(Closed) Mareuer Catch All

[mirshikar]

Who: Asura + Plotted CR
When: Mareuer
Where: Aefenglom, Dorchacht, and the respective Wildes of both cities.
What: SOL, Quests, Asura's birthday, and treehouse construction. Also, I'm always down for building new CR, so if you'd like a thread starter, feel free to hmu @ the March CR & plotting post!
Warnings: Will be updated as necessary.

Comments

[gehennawind]

[ Asura expertly got each and every defense low, her suspicions nil, before ever beginning to confide in her. Lamps or candles keep their industriousness well-lit and bright at the late hour, catching and throwing color back into their eyes with a vividness that she can't help loving; after a rainbow of pigment builds under her nails and dusts her fingers, she might be glad of picking out a more worn skirt and blouse for the staining, but everything about the room and company is beautiful.

She's smiling shyly and glancing sideways, away from him, when the balloon attached to her mouth explodes and the whole world becomes a yellow cloud. ]

AAAH GOD!

[ A screech, high and horrible, and an instantaneous leap away from the noise. Her ankle hooks into the stool she'd claimed and nothing is there to cushion her very hard fall but the wooden floor. Deception! Disgrace! A wayward foot upends the table as she kicks out reflexively. Then there are several more clouds as the first is still just hovering thick in the air, none the same color. ]

Asuraaa—

[ Without the sense to dodge floating pigment, she appears upright in shades of pink, and orange, and yellow, and blue, and purple, and maybe he has a moment to reconsider before Paloma body slams him with unchecked vampiric strength. ]

[mirshikar]

[ Why reconsider when he can brace? Quite frankly, Asura's comfortable with saying that there's no one (no monster, no witch, no being with eyes) in this or any other parallel realm who could resist getting h i t by such a vision: the reckoning that is Paloma, bursting through clouds of pigment-plumes, trails of color in her wake as she drives into her target. Into Asura, who greets her with open arms even as he's forced back by that Kindred's momentum and strength, his hands locking about her middle (tugging her close and dear to him) as he nearly loses his footing, slamming back into the wall behind him with such a force that it shakes their two-story home right down to its foundations.

(Holy hell what a woman.)

And in that instant, every fixture of the house comes alive: windows rattle, wood creaks and groans, the light fixtures overhead tremble, and through it all Asura's laugh rumbles, short-winded and low. ]

Always taking my breath away, still. [ —he murmurs, every bit as breathless as he'd professed, lips quirking up into a lopsided grin as he huffs and wonders if she'll wrest herself free of him. When he tilts his chin down, all he can manage a glimpse of is the crown of her hair (colored powder adorning her curls in fine dapplings and larger splotches) as he holds fast to her, saying...!

Nothing so world-shattering or profound. Instead, his voice is silvered, teasing, fond when he says: ]

But Paloma, should've seen the look on your face. The noise which you made. My ears are still ringing, goddamn.

[gehennawind]

[ If only Asura's joy wasn't so infectious and soothing. It's hard, too, to hold anything against him when she is the thing being held against him, because nothing in any universe lends her such a vast sense of safety and security. The arms twining around his torso tighten with belligerent insistence.

Seeking revenge can wait a minute. It's time for a cuddle, an addiction worse even than a Kindred's thirst for vitae. But he knows that. ]

Don't respect me. A joke to you. [ Muffled petulance from where she's smothering herself in Asura's chest, or giving it a good effort. A rough concept of a plan for retribution begins to hatch in her breast. ]

Beg forgiveness.

[mirshikar]

Would. [ Beg forgiveness, but there's just one problem: ] But you're pressed so close I can't do it properly.

[ And while he holds fast to her as surely as she clutches to him, as it is, it'd be e x c e p t i o n a l l y hazardous to extract himself from her grip. Who knows, after all, what thoughts are lurking beneath that indignant huff-puff bluster which suffuses through that link of theirs, rising against Asura's consciousnesses like the swell of a Summer squall as he makes a further attempt at seeing her pacified: ]

What use is beseeching you to forgive me, if I can't go down on one knee? [ Prolonged contact between two Bonded means magic will be cycled. Means that Asura's shoulders will relax against the wall behind him, his posture slumping as he debates folding in, onto Paloma, to enshroud her completely with his person as the sensation washes over him. ] How about...

[ Drawling and smooth, his delivery. Flourishing and stupidly majestic, the hand which he is loathe to lift from Paloma's person, but does so for the sake of employing a taloned finger to denote something which lingers just out of sight: ]

I give you a three second start for the bowl of green pigment behind you, instead? [ Are you game for a second round, Paloma? But this time, the color fight will be on equal footing. Sporting and positively blithe, he teases— ] The one someone had good sense to put a lid on.

