#heart fucking melts

[ryleighbearx]

my book of bill copy just came in the mail.

[stuckinapril]

If you haven’t already, I would suggest reading Feynman’s letter to his wife after she passed away :’)

The letter anon is talking about!!!! How can you read this and not cry your balls off!!!!!!!!!!!!

[kaiserouo]

never touched 2077 nor watched edgerunners but god i WANT them

god fucking bless

[magicalcreeks]

Every morning I put these panels between two slices of buttered bread and eat it for breakfast

[starry-bi-sky]

Clone^2 - Separation Strikes

"Why do I have to go?" Damian asks, surly and accent-thick, it sounds more like a demand and a whine at the same time. Sitting on the kitchen table with his arms crossed, in a green t-shirt that Danny bought him at a whim when he was at a thrift shop, and black shorts, he's never looked more like a kid. There's a little backpack leaning against the table leg, Damian begrudgingly picked it out when they went shopping.

His English has grown in leaps and bounds since Danny found him -- er, or more accurately; since Damian was spat out in front of him. -- and very little did they have to use the translator on Danny's phone these days.

Which meant one thing: Damian can start attending school comfortably now. And 'go' was the Amity Smiles Child Care Center. Danny and Jazz went as kids until they were twelve, and Mom and Dad actually managed to convince the center director to let Damian enroll for the summer.

And it was summer; Damian starts today.

"Because," Danny says, trying and failing to hide the smile pulling on his face, his heart warm and soft, and also laughing at Damian's expense; "being cooped up in the house all day isn't good for you, and you're starting school in the Fall. And, in Jazz's words: you need to have interactions with other kids your age for the benefit of your social development. And besides, it's only for the morning."

Damian's nose scrunches up, and his eyes roll so violently that for a moment, Danny thinks about joking that he'll get his eyes stuck like that. He holds his tongue; his little brother already looks like he's five seconds away from committing an act of violence.

"I don't need social interaction." Damian sneers, his cheek in his hand; a neverend pool of pride. "I am--"

"The Blood of the Demon Heir, better than everyone else." Danny cuts off, waving his hand in dismissive circles, his voice mockingly deep. Damian's brown skin darkens in embarrassment, and he scowls at Danny. "I know, bud. But Jazz is right, -- don't tell her I said that, -- you should be around kids your age."

Especially when he starts First Grade in the Fall. Honestly -- Danny was a little nervous to send him to the center. Damian's long since cut the habit of trying to kill or otherwise maim people, his palms ache-burn with gentle reminder, but his tongue was as sharp and as cutting as his sword. He still struggles with trying to quell it when he's upset. Vicious child-weapon that he once was, and will never be again.

Danny knows that it comes from a place of fear and defense, that Damian lashes out because that's what he's been taught. That at the end of the day, he doesn't really mean what he says, and he's learning to express himself better. But the other kids don't know that, and kids can be unforgiving and cruel.

Danny just...

His slow beating heart sighs, melancholy settles behind his lungs.

He doesn't want Damian to be outcasted. He doesn't want him to be alone.

Not like he was.

Damian sneers again, but says nothing, his shoulders crawling up to hide his ears like a turtle receding into his shell. Danny watches him silently, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own arms crossed. The clock hanging on the wall ticks in their ears -- it's almost time to go.

He watches Damian, careful, and so he sees it when his little brother's stone-shell pride and petulance shudders, and cracks. The darkened furrow of Damian's brows weakens, and for a moment, slants back.

Ah, Danny thinks, his own shoulders slumping. Epiphany washes over him, and his sad-heart soothes in warm understanding. So that's what it is.

His head tilts, and his hair spills over his shoulders, messy and fluffy, tickling his neck. Some of his bangs fall into his face. "Hal 'ant easabiatan ya habibi?" He asks, voice low and soft. Just as Damian's English has improved, so has Danny's Arabic. He still stumbles over himself some days, and Damian says his accent is trash, but they can have whole conversations now in Damian's mothertongue.

(Danny was incredibly proud of himself for it.)

Damian's face darkens, his blush spreading across the rest of his face, and he ducks his head down. Grown-out curls, black-brown and springy, falls over his eyes. "La!" He yells, loud and indignant, and not at all convincingly. "La 'asheur bialtawaturi!"

