sasorikigai

[sasorikigai]

‘✉’ for an unsent letter from my character to yours.

‘♥’ and a name, and I’ll kiss them.

‘♡’ and my character(s) will cuddle yours!

a word and I’ll write a headcanon based on it.

‘♪’ and I’ll put my playlist on shuffle to tell you our song.

‘Ω’ and I’ll tell you what my character(s) thinks of yours.

a ship you have for my character(s) and I’ll tell you what I think.

age and a question and my character(s) will answer as that age.

unwanted (or bad) advice for my character(s).

ask my characters for advice.

bad (but hilarious) pick-up lines!

prompts or drabble ideas!

Questions!

‘Crush?’ for any romantic interest my character(s) might have for someone.

‘Confess?’ and my character(s) will have to confess something to yours. (whether it be feelings, opinions, a secret — whatever; feel free to specify)

‘Fetish?’ for one thing that is sexually appealing to my character(s).

☹ for a turn-off

a headcanon you have for my character(s) — I will accept/reject.

“[name]…has passed away” for my character’(s’) reaction.

★ for an IC fact, or ☆ for an OOC fact

Give my character a difficult decision

‘Would you rather…’

✖ and I will give you a fear that my character has in dealing with yours

[sasorikigai]

The first 5 Asks to send 💋 get a kiss

[sasorikigai]

Amidst trying to handle two part-time plus jobs (each with 24 hours capped/week) and going through some emotional stuff personally... I did manage to get 30+ miles of running this week despite not particularly training for any marathons AND knocked out considerable number of asks and drafts this week (probably the most I've done to date). I guess running does really boost the brainpower, although I've been exhausted af at home.

Hanzo Hasashi would be so proud of meeeee.

[sasorikigai]

Some people don't get to live soft lives.

They get handed chaos, grief, betrayal, and they have to learn how to survive anyway.

They become the ones who know how to carry others even when their own world is falling apart because they remember what it was like when no one showed up for them.

[sasorikigai]

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Her voice is steady, low, carrying the cadence of someone speaking not just to be heard, but to be understood. A spell… to counteract Quan Chi’s influence. Her words breaks into the air like sudden, unexpected drops into still water, disturbing the surface of his thoughts. The moment when Wanda’s voice folds into the stillness, Hanzo feels it like a fissure running through the armor he’d been piecing together for years. The words themselves were soft and perhaps measured, but the meaning behind them carried a blade’s edge. A spell. A countermeasure to Quan Chi’s lingering corruption. A way, perhaps, to cut out the poisoned thorn lodged deep in his spirit. But then - her cost. Her life.

The air in his lungs immediately become heavy, hot. His breath catching, then burning its way back out, ragged and uneven. He could hear his own pulse, a low pounding percussion behind his ears, like war drums muffled by ash. The scent of her - warm herbs and faint sandalwood - clash with the sudden acrid taste of memory on his tongue; scorched earth, smoldering flesh, the cold tang of chains wrapped around his wrists. He observes her face, calm but resolute, and for a moment rage flared - not at her, never at her - but at the very idea that she would lay herself on the altar for him. Rage, because the thought of another loss, another name carved into the long graveyard in his mind, becomes unbearable. Rage, because he could feel how easily Quan Chi’s venom would twist that grief into something darker.

Hanzo’s mind snags on his torment and grief, circling the idea the way a wolf might circle an unfamiliar trap. He wanted desperately to believe in the promise they carried. The notion that his mind could be his own again, that the unbidden flashes of rage and grief that still scalded him could be softened, muted, exorcised. But even now, the embers of those moments pulse rapidly inside him. He could feel them smoldering beneath his ribs, that heat that was as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. When he voices his vehement refusal, his voice comes out low, rough as stone dragging across stone.

“No.” The word tastes like familiar metallic tang of iron. He leans closer at her caress, despite fighting the tug of his body to simply turn into familiar obscurity of darkness as the heat of his body manifests to a wall between her and the shadow of her own idea. His gaze locked to hers - sharp, almost desperate - because he needed her to see, to feel, that this is not simply his stubborn pride nor denying the threshold of her power. It was his survival. “Do not think, even for a heartbeat, that I would trade you for my peace of mind. I will endure this storm, Wanda. I will drown in it if I must. But I will not - will not - let you bleed for me.”

