#draconisa

[goldenfists]

stirring the pot starters // not accepting you're  not  as  untouchable  as  you  act. ( @draconisa )

pissed off did not cover it anymore. the anger simmered deep, hot blaze that has been stoked too long by her constant running, by the way she had slip from his bed only to appear on some other man's arm at galas and afterparties, playing the game of high society because she had to, because her world demanded it, and his fame seemed to damage it more than boost. he had seen the photos splashed across feeds: her laughing with suited executives, dancing too close with actors whose hands lingered where sett's should have been, all because appearances mattered more than the truth. jealousy was cruel, possessive and primal, a silent growl he had bury under a demeanour that was fragile. he was pissed at her fear, pissed at the men who touched what was his, pissed at the complicated knot she had tied around his heart and yanked every time she bolted.

he loomed in the doorway from his room, glass of whiskey forgotten in his massive hand, vermillion spikes disheveled from raking digits through them too many times just minutes before. muscles stood prominent and tight under his fitted shirt: shoulders were mountains, limbs were corded with veins pulsing visible fury. his aureate spheres locked on hers, seas of emotions that he tried ( and tried, and tried ) to tame. ❝ y' got some fucking nerve standing there saying that, daenerys. ❞ vocals were a fractured stone, hoarse and husky, containing his emotions. ❝ as if you aren't the one who keeps rippin' yourself out of my life every time it gets too real... and i have to deal with this damn frustration that keeps gnawing at me. ❞

there was only so much he could tolerate, only so much he could do ⸻ so he remained in the same position, imprisoning his structure in hopes he could also imprison his emotions. ❝ you made me this way. ❞ he hated her running, hated seeing her arm looped through strangers, hated the complicated fear that made her choose flight over the home he'd offer in a heartbeat. so mayhap the following smirk was more wounded, intended to hurt, than to be truly felt. ❝ isn't it time to leave, already? or the rain is too harsh that is pretty much forcing you to stay here... with me? ❞

[miidnighters]

🍒 deigrxtia!

send me 🍒 + a url and i will write some positivity for them | @deigrxtia

YES hi hello! I think this mun is so great. They have amazing characters and I really enjoy their interconnected universes and storylines - it makes it easy and fun to write with multiple characters and have those threads of continuity. Which, also, they are so open to.

Chatting OOC about our characters is a lot of fun too. I'm so glad we became mutuals, and I'm so glad we get to explore all of these avenues together.

[miidnighters-a]

@draconisa sent [ massage ] what starts as an innocent massage turns into Isaac teasing every erogenous zone until Dany begs

It had started innocent. Isaac had Dany spread out on the bed before him, a towel laud over her lower back (because he wanted her to feel like the real thing, rather than for any modesty he wanted to provide). His strong, sure hands, slick with massage oil, work knots from her shoulders and down her back, and then from her ankles up to her thighs.

When he sees the way she shifts, though, Isaac thinks that there's no harm in going a little further.

"Let me help you relax properly," He murmurs, thumbs digging into the muscles of her thighs, and then her ass - before dipping between her legs to brush against her slick folds.

[craveyardshift]

per the wall clock above, it teeters precariously close to three in the morning. and, while occasional travel and weekend hours required had been included in the vacancy listing for the teaching assistant role, this seems entirely too much, but there's little faris or daenerys could've done considering the conference's advertised hours had apparently been little more than a farce.

in any case, day one has reached its conclusion, however late it may be. and daenerys, as always, is physically the same: not a platinum hair out of place, unfettered, sharp. he admires it, because he cannot imagine he is the same.

he holds the door for her when they exit the convention center together, inadvertently activating the fluorescent motion-sensor lights of the hall that leads to the building's exit.

"your CV didn't include spanish," is the first thing he says when they step into the late summer night. the parking lot faces the street ahead, neon waffle house sign glowing invitingly in the distance. "you went above and beyond today. i can't thank you enough."

@draconisa / ♡

[indirecticn]

@draconisa asked: ❝ what do you want of me? ❞

the question! the one always asked at some point when some dreadful thing in the pit of the stomach twisted and knotted too tightly and gave them heed to a terrifying feeling of fear.

or indigestion, if you were Peter Quill after eating lunch at a near by Taco Bell in his new midgardian home as of late.

or... or perhaps not fear, here, Loki thought with an appraising look given the the whole of the small, but frightening fierce, slip of a girl addressing him.

"you are much bigger than yourself, you know. it's reductive to think you mean 'me' as if you don't represent so much more beyond that. unless.. you think i am here just for you?"

he could be kinder, he supposed. he truly held no real ill-will for the little dragon of a girl, but old habits die hard. something about his very own rhetoric pained him, only the tiniest bit like being stung by a bee.

"but, considering this is effectively your kingdom," he gestured widely, the (leased?) office looking pathetic compared to the ones of those who bought his action. "i suppose you are right. it is you. do you need my supervisor's number, perhaps?"

[halofcrged]

@draconisa gets a starter.

