#orphidian

A Bene Gesserit Lady! Here, in his own ship, speaking with him for their ninth night. It’s an intoxicating thrill, like brushing against ghosts and legends. A Lady sitting next to him-- he’s unsued to having such fine company. His is dirty work. She knew that, though. The witch had come to him for information, and who is he to turn down an equal trade? Knowledge of Arrakis for knowledge of the Bene Gesserit. 

But that was a dangerous game, and they’d both been playing it and indulging in the stakes. Lies within lies, feints within feints, and ever so small half-truths and hints to keep them together. 

She’s been seeing him for nine nights. He can’t contain his grin at the thought, at the way she responds for one of the first times without a measured thought to his fingers tapping at her tattoo. They both still know so little about each other, and yet each second brings them close to a false bedrock of understanding. 

He’s unsettled her with his understanding, too. He smiles, knowingly. She doesn’t pull away when he leans in-- even when he kisses her, gently, she stays still, discipline coming back to her. He’s not sure there’s anything more, not yet, but to have something as precious as silver and spice allow him to kiss her... he pulls away with mischief on his face and listens to the simmer in her voice. 

I could have you killed. 

He laughs, easy and confident. Twists the knife playfully-- with a feint of truth.

prompts for those with a reputation.

          my particular problem.  it is a sweet way to measure him: as a man who solves problems. a foolish person might frame a witcher this way—but not even their own books are so generous. the snake has venom, the wolf its teeth. this solves a particular problem for the beast.

          there is a simple truth that no troubled person wishes to confront: that a difficult problem may not be a problem at all, but a reality that time will force them to accept. geralt watches her with careful eyes, their amber irises revealed in the hard slant of the morning sun, shading gold and ochre, webbed with a dark marooning red. she is hoping that he will help her, creeping across a great distance, on her belly, with an outstretched hand. that is very brave, or else it is very stupid.

          "it is likely."  geralt leans low and reaches beneath the table to push out the chair beside him with the flat of his hand. the legs skitter on the road, a hideous sound, and a bird scatters from the vine-boned wall behind them. the witcher is quiet and congenial—he sits back, and motions to the empty chair.  "please, sit."

          as she moves, geralt slips his hand beneath the neck of his threadbare sweater, adjusting the holster of his pistol where it is warm against his scarred shoulder. it is deliberate, a chance for her to see and know that he is armed. so that there is no misunderstanding between them. she smells clean and unopaque, ozonic, like a flicker of flame. it is not a purely human smell. dead-seeming, cold rocks. the witcher has no smell himself but cigarette smoke, wind and iron, the residual burnt bitterness of coffee in front of him. nothing organic, nothing warm. flinty and rough, like the dark sound of his voice.

          "first you will tell me your problem. all of it. even the parts you wish to hide. if you are honest, then i will tell you if i can help you."

😌😌 it's about being anonymous for a while in a sealed off secret series of moments wherein your lover is the only one who knows you, wherein your lover knows you only by the context of what they see before them in that moment without trying to anticipate or understand the rest

cracks mine KNUCKLES   / /   doomchief asks ( always accepting ) : @orphidian

doom guy and master chief both wear nigh impenetrable armor, rarely does anything manage to burst through the argent field / energy shield that the praetor / mjolnir armor has, let alone the titanium alloy. however, that doesn’t mean that it’s impossible, there can be instances where they can get knocked around inside the armor that can result in bruising / internal damage ( especially concussions that can happen within the helmet, but they both have reinforced bones so it’s not likely ). doom’s skin is also very tough, only divine / angelic / demonic weapons can cut through it - and even then, he heals extremely quickly, so he rarely needs any bandages and the like, so he mostly frets over john whenever he’s injured in any way. of course, neither of them make it obvious when they’re wounded, john internalizes it and rarely allows anything to hinder him during combat, but doom just knows and he insists he rests, even for a moment, just so he can look him over. armor can’t be taken off until they return to the slayer’s base, so he’s worried the entire time... it’s not a habit he can break.

          shin malphur isn’t someone who makes his own choices. perhaps not so much a deliberate move on his behalf as it is something that his life has taken away from him is another question. but none of that really matters now, does it? not when he’s faced with a new figure in his home. one he’s familiar with yet that’s completely alien to him. one that shin doesn’t know how to take. maybe he’s spent too much time with only drifter as company. too long just the two of them. that a new body is something alien. something that drags back the unease with his own visage. the unease in his own skin as he hesitates to watch her. light coils tighter around him when scarred eyes drift over his frame where he stands awkwardly in the doorway. 

          she feels... off. no. maybe off isn’t the right word. shin doesn’t know what she feels like, really. it’s not light. but it’s not dark, either. he thinks that maybe it’s more like the grey area between the two. the one that drifter showed him. the one that let him have this. voice finds him, jerks the renegade out of his daze as ocean hues blink once, twice at her where she stands. indecision colours his body language as renegade stalls. he watches her, watches the smoke rise lazily from the end of lit cigarette with furrowed brow. then. instinct rises and he pulls the coin gifted to him from his pocket. he flattens it on his thumb and flips it. catches it in his palm and rests it against the back of his hand. heads he stays. tails he leaves. 

          ocean hues shift to see the result. to see his choice. there’s a beat of pause before the renegade nods, forgetting that she wouldn’t be able to make out the gesture before he crosses the threshold and puts himself a meter away from her. standing with hands hung limply at his sides and gaze pointedly aimed at the ground. like he can’t look at her. he’s not allowed to. it’s not something he should be seeing. orin. the one drifter told him about. the one he’d been looking for since they met. the one who tormented him, who gave him visions and nightmares and left the rogue a shivering, feral mess on the ground at his feet. shin thinks he hates her for that. hates the nine for that. doesn’t know how he’s meant to see past that. but. it’s not his place. shin malphur is done with is anger and his hatred. 

@orphidian​ said: ❛  some men don’t know they’re hungry until they eat  ❜ / dark age/pilgrim guard orin owo

NOT HERE

     HE  HAS  BEEN  WANDERING,   without  purpose,   without  cause.   a  peregrine  of  the  wild  and  the  dark.   he’s  faced  warlords  and  made  quick  work  of  them,   he’s  faced  untold  horror  and  got  by  with  only  sagira  keeping  him  afloat.   this  is  perhaps  the  first  time  he’s  had  any  solid  contact  with  life  that  didn’t  quickly  turn  to  bloodshed.

     OSIRIS IS A MAN of many talents. and many debts. he knows someday he will have to pay his dues. to the awoken queen, to the nine, to that sad man in the basement of the tower. the sundial he supposes is his greatest debt. in his ambition to fix a tragedy he created he needed to be able to power it.

     which, of course, is why he contacted the nine when he built it.