Beneath the words, his chest remains a battlefield; his breathing steadying only through sheer will, the trembling heat in his muscles demanding action, protection, something to hold the threat at bay. His mind clawing at the fragile scaffolding of his progress, knowing full well that rejecting her meant embracing the chaos inside himself. That the path forward would not be smooth, that there would be nights he would lose ground, mornings when the rage fulminates new again. But better that than watching the light in her eyes snuffed out. Better his own descent than her absence. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || The blood is still under his nails, soaked into his characteristic yellow and black Shirai Ryu garb. The salt burns in the wounds he has also retained, and it becomes Hanzo's dark becoming; resolute, vicious, and immediate. There had been no ounce of mercy granted at the trespassers that perpetuated to ransack the bountiful grounds of their sacred land. And Scorpion's chained kunai had been like a firestorm; wild and unrelenting in its beauty, and fierce in a way that calmed only those foolish enough to stand in his wrath. When he becomes enraptured in the harrowing conflagration of his pyromancy, the demons within him become hungry and hollow and just want something to call their own. They are the slaughterhouse, his killing floor, his morgue and final resting. As Scorpion's anger would overwhelm almost to the point of spilling, as much as Hanzo Hasashi's indomitable soul attempts to hold himself upright and still, such disgust, anger, hatred, and wrath always plough and triumph over.

Scorpion's earth often may be heavy; saturated with a sponge of his griefs, dripping of his failures and flaws. His exacted bloodbath may be of excess and extravagance, for the crimson song becomes exquisitely irresistible, consuming all that the demons in his soul desire. And how he still holds the duality of the wind; Hanzo could be such a silent, loving being who kisses gently everything he touches with warm hearthfire. How his air would finger through everything he'd touch, as would two lovers, as he had with Harumi and vice versa. However, Scorpion also has a violence though; with many mood swings, how he would go mad and fierce and uncontrollable. He may be not easily accessed, not bright and lovely; Hanzo Hasashi is a guarded warrior, clad in sunflower yellow garb, hiding the intimate depths of his soul, of his body. There is no tender flesh available for anyone to touch, for he is all shining sheaths, all crimson coats. Yet, pull him apart tenderly and try to rip through his barriers with considerable and truthful efforts, and he will finally become accessed and understood.

Perhaps Hanzo still remains in a secret place; somewhere between half-light and half-darkness, between pain and tenderness, between adoration and contempt for the world, between indifference and love. How his trembling heart has been waiting to be found and touched by someone. The one in embrace touched his heart and soul; perhaps Wanda Maximoff's existence came as surprising as a fiery, fervent might of destruction and wrath, but his fierce and bright gaze saturates the dimming light of the late evening, as the embers of his warmth cast a warm and gentle light. "It is a bittersweet art I have to partake forever, as long as I am stuck in the middle ground of life and death," Scorpion barely feels the echoes of life's sweet refrain, all the grueling grit and pain and determination. He could feel excruciating pain, and yet, it will never be the same as long as he no longer wields mortal flesh and vessel, missing a crucial element humanity could hold.

"Something does feel off about how I have been feeling recently. I can feel frigid coldness thrumming throughout within the guts of this gutted house which is my vessel. The mournful shrieks of a final moment, the sheer, unhinged hunger in my eyes, as I'd watch myself fade away as the soft wisp of darkness becomes the all-consuming naught." Hanzo's expressive, visceral eyes gleam and widen, as his melancholic, fleeting smile etches, then erases as quickly as his surging emotions become the faded pencil stroke upon his lips. How the light blazes around him and he feels lifted by the genuineness of her words. He may be wet and bloody, internally screaming and externally holding himself erect, but he embodies the beating heart of simply existing; being a human despite him not being one. "But I know this is real and this is now. A song so sweet which lies between my cracked ribs." ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[sasorikigai]

Scorpion was the mask. Hanzo Hasashi is the man who used to wear it.

When the hood was drawn low and the mask sealed across his face, it was more than armor - it was erasure. In the days he walked as Scorpion, concealment was survival. Every expression became a liability; the eyes could betray even the infinitesimal tinge of grief, the mouth could falter under vengeful rage. Behind steel and shadow, he was unreadable, unassailable - just another phantom among the dead, the world free to paint its own horrors onto the blank slate of his visage. The hood and mask used to be sanctuary from recognition, from pity, from the possibility that someone might look at him and see the man he had once been. It was so much easier to be feared than to be known.

