#let's add the intimacy of scent to Those scenes

[house-of-crows]

okay but real talk, and y'all KNEW I was gonna bring this up-

knowing Scorsese as we do... do we think that the actors were ALSO wearing 1930s cologne/perfume along with those STUNNINGLY ACCURATE COSTUMES or do you think the sets were just FILLED TO THE BRIM with the powder-vanilla-musk 70s scents?

Like was Goncharov wearing Ralph Lauren Polo do you think...?

[tadpolesonalgae]

High Lords and their kinks

a/n: this got so out of hand so quickly

Warnings: smut. just so much smut

Rhysand:

We all know he has a breeding kink, and with a smart mouth like that he definitely knows how to put it to good use on you

He has those lovely, deliciously sensitive, big illyrian wings at his back—practically a walking weak spot. And after all the teasing he puts you through with that cruel, silver-tipped tongue, you’re perfectly entitled to put him through his own set of trials

You cannot tell me he doesn’t get off on showing you off—at least a little. Whether it’s subtly matching jewellery pieces, having his scent marking your clothing, or having you astride his thigh before his court in the Hewn City, he delights in letting everyone know you’re one another’s.

Helion:

Is there anything I can actually add that isn’t obvious? He has a whole library at his fingertips, and knowing how much of the internet consists of porn in various forms, you cannot tell me there isn’t a secret alcove he has or even a whole other library (private, for your and his use only, of course) dedicated specifically for his personal interests.

He’s definitely familiar with sex toys, are you kidding me? He could go from cooking meals for you and letting you try on his golden snake armband, to having you gently spread apart for him on his bed, thighs pushed open, forearms bound at your back, eyes blindfolded as tears of pleasure spill down, a vibrator secured perfectly over your clit while he latches his mouth over your pretty nipples, keeping himself deep inside your dripping cunt.

And he’d use them outside the bedroom, too.

Sharing erotica that has heat spreading through your bodies—whether it’s reenacting scenes together, or being told to read a page aloud as he applies himself to you, it’s something both of you take pleasure in, finding equal enjoyment in the physical intimacy as well as the emotional side of getting to discover and share new experiences together.

Thesan:

Hear me out on this: threesomes.

We already know he has a male lover, so sharing you with someone else—someone he cares for and trusts—isn’t an issue. Quite the opposite.

Getting to watch as both his partners touch and explore one another, kiss and discover, or turn their sights on him—absolute heaven. Especially after a long day of work, dealing with High Lord business, then getting to just relax into his lovers’ arms? Utter perfection.

And it’s non-sexual too: waking up with a warm body pressed either side that’s been softened from sleep, sharing meals and nabbing pieces of food off each other’s plates, swapping clothes and sharing scents until they’re so thoroughly combined no one would remember what belongs to who since they all smell the same.

Kallias (and Viviane):

Temperature play.

Hot baths, a thick lather of bubbles looking like foam across the surface, heat soaking into your body until you’re sweating, all the while he’s running cool fingertips over your skin, so perfectly sensitive as he plays with you leisurely, brushing teasingly over your nipples, dipping between your thighs to press the cold pad of his digit flat to your clit.

I might be biased, but I feel like Kallias would also have some hints of a breeding kink.

Sinking into your warm, wet heat—how could he resist filling you up, hoping that you take to him, latch on and keep him tucked away inside.

Now, adding Viviane into the mix, things get so much messier.

Nights that would start off clean cut and strict would slowly devolve into sloppily grinding against one another, turned dumb and pliable by relentless pleasure. Kallias often finding himself rolling his hips to one of you, the other placed atop their mouth. When it’s not that way round, it’s him who’s lying on the bed, panting and fucked out while Viviane rides his cock, you keeping him docile and distracted beneath your cunt while your hands explore her breasts, cupping and thumbing across her nipples, mouthes latched together intimately.

Tarquin:

Oh boy, we’re touching on some monsterfucking here, no way around it. I mean, come on, his whole theme is to do with the sea, of course tentacles are going to come into play one way or another when he partially transforms.

Hundreds of small suction pads settling across your body, bath water lapping at the sides while you lean into him, panting with heat and need. It’s like having tiny mouths licking and suckling at the best spots across your skin, one placed deliberately over your clit while his fingers work you apart, then switching between using his mouth and his tentacles to tug and suck at your nipples, loving how you cry out for him.

I also think he’d absolutely love seeing you in lingerie—lovely pale green lace with creamy white frills, reminding him of sea foam. How you’ll sometimes adorn yourself in pearls, their pale shine complimenting the threads of your underwear, making him desperate to touch you, to at least feel you against him in some way.

Beron (+Eris, separately):

He is an utter control freak but in the best way (cannot believe I’m saying this—kind of struggling)

Anything from collars, to leashes, to chains, ropes, ties, even his belt, he knows how to use them on you, to wrap you up in such a way that he is in complete and utter control over your body, deciding how much pleasure to doll out that night. Going as far as to have a little bell attached to the collar, just to add that edge of humiliation.

Now, despite how dominating that might sound, he loves flipping you on your back, keeping your thighs spread apart even as you try to shut them when he spins you into overstimulation. And why wouldn’t he?

Using his mouth on you, reducing you to such a blabbering mess gives him ultimate control over you—who needs daemati abilities to shatter minds when you have heated fingertips and a mouth that knows how to put its harsh properties to use?

Eris—he knows his strengths, and plays to them.

While others might spend precious minutes going around, lighting every candle, he can do it with a fraction of a thought, filling your room with a soft glow, helping you settle into that mood.

It’s taken a bit, but you’ve managed to narrow down the selection of scents to a specific combination—reaching the point you’re no longer able to smell even a hint of vanilla without utterly soaking your underwear. Though maybe that had been part of a secret plan of his, to get you to associate a scent so powerfully with pleasure that you’d be at his mercy with little more than a candle to blame.

While he can be teasing, and a little mean at times, he enjoys slowly kissing his way down your body, murmuring how much he adores you, how he cherishes you, how he loves the way you thread your fingers through his hair. And you love hearing those whispered confessions from his lips, because it means he feels safe. Safe to speak with you, to trust in you, to allow himself to be comforted by you. He has someone to be with.

Tamlin:

Obviously, monsterfucking again

Probably in possession of a wicked power kink as well as in favour of some predator play. Getting to chase after you beneath a full moon—there’s something so ancient and ritualistic about the practice that just eases some tension in his beast’s bones. Catching up with you and clasping the nape of your gown in his jaws to raise you from the ground as you squirm helplessly, unable to do much against such a massive creature.

I do think that behind closed doors, he wouldn’t mind the power imbalance going in the opposite direction though… Being forced to just sit and wait patiently while you strip yourself of your clothes, teasingly tossing your underwear into his lap while you lay back on the bed, pleaded with how his fangs have subconsciously pushed from his upper lip, pupils dilated with ferocious hunger—needing to bed you.

Hybern:

Loves getting head

We’re in unfamiliar territory over here, but he knows his way around some nasty spells. Incantations that have you riding him desperately, aching for release after release, grinding tight against his hips so he touches those spots that have you sobbing.

Potions are also frequently incorporated—that make you need him with every part of your being with such an acute intensity he makes a mental note to lessen to liquid’s concentration next time.

He also like seeing you in different crowns, one time putting you in one made of bone, then ordering you to remove your dress without dislodging it—if it was nudged, he’d edge you until you were crying, but if it fell… Mother save you.

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy

rhys taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

[kaisa-ryo]

Sukuna Ryōmen NSFW Alphabet

Warning: English isn't my native language!

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*

A = Aftercare (What he likes after sex)

Lie on your back with your arms crossed under your head. Most of the time, Sukuna looks up at the ceiling and thinks about something; sometimes he talks to himself, asks himself if he really loves you or pretends to love you. But when you start to cuddle up to him, he looks at your sweet sleeping face and, smiling for some reason, gently squeezes your hand, which rests on his chest, and snuggles up to you.