He'd gotten an earful from Parangosky that might've left any other man's ears ringing when she'd gotten the report (the short version) of the events that had gone down on Ebrion -- he'd managed to resist the urge to say most of what he had on the tip of his tongue about the rescue mission and the not-so-maiden-in-distress he specifically had been sent to retrieve in the scant minutes they'd had to clear out before the Covenant's impending bombardment. Pain in the ass had come to mind, for one. He'd made it clear to the Admiral that the deceptively wisp of a woman had left him no choice but to sedate her for her safety and his ... which he was sure would give a few of the officers that would review the report a chortle, but given how she had refused to stop fighting him and was impeding her retrieval and impeding him from being able to concentrate on the fight, it was true enough. They could feel free to pan through his suit's mission footage for themselves if they weren't willing to take his word for it.

They were still near a day's out from Reach in slipstream. The marines on board and aid workers that were on board for such things had made the couple hundred survivors settled in as best they could, seen to their medical care, gotten their information, got them into the temporary bunks that had been set up in the cargo bays and done what they could to help them cope. As if any of them were truly prepared to cope. He'd seen this a dozen times or more and it still left a sour taste in the back of his throat. Entire worlds, with millions, sometimes billions of lives, eradicated in the span of minutes while he and his people could do nothing else but watch. On the ground, on the Covenant ships, he and the other Spartans were a devastating force.

In the sky? UNSC ships needed three, four to one against a Covenant ship to stand a chance of winning, and never without catastrophic loss.

Aching hands ran through the faucet in the washroom of his quarters, splashing cold water onto his face, swiping it across the back of his neck, staring at his own reflection for a long moment. Whatever pensive thoughts he had were interrupted by the soft chirp that announced Cortana's 'tangible' presence in the room. "Master Chief, Ms. Targaryen is regaining consciousness," she announced, and John was fairly certain he could hear a hint of judgment in her words. "You wished to be informed," she announced.

"Thanks, Cortana." It was a begrudging statement of gratitude. He didn't particularly want to go face the silver haired demon but he suspected if he didn't take what lumps she felt like doling out now, he'd face worse ones from his superiors later.

It only took a few minutes for him to cross through the ship to the med bay, a brief nod given to the staff as he crossed with his long strides to the private room that the woman had been put into upon arrival. He could hear the occupants of the room before he saw them.

She looked whole, and healthy enough, he noted, stepping in, having changed into his casual fatigues once they'd entered slip stream - he wondered if she'd still recognize him even though she hadn't seen his face beneath his armor. "Glad to see you're doing well, ma'am," he interjected, at the first available moment.

[helldwells]

he was on one knee, his hands ( calloused from long won battles ) deftly working, movements precise and practised. she sat on the edge of the sofa, her knee exposed, the wound a vivid contrast against her pale complexion. he kept his expression neutral, a disguise of indifference carefully maintained ⸻ emotions were a liability he could not afford, especially when dealing with a meth. they were the epitome of everything he despised: arrogant, entitled, living countless lifetimes through the power of their wealth. but, for some damn reason, she was different. there was something about her that stirred a feeling he could not easily ignore, a feeling he did not want to acknowledge. his hands moved with a surgeon's precision, cleaning the wound with gentle but firm strokes, applying antiseptic, and then stitching with meticulous care. he could feel her watching him him in silence, her gaze steady and unflinching [ ... ] and he had to be real, her endurance impressed him, albeit he would never admit it.

he could not help the slight twitch of his tiers when she jested, a near smile that he quickly suppressed. ❝ huh, surprise... ❞ he replied, meeting her gaze for a moment, feeling the power of her presence in what dwelled behind his ribcage. ❝ now that we are being honest... in silence, you're a poet. ❞ there it was... a smirk, feeling victorious in that exchange. ❝ you should be more careful. next time, you will have to ask someone else to help you. ❞

&. rivals ( to lovers? ) sentence starters ❛ ah, so you're not heartless after all. ❜ ( @draconisa )

[feilien]

@draconisa  said: “" i didn't know where else to go... "” {♚ x Meme I am too lazy to find right now || Accepting x}

 It was somewhat late, and Matt had only just taken a break from studying to cook himself something to eat, lest he waste away after not eating for a few hours. He’d hardly gotten any of his prep done, when there’d been a knock on his door. Not necessarily an alarming thing in and of itself, but despite a couple of years having passed, he still remained paranoid for fear of being found. And he simply wasn’t expecting anyone, let alone at this time.

 For a moment, he considered ignoring it. Perhaps someone had put in the wrong apartment number for a delivery? But what if that wasn’t the case, and any second someone was about to kick in the door with him woefully underprepared. So he tightened his grip around the knife still in his hand, and slowly, warily, made his way over to the door.

 A quick look through the peephole, however, had his whole body relax and him sigh in relief. No delivery person, and no thugs out to get him. But then alarm bells went off yet again, and he quickly opened the door. “Daenerys? What— Is everything alright?”

 " i didn't know where else to go... "

 There was no hesitation as he stepped aside, both confused and worried. “Come in. What’s wrong?”