nata-rp

[nata-rp]

Little Warlock

It worked. He couldn’t believe that it was actually working. Maladar couldn’t hear the roaring of his own pulse in his ears, nor feel the prickle of excitement trailing down his spine. The budding droplets of cool sweat on his forehead and brow dribbled and dripped without his knowledge as the young elf experienced the disembodiment of a channeling trance.

He knew that any little break in concentration would lose him the link with his apparition, the book lying open in the grass between his knees suggested as much. The blackened and charred volume was encased in faded leather binding, crisped by a fire it had been through. The tome’s warped and wavy pages suggested it had also been waterlogged at one point.

Never mind how it had fallen into the young elf’s hands so casually in the bazaar, it was now his, and it had taken him a year to uncover the cypher buried in the otherwise innocuous text. Now he could read the first half of the tome’s secrets with confidence. Chiefly he had gone through the cantrips and the simpler spellwork detailed in the first quarter of the book, wondering at how the tome’s brutal honesty made so much more sense than his arcane sorcery classes ever had.

Perhaps the simpler and more visceral instructions made understanding and assimilation easier than the ambiguous and nebulous vaguery his magic instructors spouted at him when he repeatedly failed the trials they set. The book instructed him to offer something, in return there were creatures who would listen and perhaps would bow to his will. The cost of an offering had to be attractive, either time spent on the plane of Azeroth, or something more meaningful.

For the moment, the ocular conjuring required nothing more of him than concentration, as well as an affinity for borrowing energies from the twisting nether—though Maladar was unaware of his latent ability at the time. His corporeal body swayed slightly with the breeze, but even the cool air was beyond his senses. It felt bizarre to be looking at himself from the bottom of the garden, where his little Eye of Kilrogg summon roamed casually along the rosebeds.

No one was around, save for the squirrels and crows that scampered about and cawed angrily at the young elf invading their territory. It was a little corner of shadowy gloom at sundown, by the hollow oak that had been carved into a living bower during his grandsire’s time. It was the perfect forgotten little nook for the undertaking of shady business, and Maladar took advantage of the fact.

A dreamy smile split his angular features. Even at thirteen Maladar’s childhood fat was sparing, which was no small source of teasing for him, but Maladar shielded himself from his peers with unfriendliness and gloom. They—rather their parents—would definitely not have approved of his favourite hobby. They would have been horrified. Absolutely appalled.

Distraction! The glowing green sphere wavered and wobbled between planes for a moment, while Maladar beat the distracting thoughts out of his head with growing expertise, hammering smooth the liquid blackness in his mind until there were no more ripples. The eye danced and bobbed in place while the young elf controlling it got a nice rotating view of the garden.

When he spun it around to look at himself again, the calmness in his mind split into a thousand multicoloured shards, and just as suddenly Maladar lost the connection. Darys stood by the spot where the Eye had been with his sword unsheathed, glaring into the rosebeds. He shifted the displeased look back towards his little brother and began to walk towards him, gaining speed the closer he came.

Having lost the peculiar shift in perspective, Maladar came to his senses slowly, once again feeling the prickle of the grass on his bare shins, the cold breeze freezing his clammy forehead and back, and finally hearing the roaring thrum of his pulse in his ears. He swayed slightly, blinking the brightness at the periphery of his vision to regain a sense of himself, realising that his brother had seen what he had been doing. Not good. Not good at all.

Darys was angry, that much Maladar could immediately tell. Angry, Darys was much like their father; magnificent, strong, beautiful and thoroughly cross. The young elf had enough sense to flinch back at his older brother’s aggressive stride, which closed the distance between them within a matter of seconds.

Maladar scrambled to snap the book shut, then stuffed it into the leather messenger bag propped against his hip, even as his brother leaned down to snatch the bag away from him, but Maladar wouldn’t let go of it when Darys pulled. His pulse thrummed wildly in his veins while his heart rattled against the cage of his ribs, panic suffusing every fibre of his being.

“What in Light’s name were you thinking, Mal?!” Darys barked at him. “What in Azeroth are you playing at?!”

Maladar’s hold on the bag strengthened, despite Darys’ firm tugs on it. The smaller boy slid in the grass painfully, but curled like a ball around the bulk of his satchel, hissing at his brother through a thin skein of hair that had fallen across his face. Darys stopped pulling, expelled a few puffs of angry breath, until he found some semblance of calm. This was where Darys was different from their father.

“Let go,” Maladar mumbled out, still curled around his bag protectively.

“Maladar!” Darys barked again, losing his momentary serenity. “I suspected you were up to something fishy, but I never would have guessed it was—Do you even know how dangerous this is, Mal? You shouldn’t be anywhere near that sort of magic, let alone any of its relics! It’s poisonous, it’ll mean so much unpleasantness!

“Look I—I know things haven’t gone very well with your studies, but this is not, it’s never the answer.”

Darys’ voice sweetened a touch, softer, more caring, cajoling. Normally that would have thawed Maladar’s resolve, made him unfurl and seek the proffered tenderness, the support and mutual commiseration his older brother’s arms offered, but Darys had sabotaged his own effectiveness there. Darys’ presence at the manor was waning, as was the care he bestowed upon his younger brother, until their relationship began to deteriorate.

There was love there, but the lofty notion of Darys being concerned for Maladar over his fel magic use was lost on the younger Bloodwrath sibling, especially when Darys made mention of his failings. The green glow of Maladar’s eyes flickered through the strands of his hair, bright acid green in the gloaming. Darys slackened his hold on the satchel strap, squatted down slowly beside his brother, and balanced on the balls of his feet.

“What’s more, you wouldn’t want father to find out, hmm?” Darys ventured in the same tone.

Maladar’s glance skimmed across his brother’s shiny ceremonial breastplate, strapped across a thickening chest, the silvery hilt of the sword hanging at his hip which he wielded with ease and grace, a perfect match to the moonlight pale strands of the young trainee’s long hair. He was everything narrow and dark-haired Maladar was not, and the younger elf was beginning to hate the differences more and more.

“He won’t find out,” Maladar muttered mulishly.

“You know he will. Everything comes out in the end, Mal,” Darys murmured softly.

Darys reached out to try and stroke his fingers through Maladar’s messy mop of hair, but the younger elf jerked his head back and yanked on the satchel, finally managing to snatch it out of Darys’ grip while the paladin trainee was distracted. Shuffling backwards, Maladar ignored the scrapes on his knees where pebbles in the grass had cut his tender skin, and stumbled to his feet. The skirt of his robe fell around his ankles, as black as the hair he tugged out of his face with annoyance.

“Not unless you tell him,” Maladar accused, huffing out a breath.

Seeking to protect the well of knowledge that had sustained him despite the unfairness of life’s slings, Maladar put the satchel on and shifted the bag against his rear, farthest away from his brother’s reach. Darys watched his little brother’s antics with a torn expression for a moment, before he stood back up and towered over the skinny boy. Darys had never grassed on him before, then again, Maladar’s transgressions had never been as outrageous.

“I’m trying to protect you, Mal. This sort of thing… It’s nothing you want anything to do with. It’s just wrong, and harmful. You could put yourself and everyone around you in absolute danger! It’s the power—” Darys’ reasonable tone crumbled into that of worry, made sharp by his own fears of what it could mean for him as well. “It’s the power of the legion. It’s not to be used!”

“But I’m good at it!” Maladar cried back.

Emotion flooded the younger elf’s body as he grew more and more upset, twisting his fingers up into fists, drawing breath into his lungs as if he was short on it. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them back stubbornly. It was easy for Darys to condemn the one thing that came to him as easily as breathing, after all, he was perfect. Everything their father wanted and more, and he was so righteous, brimming with Light, blessedly talented, while Maladar struggled with the arcane and earned criticism after criticism, until everyone pointed and tittered at him.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair!

