#intimacy healing

[coldzonkprofessorturtle]

The art of the sleeping sapphic

[casually-eat-my-soul]

Can someone please write a fic about that one scene where stiles grabs Derek’s face in magic bullet.

Where although he was out of it Derek could feel stiles fingers trail across his face. He could feel how softly and careful stiles was in that one moment. It had been the first touch from a human, from anyone, that did not cause Derek pain.

And when Derek wakes up he’s just obsessed with being touched by stiles again because he remembered how good it felt, how finally someone touched him and it didn’t hurt. Derek refused to wash his face for like three days after this because stiles had unknowingly scent marked him, and he couldn’t make himself get rid of the scent. How it made Derek feel like he wasn’t alone.

This action makes Derek’s wolf believe that stiles is pack, (stiles is the first pack Member!!) and he just keeps ending up in embarrassing situations trying to get stiles attention and his hands and him.

He probably just ends up blurting it out at stiles one day. Or maybe after killing Peter, he just get handle the weight of being alone, of killing the last member of his family, of being touched by Kate, of being hurt.

So he drags his body to stiles house and just gets on his knees and begs stiles to touch him, to make it stop hurting.

And stiles knows how hard it is to lose a family member so he does. He doesn’t think this will happen again, he just understands that Derek needs comfort. But Derek comes back over and over again and every time begs stiles to touch him. And stiles does, every time.

It becomes a comfort thing for the both of them, stiles running his fingers over the planes of Derek’s face. Derek gets to relax in the one place he’s safe, listening to stiles humming or muttering and the beat of his heart. It becomes a need, but soon stiles touching Derek isn’t enough, Derek wants to touch stiles. He wants to return the favour, he wants to scent mark stiles back. So everyone will know that stiles is claimed, that he is protected by an alpha who would kill for him. And he gets the chance to on the anniversary of stiles mother’s death.

Stiles is just so tired, his dad is working, will be all night. Scott is with Allison, and stiles doesn’t have the energy to beg him to pick him tonight. So he goes to Derek; Stiles isn’t really sure what this arrangement that he and Derek have but tonight he is the one who needs. He drives to the hale house and ends up sobbing by the time he gets there. He’s just sitting in the jeep in front of the hale house and he can’t move. And suddenly Derek is there.

Derek was already worried when he could hear the engine of the jeep pull up but when it turned off and all Derek could hear was stiles crying, he moved without thinking. He yanked the driver side door open and his heart broke. Stiles was sitting there trying to calm himself down, rubbing the tears from his face but nothing was working. So when stiles turned his head to him, eyes pleading and whining, Derek picked him up and carried him bridal style into the house. Derek just holds him for hours, memorizing the way stiles feels under his fingertips.

In the aftermath Stiles makes one joke about being a blushing bride (due to the blush on his face and being carried bridal style) and Derek is just hit with a vision of being married to stiles. Of being about to always be allowed to touch stiles and blue screens. Unfortunately Derek wolf takes this as expressed agreement that stiles is mated and married to them.

Derek buys rings the next day. Sure it takes him a few more years to propose but it’s the thought that counts. (Cocky Derek hale who flirts with stiles by calling him his pretty little wife, just to see stiles blush a pretty pink for him. But one day stiles responds that he doesn’t have a ring, so Derek just gives it to him.)

[howtomakeyousee]

[nempto]

Heal so you can recognize a genuine relationship with pure intentions when it shows up without sabotaging it.

[aventurineswife]

Sunday had always carried himself with an air of calm detachment, but tonight, in the quiet stillness of the Astral Express, there was something different in his demeanor. The weight he usually bore with stoic grace seemed to dissolve, leaving only a man—flawed, yearning, and far too human.

The private quarters were dimly lit, the golden glow of his halo casting shifting shadows on the walls. You stood before him, uncertain but unable to look away as his gaze—those irises marked by navy pupils—lingered on you with a rare intensity. His wings twitched, feathers ruffling slightly, betraying the emotions he fought to contain.

“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, his voice low and soft, like a breeze carrying secrets. But even as he said it, his hand lingered at your wrist, his thumb brushing against your pulse.

“And leave you like this?” you whispered, tilting your head. “Sunday… I want to stay.”

His composure faltered, and for a moment, the mask slipped. His lips parted as if to protest, but the words died before they could form. Instead, he took a slow step closer, the soft fabric of his scarf brushing against you as his proximity stole the air between you both.

“Then let me be selfish,” he said, the words trembling on the edge of a plea.

His hands cupped your face with a tenderness that felt almost reverent, his touch as light as the flutter of his wings. When his lips met yours, it was hesitant at first, like a man unsure if he deserved this solace. But as you leaned into him, matching his hesitance with quiet assurance, the kiss deepened, blossoming into something neither of you could deny.

The warmth of his body pressed against yours, the energy of his halo crackling faintly in the charged air. His gloves were cast aside, and the bare touch of his hands trailing down your sides sent a shiver through you. Each caress felt deliberate, a silent promise carried in every movement.

