#viscerallii

[magioffire]

Val has the prettiest of eyes. We need to appreciate them more.

his eyes are so pretty...particularly when hes hanging over the end of your bed crawling up like a gargoyle and all you can see is the outline of a man and two glowing red eyes....(sighs dreamily) what a man....

[hallucineugenics]

@viscerallii​ sent:  Worthless, ugly-ass bitch. Each day grew profoundly harder to stomach being around them. The base of his palm sat itself against the frail shoulder, pushing her out of the way, away. “Go home and play with those fucking dolls. That’s all you’re good for.” (Heisenberg)

“No, no, no, no... please. I need your help. I-” The Lord’s voice warbled, a shaky inhale before the bow broke, tears flooding down a hollowed out cheek and wetting her thin veil. He pushed her aside but Donna rebounded, stooped and snatching at his khaki jacket as a pauper might, as she had done to Mother Miranda so many times. A marionette show played over and over and over again. Bowing. Scraping. Soon to be kicked to the floor like a beaten dog, knees and palms skinned on the concrete where she would bawl for hours. 

No, not this time. Spidery fingers knotted themselves in the stiff fabric and her heels anchored down firm. She yanked hard, hard enough that she felt the fibrous tissue at her elbows strain.  If Karl was to use violence as his language, so would she. 

“You cannot. I will not... I WILL NOT BE FORSAKEN AGAIN.”

[itokunii-a]

@viscerallii​

"Hei" the Finn's voice is soft, slurred. He's drunk already, or drunk enough to have discarded away any discretion with regards to his hard limits and respect, because as hard as that was to believe from a man of his type, he still possesed those things; never going beyond flirtatious words and jokes but now, he was simply drunk enough. Drunk enough to not care. Drunk enough to have long reverted to his mother tongue, he's always hated Russian anyway.

"Hei." he's close enough now too, inching dangerously closer still, and he's sure he has never really taken the time to see the full details of the Sergeant's face, or the fact that his eyes, in fact, so unnaturally colored - golden, like ripe cloudberry.

" Valya. Katso minua, rakas..." he calls to him again, softly, carefully, a harsh contrast to his constant flirtatious words that often come with no strings attached, no weight, and how terrible that it is during his drunker hours that honesty does poor only to pass unnoticed; perhaps, that is his own blessing. There is no smile, no mischief in his eyes, there is simply something else in there, betrayed by longing and alcohol.

At one point he's let slip the bottle of alcohol from his hand, spilling the contents on the snow (he'd regret it later, perhaps, or have further regrets afterwards when he awoke to a pounding headache and the consequences of his actions, perhaps) replacing it instead with Val's cheeks, cradeling it gently, guiding it to face him when his request became lost in translation; lets his thumb run over the bottom lip. There is a pause, a drawn inhale. "Valya..." and Ivan's lips met Val's, moving softly against them into a kiss, lets his tongue slip in when the gasp comes, and God he how he hates Russia and the taste of the Russian language on his tongue, but this...how he loves the taste and feel of that Russian man in his own.

His steps were a constant rhythm muffled by the snow, sinking into it, moving past its crumbling hold as though it wanted to keep him forever within its cold confines. The moonlight reflected on its surface, blurring the scenery into a white vastness of calm and purity ( no blood to splattered across yet, just an eerie serenity that crawled between the tree stumps, touching the stars; a clear night, it would be colder tomorrow ) but he had no mind to face rest or even slumber when he still had to do his rounds, had to peek at sleeping soldiers and soothe those whose worries kept opening their heavy lashes. Perhaps he could be labeled a creature of habit but ensuring that everyone was as well as they could be was always his top priority, his own fatigued muscles be damned.

A tumbling figure emerged in his sight, its movements slow, limbs apparently too heavy to properly coordinate their path on frozen ground. An instinct to raise his gun made fingers twitch and, if it were not for the red hair illuminated as he stumbled into light, Valentin was certain he would have tensed and hissed for his identity. But all that left his mouth was a huff of warm air, brows furrowing, head tilting in bewilderment as he whispered the other's name. " Ivan? ", his boots returned to a quickened pattern, decreasing the distance between them as confusion bloomed into the faint hint of concern. " Ivan, what are you doing? Why aren't you sleeping? " Foreign syllables met him in reply, a cryptic message he could not deduce as his own fingers find his shoulder, turning him gently to make them face each other and see what had the Finn behave in such obscure manner. And then it hit him, this cloud of alcohol, this overwhelming stench of vodka. A sigh and his expression softened from the stern Sergeant Kirilov to the worried Valya he was sure to spot somewhere in his slurred speech, an unnatural yet pleasant sensation to have him address him by name and not some flirty click on his tongue. " Come on, Ivan, let's get you to bed. "

Or at least that was what he would have said, ignoring his off expression and the flickering in his eyes that made a shiver run over his spine ( cold for once? Or perhaps simply uncertain of its meaning? ) when he found his face held in calloused hands. His own movements slowed down, a heat spreading over his cheek and down into his neck as his own name was breathed onto his lips. Did not receive a single second to process or tear his mind out of its reverie when he found the other's mouth on his own, an oddly soft interaction he would not have expected him to be capable of. Trembling fingers traveled from his shoulder to his arms, loosely hanging onto the cloth of his uniform as a gasp parted his lips and made way for his tongue and by then, everything so utterly hot and overwhelming that he could not do anything but shake and blush and stare at this dream-like phantom before him. A small noise came from somewhere within him and whether it was due to shock or embarrassment or something else entirely he would never know.

