ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴏᴄᴋ ᴍᴏᴅs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
goldmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
peacockstop2025-09-15 09:00 pm
goldmods) wrote in peacockstop2025-09-15 09:00 pm
Entry tags:
TDM 011
【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-star resort and casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
We are thrilled to announce that the Golden Peacock will be embracing autumn with a special outing. Current and new guests are invited to join us for a refreshing outdoor experience where participants can unplug, unwind, and connect with nature. During this time, all Watches will be disabled to the most basic functions (texting, calls, checking chip account) in order to encourage guests to disconnect.
Please look forward to two weeks of finding yourself amongst the trees. We hope you enjoy your stay, and have a fan-CAMP-stic time. 】
CAMPING
GETTING OFF THE GRID
As the resort moves into what it claims is autumn, the days grow shorter. The projected sun in the Vale sets in the afternoon, after which a faint chill falls. Then there’s the most excessive transformation of all – a portion of the Vale has transformed into a campground complete with a scenic lake, seemingly overnight. Statues nearby have been dressed up with flannel jackets and suspenders. Folksy banjo fills the air without any discernible source.
A section of the campgrounds have been reserved for tents. These tents vary in size, shape, and supplies. All tents, regardless of quality, are supplied with sex toys and lube. Staff and long-standing guests all agree — pretending to live in the wilderness and 'rough it' for a while is thrilling. This is what the peasants feel like all the time!
A section of the campgrounds have been reserved for tents. These tents vary in size, shape, and supplies. All tents, regardless of quality, are supplied with sex toys and lube. Staff and long-standing guests all agree — pretending to live in the wilderness and 'rough it' for a while is thrilling. This is what the peasants feel like all the time!
HOME ON THE RANGE
Welcome to the Peacock Campgrounds! Nicknamed the Stomping Grounds by long-standing guests. Rustic and right off a sparkling lake, guests will find everything they need to live in the wilderness. Staff have expertly set up fire pits, benches, hammocks, and a wooden shed to act as a tool depository. There's even an outhouse, which is a real novelty to many of the long-standing guests. Do they just... squat over that hole and do their business? How wild!
Unlike previous resort-sponsored excursions, guests are expected to manage without the help of staff. That pile of wood won't be replenished once used; guests will have to go chop down trees and split their own. Food won't magically appear in their tents regardless of rank. Camping is all about living off the land. Though staff make themselves scarce to make the experience feel real, they lurk in the shadows, discreetly providing necessary tools and fixing broken equipment so guests won't struggle too much. It isn't fun if it's real hardship, after all!
Unlike previous resort-sponsored excursions, guests are expected to manage without the help of staff. That pile of wood won't be replenished once used; guests will have to go chop down trees and split their own. Food won't magically appear in their tents regardless of rank. Camping is all about living off the land. Though staff make themselves scarce to make the experience feel real, they lurk in the shadows, discreetly providing necessary tools and fixing broken equipment so guests won't struggle too much. It isn't fun if it's real hardship, after all!
ACTIVITIES
TWO WEEKS OF ROUGHING IT
Camping can't be all about survival. Where's the fun in that? Before 'leaving', the staff arrange activities and events for guests to enjoy. A wooden bulletin board outlines times for group hikes, camping experiences, and wilderness delights. Adirondack chairs line the edge of the lake and a few tire swings hang over the water, tied to strong tree branches. For the first week and a half the weather is pleasant and sunny. Perfect for camping.
At night, acoustic guitars and other wooden instruments come out so that guests can make music around the bonfire. Projected stars dapple the night sky, forming various constellations sourced from guest worlds. The moon enters a different phase each night, shining a gentle silver across the campgrounds. Why not pull your sweetheart in and cuddle beneath the night sky? It's so romantic.
At night, acoustic guitars and other wooden instruments come out so that guests can make music around the bonfire. Projected stars dapple the night sky, forming various constellations sourced from guest worlds. The moon enters a different phase each night, shining a gentle silver across the campgrounds. Why not pull your sweetheart in and cuddle beneath the night sky? It's so romantic.
HOWLING
CALL OF THE WILD
Temperatures drop drastically at night as the camping excursion nears its end. Nights become so chilly that morning dew frosts over, crunching beneath guest feet. Every day the light and its warmth set a little bit earlier. Staff remain elusive and do not provide warmer blankets or clothes for guests, leaving them to cuddle for warmth or find other ways to sleep comfortably during nightly cold snaps.