“Mal, you need to stop. That avenue only leads to dark things. I can promise you that,” Darys entreated, taking a step towards Maladar. “Come on, if you hand it over I can get rid of it in the kitchen fires, without anyone being the wiser. Then I’ll help you with some of your lessons, I promise. Yeah?”

Maladar heard the word fire and his body went cold. All that work, for a year trying to piece together the puzzles of the book’s contents, and now his brother would destroy it? Wanted to destroy everything he had achieved, his one and only talent. Darys was asking him to turn his back on the one thing he found that was a salvation. No, no, no, NO!

He hadn’t meant to use it, not on anyone else. Just small critters and the occasional lynx, before they scurried off to safety, but the effect was the same. Darys’ eyes glassed over momentarily, he took a couple of stumbling steps backwards, then howled out a cry of pain as static erupted across his limbs and pulled from him the essence of his vitality, feeding it in small green rivulets of energy into Maladar’s frame.

Their gazes met, Maladar’s panicked, Darys’ filled with pain and shock. The hum of a shield interrupted the crackling hiss of swirling fel energy, cutting the ethereal lines of absinthe green tethering them together and snapping the spell in half. Darys leaned heavily against the oak, panting great lungfuls of breath in his bubble of safety, while Maladar stood stock still for a handful of seconds, staring in horror as he realised he had just drained his own brother of vitality.

“Mal…” Darys hissed out, struggling to remain upright on weakened legs. “What have you—”

His words slurred as he sagged against the oak and crumpled into a heap at its foot. Panic beat harder in Maladar’s breast. A small noise chirped in his throat and he lurched forward, then fell to his knees beside Darys and began patting his brother’s face, chestplate and neck, seeking a pulse.

When he found one, strong and unwavering, he expelled the air stuck in his chest and sucked in wheezing breaths that chased the momentary panic away. If not for Darys’ quick thinking, he could have completely… Maladar glanced back at his brother, the worry in his eyes fading by degrees. He stood back up slowly, dusting himself off carefully and readjusted the bag against his hip.

I could have killed him. The realisation should have made him feel dreadful, absolutely wretched, but Maladar found some other emotion interjecting between the cracks in his familial loyalty. An epiphany dawned. Maladar stood over his brother, the perfect Darys Bloodwrath, trainee of the Light, initiate in the blood knight order, and finally realised his perfection was only skin-deep.

The mild concern in the young elf’s eyes leeched off by the second, until he stood observing his brother with his head cocked to the side, as if he was studying a natural phenomenon. Eventually, when he had his fill of feeling powerful for the first time in his young life, Maladar turned and began to march back towards the house. Darys would wake out of his stupor eventually, Maladar had no doubt of that, but when he did, things would forever be different between them.

[nata-rp]

Trials + Tribulations

When you were floating through space in confined quarters for months on end, with about twenty other people or so, your business had a tendency to become a matter of public record, especially to the ones who watched and waited for an opportune fuck-up. Not that Mike had done anything untoward other than follow sage advice and instruction from his captain, but some things you just couldn’t hide forever, and there was precious little to fill spare time on board with anything other than empty talk. The kind of talk that examined the “new kid’s” activities down to the smallest cough.

Marco knew his crew all right. More than that, the older captain had bucketfuls of experience dealing with people to understand what happened with disgruntled elements of a crew. Mike? He walked through a cloud of bliss for about the first month of deepening his ties with Marco to something more than subordinate and superior, until the realities of what that meant began to sink their teeth into him.

Little things at first. A sharp look here, a hushed silence there, chillier receptions and social interaction withdrawal. Not with everyone, there was enough balance in the crew that Mike didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary at first, but there was a growing tension that the slinger began to pick up on eventually.

Things came to something of a more obvious head one day in the cargo holds. He had time to spare, having prepped the afternoon meal in the kitchen ahead of time, which saw him offering to help out Aven’s group in reorganising their next cargo drop. They didn’t mix a lot usually, Aven worked on the bridge and in cargo most days, two areas that Mike didn’t have much truck with on average.

He felt it immediately when he came up to where the men were undoing the stabiliser lashings on the corrugated metal crates. He stood at the periphery of the activity at first, his hands stuffed into the pockets of the sweatpants he was wearing, observing what was going on, unaware that Aven was watching him from where he stood tapping a stylus against the digital board he was holding.

“Need a hand?” Mike asked, finally noticing the sharp looks Aven was shooting him.

There was a prickle in Mike’s skin, almost like the sensation you get when something unpleasant was stalking you in the woods, but he worked it out as his imagination, just like all the tense moments he’d shrugged off up to that point. He was open with his expression, however, flashing his usual cocky grin at the older man to go with the friendly offer of assistance.

The noise Aven expelled out of his nose softened Mike’s grin a tad, but it was the man’s verbal backhand that finally wiped it clean off. “No thanks, Dufresne. See, we don’t really need your brand of help right now… Captain might, though. Why not go suss him out like a good little puppydog?”

It was the first time anyone had even hinted at anything going on between him and Marco, and not in the best light. Normally? Mike would have shot his mouth off and said something stupid back, and his throat burned with the desire, his fingers curled into fists in his pockets while Aven’s flinty eyes rolled over him, just waiting for the explosion to come.

Marco said this was coming, and now, finally, it came. It wasn’t supposed to be a surprise, and it wasn’t supposed to be that difficult to let it slide. Mike chewed the inside of his cheek, scowling back at Aven like a stormcloud. The veteran’s expression changed; the smallest uptick of his lips at a corner as he watched his barb sink in. He glanced down at his board, writing something into a box.

“But, if and when I need your brand of uh... help, I’m pretty sure I know where to find you.”

Pushing his tongue against the back of his teeth, Mike produced a soft click of noise, but didn’t offer up any comments. It took an enormous amount of willpower for him to shrug, to plaster on a fresh grin, and to try and keep from going crimson. “Hey, whatever, just wanted to help.”

The awkward moment passed, especially when Mike took himself off to find something else to do, but it left the sourest taste in his mouth, and that night, a rare night of a few other stolen nights now, he bathed his burning pride in the soothing presence of the captain. Maybe that was a mistake, maybe he should have just cooled his heels and let Aven’s shorts unwind themselves before he sought Marco out again, but he didn’t think anything more embarrassing would occur than what already had. Boy did he hate being wrong.

Not only did he run into Kree on the way to the showers from the captain’s quarters early the following shift, but he also had a few interesting decorations left behind from the intensity of exactly what he had accomplished in Marco’s company earlier, which was as good as a declaration really. Usually Mike was careful, but things happened, and rather than regret anything, Mike pretended it was absolutely normal.

But that was when the whispering started. It’s when a lot of things started, really. Suddenly some of the crew began to take issue with his cooking, like they hadn’t been shoveling it down their throats the entire time he had been assigned that duty. Little grumbles here and there, a whined complaint or two, and more pushy comments about what was on offer.

It put his back up, but he tried to avoid catering problems by offering more choices, and when that didn’t work, Mike tried to sweeten things with more desserts. That kind of… Well, backfired. The undecided, the ones who wanted to give Mike time before they judged him, were making their choices, and they weren’t in the slinger’s favour most of the time, thanks to the poison being poured into their ears.

Everyone was a hard worker, right? Earned their keep, right? So what happened when a young upstart was courting the captain? What happened when he was trying to butter up the crew with his little homemade offerings? Rumours started up, discord sang in the ranks, and suddenly the friendly tips dried up, and the inclusiveness of certain groups closed up, and no one wanted anything to do with the self-important little pissant.

“Don’t let his easy way and smile fool you, guys.”

“He’s just here to take his cut, your cut, and everyone else’s cut who isn’t awake enough to realise.”

