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#Mahalo!M <333
brooklynislandgirl · 1 year
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truth serum (from Mischa): My dearest sprite, while I find a certain delight in you being so free with the truth, I would enjoy knowing most who gave you this serum, and if it was by your own choosing? Because if not, I know of some sewer rats in need of feeding.
Something I said? || Accepting
There's something utterly romantically chivalrous about the way Mischa threatens to murder someone or more than one person in defense of her honour, especially when she knows that he is not only willing to follow through but also make it the most bloody spectacle to boot, arousing all of her passions and interests. And if she were asked about it, she'd admit that she's enthralled by that fact, and more than once, she wishes she could give him a name or an offense just to see him do it. "Surprise you to know," she murmurs sweetly, her gaze upon her pale poet as adoring as it could be, two of her slender fingers trailing along the length of his arm, "dat I have no earthly idea who she was? A tall woman, an' pale. Haole, I assume, with eyes dat gleamed like da heavens, an' hair red as Tutu Pele's fires. She brought me coffee an' tole me it was her way of sayin' mahalo for all da hard work I do. Was draggin' my tail aftah long shift a' work an' she seem really nice. Wasn't til it was gone an' our director of nursin' aks me if I wan cover t'ree short shifts on my days off dat I realised somet'ing was wrong. "I told her I'd sooner drive red-hot railroad spikes into my eyes because I already got like ovah twen'y hours of overtime in jus' da las' week. It's not dat I don' wanna help, don' wanna be a team player, it's jus'... I'm exhausted, worn too t'in. "Besides, much raddah curl up in bed a while an' lissen t' ya read more William Blake, an' Mallory, an' Spencer, an' like you could hones'ly read me back of one cereal box an' it would be mos' beautiful kine I've heard." She hadn't intended that last part to slip out, gushing about her own desires and how he was enmeshed in the centre of them, her beautiful Kindred.Nor does she tend to talk so much in one go without pause or thought behind the words she chooses. So perhaps to mitigate that, or because now she's definitely teasing him, she offers Mischa her most radiant smile, and slowly starts to nuzzle his throat. "But if ya find her and do decide t' give her to dem sewer, you'd of course invite me along to watch, yeah?"
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brooklynislandgirl · 1 year
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...Knocking Outside Your Door... || -
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She teases him about turning up in the car. She might say jump but only because she does not know the finer points of his ability to use the Crone's cloak to hide himself away from the world ~and her, with it~ and so that is how her mind explains that particular feat. It is not the poetry that so oft drips honey-like from his lips but it still makes her all but glow in the dim light. The dress that bares her from crown to the start of her slight swells? Intentional as well. She steals the aspect of Frost, uncaring of the rain or the reaches beyond her home to this Elysium, nor does she seem to have eyes for anyone but Misha, luminous in their rims of kohl. Whether it is that she is acquainted now with the night or that he gives her the feeling of being safe within its darkness is almost impossible to tell but there is a new degree of boldness. Perhaps it is her own spark of enlightenment, that fevered madness that buoys her upwards. Perhaps it is his seeming inability to quench himself completely of desire for her company. What is visible to anyone who cares to look, so easy to understand, is Beth is utterly enchanted by Mischa, besotted. {{Dunno what you want from me, but Misha is a monster. A creature of darkness and wonder. Who doesn't mind a little blood or...come to think of it...a lot of it. And Can only come around at night, giving her 12 hours to herself, give or take. And who reads her poetry and doesn't think she's crazy and isn't interested in her money, her reputation, or her...yeah. He's really perfect and I'm sorry, Andy. Oh, oh, oh. Maybe one time, Mikhail could let her drink from him!}}
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brooklynislandgirl · 2 years
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12. What’s their view on the reliance on sex in media, is it overbearing or do they not care at all? 