The moon hits its apex on the final night of camping. Unlike the other nights, this full moon shines blood red. The Vale stills under this ominous sign, silent. Snowflakes begins to fall, spreading an endless clean sheet across the campgrounds. That reflected pink hue is inescapable.
The moon hits its apex on the final night of camping. Unlike the other nights, this full moon shines blood red. The Vale stills under this ominous sign, silent. Snowflakes begins to fall, spreading an endless clean sheet across the campgrounds. That reflected pink hue is inescapable.
OOC NOTES
▶ BLANKET CW: altered states; eyes (descriptions only, incl. eye injury); exhibitionism; hunting (incl. hunting fantasy creatures); orgies; public sex; survival; temperature play; tentacles; transformation; violence
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. Suits will not manifest until characters are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's September event. Camping will ICly begin September 15th and end October 3rd.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention! If you would be interested in a game invitation, you can note that in your comment header.
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. Suits will not manifest until characters are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's September event. Camping will ICly begin September 15th and end October 3rd.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention! If you would be interested in a game invitation, you can note that in your comment header.
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
4 pls!
Soaked down to the bone and protecting his dry clothing in a neatly crafted rucksack, Quincy plods through the campgrounds; his muscular, broad figure stands out, every hulking inch reminiscent of a bear prowling through the forest for something to eat. But he doesn’t stop to sort through what remains of the rations; he is drawn toward a semi-tented fire, smelling smokey wood and catching sight of dancing shadows amid flecking orange. He takes his time working through, searching for useful supplies now that his tent has turned into a useless lump. Probably whipped away by the wind at this point.
The rain has stopped but everything is still wet. As the night deepens, so does the cold. Each breath makes the throat raw and chest ache.
Mud squelches beneath handmade leather boots. That sound harrows his arrival, leaning down and peering into the dry clutch of tenting by the fire. He is drenched from head to toe. Blond hair has been slicked back from a handsome face with a few wet, loose curls falling across a clean forehead. He is, despite the iciness, bare-chested. Water rivets down large, sculpted pectorals, crafting rivers along muscular topography down to his thick waist. While soaked, his slacks do nothing to hide the muscularity of his long legs; they cling, revealing how every centimeter of this man is big.
Normally he would not bother a stranger, but the storm is too aggressive to properly find shelter and start his own fire even though the rain has temporarily subsided. And, despite the great deal of essence that churns through his body, Quincy’s lips carry a hint of blue from creeping chill.
The rucksack in his burly arms shifts. Inside are dry clothes and a few other helpful items, so hopefully his imposing will be softened.
“… Room for someone else?”
(careless whisper sax)
Another storm like the one earlier might put him in the same boat as others whose meager lean-tos were swept away. Some of those had even spent a little time regrouping in his tent while he tended to the fire to help them keep warm, and since then, one by one, strangers left with more faces more familiar to them. Phainon, reassured as he saw them off, had since resolved to pass the quiet, cold hours of the night in solitude, his thoughts smoldering with the embers of his campfire.
The mud is starting to grow sticky as the temperature drops; it rips as boot treads extract themselves from the clinging muck, squelches into the gaps as a heavy stride sinks each step. Phainon's eyes chase the sound of his approach, a quick and stern glance, only for an understated surprise to soften his expression.
Phainon has eyes, so of course he sees him; firelight licks up skin gleaming with wet, carving shadows between and behind each curve and swell of muscle. His curls of golden hair that lay across his brow kindle a feeling that makes it... complicated, to let his gaze dwell.
Merciful Mnestia, he's ever been an avid admirer of the athletic form, but this stranger is easily the biggest man he's seen here, and his lungs have briefly forgotten how to fill to capacity. Phainon has already been staring too long. He does his best to recover, but there's a hard consonant lurking at the start of his answer that sounds suspiciously like trying to clear his throat.
"Please," he motions a hand toward the bedroll, frowning in concern. His lips look a little dusky, as though the chill has settled into his bones. "You look like you could use it more than me, friend."
As Phainon speaks, his breath puffs in little plumes before his mouth. That only speaks to how cold the night has gotten, considering he yet remains by a lively campfire. "You're completely soaked," and Kephale preserve, the way his sodden clothes leave breathtakingly little to the imagination is searing itself deeply into his brain, "Were that I had something dry to lend you."
Unfortunately, all he has is that bedroll, and a thermos of hot cocoa. The rest he's doled out, piece by piece, to others in need.
oh my 😳
"... Thank you. Sorry for the intrusion."