“I mean, boinking the captain’s just the first step.”

Mike didn’t mean to overhear the conversation, but then again, they weren’t being awful subtle about it either. Oh sure, they played nice when the captain was around, everyone did, but as soon as it was just him and the crew, things twisted into a nasty patch of slippery ice real quick. He dealt with it, biting back on every hot comment he wanted to make, but they were wearing him down and they knew it.

Aven especially was pretty good at getting under Mike’s skin, and the man needled the slinger every chance he could. It got worse one day when Aven decided to punch Mike while he was down in the supply bay with a couple of his groupies, nothing overtly physical, just a little talking to that was as mean-spirited as Aven was crafty. There’d be no need for anyone else to grab dried stumpkin roots and yellowbell from the bay unless they were the cook.

Mike knew when he was outgunned, but he didn’t think Aven would be stupid about things. Then again, Mike didn’t give the guy enough credit. Groupie 1 just hung around the door, keeping an eye out, while groupie 2 stood with arms crossed, an appropriately menacing expression on his face as Aven bore down on Mike and forced the slinger back into the shelving.

“Can I help you boys?” Mike grunted out, bracing his arm against Aven’s chest to keep some distance between them.

“You’re always trying to be helpful, Dufresne. Is that what you tell yourself when you’re with the captain? That you’re just being helpful?” Aven purred the words out almost like a considerate family member would.

Mike grit his teeth, puffed out a couple of breaths and tried to cool the mounting heat in his chest, his fingers curling around a bunch of Aven’s shirt. Aven wrenched it free, and smashed Mike’s wrist against the shelf, eliciting a slight hiss from the slinger. There was no damage, but the contact hurt.

“Look… I don’t know what—”

“Ain’t stupid, kid. I expected more out of Conrad, but I guess you wave the right sorta ass under a man’s nose long enough and it starts to look good,” Aven continued, dropping the easy tone. “Let’s get a couple things straight.” The man snorted, amused at his turn of phrase, then continued. “You’re the omega here, Mikey-boy. The little runt of the litter. The cook. And for now, Conrad’s slice of ass on the side. But so help me, boy, if you think you can slip in and turn this shit upside down for the people who actually matter, I’ll be the least of your problems.”

Mike bristled with every word thrown in his face, shuffling against the shelves and trying to yank his wrist free of Aven’s steely grip. He glared up into Aven’s eyes, meeting the man’s flinty look with the fire in his own. Aven’s lips ticked up and Mike felt the acid heat of hatred rising in his throat.

“What’s the matter, Mikey-boy?” Aven inquired, shoving Mike back again and leaning in closer. “You wanna go crying to daddy about your problems? Maybe I should have a talk with him instead, you know, set things right.”

Mike’s fire fizzled out and he stared back at Aven, wondering exactly what the guy meant by that, apart from the obvious. Marco didn’t need this stupid little feud laid at his feet. Mike had said he could handle it, and he could. Pride was a small price to pay… Right? As much as he tried to tell himself that, the young slinger burned with righteous indignation and embarrassment.

The bitter taste of hatred was still thick in Mike’s throat, but he eventually managed to reel in the rage, the roaring upset inside of him, and every other powerful emotion that flared up when Aven levelled this fresh brand of venom at him. He hung his head and relaxed against the shelving, offering the sensitive expanse of his neck in defeat. It sucked so bad, it sucked so fucking bad, but Mike grit his teeth against the indignity of it.

“Good boy,” Aven mocked, ruffling Mike’s hair roughly before he and his thugs left.

[nata-rp]

The Bitter Pills

The captain’s bed was nice… It was big, warm and softer than Mike’s own. An unexpected luxury that came at a high enough cost that the young slinger took advantage of its use to get his trouble’s worth. Not that the difficulties encroached here, not when he lay in the circle of Marco’s strong arms, and felt the man’s heat, his strong heartbeat against his cheek, and the sticky aftermath of their intimacy between his legs.

This moment, dragged out with determination on the end of a rope of patience that was so thin it may as well have been called a thread, but this moment made everything worth the pains. The rumble of Marco’s breath, not quite even, not as soft and drawn out as Mike’s was becoming. It was so much easier falling asleep in the captain’s bed than his own, so much more satisfying. Worlds apart, really.

He felt the touch of fingers against the edge of his ear, questing through the soft and messy mop of his blonde-tipped hair. The contact raised goose-flesh along his arms and sent a tingle through his body, kindling the flame of a flush across his cheeks that caught the tips of his ears. Marco was pretty good at doing that. He was pretty good at doing a lot of things to Mike that the slinger had never expected, but even more than that, Marco offered something now that Mike had always tried to grasp, but never came up with anything significant to apply any meaning to that selfsame need.

The disparity in their strengths and the differences in their levels of confidence shone brighter now than at times of active duty. Mike noticed it acutely and it put a wrinkle between his brows when he thought about how he never thought of himself as lacking gumption before, but there was so much on his plate, he felt the rug being pulled out from under his feet and he stumbled and fell hard. He kept falling, it hurt every time, but Marco was there… In that moment, Marco was there.

The wrinkle in Mike’s forehead smoothed, he shifted closer, draped against the captain’s side, and basked in the attention. The safety. He would have scoffed at that at one time, said something about not needing to be anyone’s bitch, but this was such a different feeling, and he had never experienced anything in his life up to that point that had lead him around in circles until he was completely lost. He had never lost anything significant, and had never been challenged so hard or for so long that his pride began to crumble around him.

What other than that did he have to offer, really? He was just some dumb kid, with a rotten core that didn’t feel like it was getting any clearer. But Marco made that go away, as much as Mike found it embarrassing to admit to himself, he wanted to feel the strength in those arms, and in the body beneath his, he wanted them to wipe away the difficulties, and he wanted to belong there badly enough that he put himself through hell for it.

It felt good in Marco’s bed, in Marco’s arms. In this moment, where dreams were half a shade away, he could set aside the proud brat he was inside, the hurt little child who hated his father for not giving him this strength and this warmth that he so desperately needed. He could forget the bravado, because it was just the two of them, no one else could see that weak and awkward young man who wanted to be at the centre of Marco’s attention.

Marco’s fingers were nice… Rough around the edges a bit, but that made the touch to the rim of his ear more palpable. He closed his eyes, expelling a long soft breath out of his nose. Marco tamed the fire burning in his gut, Mike didn’t know how the man did it, but it felt like he was floating now and nothing could touch him.

A smooth transition from overly excited energy, a descent out of hostility and frustration, shifting gears until Mike melted against the captain and forgot about his smart mouth, and the smart mouths of the crew. Mike forgot that there was a whole universe outside of the captain’s quarters, he forgot about his own cramped and lonely quarters, the work he had to do come morning shift, the anger he had inside… It all went away.

The black void of his subconscious was warm, but only at first. In the beginning, when he could still hear Marco’s heartbeat over the thick fog of his fatigue, he felt safe, but things turned so quickly in the darkness of his mind. The warmth faded. His security blanket of post-coital bliss was pulled off an inch at a time until his mind bled horrors into the dark.

Two mechanical points of light, skewed into nightmarish shape. A sinister grin, the line of exposed mandibles and demonic fangs, bathed in purple glow. A physical jolt overtook Mike’s sleeping form, jerking his limbs slightly. A bright flash, brighter than Nexus’ sun. Then pain. Red hot, like molten lava, crawling all over his leg like fire worms. No… Not his leg, his leg was gone, it was just blood, burnt flesh and pain. PAIN.

Mike jerked awake with a strangled noise, blinking blearily in the dark. Startled awake, he thought he saw the face from his nightmares standing over him in the dark, lurching him into a sitting position. No… Not a face, just a wall panel opposite, with blinking purple lights. He breathed out the panicked sob in his chest, then hissed into his hands, biting back the cry stuck in his throat as pain tore through his thigh, sizzling around the prosthetic’s contacts and driving deeply into the knots of muscle seizing in his thigh.

