Blame it on Shy..

My Syl,

I know we’ve never been traditional. I’ve asked myself a thousand times why the fuck we’re doing this, but I know I could never even think of it with anyone else. I wonder if you’re nerves are trembling half as hard as mine are.

The redhead breathed in deeply, inhaling Syl’s scent and smilng as she noted the thin hint of motor oil, sharp and familiar. Lithe fingers splayed across his back momentarily, her words spoken into his shirt. “You proposed knowing I’d never marry you, didn’t you?” She echoed, finally offering a tilt of a pointed chin so her gaze could meet his much higher one.

The femme didn’t need an answer. Instead her lips pulled into a smile as she nodded, cementing a decision in her mind. Her head turned, settling on those wide double doors that held promises of both heaven and hell within them. Knowing she’d have the man on her arm every step of the way made prying it open not only worth it, but the only course of action even worth considering.

“Well. We both know I don’t do well with expectations. Time to prove you wrong, Captain Arash.”

His brow quirked upwards at her question, a soft chuckle rumbling past his lips as that breath was finally released. He nodded to her, his smile twisting into a playfully wicked grin. “Oh course I dih. If ya remembah, the firs’ thing ya sai’ ta me the nigh’ we lef’ fer our firs’ da'e was tha’ ya wouldn’ sleep wih meh…” His voice trailed off into a taunting growl as that grin flicked impossibly wide. “I figure’ ya’d make me pay fer tha’ one fer the res’ of our lives tagetha.” He squeezed her tightly against his form, the comment clearly one of jest. “Buh seriously. I didn’ think eitha of us woul’ eva -ac'ually- wanna be righ’ ‘ere…”

Shyril let the words trail off with a deliberately mischievous smile. Clever fingers straightened his buttons, if only for something to do. The onyx ring with its beautiful ruby stones glimmered prettily upon her finger, a reminder of the road they’d taken together.

His question provoked another grin and a glance over her shoulder. A single red curl bobbed across her line of vision, free from the elaborate styling that was already strained beneath the stubborn mass. “Don’t act like you didn’t plan it that way.” She murmured, a single eye flickering in a wink as she turned back towards the aisle. “Walk me?” She questioned, a single arm extended for his taking.

The annoying, high-pitched whine of a passing fly whipped past the dark haired woman’s ear, just close enough that she could have sworn she felt the disturbance of air left in its wake. Fel tinged eyes narrowed upon their task as the slender ear flicked once, hoping to deter the persistent insect’s attraction to her though she was not yet willing to break her concentration and put down the tattoo gun long enough to hunt down the pest and see it met its justifiable end much sooner than nature intended.

Vielynne had started work early that morning, setting up shop in a small wooden room along the ramps of Booty Bay with only a single window as decoration. Barring the fact that heat and humidity made it feel like the inside of someone’s mouth, business was flowing relatively well. Most of her patrons reeked of alcohol and musk but their gold was as good as any other and their requests hardly qualified as challenging. Seaman tended to have similar tastes.

Currently, she was staring into the dark eyes of a shoulder-sized skull. Her full bottom lip caught between her teeth as she debated leaving in a few rotting chunks of flesh for the sake of something different. The thing was gaudy, as it was, obnoxious in both size and design considering she’d done three similar the night prior. It’s canvas, a bulky human who smelled like stale cigarettes with what she’d decided, with no small amount of hope on her part, was grease in his hair was just the type to think it ‘edgy’ and ‘original. After checking the contents of the purse he’d thrown her way she’d agreed to do his ink, smirking at the errant thought that whatever was in his britches must rival her little finger with all the overcompensating he was doing.

Maybe he needed the rotting flesh, after all.

"Settle down, lovely. You’re squirming like a bitch in heat." She’d swatted him across the chest in admonishment, earning herself a grunt and inquiring stare that quickly dipped down to the point where a line of sweat rolled into the crevice just beneath the neckline of her tank. It was too damned hot to work in anything more than shirtsleeves, not to mention the freedom of movement she needed to draw in the more delicate details upon skin. A dark brow quirked in amusement as she pressed down particularly hard on the needle. "Eyes up, or I might get bored and hide a little pink daisy in here somewhere. I’m sure your mates would have fun with that."

Her glorified sketchpad had grunted, then, sucking air between his teeth in a hiss of pain. His eyes, now thoroughly displeased, did turn themselves forward reluctantly. The set of his jaw told her if he could have managed a reply, he would have, but had a look to him that suggested he’d sooner whimper than form coherent words if he opened his mouth.

Pussy.

In all honesty, she couldn’t blame him for sneaking a peek. The tank was thin and damp with the light layer of sweat which covered her skin like dew and the fabric clung to it like some sort of second skin. Shit, if they weren’t hers, she probably would have looked too.

As the last details of the grisly tattoo were set into place, a harried looking goblin pushed through the makeshift door and stirred the stale air with a sigh of irritation. His electric blue Mohawk painted color against the otherwise boring wood paneling, plump lips pierced more times than should have been physically possible. The letter he’d handed her was little more than a scrap of parchment smeared with greasy fingerprints, and without any indication of what it was or where it had come from her reluctant messenger turned and barged out of the room again with only a few clinks of the silver hoops in his mouth as indication of actual words.

"Stop whining, you’re all done." Vielynne drawled over her shoulder, not bothering to turn back around to her client as she turned the paper over in her hand. She had a way of manipulating her words to sound like a jest, when in actuality they were anything but. “Keep it clean. No pissing matches for the next few days. You’ll lose.”

She’d seen the relief flicker in his eyes as he stood, retrieving his shirt before studying her handiwork with an unnecessary flex of musculature. Vielynne grinned maliciously at the resulting grimace. He’d told her his name, at some point, but she’d forgotten it in nearly the same moment. If he couldn’t handle the prick of her gun, he certainly wouldn’t be able to handle her.