He was nervous. Danny can see it now, in the hunch of his shoulders and the tightness of his face, and faintly, he can feel it too. In the ecto-rich air of the Fentonworks House, it thrums, barely-there, like a hummingbird behind his lungs.

Danny can't stop the little, fond smile that forces itself across his lips and upticks the corner of his mouth. "It's okay to be nervous, little brother." He says, he sounds like Jazz when he says that. He doesn't think she'll mind him borrowing the nickname.

He pushes himself off the counter, and Damian refuses to look at him, hiding behind his hair and in his shoulders. It takes three long strides for him to reach the table, and Danny turns, plants his hands on the ledge, and hoists himself up. Right next to Damian.

Damian leans into him easily when Danny's arm wraps around his shoulders and tucks him close to his heart. He can feel his ear against his ribs. Danny hunches over him, resting his chin on Damian's head. "It's so okay to be nervous, actually. I was nervous, Jazz was nervous." He tells him, scratching the blunt edge of his nails across his scalp. "Everyone gets nervous."

"'Ana last aljumiea." Damian mumbles, as small and feeble as he was the night on the OPS Center balcony, realizing that his mom and the League weren't coming for him. Realizing that he was replaceable.

Danny's half-working heart squeezes; in grief, in rage, and his faucet eyes sting. He breathes in carefully, and presses his nose into Damian's hair in a loving faux-kiss. "You're right, you're not everyone." He says, steady and strong, because if he's not a pillar for his family, who else is he?

He can feel Damian's eyes flick up to him, and Danny smiles into his black-brown curls. Tilts his head to squish his cheek against him instead, hand dropping to thumb below Damian's lashes. "You're Damian Fenton," Because the adoption went through a few weeks ago, and he's still riding that high, "You're my baby brother. O' Artist Extraordinaire, Kickass with a Sword, Vegetarian and Wonderful Co-Ghost Hunter."

Damian tries to stifle a smile, and fails. Score! Triumph gathers in Danny's gut, his smile grows wider. He squeezes Damian tight, and only releases him so he can look him in the eyes. "And if anyone gives you a hard time at school, and I mean anyone--"

Danny has bad memories of the teachers looking the other way when the other kids were bullying him, all because he was a Fenton.

And Danny, bleeding heart, bleeding hands, loves his family more than he will ever love himself, will never let Damian experience the same injustice. Not if he can help it.

His eyes narrow, and the buzzy-film of ectoplasm covers his eyes, making them glow, "--You tell me. And as your awesome great big brother-and-technically-dad-but-only-biologically, I will handle it."

Damian, wonderfully made, full of light, his little brother Damian, giggles weakly at him. A sound that's worth it's weight in gold. The scary eyes dissipate, and Danny matches the sound with a cock-eyed, impish grin, dragging Damian into a soul-crushing, too-tight hug. The kind that only annoying older brothers can give. "Got it?"

That gets a proper, if short, laugh out of Damian. He wriggles in Danny's arms, trying to break free. But Danny does calisthenics, his arms are as big as Damian's head, so it doesn't work. "Understood, now, daeni 'adhhab ya 'akhi!"

Danny laughs, loud and bright, and loosens his hold just a smidge, only so he can adjust his grip and hop off the table with Damian still in arm.

"Never!" He crows, hoisting Damian slightly. One eye flick at the clock, and in one quick move, he secures Damian under one arm like a football, and hooks his foot under the strap of his backpack. Kicking it up, he tosses it into the air and catches it with his free hand, and slings it over his shoulder. "Now, to the car, my boy! Before we're late and Mom and Dad get charged."

Damian groans, childish and dramatic and long, but his face is all squished up with a wide grin and glee. Danny can taste his joy beneath his tongue.

"And, if my little pep talk didn't encourage you," He says, reaching the door to the garage, flipping Damian up onto his hip instead. "If you have a good day today, I'll make you bal mithai when you get back."

Like all kids at the promise of sweets, Damian's eyes widen and glitter. Danny loves seeing Damian be a kid, it's his favorite thing in the world. "I will!"

[dubaipenthouseupdates]

Louis & Armand • Do you know what it means to be Loved by Death

[walnutmistjamie]

Are you fucking dying or some shit?

[littlecutiexox]

More than a handful

Treat me // Twitter

[karleksmumskladdkaka]

Reminder that Ruki celebrates Yui on 天使の日 (Angel's Day) ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Today is Angel's Day, huh?

