Let us Pray...

Independent & private|selective Rp (role playing) blog for Charles J. Chrishunds || Vassalord ||

[ao3tags]

Platonic Kissing

Hint: None of it is actually platonic

[fel-ode-se]

👗 Fix/Straighten my muse’s clothes

           @knightstrayed                  Nonverbal RP Starters

             —— ⊰☩⊱ ;;;                            Well - Charles believed he looked just fine, even if his fashion-sense were always something questionable (perhaps that’s something to be considered another time, when he has made time for it). Nearly ready to walk out of the door when his Master catches an arm, then a shoulder. Then his lapels…                     It catches something in the younger man’s throat. Off guard, however not unwanted. Only a little strange, a little unexpected. Both arms had come to their ease on either side of himself, simply watching Johnny make professional but gradual work of his attire. He is beginning to think there were nothing wrong with it at all when the elder tilted his head this way and let the wash of black lashes hang lower. The familiar stretch of a sentimental smile on his face. It is moments just as these that are the most precious. “Master…” no, no good. Chris swallows some nerve when he leans in, kisses the side of soft, soft lips. “Thank you, Johnny.” 

               And loiters just a moment longer, looking upwards from those lips to those dark eyes. “I appreciate it. I promise I won’t be too long… but don’t wait up. Get some sleep.” 

[fel-ode-se]

😊 Sit down next to my muse

            @nightslain                  Nonverbal RP Starters

          —— ⊰☩⊱ ;;;                  He’s thankful for the quiet. The solemn silences that have fallen into their place allow the Cyborg to reconstruct himself. Slowly. The haze of ever-present hunger dull senses and mannerisms alike, though he hasn’t much to complain for, even so. The hand requiring the wires re-worked is held out more so in the direct sunlight, while he himself remains more so shaded beneath branches and foliage. The evening sun a wonderful, powering thing. And sometimes, sometimes Charles swears he feels all the better for having tasted just a portion on his skin, much more than just its use for solar power.                May it be then that the senses finally make sense to him, as being no longer so occupied with thought nor task enabled surroundings to better come into focus. The small, young man that seats himself besides him would pose no immediate threat to most people. Unfortunately, this man possesses something else besides that of brute strength and knowledgeable combat tactic to earn the frantic, sudden panic that sprawls through Charles; pupils surrendering to being as small as the Vampire Hunter himself feels so suddenly. The gradual upright, firm manner that he now sits with. Sweat beginning to form on the portions of him that are more real than the feigned robotics he wears. The taut clench of his jaw.               He is in no position to fight. The ocean-deep of his blue, blue eyes stares onward forwardly, only in peripheral vision to glance this human. This… weapon, that hisses and slanders him in tones and voices that would surely drive him insane if he were to remain too close. 

            “…have you come to finish me off?” Though baritone, and with great vigor, the strength of his voice seems far more docile than he would prefer. “…” though the intent for more remains, all Charles could manage was the silences of something between defeat and retaliation. 

[fel-ode-se]

👩‍⚕️ Put pressure on my muse’s wound

            @devilsbled                        Nonverbal RP Starters

         —— ⊰☩⊱ ;;;                Vehement hissing past a jaw clenched, though cuts short when grimacing prefers a hold over him. He’s dizzy - vision moves about between the clear and the dissonant, and he knows there is little choice than to accept assistance from the Cambion. Though Charles laments to himself all the more for it, wants for cursing with his breath than any form gratitude for the aid. They have never seen eye to eye in times prior, and Charles loathes the fact that that, with entirety, is the fault of his own. Nevertheless, he is certain that, without this, he possibly would have bitten someone innocent. For this, there is some relief to his brow - even if it does not meet his voice. Not just yet.            “You don’t… have to do this…” rejection wonts, damns himself for the manner in which his body soothes from the comfort. The additional pressure salvages what blood remains. 

           For a long, silent while there is some contemplation before voice succumbs to misery, and pain follows the chords of his throat among each syllable; “Why do you help me…?”

[plotbunnie]

Nonverbal RP Starters

I’m finding it difficult to find memes for nonverbal characters ( be they mute, or just not fond of talking ) so I thought I’d make a few!

