Open to: m/f/nb - romantic/sexual lean toward male
Vers: supernatural, however, it can be tweaked
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You are not made to love.
For years it had been driven into her head, and even now, that same, booming voice of her father made sure to chime in every now and again to make sure she didn’t forget just that. She was not soft, Tali’s skin was as thick as the scales her dragon carried. She was not kind, or gentle, or warm in nature.
Tali was the very personification of a raging fire. Abrupt, uncaring who she scorched in her movements. She was unapologetic and greedy - she was everything her very kind was hated for. Her half of the heart had been jaded and broken and the dragon was fueled by the rage it brought to look for any sort of forgiveness, despite what her brother may have preached in their late night discussions.
She found it a comfort these days, her jagged exterior, it kept people at a distance, and every time someone new pulled from her, bloodied from her sharp edges, it was another burnt bridge. Another life that wouldn’t be ruined by her presence.
You will always do this.
Blinking, she did her best to refocus her gaze on the page in front of her. Hand had stilled, though steady, as the flash of the baby deer demanded her attention. They were synonymous, this feeling of doubt and that fucking deer, one seemed to always bring the other - and they both always brought her here.
Her office was a sanctuary, it was the only welcoming thing when her mind played such tricks. Tali could, and would, be here for days, rummaging through every old file, book, and stack of paper she had buried on the shelves. Here, she couldn’t repeat mistakes.
Here, she wouldn’t destroy.
That gaze that had been struggling to find the words snapped upward, the knuckle of her middle finger moving to adjust the bottom curve of the eye patch as she took the other in. She was in no mood to entertain, nor keep up the facade of being as cold as everyone accused. Her fire was too close to the surface tonight.
-Has exactly ONE HALF ( .5 ) of a heart, and that half isn’t hers. It’s Vihaan’s. Despite their father’s behavior toward her, Ayda was a very obvious favorite and, to this day, she can’t figure out why.
-dwelling is shared with her brother and is basically a big ass plantation style home somewhere out in the woods where crazy shit, including obscene parties and nonsense happen.
-the less emotionally available, sympathetic, and empathetic of the ikkans. which is saying a lot, all things considered.
-she is a professional when it comes to swerving attachments and feelings.
-obviously, only has one eye. it isn’t a sore subject, but it also isn’t a story she likes repeating over and over again, so everyone who asks her about it gets a different story.
-quite literally the pettiest, cuntiest thing out there right now.
- Her element is Fire, her brother’s, water. Which leaves her in a weird limbo between the two.
PROFENCIES
language:
With as old as she is, and as much as her and her brother have traveled, Ayda picked up a penchant for spoken tongue. She speaks several fluently and is constantly looking for new things to study in her free time. There are only a couple that you’ll hear her actively speak, and that’s Latin (spoken mostly with Cain, to be an asshole), and Romanian, which, she has adopted as something as close to her native tongue as she can find.
Braille: If asked, she wouldn’t call it a proficiency or a skill, but simply an adaptation to her current situation. Ayda taught herself to read braille to allow her to better split her attention. Things that come directly to her, from anywhere in town, are almost always mandated to be in the language.
DISABILITIES
visual impairment: A choice she made, many, many years ago, has left the dragon with only one eye. It isn’t something she regrets, and frankly, it’s something she’s proud of. Her collection of eye patches are a bit absurd, but have also become a fashion statement from her. It has, however, left her depth perception a bit off. You’ll find, on certain days where her concentration is particularly bad, her balance is often off center as well. She’s learned to rely on her other senses first, putting blatant sight last on the list.
Mood swings: Ayda has only ever known the burn of fire. She knew it intimately. Understood it and what it took to calm the inferno. But with water now in the equation, she’s still learning how to find balance - even now, all these years later. Her lows, when they hit, they hit hard. Pulling her from a vibrant force to be reckoned with, down to something almost unrecognizable. It brings doubt and hesitation. Uncertainty and a self esteem that’s polar opposite that what she normally carries with her.
On the flip side, because she still doesn’t have a steady balance, the rage comes heavy and it comes hard. Ayda has the tendency to see pure and absolute red. It brings an overwhelming urge to destroy. To demolish. To completely and utterly decimate anything she can get her hands on. She can contain it, and has, but it’s in these moments and only these moments, that she ever seeks out pain unto herself.
