#intimacy prompt asks

[pennotfound]

for the intamancy ask 49 or 52 ☺️

how are you doing today btw??

I'm doing well. Getting ready to go to work and figured I'd write out a quick drabble before I leave.

You really had to make this difficult for me, didn't you? /j

Don't want to write angst so I guess I'll go with the first one

49. caring for them when they're ill

"Mister 'I have my sleep schedule fixed'," Dream clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Poor baby."

"It... it is fixed... or was," George replied between coughs. "This is all your fault, by the way."

"My fault?" Dream sat back and pressed a hand to his chest. "How is this my fault?"

"You..." George's chest shook with another round of coughs that made Dream's heart break a little. "You didn't come fishing with me."

"And how did me not going fishing with you make you sick?" Dream asked. He leaned back against the headboard and crossed his arms over his chest. "Just admit it, George, your sleep schedule is just as fucked now as it was when you were in England."

George pouted, wiggling deeper into the covers. "Is not. And if you'd come fishing with me, I wouldn't have... I wouldn't have stayed out so late. But I wanted to catch a fish for you. I wanted to make some more of those fish nuggets you liked so much. So... It's your fault. Idiot."

"Hey," Dream sighed, his voice soft as he reached out to brush a damp curl from George's forehead. "You know I'm kidding, right? I mean except for our fucked up sleep schedules."

"Apology accepted," George replied, then reached one hand out of his blanket cocoon and grabbed Dream's shirt, bunching the worn fabric in his fist before releasing it. "You should probably go. Don't want you getting sick too."

"Not getting rid of me that easily," Dream ran the back of his hand against George's cheek, then sank down into the covers, pushing the layers aside until he found George shivering underneath. "You're cold."

"No shit," George replied with a roll of his eyes as he grabbed Dream's shirt again. "You took all my blankets away. Now get in here."

Dream smiled, wrapping his arms around George and pulling him in to infuse as much warmth as he could into George's fever-chilled body. Another round of coughing shook him, and Dream rubbed his back through it, strong hands gentle as they massaged the sore muscles around his ribs. He backed away, only for a moment before returning with a bottle of water.

"Sit up," Dream nudged him, then helped to pull him to seating and placed the water bottle in George's hand. "Do you want me to get you some medicine? Some paracetamol?"

George looked up at him then, his eyes shining with a mixture of surprise and appreciation. "You didn't call it that other name."

"Yeah," he grabbed a white bottle of his bedside table. "I mean, I didn't get it from England, but I figured with you being sick, I want to make things a little easier for you."

"Thanks," George took the accepted pills, popped them into his mouth and swallowed them down with the water. "Really. I appreciate it. You didn't need to do this, you know."

"It's ok," Dream reached out and pulled George close again. "I wanted to, because -"

"Because you love me?"

"Yeah," Dream pressed a gentle kiss to George's warm forehead. "Because I love you. Now get some sleep."

"And you'll stay?"

"Yeah," Dream rubbed soothing circles into George's back again. "I'll stay."

George hummed as he settled into Dream's embrace, until his breathing began to even out a little. Until Dream started to feel his own eyelids grow heavier.

"Hmmm?"

"Dream," George's voice called out from the edge of sleep.

"I love you too."

[catchameme]

the art of intimacy

a variety of actions or prompts consisting of nonsexual acts of intimacy and devotion! note: prompts are set as the receiver performing the actions/initiating; send "+ reverse!" to swap roles.

[ TOUCH BASED ]

my muse brushing or playing with your muse's hair. my muse reaching for your muse's hand. my muse resting their head on your muse's shoulder. my muse embracing yours in a hug. my muse moving to sit or stand closer to yours. my muse taking your muse's hands in theirs, blowing air into/onto them to warm them up. my muse pulling your muse into a dance.

[ ACTS OF SERVICE BASED ]

my muse cooking yours a delicious meal/dessert. my muse bringing yours breakfast in bed. my muse washing your muse's hair. my muse bringing yours a drink/snack while they are busy. my muse folding your muse's laundry. my muse holding the door for yours. my muse buckling your muse into a vehicle. my muse running yours a warm/hot bath. my muse planning a date/vacation with your muse.

[ OTHER / MISC. ]

my muse sending yours affectionate messages. my muse writing yours a letter. our muses cooking/baking together. our muses playing a game together. our muses sharing space and doing their own thing. my muse reading to your muse. my muse singing to your muse. our muses taking a walk together. my muse shares a dessert with your muse ( and feeds it to them ) my muse sharing a blanket with your muse. my muse gifting yours with flowers. my muse surprising yours at work.

[justaz]

when merlin asks arthur for things, the king is usually inclined to give him what he wants but it is not always guaranteed such as when his emotions cloud his judgement. but merlin’s surefire way of getting arthur to give in? he steps into his space, lays a gentle hand on his arm, and says “arthur, please” and he folds like a house of cards.

[petalsprompts]

𝐒𝐄𝐗𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 & 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

intended for mature audiences, minors dni. specify muse if interacting with a multimuse.

what is their sexuality/sexual preference?

what is their romantic preference or inclination?

what are some features of others that attract them from the outset?

what are some features of others that arouse them, or they find arousing in a sexual situation?

what are their most common turn-ons?

what are some more situational or contextual turn-ons?

what attire do they feel most attractive in?

what attire do they find others most attractive in?

what is their favourite sexual act?

do they indulge in masturbation or personal fantasies?

how do they feel about foreplay?

how do they feel about one-night stands?

are they openly flirtatious/sexual, or are they quite private?

how open are they, or how do they feel about sexual experimentation? elaborate if needed.

what is something they consider a kink of their own?

have they engaged in sexual acts beyond themselves and a single partner (group sex, swinging, polyamory, etc.)?

how satisfactory has their sex life been thus far?

what is something they wish to try? why haven't they tried this yet?

are they dominant, submissive, switch, partner/context-dependent, or unsure?

do they prefer to give or receive sexually?

