#he can be doing the most innocuous thing but as long as he's wearing that white suit he's not safe

[only-lonely-www]

⚔️

[moonstruckme]

Hey love!

Was wondering if you could write a poly!maurader x fem!reader fic where (boys being boys) they had a bet who could go longer without sex and about a week reader decided to tease them a lil bit where she would flirt or like bend over to pick up smtg.

Thanks for requesting lovely!

cw: mature themes

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

It’s so boy of them to discount you like this. Like, the bet had been funny at first, each of your boyfriends doing whatever they could to put the others in hot and heavy situations with you and each other, but after you and Sirius had gotten locked in a closet for the better part of an afternoon, they’d decided to take things down a notch. And as far as you’re concerned, that was when the fun part came to an end. 

The thing is, they’re guys. While they’re having their little stint of celibacy, they can at least still get themselves off. Multiple times a day, if they feel like it. It’s not that easy for you. So for you to not even have been involved in the bet, and yet be the one feeling its consequences most acutely…well, it’s beginning to grate on your nerves.

So you decide to make it fun again. 

“Oh, shit.” You say, getting James’ attention from where he’s going through the closet, trying to find a pair of pants to wear. “I dropped my wand under the bed.” 

He moves towards you. “I’ll get it for you, lovie.” 

“No, no, that’s alright.” You say, getting down on your hands and knees. “I’ve got it.” 

James falls silent as you arch your back under the pretense of reaching under the bed, letting your short skirt slip up to show the pretty, barely-there panties you’d picked out this morning. You linger for a bit longer than necessary, letting James take in the view from where he stands across from the bed. 

“Got it.” You emerge with the wand, sitting back on your legs and turning to James with a smile. 

His mouth is slightly open. He blinks, eyes dazed and pupils blown behind his lenses. “That’s, uh…” He blinks a few more times, faster. “That’s great, sweetheart. Glad you found it.” 

♡ ♡ ♡

“Gods.” Sirius nearly chokes when he sees you in the kitchen. “You’re looking nice today, angel.” 

You almost roll your eyes. You’re only wearing a tank top and underwear, but apparently that’s all it takes when your boyfriend’s been so long without any of you. Instead, you plaster on a coy smile.

“Thanks,” you say, as though you hadn’t noticed. “You look nice, too.” 

Sirius is making eyes at you as he leans his elbows on the counter. Like you’re the one who needs to worry. “Whatcha making, sweet thing?”

“Chocolate mousse. I’m just working on melting the chocolate right now.” You dip your forefinger into the warm, gooey liquid, bringing it to your mouth and sucking the chocolate off. You keep your eyes on Sirius’, so you can see the exact moment when his darken. “Mmm, want to try?” 

Sirius swallows. “Huh?”

You don’t bother looking innocuous, letting your eyes go droopy and suggestive in the way you know how. “I said, do you want some?” 

He’s silent for so long you think he might ask you to repeat yourself again, but then he clears his throat and stammers, “Uh, no—no thanks, doll. I’m good.” 

You pout. “It’s really good, though. Here, have a taste.” You cross the few steps between you and kiss him. 

Sirius takes a second to kiss you back, but when he does it’s so wanting that you don’t even have to be sneaky about winding one of your hands into his hair while using the other to bring his to your ass. He squeezes, and you moan into his mouth, grinding your hips into his just slightly. 

Sirius gasps, breaking away. He takes one step back, then another, putting distance between you as he tries to blink the glaze from his eyes. “Minx,” he whispers accusingly, and flees the kitchen. 

♡ ♡ ♡

“Thanks, baby.” You bat your eyelashes up at Remus as he brings you a glass of water from the kitchen. 

He lets out a low chuckle. “I know what you’re doing.” 

“No idea what you’re talking about,” you hum. 

Remus gives you a deadpan look, but there’s a glint of amusement in his amber eyes. “Earlier this morning, I went into our bedroom to find James, pantsless, with a hard-on.” It takes every ounce of control you have not to grin, but Remus quirks a brow like you have anyway. “And then a little while ago, Sirius came running out of the kitchen like something was chasing him, and he could barely speak. You didn’t have anything to do with that, dovey?” 

You let your eyes go wide and innocent as you shake your head. “Maybe they’re just getting sick of your competition.” 

“Mm, unlikely,” Remus hums, and his surety of his own willpower only worsens your determination to make him falter. “But if that’s the story you want to stick with, that’s fine.” 

You frown at him, the glass of water slippery with condensation in your palm. “Well, I—oh, damn!” you tip the glass of water into Remus’ lap, soaking his pants. He freezes, gasping at the cold. “I’m so sorry, honey. Here, let me help.” Luckily for you, you’d (completely coincidentally, of course) left a tea towel nearby earlier. You take it, blotting at Remus’ crotch with touches that start urgent but become lingering as you go on. After a minute, there’s really nothing left to sop up, and Remus hands are laid flat on the couch, every inch of him tense as you dab at his bulge with slow, tantalizing touches. 

When he speaks, his voice is low, gravelly. “You’re a lot more conniving than we give you credit for, you know that?”

You let your lips curl into a smile, leaving your hand to rest on his crotch. “I know.” 

Remus tips his head back, letting his eyes slip closed as he takes a slow, deep breath. “Fuck it.” 

You blink. “Huh?”

In the next second, Remus is gripping your hips and hoisting you up against him, your chest pressed to his. You inhale sharply as he stands, wrapping your legs around his waist, and he’s kissing at your throat, master of multitasking while he carries you into the bedroom. 

He nips at your jaw, and you giggle deliriously. “I won?” you ask, hardly believing it. Of all your boyfriends, you thought Remus had the least chance of breaking down before the others. 

His chuckle reverberates through you, and warmth flares in your core in response. “Sure you did, sweetheart. Though I think by the time we’re done here, who exactly won will be a bit more debatable.”

[evita-shelby]

They didn't know we were seeds

Chapter 11

Cw: nightmares, mentions of torture and mutilation

Taglist @emotionalcadaver @justrainandcoffee @peakyswritings @call-sign-shark

Lucy Winters belongs to @emotionalcadaver

He’s not had a good sleep since they talked.

If it's not him back in the arena with Juno and the girl from 5 trying to kill him, he’s watching Gina die in the rubble of a city or worse, being tortured to break him.

They’re all bad. He sees Eva be shot and pulled away by a cable from his arms as he reaches her farm. He sees her be tortured and having her tongue removed for her treason.

Those where he sees the people he loves be tortured are the worst.

Last night, he dreamt he’d gone to the farm and found his family all without tongues. He hadn’t known until he’d greeted Eva with a kiss and found her missing her tongue, as if she’d never had one. No one behaved out of the ordinary. They were just silent, using signs to communicate, and he was unable to understand them.

There’d been a baby crying soundlessly in Gina’s arms, an L for Laurie stitched in a yellow blanket and when Jack had picked up his imagined son, he’d found that they had all been made Avoxes.

It had been so unsettling that the victor had spent half an hour trying to get the images of it out of his head. He thinks the baby in the dream may have been caused by the dread he felt when Cecelia mentioned her baby back home and asked him how old Gina was.

It was barely dusk when he picked up the phone and dialed a number he’s known for a year, but only pretended to find out a month ago. The games had lasted nearly fifteen days this time, and while he’d been busy with his tributes, knowing they’d be mincemeat for Braun, he had avoided her in private.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” She sounds drowsy and yet alert enough to tell him she hadn’t been sleeping for as long as he had either. He doesn’t tell her about the nightmare. He didn’t want to burden her with it nor risk getting caught with information no one in 2 is supposed to know.

“I miss you.” There are few things he can say through a phone call, a few things he can freely say without arising suspicion from those spying on them. Beette had assumed he’d agreed to join them and confided that he was working on something that would allow them to communicate without interference.

Wiress, in her strange, odd way, had given him a stud earring that matched the pair she gave to Eva. Her husband had then explained what it did.

Jack never agreed to be a rebel, and yet most of them assumed he had. Oh, if the rest were like Nuts and Bolts they were fucked.

“Me too, felt so lonely back there. For a while, I thought we were over.” Eva admits her biggest fear.

“No, never.” Jack hides his fears of what could happen and instead tries his best to have the most innocuous talk with his girlfriend while setting a date for their secret weekend together.

When he gets to the farm, he makes sure Eva still has her tongue and that there is no chance in hell that she could get pregnant.

Their first anniversary is celebrated late, but to make up for it, he stays an entire week with her. The weather had been shit closing the farm and making the trek back dangerous for him, and neither had been happier to hear reports of bad weather that Friday.

He’d brought wine, chocolate, and with a cheeky grin presented a gift: skimpy lingerie he wanted her to wear for him.

They’re lying in bed together, naked as the day they were born and enjoying the thunder outside when he tells her of what the Peacekeepers do to traitors.

Eva’s gift felt too extravagant compared to his, while she had more wealth than she could imagine, things were still hard to come by even in the main city. She paid through the nose for a cowhide leather jacket lined with fine wool that matched a pair of boots he had been given by his mom on his last birthday.

“Have a recurring nightmare where they make you an Avox, not just you but a kid we have in the dream. Its not as horrific as the ones where they torture you and Gina and my folks, but somehow its just as bad.” He tries not to look at her as he speaks, as if he might see it come true the moment he looks at her. plays with her hair as he tries to push it out of his mind, and when that fails, she kisses him with a whole lot of tongue to remind him it isn’t real.

“That won’t happen. Whatever children we have won’t fear an arena nor losing their tongue. I feel it in my bones, Jack.”

Jack won’t come around until it’s personal for him, until he has no other choice but to join them. They can’t afford to wait until the 72rd game for him to see reason. There’s still four years to Gina’s 12th birthday.

What if the rebellion happens before then and he is stuck on the wrong side?

“Did you know Cece got removed from the roster because they don’t like how pregnancy changed her body?” Eva brings up after he helps her erase any trace of the man she was sold to for the evening in her shower.

Jack’s jealousy was adorable, hated when other people demanded her so much so that he’d fuck the memory of those encounters out of her head after she told her it . Likes leaving marks where only he and the clients can see it, as if too show them she doesn’t belong to them.

“Is this your way of saying you want a baby? I was hoping to be romanced into it, babe.” Jack jokes as if this will pass. Babies were serious things. Can’t return them when they come, and you can’t save them once they turn 12.

“I want you to make me fat and ugly so no one else can fuck me except you.” It’s not the best reason in the world, but it gives her a damn good reason for wanting to take the risk. She only has this month to try, they can’t afford to get pregnant before or after the games.

Game 68 wouldn’t last long. Most children had died in the first four days, but the careers had yet to find the boy from 6 while they succumbed to the new arena events made this year.

“I’m going to tell Cece you called her fat and ugly.” The career tries to change the topic, but still lets his hands wander on her wet and naked form. They were ravenous for each other, and both struggled to keep their hands off each other to pay attention to anything beyond them.

“We’ll only have to give it a try this month. If it doesn’t work, I won’t bring it up again.” She compromises knowing he’ll forget when she brings it up next year if it doesn’t take. “I want a baby, Jack. I want them to know I belong to you and only you, love.”

A month after the 69th Games, Eva finds their herself pregnant. The joy they should feel is completely smothered with terror.

“What if it fails?” Jack asks her quietly as they feel the baby kick on their second anniversary.

“It won’t, Laurie won’t ever be reaped. He will never suffer like we do.” Now she begins to comprehend why Cecelia is so hopeful because the reality is too horrible to even consider.

Laurie Smith is born in April, his paternity a mystery to everyone except those who won’t reveal their secret. He doesn’t meet his father until late May, once the coast is clear for his monthly visits.

It's the first week of June when Lucy Winters’ prediction comes true.

“I’m not gonna have a choice about this, aren’t I?” Jack is so distraught by what April brought about at home that he agrees to join them. Not just him, his mother too.

Some volunteer as young as twelve thanks to Finnick’s win years ago, and to ensure they have a fighting chance, training begins at eight years old for those who’s parents allow it. Carrie, her young mother, had been thrilled at the idea of Gina becoming a victor like her uncle that Gina had started her training last year.

His mother had been horrified at how excited Gina was at dinner that Lyme had no trouble recruiting them the next morning. Laurie’s birth had both Nelsons agreeing that the two children would be spared the arena at any cost.

“Bring your mother with you next time you visit, she should meet her grandson, Gina too, maybe we can wean her off the idea of the games.” Eva comforts him when his nightmares of the arena feature eight year old Gina fighting for her life while they watch from the mentor’s room.

“After the games, I need to convince her first.” He pressed a soft kiss on Laurie’s little head and kissed her goodbye. “See you in July.”

[mister-eames]

Hi hi hi can we please discuss in more detail how eames and Arthur’s love for one another might manifest in their dreams, especially during the PINING YEARS since their dreams are possible their only outlet for this love!! Because when they’re awake, in the real world they have to repress it, seal it away, pretend it’s not a big deal... ahhh! Going insane over this thought! The power of the subconscious!!

Yes!! I keep thinking how pieces of people must show up in dreams, how our subconscious simply can't help but bleed into dreamscapes - even in the most detailed build, even with the most experienced dreamer. It's your brain being used for the foundation, there must be some cross-over! And if it's a powerful emotion like love or hate or grief, well we've seen it in the latter, so why not the rest?

They both take forever to notice it. And even then Arthur, who notices it first, doesn't even see it until Cobb points it out. They're doing a test run in Arthurs dream - and the menu at the restaurant they're not even supposed to stop at has items with titles of AC/DC songs.

While Cobb is astute enough to know that and assumes Arthur has an earworm, what he doesn't know is that on Arthur knows that Eames listens to the band when he works out and taps his fingers to the rhythm of thunderstruck and you shook me all night long when he's restless.

After that Arthur can't unsee the things he's picked up from Eames in his dreams. At first he tries to convince himself that of course Eames is just that annoying he infests Arthurs subconscious. A literal parasite.

But then some of his projections have crooked teeth, and he starts seeing more and more of Eames' forges as projections - and the projections that aren't echoes are forges are wearing Eames' watch, or the trucker cap Eames' wears when they're not on the job and he's back at home, recuperating from not being himself. There are little pockets in his dreamscape that are from stories he has heard Eames tell when he was eavesdropping, like the antique store his mum used to temp at during his primary school years. The playground where he got into his first fight. They look innocuous to anyone else but Arthur knows they're from his own imaginings and daydreams. Parasite, he reminds himself.