Cold sweat left a moist sheen across his back and dripped off his chin when he bent over his aching limb, grasping at the points of pain with shaking hands. Waves, higher than he was tall, waves that crashed against him and made him stumble, made him grasp for some sort of grounding wire. He couldn’t find his way back to calm, to work the pain away like he’d been taught, it just hurt. It hurt, it hurt. Mike’s body shook, the lump in his throat shifted, the sobbing was low and hissed, but it bubbled out unchecked.

In the force, he'd slept like a log. The sleep of the just was heavy, and deep. It had been a long time since Marco had savoured that particular variety of sleep. These nights, like every night stretching back to a time before 'Rob' was a person rather than just a charge, his was a thinner, more delicate flavour of slumber.

It was hard, getting used to sharing a bed again. Not because of who it was in his space; Mike was warm, and curled against him, seemingly able to get comfortable in any number of complex and spine-bending poses. Simply because it had become so unfamiliar.

The kid was still drawing deep, even breaths when his eyes levered open a slit, grey in the darkness. He'd shifted, bumping against Marco gently, but often that was enough. 

He lay still in the quiet, taking the measure of the room. Dark, quiet, filled with the soft sound of their breathing. And a creeping tension that made Mike twitch against him. Suddenly he jerked like a rabbit at the end of a snare, twisting himself into verticality. Marco's breath was the soft feathering of a groan as he lifted a hand to the curve of the slinger's back.

Mike did not turn, did not lie back down. He bent, hissing over his leg, until Marco levered himself into a sitting position. Marvel of engineering it might have been, but this wasn't the first time he'd caught the kid gritting his teeth over the pain it caused. "Leg again?" It was the first time however he'd heard such a plaintive, wet sob from him. "Hey," his whisper was hoarse, sleep thick and heavy as two marble blocks grinding against one another. Poor Mike. "Hey, c'mere.... breathe. Just breathe."

The captain's hands were like most of him, large and hard and warm as they spread across the clenched muscles. "Long ones in through your mouth, then slow out through your nose. Quite a snarl in those lines." He pushed gently, fingers following the length of a muscle to where it bunched painfully. "Keep breathing... "

Something cut through the crashing tide that robbed him of his breath and made everything burn. A touch, sliding onto his back, warming his chilled limbs. Mike heard the words through his confusion and pain, saw the silver hook of his grounding wire, shining so brightly in the smoke of everything else and he reached out to grasp the end of it desperately. It connected.

Breathe. A breath shuddered into his lungs and hitched awkwardly in his throat, sticking like a lump of rice, until Marco’s chest was at his back, his fingers finding the edge of Mike’s pain. The slinger turned his head into the crook of the man’s neck and shoulder. Men don’t cry… It was the kind of thing his father would have pumped into his head at one time, Rob’s thoughts of hyper masculinity that had done much more damage than they had done good, but in that desperate fraction of time, Mike’s tears met the captain’s skin unchecked.

Gentle and warm instructions followed, rumbling through Marco’s chest, along the column of his neck against Mike’s cheek and the slinger listened with desperation. It hurt more for a moment when Marco’s fingers dug in and found the problem areas, where muscles stiffened into stubborn over-stimulated knots, but he clung to that grounding wire with everything he had.

The shaking evened with every shuddering breath Mike took and expelled, the twitching of his thigh responded to the captain’s kneading, the intense zings of pressure eventually smoothing into tingles when Marco worked the knots loose. Exhausted by the ordeal, Mike let himself just lean back against Marco, blinking back the rest of the wetness in his eyes when the worst was over.

He should have felt devastated, embarrassed and ashamed. If this was a moment experienced with Rob, he might have felt all these things, and then some. No, he definitely would have. There would have been so much unrecoverable stoicism, it would have choked him. A part of him still wanted to be reliable, unstoppable and full of bluster to impress Marco, but he couldn’t find any of that now.

Breathing through the last aches, Mike felt knocked down and dragged out, but Marco was a comforting presence at his back, curled around him and making the pain go away for once, and he was so stupidly grateful it threatened to invite more tears. He was oddly quiet, closing his swollen eyes and just soaking himself in the heat of Marco’s concern.

A thought bubbled up in his mind, unusually selfless, though perhaps being laid bare and made vulnerable in front of a man that commanded his respect brought with it a touch of humility to Mike’s conscience. His own hands were more steady when he ran them slowly over Marco’s arms, opening his eyes again to the graying gloom, just able to make out their silhouettes in the darkness.

“Woke you… S-sorry.” He breathed out, and was momentarily shocked by the wobbly emotion coming through in his voice.

He had never spoken like that before, nor felt like he needed to cry before. Things weren’t fair right now, but he had gone through unfairness before and just slogged through, this wasn’t that bad, it shouldn’t have felt that bad. Mike’s fingers tightened around Marco’s arms and he felt the lump in his throat getting bigger again, his eyes heating up. Someone was there for him this time.

The force of the emotion was so strong, he couldn’t trust himself to say anything more, curling into Marco for more of his comfort, not realising how bad the void inside of him was that thirsted for an emotional anchor. He was being such a kid, but for once… For once it felt okay to feel overwhelmed, to feel like he didn’t have his shit together, to feel like he could cry. It was okay. Marco was there, everything would be okay.

It wasn't hard to tell when the worst of the knots released; the tension fled Mike like rats jumping ship, leaving him sagging bonelessly against the captain's chest. Marco rubbed briskly at his thigh, using friction to warm the now slack muscles that they'd be less likely to lock again. Hair straggled across his mouth, and he dipped his head to press a warm little kiss onto the shoulder beneath those honeyed tangles. "Don't think I've slept through a night in the last thirty years," a dismissive little huff, humour and weariness and concern. "That was worse than usual. You okay?"

He could hear the soft smile in Marco's voice, then the warmth of his concern washed over Mike, quenching the thirst he hadn't realised he was suffering from. He trusted himself enough to wrap an arm over the man's shoulder, half turning into him until he felt the muscles of his throat relax. There wasn't anything he could do about his tone, so he didn't bother to pretend that he had it under control.

"... Everything's a bit... Fucked right now," Mike admitted softly, cooling his hot cheek against Marco's shoulder, "Like I can't get my head above water."

It wasn't easy, being low dog on the totem pole. Marco hadn't fooled himself into thinking any part of this relationship would be easy on Mike. Circumstance had tailor made it to be easy on him, and that injustice chaffed in moments like these. Mike swivelled, one arm looping around his shoulder, clinging and Marco felt his heart lurch awkwardly. The kid deserved for something to be simple, for something to go smoothly. When it came to manhandling the cosmos into cutting one particular individual some slack, rank wasn't much use. Instead, the captain wrapped the slack, sweat-damp body in a tight hug. "You been treading water a while now... you need a break, you just say so."

Mike didn’t know fancy words to describe the feelings Marco’s hug invoked, but there among everything else was such a cosmic measure of relief. Marco’s offer was tempting in all of what it promised. A break, some time away, just to get it all sorted in his mind, but it would be absolutely wasted, absolutely useless. Mike realised this now with more clarity than he would have at any other point in time.

It was his turn to smile an invisible smile that he touched to Marco’s skin. “I’m useless on my own,” he whispered to Marco, a touch of his chagrin leaking through with the admission. “It’s better for me where I’m near you. Least… Least, I can have this, even if everything else is goin’ to hell.”

He squeezed the captain in a hug of his own, until his limbs shook slightly with the effort. It was a big confession, not so much to Marco, more to himself, declaring how much he was relying on the captain’s presence to beat his problems down and find something to help him work through the challenges. He wondered briefly if Marco thought less of him now that it was clear that he was just as likely to fall apart as the next person under enough stress.

