acidcorrodes

[acidcorrodes]

[ starter for @tr1cked ]

Dmitry smiled softly after planting a chaste, but generous kiss on Loki's lips. She had been so stressed out about something or other, that he had decided to set everything aside that day and just spend time together. He had only half-understood the actual complaint, far too distracted by how flustered she was over it to summon the extra braincells for thinking at the level of gods, but it was not for lack of trying. He cared, after all. Half-angel, Dmitry couldn't neglect to care. He shared in feeling with others as naturally as fish could swim — an inevitability, necessary, mandated by the heart.

"You should show me the fireworks, remember you told me about it that one time?"

It was both a genuine request —Dmitry adored colors and lights— and a compliment, subtly appealing to admiration over Loki's abilities and learned skills, and offering her a chance to show off. A suitable distraction from what troubled her, Dmitry thought.

[acidcorrodes]

Dmitry, unaware of what he had just done, gave Mal a confused sort of look. Despite the time he had been living as what he was now, he didn't quite have full command of all he could do, nor did he have full knowledge of it. This wasn't the first time he'd spilled over feelings like that, but neither now nor before had he possessed any awareness of what he'd done. He certainly hadn't done it on purpose — if he had, he would have been more selective over what to share.

"That could work. She's smart, that one," he agreed, nodding gently.

He grinned at Mal's offer for water or something else. "Vodka? If not, water's fine, I'll live."

He would have laughed, or at least giggled at the comment he just made, but he was still not feeling one-hundred percent. Mal was right, though: Dmitry liked to be lighthearted. He was not generally a serious type of person, except if the situation required it. In general, Dmitry preferred to take it easy. He had enough sorrows to keep track of without adding more to the list, so he did his best to avoid doing that.

His sense of humor varied, too, from silly and dad-joke adjacent, to intricately thought out punchlines that could be missed if one did not pay attention. It wasn't necessarily about people understanding the joke every single time, really. Sometimes, he just laid out ideas or situations as a game, with the amusement being in whether or not the other person noticed, and how long it took them to spot the thing, and how they reacted to it. Never malicious, never unpleasant; it was only ever fun, benign, harmless.

"If you have some ice, maybe that too?"

The corner of Mal’s lips twitched at that, curling into an amused smile at the rather unexpected jest. “Oh, so you’re a joker are you?” He quipped in return, a warm, playful counter punctuated with a soft chuckle when the banter served as something of an unexpected reassurance; maybe, if he was coherent enough to crack a joke, he wasn’t quite as badly hurt as he’d first thought? As far as he could tell there was a certain alertness to those hazel eyes now, no dilated pupils, no bleariness…surely that was good?

Only, he — Dmitry — seemed awfully worried about a cat. Was that normal? Truth be told Mal hadn’t ever been much of a cat person to know for sure, but admittedly it was rather sweet that the first concern to pop into his mind upon waking was whether his pet was okay. “I’m not sure.” He admitted, apologetic as he tried to think back to the moment that he’d stumbled upon him in the alleyway, fairly certain that the unconscious body sprawled out on the concrete had been at the forefront of his mind rather than spotting an errant feline. “Perhaps I just didn’t see her? I can —“

Mal had meant to say that he could open a window, maybe the doors to his little balcony when every so often he’d get stay cats perching there, but as Dmitry’s hand took his he felt a sudden swell of concern well up unbidden in his chest, a worry for this little black and white cat that felt true and yet also strangely foreign. And not just that, either — the tangle of emotions that got caught up with his own felt tricky to unravel, but it was like an…assurance, of sorts? A surge of comfort and gratitude that, for a fleeting moment, made Mal believe that the injured soul before him really was going to be okay. Strange.

“Okay, that was weird.” He began, briefly puzzled as his gaze flitted between Dmitry and the hand in his, swiftly trying to recover his train of thought after it had so suddenly been derailed. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened there. I was just going to say I could open up the windows, or leave some food out to see if she’ll come up to the balcony?” Mal suggested. “Anyway, is there anything I can get you? Water? Something stronger?”