The Real Feeling || Accepting There are certain nights that Mischa can't get away from his duties, it's something that one has to accept when one is involved with a man of his position. Just as he doesn't fault her for working a late or overnight shift ~in which case she tends to arrive at his haven early, and leaves him something to tide him over; freshly drawn from her own veins and pared with a favourite volume of poetry. In return he might send her texts, and she knows this feels like an abomination to him but needs must. Tonight, she likely won't see him even if the nights are starting to grow longer. She whiles away the hours by flipping through the ton of things stashed on streaming media. What annoys her is that most programs are just starting to get interested when all of a sudden, for the most ridiculous reasons, a couple will end up stripping themselves naked. Beth has no problem with this sort of self-expression, and heaven alone knows how often Andy has to remind her that she herself cannot gad about skyclad, though she would if she could. No, the discomfort comes more from the blatant and increasingly vulgar display of romantic activities that often mimic the pornography genres. Beyond kissing, dancing, cuddling, the graphic implications on screen are simply...uncomfortable and so she clicks to something else, or fast-forwards to the point it finally fades to black. And there's the dichotomy. Beth, deep down, is a voyeur. She enjoys watching the acts more than she does participating in them in the traditional sense. When Mischa feeds it's not really sex to her as much as it is an act of intimate worship. But when she does want to watch, she wants it to be those whom she feels close to, not strangers, not interchangeable fleshy dolls. Would she care to watch Mischa select a vessel, stalk him or her over a course of days, before feeding off them? Absolutely. Would she like to lick at his fangs, his lips aftwards? Without a doubt. Would she ever mention it in passing? Absolutely not. She is content that her imagination is wholly her own, and that within her it thrives. And maybe, that's what he gains when he does drink from her; a world of human dreams drenching his hunger. But not on display. {Text: Милый мой} Tv so gross. I think I'm gonna call it a night. Read instead. Window's open and I hope dawn is long in arriving. 💜
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brooklynislandgirl · 2 months
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"Wait, Beth, hold up -- just, hang on a second."
Peter's stammering, not entirely polite request for Beth to stop walking away may as well be directed at the wall beside them, and he knows it better than virtually any of their professors. Likely as not, it's that much easier for her to make the gesture of turning away from him when the fact is she simply can't hear him... at least, not properly. It doesn't matter that there's no one else on this dormitory floor at this time of day. The entire building could be empty save for them and the sound of his voice would come across as an unintelligible warble if she wasn't facing him.
He scampers in a wide arc around her to put himself in front of her before she can turn the corner and retreat to the elevators.
"Wait," he says again, a flummoxed look on his face. "Please. I know... I know I've been chilly lately. Okay? I get it, and I know you miss me. I've been missing you too. I just... I've been having a hard time. Figuring things out. Figuring myself out. Worrying about May. I..."
The more words emerge from his mouth, the more he realizes how flimsy it all sounds. Beth has been his best friend for going on ten years. He could have made an effort to at least say something to her. Tell her he needed time for himself. Tell her he was okay.
Even if it wasn't true. Even if he's spent the last five months nursing bruises beneath his double-layered shirts, swollen knuckles beneath his sleeves, and jagged scars across his heart.
The look on her face says to him that she doesn't need another ghost in her life.
Or maybe he's saying it to himself on her behalf. Because right now, he has no idea what she wants to say. All he can see is a great gaping wound in her expression. Like he's torn her open without so much as leaving a mark.
"I'm sorry." He lifts his hands, palms up, almost like he's holding an invisible basketball out to her. It's the posture of a man who doesn't know what to say that will make it better. "Beth... I'm sorry. You deserve better than... whatever this is."
Lost Sparks || Accepting
Head down, book bag heavy over one shoulder, her eyes kept on the few steps ahead of her of the tip of her shoes, she could almost pretend she doesn't hear him. She does, though, even if she doesn't really catch more than his tone and the sound of her name. For a few seconds she considers continue walking on. She tries to justify the feeling by telling herself that she doesn't want to be late for class; being aware of every minute and knowing that being early is on time, that on time is late having been drilled into her since she was little. That is easier than admitting that her feelings are skinned down to the bones. Instinctively she draws herself up tighter, shoulders drawing inward and fingers curling around the straps of her bag. She should have expected that when she didn't stop immediately ~likely used to her turning on a dime, holding her arms out to greet him as she's done since they were little~ that he'd corral her in the hallway. She shuffles to a halt. Stares hard at the slate blue-grey, cream and brown coloured carpet that muffles their steps. The same colours that are reflected in the actual walls with their brown doors, cream coloured walls, and that same blue of door frames and crown moulding. It isn't easy though and she looks up in time to see his mouth moving. Chilly is an understatement. She's barely seen him since they enrolled over the summer. It's true that she's missed him but she suspects that the same isn't true for him despite what he says on the very next breath. It hurts to hear that he's been struggling. She gets that but she's been struggling too. The day after helping her move into the dorm, Andy'd gone out and spoken to a recruiter. Two days after that, he was on his way to Lackland Air Force Base. The Admiral thankfully returned to DC as soon as her brother got on his bus. The friends she has outside of Peter ended up going to their universities too, and the girl who is her roommate is someone who isn't interested in making new friends, and is barely there to sleep most days. Her lips purse, brows knit above too-wide eyes. Beth hasn't gained the infamous freshman-fifteen. If anything, she seems thinner yet. Her features are sharper now which makes her expression seem haunted. And when he begins to apologise in earnest? She blinks once, twice. Her gaze is flooded by the sea, held back by the dam of her lower lids but just barely. Her lower lip trembles. She takes a sobering breath and it ends in a sniffle, her nostrils flaring. "I'm sorry, too, for not…reachin' out harder. It hasn't been…" She shrugs, an ungainly shift of her shoulders. "Is May okay? She's not…sick or anything, is she?"