+ established ship question. in any/all verses, with any/all ships, have your character/s speak about that ship's intimate & sexual dynamic, and how they feel about it.

[firstelevens]

23 + sambucky 💛

23. wearing someone's clothes

In spite of his phone buzzing for the sixth time in the space of two minutes, Sam doesn't bother to check it. He's not slacking on the job: he's flanked by other superheroes, all of whom would also be getting notifications if something world-threatening were happening, and he's got AJ and Cass and Sarah in his immediate field of view.

The frenetic buzzing of six--wait, no, make that seven--text messages in no time at all can only be the work of one person, and that person is safely ensconced at the palace in Birnin Zana, undoubtedly being as much of a nuisance to his friends there as he is to Sam.

There's not much of a question as to what the text messages say, so Sam lets them roll in undisturbed, and makes sure that all of the cameras catch him emphatically not checking his phone. Instead he brings his attention to the students in front of him, crouching down to get a better look at the device that they built in their environmental science club.

He points to the receptacle at the top--it's a water filtration system--and asks the group how it works. They're very excited to answer, and when Sam asks specific questions about the mechanisms and how hard the process was, he watches them light up. He talks to them for so long that one of the PR people has to gently nudge him along to another group. Sam's phone periodically keeps buzzing away in his pocket, but he ignores it in favor of talking to all the students, doing his best to ask relevant questions and toss around jokes to make the shy ones laugh.

The event ends with plenty of pictures and plenty of questions about his own wings and how they work, and when it's all over, he feels the same pleasant exhaustion that he feels after a good workout or a mission where things went to plan. In the car on the way back to the house, all AJ and Cass can talk about is how cool all the Stark prototypes were, and Sam promises to let them mess around in his workshop tomorrow so they can do some inventing of their own.

It's not until he's back home that he remembers to even check his phone, putting it on the charger and laughing when the screen lights up to reveal thirty-two text messages from Bucky. The last one came in just a minute ago, so Sam flops down on the cozy armchair in the corner, Bucky's favorite place to curl up on nights when sleep is hard to come by, and calls him back.

The phone barely rings once before Bucky answers, skipping a greeting entirely so he can say, "You stole my sweater!"

Sam laughs. "Hi to you, too, baby."

There's a huff on the other end of the line. "Hi, sweetheart. I miss you, and also, you stole my sweater."

"Did I?" asks Sam. "How do you know that it didn't just find its way into my side of the dresser? You're not very careful about keeping our things separate, you know."

"Yeah, I do know," says Bucky. "That's why when I was packing for Wakanda, I asked you, 'Sam, love of my overlong life, man I would do anything for, have you seen my favorite green sweater?' And when you said no, I asked if you checked your side and you said that it wasn't in your sweater drawer, either."

That's because it was strategically placed in a laundry basket under half a dozen polo shirts that Bucky would never touch, Sam doesn't explain. "Sounds like it just got misplaced, and maybe someone shouldn't wait to pack for their trips until half an hour before they leave."

"Yeah?" asks Bucky. "Is that what it sounds like, and not like someone had their eye on my sweater and waited until I was distracted to snipe it and wear it to a public event where he knew I'd see him on TV?"

"Well that's just silly, Buck. Who would do that?"

"It's impossible to say," replies Bucky, making Sam laugh. Then, after a moment of quiet, he adds, "It looks good on you."

"Thank you," says Sam, and it shouldn't still make warmth rush to his cheeks when Bucky compliments him, but here he is. "Does that mean I get to keep it?"

Bucky snorts. "Let's not get carried away, Wilson."

"That's hardly getting carried away; we just established that I wear it better than you do."

"When did we establish that?" sputters Bucky.

"Are you saying it's not true?"

"Of course not," replies Bucky, without hesitation. "I saw how your arms looked in that thing; it's a fucking revelation. That's not the point."

"Ooh, I've never been called a revelation before," teases Sam.

He expects another grouchy reply, but instead, Bucky just says, "Yes, you have."

Sam actually stops and pulls his phone away from his face to make sure he's still connected. "What was that?"

"Nothing," says Bucky. "Tell me about this science thing that was so important you had to steal my sweater for it."

"Uh-uh," says Sam. "Nope. You tell me who's going around calling me a revelation."

"Sam."

"Bucky."

"You know who it was."

And yeah, Sam's good enough at putting together evidence to get to that conclusion, but he wants to hear it from Bucky all the same. "Tell me anyway?"

"All those times when you crashed into my life in all those different cities, you brought something with you. Do you remember that?"

As if Sam could ever forget. "My folks raised me never to show up empty handed, you know that."

It had been more than that, of course. He hadn't known how else to get Bucky to trust him, sure he was still struggling to trust himself most days. The whole point had been to make sure that Bucky was safe and whole, so the first time Sam managed to cross paths with him, he'd brought a loaf of bread and some strawberries from a roadside stall. Another time, it had been flowers, other times cups of coffee or books.

"Every time you showed up and forced me to take the thing you were giving me, I had to figure out how to be a person about it. I'd forgotten what it was to be annoyed or impatient or to want someone to stay even when you knew they couldn't."

Sam's breath catches in his throat a little, but Bucky doesn't stop.

"And then you would just talk at me for a couple minutes, and then you'd get your stuff and be on your way, and I'd have to find a safe place where I could face up to the fact that you knocked me on my ass with some wilted daisies that you bought for five euros. What else do you call someone who brings you a part of you that you thought you'd never see again?"