“That’s… Okay, right?” he asked uncertainly.

There it was again, that burnt out little receptor that left a dark hole hidden in Rob's son, under all the bravado and bluster. Marco, with the vestiges of sleep still pulled in around him like a worn blanket, cinched his arms even tighter, and kissed the curve of his ear where it breeched the waves of his hair. "Ships need a lot of moving parts to stay afloat, and none of 'em are of much use without the rest. I never much liked being on my own either. Ship's nice that way... you can be alone if you need to, but you're never on your own. Not completely."

There was a reactionary little squeeze in response, and Marco breathed in slow and steady, chest expanding like a bellows warmed through by the feeling of being needed. "It's all gonna wash, don't worry. Always does."

Mike felt the pull of exhaustion tugging on him, slowing his reactions, distracting him with minute details. The way Marco’s body was warm, his deep and resonating words, the way Mike’s chest tingled to be held in the captain’s embrace, the warmth in his leg where Marco had helped to loosen him up and how he had taken the pain away. Marco’s reassurance was the right key, delivered at just the right time, unlocking Mike’s inner turmoil until he softened further against the captain’s hold.

“I’m glad…”  A short pause, pregnant with consideration as Mike wavered back and forth about admitting his feelings, but the slinger managed to artfully side-step around the potential emotional blockade. “I’m real glad I met you.”

If Marco supplied any remark or reply following Mike’s admission, the slinger didn’t hear it. Sleep folded around him like a sun-warmed quilt in the sanctuary of Marco’s presence, and Mike didn’t have the capacity to ward off its advance, even if fear of nightmares fizzled at the edge of his consciousness. However, when he sank into oblivion this time there were no bad dreams, nor figments of unpleasant memories to wake him, just a peaceful, long and satisfying slumber.

Thanks so much to @thewormwood for collaborating with me on this backstory/char development piece I wanted to write for Mike! Marco belongs to her and she lent the IC input here!

[nata-rp]

Pining

He took a long draw on the sleek cigarette. The sigh of air through his augmented throat as it soughed down into his lungs filled the empty room for a moment. The grandfather clock’s tick-tocking was musically out of place amidst the metallic gleam of its surroundings. Dragomir closed his vitalus-drenched eyes, trapping the vapour in his chest, before breathing out through his nose. One of the few pleasures left to him that simulated some sense of flavour, but he smoked now not for the mere pleasure of it, but for the calming comfort nicotine would bring.

Little good it did. Turning the elegantly crafted e-cig in his long fingers, Dragomir’s gaze latched onto it and its glowing light indicator, a perfectly matching shade to his royal blue eyes. The flavouring he used this time had been purposefully purchased, on a whim at first, or perhaps he was trying to convince himself of that fact. It might be more than a mere whim at this point.

It didn’t smell exactly like him, but there was a hint of it there in the cardamom fragrance that washed over him familiarly until he felt himself growing restless. He took another languid drag on the cigarette, then clucked his tongue and sank lower against the leather sofa. His hair was still damp from the shower, hanging in limp tendrils around his shoulders and face. Surprising how fast it had grown, really.

Holding one end of it, the medic’s eyes travelled the purple length, first up and then back down. That had cost a good amount to get done, but it was worth it, he disliked the ash grey tone of it otherwise. Forsaking the single lock, Dragomir threaded his unoccupied fingers up through the damp mop and shook some of the strands out. So long since he had grown it, because it was a vanity he had forsaken, given that there was no one left for him to impress, and yet...

And yet. He grit his pointed teeth, sucking in another good puff of nicotine and cardamom laced vapour, then rolled onto his side, staring into the middle distance beyond the copper pipe and glass coffee table. One incident following the next, one wall after the next, everything crumbled around him until he was left uncertain, in that horrifying limbo he had assumed would never repeat itself.

But there he was, pining again, perhaps worse than he had ever done before. Why? WHY! It was infuriating. His chron lay on the table, lighting up and buzzing often, but he made no move to retrieve it. Susan, most likely. But… What if it wasn’t her? What if it was someone else? Dragomir’s eyes swivelled towards the communication device, staring at the electronics’ golden casing instead. What if it was him?

Hesitating. He never hesitated, not for a moment, not now, not after all his emotions and behaviours had evolved since leaving Grismara. Ah but there’s the rub. They had not evolved as much as he pretended, if at all. The merest hint of contact, the slightest touch of attention, a soft murmur in the dark—whether supplied negatively or positively—and he prostrated himself before those old bonds once more. Happy, tail wagging, until he was alone.

It suited you better long.

One small phrase, carelessly spoken, or perhaps spoken with artful design behind it, and suddenly Dragomir drew out every justification for following the subtle instruction. He grew his hair out again, but declared it was merely that he felt like a change when questioned on it. Lies, upon lies, upon lies. Some he told himself as well. Mostly told himself. Biggest lie and chief of them all was his favourite.

I do not love him still.

Oh, but he did. He ached with it. The weight of that obsession was threatening to crush him and this time there was no Evgeny for him to mitigate the fallout. He cried, wept stupid tears over the man now tormenting him. Dagny enjoyed it, the bastard enjoyed watching Dragomir dig his heels in, only so that he could melt that defiant refusal, more so because Dagny knew it was a front. Or perhaps it rekindled some familiarity with their past. That game of fox and hound they played all those many many years gone.

Enough years that he should have forgotten how it felt when he heard the man’s laugh, or the touch of his hands on his person. Enough years that he shouldn’t have felt the yearning that he did. Enough years that hatred should have been the dominant emotion, anger should have been the likeliest recourse, but he had knelt, he had knelt repeatedly at Dagny’s feet. Knelt and enjoyed the bitterness of kneeling.

But they were merely scraps. Those few morsels of affection Dagny deigned to toss in his direction, came at a high cost to no one else but the medic. That he accepted them grudgingly was moot, all that mattered was that he had begun to anticipate the next incident that would bring them together again. It was Dagny’s purposefully crafted net, because he knew everything about him at that point, his weaknesses most of all, and Dragomir knew that the engineer was aware.

In the end, it didn’t matter.

Reaching for the chron, Dragomir raised the communicator up, sliding the casing open to reveal the screen. Seventeen messages from Susan, one from Marco, some minor spam… He hadn’t really expected to find anything there from him, just as well, because there were no notifications from Dagny, even so, Dragomir’s heart did a somersault at the callous brush-off.

I hate him. I hate what he’s doing to me.

He found the engineer’s number among various other contacts, and spent the better part of a minute staring at the screen, sliding his thumb back and forth over the name to keep it from going into saver mode. An ache blossomed in Dragomir’s chest the longer he stared at the name. It wasn’t what he wanted, it wasn’t what he needed, it was a terrible terrible idea… His thumb grazed the name, and as if transfixed by the accidental tap, Dragomir watched as his chron dialed Dagny’s number for him.

The answering tone ended abruptly after several rings, the mild background hiss of a silent acknowledgement followed, “...?”

Air froze in Dragomir’s lungs for a split second, but he put the chron to his ear and heard himself speak the words, “Are you free?”

Dragomir Dalca © Nataruma

Dagny Vancura © TheWormwood

[nata-rp]

Heck yeah. I love both kinds, but pre-established gives me a reason to just make up silly shit about how they met later down the line.

Reblog if You're Willing to RP Pre-Established Relationships/Friendships

[nata-rp]

Wildstar Winter Kisses [Dragomir x Dagny]

Dagny belongs to @thewormwood Dragomir belongs to yours truly!

