#bcwblade

@bcwblade // companionship on these endless trials // accepting.

"Simon," and whatever warning might've lingered in his voice... drains out just as quickly with a sigh. Brom presses the heel of his hand into a tattered eye, sitting in an old chair left abandoned in a similarly emptied house where their nightly jaunt had taken them. "What do you want me to say, mhm? That the shape of her doesn't stalk my dreams? That I haven't thought of what could be if I could only hold her in my arms, or offer her even a fraction of the comfort she has given me?"

Brom gestures to himself with a mocking sweep of that clawed hand, from ruined robes of once white to the beastliness of his expression. Embers burn from behind his gaze, the eyes of one entirely blood drunk even if he's abstained since the day his brethren-blades were reduced to kindred lords of beastly idiocy. "Look at me, Simon. Look at me. Ask yourself who would truly look upon this man with affection or love and I'll answer you plainly, honestly. No one would, nor should they."

Recommend romantic candidates for my muses and see their reaction! | accepting! | mentioned: @bcwblade

"Hah... Simon, eh? Well that, that..." Yes, that Simon. That sir. Sir? Yes, sir, he thinks. She must be referring to- maybe that shop owner with the funny look, right? No, no, that's not right, Simon is... "Now that would be curious, to say the least. You'd find that plenty fun no doubt."

With crossed arms, and a smile that only half-heartedly commits to a façade of amusement, he can only offer what he considers to be his probable response, if he knew just who she was talking about. He needs to think quickly, the lasting silence can be justified with the expectation that she would offer a comment of her own first, but it won't be long before it becomes inelegant and the strangeness of his response becomes more evident. Simon... Simon...

Oh.

◈   @bcwblade​​​ said:  ❛ [ kiss + rough ] w/Maria :3c ❜  //  nsfw muse reaction prompts

[ kiss + rough ]   your muse pulling mine into a rough kiss.

The copper roll-top was a solitary ship on a tiled sea, its hammer-dented hull scintillating in the candlelight.  Maria, kneeling at the bow, appeared as a figurehead in reverse – a pale siren, arms hooked over its lip.  There was comfort in the ritual of Simon’s visits, in the warmth and weight of his presence, in the raw heat of his damp skin beneath attentive fingertips.  Whoever said that familiarity bred contempt was sorely mistaken.

In the near-dark, he was afforded some privacy, the bath brimming with red clover blossom and rosemary-studded waters that lapped and swirled with every languid movement.  There was no need to surrender to haste, not when the long hours of night stretched ahead of them.  Maria spoke quietly of everything and nothing as she washed his raven hair, wavy locks sliding thick and wet in the narrow spaces between her fingers.  Silences, when they came, were comfortable lulls in a conversation at no risk of running dry – and they were marked by a wordless frisson, a tension at odds to this humid sanctuary at the heart of Maria’s home.

A figment of her imagination, perhaps.  A clue to her own desires, certainly.

Humming softly, fingertips circled Simon’s temples, knowing it was time for him to emerge.  Maria rose to fetch a towel, her mind racing ahead, thinking of what might be picked from the bones of her pantry and presented to her guest.  The slosh and spatter dragged her from her consideration, telling her that Simon had climbed to his feet – her eyes found him standing in the belly of the copper basin, erupting from botanical waters with the unabashed masculinity of a Neolithic god rising from ancient seas.  As the lady of this household and his hostess, Maria did not gaze directly at his sex, at that which hung heavy and unapologetic.  Even though she was hungry for him, even if she envied those daring, downward-racing rivulets that kissed and traced the edges of his body, even if she wanted nothing more than to drink him in entirely.  Slender fingers clenched into the feather-soft fluff of the towel, fluttering reflexively, itching with the unladylike desire to explore the smattering of scars she glimpsed on his torso, to discover for herself whether they were raised or ran smooth.

“I shall bring you a robe,” Maria offered, having eroded the distance between them, silver eyes feasting on every beaded droplet that glittered in his glistening beard.  The tension was greatest and most intoxicating here, when the space between them could be counted in mere inches, where she could swear that she felt the heat that emanated from his steaming form.  It hummed like crystal glass on the verge of shattering.  “I will see you comfortable – ”

The moment splintered, caving beneath the weight of its own anticipation.  Water splashed and slopped messily over the edge, pooling on pristine tiles as Simon seized her, heaving her roughly to him, the lip of the gargantuan tub biting her thighs.  Where he held her firmly, she could find no such purchase.  His mouth met hers in the candlelight, hot and demanding, the towel crumpling into an immediately forgotten heap at Maria’s feet, soaking in the sudsy spillage.  Hands did not remain empty for long, preoccupied now with gliding over slick skin, mapping Simon’s shoulders before folding him into her embrace.  

How easily he coaxed her lips apart, how unapologetically he laid claim to her tongue, how readily Maria yielded to this sudden assertion of dominance and desire.  Wet hands fisted rudely in her shirt, dainty buttons straining, ivory fabric blooming with sopping flowers that clung to the colourless curves beneath.  Maria answered by gathering him flush into the hollow of her body, gently pressing blunt nails into his back – he might have led the charge, but she would offer him no opportunity to retreat.  