"What the fuck, Barnes?" breathes Sam, rasping a little because of the sudden lump in his throat.

"It's the truth!" says Bucky, suddenly defensive.

"Yeah, well, you couldn't have waited to share that truth until I could hear it in person? So I could kiss the shit out of you the way you deserve?"

"Oh," Bucky says quietly. "You know, I could--"

"Absolutely not. Whatever you're thinking, absolutely not. You just managed to earn the Wakandans' trust again; you're not stealing a talon fighter for a booty call."

"It wouldn't be a booty call, Samuel."

"It would a little bit be a booty call, and Ayo would never let you hear the end of it."

Bucky huffs again. "Fine," he grouses. "But I'm coming home as soon as the last repair is done on my arm."

"Good," says Sam. "That'll give me time to steal the rest of your sweaters."

"Sam," Bucky all but whines, and Sam laughs in response.

"Fine. I'll only take most of your sweaters, and maybe one of your hoodies. Just one."

"If I say no, you're just gonna steal more, aren't you?"

"Probably," says Sam, shrugging even though Bucky can't see him.

Bucky sighs. "Fine," he says. "We'll work out a trade when I get home."

"Well, hurry back," says Sam. "I'm kind of curious about your negotiating tactics."

There's a loud laugh from Bucky's end, and Sam can still hear his smile when he speaks. "Back home as soon as possible, sweetheart," says Bucky.

"Gonna hold you to that, baby," says Sam. Then, just as Bucky's about to hang up, he tacks on, "I'm stealing your maroon sweater next!"

When he ends the call, Bucky's only halfway through indignantly crying his name.

[noturlondonboy]

Your fellow elder ready to prompt you with some Bishova Touching 35

thank you~ 💖

Touching #35- kissing their bruises and scars

——

Kate Bishop was no stranger to bruises. She always had one somewhere, one way or another- her tendency to jump headfirst into danger and challenge every random criminal she met made injury inevitable. If her knuckles weren’t red and swollen, that just meant she hadn’t been training enough. If her cheeks weren’t aching from getting thrown on her face then she wasn’t working hard enough. Pain was a distraction. Pain was constant. Pain was good.

Until she met Yelena.

The woman was a mystery to her- one she wanted to completely uncover. She was mesmerizing, and insane, and stronger than anyone Kate had ever known. It drove her crazy, to see the assassin so close to her and still feel like she knew so little. But they got close, faster than Kate expected. Before she knows it they’re somehow dating, and she’s the luckiest girl in the world. If you asked Yelena, she would say the same.

Kate’s addiction to pain was never unnoticed. Yelena knew how hard she pushed herself, how much she loved the ache in her muscles and the blood on her lip. And it bothered her, but she understood. The want, the need. The pleasure it brought to be so beaten, even in victory. She understood, so she said nothing; just silently patched them both up whenever it was needed.

But she decided that staying silent may have been a mistake the day Kate comes home inches from death.

The archer is barely conscious, bleeding from her head and mouth and cradling a broken wrist to her chest. Her shoulder looks dislocated. There’s a bullet wound in her thigh. Yelena can see gashes and rips in her suit and skin, dark, painful bruises blooming over her taut stomach.

She wants to scream and cry and kill whoever did this to her Hawkeye.

Kate is different after that. Quieter. Timid. Reluctant to go on patrol, hesitant to accept missions. Yelena sees it all, and it breaks her heart in two. She starts taking whatever position Kate was supposed to have, willingly going out with Barton to take down street level crime. Kate isn’t well. She can be good for her. She can DO good for her.

The first time they get close to having sex after Kate heals up, the archer stops her, tears in her eyes and heart beating with anxiety.

“My darling, what is it?” Yelena says gently, cradling her lover close.

Kate can only cry for several minutes, but eventually she curls into Yelena’s warmth. She mumbles something, and Yelena leans closer, asking her to repeat it. “I don’t feel… pretty- anymore,” Kate chokes out, her face pressed into Yelena’s neck.

Something hot flares in the assassin’s gut, and she pulls away to cradle Kate’s cheeks. “Malen’kiy yastreb…” she whispers, waiting for Kate to meet her eyes. “You are the most beautiful creature I have ever been given the honor to lay eyes on.”

Kate stares at her for a moment, lips trembling. “But I’m… I’m broken. My body is… disgusting. The scars, the- the bruises that never go away.”

Yelena shakes her head so hard it nearly makes her dizzy, and she kisses Kate insistently. “Those scars are proof of your strength, your loyalty, your fight, your power.” She's moving back down Kate’s body, marveling at the marred skin underneath her lips as she kisses and nips softly at the scars that her Artemis hates so much. “These are beautiful. You are so beautiful. You are my everything.”

Kate is sobbing quietly, watching Yelena with so much love swelling in her chest she swears she could burst. The blonde explores her body softly, carefully, as if it’s the first time she’s ever seen it. Her fingers trace over the map of pain on Kate’s skin, turning it into love and adoration.

“Kate Bishop, you are perfection,” Yelena murmurs, her lips so warm and so soft as they worship the long, jagged lines over her ribs. “You are nothing but ethereal.”

And Kate thinks that if that’s how Yelena sees her, maybe she can try to look at herself that way too.

[dr-demi-bee]

2. Laying on top of each other, kissing shoulders

Oooooohhhhhh I really had to think about this one. It's so cute, but the *height* difference....