B = Body part (His favorite body part)

At first you thought he was joking when you said he liked your whole body. But he was not joking. From the outside, he really admires your whole body, because for him you are the most perfect specimen in the world, and he was simply mesmerized by your perfection. Perhaps it will surprise you, but you began to realize your sexual attraction only with him. Before him, you had no idea how good you are. Yes, there were those types who said that your eyes should be mesmerizing and your hair should be long. Or that you must have big lips. Naturally, for a long time you considered your appearance as your biggest flaw. But against the will of fate, as in a typical love story, one possessive brute appeared and made you love yourself. You haven't confessed to him yet that you are grateful to him for teaching him to love yourself. And even if every day he notices some flaws in you, you still don't listen to him, because you know that he still likes your body, it's just that such an egoist has a habit of influencing you and the people around you.

C = Cum (Everything about sperm)

Anywhere, as long as it is your body.

Yes, inside, too, is no less horny, but hell, you seem so spoiled and dirty in his eyes when you are covered in his cum. He will not let you go to the shower right away, because he wants your body to be more saturated with his scent. And he doesn't care that you are indignant, that you are uncomfortable. If he needs it, he will do it.

D = Dirty secret

Public sex.

Sukuna moans at the thought of how he is leaning you as much as possible against the panoramic window so that everyone can see how you wriggle and groan. You feel his tense flesh, watch how he digs more and more into your buttocks, and feel how his penis, increasing in size more and more, pierces your pussy. It seems as if in the whole universe there is nothing but his rhythmic movements inside you. Everything else: people outside the window, cars, barking dogs - nothing compared to this powerful electrical discharge that escapes from your body at that moment.

E = Experience

It was several times before you. Only now, none of them wanted to start a relationship with him. As, in principle, he is. Yes, baby, sex without obligation is still in fashion. You yourself can no longer remember why it was you who decided to take such a brave step - to meet with the curse, and even with their king. Probably because even behind the veil of selfishness and dependence on power, you could see in him one pitiful, but still a drop of humanity. Naturally, Sukuna did not disregard this and even imbued with your enthusiasm. And this splinter is still amazed that you have not left him yet.

F = Favorite position

His most favorite is missionary and doggy style with a squeeze of your wrists over your head. So he can do whatever he wants: change speed, pace, bite, and you cannot stop him or push him away.

G = Goofy (Serious at this moment?)

No.

During the process, he can throw something dirty and humiliating. Can slap, bite or hit. He cannot stand it when it is quiet and only spanking and your moans are heard. He needs to create a whole performance, whatever, just to fill the room with something passionate other than silence.

H = Hair (Is the hair okay?)

Not at all.

The king of curses does not see the need for this at all. If you're uncomfortable with giving a blowjob, he doesn't care. He's not going to waste time making you comfortable. Only throws a short "bear with it." But one day you still managed to persuade him to at least try, smirking him with cute eyes. Then he “limped” for a long time and was angry with you, because it was as if his skin had been ripped off below him, and now everything became sensitive. You laughed at him until everything grew back again, and Sukuna vowed that he would never shave his pubic hair again.

I = Intimacy (Romance)

Oh, he has a problem with that. But don't be in a hurry to despair, he just started to learn!

Most recently, he stopped making a grimace of disgust after kissing you on the cheek or kissing the back of his hand. There were some compromises - now he began to inhale your scent into all his lungs. Then you asked why and why, and received in response what he liked, how you smelled, adding that for all the time that he was on Earth, he had never felt such a unique and intoxicating scent. Not to say that it did not bother you at all, then you really felt a pleasant feeling of goosebumps.

He has no money for gifts, but if you try, he can take you to any place. If you want - to the forest, if you want - to an amusement park, if you want - to a park of culture and rest, if you want - to a museum. In general, such a good guide. Lazy and does not immediately agree, but still a guide.

You push him to all these (however, there is no one else), forcing him to watch dramas, musicals, family comedies, throwing fleeting glances at him when the romantic scene begins. He will cast a second glance at you and guess your goal, sighing in disgust and rolling his eyes.

J = Jack off (masturbation)

It happened a couple of times. That same dirty secret.

To be honest, he didn't react in any way when you caught him doing it in the middle of the day. Unless he just wanted you to "help him." You rolled your eyes and slammed the door, leaving for another room. He grinned maliciously with such a predictable reaction. He was sure that you wanted it, it was just that you didn't have the courage.

K = Kink

If you only knew how languidly he sighs when you give yourself pleasure. Especially if you do it for him. The way you do it turns all his ideas about sex upside down. How you moan when you play with your nipples and stick thin fingers into your hole - it makes his mind melt in an ocean of pleasure. How he fidgets, waiting for your orgasm when you start kissing him. How do you hold his shoulders, snuggling up to him so that he can feel all your hidden virtues. He asks for more and more. And then suddenly he sharply grabs the hair and digs his lips hard into your mouth. He has very strong arms, it seems that even a pinch of effort, and your head will be ripped off. Yes, power and the elements of BDSM are also on his list of favorite things about sex, as are bites or wet sucks.

L = Location (Favorite places to have sex)

To be honest, he has no preference.

If he wants to fuck you on the kitchen table, he will. If he wants to fuck you on the couch, he will. In the laundry, he'll do it. It's no secret for you that he would not mind trying a couple more places and he will never get tired of coming up with new ones.

M = Motivation

He likes it when you suddenly start to dominate or suddenly rub against his cock.

He realizes that he has a competitor and this idea turns him on as hell. Sukuna naturally loves to compete, and you also add fuel to the fire. Naturally, he will not give in, because you are still a pitiful person in comparison with him, and your power must be defended. Therefore, do not be surprised if he begins to act more efficiently than usual in order to assert his own greatness. And Sukuna will try to show you how small and insignificant you are, unlike him.

N = No (Which will not do)

Greed and the desire to completely control the process, of course, is what he aspires to, but when he sees you suppressed and constrained by some thought coming directly from your subconscious, it worries him much more. Such vulnerability literally tears him apart. Under the pressure of circumstances, he turns, in a sense, into an evil, but caring mother. The king of curses first looks at you, as if expecting your gaze on him. Realizing that this is useless, he starts the dialogue first:

— Well, what is different?

Now you didn't want to answer him. I didn't even want to see him. This is not the first time he has shown waywardness. It started to exhaust you in order. The thoughts in your head were dark and your voice sounded cold and indifferent. I thought that it would be better to kiss you or touch you tenderly, but his hands at that moment were too persistent. It infuriated, but it was already impossible to leave. And he did not stop talking to you.

— Sor..m.. - the words from his lips sounded somehow strange. He seemed to have eaten the last syllable.

— What? - you responded.

— Sorrmm...!

— I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.

— Forgive me already, fucked up!

He rolled his eyes after you started either laughing or crying (you laughed and he realized it almost immediately).

O = Oral (Likes to receive or to give)

Receive. Definitely.

What else can you expect from a cursed spirit like him? He will definitely make sure that the blowjob is the longest process in sex for him. Moreover, he will do this persistently: winding your hair around your hand, forcing you to swallow the penis as deeply as possible, so that later as deeply as possible and finish. He doesn't care if you gag, cough or provoke a gag reflex. Sukuna insists that you have to endure, adding "for my sake" with feigned tenderness. You have no choice but to succumb to his pressure. After all, if you do not do this, do not expect that he will please you.

P = Pace

Very lively.

There is hardly a second when you can completely relax. He will hammer into you like a jackhammer, dig his nails into the skin, leaving red streaks on it, and whisper something viciously at the same time. In order to somehow soften these moments, you intensely squint and succumb to his tricks, allowing you to lull your vigilance and give an outlet to the accumulated tension. But you still feel a growing wave of excitement inside you. And Sukuna knows it, as if he reads your thoughts.