He settles down beside the other man before combing fingers through wet hair to wring out stubborn droplets. What had felt like a comfortable clutch before feels snug with Quincy's addition; close as they are now, the light hair that runs along his arms and trails down from his navel and beneath his waistband is clearer. Trying to make himself smaller because it isn't his space, Quincy's shoulders hunch forward, which only creates a deep plunge of cleavage between thick pectorals.
After placing his rucksack between his legs, Quincy turns his gaze toward the other man. Firelight dances across light eyelashes and red eyes, softening their color with honey amber and softpitch yellow. This is no one he's seen before, not even in passing—though this isn't particularly surprising. Even here, in a resort that encourages intimate contact and hedonism, Quincy keeps to the fringes and lives like a hermit. As much as one can with the threat of a diamond brand slowly darkening on their flesh over time. On first impression, this person strikes him as heroic: clear eyes, swordlike eyebrows, handsome features that straddle the line of masculine and delicate.
Gaze sliding away, Quincy's attention turns to the fire. He holds out his hands to warm them, fingertips having gone pale from the cold. On the back of his right hand, a topaz gemstone glitters, embedded right into the flesh with gold filigree. Even those hands are large, palms and fingers rough with calluses and scratched up knuckles gone pink from chill.
"It's alright," he intones, voice deep and slow, a comfortable rumble from that broad chest where no word is rushed, "I run hot. I'll dry soon."
The fact that the other man has no supplies hadn't escaped his notice. It's why, after warmth returns to his fingertips, Quincy reaches into his bag to pull out a well-made flannel shirt. It's somehow managed to stay dry inside due to some tricks Quincy added to the lining. He passes it over to the other man without hesitation, "For you." It's a large shirt, one clearly custom made for someone of Quincy's size, with his natural scent of timber and smoke lingering in the fibers.
"... For your hospitality."
no subject
But it is suddenly a lot more crowded. The swordsman has eyes and ears and they've been open over the days he's been here. He has a fairly broad and thorough understanding of the place; some of the 'players' of this game he keeps hearing about are surprisingly forthcoming, occasionally at the expense of soliciting interest to begin with, which might be why Quincy's attempt to keep to himself stands out so much.
Not... that Phainon is anything special. He trains hard, but doesn't have the physique of the mighty crown prince of Castrum Kremnos or even this stranger in his tent. Now, to a certain extent, he's a little blind to his own situation; you could probably grate your aged dairy-based protein of choice on those abs.
He'll dry soon? Not soaked like that! Phainon casts a brief, incredulous glance at his dripping clothes. He runs hot, and this flannel robe Phainon wears around his hips is still uncomfortably damp. He must be joking - or... he's trying not to inconvenience others. Just look at the man - and Mnestia be merciful, he's looking - trying to make himself smaller on account of the limited space. Honestly? He's reminded of how uncomfortable he was when he first arrived at Okhema, only to be given a tiny cot in the barracks like a common footsoldier, looked upon with scorn, an inconvenience, and a burden.
Phainon is still thinking of what he could do, what he could say to reassure him, if there's something he could offer him for the signs that the cold has already stolen into his core, when the stranger offers him a shirt from his rucksack. A protest is ready on his lips, but he thinks he already knows what might happen.
Because he's been considering a similar thing, himself. Of removing himself for the other man's convenience, and keeping watch under the tarp outside. Is that any different from the way he seeks to make himself smaller, to apologize for his incursion, to make up for his presence with a peace offering? So... a kindred spirit, huh. He has an idea of how to handle that.
"Regretfully, this isn't to my taste," he says, thrusting the shirt back at him, "As for what you're wearing now... I like the color, so take this and give those to me when you've changed."
Phainon turns, his arm still outstretched, the shirt in his hand, and places the other hand on his hip. Without facing him, he can let the inward cringe at his own blunt refusal show. What was that? That sounded about as convincing as a bard's overwrought imitation of a Councilman! Besides that... was that a crystal embedded in the back of his hand? With that gold filigree, he had initially thought it might be jewelry, but...
That, and many more, are questions for when the man's decent.
no subject
Well. Alright. It’s not a big deal, seeing as they’re wet anyway. As for the matter of “getting changed”… he has nothing else to wear. He takes the shirt back without a word.