“Tell me,” he whispered against your lips, his breath mingling with yours. “Tell me this is real. That I’m not lost in a dream again.”

“It’s real,” you assured him, your fingers tangling in his hair. “I’m here, and so are you.”

His forehead rested against yours, golden eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt. Finding none, he exhaled, his tension melting into something softer, more vulnerable. He guided you to the bed with a gentleness that spoke of a man afraid to break something precious, every touch imbued with a care that made your heart ache.

Under his touch, the world fell away, leaving only the two of you—no past, no guilt, no lingering pain. Just Sunday, unguarded and whole, and you, willing to show him he could be loved not as a symbol or savior but as himself.

And in that quiet night, amid whispered confessions and shared warmth, Sunday allowed himself to believe it.

Please don't check the tags, I'm too embarrassed at myself... 🧍‍♀️😔🙏

[pure-light-and-love]

Maturity is when you realize the most attractive features in a man are psychological maturity, problem solving ability, emotional intelligence and his ability to provide support, protection, clarity, reassurance and leadership. This is what you call masculinity>

[isolated-ink]

Take me where the forest meets the ocean

In her mind, she could almost see him. A figure in the shadows, watching her with quiet, steady eyes. There was something about him that felt safe, yet dangerous all at once. Not the kind of danger that would hurt her, but the kind that came from carrying his own pain, his own battles. His presence felt like a warm fire on a cold night—comforting, but with a power she couldn’t ignore.

She imagined the way he’d hold her, not to keep her trapped but to remind her she wasn’t alone. He wouldn’t need grand words or promises; his actions would speak for him. A warm hand on hers, a hug that lasted just long enough to chase the shadows away. Even in silence, she would feel it: “I’m here. I see you.”

But she couldn’t ignore the darkness in him, either. It wasn’t cruel or selfish—it was the kind of darkness that came from surviving hard things, the same kind she carried in herself. It scared her a little, but it also made her feel less alone.

[feralchaton]

[justjeanilyn]

🥵🥵🥵🥵🥵 FR

I NEED these things to be turned on.

Any other demisexuals out there that can relate?

[intimacy-between-hearts]

✨️ To all of the men out there who have had their hearts broken needlessly by women who just didn't give a damn about you-

I see you...

There will be a special woman that will come into your life when she is meant to and she will stay.

No bullshit and drama and she will want you you for who you are.

Wait just a little longer, because she's trying to find her way to you right now ✨️

[howtomakeyousee]

[kimiko24]

I 🩷 you, you will be okay

not sure which one I liked more

[sacredbeing]

[aventurineswife]

Hihi!!! Recently found your blog and I am in love with your writing!!! I'd like to request Aventurine (of course <3), Boothill, and Sunday with a scenario with non sexual nudity/intimacy? The softness and sensuality with nothing explicit... It's been on my brain and it keeps getting me all fuzzy and soft! Have a very nice week before Christmas! 💚

Unmasked in the Silence

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Vulnerability, Intimacy, Quiet Moments, Emotional Healing, Fluff, Tenderness, Light Angst, Lovers in Solitude.

Warnings: References to past trauma (implied but not detailed), Mentions of physical injuries/scars, Themes of emotional vulnerability and healing.

A/N: I'm a sucker for these types of love...🤧 (Man it sucks being an aroace but not at the same time lmaoo)

The rain pattered softly against the windowpane, the muted grey outside a rare contrast to Aventurine’s usually vibrant surroundings. Inside the lavish hotel suite, it was unusually quiet—no clink of glasses, no playful banter, no games of chance being set up. Just the faint hum of the city far below and the breaths of two people who knew how to fill silence with meaning.

Aventurine sat at the edge of the massive bed, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging loosely off his shoulders, a rare break in his carefully curated appearance. The fur-trimmed overcoat was draped over a nearby chair, roulette details peeking from where it folded. He absently traced his thumb along his choker as though it grounded him while his lover, you, carefully ran a warm cloth over his bare back.

“This is uncharacteristically quiet for you,” you murmured, dipping the cloth back into the bowl. “Are you feeling alright?”

Aventurine chuckled under his breath, the sound soft but familiar. “You wound me. Must I always play the jester?”

“No, but it suits you.”

You saw the way his shoulders relaxed under your touch as you pressed the cloth to a fading bruise on his side—a price for a “calculated” gamble that had gone a little south. Aventurine’s skin, though untouched by time’s cruelty, carried its share of scars. You wondered how many of them came from real battles and how many from metaphorical ones—lost gambits, betrayals, self-inflicted wounds.

He tilted his head just slightly, his earrings catching the soft lamplight, and his eyes—exotic, piercing—found yours in the reflection of the mirror ahead. That smile, the mask, was there. It always was. Yet tonight, under the softness of the room’s quiet intimacy, it didn’t look as though he was hiding something. Rather, it felt like a reassurance.