ABOMINATION
Because Fire is Ayda main element, it’s the strongest of her abilities. Including, but not limited to:
Fire Manipulation:
create, shape, and manipulate fire
Fire Immunity:
be completely unharmed by fire and heat
Healing Fire:
heal by using flames, fire, or heat
Fire Absorption:
absorb and utilize fire and heat
Fire Negation:
negate fire
Due to circumstances outside of her control, having the element of water thrusted upon her has proved to be more of a disadvantage than anything else. While she contains the ability to call upon the element, her inexperience tends to cause more mishaps than anything else. She literally has little to no control over the water side of things and rarely, if ever, will you find her calling upon it.
She can also, obviously, shift into a big ass dragon.
Sam has a very poor sense of time. Remembering time. Managing time. He can tell time, but that’s about it when it comes to that. He’s just really bad with the other because, to him, time isn’t as important. But because of this, he honestly has no idea how long he’s been in town. One day, he’ll tell you about a week, the next, it’ll be six years. He also cant tell you how old he is, or when his birthday is.
Unapologetically loves Pop and Classical music. Also Pop Culture.
Has a subscription to People magazine. As well as Home & Garden. But neither of them are delivered directly to his house, instead, they’re addressed to the City Council, and he “steals” them from the lobby.
Current emotional situation: *finger guns*
Sam doesn’t admit to having feelings. He’d rather crack a joke than admit to an emotion. Any emotion, really.
He can bake like a motherfucker. He also has a very high end taste for interior decorating. He may not admit it often, but he judges the HELL out of the inside of most of the town’s buildings.
I smacked his sexuality down as “pansexual-ish” because I wasn’t quite sure what to put for him? His attraction really isn’t dictated by gender, but his mood? If that makes sense? If you fight him, he’s attracted to you. If you’re obnoxiously attractive, he’s attracted to you – but that’s mostly because the urge to destroy the purity has a tendency of ringing through over anything else. Pretty he’s attracted to, because he wants to flat out demolish it. Which, ya know.
Kinda picky about who gets intimately close to him.
Not above a dick joke.
Will probably try to sleep with everyone to establish dominance.
Sam isn’t his real name.
Abilities:
Guardianship * More passive than anything else.
Enhanced Durability
Night Vision
When Shifted:
*This typically only happens when the safety of what’s under his current Guardianship is at risk. It takes a lot out of him, and he will likely sleep for days after turning back.
Enhanced Strength
Wall Crawling
Natural Weaponry
Dermal Armor
** A selective muse. He really isn’t that social, so.
They were not a peaceful people, the Dureya. They were merciless. Savage. They were a people who made trinkets and jewelry from the bones of their own. A people who lined the floors of their huts with the fur of other wolves. The Dureya cared for no one, for nothing beyond the lines of their land.
Rarely were they called to aide any of the neighboring packs. While they would fight side by side, given the outcome was beneficial enough for them, the likelihood of them turning on their allies was too high a risk and it was impossible to hold them to any law outside of their own.
They were an isolated people, the Dureya. Left alone to their barbaric ways, unbothered. Unquestioned. For centuries, their territory was their kingdom and their alpha, their king. Arion was, by Dureyan standards, a good man and an even better ruler. Callous and stubborn, he was an alpha that had no issue keeping his people in line. Had no issue keeping them safe.
One would think the alpha’s daughter, the king’s daughter, would have a remotely easier life, but that wasn’t the case. Khione was held to a higher expectation because she was closer to Arion. According to him, should their securities fall - she was the last line of defense. The only thing standing between the life and death of their king and of her father.
So she trained with the soldiers until the sword was as much a part of her as the wolf was. She ran with the hunters until her ability to become a ghost at will was as natural as breathing. And she slept alongside the healers until her fingers could work at mending wounds without so much as a second thought.
Her father had wanted a son and while he never complained about her, she knew the resentment was there. No daughter had ascended to the role of Alpha in Dureya, but that only pushed Khione to be more savage, more cruel, as she aged. She wanted people so afraid of her that, when the time came, there was no question regarding who would take her father’s place. Though, part of her did wish for someone to challenge her.
Through the years, her reach bled beyond the borders, the path of her violence pushing further and further onto the lands of others. But she pushed too far. Pushed too hard and the isolation of her people only proved to be her downfall. Shut off from the outside world, they weren’t prepared for the steps others had taken. Weren’t equipped to deal with the progress others had made in the name of defense.
A pact between wolf and witch had been the last thing her hunting party had expected.
