Open RP: Smutty nonsense

[avali]

 DIRTY THINGS GO HERE

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Open RP (non-smutty version)

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MAKE DECISIONS FOR ME

[bloodspeaker]

I KNOW YOU TOO WELL

[tradeprince]

[Vehiron doesn't have a problem with spying on his fellow Magisters. He doesn't have much of a problem with anything, actually, except maybe for boxes, or closets or cramped spaces and heights, and, of course, when people look at him All Wrong.

And Adrasteius always does: judges and pushes him, threatens to ruin his fun or lock him up somewhere cramped enough to make his skin itch. It's frustrating, and irritating, and turns his thoughts darker than he means for them to be.

--well, that's not true. They're as dark as always, it just pushes him to act on them, instead.

It's just around sunset that he slinks off to the gardens just outside of Murder Row, hoping to catch sight of Adrasteius meditating after a long day of stale bureaucratic banter.]

u do u do

[bloodspeaker]

[Adra's sitting there, on a bench, his legs folded up one under the other. It had been a trying day in council, as he had spent the better part of two hours arguing passionately about the situation in the Ghostlands. Supplies were scarce, and the people stationed there needed relief. The council had mostly yawned in response.

Their yawns had deepened when he switched tactics to discuss the matter of the enormous orphan population, and the strategies he had developed to ameliorate the problem. Plans for an orphanage were shrugged at; ideas for a banquet were met with interested looks until Adrasteius mentioned the purpose; etc.

In other words, it was all just business as usual.

His mouth twitches in irritation as he sits, reviewing the meeting's many injustices and indignities. Vehiron's bored, sneering face is prominent among that review.]

Chloebutt;

[captains]

OK HERE WE GO

[totallytrustworthy]

[Easy mission, easy money. Chloe's run harder jobs with her eyes closed, but never with someone new to the business. Not that Kirk isn't capable (he is, undeniably so) but in this case she's quick to shoulder the bulk of the lift work for herself, leaves the distraction to Jim, and meets up with him no more than ten minutes later at the entrance to the museum with her hands in her pockets despite the knowledge that somewhere off behind her, there's a silent alarm blaring out in distress.

Casual as she looks on the way out the door, it's not until they get into the alleyway across the street that the rush of adrenaline finally hits as a cop car passes by, and she drags him roughly out of sight into the shadows.]

[captains]

[He catches himself against her, against the rough wall of the alley with a laugh, adrenaline making him reckless, in too good of a mood, and he doesn't even spare the cop car a glance before he's running a few fingers feather soft over her hip.

It's all joking tone and wide, bright grins] Well, that's not what I thought we came here for.

[And the amusement doesn't fade, and the question he asks is just for the sake of asking, of making sure. Because he doesn't actually have a doubt in his mind that she's gotten it. She's better at this than he is, he after all, kept getting caught. That may have been half of the point, but Kirk always had a problem of gloating far too early]

You get it?

post-ending, new planet, only survivors? doesn't have to be smut but JUST IN CASE...

[contemplative]

uh oh I am really sorry ha ha no I'm not that's a lie I'm not sorry at all

[fireinthecourtyard]

Ow.

Ow.

--Okay ow.

[Garrus flinches beneath the press of her her fingers, the bundled bit of gauze propped up against the fractured bits of his exoskeleton left exposed on the right side of his brow. He's not in as bad a shape as he was just after Shepard--

Well, he's had time to recover, anyway. Physically. Everything else is unnecessary given the circumstances. He's tried, from the first moment his wounds eased up, to get enough of a view of the landscape to pinpoint just where they are, but it's an exercise in futility and he knows it. ]

You know it wouldn't kill me if you skipped this for a day.

Or five.

eeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEE

[contemplative]

You need to heal. I am only trying to optimize the process.

[ it's a simple statement, direct and efficient, but there's the faint hint of something else beneath it. it isn't much, just shy of being urgent - but it's as close as she ever comes to expressing anything.

he needs to be physically healthy to deal with the new environment, survive off the land as they'll (he'll) soon have to when the ship's supplies deplete. but that's something simple and straightforward; mend wounds on a schedule. keep cuts clean and hydrated, bones set and free of stress.

the emotional side is different. she doesn't know how to fix it. frustrated isn't the right word; at a loss, maybe, confused. she can't very well rely on him to adapt to the challenges of a new planet well when he's still thinking about the citadel.

she's working as she speaks, never pausing in her work tending to his injured brow, all his complaints aside. ]