But the Grandmaster could not lead from behind a wall of obscuring smoke and anonymity. When he became Grandmaster Hasashi, he learned the quiet power of revelation. The hood would fall back, the mask would rest at his hip, and the air would touch the skin which time had not spared. The Shirai Ryu deserved to see the eyes that commanded them, not the glare of a wraith, but the living resolve and tenacity of the man who had rebuilt their home from ash. They needed to read the slight curve of his mouth when he allowed himself the rare, hard-earned smile; they needed to see when he was unyielding, when he was contemplative, when the weight of leadership pinched his brow into shadow. To hide would be to deny them that trust.

The shift from anonymity to being revealed had been not easy. Even when the fires no longer consumed his dreams, Hanzo still felt the instinct to turn away, to tuck himself back into anonymity. But he learned to endure the gaze of others without flinching, to speak where once silence had been his refuge. In the open, without the mask, he could not lie to them nor tell himself about what he felt. It made him vulnerable. It made him human.

And that humanity, he realized, was what made his clan strong.

Scorpion wore the mask to become a deadly weapon. Grandmaster Hasashi set it aside to become a man worth following.

[sasorikigai]

Altair — Sender lifts Receiver’s chin, locking eyes. // she's curious!!

✧       ›       𝐫𝐩  𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬  .   .   .   (   a  study  of  stars   ) || @shiranken || accepting

Altair — Sender lifts Receiver’s chin, locking eyes. // she's curious!!

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || When the first pale light of dawn seeped weakly through the threadbare curtains of the dingy inn room, Hanzo’s eyes were swollen and red-rimmed - ghosts of the long, restless, fragmented hours he’d spent wrestling with memories and guilt in the cold darkness. His breath exhales shallow, a fragile tether holding him upright amid the fatigue that clawed at his every limb. His fingers trembled slightly, clutching the hilt of his sheathed sword as if it could anchor him to some semblance of control. But the silence in the room was unbearably suffocating, pressing into every hollow part and marrow of his soul.

The faint smell of stale ale and wood smoke mingled with the sharp sting of old wounds beneath his skin. Every movement felt heavy, as if the weight of all the lives he carried pressed down on his shoulders like an unbearable burden. He stared at his hands, scarred and steady despite the pandemonium within, then slowly reached up to the steel mask resting on the wooden table. The metal was cold and unforgiving, a reminder of the role he could not abandon. As his fingers closed around the edges, his mind churned with silent prayers and regrets. I am no longer the shadow they once feared, he thinks bitterly, eyes pensive with a tinge of melancholy, only a ghost haunted by every life I have taken... and failed to save. But there's no hesitation. No weakness. Only the comforting shadow of darkness and renewed fire that might incinerate it eventually.

He lifts the mask, the faint scrape of metal against skin sharper than any blade. Slipping it on, the world narrows - edges blurred, pain numbed. The cold steel becomes armor, a barrier not just for his enemies, but for the ravaging mercilessness of the storm inside him. Then the hood, dark and heavy, drapes over his head, swallowing the faint morning light. Hanzo exhales slowly, the breath trembling but resolute. Stepping toward the heavy wooden door, each footfall measured and silent on the creaking floorboards. The cold morning air strikes his face the moment he pushed open the door - a biting, fresh reminder that the world outside was already moving forward, indifferent to the war raging within him. The village around him stirs faintly with the distant crow of a rooster, the soft murmur of waking voices. But Hanzo’s penetrating amber eyes, shadowed beneath the hood, are fixed on the road ahead - long, uncertain, and unforgiving. Hanzo simply reminds his mantra; carry this weight. Carry it through the night.

He is about to disappear into the breaking day, and that's when he sees her - she is still nameless, despite Hanzo's own perilous curiosity that might plunge a blade in his heart if he tried. Her hand had moved slowly, deliberately, the way one might approach a wild animal - knowing it could either flee or strike. Hanzo does not flinch when her fingers reached him, but his body becomes taut, the air between them changing in an instant. Gloved knuckles brush against the cold edge of his mask, tilting upward. The movement intimate in its boldness, yet disarmingly gentle, and in that small shift, Hanzo feels the ground tilt beneath him. From beneath the hood’s shadow, his hardened gaze, full of resolve and endurance, meets hers. Her eyes hold no fear, no judgment - only a steady, searching curiosity that unsettled him far more than a blade to the throat ever could.

Why? His mind whispers the growing question before he could stop it. Why look into the face of a thing born for the dark? The steel mask catches the faint glimmer of golden light, reflecting her outline, yet revealing nothing of his own expression. That is the point. The mask is his sanctuary, shield, confession booth, and prison all at once. To lift it - even slightly - was to open the gates to a torrential truth he had buried in blood and ash. But she does not lift it. She only tilts his chin, enough to make him see her without the veil of avoidance. His breath tightens behind the mask, a slow exhale warming the cold metal. Does she not know that nothing good comes from touching the monster’s face? Or… does she? Her fingers linger a heartbeat too long before retreating. The absence leaving an echo on his skin, even through the mask’s unyielding steel.