Snow swirled violently against the windows of the modest townhouse on Scholar’s Lane, settling on the friezes, bannisters and rooftop of the dark brick abode. The bay window glowed with soft buttery light illuminating the pavement beneath it in the front room, the only lighting offered up on the street in the gloom of pre-dawn hours. A single electric lamp burned in the parlour where an empty wine bottle and a pair of wine glasses stood abandoned on the coffee table.

The events of the visit lay scattered along the floor, telling the story of what happened there earlier in the evening. The damning evidence lead out into the hallway and up the staircase to the landing on the first floor. Strips of silk and satin, a vest here, a cravate there, a gentleman’s pair of trousers hanging on the staircase bannister and a sock pointing towards the master bedroom door. Said door was open a crack, leaking murmured conversation, soft laughter and rich yellow light out into the darkened hall.

The crackling pop of burning firewood snapped out in the intimate warmth of the room, a crisp form of punctuation to the quiet conversation taking place in the bed. Russet lighting made Dragomir’s loose red-gold hair shine like a fiery halo atop his head, the curled ends of it bounced down his shoulders and back each time he swayed or leaned over his lover. Grismaran cotton sheets woven with glittering gold thread hugged the med student’s narrow hips, but where he sat straddling Dagny there was a more immediate touch of skin upon skin.

Dragomir’s smile was the epitome of delight, especially at the feel of Dagny’s fingers sliding habitually over his hips and thighs, almost like an appraisal of fine sculpture. It was difficult resisting the feelings conjured as a result of these moments of stolen affection, and more difficult to refuse the man’s charming advances, even though Dragomir should have been studying for winter term finals. Yet there he was, ignoring an important period of academic development to lie in bed with only the most devilishly handsome man in his locale. Not that he felt like it was a loss.

“I should bar the door when you ring my bell for a visit, I never get anything done when you come over,” Dragomir accused playfully, sliding his fingertips down Dagny’s chest.

“That is an extremely inaccurate statement. Enough was accomplished this evening that I would advise you to review your recollection of events, and reassess your statement,” Dagny shot back.

The laugh in Dragomir’s chest exploded out of his nose initially, then caused him to lean over Dagny as he allowed his mirth to escape his lips and rock the rest of his body. The laughter was reciprocated in the form of a softer chuckle that warmed Dagny’s eyes and made them sparkle irresistibly. 

Without fail, Dragomir always grew weak in the knees when he was stared at with those charming sparkling eyes, even now he felt his face colour slightly when their gazes met again. How Dagny accomplished these looks was a mystery Dragomir felt he would probably never manage to unravel.

Dagny’s hands lifted out from beneath the pillow cushioning his head and reached up to tuck Dragomir’s hair behind his ears, touching the sensitive points of the latter down to the earlobes, then back towards the hair at one of Dragomir’s temples. The touch of cool metal slid against Dragomir’s scalp, lifting a lock of his hair away from his cheekbone in the process, then fixed it in place with a little audible click above his ear. Dragomir’s smile dropped off his lips as he trained a wide-eyed look of surprise onto Dagny’s face.

“What have you done?” he inquired softly, immediately touching his fingers to Dagny’s as they pulled away from the accessory he had clipped in Dragomir’s hair.

The answering grin lifting Dagny’s lips at the corners was very self-satisfied. Excitement rushed through Dragomir’s body and he scrambled in the sheets to get untangled out of them and the large bed, chased by Dagny’s chuckles as he stumbled naked towards the vanity. 

The sparkling gems on the clip flashed like ice-fire in the low light and made Dragomir suck in a sharp breath. Leaning in closer, he traced his fingers gently over the platinum filigree snowflake motifs, stroking the sparkling lines of diamond accents on the hairclip with reverence.

Dagny shifted on the bed, turned onto his side and propped his head up on his palm, self-satisfied smirk still firmly affixed to his face. It was an excellent view for one thing, but more than that Dragomir’s reactions to gifts were always quite entertaining, as though the items given were precious drops of sunlight. 

Dragomir’s hair was arguably one of his best physical features, and the diamond clip called just enough attention to it without dipping into the gaudy spectrum. It was tasteful, designed in accordance with his preferences and was clearly beyond expensive

"I knew it would suit you," Dagny commented with burgeoning confidence.

"It's beautiful," Dragomir replied, almost breathless. His entire face was lit up with joy when he looked back at Dagny from where he stood leaning over the vanity.

"Beautiful things pair well with each other."

The compliment Dagny gave him lanced Dragomir right through an already compromised sense of composure, it burned a blush onto his cheeks and stole the words off his tongue until he stood awkwardly by the dresser trying to come up with something witty in reply. He failed spectacularly, which often happened around Dagny, especially when he said or did unexpected little things like this. In retaliation, Dragomir approached the bed at a jog and launched himself onto it. The wood frame and mattress springs gave a slight groan of complaint when Dragomir bounced onto them and his lover.

"Silvertongue!"

The accusation was in jest, but Dagny didn’t go unpunished for his arresting ways, not that excessive affection could have been any sort of punishment to begin with. Nonetheless, Dragomir trapped Dagny’s hips between his thighs once more, grabbed his lover’s face with his hands, then sealed the man’s smug chuckles with a kiss; a kiss given with such deepening intensity that momentarily everything, including the hairclip, was forgotten.

When finally he pulled back, Dragomir’s eyes filled with emotion, sparkling almost as brilliantly as the diamonds in his hair with unshed tears. Dagny’s thumbs travelled the lines of dark kohl beneath Dragomir’s lower lashes, catching the moisture before it could fall. There was no panic, no concern, just the self-satisfaction of knowing that Dragomir had been moved to tears. A success greater than anticipated, sealed with just as perfect a kiss.

[nata-rp]

Wildstar Winter Kisses [Barton x Rorik]

Rorik belongs to @thewormwood Barton belongs to yours truly!

The sun was dipping past the horizon faster now that winter was settling in across Nexus, even in Whitevale the change was palpable, ushering in an abundance of grey clouds, snowfall and blizzards. Despite the increasingly belligerent weather, there were still some days that were crisp and clear, when Whitevale’s sunsets threw a spectacular display of colours against lazy banks of clouds slowly crawling their way across Thermock Lake.

Troy Barton paused on his way back to the cabin from the wood shed, readjusted the bundle of firewood in his arms, and took a moment to appreciate the last of the sun’s colours shining on the glassy surface of the water. Beautiful. Just breathtaking, and even though it was superbly cold and his feet were slowly turning into chunks of ice themselves, he couldn’t help but wait until the sun dipped down past the snowy peaks in the distance.

Sucking in a lungful of blistering cold air, Barton turned away from the edge of the ridge and trudged the short distance up the stone path to the cheerfully lit wood cabin at its end. Caked snow fell off his boots at the entrance as he stamped it off, shuffling his way into the hot blast of warm air in the mud room. He shed his layers of outerwear and hung them on the hooks in the hall, making his way into the cosy living room with the firewood under one arm.

The words he was about to speak about the brilliant sunset died on his lips when his eyes spotted the couch and its single occupant. Rorik was fast asleep, wrapped up in a colourful crocheted throw. The look in Barton’s eyes softened, his lips cracked into a grin, but he was careful to be as quiet as possible in placing his burden by the cast-iron stove. After feeding the fire a fresh pair of logs, he stretched up to his full height and turned to watch Rorik once more.

The IO had precious little time to spend away from work, and it had taken Barton no small amount of wrangling to get their schedules to match for at least one weekend free of dire responsibilities. It had worked out, barely, but they both had to pull a few days’ worth of double shifts to achieve it, so it was no wonder Rorik was tired.  Tired and adorable, Barton mused to himself as he approached the sleeping mordesh on the couch and leaned over him.

