lovely petal pink nail bed, neatly trimmed nails, hidden beneath favored worn leather gloves. however, there may come a time where one notices a sharpness of her nails. TOENAILS: just as lovingly taken care of as the nails upon her hainds. VOICE: x Léa Seydoux HEIGHT: 5′ 9″. 175 cm. PIERCINGS: Ears only. TATTOOS: N/A. WEIGHT: 148 lbs. 67 kg. BRA SIZE: 36D. 80D in European sizes. SHOE SIZE: 10 US for Women. 34-44 European. PREFERRED CHOICE OF SHOES: tall, lace up boots in the Victorian fashion, or knee high cuff boots. CLOTHING STYLE: the ornate, antiquated fashion of Cainhurst’s knights or the slightly more modern high fashion of Victorian era, including men’s suits. GENERAL BODYSHAPE: ectomorph

#♕ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖᵒᶦˢᵒᶰ ᶦᶰˢᶦᵈᵉ ʰᵉᶫᵖˢ ᵐᵉ ᵃᶫᵒᶰᵍ ─── prompts #♕ ʳᵉᵃᶜʰᶦᶰᵍ ᵒᵘᵗ ʷᶦᵗʰ ᵉʸᵉˢ ᶜᶫᵒˢᵉᵈ ─── META #long post |#[ I know what you're thinking - a French voice for someone with Welsh roots???#just remember that Gwenhwyfar is Cainhurst born and Cainhurst bred.#Her ties to her Welsh heritage are few and far between. ]#ask to tag |

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addytheheartbreaker · 4 years

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The Masked Singer human au

Narcis the Purple Peacock

Name: Narcis S. Nikonov

Age: 21

Height: 5′11ft (turning 6ft next year/new era)

Appearance: Russian boy, pale skin, sharp icy blueish grey eyes with tiny eyelashes, smug smile (he always smile everyday but he will not smile if it is serious, boredom or in depression/swallow his pride), black fluffy mohawk with bangs, missing nails (been torturedly removed) but wearing metal sharp nail prosthetic (in gloves). He always wearing golden soviet union symbols earrings and a single noticeable scar from his left side of his back (been abused)

Peacock form: 7 purple feather tail with 2 chains with feathers at the end (almost like an antena), peacock legs (unseen because he is still wearing his knee length boots) and peacock wings (his feather coat around his arms).

Personality: Narcissistic, prideful, bossy, elegant, flamboyant, sassy, smug face, attention craving, arrogant, ignorant, selfish, high standard, reckless and a risk taker, over confident, apathetic, forceful and cruel, upbeat and competitive. But deep down or in hiding where no one could see him, he is depressive, emotional, traumatized and a mess due to his trauma he experience back in Russia and yearning for real affection. He also has a good side as well, He is loyal, helpful, responsible, intelligent, supportive (only those who are in the same level as himself), he crave real affection and comfort the most (his twin brother, his future sister-in-law, Addy which he considered her his “Mama” and the Miniature trio) and a true heart of gold. He is extremely overprotective to the people who gave him understanding and affection and Addy’s gang, if anything horrible happen he would become much more cruel, brutal, very forceful, psychopathic and bloodthirsty.

Sexuality: Bisexual (mostly attracted to men)

10 random headcanon:

Narcis is born and lived in Russia, St.Petersburg but prefer to stay and lived in America, Las Vegas. He owns a Russian mansion somewhere on that area.

He is a famous gambler and a popular singer at the bar he is working (somewhere on Los Vegas). He is well known for his risk taking and compulsive gambling and a huge amount of luck on winning without a single lost. He had known Ronnie (Peacock) since 4 years, since he always seen on Ronnie’s performance.

He is the one who helped Bezai out of the ice rink and one of the few people who witness Bezai’s accident. It is unknown how Narcis have manage the time to wear his ice skating shoes to rescue him but Johnny is wondering who the mysterious man who help his apprentice and wanting to thank him for rescuing him.

Narcis is a huge craving affection and comfort. He isn’t much of a jealous person to see Nicol or anyone who got Addy’s attention yet he prefer to be patient for Addy to finish pampering them.

He has a crush on Bezai since the accident. After the aftermath of Bezai’s accident, the purple peacock promised the egg to support him till the very end. He isn’t lying, he did support the Egg and he collect videos, pictures, articles and watch Bezai’s interviews which shows how he haven’t forgotten his promise and that he became Bezai’s number 1 fan.

He is suffers to Narcissistic Personality Disorder. He has all of these symptoms and that he obviously is narcissistic and has no remorse and empathy to anyone below him. However, he did reveal his good side but despise his weaker side of him causing him to constantly fluctuating like and dislike himself.

When dating and becoming Bezai’s lover. He is a true gentleman, affectionate and extremely cherish the Faberge Egg. He would rather calling Bezai “Your Grace” (either in english or russian language), and extremely overprotective besides the people he deeply care. He is in love to every length of this man, his beautiful features, his egg-cellent body, his graceful skating performance, everything about Bezai. He would bragged for his gorgeous lover and considered him his precious treasure.

He is a rich guy who owns a mansion and alot of things (clothes, jewelry, vodka, money, etc.) He would either spoiled both his “Mama” Addy and his “family” or his lover Bezai. Despite he is a gambler, he wanted something to do with his fortune he earned at the casino.

In the Masked Singer, he is a singer and dancer. You would seen him on Nicol’s performances as a back up singer or dancer.

Narcis as a “Purple Peacock”, in truth, he is actually a peacock clock. He was inspired by the Peacock clock hermitage in St.Petersburg (reference here). There is a difference between Ronnie’s Peacock Mask and Narcis’s Purple Peacock mask (Ronnie’s mask is much more realistic and peacock like features while Narcis’s mask is unrealistic and coated in unusually color or green and purple). His reason for choosing the Purple Peacock is because of 2 reasons; He is deeply obsessed of the color purple and peacock that his adopted mother introduce him from his teenage years.

Bonus Headcanon: Narcis is a victim of child domestic abused, intense hunger and stress, poverty and prisoned in the child slavery. He is lucky he has been “rescued” by his adopted mother and finally reunited with his lost twin brother. After everything he had been through he is still traumatized until today.

Fun fact: Nacis always wearing his 2 most prize possession everyday and everywhere he goes. His Soviet Union symbols golden earrings and his peacock feather coat. These are the two prize possession he proudly wore and never forget to wear it when getting outside. These two items are given by his adopted mother, which is the only things he had to remember his mother until he met Addy in “Rise of the Guilty Blood gang era”

#the masked singer human au #The Masked Singer #narcis the pride force #narcis the pride beast #dugsalan gang #guilty blood gang

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shenscosmicdisaster · 4 years

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Primavera | Bio

Full name

Classified

Preferred name/nickname

Primavera Bloom

Generally referred to as

Prima

Race/Class

Lightforged Sin’dorei Paladin

Appearance.

GENDER: Trans Male HEIGHT: 6′6 WEIGHT: 231 lbs BUILD: Seems lanky but is actually fairly buff and has triangle shape to his torso. You know, typical dorito shape. HAIR: [describe their hair, is it long or short? Soft or course? Do they style it a certain way? Do they dye it?]

Glowing pale gold, fairly straight, one large loop that always curls from the top of his head down to just past his chin. He has bangs that almost cover his eyes, heavier on his left side then his right to cover his scars. It’s just past his waist in length, at least normally. It grows whenever he’s feeling a negative emotion and turns blue the longer it gets- a stark contrast to the lightforged gold that it usually is.

SKIN: [What colour is their skin? Is it rough or smooth? Is it soft or hard? Note: feel free to change this to fur/scales etc if that’s more appropriate for your character!]

Dark skinned with freckles, vibrantly glowy runes decorate his entire body and shift from full white glowing to a dull gold depending on.. something not entirely clear.

EYES: [What colour are their eyes? Do they have a distinctive sparkle or do they look kind of dull and tired? Long or short eyelashes? Eye bags? Wrinkles? Hooded lids?]

Nearly white eyes with a hint of gold to them, they burn brightly and are very very glowy. A lot of him is very glowy. He has fairly long eyelashes and he does NOTHING with it. You can usually see him with half-lidded eyes and bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days.

MOUTH: [Big mouth or small? Plump lips or thin lips? Perfect white teeth or crooked, gappy ones?]

Thin lips, jacked up with scars on the left side. He’s got fairly large fangs and canines. Most of his teeth is actually fairly sharper then the average.

NOSE: [Big or little? Pointy or bulbousy? Huge, cavernous nostrils or teeny little ones?]

Long, slightly larger then average nose, it’s got a scar across the bridge of it.

HANDS: [Big or small? Manicured fingernails? Claws? Wrinkles? Visible veins? Bony knuckles? Or smooth skin and soft features?]

His hands are large and calloused with scars along the backs of them- they seem to have had much use over the years. The tips of his fingers are oddly blacked and his nails are long and sharp when they aren’t hidden under his gauntlets.

SCARS: [Any visible scars?]

Many deep scars all over his torso, arms, and one very suspicious one across his neck that looks like whatever happened there should have killed him. He has a lot of scars over the backs of his hands and what looks like shadow-burned skin on his fore-arms. Those are covered by glowing white runes however.

CLOTHES: [What is their clothing style?]

Prefers blacks and dark clothing to combat his brightness and glowing runes and hair and such. Will never be seen wearing white, if he is he’s an impostor. Prefers baggy clothing when not wearing armor, outfits with hoods and poofy sleeves and loose fitting pants. When in armor he prefers a sleek obsidian look.

OTHER FEATURES: [Optional for non-human characters, or human characters with uncommon features]

He has feathers that grow along his neck, back, and joints (Shoulders, elbows, knees, etc), they’re an almost firey orange color and they flatten and puff up in response to different situations.

His ears are also longer then average and scarred towards the tips, ending with a sharp crease.

Mannerisms.

FACE: [Do they have an expressive face? Do they show their emotions in their face? Or do they tend to have a poker face most of the time?]

He tends towards a pokerface that he almost never drops. The most you’ll get of an expression out of his face is his twitching eyebrows or a squint of his eyes. He never seems to open his mouth, even if he eats he usually does it behind a hand.

HANDS: [Do they make a lot of hand gestures? What kind of gestures do they use?]

He tends to gesture to express a phrase nonverbally and also prefers sign-language to speech. He’s fairly expressive with his hands actually, but it’s hard to figure out what the expression is.

LEGS/FEET: [Do they tap their feet or jiggle their leg?]

He shakes his leg a lot, not really to anything in particular. It’s just a habit of his. It gets kind of annoying sometimes because he doesn’t seem to be aware of the noise all the time. Otherwise, he stands very still and at attention- he only shakes his leg when he’s sitting down.

EMOTIONAL OUTBURSTS: [Are they prone to these? Do they tend to cry or yell when they’re upset, or laugh and jump about when they’re happy?]

Almost never. He tends to lock up when feeling high emotions, the main indicator of something being wrong is his hair seemingly growing and lengthening in his stress. But there are small indicators. He grinds his jaw when angry, drops his gaze when sad, lifts his brows when happy. Other then that it’s immensely hard to tell what he’s feeling.

HABITS: [Do they have any habits, like humming or singing or fidgeting or fiddling?]

He fiddles when he thinks he’s alone. Fidgets with objects, rubs his knuckles and taps them together. If he notices that he’s in fact not alone however, he immediately becomes somehow more stilted then before.

POSTURE: [Do they usually stand straight and to attention, or do they tend to slump? Does their posture change with their mood? How does it change?]

He stands straight backed and attention at all times! ...For the most part. He slouches and slumps his shoulders when he’s really truly exhausted though.

WALKING POSTURE: [How do they walk? Do they skip gleefully along, do they march like a soldier, do they slump their shoulders and stomp around?]

