——  ✞ ; 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘'𝗦  𝗔  𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗞  𝗢𝗙  𝗔𝗗𝗢𝗥𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡  𝗢𝗡  𝗦𝗔𝗪𝗬𝗘𝗥'𝗦  𝗙𝗔𝗖𝗘,  one  purposefully  reserved  for  the  woman  who  sits  in  front  of  her.  odessa  isn't  𝗮  𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿  to  makeup,  sawyer  knows  that  much,  and  she  even  does  it  in  a  way  that  the  younger  woman  admires.  however,  she  knows  dez  in  a  way  not  many  others  do,  𝗯𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗮𝗰𝗲𝗱  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹  𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲𝗱  𝗶𝗻  𝘀𝗹𝗲𝗲𝗽.  sawyer  adores  it,  the  nature  features  that  her  girlfriend  has;  strong  cheekbones  and  piercing  eyes  that  always  seem to  𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲  𝘀𝗮𝘄𝘆𝗲𝗿'𝘀  𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵  𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆  should  they  ever  meet  too  suddenly.  it's  the  pulled  back,  soft  glam  that  she  works  on  now,  only  enhancing  odessa's  features  to  their  𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹  𝗽𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗮𝗹  rather  than  lining  eyes  with  charcoal  and  covering  up  certain  areas  that  dez  herself  have  claimed  in  the  past  to  be  imperfections.  

@austerulous // Send ♡ for sigma to describe a date with your muse [hanzo]

             In truth, he never would’ve expected Hanzo to be the type to engage in the notion of “drinking” games– or, at the very least, that he wouldn’t be the type to propose hypotheticals under the influence of alcohol! He always seemed unburdened by whatever spirits passed his lips, whereas SIGMA found himself quickly sweltering after his fruity-flavored cocktail, so the notion of a little bit of alcohol warming Hanzo up to be slightly more entertaining was certainly a change of pace. 

How the topic of dates had come up, he did not know– but in his intoxicated state, it sounds fun to imagine, prompting a short, bubbling laugh from the astrophysicist as he finishes up his mixed drink, a little of it trickling down the front of his jumpsuit as it spills off his chin. 

            “-- A date! You know, I cannot remember the last “date” I was on!” Which was sad, when he considered the fact that he was, effectively, incapable of enacting any ‘traditional’ methods of courtship with SIEBREN– but that also made the prospect itself that much more enthralling of a hypothetical. "So I would be... very bad at it!"

“-- I would want to take you outside! Early evening or morning– so we could see the twilight hours together! Since this is a hypothetical– we will say that I have hypothetical currency to freely expend as well, so I would most likely want to take you out for drinks– since you are always taking me along despite my insufficient funds!” SIGMA prattles excitedly, tracing slow circles against the booth’s table with a gloved index finger, a drunken smile plastered across his weathered features as he beams back at Hanzo affectionately. 

                    “I suppose we could… get food or something! Something… casual! Maybe you would want to go somewhere specific– a-and I would take you there because it would make you happy, and we would enjoy each other’s company over something hot…”

Sombra is extremely shameless as a rule but there's some shit that she gets inordinately and completely needlessly ashamed about. It's mostly got to do with how she's still a person, at the end of the day, as unreachable as she tried to make herself.

She has a teddy bear named Arturito that she's had ever since she was 9 years old so it's currently a whopping 23 years old (shh you don't know her real age). She sleeps with it every night that she can and hugs it tight against her 'cause she's horribly touch-starved. If someone were to stumble on that not named (Sue's) Widow, she would kind of wanna die. Waaaay too much vulnerability.

Sometimes the demons are a little bit too much and she'll get a little too drunk but not in the get bored and mess with people's emotions kind of way, it's in the 'get drunk past the point of being able to remember that night and then cry and sob in Spanish about all of my trauma' kind of way. Sometimes it's by herself. Sometimes she's getting too comfortable with someone and it happens around them. If they bring it up the next day, she is literally just gonna ignore that it happened because that is so much easier than dealing with it. If you don't talk about it, it never happened.

She loves to sing. She loves to dance too, but she dances pretty much any time there's a few chemicals in her and there's a good enough beat and a dance floor - but singing? She's gotta be pretty drunk and in the mood to listen to her romanticas or some R&B or something and then she'll sing about feelings she never gets to have as if she's had her heart broken a thousand times.

Winter; she was many things. A snow-laden playground, ebbing maturity in the face of puerile joy. A vile smile, teeth sinking into flesh and spreading cold poison. A time for family, gathered in front of the swaddling warmth of the fire. A yearly trial, for those without home nor flame to free them of her gelid bite.

Erosandros would see each and every side of winter's multifaceted body. Not a day would go by without mirth contrasted against pain. Not one. It wasn't unusual to see a gaggle of children wallowing in thick dollops of snow, and then, not even ten steps away from such merriment, an unfortunate soul that'd passed during the night, swaddled by winter's cruel arms.

Erosandros was used to it. It was normal. But, occasionally, a single question would breach the surface, threatening the monotone of otherwise mundane thoughts:

Why?