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brooklynislandgirl · 2 months
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📸
I see your face every time I dream || Accepting
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brooklynislandgirl · 13 days
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💚 + Nightcrawler ( and we should do more about it! )
Imagine You and Me || Accepting
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Currently, Beth is still getting to know Kurt, and trying to navigate the space they share. She doesn't know how to make herself useful to him, and with all of his friends and loved ones amongst the others, she's inclined to retreat into herself. It isn't anything he's done. It isn't anything he's said. She just doesn't know him that well. On the other hand I do think there's so much potential here because I know some of Kurt's fears and worries and hopes. And once they do find their way, he'll see himself better through her eyes, and that vision will be without bias. He can thrive under her care and nurturing, and I think he in turn can be very gentle and caring where the world maybe isn't. I absolutely can imagine a future where Kurt draws her out of her shell and embraces all the things she hates about herself or has been taught are awful and unwanted. I think she can do the same for him, and maybe they can both help each other heal from past trauma. I look forward to writing more and getting this here party started &lt;3
{{currently 7/10 only because as I said, we haven't really had the chance to put them in a room together and see how they grow}}
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brooklynislandgirl · 10 months
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How much fapping is too much fapping
Things That Make You Squirm || Accepting
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"Well, I s'pose..any kine is really too much, if you t'ink about it. Exposin' yaself t' nicotine, even if it much healt'ier dan smokin' cigarettes, or toxic metals like nickle, chromium, tin, lead, aluminium. Not to mention acrolein dat can cause irreversible lung damage, an' of course da polypropylene glycol..." Clearly Beth had misheard him, had mistaken the shape of Remy's lips though that seems to not as common as when she speaks to other people. And when he repeats the word? She confesses to: "I don' know what means dat." It's a slow process and she can almost feel him wanting to tell her 'nevermind' which is something she's far more used to than she should ever be, but Remy seems to have a wealth of patience for her. With a little creative sign language and a deliberate careful enunciation she goes from knitted brows and nodding along to the revelation of wide, wide, yes, and her mouth forming an almost perfect "oh." Yes, okay. "Uhm. I'm not sure? Medically speakin' I'd say when it start to chafe or hurt? Even all da lubrication natural or oddahwise won't stop a friction burn completely. But I mean...as long as ya havin' fun an' dere's no pain. Well, you know your body bes'." She looks away then. "An' before you aks...I don'...I don' really practice self-stimulation. Don' really get any kine out of it an' it just...it feels so very pointless."
