#A Light in the Void

[azurityarts]

stray cats

Self-indulgent post; OOPS the character ideas are Manifesting again

So meet Ion and Poppy! Designs are subject to change, but I think I like the names! They're not on a team together (yet); I've got some plans for them (and a plus one), and while I can't show them quite yet, I hope I'll be able to sooner than later!

But yeah! Here are the newest goobers to the whole gang; I have no clue how I'm going to feed all of them now—

[vyibunni]

this moment really reminded me of my tav <3 dialogue is from the video "turning random lines of action into characters" by Drawfee Show on youtube, modified a bit to be more british lol

+ bonus

[charles-and-no-one-else]

So, ‘m told Midas and Reo they’d get shirts specifically for them, and uh- I don’t have Reo’s done yet, but Midas’ is!

so for you Moth lad! @/its a work in progress cause things are being mean-

I was gonna make a silly one, but it seemed in poor taste :(

[below cut is ooc random stuff about this shirt]

now for the out of character ramble-y part that gets progressively pointless:

haha so yeah I totally forgot I said I’d do this till- last night? I think, idk man. So I vaguely sped ran this.

the silly text that I mention was gonna be like “Team Quixis: reason why health and safety rules were made” or like- “Almost died on the job! Feeling decayed!” Or “‘they took my fucking eyes.’ ‘That’s so sad, Worldport play self-contained universe (reprise)’” And personally that’s really funny from an ooc pov- but like- let’s not give people trauma shirts- so! Midas! funky font!

the moth is based off a Luna moth! Cause I have a ton of pictures saved and have seen- an oddly large amount of them so it is an easy reference. Yes it is decayed!

fun fact! There is no brown for rina because I hate (like despise) blending brown! Aside from that, all know Sherb’s are here! I kinda wanted to draw a lil lily of the valley too, but that can go on the trench coat I started after this (I’ll get to Reo’s at some point I swear-) (yes the trench coat has hand made Quixian on it)

while I was making the shirt I pictured it as an actual shirt, which is why the moth isn’t bigger cause then it would look like a too big graphic on a t-shirt :( why isn’t very moth and would be curved wings on the sleeves.

speaking of sleeves, I have no idea where the sleeve lines went-because there used to be spots where it was like “hey this area is sleeve!”

anyway that’s all! I love moths :3

[leesbian42-rp]

[open rp]

A23421, a 6ft tall female cyborg who would have looked human enough if it weren't for her literally burning hair, hid deep underground in Gotham City. She'd arrived just a few weeks ago, slowly stealing what she'd need to reset the settings her Creator, Dr James Stone, had programmed in her. To remove the murder murder murder brING BACK TO STONE MURDER MU-

She had to get it out. A23421 wasn't yet sure what should be there instead, or if she would even be able to remove it the way she wished to, but she had to try.

....What was normal humans like again?

The patients she'd studied the years before bringing them to her Creator hadn't been murder machines like she was. Is. Was. Is. WAS. She would get rid of it.

The humans in this city weren't murder machines. At least not like she was before regaining her sentience three years ago. The humans still killed; the sounds of gunshots was nothing new, and she'd quickly figured the - what had the humans called it again? Oh right! - Crime Alley above her was living up to its name. But with Stone still out after her, his little perfect top secret spy, she needed to stay hidden. This seemed like the best place for it. He couldn't find her. No one could.

So.

Hide, reprogram herself and never EVER let her Creator get her back to that lab hellhole. She'll have to destroy him someday, like how he made her destroy others. But not now. Not when she was so newly free from his grasp. A plan was needed first, and for that she needed to reprogram herself.

(Would she need a... name ...too? A23421 was all she had ever been called, all she'd ever known...)

(No. Plan first, name later. Now let's see, what would she need...)

