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Rosalina "Has No Chill" Nurumi ([personal profile] hasitsthorns) wrote2017-02-28 01:38 pm
Entry tags:

Inbox { Mythian }

CODE   🔋 6:04 PM
Miss Rosie
Hanako 'Rosalina' Nurumi

Mythian Academy Infirmary

"You have reached Nurse Nurumi.
Considering I can't answer the phone right now, I hope for your sake this isn't an actual medical emergency."

gallops: (Default)

action » (ノ^ヮ^)ノ*:・゚✧

[personal profile] gallops 2017-05-08 10:12 pm (UTC)(link)
[ seeing that it's rosie's birthday and all, it would only make sense for kevon to drop by. he likely would have anyway even if it wasn't her birthday, what with him helping out now more than he used to, but still. it's a special day! and he has special presents. she did ask for them, after all; kev thought it would be rude not to deliver. ]

[ he bounds in with a large birthday bag, stuffed with pink tissue paper, and a smaller pink box that looks like it came from a bakery. his smile is about as bright as the bag. ]

I heard it was someone's birthday today.
gallops: (Default)

[personal profile] gallops 2017-05-13 02:12 am (UTC)(link)
[ he turns a little pink himself, wishing he had an extra hand to card through his hair. as it is, he just shifts on his feet and ducks his head slightly. ]

'Course I did. You've been awful kind to me while I've been here, I thought ... well, it was the least I could do.

[ all he really wants to do is give back, because rosie is important to him and she deserves a little attention on a special day like today. once the gifts are out of his hands, he wrings them together for a moment, anticipating the reveal. the bag contains not only the boots she'd said she liked, but a matching pink cowboy hat. the box contains a mini birthday cake with an actual rose bulb stuck in the frosting, because he's classy like that. ]
wrasseful: (supercilious)

bday action;

[personal profile] wrasseful 2017-05-09 12:56 am (UTC)(link)
[There are no white horses, no pumpkin carriage. He shows up outside her door, knocking thrice, dressed in a formal grey jacket and and blue trousers, somehow looking both aquatic and formal. It's not gaudy, but something about the lilt of seams around his shoulders suggest tailoring— expense without care to brag. (Maybe he expects her to turn up in her favored color, is why the blue.) (He probably expected her to turn up in her favored color.) (You don't have to have the supernatural ability to predict the weather or even much in the way of basic intelligence to figure that much.)

(They'll match, though. Kind of.)

The buttons on his cuffs are stone and hum with the subtle, reality-splitting energy that characterizes all of Nen's strange magic. Holograms scroll ghostly across the glasses he has perched on the collar of his shirt.

And a few feet back, to his right, just down the hallway of the staff lodging, there's a rectangle of blank white light sitting there, suspended inexplicably in space and time, the size of a house door. No frame, no seams, no flicker or flames. No audible burp or shift of air. It's like someone pierced matter itself with a knife, a ruler, and geometric precision.

His face changes slightly when he sees her.]
wrasseful: (coat)

[personal profile] wrasseful 2017-05-10 03:49 pm (UTC)(link)

[The pause is pregnant like certain wolf demons will be someday, Nen getting his eyeful, Nen being a little embarrassing, but only a little, studying the way she opted to articulate her eyelashes and leave a few loose tendrils of hair streaming loose off her golden crown, the healthy color of her forearms as they emerge from her dress. Pink and blue. They are woefully traditional.]

I wouldn't put it between my legs or under my ass, but I'm a little tame that way, [says the least convincing sea god in the world, probably. You don't have to know your mythology, or even to have identified recently spanked merboys to know that 'tame' doesn't properly describe him. But still, the wry shape of his smile seems to fit with that. He offers her his arm and he still hasn't stopped looking at her, his glance flitting down, up again, before he finally rights his head out.] You look very beautiful. What was that song you were playing?

[A gentleman does their utmost to make other people comfortable. Nen isn't one, but he can pretend, when he cares to.]
wrasseful: (what)

[personal profile] wrasseful 2017-05-12 04:52 am (UTC)(link)
I don't know that song. [Nen doesn't mind knowing she's pretending. It feels more like honesty than its opposite, particularly when the humility in the dip of her head seems irreplicable by deception. He walks her toward the door of light sitting strangely in space, his gait even and smooth and slow, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world, crossing the carpeted floor toward a break in physics, a rupture in reality itself.

Well, that much is ordinary. Many other aspects of this short jaunt are quite unusual, as a matter of fact. (He wonders if she'll let out her ears after a carafe of sake.)]

The floral themes don't seem to end with you. It makes me think about what I've been missing. Watch your step, [he says. Then their feet pass through a skein of pure light, and the air changes, scentlessly, and a smooth wooden floor finds their feet on the other side, a click against their shoes. The carpet begins only a few feet further than that. They're here. They're in Tokyo.]