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brooklynislandgirl · 1 year
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@lediableblanc-amoureuxdechats  {{xx}}
Scraped, scrimped, scrounged, and at least once, stolen. Not that she felt bad about that last bit, she’s known too many like him. All hot air and sweaty hands swiping at things he had no business pawing at, the kind that believes an excess of money makes him exempt from basic humanity. He never saw the quick little fingers that plucked several bills from his wallet. It had been more than enough to actually rent a questionable room in the poorest of the wards for several nights, or one really nice room in the heart of the quarter and maybe something to eat to go along with it. Not that she had ever been afraid of the cold or the damp. If anything, this is the type of weather that would find her standing along the levies or on a sea wall, arms outstretched and toes planted in the surf, embracing all that her mother sent her way. The problem is that it was dark, too. Not merely nightfall, soaked in neon and sodium or halogen glow ~the kind that drowns stars in its pollution~ but rather something so deeply aphotic that it gnawed on the last of her nerves. She’d hurried through the streets, everything she owned tucked into the sea bag she carried on her back, to the one place she knew was safe. Utterly without invitation though she has an excuse she couldn’t get past numb lips and a dried up throat. Remy has a soft spot for strays and what is she if not one of the most bedraggled of them? But when she arrives, save but for his actual feline companions, the apartment is empty. Mercifully she has an in-case-of-emergency key and she pulls it up and out of her shirt. His cats barely acknowledge her presence and why should they? She does not smell like him nor does she smell like delicacies from the outside world. She is little more than warm living furniture. She leaves her shoes at the door. Her bag is just inside his bedroom and she borrows several hangers to put things up on the shower rod to dry. This includes the things she’s wearing, as she’s soaked to the bone, which necessitates a regrettable thievery of one of his shirts. She takes the opportunity to shower, to brush her teeth, cleans up after herself every step of the way. Her circumstances can be atrocious but her manners are not. She never wants him to think she’s trying to take advantage of his chivalrous generosity. She starts a fire easily enough, he’d already had it prepared. All she had to do was send the tiniest of Pele’s blood through the kindling for it to catch. Keep an eye on it so it doesn't get away or bank too low. A silent sign of someone being in the apartment so as not to catch him by surprise though she doesn’t think that happens as often as he pretends it does. That is, if he comes home. He isn’t always around and his absences oscillate from hours to days. She is only cognizant that she’d half-dozed off when she hears movement, and she hides herself away into the bedroom until she’s certain who it is. After which she hesitates. Words are still elusive much to her own frustration. Still even as she waffles about how to present herself, she hears that sound he sometimes makes that is almost a purr of sound and knows he knows. It makes everything so much easier. She settles on him, unconcerned about the closeness, or in fact their lack of modesty. Everything important is covered ~barely~ and with the chill she can feel on his skin, the damp in his hair, it doesn’t seem to matter that much. His palm smoothes up across unobstructed skin and bone when he reaches out for her in turn. She doesn’t flinch away as she might have done for so many months after they’d met. Her skin knows his. She has drowned in the depths of his coal-and-blood eyes, beautiful like nothing she’s ever seen before. Oh but before she can melt into him, mould to his planes and curves, she feels something else. The ache of muscle and bone is as loud to her as the thunder that grumbles beyond the windows. If she were to look at Remy, really look, she’d see the road-map of injuries that scattered the battlefield of his body. She can’t help herself. Her gaze pours down from his eyes to his lips, following the shapes they make when he calls her his little bird. One hand rises up and lays two tiny, delicate finger tips against his mouth, the other hand flattens against his shoulder. It’s a trickle at first. Almost like the feeling of a sigh if she’d exhaled hard enough for it, but she hasn’t. Her eyes half-close as the feeling grows, a radiating warmth from somewhere inside her. It envelopes those pains and tenderly strangles them until they cease to exist.
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brooklynislandgirl · 2 years
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"Do ya always be 'pologizin' even if it ain' ya fault?" Remy lit a cigarette, a habit he was trying to kick but he wasn't sure the motivation to do so was really there anymore. Dark eyes cast back and shrugged, exhaling before he spoke as to not make his mouth more obscured. "Don't gotta tell me. 'N don't go 'pologizin' if'n ya don't wanna."
“...’M’ sorry.” It’s automatic. Regardless of how the question is posed it exposes a flaw in her character or at least in her demeanour, one she can’t really help. At least this time she doesn’t flinch away, closing herself off bodily as if to ward off a blow that’s never come. She doesn’t know how to tell Remy that it’s a coping mechanism. That it is a safety manoeuvre to keep herself safe even when there’s no immediate danger before her. It is also a symptom of experiencing unspeakable trauma growing up, one that’s led her to believe that she is the root cause of all the terrible things happening around her. She knows she’s a burden. She knows she makes mistakes. She knows so many things that never find their way out of her mouth to be free. Her gaze slides easily from his face down into her lap, where her fingers are knitted together. “I nevah mean f’ upset you.” She speaks so quietly that anyone else might not hear her at all. But she needs him to know she doesn’t mean whatever it is she’s done, which she’s clearly unsure of. These weeks of being under Remy’s wings have been the least turbulent that she’s experienced but there’s still a soft sort of desperation wrapped around her. If he chooses to part ways, she will be lost and alone again in an unfamiliar city. “Can I make i’ up t’ you some way?”