Having one day on which I can spoil you might not be so bad.

(Source: Ruki's Official Twitter account)

[lemorgo]

rereading pandora hearts music inspo [ID: Vincent gently hugs Gilbert, one hand on his back and the other on Gil's head. Gil is embarrassed and a bit sad, Vincent has a warm smile. Everything is in warm yellow and dark blue tones, there are few warm yellow stars. End ID]

[kacchanot-fucking-deal-with-this]

I love it when Bakugou bristles when anyone other than Deku calls him Kacchan and Deku feels a pang of jealousy and sadness that someone else gets to say it and mistakenly thinks the name is what upset Kacchan and not the person saying it

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

merch has arrived ….. merch is home TAT

[fairyofshampgyu]

he’s literally so beautiful and handsome

[wickedval]

[fruitalike]

OBVIOUSLY || Trans Elliott x Male Reader

RATING: Explicit, 18+ obviously

PARING: TRANS Elliott x Male Reader

TAGS: TRANS ELLIOTT, as always, you're married, 2nd person, oral/p.i.v. sex, multiple orgasms/positions, pwp, maybe mirror sex, spit as lube/spit kink a little bit..., HHHHAFU (House Husbands Have Heart Aprons Fanfic Universe)

WORDS: 3476

SUMMARY:

“How much longer?” You ask, and Elliott whips his head back around to face you, face even redder still. “How much longer for what?” He’s flustered again; but it’s different now than it was when you’d first come home. You watch him chew his lip nervously, but he stops when he notices you’re staring. “Until the food gets out of the oven,” you say, your eyes still on his lips until you see them quiver, then you look up into his eyes instead, tilting your head just enough, “obviously.”

READ ON AO3

OR...

(genital words: cock/head/tip, chest/nipples, lips/cunt/walls/g-spot)

You arrive home at your expected time, but your husband greets you as you walk up the front steps regardless. He opens the door as you make it onto the porch. “It’s not done,” he says, he’s flustered—you’re not sure if it’s because he’s embarrassed or because he’s been rushing, maybe both. “I… I just need, like, fi- ten minutes. Ten minutes and you can come in. It won’t be done but you can come in.”

You can tell by the look on his face that you should probably hold in the chuckle you feel in your throat. Elliott is a bit of a mess, more comfortable clothes replace his usual formal attire, his hair is all over his face, and his eyebrows are a bit furrowed, and he’s red in the face. Any desire you have to laugh is solely based on how cute he looks; but you refrain anyways. “I’ll just wait out here. You let me know when you’re ready for me to come in, okay?”

Elliott breathes a sigh of relief. “I swear it won’t take long,” he says, though even he doesn’t seem convinced, “it’s just- I lost track of time, and… y’know. It’ll be fine.” You go to reassure him, but he just repeats himself, “It’ll be fine,” he whips around and slinks back into the house. Though you’re sure that you can hear him repeat it to himself again as he closes the door.

Once you’re sure he’s too far inside the house to hear you, you do finally chuckle to yourself. He’s just too sweet. Taking a seat on the swinging bench on the front porch, you resign yourself to waiting indefinitely for whatever Elliott had planned. It seemed like he was cooking something, judging by the heart apron he wore, and the various foodstuffs all over it. You rub your eyes as the fall breeze relaxes you. You could use a nice, home cooked meal.

You’re awoken from your near slumber as Elliott opens the front door again. He smiles at you and beckons you inside. It takes you a second to gather yourself enough to follow him in, but once you do, it’s obvious he’s cooking something. “Don’t look too hard at the oven.”

“How about I just go take a shower?” Again, he seems relieved by your offer. Elliott kisses you as you head for the bathroom.

Given the state of the kitchen, you figure you can take your time in the shower. You try not to spend too much time thinking about what Elliott’s cooking for you. Of course, you do wonder. But you try to put it out of your mind. The water is almost viciously hot, but that’s what it takes to soothe you at this point. Your skin grows tender as you scrub all of the farm’s grime down the drain. It doesn’t bother you, though. Better to actually feel clean. You make sure to put on plenty of lotion afterwards, anyways.