Q = Quickie

Immediately starts high. And if because of this you end up quickly, he will require a second round, then a third, and so it will continue until he gets tired of it. Your sex play can last for hours. His "come on, I know that you are already at the limit" will be repeated so often that you will not even be able to think about anything other than orgasm. And he fucking loves it.

R = Risk (Ready to experiment)

Always ready.

You have such compelling requests almost every day. You refuse the majority, because they sound too crazy, but he does not despair and continues to whisper details in your ear, if you nevertheless agreed. And this is, surprisingly, really a working method.

Did the baby suddenly want sex on the roof? Why not!?

On the director's desk? Oh, how can you refuse when you ask him so sweetly, moaning into the phone speaker and squeezing around the air, instead of which there should be yours and only your Sukuna.

S = Stamina

Fuck with him until the morning? Easy! If you are free all weekend, he will definitely find time for you to have fun (if you understand what I mean).

T = Toys

Bad attitude. It's just bad.

— This crap can't take and replace my dick like this! — shouted the King of curses, — Or do you think that she will be better!?

— No, that's not what I mean! — you yelled, — I just suggest you try.

— In that case, I'm against it.

He turned around and left.

You rarely managed to convince him, and this time he was seriously opposed to it. Well, if you want to try them, then you have to do it alone in secret from him.

U = Unfair (Does he like to tease)

It is already difficult to remember at least one sex in which he would not tease you.

Yes! God yes! He knows that you want him at any time of the day or night. Every minute ... He knows all this and feels as if it is a part of him, as if he was destined to constantly touch, squeeze, lick and caress you. Feelings are heightened more if you tell him this directly. For this, he is ready for almost anything. He is ready to give up and just melt between your legs. His skin is so sensitive to your touch that every movement of yours creates desire in him. And an ordinary "dirty slut" excites both of you no less than any other intimate intimacy.

V = Volume (How loud is it)

Loud.

The kisses that descend on your goose bump, lower and lower, turn into a marathon of moans and screams. Whichever of you tries to sound quiet, at times like this it becomes useless. Sometimes you even thought that Sukuna just wanted to shout you down. Such thoughts make you smile involuntarily.

— Why are you smiling? Are these days over?

W = Wild card (Random headcanon)

One neighbor lives next to you. Kind and friendly. Every day, there is a new gift for you - a cake, a cookie, or even a garden gnome. In general, he loves you very much and is constantly interested in when you will marry.

One night you were especially noisy: the bed was reeling back and forth, its back was banging against the wall, and you were screaming with pleasure so that the glass trembled. In general, it is not clear how the house sustained both of you, but you woke up in the morning as if you had slept for a whole month.

You were lying around, unable to even pick up your phone or go to the toilet. And then there was a knock on the door.

You quickly pulled on your panties, threw a robe over your naked body and with small steps ran to open the door. There was a neighbor at the door. It turned out that she had heard the noise from your house all night and decided that they were burglars or worse. The morning head, with difficulty digesting information, finally woke up and at that very second you felt so ashamed that you winced and closed your eyes.

— The guy and I had a fight a little. But it's okay. Rampaging is the norm for him.

She was a little taken aback by this answer.

— Was it me who was on the rampage? — There was a hoarse voice from behind, — Yes, you rode on me like a stallion! Although, to be honest, I liked such a filly...

The neighbor stares at Sukuna, dumbfounded.

You wanted to put it in a blender right now.

X = X-ray (What's under the clothes)

20 cm. During erection ± 2.5

Y = Yearning (How high is the sex drive)

As stated earlier, Sukuna is not good at compliments or gifts. And he himself constantly claims that this is not necessary at all. He acts on the following principle: good for you, good for him, then everything is fine and nothing else is needed. You want something romantic, not depraved. Sometimes he gets bored with his reproaches and requests to spend the evening in bed again. One gets the feeling that he is not capable of anything else.

Sukuna wants to change for you. Listens attentively when you say anything about the human world. What are the customs, countries, traditions, sights. He remembered everything that you said to him and remembers, too, what you tell to this day. He wants to prove that you were not mistaken by discerning humanity in him, towards which no one ever dared even look. She looks at other men, studies gestures and tries to repeat them. Now you do not understand this, but one day you will realize it, and you will love him like you never did before.

± 8/10

Z = Zzz (How quickly falls asleep)

He does not fall asleep and does not sleep. And he goes to his tomb and sits on the throne while thoughts of you visit him. The more he thinks, the more he wants to touch you. Take it and never let it go Any philosopher would say that you are the same as all people. She is as ordinary as millions of others, with her weirdness and naive dreams. Anyone would say, but definitely not him. He doesn't care if you’re ordinary or not, but he wouldn’t date you if he thought the same way. Even if you don’t live a thousand years like him, you’re ready to give you half of your life force, just to die with you.

He doesn't like such thoughts. They don't like the fact that you tied him to yourself, just once you smiled sweetly. He gets angry and screams that he allowed himself to get too carried away by you, and everything around, the whole world is just a pitiful soap bubble, which does not exist even in such a seemingly huge format as your most human soul of all.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*

[northofdespair]

You know @obiwanobi , it really didn’t take much to tempt me lol. 

Part two of this post! And uh, well, it got significantly spicier than the previous part now that our favorite Togruta apprentice has vacated the scene.

This one is for @crvdematter , who really started the whole thing months ago, and I feel terrible for forgetting to mention you in the last post! Really, it’s a miracle that I’m coming out from under my nice, cozy rock to give you E-rated Obikin of all things, so hopefully it’ll make up for my grievous omission! Thanks for sparking this into existence!

SPICE under the cut. 😘

Enjoy? 😨🥰

~*~

This is not the first time that Obi-Wan has kissed him while he has a split lip, and Anakin is sure that it won’t be the last.

The pain is a constant, throbbing reminder of their earlier tangle, even as his Master sucks it gently in apology, but Force, Anakin never wants him to stop. He lifts a hand to squeeze Obi-Wan’s wrist where his face is framed by gentle, bloodied hands, then settles his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck with a shuddery sigh.

Obi-Wan’s tongue slides into his mouth and he lets out a guttural moan of approval at the sensation. It spurs his Master on just the way he knew it would, and Obi-Wan leans forward into his space to pin him against the wall. The weight grounds him, steadies him, and he breathes in the comforting scent of Obi-Wan between kisses. Force, even covered in sweat and blood, Anakin loves the spice-and-tea scent of him.

There was a time that Obi-Wan had left one of his robes in his quarters on the Resolute. His Master never noticed the missing garment, prone as he is to dropping the damn things in every corner of the galaxy, and Anakin decidedly did not tell him. It was a lonely month in space, far away from Obi-Wan and even Ahsoka, and if he wrapped that cloak around his shoulders at every sleep shift he got? Well. No one had to know.

The increased proximity lends itself to intimacy, and they both moan quietly into each other’s mouths as their growing erections press together for the first time that night.

The first time in too long, really, and Anakin feels giddy with the promise that this is theirs. That they can have this, and it doesn’t have to stay in the darkness of the Coruscanti underworld. Obi-Wan wants him, loves him, and this night won’t end in longing glances when they think the other isn’t looking, nor will they have to part.

Obi-Wan breaks the kiss to bite and kiss along Anakin’s jaw, sliding his fingers back into Anakin’s hair, and oh, Anakin could give himself up to the Force with how good those fingers feel tightening against his scalp. He gasps instead, rolling his hips forward to seek out more friction. In a rather uncharacteristic move, Obi-Wan lets him. He even grinds against him in return as he sucks on the tender skin behind his jaw, and Anakin whimpers into the open air at the allowance.