Thanks for the ask, Stormy! Here's some fluffy primalweave intimacy for you🥰

There was little Gale loved more than the soft quiet of the early morning spent in their bedroll. Still moments before they must rouse for the day - blissfully free of obligations, muscles relaxed and not yet sore with reminders of battles and exertions of days past. When the gentle rays of the rising sun found every narrow split in the fabrics of their conjoined tents, touching their world in slivers of gold.

He especially loved the way that warm light seemed to caress Miri's sun-dyed skin. After the drudgery of the shadowcurse, seeing the sun touch upon her was like watching the reunion of long-lost friends. She seemed made to receive the love of celestial bodies.

Miri lay curled beside him, half sprawled on top of him, her head tucked into the crook of his neck. The slow, gentle puffs of her breath against his chest was proof enough she was still in peaceful slumber.

Meaning Gale could enjoy a bit more time on admiration yet.

His eyes follow the shimmering paths of her long hair - wine red that dazzles like garnet spun into silk when the sun threads it's fingers through.

But even more than her hair, Gale's gaze lingers on her skin. Soft, copper skin, marked with the story of her life. Trials and triumphs both littered across her skin in a litany of pinks and dips and valleys. Strength and endurance he's seen only a nascent fraction of.

But beauty too - a constellation of soft dark marks left by the kiss of the sun. The paths of which he longed to memorize. To erase the claims of the sun on her skin with claims of his own. Gale wants to kiss every single freckle on her skin.

That skin he can't resist touching, stroking, pressing against his lips. He trails his fingers rhythmically up and down from her shoulder blade to the curve of her neck and Miri sighs softly, nuzzling closer. He can feel her lips against his skin - not quite a kiss, but no less intimate.

If they had time - no, when they have time- Gale will lavish her skin with the attention it deserves. Will spend days if need be, gladly, keeping her in bed and kissing every freckle. Every mark and blemish until all she knows is the warmth of his love. Of his enduring worship.

And while they don't have time enough for now - he'll gladly get a head start. First with his fingers. And soon enough with his lips. Lavishing her with affection on each freckle across her shoulders until she stirs with a soft laugh and they get lost in kisses once more.

There will be time enough for everything else the day has in store later. For now, he will cherish these blissful moments of dawn.

[pennotfound]

27 and/or 31 for the ask game :]

27) hugs from behind and

31) holding someone by the waist

Perfect DNF prompts!

There's something special about the still, quiet, in-between hours when most of the inhabitants of the house are asleep. When Sapnap's snores (that he'll vehemently deny) drift down the stairs, and three cats that hate each other during the day cuddle together in a pile on the sofa. When Tony or Ken or whoever happens to occupy the guest rooms sleeps in blissful ignorance of the activities happening below them.

Those activities vary from night to night, but always happen in silence, so as not to disturb the peace that has settled on their home.

Some nights, it's George walking into the kitchen to get some apple juice and Dream walking behind him, hands on his waist before slipping around to join fingers over the center and pull him in for a hug.

George whines a little and whispers, "You scared me, idiot."

"Do you want me to go?" Dream whispers into his ear, holding him closer.

"Of course not," George gives in, then twists the cap back onto his apple juice while twisting his body the same way. He sets the bottle down, then places his hands over Dream's waist. Fingers inch under Dream's T-shirt, grazing over warm skin that shivers a little at his touch.

Some nights, it's a shared bath or shower in Dream's enormous bathroom. George presses his back against Dream's chest while Dream gently washes his hair. After he's done, Dream wraps his arms around George's waist, burying his nose into his dark curls. Dream holds him close and warm and in a kind of home George never felt until Dream held him for the first time.

Some nights, they lay in bed together, spooning while they pretend to watch the movie on the laptop before them. Dream always starts with a gentle hand on George's waist, and it's not his fault if that hand wanders, if it traces a lazy trail around the circumference - hip to navel to hip to spine and back again.

George's waist makes Dream's hands feel all tingly, makes Dream want to reach out and touch every inch. Sometimes he touches with gentle fingers, and sometimes the touch is more firm, large hands leaving prints to be seen later in the light of day. No matter the action, it always ends the same - with George turned around to face Dream and their lips pressed together in slow gentle kisses.

An attempt to slow time.

An attempt to make these still, quiet, in-between hours last a little bit longer. These moments when it's just the two of them, in their own little world where nothing matters but Dream's hands holding George close and George doing the same.

In a few hours, the sun will rise. The cats will stir and remember their usual animosity. Sapnap and Tony and whoever else is upstairs will roll out of bed and shuffle weary feet to the stairs for breakfast.

And Dream and George, wrapped in each other's limbs, will fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Together.

[thatmexisaurusrex]

Sambucky for the prompt thingie, sitting in their lap 🥰

From these prompts

Oooh, nice choice 👀 What about a little post-endgame fic?

Sitting in His Lap

The quinjet jostled.

And.

Sam was usually pretty good on his feet. He had very good balance. He was a gymnast once.

But.

At the same time.

Sam was drunk. He was drunk and they had just saved the world, the universe, and he had only wandered into the quinjet to get a little breather from the party outside.

Sam had expected to land on the bench of seating inside the quinjet. What he found was something much softer.

"Sam?"

Oh.

"Bucky?" asked Sam, turning to face the man he had just - well.

Fell into the lap of. Literally. Buck stared at Sam with those intense eyes of his and - and Sam couldn't breathe. He couldn't look away. It was like that European Tour all over again; the small moments of almost. It was like the brief rest times Sam had in Birnin Zana; the touch, the closeness that was all Sam wanted when they were alone. It was like when those lips almost met his right before that final battle.

"Looking for a place to escape the party for a while too?" murmured Bucky softly, his gaze flittering between Sam's eyes and Sam's mouth.

Sam.

Wrapped his arms around Bucky's neck.