[acidcorrodes]

[ continued here ]

"I thought you were a myth." (from andy for loki)

❝  myths, legends, the likes. they are all just tales of old. ❞ a wave of the hand, he dismisses the thought. ❝ perhaps, you thought me a myth, yet here i am. or do you believe that your eyes are playing tricks on you?  ❞ a coy smile on his features. their ability to toy with humanity was vast, loving the reaction when their name was spelled out to people. it was either fear, or admiration. not much else between the two. they would see him for what he was: a villain. or, had they been on the right side of history, they would see him for what he really was: the anti-hero. keeping the lore together by balancing out his brother in perfect tune.

❝  i assure you, i am no myth. ❞ reaching out with his hand, he offers for the other to touch him - prove his reality. his skin was cold, but he was as real as anyone else. spending his days locked into the throne of ice, his legends had come to a halt - not much to be said when his days were busied babysitting giants. he couldn't get up to much chaos with his hands full - which was exactly his brother's intentions. though, a few visits to the human realm did him some good. allowed him to stretch his legs.

[acidcorrodes]

[ @tr1cked | continued from here ]

Anderson —just Andy— Flint was known, among other things, for his skepticism and lack of trust. He never really accepted answers at face value, not unless he was sure he understood enough to know he was not being fooled. The claim of godhood from Loki, naturally, was one that required elaboration. There was no other possible path of action for Andy than to inquire further, to demand context and proof, to ask questions until curiosity was satisfied.

Loki, gracefully, had humored the request for information.

"I don't believe anything," he commented, brown eyes looking straight at Loki's with intent, "unless I know it can be trusted." It was not meant in offense — merely a statement of fact.

He ventured to touch Loki's hand, elegant and cold, similar in size and shape to his own but distinctly different. He hadn't been expecting the chill from her skin —not that he'd been expecting anything at all— but once past the initial surprise, he was intrigued. There was definitely something of note there.

He took Loki's hand and turned it over gently, looking at the rings, the lines on her palm, the lack of signs of manual labor. Hands could be very telling. These were royal hands, hands which knew luxury and which were adorned thoughtfully. The jewelry was no afterthought: the rings matched the cuffs of Loki's outfit, and her makeup, and her demeanor. It was regal.

Andy approved.

Although he did not know the luxury of royalty, he dressed well. Andy cared deeply about the way he looked and the harmony of his clothes, accessories, makeup, nails, hair... It was not conceit, or at least, he didn't think of it that way. It was class and presentability. Sure, he had a goth way about him, but very polished, deliberate, like Audrey Hepburn wearing Chanel. It was meant to be looked at, meant to be appreciated, and it was deliberately androgynous. Pretty was an adjective he sought to evoke.

Once satisfied that Loki was, in fact, real and maybe not lying about her identity, Andy nodded. "Fine then, suppose I believe you — hypothetically. What brings you here? Surely there are other... more interesting places to be?"

[acidcorrodes]

i have been trying so hard to write but the sun is in gatorade or whatever 🙃 i am once again thanking u for ur patience in these trying times

[acidcorrodes]

fellas the glass of wine ended me, i fell the fuck asleep lmfao

when i finish this glass of wine it's over for y'all, i took a nap and everything

[acidcorrodes]

when i finish this glass of wine it's over for y'all, i took a nap and everything

[acidcorrodes]

had a whole ramble/vent i was gonna type out but honestly i just want to say:

thank you for your patience, i appreciate you all immensely. i legitimately haven't had enough time to even sleep properly, let alone work through the writing i want to do (except very very sparingly and severely against better judgement). obviously there are things that take precedence, and ive unfortunately been given a planet's worth of those, but squished into a pea-sized container.

as you can imagine, it's been a disaster <3

may the people of the future be better than the ones i have been dealing with lately, because holy fucking shit.

on the upside, i have learned a few things:

micromanaging is self-sabotage and unnecessarily causes issues for everyone involved

documentation is so so so very important

i am actually so powerful, genuinely. i don't own the moon because i don't care to do so

and some people never grow past middle school. they tend to also think you are also still going to react like a middle schooler to whatever they're throwing at you. it makes them angry when you don't. they don't need to know you're having celebratory pizza and drinks about it, but it'd be funny if they found out :)

i feel a little bit like that meme with the girl smiling as a house is burning, but it's just i can't stop someone who insists on self-sabotage like this, and i will not internalize their attempts at shifting blame either. i see the attempts at manipulation and i raise: i'm simply wired different, and i very recently almost died so i also don't give a singular shit. so it's actually kinda funny to watch it play out, knowing i've done what i have to do the way i have to do it, and there's no leg to stand on against "i did it by the book."