[the-void-painter]

how does you make the text all cool like that

P̵̞̼͉̑̄̽̃̅͛̈́̂̑̆͗̐Ô̶̡̳̠̺̠̠̻̥͚̣̱̰̬͋̑̿͌̌͆̇̐͠ͅS̶̢̟̫͎̠͔̭̝̭̍ͅṰ̵̙͖͂̄͒̄̔̑́́̄̔̚Ǐ̴̭͍̱̂͛̌̊̈́̐̈́̕̚͘͝Ǹ̷̡̡̛̯̮͚̻̥̩̙̭͓͙̟͛̈́̀̾͑͒̑̏͘̕G̴̡̯͒̄̀͌̆̎͑̚͝͠ ̵̡̦̬̮͙̳̬̗͈̗̘̗͓̊̔͊̐͋̀̽̿̐̿̿̚͘͝ͅͅF̷̧͈̜͔̳̺̙̺͓͎̓R̴͓̻̪̳̩̉̃̊̈́̾̎̀̈́̀͗͒̄̚͜͠Ǫ̷̨̧̡̢̛̥̰̩̭̞̹͕͉͒̓̉̑̌̇̐͜͠Ṃ̵̛̮̤̳͈̹̮̜̩̥̗̃̔̒̎̏̍͊̓͆̅͒͘͜͠ ̴̡̣͍͓͎̦̞͍̱͈̩͖̱̆͌͌̃́̌͗̑̑̅̆̓̚T̸̛̠̱͈̮͙̣͎̹͖̪̍̄̽̄̀̿̿͗̀͘͠͝͝ͅH̵̢͓̻̙̥̳͕̭̓̌Ě̶̢̝̗̭͔̮̖͖̹̟̏͑ ̸̘̯̭͕͎̣̠̙͌͆̎̈͆́̆̈ͅͅV̸̨̡͔̭̏͆̂̍͑̀͛̌̅̾̕͝O̴̡̗͎̲̬͚̪͔͚̦̓̓́̒̓͐̃̈́͑͑̎͊͛͘Į̸̼̣̲̼̰̯͓͎̠̰̥̞̼̝̌̀̂̈D̸̡̦̝̻̬̹̗̱̳̗͚̮̫̳͒̽̍̽̈́ ̵̯̔̏̅͑́͂B̸̢̟̱̭͉̲̭̔͌̎̀̆̃͌̕͝R̷̢̙̘̻̘̻͂͒̉I̴̛̗̲̝̲̦͇̭̪̥̲̫͈̲̽́̇̉̈̈́̂̐͋̈̈́͆́̕N̵͖̗̅͊͒̀͂͌͛̆̄͑́͠G̶̨̥̝̥̗͍̙̔̊͊̄̋̉̾̐̌̿͗̕̚͝S̴̯̳͉̞̟͇̘͖̑̀́͂̚ ̴̧̧̜͖͔̬͎̱̹̹͛̑̍̅͒͑̓̚͜͠Ș̵͕̙̙̮̠̏̽̄̊̄̾̕͘͝Ơ̸̳̦̟̯͙̮̺̫̑̒̾̈̇̀̄̚͝M̸͉̜̯̯̪͋͒̉̌̅̋͛̿͝Ȩ̶̡̭̩̖̩̤̔́̎̔̎͜͝ ̴̝̯̳͕̙͎̫̰̳͕̭̬̥̣̾͋D̸̯̻̹̓̈́I̵̗͎̦̹̪̥̗͓͓̫̅́̈́͘ͅṠ̶̡̜̗̻͍͖̦͗̉͘T̸̢͎̩̜̠͔͆̇͆́͗͘Ő̴̳̥R̸͇̠̬͍̺͕̅͌͂͘Ț̶̛̈́̔͌̄̍̋̑̅̄̔͌͠͝Ȋ̵̛͙̰͈́̑͐̊̏̐̀ͅÔ̷̹̜͎̦̭̑͛̉͛͜͜N̸̡̘̩̭̗̬̲̜̈́͐͒̀́̒͐̕͜ ̵̹̙̬̼̺͚̱̜̈́̉̂̔̕͜ͅ

(I just typed in glitch text generator into my browser)

[lightgriffinsect]

happy 1 year anniversary to fnf vs radi muzix medley

the friend of my friend is my enemy

(Friday Night Funkin')

Words: 2058

Summary:

"Yeah, so uh, it's not just gonna be us here," Void casually brings it up with the two of them over coffee. "Oh?" Sumire's gaze snaps up eagerly. They're still getting used to being in the same room as their idol on a regular basis. Void doesn't blame him. Who wouldn't be, when it's A.C. Void? "Oh?" Radi also glances up at him, much less enthused. Ugh. He could try to show a little cheer. "Mhm. I have another, uh, friend coming. He's a psychic." "Ooh! What's his name?" Sumire is really eager. "Psychic."