Marching like a soldier is pretty accurate for him. He moves like he was trained to do it in a very specific way and his particularness about it makes him come off as fairly intimidating.

SITTING POSTURE: [How do they like to sit? Cross legged? Slouched? Feet apart or together?]

He sits fairly properly, knees together and body always tense and seeming ready to bolt or to fight. When alone however, he tends towards sitting cross-legged and slouched, usually taking the time to recover from .. something. That info’s classified.

PERSONAL SPACE: [Do they like to maintain a personal bubble, or does it bother them when people get in their personal space? Do they tend to be respecful of others’ personal space?]

He definitely maintains his personal space and gets very irritated when his personal space is intruded on. He will actively push you away if you get too close. He will also actively push you into a lake if you continue to get too close.

SPACIAL AWARENESS: [Are they good at noticing what’s around their physical space? Or do they tend to be clumsy and bump into things?]

He’s way too attentive to his surroundings and he almost never bumps into anything. He seems to glide about the room or area like he knew it like the back of his hand.

Personal.

INTROVERT/EXTROVERT?: [Is your character one of these? How does that manifest in their life?]

It’s hard to tell but he’s actually extroverted! He tends to keep to himself but being around people and being in large crowds. It makes him feel less alone and more energized to know that he belongs to a community and isn’t an outlier.

OPTIMIST/PESSIMIST: [Which of these are they? Or are they in between?]

Pessimist, mostly. It’s hard for him to look on the positives of a situation but he keeps it to himself. Pretty easy to, really, seeing as he’s mute.

GENDER: [What is the character’s gender, if any? Do they feel that their gender matches their anatomy?]

He’s a trans man! He’s gone through the works of figuring it out and is currently fairly comfortable with his body.

SEXUALITY: [What type of person do they feel sexual attraction for, if any? Do they have a preference for one sex/gender in particular? Do they prefer their own race/species, or another? Is there any type of person they absolutely would NOT want to get into bed with? Or do they have no preference?]

It’s not something he thinks about very often, but he’s Bisexual and leans towards guys in attraction! He hates nobles and probably would never date one. Probably. Other then that, nothing too special here.

ROMANTIC: [Are they inclined towards romance? Do they enjoy lots of romance, a little, or do they prefer no romance at all? Do they see themselves married with kids one day, or would they prefer to be alone?]

He’s a romantic at heart and admits it to no one, not even himself. He tries to shut down any feelings he ever gets and doesn’t see himself ever getting married or even having a proper relationship.

MEMORY: [Do they have a good memory? Or are they forgetful? Are they good at remembering certain things and not others?]

He’s a lot more forgetful then he lets on but he makes up for it in being able to adapt to the situation and pretend that yes, he knows exactly what is going on and didn’t forget the person you are talking about. Who are you again?

PLANNING: [Are they good at planning? Do they spend a lot of time planning or do they tend to leap right into things?]

Zero prep, all action. He’s reckless, but again! Adaptability helps. He seems very good at prep but it’s all fake, he’s winging it.

PENSIVE: [Do they spend a lot of time thinking over their actions, their life, their problems, etc?]

He spends too much time thinking about his family, or, what used to be his family. It’s easy for him to get sucked into the thoughts but he manages as best as he can to push it down and away from his central focus.

INTUITION: [Are they good at making the right decisions, or at figuring things out from minimal clues?]

Uh. Good question! Next one please.

PROBLEM SOLVING: [Are they good at dealing with puzzles and problems?]

Yes. He’s got a knack for puzzles, they’re neat to him. Actual personal problems? Nope. He’s got nothing for you there.

GOALS: [What is their main goal in life? Do they have any short-term goals?]

INSECURITIES: [Is there anything they are insecure about? Do they hide their insecurities well? Do they affect the way they live their life?]

ANXIETY: [What, if anything, causes the character to feel anxiety?]

Too much negative energy and also glass shattering. For whatever reason, glass shattering seems to make him get really jittery and will bolt if startled.

OVERWHELMED: [Do they ever feel like things are just too much?]

People arguing around him seems to overwhelm him quickly, it fills his mind with static and he stops being able to function properly. Takes too long to respond to anything and his hands shake when he tries to do anything. It takes a while for him to recover from it.

SELF-HELP: [How do they deal with their life problems?]

By crying internally. No really, half of the time he’s just winging it and doesn’t really know what he’s doing. Dealing with real problems isn’t his strong suit at all!

COMFORTS: [What helps the character to feel comfortable and happy?]

Pillows. Fluffy things. Plushies. Sweets. He will sink into a fluffy blanket and stay there for hours just because it makes him feel content. No, he will not admit this either. A good cup of jasmine tea is also a nice comfort to him too. Reminds him of good times.

BAD HABITS: [Do they have any bad habits?]

He scratches his arms when he gets anxious. Usually not that hard so it’s not a big deal but it’s a habit he developed when he was much younger and is still trying to break out of it...

---

Despite a lot of his habits and things however, Primavera is a bit of a prankster and a jokester. You won’t ever believe it was him when he pulls his pranks though, just because of his very thick walls he seems to have up at all times. In summary, he’s quiet, mysterious, never actually knows what he’s doing and looks cool while fucking up. His history and past is a mystery, but isn’t every good mystery something fun to solve?

#Primavera Bloom #bio #character personal

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barelyevenaperscn · 4 years

Text

Character Appearance Tag!!

Bold what applies to your muse, then tag some followers. Repost, don’t reblog!

Tagged by: no one! Tagging: @9000plus

-Body-

Long legs. Short legs. Average legs. Slender thighs. Thick thighs. Muscular thighs. Skinny arms. Lean arms. Soft arms. Muscular arms. Toned stomach. Flat stomach. Flabby Stomach. Soft stomach. Six-pack. Beer belly. Lean frame. Slender frame. Beefy/muscular frame. Chubby frame. Petite frame (5 ft 4 or shorter). Lanky frame. Short nails. Long nails. Manicured nails. Dirty nails. Flat ass. Toned ass. Bubble butt. Thick ass. Small waist. Thick waist. Narrow hips. Average hips. Wide hips. Big feet. Average feet. Small feet. Soft feet. Slender feet. Callused feet. Callused hands. Soft hands. Big hands. Average hands. Small hands. Long fingers. Short fingers. Average fingers. Broad shoulders. Slender shoulders. Underweight. Average weight. Overweight.

-Height-

Shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm-150 cm. 151 cm to 160 cm. 161 cm to 170 cm. 171 cm to 180 cm. 181 cm to 190 cm. 191 cm to 2m. Taller than 2m.

-Skin-

Pale. Fair. Rosy. Olive. Dark. Tanned. Blotchy. Smooth. Acne. Dry. Greasy. Freckled. Scarred.

-Eyes-

Small. Large. Average. Grey. Brown. Black. Blue. Red. Green. Gold. Hazel. Doe-eyed. Almond. Close-set. Wide-set. Squinty. Sharp. Monolid. Heavy eyelids. Upturned. Downturned. Tired.

-Hair-

Thin. Thick. Fine. Normal. Greasy. Dry. Soft. Shiny. Curly. Frizzy. Wild. Unruly. Straight. Smooth. Wavy. Floppy. Cropped. Pixie-cut. Short. Jaw length. Shoulder length. Back length. Waist length. Floor length. Buzz cut. Bald. Mohawk. White. Platinum blonde. Golden blonde. Dirty blonde. Ombre. Light brown. Mouse brown. Chestnut brown. Golden brown. Chocolate brown. Dark brown. Jet black. Ginger. Auburn. Dyed red. Dyed any “unnatural color”. Streaked. Thin eyebrows. Average eyebrows. Thick eyebrows. Mustachioed. Clean shaven. Stubble.

-Tattoo/Piercings-

Full sleeve. Thigh tattoo. Shin tattoo. Wrist tattoo. Hand/finger tattoo. Foot tattoo. Neck tattoo. Face tattoo. Chest [back shoulder] tattoo. One tattoo. A few here and there. Multiple. No tattoo. Monroe piercing. Nose piercing. Septum. Nipple piercing(s). Genital piercing(s). Industrial piercings. Cartilage piercings. Earlobe piercing. Prince Albert piercing. Eyebrow piercing(s). Tongue piercing(s). Lip piercing(s). Tragus piercing. Angel bites. Labret. Stretched ears. Navel piercing. Inverse navel piercing. Cheek piercing(s). Smiley. Nape piercing(s). No piercings.

-Cosmetics-

Light eyeliner. Heavy eyeliner. Cat eyes. Mascara. Fake eyelashes. Matte lipstick. Regular lipstick. Lipgloss. Lip balm. Red lips. Pink lips. Dark lips. Bronzer. Highlighter. Eyeshadow. Neutral eyeshadow. Smoky eyes. Colorful eyeshadow. Blush. Lipliner. Light contouring. Heavy contouring. Powder. Matte foundation. Shiny foundation. Concealer. Wears makeup regularly. Wears it from time to time. Never wears makeup.

-Scent-

Floral. Fruity. Perfumes. Aftershave. Cocoa. Moisturizer. Natural soap. Shampoo. Deodorant. Cigarettes. Leather. Sweat. Food. Incense. Marijuana. Cologne. Whiskey. Wine. Fried food. Blood. Fire. Metal. Rain. Grass. Ocean. Autumn leaves. Baked bread. Freshly baked cookies. Smoke. Campfire. Lavender. Trees. Pumpkin Pie. Musk. Rose. Gingerbread. Peppermint. Oak. Honey. Lemon. Vanilla. Coffee. Cake. Mint. Raw hide.

-Clothes-

Jeans. Tight pants. Overalls. Overknee socks. Tights. Leggings. Yoga pants. Pencil skirt. Tight skirt. Loose skirt. Tight/formfitting dress. Cardigans. Blouse. Button-up shirt. Band t-shirt. Sports t-shirt. Sweatpants. Tanktop. Cut-off t-shirt. Designer. High street. Online stores. Thrift. Lingerie. Long skirt. Miniskirt. Maxidress. Sun dress. Tie. Tuxedo. Cocktail dress. Highslit dress/skirt. T-shirt. Loose clothing. Tight clothing. Jean shorts. Sweater. Sweater vest. Khaki pants. Suit. Hoodie. Trench Coat. Harem pants. Basketball shorts. Boxers. Briefs. Boxer-briefs. Thong. Hotpants. Hipster panties. Bra. Sports bra. Crop top. Corset. Ballerina skirt. Leotard. Polka dot. Stripes. Glitter. Silk. Lace. Leather. Velvet. Chemise. Patterns. Florals. Neon colors. Pastels. Plaid. Black. Dark colors. Fur. Faux fur. Gloves. Work gloves. Fingerless gloves. Mittens. Never wears gloves. Hats. Never wears hats.

-Shoes-

Sneakers. Slip-ons. Flats. Slippers. Sandals. High heels. Kitten heels. Ankle boots. Combat boots. Work Boots. Cowboy boots. Knee-high. Platforms. Bare feet. Loafers. Dress shoes.

#ooc #visuals

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batdaddies · 5 years

Text

Shadows Of Freedom

warnings: explicit, violence, domestic violence, character death

pairing: orm marius x oc/reader

about: HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!!! I was listening to All I Ask Of You from Phantom Of The Opera (which is my wedding song, the irony...) and had this idea, this is set when he was young, still a prince, my own canon. Kinda angst, kinda dark, kinda young love, kinda soft, I want this to be a journey of self-discover. A message about this or an ask is always well received! Let's get this long hair Orm bread!!!! (it is a prequel to another multi-chapter fic hihihi wasn't the plan, but where we are) part 2 coming soon. (it was fully x reader, but blame @lanthimo and @nropay in the oc character) (credit of gif to kingsorm)

SHADOWS OF FREEDOM - PART ONE

Feed your mind, feed your lungs, feed your beast.