[acidcorrodes]

"How much longer do you think they will last?"

Lisbeth leaned against the battlement also, fancying that she could see what they were looking at and understand what they were thinking just by observing in the right general direction. The question was more rhetorical than necessary; it couldn't be much longer now. Even outside the city walls, with access to restocking of provisions when replacements for the dead soldiers arrived to set up camp, people were still people and the heat of summer was just as uncomfortable there as it was inside the city. Their saving grace was that the wells ran deep, and even without access to the river due to the tent city outside, they had enough to avoid death by dehydration. Food, on the other hand... Not so much.

"They cannot possibly stay there forever; they must have a breaking point. If we had a way out without being seen..."

[ @tuve-myrkved ]

The siege had lasted a month.

The last true battle, not counting the occasional skirmish, was three weeks ago. It felt like the tents kept sprouting outside the city walls every time the ranger was put on guard duty. The sweltering heat wouldn’t let up, and the porridge seemed to grow more and more strained with water every morning. A tension in the air, something with iron and salt; as they leaned against a partly crumbled battlement, they knew, with sinking certainty, that soon the stalemate would be at an end. Soon, this trembling tension would break, steel would gleam, arrows fly.

They wished it wouldn’t.

starter for @acidcorrodes

[acidcorrodes]

By the time she smiled —impossibly great in her impossibly small size, her unboastful demeanor— he had nearly forgotten why it was that he had been so distraught.

Indeed, not many terrible feelings could last in a space of time like that one, where a creature like from a promise in a dream played in a manner that belonged strictly in heaven. He recognized something about it, but he couldn't place the feeling it provoked. It had been enough to ease his heart, to return some of that feeling of safety that he craved desperately and endlessly. She was small, like Lisbeth, but what she had unknowingly achieved was like the works of God himself.

Sometimes, Dmitry felt, that's what God was: an impossibly still, serene moment in the eye of a hurricane.

The woman reached for Lisbeth, and Dmitry simply observed. Lisbeth lifted her emerald-green eyes toward the stranger who shared with Dmitry a certain something about her presence —something familiar to Lisbeth, something supernatural, the very thing that had drawn her to him who became master for her— and, understanding the gesture, she approached openly, inviting the woman to hold her. Dmitry knew better than anyone that to allow herself to be held by a stranger was no meaningless gesture from this particular cat.

"She might fall asleep on you," Dmitry noted softly, worded like a warning but spoken like a gift, with what could have been a hint of a smile in recognition of Lisbeth's gesture. "Lisbeth," he added to answer an unspoken question, opting freely to reveal his companion's closely-guarded name.

It was not really her true name. That one, he did not have the right to share. It belonged to Lisbeth entirely to choose to conceal or entrust at will. Instead, Lisbeth had been the name he'd gifted her, which she had so graciously accepted and made her own. A name is a weapon — this, he believed wholeheartedly. It could be used to convey authority or ownership of another — neither of which he wanted from anyone over Lisbeth whom she did not herself choose. But it could also convey familiarity and gentleness. He didn't often refer to her as Lisbeth when they were away from unwelcome ears. In the safety of home, of privacy, she was Lis at minimum, Beth sternly, Lyusha and Katyenka fairly regularly, and variations of love, darling, and sweetheart more vulnerably.

Here, Lisbeth meant trusting; an invitation for friendship as well as a gentle plea, situating the three of them squarely as equals, none less important than any other.

He wished he had his art supplies there with him, if only to capture the scene before him. He feared it would vanish without warning.

"You play beautifully," he complimented sincerely. "Thank you for letting us listen. I'm Dmitry."

He glanced at the state he was in and simply shrugged, shooting her a defeated, yet playful look accompanied by a small shrug. "I promise, I'm mostly just the paint-splatter kind of mess. This whole... abandoned-church-shattered-soul situation is just for when the stars are bright and there's magic happening," he joked, amusing himself to an inevitable giggle towards the end.