The indulgence doesn’t last long, however, before Obi-Wan nips at his earlobe and murmurs,

“Shall we take this back to the Temple then, dear one?” his voice rasps with lust, and Anakin gives a full-body shudder at the feel of it in his ear before he shakes his head.

“No. Not- ah- not now,” he swallows as Obi-Wan presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat with a speculative hum.

“No?” he comes back up to purr low in Anakin’s ear, “Why would that be? Do you want to stay where you can cry out for me? Where no one but I knows the sound of your voice? Or is it that you cannot wait that long?” Obi-Wan punctuates his last words with a hand squeezing over Anakin’s erection in his trousers, and Anakin pants out his breath at the pressure.

“Please, Master. Both, just- fuck me here, please,” he begs, tightening his hold around Obi-Wan’s neck.

His Master presses a long, firm kiss to Anakin’s lips before breaking it to look into Anakin’s eyes with his own intense, crystal blue stare. The sight of him, pupils blown and cheeks flushed in the dim, blue light of some far-off neon, makes Anakin’s stomach flip.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it; the way Obi-Wan stares at him with such desire plainly written on his face. He’d never quite been able to decipher it completely, the way Obi-Wan looked at him, but now he thinks he knows.

It was love, always love, and before there was a strange wistfulness that he never understood until tonight. There is no wistfulness to his gaze now. Now there is only heat and desire, amplifying the love he now readily identifies. It’s enough to make him dizzy, especially when his Master rasps, “Since you asked nicely,” and drops to his knees.

Anakin leans heavily against the wall for support as Obi-Wan wastes no time in tugging his trousers and undergarments down to his feet, taking his erection in hand and meeting his eyes as he presses a kiss to the flushed head. Anakin bites his lip, no longer noticing the sting as he watches Obi-Wan reach into his own trouser pocket with another hand to produce a packet of bacta.

Obi-Wan flicks his tongue against the slit, drawing out a surprised little moan from Anakin’s throat, before pausing to coat his fingers in bacta. Soon he’s rubbing cool circles at Anakin’s entrance, and Anakin gasps at the feeling, grinding back almost involuntarily to coax them in.

Obi-Wan stares up at him with something like wonder on his face and shakes his head slowly.

“The things you do to me,” he whispers, and leans forward to press a kiss to the side of Anakin’s cock.

“You’re one to talk,” Anakin’s breathless rebuttal breaks off in a broken moan as Obi-Wan takes him into his mouth and breaches him at the same time.

He clutches at the back of Obi-Wan’s tunic as lightning-hot arousal shoots down his spine.

It’s funny- all this time, between their fights and sex in back alleys just like this one, they’ve been sort of ignoring the fact that it’s happened at all when they get back to the surface. Obi-Wan was right; what happened here, stayed here, no matter how much Anakin longed for that to change. But all of this time, they’ve been learning each other’s pleasure. What makes the other throw their head back or bite down in desperation.

And so he is no match for the tongue that swirls with a knowing twist, the second finger that eventually adds to the first as he opens for his Master, and the deep, rumbling moan of Obi-Wan’s voice around him.

“Master. Master I’m- hhahhh- I’m going to cum if you-“ Obi-Wan curls his fingers at that moment, and he cuts off with a whimper, clenching his fist in Obi-Wan’s tunic and gritting his teeth against the crashing wave of arousal that follows.

His Master pulls off of his cock with a wet pop and looks up at him speculatively, adding a third finger and watching intently as Anakin groans from deep in his chest.

“Do you want to come now, darling?” he asks, squeezing at Anakin’s thigh to catch his attention.

Anakin tries to clear his head enough to think. He- he could come now, and he knows that Obi-Wan would fuck him just the same, but...

“No. No, I- with you, Master. Please.”

Obi-Wan smiles up at him, stretching the wounds that decorate his own face after his night of fighting, and kisses his thigh.

“All right, love.”

Anakin sighs through his nose at the simple, gentle response, and lets his head fall back against the wall as he closes his eyes and attempts to calm down a bit. Obi-Wan’s fingers have all but stilled in him, occasionally moving slow enough that the quiet tide of pleasure he feels isn’t enough to push him back to the receding edge.

It’s a testament to how well Obi-Wan knows him, how much he can read his expressions and his countenance in the Force, that the moment he feels like he can keep going, his Master spreads the three fingers and curls them once again to brush against his prostate. He inhales sharply through his nose and clenches his mechno-hand against the wall behind him at the sparks of pleasure that crackle through him.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” Obi-Wan’s voice falls, deep and gravelly from his mouth.

“Yes, Master,” he whispers.

“Good.”

Obi-Wan presses one more kiss to his thigh before removing his fingers with a wet squelch and rising slowly to his feet. Anakin clenches around nothing, swallowing a whine as Obi-Wan caresses his skin on the way up. This time, it is he that draws Obi-Wan into a kiss with a hand around the back of his neck. His Master willingly goes, quickly taking the control that Anakin so readily gives.

In battle, he does not mind control. He might even go so far as to say that he thrives on it.

On missions and even in teaching, he will gladly lead.  

But oh, in this.

In this, he wants nothing more than the way Obi-Wan dominates him with his tongue.

In this, he wants nothing more than Obi-Wan’s weight, pinning him to the wall, caging him in, grounding him.

In this, he relinquishes all control to his Master, until he cannot think beyond the violent pleasure that flows like magma through his veins.

The biting kiss does not last long before Obi-Wan breaks it with a low growl, dipping down to grab the backs of Anakin’s thighs and hoist him up against the wall. Anakin lets out an undignified squeak and scrabbles for purchase on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, wrapping his legs around his Master’s waist.

Obi-Wan chuckles. “All right?”

Anakin huffs indignantly. He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, he feels Obi-Wan’s hand shift, and suddenly the head of his cock is nudging at Anakin’s entrance. He hadn’t seen Obi-Wan slick his own cock, or even push down his own trousers, but he’s certainly not going to complain. His voice gives way to a high-pitched whine, pleading wordlessly for Obi-Wan to just-

“Ahhhh-“

Obi-Wan’s cock finally sinks into him, all at once, and Anakin keens.

Force, he could come from the stretch alone. If Obi-Wan didn’t appear to need a moment himself, he might have. But Obi-Wan simply pants into his neck for a stretch of time as Anakin does the same into his ginger, sweat-damp hair, and it both calms and stirs up the sea of need between them in one fell stroke.

When Anakin is seconds away from begging Obi-Wan to move, he lets out a cry instead as Obi-Wan growls and pulls out slightly before snapping his hips forward. The pace he sets to begin is slow for what feels like only a moment–though it is surely longer–as their pleasure quickly builds.

Obi-Wan mouths at his neck as Anakin gasps with every thrust, clinging desperately to Obi-Wan’s back. He feels Obi-Wan shift him in his arms and wonders idly if he’s too heavy after Obi-Wan’s already strenuous evening, but all thought is immediately erased as Obi-Wan finds what he was looking for and Anakin sees stars.

“Master,” he moans breathlessly, and Obi-Wan groans.

“Force, you’re perfect. You take me so well, darling. So good,” the words melt into Anakin’s veins, and he moans from deep within his chest as Obi-Wan nips at his throat. “Can you come from this, darling?”

“Yes. Yes, Obi-Wan, Master, yes, just don’t stop- ah- don’t stop, please-“

His words devolve into incoherent babbling into Obi-Wan’s ear as their pace quickens, and the sound of skin on skin echoes in the empty alleyway.  

“Come on then, love,” Obi-Wan’s voice is rougher now than it has been tonight, and Anakin knows by some thoughtless instinct that he’s close as well. “I’ve got you. Come for me, Anakin. Love you, dearest. I love you.”

And that, with one more thrust against his prostate, is enough. Anakin throws his head back against the wall and comes so hard he sees white. A deep, punched-out noise rises from his chest and his nails sink into Obi-Wan’s tunic. His mechno-hand scrabbles so hard he’ll probably leave marks, awash as he is in the tempestuous wave of pleasure.