It began with sharp edges down on the sideburns reaching the jawline, two hooks behind the ears to support, and they grew making fins in three rows, the first in a small size, the second in medium and third in large where both connected at the top, in the middle. Tiny alexandrites sparkled around the strong lines, as fooling from the afar the real color, depending the lights, it would be purple, or blue, or silver, or all of them. It rested gracefully on the blonde threads floating in long locks reaching the shoulders, a delicate braid made by the sides so the face could be clean, a straight nose, two arched eyebrows, heavy eyelashes contouring the ocean blue irises and pouty pink lips, the upper sightly laid on the lower, hiding it. A timeless beauty composed of such pretty traces the anger inside the eyes didn’t match, the calmness in the flawless skin was of a wild animal with claws waiting to hunt. The posture of an aligned spine, broad shoulders, strong arms and veiny hands resting on each of his thighs, the royalty was presented on the tight suit made of black scales reflecting red, the atlantean symbol between the hips in the same deep shade of silver the thick bracelets had. No cape, no trident, no armor, only supporting the King in the matters of the Crown, listening carefully, focused on the debate going back and forth of what went wrong in the borders.

A case of four of those crustaceans from the Brine Kingdom trying to sneak into Atlantis without clearance, the reason was unknown, and King Orvax was ready to fight over to discover, his voice of thunders ringing in the white walls, the spirals on the throne trembling, bending to his will, infecting inside with the venom of hate as always had been. Sometimes, it would condemn everything and everyone around, sinking the surroundings into the same emotion which Orm was familiar with, they were his father’s way, and even if in the beginning, when he was trying to understand how it worked, didn’t make any sense, he was taught the most important was the goal reached, not the path to it. Nobody left a word after the yelling, passing a gloved hand on his swinging black short hair without a crown, gold capturing the sun rays and flickering, Vulko stared concerned at the hologram pairing on the white table, along the other two generals.

“Father,” he finally called, composed, the voice coming directly from his throat, two tones lower than the King’s, the arms moved effortless in a soft impulse to stand, floating in the direction they stood on the clean ground, the black boots combined in a straight line just bending when his feet touched the floor, by the side of his father. Both were different physically, Orm was growing some inches taller already, Orvax was old in the wrinkles on the corner of his cheeks, one was blonde, the other was a brunette, one was youth, the other was old; but with strictly resemblances, the obscurity swallowing the eyes, the empowered posture, and the lips. Once all the pupils laid on him, Orm continued. “We cannot risk to go war because of a mere intrusion, we must deliver them back, and speak with their King. This is n—”

Before he could finish, a hand came for his profile in a slap, not in a perfect hit, the razor scales on the back of the gloves met his flesh, piercing into it and holding his face in the act, instead of sliding smoothly through the cheek. Orm cried aloud immediately, feeling his skin standing at their mercy, his eyes closed with the pain and surprise mixing, and his father didn’t hesitant to pull the arm back harder once seeing it stuck, bringing the flesh to stand more in the triangle shape the scales had, blood splashing into the water with bubbles, enough to pollute his entire head and crown. This time, his cry came in a hiss, his own hands coming to the wounds, while his shoulders trembled drastically with the new shots of pain through the veins.

“I did not ask for you opinion,” the King spat every word to his miserable figure, voice too close to know he was in the red thick cloud, right there on his ear, a reminder of the promise Orm made himself long ago to never let his father see him in that state, and took him a great will power to lower his hands, slowly, face turning back to the King, crown high, darkness dripping through his blue eyes, lips rigid in a line of pure anger, it was already easily to ignore the saltiness of water on the cuts. “Leave, and do not show your face to me for the rest of today.”

He heard, not changing a look to any other being in that room, vision blurred by his blood, and hair. It was for the better when his calves pushed up and his body towered over his father’s, but before leaving, the tongue came as an eel, tip curling to touch one of cuts, the closest one to his lip, where burned as soon he licked the drops of blood away. They were two beasts glaring at each other in a challenge, two sides of a same coin, past and present united.

The path of bubbles behind proved Orm was too fast, swimming away from the room of the palace to open waters of the sea, feet impulsing as the pain on his face was coming back to life, the speed ripping the wounds as he passed through the homes of his people. An itchy was born on the tip of his fingers, crawling as a disease into his veins, up to his arms, to the neck, to the mind where it spread in vicious want of carnage, of going back, taking the trident and, in a clean cut, making his father pay. It wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last, and every single time, that itchy came stronger, and stronger, to the point, Orm almost wasn’t able to control it. He loved his father, truly, in his own way of doing so, and he was sure his father loved him back, in his own way too, yet it didn’t mean he would think twice before killing the King.

It was in the Old City he found shelter, in the degraded sunk boat in the middle of seaweeds, where the air conserved itself inside, not allowing animals or atlanteans in. A place discovered not long ago, in an unsettling night at the palace, since then, the tides would take him there to think, and hide. Orm didn’t like that word, he wanted to use another, but there was no other one to specify what he was doing. His body exploded on the huge hole to entered, landing with the left foot and right knee on the floor, standing right away, fingers twisting close to his wounds, where he yelled for them, at least. Yelling from the top of his lungs, chest expanding, too loud to his own ears, a ringing sounding where now he could feel the blood sliding to the jawline, and the neck in thin lines, the boiling anger he had inside coming out, the beast tamed escaping through his voice. For a second, Orm became blind. It was more of a roar, than a yell.

He stopped when breathing was missed, tired, letting his hands support his torso on the knees, panting. The wet long hair a funny feeling on his neck and forehead, the air was pure in his lungs. Orm gave three steps behind, the back on the wood and sliding to the floor, sitting down to calm and think. The wounds would probably turn scars after healing, they were too deep, maybe reaching the muscles, the marks of a King rage forever stoned on the cheek, even with his risen, his father would always be there, a ghost on his face. Orm needed to see himself, the symmetrical face of his becoming more of the darkness he contained down the hole of his heart, the pupils searched the inside of the boat for a mirror, found gold coins with treasures, old weapons, and the immensity of colorful plants pecking through the ends. The fingers went to the collar on the neck, one creeping on and pulling slightly so the adam’s apple could move freely when the lungs receive air instead of water. He was there quietly, closing the eyes and controlling his mouth to never hiss when the shots of pain came to his body every time the wounds decided to remind him they were still there, the lips were pulling at the muscles, and he didn’t want it to happen.

Minutes passed of the battle inside his thoughts, when a little slurp of water woke him from them, Orm raised an eyebrow and straighten his posture, ready to fight the soldiers his father probably sent for him, but his eyes only found a mere hand entering in the air, long lilac nails, delicate fingers, a small palm, a golden bracelet on the wrist and the soaked arm lowering to the ground. He watched as the hand touched around, nails as a tambourine on the wood, he knew it was seeking for something by the way it opened, stopping deadly close to his thigh, on top of one red plants, pulling hard from the roots until it succeed and retrieved. It wasn’t done, coming back, and Orm saw it close to where he was sitting, letting it. Opening the palm, seeking for more of the plants he was on top of, it came on his thigh eventually, a gentle touch on the thick, toned muscle. It noticed the scales of his suit in that same moment, and pulled back right away, however Orm wanted to see the owner, who could come to the Old City to steal some plants, and he was quicker to hold the wrist tightly.

The arm whipped to get away, and Orm forced his grip, holding it still, shifting his body so the barrier of water was in front of him, the currents blurred the figure, just a twisted format of someone on the other side, the colors of white, red and gold. The arm was pulled once more, and Orm pulled at it to show he wouldn’t let go, bending forward to greet whoever was there. A woman as he suspected, on her knees, a basket by her left arm with way more plants than just the red one, the attire was plain green, no scales of any kind, but a metallic texture finishing by the elbows, the hair was locked by two massive braids from the roots of the scalp with a golden headband on the forehead. The lashes blinked in curled threads over the brown eyes, giving a view of the sparkly lids, the same product used there was also on the top of her salient cheeks, nose and Cupid’s bow, on the feminine heart-shaped black lips, they opened when seeing her Prince in surprise, Orm could tell when shock fell on her face and she had a moment to think if she bowed, or not, if she explained, or not. He was too close to her, the crown high, shining all the colors with the blond locks dancing around the jawline, the stare of a powerful royal, cold enough to scold his own people, yet, he forgot what really caused her to wide her eyes, remembering soon when the blood flowed from his neck and cheek by sheer lines. His eyebrows arched to her, a growl, letting go of her wrist and pulling back to air, where a mere atlantean couldn’t follow him, he expected her to leave, swim away from the surprise of the Prince in that state hiding in the ruins of what was Atlantis, however her hand touched the floor between their knees.

“Your Highness,” her voice was muffled by the water, a strange sound, the greeting was more of a calling than a bow, careful wishing the attention. Orm didn’t say anything back, so she continued. “I can help you with the wounds…”

“Who are you?” his tone was serious, demanding, the shadow of a King, loud. The pretty lips almost pouting in every word, almost a behavior to cast out the inferiors from the royalty, almost a threat, what never suited Orm, not in that way, commoner or high-borns, all were Atlantis, he was only a Prince for what his people were there.

“I am Midra, a scientist,” the hand turned, offering the palm, the fingertips painted in the same lilac the nails had. “I can help you to heal with no scars.”

It was what convinced Orm, the possibility of his father cruelty not being a mark on him for the rest of his life, at least not where his people could see, the shame of never going to war, and still to carry visible scars on his face when crowned one day. His legs stood, not accepting the hand, giving the steps needed to exit the old boat, the woman was still on knees when he floated by her side, the posture of the Prince, and her eyes examined him, from the boots to the fins crown, taking her time to absorb the presence in front of her, it would help if Orm wasn’t so intimidating in only his hovering, in only his being.

She gave herself an impulse, braids sitting on the water and the basket falling to her hands, the free arm stretched up, leading the body to wave pass him and guide him to the capital. Orm studied her as she did, the form of her head, of her shoulders, and her waist, following when his chest on the level of her feet, wounds not hurting so much anymore, the saltiness of their seas helping his body to embrace it now, not burning neither when the tides passed by every now and then. They were quiet, the prince on the her shadows, circulating the bright towers, before they reached the traffic of ships on the regular dimension the homes where, she stopped by the beginning of one specifically, right hand pushing the plasma where it shaped the door, the substance changing into mere water to welcome them.

Orm gave a last stare behind and around before entering, a typical home for an Atlantean, glassy walls with a lot of lights, a table with holograms displayed in five or six researches, the logarithms in long studies, by the side, plants of every kind cultivated, a colorful arrange of a few he could name for the lessons about his Kingdom, some blocks connected close for seats, and fishes freely swimming on the ceiling, a manta pairing over his crown. She disappeared into another room with the basket, while Orm contemplated the idea of being into one of his people house, believing into a promise of a scientist to help him. Hours ago, he was by the throne, face torn apart by the King, then the Old City, in a hiding boat, now waiting for what he didn’t know, he thought about leaving, more scars on him wouldn’t be so much of a change. Not being able to, when the woman came back, feet taking her to him, a flask on her hands, the jewelry and makeup with a different spark under the lights of her home, her eyes a shade lighter than in the dark of the ruins, the contrast of her green suit on her golden skin, she seemed off when she also noticed what was happening, focused on the crown on his head a bit too much for his liking, she was staring and that was rude.

“Do I sit down?” he asked, knowing she wouldn’t ask him to do it, knowing she was shy to do anything at that point, he didn’t know though why he was sounding so angry at his ears when she was trying to only help. She nodded quietly, eyes lowered to his boots. Orm went for one of the blocks and sat in the same high posture he did by the Throne.