Five days without proper treatment might leave the wounds susceptible to infection.

terrible things are afoot here

[neverfirst]

holy water cannot help you now & a thousand armies couldn't keep me out

WHY IS THIS HAPPENING

[totallytrustworthy]

Shit. Shit, how long has it been since Nate lost his mind and decided to take off in the direction opposite of where they should be heading? Stuck in Shambhala with Lazarevic on the prowl and god only knows what else. Bullets spent and only a shoddy, rotted crossbow stuck in her bloody palm as a means of defense. She should just go on without him. Logically it's the only option left if she intends to get out of this mess alive, but then again she can't remember the last logical choice she'd been able to make-- not when it comes to Nate.

Chloe turns on her heel, rubs nervous lines over the side of her cheek that leave muddy tracks in their wake. The stone floor beneath her doesn't leave much in the way of room to pace: One half-decayed balcony with a painfully clear view over the sprawling valley straight towards the exit. They'd only just managed to slip free of an execution, and with neither Nate or Elena in sight, Chloe's not keen on their quickly dimming odds.

because it is marvelous and this is horrible harry is horrible

[neverfirst]

He's not dead, because being dead would be easy, even welcome at this point. Naturally, life, God, the universe, karma, whatever is out there, it's decided he can't have it easy. He can't have what he wants. He isn't good enough for it, isn't heroic or noble enough to receive all the things he wants or thinks he deserves. He isn't Nathan Drake.

Fury drives Harry away from the wall. It shoves him forward in spite of his injuries, and when he pauses in a doorway to catch his breath, his breath catches on the sight of Chloe.

Energy courses through him, sudden and vibrant and full of desperate loathing and a violent, undeniable need to win something. It strengthens him, and he pushes away from the wall, stalking toward her as best he can. He shuffles a little, trying to disguise his limp; putting weight on his knee makes it throb. His hand curves around his side where every breath make his ribs ache. While he feels these pains, he doesn't really register them. He is too focused.

He doesn't want to announce himself. He wants to slam her against the nearest wall and capture her between rough stones and his body. For a moment, he considers that this is a cruel thing to want. Then he realizes he doesn't care. He pushes her against the wall (he doesn't quite slam her, as if his body can't allow him to really hurt her even though he wants to) and presses himself against her back and a gun to her ribcage, angled to send a bullet into her heart. "Hello, love," he breathes in her ear, waiting for that delicious moment when she'll tense against him.

Order AU | Origin

[totallytrustworthy]

It was by far the most bizarre job she'd ever been sent out on. Not the request itself, or the Babylonian jewelry that she'd plucked from the hands of a wealthy old collector in Venice, but rather the contacts themselves: all suits and silk ties, tinted shades in the dead of night. It's enough to give her the creeps.

And she's slept in cursed ruins.

But the payoff's good. Better than, actually, given that there's a follow up offer attached to the briefcase Chloe's quick to wrap her fingers around. She'd been planning a trip to the states for nearly seven months, baited by a few solid gigs in the Midwest. The sort of thing that's more of an excuse for her need to stay on the move than a matter of money. It's not about the money. It's not, so how she finds herself accepting the nameless lackey's invitation (against better judgment and common sense) isn't something Chloe can manage to pinpoint even hours after the fact as the heels of her boots click out a rushed, uneven tempo across unfamiliar polished stone floors.

Re: Order AU | Origin

[chartom]

Talbot hasn't been long in the business, but long enough to appreciate the rarity of good work. Bare competence is all they can afford to screen for in the recruiting process. Talent is special. Talent gets noticed.

Which is why, upon safe delivery of her charge, Chloe Frazer has earned herself just that: notice, from the highest seat in the Order.

He awaits her at the end of one of the outlying corridors eventually leading into the heart of the underground, an eye on his watch until her footsteps echo down the passage.

[totallytrustworthy]

All right, at least this one's not hiding his eyes. That's a plus.

Chloe shoves her thumbs through the belt loops of her trousers when she's close enough to stop and still leave more than a fair amount of breathing room between them. She's young. Rough and raw out of necessity; cockiness and pressure win battles before they start more often than not. In her line of work that's a damn good thing.

"You the one I have to thank for the quickest, creepiest payoff I've ever had?"

GARRUS; let's be real there is no prompt good enough for awkward sex

[captains]

one of your ladiiiiesssss

[linguistician]

howard.