Hanzo does not dare speak, for words feel clumsy for a moment that sharp. But inside, the thought coils like intoxicating smoke; If she looks at me again like that… I might forget to lower my head. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[sasorikigai]

✧       ›       𝐫𝐩  𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬  .   .   .   (   a  study  of  stars   )    rp  prompts  inspired  by  unique  stars  in  our  galaxy.   ✧   ˚₊   Themes:   tension,  romance,  action. 

Betelgeuse  —  Sender  rests  their  forehead  against  Receiver's.

Sirius  —  Sender  traces  lazy  circles  on  Receiver’s  wrist.

Rigel  —  Sender  steps  between  Receiver  and  the  danger.

Altair  —  Sender  lifts  Receiver’s  chin,  locking  eyes.

Deneb  —  Sender  wraps  their  coat  around  Receiver’s  shoulders,  fingers  lingering  longer  than  necessary.

Procyon  —  Sender  grabs  Receiver’s  hand  before  they  can  leave.

Spica  —  Sender  brushes  a  leaf  from  Receiver’s  shoulder.

Pollux  —  Sender  pulls  Receiver  into  a  half-laughing,  half-panicked  hug.

Castor  —  Sender  offers  the  Receiver  a  cigarette

Fomalhaut  —  Sender  leans  against  Receiver’s  back.

Bellatrix  —  Sender  wipes  blood  from  Receiver’s  lip  with  their  sleeve.

Alnitak  —  Sender  lifts  the  hem  of  Receiver’s  shirt,  tending  to  the  wound  in  silence.

Alnilam  —  Sender  places  Receiver’s  hand  over  their  heart.

Mintaka  —  Sender  bumps  shoulders  with  Receiver,  grinning.

Dubhe  —  Sender  wraps  a  scarf  around  Receiver’s  neck,  adjusting  it  carefully.

Merak  —  Sender  places  a  blade  into  Receiver’s  palm.

Phecda  —  Sender  reaches  for  Receiver’s  hand  under  the  table,  hidden  from  everyone.

Alphard  —  Sender  kisses  the  inside  of  Receiver’s  wrist.

Nunki  —  Sender  holds  Receiver’s  gaze  across  the  battlefield.

Scheat  —  Sender  grabs  Receiver’s  collar,  pulling  them  close.

Markab  —  Sender  holds  out  a  map,  finger  tapping  on  a  place  only  they  understand.

Kaus  Australis  —  Sender  rests  their  hand  on  Receiver’s  shoulder.

Almach  —  Sender  runs  a  thumb  across  Receiver’s  knuckles.

Alpheratz  —  Sender  tucks  a  folded  letter  into  Receiver’s  coat  pocket.

[sasorikigai]

SUB-ZERO     Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei

[sasorikigai]

i wasn't born yesterday. i know what kids get up to. — jax to hanzo :)

these violent delights. || @soulforfeit || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || His gaze lingers on the horizon beyond the flickering campfire, where shadows danced like restless spirits. Jax’s words hang in the air, casual yet sharp, but Hanzo’s senses were elsewhere - caught between the brittle crackle of the fire and the distant whisper of the wind through the darkened trees. He feels the cold bite of the night air on his skin, a sharp contrast to the heat flickering low in the fire’s dying embers. The scent of charred wood mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood - not his own, but the lingering ghost of battles past. His voice is quieter, edged with a solemn gravity that seemed to fold around the night like a cloak. “The world now,” he begins slowly, “it is a place far more dangerous than the one we once knew. The shadows have grown longer, and the cruelty, sharper. The peril is no longer just in the open battlefield, but hidden deep within the hearts of men and the silence between their words.”

He swallows hard, the memories clawing at him like bitter, sharpened thorns. Loss - raw and relentless - etched into every corner of his soul. His breath comes slow and measured, yet beneath that rhythm, his heart thuds in a jagged cadence, uneven as the fractured memories crowding his mind. Death, a constant companion, had whispered its cold lullaby too many times. Grief remains a weight he bears silently, an unspoken chain tightening with every breath. And beneath it all, the restless, gnawing ache of remorse - survivor’s guilt - a venom that seeped into the marrow of his bones, twisting his heart with every thought of those left behind. His fingers twitch involuntarily, remembering the feel of a lost comrade's grip, the sharp snap of a shattered promise. How merciless this place was - the way it tore at flesh and spirit alike, indifferent to pain, blind to mercy. The air around him feels thick, almost suffocating, as if the very atmosphere conspired to trap the weight of his memories.