Posted on 24th September in honor of Muzix Medley's 1 year anniversary. Hap annivers to Radi and Lofie!

Psyfic taglist: @y010isaghost, @s0methingmoonlit, @flurriethefox, @hoodiehydra

Let me know if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist!

Psi:

btw did you remember to tell radi and sumire

Void:

Oh right

Oops

Psi:

void.

Void:

LOOK MAN IM SORRY

IM A VERY BUSY GUY

I'll tell them now

they'll be chill dw

And if u already know they're here why r u worried

Psi:

yeah i bet

because they don't know about me

Void:

THEY WILL

Bro relax it'll be great

Sumire loves ppl

Psi:

don't call me bro

and uh

radi exists too

and you know how much he likes people like me

especially me

Void:

No one says we have to tell him

Psi:

he's going to think dd was playing the long game

and that you were complicit

and he'll probably try to kill you

and me

but sure i like this

Void:

Keyword TRY

And he knows I would never coop with DD

Cmon u can't back out now cousin

Psi:

technically cousin i could

Void:

Dude no Accretions are hard to find

And how will u get back without a chauffeur

Psi:

i can drive

unlike some people

but fine

Void:

I should cancel you

Psi:

can't have air conditioner void caught up in public family drama tho

Void:

DONT CALL ME THAT

But fine. Sure.

Psi:

thanks for sparing me cousin

now go spoil the plot twist to radi and sumire

don't want to give them a heart attack

Void:

Okok fine bye

----------

"Yeah, so uh, it's not just gonna be us here," Void casually brings it up with the two of them over coffee.

"Oh?" Sumire's gaze snaps up eagerly. They're still getting used to being in the same room as their idol on a regular basis. Void doesn't blame him. Who wouldn't be, when it's A.C. Void?

"Oh?" Radi also glances up at him, much less enthused. Ugh. He could try to show a little cheer.

"Mhm. I have another, uh, friend coming. He's a psychic."

"Ooh! What's his name?" Sumire is really eager.

"Psychic."

"Ooh."

"And you didn't tell us this before?" Radi scowls faintly.

"I mean, I think you can handle it," Void can't help sniping back. "He's fine. He doesn't bite. You've gotta relax, man."

“I know, I’m sorry, I just…” Radi gives a little sigh. “You know I’m not very good with new people. I just wish you had let us know sooner so I could feel…more prepared.”

Void raises a brow.

“But I’m sure you know him best, so I’m willing to let it go,” Radi adds hastily.

“Great!” Void claps once, letting the grin overtake his face once more. “Thank you, Radi.”

“How’d you guys meet?” Sumire prods, ignoring his coffee now, all too intrigued by Void’s little info drop. This is why he never tells anyone anything about his social life. Blegh.

“We were…uhm. We were at the same music event thing. A couple years back now, I think.” Truth. Kind of. They might’ve gotten off on a better foot from the beginning if Psi hadn’t been clinging to his beloved Dearests, Void recalls with a bitter smile.

“Oh, he makes music?” If there’s one thing Void would change about Sumire, it’s their habit of getting way too invested in other people’s business. Always the same with fans-turned-friends. Starts out endearing, flattering, among a sea of annoying faceless supporters. Ends up just another one of them.

“I mean...yeah.” Half-truth. Void angles for more of a well duh, fool tone rather than the initial I dunno, I’m just bluffing about his life so you guys don’t panic.

It’s not even a bluff, technically. Psychic can sing. Irritatingly well, in fact, and it’s a miracle Void’s managed to get even that much out of him. He’s still trying to get the guy to spill his big secret; how he beat the little blue brat in a song battle.

“That’s great!” Sumire, clueless as ever, practically jumps for joy. “We’ve all got that in common, so this should be fun!”

“Exactly.” Void smiles. Fun.