He is distantly aware as Obi-Wan thrusts rapidly a few more times, fucking him through the crest of his orgasm before he comes with a snarl of Anakin’s name and a bite to the juncture of his neck. Anakin gasps at the pleasure-pain of teeth set into his flesh and shakes with aftershocks as Obi-Wan pulses inside him.

They come down slowly, breathing together as Obi-Wan mindlessly kisses at the bite and Anakin strokes his Master’s hair. A few long, peaceful moments pass this way, simply holding each other and pressing lax kisses into each other’s skin and hair before their position grows to be too much.

Obi-Wan slides out of Anakin, setting an apologetic kiss to Anakin’s cheek at the hiss of discomfort it draws forth. He sets him gently to the ground and steadies him with hands at his waist when Anakin’s legs shake at the reestablished equilibrium. Anakin bows his head for a moment to collect himself, and when looks up he finds Obi-Wan watching him with a soft smile on his face.

His eyes twinkle in the low light, and Anakin’s breath hitches quietly. The communication that passes between them then is too marvelous, too complex for words. Just by staring into his Master’s eyes, Anakin knows that Obi-Wan understands all the words he can’t bring himself to speak into the night air.

Softly, in the back of his mind, he feels the stirring of a familiar pathway. He sucks in a quiet, surprised breath as he realizes at once just what it is. He hasn’t travelled that road for a long, long time, but he knows the well-worn path of their training bond better than life itself.

Obi-Wan searches his eyes even as he strokes over the quiet remnants of the bond, and Anakin knows the question that lies behind the icy blue of his Master’s gaze. And just as he knows the question, he knows the answer. He reaches for his own side of their bond and brushes away the cobwebs, pushes aside the vines, and then-

A rush of consciousness, not his own, floods into his very being, overwhelming and all-consuming as a sandstorm. He hadn’t really known what he was missing, hadn’t let himself miss it, but oh. Obi-Wan’s Force signature dances with his own and fills the dark places of his mind with beautiful light.

It’s overwhelming, awe-strikingly powerful, and the rightness of it fills a part of his soul that he didn’t know he was missing.

He gasps brokenly, tears welling up and spilling over his eyes before he can stop them, and Obi-Wan laughs wetly. Anakin can feel his joy in the Force, as physically as the hand that comes up to wipe his tears away.

Hello, dearest, Obi-Wan’s voice echoes brilliantly in his mind. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Anakin can only nod through the tears, completely overwhelmed by the resurgence of their bond. He had thought he’d never feel this again. The fact that it was Obi-Wan who initiated their re-connection is almost surreal.

Force, they have so much to talk about, but for the moment, Anakin simply shuts his eyes and breathes.

Patient as ever, Obi-Wan holds him quietly until he is sure that Anakin can stand on his own before setting about putting them to rights. Anakin had all but forgotten that they are standing in an abandoned alley, half-naked with cum drying on the front of his tunic and dripping down his leg. He winces at the realization, shifting uncomfortably as Obi-Wan pulls up his own trousers and produces a cloth from his pocket. He wipes Anakin down gently before lifting his trousers and handing him the cloak he’d dropped when Obi-Wan first kissed him.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

The bond somehow feels so fragile, so new, that he’s afraid he might shatter it if he deigns to speak through it. Obi-Wan casts him a gentle, knowing look, and kisses his cheek.

“You’re welcome,” he smiles.

Like a picture coming back into focus, Anakin suddenly notices the wounds that litter Obi-Wan’s face and dip down into his tunic.

“Master,” his voice comes out as a pained breath.

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows in question, then winces as it pulls on a nasty-looking bruise. Their bond colors a sheepish pink, and Anakin tries not to reel from the sensation of the extra feedback.

“Ah. Yes, that.”

“What happened? You never let them touch your face,” he reaches forward to brush his fingertips lightly over the deepest bruise.

“Yes, well, that Devaronian was tougher than he looked. You landed a hit or two as well, I daresay.”

Anakin grimaces. “Sorry.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head with a fond chuckle.

“You should see the other guy,” he winks.

Anakin huffs a laugh and shakes his head in return, and when Obi-Wan smiles at him? He knows then and there that no matter how fragile their bond may feel, no matter what happens next, they’re going to be okay.

[animatedarchives]

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU

— 𝐒𝐄𝐌𝐈 𝐄𝐈𝐓𝐀

author’s note: wOOHOO it’s day 6 of the winter collab and today’s prompt is deck the halls! i used it to set the scene instead of using it as a main idea but i hope you like it nonetheless!! :D

genre: fLUFF i want semi to sing to me too :(

warnings: none! just warm christmas vibes :>

word count: 1.6k words

You and Semi loved Christmas, but today he was being overly enthusiastic about it, and you weren’t entirely sure why.

You normally bought a small tree to decorate every year for Christmas together, but today he came home with one that was double in size, insisting that you help him set it up before the day was over.

“What do I get for my assistance?” you raised your eyebrow playfully. You were already going to help him like you always did, but there was no harm in bargaining for extra benefit.

Semi smirked. “I’ll finally tell you what I want for Christmas,” he said, eliciting a gasp from you in response. You’d been pestering him to tell you for weeks, but every single time you asked, he refused to answer, saying that it was a secret.

So you accepted his offer without another thought, excited to hear what it was that Semi wanted so you could get it for him. Your boyfriend grinned as you sealed the deal.

Everything was going to plan.

You and Semi spent the day decorating the house together, singing and dancing as you enjoyed each other’s company. By the time night had fallen, everything was decorated and the atmosphere emanated a certain coziness and warmth.

“Looks pretty good, huh,” he beamed. You nodded and twirled the shiny golden star in your hand, walking over to the tree to finally add the finishing touch. You stood on your tiptoes, letting out a strained sound as you tried to place the star at the top.

Semi chuckled as you tried to stretch further, amused at how cute you still managed to look despite your little struggle. He approached you from behind, wrapping his arms firmly around your hips before lifting you off the ground.

You shrieked in surprise, quickly grabbing onto his arms in order to regain your balance. But Semi’s grip on you was strong and reassuring, making sure not to let you fall while he stepped closer towards the tree.

You slowly twisted your torso, the peak you couldn’t see before now clearly in view. You extended the star forward, carefully crowning the large fern with its final decoration of the day. You tapped Semi’s arm to let him know you were done, and he gently lowered you down, holding you steadily in his arms as your feet touched the ground.

Both of you admired your work, watching the lights twinkle around the bejeweled tree as the fireplace crackled warmly in the background. The ambience was perfect. It was just what he had hoped for.

He smiled as you sank into his chest and wrapped your arms around his waist, while he rested his chin on the top of your head.

“I love Christmas,” you sighed dreamily as you inhaled the faint yet distinct scent of pine that your boyfriend’s sweater held. “But I love you more.”

Semi’s heart skipped a beat at those nostalgic words, his mind going straight to the object in his pocket as he kissed your forehead and pulled away. The stage was finally set. The time to act was now.

“So, you wanna know what I want for Christmas?” he quirked an eyebrow teasingly. You scoffed at his question, knowing he already knew your answer.

“Yes, Eita, just tell me already!” you replied, scrunching up your nose as you huffed impatiently. You worked hard for your reward. You deserved to get your answer.

Semi laughed at your silliness, but he loved you all the same. He gazed at you with adoration, and his heart began to soften.

“I’ll do you one better,” he said, removing himself from your hold and walking to the corner of the room where his acoustic guitar was propped up against the wall.

“I’ll sing it for you.”

Your eyes sparkled at his response, akin to a child receiving a gift on Christmas morning. You loved it when Semi sang to you, which was why he decided he had to do it today. His hand brushed against the undeniable object in his pocket, his heart skipping a beat as the reality of the situation began to sink in.

