#acecasinova

[rinnahtheskinchanger]

My stunning new commission of Rin by the amazing @acecasinova! I absolutely love it to bits, and if y'all are ever thinking of getting a piece done of your own character, I highly recommend!

AND LOOK HOW FLUFFY HER HAIR IS

[blackjackkent]

Purple Hyacinth for Rakha~?

(Flower Prompts)

Purple Hyacinth - a plea for forgiveness 

-----

There are gradations in the dreams that the beast sends. Some nights are mild - comparatively at least; fragmentary images of blood spilled and cadavers ripped apart. Those are the easy nights; she wakes shivering but still in control.

This is not one of those. Tonight is a bad night. On a night like this, Alfira died.

She doesn't remember the dream she is waking from, but she remembers it was blood red. Her head throbs with it; the space behind her eyelids pulses crimson. Every muscle in her body aches with rigid tension and undirected rage. The need to kill is suffocating, drowning her; she will not be able to breathe without the pure clean slice of a blade through flesh and the brutal beauty of the life fading from another’s eyes.

This time there is no stranger in camp to hunt. The urge will cut open some friend’s throat, and she does not know if she has the strength to stop it. It will find Lae’zel, or Minthara, or Wyll, or Scratch (or Isobel? has she walked as far as Last Light in her sleep?), and it will rip and tear their flesh and laugh as she grieves, too shattered to cry, over their mutilated corpse. Or perhaps it already has; after all, she did not know Alfira was marked to die until she was already dead…

The terror shudders like a living thing under her skin. Yes. It’s too late. The beast has risen. She will open her eyes, she is sure, and it will be that first terrible night all over again. 

She will find blood under her fingernails, on her tongue, spattered on her clothes. There will be that same suffocating stench of guts ripped out and their offal spilled to mix with the spreading pool of blood. It’s happening again. It’s happening again and she can’t stop it.

She gasps out a ragged moaning breath and curls into a ball, rolling away from reality, hiding her face in her arms. 

"Rakha? Rakha, wake up. Wake up. Come back to me."

It’s Wyll’s voice. She should feel relieved to hear it; Wyll is safety. Wyll is calm and peace, and if she can hear him, it means he is not dead. But her heart aches and pounds as if it would burst out of her chest. She does not want him to find her again with blood on her hands. She does not want him to see her fail, yet again and yet again and yet again. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” The words flow unbidden and panicked, sleep-blurred. “Please… please… I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to, I swear it, I swear it, I’ve tried… I’ve tried so hard…” 

Her voice cracks. “It hurts. Gods, it hurts…” The ache in her head is tremendous. “Wyll…”

“I’m here. I’m here. Rakha, look at me. Look at me, please…” He sounds so calm. How can he sound so calm?

In spite of herself, she looks up when he tells her to, and finds him crouched at her side, one hand on her shoulder, the other moving to cup her cheek, to hold her gaze on him. 

“Just look at me,” he says softly. So calm… so calm… “That’s it. You’re all right. You’re all right, I promise you.”

She focuses on his lips, on the soft rhythm of the words, mesmerizing. Her eyes are wide with the terror of a hunted animal, and so that is how he speaks to her, as if he was approaching a wounded deer in the woods. “You’re all right…” he murmurs. “It was a dream.”

Slowly she begins to breathe again. Her eyes start to clear as the aching pulse in her head recedes. One of her hands fumbles desperately to claw into his shirt just above his hip. She doesn’t want to ask, but the question comes out anyway. “Who did I kill?” she whispers.

He tilts his head slightly. One of his horns brushes against the fabric of her tent flap, sending a gentle tremor through the whole structure. “No one,” he says gently.

“Do not lie to me…” she rasps.

“I’m not lying.” His thumb drifts along her cheek, just under her blank and clouded right eye. “I told you I wouldn't let you. And I haven't. We're all fine. I promise.”

She shudders, but on the warmth of his words, she finds the strength to look around. She is lying half-in, half-out of her tent. The ground is damp, but with recent rain, not blood. It must be late; the fire has burned down to embers and Wyll is barely visible as a silhouette against the equally dark sky. 

But his eyes are clear enough, holding her, watching over her. 