Every time he wakes up a little more perturbed, afraid of the magnitude of his own feelings. Maybe if he can pretend to loathe Eames in the real world his brain (and body) will get the memo.

One day they go into Cobbs dream and he notices a pair of feminine, cat-eye sunglasses folded and hooked into Cobbs dress-shirt. He points it out and Cobb mumbles something about Mal and Arthur stops listening. His first thought is: I don't want to know.

Then he remembers all of the little details he'd flat out ignored his own dreams. How his subconscious seemed to lovingly envelope itself around such tiny details.

His second thought is: Oh no. I'm fucked.

[desertfangs]

Marius and Louis for the character ask

Send me a character and I will do the thing (although I've already done most of the main ones and Armand is on deck)

Louis: 

Sexuality Headcanon: I think Louis is pretty asexual tbh. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t participate in sexual or romantic activities but I think while Louis likes intimacy, his brand is more skewed toward cuddling under a blanket together reading a book or watching a movie. 

Gender Headcanon: Oversized dusty sweaters are Louis’ gender. Also he identifies as tired. 

A ship I have with said character: Louis/Lestat of course! Louis, regrettably, realizes that Lestat is his person. I also think his relationship with Armand is complex and fascinating. 

A BROTP I have with said character: I can’t put Daniel for every one of these (but I think after some awkwardness on Night Island and again in TG, they are friends!) so uh… maybe Antoine. Honestly they’d have a hell of a lot to talk about if nothing else. 

A NOTP I have with said character: Again, I just don’t have a lot of these. Maybe Gabrielle? Although I hope they kissed under the mistletoe one year at the Coven Christmas party just to watch Lestat squirm. 

A random headcanon: I think Louis enjoys folding laundry. For all his sitting around in dusty old clothes, I think he finds the process of folding–especially warm stuff right out of the dryer–soothing. I imagine TG sends their laundry out but also has a pretty sizable laundry room for when it’s needed and I can see Louis doing a load of towels or blankets and then sitting on the sofa and folding them neatly. 

General Opinion over said character: Louis was my first guy in this fandom. I guess you call it a blorbo now. I’ve always appreciated his cynicism and his love of reading, his desire to learn more about his kind. The reunion scene in TVL is one of my faves, as are Louis’ scenes with Lestat in TotBT.

Marius:

Sexuality Headcanon: We wants to be dommed and would rather die than admit it

Gender Headcanon: @uncivilcivilservice said his gender was Roman and yeah, I’m gonna second that

A ship I have with said character: Marius/Pandora is fun. I like him with someone who can stomp on his dick.

And whether you see Daniel and Marius as platonic or romantic, I do really like them together. I think Daniel’s sense of humor and directness are refreshing for Marius, and Daniel gets him to try new things. Marius is a grounding force in Daniel’s life and a constant, even-keel source of love and affection. I also think Daniel could be a great mediator between him and Armand and/or Lestat and maybe that’s why Mr. Molloy is not in the last book. 

A BROTP I have with said character: IDK man… Marius is the person who desperately needs a bro but is awkward and stoic and refuses to ask for help or admit he wants to hang out and thus is often alone (relatable AF tbh). 

A NOTP I have with said character: I don’t really have one. I don’t know, to me a NOTP is a strong aversion bordering on squick, and I just don’t have a lot of that in this fandom. 

A random headcanon: I think sometimes he Facetimes Daniel from Court when he’s not there to ask his opinion about innocuous things like which tie he should wear or what color they should paint a wall, not because he needs another opinion but because he likes to hear Daniel’s take on random stuff and hear what Daniel is up to, and it often leads to long, tangential conversations about the most random stuff.  General Opinion over said character: Marius is great! I don’t know why he gets so much flack in fandom (I mean, I do, but 😑😑). He is absolutely that guy who tries to hold things together and seems like he’s got it all figured out until you get to know him and then you realize he’s kind of a dork and doesn’t know any more than anyone else. He’s just doing his best!

[1800titz]

I can't wait for the alphabet thingy for devil boy.

-🍭

I am still working on this, but here is a snippet!

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Harry’s favorite body part, on himself, would be a toss up between his hands and his arms. His hands are self explanatory — loads of amazing things those can do. His fingers are lengthy, and Isla’s lush lips wrap over his knuckles so well when he stuffs his digits into her strawberry mouth. They stretch her cunt out, slipping in to the hilt and drawing pretty noises when he sucks over her clit, they look particularly exquisite when her ass swallows a couple of them — he could go on, and on. His palms leave ruddy bruises over her skin when he smacks her backside, and when he’s wearing his rings, the addition is like an elegant carcanet squeezing over her flesh as his palm slips to press over her throat. It’s extraordinary. But the most prominent reason for his high ranking of the body part (simultaneously the most wholesome — stop judging him, he’s a lovesick idiot, he’s aware) has to do with the way her hand fits into his own. She can wrap her palm around his index, and there’s still a smidge that peeks out from her curled fist, and that’s kind of awesome. Pretty adorable. 

The arms are an easy go-to, sheerly because his hands stem from them, and — well, no appreciation for his hands could be had if not for the arms, right? No, but really, he likes the way Isla digs her short nails into his tri’s when her palms wrap over his arms, little crescents retaining as imprints when his hips pummel. He likes when Isla bites into his shoulder, too, but that’s teeming into more of a shoulder territory than an arm territory. He likes the way Isla admires them as they flex with muscle, and she does — quite a bit, he’s very well aware of that. And there’s loads of cool ink adorning his skin, there. Lots of stories, lots of history, lots of personality. What’s not to enjoy?

When it comes to his favorite body part on Isla, the choice is easy. He loves her tits, he loves her thighs and her backside because those are great for marks (we’ll get into that), he loves her hands because they fit so well into his own, and he loves that tiny little expanse of skin just above the crease between her pelvis and her thigh, because that part’s just for him — can’t even see it in one of her bikinis. But his absolute favorite body part of Isla’s has to be her face. It’s an answer that sounds nearly too innocuous and cliché to be true, but it makes sense, all things considered. He’d spent so much time staring upon lace (it’s like a cardinal sin, truly, Harry’s deemed, that she’d shielded her pretty face from him for so long), that once it’s all just in the open, he can’t get over it. That’s his favorite. Easily.

[dwarrowdelf]

moonlight and starlight (chapter two)

Rating: M | No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Elrond/Gil-galad, Elrond & Gil-galad, Elrond/Celebrían Word count: 1.3k

Read here on AO3, or under the read more break. Kindly pretend that I am not horrifically late on this submission for @silmsmutweek day 4.

Content warnings for scattered mentions of things like Gil-galad’s death and Celebrían’s scars, but they are not the focus of the fic.

Elrond has been in Tirion for far too long for his tastes, settling some dispute between the Sindar and Noldor caused entirely by Oropher being difficult on purpose. The old bastard sees Noldorin politics as stuffy nonsense — which is true, in fairness — and seems to find most of his amusement on these shores in making things difficult for Finarfin, whom he tolerates only because he is Galadriel’s father. Or, more precisely, because he is Celeborn’s father-in-law. Elrond has the distinct political advantage of being inoffensive to nearly everyone, and the distinct disadvantage of being Galadriel’s son-in-law and thus unable to retire peacefully into obscurity in his home in the eastern foothills of the Pelóri.

Celebrían and Gil-galad’s letters are the only things that have kept him sane, except when they decide to include things that make him lose his grip on sanity for entirely different reasons.

I know Celebrían has mentioned to you the silver phallus she commissioned from that particularly adventurous smith in Alqualondë. Well, it finally arrived last week, and since you were not here for her to try it on, she graciously allowed me the first use. It did not compare to the feeling of you inside me, but then, nothing does. Still, I rather enjoyed myself, and I daresay you will enjoy yourself as well when you finally return to us. Please find enclosed Celebrían’s sketch of the experiment to tide you over until then.

Elrond is immensely glad that he waits for the privacy of his own rooms to open these letters. The last page of the letter is, indeed, a sketch of Gil-galad. He is entirely naked, presumably propped up against the headboard of a bed with his head thrown back in pleasure and his legs spread on display. One of his hands is wrapped around his own cock, the other in the process of either pulling out or pushing in a phallic object halfway hidden in his ass.

You are going to be the death of me, Elrond writes back after he’s taken himself in hand and cleaned himself up again. I’ll be home within the month, whether or not Oropher has gotten over himself. Do try to be patient.

No promises, Celebrían writes back by pigeon rather than the less direct courier. You’ve left your poor wife so bereft that she’s resorted to watching her husband’s lover. Hurry back so I can fuck you properly.

Well. Who is Elrond to deny his lady wife a direct request?

——

The silver phallus and its harness are sitting innocuously on the bed when Elrond goes to drop his bags in the main bedroom.

“Darling,” he says, and nothing else.

“Yes?” Celebrían asks innocently, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. She has to stand on her tiptoes to rest her chin on his shoulder, but she does it anyway, and presses a kiss to his jaw for good measure. “Gil-galad is drawing you a bath. Go wash the road off yourself, I can wait a little longer.”

That sounds like just what he needs. He turns his head to press a kiss to her temple, and then turns fully to kiss her on the lips. “I love you,” he says.

“And I love you,” she returns, and then steps back and swats at him lightly. “Now go on before your water gets cold.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughs, and retreats.

Gil-galad is indeed in the bathroom, wearing an old sleeveless tunic and worn trousers with stubborn grass stains on the knees, a sure sign that he was helping Celebrían in the garden earlier. He grins when he sees Elrond, and again Elrond is struck by how much freer his friend is with his happiness here away from the weight of the crown. Gil-galad meets him and presses their foreheads together for a long moment, and Elrond only realizes that Gil’s fingers are working at the buttons of his overcoat when it starts to slip down his shoulders.

He laughs. “Are you going to bathe me too, or just undress me?”

“That was the plan,” Gil says, moving on to his shirt. Elrond sighs and surrenders himself into his friend’s care.

He groans as he sinks into the perfectly hot water, and groans again when Gil’s hands start to comb out his simple travel braid. For all that Gil-galad is not much of a hugger, nor sometimes much of one for kissing outside of sex, he is still tactile, at least with Elrond. It is with tender hands that he combs and washes Elrond’s hair, and then starts to wash his body. Elrond has done the same for him many times, though at the end it was usually a solemn affair, washing away the stress of war councils or the mud and blood of battle. He hadn’t gotten to wash and prepare his king’s body for burial, much of his hair burnt away and much of his armor melted to his skin. Gil-galad had been entombed there on the plains of Gorgoroth as he was, along with what remained of Aeglos; they were too far from Lindon to bury the High King at home. Elrond doesn’t know what happened to the tomb when Sauron took up residency in Mordor once more. He can only hope the bones and metal were tossed aside rather than desecrated.

“Where have you gone, my friend?” Gil asks gently, always seeming to know when his herald’s mind wanders to places best left to memory.

“Nowhere good,” Elrond murmurs, eyes closed. “Bring me back.”

And he does. Gil-galad’s singing voice is nothing special, though it is pleasant and more than dear to Elrond all the same, and he lets the wordless tune of an old Balar ballad wash over him, feels his lips twitch into a smirking smile when his friend’s steady hands turn wandering and teasing. Soon enough he is moaning, squirming trying to get Gil’s hands where he wants them. Gil-galad just laughs, bites gently at his shoulder as his fingers graze one of Elrond’s nipples.

“Celebrían wants to watch me get you ready for her,” he says in Elrond’s ear, voice low and warm. “If you think you are clean enough…?”

“I have been clean, you dreadful tease,” Elrond protests, and Gil laughs again. He helps Elrond out of the bath and then insists upon drying him off, which apparently requires further teasing and a pointed groping of Elrond’s ass to make him yelp.

“Are you boys starting without me?” Celebrían calls from the bedroom.

“No!” Elrond and Gil-galad call back in unison, and glance at each other for barely a second before they start snickering.

“Best not keep your lady waiting,” Gil says when they’ve calmed, ushering him forward with a pat on the ass.

Elrond’s cock twitches despite himself. Gil-galad just grins at him.

Celebrían is lounging on the bed, on her stomach in nothing but a dressing gown. She sits up when they enter, the unsecured dressing gown ending up more like a cape with sleeves for all it covers her. Elrond goes to her easily, hands sliding up her thighs before resting on the bed on either side of her hips as he nuzzles along the curve of her neck. She giggles, ticklish. “Hi, love.”

“Hi, beautiful,” he returns. There are few places that she likes to be touched these days, and while she’ll proudly display her scarred back with scandalously-hemmed gowns at formal events, at home she dislikes the reminder. Hence the dressing gown, seashell pink silk that Elrond thinks looks lovely against her soft skin and moon-silver hair.

Celebrían ducks down to catch his mouth in a slow, sweet kiss that makes him melt. Eventually she pulls back and says, “On the bed, sweetheart. Gil has work to do.”

[galaxyofhair]

Assassin's Creed's Protagonist Look Issue

Assassin's Creed has this real bad case of "Protagonist Look" where the player character is always the most detailed and overdesigned model in the game. It almost always comes to this point where the protag is so decked out in weaponry and custom made clothing that they stand out waaaaay more than an assassin who "hides in plain sight" should.

I get that the player character should feel special and unique, because it feels good to play and unique and interesting character, but I do wish I could go back and play a version of each game that was more dedicated to preserving the anonymity of the character: Like what if Altair genuinely only had the big knight and the hidden blade because that's all he could conceal before it got suspicious? What if Ezio had to actually look like an Italian noble and not an Italian Jedi?

Kenway gets a pass, he's a pirate and can do whatever the fuck he wants lmao.

Mods have given us the ability to experience some of that for AC Valhalla---Getting to use some of the same clothes that everyone else is wearing goes a long way to cleaning up and simplifying Eivor's visual language, and honestly some of the most fire outfits are on the NPCs anyways.

But I also wish I could rip the big bulky, and incredibly obvious hidden blades off of the characters in Syndicate, or take Ezio's plate armor from Brotherhood and toss it in the garbage (not that it's unrealistic, just very conspicuous)---and actually push those characters to look more innocuous in the incredibly repressive societies they live in.

Some of it is that Ubisoft went too hard in trying to preserve the hidden blade as an iconic and oddly necessary part of the assassin arsenal, even for characters who are allowed to be openly armed. Like, Conner and Edward Kenway didn't need hidden blades, they had guns strapped to their chests and sabers on their sides.

Bayak having a hidden blade was cool in so far as they got to explain the missing ring finger thing. At the same time though, that particular hidden blade really makes the game feel prequelly, and I kinda wish they hadn't explained the hidden blade, and just given Bayak a dagger---the same argument for why Han Solo didn't need to get the ship, the companion, and the iconic gun all in one film in Solo.