[ Countdown? Starting now. Three, two...! ]

[gehennawind]

[ Goddamn him, it's almost like they're soulbonded and he has a masterful sense of which buttons to press to melt Paloma like a plate of butter. The down on one knee imagery (her ribs constrict with painful want, want, want of that for herself); that alone about does it. Her weak imitation of rancor falls out of a hole in the pocket she'd secured it in, and there isn't any suppressing the smile into his warm, warm skin. ]

Oh, so now I'm not sensible.

[ Not softened to Asura so much that she's about to play fair.

His warning is the rapid readjustment of where her arms lie as she drops into a squat, wraps them under his mighty ass, and heaves upright to bring his swollen head even closer to the ceiling. She spins around and around to throw him off his rhythm, whooping. ]

[mirshikar]

[ She doesn't go for it, the race which he proposes. Instead, she goes for him, and he's unable to stop her because suddenly Miss Paloma Cecilia Vasquez is the deadlift champion of Aefenglom, and he is hoisted up by arms which secure beneath the shelf round of his ass, held suspended as she pinwheels him about. And to be honest, it is dizzying, but not on account of the way Paloma sets them both into a tornado of a whirl— it's her laughter which does it, along with the residual feeling of a desire squashed down and quelled (Paloma, Paloma, what is it that you're denying yourself?) that he becomes dazed by an immersed in. But not so much so that he isn't able to rectify the situation. ]

Not in the slightest. [ —n o p e, there's not a lick of sense in her lifting him (but then, that's why he's so positively delighted, his boisterous guffaw resounding right alongside her whoops and hollers), and he's certain that: ] You're going to throw out your back, hauling me around.

[ So...! He throws out his arms, to see her spared from that fate, pitching his torso (the heaviest part of him, solidly dorito-shaped) forward into a dive roll which sees Paloma upended (into the air she goes!), and the sleeves of Asura's own button-down splitting at the seam no sooner than his palms connect with the floor below. And it's a riveting sound, the way that material goes, the impact rippling up through Asura's wrists and to muscles which flex j u s t enough to ruin one of the King's only fitted garments. Then, there's the thud! of his back and legs colliding against the floor, with Paloma not too far behind him.

And after that? The way he props himself up with his elbows is immediate, at the ready to wrestle further (and wheezing with laughter still), the green powder momentarily forgotten. ]

The best— [ Who? Her. Catching his breath, he clarifies: ] You're the best birthday present. Love you so damn much, Paloma.

[gehennawind]

[ Everything goes pear-shaped. Down they fall, his weight and her flailing limbs rattling the floorboards as if part of a greater battle between two titans. Paloma's shriek trails off into laughter, fades into giggles, and she doesn't hurry when rolling onto her belly, grinning so widely that it might've strained her face, once. (When her muscles still felt that discomfort longer than a minute or less, when aches hit harder and simpler than dictated by blood intake.)

She visibly falters in the middle of preparing to launch at him, devastated in fewer than five seconds. It just took Asura looking at her that way and talking, again, of love. Her throat locks. ]

No, that's not fair. You can't say that.

[ The sweet, terrible joy swamping their connection says otherwise, but Paloma had plans to exact vengeance and they cannot bear fruit when she wants to kiss him insensate.

Happier than anyone's got a right to be, she kicks off the floor and drops recklessly onto him, snarling a war cry. ]

[mirshikar]

[ A menace! Paloma is a menace, one that sees Asura imperiled by simply being. Though she is Kindred, her emotions are more vivacious, more resonant and alive than any human Asura's ever siphoned Glamour from, and the crest of her joy hits the King just as hard as the sheer force behind her bodyslam. At this rate, their storied battle will wake the neighbors, giving them something to gossip about, but— in this moment, all Asura knows is reflexive happiness, and it's better than any other high he's known.

There's no need to worry about injury between them (they've sparred harder than this, knocked each other around more), but instead of spurring his body into a quick economy of motion (to see Paloma upended again, and to keep that rhythm of theirs going) Asura only...! Draws a slow, steady breath. Exhales. Huffs: ] Can't I?

[ She's a mess of color, and now he is too. Transferred to him, by way of their physicality: the colors of lovers and partners and the sentiment of I will grapple with you for the sheer hell of it, but also as foreplay too.

The look in Asura's eyes is arresting, then, as his lashes fall to half-mast, his molten heart thundering away in his furnace of a chest— ]

Don't tell me that I need to throw us into the thick of another life or death situation if I ever want to say those words again. [ Arching his pelvis up sharply, he jostles her on top of him, his hands roving over her person with large, calloused, warm palms which glide over the backs of her legs and thighs, pushing up the frilled fabric of her skirt. ] Much as I live for danger, think that'll get tiresome real quick, and I'd much rather spend time like this instead.

[ Where Paloma is elated, beautiful, and fierce atop him. Where Asura himself can't stop grinning like a fool because he's all caught up in vast scope of everything she is.

With a wink— ] You look good from this angle, you know?

[gehennawind]

[ The floor, their clothes, their bodies, their hair are all wretched with the colors of this festival. Or precious with it, depending on your point of view, and she likes the perspective from her cushy throne. She likes when that throne rolls up into her even more.