Neutral

☝️ Tap my muse on the shoulder

👉 Point to something for my muse to see

🤙 Bump into my muse

😊 Sit down next to my muse

🤨 Sit down across from my muse

📓 Push/Slide [an object] across a table to my muse

✍️ Pass my muse a note

🙄 Roll their eyes at my muse

🚪 Tap on a table/door/wall/chair to get my muse’s attention without speaking

Aggressive

🐺 Growl at my muse

😬 Snarl/show teeth at my muse

😠 Death Glare at my muse

🙌 Push/Shove my muse

👊 Punch my muse

👖 Kick my muse in the shin

👠 Stomp on my muse’s foot

😵 Knee my muse in the gut

💀 Knee my muse in the groin

🔪 Point a weapon at my muse

🖕 Flip my muse the bird/a similar gesture

👔 Roughly pull my muse down by the collar

💢 Bang on a door/wall/table to get my muse’s attention- angrily

Angst

👩‍⚕️ Put pressure on my muse’s wound

🌡 Push my muse down to give them medical attention

🥣 Bring my muse soup/medicine when they are sick

🤢 Hold my muse’s hair back/Rub my muse’s back while they are sick/throwing up

👐 Hold my muse when they are badly wounded/dying

👁 Wake my muse up during a nightmare

🐱 Hold my muse after a nightmare

😭 Hold my muse when they are crying

😢Touch my muse’s shoulder while they are crying in secret

💧 Wipe away my muse’s tears

💥 Try to calm my muse during an overwhelming emotional moment

⛈ Find my muse after some kind of trauma

Soft

👕 Tug on my muse’s sleeve/shirt/skirt

🐈 Lean against my muse’s side

🤝 Hold my muse’s hand

🤗 Pull my muse into a hug

🐕 Rest their head on my muse’s shoulder/knee

🐶 Nuzzle my muse with their nose [specify a location]

✋ Touch the back of my muse’s hand

🤝 Reach for my muse’s hand to hold it

👗 Fix/Straighten my muse’s clothes

😴 Stand by the bed to see if my muse will let you under the covers with them

🛌 Crawl under the covers with my muse

🥪 Set a plate/tray/bowl of food down for my muse

😚 Kiss my muse on the cheek

Playful

🌸 Put a flower in my muse’s hair

✨ Playfully shove my muse’s shoulder

💃 Pull my muse onto a dance floor/up to dance

🤞 Come up beside them and tap the shoulder opposite where they’re standing

😈 Jump out of the shadows to scare/startle my muse

😛 Stick their tongue out at my muse

😱 Make a silly face at my muse

🤭 Tickle my muse

👃 Poke my muse’s nose

💪 Pick my muse up

Sensual/Sexual

💘 Pull my muse in for a rough kiss

💕 Pull my muse in for a tender kiss

💞 Pull my muse in for a messy/desperate kiss

💖 Lean in to give my muse a sweet/chaste kiss

❤️ Lean in to give my muse a tender kiss

🔥 Pull my muse down by the collar/by their clothes - in a sexy way

😉 Pull my muse in by the hips

😲 Smack my muse’s butt

💋 Kiss my muse’s neck

👌 Push my muse down and give them a massage

👙 Pull [an article of clothing] off my muse

👀 Push my muse down on the bed

👄 Pull my muse onto the bed

[plaidsleep]

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

In your light, in your horror, I let myself go.

Henri Michaux, tr. by Richard Ellman, from “Repose in Calamity,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[fatsoupy]

gender: bastard

[fel-ode-se]

nightslain‌:

               And it seems wonders never do cease. The thing’s coming is betrayed by the weapon in hand far sooner than by sound or human senses of his own; the words are second in place to startle him when he wheels in place and braces himself against the dark with the leather cord cracked tightly between his fingers and heels dug into the rainy wash of the earth below. Their eyes meet, his mouth opens, all to say nothing as the man drawls (earnestly, perhaps) on in his place. Leon’s apt sense of disbelief certainly is not eased from the rigid swell of muscle that poises him strung taught and ready to snap into the familiar motions of battle, whip braced in one strong hand with all its burning hate and yearning to bite. It would be easy to have done it, to do it now; the weapon always feels aglow with the same guiding, indiscriminate rage, whatever the vampire, whatever their words. It long stopped being a thinking thing, as Leon is still blessed (cursed?) to be. But he stops, he thinks. This man in his company, for all his towering menace and his strange ink-like eyes, seems possessed of an almost apprehensive honesty.

              “…A vampire that makes war with their own kin?” Unheard of. Doubt settles uneasily in his blood–what easy things words are to shape into disguises, after all–as he glimpses this creature up and down for any quake, any symptom of untruth that he readily suspects. Though there might not be time enough to scrutinise him so deeply–the whip glows hotter with anger at the approach of other things in the dark daring closer, closer yet. “You surely don’t take me for such a fool. You understand those words sound farcical to me, don’t you?” Surely, if that fearing distance he’s kept is anything to judge. “Have I means to believe you beyond just merely words coming out of your mouth? And best you be quick with telling me–” He daren’t glance away, but he feels them, things crawling closer and closer yet till his skin crawls with anticipation. “We don’t have much time for this warbling…”

               —— ⊰☩⊱ ;;;                Dammit. Just what was it that this man possessed to stir his vampiric instincts so acutely? Forgoing gentility and wrenching from his person raw, unfiltered instinct, making a plaything of his hungering thirst buried so far beneath. Charles growls, eyes dimly-lit against his will, staggering some with dizziness, with a shake of his own head. That weapon, that thing damns him with animosity to rival the Holy objects he can no longer touch nor hear with bare flesh alone. “Not all of us are turned willingly,” though the precise circumstance surrounding his death and undeath will remain without utterance. The encroaching things turn his head in all directions, focusing more on the oncoming threat than what the other man’s weaponry does to him. “I don’t. You’re no fool, in neither mind nor combat; but we truly do not have sufficient time for my plea. If nothing else, allow me to prove it. Just...” another snarl, and he breathes only when distance relieves him. “Please, calm your weapon...” the mere idea makes little sense, not with his mind spiraled, spurned with it’s presence. 