Because.

They just saved the world. The universe. Maybe Sam could take one leap of faith here. Be selfish for once.

"Only if you're there," said Sam as he leaned close to give Bucky a kiss; chaste and hesitant, and okay, maybe Sam was a little nervous to push this boundary.

But.

But Bucky deepened it. Like this was a relief. Like this was what he was waiting for. Like this was all he ever needed too.

And Sam got lost in that kiss.

Got lost in so much more.

The party, but a distant memory in Bucky's arms.

[stellastia]

[ zip up ] sender assists receiver with zipping up a piece of clothing

Aether does nothing in halves.

Though it’s something he knows, the rapidly escalating situation unfolding in front of him is…amusing. Zhongli radiates nothing but patience where he stands, observing the artfully preserved tapestry in the room where the blonde is staying. True to form, the Wangshu Inn has collected many marvels over the centuries – he is prepared to spend the next few hours studying each elegant stitch.

In his peripheral, a vital piece of silk falls where it’s tied, likely improperly, and the process begins again.

“I am certain you aren’t expected to observe tradition,” he says for the second time, tone pitched to soothe. “Though the celebration’s host commissioned this for you, liberties can be taken.” An honored guest, the invitation said of the blonde. Zhongli doesn’t doubt it. The Traveler has a way about him, a kindness that influences every soul he meets. That it’s one of Liyue’s most notable families only warms him further.

When the telltale whisper of fabric speaks of another failure, Zhongli wonders if Aether would rather be late over snubbing the host’s generosity. He paces forward, “I happen to be familiar with this style, if you’ll allow me to assist you.” The fashion is outdated, but every few centuries what is considered old captures the public eye. He tells Aether as much as he kneels, guiding the blonde to hold the fabric steady as he weaves the golden silk around his waist. “…Though I do recall that this particular style fell from good graces as the people favored efficiency over beauty. When it was less common to have an attendant to help you dress. Nonetheless,” It is faster with two, his hands work with expert efficiency, standing at full height to assure himself that there is nothing amiss. After a few beats, he nods, “You wear it well.”

Celebrations, Aether was not unfamiliar with. He’s been lucky enough to make many treasured friends and allies during his journey and that meant many moments of joy to be shared as well. Formal events, however… were less the traveler’s forte. The invitation was accompanied by a beautiful outfit of traditional Liyue design, custom made in the boy’s own colors. It was a resplendent gift and though it might be far from his usual style of wear, it was only right to put it on for tonight. As a show of both gratitude as well as appreciation.

It was just unfortunate that, despite his best efforts, he was unable to put it on properly. Long flowing fabrics made it hard to discern what part of his body went where at first, and even when that part was taken care of there was still the matter of tying everything up properly. “Come on, you can do this…” the boy tried to cheer himself on, a tense look of concentration on his face.

He couldn’t. With but a single tug of his sleeve the entire outfit fell apart once again, elegant fabrics now hanging loosely on the wooden floor. Aether stood there silently for a moment, as if basking in his failure, before sighing defeatedly. It was only the voice of the other man in the room that snapped him out of his frustrated daze.

“I know, but….” He held up his arms, long sleeves draped over them. “They went through all the effort of tailoring this outfit for me… the least I could do is wear it properly for them.” A slightly awkward smile crossed his lips. Despite how capable of a reputation he had, here he was, defeated by clothing.

Aether quickly perked up then at Zhongli’s offer to help. “Oh, please do. This is embarrassing honestly, haha…” as he held up every piece of fabric as instructed, the golden gaze of the traveler landed on the consultant’s dexterous hands, watching as they made quick work of the clothing that vexed him so. It made sense for Zhongli to be good at this, the boy noted to himself. Across the ages, who knows how many formal events he’d have attended?

And not long after they were finished, everything now properly fitted and tied. “Thank you so much, Zhongli.” The traveler’s face lit up with gratitude, the smallest hint of pink tinting his pale cheeks. “You saved me from an awkward entrance. I really owe you one.”

[zenkindoflove]

Why, hello there! For your Intimancy Prompts, 1 and 35 for Erixius?? I don’t know if it’s allowed to send you more than just one (⠀you can always decide which one calls you more, ofc 𖹭⠀).

Hi friend! Thank you for sending me Erixius prompts! Both of these, of course, spurned ideas in me immediately. 35. running your finger down their spine I am actually going to save for Eris Week because it gave me a great idea for one of the prompts. So thank you!!!

But here, I have put a short one-shot (~900 words) for 1. a palm kiss

He pressed his lips to Eris’ palm. Eris watched as his eyes closed, his dark lashes falling heavily over his cheeks. His unshaven scruff tickled the tips of his fingers as his soft lips skated across his hand and down to his wrist. He kissed him there too, just over his fluttering pulse point.

Alexius pulled back and looked up into Eris’ eyes. The smile that crested over his face was as warm and inviting as the sun peeking out from behind the clouds. That smile was the one that flashed before his eyes any moment he felt like sinking into his own despair, tired and worn from centuries of pretend. It pushed him through the devastating moments of finally taking what belonged to him, the Autumn Throne. Even though Eris always had a purpose, a place, and a drive, it wasn’t until he met Alexius that it all felt like it would have meaning in the aftermath. It lit a new fire inside of him, one that didn’t burn everything it touched. This fire was a beacon through the darkness. A hope that his life after Beron could be something worth living. More than just the absence of pain and fear. But a life with smiles like this one that he gave to him so freely and without expectation.