“We have seen how merciless this world can be,” Hanzo remarks, his voice faltering, yet resolute. “It does not forgive. It does not forget. It is a cruel teacher, demanding the highest price for every lesson learned. Sometimes I wonder if the scars we carry are all that remain of who we once were. And yet... we continue to stand. We continue to fight.” Beneath the inevitable torment, a brittle resolve glimmers. To yield would be to dishonor their sacrifice. His senses sharpened with this fragile determination - he feels the rough bark beneath his fingertips, the cold earth solid and unforgiving beneath him, the night sky stretching vast and indifferent above. It was a cruel world, yes, but one where he must endure, where his spirit must persist despite the shadows clawing to consume it.

The weight of his own admission and acknowledgement settles between them like a dense, impervious fog. They both understood, without words, that this world is no place for innocence, no sanctuary for the unbroken. Yet somehow, despite the darkness, they endured - because the alternative was to surrender to it. And neither of them could afford that. As Jax's words sink further into his heart and soul, Hanzo’s eyes, dark and distant, traces the flicker of flames, seeing not fire, but the fleeting, fragile light of hope in a world scorched by relentless darkness. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[sasorikigai]

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || The assailant slumps against the dirt, breath ragged and weapon useless at his side. The restrained man at Hanzo’s feet groans faintly, clutching a dislocated shoulder. Hanzo steps back, giving the man just enough room to crawl away if he had the sense to keep breathing. He did not spare him more than a flicker of attention - his senses were fixed on the woman who had seemingly emerged from the shadows, but in the splendor of pristine white. How the woman stands in the narrowing lane like someone entirely at home in such in-between spaces, the sort of places where light did not linger and names were best left unspoken. The flame he had loosed still glows faintly in his palm, its heat trembling against the damp air. Almost all people fear fire in a way that was primal - most could not stop themselves from shrinking back, even if they thought themselves brave. But with her, she wasted no gesture, but simply met his eye. However deceptively coy it had been.

Hanzo’s mind, sharpened by too many betrayals, begins to map her in pieces. The steadiness of her breathing, the tension in her shoulders - not defensive, but ready. She was not a fighter in the brawling sense; her frame spoke of speed, not force. Her strength lay in being unseen until she chose otherwise. Also, he had spent a lifetime walking among predators disguised as supplicants, killers clothed in velvet words. He knows the little things that gave them away - how the breath barely deepened when they were surprised, how the eyes searched not your face but the space behind you, always measuring distance and escape. Perhaps it was the mutual understanding of him towards her who also walked in shadow; sometimes survival depended on others not knowing where you stood.

When he had burned her hem, the flame had eaten upward with greedy speed, curling silk into blackened lace. Despite the sudden turn of event, to Hanzo, her calm was not the stillness of innocence. It was the stillness of someone accustomed to walking the knife’s edge. Stepping closer, his shadow lengthening across her face, cutting her features into halves of light and obscurity, his gaze still remains fixated on the woman of his focus. “You mean me no harm,” he repeats, not as a question, but as a statement weighed for cracks. Hanzo already knew that; gossip has sharper teeth than steel. Even the walls here have ears, and they are loyal to no one. Who is she? Hanzo's instincts screams caution, but beneath that, a deeper part of him, the part desperate for connection, revolts. The weight of the past days pressed heavily on my chest, but here was someone unafraid to meet his gaze, unmasked by fear or falsehood.

Hanzo’s eyes search hers, the penetrative gold of his orbs intensifying, reading the subtle currents beneath her words; a warning wrapped in civility, a dance of unspoken knowledge. Despite the dangers shadowing his path, despite wanting to disappear like a wisp of smoke leaving no trails, a strange tether pulls him to stay - to unravel the mystery in those calculating eyes. For all the weight of his losses, a flicker of curiosity begins as a gentle flame, but then smolders to become a wildfire, swirling within him. In this desolation, perhaps an unlikely ally awaited - or a truth yet unrevealed..... “I am no stranger to shadows,” his words travel slowly, low gravel accented by his exhaustion, “nor to the silence that follows loss.” His gaze does not waver. “If discretion is your counsel, then speak. What news does this village harbor that threatens even a ghost like me?” ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

