#embodies

SHIPPING QUESTIONS FOR THE MUN

Twiddling my thumbs, trying to think of something I do not like about shipping… Hmm. Sure, there are standard things that will put me off from a potential ship/engaging with another blog, but they’re not really anything noteworthy. Standard etiquette and respect things.

I guess a small, insignificant grievance I have about shipping is that I generally do not care if something is romantic or not. So when I do really enjoy the dynamic/ship, I try not to be annoying to the other person because I do not want to come off overly eager (even if I am LOL). But that’s more of a me problem than anyone else. Worrying about annoying my shipping partners because I have 3434 ideas and tend to write everything non-linear.

on one hand ; gross. on the other ... she couldn't act like it wasn't a fair question, because really one could never be too sure ── and weren't bare tits the sort of thing a person had the right to know about before having them show up out of nowhere ?

it was with that very ridiculous thought process rolling around in her mind that rogue would turn to the other, the smile on her face one of someone attempting to look annoyed when in reality they were anything but. " is that your make it or break it question? " she would ask, fingers catching a tangle as they ran through faded navy locks. " the thing that decides if you hang back or go to a party even without strippers? what a way to live. "

❝ you actually came, hunter. ❞ an anonymous note is hardly a reliable source, especially one suggesting demons in an art gallery, but, well...needs must. amalia's a little surprised someone turned up, is all. a museum after dark is never a wasted evening, but this is better. probably. it could be a terrible miscalculation on her part—but amalia is very good at maths. she steps out of the shadows, adding, ❝ it's me, anonymous. ❞

she's a creative; who doesn't like a little drama?

her heels are loud on the parquet, her eyes too bright and too violet to be human. she knows this; so much of what she projects might be performance, but it's been a long time since amalia was willing to hide the very core of herself away. nobody is ever fully one thing, aside from the core of their nature: human, vampire, demon. ❝i know what you're thinking, she's not human, it would be easier to kill her now, blah blah blah. and you could try. ❞

there would be a fight. and she's hard to kill, but she'd rather avoid it. amalia rather likes being alive. she just painted her nails, if nothing else. she holds them up now, sharp and deep purple. ❝ three reasons. one, you've never seen me hurt anyone. two, this is a very expensive painting, and it would be a shame to ruin it with blood. and three. i asked you here. demons are taking girls, and you're rather more adept at stopping them than i. ❞

she could have kicked him out of the room but he's just as weary as she is, both of them licking their wounds from an excursion gone awry. perhaps chasing magical masks with otherworldly powers should have been a pursuit she'd undertaken more delicately, but lara finds herself scrambling to find the advantage against a foe so unknown she's mentally lashing herself for ever naively trusting. she gave her the damned mask. but there is no point in trying to understanding why mila chose her for her subterfuge, or what her end goal is. she was going to stop her.

lara's eyes drift briefly to @embodies again and she sighs as she cuts the penultimate stitch and turns her side more to try and figure out the angle of that last suture. ❝ i did give you too much credit on restraint though. of course a naked woman would distract you. ❞ she mumbles out loud, hiding the wince in the snark as she cuts the last stitch and studies her handiwork in the mirror.

she stiff boned, limbs tucked beneath an offering of a jacket. it’s colder now as fall ends and winter begins to bare it’s teeth. the hard wood carrying winters bite through it's cracks. @embodies had told her rest when they'd came to a stop a few hours ago.

“ hm? ” she hums, feels the familiar hand overtaking her shoulder blade. something gentle in the way fingers splayed, a tremble in his touch from the cold. her body drags as she wakes, palm pressing to her face as if to rid the fatigue from a fluttering gaze. “ joel? ” she calls, but the name only echos. like a ghost through an abandoned cabin as his voice was embedded in the grain. her eyes struggle to adjust, but they take in the hollowness of the house.

ellie shifts where she'd been laying, the couch cushions having formed to her body shape from the old foam of it. she takes in the silence of her surroundings, the decay of the house. the couch is pushed against the door frame, a shelf to the front end window. there's empty nails in the walls where picture frames had been taken down in a rush. she wonders if that was the last thing taken by the fleeing family that once resided here.

HE'S NOT THE FIRST PERSON SHE'S FOUND HERSELF IN A PRECARIOUS SITUATION WITH . . . and likely, certainly, not the last. while she's never considered herself a magnet for dangerous situations, there's something delicious about the types of irony she ends up in. a supernatural hunter, and a deeply powerful supernatural creature? now there's something fun about that.

katerina lets out a small hum at his words, an acknowledgement that she hears them, even as she steps even closer into his space. from the outside looking in, it probably looks like he has the upper hand — his body caging her in, her back pressed against the wall and his slightly taller frame towering over her, but in truth katherine knows she holds many of the cards. after all, she usually does.

❝ you know . . . you almost sound like you mean it. ❞ lips turn upwards into a sly smile, dark eyes narrowed in amusement as she leans in even closer. barely enough room for a breath between them, the front of her shirt just barely brushing against his as she takes a deep inhale. a dare, almost, as she turns her face up towards his. ❝ maybe if you try it again . . . i'll actually believe you. ❞