outofshadows | Shipping Meme

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!meme

Shipping Meme

Welcome to the ToS Shipping Meme! The rules are simple.

1. Post your character/preferences.
2. Reply to other characters with one of the following scenarios
3. Ship it!

Remember, this is just a fun meme so you can ship things that would NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY in game. Yay for no in-character consequences to bad decisions.

SCENARIOS
1. Stupid Cupid Your characters stumble upon a room in the temple that is dedicated to Berkano, which is the rune of love and new beginnings. Think Midsummer Night's Dream. Your characters may be close friends, strangers, or sworn enemies. Whatever the case is, they are now suddenly and inexplicably in complete and total love. They may or may not be aware that this makes no sense, but they can't help themselves.

2. Some Like It Hot Forget love and new beginnings. Your characters have ACTUALLY stumbled upon a room in the temple that is dedicated to Kenaz, the rune of fire, passion, and sex. There's no stopping you, even if you tried. Luckily, the room is prepared for that, and comes equipped with a bed. Whether or not you guys make it that far across the room is another question.

3. I Can Hear The Bells Your characters are getting married. Maybe it's true love, maybe it's to get out of marrying Tristan, maybe you're being forced into it and this ship is a little dub-con, or maybe it's because you accidentally participated in some Nysgod ritual and weren't aware of its implications. Either way, the wedding is about to happen or just has. How do you feel about that?

4. I Don't Want To Go Your character has been determined to NOT be the one for Tristan. Whether or not they like it, they're being sent home. Do they choose to spend it with a close friend, with the one they love? Or maybe, do they decide to finally tell that person they've always had a crush on just how they feel? You only have one night left, what you do with it is up to you.

5. The First Time Your characters are interested in each other and it's time to do something about it. Either the first date, the first kiss, the first I love you....or some other significant first. Whatever it is, it's definitely time to take that step. So who's going to take the initiative?

6. The Morning After Your characters definitely went at it. Maybe it's the first time, maybe they're cheating on someone, maybe it was out of anger. Whatever the case, for some reason, it was significant and you're going to have to talk about it. Good morning, Starshine! The earth says it's time for some cuddling and/or awkward conversation.

7. Potpourri Have another idea? Pregnancy, proposal, accidental body contact, trapped together, caught in the rain, hurt/comfort, etc? Go for it! Make your own scenarios up and run with them.

NOTE: Feel free to throw any mirrors into play if you're interested!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The wonderful thing about the beds here in Othala was that they were very, very big. Very, very.

Sure, it's a bad stylistic choice to double the adjective like that (especially one like "very"--bleh), but put 'em together, double 'em up, and they sort of hop along. Kids say "very, very" all the time. Playful-like.

Point is, the beds were, in fact, very, very big. And, they required the playful double adjective because there was a lot of playful double-adjectival action that went on in them. Well, double-verbal action, at least. "Fucking" could be a verb or an adjective ("they were fucking, but now they are asleep in the giant fucking bed"--although "fucking" here could almost be an identifying adjective more than just an emphatic adjective, a specific bed for fucking, &c.)

And since these beds were very, very big, that meant that there was a great deal of rooooooooooooooom for doing things like rolling around, tumbling over, changing positions, ending up sideways (yeah, it was wide enough for that!), losing things in the sheets, and not asking questions.

What was hilarious, though (and he tried not to laugh as he thought about it, as his situation would not do for hilarity or at least not for laughter) was how, after the fact, in the midst of post-coital sleep (not to get too medically adjectival about it), the two parties involved seemed uninterested in the great vastness, the great snowfields, the great snow-covered plains and prairies of sheets that descended from the white peaks of Mount Pillow down into the rolling ridges of the Comforter Foothills.

In point of fact, they seemed determined to remain as close as possible to one another as if in spite of the space, as if the space were either fearful or an insult or something to be scorned. No, they said, we are done with such expanses and we shall now content ourselves with arguing against the laws of physics themselves and deny that two bodies cannot occupy the same space. Behold us.

For the moment, at least, anyway.

He shook the sleep out of his head a little better, stopped thinking about Mount Pillow (and how one could make it look a bit like the Devil's Tower if that point was pushed down), and reassessed the very welcome and warm female flesh draped on him at the present moment.

The mind attached to the warm female flesh was not, in fact, thinking of anything involving expanses of bed sheets or mountaintop pillows.

She dreamed of the beach. Nude on the sand, sun warm on her skin, waves coming in to cover her legs. She dreamed of the cool water lapping across her skin and the feeling of wet sand between her toes and of an impossibly blue sky, so bright and cloudless that it hurt her eyes.

And when she did wake, who could blame her for a soft sigh of contentment, of imagining herself still on that beach and for nuzzling further against the body beside her, as if it was the warm sand she had just left behind?