This was it.

Semi took a deep breath and began to pick at the strings with his slender fingers. Time seemed to slow down and the air around you became full of romance and intimacy. Semi closed his eyes and quietly hummed along to the tune, an effort to calm his racing heart.

He opened his eyes again to look at you, and a smile crept up onto his face when he saw you swaying gently along to the music. He melted at the sight, and his love for you bled into the lyrics he sang as his melodious voice filled the air.

“I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need.”

You wanted to scoff at how cheesy he was being, revealing that the big gift he had wanted for Christmas was you all along.

But something about the raw emotion in his voice changed your mind, and you reveled in the sweetness of the words woven together by the silky smoothness of his voice.

“I don’t care about the presents, underneath the Christmas tree.”

You began to lose yourself to the music, humming along as Semi slowly strummed his guitar. It felt like you were dreaming, and you watched as Semi slowly began to approach you. His eyes never once left yours, and he continued to pour out emotion into every word that emerged from his rosy pink lips.

“I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know.”

Semi stopped in front of you, and your heart swelled as you gazed up into his warm, brown eyes. You honestly didn’t know how it was possible to love someone so much, but you did know that there wasn’t anyone else that you’d rather be in love with.

“Make my wish come true…”

And just like that, your heart skipped a beat. Because as soon as the lyrics left your your boyfriend’s lips, he slowly began to sink down until he was on one knee.

No way... It- It can’t be...

Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched him pull out a small, black velvet box. You suddenly rememebered how he’d been subtly brushing his hands near the pocket of his pants, making it seem like he was wiping his palms. All of a sudden, everything made sense. The decorating of the house to set the mood, the offer to reveal what he wanted for Christmas just so he could sing this song.

Was this what he had planned all along?

Your vision became blurry, your mind spinning out of control as tears began to well up in your eyes. Seeing you on the verge of tears made a lump form in Semi’s throat, but he forced himself to continue, determined to profess his love for you.

“All I want for Christmas…”

You could barely comprehend what was happening, everything was moving much too fast. It was like you were floating in the clouds, unsure it was real because it felt too good to be true.

But then the physical wetness of a tear trailing down your cheek finally cemented reality for you, and you were pulled back to your senses again.

This wasn’t just a dream.

It was all real.

Semi’s voice trembled, as did his hands. He was barely able to get out the last two words, slowly opening the box to reveal a glittering diamond ring.

“Is you.”

The final note and last lyric of the song struck a cord in your heart, and the tears began to flow freely from your eyes. Semi gently set his guitar aside, taking your hand in his and kissing your knuckles to help put you at ease.

“Today is a special day Y/N, because it was the first time that I told you I loved you,” Semi said. You remembered feeling Semi tense earlier when you’d said you loved him, now realising that it was the core of why he proposed today out of all days.

You let out a sob, never expecting him to remember such a minor detail. But little did you know that to Semi, it was the one thing he’d never forget.

“I remember that night like it was yesterday; how we kissed underneath the mistletoe and then spent our first Christmas together exactly one week later.”

Your heart swelled with emotion at the memory — the feeling of Semi’s lips pressing softly against yours as your heart began to warm despite the freezing cold air.

“We’ve spent every Christmas together since, and I don’t ever want that to stop. I want to spend the rest of my Christmases with you, waking up next to you each snowy morning, cuddling by the fireplace with our warm cups of cocoa and decorating our home where we’ll raise our children together.”

“You are the only thing I need, Y/N. Not just for this Christmas, but for the rest of my life,” he smiled softly. “So uh, for my Christmas present this year...” he chuckled nervously.

“Will you marry me?”

You could hardly contain yourself any longer, tackling him to the ground as your heart burst with happiness.

“YES YES YES!” you cried, wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. He gently held your body in his arms, rubbing your back soothingly as you sobbed into his shirt.

You pulled away with glassy eyes, extending your finger to allow him to slip the jewel on. The ring fit perfectly on your finger, seemingly made for you, just like Semi was.

“I love you so much, Y/N,” he said, gently cupping your cheek before placing a kiss on your forehead. You placed your hand over his, melting into his tender touch as you looked at him with endearment.

“I love you too, Eita,” you smiled as you leaned forward to press your lips against his soft ones, your souls intertwining together as your hearts beat as one.

© written and published by animatedarchives 2020. please do not steal or repost. thank you.

[dreamingsnowflake2013]

The best love scenes tell their own story and TharnType’s lovemaking in the shower is one of them. Lovemaking consists an intergral part of their relationship, just like their cuddles, arguments, bickering and brutal honesty. Physical intimacy is one of the many ways they communicate their love to each other. Furthermore, watching Tharn and Type make love shows the audience how far they have come in those 7 years. 

When Tharn joins him in the shower, Type isn’t the least surprised. He knowingly smiles because he’s expecting it and welcoming it, just as he’s welcoming Tharn’s hands lathering soap over his chocolate skin, soothingly gliding over Type’s back, in a move that is more a caress than anything else. It comes as a second nature to Type to enjoy Tharn’s gentle ministrations; this has clearly happened many times before over the years, but he’ll never get tired of it.

Tharn has always understood Type so well, sometimes even better than Type himself, therefore he knows that his boyfriend is still bothered by something, even after they’ve already made love on the couch once, so he asks Type what’s wrong and Type tells him because he’s used to sharing what’s on his mind with Tharn and confide in him. There are no secrets, lies or denial between them. Not anymore.

Tharn weaves his unique magic, creating a world that consists only of them, and Type lets himself fall under his mesmerizing spell. He gave up resisting Tharn a long time ago, it was useless anyway. Tharn might not solve Type’s problems, but he can make them disappear, banishing them from their little world where they don’t belong and where no one but them two exists, and Type forget them, at least for a little while. He whispers comforting words against his ear while never stopping soothingly stroking his arms and then he pecks his ear. It’s amazing how every moment is an opportunity for them to touch anywhere they can reach so no part of each other’s bodies is a taboo. Furthermore, an ear kiss is a rare sight in dramas and it speaks of a very deep and intense love.

And when Tharn rests his chin on his lover’s shoulder blade, fitting their bodies together in an intimate backhug that leaves no space between them, virtually glueing them together, Type smiles his shy secret giddy smile that always appear on his face whenever Tharn cuddles him from behind and nuzzles his back. In Tharn’s warm embrace, Type feels happy and at peace, his worries forgotten, because Tharn, his personal recharger, always manages to calm and cheer him up. From the moment, Tharn entered the shower, he’s never stopped smiling.

Type might not have a penchant for grand romantic gestures like Tharn, but he’s thoughtful and romantic in his own unique way just like when he gathers his courage and shyly asks Tharn about the 7th anniversary present. The whole moment is a parallel to the time Type found about Tharn’s birthday 7 years ago. Type always asks his boyfriend what he wishes for because he wants to give Tharn something he truly desires and needs since Tharn has given Type so much and always manages to make Type blissfully happy with his surprise gifts, just like that glamping date in their living room. 

Tharn turns Type around and pins him against the wall, caging him between his strong arms, because he yearns to see those expressive bambi eyes, so soft and pliant just for him. 

Those dark eyes which tell him so much about Type, they are like a window inside his heart and soul, but above all, he sees himself reflected in them together with Type’s love and longing for him. And who can blame him when Type looks at him so expectantly and lovingly. 

It doesn’t matter what Tharn wished for because Type would have given anything he asked. But Tharn wants only him. He wanted only him for his 19th birthday and he’s always wanted only him since the moment Type had walked into their tiny dorm room 7 years ago. After all that time, nothing has changed. And Type grins like a fool because he realizes it. 

While the idea of marriage makes him reluctant, there is no doubt in Type’s mind that he wants to spend the rest of his life with Tharn, being loved by Tharn and love him in return. 