Idk, going back to the original point: A lot of the assassins in the series are just way overdesigned, and the joke that the Templars really only have to look for the white robed jedi in the crowd rings very true for me---and that rings particularly true for Conner and the Twins from Syndicate.

[riceriter]

The 1st chapter of my dumb story. Enjoy if you can.

Content warnings: Mature language

Chapter 1 

Eleanor 

The islands silently and slowly pass beneath the ship. Like a beautiful abyss I can’t escape. Death Isle guards escort the ship from the backs of griffins, great golden beasts whose feathers catch the sunlight. I can tell that the mythical creatures only feel like prison guards to the princess, or rather the queen-to-be. Cerridwen clenches the railing just a little too tight to seem relaxed, and her eyes dart around, like she’s mapping exits even though we’re in the middle of the sky with the roiling dark sea below us and puffy white clouds overhead. I can’t blame her though. My own hands fidget nervously, my subconscious recognizing all the things that could go wrong in the sky.  

Cerridwen’s suddenly at my side, where I’m sitting on a barrel of, well, something, and gazing down at the islands and sea below.  

“Eleanor, help me fetch my binoculars from my room.” 

Like I’ve trained myself to do, I show no reaction at my fake name.  

Smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of my robes, I trek down to the cabins, and find Cerridwen’s room. The door opens after I twist the knob, noting the creaky hinges as I step inside.  

Cerridwen’s room is a bit messy, since she usually tidys her room herself instead of relying on me, and I resist the urge to organize her desk and bedside table. Her binoculars are lying on their side, dangerously close to the table edge.  

I pick them up, tucking them under my arm as I give in to the urge to organize and put some of Cerridwen’s pens into their holder.  

Turning to leave the room, something shiny and lustrous catches my eye. It’s her necklace, the one she’s always wearing. It sparkles innocuously, the amethysts winking at me in the low light.  

Why isn’t she wearing it? I shrug, and spin back to the door. It’s really none of my business.  

I step out into the corridor, shutting the door behind me. As I’m turning towards the stairs, I slam into a wall. Not a wall. A man.  

He’s about a foot taller than my 5’5, and the scowl he sends my way is nerve rattling. Grand Duke Ezra Setibus. Who is the last person I would like to meet right now, because he is the cousin of the very person Cerridwen’s going to marry. Also the most likely to sniff out a spy, but no sweat there.

As the seconds tick by, I realize he’s waiting for me to say something. To apologize. For a moment, fury washes over me. Stupid entitled nobles and their high-and-mightiness. Then I take a deep breath.  

“Apologies, Your Grace. I was not watching where I was going-” I begin, but he sidesteps me, almost forcing me into the corridor wall. Then he’s gone, but not before I hear him mutter something that makes me want to burn the ship down.  

“Whores of that damned country, like maid like mistress.” He spits out under his breath.  

The alliance Sohlka wants with the Death Isles seems ridiculous considering their long and bloody history spanning centuries. But it’s what’s important right now, even if I just heard the King’s cousin insult Cerridwen in the most degrading way possible.  

I don't know if Sohlka truly wants an alliance, or if other agents are setting other plans in motion at this very moment; I don't need to know. I have my orders, and I'll do everything to carry them out - that's all that matters. I am also a pawn. But I know this, and I've never tried to fight it. Why would I? I’m nothing, and Sohlka is everything.  

I’m the thirteenth spy, and I have no name.  

[qdbs-writes]

Probably a bit of a strange request. But is it possible to have a little jealousy of the combatants (Kuai Liang, Hanzo and Raiden) when they see their crush in one of Johnny Cage's sweatshirts (they were just friends, and she liked his jacket, so Cage just gave it to her)?

not strange at all nonny, i love this one!

MK Lads x Reader Jealousy Headcanons

After a weekend of binge-watching Marie Kondo, Johnny Cage was desperate to get rid of some of his stuff and was more than happy to let you help. Going through the boxes of dusty trophies and moth-bitten costumes was rather dull until you uncovered the leather jacket Johnny wore for Ninja Mime 2, your favourite movie of all time! It was a rather standard-looking brown jacket apart from a giant copy of Johnny's signature embroidered onto the back in gold thread. You don't even have to ask, Johnny hears your excited gasp and without looking up says "Keep it.". If hanging onto his junk makes you happy, who was Johnny to stop you? However, he was amused by the thought of how your boyfriend might react.

Kuai Liang (Sub Zero)

When you walk in wearing an oversized jacket, Liang assumes you've been thrift shopping or something. Normally that would be all he thinks until he sees Johnny's humongous golden signature on the back.

Now Liang and you had been dating for a while but the idea of sharing clothes never really came up. Liang's perpetual coldness meant that he didn't have any proper jackets and it never bothered you because you had always just worn your own.

But seeing you in Johnny's jacket brings up an unexpected feeling of inadequacy in Liang. This jacket could do the one thing he couldn't; it kept you warm. It gave rise to the fear that perhaps Liang couldn't provide for you properly.

He will hold this sadness inside himself until you ask him what's wrong. You're completely confused when he mentions that he can't fulfill your needs until he mentions your new jacket, and you explain it's a collector's item that Johnny gave you, much to Liang's relief.

Hanzo Hasashi (Scorpion)

Hanzo wouldn't call himself possessive (this is a lie and he is fooling no one). But when he sees you wearing Johnny's jacket, he can't help the jealousy that burns in his chest.

He manages to keep it in until he sees you snuggling up inside the oversized jacket, sniffing in its musk. That's when he sees red. Over to Johnny's house he goes, ready to kick his ass. Johnny, now completely terrified, at first has no idea what he's talking about. He has a lot of jackets, how is he supposed to keep track?

When Hanzo begins to angrily explain your obsession with one of Johnny's old jackets, Cage explains that it's not like that and he didn't want it anymore so he let you have it.

Hanzo, now embarrassed by his outburst, will apologise and make his way home, where he walks in on you watching the director's cut of Ninja Mime 2. Accepting that he had made a complete fool of himself that day, he joins you on the couch for some cuddles.

Raiden

In his long life, Raiden has learned that there are strange rituals and habits that Mortals keep, particularly in relationships. In dating you, Raiden has come to understand that even the most innocuous things can have deeply rooted meanings and intentions.

So imagine Raiden's confusion when he sees you wearing another man's jacket. But not just any man: celebrity, superstar Johnny Cage's jacket. Traditionally when a man gives someone his jacket, it is an expression of protection, possession, and often romantic interest.

But you are dating him, so Raiden can't wrap his head around why in the name of the Elder Gods you would be wearing Johnny Cage's jacket. If this was a challenge for your heart, then Raiden would not lose.

Que the lightning God covering you in his own clothes, placing his hat on your head, etc. You are as delighted as you are confused by this new attention Raiden is giving you, and soon you're wearing his spare robes more than Johnny's old jacket. Neither you nor Johnny particularly cares how much that jacket is worn but in Raiden's mind, he has successfully defeated Johnny for your love.

[alivehouse]

ok well actually i found it so im just going to copypaste it here so i can find it laterrr its from the twine game 'you were made for loneliness' unfortunately im not sure who the author of this exact story is since it was a collaborative project. it ties into the overarching story but i think it stands alright by itself if anyones interested

really big tw for suicide (described graphically) + animal death? animal cruelty? animal semiundeath? something like that

Each night I spend in front of this enchanted window innocculates me to the mundane. Each night I become more and more tolerant, inured, and I must dig deeper and find stranger sights, or come away unsatisfied, all my nerves intact. I must go deeper into the woods, link by related link.

The mouth of the woods is bright and vivid, wreathed in the familiar and comfortable. Dubstep remixes, clips from popular television, people hurting themselves comedically. Click one and the cabaret begins, glitter and distraction, vapid entertainment in fast, short doses. Continue clicking, following a winding trail of related videos. One might lose hours in this way and find nothing at all, but there are times, after wandering long and far enough into pale-faced circadian interruption, deep into night and well beyond sleep's reach, a link appears to something unusual, something wrong.

Click this link and proceed to watch two minutes of garbled footage with stop-motion dolls dancing naked in a rusty sink. A MIDI song drones and taps, exhumed from some ancient homepage of internet pre-history. Compression artifacts swim across the screen like a membrane, like ectoplasm, distorting everything, masking anything that moves too quickly. Now all of the related videos are strange, unnerving, uncanny, and there are no more cats to be found in the side-bar, no more dubstep remixes to anchor one to the familiar. Just more strangeness, more smiling digital shadow-plays waiting to take your hand and lead you deeper.

'im in the weird part of (the woods) again'

Most shut their browsers, attempt sleep, tell their friends about some of the fucked up videos they watched last night, joke, laugh, ha ha. But when they return to the woods again they stay close to its mouth, close to light and innocuous distraction, wary now of links that would pull them off the path and into slithering uncertainty.

I do not want to stay at the mouth of the woods.

My list of favorites is a menagerie of jittering 3D characters, melting puppets, mask-wearing figures writhing and moaning in dark, dirty rooms. These are my anchors, the lines that lead me directly back to the stranger inner-depths. Many are contrived, manufactured things, deliberate and calculated to seem disturbing, frightening, psychological. These are trite, but at least they bring one closer to the true exhibits: videos not designed to be unsettling but unsettling despite, videos made with candor and sincerity and put forth by people who don't see the strangeness of their own creations, find beauty where others find quiet revulsion. These are the purest, the most deeply upsetting, the most profoundly addictive. In them, one can see the creator's desperation to communicate, to entertain, to be funny or cute or artistic, and the unnerving results of their failures are their own breed of fascinating.

The authenticity, the honesty, is what makes these so deeply frightening. Like the difference between a slasher movie and a snuff film found in an empty house. It is a difference appreciated by few, feared by most, analyzed by seemingly none.

None but myself. And, as I am soon to find, one other.

A favorite video of mine: a pot-bellied CGI farmer stands shirtless in a field of whipping corn-stalks beneath a gunmetal blue sky. His house, a cardboard prop in the background behind him, is empty and unlit. He waggles his finger, singing a droning song with a synthesized voice. His animation loops around on itself, forward to back then back to fore. His eyes are black holes in his immaculate flesh-colored face. The content of the video is too absurd to be deliberately frightening; its creator's intention is unknowable, but I would guess humor, or artistic experimentation. And yet watching that sky, the dark reeds of the farmer's field lashing as in a tornadic wind, upsets me deeply. I have watched this video at least sixty times. The comments are always the same.

dafuq

nightmare fuel

lyrics?

im in the weird part of (the woods) again

Only tonight, just now, as the song concludes abruptly and the farmer's face freezes in a rictus of artifical unlife, I see a comment that separates itself.

nerva_blood_radio (6 hours ago) says: i have heard this song whispered. i would let that sky take me and pull me apart.

I stare at the comment in surprise, admiration, curiosity. A warmth in my core, something like elation, begins to grow. Elation, or relief to know that there is someone else who can see beauty in the bizarre, who can find wonder in those things that frighten and confuse and disturb so many others. Someone else who can stare at such displays of unflagging surrealism and wish to be lost within them.

I send them a message, something I have never done. "Beautiful comment. I wish more people had your perspective. How do you feel about robots?"

Three sentences composed in half as many hours. I am fearful; I have never known how to communicate with people. I betray my strangeness even in simple conversation, and they are immediately repelled. But I must reach this one, I think, because they understand the way I understand. I force myself to be concise for fear of sounding desperate. Finally I send the message, along with a link to another of my favorites, a home-made animatronic mannequin singing its praises for its creator, waxing euphoric, twitching artificially to the sound of a cacophonous synth-music arpeggio that echoes its way up from the deepest point of the Uncanny Valley.

Days pass, and in that time I spend more time thinking and hoping and dreading a response than I care to admit. Then it comes.

nerva_blood_radio: aaahaa... shes a good signer... so happy—— thank you!!!! i like this one tooOO ... maybe youll like it too... click?.......... bye....

I click the attached link.

The title is a garble of meaningless shapes. The comments are in Chinese characters. In the frame is darkness, enough that I'm required to full-screen the video and shut off my second monitor. Compression artifacts swim and churn, poorly-recorded silence warbles in my ears. My eyes adjust, and I think that what I'm seeing is a cramped apartment. A white square, maybe a refrigerator, dominates the left side of the screen, sentinel of a kitchen that is little more than a linoleum-tiled alcove. The video seems to be recorded from a camera that has been left running on a table. There is no sound except the guttering background silence for seven minutes. Then there is a moan, long and wailing and distant as though from another room. It sounds pained, show a derelict might wail in the throes of some chronic malady. Then, in the last seconds, a shape, a fragmented blob of muted light, shifts to the side at the far end of the 'kitchen.' The video ends.

It was a face, I realize.

A face that had been staring at me from the moment the video began. A face so perfectly blended with the swimming low-res shadows that I had failed completely to notice it, until that slight, final movement betrayed it as a living being rather than a cluster of wan light. For seven minutes they sat in utter darkness, staring at a camera left recording on a table. For the first time in memory I look around myself, into the darkness of my apartment, fearing that something may be there with me.

I have never found anything so chillingly sublime. I return nerva_blood_radio's message to thank them, and link them to another of my favorites.

For weeks, this becomes our relationship. Each night I check for their response, view it, shudder physically, respond. There are times when we link one another to something we have already seen, and there is a delight in that as well, an affirmation of kinship. A few times I become brave and ask questions, 'how've you been' and 'what're you up to'. They never answer these, and I stop asking. Soon we exchange personal e-mail addresses so that we can link one another to videos from more obscure sources. Videos in formats that I've never heard of, requiring special codecs and foreign language packs, videos with viewcounts in the single-digits. With each night that passes, their strangeness, their horror, their beauty increases.

I begin to imagine nerva_blood_radio as a sort of digital goddess, a monstrous cybernetic deity, a slithering wire-queen nestled deep down in some web-strewn data-swamp, divine matron of all that seeks a way beneath one's skin. I begin to worship her. I begin to love her. She, this deity, becomes my muse, my reason to wake, the force that drives me and the sole supplier of my greatest addiction. She had exposed me to a world beneath the skin of all that I had known but to which I felt immediately that I belonged, a world of dancing skeletal mascots and videos washed out by grain and comperssion to the point that they conveyed no real imagery at all, only visual chaos and noise and emotion. Emotion that's impossible to explain to anyone who has never woken up sweating and panting and crying from a nightmare they can't remember. A world of people in cramped apartments like mine all over the world, gathered together to present each other with caught fragments of nightmares and glitchy half-broken tone peoms told not with words but with filthy, empty rooms and twitching shapes.