Lips were bruised and nipped, aching with want as Simon’s damp beard scraped her chin and cheeks, porcelain skin coaxed into a flush with the contact.  A hand slid to rest at the back of his neck – at the base of his skull – lost in his dripping mane.  

SPICY SHARING A BED PROMPTS

☾* ░    How they two ended up there in her room at a spark of sudden desire - on her bed, now exhausted yet far more close than before after shared spontaneous moment between the hunter and the scholar.

After a moment of recollection, and calming down apart from one another. Yurie turned on her stomach and crawled closer his form once more - in warmth and secure she learnt about just little before, while that she cast a glance at the mess of fabric on otherwise plain floor.

She very much could have found rest in his arms.

And so she did, resting her head of black hair against his chest, her ear and cheek pressing above the beating heart - focusing at its rhythm which still was strong and fast. Just like hers, beating through her chest pressed against him - along with her chest expanding and shrinking as she breathed against his skin. A moment she wanted to be the final thing to remember before setting to rest. And so, fingers traced the length of his arm, prompting him to stay there with her over night instead of any plans of leaving.

You're closer to me than ever before. I can hear you breathing.

The beasthide assassin. Brador. She hadn’t expected such a fight against him, and though her body ached, she kept pressing on. Something was wrong here -- aside from the usual of course. Something was going to happen, something terrible. She knew it, could feel it in her mind, her heart, a strange certainty in the knowledge that she needed to move, to act. It was only upon realizing why Brador had fought her did she realize in a clearer mind, no longer muddled with confusion or blood, who his next target was.

She ran. 

Past the fisherman and their harpoons that they sent lancing past her head, past the shark-like trolls that certainly wanted to eat her and grind her bones to dust, past the witch by the well who would surely curse her like the others. 

“SIMON!” 

Her voice echoed, the air vibrating, crackling as if a thunderstorm was fast approaching the hamlet. Lightning was shifted into the sound of her threaded cane splitting apart as it crackled, whipping through the air past Simon’s shoulder, just close enough for the tip to hit Brador’s bloodletter and force him to step back.

She would not -- could not -- lose him. So focused on protecting him was she, that her mind itself was surprising silent, all energy and focused pinpointed onto Brador, on killing him to protect Simon the only way she knew how.

Moving as fast as she was, she didn’t try to stop her momentum. Instead, she body slammed into Brador, knocking him as far back as she possibly could before tucking, diving in to a roll to stand and face him. Kayden was still, eyes split apart with insight, her very breathing seemed to halt as she stared down the beasthide assassin with intent shining clear through her very being. 

“Get back, Simon. Let me take care of this.” Her voice was soft, light, like satin and silk ribbons dancing in the wind, yet tied to a blade.

Lightning truly crackled over her blade, the bolt paper now disintegrated as all of the tension in her muscles released, spurring her into the duel with an aggression and relentlessness usually hidden. Everything else faded away. The only things she even knew still existed was the scent of the ocean, the taste of blood in her mouth and the feeling of it dripping from her wounds, the fur of Brador’s coat as he moved, the crackle of lightning against her fingertips.

And then...it was over. At least, it was over for now. She watched with icy eyes as his form faded from view, leaving only the blood-soaked sand and gravel in his place.

Exhaling slowly, she felt her own blood pool underneath her. How many blood vials did she use? Her mind was hazy, but not as bad as it was the first time she used too much blood in the Nightmare. Licking her lips, it was only then that she noticed her mask and her hat were discarded, her hair now partially loose from it’s half-braid. She looked frazzled, and possibly mad, as she finally stumbled away from the pool of blood, her gaze darting to and fro till it landed on Simon.

@bcwblade ( Simon the Harrowed )

Sona had spied the same man from a distance; garbed in a tattered coat and a hood. Though his long fingers appear to attempt to conceal his face, she could glimpse between the open spaces that he wears a dirtied and torn blindfold covering his eyes. She had seen him conversing with Yurie; a conversation she could barely make ends of due to her distance and their soft voices. However, judging from their positions alone, Sona could not help but find herself partial to the notion that the man had made his way to the church in search of sanctuary; and for whatever reason, Yurie appears to have declined his entry. 

Her lip curls into a grimace at the thought of a colleague turning down someone in need; particularly so if he had grappled his way from Yharnam. Sona lifts her hand and presses her fingertips against her chin. He must be from Yharnam. Perhaps. Brows knit at the other possibility that he is an outsider. She lets out a deep sigh of disapproval at both cases. The point stands that the beggar seems to be requesting asylum and was denied; by a clergy member, no less. 

She sees him standing by the door this time. Keeping herself where she stands, she listens for any exchanges taking place. Angling her head, Sona could see a fragment of his shadow. The further she cranes her neck, the stronger her confirmation is that no one else is keeping him company at this present moment. She quietly strides towards him, her focus on him holds as she notes that he appears to be staring at the moon overhead.