You lose track of time in the shower, but years on the farm have made you painfully efficient regardless—it’s barely been half an hour by the time you’ve finished. You still head for the kitchen once you’ve dried off and put clean clothes on. Evidently, half an hour was all that Elliott needed to get the kitchen back under control. He was too considerate to run any water while you were showering, but all of the dirty dishes are stacked neatly in the sink. The counter tops are wiped clean of any of the detritus that had accumulated there as he cooked. More importantly, he seemed much calmer: he’s no longer flushed, or as disheveled (you hesitate to even refer to him that way—Elliott was always far too formal to find himself truly disheveled, well, unless… you know) as he had been before. He comes to your side the moment you enter the kitchen. He wraps his arms around your neck and kisses your cheek multiple times. “No peaking,” he says, playfully turning you away from the kitchen with his hold on you.

“I wasn’t even looking!” There’s just enough playful exasperation in your tone that Elliott laughs a little; even as you can’t help but try to smell what’s cooking in the air. Only now do you notice that he’s opened the windows—clearly trying to keep the aroma from what ever it is he’s cooking from building up in the room, what a tease.

He releases you from his grasp and you sit at the island in the kitchen. Your eyes naturally follow him as he walks in front of you, standing between the counter you rest at and the oven, shielding whatever he was cooking from your prying eyes. “Can I get you something to drink?” He asks, trying to make his appearance in front of you seem a little more natural, as wiping down the already clean counter tops didn’t quite justify it.

“Sure,” you say. You’re not particularly thirsty. You just like watching Elliott squirm, nervously wiping his hands on his heart adorned apron as he prepares a glass of hot apple cider for you. A pot of it was already on the stove, surely another one of his tricks to distract from whatever he has in the oven.

He brings it to you, coming around the side of the kitchen island, mug in hand. Elliott sits up on the counter as you drink your cider, ever the distraction. You were wrong before—you definitely needed this cider. The warmth soothes you more than a shower ever could. Perhaps your husband knows you a little too well. He reaches for your hand and you intertwine your fingers. You pull on his hand and he scoots across the counter so that he’s in front of you. He carefully spreads his legs so that sitting in front of you is easier for him. You’re sure that that’s all there is to it.

Both of Elliott’s distractingly long legs dangle to either side of you. You gingerly place your mug between his legs, looking up at him. The warmth from the cup radiates between his legs, you can tell by how red his face continues to get as your mug rests between his thighs.

Finding yourself parched, you reach for your cider again with your free hand. Of course your other hand is still delicately intertwined with your husbands. You choose to ignore the embarrassed glances that Elliott shoots your way. His face reddens still as you continue to sip your delicious drink so thoughtfully prepared for you by your loving husband, who shifts restlessly on the counter as you make a show of ignoring him.

There’s a twitching in the front of his pants, and Elliott squeezes his thighs together, seizing the opportunity to do so while you still have your mug in hand. He carefully places his feet between your thighs, his own legs pressed together in a slight embarrassment. It’s obvious that his feet don’t really have anywhere else to go (as long as keeping them off of the counter was a priority), but you can’t help but see it as yet another distraction.

You finally release Elliott’s hand to place it on his left foot where it meets his ankle—acknowledging his distraction as he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. He turns away from you, to look at the oven, of course. You trace your fingers up and down the back of his ankle, smirking to yourself as you feel him get chills. “How much longer?” You ask, and Elliott whips his head back around to face you, face even redder still.

“How much longer for what?” He’s flustered again; but it’s different now than it was when you’d first come home. You watch him chew his lip nervously, but he stops when he notices you’re staring.

“Until the food gets out of the oven,” you say, your eyes still on his lips until you see them quiver, then you look up into his eyes instead, tilting your head just enough, “obviously.” His breath hitches on your slightly snarky tone. He turns away from your gaze and wets his lips trying to find something to say; he’s already so caught up in you.

“Not long.” Is all he can manage. You’ve finished your drink, so you set your mug on the counter top. The light clatter startles Elliott. “Really?” You ask, calling him on his bluff. You’re tracing your thumb up and down the top of his foot as you speak; the rest of your fingers still, now.

He squirms. “I’m… not giving specifics,” he hesitates, “obviously.” Elliott seems proud that he’s turned your snark back on you but all you do is smirk; and move your hand up to his calf. “Is there time for anything?”

“… Like what?” He asks, as if he hadn’t just squeezed his thighs together. You move your hand further up his calf. “You know.”

“Maybe… it’d have to be quick.”