One night she sends me a video with no description. She attaches it directly to an email message, something she's never done before. No context, no source link, none of her usual stuttered, seductive cadence prefacing what I am about to see. Just a single video file, the name of which is a meaningless scramble of characters. I download it, run it with a homebrew video player which translates the name into blocky white characters at the bottom of the frame as the video begins to play: crushed_locust_doesnt_die

Pavement, a road somewhere, lined with dust and brush. Wan blue-purple light and slivers of orange horizon (dusk) as the camera moves, its wielder breathing hard, walking slowly toward something. A shape, dark and small, immobilized on the road. The camera-holder approaches the shape and leans down, taking a long, deliberate shot of the thing on the ground. It's a fat locust with a long body and a wounded leg, laying on its side in the dust, the far back tip of its thorax burst open as though it had been clipped by the windshield of a passing car. It struggles weakly along the ground. The cameraman giggles, an oily, wheezing sound, lowering the camera until the lens is nearly touching the black, unblinking eye. The camera adjusts its focus. The black eye gleams. More wheezing, more harsh-breath giggling as the camera pulls back and jostles. A foot appears, rubber-booted and wide. A loud grunt and the foot descends on the body of the locust, slamming down on the pavement with a flat 'clap' sound. The foot withdraws and the cameraman is giggling and lowering the camera to survey the wreckage of the locust's body. It is visibly destroyed, the chitin of its green exoskeleton splintered and broken, seeping insect slime. The body is still for several moments, then continues attempting to drag its way across the pavement, its ruined legs continuing to work and twitch despite the assault. The cameraman's breathing halts. The locust glowers up at the camera from the weeping pit of its shattered eye. The cameraman loses composure, swings his arm to the side, camera in hand, and there's grunting and more of that same flat clapping sound, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. The cameraman is breathing hard. Camera turns forward again, finds the locust, lowers to the ground. The pulpy mess scraped across the pavement gives no indication that it once was a living creature. Tiny pin-points of orange dusk-light glimmer in the smear, and the body is a shattered memory made of a thousand broken slivers of carapace. A single twisted leg is the only discernible shape, connected to the splattered remains by a thick yellow strand. More wheezing, panicked laughter. Labored breathing.

The leg continues to move, but it is not just the fading rictus of death. It continues to move, continues to push, continues to struggle against the road. The cameraman makes a high, loud, protean noise. The image blurs as the camera swings away somewhere. The video ends. I stare at the dark terminus of the video and my hands are shaking.

My mind hastens to consider the implications. My first question, strangely, is why did she like this? Death and snuff are not her forté. Her lack of preface confuses me as well. What did she want me to think? What did she think?

Then I begin to consider the greater implications of an insect pulverized into nothing but a dark smear of viscous biology, and yet which continues to struggle, continues to move. There is no way the video was faked, I know. It was filmed spontaeneously, unknowingly, perfectly.

I reply: "Incredible. Where did you find this?"

She responds almost instantly. I wonder if she was waiting for me to view it, staring at her inbox and awaiting my reply as I've so often done with her. I feel vain at this thought, arrogant. Does a goddess hang on the words of a worshipper?

Her reply: he, he, he!!... i cant tell you that... its a secret... a very very special top secret, they do not want me to have it! do not know i have it!... i took it... and i showed it to you... nobody else... just you... :)... he, he, he!!...

I am floored. I feel exalted, a once-lowly element elevated by selection for something beautiful and tremendous. My breath quickens. I must send her something that rivals the splendor of what she has given me, something that will astound and enchant her as she has me. But I can think of nothing. My god-kissed elation begins to turn to panic. I do not have her sources, her seemingly inexhaustible wellsprings, none of the darknets which must be part of her dominion.

I open a dozen browser tabs and immediately point them all to the most obscure, disparate, abnormal and uncanny places I know. I spend hours pulling threads and biting my nails. No sleep. I keep searching, so eager to return the kindness she has done me, to please her and prove my worth to her after she has shown me such staggeringly particular attention.

I fail.

I lay back in my chair and press my palms to my eyes. I have spent hours, but have produced nothing. I have failed the only one who ever understood me and shared my insight and challenged my perception. My body craves sleep, but my mind rages.

From outside my window, two bright beams flash, a vehicle turning. I hear a tire squeal, a trash can upend itself, a vehicle speed away. Curious and dejected, I move to the window and look out into the streetlit night. A dark shape moves on the pavement. With no deliberation, I grab my cell phone and go outside.

I walk downstairs, down to the street and out across my apartment's parking lot. I go to where I saw the shape, and though it is little more than a twitching, pulpy mass, I instantly recognize it. It is a raccoon, destroyed by the careless tires of an automobile. But it is more than that. I switch to my phone's camera, begin recording video. This is a gift.

The small mound of viscera is barely discernible as a living animal as it bleeds and writhes in my viewfinder, leaving a trail of congealing blood in its wake. A tiny jawbone juts upward at an insane angle, fragments of bone litter its pelt. It should be dead, and yet it struggles, pulls itself along the street towards the grass of the far side, separating itself into twitching islands of dark gore. And as it does so, I film it. I film it for whole minutes.

I return to my apartment. I transfer the video to my PC, and without editing, without changing its file name, I attach it to an email and send it to her. Then I stare at my inbox, awaiting a response. For minutes there is nothing, and my lungs feel as though they're shrinking. Then a window opens up for an instant messenger I wasn't aware I'd left running.

nerva_blood_radio (02:44:39): !!!!!!! nerva_blood_radio (02:44:56): aaahaa, haa, haa, its so goooood! nerva_blood_radio (02:45:09): where did you find it??? (I have not used this program since I've known her. I don't know how she got my handle. I don't care.) mothstatic (02:46:12): I filmed it myself mothstatic (02:46:16): on my phone mothstatic (02:47:00): I heard a truck spin out so i went to check it and it had hit the raccoon but it kept moving like the locust in the video you sent me mothstatic (02:47:11): I came straight home and sent it to you mothstatic (02:47:31): you're the only one I sent it to

Further minutes of non-response, and I'm wringing my hands and pulling skin from my lip. I want her to tell her why I did it, why I sent it only to her, that I love her and worship her and that without her I would still be at the mouth of the woods. I nearly begin to type, but she preempts me: nerva_blood_radio (02:54:01): you are so good to me..... nerva_blood_radio (02:54:16): i love you!!..... My heart is beating through the backs of my ribs and I struggle to breathe. I struggle this way for a minute, then begin to type, but a final message from her blinks onto my screen and then she disconnects. nerva_blood_radio (02:55:21): send me more... nerva_blood_radio has logged off.

Panic and elation are fighting for control of my spine. I shut off everything, take off my clothes, lay down on my futon. I don't manage to sleep until the sun has been up for hours, and when I do I sleep through until dark.

The next day, she has sent me no messages. I return to the woods and spend hours there, digging harder than I ever have, scouring every corner she ever showed me for something new and shocking and perfect to surpass the video I had taken. I can find nothing. Everything is either manufactured or hokey or senseless or ham-fisted. Even those things that used to thrill me fail to compare to the simple, terrible perfection of a ruined raccoon continuing to struggle across a road with a body that should not be alive.

The next day, the same results. I turn up nothing. No messages from her. I see the first headline news clip announcing some unknown phenomenon that is affecting the biology of increasingly large creatures in various countries. I'm beginning to feel somehow like I'm running out of time. In my inept anxiety I bite the skin around my fingernails until it bleeds.

The next day more news has crowded out the dubstep remixes and reality television recaps and autotuned parodies. From a distance, looking indirectly at the thumbnails of all that is presented to me, I divine an overwhelming bleakness. The sense of losing time heightens. I set about my work.

Hours into the night, I have had no success. Then a sudden, piercing sound comes from somewhere beneath me, down a floor, somewhere in my apartment. I begin to hear more panic-sounds, footfalls, shouts and cries. I take my phone from my desk and run outside, down to the source. Neighbors I have only met in passing have crowded outside an open apartment door. The apartment inside is dark, and a man within is yelling, blathering wet, meaningless syllables. People are muttering words like 'gun' and 'dangerous,' shouting things like 'don't' and 'doesn't have to' and 'talk this out.' I shoulder my way forward until I can see into the room.

A naked obese man is laying back against a bare far wall. His face is puffy and streaked with tears and mucous. Each time someone addresses him, he howls something meaningless. There is a pistol in his hand. When he is not howling, he turns his head to look out his open window, looking remorseful, almost pensive. Then, all at once, he begins to raise the gun to his head. Already my fingers are around my phone, trying to pull up the video recorder. My neighbors are shouting now, jostling me. I hit record, try to find a shot, but I am being moved and churned and I can see nothing through my phone. The obese man says something I cannot hear, but which sounds like 'never' and 'to heaven,' and he puts the gun to his temple, and he pulls the trigger.

The gun barks, more quietly than I'm expecting. My neighbors are screaming. A dark fan of blood has sprayed a greasy feather-shape across the wall behind the man. He slumps down and lays still for a moment. Then his body is convulsing. His legs kick up and drum down hard against the floor, his arms whip and lash at his sides, his ruined skull lolls back and forth on his neck. His body rolls forward, puts its arms up, begins wriggling like a bloated worm trying to move forward. My neighbors continue to scream and jostle me, many of them fleeing the hallway. I stare down at my phone, at a message telling me that there is no storage capacity left. I stop recording and review the footage I have taken, and it is useless. Indiscernible. My heart writhes in my chest when I think of the perfect moment that has just been squandered, which can never be repeated, which would have been the most excellent offering.

The few neighbors remaining in the hall cover their mouths and turn away. Most have left, either in fear or maybe to call the police. The obese man's body continues to squirm and bleed and twitch and drum its heavy feet up and down. I stare at my phone, then at the body, which seems to be trying to pull itself closer to me. Then I see the gun, and my most perfect idea comes to me.

I check the hallway to see if anyone is looking. Everyone has their backs turned. The suppurating body has wormed its way into a corner and is struggling helplessly. As quickly and quietly as I can, I step forward into the room, step over the body, reach down and take the gun, slipping it in the front of my pants and hiding it beneath my shirt. Then I leave, climb the stairs, return to my room, lock my door.

I dig an old webcam out of a large tupperware container filled with cords and obsolete peripherals. It takes minutes to hook up, install drivers. Then I pull open the instant messenger and look for her name. Blessedly, she's online.

mothstatic (01:52:19) says: I have something for you, can we video nerva_blood_radio (01:52:21) says: yes.

Sirens are howling. At the mouth of the woods, all of the brightness, all of the distraction, is gone, replaced by stern faces reporting on what is happening to the world, what is happening to the bodies. I can hear my neighbors downstairs continuing to scream and lament. I can hear the feet of the body beating the floor.

The instant messenger window expands. I see my own face, bathed in white light, framed by the darkness of my room. On her end, I see only moving shadows, the vague impression of green light streaking in strange patterns, a silhouette shaped like a crucifixion.

nerva_blood_radio (01:54:12) says: you have been so very good to me. mothstatic (01:54:37) says: You showed me so much. I would never have found any of the beauty you showed me. nerva_blood_radio (01:55:00) says: this will be your contribution to that beauty. i will ensure you are remembered. I adjust the angle of my webcam, roll my chair back so that both myself and the floor around me are in frame, because I expect that is where my body will fall. I take the gun out of my pants. mothstatic (01:56:09) says: are you recording? nerva_blood_radio (01:56:12) says: yes. mothstatic (01:56:28) says: I love you. nerva_blood_radio (01:56:40) says: prove it to me. :)

The barrel is sliding between my teeth. My finger wraps around the trigger. From somewhere deep within the woods, I feel a cold wind rise.

need to find that horror story about the guy who falls in love with some random person online bc theyre both obsessed with uncanny valley videos and send them back and forth but it slowly progresses into sending worse and more disturbing shit i hate that its a one off thing in some random twine game bc it makes it hard to track down even tho it lives in my mind rent free

[thecameronchronicles]

The Effect of Scary Movies

TW: Smut. 

SUMMARY: Drew decides to distract you so he can finish his scary movies…but you become more of a distraction…

WORD COUNT: 2100

*Requested*

The Effect of Scary Movies

You hated absolutely everything about scary movies. If not for the blood and the gore, than for the cliche plots that always left one sole survivor in desperate need of therapy, than for the way you were left feeling paranoid in whatever reality remained behind ill-acted scripts. And yet, a simple smirk and invitation from your boyfriend, who you would happily turn to putty for if he simply asked you to, has you at his side with the third movie set to play in your marathon of screams. 

Your nerves were already fried from the first two movies, knuckles white as yet another whodunnit exemplified with gore made its way broadcast across your screen. Its title in bold letters set on a memorable ever growing list within your mind to films you’d never watch again. 

“Only now, this one had been chosen in specificity by Drew, who basked in how you reacted to each jump scare or life meeting its end on screen. More specifically, he adored being able to console you as you wrapped around him, the way he existed as your beacon of safety shown in these desperate embraces. Even if you knew subconsciously that it was the work of special effects and makeup, you were too invested in the storyline to keep your mind on anything but how it could be a reality. 

“You alright there, baby?” Drew teased as you stiffened at the sight of a supposed main character being killed off quite violently. 

“I hate these!” You confessed, “ They’re so illogical and the characters are always so stupid! And it’s just…yucky!” He couldn’t repress the development of a grin from your words. That damn grin that made you accept this invitation and also held the responsibility of making you do so many other things just in knowing it made him happy. Most of these things were pleasurable or enjoyable one way or another. 

Everything but these movies…

“Yucky?” He continued to smile as you nodded, steadfast in your chosen adjective. 

“You know it’s fake, right baby? Besides, I’d never let anything happen to you…” He pressed a sweet kiss to your cheek, your body electrified by his innocuous admiration. 

“We could turn it off…” He explained as his lips now came to your neck, slow kisses bringing his tongue from between his mouth, redirecting your focus entirely to him. 

“Or I could try to distract you…Just until it gets past the…’yucky’ parts…” He continued to tease your callow choice of wording as you were too aroused to care of anything but the continued climb of his fingers inching up your skin and his kiss deepening along your neck. Your fingers fisted into the fabric of his tee while his tongue made its way onto the skin now wearing goosebumps from his efforts. 