Then, at the other man’s supposed behest, he strips off his waterlogged trousers. There is no other shuffling of fabric or looking through that bag for something else. Quincy does drape the shirt loosely around his shoulders, wearing it open to cover his arms, but waist down left only with tight undergarments that really leave nothing to the imagination—apparently cold doesn’t matter when you’re naturally big everywhere—from chiseled Adonis belt down to strong, long legs. Rather than decency, he’s only gotten more naked… though it’s admittedly more comfortable without icy wet clothing.
This effectively leaves Phainon with an almost naked beefcake in his bedroll. Said beefcake doesn’t seem to mind.
“… Here,” is his tepid response as he hands over the wet, somewhat muddy trousers that the other man seems to covet. Without them, the warmth of the fire settles into his bones a bit more, and it’s starting to feel cozy—which is precisely Quincy’s favorite state of being. His eyes narrow in pleasure, evoking the image of a satisfied cat. If that cat also happened to be a large, naked man.
“Will these fit you?”
A shirt is one thing, but pants… Quincy tilts his head, watching the other man with quiet curiosity. Blond curls begin to dry; they fall across his forehead, occasionally catching light from the dancing flames. Does he often lust after other mens’ trousers?
no subject
"...Not a chance," Phainon all but wheezes. He isn't looking at the pants. Tearing his eyes away, he takes his dripping prize and retreats to the fireside, where the cold night air is all too ready to try to snatch the warmth from his fingers. The pants are muddy, unsurprisingly; he dunks them into a basin, and the water from the recent rain is freezing. By the time he's scrubbed the mud off as much as he can and wrung them out, his fingers are pink, joints stiff from the cold.
A clothes line would be ideal here, but without one, Phainon makes do with what's still on hand; a dry scrape heralds the movement as he drags a camp chair closer to the fire, turning it around. Over its back, he drapes the pants. It'll have to do.
All of this is conducted in silence, and as Phainon warms his hands at the fire, he spies the glint of Quincy's eyes across the way. He's a vision - his hair warm and golden in the firelight, long-legged and muscular, the recline of his body evokes the sculptural artistry of Okheman's craftsmen.
Phainon's somber gaze drops to the flames. Their light catches on the gold tattooed into his skin, the slender loop that crosses his collarbone, the sunburst in the side of his neck, just barely visible behind the strip of fabric he looped around his throat. He turns his hands, letting the fire warm the backs of his hands.
He clears his throat. This really isn't the time to ask him what his training regimen looks like.
"...I'm concerned that the cold has crept into your core. Your lips are blue," he explains, after an extended silence. "There's some hot chocolate left. You should drink it to bring up your temperature."
no subject
He finally moves when his restless companion settles back down in front of the fire.
Rather than pointing out that the other man should do some worrying for himself, Quincy sits beside him and reaches out to take his hands. People who focus on others to their own detriment won’t change their ways with any reminders or chiding; it’s easier to take action and do it in their stead.
“Hot drinks can be soothing, but aren’t effective at significantly raising core temperature.” Voice low and steady, Quincy speaks while observing the other man’s hands, carefully rubbing over pink fingers and knuckles to offer warmth and stimulate bloodflow. Glinting gold and unique tattoos are not missed; if he didn’t know better, he would wonder if this man was from Solaria.
“… Sharing body heat is better for the core and extremities.”
Though he’s chilled, Quincy’s temperature still leans warm—those hands are large and dry, and they share what warmth they have by cupping Phainon’s between them. They aren’t perfect: scarred, callused, and one with a gemstone embedded into its back. Even so, they’re gentle.
“Your name?”
Pants aside, this person has been generous to allow him to borrow his space. Quincy plans on finding him and properly thanking him in the future, after all of this ‘excursion’ business is done.
no subject
When he takes his hands - clammy and damp but no less weathered by toil and training - Phainon's eyes swing to his face, briefly rounded in muted surprise. An offer of help, he could refuse. Once given, it becomes far more difficult to brush off without returning a kindness with an insult; Phainon lowers his lashes, a protesting syllable dying in his throat, reduced to the embers of a spent consonant.
He's not wrong. His hands are just warm enough that Phainon's chilled skin stings and prickles before suffusing into a hot burn as his nerves awaken. The stranger can't have tarried long enough to sufficiently chase off the chill, so to have him go out of his way like this... shames Phainon into grateful silence.
The glittering gemstone he spotted earlier really is embedded in his hand. Curiosity pulls at him, but the cold wind skating against his bare back, the fire at his front, and the warmth of the hands embracing his are threatening a tremble. Habits surrender reluctantly, and Phainon doesn't relish appearing weak and unreliable.