@shiranken stabbed the heart (x)

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || The remote village appears like a sudden bloom of life in a land otherwise bleak, gray, and unfamiliar. after numerous days of traversing barren fields, hushed forests, and old war-scarred ruins of the past, Hanzo stumbles upon it at dusk. As its lanterns glow like fireflies scattering in a bowl of dusk-honey light. His vigilant eyes encompass the atmosphere, registering the children frolicking and dashing between stalls, their laughter clear and high as bells. Vendors calling out wares in a language he only half understood, but the warm, rhythmic, cheerful cadence feels like a lullaby from a time before his fire and vengeance. Pausing at the edge of the marketplace, Hanzo shrouds himself in a faded cloak and hood. His presence would go unnoticed - villagers were too caught up in life. All of this, the soft crackle of cooking fires, the smell of various roasted meats and crushed herbs, the clang of metal on stone as blacksmith shaped tools, not weapons. Hanzo's memory would gently stir as he simply remains fixed in place; silent and observant, relishing the pulse of the universal language the village shared with the old Shirai Ryu.

Fingers curl instinctively around the hilt of his katana beneath the cloak. He was on a mission - silent, precise infiltration - but something in his chest ached. Longing as he still grieves, definitely guilt, knotting his stomach tightly as always. He recalls a young initiate by the name of Kenta - who would always slip fruit to the dogs outside the gate. He'd die too young, clutching a blade far too gigantic for his small hands. He does not fight his heart's heavy burden no longer. His hands flexes at his sides, aching with phantom heat. The fire that consumed his wife, his son, his kin - it never stopped burning. It lived beneath his skin, just below the surface. He clenched his jaw. He couldn’t afford to feel on this mission. But grief had a way of creeping in where vengeance could not reach. For a moment, Hanzo closes his eyes and let himself imagine the impossible: Satoshi still alive, running down this path, calling for him. Harumi waiting at their doorway, warm smile under the setting sun.

In his reverie, something flashes - a dagger directed for his head. Twisting aside, the blade grazes his garb, but he remains unscathed. Hanzo is nimble on his feet - ghostlike with efficient precision. The assailant's figure whirled fast, but not fast enough for him as he'd catch the other's wrist mid-strike, twist, then viciously slam them into the wall with a force that would shake the structure. In the process of slamming them towards the wall, the whipping lash of his flame had burned through the exquisite, pristine dress of a woman. Restraining the assailant by his knee, Hanzo's form remains absolutely still. His silence would give into the cacophony of noise as crowds gather, and along in it, he feels the woman's gaze fixated on him for far too long. "Apologies, but you trudge on dangerous alley where a hidden syndicate nestles deep." Hiss of steel and fire still remain, as his head pivots. "I did not see you in time. Are you hurt?" ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[sasorikigai]

Sinday asks for the muse. A series of questions for the muse. NSFW -ish (minors do not interact!)

Is your muse a top, a bottom, or a switch?

What does your muse enjoy about being a top/bottom/switch?

Would your muse change/switch their preferred role for someone else? What would it need for that to happen?

Does your muse have a preferred position?

Is there a position your muse would never try?

Is there a position your muse wants to try but hadn’t had the chance yet?

Light on or off when your muse is at ‘it’?

Favorite location to do 'it’?

Least favorite location to do 'it’?

Is there a location your muse wants to do it but doesn’t dare to / hasn’t had the chance to try it yet?

What riles your muse up? What makes them horny?

Is there something that they find incredibly attractive?

What doesn’t your muse find attractive?

Does your muse have any kinks?

What kinks should the perfect partner have?

Is there a kink that is a no-go?

Is there a kink your muse wants to try but is ashamed to do so?

Is there a kink your muse wants to try but hasn’t had the chance to try it?

Is there a kink that might be surprising to others?

Is there a kink your muse would consider unusual?

Favorite title to be addressed (e.g. sir, mistress, etc.)?

Favorite title to address partner (e.g. sir, mistress, etc.)?

Would your muse try on a collar?

Has your muse ever considered a three+-some?

Does your muse have any routine (e.g. shaving, changing sheets, etc) before they get to 'it’?

What preparations is your muse making before they get to 'it’?

Has anyone ever walked in on your muse while they were on 'it’? How did they feel about it?

Is your muse vocal or quiet?

Has your muse or their partner ever broken something while they were at 'it’?

How is your muse’s stamina? Do they fall asleep after it or do they go another round?

What does your muse’s typical aftercare look like?