You detested the need for clothes whenever he wore them, his physique making you weak at just the thought of him. His defined muscles tensing in every motion, bronzed, and just as delicious as the caramel hue they portrayed from filming so long in South Carolina. You adored his figure just as he proved the same to you as his hands were made impatient against you, pulling and clawing in a series of strategic movements with kisses that endorsed this need. 

Breaking from his ambition for only a moment to smirk, his fingers played with the rim of your shorts, the soft fabric pliable enough for him to gain access without needing to undress you, as you parted your legs, eagerly, to accept him. His smile remained until you’d pull him in for a deep kiss, penetrative and Parisian inspired as his fingers twisted and rubbed expertly upon your clit. 

“Drew…” You breathed as you felt him turn to the direction of the TV, his fingers never faltering, before he quickened his touch. The sound of carnage enacted before your screwed eyes no longer held the responsibility of your chilled skin as this blame came on his digits winding you well into submission. 

“Feel good, baby?”

“So good…” You groaned as he nodded, your eyes coming open once feeling his withdrawal. 

“There you go, baby…see? No more blood for a bit…” He smiled, well aware of what his baiting and abandoning did to you, all while he returned to his reclined position on his side of the couch, acting as if his fingers weren’t glistening with your slick. Your eyes, still heavy with lust, fell into a narrowed glare before you bit your lip and crawled over towards him, hand running at an incline up his thigh as he scoffed. 

“Baby…It’s getting REALLY good…” He teased, no more invested in the movie than you were, but feigning it strictly to get a rise out of you while you had done the same to him, in your own way…

“I’m just ‘distracting’ myself…” You added as he released a single chuckle while your fingers made their way to his belt, freeing his painfully erect cock to your sight, as you positioned yourself with as much comfort as this angle would allow, before taking him into your mouth.

 His hand was quick to apprehend the back of your neck for guidance, not that you needed much, but just enough to set the beginning pace as you’d rather guzzle him whole, whereas he liked to feel how thorough you were willing to accept him. Slow strides orchestrated the most beautiful of moans from his lips as you heard him speak beneath his grimaces. 

“I’m supposed to be the one distracting you, sweetheart-” He paused for a second, swearing to how you’d twisted his shaft with the perfect amount of pressure that became evident by the salty precum now on your palette. Yet you continued, quickening your pace while the sound of chaos at your side became drowned by a mix of your mutual moans and the titillating gag acting as a compliment to his anatomy, well beyond average. 

However, as you’d continued these motions in the length your body would allow, tears in streams down either cheek and a throat raw with the continued penetration of his cock bruising it with vigor, you’d rise to take a breath, much to your own chagrin. 

When you’d lifted, drool staining your chin, he pulled you to him with a hand to your jaw while the other remained in your hair, deepening his kiss with his tongue, before retracting in order to observe you. 

“You’re so fucking sexy when you do that…” He bit his bottom lip, savoring the mix of salt and sex on his mouth, before looking back to the televison. 

“But now I have to start it over from the beginning…” He reached for the remote as you moved back onto your knees, not caring to hide your dismay, as he revealed this to only be a tease before he collected you beneath him, pulling the backs of your thighs as close as possible until you could feel his naked cock on your bare thigh. 

“Tell me what’s happening…I don’t want to miss anything.” He explained, pulling his shirt from off of his torso to reveal that favored sight you’d adored, before watching him lower still. The way his eyes focused on you upon this descent however was enough to make your eyes roll as his breath teased the lines of our hips as he pulled your panties from your waist while he knelt at rest before you.

“How can you tell me anything when your eyes are closed, baby?” He teased as you looked to the direction of the TV, trying to obey him, but finding it impossible to focus on anything but the newfound precision of his tongue. As always, he was intricate to begin with, leisurely taking his time to assess what he wanted from you. 

“Talk to me baby…what am I missing?” He spoke to you as you rolled your eyes, half annoyed and half exhilarated to this game while your eyes struggled to fixate on anything in contrast to their need to roll back in pleasure. 

“They um…they found a..a uh..shit-”

“Need me to stop so you can focus? I wouldn’t want to ‘distract’ you..” He rose just enough so you could see his grin before your fingers rushed through his hair, pulling him back between your thighs. Just as much of a glutton as a giver than a receiver, he wrapped his fingers over each of them and slipped them to your clitoral hood, pulling you apart further to reveal yourself at maximum vulnerability to him. 

“Tell me sweetheart or I’m gonna have to stop-”

“Fuck…” You whimpered before focusing on your task in fear of him acting on this promise. 

“They found some pictures with…” You paused, the way he’d accelerated his motions having pulled moans in place of verbiage from your mouth. “Drew! Oh my God…please-”

“Want me to stop?”

“NO!” You groaned. 

“PLEASE! I want to feel you-” His head emerged from your thighs, the most dubious of grimaces spread across his face. 

“Chase told me this movie would help me get into my next character so you’re kind of distracting me from research, baby-” Frustrated but endorsed, you pulled him up towards you until you were able to position him back at a rest on the couch, you setting yourself across his hips in a straddle before lowering your lips to his ear. 

“Then watch it…but let me distract myself…” He nodded softly, fingers digging into your skin, before he gasped at how you’d positioned yourself over him. “Just watch your movie, baby…Let me ride you…”

“Oh shit…” He groaned, head coming to a rest on the couch behind him before you’d take hold of his shoulders and begin to take him to and from your starved pussy, dripping in a squelch that showcased his continued effect on you. 

“You still focusing baby?” By now he’d lost complete interest in the movie, eyes pushed closed by the way you’d taken him so deeply, your lifting only to crash onto him with conviction, the clench of your inner walls pulling any remaining focus to them as his arm suddenly pulled you forward until you were set on the coffee table. 

“Fuck it-” He grunted, bent over you just enough to remain invested in your hungry cunt as one arm remained wrapped around your back as the other held himself up with his palm flat on the table beside you. The way he’d thrusted was carnal, without the compassion he usually gave, explained his desire was synonymous to your own. If this was left in question at any capacity, it would find an answer in the way he’d cry your name in desperation, lowering to you as to kiss you. 

“Turn around. Now-” He ordered, a quick and painful withdrawal allowing you to obey, before you were assisted by a bend over the coffee table, as he penetrated once again. 

“Don’t stop! Please Drew! Don’t stop!”

“Wasn’t fucking plan on it, sweetheart.” You heard his smile beneath his words. 

“God dammit, you feel so good-how do you always feel so good, huh? Like it’s the first time every fucking time!” He groaned as your arrogance found strokes along with his words, driving you further into bliss. 

“Gonna go faster-need to feel you deeper-” He spoke quickly as you nodded. 

“FASTER! DEEPER, DREW! PLEASE!”

“Fuck, sweetheart! I’m not gonna last-”

“Come! I wanna feel you come!”

“Yeah?” 

“YES!”

“Then make me baby…clench me how you do…just like THAT! SHIT!” You continued to do this, both voluntary and otherwise as he began to buckle behind you, his fingers arriving at your clit in the nick of time to share an orgasm that had you belting out his name in an echo of yours. He pulled you to him for a kiss, projecting a few thrusts of aftershock within you as you whimpered against him. 

“You know I only ever ask you to watch these as an excuse to act all protective…But if THIS is what you want to do instead of watch…all you have to do is say so-”

You blushed, “I always want to…” His brows lifted in surprise. 

“Oh really?”

You nodded. “Then how about we have a Hellraiser marathon and I’ll show you ALL the ways I can distract you…” You groaned at the choice of movie, but once again found that damn smirk to convince you….

TAGLIST: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets

[saltymongoose]

Can you imagine the main three + 2b with a player that smell HEAVENLY??

just trying to paint a picture here

Being surrounded by the smell of sweat and gun powder all the time and then player just comes in with a whiff of some perfume-y scent??

Do you think it’ll drive them more nuts? Trying to find every excuse to try and be close to them or have them wear their close so it smells like them?!!

Just coming from someone who’s obsessed with perfumes and smelling good

This makes a lot of sense; you and your world are entirely different from Nevada and it's grunts, so of course they'd obsess over your unique scent too. This idea got me thinking, so I made some hcs for it haha. Hope you like em! :)

Their reaction to the Player's Smell ft. Hank, Deimos, Sanford, & 2BDamned

(TW: Yandere, Obsessive behavior, the boys being a lil creepy in this one? Not a lot, but still. This is also extra long. 👍)

Most things in Nevada don’t exactly smell “nice” the way they did before the fall; the scent of smoke and burning debris permeates through the land’s air in most places and many jobs lead to coming into contact with blood and gore, and its pungent metallic scent along with it. For your grunts, it’s no different.

On a good day, your vessels usually smell of sweat and gunpowder because of their work, or strong antiseptic and bleach if it’s 2BDamned. It’s not very “fresh and clean” (or in some cases, it’s too sterile smelling), but it’s normal enough not to warrant any real notice. Either way, it’s a lot better than the scent of blood, and it’s not like they really had any reason to pay attention to it. 

In fact, they had become so used to it that they didn’t really consider that you’d be any different; the thought of what you smelled like never crossed their minds that often before they met you in person. (Well, outside of what it’d be like if you shared their scent, but that was neither here nor there.)

So when they actually get close to you and are met with how intoxicatingly good your scent actually is, it becomes an odd focal point for their obsession interest in you.

Sanford was the first to really notice it in full, since he’d been the one to carry you around the first time you met with them. He had been very overwhelmed at the time (since he’d just met the person he’d been “secretly” pining over for months and was now holding them in his arms), so his own hyperawareness of your body resting against his made him really take in everything about having you so close. And with this, your unique scent.

It was kind of flowery and fresh, mixing with your natural smell to make something truly unique. Although he couldn’t place what exactly it was (since flowers weren’t abundant in Nevada), he knew that he liked it. Maybe a bit too much. It was something that was so specific to you that he couldn’t help wanting more of it.

Sanford’s one of the more subtle ones when it comes to getting close to you just to envelop himself in your smell. He’s already pretty affectionate, so the many times he pulls you into a hug and just happens to inhale near your skin can pass off as accidental most times (despite the way the others give him suspicious looks whenever he does so, but that’s normal at this point). Sometimes he’ll hold you tighter to him so that your scent stays with him for a bit longer, something to soothe him whenever you leave his side.

He’ll also do this far more often, so much so that you’re tipped off to how the grunts seem to be completely fascinated by this trait of yours.

Honestly, you find it kind of amusing. You’ve realized by this point that grunts react very weirdly to things that are normal to you, so it made sense that something as innocuous as how you smell would be something to fixate on. They already stare at you quite a lot to take in your unique appearance and exposed facial features (at least from your point of view), so you didn’t mind Sanford’s actions here. 

In fact, sometimes you even teased him over it. It’s all good-natured on your part since you didn’t take any offense to your vessel’s weird mannerisms. If anything, you use a joking tone to try and make him less shy about it. Though you have to be a little careful not to give him a heart attack sometimes.

Like that moment he was sitting with you on the couch, his arm wrapped around your shoulder and keeping you close as you watched the television that Deimos had managed to set up. You bit back a sly grin when you felt his chin come to rest on your shoulder, turning slightly to ask him nonchalantly: “Is it any different today?” 

He gave a questioning hum, and this time you returned his innocently curious look with a knowing one. “My smell?” you replied, taking note of the way he seemed to freeze at your question, “I haven’t been wearing any perfume since I got here. You noticed, right?” He pulled his head away from your neck, flushed with embarrassment as stammered apologies spilled from his lips.

(He fucked up, he really fucked up. He was utterly mortified, shame pricking at him as he moved away. You must’ve thought he was a creep or something now. God, he felt like he was going to throw up. Had he just managed to single-handedly destroy any chance at being your partner? He can’t believe he-)

You interrupted his anxious, self-deprecating thoughts by placing a hand on his shoulder and shaking him. “Sanford, you’re okay,” you started, a teasing smile replaced with a concerned frown. You didn’t mean to freak him out this badly. “I’m not offended or anything, really.” You gave him what you hoped was a comforting look and pulled his pliant form a little closer, smiling once you felt him relax at your touch. “I’m just teasing, you can uh… sniff, I guess? As much as you like, I don’t really care.”

Besides this, you’ll try to curb some of his apprehension about the subject by doing things to make it so he doesn’t always have to be by your side to smell you. He doesn’t wear a shirt, so wearing his clothes for a bit is a no-go (and it’s not like his pants could fit you either).

Eventually, you just decide to snoop around for that scarf he wears as part of his “alternate outfits” in-game and have that on you for a few hours before suggesting he uses it. The bashful, surprised look you get in return for your little act of kindness is enough to make the effort of wearing it in this sweltering weather anyway. It looks good on him too, though you wonder how having a scarf on in Nevada of all places could be practical.

Deimos, on the other hand, is not subtle with how he tries to get more of your scent. After all, you don’t seem to mind how physically affectionate he is with you, nor how he buries his face in the nape of your neck to deeply inhale your sweet smell, so why would he try to keep it unnoticeable? Plus, it also really annoys the others, which he finds himself enjoying (even if it’s a dangerous game to play with people like Hank involved).

He often throws himself at you to cuddle regardless, but instead of just being relatively close to you like Sanford would be, he’ll try to press as much of his body into yours as possible. This usually means that he’ll discard his coat and any bandages that cover his arms, not only because it allows him to have the most direct contact with you that he can, but also so the lingering scent of tobacco doesn’t muddle his senses.

Deimos wants to be completely enveloped in everything you; your comforting warmth that spreads through him whenever he embraces you, the hazy cloud that invades his mind when your strings fix themselves to his fingers, and the refreshing (and above all addictive) way you smell. He’d be mad at himself if he allowed his own vices to interfere and pollute his indulgence in these things, so he’ll take every precaution to prevent it. Plus, he’s found that having his bare skin contact you in places really heightens the experience, so he’s happy to go without any unnecessary outerwear.

(You’re reminded of a cat when he wraps his limbs around you and snuggles into your form. It’s his purring, mainly, but also the weird way he seems to rub against you? His arms and legs shift around constantly, and his fingers trace patterns on your body as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck. He just doesn’t stop moving. Not unless you start petting him, at least. Then he just melts further into you instead.)

He even tries to cut back a bit on smoking around you, since the smell of his cigarettes tends to overpower most things and he can’t have that. Honestly, a part of you is grateful for this, since it’s better for his health (even if he doesn’t completely quit, unfortunately).