Her people, defenseless against magic, were slaughtered. It would have been an ending she would have chosen a thousand times over, given the chance. But Khione was spared a physical death. The curse they gave had burned down to her very core. Marred her skin in such a way that even now she could feel the white hot of their words as if they were still whispering into her ear.
They had called it a gift, this ability to feel. They had called it a blessing, the bridge that had been formed between her and countless other people. But it had been a death in of itself. Each emotion that had been forced upon her was another blow to who she once was until there was nothing left of Khione of Dureya, Daughter of Arion.
Time became funny after that. All those years she spent running from what she had become made it harder to keep track of the days. Avoiding the paths of her kind was especially painful, given the pull she felt at their grief. Their anger. Their fear. She understood none of it, hated it even. But she couldn’t deny the burn that lingered, the dreams the stalked her sleep.
Eventually, she found herself at the doors of Bane Parrish. The pull to her own had been too much to ignore, but it was more overwhelming to be surrounded by so many wolves again. Even more so given the close proximity of so many different packs. She lasted a few years in Bane before moving and finding a home in Ouvrir Parrish - which proved to be the smarter move when the Exposure happened.
Like when she was first cursed, the overstimulation of emotions had nearly taken her out. The sudden wave of fear and anger left a metallic taste in her mouth, left her tongue dry, and her dreams chaotic. People came in droves and Khione found herself on the front line. She had been ready and willing to fight. Almost itching at the possibilty of blood in her mouth, but the war she found instead was not one she had been expecting.
Too many minds came into her Parrish broken and scattered, and the more that came seeking shelter, it only made her situation worse. The dreams became so constant that they started to seep into her consciousness, bringing hallucinations and panic attacks. There was a perpetual burn in the depth of her chest that she couldn’t tame no matter what she did.
She heard their cries - be it for better or worse - she heard it all. Until finally, exhausted, she moved to calm one of those voices in her head; moved to help one of the many faces stamped into her dreams.
It was all very much trial and error in the beginning and Khione learned, very quickly, that simply killing the person in question was not the way to go if she wanted to lessen any of the chaos within her. More blood on her hands proved to make it worse. There was the new sensation of guilt now. Of a pain she didn’t know before. Death stopped being a senseless thing and started being something… more entirely.
Over the years since the Exposure started, Khione had perfected her craft: Help, not harm. Help brought the quiet, the calm, and while it has been quiet for the better part of several years now, she’s found a sense of purpose in the work she does. There’s an enjoyment in watching the broken bloom, in watching them prosper into something better all because she helped.
Her time in the Welcome Center gave her a better view of Alibi and a direct connection to the pathway between towns. This war had never been hers, not really - she didn’t care one way or another who knew what she was - but in her time here, in all of the fragmented souls that had come into her grasp - it had become the only one that mattered.
The stories of Chernobog are all vastly different, depending on who you ask - and how old they are. He ranges anywhere from an almost Christian like Devil, to that of an ordinary Slavic man with dark features in dark clothes - Adrik will neither confirm, nor deny any of these interpretations of himself. In fact, half of his amusement is hearing how his myth has changed over the years - a game of telephone, if you will.
He will also neither confirm, nor deny any of his actions up to this point in his life. Honestly, he hasn’t done half of what people have accused him of - he’s let the minds of men warp and weave their own fear of him. Some of it though, he did do, but that was to make a point.
Some say he’s the cursed twin, the one destined for dark paths and fear - which, he’s perfectly fine with. over the years, he’s become quite content with the solitude he’s acquired.
Actual WORSHIP doesn’t come easy for him, if at all really. He gets the majority of his offerings as a means to keep him at bay. His most favored method is an old method, and a few of the adapted variations: when people, typically at celebrations, utter swears and curses into a bowl (or box) and then proceed to spit into it.
His sense of humor is odd, mostly because he spends a lot of time by himself. So he laughs mostly at his own jokes and comments. He talks to himself a lot. Muttering words, or even repeating a few of his favorite curses spat at him over the years.
All in all, he expects to be hated, thrives on it. Finds a certain peace in knowing everything is predictable now as it was back in the day.
Adrik’s abilities are less concrete than most gods. It’s less about what he can do, and more about what he feeds and, in turn, feeds on. Because of what he is, he feeds on chaos and violence. Evil deeds done by man leave him with an almost constant surge of power.
While most people believe that he’s at the root of all evil - that he makes people do evil things - it’s actually not true. Adrik can’t implant notions of darkness within people, but he can touch parts that already exist. He can encourage the more questionable parts of people. Enhance negative emotions and what people do with that is on them.
they call me the Dark God.