"Phainon, of Aedes Elysiae. I will have yours, but first-"
He raises his eyes, briefly alighting on the curls of hair lying golden on his brow. "You shouldn't be out here," Phainon insists, shaking his head, "Come," he starts to stand, seeking to pull him to his feet; Quincy is a large and imposing man, but Phainon's strength more than sufficient. "The fuel in the fire will last a while longer yet."
no subject
The bear that’s nosed into Phainon’s tent is obedient; he stands and follows the other into some proper shelter that at least manages to block the wind. It’s much better than the paltry little tent of his that had collapsed under the weight of the rain, and offers something so deeply tempting to Quincy that he’s enticed enough to act shamelessly: bedding and a real pillow.
Twisting the tale of Goldilocks, it’s the bear that sneaks in to enjoy a bed that’s just right. Though there isn’t much sneaking; Quincy blatantly peels back Phainon’s blanket and fluffs his pillow before making himself comfortable. Then, he looks over at Phainon expectantly, lifting the blanket so there is room enough for the other man to slide in beside him.
“Come here.”
Maybe it’s because he has no ulterior motives that he can be so candid. Sharing heat this way during cold winter nights had been common amongst his clan, for the sake of preserving resources and efficiency.
His gaze slides down the other man’s body before adding, “You should take that off first.” Bringing chilled or damp clothing into the bed would be counterproductive.
no subject
Phainon lifts his arm to push aside the flap as they make their way inside. When he said to talk, he meant it, but now that they're inside...
-No, his motive hasn't changed. Whether either of them intended on it or not, Quincy became his charge the moment Phainon permitted him to take shelter in his tent. He can no sooner turn his back on someone's suffering than he could change the color of his blood; even if Quincy gives every impression of being comfortable - in his own skin, in the circumstances - his condition could easily worsen if care isn't taken.
It's just... as a Chrysos Heir, with the capacity to ascend to godhood, a great gulf of influence existed between them and other Amphoreans. The Council was ever watching their every move. Fraternization could endanger not only the reputations of the other Heirs, it could crumble the credibility of the Flame-Chase itself. Aware that what he has to offer Quincy, in a dearth of other options, puts him in some position of power, he's wary of anything that might look like he's taking advantage of him.
And... he doesn't trust himself not to betray his attraction, and put the stranger in the sort of position where--
"Please think about this," Phainon lightly grits his teeth, glancing away, "Have you seen yourself? You're..." he exhales, "Beautiful. I can scarcely look at you without it taking my breath away."
Everything about this week has footstomped the same refrain. About the Game, about the outsized importance placed on everyone to fall into one another's arms. Phainon is no prude - but he cherishes mankind's reason and choice, and rankles under imperatives and unfairness.
"You would be right to reject an advance, but what would stop someone from turning you out into the cold? Aren't you concerned in the slightest?"
no subject
Then, Quincy smiles. It’s only a slight upturn at the corner of his lips, very faint, but it’s there. How nostalgic. It isn’t the first time a handsome young man has confessed their attraction for him while camping, though the last one had been far less honorable about his intentions. That little devil hadn’t shown a lick of the restraint that Phainon does now. Quincy had fucked him raw against a tree.
“… You’re very honest.”
There’s warmth to his tone, honeyed rasp a hint of exasperation. It’s been a while since he’s been scolded like he’s some hot-blooded youth, and he is vaguely amused by it. As if he’s less than one hundred years old again. Fifty, even.
“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you to come here.” The blanket remains peeled back for Phainon, but Quincy no longer actively tries to solicit him to share body warmth after, “If you want to, come. If you don’t want to, that’s fine too. It’s your choice.”
Because Quincy, too, is a man that values autonomy. He has had his own since he approached this campsite specifically, deliberate in his actions and decisions. That said, Quincy drops his head onto that magical pillow; golden curls fan out across white casing.
“Quincy.”
His name. He presumes the other man will have it now, if nothing else.
no subject
In this place, where such a clear-headed exchange was not guaranteed, what trundled into his camp wasn't just a man looking for shelter. Phainon finds himself respecting him more before he even learns his name; seeing the open hand implicit in the space he's left for him to choose, and at last given the one other thing he had requested, he stands in silence.
Restraint is more the purview of his friend and rival, a man mightier, wiser, and more capable than he is by far. His own only carries him as far as decency demands; his impulse control, on the other hand, leaves much to be desired. Careful as he might be for the sake of others, he is reckless with himself.