It took a day and a half to finally get Alexius out of Day and into Autumn. As soon as Eris had a free moment away from the duties of subsuming his new place as High Lord, he winnowed to Day and burst into Alexius’ cottage on the palace grounds. Alexius wanted to leave with him immediately, but they had both of his parents to contend with who were shocked to find out that Alexius was not only mated, but to a newly minted High Lord. There were many tears, especially from Alexius’ mother, and it finally took Helion stepping in to convince her that it was okay for Alexius to leave. After all, he finally had reunited with his mate before Beron’s body even had time to finish burning back into the atmosphere. He told Alexius’ mother that he wouldn’t want to wish that kind of separation for one more day on his kin.

He didn’t take Alexius to the Forest House first. Instead, he winnowed them here. To his favorite place in Autumn. They sat on the soft, gray sand of a beach where the tide was low and the surf calmer than the raging waves that crashed against rocks up and down the eastern coast. Autumn beaches were not for lounging in the sun and dipping into the ocean to cool off from a blistering day. These beaches came with a bitter chill, the cool air frigid off the foaming water. They were for quiet observation and the occasional cavernous adventure. Eris came here often when he needed solitude and a place to throw his worries into the sea.

He brought Alexius here first because he knew as soon as they returned to the Forest House, everything would change. Their union would not be met with welcoming smiles and heartfelt congratulations. Each part of the journey from here would be a fight for acceptance. Acceptance that he would demand with every inch of his new authority. Responsibilities and customs would be thrown at their feet. Alexius, of course, in his endless optimism was ready to face it all for him. Eris knew that Alexius didn’t understand entirely what it was he promised to uphold by joining him at his side, but he would not condescend to him. They would find a way, and in time, it would be right. It had to be.

So, he brought him here, to share his quiet with him.

Alexius had understood that and stayed silent for longer than Eris had ever seen him. But of course, Alexius never let him linger in solitude for long. He always intended to drag him out, kicking and screaming if he must. It was, after all, how they began. Alexius never accepted no for an answer, no matter how many times Eris lashed out and pushed back. He let Eris sink his teeth in him and used it to his advantage, catching Eris off guard at every turn. Alexius wore him down, stripping away each and every bit of guarded defense with his persistence until all that was left was the desperate need to be seen and held. And Alexius had his arms wide open, always ready to catch him in the fall.

Alexius kissed his palm and smiled, and Eris knew that they would need to talk about everything that had happened and what would be. But he wanted just a few more minutes of quiet with him. He pulled the hand that held his and flipped it over, returning the kiss. Alexius cupped his face, and Eris could feel his callouses graze across his smooth jaw. He nuzzled against Alexius’ hand and sighed, breathing in the salty air and his mate’s scent all at once. It soothed the rumbling anxiety threatening the serenity.

Alexius sighed too, resigned but content. He pulled Eris to him to place his head on his shoulder. Eris wrapped an arm behind Alexius’ back and dropped a kiss onto his neck. They stared out at the sunset, withholding their problems from the light.

[grandma-susan]

Send 🍲 to see if my muse would share food from the same dish or finish your muse's leftovers.

[firstelevens]

Sambucky reading a book or palm kiss for the intimacy prompts!

1. a palm kiss

a little musketeers au on this fine thursday

Sam is busy enjoying the early morning peace of the garrison courtyard when the storm cloud descends. Not literally, of course—the day is still bright and clear, although cold enough to demand a fur-lined cloak. It’s only that Bucky’s scowl seems to hold with it all the gloom that the sun has held at bay, and Sam can’t help but smile.

“A face like that, it’s a wonder you’re not married yet,” he laughs. “So effusive.”

There’s only a grunt of response as Bucky sits down, followed by a quiet hiss when his shoulder bumps Sam’s. By now, Sam knows better than to ask about the pain in Bucky’s arm. Instead, he slides over the cup he’d been drinking from: spiced coffee from the Ottoman delegation, a gift of gratitude for rescuing a diplomat falsely accused of espionage.

Immediately, Bucky perks up at the smell, gripping the cup in his hands and taking a sip. His low hum of satisfaction settles somewhere in Sam’s core. “I must look awful if you’re letting me have your precious coffee,” he says, his voice hoarse. “How much worse does it need to be before you’ll relieve me of palace duty today?”

“Depends on how good your imitation of a corpse is,” says Sam, flat. “Have some bread and some more coffee; you’ll be fine.”

“Is this what your captaincy is going to be like?” asks Bucky. “Just plying us with food to do your bidding?”

“And other things, when the occasion calls for it,” Sam leans in and murmurs, his mouth close to Bucky’s ear, grinning when it makes Bucky shiver. He laughs and nudges over the jar of honey. “Hasn’t failed yet.”

Bucky puts a downright inadvisable amount of honey on his bread, leveling Sam with an unimpressed look. “If you wanted me biddable, you shouldn’t have snuck out before dawn. It was cold.”

“I did stoke the fire before I went,” says Sam. “And gave you an extra blanket.”

“Not the same,” Bucky says, through a mouthful of bread and honey. “I want a promise of restitution or I’m faking a grievous injury.”

“Is it a very smart plan to tell your captain that the injury will be fake before you claim to have it?”

“I don’t need your sympathy; I just need enough ladies in the court to admire me for gallantly braving my condition and insist that you send me home.”

“I shouldn’t have given you the coffee,” says Sam. “We could’ve known peace a little longer.”

“We could’ve known sleep a little longer, too, but someone likes to be up with the sun for some godforsaken reason.”

“There’s supposed to be a fete at the palace today; I had to go over the maps,” says Sam. “What kind of captain sends out his men without knowing the lay of the land?”

“The kind who only accidentally found out about the fete last night, and that too because he was busy investigating a rash of disappearances in the merchants’ quarters, which we still haven’t solved.”