Although one thing that made you raise a brow was his tendency to “borrow” your things, for a lack of a better term. Usually it’s just a shirt or two that you’ve left in your room after forgetting to put it in with the rest of the dirty laundry, and he always returns it at some point but still, it’s kinda weird. To be honest, you’re not even sure why he felt the need to do that, it’s not like you were unavailable if he wanted to cuddle you like usual.

(Well, to you anyway. The others were pretty territorial, and Deimos couldn’t always get the opportunity to catch steal your attention. Besides, it’s not like he’s doing anything bad with them! And was it really so awful to want something to remind him of his future partner when they’re away with someone else?)

(It’s a very irrational viewpoint since you literally live together, but he doesn’t care. To be honest, he doesn’t even realize the full extent of it, too infatuated with you to even think straight.)

It’s relatively harmless in your eyes, especially since you had that interaction where you actually found out what he’d been doing with them. (Well, one of them, at least.) It had been your favorite shirt, a really loose title for something that barely fit you (grunt sizing and all), but it had a cool design you liked. And it seems that you’d misplaced it, which led to a base-wide search.

You’d poked your head through Deimos’ door on a whim (since he’d been in charge of laundry last, so of course he’d know), finding him napping on his bed after a long mission. The feeling of guilt slightly tugged at you when you neared his sleeping form. He’d really worn himself out that day; he didn’t even bother taking his shoes off before passing out, instead just letting his feet hang off. 

You leaned down next to him, running your hand over his messy hair to try and gently wake him up. You wanted to be relatively quick with this, since the man needed his rest. He hummed and raised his head a bit, which you took as a sign to start your whispered questions. Hopefully he was awake enough.

“Sorry to bother you, Dei, but have you seen my shir–oh.” You cut yourself off when he lifted his head entirely, revealing that he was quite literally using it as a pillowcase. Huh. Well, that answered it.

“Mmh, wha?” he slurred, voice raspier than normal and thick with sleep. He hadn’t really registered your question, instead looking at you for a moment in confusion. He was about to try and ask you to repeat what you’d said when he noticed that you were staring below him, and he turned to look down, face going pink. Right, he forgot to put that back. 

“Oh..yeah, sorry,” Deimos chuckled awkwardly, subconsciously pulling the pillow a bit closer to him. “’m really sorry, I’ll uh..I can give this back to you, if ya want. It’s just, you smell really good, and it’s nice to…fall asleep to..kinda like you’re here…?” He murmured a half-thought-out response, slightly cringing at his own delivery. He really could’ve been more suave with that, but in his defense, his brain wasn’t exactly working well with his drowsy fog. At least it was honest.

Yet it was good enough for you to still his hands when he went to yank your shirt off his pillow, giving him a soft smile as you did so. (You’d honestly found his reaction kind of cute; you didn’t know he missed you this much when you were away. Plus his actions were pretty innocent, even if you knew he was anything but.) “It’s fine Dei, you can keep it for now.” He nods a little, still blushing from embarrassment. Though he gave an elated, sharp-toothed grin when you suggested you stay, to actually be there when he fell asleep. He hoped it wouldn’t be the last time you did.

Hank is a bit like Deimos in how unabashed he is in his attempts to smell you, but he doesn’t feel any embarrassment when you take note of what he does. While he won’t steal your things (at least not yet), he’s content with just having you use his clothes instead. Though his version of asking just includes switching some of his stuff in with yours and expecting you to wear it at some point.

You do, actually (since you figured there was no harm in humoring him), which he takes as encouragement. Honestly, it’s like you have a system going where he’s constantly circulating through things you’ve worn at some point since he does it so often.

But he wouldn’t have it any other way; he views having your unique scent on him as somewhat of a claim, both that he’s yours and that you’re his partner. Why else would he let you close enough to leave it on him?

It eventually comes to the point where he feels like something’s missing from him if he doesn’t have something that has a trace of your smell at all times. Considering how much he thinks about you, you’d think that he’d realize that it isn’t necessary; you’re already his Player and you spend a bunch of time around him already. But that just isn't enough for him.

Another bonus to this little exchange you have going on is that he constantly gets to see you in his things, which he’s a massive fan of. He doesn’t think he’s seen anything more adorable than you in one of his shirts. They're usually a bit snug on him (since he has the opposite problem of being a bit too tall), but you could wear them as dresses if you wanted. The collar will slip down one of your arms and the sleeves go well past your hands. Yet you still wear them, and he appreciates it.

Although, Hank's absolute favorite thing to give you to wear is his coat. It's something so specific to him that you wearing it was a clear symbol of his own connection with you, one that ran far deeper than the others could ever hope to have. You don't exactly go around wearing their clothes as often (due in no small part to his own interference when they try).

Besides using his clothes, another thing that Hank does is that he’ll interrupt the time the others spend with you if he believes he’s been “neglected” of your presence and scent for too long. This is typically done in the manner of wrenching you away from your current company and halfway into his arms for a short minute, all so he can give you a small nuzzle and smell you.

(You’re reminded of a cat yet again when he rubs his face against you. It’s probably one of the weirder things he’s done, considering how he doesn’t even make the move to completely remove you from your other vessel’s side (as much as he’d like to). Then again, Hank was always rather impatient, so it makes enough sense for you to merely resign yourself to it when it happens. You know it’s not the most disruptive thing he could do anyway.)

Naturally the others are completely outraged by this. Hank already insists on showing his possessiveness over you by having you wear his clothes, which is infuriating enough to witness (especially since he’s so smug when you walk around in them). But to have him physically encroach on a private moment between you and them? It was crossing a serious line, and one that they usually respected (albeit begrudgingly).

(You perked your head up when you heard quiet footsteps, leaning a bit into Deimos as you turned to see who was approaching the couch where you were sitting. “Oh, hey Hank,” you greeted simply before turning back to the other grunt. (You didn’t notice the suspicious glare Deimos sent Hank as he shifted a little closer to you. He was getting too close to not be trying something.)

But your eyes widened in surprise when you suddenly felt a pair of hands wrap around your shoulders and pull you backward, effectively yanking you out of your seat and forcing you to rest your weight on Hank instead. You flailed for a moment before his grip tightened and he leaned in to support you more, purring as he slotted his face into the nape of your neck and inhaled deeply. He was so close that you could practically feel him breathing against your skin.

Meanwhile, Deimos had reached forward to grip your hips and tug you back to him, looking up at Hank's face before growling at him (lowly enough that he hoped you wouldn't be able to hear). “Fuck off, Hank.” To which the grunt in question moved a hand to flip him off, leering down at him from your shoulder all the while.)

It makes your other vessels angry, but that was expected. He imagines it must hurt to be reminded of how inferior they were in their relationships with you, especially in comparison with him. Then again, he couldn't care less as long as he had you.

2BDamned was actually the last to notice how good you smell. This was mainly due to the fact that he wears a mask 24/7 and because the chemicals he surrounds himself with tend to overpower everything else; it’s only when you’re pressed up close to him that he first realizes it.

Unlike the others, Doc isn’t bold enough to take your things or ask you to wear his clothes to get them to smell like you. For the former, he doesn’t want to scare you off or offend you by violating your boundaries, and for the latter, there’d be no point to it.

As someone who spends most of his time keeping everything in his office and makeshift medbay as clean and germ-free as possible, he knows the harsh chemicals would likely erase any trace of your scent the moment he does anything. It would be a fruitless endeavor; even if he had the gall to ask you to wear his things to begin with, he didn’t want to inconvenience you by having you do it again and again.

However, it’s not like Doc is immune to the same cravings for you that the others so happily suffer from; believe him, if he had the option of only smelling you all day he would. But he just doesn’t find the opportunity for it most of the time (and he doesn’t want to deal with the headache of the others complaining or trying to interrupt his time with you. Like Hank.)

You’ve spent enough time around him to notice how he holds himself back though, and as the Player, you figured it wouldn’t be fair if you didn’t give him as much direct attention as the other three. (And you’ve found that fairness was really important in your dealings with the grunts. You didn’t want any rifts to happen just because you spent more time with one of them.) Besides, you’re used to this weird aspect of grunts by now, so you feel comfortable enough making the first move if he won’t.

No matter how many times you’ve done it, you still manage to surprise him when you tug him out of his chair to bring him to one of your rooms (since you know how private he is about showing his face). The entire time you’re walking with your fingers intertwined, he’s fighting to keep his blush from showing. You have quite the effect on him, and it’d be embarrassing if you knew how flustered he got from something as small as holding your hand.

By the time you’ve shut the door and sat down on your (or his) bed to patiently wait for him, his flush has lessened to a slight pink that colors his cheeks and his neck. It’s only noticeable to you when he removes his mask and he turns to face you, the scars near his mouth happen to obscure the worst of it (one of their few benefits, in his opinion). 

After this, it’s like his characteristic restraint has been broken; his movements are rushed and he doesn’t waste any time laying down with you, toeing off his boots the best he can while pulling you closer to him. To you, it’s haphazard (and kind of amusing, was he that desperate to spend time with you?), but to him it’s efficient (yes, yes he was).

His purring is actually pretty loud for once, though you think it’s mainly to do with how your head is resting comfortably on his chest, and you sigh and wrap your arms around him. He seems almost clingy in times like this, with how his hands tighten over your hip and your shoulder, legs tangling with yours as he presses his cheek against your temple.

To him, it’s genuinely overwhelming to have you so close and to be able to take in your scent purely like this. It’s almost like a drug to him; he aches for it when he’s forced to go without it for too long, a craving that’s only surpassed by his need for your presence beside him.

He’s the happiest like this, unbothered by the other grunts in his squad and left entirely alone with you; his most beloved Player. And yet, he still wonders why you bother letting him indulge in you in such a way. He’d expected that you’d find it intrusive, to be quite honest.

(“Don’t you find this strange?” He once asked, voice rumbling against your ear in an almost shudder-inducing way – one that you thought was oddly unfair. You bit the inside of your cheek as you paused to consider his words, ignoring the way red tinted your cheeks as he hummed contently while nuzzling further into you.

“Not really?” You murmured, “I mean I know I smell nice enough, but I guess I wasn’t expecting you guys to like it this much?”

He huffed a small laugh. ‘If only you knew,’ he thought. Yet he didn’t say anything further, not about how truly addictive your scent was to him, and certainly not how it was so just because it came from you. He knew it was the same for the others as well. But that was information for another time.)

In any case, he takes it as a point of pride that you actually seek him out to let him sate some of his desires in this way. Surely it must be proof that you value him above the rest, right? He's the only one you actually go to first for this. Or at least, he's the one you must think about the most, since you were so kind to grant him these little private moments. Either way, expect him to subtly brag about it often, just enough to make the others fall from their high of having your attention. Doc's been called a "killjoy" in the past, but he wears that title proudly whenever talk of your favorite comes around.

[the-wayside]

So, I didn't realize how much everyone would like this idea, and while I won't be writing about it right now, I can give you one of the tiny snippets - I write a bit out of order - that I do have as an 'I'm sorry but this is the vibes' gift.

Porsche is sparing with his time off. Like most workaholic perfectionists, he trusts his team to be good at what they do, but he doesn’t trust anyone to do what he does, which is to protect Khun and Kinn. But he has needs. There was an awkward conversation where Khun had set him up with an agency that could provide companionship if that was his desire. There was a big photobook of people he could pick from and they were all young and beautiful. He used to loathe the concept but there was one guy he liked the look of – tall, dark hair and a commanding jawline. Porsche called and they sent him and he was just as pretty in person.

Porsche sat him down and they talked. A bit about his aspirations, his goals, and long-term strategy with his finances. Things that made Porsche feel comfortable and weren’t sex.

“I don’t mind if we talk,” Dew tells him, his hand touching Porsche’s folded knee in front of him on the couch, “but you’re really hot and it would be a shame if I didn’t even get to suck your cock.”

So, Dew became his person. He was the one Porsche called when he had an itch under his skin that he couldn’t fight his way out of. Porsche thinks that at this point Dew keeps coming purely because he thinks that Porsche would never get laid if he didn’t.

“You don’t have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend?” Dew folds his hands under his chin as he lays on his belly, sheets rumpled around his waist.

Porsche laughs, “I don’t have time for that.”

“Make time.”

He was right, he should have. But Porsche’s heart, battered and torn as it is, belongs to the Theerapanyakul family. No one can ever exceed what the family has done for him, for his family.

There’s a knock on his suite, he’s senior enough that he has his own floor in the compound with extra rooms if Chay and Kim come to stay.

“You’re early,” Dew tells him as he offers Porsche a bottle of wine. It’s a good vintage, he wonders who he flirted with in the kitchens for that. “I wasn’t expecting you to call for a couple of weeks.”

“It’s been a stressful week,” Porsche says as he takes the wine, he’s not going to say no to what was offered.

“I heard Khun Kinn came back,” Dew says it innocuously and to make conversation but Porsche has strict boundaries about his work and Dew knows he’s erred. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant, but don’t. Just because you come here doesn’t mean you get to speculate on the family that lives here.” Porsche is unnecessarily harsh and he can see how Dew shrinks from him. He’s used to Porsche, the man, an easygoing guy who will lend an ear, not Porsche, head of security, who takes any cross word said against the family as a reason to write their name as a writ.

There’s an awkward moment when neither of them knows what to do, so Porsche uncorks the wine, white, and pours them both a glass.  

He’s suitably relaxed when he goes down to grab a snack, not wanting to bother Nya, bless her, she’s getting on a bit, so he’s somewhat taken aback to see Kinn sitting at the dining table.

“Porsche,” Kinn turns his glass and the ice plinks as it melts down on itself.

Porsche is wary, Kinn is dressed in his red silk robe and matching pants, tied loosely, and giving off ‘I’m rich, I don’t care’ vibes.

“Khun,” Porsche bobs his head and ignores him as he walks over to the fridge.

“Nice evening?” Kinn says, nonchalantly.

He stops and turns around, Kinn not even turning his head to face Porsche as he asks. Does he think that Porsche doesn’t know that he wears his robes and his pants, shirtless, after he’s had a night getting lucky? That his skin is sensitive after he comes and anything else is itchy and uncomfortable? He bites his lip to try not to curse because he shouldn’t even know these things. He’s not a maid. He’s not his boyfriend. He’s the guy who stops other people from shooting at his thick skull.

“Do you want to compare notes, is that it, Little Dragon?” Porsche opens the refrigerator and digs out the hummus.

That gets Kinn turning on his chair, his face sharp as Porsche digs out the pita chips Nya made at his request yesterday. Porsche scoops the roasted red pepper hummus onto a chip and crunches on it as he stares Kinn down.