Not even the smallest wrinkle in Rorik’s forehead, he was so deeply gone in his sleep, even the book that had been in his grip earlier was collapsed on the floor at Barton’s feet. How could anyone resist as tempting a picture as that? Rorik was completely defenseless, sparking Barton’s temptation past the confines of his control. With his weight supported against the back and arm rests of the sofa, Barton leaned in closer and touched his lips gently to Rorik’s.

Rorik shifted slightly at the contact, the warm breath of his surprise huffing into Barton’s mouth, until recognition followed a split-second later in his sleepy eyes, then everything about him softened to the contact. Barton felt the tingling jump of desire rousing its interest south of his navel when Rorik’s hands curled around the back of his head to deepen the contact between them. Barton pressed their lips together further, employing more care to savour the moment in its entirety.

Moments passed with their mutual appreciative groans the only punctuation in the still cabin, until their kiss-swollen lips eventually parted, and Barton couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled out of him at Rorik’s pleased expression. He looked like a cat that had gotten at the cream. Truth be told, they both looked exceptionally pleased with themselves.

“I should fall helplessly unconscious more often if it will earn me kisses like that,” Rorik commented, stretching slightly against the sofa.

“You know me, always ready with a sneak attack,” Barton teased, gingerly taking a seat beside Rorik to avoid sitting on him.

“What time is it?��

“Hmmm, sometime after five, I think? The sun went down a few minutes ago and it lit everything up like a Winterfest tree out there.”

“Aww, you should have woken me up, we could have watched it together,” Rorik complained mildly.

He shifted and Barton leaned back into the sofa as his partner shuffled around and wrapped them both in the throw, cuddling up beside Barton beneath it. The cabin was bathed in heat offered up by the wood burning stove, but Barton felt even warmer with Rorik pressed into his side. He wrapped his arm around Rorik, closed his eyes for a moment, and just basked in the warmth generated by their mutual affection.

“Any chance I can convince you to take your sweater off? On account of the fact that it’s all prickly, and honestly it clashes with the throw, plus I have it on good authority that it is technically warmer underneath.”

Barton’s chuckles returned full-force and he grabbed Rorik under the blanket, cuddling him into his lap for the two-armed version of a hug and a second kiss. Rorik’s fingers crawled into the bottom of Barton’s sweater, under the vest beneath as well, until the skin of one palm and the cool touch of the synthetic one were both pressed to Barton’s stomach. The captain’s gaze flicked up to meet Rorik’s, mischief sparkling in his eyes as he tucked the IO’s hair behind one of his ears. He touched his fingers under Rorik’s chin, leaning forward until their foreheads met.

“Merry Winterfest, Rori,” Barton murmured with a lazy smile on his lips. 

“Mmm. Merry Winterfest, Troy,” Rorik replied, the warmth in his tone a perfect echo of Barton’s.

[nata-rp]

So I can’t draw for shit, but I ain’t too shabby at taking candid snapshots of my characters, so this is one set of contributions for Magic Meat Week (okay so there was a lot more planning and posing involved in this, but pretend it was all just me catching Kalor unawares in his furry boy shorts).

Psssst, Blizz, more armours like this plox, thx.

[nata-rp]

The First and Last Time

Nigel was nervous, Troy could feel the fluttering beating of his heart beneath his fingers when they stroked over the other teen’s chest, he saw it in the wide-eyed expectation on Nigel’s face too. The beautiful face he normally kept hidden beneath a raven-black fringe of hair. After the shower Nigel’s hair was damp, slightly kinked and smelled sweet and delicate, no one would have pictured him looking like this, and yet Troy knew there was something fragile and compelling about the other boy. Water dripped off the ends of Nigel’s hair onto Troy’s chest, collecting in the groove of the older teen’s growing pectorals.

To be perfectly honest, Troy felt it too, how could he not? The energy inside himself was bordering on panic, but he held it in place rigidly with iron willpower. It didn’t help his control any that Nigel was naked and straddling him, looking every ounce as scared as he felt. Yet despite that fear Nigel’s cock was stiff as a board, blushing pink at the tip. Troy had to remind himself constantly that Nigel was the one afraid of the consequences, he was the one nervously glancing at the door from time to time, and he was the one shivering.

Keep reading

[nata-rp]

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Illinois county fair rodeo.

www.nickburchell.com 

[nata-rp]

Doctor Dalca

Dragomir wasn’t much for the beer, but it was cheap and plentiful and Evegny enjoyed it more than wine, especially when it was a night for reckless celebration. Truth be told, he couldn’t keep from grinning like a fool and feeling like a hot light was flickering in his chest all day. They made it. The grueling work and hours upon hours of endless study, research and dogged determination were paying dividends.

He could finally style himself as doctor, and people couldn’t argue otherwise, not according to the gilded certificates freshly hung above the escritoire in their beaten copper frames. More than that, his residency was being fought over by the medical world elite. His star wasn’t simply rising, it shot up into the sky beyond the reach of his peers, and something about that wasn’t just satisfying, it left him euphoric.

Keep reading

[nata-rp]

Locker Room Clucking

The workout had been more intensive than his usual, and he was more than sure his doctor would have something to say about that, but checking on the pink smile that was his healing wound, Barton couldn’t see any issues there. It was only tender if he jabbed a finger at it, and that wasn’t something he was in the habit of doing, but maybe he had been a little overzealous. The stitch in his side had receded, but the burn in his calves, abs and arms was sort of rewarding in a way.

Hot water sluiced over his soapy body, washing the sweat and aches away slowly. Oh man, that felt beyond good… He turned into the spray, rinsing his hair of shampoo and rubbing the soap away off his arms and chest, down around the boys and out of the cleft of his ass. Hot showers were most definitely therapeutic, especially when he tuned everything out and just enjoyed the steam and massaging streams of water on his fatigued muscles.

It never lasted, though. Which was just as well, he had to shave anyhow, the five o’clock shadow was turning more and more into a full-on beard, and he could have rocked that look, but he was used to not having one. Wrapped in a towel, Barton took his shower bag with him and hung it off the hook near one of the sinks, tugging out his shaving foam and razor before uncapping the former and lathering up his cheeks, chin and neck.

“No, I’m telling you, Zobel fucked him too. There’s literally no one whose cock he hasn’t sucked in comms.”

Keep reading

[nata-rp]

“Visited Sunsong Ranch today to do some weeding and seed sowing. Then took a tour around the Heartland. Man, what a relaxing flight that was, full of amazing vistas. Of course, I couldn’t resist stopping to admire the giant watermelons, and the Pandaren monoliths. Kaldorei and their monolith adoration, you know how it goes, amirite? Heh heh!”

— Kalor Bearcloak, Druid, Teacher and Dad Joke aficionado.

[nata-rp]

Can You Take It?

@thewormwood HAPPY SMUT DAY!

It may have started out as a personal challenge, but Mike wasn’t exactly sure when the goals of said challenge had shifted, suddenly it was about not doing something as opposed to breaking down a wall of personal misgivings. He had to try not to come before he’d even gotten started. His ears burned red, sticking out of the tangle of his blonde-tipped hair like dommie flags, while his breaths spilled from his lips in short bursts, hitching in his throat when his fingers went deeper and deeper.

Deep enough to brush that electric lump in his rectum that made him groan. You put more fingers in, slowly, then you wriggle and stretch. Orris’s instructions had been delivered as a half joke when Mike had asked about the process, something he had laughed at in the past, now he used the information as a point of reference, and it was paying dividends. Both his thighs shook with the pleasure that rocked his frame as he caressed himself and stroked his own hole until it quivered.

Keep reading

[nata-rp]

DRABBLE BELOW CUT

The suggestion had been beyond the engineer’s comfort zone, had taken an inordinate amount of convincing, but by some miracle of the Weave Orris managed it. Every scrap of effort spent was well worth it, especially when the day was almost magically perfect.