Sam sighs. “We go where the Crown wants us, Buck.”

“Can’t one of us at least go ask questions? See if anyone will give anything up? You can’t possibly need that many of us monitoring a hedge maze.”

“It’s not just a hedge maze,” says Sam. “There’s also acrobats, fire eaters, and a palm reader.”

Bucky snorts. “A palm reader? So a fraud?” “What, you don’t believe in the mystical arts?”

“I believe in the art of a good thief,” says Bucky. “All those years of me and Becca and Steve growing up in the slums, you think we never saw someone read a palm with one hand and cut a purse with the other?”

“We had a palm reader come to Delacroix once who told me I’d take a great journey and become a celebrated soldier. I’m supposed to believe she didn’t have the sight?” teases Sam.

“Anyone could have looked at you and guessed that,” says Bucky, and it sends a warm flush of pleasure through Sam’s body. He sets down the mug and reaches for Sam’s hand, setting it face-up on the table and drawing it closer. “Let me tell you what she saw, and then you can decide if I have the sight, too.”

“Bucky…”

But Bucky just shushes him. “I’m working.”

Across the courtyard, Becca ducks out of her quarters, quartermaster’s ledgers in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in the other. When she catches sight of her brother and Sam at the table, she raises her eyebrows in amusement. It would be more of a concern if Becca didn’t step out of the doorway a moment later to reveal Joaquín, whose eyes go wide at the sight of Sam and Bucky out in the courtyard so early.

Sam gives Becca a look and then pointedly looks away, pretending not to see Joaquín’s less than clandestine dash for his quarters on the other side of the garrison.

“Does he still think that’s a secret?” asks Bucky, who hasn’t lifted his eyes from Sam’s hand.

“Apparently,” says Sam. “But that’s nothing new. Tell me what you’re reading in my palm, oh great mystical one.”

Bucky glances up at him with one of those crinkly-eyed grins that Sam loves so much, in part because he’s one of the few who ever receives them. He traces a finger over two calluses on Sam’s hand, one by the base of his thumb, the other just below his middle finger.

“I see that you’re a great swordsman, and well practiced,” he says, taking on the grave tone of streetside fortune tellers. “I also see that you still sometimes need the best sniper in the regiment to get you out of trouble.”

“Are you seeing that he’s usually the one who gets me into trouble, or is that part not written on my palm?”

Bucky’s mouth ticks up just a little at the corner, but he schools his face into something more serious. He trails his finger over another crease in Sam’s palm, leaving Sam’s pulse skittering as he does. 

“I see a large, loving family, growing ever more vast,” he says, which is a cheat, because Bucky was beside Sam in bed last night when he read Sarah’s latest letter. His finger traces over a shorter line that curves left. “And here? Enemies stopped in their path at the hands of men who would ride into Hell at your command, each one loyal to the best commander they’ve ever known.”

There’s a tightening in Sam’s throat. “And what else?” he asks, hoarse.

“Great honor and acclaim,” says Bucky, before dragging a finger up from the base of his hand. “The esteem of your peers and your people.”

“And…?” prompts Sam. The courtyard feels even quieter than it did moments ago.

“And here,” says Bucky, tapping the center of Sam’s palm, “is one who would follow you into Hell not out of duty or honor. Terrible sort. Probably grumpy all the time. Brings down morale.”

“Oh? That bad?”

Bucky hums in confirmation. “Very much so,” he says. “But one that loves you very much, and will be here until you send him away.”

They’re both quiet for a long moment, gazes locked, before Sam finally says, “You didn’t steal anything.”

“Oh, but I did,” says Bucky, and lifts Sam’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the spot where his fingers were just a moment ago. “And I have no intention of returning it.”

Sam smiles, small and delighted. “Good,” he says, turning his hand so he can hold Bucky’s for a moment. “I have no intention of asking for it back.”

[allylikethecat]

ugh like picture it.. sitting on your partners lap & falling asleep to their heart beat full of angst/hurt/comfort w matty & george.. dare i’d say you’d win a noble peace prize

Remember when I said this morning I was going to write something from the Sleep Prompts list next? Apparently that was a lie 😂

Also, I apologize that this has taken me literal months to finish! Anon I hope that you're still here and that this was worth at least some of the overly long wait.

I think I was missing working on the A&E fic a little bit... because we have a sick Fictional!Matty in this one... I hope you like it! Thank you so much for sending this prompt in, in the first place! I'm sorry again it took me so long to finish!

This is from the physical intimacy prompts list which can be found here. I am always taking more prompt requests even if it apparently takes me months to finish them - I promise I WILL finish all of them eventually though!! I have a spread sheet!

❤️Ally

Sitting in your partner's lap & Falling asleep to your partner's heartbeat 

George was angry. He was angry at Jamie and the rest of their team for scheduling so many back to back tour stops. He was angry at Matty for hiding how sick he was. But most of all, he was angry at himself for not noticing. He was angry that he hadn’t noticed the way Matty had been turning away from him in bed, desperate to hide his fever and wheezing breath. He was angry that he hadn’t noticed Matty’s shaking hands, and that he was swallowing ibuprofen and tylenol like they were tic-tacs, alternating every three hours. That he hadn’t noticed that Matty wasn’t drinking, that his cough wasn’t the ever present smoker’s rattle from a pack a day, a pack he hadn’t touched in a week, but rather infection settling into his lungs, filling with fluid to drown him on land. 