“Hell's fires,” she hears him mutter - not to her but to someone else nearby. “I hate this. It's tearing her apart. What do we do?”

“We are already doing all we can,” answers Lae'zel, her voice equally low from somewhere in the shadows. “We watch and we listen. We cannot drive the beast from her mind for her.” A pause. “It is not as you would have it be, monster hunter, but it is the truth.”

Wyll sighs. “Yeah.” His thumb moves from Rakha's cheek to her lips. Then he leans down and kisses her, and she closes her eyes and breathes into the contact and the peace that comes with it. She begins to believe it, that no one is dead, not tonight. 

“I'm sorry,” she mumbles against his lips. She isn't even sure what she is apologizing for anymore. For keeping him awake watching her. For being a fragile broken thing. For being what she is, when he by rights deserves something whole and sound and good. “I'm… I'm sorry…”

“It's all right.” He takes her hand between his and holds it as he draws back. “I promise.”

“Yes,” agrees Lae’zel gruffly. Unlike Wyll, she does not try to offer a touch, but Rakha hears her move in the darkness, a little closer on Rakha’s other side. “Go back to sleep. You are not alone.”

Rakha is no fool. She knows it isn’t all right. Perhaps it never will be. Perhaps this is the best she can hope for - the protection of watching eyes while the beast claws her brain from the inside out. 

She closes her eyes again and focuses on the warmth of Wyll’s palm and the soft hiss of Lae’zel’s breath. You are not alone. It is small comfort, when laid against the monstrous struggle within her.

But… it is still comfort, nevertheless. And it is the only thing that gives her the courage to sleep again that night.

[askfordoodles]

Skin, wounds, and failure for any OC you want~?

I only have Nigel N. Fuse (the Crash Bandicoot fusion OC of Cortex and Tropy), so here goes...

skin: How comfortable is your OC in their skin? Do they grapple with anything that lives inside them—a beast, a curse, a failure, a monster? How do they face the smallest, weakest, most horrible version of themself? Are they able to acknowledge it at all?

He's incredibly uncomfortable with the whole 'being a fusion of two people who hate each other' thing. He can almost never get a moment's rest. Where do they end and he truly begin? Are they even extricable or is his personhood ultimately always tied to theirs? Should he value his own interests over theirs or respect theirs first, since they were here before him and deserve to exist even more than him? He has so many questions, most of which he is scared to voice. He is terrified of being selfish, because of what he might become if he defiles the sanctity of his head-mates' already limited autonomy. (in bad timelines Nigel literally becomes a murderer in order to be free)

wound: How does your OC handle being wounded? Are their wounds mostly physical? Mental? Emotional? What's the worst wound your OC has ever experienced?

He's practically immortal as a fusion, he can't get sick or die from injury. He can be wounded and bleed, but his reactions to it are pretty muted (he doesn't need his organs, he's kept alive by fusion-magic). If someone were to stab him he'd just look at the knife in his chest and then at his attacker like "well, that's a bit rude..." Mentally, he's always being worn down by the voices (snide comments or heated arguments he didn't ask to be privy to), but mostly he's vulnerable to EMOTIONAL DAMAGE TT_TT He cares a lot about the opinions and feelings of those he's close to, and he's always worried people won't respect/acknowledge him as his own person if he 'comes out' as a fusion. He desperately wishes he could live a life of complete authenticity, but his self-preservation holds him back.

failure: What's your OC's greatest failure? Have they been able to move past it? Does anyone else know about it?

He hasn't really existed long enough to be faced with a major decision he feels he screwed up, so it's one of those questions that don't really apply to his unique situation. On a narrative level, his insistence that Cortex and Tropy's issues aren't his problem counts as a character flaw. While he's right, in a perfect world their problems shouldn't concern him, they do technically affect him too. Nigel's need to help others spitefully stops short of Cortex and Tropy, and thus he isn't helping to sort out their differences (which would benefit them all in the long run).

Nigel loves playing therapist, except for the TWO people who could probably need it the most right now, since they're being dicks about it and making his life miserable. Nigel is kind and usually patient, but very petty if you test him, and he wants as little to do as possible with those two.