He and Psi better not regret this.

----------

Radi probably shouldn’t have let it go so easily.

The front door swings open, a cold breeze sweeping through, as a well-dressed young flamehead nonchalantly lets himself in, to a whoop from Void.

He’s taller than Radi expected. And more purple. If they weren’t so obviously two separate species, Radi might have assumed Psychic and Void were somehow related. Fourth cousins, or something like that.

Although, Radi’s not entirely sure what he had been expecting. Someone more…stereotypical? Someone tiny, lugging around crystals and amulets with the scent of burning incense trailing behind? Someone who’d likely speak in crypts and vague allusions?

Psychic is none of those things. As he greets Void and turns piercing magenta eyes on the two friends-turned-outsiders, Radi can’t help but feel like this man knows him.

He resists the urge to step protectively in front of his friend. It’s a little silly, he knows, Psychic is barely Sumire’s height, but something in his confident stance, the way he surveys Radi with cold, newfound interest, is more intimidating than it should be.

He should have known better, really. A.C. Void is not one to make friends with a stereotype.

Psychic doesn’t extend a hand. Neither does Radi. They just sort of not-glare at each other while Void not-glares at both of them to Get Along Before He Blows Apart This Entire Star System.

Psychic speaks first. “Well, hi. You must be Radi and Sumire.” His voice, low and smooth, echoes throughout Radi’s mind. Not a voice. Telepathy?

“And you’re Psychic, right? It’s great to meet you!” Sumire pipes up before Radi can say anything. Their sunny-side-up attitude is his only source of reassurance right now, that he’s not alone.

Psychic blinks, his shoulders easing. “That’s right. Pleased to meet you as well.” His gaze flicks between the two of them, eyes narrowing as they land on Radi. “Void’s already told me a bit about you two.” He knows how to be civil. He knows how to lie. Okay, Radi notes.

Void, far too self-absorbed to talk about anyone else, now and forever, herds them away from the door and down the hall. "You guys need to help me peer pressure Psi into revealing his big secret."

Big secret? Radi can believe that. Psychic has been watching him too intently for too long now.

"He beat Boyfriend-dot-freakin’-XML in a rap battle." Void makes a face, does a little flourish. Oh. That. "And he's gonna tell us how he did it. Right, Radi?"

You are not dragging me into your weird spat with that kid, Radi wants to retort. The problem was never he beat me in a rap battle. The problem was he wouldn't leave me alone and what if Lofie finds out where I’ve been because of him. He can't trust anyone, after all. Except his baby sister. And she can't be that for him anymore.

Void doesn't get it. As always.

“Right,” Radi presses his lips together. “Psychic, Void mentioned that you make music.”

“Ooh, yeah, right!” Sumire jumps in enthusiastically. “Is that like what you do for a living, or is it just a hobby?”

Psychic stiffens, giving Void a side scowl. Does he not want anyone knowing he sings? That’s a heavy contrast, isn’t it, given Psychic is supposed to be friends with A.C. Void? “Sometimes,” he relents, almost tentatively. “It’s only a hobby, not really something I do very often. My real interests lie elsewhere.” He avoids looking at any of them.

“What else are you into?” Sumire encourages.

"I like to read,” Psychic answers immediately, like it’s a default response. “Classics, mostly. And mysteries. What about you?”

“I don’t read a lot,” Sumire admits, “but I like manga! Usually I just listen to music and hang out with Radi.”

"Mhm.” Psychic glances back at Radi and Void before resuming conversation with them. He seems to be taking kindly to their constant stream of questions. At least Radi’s friend should be okay.

Void flashes a too-blinding grin at him. “I told you he doesn’t bite.”

“Yeah, I got it.” Radi manages a small, conciliatory smile. “You were right.”

Psychic doesn’t seem particularly fazed by the... Voidness of this house. He treats it with a sort of familiarity, like he’s accustomed to the grandeur, the almost arrogance of it all. It makes Radi wonder what background he comes from, how he got so used to being friends with someone like…well…

Void’s nice enough, but there’s a sharpness to him Radi has never entirely been able to shake off. It’s been there since their first song onstage together. A pointed focus not on their friendship, not on his fans, but on something else entirely. Radi still hasn’t figured out what it could be, what drives Void to be so…what he is.