A hand flicks shut the other flap at the entrance. The flames of the campfire on the other side still flutter against the waterproofed material of the tent, bathing the interior in a red-gold glow. In it, his blue eyes are almost luminous. For a favor, it obscures the blush that has swept his nape and the tips of his ears.
When he loosens the knot at his hip and lets both layers of his robe droop into his hand, the reason is clear - the telling arch of his cock, its not inconsiderable girth just beginning to fatten, uncut and hanging from a sparse, trimmed thatch of white hair that trails a little towards his navel.
As he puts a knee against the edge of the bedroll, he lets the robe slip from his fingers, and he shuffles closer on his knees. "Sorry," he says lowly. His extremities are still cool, but now that he's drawn near, what radiates from his core is tangibly warmer; he may or may not be a reason to cast off the blanket at some point in the night.
Phainon eases himself down on his side. He's not sure, at first, what he should do with himself, with his hands; as he stalls, he fishes up this question, something that had been nagging at him.
"Quincy, the stone in your hand," he asks, "Does it hurt?"
no subject
Quincy turns his head at the question. The gap between them is small, enough so that Phainon can feel the warmth that comes from his body. Natural heat melts into the bedding and grows between the pair. His lips no longer tinge blue—now, they carry faint pink. Quincy’s tongue flicks between them to soothe, chapped from storm and chill.
Close like this, in the castoff of a distant fire, Quincy studies the other man’s eyes. A brilliant blue when light strikes just so. He would be content to lay here and watch the way color flickers through them, to study the way shades blend and search for flecks of other colors in that sea. Perhaps it’s for the best that he’s asked question, lest Phainon be subjected to intense eye contact until they fall asleep.
Quincy’s gaze slides to his gemstone. People don’t usually ask, if they notice that it isn’t a simple accessory at all. He raises that hand and topaz glints.
“No,” he finally answers after looking at it for a moment. “Not anymore.” It’s a vague answer for a man that’s already established himself as being forthright… but it’s a complicated matter. Before Phainon can start overthinking again, Quincy adds, “I wanted the strength to protect, so I agreed to it. For touch, it’s sensitive… but it doesn’t feel bad.” A very tame way of telling someone that his gemstone is something of an erogenous zone.
Then, “You’re warm… it’s nice.”
They don’t need to be pressed together for him to sense how Phainon’s body runs warmer than his own. It’s almost like having a hot water bottle in his bed… Quincy sighs in pleasure, leaning in closer to bask in that higher temperature. There isn’t anything much better than this, after a wet and freezing trek.
“Elemental magic?”
It’s only a guess. Quincy has learned that the parameters of his own world often do not match those of others.
no subject
He's the kind of gorgeous that makes Phainon's mouth dry up.
Perhaps he's only needed for his warmth, but that's all right by him; if it helps someone else, if it satisfies another's needs, Phainon can justify his greed. Quincy leans in with a sigh that unstitches something lying amidst the soot-stained embers in him, half-burnt and enduring. In compassion, Phainon pushes his arm into the gap between Quincy's broad shoulders and the soft pillow, opening up, an invitation to cleave to the heat of his body.
"Something like that," he answers, tipping his brow close to his golden curls. Although an apt student of the greatest scholar of the Era, and some of the most knowledgeable and experienced of the Chrysos Heirs, Phainon isn't the one to ask about the more esoteric matters of his world; he could muddle his way through an explanation, but now isn't the time, and... he doesn't really care to. Elemental magic, he supposes, is as close to the divine fire of the gods as he gets without having to tell a story.
His other hand falls onto Quincy's forearm, closing the circle that's half an embrace. Phainon is still reflecting on the other man's words, his two-toned gaze thoughtful, downcast to the space between them. Telegraphing the subject of his contemplation, his hand, following the line of his arm to his wrist, traces the filigreed edge on the back of Quincy's palm with his thumb.
"You said 'not anymore'," so, receiving this stone, it came with a cost, once. He doesn't feel the need to ask something so self-evident as who were you trying to protect; no one chooses suffering for something unimportant. A gentle sort of understanding is quietly blanketing them; mindful not to shatter this fragile moment, he speaks with the quiet intimacy a conversation on a pillow deserves. "Despite the pain, did it give you what you needed?"
no subject
“Hm,” is his response, a short exhale through his nose as he reaches up to gently poke the tip of his finger at the center of Phainon’s forehead.
“Honest and curious.”