[The men behind the sushi counter greet them. They sound as bright and cheery as the fine wood paneling of the backdrop, the maneki-neko raising its paw at her in greeting, but it doesn't take a genius to realize a few things are off about the place once Rosie has come through. For one thing, the sky outside the tall glass window is black as pitch and the city beyond is vastly dark as well— when it's 6PM in Libson, it's 2AM in Tokyo, well past the hour of the last train. Yet they have two chefs, a girl pulling their chairs out for them. A greeter waiting by the door out on the side.

There's no one to greet, at this hour at night. And their smiles-- if you look closely, do look very fractionally strained.]

Welcome, Mr. Nen, [the lead itamae says.] We're so happy you were able to come tonight. The young lady? Her name?

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wrasseful: (mild)

action; nsfw

[personal profile] wrasseful 2017-06-25 06:48 am (UTC)(link)
[sometimes when they've had a bit to drink, the sex will be sloppy and slow. he will laugh a lot and it will make him look absurdly young, has face lit up from the inside by mirth. she'll have her legs tossed up over his hip like a lady riding side-saddle with a parasol over her shoulder, and rest their head on pillows, talking distractedly about nothing, until he asks her to lift up her knee so he finger her clit.

and other times, it's like this

they fall off the bed and he says,]
My back is too old for this, maybe, [but she closes her hand over his mouth and his eyes start to crinkle. but it changes when her fingers get tight— his pupils big. bigger even when she climbs her thigh over him, sits the sweet pink clutch of her cunt over his cock. he drags a long finger up the muscle of her thigh, up the groove where lateralis meets femoris over the top of her leg. then his hand closes a tighter grip. he pushes up into her, the knit of his sternum tightening in the afternoon sunshine laking through the window.]
wrasseful: (mlem)

[personal profile] wrasseful 2017-06-29 11:23 pm (UTC)(link)
[She's so fucking cute. Nen isn't even really the type to swear much in his head, but she is— so fucking cute. That squeak makes him feel all nine hundred of the years that separate their ages. Reminds him of how innocent she is, even if she wouldn't describe herself that way. There's a musical quality to the way her blonde hair tumbles over her shoulders, nests against the sweat-sticky curves of her breasts. There's no blood clinging to the pink stones of her fingernails when she holds onto him.

It's a stupid thing to think, She's perfect. But this is the sort of moment, the time that you think these stupid thoughts; when you are stupid. When you're stupid for someone. His fingers dart gently into the tender hood between her thighs then, brushing through dark blonde curls. slipping in to touch her clitoris, a circling, gentle squeeze of slick pressure--

--and then he rolls them over, neat as you like. One arm around her waist, sitting up to kiss her mouth, his own lips already stretched wide into a Cheshire smile. He rolls her over, and slicks one last brush of his thumb before he puts a hand down by her head. And fucks in harder.]

Have I ever told-- you, [his breathing's nearly even. He's ever composed, even during sex.] Your ears are pretty.
wrasseful: (mild)

went over my word count tell no one

[personal profile] wrasseful 2017-07-09 07:59 am (UTC)(link)
[That's valuable DNA she's collecting under her nails, you know, ancient and powerful, the secrets to something like immortality locked in the spirals of his genes. But mostly, Nen just looks like a man right now, human, only a little older than a boy, his smile full of bright strong teeth and his pupils swollen dark with pleasure.

In absence of his glasses and their holographic feed, his eyes look uncharacteristically intense. Nen is an intense person, but it's different when his attention is diluted, half his mind on camera feed in his tiny cybernetic spies, half on the code pulsing under the surface of reality, half of it on his plans for the future. You know, apocalypses and all that, rooted into the hate and despair of decades past. He is entirely capable of having too much on his mind.

But occasionally he's just here. And now. And best of all: with her and her ears and her little sounds, the elan in the bounce of her breasts and their little pink peaks.]

You're welcome.

[It's a slightly odd thing to say, maybe, when he's still railing into her with enough strength that bedskirt's trembling by her head, minute force channeled through the floor. He likes it, the wet sound of her cunt, nearly as wet as the ones out of her throat.]

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tempora: ([broken])


[personal profile] tempora 2017-06-30 09:46 am (UTC)(link)
[ Alfie wakes up, and he immediately knows he's not where he's supposed to be. He's not when he's supposed to be. He takes stock, slowly cracking an eye, then two open, and looks around. He's on the floor, cold hard tiles under his bare ass, and it smells... like antiseptic. Is he in a hospital?