He watched as she opened the flask, a transparent iridescent creamy substance was found at the end, her delicate fingers took a good portion, and she hesitated for a moment, her hand stopped by some inches of his cheeks, it would definitely be easier if Orm for some minutes didn’t stare at her with those freezing blue eyes, or didn’t wear the crown, or didn’t have his jaw and lips so hard. She touched him with a shot of courage, and Orm almost expected her to apologize for doing so, instead, he felt the soft and refreshing fingers caressing his skin back to the right place, causing both a hiss and a burning, while he studied her, every inch of her close face, the pointy nose, the heavy lashes, every thread of her pitch-black braids, every single sparkle on top of her skin, a bizarre taste on the tip of his tongue.

The fingers did the first time, and on the second, there was no more burning, the cautious not being something he was used to, it was usually the touch of combat, of trident, of his father’s hands, of Vulko’s hands around his torso in a training, but never like that; last time perhaps when he was younger, way too younger. Atlanna’s lovely hands embracing his face, combing his hair back, vanishing into his memories as the last kiss she gifted him on his forehead before she was gone. In the third, her baby finger rubbed on the corner of his lips and Orm swallowed the taste of his mouth with water hard, gazing at her black mouth, the frown she did in an extra dose of attention to him, and the twisting of nose, but never meeting his stare. He could recognize innocence instantly, immaculate, not only afraid of his high position, also the man he was turning into. It was… tempting, for what he learned from his father, innocence was the best virtue to conquer.

Midra pulled her hand back, there was only silence when she smiled proudly, the feminine lips opening to show teeth. Orm didn’t understand, at first, he saw how her pupils focused on the cheek, so he reached for it, feeling the cuts not so protruding anymore, then the skin was sitting back, under his palm, the regeneration was reconnecting fast, and the cheek was flawless again, in a matter of seconds, no pain left, or burning, as it had never been there. He was so surprised it didn’t fail to somehow affect his expression, just his arched eyebrows softening, strumming the area like she did.

“It is healed already, Your Highness,” she stated nicely, grabbing a mirror on the table and offering him, head lowered. The fishes came to swim around her calves, and the manta close to the braids, shadow over her shoulders.

He accepted, feeling her fingers under his, smaller and softer under his callous, she stiffed lightly, breathing again when the contact was done, the mirror showed him nothing, only the cheek where his skin sparkled with the cream gone. “How?”

“I have been studying our skin properties, how easily it heals from burns, and light cuts, but fails when the muscles are damaged,” Midra said turning around apprehensive, floating over to the table, her curves always shining in the metallic suit, indicating he could follow to see the holograms, Orm did, placing the mirror where it was before, and took a look at them. “Some plants present perfect condition to regenerate themselves even if a part of them was lost. I made a combination to nourish our muscles.”

Orm was in silence, his arms were folding on the chest, paying attention to the notes, and writing. They started to flash in pictures of the plants she spoke about, an animation of how a root was cut, growing up immediately after. As being who he was, there was no need to excuse himself when his hand controlled the hologram up, more notes and the manta appeared in purple dots. Meticulously, he understood her line of thoughts and research. “The real medicine is not for us, it is for the animals.”

“Yes,” she turned to him, nodding with her head, and Orm stared at her for a while, how her lashes fell to stare at his neck, interrupted when the real manta dove between them, crawling up on the woman’s chest and shoulders revealing a long, white scar on the back. “Our skin is easy, it is bound to the recovery, but… They are more sensitive, I thought if I could combine our cells with the vitamins from the plants, it would help them.”

One of her lilac nail traced the scar exactly how it caressed his cheek, carefully, something about her was filled with sadness, telling the secret she didn’t, how her research was still failing when it came to the animals. It wasn’t hard to understand why, Orm imagined how difficult it how to combine the two different organisms together, it was true the atlanteans were bound to recovery, the plants were bound to regeneration, it could flow well if the person was able to do it without barriers, for example, not in the simply space of a common home, with enough resources to conduct the thesis, and a team of efficient scientists to help. The Institute of Science was also struggling with the new harmed animals, everyday another case of the surface dwellers killing many of them, hunting their whales, locking their sharks, hurting their system. Orm had the opinion Atlantis was not limited by the atlanteans, the kingdom was far more, everything the water sunk was part of it, the entire seven seas and the habitants under.

The manta changed the point of affection to him, creeping up his left arm, the slippery tissue of skin rubbing against his nude biceps, falling to the bracelet on his wrist, his hand tried to care the animal back when it was lower enough to his finger tips, but his palm was rough from the training, and it didn’t feel as good as hers, causing the manta to swim back to the little fishes. He admired her for a bit, the medicine she made was definitely something more than the team of scientists had, in his visits to the center, they would discuss how they couldn’t cure the cancer from the pollution, they would discuss how the damaged animals could be helped in small surgeries, not thinking bigger, of how actually to restore their lost members. It was extremely smart and virtuous of her, also going until the Old City to search supplements.

“Did you take it to the Institute?” his voice was rather cold, as discussing diplomatic matters in the Throne room, lips as pouty as before, and he almost asked her to look into his eyes, he wanted to see the innocence behind them, it was unique for him, fascinating.

“I am waiting for better results,” she trailed off, stare glued to the hologram, one of the braids accidentally touching his arm where the manta was, it felt soft, making his hands become fists, veins popping on the back of them up to the biceps. “The plants from the Old City show enormous progress, the ones in contact with also air, but...”

Her lips curled in defeat, leaving the rest unsaid, as there was much to say. Maybe such as her arms were too small to reach so deep into air, or she couldn’t see what she would found there, or couldn’t explore the inside of those air capsules by herself, or she was just a pleasant, unable to enjoy the perks of royalty. He wanted to say something, it felt right to do so, secure her of something, yet he said nothing, eyes crossed on the piece of hair clapping on that spot on his arm, right at the line of triceps, then the format of her profile, the lashes, nose and mouth.

Orm always found a woman the most interesting when in battle, or when engaged in intelligence. His own crown reflected translucent dots on her cheeks, blue, purple, and burgundy, he dared to say he liked the type of braids on her hair, seemed a fish tail, and found odd the long lilac nails with lilac fingertips, a good type of odd, it came from the culture before Atlantis sunk, from the atlanteans responsible for the cure of illness, the preservation of peace, and the animals. Of course, his omnibus knowledge of History wouldn’t just judge she did it for fun. It was sacred, it was why she had offered her palm in the first place, to convince him of protection.

“May I?” he asked, calm and collected, pointing to the flask on her hand, she didn’t hesitate on giving him, carefully placing on his palm without any touch, bowing her head in heavy lids, noticing he would leave after doing so. “Thank you, Midra.”

Orm left the home, a last look on the scientist circulated by fishes watching him from over her shoulder. Going for the tower on the palace, speeding through the faster he could, stripping from the tight suit immediately once in his chambers, the flask forgotten on his sheets as his hands quickly applied the cream on each one of his scars the armors hid, erasing the memory of King Ovax from him completely. One on the left ribs from the trainings, one on the inside of his right thigh from fury, and the last one on his chest from the trident of his father when he tried to fight the guards when they took Atlanna away.

Didn’t take long for the flask to be emptied. The issues with the borders were increasing when another two invaders tried to sneak in, the reason was unknown, and as much as King Orvax wanted a war between the two kingdoms of the pure sake of himself, Vulko and the Generals kept him away from the idea, it was too risky, the Brine Kingdom hadn’t been disturbing Atlantis for over two decades now; the best solution was to return the prisoners, and talk to their King, if was a sabotage, he wouldn’t sacrifice the five, and if was made without his knowledge, he would kill them for trying to start something. It was also Orm’s opinion, base the situation on diplomacy, opting for a bigger war only if necessary, Atlantis was already suffering enough from the surface pollution, they needed to be united to fight against the real enemy, all the remaining Kingdoms. His father, however, had troubles containing his anger when he knew the Military Forces wouldn’t support him, the trainings with the King became more of a punishment session than a attempt of improvement, Orm was stripped from the bronze trial trident, Vulko was forced to stay on the wall, watching as his father would try at any cost to hit him, calling for his defense senses, Orm was a great warrior, greater than Orvax, but the King had a want of blood, specially his blood after he was the one who stated war wasn’t the best option, the sharp edges would pierce his flesh rarely, yet deeply, reaching the muscles, and Orm would finish the days of combat by the wall where Vulko sat, who smelled like the sand and the toxins from the surface, the blood floating freely, until he was excused to his chambers, wondering to the dark part of his mind, cursing.

His fingers tried to get the very last bit of cream he could the last week, when he noticed it was empty, two thoughts came to his mind. One being his life had been fine without it before, there was no really need in a medicine to cure his scars, his father would soon outgrow the rage and stop with the behavior, and the atlantean skin was made to recover with no scars, the raptures that turned into those were made to be that way, possibly saying it shouldn’t be changed, a reason for the scar to be there. Murk was a great example of that, face never fully recovered from the failed mission on Xebel, and he wore the scars with pride. The second being it would be nice to lose King Orvax in some degree, the spectrum of his father fading from the body, they were alike in much personality, mind and enough on the face features, at least something was only Orm’s.

The debating was confusing, and the victory came when he visited the Center of Technology in the Capital, his voice had sounded so much like the King when giving orders, Orm was sure it was for the best. It was from the soldier’s armors, extracted from the helmets, small enough for the area of mouth and cheeks, the glass thin for talking with no barrier, and a tiny mechanism to keep the currents in the water, everything exactly how he commanded.

“Is this what you requested, Your Highness?” the director of technology asked, curiously, a data-pad on his arms, behind the white three-dimensional table, the shaved sides of his hair revealing an earplug. The device between them was metallic red, the glass in bright blue, holograms on top showing writings of how it worked, the material it was made and the manipulation of water it was capable.

“We will soon find out,” Orm answered, eyebrows raising and falling, closing the box the device was on, the water lock interlaced the open line under his fingers, forming an unbreakable cube. “Thank you.”

Everyone in the room bowed as he floated away, carrying the box. Outside, a green, golden ship was located, small, space only for two, perfect to submerge into the traffic and not calling attention, functioned like fishes fins between all others, where Orm touched the top, the thick water forming the capsule gave him an entrance, and he was quick to get his long legs inside, sitting and placing the box on his lap. The location of the small house was under the towers of civilization, discreet, so the ship dove, reaching a shadow level where it became part of the capital, and no one could recognize him. While driving, he questioned himself another time, selfishness was not part of his traits, neither bribe, there was no other reason to take it, but those two. Orm being selfish enough to demand more of a medicine that only cured him, and bribing with a device that could save a research, both also an excuse to see the black braids and painted fingertips again, curious to see how long they would remain uncorrupted next to him, the most corrupted of them all. Instead, master of his own thoughts, he pushed them away, and fooled himself into believing he was doing for greater good.

He parked the ship deadly close to her door, getting out with the box and placing his own hand on the plasma, which brighten up and vibrated sending dense waves to the inferior to signal a visitor had come, he didn’t wait long until the door gave him access, the scientist in front of him with her hand still up, the long nails and fingertips now were black, the braids were combined into one long fishtail, her lids were sparkling in shades of golden with the cheeks, and her lips were adorned by a red shade. Her eyebrows were high in surprise for the royal appearance at her door again, as if it wasn’t odd enough to find the Prince in the Old City with a mutilated face, she was again finding him by the house, the blond locks swimming by his jawline like an halo, two tiny braids on each side to keep them from getting on the way of the pretty face, and he was really so pretty, the icy blue of the eyes saturated by the blue suit he wore, the broad shoulders straight with the scales reflecting green and white from the lights of the ship behind, almost dressed him with wings.

Midra was speechless, and Orm saw it, and liked it, his posture a frame of the highest royal, waiting for a reference; she didn’t fail to do it.

“Your Highness,” she whispered in surprise, coming to herself, a long bow from the waist, and her hand dropped to her sides. Orm allowed himself enjoy the courtesy, there was no crown on his head, but he accepted like it was.