"S’good work, Vie. Boys were right abou’ ya. Lines are solid." His hand lifted, leaving grooves in sticky brown strands as he ran it through his hair and flashed her his best grin. “Sure you don’ want tha’ drink as a tip?”

Laughter exploded out of her in a short burst as she walked forward, taking him by the recently tattooed arm in an effort to lead him towards the narrow doorway. “I work for gold, muscles, and not a damned thing else. Not get the fuck out, and make sure you tell your friends where you got your ink, yeah?” The brunette sent him on his way with a slap on the ass and a good-natured grin, the corner of her eyes crinkling with the familiar expression.

Alone, a fel tinged gaze rolled downward to the letter still grasped between slender digits. An ink-smeared thumb cracked the hastily laid seal on paper, noting briefly it bore no emblem to indicate its sender. One look at the scribbled words told her she wouldn’t need one.

Heard a rumor a certain Lord is bedridden. Probably gonna die soon. Thought you’d wanna know.

-SS

The message, at least, was to the point. It’s sender never had been one to sugar coat. Her lips pursed, idly, as she scanned the words once more. To her great surprise, she felt only a deafening numbness before folding up the paper and holding it between two delicate fingers.

Sweat streamed from her hairline down into her eyes, provoking a casual wipe of her hand across her brow as she moved to the single window in the room and looked out at the Bay. Sweltering heat aside, it had been good to her with a steady line of work and warmth in her bed when she wished for it. Two fingers tapped against the windowsill, the parchment making soft clicking sounds against the wood as she tilted her head in thought, allowing the deep brown locks to spill over one shoulder. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she heard the footsteps outside her door.

"Sorry, lovely. Shops closed." She’d called out, not actually making the conscious decision to do so until the words were on the air. If she waited a day, or even a moment, she’d lose her nerve and with it her last chance at closure on a matter that should have been dead long ago.

Need IC tats? Follow 'Ink'. Also known as Vielynne on Wyrmrest Accord - Horde!

My own submission for this post.

—-

Meilos Ashlight <Chief Engineer> Raid: The Best Intentions Wing: The High Spire

Aaand genderbender Mei.

Let’s not pretend he wouldn’t cut his leg off for a chance at this fine piece of engineering.

Let’s not pretend Mei hasn’t been thinking of replacing 85% of his body parts for years.

Also that hair.

Might delete this later but..

Ron Funches (via lazybookreviews)

I CAN’T EMPHASISE ENOUGH HOW ACCURATE THIS IS.

"Mowah tea, Ms. Twilly?" 

The clink of fine china echo’d in the small playroom, delicate taps of two rose-embossed cups clacking together in fine afternoon tradition. One was held in a chubby little hand, small and adorable from its pink-painted nails to the oversized bit of gaudy metal jewelry that threatened to fall off of it and onto the matching saucer on the table. It jingled as the toddler moved the cup up to her lips, sipping the invisible brew and savoring what must have been the fine flavors of earl grey or chamomile.

She was all curls and dimples, the perfect picture of adorable all decked out in an over sized lacy gown she must have stolen from someone else’s closet.

The elven child wore it like a -Queen-, her back straight and regal in the hand-carved play chair that matched the tea-table she ruled over currently. Innocent green eyes peered over her teacup, locking expectantly with her guest’s matching set of emerald hues.

"Not… Just yet.."

Shyril’s voice was a bit strained, to say the least. It could have been because she simply wasn’t dressed properly for so grand an affair; her sweat-soaked leathers still stained with blood and oil as they had been when this invincible creature had accosted her. Kidnapping the pirate captain from her airship almost as soon as it had been secured to the docks. It could also have been her lack of sleep, putting out the fire that had mysteriously started in her stateroom while on the voyage. -Steve.-

But most likely it was because the tea was as imaginary as the amber liquid that she dreamed of lacing it with to make this situation a little more… Bearable. Knees were drawn up almost to her chin as she hunched in the opposite play chair. Silently, she prayed to herself. Just hold my ass for another ten minutes.. Her armor was hot and sticky in the summer’s heat, with only a bit of breeze that floated in from the lace-curtained windows to relieve her a bit. But the discomfort all washed away when her eyes locked with her daughter accross the table. 

"But perhaps I will have more of that delicious cake you made."

Beaming, the little Elven ‘Queen’ began to cut another slice from the purple colored dough that she had molded into a true marvel of the bakery world. Shyril had just sighed with contentment, lifting the cup to her lips for another calorie-free sip, when..

The door creaked ever so slowly open, revealing two looming figures framed in the dim hall lights. Cake slice in hand, the child froze as her eyes widened at the sight of who was gracing them. The pirate choked on her imaginary tea.

"COUSIIIIN!"

Two high-pitched childish voices called out at the same time, threatening to shatter the supply of good china in the room. The Queen arouse from her table, rushing to greet her relative from a neighboring kingdom as the two young elves clashed in a flurry of hugs and giggles. Over sized shoes seeking to trip them both at every turn. 

"…Sup, Ms. Twilly."

If Shyril’s voice was strained, this one’s was sandpaper dragged over velvet, a smoker’s wheeze. But her eyes twinkled merrily behind their goggles, and her lips were tugging themselves into a sheepish grin. Over top of the full-length white gown that had been unceremoniously shoved over her soot-stained plate armor.

•go to the bathroom to escape

•feel very uncomfortable without a phone or some other crutch

•dwell on a small awkward moment for much longer than necessary

•never go to any social event without a person that makes you feel comfortable

•follow said person way too much

•worry about the person beginning to find you obnoxious

•faking an illness to get out of a social event