The most prominent thing about Psychic is his stare. Even as he’s talking to Sumire and Void about books and music, every once in a while his intense gaze will snap back to Radi, as if trying to catch him off guard and see into his mind. He’s been regarding him with unnerving confidence, as if he knows something Radi doesn’t and wouldn’t hesitate to use that to his advantage. Radi swallows.

He could never be like Void, like Psychic, with their cool gazes and smug demeanors and the sparks of unearthly power in their eyes.

“So, Psychic, you’re from Earth, right?” Sumire is saying. “I live there too! Which area are you from?”

“I’ve been living in Newgrounds City for most of my life,” Psychic responds casually. He doesn’t confirm whether he’s actually from Earth, Radi notes.

Sumire stops dead. “Really? That’s insane, so have I! How have we not met already?”

“It’s a large area,” Void points out quickly. “And I think he’s in a different part of the city than you guys. It’s, uh, it’s not that surprising, honestly.”

“Obviously,” Psychic mutters. “I don’t actually go out that much either. I’m usually too busy for that.”

“What do you do?” Radi knits his brows. How much can he find out about this man before Psychic catches on?

Psychic and Void exchange an uncomfortable look. They were planning something beforehand, he realizes. But before Radi can say anything, Psychic starts, “There’s this family whose business I help…manage. It’s good pay.” His tone makes it clear that’s all he’s saying.

“And part of that includes beating Boyfriend-dot-freakin’-XML in a song battle?” Radi can’t resist. “Or does that count as a hobby?”

“Radi—” Void and Sumire yelp at the same time.

“No, no, it’s okay.” Amusement gleams in Psychic’s eyes. “Both.”

“Both?”

“Yes.” Psychic doesn’t elaborate.

“Well, do you ever plan to explain how you managed that?” Radi tries. He’s trying. Void can’t say he’s not trying.

"Nope."

“Well.” Radi turns to Void. “I have done all I can do.”

“Oh, come on!” Void bursts out. “You hate him just as much as I do, why aren’t you gonna do this for us?!”

“Because it’s more complicated than that,” Psychic sighs.

“How can it possibly be more complicated—“

“Guys,” Sumire interrupts pleadingly. “That’s enough. You can fight about Boyfriend later. Can’t we talk about something else?”

The way Psychic and Void both glower at him, Radi hopes Sumire hasn’t sealed his own fate.

“...Fine,” Void yields. He turns to Psychic. “But if you keep holding out, I might actually cancel you.”

“Uh-huh.” Psychic scoffs. “‘Course you would, cousin.” Cousin? The absolute can of worms that is this pair’s relationship.

“Come on, already.” Sumire rolls their eyes, dragging Void into the kitchen. “Let’s get a snack! Let’s watch a movie or something! Psychic, do you like Marvel?”

"I hate Marvel.”

Void brightens. “That’s perfect, actually! We can make fun of the bad storylines together! And talk about how much better I could do as a director!”

“Exactly!” Sumire cheers.

"That…actually does sound fun,” Psychic admits. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Radi echoes. Maybe he can gauge Psychic’s true intentions better if they spend more time doing casual stuff like this. Maybe it will be fun and Radi has just been paranoid this whole time. Maybe he’s been reading too deeply into Psychic’s mannerisms, the numbing cold in his eyes every time they meet Radi’s.

Probably not, but it’s a soothing idea to think about. He holds on to it anyway.

----------

[abyssembraced]

Making You the Patron Saint of Something

Patron Saint of Creation

Patron saint of explosions. Patron saint of More. Patron saint of something new entirely. Something unfamiliar, something you can't recognize. Was Frankenstein's monster an abomination or had his like just never been seen before? You're the patron saint of all those new, beautiful things. You're the patron saint of the monsters, too.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Patron Saint of Bones