There doesn't seem to be anyone in the room with him - at least, he can't hear anything right now. Slowly, he sits up, trying to catch anything that could tell him what year he's in, but there's nothing - no newspapers, or piece of technology that would be some indication.

He rubs his hands over his hands. ]

Fuck. Fuck.

[ It's terrible timing. He's still sporting bruises all over his face from his encounter with the South Siders a couple of days ago - and they've been dealing with the aftermath, planning a hit that would exact revenge. His skills were needed, and he couldn't lose his edge, being stuck sometime else or god knew how long.

Okay. He can't dwell on things. First, find clothes. Two, find when he is and where. Three, get some money and lay low. He stands on shaky legs, holding on to the side of a bed that definitely looks hospital-like.


Time to get going. ]
tempora: ([charm])

[personal profile] tempora 2017-06-30 12:10 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Shit. He'd hoped he could leave this place before anyone saw him, because how was he supposed to explain this? Especially when he had no idea where and when he was. Shit, shit, shit.

He blinks at the woman, turning on the innocent look. Maybe if he plays really dumb, she won't ask too many questions. ]

Actually, yeah? I'm in a bit of a predicament, in that... I have no idea where my clothes are.

[ He's naked as the say he was born. Surely, she'll take pity on him. ]
tempora: ([blood])

[personal profile] tempora 2017-06-30 01:58 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Damnit. Thankfully, Alfie is sort of way too used to this situation. He smiles, scratching the back of his head before gesturing to the contusions on his face. ]

I got a little banged up, which might explain why my memory is fuzzy on the details. I probably... sleep-walked.

[ Problem with that is that he has no idea what time it actually is. But nevermind, pushing through it, he really needs to get out of here. But also, trying to get some info about the year he's ended up in would be good. ]

Alfred, ma'am. May I ask... what infirmary is this, exactly?

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wrasseful: (supercilious)


[personal profile] wrasseful 2017-07-06 03:39 am (UTC)(link)
Nen says that Atlantis is "only a myth." It seems like a lie, but it's hard to call him on it when the Atlantic Ocean itself shines around them like they are inside of a jewel. They're on a caravel, an old-fashioned ship of wood, ponderously elegant. However, instead of canvas, the masts hold a vast bubble of air that encompasses the whole deck. It's helpful for breathing, and all of the children, Rosie herself, do need that. Even Ainsley, who Nen has dubbed, "Millepus," for reasons Rosie acknowledges, turning pink, without having to talk about.
"This is not a cruise," Nen says, ever charming, "no one stays on the boat." Rosie would have. She's the last. Down the ramp, Nen and the children are wearing skin-tight suits of air, puffed up bigger around their heads, regulated by the magic wrist devices. Dalton and Ainsley have already figured out how to merge and kiss. Rosie wobbles on down. When her suit separates from the ship's atmosphere, she feels a faint sucking on her inner ear. It turns out, merging is easy: Nen catches her hand, and suddenly she can smell his cologne, warm in her breath.
Everything is a luminous blue, including the ghost ship at the bottom of the sea. Despite the wooden hull and traditional deck, it looks very different to the bright magic ship floating nearby. This one is a shell, shagged by algae, all barnacled. The kids are laughing, moon-bouncing across the deck. "Psychometry potion," Nen tells her, "shared time-point. They see themselves in buccaneer apparel. There's real treasure below-deck. I didn't see a ring." He helps her down a sandy decline, then points her down the valleyed stones. Rosie sees no pirates; only a constellation of sea turtles gliding toward her.
Thirty pounds of pressure per square inch, but Rosie's skin feels as light as if she were wearing only the bikini-- which she is. She holds his hand tighter. It's beautiful here, distant sunlight, quilting ghostly across the ship, dozen brilliant scarlet groupers swimming by, kelp in a glistening swathe. She thinks he looks handsome down here, all the more because of his silly oxygen head-blob, his spectacles, his periodic grumble of warning, psychic, fatherly, when the boys shoot their imaginary flintlocks. There are no walls. Everyone looks so free. Nen's grasp is light. Still, Rosie feels like she's suffocating.
squit: (questioning)


[personal profile] squit 2017-09-15 05:48 am (UTC)(link)
[ after this ]

howzit roses

can u giv my eys a test?
squit: (eyeball)

[personal profile] squit 2017-09-19 02:59 am (UTC)(link)
if its EZ how bout now? im sitting on ur desk rn
squit: (casual)

[personal profile] squit 2017-09-21 03:56 am (UTC)(link)

[ Ten minutes? Plenty of time for Jay to nest on top of her desk all cross-legged, surrounded by post-it notes which he has doodled drawings of various people and scenery.

Hey, at least he wasn't building pyramids out of her medical supplies... ]
Edited 2017-09-21 03:57 (UTC)

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