                If not for that thing’s intrusion, the attacks would have been by far more natural. Charles still makes avoidance his plaything, his electrical weaponry and veiled blades his practiced dance. However, blood drenching the atmosphere for each ghoul and mindless thing that falls only serves causation to his occasional shambling, tripped-up and, at times, being entirely overwhelmed by the masses of them. At one point, to being drug to the ground. It were his preference that this man and, by extension, perhaps, his armies - that they see him as a thing controlled, humane. However, this display of rapid movement, of pivoting as some mechanical thing that surges electric pulses and cracks the skies with energy is anything but while tearing down the lesser in preparation for the greater. Metallic rains where nature does not in her quiet observation, and Charles has turned deaf to the stranger in his mild state of maddened ferocity. While there arrives stronger foes, there does he exhaust peculiar and stranger methods of defense and disposal. The way in which he fights, although, standing more than a sum of deliberate times with his back facing the human - speaks where his vocals currently cannot.

[de-morte]

“Whoever I am, is You… The pain in my wounds, the sanity of my breaths, is You… I have lived a thousand lifetimes in your Breaths… If these winds ever even managed to erase me, whoever I will be is, You… Without you, there is no me… because its just You, whoever I am … Is just You.”

— Channing M, In Letters for Helaena. 

[lifeinpoetry]

I know my way here, to the language of loss.

Sandeep Parmar, from “Essay: An uncommon language,” published in The Poetry Review (via lifeinpoetry)

[fel-ode-se]

            .:|||:. @nightslain

              —— ⊰☩⊱ ;;;              He knows nothing of these men, except they’re on the same side.               Charles is robbed of liberty to movement; stalled with the veil of dusk and woodland, and awaiting opportunity. These all carry the scent of man, the presence of humanity, yet fight like none the hunter had ever witnessed beforehand. However, there is a pattern: as subtle as they appear, hailing to and saluting no one, there is but one flaw - the eyes. Charles doubts the untrained would ever spot the tactic, though by how they move, how they react, to whom they glance towards, at times: he has spotted their leader.                It’s dangerous. While mortal, this man carries something unearthly, something powerful with him. It’s very atmospheric pressure sets hairs to stand on end for the Vampire, soothing him none when bringing himself close enough to be speak. However, far enough to keep himself unharmed. Or at least, mostly unharmed. 

              “I am not the enemy,” though he very well may seem to be. His own ilk and those of another monstrosity run rampant here. Reputation, even if known, would not aid him. “I’m not the enemy,” restated, a glance elsewhere and back, “I am on your side. I hunt my blood kin, and those of other wicked origin. I believe we’re on the same mission...” 

[fel-ode-se]

             —— ⊰☩⊱ ;;;             “Master!” Excitement isn’t always as arresting as this; as energetic or - or, daresay, contagious. Charles is on his feet without hesitation, greeting the eldest with more than he even knows what to do with. Even having planned it out, all is forgotten with it’s would-have-been grand showcasing. “You’re home! I have something to show you,” at that he removes the gauntlets from his hands, revealing his fleshly hands, forearms. Nervousness finally rears it’s head as those gloves are placed aside quickly. “I.... I wont be able to use them regularly, but I finally got permission to have them back.”              Rather than allowing them to simply be idle between them any longer, Charles (deliberately, with practiced caution) cupped Johnny’s face, fanning his fingers outward and over definitions. At once relaxing and taming that wild enthusiasm. It was worth the ordeal of surgical attachment, even if they’ve yet to entirely heal at the wounds. “It’s better than I remembered...” 

[de-morte]

I am just a ghost screaming at flesh.

Channing M (via le-immorte)

[requiem-on-water]

Of course I have body issues, I can’t explode into a thousand bats.

[thepersonalquotes]

[fel-ode-se]

"C'mon, Cherry!" His voice is comically enthusiastic (is that anything new?) as he leans almost nose to nose with the hunter. "Kiss me for real this time!"

            —— ⊰☩⊱ ;;;             The enthusiasm is nothing new. Comically indeed, though the response from Charles may only upturn that - lifting the small Fion up in hand, where the tiny bat squeaks and nips with just as much excitement, and kisses Johnny where Charles does not. 

             “Fion needs attention. These bats are social, you know.” Still, while Fion distracts, he does take the moment to press a chaste sentiment to Johnny’s cheek before reclining back and continues combing the small, precious animal with it’s own, very ornate (and very pink) toothbrush. “She misses you. Would you like to feed her?”