Only a moment or two had passed, though, before she realized that she wasn't alone, and wasn't on the beach, and the movement beneath her was not sand or wave or wind.

Brown eyes fluttered open, and Cordelia lifted her head to look at the person she had fallen asleep on.

"Well, fuck me," she mumbled, and she dropped her head back down.

"Oh, sweetheart," he mumbled back, sleepily, "I already did."

Gently, gently, he stroked her hair, the gentle curve of her back.

"Unless you want to go another round. I'm up for it. But, you know, I'd be kind of surprised if you were."

"Not right now."

She let him pet her, stroke her, call her terms of endearment. Still too sleepy to put up a fight and enjoying the attention, she settled in against him, burying her face against his bare chest.

"What do you really look like?" Cordelia spoke against his skin. "When you have your real face? Do you even have a real face?"

He laughed quietly. What did it mean to have a "real" face? Was it the face one always used? Truly, wasn't Randall's face as real as Rory's face as real as Marten's face as real as Walter's (don't ask which Walter, though, since they alone are legion, tee hee)? Weren't they all real? Was a mask unreal because it wasn't a face? A mask is real, a face is real. And so too were all those with all their names (Robert, Rudin, Roger, Richard, Ryo, Rhett, Rowan, Rabmag...) as real. So they seemed to those who wouldn't, couldn't, or didn't suspect that there could be other names and other faces.

It was stability that she craved, likely. Or some semblance of honesty. If there could be one "real" face, then that face must be the "true" face. He had no need for a "real" face. All his faces were real. They existed, they were real, they and their names were put to good use and real purpose.

Perhaps it worried her that perhaps, under a face, there might be nothing. That one day she might see him with his hood up (been a while since he wore it up) and might fear, as others had, that when he turns (don't turn around please don't turn around) there might not be a face at all, there might not be anything at all, there might only be a great black and endless seething gaping swallowing void under that black hood.

But, he had shown one face to another in the desert, of course. That other had been more deserving of that sight. And what had he called it then--? Oh yeah...

"I have a face I was...born with. You wouldn't like it."

"Why not? Are you hideous?"

Lazily spoken. She traced her fingertip against his chest, sketching invisible circles, triangles, a rhombus.

"Phantom of the Opera? Or do you have sharp teeth and beady red eyes, like some kind of demon bat?"

She pressed a kiss against his shoulder.

"Is that what you think? I bet you'd be disappointed, then."

He caught her idle, doodling fingers ("doodling" was another word that seemed too playful for its own good, right up there with doubled adjectives, and maybe even super-duper) and brought them to his mouth to kiss them.

Let her wonder what other sorts of mouths or teeth or beaks could be kissing those fingers.

"Probably," she agreed, sleep still in her eyes as she watched him kissing her fingers.

"My day job at home is fighting demons, after all. It's hard for a face to phase me at this point."

She rolled away, onto her back, turning to look up toward the ceiling. This was, admittedly, not the first bad decision she'd made from an over-exposure to alcohol and lust and anger. A fight with Bert, a little lack of sobriety, and coming to (and with) Rory had seemed like the best option.

"So that was...fun."

Tone nearly rising to a question there, but not quite.

"Fighting demons. Is the pay good? How about the benefits?"

Oh, but she was already rolling away. Pity.

"I had fun. Did you have fun? I liked the part where you were on top of me yelling 'Fuck me! Fuck me!' which is kind of ironic and hilarious, considering that that is exactly what I was doing at the time."

She turned to look at him, eyebrows lifting in a did you really just say that way.

Cordelia debated punching him. It wouldn't really hurt him, sure, but it might feel good to reach out and hit her knuckles to his jaw, hear that satisfying thwack of contact.

But no. No punch. Instead, she laughed.

"I liked the part where you weren't talking so much." And, perhaps to demonstrate what she meant, she leaned over to kiss him good morning.

Oh sure, kiss him a while. He could enjoy that. He could definitely enjoy that. And he cupped her face in his hands and smoothed his thumbs over the soft shapes of her cheekbones and the line of her jaw.

And when that first kiss ended, he kissed her--shorter, quicker this time. And once more. And once more.

And he smiled.

"You don't like going to bed with talkative men?"

Because of course he had to.

"Don't bring him up," she responded evenly, "Or I'll leave."

Cordelia raised her eyebrows at him, putting on a mask of surprise. She raised herself up on her elbows, drawing away.

"Of course, if you had other things to do, better things to do, I'd be happy to get out of your hair." And because she already knew that he enjoyed leaving a mark, she leaned in close again, drawing her hair away from her neck.

"But I think you forgot to leave a hickey on this side."

He opened his mouth to say something and then decided against it. No. Let's play the Quiet Game.

He smiled, held a finger to his lips, then touched that same finger to hers.