How often does your muse masturbate?

How often does your muse sleep with others?

Is your muse using any toys? What is their favorite?

Is there a toy your muse would never use?

Is there a toy your muse would want to try out?

Does your muse prefer ONS or a solid partnership?

Has your muse ever tried friends with benefits?

[sasorikigai]

SCORPION     Mortal Kombat 11

[sasorikigai]

[sasorikigai]

I promise, I'm fine. I just look tired a lot, thanks to... the tiredness. — takeda to.... satoshi >:)

Lack of Sleep Starters! || @soulforfeit || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Satoshi's brow lifts slowly, the way a swordsman raises a blade not to strike, but simply to remind someone it’s there. “That is… possibly the most unconvincing diagnosis I’ve ever heard, and I’ve listened to my father insist he ‘just needed air’ after nearly bleeding out.” Amusement dripping in his voice, as he circles Takeda like he’s appraising a sparring opponent, though his tone is all too casual. “You do realize you just explained being tired by saying you’re tired, yes? That’s not an explanation - it’s a riddle written by someone who fell asleep halfway through. A loop. While I admire the artistry, I think I should start charging you for every time you use logic that makes me feel like I’ve missed a step. The proceeds can fund my next trip somewhere tropical. You can come too, if you promise not to collapse in the sand.”

Satoshi’s eyes are sharper now, cutting through the surface of the exchange. The grin he wears is faint, but genuinely real. “But seriously… I know what it looks like when someone’s just worn out, and I know what it looks like when someone’s running themselves into the ground. You sure you’re in the first category?” He doesn't care if he's needling now, because that's what 'brothers' do. At least Satoshi respect Takeda for being so transparent about it; always having that way of answering a question without really answering it - Takeda tossing up a smoke screen and daring Satoshi to walk through it, but nothing could be hidden. His humor could distract, but it couldn't hide. Hasashis know the best to penetrate through it.

He leans in slightly, voice lowering; not softer, exactly, but steadier. “So, brother… do I keep making fun of you until you tell me the truth, or do we skip ahead to me dragging you to the medics while you glare at me the whole way? I could fetch my dad if you wanted me to for a good measure!” Satoshi begins to just stare at him for a beat too long, the exact way his father does when he’s deciding whether to call someone out or let them dig their own grave. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[sasorikigai]

[ LIFT ]: sender lifts receiver's chin to look at them. — bi han to hanzo

「   RP MEME :   NONVERBAL PROMPTS.」   || @soulforfeit || accepting

[ LIFT ]: sender lifts receiver's chin to look at them.

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || The battle had passed like a maelstrom too large for the sky that held it - violent, howling, and then suddenly still. With the realm's existence manifesting into an ever-bleeding scar carved into the fabric of Hanzo's existence and nonexistence, smoldering with hatred, regret, and echoes of the damned. He knows it too well, not as some distant myth whispered by wary monks, but as one who had once belonged to its wretched sulfur-stained soil. Greeting him like an old lover, vile and relentless - its skies bruised with perpetual dusk, torn by streaks of crimson lightning that throbbed like exposed nerves. The air remains thick and suffocating still, acrid with fire and brimstone, and it clings to his lungs like chains, as though the realm resented every breath not begged for in pain.

The last demon’s shriek had long since dissolved into the embers, but the air still hangs heavy with nectoric rot and penetrating sulfur, carrying the echoes of a hundred unspoken memories. The abysmal chasm below still pulses with latent necrotic energy, like a wound that refused to close. Hanzo thinks he was standing at the precipice of it. Rather, he did not. He was not there, not truly. His body is tense, upright, breathing - but his soul had been stolen by some invisible claw, drawn back into an obsidian, impenetrable night he never invited. His eyes are open, but unseeing. His hand hovered above his blade, trembling. And from his lips came a breath that is not from this realm at all. It is ragged, shallow, born not of exertion, but of fear. Ancient fear. Familiar and cruel.

His knees bend slightly, his shoulders painfully tense as though bracing against an impact that would never come. The tremble in Hanzo’s jaw would become more visible. The clench of his fist around his kunai is enough to draw blood in his palm. The slight flinch of his shoulders as if shielding phantom flames. All this motionlessness and helplessness struck Hanzo like a blade - after all, he was the one who would have faced gods in refusal to be slayed now standing drowning in a past that refused to die.