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brooklynislandgirl · 2 months
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What’s something that makes them laugh every single time? Be specific!
Me In The Mirror || Accepting She sits on the sofa by herself, feet tucked up on the cushions under the blanket she has to keep herself warm. She has a bowl of popcorn nearly the same size as her lap held in her arms and braced by her legs. She's watching the television even if the room is eerily quiet. This is because, aside from her giggles, there really isn't anything more in terms of sound. The television itself is muted and the dynamic lighting from the screen flickers across her features, gasping ghostly colours washed out and worn by time and distance. But when the laughter comes to an end, there's a transformation. Something people do not get to see, something almost kapu, in her words. She sets the bowl down and comes creeping out from beneath her blanket. Long skirt brushes the top of her feet as she takes a couple steps toward the television, sets one leg forward, and raises it by the toes to a particular angle. As she begins to dance with what she is watching, she breaks the stillness with her voice. So very soft it's easy to pretend she can't be heard, and while her voice isn't pristine ~she's by no means Dazzler or Siryn~ there might be something pleasant and warm to be found in it. Gone is the trepidation of speaking English and something in her eyes look close to nostalgic tears. "Mahalo nu 'ia ke Ali'i wahine- 'O Lili'ulani 'O ka Wohi kū- Ka pipi'o mai o ke ānuenue, Nā waiho‘olu‘u a hālike ʻole- E nānā nā maka i ke ao malama- Mai Hawai'i ākea i Kaua'i."
As she sings she moves as the figures on the screen do, all fluid grace and beauty. Arms raised up on praise, or outward in what might seem like invitation. Her foot placement precise and purposeful. Even the claps have a beat that have meaning. "ʻO Kalākaua he inoa- ʻO Ka pua maeʻole i ka lā- Ka pua maila i ka mauna- I ke kuahiwi ʻo Mauna Kea- Ke ‘ā maila i Kīlauea- Mālamalama i Wahinekapu- A ka luna o Uwēkahuna- I ka pali kapu o Kaʻauea- Ea mai ke aliʻi kia manu- Ua wehi i ka hulu o ka mamo- Ka pua nani aʻo Hawaiʻi- ʻO Kalākaua he inoa..." All too soon, she finishes the song and then returns to the couch. Less than a couple minutes later, her face contorts from grief to laughter once more, and this time it's almost silent. And that...that's when she notices him. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and doesn't quite raise her gaze to his eyes. "Wan' come watch? Is...Lilo an' Stitch, an' it really jus' only started so I can rewind it f' you? Put da volume up for you an' everyt'ing."
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brooklynislandgirl · 9 months
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😘 (on the back of her hand)
A Kiss is Still A... || Accepting
She's been trying very hard practising on her own. She wants to make the best impression, wants to prove that she cares by making things easier, by sharing something intrinsic about him. And she is so proud but nervous as she looks him in the eye as they putter around the kitchen so late at night. She holds her hands up with extended index fingers in front of her chest, and takes a breath before releasing her lower lip from between her teeth. Of course she knows her pronunciation will not be entirely correct. If the German language is gendered like English she might flub it, but it still will show she's willing to learn, and that should count for more than a tiny grammatical error. What Beth doesn't take into account is that the word she wanted, and the one she uses…are two very different things. "Ich hätte gerne einen Kuss, bitte." She doesn't see the mistake. And Kurt, sweet and kind, doesn't laugh at her. Doesn't make fun of her in any way. But he also doesn't give her a cookie.
He does, however, take her hand in his, indgio fur so soft against her skin. Even softer the gentle kiss he places just over the delicate set of knuckles.
Beth blinks.
Not once. Not twice. Three times in rapid succession before she smiles shyly, the merest points of her sharp teeth visible, and the flood of colour runs its course through her face.
She turns away, yes. But her hand stays in his, the slender digits gently squeezing his three.