He promises Tharn those 70 years which is his whole life, his own forever,  without hesitation, eagerly and willingly.

Tharn and Type pledge their whole lives to each other and that instinctively leads them to consummate their love in the most beautiful and natural way possible. It feels nostalgic and reminiscent of another moment they shared together in a different shower a long time ago. 

The visual similarities only highlight the narrative differences. Back then, Type was hindered by his inexperience, trepidations, doubts and homophobia, making his touches shy and tentative. Type had a very limited sexual experience compared to Tharn when they met and Tharn became his teacher in many things, including sex. 

He was the one who taught him the difference between fucking and making love. Tharn might forever remain Type’s first man, but now, after 7 years together, they are equally matched both emotionally and physically. 

So no more sexual discoveries for them because now, they know each other’s bodies better than their own and what the other person likes, too. The stubble on their chins, a stark remainder that they are no longer teenage boys but adult men.

It’s incredible how both actors manage to express a wide spectrum of complex emotions - love, desire, physical release,... - using only their eyes, facial expressions and body language, making you feel exactly what they feel in this very moment.

Even before Tharn gently cradles Type’s neck and brushes his thumb sensually over his collarbone, their eyes have been roaming over each’s over taut muscles, travelling down to look unabashedly towards the other man’s crotch. 

Their eyes are smiling at each other and then their gasps and the smacking of their lips reverberating in the shower stall prove how palpably real, tangible and deeply in love these two men are. Lost in their kiss, devouring and sucking their wet lips.

When Tharn lifts Type up as if he weighted nothing and Type wraps his arms and legs around Tharn with ease, fingers digging into his neck, it feels so practiced like they’ve done it countless times.For Tharn and Type, seeking each other’s warmth, craving to be joined in flesh feels spontanenous and natural like breathing, they NEED to be as close to each other as physically possible on a visceral level, with no barriers and space between. No other series addresses the realities of gay sex like TharnType does. They have done it once on the couch so Type’s already prepared and Tharn can take him immediately, thrusting into his tight heat. Because no matter how many times they’ve been together like this, it will never be enough. 

Their lovemaking is a sensory overload - visual, acoustic, tactile, olfactory,... - the picture of them together, the echo of their moans and water flowing down their bodies and sounds of a body meeting another body, the scent of their skin, the taste of their lips,... Watching all of this through a glass makes you feel like you are intruding on a private, deeply intimate moment.

It’s hard to catch a glimpse of Tharn’s expression while he’s slamming into Type since the camera’s focus is on Type’s pleasure and so is Tharn’s. Because this has always been about Type, about making him forget everything that troubles him. It’s a way of allowing the audience to see Type through Tharn’s eyes. There is this fleeting moment of Tharn looking up to Type and watching him getting lost in pleasure through half-lidded eyes full of desire. Type has this innate ability to completely let go and lose himself in the overwhelming pleasure that Tharn gives him and Tharn gets off on the sight of it because he knows that in that moment there is no one else on Type’s mind but Tharn and the pleasure he brings him. The sight of Type being completely his - heart, body and soul - is his ultimate aphrodisiac and kink. 

Trapped against the wall, in his embrace, Type is his to keep, his to ravish, his to love. There, Tharn’s lips and nose brush against his favourite spot - the crook of Type’s neck - where he can smell Type’s sweet boy scent.

There are so many little details which add so much nuance to the whole moment, making it feel incredibly erotic, raw, passionate and real:  Tharn’s hands holding Type close, Type’s palms on Tharn’s on shoulders pulling him near, their lips mimicking the movement of their bodies below, Type being pushed up by the force of Tharn moving inside him,...

And when Type finally cums, he slams his hand on the glass, clenched in utter abadon, letting go of his hold on Tharn’s shoulders because he has complete trust in his lover and feels protected in Tharn’s powerful arms. He knows that Tharn will always keep him safe and never let him fall.

[spengie]

The Still of the Night

spengie

Summary:

A short missing scene from Basics I and II. Reference to Resolutions.

******

When I finally find her, she's sitting away from the fires, on a dark outcropping of rock. She has one leg pulled up, her wrist laying across her bent knee, her other leg folded tightly underneath her. Exhaustion has her eyes half lidded, head leaning dejectedly back against the rockface. It was a rare glimpse of her unguarded, distraught, and I struggled with the still unnerving confusion of my feelings.

I knew the pull well, the desire to fold her into my arms so strong sometimes I shook with the effort not to. It had been different, once, I remembered. Easier. Before I’d been allowed the privilege. Before I knew how much it actually did comfort her. Before I understood that it was profound guilt, her own certainty that she did not deserve the solace, that prevented her from reaching out.

Now, though, as I approach her, she seems resigned. Her head lolls toward me as she opens her eyes.

“How’s everyone?” she calls as I climb up to her, though she knows they are all okay. She’s been watching them from this vantage point. I know she’s chosen it for that reason chiefly – although the solitude and isolation are close seconds. She looks ethereal from her dark vantage point, the firelight too far away to provide any appreciative light on her alcove, but the flickering from below casting fleeting and insubstantial shadows across her features. She’s unbearably beautiful and my heart catches.

“Fine, under the circumstances,” I answer quietly. It’s cold up here, and I wonder how she’s tolerating it; she has to have been here for at least a few hours. I sit next to her and realize she’s not tolerating it at all – she’s shivering uncontrolledly,  a fact I could not appreciate until I settle next to her.

“Captain,” I start, removing my jacket and placing it around her shoulders. But she doesn’t let me finish, a frown marring her face as she closes her eyes, pressing her lips together in what looks like pain. She brings a hand up to the collar of my jacket draped around her shoulder, then tenses, fighting herself. I’ve seen this struggle before. I’m not sure what she’s fighting now, but tension in her jaw and the curl of her left hand tell me it’s an internal battle. It’s over in just a few seconds.

“Thank you,” she says, but shrugs out of the jacket anyway. “But I am okay.” She hands it back to me.

She has been like this since we returned from New Earth. I feel the familiar rejection; nothing I do is preferable to her own suffering. It’s been five weeks and I still haven’t worked out whether she is punishing herself or me.

We never talk about it. Our time there. Sometimes I’m not sure it happened, except that where there used to be a spirited, passionate woman there was now only a taciturn captain. Oh, she was no different with most of the crew; I doubt if anyone even notices. But she seems colorless to me, the woman behind the rank was – faded somehow. Worn down, hollow.

I want to hold her. I ache with it, the familiar wound not lessening with time. I have no doubt she’ll never permit it, as versed as I’ve become in the self-flagellatory eschewals of Kathryn Janeway. She’s as incomprehensible as she is spellbinding, and the urge to shake sense into her is nearly as potent as the raw compulsion to ease her suffering. Either option would subject her to my touch, a liberty I was no longer allowed. She continued to shiver next to me.

“You’re freezing,” I say instead, hoping to appeal to her common sense. “Everyone is settling for the night, come down by the fires.”

She looks at me then, and I see the guilt in her eyes, the frustration at our helpless position. She sighs, scrubs a hand over her face.

“I –” she starts, pauses. “Chakotay, I’m sorry.” Her teeth chatter with her shivering and she bites her lip to try to stop it.

It’s not what I expect and I hold myself very still. She’s wringing her hands in her lap. Is she nervous? I can’t tell in the low light. There’s so much between us, the chasm that we had bridged on New Earth now wider than ever. I feel like I can’t read her anymore and the thought saddens me. I used to be better at this. We used to be better at this.

She’s still silent, looking over the makeshift camp, but I sense that she’s far away.

“Captain?”

“Can – can we not, right now?” she looks at me. “Chakotay.”

The air feels charged, and the shadows cross her face again and I blink. Surely, surely those are not tears I’m seeing glittering in her lashes. It must be a trick of the light. But then her hand rests on mine, the lightest touch, and I feel my heart flop awkwardly in my chest. Her fingers interlace with mine. She still hasn’t looked at me.