The aforementioned taste of booze was what finally gave him enough strength to peel him off of himself, his entire face heated, mouth trembling, staring at everything from his lips to his dazed gaze to the way he was still captured in his hold. When he finally dared to speak his own voice stuttered in his ears. " Что--- Что это было? "

[fallesto]

‘ i’m not leaving you behind. ’ (oooh Toyohisa or Nao maybe? for Jean)

WAS THERE A FATE WORSE THAN THE ONE SHE WAS SUFFERING NOW..

The humiliation she felt. That shame that clung onto her no matter how many times she cleansed herself she could not remove the stain on her. The feeling of his hands on her throat as he squeezed the life from her. Pinning her against the wall. As her fire had faded his had only grown. How he had fought like none other. How he had not merely bested her in single combat, he had completely and utterly crushed her. In swordsmanship and in battle tactics as well. As he bested her with his blade and managed to nullify her blessings. She had awaited for the moment then. When she would have a death worthy of a knight. Worthy of a champion of her god and yet he steadied his hand. He dared stare into her amber eyes as they shifted color back to ocean hues as he took pity on her…

“Toyohisa…” She glanced down. Fingers digging into the sheets that covered her as she was still trying to recover from her injuries. “Here to mock me more.”

What was this. More pity. More foolish words for him to slap in her face. She was mere moments away from death. From a glorious death in battle to a warrior that had surpassed her in every single way imaginable. Her life was within his hands. As she waited for it, longed for it. That slice from his blade as he had the right to take her head for himself, as a trophy. To allow her to be with her friend, her champion, the man that had perished trying to pull her from the waters. Yet Toyohisa had held her, looked her over and saw what she was under the armor. That she was a woman and he would not have his honor stained by killing her. War was…for men. He had said as he merely dropped her and left her there. He was…the only being within this entire land, that she wished to kill.

“Or are you here to tell me the rules of warfare and how I have no right to be on the field of battle.” How bold was he to be here. She wished to recover, to gather her strength, to spark her flames once and and return to burn all within her path to cinder. “You spared my life out pity for I was not a man. I hate you Toyohisa and rest assured…once I am well…I will take your head, if it is a shameful act in your eyes…then I will only enjoy the moment that much more.”

[magioffire]

Nope

send me a 'nope' (plus a specification if you'd like) for me to discuss something i don't like to write/wont write. alternatively send me a 'yep' for something that i would like to write/do write ; accepting

i hate hardcore whump, whumpees, whatever, i really really dislike it. and this is coming from someone who LOVES angst and hurt/comfort, i feel like they arent the same. whump takes a hurt/comfort and angst to a whole new level of victimhood.

and what sucks is vali is a prime character to be whumpified.

'hey poor little whumpee lemme exorcise that demon from you with some TLC" vali: what if i like the demon more than you GASP

no but in all seriousness, it really rubs me the wrong way because it gives this impression that even the most horrible of trauma can be fixed or at least always soothed with affection and love and coddling. i know this is not how all people approach whump, but its what i think of when i see the word. i understand the appeal of writing one character taking care of another, protecting them, saving them, tending to their wounds, laying beside them when they feel sick, i love that stuff -- but i hate when it gets to such a point where it goes from 'a mutual relationship' to 'caretaker and caretakee'. sorry but you cant have a healthy romance between a caretaker and a caretakee like whump-writers like to portray, there will always be a vertical power dynamic. also it just...gets boring to write. i want actual conflict and character development and earned affection, not 'ohhh poor babbu uwu let me take care of you and nothing bad will ever ever happen between us!!" like no!! like there seems to be this reluctance I've noticed among some whump rpers where they don't want to rp any conflict that wont end in cuddles on the bed. trust me, i love that shit, but can we please be more than cooing apes braiding eachother's hair and picking ticks off each other for one second so we can do some actual plotting???????? UGH

and i also dislike it because it gives the impression any trauma, any pain, any sickness, can be cured, and if not cured, made bearable, with hugs and kisses and soft words and tucking someone in and kissing them on the forehead. sure, those things are nice, those things can be healing, im not shooting down the concept of physical affection or caring for eachother. im shooting down the idea that trauma, pain and illness are such static concepts that a bit of TLC can make everything better. when there really isn't even any attempt to understand why vali is hurting.

its almost a little...patronizing? particularly for a character like vali whose undergone so so SO much pain and trauma in his life. sorry, but your character being like "uwu poor little vali! let me make you feel better! i love you, you're my center of gravity!" is gonna turn off vali and make him be like "hey don't talk about my ass like that. i know im fat but jeez stop gravitating around me"