Hanzo blinked - once, twice, his eyes glassy, but no longer gone as Bi-Han's touch ascends Hanzo's own to meet his. He had to remind himself that the fire is not behind him, but manifesting as a living thing within. And it is wholly his, not theirs. Perhaps it was Bi-Han recounting his own resistance within. Perhaps Hanzo was repeating Bi-Han's words back to him in reciprocation. His lip quivers - not from weakness, but from the sheer, damning force of memory crashing against the present. His eyes brim, and though he does not bow his head, he leans into the hand still cradling his face like it was the first safe thing he’d touched in years.

“I saw them again,” he begins, the timbre of his voice barely audible. “My son. My wife. The day the sky turned red.” ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||

[sasorikigai]

Dreams. A wet dream my muse has had about yours, and whether they’d want to make it come true.

🍎 ｡:*• ─ SEXY ABC.    › || @shiranken || accepting

D - Dreams. A wet dream my muse has had about yours, and whether they’d want to make it come true.

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || The night is an ebb and flow of a living breath, inexplicably warm and heavy, wrapping Hanzo in its silk-soft darkness as his body sinks deep into the currents of a fevered dream. There, beneath a sky shrouded in ink and scattered stars, Sayuri waited - equally an assassin carved from shadow and flame, her presence a whisper against the tension coiling in his muscles. She was a silhouette born of crescent moonlight and silk, her skin kissed by the pale glow, every curve a delicate promise. Her eyes, sharp and steady, held a fierce fire that mirrored his own - the fire of a warrior who had survived countless battles, yet bore no hesitation in the tenderness of this moment. Her hair spilled like an angel's wing down her back, framing a neck touched with visible, lacerated scars - stories written in flesh, proof of battles survived and endured.

Hanzo’s fingers tremble as they reach for her, tracing the raised edges of those scars, feeling the roughness beneath his touch - an invitation, a confession. Each mark a story, a memory that spoke to his own jagged skin, the burnished lines of his past writ deep upon his back and arms. In her scars, he saw a reflection of his own pain and endurance, a silent covenant between two warriors bound by fire and blood. Their lips meet - soft yet demanding - an exquisite clash of wills surrendering to the moment’s raw, electric hunger. The precarious world around him vanishes, leaving only the rhythm of breath and the unchoreographed dance of skin against skin. Every touch was a vow, every sigh a shared secret in the silence of the night.

The night stretches on, a velvet canvas embroidered with whispered promises as Hanzo and she moved together in a rhythm older than memory, fierce and fluid. Her hands never ceased their worship, tracing every scar, every hardened ridge on his skin, igniting embers beneath the surface where pain and pleasure entwined. With each measured thrust, Hanzo felt himself unravel - tightening, coiling, the scorch of fire building steadily within him. The gentle heat of her breath against his ear, the slick glide of her breasts beneath his hands, all sending succession of waves crashing through his body like a powerful tide threatening to break the shore of his hardened discipline. He tastes her scars again, those pale lines that told stories of survival, and it stokes a primal hunger that roared louder than the demons that haunted him.

She bends her head, lips trailing a trail of fire down his erogenous zone - his neck - over the scars that crisscrossed his shoulder blade - their history written in flesh and fire. His muscles clench, a low groan slipping free as the first orgasmic peak of release pulled at him, fierce and relentless.

“Hanzo,” she murmurs into him, her voice a silken thread winding through the dark, a prayer and a command all at once, before guiding him down to where her body waits for him, bare and gleaming in the moonlight. The cool air caresses the scars that runs like rivers down his sides, each one a testament to survival, each one a thread weaving them closer in this shared tapestry of pain and pleasure. “let go.”

And he does. The world fragmenting and reducing into white-hot shards of sensation, his body trembling under the weight of that first fierce climax. Her arms hold him steady, grounding him even as the waves of release washed over him again and again, deeper and purer than anything he had known outside this dream. The tension inside him unravel completely, a sweeping firestorm giving way to calm of the afterburn. But she is not done - not quite.

Her hands roam anew, pressing firmly into the defined muscles of his back, then the dip of his hip, drawing him close, her body arching beneath his as she whispers dualism of promises and threats - twin flames that intensify the embers of his desire into a raging blaze once more. The scars that marked his skin, once reminders of sharp twinge of pain, now pulses with the permeating heat of connection, binding them tight. His breath comes ragged, desperate, as she takes him deeper, faster, every movement a command and a caress. The second wave building with fierce intensity, a crescendo that catches him unguarded. This time, the release is sharper, more profound - a shattering surrender that leaves him gasping, trembling, utterly spent in the sanctuary of her arms. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||