“Can you be quick?” He huffs but spreads his legs just enough to slide down into your lap, you kiss him immediately; he reciprocates desperately. “Yes.” He says quietly after you’d pulled away. You can tell by the way he’s trembling he’s telling the truth. He’s always so excitable.

You can only kiss him so long before you begin to really question the integrity of the bar stool you’re sitting on; the metal creaking with every sudden movement. You stand and usher Elliott back up onto the counter top. He pulls you to him and you grind against him. You can feel how eager he is through his sweatpants.

Kissing him again, you’re able to slide his sweats and underwear down with ease. You elect to still leave them on, just in case he needs to quickly slip away to cater to whatever he’s cooking. Of course, you hope that he won’t need to; that he’ll be at your mercy until you’re done with him.

You ease him onto his back and crouch between his legs, too weary of the bar stool to use it. Some of your limited time obviously goes to kissing and delicately nipping at Elliott’s inner thighs, much to his chagrin. He whines as you tease him. “Please,” he begs, your kisses inching closer and closer, teasing out more and more of his desperation, “just… please.”

Your tongue slips between his lips with practiced brevity; tracing right up to where his cock aches for your attention. You kiss around it a little at first, just enough to tease him a little more before you allow yourself to fully give into your carnal desires. Elliott gasps as you finally lick him. His hips try to buck up into your mouth, chasing the friction you expertly provide.

You pin Elliott’s legs to the counter top: leaning forward you rest an arm on the back of each of his thighs; using one hand to hold him by the ankles and keeping his feet in the air; the other rests on his pubic mound, and you use your thumb to pull him taught. His little cock is even more exposed to you now, his tip peeking out of his foreskin. He whimpers as you focus the tip of your tongue on his head.

Soon, even you have grown tired of your merciless teasing. “Behave.” You warn before taking Elliott into your mouth completely. You can feel the muscles in his legs flex—desperately trying to keep himself still. He cries out for you as you suckle his tiny cock, letting your teeth graze his head.

Motion in your periphery causes you to look to your right. You can’t help but notice both your and Elliott’s reflection in the screen of the television in the living room. Obviously, you’re awkwardly half-way crouched between his legs, but Elliott’s the main event. He’s sprawled out on the kitchen island, his lower back flush with the bar top, beloved husband folding him in half. His shoulders make contact with the lower part of the counter and his hair billows all over it. You make a mental note that his head is hanging off the edge of the counter top. Occasionally you can hear his nails scratch against the underside of the bar as you continue to suck him off, but his other hand shamelessly gropes at his own chest through his heart apron. You don’t need to consult his reflection to know that he’s teasing his own nipples, you can feel it in the way his cock twitches in your mouth.

Elliott won’t last much longer like this, so you pick up the pace a little. You swirl your tongue and bob your head a little faster, and make quick work of your beloved husband. He’s crying out for you and cumming on your face within seconds. His thighs tremble as you continue to tease his aching cock, and you can feel your own cock twitch in your pants. You need to be inside on him.

You kiss him a few times before pulling yourself off of him. Standing back up straight makes your back crack, so you take a second to stretch it out. Once you’ve gotten comfortable again you let your hard cock rest against his ass. “You want it?” You ask, and Elliott seems to shift a little, checking the oven, again, undoubtedly.

“Please,” he begs, again, “fuck me.” As much as you’d love to hear it, he doesn’t have to beg you twice. You shove your own pants and underwear down to around your knees and let your cock out. You spit on your cock out of habit, but Elliott hardly needs it. You rub your spit up and down your cock as you watch him quiver; if he hadn’t been wet enough for you after his orgasm, he would be now. He whimpers when you rub your cock up against his. He stops holding onto the counter to reach down and jerk your cock a couple of times, you thrust into his hand. “Put it in… put it in.”

You oblige, angling your cock with Elliott’s cunt, but letting him push your tip in since he was so eager. He hisses at the feeling, and you can’t help but snicker a bit as you slowly thrust in. He always wants more than he can take. But it doesn’t take long for him to get used to you, especially as he continues to masturbate openly—still rubbing his nipples and jerking himself off, too.

He only stops when you thrust into him a little harder, causing him to lurch forward and grab onto the counter top between his legs to stabilize himself. You hold onto him a little firmer and trace your thumbs across his sides. “I’ve got you,” you say, leaning forward a little and spitting on his cock, “you can touch yourself as much as you want.”