[ex_purviews793]

so i'm p sure this isn't smutty but idk it's a romantic locale and booze YOU NEVER KNOW

[ex_purviews793]

[ most things in clint's life these days are weird. the hulk and men in iron suits and superheroes from the 40's are, frighteningly enough, the less weird parts of it. most of that is down to science, at least, even if the details are way above his pay grade.

then there are the other things: the norse gods and their accessories that tear holes through time and space. the aliens had been the first guests, but apparently stark's stunt with the wormhole hadn't closed the book on that chapter. the lab coats called them fissures, gaps that let things leak through - clint called them inconvenient. the guests had been inane so far, at least. windows that glimpsed the past, the occasional stray antique. the day howard stark ended up in 2012 was the first and last incident of an actual person getting through; the scientists fixed the problem real quick after that, but there was still one extra stark outstanding.

keeping howard stark in shield's basement didn't last long, of course. eventually he bartered his way out of his government cave, and soon after that shield was utilizing him for more than just building things. this was one of those uses - some kind of tech-related infomining, played out in elaborate historical buildings and museums throughout europe, the kinds with armed guards and more money than clint could shake a stick at.

infomining meaning, in layman's terms, schmoozing. that was howard's job, anyway. clint's job was playing bodyguard, but it felt a hell of a lot more like babysitting. tonight was a prime example: wrangling howard away from the party had nearly made him break cover (because it's not a security guard's job to slap his boss upside the head, really), but eventually he'd given up on getting logic into him and gotten booze into him instead. not that it took much encouragement.

it's when howard's nearly fall-down drunk that he's got a socially acceptable excuse to (professionally) manhandle his "boss" out of the limelight, up the old school lifts and ornate hallways, and very unceremoniously dump him on the similarly ornate king-sized bed. then it's back to easy routines, checking the perimeter of their adjoined rooms and checking in with hq. he settles in at the fancy (and uselessly small) table before flipping open the laptop, and then - almost as an afterthought, definitely without even looking - he tosses an overpriced bottle of water at howard's head. ]

NO ONE EVER KNOWS WITH HOWARD

[fatherofinnovention]

[Twelve different numbers in his pocket, one of them a mathematical equation meant to be a solution to something he can't remember except for the way that magnificent bombshell's bright red lipstick formed around the words as they slipped out and into his ear. He's forgotten more than just that, though: why S.H.I.E.L.D. sent him here, how long he's been chatting it up on the front lines, how many empty glasses he's tossed off onto the floor. Clint's hand is a distant tug, the shift in scenery nothing more than running colors till he's face down in down, fingers curling into and catching on recognizably (even to his drunk mind) expensive fabric.

And a few minutes later, he's pegged in the back of the head with a wayward water bottle. Perfect.

Plastered and barely able to stand, he still knows there's only one fella in the joint willing to throw quite literally anything at Howard Walter Stark.]

Jesus Christ, pal, watch it, would you?

hello

[flynninomite]

hi hr is rpomt

[totallytrustworthy]

8million years late I am leaving you a real response: DO WHAT YOU WILL OR DON'T

[totallytrustworthy]

She's not angry about it, she tells herself, with her fingertips at his back gouging out livid red lines under the tangled fabric of his shirt - salt from his sweat trapped under her nails, stinging her skin. The streets of Istanbul's old town district aren't particularly crowded this late at night. Scarce enough that the sound of sirens somewhere off in the distance carries, reverberates off the old wooden buildings and bores into the back of her skull with the reminder that Harry turned up alone at a rendezvous point meant for three.

But she's not angry, pinning him to the wall of a too-small alleyway between buildings, teeth on his tongue till she tastes metal.

Not upset in the slightest.

whatever you know what this is for

[alittlesweptup]

[totallytrustworthy]

She's colder than usual today. Something to do with a long set of flights from London, most likely, but even after catching the shipment of raw, crystal-pure diamonds-- even with just the two of them (which usually keeps the bite out of her temper)-- Frazer doesn't waste time with niceties: checks into their hotel with a practiced sort of smile that's flashed at everyone but Cutter, moves through the polished cream lobby without bothering to take a touch of it in, finds her room and doesn't bother dismissing him, leaving the door wide open as she moves inside.

Shrugs out of her tailored, black coat and leaves the low, low back of her dress exposed. Sleek muscles and dark skin broken by a strink of thin, carefully placed diamonds.

She's used his hands for undoing dresses more times than she's had him firing guns: he ought to know well enough without instruction.