“Is this what it takes for me to earn your care?” he teased, voice quieter now. “A few scrapes and a bruised ego?”

You smirked. “I’d argue it’s the other way around. I finally caught you sitting still.”

He laughed again, the sound more genuine this time, shoulders shaking under your fingertips. As he stilled, Aventurine let the shirt slide down entirely, pooling around his wrists. You marveled at how even his bare presence—unadorned by gold, fur, and theatrics—still exuded the confidence of someone who’d wagered and won countless times over.

When you moved to put the cloth away, Aventurine caught your hand, pulling you gently toward him. It wasn’t forceful or calculated, but an instinctual gesture. Your arms wrapped around his neck as you stood between his knees, the damp cloth forgotten. His head fell lightly against your stomach, his breath warm.

“I don’t deserve this quiet,” he murmured, voice soft, almost too soft to catch.

You ran your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension seep from him bit by bit. “You deserve more than you think, Aventurine. And I’m not letting you gamble that away.”

For once, he didn’t respond with wit or a charming quip. Instead, his hands settled around your waist, holding you close as the rain outside continued its steady, unrelenting rhythm.

The gambler, the strategist, the man of masks—unadorned and at rest.

Boothill rarely allowed anyone to see him vulnerable—his mechanical body was, after all, a testament to his unyielding strength and need to survive. But tonight was different.

The rainstorm had caught you both outside the metal ruins of a settlement, now nothing but skeleton buildings and discarded memories. You found shelter under a corroded overhang, where Boothill leaned back against the wall, letting the rain run down the brim of his hat.

“Figures,” he muttered, pulling his tattered red scarf from around his neck. Droplets ran over the sharp lines of his jaw and the exposed seams of his mechanical torso, the metal gleaming faintly against the dark.

“You’ll rust,” you teased lightly, moving closer as you wrung out your coat.

He snorted, shark-like teeth flashing in a grin. “I’m tougher than that, darlin’.”

Still, as you reached for his hat, he let you remove it, his hair sticking to his forehead. His eyes—watched you intently, curious as to what you’d do next. You pressed your palm lightly to his exposed chest where metal met skin, feeling the faint hum of energy that powered him.

“You’re cold.”

“Cyborgs don’t feel much,” he replied, though the way he stilled under your touch said otherwise.

Without another word, you shrugged off the rest of your damp coat, pressing your body lightly against his. Boothill didn’t move at first, caught off-guard, but you felt the way his hand eventually slid up your back, holding you there as though you were an anchor in the storm.

“Guess I owe you one,” he muttered, his voice gruff but quieter now.

“You owe me nothing,” you replied, resting your head against his shoulder.

For a long while, you stayed like that, the rain a soft symphony around you as it blurred the edges of the world. Boothill’s mechanical parts may have made him something more than human, but tonight, against the storm, he felt grounded—real, warm, and alive.

The air aboard the Astral Express was calm tonight, the hum of the engine a soothing background lullaby. Sunday sat at the edge of the bed, his long coat and gloves neatly folded nearby. His silver wings stretched behind him, soft feathers catching the faint light spilling through the window.

You stood before him, hands carefully brushing along his shoulders as you coaxed his wings to relax. Sunday rarely let anyone close enough to touch them—symbols of his heritage, his burdens—but tonight was different.

“You don’t have to be so careful,” he whispered, his voice as soft as the twilight itself.

“I know,” you replied, though your movements remained gentle, reverent.

Sunday’s halo flickered faintly behind his head, golden light pulsing in time with his slow, measured breaths. He tilted his head downward, silver hair cascading around his face like a veil. His bare skin—smooth and unblemished, almost otherworldly—felt warm beneath your touch.

“You don’t often let yourself be seen like this,” you murmured, kneeling before him and resting your head against his chest.

Sunday’s wings shifted slightly, curving inward to encircle your head. “I’ve spent so long hiding,” he admitted quietly, his voice carrying a weight of centuries. “Hiding my doubts, my fears—myself.”

“You don’t have to hide with me,” you said.

For a moment, Sunday was silent. Then, slowly, he lifted a hand to cradle the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with aching tenderness. His wings trembled faintly as they settled fully around you, the feathers brushing your skin like whispers.

“This… is terrifying,” he admitted softly. “To be seen like this, to feel this.”

“It’s just us,” you reminded him, your voice steady. “Nothing else matters.”

Sunday sighed, a sound of quiet surrender. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his golden halo flickering softly in response.

“You are relentless in your kindness,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “And I am endlessly grateful.”

The two of you remained like that—encircled by his wings, by warmth and silence—sharing a closeness that words could never fully capture. For once, Sunday allowed himself to exist in the moment, unburdened by the weight of the past or the uncertainty of the future.

In your arms, Sunday could simply be.

[k-wame]

Kyle Soller as DI Alfred Hillinghead & George Parker as Henry Ashe BODIES (NETFLIX) ‧ 2023 ‧ S1·EP4 · dir. Marco Kreuzpaintner