“May I come in?” he asked serious, the tip of his feet rubbing on the floor with the soft currents, he didn’t miss when her eyes focused on his lips, then his arms, and finally she nodded, giving in space to swim pass her.

Midra still couldn’t believe Prince Orm Marius was floating in the middle of the room with the hard stare on her, the first time was luck, the second time was a denial. The plasma behind her restructured itself, the fishes on the ceiling came to flow around his calves, the manta pairing over his shoulder one more time, accepting the presence. He turned to the animal in an almost delicate way, the slippery skin in contact with the cheek that would be deformed to scars if wasn’t for her, Orm was, after all, worried about the sea lives.

He looked around, the holograms showing she was working with them before being interrupted, the plants by the table swinging in the colorfulness they had, and on top of the surface, some utensils. “Any improvement?”

“No, not yet,” she was quiet, nails clicking together as her feet slowly guided her figure to him, never looking into his eyes, the will of asking what he was doing there was on the top of her tongue, he knew, but she remained in her place, so he decided to help her.

“I wondered if there was more of the medicine,” he started casually, lips contouring the words while his teeth were glued together, not a hiss, actually a habit hard to let go even if he wasn’t angry, adopted years ago when he was younger, in the middle of his father trident and Vulko’s guidance, and even if he was there to ask something, didn’t feel like, never felt like. Orm wasn’t used to asking for anything, they gave him manners, yet never let him practice, placing what he wanted in front of him without needing to ask for them.

She bit her lower lip in a nervous act, and he wished she didn't. “No, Your Highness, I have been mostly taking notes the last days.”

“I want more,” his voice was demanding, and Orm corrected himself immediately. “Of it, if you can, of course. And, I brought you a token to help.”

His fingers were of crab’s paws, curling and creeping down the lock, the middle pressing the spot guiding the water to undo it, his hand opened it, showing her the device, he watched carefully her expression changing, the curious eyes, the little frown on her eyebrows, and the surprise dancing on top of her cheeks.

“Is it?...” Midra didn’t finish, admiring it with extreme excitement, understanding what he meant.

“Yes,” Orm didn’t notice his lips corners rising at her in a wicked, strange way of smiling. “It was tested twice, works perfectly.”

The scientist nodded, hands about to grab it from the box, but she looked at him before, asking for a permission, lashes hitting her eyebrows, and Orm saw how tiny she was close to him. The Prince gave a sign with his chin, and she got it, mouth opening in a big smile, teeth showing. Smiling suited her, dressed her face a little too well for her own good. There was no excuse, or petulance of being unworthy of such gift, he was glad she understood what it meant, Orm wasn’t buying her services, but requesting them with a reward later, a possibility perhaps of taking her research to the Institute, where it would grow and the Crown would finance it to help the animals in Atlantis. No connection at all to the strange taste in his mouth every time he saw her, or the growing greediness upon seeing her smile.

He thought it would be better for his interest test along with her for the first time instead of just leaving and coming back later to collect what was asked. So he tried to offered, yet his voice was still of command, “I will take you to the Old City, so you can test yourself.”

The smile got bigger, cheeks in high with the bones, and a simply nod, holding the mask with the arms too, a treasure in her sight, something so precious she was not believing at all. Orm left the box on her table, swimming by her in his strong physic, a tiny swirl when his waist as by her shoulders causing the braid to float up in the current. The plasma made itself into water, allowing him to get out, a hand on the ship again and the woman followed him, awkwardly getting inside with the short legs and figure, he took a good look at her cheekbone before diving the ship lower, into the ruins, finding the path to the Old City, to the air boat in silence, bright lines of Atlantis bathing her excited expression.

Both got out as soon as the ship paused in the barrier of water, a small waterfall with tides on the hole in the woods, the ground under the boots were of seaweeds and starfishes. Orm turned to her, calm, collected, anger thin under the layer of skin, reached between her hands for the device, his figure towering over her in an approximation of the glare, so close her long lashes had to hit her eyebrows to look at him. He swore his tongue asked to taste her mouth, the way she was so strangely intimidated by him, by what he represented, if she tasted the way she behaved. His gesture was slow, enjoying placing the mask on her face, feeling her flesh, the metallic red matching her lips, and he saw her parting them, lower teeth white, as requesting for more.

He didn’t think clearly as the palms were opening on her entire face then, so tiny, feeling the quiver she gave with the contact, and his thumb pressed the corner on the mask, where a button could be find only if searched for, not seen. The thin glass brighten up in blue, a low buzzing of currents being made specially to mimic the sea, and Orm didn’t swim away yet, the fingertips in the softness of her hair, the pointers on top of her ears, jewelry scratching them, and he almost forgot how to control himself. But he sucked all the dripping darkness leaving from his pores back, letting go of her, almost hearing a sigh. He went in first, the lungs accepting the pure air in replacement for water, the blond hair sticking onto his neck, shoulders and forehead, transcending the blue of his eyes, under his feet, the wood was still strange, and out of his own best intention, he reached a hand through the water, a guide to the Midra. Her delicate hand rested on top of his, nails digging on the palm, sending a shiver from his veins to his spine, and she joined him.

Gravity was funny, affected her in the tremble of her legs, the heaviness sudden on the shoulders, and her braid fell on her black suit, rasping the edges on the golden belt. Orm watched, supporting her to the news sensations, threads glued to her cheekbones, her eyes discovering the inside, side to side, and she was so thorough to give another step, adjusting herself to the pressure in the air. Under the mask, her lips formed another smile, this one accompanied by the sound of laughter, perfectly echoing around as the glass didn't muff it, pure. That was when she left his hand to cup her own jawline, surprised, appreciating the award.

“I will come back here in five days,” he said, arms crossing on his back, the posture of royalty adorning his frame, the lips pouting with the words, teeth lightly sinking into his lower one, the tone of warning.

“Yes, Your Highness,” Midra nodded, not so intimidated anymore, focused on the new opportunities she had with the device. Eyes still everywhere but him.

He left her, the short figure in the middle of the ruin of a boat, where air was presented, the view of her back composing of the tight suit on curves and belt, lost into herself to notice Orm spent long seconds there, just looking at her. It was obvious it wouldn’t end up good, but he was good at plotting, at planning, at strategies and conquering, well, good when he was only five. Orm would be twenty soon, he had mastered them now.

III

The path to Xebel was of corals, beautiful sea lives gracing the rocks between the bright colors of every kind, fishes swimming by, nature in the best place, they were almost high walls guiding the way to the civilization, a breathtaking paradise they were familiar with. But. Over the ship, a island of pollution paired, closer to the coast of where surface was, damaged from the garbage humankind discarded, it was the size of the transportation, no sun rays passing by the thick barrier, a shadow of the worst kind. Two extremes of beauty and ugliness, of perfection and destruction. It didn’t matter how much the xebellians pushed the dirty out, it found the way back, wouldn’t take long for it to affected the corals, or the golden gates. The Kingdom was close to Atlantis in architecture, the tall towers, the traffic of ships, and homes paying tribute to the classic construction they had before the Great Fall, Xebel was the one with the most references to the old days, it was brighter in green and golden tones, closer to the surface than Atlantis, hid too deep into the sea. Sun touched magically the treasure of their lives, and did wonders to the palace specifically, made of mother of pearls and gold. Modern, yet so ancient.

King Nereus and King Orvax were together, face to face, a long stare. One dressed in green armor, strong, trident made of bronze, a weapon capable of shooting hidro, upgraded as a gun, powerful, the age came to him as grey slicks sessions on the ginger hair. The other dressed in purple armor, trident made of silver, an undefeated weapon, tradition of the family, symbol of victory, the age came as wrinkles on the corner of the eyebrows and cheeks. Two sovereigns who had deals with each other, strings on the lives of their children.

Orm was behind his father, hands on his back, wrists crossed in the posture straight, the lights in Xebel shining over his silver crown as the alexandrites sparkled in blue and purple, the long locks a halo on them of decent prettiness, swinging in the currents, the clearness in the hall allowing his traces to smooth, however highlighting the dangers inside the blue irises, accentuated by the superior aurea in his breathing. The lips rising the slightly bit a somewhat smile, seemed peaceful at first look, then, it was genuinely a mocking at the princess behind her father. Mera, the xebellian, in her prime ages, colorful hair a hurricane on her clavicles, on her cleavage and on the three horns her crown was, it was so vivid, her skin was another level of paleness. Orm remembered it to be red, just not so red. Her face was empty of any reaction to him, the thin eyebrows high in her own royalty, the lips in a rigid line with the cheeks in a tone of pink to match. Neither minding their future being discussed so casually, it was their duty, of course.

“We must hurry with the ceremony,” Orvax was cordial, anger lingering under his skin exactly like Orm, trying the best excuses to force the marriage now. Mera came not only as a wife, came as a Princess, with soldiers, with an alliance, the best kind when his father was crazy to declare war to the Brines. Lying was easy to him, but Nereus knew better, didn’t appreciate the sudden visitation to his Kingdom, when Orvax himself banished the younger princess in the last time he had been there to seal the marriage deal, since then, his father was hated, yet Nereus was a King of word, and Orm wondered if the feeling would go any longer, after all, Mera was the favorite daughter, that was why she was the one promised to be Queen of Atlantis in the beginning.

“King Orvax, I ask why,” King Nereus tilted the head, beard following, and he hovered to the corner where the ancients of Xebel were, serious, inviting Orvax to join him, where they could talk with more opinions on the matter. It meant a defeat already, the elders wouldn’t support the idea of a desperate marriage, rumors of the intrusion in the bridge circulating, they knew his motives.

His father took a look at him before swimming to the others. How pathetic his father was being to believe he could do that, he was getting old, forgetting how to rule, going to Xebel to eat the left-overs anyone could give him. Orm wanted to laugh, loud enough to fill the hall with the dark sound, and he did in someway, responded the stare with a soft shake of shoulders, corners of his lips rising at extreme, another mocking, showing he wouldn’t follow the King to the conversation. He could be punished in the ship, or back in Atlantis, but he would take it if it meant his father had to taste humiliation.

Mera approached, attire of green scales, and golden jewelry, stopped to glare at their fathers along the elders in the corner of the room, they couldn’t hear them, only the small buzz they were making as discussing. She grew some inches, he could tell, asides from that, still smelled of fresh seaweed, still so lean. Her sister was the warrior one, even when they were little, the three of them playing together under those waters, the shoulders, arms and legs increasing like Orm’s, while Mera trained, but was more focused on the control of water, and when they grew, her sister voice was the thunderous yell in the Throne, demanding her birthright, while Mera anger was seen in her witty remarks and words.

“I wonder why your father still accept this,” Orm pronounced himself, not looking at her, chest expanding in the purple suit, an inhale of water, the funny expression dropping from his traces quickly, giving way to the seriousness, the usual.

“He is fond of you,” Mera tilted her head just like her father, fingers interlacing on her hips, nails too short, no painting on the tips, voice somewhere between disgust and loathing, her upper lip twisting in the same way she said those words.

He turned the neck to her, only one eyebrow arching, and when she looked back, his lips rose up again, the same mocking from before, eyes greedy on her face and neck, as if he could strip herself from those feeling and those scales, seeing right through the pretending, the frightening beast inside him coming out just to play with her, who retreated to her space immediately with the way he stared at her. “Oh, Mera, don’t deny yourself, we know how it ends.”

The xebellian shaped an O with her mouth, shoulder moving away from him, outrageously. The words of a past not so far, of memories he knew she liked to deny, and the mere mention of it possible to irritate her, send her to her limits, what happened. Her face contouring anger with a frown, hands in fists by her sides, and her voice was poison. “I can barely remember it!”