[ @searaph ]

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐲, 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞.      It is partially why she spends so much time in such long - forgotten holy places.     To listen to the thrum of prayers and hymns past,   etched into the mortar of the stone walls.     The only place they could reside now.     The other reason   [  . . .  ]   to play.     To bring life back into the  desolate   [  . . .  ]   and because it is the closest to her lost divinity that she ever feels when she's poised on the altar,   strumming delicately over the silver strings of her gilded harp.     Sandalphon,   as she so fondly named the instrument.    Sometimes,   if she thought too hard about it,   the ache inside of her would  gape open  like a cavern of sorrow and she'd bend over Sandalphon,   her glistening tears rolling down the gold paint while she  lamented  what she once was.    She often wondered if Sandalphon,   the  archangel,   heard her cries.     (  She'd long abandoned any hope that anyone could hear her anymore, or even wanted to.  )

But this time,   she didn't weep.    This time,   she just wanted to  feel  the music at her yearning fingertips,   and how it swelled in her heart and bounced off of the walls,   only to return to fill her with a giddy sort of whimsy.    And that is how she played,   she didn't know how long for,   only that she'd lost herself in it   [  . . .  ]   so when the figure appeared to gaze on her,   to appreciate the music,   to observe,   it had startled her,   only a little and practiced fingers faltered.     It was hardly noticeable,   but she had to finish,   so she continued,   flitting her gaze occasionally to the  beautiful stranger.

Only when the last chord faded into the air,   did Aniela finally turn her dark gaze fully toward her audience  -—-  and instantly felt the rush of warmth to her cheeks,   a demure,   shy,   upward curve of full and pouted lips.     ❛❛   It's all right,   ❜❜   she said in earnest,   gaze dropping to the cat,   and she giggles,   reaching for her.     ❛❛   I do not always have people to watch me play.     In fact,   I don't think I've ever had anyone watch me.   ❜❜     Angelic countenance immediately blooms into worry,   as she hastily adds,     ❛❛   Not that I mind !     I don't mind that you're here !     It's very welcome !     It-  . . .  you  are welcome.   ❜❜

[acidcorrodes]

kind of obsessed with lisbeth's brand of femininity actually

she is definitely well-dressed, classy. burgundy/blood-red cocktail dress for a party, but paired with boots instead of heels. (a girl needs to be able to run and kick ass. the dress skirt can be torn, but heels get in the way. she still thinks they're pretty).

she is tiny, only barely above 5 feet. she is willing and ready to kill. she is sizing everyone up as a potential opponent, just in case. she knows where the nearest exit is and she has planned the exact routes to take.

she was born of the very dirt itself, not ash, not sand, not dust. dirt. mud. bugs and all. she clawed her way out. she belongs to the land. she is the creature that was here all along, the one that periodically returns and others know not to mess with.

she has gentleness. she does not mistake it for subjugation. she does not let others make that mistake, either.

she is loyal only to herself and to dmitry, who is loyal to her. she calls the shots, she always does, always will.

[acidcorrodes]

if vampires can't come inside without permission does that mean that you can just keep riding that thang and they can't um . yknow

[acidcorrodes]

Want to ship? Feel free to tell me straight off!

Yes, shipping does need chemistry between the two muses, but if you look at my muse and think ‘You know what, I’d like to ship my muse with theirs!’, feel free to tell me, even before we start threads!

I love having a direction/goal to work the characters towards – when I write fiction on my own, I like having goals and plot points, like romances, family and friend relationships, rivals and enemies.. why wouldn’t I like having the same with RP? RP is just collaborative fiction writing!

There’s no shame in liking ships, or even RPing for ships. There’s tons of people in the world who love to read romance novels, and no one tries to tell them that’s wrong or worse than liking mysteries, or fantasy adventure. Neither preference is wrong, it’s just that – a preference!

So please – if you want to ship, or work towards a ship, in any capacity : romance, family, friends, rivals, and everything in between – TELL ME! I’d love to see what we can come up with together!

[acidcorrodes]

[acidcorrodes]

tag a muse 😔

[acidcorrodes]

fellas there's a lyrics booklet, i get to finally find out what he's been saying this whole time lmfao

SCREAMING

[acidcorrodes]

SCREAMING