[apiscircensis]

Is it mean if I say 5'0~?

it hurts my pride a little, but let’s get real, i’m not that much taller lmao

[akyesein]

photos i took of a few of the many amazing cosplayers at Holiday Matsuri!

the Scanlan in the last photo is @acecasinova

if you see yourself please tag yourself!

[spiceshorthalt]

@acecasinova omg thank you so much!

  @blaquidow ahdnfog aaa stop thank you you’re too kind

[tameila]

acecasinova replied to your post: chapter 7 of The Sun Always Rises being over 20...

Get hyyyyyyype~!

ahhh!!! i worry about hyping all the time because oh no what if i hype it too much and it’s super disappointed? ?? but!!! I’m v proud of this chapter!!! and honestly!!! yes hype!!! lots of hype!!!!

[blackjackkent]

Comfort Food for the ship of your choice~?

(Send me a number and I’ll write a micro story using the word or phrase)

41. Comfort food

-----

"There." Wyll stalks into camp, lugging a heavy parcel wrapped in brown paper. He sets it down next to the fire and grins brightly at Rakha. "I found us a present."

Rakha walks over to his side and nudges aside the paper. Within is a small box full of little vials, all of which appear to contain thick powdery substances of various colors. Her eyes narrow and some of the tension eases off her face with this new mystery. "What is it?" she asks curiously.

Wyll's grin widens. "Spices," he says. He picks up one of the vials and turns it between his fingers. "I took them from the inn's stores. Jaheira and the Harpers certainly weren't using them. And you-- you've never eaten anything properly spiced, have you?"

Rakha shakes her head with slight bewilderment. Her recollection of food is limited only to what she has experienced on the road since the nautiloid. This is a haphazard affair at best, usually a few mouthfuls of whatever they happened to scrounge during the day's adventures. Sometimes they combine it over the fire into something Gale optimistically calls "stew", but in Rakha's experience, it doesn't really change much; it's the same mouthfuls, only wet.

Karlach, wandering past, does a double-take seeing the box, and her nostrils flare as she leans in. "Holy shit," she says. "Is that garlic?"

Wyll laughs. "Among other things."

"Oh, FUCK yes," Karlach says with deep satisfaction. "Soldier, you are about to have the best night of your life."

Rakha's expectations aren't really that high in spite of Karlach's enthusiasm. But she watches curiously as Wyll takes the day's meat - a cut of venison, magically preserved, from a deer Astarion emptied back in the mountain pass - and liberally sprinkles it with dust from several of the small containers.

A pass of black powder, and then a sprinkling of white crystals. A handful of the pale beige dust Karlach called garlic. "You can do lots of very complicated things, cooking," Wyll tells her as he works, his fingers moving deftly to coat the meat and then place it onto a stick over the fire. "Father made sure I had lots of practice, even though most of the nobles thought it was rather beneath them. But this is a simple combination that works with just about anything. I wager it'll make for good comfort food out here."

Rakha doesn't answer; her eyes have drifted half-closed and she's focused suddenly on the smell rising from the campfire. It is like nothing she's ever smelled before and seems highly incongruous in the dead blankness of the shadowlands - a thick rich warm scent that does indeed seem to calm something inside her briefly.

Her stomach gives an abrupt, sharp rumble, and Wyll laughs. "That's what I like to hear."

The whole camp gathers around to watch Rakha's reaction when she finally takes a bite. Karlach in particular bounces from foot to foot with open eagerness. "Well, Soldier? What do you think?"

Rakha chews the mouthful of seasoned meat for a long time before swallowing. Her eyes go very wide and her head cocks to one side. "Oh," she says, but the single syllable resonates with wonder which she usually reserves for the machinations of the Weave.

"Right?!" Karlach says enthusiastically. "Shit like that is what makes life worth living." She slaps Wyll on the shoulder. "Great work."

Wyll chuckles, swallowing a bite of his own meal. "I do what I can," he says lightly, but his eyes are fixed on Rakha's, clearly relishing the expression of pleasure in her eyes. When the others have started to drift back to their own business, he leans in close and presses his lips to hers gently; his lips taste of the heat of the spices, gentle and sharp at once.

"I'm glad you like it," he murmurs. "Things like this... you deserve to be able to remember."