From contrived outrage to dizzied interest, there's a quicksilver shift of expression and physicality. Answering that audacious wink is a bafflingly shy smile showing only the most delicate points of either fang; under the guise of resettling onto him, Paloma presses down more roughly than is strictly called for. Carelessness encourages the powdered skirt higher because naturally it would. ]

Don't imagine you can sidetrack me by flattering my angles.

[ The rasp of her voice, more pronounced but always with deepest affection, precedes a pair of inquisitive palms smoothing up Asura's wide neck, cradling and then scratching him unkindly. ]

I love you— I love you. You're in my heart, you'll always be. [ Joy wars with awareness of how fragile, how tenuous trying to lock someone to oneself is. Fear tries to sour the whole barrel until the mad strength of love and lust shoves it somewhere else. ]

If it could beat again, loving you might do the trick.

[ Here, his hands are ocupado. She leaves his neck alone to help by reaching behind herself for the ties to her dress. ]

[mirshikar]

[ Teamwork is Asura helping Paloma out of her dress posthaste: where the fingers that had soothed and scraped along the column of his throat (unblemished palms discovering scar tissue in their bout of curiosity, finding that place where the King of Summer—proclaimed enemy to all Kindred—had opened the skin of his neck for one) have set their sights upon fastenings and ties, Asura's hands raise higher still, pushing up, up, up until he's able to see the waist of the dress over Paloma's head, and...!

He creates a new rain of pigment in the process, the powder loosened from fabric, skin, and hair with the fluidity of the motion. Plumes of color fall, hues shift and blend, and it turns out that teamwork is also one surefire way to mask the reddened cast of fluster which sweeps across Asura's features when Paloma reciprocates, says the words "I love you" not once, but twice, in that breezy vibrato of hers. And it's strange, isn't it, how Asura's own molten heart surely skipped a beat, delight and surprise evident in the widening of his eyes, in the moment she'd decreed (from atop her throne of his body, flesh, and crystalline bones) that her love for him just might be the thing to help her feel alive again.

Here, in the peace of Asura's shared home, those avowals—spoken only once before in that vile pit of stone—resound with a clarity which moves him like nothing else. This is where he's meant to be, even if he's realms away from his Freehold and Court, and the sentiment which burgeons within him can be no product of a restraint or lock: strong enough to cast wrath into shadow, it feels dangerously like freedom from the constraints of the mortal realm which Asura had stepped into nearly a half-century ago. ]

Call me selfish, Palomabella, but I want to be with you in any way that I can. [ Above him, she is beautiful, but— with his taloned hands now settled on either side of her waist, he lowers her to the floor below, sees her laid atop the cushion of her discarded dress before his fingers find the delicate curve of her jaw, cradling her face. ]

Whether or not I reside in a heart that beats or one that is still... [ Though now, now he wonders what it would take to return a Kindred to mortality— what the sacrifice would be to forge a contract with Life and Death both. If only she wanted, truly wanted, he would consign himself away for her. ] ...or if this Bond of ours should someday fade...

[ Thumb sweeping over the rise of her cheek, he swipes away residual traces of powdered yellow as his body bends, the incline touching forehead to forehead as he promises— ]

...I'll pursue you all the same. [ One kiss, pressed to the bridge of her nose. Teasing. ] Avidly. [ Another, placed against the cupid's bow, nose nuzzling nose. Surprising, how gentle Asura could be, for all that they had battled against one another not so very long ago. ] Brazenly. [ A third, to the veeeeery corner of the mouth. ] Wantonly.

[ And finally, f i n a l l y a kiss that's a mesh of lips against lips, closed-mouthed and steeped well with desire that's been brewing since the very moment when Paloma had bulldozed him into a wall in the first place. ]

[gehennawind]

[ Cheating is hearing it when his heart skips, smiling secretively and with pleasure at the proof that this perfect feeling isn't unrequited. Turnabout is soft fabric under her back, motes of bright powder getting absolutely everywhere with no rush for either of them to clean up. She keeps chasing him, clawing off his hairtie, trying to dole out the kind of affection he teases at giving. The promises/threats trip her up, make her inelegant.

Paloma half-lunges to meet the kiss and scorch it back into him. Funny; she hadn't bothered to put her underthings back on after they said hello earlier, in this same treehouse. Though coaxing the necessities off of Asura's lovely body, swearing love again and again and again, suits her fine.

She's pretty happy with herself, afterward, and not hurrying to get that soiled dress back on. What if she just... wears him? Like a stole. There's a thought. (Not many of those, currently. Sex makes her airheaded.) Most folks would want a big man off of them after the excitement is over, but she's neither most folks nor concerned about getting crushed by however many tons of solid muscle. Paloma curls her legs and arms around him like a snake looking for bugs to eat. ]

Mmmmmyou gotta start every balloon over again. How many'd we make before you popped mine...