Patron saint of frameworks. Of structures. Of solidity. Patron saint of things that break. Patron saint of things that are left behind. The bones survive long after the body, the building: what is there left for them, when the rest is gone? What do bones do, with nothing to hold around them? Who holds the bones?

~~~~~~~~~~~

Tagged by: @distrxst (thank you!)

Tagging: Back at it again with tagging Everyone <3 And again, if you have multiple rp blogs, absolutely feel free to do it for one other than the one I tagged!! @bladesfromthedark , @legalbrats , @tazmilyxfamily , @pri-rp , @hopeful-hugz , @quillheel , @musescfmusic , @interdimensional-ship

[fstbmp-a]

Tumblr stop thinking Amy icons are smut challenge.

[stellarhistoria]

list of characters I want to add to my blogs: a bunch of muses that used to have ties to my ex's characters

[thegalacticjustice]

[abyssreign]

i forgot that my giratina’s vc is the outsider

[ameliiorate]

sinus headaches have been keeping me down but i am determined to rise again!! or at least long enough to knock out some drafts. <3

[midnightfiireworks]

tag drop oops.

[the-void-painter]

i cant use my screen reader on your blog due to the zalgo font :(

I'm so sorry! Does it just not read the font, or does it just become a jumble? I don't use a screen reader, so it hadn't occurred to me! I don't know if this helps, but all the corrupted text is also in the tags for those who don't read it well! I do apologize, but since it is part of my gimmick, i will try to help any way i can, but i do wanna continue to use it

[abyssembraced]

Kind of inclined to say that my Ghost is in Steel Soul Mode (outside of crack stuff, at least)

Just because I have no idea how to explain the Magically-Respawning-At-A-Bench-When-You-Die thing in a way that makes logical sense dgdgshf

Jiji and Jinn will both still exist though, depending on which one is relevant to a given thread (assuming either of them ever will be)

[duck-a-doodle]

COD Headcanons: Soft Intimacy

SFW thoughts on what would unravel the COD boys. This is my first post for this fandom, and my entry point to it was the MWII campaign and a few comics, so it might be slightly OOC. In the meantime, I will keep doing research and I hope this brings you joy! :-) -CH

Masterlist 7/14/2024

Simon "Ghost" Riley silently relishes light scratches. The kind that runs slowly, gently down the scalp or round the ears, feathering across his scapula over the thin fabric of his shirt and the underside of his arms. He shudders at getting his spine or ribs traced, head spinning at the idea of fingers so tender taking long, tantalising hours to outline all of himself, the electrifying comfort flickering his heavy eyelids. Heavy as he is, the man is quick to persuade that you rest your weight upon him during such domestic ministrations; he curses, however, at your much more compelling affections, falling prey to the charms of your worship. Slowly, but surely, he leans forth — first dropping his head to your shoulder while languid nails crawl down his cheek, then falling to his hands and soon, his elbows — gliding his head down your collarbone and onto your beating chest, where he recognises that you are most ardently obsessed of him as he is of you. “Obsessed” is much too simple a word  and “reverent”, too large an understatement. His skin is yours, his mind is yours, his breath, his tongue, and every crevice of himself he can count; a gift and homage to your hands, his temple. As he finally sinks all of himself into you with a groan and a sigh, he gingerly lifts his heavy hands, resting them warmly by your sides and over your ribs, in hopes to return all your love with the altogether humble gesture. On days which he stubbornly wishes to do the same for you, he mimics the way you touch him, in every precise manner and every exact order, seeking nooks and crannies that warm your skin or hitch your breath. He will weakly protest, however, moments which your hands reach too close to him outside of these intimate instances, causing light, inadvertent whimpers from the back of his throat.

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Captain John Price likes using his hands for carrying. “Brutish” is an adjective familiar and frequent to his bear paws, trained to caress cold, carbons steel and paint itself in red, smelling only of matches and rust.  The warmest things his hands have known are the arms and backs of his fallen men and the barrel of his heartless iron, the touch of it comparable to a Londoner’s December. You, in place of the metal, you, strong yet brittle and you, lighter to him than a C4, grenade or flashbang, are his respite, reprising over the smoke of his numerous deployments, where his hands took more than they gave. He cannot help the pliant hips and waist that fit his palms seamlessly, more harmless than the many miry grounds he trekked before — a kind, relenting texture which spoil his weathered, calloused digits with the knowledge that they are utterly malleable to you, benign to you, void of all menace. Coarse fingers drag and curl your silhouette as your mass rests weightlessly on his arms and shoulders, yielding to his calculated strength. That he can evoke a laugh or an exclamation of surprise is a source of endless pride; a gentle nudge that the Captain John Price can tickle fancy by exercising a fraction of his brawn on something worldly. He could lift your groceries, the couch, your books — but  he likes to sweep off your feet the most. Trailing your thighs, calves, the small of your back are the hands that seek reminder of his humanity, tendons and phalanges flexing with every curve it meets, venerating eyes never leaving yours which watch his display of muscle with great wonder. For you, he would carry the world. Thus, in his words, “my back is strong enough to carry both our weights for a lifetime, if you’d let me.”

