#{opens}

“Good afternoon,” he greeted the other with a polite smile. “May I help you? Or are you just, uh, here to chat…?”

"I've been told."

"That I put the hot... In hot mess."

Is this their pick-up line? The only thing anyone's likely to give them for this kinda performance... are thoughts and prayers.

open to: male tops scenario: atlas, and a handful of other heroes, were invited by the city to take part in a press conference where they would be given an honorary key to the city as a way to thank them, and their teams, for all their work protecting them... but Atlas never made it to the stage. Y/M intercepted him in the facilities bathroom and has him otherwise occupied; could be a fan, another super, a villain out of costume, a security guard for the event, reporter, etc.

They should have sent Mimic, he was better with press in general and everyone seemed to love him, but no the city wanted either Atlas or Armory because of their established history as heroes; because they were well seasoned; veterans. None of that really mattered now, though, because Atlas could hear the crowd's roaring applause outside; the event carrying on without him.

Still wearing the mask over his eyes, and his tactical vest, Atlas looked like a parody of himself; his pants, and boots, long abandoned on the bathroom floor as he was folded over one the toilets; his knees pushed towards his chest as his massive broad shoulders and thick, tree-trunk like arms struggled to fit within the thin walls of the stall as the man with him remained in place between his legs; looking down at Atlas with an almost smug grin as he pushed into the older hero.

"Fuck," Atlas groaned, the sound heavy under his breath, "B-better than an autograph, right?"

open to: male bottoms scenario: your muse stumbled upon the raiders several months ago. the others were hesitant to let your muse stay but tristan saw something in them and convinced the other's to let your muse stay; a relationship, of sorts, began between them but now your muse is thinking of leaving.

It was barely dawn and they were gone. Tristan had grown accustomed to waking up with them tucked into his side; making the cot they shared feel like a king sized bed he would have been happy to drown in with them in a world before all of this. they had become a constant warmth for him; more reason to fight, and to survive; they had become something that almost made this ragtag team and rundown church they lived in feel like home. They were gone. Sleepily throwing himself off the cot, pulling an old tattered baseball cap onto his head to hide his hair and cover his eyes as the morning light began to break and pierce through the shattered stained glass windows, he wandered through their compound in search of them. He thought, for a moment, that maybe there had been an attack or they heard something so they went out to investigate; or maybe they were trying to make breakfast with some of the supplies the guys had just brought back from their last raid-- but he never thought he would find them near the front door; stuffing a duffle bag to the brim with supplies from his teams vaults; supplies that they would only need if they were leaving.

"So that's it then?" He couldn't really blame them, in fact he couldn't help but feel like this was his fault. They were the only one he had opened up to about his concerns that staying stationary like this-- becoming stagnant-- was going to be the groups downfall, that they needed to stay moving to survive-- "You were just going to rob us-- me-- and just leave without saying anything?"