Kinn stands up and walks over and puts his hand into Porsche’s chip container and steals a handful. Porsche slaps his hand but he doesn’t drop them but retracts and starts to dip into Porsche’s hummus. Kinn’s robe gapes the whole time he does it and Porsche keeps his eye line tracked on Kinn’s little nose mole.

“Good to know how I pay you keeps you amused,” Kinn pops a dip-covered chip into his mouth and Porsche watches as a bit catches on his lip. Porsche rubs it with his thumb and sucks it into his own mouth. It’s a habit he’s always done with everyone he’s ever been close to, but Kinn watches him with an intensity that is peculiar to him and him alone.

“Amused. Satisfied. Stretched,” Porsche turns to grab them both a bottle of water and places one down in front of each of them. “How’ve you been?”

Porsche glances over him and sees Kinn’s pristine pale skin down to his chest mole and he can’t help but take a sly dig, “Not too stretched?”

Kinn looks like he’s about to say something and someone turns on the overhead lighting, blinding them both and Porsche takes his chance to hoard his hummus and chips as someone shows Tawan into the kitchen.

His face falls a little to see Porsche there but he also sees him stealing food like he doesn’t get fed and he turns up a bright smile, “Hey, baby, I got lost looking for you.”

Kinn nods, “Sorry, I needed to talk business with Porsche and he’s always easy to find at 2 am, rifling through the kitchen.”

The implication of why he couldn’t just call Porsche in the morning like a normal person sits there and Tawan pulls his, similar but cotton, robe tighter.

It’s all frankly too childish for Porsche to contemplate, “I’ll be in your office at 7am, Khun. And stop taking my chips. Nya won’t make me anymore as it is.”

He still doesn’t bow his head as he leaves either.

I'm clearing out my fic rambles of things that I wrote that might have been things but probably won't be (at least for a while). I just need them out of my brain space so I can focus on the important stuff.

the memories of you, t/m?, 2k. Older Porsche/younger Kinn. A prologue I guess? It traces to the point at which the hypothetical story would start.

(Heads up, there is ten years' difference and they meet when Kinn is thirteen. nothing underage happens.)

Porsche has worked for the Theerapanyakul family a long time and even amongst all of those years, his loyalty has only ever been to the one who picked him up off the street, bloodied and broken in too many places, and told him he would help him take care of his brother. P’Chan had been his hero in more ways than one, but unfortunately, it’s been almost as many years since Porsche stood at the bottom of P'Chan's open grave and said his goodbyes to his mentor, replacing him as the head of security. Now pushing thirty-seven, he’s got the greys and the body aches that come with the life he’s lived.

He also knows that in and amongst all of it, he was little Kinn Theerapanyakul’s first love. Introduced at twenty-three to his charge’s younger brother, a pale little thirteen-year-old with braces and a bright smile, Porsche found him endearing in his openness. He never said a single word to Porsche for months but his eyes would always light up when Porsche walked into a room and he was distinctly quiet during their training sessions when Porsche would peel off his sweaty vest and wipe his face with it. More than once, Kinn had disappeared with a flushed face and an awkward boner passed off as needing to finish his homework. Porsche left him be because he was harmless. His crush made him interested in things he was not natural to, like gunmanship and knife fighting.

“You need to be as good a shot with your left as your right, Kinn,” Porsche bit his tongue not to call him, Little Dragon, his pet name for Kinn when they first met. Small, but fierce.

Kinn wasn’t a natural, but he was outstanding. And puberty finally blessed him. It cleared up his skin, and with his braces off, his winning smile became blinding. He was still a little scrawny as a teen so Porsche frequently had Nya, the compound chef, cook him up some more chicken and eggs which he tried to push off.

“I can’t eat anymore,” Kinn groused as he rubbed his little belly full of food.

“You need protein to rebuild your muscles. Can’t get strong on rice and salad,” Porsche reminded him.

“You don’t even eat this much,” Kinn whined and Porsche smiled.

“I’m not built to be a heavyweight. You could pack on some serious muscle if you wanted to, Little Dragon.”

Kinn flushes, “Don’t call me that.”

“Why, ‘cause it’s cute?” Porsche teased him, “You are the littlest dragon. Maybe one day you'll grow—”

“I’m grown,” Kinn volleyed with conviction and Porsche stopped because there was an iron to it that he’s never heard from Kinn.

“Are you now?” Porsche replied to ease the tension. “You won’t mind if we do ten proper rounds tomorrow then.”

Kinn exhaled because he’s bought himself a world of pain, but Porsche ruffled his hair, “Don’t be in such a hurry, Kinn, growing up is the worst thing you can do.”

Porsche had watched him grow and become a young man and he was proud. It was an awful day when Khun Korn had set his succession on Kinn’s still too slim shoulders. He smiled like he was grateful and honored, but Porsche watched as the light dimmed from his eyes. He was only eighteen. His ‘adulthood’ had coincided with a changing of mantles. No longer was Tankhun the heir to the family business, it was now Kinn, with all the knowledge that Porsche taught him and then some.

“Did you know?” Kinn breathed as they stood out on his suite balcony.

“I did,” Porsche told him honestly. He knew his work would transition from one heir to the other.

“Fuck you,” Kinn spat at him and Porsche accepted it with a shrug.

Kinn pushed him and said it again and Porsche did nothing to defend himself.

Porsche grabbed still thin wrists and pulled Kinn into him for the hug he didn’t get from his father, “You’re going to be okay; I promise, I’ll take care of you.”

Kinn sobbed for the life he would never have only once, buried in Porsche’s shoulder as he stroked his hair and rubbed his back.

Porsche cupped Kinn’s face when he emerged, puffy and red, and rubbed his cheeks with his thumbs, “There you go.”

Kinn has big brown eyes under thick eyebrows and they made Porsche smile and he stroked his hand over Kinn’s face. The air shifts and Kinn’s hands gripped tighter on Porsche’s waist.

Porsche was about to stop him when Kinn looked down at his lips, “Just once?”

Their dynamic was about to change completely. Porsche would stop being his teacher and shift into his bodyguard, his humor replaced by a list of requirements to ensure Kinn’s safety. They would never be Porsche and Little Dragon again.

In a way, Kinn now in a way looks exactly like the boy he met five years ago, but he’s also a man and Porsche understood him perfectly. He wanted a memory to hold onto. Porsche isn’t so cruel as to deny him that.

“Just once.” Because it’s stupid, irrational, and likely to get him fired and lose everything.

Porsche tipped Kinn’s face up by his chin and sealed his lips over Kinn’s. Kinn sighed and relaxed like it drained all the unhappiness away from him. He fumbles a bit as he opened his mouth and tried to tease Porsche, but it was clumsy, so Porsche worked with him, gentling him and pushing his tongue into Kinn’s mouth as he tugged on Porsche’s hips to bring him in closer. Teaching him as he had always taught him. And then Porsche could feel him pressing hard against his thigh as he licked Kinn’s soft palate and dragged his tongue over Kinn’s before he let them part with a slow kiss against Kinn’s lips. Kinn trembled and Porsche silently folded that up into himself because it was beautiful.

Kinn looked at him with a dazed expression and his lips were red.

“I’ll report to you 7 am sharp tomorrow, Khun Kinn.”

It’s a simple sentence, but it destroyed everything. Porsche was reassigned to Khun as if nothing had changed and Kinn disappeared to study abroad. Porsche only ever heard from him to have weekly updates via teleconference, no video, to keep him in the loop on his brother’s progress. It was as if Porsche was being held away by the length of an invisible stick and Kinn would not let him any closer.

He knows now that wasn’t the end, but it was the beginning of the end. The true end had come at when Kinn was twenty-three and he had come back from school and his year abroad in France, strong and more defined in himself and even more set on his feelings. Confronted with a man who knew what he wanted Porsche struggled to keep the line between them. Kinn wasn’t a child and he wouldn’t be contained.

“Porsche,” Kinn called him over and he walked up to the front of Kinn’s desk. He bowed politely and Kinn pressed his hands together under his chin, the rain a distant sound that prickled between them. “You were wounded on the last excursion.”

He had some fantastic bruising and there is a tense moment between them where Kinn expected him to raise his shirt and he did not.

“I appreciate your concern, Khun, but it’s nothing to fret over,” Porsche immediately realized he had set Kinn off. A rookie error.

“I don’t need you to define what my concerns are,” Kinn scolded him. “If my family is to remain protected you had best be up to the job and to prove it.”

Kinn motioned for Porsche to come and stand before him as he turned his chair away from his desk to make space for Porsche in front of him.

Porsche complied to save a fight and unbuttoned his suit vest, stripped it off and then his shirt. The biggest bruise bloomed ugly on his waist and up onto his ribs. It looked and felt like he had been hit with a boulder. Kinn’s fingers reached out and hovered over touching him. Porsche also realized that he’s softer in places than Kinn remembered, Porsche’s want and willingness to lean and hone his body had taken somewhat of a backseat due to his lessened workload. He’s still cut and his stomach ripples as he turns away from Kinn, but there is a soft overlay that cushions his stomach as Kinn grasps him and holds him by the pained part of his side.

“Ow,” Porsche can’t help it, and perversely, Kinn digs into it harder. Porsche pushes him off and Kinn grabs the back of his thigh and Porsche stumbles into him. Kinn hooks his hands around Porsche’s thighs and somehow hikes him up onto his lap in the chair.

Porsche is left to look down at Kinn, his thighs on either side of Kinn’s as Kinn held his hips, eyes trained on his bruise. He asked Porsche, “Did you kill them?”

“Of course, I killed them. They could have harmed the family.”

Kinn ducked and pressed his forehead against Porsche’s bare chest, “The family.”

Porsche yelped as strong fingers dig into his rear and he tried to pry Kinn loose, “Khun—”

“Fuck you,” Kinn told him once again, those big brown eyes coming up to scorn him. One hand loosens and grabbed Porsche by the back of the neck and yanked him down to press him against Kinn’s mouth. Unlike the clumsy eighteen-year-old, Kinn at twenty-three had practiced, and he stole Porsche’s breath away as he consumed him, tongue demanding entrance into his mouth, doing anything, including jabbing Porsche’s bruise to get it. Porsche gasped, startled and Kinn was inside. His grip meant that Porsche couldn’t go anywhere, he was left pinned as Kinn leaned up into him and repeated back to him the same kiss he was given when they kissed last, but it was not the same. It was not humble or kind. Kinn owned him and left him wrought and raw, breath heavy as Kinn finally let him go.

Porsche was about to speak, to curb the insanity, when Kinn hauls him up with strong, stronger than Porsche remembers, arms and carries him towards the bedroom. Porsche pushed at him, “Kinn.”

“I’m a better fuck than half the guys you’ve been with. If not, I’ll never say another word.”

Porsche should have ended it, but he didn’t. He could make infinite excuses: he was weak, he was lonely, it had been a long time, and Kinn was there. The only one that was true was that in that moment, Porsche wanted him. He forgot about the history, he forgot about his place in it all and he simply wanted the gorgeous man in front of him who made him feel special because five years had passed and Porsche was still at the forefront of his mind. Because it was Kinn.

He still remembers how he cried out when he came, shameless, and Kinn crowing victoriously he wrapped his fingers around Porsche’s throat to hold him back to Kinn’s chest. The window Kinn pressed him into was cold and his legs ached but his body shivered hotly. He mewled and shook and it was exhilarating and embarrassing because Kinn was right. He was a better lay, and within an afternoon, ten years of respect went down the drain. Not respect for Kinn, Porsche’s self-respect because Kinn was his charge, even when he wasn’t, and Porsche couldn’t keep it, or his legs, together.

Maybe Kinn thought that if they slept together things would change. Porsche would change. But he didn’t. He showered and dressed and he presented himself to Kinn’s bedraggled hair and sleep-rumpled face.

“You have a meeting at 10 am, Khun Kinn.”

Kinn glares at him, “You’re fired.”

Porsche nods, “Of course.”

His father put Porsche on Khun’s detail far away from Kinn until he left for a business trip that was supposed to last six months but it ended up being three years.

Porsche figures they must have it under control by this point so that when he greets Kinn now, it can be as his true guide and mentor.

Kinn gets out of his Maserati but the passenger side door also swings open and a man, a little older than Kinn but younger than Porsche, gets out with a wide, almost smarmy, smile.

Pete nudges him in the side, “That’s Khun Kinn’s boyfriend, right?”

Porsche has no idea, “I think so.”

“When he said he was bringing him home, I didn’t think he’d go through with it,” Pete murmurs but Porsche has Kinn pinned with a look. He doesn’t know what his face is saying but Kinn is staring back at him just as hard.

Pete reaches out first with a bow, “Khun Kinn.”

“Pete, Tawan, Pete is part of my brother’s detail under Porsche,” Kinn gestures to Porsche.

Porsche doesn’t bow, “I serve as the head of security under Khun Kinn’s employ.”

He lets his gaze slide over to Tawan, “You’ll understand if we have to make some adjustments while you stay here.”

His voice is thin and tight and Kinn barely conceals his glare. Porsche doesn’t care, Tawan seems none the wiser, “That seems reasonable, it was a very abrupt visit after all. I’ve been bugging Kinn to meet his family for months.”

Months. They were fucking the last time Kinn came home and Kinn looks at him while he makes the calculation. Not that he should even have to, Kinn isn’t his boyfriend or even his fuck buddy. He’s pretty sure Kinn has a detailed list about that rather than informing his head of security that he’s bringing an unvetted individual to the compound.

“There’s no problem, is there, Porsche?” Kinn smiles but it’s vacant and he wraps his hand around Tawan’s wrist like a shackle. Porsche eyes his hand and then looks at his face, “Why would there be?”

[glowingbadger]

Can I get some SFW and nsfw modern day Kaeya and Diluc stuff? Ty ty!

Damn I hadn't even thought about ModernAU Genshin before lol should be interesting- lesgoooo~

Side note- Genshin refuses to make actual sense of any of the ages of its characters, so I'm going with, like... mid-20's, semi-recently out of college for these two.

Kaeya, Diluc x GN Reader - ModernAU! headcanons

SFW (nsfw below the cut)

Kaeya:

- He's in law school, and has a real knack for discovering hilarious and exploitable legal loopholes. It's also a field that suits him for a number of reasons- it makes use of his infectious natural charm, and keeps him entertained with the 'stories' you happen upon working with people's legal and personal problems. He's also the best dressed in any of his classes, and in any given courtroom. Those who know luxury clothing when they see it can't help incredulously wondering how he affords his wardrobe while still technically a student.