“I remember very well…” Orm crooked smile was unaffected, if something, he flirted with her venom, bending his head to whisper into her ear, tiny currents from his straight nose hitting her neck, and his tone was malicious. “We never forget our first…”

Nothing compared to Mera gasping, glaring at his smirk. She was feisty, so Orm was surprise she didn’t reply, as if there was really how. Of course she remembered, it wasn’t so easily forgotten in the back of their minds, an act out of curiosity. They had been raised together at some point, Atlanna would embrace Mera as her own child since the Queen died in the birth to her younger sister, and Nereus would come to the capital to discuss politics with Orvax. With the sacrifice and banishing, they found each other alone for the crucial times of lost, a toll on both, Mera missed her sister, and Orm tried to ignore the existence of his mother. They were betrothed, and young. Orm wouldn’t lie and say he remember how it happened, because he didn’t, he knew Mera was staring at his lips for too long, and he decided to let her taste them, it wasn’t truly a loving manner, they were teenagers, hungry for the unknown and contact, didn’t mean it was awful though. Orm studied anatomy since he was three, his fingers were satisfaction on her body, practicing everything they learned, winning the sinful noises she made, and he took her as his thighs pressured her against the corals, her red hair mixing with the other colors, hands grasping the rocks, mouth suffocated by the sensation of his thrusts. Mera was a girl back then, and didn’t understand his dark thoughts, it was too much to copy, how his lips not only kissed her, but bit into her neck, licking the clavicles so obscenely, and her orgasm got her, who was prepared to anything, off-guard. Orm still remembered well how he had to kiss her mouth to shut the loud noises, hips helping her to ride the feeling until the very last bit.

It divided them right after, when he tried to help her with her crown and suit, she didn’t look at him in the eyes, legs trembling in the water and she was shy. Later, Mera became rigid, ignorant and bothered by his simple presence, Orm never understood why, until his father, in a night where Atlantis’ lights were dim and he was tired from training, watched his face in a frown for meticulous minutes.

“Be careful, Orm,” the voice was not of order, or repulse, just normal, didn’t suit him. “Life is about taming, you either change them or let them tame you, and you and I, we can’t be tamed. We break people.”

He wondered if his father knew, or how could he? They were alone, hiding deep in the corals. But it was clarity, and he understood the reason why Mera was so distant, afraid of falling for him, afraid of addiction to how he touched her, he had let her too close to his true personality, when too young to be comfortable with it. Orm didn’t blame her, sometimes he would look at himself in the mirror and wonder how he turned into that young man staring back at him. But it was three years ago, Orm and Mera outgrown that phase, now it was something they thought little about, a passage of life. Mera liked to use it against him, and Orm liked to used it against her.

“You think too much of yourself,” Mera finally said, eyes rolling from his boots back to his face, disdain in them, reducing him.

He didn’t need to say anything, his smile was the proper reply, which she wanted to slap away his pretty face, didn’t have the chance when the Kings came back to where they were, Orm almost remarked how fast it took to his father lose the cause, but he stood quiet, hands crossed on his back, posture of omnipotent.

“Hope you come to visit Xebel again, King Orvax,” Nereus gave while offering Mera his hand to hold, she did, face relaxing upon her father, and bowing to the King of Atlantis. It was a goodbye, a farewell to show Orvax they didn’t wish his presence there anymore. “Prince Orm.”

“King Nereus, Princess Mera,” Orm bowed with his broad shoulders and head in a small courtesy, his crown reflection bigger than his own father’s. And turned to leave when noticing his father wouldn’t greet the other king back.

They floated to exit the hall, the huge white ship with open doors and guards waiting for them, the red guns and armors. Orm hadn’t even the chance to land on the floor of the main cabin when the gloves of King Orvax came to his hair, threads mixing in the middle of his fingers and a strong pull he didn’t expected, forcing him to arch his back, his own hands came to the wrists to try to free himself, but before he could reach them, the hand forced his head against the wall, hitting his forehead hard on it, who hissed at the sudden pain, and his father pulled again, this time twice the strength to hit his head on the wall where he was held, fingers creeping on his father’s glove to try to free himself.

“Weak as always,” Orvax condemned behind. “I brought you to help, and you chose to be quiet!”

“You seek my help now, father?” Orm wasn’t dizzy, instead, used the pain to hold the wrist with strong fingertips, trying to cut into the scales with his short nails, find the real flesh of the hand, the surface on his cheek hard and cold. It was a slip of his anger not being tamed anymore, the itchy to fight back, he was trained for that, a swift move of his hands and he would be able to put Orvax against the wall, maybe the guards would let him do it, however he settled for only speaking. “This is not my war, my King, I do not fight for you.”

Orvax let him go after long seconds, absorbing what he was told, glaring at his son still on the wall, the hands holding close to his head now, back muscles reflexing as an animal preparing to attack, yet the attack never came, just the stare, Orm’s blue eyes over his shoulders, dripping the hatred from the lashes, the blond locks swinging close to his jawline and mouth. Closer and closer to the edge, to the promise of battle.

The five days passed marking the date to collect his part of the bargain, a coincidence to the trip back to Atlantis the last day, it didn’t go as planned, so there were new bruises on him, one on the forehead, one on the neck and one on his thigh, they were red, purple, green and gray, his head against the wall from the ship, the choke on the throne room and the fist in the morning to wake up. A hiss after each, an itchy on the back of his palms and a twist on the upper lip. The darkness was consuming the organs inside like cancer, spreading through the veins, causing a tremble on the right leg, and a blurry vision every other moment when Orvax appeared, it felt as water was too dense on his throat, didn’t matter how many times tried to swallow, it wouldn’t go down, it wouldn’t disappear. It began to rip, overflowing through the pretty lips, cutting the flesh into half to turn into the new skin, totally visible to anyone who took a look at him, the chest expanding and falling frantically, a beast from the Trench coming to the senses of an atlantean with want of blood.

It wasn’t the best decision to go to the Old City, yet he needed that flask, that power of erasing Orvax, and perhaps it would help him with the shake on his hands, asking to retributed the hits. It was the worst he had ever been, thoughts falling, never ending, the line losing itself, and there was a yelling on his ears, asking for anything, for something to make it stop. Orm thought maybe the innocence in Midra would help him, just a bit, a tiny, tiny piece of it could cure his disease.

The small waterfall on the hole of the boat gave only some blurs in movements inside, the ship didn’t call for attention, as they were going on without an interrupt, he decided to announce his arrival with a step further, the water running through the entire frame entering, on the silver crown, on the broad shoulders, down on the chest, the thick thighs and boots. His hair flied soaked to the neck where purple scales hid the veins there, and the soft lump his adam apple had with the sudden change of air and water in the lungs, wrists crossed behind the back as usual, hands into fists, holding the itchy steady.

Two massive braids of pitch black hair, reminding of horns on top and falling as fishtails until the hips, a minuscule fillet of her golden skin appearing in the waist where the metallic suit was cut into two pieces in the same shade her locks had, her tiny figure was close to an improvised atlantean decor table, because of course she would work from there, plants on top, her utensils, and holograms flashing the notes, she didn’t look wet, or damp, completely dry of hours and hours studying there. In the sound of his arrival, she turned the face back, over her shoulders, an arched eyebrow, the long lashes covering the harsh dark sparkles on the lids, and the bright red mask covering her nose and mouth with the blue light, but under, her lips opened a smile, the cure, the innocence glowing on her traces, the same thick layer he had of darkness on his cheeks, she had it of virtue, incorrupt. It was actually a bad decision, because it didn’t affect him for the best, but for the worst, his own voice inside his mind asking more, to touch, to conquer.

“Your Highness,” Midra turned completely, bowing with the arms behind her back, he heard it along the buzz of the tides in the device, and he knew his legs took steps closer to her, yet his vision dominated his senses in the way he just could keep staring at her pure eyes, wishing for what he didn’t have. Her expression fell in a degree when noticing the bruise on his flesh, and she was fast to grab the flask with the medicine from the table, offering it with her palms, long nails in red with her fingertips in the same color opening in delicate.

Orm stood still, admiring the new volume her dry hair presented, a crown of her own, the golden jewelry on her ears, being quick to count, seven on one, six on the other, shapes of shells, pearls, and tridents, and most important, he let her settle on his royal presence, feel his tension, and wondered if she could reach out, and actually touch it of how much evaporated from his pores. Midra didn’t fail, pupils on the precious stones from the fins on top of his blond locks, the straight lines of nose and jaw, the meaty upper lip, the salient chin, on the purple scales, the lights coming from the raptures in the woods shined on them in red and green, even black, looking like loyalty, sleeves stopping a bit over the biceps where veins creeped down the strong arms to be cover by the silver bracelets, and on the hands, black gloves made of armor. On the waist, an atlantean symbol reserved for the highborns, the thick thighs were flexed, weight supported on only one, and the black boots also made of armor, all wet. As his own people said, it was true, even when wounded, Prince Orm Marius was blessed by beauty gods in birth, yet was he even aware of that, when all the focus on his life was preparing for taking the throne? If any, his intimidating glare was simulating, not the true-self.

“No,” he denied, studying her stare not stopping at his, everywhere, but his eyes, what she did when hearing the harsh tone, the brown irises rising slowly to him, under the lashes, the traces with a fear of disappointment on, and Orm lifted just a corner of his lips, wickedly. “Will you do it for me?”

It was wrong, he knew, that was why he asked, not demanded, to give the opportunity of refusal, his head, neck and thigh itching tremendously for her caress, the soft, small fingers rubbing on them as when he was in her home, he needed that specifically touch, the touch of innocence, the touch his mother had when brushing his hair, teaching him songs, planning to betray him, teaching him treasons. Nobody else touched him the same, but Midra in his front, and he was practically begging for her to clean him from his sins, free him from himself. It was safe, he locked his hands behind his back, and bent slightly, donating the wound to her, watching her relieve on his request, her tremble to open the flask. He tried hard to contain the inaudible sigh that left his mouth when he felt the refreshing fingertips sliding through the forehead, his lids fell to the floor, sucking in the darkness spreading in his veins, noticing she was in tiptoes, the high heels on her golden boots not helping. The comfort came again, another caress on the forehead with the sparkly cream, the images of King Orvax leaving with the bruise, the senses calming themselves and lines of thoughts completing, starting and ending, itching disappearing, but the voice continued, asking him to possess it, to own it, and Orm listened to it when the touch was broken, his rough gloved hand pulling at the scales on the neck, three fingers entering inside the attire to expose the other bruise, tilting the head to the side, offering it to her. She bit her lower lip under the mask, unsure, and tempted of how the veins jumped to pump his blood.

“Please…” his whisper was to secure there was no issue in going out the boundaries there, the pink lips moving, the teeth gritted and when her nails did, Orm resisted the urge to close his eyes, shivers attacking where the hickey was, swimming down his spine. The voice was then quiet, and he felt numbed by the calming rubbing there, Midra was too delicate, tracing the jugular, forcing him to close his eyes and enjoy it, not remembering the last time he did something just for the sake of doing, and actually enjoying it.

His life up until the point were of lessons, practices, knowledge driving towards the goal of being King in the future, people in the middle of it being diplomatics, tutors, maids, either serving him, the Crown or Atlantis; he was around those waters more and more in the past few years, in what could be called contact to his people, after all, knowing their needs and their infrastructure supposed to mean he knew them, yet Orm was oblivious to certain degrees of relationships out there, born inside traditions and culture, preserved from failure and ordinary live. It was a blow on his face, a trident on his chest when after four times her hand caressed his neck, it came for a fifth straight out of kindness, and he knew it would be missed for a long period, something he wasn’t used to, but found pleasure in it. Being taken care of. A luxury the Prince couldn’t afford to have. The voice came again, a whisper, lost in the threads of her braids, piercing his ears in the tone of his mother lullabies.