“ —- against my brother, with his light hair and light eyes, they assumed me to be evil. So I became exactly what they expected of me.”
eir, the goddess of healing and handmaiden to the goddess frigg was once a valkyrie. however, unlike her sisters on the battlefield, it was she who chose who lived to see another day. who would return to health and life - not who was slain. this caused her to grow softer in certain ways. hopeful. always positive. despite her close relationship with her sisters, they didn’t seem too determined to change her demeanor - so her baseline remained gentle in nature.
one shouldn’t, however, mistake her gentleness for weakness. at the end of the day, she was still raised on a battlefield. she still looked evil in the face and chased war without hesitation. she holds no fear in her. no doubt in her actions and has absolutely no trouble handling a sword.
she’s a kind of lawful good, if you will.
her approach to people can sometimes be much like that of a hospital: efficient, almost sterile. her touch is gentle, her words… not so much. it isn’t that they lack a certain warmth, its just that they’re very pointed and rarely decorated with unnecessary additives. but she always means well.
unless, of course, you’re a follower or sacrifice. that’s typically where all of her warm words go, to them. not much to send off to other people.
or frigg - but that’s out of respect and duty. frigg is one of the few women to pull any sort of submission out of arya.
she has a bad habit of picking favorites from the battlefield and then proceeding to keep tabs on them. checking in on them from time to time, making sure they’re doing well. and she may, or may not, also have the relative bad habit of giving them random names.
to this day, she still tries to walk the battlefields. despite the changes they’ve made over the years, she still tries to remain very much involved with choosing who lives. war has become far too common a theme, though, and as much as she’d like to walk them all, it isn’t really possible.
on those days she does, however, is the only time anyone will catch a somber eir. the normally upbeat and positive deity will be reserved and quiet. there isn’t enough war in the wold that would turn her negative, but boy is it hard to find the positives on those days.
aside from her followers and sacrifices, her garden is the most cherished thing to her. she tends to stick to the old methods in the ways of medicine - its where she’s most skilled. medicinal herbs are her gold. plants with purpose - any and all. and the workshop behind her home is very reminiscent of that of a witch’s hut. or so she’s been told.
she doesn’t technically own an apothecary, but she does offer services out of said hut in exchange for various things including, but not limited to: deeds, favors, handmade goods, other plants, a prayer, a song, etc. she’s a pretty big supporter of the local business owner, really.
she has a loooooove of baths, which was something she picked up from the greeks. to her, they’re a bit more than just for hygiene. chalk full of herbs and milks and oils, she’s cocky enough to believe that her baths can cure almost any ailment.
Given the freedom, Ayda would have gladly snapped at almost every being under this roof. Would have damned them all to her own rule and called it a night. But politics were… well, they were unfortunate. Even more so, the dragon was far too good at the game, despite her constantly elevating levels of irritation. But Max was a sort of tether for her in moments like this: he wanted to see that snap and she refused to give it to him. Denying her boy was a far more favorable game to play than what was expected tonight.
A brow rose as he spoke, rambled on with more than what was needed, and right at the corner of her mouth, there was a twitch of a smirk. The start of a grin. To think she wouldn’t send him home was enough to make her laugh, evident in the way she exhaled. Her mouth opened to call him on his bluff, but as he went on, he seemed to catch it enough to satisfy her. “You considering sending you off to sit alone in the house letting you off easy?” In a way, she could see how he’d come to that conclusion.
She also could see the trouble he’d stir up for the sake of attention. And frankly, she wasn’t sure which ending was worse.
The hum vibrated against her lips, and after one last, quick swipe of her tongue over his own, Ayda pulled back just enough to break the kiss. Her fingers lingered, though, the light touch against his chin keeping him close for another moment more. “Have I told you today,” leaning in, the tip of her nose brushed over his cheek, “how pretty you are?”
so, i know i’ve said this a few times now, but its actually going to me an attempt at coming back here. i’m starting slow, with just a little handful of muses. but, i mean, lets be real - i’ll add as the muse strikes.
my brain has just been shit as of late, so actually getting ideas and words onto paper, or in this case - the screen, has been stupid complicated for me.
that being said, please be patient with me as i try this.
let’s consider this a little.. i don’t know, kind of like a starter call, but also like a plot call? an invitation to come yell at me (softly) if you’d like to write again.