That too is a question that’s loaded, complex, and makes his weathered old heart ache. He has been reticent for a long time now, only beginning to open up when a certain new grand sorcerer dropkicked into his life. The gentleness that Phainon offers right now is tempting, alarmingly so, but he hesitates. It’s nothing someone he’s newly met needs to know, not something anyone really needs to know anymore.
Just old memories stirred up with the rain.
His hand slides up to card through Phainon’s hair. Feathery between his fingers, soft to the touch. Quincy pinches a lock, briefly fixated, before finally letting go.
“… and kind.”
no subject
He's misinterpreted Quincy's remark about the sensitivity of his gemstone. In hindsight, given everything he's observed about the place everyone keeps calling 'the resort', perhaps he shouldn't have dismissed it as something so simple as sharing the same sensitivity as the rest of his hand. He had only meant to convey that he wasn't put off by the abnormality. When Phainon lowers his eyes, leaning his head into that welcome touch, he sees more of him - the swell of impressive pectorals, the ripple of abdominal muscle, and-
The sheer shape and size of him. He isn't imagining it, Phainon realizes, a fresh punch of arousal sinking into his gut: his cock is beginning to plump up with interest. He's gazing for too long, golden pupils swollen in the blue sky of his irises, hand clasping the back of the one preoccupied with his hair. Kind makes him swallow around the lump in his throat.
His lashes lower, his scoff gentle. "Don't give me too much credit," Phainon says quietly, and as his chin lifts, he noses at the curls of golden hair along his brow. His arm, pillowing the space between the bed and his pillow, bends, weathered fingers sinking into his hair.
He smells good. Masculine. The wood seems to have saturated him in its aromatic riches, the scent of earth and sweet rain. "For someone so rugged," he observes, a laugh in his whisper, "You're surprisingly gentle. It's," he sighs, struggling to describe this aching gratitude, "Nice."
Nailed it.
Just basking like this, Phainon might be content, except the signs of Quincy's interest are a temptation that his eyes keep returning to in hunger. "...Tell me not to touch you," he wets his lips, his longing to do just that is clear, "And I won't."
no subject
"You can touch me.” Quincy is not a man that plays games, the sort who speaks straightforwardly and makes his intentions clear. A request for consent and permission given. Quincy pulls the tangle of their hands toward his chest, pressing Phainon’s palm over a firm pectoral, right above his heart, so the man can feel its steady but quickened beat.
“All living creatures deserve respect. You, too…. I wouldn’t treat you carelessly.” Voice lowering, Quincy nuzzles inward to brush his lips and nosetip into Phainon’s downy hair, warm breath tickling against the shell of his ear, “And good things should be cherished.”
Hand still folded over Phainon’s, Quincy interlocks their fingers before slowly guiding it southward. He slides Phainon’s palm over his nipple and down the shelf of his chest, smoothing it along the contours of muscular abdomen, pausing the journey below his navel.
Quincy exhales, nerves tingling from even just that much. Eyelids flutter and lips move in a quiet sigh. Drawing back an inch reveals the dusting of blush across his cheeks and throat, richer in the tones of firelight glow.
“… You’re warm.”
no subject
It's a kindness, that Quincy grants permission but makes it into something Phainon can tell himself he wants, a hand pulling his against his own body. Under him, Phainon's bicep flexes, the fingers in his hair curling against his scalp, a slow wind-up of tension as his hand cleaves to the warm meat of his pectoral. His thumb, his fingertips divot his flesh as he squeezes, briefly, his breath stuttering.
Quincy's breath is warm and the intimate words he speaks against his scalp make gooseflesh pinch up all over his feverish body. The soft-hard scrape of the man's nipple, when it perks up against the calluses on his palm, invites another curl of his fingers, thumb flirting with the edge of that nub.
His cock stirs, helplessly filling as his hand drinks up every furl of muscle knotted beneath taut skin, and as Quincy draws back, Phainon lifts his head enough to peer up at him through the twin veils of his lashes and pale hair. They're brighter for the expansion of his golden pupils, in the firelight, they burn.
The shape of the man's cock is near enough that he can feel the warmth of his body on his wrist, and he burns.
Phainon's thumb finds the shallow crater of his navel; his little finger, the furrow that runs from hip to groin, and he burns.
"Take it," he rumbles, the gentle fist in his hair his guidepost, as he leans close to press a kiss to the corner of that mouth, "All the warmth I have." There's another, firm and full on his mouth if he isn't dissuaded.
no subject
It isn’t the searing burn of the sun. His kiss is the hazy glow of fireflies in the dusk of the forest, a gentle brilliance that illuminates pink and red hue when cupped between palms. Quincy’s closes his eyes as their mouths meet, welcoming that kiss with the tilt of his head. Wavy blond falls across the pillow and against Phainon’s knuckles as his combs a hand through, no longer damp from the storm.