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John "Soap" McTavish has developed a habit of pawing. The abundance (if not exclusive presence) of tough military equipment, smoking alloys and dogged combat routines necessitated his use of hard, impenetrable gloves. Its rugged, protective textile has unwittingly sensitised his hands to various surfaces, including bare skin. He hesitated to touch you, timorous from his own want, curiosity and the unknown. Gone are his inhibitions when graced with your guiding hands, easing the earth-riddled cowhide off his palms. Aimless hands follow your lead, pressing into you over his Henley you borrowed. Finding purchase upon your stomach, he gradually grows accustomed to the fondness of your abdomen, shortly braving his way to your chest with sturdy yet clumsy paws. A current crackles down his body as he toys with the ripples of fabric adorned by your skin, indulgence rapidly surging from his fingers to his giddy head — he is soon to be all over you, his newfound contentment switching into overdrive. Respiration turning laboured, those once shy hands grow ravenous and wayward, roaming under the influence of his enthusiasm; every sharp inhale and strained noise he extorts from you only serves to encourage him further, inciting cheeky gropes at your sides, inner thighs and behind. What would eventually drive his mind over the edge, when you finally decide he is too much, is your folding a very surprised McTavish down onto the couch over you, keeping his head to your tummy and his hands tucked to your sides, imploring him to behave himself. Chiding him to act proper was an error on your behalf; his demeanour shifts, mischief clear in his eyes as he unabashedly explores all of you, pawing at you with every naughty intent fathomable.

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Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is crazy about being sat on. By no means a foolhardy nor gormless soldier, he holds himself to high decorum with immense discipline, ever an air of diplomacy about his person. None would have imagined that a simple act as sitting on his lap would send him reeling, rendered silent for fear of speaking with neither form nor cohesion. He turns light-headed watching your thighs pool like molten lava, quads sweltering from mere contact, let alone the pleasurable tension of your weight balancing precariously off his trembling knees. Worried that his legs would tire, you made to rise, wanting to relieve him of your own gravity but you were firmly held in place; two large, veined hands anchor you resolutely onto unmoving thighs, and any attempts of persuasion, made in the interest of his own comfort, faced flat rebuffal. Gratitude towards Lady Luck nearly spills from his lips, numb with inadvertence, as you nestle your heft upon him, for want of better comfort. You mistaking his lap for an empty stool was akin to setting his legs on fire, but to make yourself comfortable against him? For a man who prided himself for his class and propriety, he quickly found himself immensely burdened with sin, and subtlety became a language long forgotten. Had he any sense left in him that was not knocked out of the ballpark by your charming self, he would not be finding himself gently playing with the hem of your shirt, folding funny shapes with the fabric between his clammy fingers. Savoury dreams of you enticed him, swimming behind his glossy eyes that are unresponsive to the lights that danced across his features. Oh, you were so much trouble to him, colouring him brazen and so very warm. He loves it, however, and you will soon find what a fiend and a devil you can be when you later use this against the soldier's poor heart.