Elliott whimpers at your taunting tone, but follows through nonetheless, rubbing his little cock in time with your thrusts. You’re careful with how hard you’re fucking him, not wanting to concuss him as his head continued to hang off the lower counter top. But, you’re still picking up the pace. You only have a little while longer to fuck him until dinner’s ready, after all.

Carefully, you fuck him faster still, Elliott hanging on your every movement. As much as you’d love to, you don’t even have to fuck him particularly hard to have his cunt desperately squeezing you with every thrust. Perhaps you know your husband a little too well. You tighten your grip on his sides when you feel his muscles start to tense, and you position your thrusts towards the angle you know he likes the most.

He doesn’t last much longer. His toes curl and you feel compelled to watch him in the reflection of the television again. He cries out for you as he struggles through his orgasm, jerking himself rapidly even as he tries to control his own movements carefully, still in such a precarious position. You keep a slower, gentle pace to ease him through his orgasm, holding onto him for reassurance; your own end far ahead.

Once he’s come down a bit, you pull out and he sits up on the counter. Elliott kisses you sloppily, wrapping his arms around your neck. All care for any mess on the kitchen counter long gone. He’s leaning into you and running his fingers through your hair; swaying ever so slightly, you imagine it’s from all the blood rushing back down from his head. He pulls away from the kiss and just looks at you, excess desperation in his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. “Is there time for just a little more?”

His fingers stop moving in your hair and just hang there instead. He gives a meek nod. “…Maybe.” He says, as if to hide his own desire.

Once more you usher him, this time down from the counter top. He kisses you again but you pull away, kissing his cheek and then his neck. He moans for you, overstimulated but still desperate for more. You have him by his biceps, so it’s easy for you to turn him around and press his chest to the counter top. He whines softly as you rub your cock up against his cunt.

Elliott’s leaned over the bar part of the kitchen island, his fingers naturally wrapping around the edge of the counter, holding himself still. You gather his hair up in one hand, wrapping it around itself for a better hold. “Just keep an eye on it for me, okay? I’d hate for all your hard work to go to waste.” He only whimpers in response, so you tug on his hair. “Okay?”

“I will, I will, just… please.” He’s looking back at you, moving hips trying to push your cock back inside of him. You oblige, pounding into him rather harshly. Elliott lurches forward and cries out for you in the best way. He squeezes down on you when your balls smack against his cock, you can feel it twitch, too.

You’ll never get used to how sensitive he is inside once you’re in the second round. His walls can’t help but quiver around you with every thrust. He’s in a better position now, so you can thrust into him as hard and as fast as you both would like. Elliott continuously begs you for more, and you can only provide.

His thighs quiver with every thrust, and the island itself seems to creak a little when you really pound into him. You ignore it. You can’t possibly pay any mind to something as unimportant as the structural integrity of your home when your husband is crying out for you like this. You’re ratcheting up the pressure, constantly aiming for and pounding into his g-spot. All Elliott can do is punctuate every thrust with a cry of “please, please, please!”

He’s barely coherent. But you can feel his orgasm drawing closer and closer—the way he’s bearing down on you makes it hard for you to keep a steady pace. Your grip tightens on him again as you feel your orgasm building as well. You pull on his hair again, and you swear you can hear his fingernails scrapping against the underside of the counter top.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” There’s something so special about shredding Elliott’s eloquence with your cock—it makes your toes curl. You keep the same hold on his hair as you feel him tense up all over. “I’m going—fuck! I’m cumming, I’m cumming!”

His cunt squeezes you hard and you feel him gush with his orgasm, coating you and trickling down your bare thighs. You’re not far behind him, careful not to tug on his hair anymore than you already had, lest you begin to rip out his delicate mane. Thrusting as hard and as fast and as deep as you can manage, you release deep into your husband; crying out for him just as he had for you. There’s no discernible rhythm to the last of your thrusts, all that’s left is your desperation.

You pull him up from the counter, your cock still inside of him even as you begin to soften. Your hips still pistoning slightly as you pull his back to your chest; hands roaming him all over to soothe the both of you. His chest heaving still, he reaches for your hand.

You intertwine you fingers again, just as you had before. “Elliott…” you drag out his name dramatically, tracing his jawline with the pointer finger on your free hand, “how much longer do we have to wait for the food?”

Elliott glances at the oven. “Just a little longer,” he says, “obviously.”