- Kaeya is such a shitposter. He habitually 'likes' any and everything you post on any and all social media platforms- but he'll also comment "mmm who's that sexy thing" beneath the most innocuous images of you. He sends you dumb memes at concerning hours of the night- frequently while intoxicated, and especially when you've had a stressful day.

- As a partner, Kaeya is surprisingly loyal. His friends (and yours) will joke about him being a total slut, how you must have to keep him on such a short leash. He doesn't take offense to this though, and in a way, he gets a kick out of being perceived this way. But in truth, since he's been with you, he's never once considered anyone else. When you're alone together, there's a warmth in his gaze and a gentleness to his touch that no one else has ever seen.

- Everywhere Kaeya goes, he seems to "know a guy." He's always got an in- and an elaborate story of how he met this person and why they're, frankly, worryingly open to doing him favors. It's rare that a date with Kaeya goes by without you being offered free drinks, free desserts, a better seat at a restaurant or theatre, etc. Generally, when pressed, he'll wave a hand and say, "Babe come on, you know me- I just love making friends." Though you've heard whispers that some of his "friends" are just people who can't afford to be on his bad side.

Diluc:

- Was on track to become a police officer for some time, but it took barely a month from completing his training for him to become entirely disillusioned with the entire system. He quit (bluntly and forcefully, I might add) and now works as a P.I. His quietly thoughtful and serious nature puts clients at ease while allowing him to examine each case efficiently and effectively. I also figure we'd still carry over the "bartending at night" angle from the games- it's a great way to network and gain intel while undercover.

- His phone is basically a device for work, the news, and sometimes for contacting you, and absolutely nothing else. He hates the constant noise of social media, and refuses to jump on trends when things move too fast to get meaningfully invested in anything. Still, while he tries to angle his screen so you won't see it, he has set a picture of you as his wallpaper.

- Diluc loves the quiet, domestic side of your relationship. He treasures things like cooking together, cuddling on the couch with a movie, or even working on chores and projects together. He comes from money (though he doesn't talk about it much), so the more down to earth life that he's made with you is precious to him, and he appreciates all of the little moments that reaffirm your bond. That said, he does have an excellent memory for things like birthdays, anniversaries and such, and he is not shy about spending some cash on such occasions.

- Your friends all think he's super hot (and they're right), but are also a bit intimidated by him. Once, you tried showing them a sweet message he sent you drowning in heart emojis and they insisted that couldn't be him. Now there's a running joke in your friend group about your secret side-guy who leaves you nice voicemails when you've had a bad day and has flowers sent to your work- since they're convinced someone as serious and put-together as Diluc couldn't be your incredibly affectionate boyfriend.

NSFW 18+ v

Kaeya:

- Kaeya loves showing you off, especially in an outfit he bought just for you. It seriously turns him on to watch you over a nice dinner out wearing something a bit risque that he selected for you, noting the appreciative glances in your direction from others nearby, and knowing that you're his. The way his line of sight wanders your body all night makes it exceedingly clear that he can't wait to tear that lovely outfit off of you when he has you alone.

- Definitely the adventurous and experimental sort when it comes to kink, and he especially enjoys a bit of exhibitionism or semi-public fooling around. During a similar date night, with you looking so positively delicious across the table, he'll watch with a wolfish smirk as you squirm from the vibrations of a toy he pushed inside of you earlier that evening. He reclines in his seat and levels his gaze on you, saying, "My, darling, are you feeling alright? You look a bit flushed..." as his hand fiddles with the toy's remote. Then, once he gets you home or- even better -to a hotel, he'll press you against the window as he fucks you into panting, mindless bliss. Sometimes he doesn't even want to wait that long, and he'll find somewhere to park his car and fuck you in his back seat

- Kaeya has sending dick pics and lewd selfies down to an art. Seriously, his pictures are beautiful- of course helped by the fact that his body is gorgeous as well. Naturally, he loves to receive erotic images of you as well, and will save each and every one of them for "later use." If you're into it, he'll gladly send you a video of himself stroking his cock just for you, while describing every filthy thing he imagines doing to you in explicit detail.

Diluc:

- Generally speaking, Diluc wants to wine and dine you before the spicy business. He's a romantic at heart, and he wants you to know that he adores every part of you- and your body just happens to be one item on that list. He's not as obvious with his desires as some, but lingering gazes across the dinner table, or a hand at the small of your back trailing around your waist, all make his intentions clear. There's no doubt your lovely evening together will end with his strong body pressing you against his matress, his lips at your throat and your thighs clinging around his hips.

- He's generally fairly private about his sex life- not shy, per say, but insistent that your mutual pleasure is something for only the two of you. He's also not likely to sext or send lewd photos unless you really, really want them (and he's kind of adorably awkward about it at first even if he does try for you)- but if you tease him by sending him something naughty, his mind short circuits. His face burns crimson and he stops whatever he was doing and just stares at your beautiful body on the screen, as though he can already feel you in his hands.

- Diluc is a busy man, so there's likely to be stretches when the time and energy for sex simply isn't there. But once he's wrapped up a case and he finally has some time to breathe, you can bet he'll lift you into his arms and carry you to the bedroom the first chance he gets. You might even start to suspect that it's a way for him to vent his work stress when his thick cock pounds into you so nice and steady and deep- but you're certainly not about to complain, especially when you've been without him for so long.

[blzzrdstryr]

Alone together

Yandere!Dainsleif x gn!reader

Wordcount: 2011

CW: Yandere themes, stalking, possessive behavior, PTSD

Khaenri’ah burns. Skies turn red, as tall pillars of smoke arise in the place of ruined towers. People cry and beg and scream.

“Ah, [First] , you came to help” Lisa greets you, waking up from her half-slumbering state: “Welcome, welcome. I already made some tea for you, just let me”. The librarian stretches and yawns akin to a cat, after she stands up from the counter, flashing you one of her charming smiles afterwards: “Go and fetch it. We will work after the tea”.

Something in her voice leaves no room for argument, so you sit at the offered table, eyes immediately shifting to the nearby window, mostly out of habit. Skies are blue and clear, buildings are whole and steady, people are laughing and cheering outside. It’s a sight that brings you heartache and comfort at the same time - no one should be subjected to what you had to live through, whether they worship the seven or not.

“And here it is”, the witch says, holding a tray with a steaming teapot, cups and a plate of cupcakes resting on top of it. The next fifteen minutes are spent drinking and carelessly chatting about everything and nothing in particular: Lisa is an excellent company, adept at maintaining the conversation interesting and atmosphere comfortable, her wide array of knowledge and keen intellect keeping you on your toes throughout the exchange despite the advantage of experience you happen to possess.

The brief tea party is then followed by the shared work of deciphering ancient documents, the librarian sometimes turns to you asking for the meaning of one word or another - most of the texts are written in Khaenri’ahn or archaic forms of the modern languages.

She doesn’t pry why you happen to possess such intrinsic knowledge on the long dead language, nor does she ask anything about your star-shaped pupils - she must have seen the descendants of your compatriots, then. You know there live at least two - one with tan skin and a warm smile that never reaches his cold eyes and a blonde youth with the powers of khemia rolling under his palms. There’s no courage to approach them.

You in turn share Khaenri’ah’s greatest legacy - knowledge and science that helped your nation to outpace the deities and turn them against you. It’s a nice feeling - making sure that the thing your people cherished the most will not be forgotten, even if it’s given to archon worshippers. Five centuries ago the thought of educating Teyvatians would be laughable to you - there’s no use in it, they will continue to believe in their gods - you would dismiss it, but now nationless you have no choice but to do it - it’s the only way to keep the products of your people alive. To keep the memory of your people alive.

Khaenri’ah burns. You run across the collapsing city, eyes growing wider as you see people slowly morphing into something. It’s bestial and feral, primitive. Your breath hitches, you want to scream.

“[First]?”, it’s Lisa again, she lightly taps your shoulder, a hint of concern creeps into her voice

“Ah? Everything is fine, I just zoned off” you reply, too quickly and too strained to be believable. Who could have known that even after five hundred years the flashbacks of what happened on that day will still haunt you? They trail your thoughts like determined hounds, sneaking up on you in the most inopportune times. One moment you are talking to someone, the second you relive the fall of Khaenri’ah. The memory feels too real to be a fantasy, leaving your thoughts messy, anxious and disordered, as you shake and try to calm yourself.

“Are you sure?”, she stands up from her seat and makes a couple of quick steps to you, taking a good look at your face: you must look horrible, you think, those episodes always leave you panting and on the verge of panic.

“Maybe we should continue tomorrow, there’s no use in haste, it’s not like our documents will run away”, Lisa continues, massaging circles into your shoulder - her hand is warm and comforting, grounding. You want to thank her for this - the understanding tone and the way she caresses you right now, helping you to keep the link with reality, but the words get stuck in your throat - it’s too much and too scary, to admit what just has happened not only to her, but to yourself too.

“Yes”, you finally force out of yourself, nodding along the way: “it would be for the better”. Your voice is still too tense and strained, filled with the grief for the people and places long past, but Lisa, to your relief, doesn’t point out any of it. You quickly gather your belongings and leave the library, almost forgetting to bid a farewell to the witch as you exit.

The sun begins to set as you make your way to the rented house, it’s small and nondescript, a complete opposite of the one you had in Liyue. You used to work as a scholar in the harbor before He found you again - you fled your spacious and cozy apartments in less than a day, leaving almost all of your possessions behind.

The thoughts of what had happened still buzz in your mind - you want to scream and cry, you want to vent to someone, but the words you will utter will be in pure khaenri’ahn they won’t understand you.

You think of finally approaching that star-eyed cavalry captain, Kaeya, maybe he saw what you witnessed too. You think of Albedo, who carries the same energy all khaenri’ahn constructs do. You want to ask him about his creator, you want to talk with him about Khemia. You think of Barbatos who wears the form of the cheerful bard, you want to accuse and scream and hit him.

You do nothing as the power leaves your body the same second - it’s scary, so scary to verbalize that, to talk and share and relive, and approaching any of those three means doing exactly so.

You stay inside instead, calming your beating heart and kicking out intrusive thoughts, and only when your pulse returns to the norm you allow yourself to finally stand up. The world is shaky and unreliable, but some things stay the same. Your room for example - you have a habit of leaving things in specific places, as a way to keep you grounded. There’s a comfort in familiarity - the one you desperately need.

Your eyes shift from one object to the other, until they stumble across something that sends your heart racing again. The cup you use is shifted by a couple of inches, facing you by the opposite side, there’s a flower and a note lying beside it. The words are in khaenri’ahn, the handwriting is familiar too.

Khaenri’ah burns. Your lungs do too from the sheer overexertion and fatigue, but you keep pushing further and further - you can’t give up yet, not when He needs you. A name forms on your lips.

Thousand of thoughts form in your mind, they’re panicked, fast and disjointed - flee again, cut and dye your hair, change the name too - you can start over in Inazuma again, it’s a closed country, so if you will manage to get in, it will be harder for him to track you again.

Who are you kidding?

Unlike you, he has a core of steel, an unwavering determination to settle things his way or die trying - be it opposing Celestia or gaining you. It was always like that, with the Twilight sword being stubborn to a fault - he never budged or surrendered, not when Khaenri’ah was still proudly standing, and not now, when there’s nothing but the charred remains of your homeland.

You met him when you got accepted into the Royal order, where a Konungr paired you with Him. The twilight sword was unrelenting in his pursuits even then, a trait that you both admired and feared in equal volume. The collapse of your nation only worsened this quality - if back then he was striving to supervise and oversee everything, then the tragedy exacerbated his controlling tendencies even further.

You were travelling together for the first fifty years after the fall, both affected by the same curse, as he started getting possessive. It began in innocuous things: asking where you were, what you were doing, you didn’t pay much attention back then, celestial wrath still fresh in your memory - he was just cautious you told yourself, it’s a safety measure.

But then these safety measures grew from simply inquiring about your day to accompanying you almost everywhere, and then it all culminated in Him locking you up, to keep you away from leaving.

You escaped then, and avoided him ever since, departing your residence the second you caught the wind of his possible proximity. Years turned into decades that later morphed into centuries, and you began to grow lax - he was getting closer and closer to you with each turn. The first time you had a suspicion of him being near you packed your things the same second and spent countless days traversing the land by hidden passageways, careful not to leave any traces, and now, now you still sit in your house, despite having evidence of him knowing where you are.

Maybe you grew tired of the cat and mouse game, maybe you just accepted that your recapture is inevitable and all your little escapes do nothing, but set it off for a couple of months, or maybe you’re just that lonely. It doesn’t matter, really, as you make no attempt to do anything - it’s useless, he already knows your location.

Khaenri’ah burns. You cry and you hate yourself - for weakness, for helplessness, for still being alive and sane. He stays near you as a silent shadow, his blue eyes shifting from your crying face to the wreckage of the city. There are no words shared between you that day - you’re crushed and empty, yet bare and aching at the same time.

“Dainsleif”, you greet him, once you hear the squeak of the opening door. He doesn’t look that different from five hundred years ago, but now his eyes are both more tired and alive with fervent light.

“[First]”, he simply replies, your name rolling off his tongue like a prayer - there’s adoration and worship in his tone. He almost falls to his knees, as he takes your hands in his, capturing them in a steel trap.

“[First], I finally have you, [first]”, he murmurs, bringing your palm to his face. You don’t resist him, knowing it’s futile. His skin feels just like all those years ago - rough and dry, weathered down by the demanding lifestyle he leads. He gives a shy peck to your inner wrist, blue eyes intently watching you as he does so.

“Long time no see, Dain”, you start, trying to diffuse the tension in the air, as he grabs you by the chin and forces you into a kiss. He kisses with the desperation of a dying person, one of his hands firmly holding your head, the other starts to explore your body. It feels obscene. You are lightheaded, when he finally parts and hugs you again, still chanting “[First]” over and over again.

You allow him this liberty too, feeling a prick of pity in your heart. You know what it is - to be the sole survivor, too see your own people crumble and fall and transform. You know that he returns to that place again and again, reliving the same moment against his will. You know that he gasps and shivers when the memories get too real and overwhelming.

You both are children of the fallen nation, and there's no person in the world who could understand you better than he does. Maybe, you shouldn't have run, you think, listening to Dainsleif speak in Khaenri’ahn. There's a chain of connection between you two, it's unbreakable, forged in shared losses, tears and pain.

Khaenri’ah burns. It burns in both of you.