Leaving Phainon’s hand against his abdomen, Quincy’s own slides over the man’s hip to caress along tailbone and up the length of his spine. A tickle of blunt nails and rough fingerpads trail, drawing circles and lines into the other man’s skin when not tracing the outline of any scars or marks he comes across. Gentle, reverent, as if Phainon is a creature as delicate as a firefly landed on his fingertip. He is not—there is strength beneath Quincy’s sliding palm—but he cherishes the other man no less.
Turning onto his side, Quincy presses forward into that kiss with a hint of urgency. Lips move, relishing friction, rolling click into click. His tongue flicks against the seam of Phainon’s lips to ask for more as his hand dips south again, this time less innocent in its exploration. His breath hitches with excitement when cupping over Phainon’s ass, giving it a playful squeeze while nipping the man’s bottom lip. A pinch that he soothes with a lick after.
Quincy draws back a centimeter, panting lightly, to answer, “I can … accept all of it.”
no subject
This body has yet to amass more than a single lifetime of scars, little imperfections, lessons writ into his skin from the training field to the battlefield. It has amassed not the cracks and fissures of a man hollowing himself out with the ferocious blaze of divine fire but the unseen scars of immense solitude.
Diligence and discipline have given him a hard and rugged body, and the muscle that meets the playful squeeze to his ass is no different. His breath gusts from his nostrils against Quincy’s cheek, a huff of a laugh at the pinch of his lips. Even a centimeter seems too far apart; Phainon almost chases his mouth, halted by his answer.
He’s aware of how desperate he must seem, how untoward, but Quincy doesn’t seem to mind and Phainon is too starved of touch to bear the idea of restraint. Urgency doesn’t rob the moment of its significance; with his eyes catching the glow of firelight in Quincy’s eyes, tasting his words and breath through the air he sips between parted lips, he very briefly nods, a motion felt by the brush of his nose just scarcely glancing against his cheek.
He swallows around his own desire and audacity, the heel of his palm first tracing the curve of Quincy’s cock as it strains against underwear once translucent with damp. Emboldened, golden pupils swollen in the retreating blue sky of his irises, he hooks his thumb into its waistband, peeling the film of fabric back.
The monosyllabic word that falls from his lips carries a hard consonant on one end, something in a dead language; Phainon looks, because of course he has to, at the great shape of his cock as his callused hand wraps around its naked shaft.
Kephale really broke the mold on this one.
There’s nothing shy or uncertain about the way his fingers familiarize themselves with the shape of the other man’s shaft. How they squeeze the full, warm shape of him, the knowledge in the twist of his wrist, the press and flick of a thumb. Given an inch and he’s already taking a mile, with quickened breath, he glances back up - doubtlessly to check in - and along the way, his attention snags on the ribbon of Quincy’s lip, and hungrily leans in to lick his way into the seam of them.
no subject
The expression Phainon looks up to check is one of pink cheeks and dazed gaze. Quincy’s brow furrows, pinched in pleasure, as he’s temporarily rendered breathless under that teasing squeeze. His erection fills out, ten inches from root to tip
I’m so sorry he’s from a BL game and noted as having a huge dick even by BL world standards. Precum beads at the head, smearing from slit into the pad of Phainon’s thumb. Hot and cold prickles, Quincy’s nipples pebbling as they meet and shock excrement through body.Stirred up, Quincy meets Phainon’s lips just as hungrily. A wandering hand slides with a light scratch of nails, wanting to pull Phainon in closer, seeking his warmth. Their tongues meet as he welcomes Phainon’s in, allowing the other man to explore before sucking, just as eager to taste. It’s a kiss that Quincy lingers in, relishing the slide of Phainon’s mouth and the numbing sweetness that comes with every wet grind. Kissing a beauty like Phainon is a pleasure worth indulging in; if it ever seems like the kiss will break, Quincy leans in to roll into another.
With Phainon’s hand between them, he moves his leg instead, nudging forward to slide his thigh up. Fingers graze along nape before fisting into the softness of Phainon’s hair. Then tugs, silently encouraging the other man to push his knee over and loft above, a position that would allow Quincy better access to Phainon’s throat and chest—because he’s hungry to kiss those, too.