“Midra,” he repeated what the voice told him, the sound being more of his lungs than his throat, a terrible tone of nasal, powerful, yet pleading, lost in the soft feeling on his neck, drowning into his own veins. He was decent enough to ask again, following the dark thoughts in the back of his mind, abusing power and titles was not one of the many flaws from his personality, not a simple help with a mask, it was more, much more, and if she didn’t want, he would understand, there were limits and he didn’t want to cross them, but if she accepted, he would gladly do it, breaking her if it was her wish. “May I touch you?”

Her palm ceased, cupping the neck and his eyes opened, glaring at her with many forbidden promises, watching quietly as her lips moved under the mask, forming something he didn’t quite hear as the voice began to shout, informing him she had accepted, informing him to take her, to sink himself into her innocence. Orm didn’t hesitate, a blank vision, letting the deepest obscure side of his take over. His gloves were strong, fast, big in filling themselves with the flesh on her waist, bringing her closer, it was different from Mera’s lean body, he squeezed to feel it better, while his lips wasted no time in claiming for her neck, not a kiss, just his teeth biting where her veins would be, worldly, for what Orm wasn’t familiar with care and gentleness, the voice hummed into his ears. The fingers sunk into her, clutching into the texture of her attire, and his mouth separated from the touch, opening to deliver the tongue, which replaced there, a strong, slow lick until the gold jewelry on her earlobe. Orm sighed with himself, the taste of his waters, the taste of her immaculate skin, the taste of possessing, conquering, his tongue explored the space, snapping wet sounds, along the soft moan Midra left with the shivers it sent through her, everything happening too fast for her to do something, but to forcing the grip on his neck to support herself.

He wanted so bad to kiss her, revoke her lips and mouth, drastically demonstrate how much he desired her, however the device couldn’t be taken off, so he settled for her neck and ear, licking down the area first, then kissing and biting everything, one of his hands finding a braid and pulling at so Midra could tilt her head back, give him more access to discover her. Under the buzz of currents in her mask, she made soft, almost inaudible little noises he could grow addicted to, besides hating the lack of contact she presented now. His builded frame applied more pressure on her, locking her tiny self between his legs and the table, one of the thighs finding the spot in the middle of hers, and squeezing up for friction. He wanted so bad for her to feel it, to inundate her everywhere.

“My Prince…” it was a calling, a supplication in the sensations of his arms, right on his ear, her cheek tried to rest on his head, yet the crown wouldn’t allow, the sharp edges of the fins poking and automatically, her braid was pulled again, harder, arching her back together, for his tongue left her neck, roaming on the clavicles, teeth sinking later on the right bone, where he whispered back.

“Orm. Only Orm…” the air of his nose hit the cleavage, where the tip of his tongue cared to enter, licking the space between her breasts as he wasn’t the atlantean prince anymore, or the future king, or a product of duty. He was just Orm, himself with no titles, the young man with the slightly bending to darkness, the voice inside his head which was only his to listen and speak, and he wished her to call him of that, see through the royalty of his attires, rather than his crown, the atlantean wearing it.

He backed off enough to let go of her waist and hair, grabbing her wrists instead, staring at her heavy lids, the brown eyes under a mirror of his, shining of desire, the lips parted, sucking water in long breaths as her chest was rising and falling. Midra saw it too, as Orm’s jawline was too rigid, the sapphire irises of hunger, the pores oozing the beast inside, and on the corner of his rose lips, the tip of tongue clicking, running the upper lip until the other corner, the mouth opened slowly. He wanted her to watch, and she did when he guided her hands to his face, the right palm on his cheek, the left on top of his mouth, and for a moment, Orm closed his eyes, enjoying the softness, showing her it was what he wanted, to be touched, to be freed from the pretending vessel. A smile appeared, crooked, the whole white line of teeth presenting as Midra responded by craving the long nails on his eyebrows and on the soaked hair, it was even strange for him to do so, seemed something was off, the maliciousness of it with the real intentions, it wasn’t nice, or caring, it was victory in its best corruption, as the canines could grow into fangs of sharks. Orm continued to guide them lower, to his neck where her palms disappeared, and he felt only the scratches of her nails, then his broad shoulders, and his chest when Midra palmed to admire the hard muscles under the scales, and he opened his eyes again, another look at her, before allowing the last lock prisoning his true self to be crack.

The palms left her wrists, coming for the two massive braids, the roots on the back of her, holding it with the solid strength he fought with, where he pulled just to see how her eyebrows arched, how the bright blue mask reflected on the golden skin, the lines her neck formed. One fell, the glove texture rough on her shoulder and her neck, closing around it, and Orm came, offering his tongue once again, on the glass, a small lick, the signal if wasn’t for it, he would be kissing her. The other followed the path, not stopping on the neck, but one of her breasts, cupping in a slow squeeze, feeling the size his hand could fill it and watch the extra skin coming through his fingers, Midra moaned, ripping the air with the satisfactory sound, the chest expanding in delight with the feeling of his heavy hand. Orm accepted it as his fingers were of tambourines, lowering to the fillet of flesh in the middle of her two piece suit, the middle twisted in the hem, getting inside and pulling up, until her breasts escaped from the black metallic top, the round shape with nipples hard, he almost could already taste them, the vision of overwhelmed beauty, a female body always instigated more his interest than the male, the different lines of frames, the delicate looks of it, the nudity of the ancient paintings preserved into the Hall of Art, the type only the high borns had access, in the air capsules to not ruin the old style of paint. They would represent the females in both war and rest, not mattering if the model was holding a spear, or a book, the bodies seemed to endure life with elegance.

The height different obligated him to bend, the back curving drastically to reach his mouth on one of her hard nipples, the skin still soft even in the excitement form, his tongue tip flicked on it, earning another moan, and Orm sighed, a rapture of his mouth engulfing all it could inside, sucking while his thumb caressed a particular spot on her neck, sensing the throat breathing the water in as if it was too dense. Her small hands were insecure on his chest, unsure of how to grip him, of how to support herself into him, slightly overwhelmed by the wet muscle on her, for what she was dry, and he was damp, offering her a portion of the element from their land in form of saliva and desire. Midra would be diseased if she stopped to analyze what was happening, her close eyes giving in for her Prince, the obscure mind only knowing how he touched her, not remembering where they were, what she was doing before, who he was certainly, and what could happen if any discovered her wrapped in his arms, and mouth, she would be banished, or worse, sacrificed for daring to involve in carnal with Atlantis’ heir promised to a princess from Xebel, but it would be a good way of doing so, the forbidden act donated even more adrenaline to her blood, being consumed by the Prince Orm Marius, who had sex in the same want he fighted for his kingdom. But then, he was just Orm, and she was allowed to take pleasure on him.

And he was everywhere. On her thoughts, on her body, on her mouth, on her hands, on her vision, on her legs, on her heart, just everywhere, dominating her in long breaths of air, in armor hands, in promises to award her like no other could, the mere kissing on her breasts had her moaning in low tone, thighs pressing his against the core, where she felt herself flooding, an invitation for him, and she heard his groan, animalistic, raw, dangerous, when she began to grind on his leg, hips rolling in friction for more, meeting the signal of his own excitement locked in the purple scales, as his mouth never ceased destroying her. At some point, she tried to peak down to watch him, yet, the fins on the crown wouldn’t let, the very top where they met poking her chin and she didn’t mind that much, closing the eyes, lashes on top of the device, moans not muffled by the glass, neck held steady by his one of his strong hands while lips couldn’t decide which breasts they wanted to explore more.

They were rising and falling in every breath, Orm would kept up with the pace, feeding of the softness of her flesh, tongue roving through them with teeth to bite and lips to suck. The free hand fell to help with the task, squeezing one while his mouth took all it could inside and suck, pulling at the nipple and skin as his head distanced to let go of it with a loud pop. He groaned again, when her grind was hard on his thigh, meeting his covered member in a delight cry she left out, and he was tired of it.

Orm whispered her name as an arduous lover, once, twice, non stop in a slow thrust in her lower belly, friction of himself on her, even it wasn’t the plan, no, not at all. The plan was to taste, to devour only, there wouldn’t be any pleasure there capable of compare to the pleasure of just giving, for what Orm was a giver, not a taker, he’d give, and give, and give until she couldn’t take it anymore, he wanted her legs to tremble, her voice to rasp, to break any other atlantean in a million times, break the seek of any other who could pleasure her like him, he wanted to destroy the future partners, being the best of the occasion, not even love for another could bring her to forget how he treated her. Wasn’t it the best way of corruption? He was breed for it, to be the best at any matter, to make any who could come after him fail miserably.

Backing his face off, his hands raised to her cheeks, palms on top of the red metal, where hers followed to his wrists, fingers closing on the bracelets, the texture of gloves a strange approaching on the sparkly cheekbones, when she opened her eyes, she finally saw his traces coming close, forehead resting on top of hers, the evil eyes staring at her while his parted rosy lips were over gritted teeth, making her wonder if there was a second he didn’t look prepared to battle, then she felt it, another thrust, this time stronger, pushing her hips to the table, to offer more friction to her, what Midra granted, grinding faster, the fluids in her slipper tight pants helping the movement. He was admiring her expression, the low eyebrows, the heavy lids, the red lips sighing as she didn’t stop the grinding, he could smell her arousal in the air, and at least, he pushed her gently to lay on top of the table, holograms dancing around her torso, utensils adorning her surroundings, plants between the braids, and Orm was a figure of tall broad shoulders from that view, chest expanding in perspiration, crown high, shining in all its glory. Midra rested the elbows on the surface, nails now craving on it as the prince’s hands made her route of neck, clavicles, breasts, ribs and inside of her pants, the cold pieces of armor sneaking in, as he lowered it down, undressing her with patient, from the waist, to the thighs, the knees, and calves, where his fingers forced the boots out too. Her legs opened for him in automatic, feet coming for the table edges, on her left ankle, another golden jewelry, and Orm could hyperventilate from the vision only.

Their secret wasn’t over, it grew with the very first time Prince Orm would kneel for someone, not doing so for his own father, or mother, who died before having the chance, a bow to other was easy, any courtesy was, but kneeling never, a meaning behind it too powerful to do for any. Kneeling was a gift to the revered, a promise of dominance, subdued to the will of someone else. Orm was willing to kneel for Midra. The left knee dropped to the wood floor, his height changing to half, eyes on hers when the right knee pursued. His silver crown stones tinkled in the middle of her legs, and when he darted his stare to her core, his blond eyebrows frowned in both mercy and desire.

His hands were big enough to cup the shape of ass, lifting slightly as an award to himself, positioning it closer to meet him halfway, and his thumbs contoured the line separating those muscles to the legs, finding a way in, where they flicked in her fluids, opening her labias almost too slow. He licked his own lips, groaning louder than the moan she left when his mouth kissed her there, so wet, and so warm, the bittersweet taste his new vice, he knew he would crave for it for the rest of his days. The lips gave space for the tongue, which passed on the entrance, making her whimper, climbing to the clit, where it twisted and pressed against, making her back arch with a moan. Midra doubted to what God Orm paid his tributes for, Venus or Mars, Aphrodite or Ares. Her body betrayed her when he sucked there, greedy, torso contracting in the the sensation of such.

Maybe he was a god of his own. His name began to leave her lips in veneration when his tongue came back to explore more, in soft cries, in delightful moans, in reverent prayers, the feeling of him was becoming too much, however he engulfed her callings together with her wetness, pressing his face into her core harder and harder when listening to them, mouth devouring her intimacy, at some point, his tongue pushed through her entry to lick around the muscles and she almost screamed at the feeling, back falling on top of the table with a tug, the veins of her neck popping, chin high as her head sunk into the object. The blue eyes were focused on her, watching everything under the silver crown, a new darkness presented on them, dripping to meet her wetness when he opened his mouth to reach even deeper inside her, his cheek smashing against her thighs, dirty in the mix of her fluids and his saliva. He definitely made a mess for someone of such class. Back at kissing her clit with flat lips, rubbing the tongue on it, his hands left her, coming together to take one of the gloves off, electricity bursting in the spots of her buttocks where his skin connected to hers at least.