a f/f or m/m plot where muse a, who up until this very moment has always considered themselves as straight, orders a something amazon and has it delivered to one of their lockers. When muse a goes to pick it up, their package is all the way in one of the top lockers, and muse a isn’t tall enough to grab it. Cue muse b stepping out to see if they could help at all, and listen here, muse a can’t stop staring at muse b? there’s some small joking once muse b grabs the package for muse a, a short joke, and talk of a step stool. But when muse a leaves, they just sort of sit there dumbfounded because, holy shit, they thought they were straight? and yet, here they were? thrown all out of the loop by muse b.
and so now muse a keeps ordering packages to be delivered to the same lockers just so they can keep asking muse b for help, and eventually a date.
Ty didn’t expect Hayes to lunge at him. What happened next was similar to a battle scene, with both sides charging at the other, but the difference was in this case, Ty got knocked off his feet. Instead of falling flat on his ass, Hayes held him up and continued to push until the marine got him pinned flat against the wall. Just as fast, the other’s lips captured his, dense, short beard chafing his chin. By instinct, his mouth yielded to Hayes’, body canted forward, hands clawed at the older man’s back.
It was concerning how quickly he folded. The wall behind him was one thing, Hayes’ hands gripping his face was another, but the most difficult thing to fight was his need to give in to the older man’s advance. His freshman year was a string of (sparse) hookups, but none quenched the fire in him, not in the way Hayes did. Ty needed the roughness, the stern hands, the firm voice that guided as much as demanded.
“Dude, no,” his words were mushed between kisses. “We’re not doing this.” But Ty was kidding no one, not when he was pulling Hayes in as much as pushing him away. He had missed this. “I’m not fucking you.”
He should have thought better of it - of all this. The fact that he crumbled as quickly as he did was proof the boy still held a very prominent space in his mind, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Ty was there, as he had always been, demanding a reaction. Maybe it wasn’t what the both of them wanted at this point in time, but from the way Ty was gripping onto him, it was clearly what they both needed.
Hands fell from his face, moved to drag down the back of his thighs, to grip at the curve of his ass, and then pull, lifting Ty up. He kept him pressed against the wall just enough that Hayes could give one good, hard rock of his hips forward, pressing every inch of him against Ty’s crotch. Pulling back just slightly, one of his hands came down between them to work free the buttons and zipper of his jeans. “Okay,” he gave, that one word just as mumble as he was unwilling to pull his mouth from the other’s skin just yet.
Teeth nipped at the line of Ty’s jaw, the pinches of skin growing sharper as he worked his way toward the side of his throat, but then he stopped completely and picked his head up. Eyes were already glassed over, lids hazy with lust, but that didnt stop him from loosening his hold he had on the other, and lowering him back to the ground.
Jeremy bit his lip when he felt that familiar feeling of Mo’s teeth scraping against his neck. Biting harder when he was pushed further to the centre of the room. When he heard that soft but firm command Jeremy immediately started to strip.
Having Mo circle him made him even more exposed. Slowly he started to take off al his clothes. Before he quickly stood in a puddle of his own clothes. Being naked in front of someone who was wearing clothes made him feel even more vulnerable than he already was. And with that someone being Mo that feeling only increased. He always felt a little vulnerable with Mo around, even now. The only comfort he had was the fact that he knew he wasn’t the only one who got that reaction from being around Mo.
Despite his time apart from the pack he never truly felt as if Mo’s hold on his left. Not even with all those miles he put between them. In fact, sometimes the distance just reminded him of Mo.
He watched with an intend gaze as the other started shedding their clothes. Steps were slow and deliberate as he moved, his gaze unwavering as the circle was made. From the distance he stood, he took in every inch of the boy’s body. Made note of any marks, new or old. Muscles definition, the way he stood. It was an inspection of sorts. Rather, as good as one could get without touching him.
Coming to a stop behind him, Mo stood silently for a few moments, still watching. Still admiring the body that had chosen to walk away from all of this - a body he didn’t want to see again. And now it was a body he would leave his mark on. Fingers gripped the bottom hem of his shirt and pulled, yanked it up and over his head before it fell, forgotten, to the floor beside his feet.
And as he moved closer to the other, he worked his belt free, undid the fastenings of his pants, but left them sitting low against his hips. He moved until his chest was pressed to the back of the other, his hips right against the curve of Jeremy’s ass. “Touch me,” he said, his voice still firm as he spoke, “show me you want it.”