His gaze landed upon a trio, a mother and father, with a baby who looked far too thin and sickly to warrant life. They sat at the flank of the snow-crusted road, the one that weaved to-and-fro to the jarl's abode further up the city's heart; silent, for breath racked down their throats like claws. He stared. Then, after a moment's pause, he plucked his pouch half full of coin from his hip, and offered it to the mother. There was hesitance in the father's face, fearing a bargain lurking in the gift like a veiled pit viper, but all Erosandros asked was for them to get some warm food and perhaps a bed for a couple of nights.

"If your little one needs help, my clinic is just a ways up along this road. Take care."

He took off before they could fully comprehend what had happened.

Other than his spurt of generosity, today proved to be a slow day at the clinic. Most individuals that dragged their boots in were looking for cures or alleviation for common ailments; stuffy noses, coughs, sore throats. Things that winter brought with her, wherever she settled.

A woman left with a few potions in tow, and shortly after, came another. The doorbell, hung above the threshold, let loose a lilted, metallic chorus upon entry. Erosandros was midway through chatter with Mirvon when it hit him—the stench. The malodour.

Lycanthrope. Specifically, the werewolf strain.

The door's maw came to a clicked close. A nord stood a step, maybe two, into the foyer. The way the nord's nares flared, the stomach-plummeting realisation washing over his features as his gaze landed upon the medical duo. There was no doubt in Erosandros' mind; he knew too.

"Mirvon, please, leave us."

"Oh? Do you know—"

"Mirvon."

It took Mirvon a beat, maybe two, before realisation, too, dawned upon that small window of his face. He glanced, nervous and nigh frightful, at the newcomer, before shambling away. Violet eyes landed upon blue.

"How may I help you today, sir?" The words were polite enough, as were his tone, but juxtaposed with the rapidly taut atmosphere, they bore a ... particularly unfriendly sharpness to them. Erosandros didn't close the distance between them, rather giving the nord wide berth.

@austerulous​ asked :  It was a sight Odessa could get used to.  Ashe, laid out on the royal bed.  The queen circled the calamity like a red-eyed shark, marveling such nacreous colouring, how pristine she looked on that tangled sea of blankets, a poppy seed on the gargantuan sprawl of the mattress.  Wrists the colour of bone were bound, tied haphazardly with the tattered remnants of a t-shirt advertising Rush’s 1976 tour – to call it vintage would be an understatement.

Metal droned low and bassy out of the speakers, covering any sound of their frolics.  Privacy was impossible in the cloister of Junkertown, where the folk lived elbow to elbow, stacked atop one another.

A low, appreciative sigh rattled in Odessa’s throat, she moved to where Ashe’s head lay, her snow-white hair pooling silken around her.  Gently, the queen cupped her face, thumb edging past red lips to glide over the enamel ridges of her bottom teeth.  Pretty thing, wild thing.  Firecracker, sharpshooter.

Scar-stippled, sun-beaten, Odessa was naked save for the leather straps that clung to her hips, the phallic shape that hung heavy from her crotch.  For now, she paid no mind to their kit, instead leaning over to plant a kiss on Ashe’s sternum, to cup her breasts and bring them together, to run the wet blade of her tongue along the valley of her making.  Rough thumbs teased over pierced nipples as she straightened, drawing hungry palms away to pull Ashe closer to the bed’s border, guiding her head to hang over its edge.  Only then did she relinquish her lover to grasp the strap-on, guiding its blunt, silicone head to those crimson lips.

“Open. Show me how much ya can take.”

   CRIMSON TO CRIMSON ; EYES WERE LOCKED . the outlaw watched the queen circle her like some hungry dingo lookin’ at its next meal . wrists twisted against the binding that held them together --- some shirt from what she’d seen before her hands had been pulled above her head .painted nails dug into the fabrics beneath her , agitated by being restrained but not doin’ a damned thing about it . she liked it . liked how it excited her .

   finally the queen stopped at the edge of the bed where ashe’s head lay . calamity looked up through lashes at the once wastelander now ruler . again her hands twisted against the fabric but large rough hands ceased such things when they pressed to her face . thumb found her lips , the red rubbing off a bit on sun-kissed flesh before it found her teeth ; as white as pearls that some damsels clutch at the smallest bit of fowl language . eyes still locked on odessa’s the outlaw pressed her tongue to that thumb . she’d have sucked on it if it hadn’t been drawn back . 

   then came the attention to her chest . a low rasped moan left those red lips . oh the heat of that tongue . she wanted in so many places . on her . in her . to taste her . to taste it . the pale pinks of her breasts stiffened , perking just for the queen . they reacted so well ---- giving away her want . oh but those damned hands went away ---- left her needy . oh but the outlaw knew what was to come . knew when her head was being guided .

   arms above her head , dangling over the edge as her head now was , she tilted head back . she felt the silicone against her lips . heard that command . oh how she dared to boss the queen of crime around . no one was bold enough to do it but fuck how it made her wet . and like an obedient pet , she did as she was told .

Niran inhales the jasmine steam from the cup he's cradling in his palms, eyes half-closed in pleasure as the heady scent hits his brain. The solitude of his gardens make it easier to detect interlopers, and with a faint sigh, Niran sets down his cup and straightens his back, eyes still fixed on his dramatic streptocarpus. ❝ I didn't expect to see you here, Shimada.❞ »•» 𑁍 «•«