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Alejandro Vargas will die for your scent. Tantamount to a hound, no vaquero could catch the winds of change for miles around the way he could. The smell of burning tyres against the asphalt of the streets, the oils and perfumes of the same shop houses, the settling dust of his own base, and the routine spritz of air freshener that now smelled of lemon instead of mint ever since the new hire came on duty. Where Alejandro worked, the bittersweetness of gunpowder that sweeps his olfactory is his peace, and the constant heatwave that boils a Proust phenomenon out of the hanger persists in the back of his senses, subtle yet certain. No delicate change challenged his sharpness. He has a full bible to list it all, memorised from the front to back — and though he may not be religious, he is a madly devoted man. A hypervigilance that cannot be removed must find a reprieve, and only a single odour, long seared into his mind, pulls at him not first from the mind but from the heart. You, who smelled of his blankets, you, whose shampoo and T-shirt he recognised not from the brand but from its lingering aroma, and you, who could never surprise him with your presence because the scent of you would enter the room before his name falls from your lips, and before his eyes could reach yours. You remain the only person who turned his head with such impassioned and obsessed vigour, and he knew he was done for ever since. He would press his nose deep into your cheek, your neck, or the back of your nape and find himself at home as he stood in a room full of coldhearted artillery. No proper explanation was ever given when you find a shirt or two missing over the months of his deployment, but secretly, you had always known. And like the cheek you are to his mischief, you bask in the darker colour of his cheeks when you find that mysterious missing shirt hidden in the pile of laundry from his deployment.

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Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra likes soft whispers. Such light, airy and vertiginous words that kiss the shell of his ears — they would rob the man of his joints. Everyday exchanges of each other’s day ground him and ruin him, discernible only by both your ears. While he lends his body to the field, bloody and savage, in his heart there stands a single white flag signed in your name, by his hand; in a head overrun with sounds of distorted infrared voices, caterpillar tracks crushing against gravel and of heartless iron shells dropping at two hundred rounds per minute, your quiet words remain. A man of few words must have so much thought that weighs on his tongue, until it becomes too heavy to express. Surely, you must be a godsend. The way you effortlessly loosen the words from his hardened teeth, clenched too tightly still lest a bullet comes to bite, pulls shivers from his lips and down his watery lashes. Something about your bottom lip renders him helpless, and he finds that he must rest his thumb on your lower lip to lessen the giddiness that threatens to beat his heart out of his flaming chest. Permanently latched onto the rich timber of your voice was a man desperate to preserve you, so much that he keeps all your voicemails to him and labels them by the topic, just so he can find exactly when he needs to hear, when he needs to hear it. Moments of quietude in his bunk led one thought to the next, and he often ended the day with your voice embracing the deepest parts of his soul through an old, wired earpiece, wondering if you knew what gravity you had upon him. Perhaps you do know, he believed decidedly — because when he played a new recording you sent him during his deployment, his fingers violently mashed the volume-down button of his device at your rather unique choice of words, spoken at a careless whisper. You knew he had listened to it, as the first thing he did when he returned was to hold you in your place, and return all the salacious whispers he received right back to the bane of his heart. Ten-fold.

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König has an obsession with trapping. Hugs come rare to a man of his nature; imposing, wild and unacclimated to the civilised world. When arms do find their way around him, his own snakes around them, encircling the sensation, holding it close and praying that it seeps into his skin, permeating his senses to remain seared in his remembrance. Yet, more than once, he finds the same arms, over and over, routine the way the birds must sing and the poets must write. Always your arms, by his initiative. Greed will be his downfall and he knows, and he gladly embraces his defeat, relenting to your winsome self without remorse. Never would he deem himself a small man, albeit despite the notion, he shrinks; younger and younger he becomes with you, compressed to his front as much as your skins would let, as much as his strength allows without colouring your flesh a bluish-purple, until he is but a boy cradling his most dear Bärchen, unwilling to let go. He watches with blooming gratification, the exhale that falls from your lips as you press together, eyes drooping from the pleasant pressure that grounds you to earth, all because it is he who holds you. He drinks the sight and lets the view inebriate his already intoxicated mind. On the occasion when he becomes the bear-trapped, he will amuse himself with your too-small arms that fail to close around him, and will quickly turn the tables, subjecting you to his drunken coos with an onslaught of “mein Schatz”es, “Schnuckiputzi”s and “liebling”s. Greed will be his downfall, but you must be his renaissance.

P.S.: Can you tell that I read Pride & Prejudice before writing the TF141's and König's parts? I can. :'-)