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brooklynislandgirl · 10 months
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How d'you have the talk with a child about something they may inherit from being from your bloodline? D'you separate it from that other talk or just go for 'that time in your life comes with changes and possibly accidentally mildly setting your bullies on fire'?
Advice from Your Nurse Shark || Accepting
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An age old question. One she mercifully doesn't have to worry about, all things considered, but that doesn't mean she lacks an opinion. Had Iwalani been in her life, would it have been easier to know her grandfather is a centuries old Rokea? That is her veins is the blood of gods, sharks, and powerful mana? Maybe not but when she Awakened, she might not have been so frightened as to block out the worst of the memory. It also took her a very long time to realise the Admiral's hatred stems more from the fact that she is a sign of his weakness, more than the fact that she's a girl. It is fear and hatred and maybe not a little jealousy. It does make her far more careful; she hides her abilities in the most practical of ways, using only a fraction of her power when she can. She makes certain she is bland, is temperate, is fair...because if she isn't then...how did Andy put it once? Ah, right... she's one bad day away from being a mass biological weapon. She never asked for any of it. She does, however, remember how terrifying it had all been, especially going through it alone.
"I t'ink our mos' sacred duty on dis eart' is to care for our younges' generations. Teach dem da way you teach 'em oddah kine, like readin' an' writin'. Explain dey may some day have a great personal mana...power...dat will set dem apart, an' dat it is a gift like bein' able to sing, bein' able to draw or paint, to dance. Prepare your keiki to use it, but also to control an' understand it, from early on. Do dat an' ya run less a risk of somet'ing terrible happenin'. An' mebbe, if ya scared about it happenin'...den look into communities of oddah gifted people. Dey exist. It might jus' take time, because so many of us face prejudice, fear, trauma, an' actual t'reats to our lives, jus' cause we're different." A faint smile lifts one corner of her mouth. "Dere is a great man who has made it his mission to protect us all from Governments, from terrorist groups, from anyone who would see harm come to us. Day come he evah aks me to join his cause on da front lines? I will give my every las' drop of blood for him. If ya like, I can see about sendin' him a message about ya keiki? See about gettin' you some resources or help? Ya nevah alone, an' we all try an' look out for each oddah."
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brooklynislandgirl · 1 year
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69. What turns you off?
Generating Steam Heat || Accepting
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The question isn't surprising, not with the way her fingers circle around his wrist and halting the slow climb of his fingers up the trellis of her thigh. Without his gloves there's a combination of textures at the border of her skirt hem. The words are breathed against the length her jaw. Tactile expression that she cannot misunderstand because there's a solidity to it and somehow it bypasses her ears and etches itself full in her brain. She groans almost soundlessly and the hand that had been recently lodged in his hair slides down across his cheek and drops to his shoulder. She pushes herself up and away from him, the sparks between them becoming banked. She's not angry, she's not even annoyed. She wouldn't call it hurt either. She isn't sure what the question makes her feel. "I..I don' really know," she says eventually. She twists her lips to one side, equally ambiguous as her answer as to whether it's a frown or merely a subconscious facial tick. "Mebbe mo' beddah question is wha' works for me. I…I like deep breath-stealin' kisses, gentle bites. I like da way ya hands feel on my skin." She glances up into his face, past his fine features and into those black and red eyes that intrigue her beyond words. "I t'ink dat mebbe I don' like so much how in movies an' in some stories when da man talk stink…ah… say mean stuff. More dan jus' vulgar, but I'm not real use t' talking like dat eiddah. But callin' ya woman a female of loose morals-- s word, uh dat oddah one….means same kine ~implyin' bein' paid for sex~ is really gross." She knows that's muddled but she's not about to spell it out any further than she already has. "Degradation in general. When I work as a nurse I got enough urine an' defecation on me dan I care t' t'ink about an' I don' see it havin' a place when ya try f' make love wi' someone. Don' wan someone who only interested in me because of da family money an' prestige, t'inkin' dat dey can use me like a personal ATM. An…An I don' like roses." She scoots back on the sofa toward its arm, setting him free. "Wha' about you? I mean you have more experience, not da kine of man who get turn what wi' ya charm an' ya handsome good looks, so I feel like ya have way more experience. Are dere any t'ings you really like dat I should know about?"