Quietly, quietly, even keeping his breath quiet, he kissed her--her mouth, her chin, her throat, down the side of her neck. He tumbled her back over into the ruins of the bed. He kissed her neck one last time and then and only then set his teeth into it.

Gasping would be permitted, as would breathing, but the sound of her voice--no, he'd touch her lips again to remind her. Shh--silence now.

But she was right about his liking to leave a mark (or two or ten or nineteen).

She knew it.

And she did gasp. Moan, writhe, incline her head to offer up her neck to him (really, Cordelia, even an animal would know better than to offer throat access to this man). Her hands curled in his hair, her bare form stretched across the bed.

A monster, yes, and she even knew that much. But that mouth. That eerie way of looking at you, like he knew every secret thought in your head, every perverted desire, every selfish and horrible inclination you'd never voice out loud.

What was that?

That, my dear, was magic.

Magic and the fact that if anyone had a perverted desire, he'd likely had the same desire at some time or another, and probably before that other had even begun to think about, say, having him tie her up with her own silk stockings or drag her up onto the roof of a skyscraper and fuck her senseless in the noontime summer sun or make her bleed for her own pleasure and delight. (Or maybe she liked to watch, maybe even liked to watch as a young man was bound and dragged and fucked--for her pleasure and delight. With such soft kisses after, such soft kisses and soft smiles as only a lover might give.)

He was content with his handiwork here, though. For now.

He licked his way up to her ear and then nibbled at that too.

"There. Now you'll match on both sides."

And she smiled, slow and lazy and content. Too pleasured to move and too sore for it as well.

"What else would you like me to say?" she asked. "If Fuck me was so great, I'm sure there's other things you'd like to hear."

Everyone had them. You're the best I've ever had or You've been a very naughty boy (ha) or whatever else.

She had a feeling his wouldn't be quite so predictable.

"Tell me..." he started, then fell silent as he looked from her eyes to her lips to her eyes again.

"Tell me you love me."

And he smiled.

Not as kinky as she'd expected. But somehow, way more disturbing than she could have anticipated.

She didn't love him, of course. Lust wasn't love. Attraction, intrigue weren't love. The compelling draw of good girl to bad boy was just a draw, in the end. Then again, she was an actress, wasn't she?

So Cordelia reached up, ran her fingers through his hair, settled a cupped palm against his cheek. Sweet and earnest and shy.

"I love you," she whispered, leaning in toward his ear. "I'm completely and totally in love with you."

It was a lie, and he knew it, of course. A lie or a game. Either way. He'd asked her--and not for the words themselves, not for an illusion, not to pretend it was the truth, but to hear the lie itself. He, a liar, had asked her to lie to him. And it was delightful. Liars lying to liars after lying together. So perfect. So circular.

"I always knew you were," he whispered back, "I could tell by the light in your eyes."

Another lie, but keep the game going.

She didn't respond for a moment.

Maybe this was a dangerous game to be playing, especially with a wizard. There was a lot of magic to be found in words, Wesley had warned her. A lot of power to take from them.

But no. Just like two kids playing house, right? It was silly.

"And do you love me?" Cordelia asked, eyelashes lowered.

He tipped her chin up to see her eyes under those long, fine, dark lashes.

"Of course I love you. I loved you from the first time we met. I loved you from the first time I saw you. I loved you from before I was ever brought into this world, and all my love was for you and only waiting to find you."

An excellent opportunity to use some of those stashed lines. Totally. Thick or not, he didn't care. They were the right script for the scene.

"I love you."

"Well, then. Aren't we just the luckiest pair?"

She rolled away, onto her stomach, breaking that moderately uncomfortable eye contact. Cordelia stretched out across the bed, peering over the edge, onto the floor below.

It would have to be done, she supposed. She would have to let her feet touch the floor, and somehow, she knew that the moment he stepped away from this blanketed cocoon, she would have to face the reality of what she had done.

"Maybe I could just stay here," she mused out loud.

He tumbled over onto his side--the better to stroke the line of her backbone, of course.

"You could just stay here. I wouldn't mind. I'd let you."

"You'd let a naked hottie stay in your bed?" Cordelia replied, dry as a desert. "Shocking."

But she turned her face, not quite to look at him, but to look in his general direction. He hadn't really done anything evil-y, after all, and all the petting felt good.

"How many women have you kept like that?" she asked. "Tucked away in some room, waiting for you to come back and fuck them? If you're all that old and all that evil, there have to have been some."

Wasn't it pleasant, wasn't it nice to be so sleepy and dreamy in the morning? To roll around aimlessly in bed for a while? To make idle conversation? To look for signs of what transpired the night before and, if necessary, kiss 'em and make 'em better?

He thought so.

"Of course there were some. But I didn't really keep them. They kept themselves. They waited for me. Just like you said."

They were more tamed than kept, really. Not prisoners but more at pets.

RNG tells me 6! (Ironically)

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