Matty had stumbled down the hallway as soon as they exited the B stage, the roar of the crowd still echoing in their ears. He had grabbed at his chest, gasping and choking on phlegm, coughing so hard he couldn’t even hope to catch his already short breath, dropping to his knees as his shoulders shook. There was a medic on him instantly, getting him upright, pressing an oxygen mask to his face. George watched in horror, frozen in place, his sweaty shirt clinging to his back, still clutching his drumsticks as Hann nudged him forward, reminding him he should go with Matty as the medic whisked him away. George wondered if they were supposed to tell someone they were leaving as he followed Matty into the back of the ambulance.

George was afraid, curled in on himself, trying to seem smaller and stay out of the way as the medics worked on Matty, listening to his heart, wincing at the crackling in his lungs. He’s not having a heart attack, don’t worry, one of the medics had tried to assure him kindly. George wasn’t sure how that was supposed to help when Matty still couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure when they became old enough for a heart attack to be a valid concern. George squeezed his eyes shut, his stomach flipping as they sped out of the venue and down the congested city streets. The perks of playing in arenas designed for ice hockey, he thought, squeezing Matty’s hand, the ambulance was parked inside the tunnel. 

George ran his hand down Matty’s back, fingers brushing each bump as his spin curved through the opening of his hospital gown. He had lost weight over the course of his illness and George hated that he was just now noticing, not realizing Matty was belting his pants a hole tighter, moving his food around his plate without eating it, nausea churning in his belly. 

Matty had been agitated, shivering with fever and fatigue clinging to George as if he was the only thing tethering him to this earth. The doctor that examined him was shocked that he had made it through a two hour concert with his fever, with his low oxygen levels, with his lungs hitching on every breath, catching against the infected fluid. Not only that he had been able to perform, able to sing, but that it wasn’t the first two hour show he had performed that week. 

The doctor ordered a chest x-ray that led to a pneumonia diagnosis. Matty had coughed, rasping that he wasn’t some sickly Victorian child despite what Twitter might think, that he was going to be fine. George didn’t comment on the fear in his glassy eyes. 

He was started on IV antibiotics and fluids, an oxygen mask fitted over his face to help him breathe easier, even if Matty kept taking it off to cough wetly into his elbow. He spat thick green mucus into a tissue, his nose wrinkling in disgust each time he would weakly toss the tissue into the bin they had placed next to his bed. After a while George started taking the tissues from him, Matty too weak to even lift his head and toss them himself. 

Matty tried to argue that George didn’t have to stay, even though it was clear to George, clear to anyone with eyes, that Matty didn’t want him to leave (not that George would ever leave.) He insisted that he was fine, even as he looked anything but, his cheeks pale and his eyes sunken, his breath shallow as he coughed. He told George to go back to the hotel, told him to go shower and rest. But even as he spoke he kept his fingers tangled in the fabric of Geroge’s stage button down. Even after all these years, Matty didn’t like to let himself need others, he didn’t like to be what he thought of as a burden even though he was anything but. George had just climbed into the hospital bed with him, and pulled him into his lap, assuring him that he wasn’t going anywhere. 

Matty had his cheek pressed to George’s chest, the steady beat of his heart, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he inhaled and exhaled, lulling him to sleep like a toddler on a car ride, their legs tangled together on the rough sheets. Matty had fought at first to keep his eyes open, grumbling that he wasn’t tired. But the antibiotics made him woozy as his adrenaline crashed, his body no longer in a desperate survival mode. He started to relax, realizing he was safe now, wrapped in George’s embrace, getting the treatment he needed. George could feel him trembling in his arms, trying to time his own breaths to the beat of George’s heart. 

“Rest Matty,” said George, pressing a kiss to the top of Matty’s head, his sweat damp curls tickling George’s nose, as his breathing slowly evened out. He didn’t get a response, Matty growing heavier in his arms as he finally fell asleep. 

[chrysalispilled]

For both Liv and Agatha, whoever you haven't gotten to answer any of these for. 💜💜💜

What’s something they do that you think is just absolutely adorable?

Are you able to pinpoint a reason as to why you love them? What is it?

How do you do to comfort them when they’re down?

What do they do to get you flustered on purpose? What do they say when they do?

yay!!! i’m gonna do just the liv ones,,, ik i flip between them too often nd i apologize for that

5- [The first one in the ask]

She says I’m cute when I get excited, but you should see her! It’s taken both of us a bit to get used to opening up, but she’s by far the cuter one. She gets all smiley, and you can see her sharp teeth when she does that!

11- [Third one]

I try to talk through it, that’s the simple answer- Find the root of the problem, and then try to go from there. But sometimes she goes quiet, she’ll get a bit defensive, but I know when to stop. By then, I’ll usually just sit with her and hold her..

10- [Last one!]

Almost every night she gives herself the job of helping me remove the actuators’ harness, and after doing it for so long, she’s devised some plan to try and surprise me. It’s, you know, mainly just the way she touches me during that. She’s so reverent, not like she only cares about how expensive the machinery is, but like she cares about me. Her claws will just barely skim over me, she gets closer, she lowers her voice.. I don’t know if it’s on purpose, but it’s effective

[daisyachain]

There are places where I think a sex scene can dramatically impact a story in a way that enriched the viewing experience and conveys important information. There are movies and/or tv shows in which this happens. I haven’t seen any of them. So much of the time it’s there to do exactly what it says on the tin. A woman and a man are banging. Sure. Fine. Happy for them. It’s just a literal scene used to pull a bit of a ‘well you didn’t think THEY would be involved’ plot twist or a ‘we’re so edgy’ signal. The only show so far that I’ve seen that uses sex scenes as an actual tool of storytelling is Black Sails, and the reason it works in Black Sails is that the sex is Bad. People are bored. People are distracted. The characters are so bound up with the plot that it’s physically prevented them from fucking like normal human beings. That works. The rest doesn’t