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brooklynislandgirl · 1 year
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💽
Notes in a Quiet Room || Accepting I. Sound of Silence || Disturbed II. Pieces || Rob Thomas III. Acceptance Speech || The Friendly Indians IV. Superhero || Johnny Hollow
V. Born This Way || Lady Gaga VI. Brand New Day || Neil Patrick Harris VII. I Wanna Be Sedated || The Ramones VIII. Wake Up || Jonathan Coulton IX. Biosphere || Sendai-2 X. Hey Pretty || Poe
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#Houses Still as Ghosts|Homeless Mutant Verse#London Calling|Legend AU#Don't Say the M Word
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brooklynislandgirl · 1 year
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What is your muse’s opinion on gossip? Do they ever gossip, encourage it, discourage it?
A Little Bit Of This and That || Accepting "Oh, no, I'd nevah." She doesn't know why the man's opinion of her should be so important to her beyond the obvious, but it is. He's the only friend she's made in her new life and were he to abandon her due to a defect of character, she wasn't likely to survive very well. Beth absolutely believes in death by loneliness as much as she believes that honesty is the only way to live. Which means she's providing context to her possibly too quick an answer. "Firs' of all... I don' hear people really good. Mos' of da time if I no can see deir mout' or deir eyes, den I... well. You say 'Wan some coffee?' an' I might heah you say 'bring him loam fossils'. Makes collectin' information an' sharin' it like some weird game of telephone. "Second, people tend t' make fun of me when I talk bird, because it's easier and familiar to me. I'm sure where an' how you grew up, ya undahstan'. Our pigin is nevah much different dan ya creole or cajun. In fact, in academic circle, dat's wha' dey call it, Hawai'ian Creole. But I been told no can speak, no can make conversation li'dat. "An' lastly..." Her gaze drops from his midnight-and-pomegranate eyes, down to his mouth, then down to their feet. Lastly, no one really cares what Beth has to say. She's not the most interesting person in the world, nothing she could want to say is earth-shattering in any way, and there've been people like her, people who have lived with that ugly M word banner over them far longer than she has. "It's kinda rude, an' I find it abhorrent."
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brooklynislandgirl · 2 years
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“Beth. My dear sprite. I assume we are discussing this as a hypothetical, since neither of us have the usual mammalian proclivities for sexual relations. However, should you wish for our bodies to be joined that way, I can foresee a benefit for myself. I would be blessed with being the sole witness you in this new experience. Something shared between only us.
The biggest con is whether it would alter your perception of the world. Either through disappointment at the experience, or rapturous acceptance, could carnal knowledge taint what cummings and Ginsberg’s eroticism currently paints for you? Does your imagination run free without the limits of what the body may feel?”
Pros and Cons || -
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"Academically," she murmurs with a nod, confirming what he already stated. Her knowledge about Kindred biology is lacking in many areas. It isn't like there's volumes written on the subject and Mischa is the only one she knows to such a degree that asking such deeply personal questions aren't completely off putting or downright dangerous. Fantasy ~be it films, novels, or television shows~ offers conflicting citations and the more modern the media the more sexualised the portrayal for the sake of titillation and sales. There is nothing that comes close to what his kind are, at least not definitely. Just hearing the words slip free of his mouth, sans tongue or teeth pressed into her throat seems unnaturally scandalous. He isn't wrong in his view. Neither of them fall in any of the parameters that are considered normal by any standard in the matter. And this is not something she would share with the world although the touch of his possessiveness does bolster her flagging enthusiasm. It's the second part, the bane to the boon that catches her attention and provides complex fodder for her to graze upon. She doesn't know if she would find it disappointing beyond the fact that it wouldn't be, and couldn't possibly, match the experience of written word. Things are fantasy for a reason and need not be made manifest. The idea of being changed through a single act unable to be undone terrifies her in a way she can't explain. "I don't know," she says plainly. Answering herself more than she answers Mikhail. And suddenly the subject doesn't sit well. "Mebbe is...nothing. A fleetin' t'ought dat jus' needed to be heard under moonlight. I wouldn't worry about it, really. Especially since, as ya say, neiddah of us really seem inclined toward it...an' because of da biological incompatibility, yeah? Besides... I don' t'ink any kine really compare to da Kiss, so why change what is already so beautiful, right?"
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