He was right, of course, there was no one else occupying the emerald rolling knolls of the Verdant Sanctuary. No one for miles. No errands, no maintenance tickets, nothing to distract Dagny from taking a selfish moment. Maybe it was more about Orris taking a selfish moment, but he wouldn’t have insisted if he didn’t think it would be good for the engineer to see the surface once in a blue moon.

He understood, though. He wasn’t an idiot, or blind, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with his ears. When people spoke about Dagny behind his back, nothing flattering was said, and maybe Dagny cultivated that behaviour on purpose, but Orris hated hearing it all the same. Some people were outright assholes too, especially the few who outright asked him how he could stand looking at someone with half their face missing, let alone go steady with them.

It made his fur bristle just thinking about it and he nearly ended up with his fists crushing the spirovine blossom he had picked. Scowling down at the fluted orange flower, Orris stroked his fingers along the wide petals and breathed a sigh out of his nose. Not everyone understood, and even the people who were polite about it probably didn’t understand it either, because to them Dagny was an intimidating, unapproachable figure with a gruesome appearance that was unfortunate and should have either been disdained or elicited some form of horror.

Orris looked up past his spot in the grass, watching the blades waving like an ocean in a soft breeze, and located the engineer’s figure lying a few feet away. Orris was struck by a sudden overwhelming wash of protectiveness, despite the fact that Dagny was both larger and stronger and had no qualms about delivering violence where it was due. Perhaps an element of Dagny did indeed frighten him, but it had nothing to do with his appearance. His intensity was not something Orris could quantify, but neither did he wish for it to change.

He just wished for the engineer’s happiness. That was it. All of this? The aurin looked up around himself, at the vibrant cerulean sky through swatches of green and pink foliage, the golden honey sun leaking through and making patterns on his shirt and the grass. All of this was just to make Dagny happy. And if that didn’t do it, then Orris would try something else, but maybe it was enough.

Was it enough?

Closing his fingers delicately around the blossom, Orris got on his hands and knees and crawled over to the engineer through the grass until his face hovered above Dagny’s and blocked the dappled sunlight from spilling onto the shining biometal framing the engineers cheeks and the bridge of his nasal bone. The glow of his vitalus was more subtle in the sunlight, bouncing up against his own face in the pocket of shadow he created. How can you stand looking at him, Orris? Doesn’t it freak you out?

Orris’s gaze softened when Dagny opened his eyes. The aurin’s blueberry fingers coiled through Dagny’s loosened dreads and slid gently over his temple in a rough circle. He felt warmth flooding his heart when Dagny reached up and closed his fingers delicately over one of his ears, sliding them over the soft fur. He kept so still, he didn’t even breathe, because he didn’t want to accidentally twitch and end the contact.

Maybe he was strange for finding all parts of Dagny beautiful? But if that was the case, then he would be strange, fuck the rest of the world. He leaned down until his hair tickled Dagny’s temples and pressed his lips to the engineer’s forehead, peppering the skin there with soft kisses that ended up with a nuzzle to the side of Dagny’s face. He was strong, but vulnerable at the same time, and he had pains and aches like everyone else, perhaps more than anyone else would ever know, perhaps more than he would know.

Orris slid the spirovine blossom into Dagny’s synthetic hair, behind his pointed ear, then smiled brilliantly down at his lover. He was sure of a few things, though. He loved Dagny. He would do whatever he could to make sure Dagny didn’t regret letting him in. Dagny was beautiful to him. Every inch, every aspect, even the frightening intensity. He loved it all.

Gotta slow up, gotta shake this high. Gotta take a minute just to ease my mind. ‘Cause if I don’t walk then I’ll get caught out, And I’ll be falling all the way down. - Kwabs, Walk

[nata-rp]

He’s Too Brilliant, Too Sparkly

For @thewormwood as requested: 

A description of your OC by someone who hates them

“Just exactly WHAT is so stupefyingly incredible about that ambulatory troll dowsing rod?”

“He’s much prettier than you for one thing.”

Revedrin swirled around, his lavender crushed silk robes gathering in around his ankles, then billowing out with the sudden motion. The mage’s lime green eyes blazed with disdain as they regarded the rogue sprawled out on his parlour settee. Many things Kelenthas may have been, but observant of etiquette perhaps not as much. Still, their long-lasting friendship, if it could be called that, afforded the vagabond some leeway when it came to his insufferable humour. Revedrin placed a hand on his hip and sneered.

“Please, you jest! After associating with trolls for so long I’d imagine he’s sprouted warts everywhere and all manner of unsavoury growths, mayhap he’s even growing tusks of his own,” the blonde replied cattily.

Kelenthas could tell the barb had sunk in. Despite his claims otherwise, Revedrin was livid about being snubbed for the position of Chief Artifact Consultant, which went to his main adversary and rival; Flavian Weblight. Flavian wasn’t even a nobleman’s son! To think that he would scoop up all the fame and accomplishments that came from being in the field of archaeology right out from under everyone’s nose, including his own! Revedrin hissed and turned around to face his desk once more, retrieving the morning’s delivered mail with a quick snap of the wrist. Carefully manicured nails gleamed in the illuminating glow thrown from the magelights floating flameless in their sconces.

“Flavian, the troll-fucker!” Revedrin continued, leafing through his letters with a gradual intensity that saw some of the delicate parchment tear, “The redheaded embarrassment to blood elven dignity wherever he chooses to unscrupulously lift his robes! Flavian the twice-damned sunwell-forsaken BITCH!”

Kelenthas had enough sense not to chortle openly, but he wore a wide grin hidden behind the book he had casually picked up off the marble-inlaid coffee table, some dusty tome about harnessing soul fragment magics. Few topics whipped Revedrin into such a lather, but once he was there, it was quite an entertaining sight. Ever since they were stupid kids the blond had been scurrying along, trying to grasp at Flavian’s heels and keep up with him, but some elves were just born into brilliance, and others were simply not destined to shine as radiantly.

Revedrin threw his letters back on the desk in disgust and thrust his palms at it for support, leaning over the furniture to gaze at its lines and curves, as if its warm mahogany hew could soothe away the sudden raging ire the smirking stiff-corseted peacock conjured up in his head. So effortlessly Flavian took to everything, like a fucking duck to water, and even in absentia he earned accolade after accolade, each of them waiting prettily for his return. The magic council were simply tripping over their own cocks waiting for him to turn his stupid head their way.

“He can piss off, completely OFF this fucking world!” Revedrin snarled, gathering up his papers again and reading through them more carefully.

Kelenthas genuinely jumped when Revedrin gave a sudden shriek, picked up his inkwell and hurled it across the room, where it shattered into thousands of crystalline pieces doused in purple ‘blood’. Kelethan blinked at the splattered ink and remnants of the jar that had contained it, then looked up just as Revedrin exited the parlour in a growling lavender miasma of malcontent.

The rogue vacated his spot on the settee, placed the book on the coffee table once again, then approached the desk to pore over the half-torn letter Revedrin had been reading.

‘Regrettably, the subject you have requested to submit your thesis on has already been researched, the reports on which have been collated into an anthology by Chief Artifact Consultant Flavian Weblight. The anthology in question is available at the Sunfury Spire Collegium Library, however its popularity makes it a scarce tome. We suggest putting in a request form, should you have any interest in studying its contents.’

A deep-throated chuckle finally emerged from the rogue when the subject of Revedrin’s unbridled fury became clear. Oh, Flavian was indeed a heartless twice-damned sunwell-forsaken bitch for stealing the limelight quite neatly and succinctly away from Revedrin, the rogue mused to himself with a fresh bout of chuckles. But the mage’s loss was very much Kelenthas’s gain, at least now someone would be amenable to some satisfyingly violent sexual escapades.