“Orm!” she pleaded, tone straight from her throat when his fingers fell, one drawing circles in her entrance, ask for permission, or just teasing, she couldn’t decide which when his tongue licked around her clit. Her hips soon rolled on him, granting the passage to his rough finger, an inch at a time, until it filled her completely, and Midra gritted her teeth when it twisted, falling out, and coming back in. “Please!”

He ignored, slowly penetrating only one finger in her walls, crushing his teeth down on her labias in gentle bites, enjoying the vision of her squirming, the wetness soaking his chin. Her hips continued to roll on his finger, on her own privilege, mouth chewing her virtue and swallowing it away. Yet Orm was in a mission, and the second finger presented itself in a new thrust of his palm in her, the nail forcing her to spread for it, the sensation was of suffocating, as if he took her mask off and let her without water, shivers running through her insides of when they twisted around, again, instead of backing off. Her back arched drastically when he curled them in the specific spot to send her away, in moves of calling her, tips pressing those muscles, as asking for her moans, more, and more, until she was a mess herself. And Midra was loud, deliciously loud, he was young, fascinated by dramas, could be lost in the shaking her legs on his head, her feet slide in a precise beg of his fingers to the scales on his back and shoulder. It was a clue.

Orm gladly took it, the intrusion of her taking a new rhythm, adjusting his mouth a little up, tongue flat on her clit, twisting there, while his palm shifted in movements of up and down, fast, hard, and severus, whole arm providing her all the pleasure he could, the wetness clicking in the old boat. Her palms clapped on the table, supporting not only her body, but mind, and he was kind enough to use his free hand to grab one of hers, interlaced the fingers, they were connected everywhere, he would not only push her off to her orgasm, also jump in the abyss together. Midra began to ride his fingers and mouth, hips consisted in push on him, the foot on his shoulder helping her in the grinding, the water failing at her lungs, and Orm was controlled in this oh-too-fast fingers, but she was erratic, thighs not caring to the sharp fins on them when they decided to close on the head. He groaned along, the beast greeting the orgasm with wild mouth, eyes not leaving her. She couldn’t even pronounce his name, beg for him, she was the one hyperventilating in her mask, and her back arched higher as her sounds were growing, not lasting, and she was almost sitting on his face when she came desperately, whole body shaking violently, almost painfully in doses of satisfaction so intense, the noise not possible in between shouting and moaning, hips breaking on his mouth that never stopped, sucking all of her he could, fingers powerful trying to make the sensation last, and Orm wanted to experience it everyday, listen to her everyday, eat her everyday.

Midra fell down on the table, defeated, spams disturbing the spine, down to the feet, crying in when Orm retreated his fingers, tongue licking up and down to not waste any of her, taste blinding him. She was stiff, tiredness drowning in her nude chest, but rest was a luxury when the prince didn’t let her breath, only capable when he backed off, raising in the tall wall he was on top of her, the lids opened just enough to see when he sucked at his own two fingers, the stare on her somewhere in malicious, and devilish, lips swollen and the blond locks pairing on the neck, under the high crown.

The bracelet on the gloved hand beeped in blue lights, telling Orm he only had 10 minutes to go to the Palace without anybody noticing his absence. It was his meditation time in the day, before training with tridents, when he was allowed to his chambers without any disturbs, or interruptions, every five days in the schedule. It had gone perfectly if Vulko or his father asked. He had never felt more at peace and centered since his mother was sacrificed.

#orm marius #orm marius x reader #king orm #king orm x reader #orm marius imagine #orm marius x oc #gabs writing

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cumulohimbus · 4 years

Text

Eclose - draft 1, formless

A Poem About Transitioning from Female to Male

Somewhere in my mother's troves of photographs, there's a water-stained picture of a soft-faced girl holding a Monarch butterfly on her finger.

I know it well.

The girl has her hair up in a long fluffy ponytail or two, plush and wavy like a cocker spaniel's ears, the color of melted caramel, but toned softer. Her skin is pale like the alabaster cookies her family makes for Christmas every year, dappled with faint freckles beneath twin cobalt eyes.

And there's the orangey-vermillion of the butterfly's open wings, and the mahogany of the table in the background, and everything else is blue: sky blue, gently green-tinted, navy...

Her smile is infinite.

She is weak, from an exterior perspective. Age has not yet fully hardened her easily damaged skin, the nerves are youthfully vulnerable...

...but the mind between her ears is still relatively sharp, fierce - caring is reserved only for the things in life that really matter before society sets in.

She is called "pearl", in hopes that she will remain sturdily beautiful for the rest of her life.

A decade and a half later, give or take, there's a photo saved in my cell phone's gallery:

An androgynous human...

If you heard the depth of their voice while relaxed they might be clocked as male;

Their chin and shoulders are speckled with acne, and their cheeks are round, their eyelashes long.

They could be a prepubescent boy, but one that just so happens to be able to legally purchase alcohol because they're actually 21 years old.

Perhaps the slight roundness of the chest, or the flat crotch of their pants is telling. Perhaps the feminine inflection they still speak with frequently...

Most importantly though is the Monarch butterfly hanging inverted from the person's index finger, wings drying. That, and the lop-sided grin creasing their face, the curves of their plump lips a parabolic path always pointing infinitely up to the cool gray, lantern-like irises and dilated pupils.

I stare closely at their face from time to time.

That smile is the most genuine one I've seen from them in a while.

And closer yet:

The flesh of their arms and face are marked with dozens upon dozens of scars, now-bitten nails had been asteroids once, carving into real and perceived impurities.

Their fingers were peeling, dry from the dehydration of peroxide trying to draw out infection caused by ripping out chunks of cuticle.

And faintly, down the length of their left forearm, lay the rose-colored memory of burns that spelled out "BAD DOG".

Still...

The last they'd looked this genuine was before metamorphosis.

Years had hardened the skin, physical wounds stung less, scabbed over too quickly. Their joints always dully ached from an intense and uncompromising burnout, one that fully intended to kill the human creature in its prime. But as the pain became chronic, so their tolerance of it was forced with time.

On the outside, things began to hurt less.

It was on the inside where they were most weak.

Caterpillars split their flesh down the seam of their backs to pupate. They dissolve themselves inside a little shell flecked with metallic gold.

When they're ready, the stronghold cracks, and out bursts a completely different creature, winged with gossamer, as deeply scarlet as the most vibrant of autumn leaves. Their wings are spattered with contrasting spots and stripes, dwarfing the more angular body, making themselves appear larger and less appetizing.

I, too, ripped myself open, boiled in a pool of my own molecules, reformed myself properly.

Look bigger; look stronger; look fiercer.

And yet my wings can be disintegrated with even the slightest of touch.

#this has been in my drafts for awhile #silver writes #trans stuff #poetry

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ask-peach-bellini · 5 years

Text

Bold what applies to your muse, then tag some followers. Repost, don’t reblog.

Tagging: If ya wanna

Tagged by: took it from @powderpuffxinkwell

Body

Long legs. Short legs. Average legs. Slender thighs. Thick thighs. Muscular thighs. Skinny arms. Lean arms. Soft arms. Muscular arms. Toned stomach. Flat stomach. Flabby Stomach. Soft stomach. Six-pack. Beer belly. Lean frame. Slender frame. Beefy/muscular frame. Chubby frame. Petite frame (5 ft 4 or shorter). Lanky frame. Short nails. Long nails.Manicured nails. Dirty nails. Flat ass. Toned ass. Bubble butt. Thick ass. Small waist. Thick waist. Narrow hips. Average hips. Wide hips. Big feet. Average feet. Small feet. Soft feet.Slender feet. Callused feet. Callused hands. Soft hands. Big hands. Average hands.Small hands. Long fingers. Short fingers. Average fingers. Broad shoulders. Slender shoulders.Underweight. Average weight. Overweight.

Height

Shorter than 140 cm. 141 cm-150 cm.. 161 cm to 170 cm.171 cm to 180cm. 181 cm to 190 cm. 191 cm to 2m. Taller than 2m.

Skin

Pale. Fair. Rosy. Olive. Dark. Tanned. Blotchy. Smooth. Acne. Dry. Greasy.Freckled.Scarred.

Eyes

Small. Large. Average. Grey. Brown. Black. Blue. Red. Green. Gold. Hazel. Pink Doe-eyed.Almond. Close-set. Wide-set. Squinty. Sharp. Monolid. Heavy eyelids. Upturned. Downturned. Tired.

Hair

Tattoo/Piercings

Full sleeve. Thigh tattoo. Shin tattoo. Wrist tattoo. Hand/finger tattoo. Foot tattoo. Neck tattoo. Face tattoo. Chest [back shoulder] tattoo. One tattoo. A few here and there. Multiple.No tattoo. Monroe piercing. Nose piercing. Septum. Nipple piercing(s). Genital piercing(s). Industrial piercings. Earlobe piercing. Prince Albert piercing. Eyebrow piercing(s). Tongue piercing(s). Lip piercing(s). Tragus piercing. Angel bites. Labret. Stretches out ears. Navel piercing. Inverse navel piercing. Cheek piercing(s). Smiley. Nape piercing(s). No piercings.

Cosmetics

Light eyeliner. Heavy eyeliner. Cat eyes. Mascara. Fake eyelashes. Matte lipstick. Regular lipstick. Lipgloss. Red lips. Pink lips. Dark lips. Bronzer. Highlighter. Eyeshadow. Neutral eyeshadow. Smoky eyes. Colorful eyeshadow. Blush. Lipliner. Light contouring. Heavy contouring. Powder. Matte foundation. Shiny foundation. Concealer. Wears makeup regularly. Wears it from time to time. Never wears makeup.

Scent

Floral. Fruity. Perfumes. Aftershave. Cocoa. Moisturizer. Natural soap. Shampoo.Deodorant.Cigarettes. Leather. Sweat. Food. Incense. Marijuana. Cologne. Whiskey. Wine. Fried food. Blood. Fire. Metal. Rain. Grass. Ocean. Autumn leaves. Baked bread. Freshly baked cookies. Smoke. Campfire. Lavender. Trees. Pumpkin Pie. Musk. Rose. Gingerbread. Peppermint. Oak. Honey. Lemon. Vanilla. Coffee. Cake. Mint. Raw hyde.

Clothes

Jeans. Tight pants. Overalls. Overknee socks. Tights. Leggings. Yoga pants. Pencil skirt.Tight skirt. Loose skirt. Tight/formfitting suit. Cardigans. Blouse. Button-up shirt.Band t-shirt. Sports t-shirt. Sweatpants. Tanktop. Cut-off t-shirt. Designer. High street. Online stores. Thrift. Lingerie. Long skirt. Miniskirt. Maxidress. Sun dress. Tie. Tuxedo.Cocktail dress.Highslit dress/skirt. T-shirt. Loose clothing. Tight clothing. Jean shorts.Sweater. Sweater vest. Khaki pants. Suit. Hoodie. Harem pants. Basketball shorts. Boxers. Briefs. Boxer-briefs. Thong. Hotpants. Hipster panties. Bra. Sports bra. Crop top. Corset.Ballerina skirt. Leotard. Polka dot. Stripes. Glitter. Silk. Lace. Leather. Velvet. Chemise.Cotton. Patterns. Florals. Neon colors. Pastels. Plaid. Black. Dark color. Fur. Faux fur.Gloves. Work gloves. Fingerless gloves. Mittens. Never wears gloves. Hats. Never wears hats.

Shoes

Sneakers. Slip-ons. Flats. Slippers. Sandals. High heels. Kitten heels. Ankle boots.Combat boots. Work Boots. Cowboy boots. Knee-high. Platforms. Stripper heels. Bare feet. Loafers. Dress shoes

#((meme #((sweet chile

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