[magioffire]

vali voice: ill do you one better, ill swindle death and NOT end up getting chased by furies and pushing a boulder up a hill for the rest of eternity. ill just cheat death and that’ll be that <|:)

@viscerallii​

[hallucineugenics]

@viscerallii​ sent: Outside the door sits a doll, it's victorian dress and shined, black shoes prim and proper as all good dolls should be, the order of the metal parts Donna had ordered for her doll making scattered around the doll like old playthings. Judging by the fine porcelain and amazing craftsmanship the doll is clearly one of Donna's creations. One which, mockingly so, has become butchered, its once beautiful rosy cheeked face now replaced by some unholy amalgamation of machine and metal parts. Just a small 'gift'.

Little Samuel trembled like a freshly shed leaf in Donna’s hands. Little Samuel. The boy with a tiny ascot, a shock of blue against the alabaster of his starched white sailor suit. The boy who wanted nothing more than to dance in the age worn porcelain of Donna’s laundry basin, shoes clicking on the crackled surface, unphased by the stench of still water left to stagnate and mould eaten towels. The boy whose most loyal companions were his sail boat, much too small for him, and his ancient duck floaty, the squeaker long popped by Angie’s meddling. The boy who had been mutilated beyond belief by a monster that dared call himself her brother. 

A sob bubbled in Donna’s throat. A sound of misery. A sound of rage. A sound of helpless for an innocent being brought so low. Little Samuel’s Cadou was missing, ripped out the gaping cavity of his wrenched open head as a crow might pluck out the eye of a livestock. Enough fleshy remnants remained as evidence of the boy’s brutal and unceremonious murder, caught in hooks and rivets of old steel. Donna thumbed a greasy sleeve cuff. She would spend days ringing the oil from his clothes, until only the shadow of a stain remained and her hands were raw and split. Over and over and over. Scrub. Rinse. Scrub. Rinse. Scrub. Rinse. Scrub a rub’a’dub’dub in the tub. 

She swallowed bile that rose unbidden from her seizing throat and turned away from her child, unable to look at what remained of his face any longer, even as his limp body sagged in her weak grip. She would hurt Heisenberg for this. Hurt him for all the terrors she had endured over the years. Hurt him for all the mockery at her expense. And, most of all, hurt him for Little Samuel’s murder. For even a lycan would come to heel under the right conditions. Heisenberg would rue this day forevermore.   

[itokunii-a]

"Hold still — you've got blood on your face" is a normal statement under their current situation, under any post-kill situation really. What is not normal is the way he leans himself in close; closer, closer far too intimately close. Lips brushing against Val's own yet never reaching a kiss, almost feral, as if instead he were rather a predator sniffing prey. His tongue finds the corner of his mouth, lapping up the fresh blood that marrs the skin, licking off the remainder that stains his own pale one while looking directly at him, gauging for any reaction. An action he repeats again with Val's chin, the neck, catching the soiled, red skin between teeth to suck and lick the blood off. The grip that had subtly settled on the Russian's waist only tightens. (from Ivan)

unprompted. / @viscerallii / @fcrrous

Mercy was a limited resource, he had come to find out: amidst a world of bloodshed and carnage, of betrayal and fading hope and an unwavering desire to keep his small group as safe as can be, there simply was no way for him to grant everyone forgiveness for the confessions of their sins ( and sometimes even just the revelation of their atrocious deeds as they stood before him in wild pride, no shame, no regret within sharp smirks and undead eyes ). And as much as he wanted to share his sympathy with and for others, it appeared that in the ghastly grimace of treachery, the only viable punishment was death.

Naked fingertips were still burning with an icy, divine flame, tainted with the ashes of the body that had crumbled beneath him moments ago as its smoke curled around his frame, shying away from feathers that were dripping with the viscera and crimson hue they had sliced through. He regarded the fallen with a golden intensity, seeing their decent past the paths of purgatory down towards the gripping fingers of hell in an almost prophecy-like vision, barely paying attention to his surroundings until a familiar voice pulled him back towards the apocalypse that was earth, until he felt the grounding presence in his space that stopped his ascension.

He blinked at the sight of the Finn, lashes slow, surprise manifesting across his expression with a slow pace as he adjusted to once again control his own body and maybe this was the reason why he let himself be pinned so easily, from executioner to meal within a matter of seconds. The moment Ivan's mouth trailed across his own Valentin felt a shuddering breath leave his body, something that resembled a gasp but o so quiet, so uncertain if he should make any sound at all, a dazed gaze captivated by the primal hunger within their dance, unable to look away, simply watching him feed on the violence he just caused. Shaking fingers reached out to hook themselves on his upper arms ( not wanting to push away, not wanting to pull him in, simply clinging onto for support ), smearing the remnants of the fire on his uniform, adam's apple moving as he gulped. There was no blush yet, his body still trying to process. " Ivan, please, what--- what are you--- ah. "