“Kathryn,” I attempt softly, unsure if I’m still allowed the privilege, the intimacy of her name. I have not tried since our first night back aboard from New Earth, where I was promptly reprimanded. I still remember the sting of her terse response.

“I – I know – ” she stopped as my thumb rubs over her hand. I know I shouldn’t but I can’t stop myself. She bites her lip. “I know this has been hard. I just – ” she waves a hand over the camp below. “I can’t put me first. I can’t – I can’t be what you want. We can’t be what – what you – ”

She looks at me now, unmistakable tears running down her cheeks. “What I want.” Her eyes plead for forgiveness, for mercy. “I have to put them first.”

I feel my own breath hitch at her admission. “Kathryn,” I say again, more certain in my entitlement to use her name, “I – I – understand.” I look at her, curled miserably on herself, and make a decision. We may both regret it, but at this moment I can’t stop myself. I pull her to me roughly, rapdily, knowing she’ll protest if I give her the chance. Still, she resists, but it’s clumsy, her limbs stiff with cold. I wrap her in my arms – if this is the last chance I have to hold her, I’m going to take full advantage.

She folds into me surprisingly quickly, pressing her cheek to my neck. Her skin is icy, wet with rapidly cooling tears. I breathe in the dusty scent of her, bury my face in her hair. The frizzy bit where Harry hacked off a chunk tickles my nose, but I can’t bring myself to move.

“I never wanted – I would never ask you to choose.” I say into her hair. Her hand is still interlaced with mine and I bring it to my lips, press a kiss to her knuckles. “I just – I just want you to be happy. I still want to ease your burdens, not add to them.”

She cries softly into my shoulder. I stroke her hair until she calms. It is over too quickly, and she is pulling away. I let her go, her hair trailing through my fingers as she does. She cups my cheek, traces my tattoo. I close my eyes at the gentleness of her fingers, and sigh. I can’t tell her everything in my heart, but for the first time, I’m confident she knows.

“Let’s go check on everyone, get you warmed up, and get some sleep. We have a ship to get back to tomorrow.” My voice is low, but I hope she catches my sincerity, my support; that I will never ask for more than she can give me. That I’m behind her no matter what.

She looks at me, and I see the things she won’t say. They warm me, and I squeeze her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, no longer shivering. “Thank you.” And I know, we’ll be okay.

[usopp-writes]

1. Nickname: Holly

2. Pronounce: she/her

3. Character(s) you want to be paired with: sanji!!

4. Which writing style do you want (HC, drabble, sfw, nsfw)? drabble, sfw

5. Five personality traits about you: sorta flirty, motherly, sweet, caring, funny

6. Five things you look for in a partner: good humor, romantic-ness, loyalty, kindness, a shoulder to cry on

7. Five dislikes: amusement parks, hot coffee, coconuts, spaghetti, hot weather

8. Whatever you want to add (specific scene, place, sentence, ideas etc.): maybe something like taking a bubble bath together? as sfw as that can be lol, no smut

SPRING EVENT

@hollyberryfairy

Thank you for sending in a request for my spring event. I hope you'll like what my brain came up with.

Please enjoy <3

"Oh Holly? Last time I saw her, she was heading to the back of the ship." You heard Robin saying your name and you stopped up, turning around. The familiar voice of Sanji sweetly thanking her, made you smile lightly and you decided to walk towards him.

Upon seeing him, he quickly moved to stand in front of you, pulling you in for a hug and a kiss. "I have a surprise for you, Holly-swan." He smiled, grabbing your hand ever so gently and started to walk.

You followed him, to the bathroom and you lifted your brows in confusion. He didn't say anything, but smiled, as he unlocked the door - yes he'd locked it when leaving the room - and led you inside.

The flowery scent of soap hit your nose and you smiled brightly, seeing the bubble bath he'd made. You could feel your muscles ache from a long day of work and the prospect of soaking into the tub, letting the warm water ease your tension, made you sigh lightly.

"I was hoping you would join me for a relaxing bath. Just you and I, no one here to bother us, unless the break down the door, though I'm sure they won't." He let go of your hand and started to undress.

You felt your cheek light up, the idea of him and you alone in the tub, was making you a liittle giddy and hot, but you brushed those feelings aside rather quickly. This was about intimacy and spending time with your boyfriend.

"Of course I would love to. You're the only one that I want to wash my back." You chuckled and started to undress too. It was impossible for you to take your eyes off him, taking in every inch of his bare skin, as he stood there in front of you, loving eyes following your every move.

As soon as you slipped your bra off, you laughed a little, seeing his nose bleed. It wasn't as much as it'd been when you first got together, but he still couldn't help but get it whenever you showed off what was hidden for everyone else.

Wiggling your eyebrows, you placed all of your clothes onto the bench, took his hand and went to the tub. The water was still warm, almost burning hot, as you slid down, making Sanji sit behind you. Leaning against his chest, you sighed happily. It felt so good to feel his skin against you, feel his arms around you.

"I love you. Thank you for making a hot bath for us." You titled your head, placing a hand on his cheek.

He smiled and leaned down, kissing you gently. "I saw how hard you worked today, my love, so I knew I had to do this for you. Now let me wash you and knead the tenstion out of you." He grabbed the washcloth, fully focused on easing your tension and soreness away with his skilled hands.

[laviedavantgarde]

En Solitaire / In Solitude - GTI Drabble

Hey all, I normally don’t publish my drabbles, as they could either be implemented in my fics’ canon or not. However, I’ve been so inspired as of late to add details to what happens behind the scenes of the main story’s progression. I won’t publish these on AO3, so little Easter egg drabbles will be here to tickle my fancy.

In Grand Theft Immortal, nearly all the story is in Trevor’s POV. In these drabbles, any POV goes.

These are canon events that happen in Michael’s perspective in the GTI verse, just right after Julien leaves for Sandy Shores.

I literally cannot thank symmetry enough for creating this fantastic fanart of Michael and Julien and the symbolism of blue colors and butterflies. So if you wonder why I am going to use more blue imagery and start implementing butterflies, I credit symmetry.

CWs include depression and alcohol.

Drabble begins down below:

Michael hated to be alone. Absolutely dreaded it.

His boyfriend told him he loved him the night before leaving Los Santos for his safety.

Their relationship used to be purely physical, and then it unraveled itself into something more. They didn’t even try to attempt to explain it as it went. They could feel the change and voice this without saying a word. Cuddling after intimacy evolved into purposeful touches throughout the day evolved into soft kisses outside of their unions evolved into not letting the other one go without some form of touch.

They were severely touch deprived, Michael and Julien. You couldn’t even attempt to break apart their couch cuddling, as limbs were intertwined and Michael would give one a death glare and Julien bared teeth if you even thought of pulling them apart.

Now Julien was gone, but not forever. Michael felt like it was.

His empty house engulfed him and it felt bigger than necessary. When Michael would go outside, he looked at his tennis court in disgust. He used it a few times, but only with Amanda. It was mainly for her, anyway. Now, it was just a blaring reminder of his old life. That imposing tennis court couldn’t up and walk away with her.

The painting of her was taken, along with many others in the house. To be fair, Michael only got them because he felt that was something he had to do in order to flaunt his wealth. Buy a bunch of valuable, useless stuff to fill some kind of void. It looked so weird. He kept his personal photos though, especially those of Jimmy and Tracey. Kept their portrait too. The walls looked so bare, and he felt like he needed something to adorn it with.

Maybe with Julien’s help, they could decorate their home together.

Wait, what?! That was too damn early to even know! Michael scolded himself. He often found himself dreaming about what their life could be domestically. They had some semblance of it when Julien bunked with him for six weeks. Sure it was New Relationship Energy, or NRE, as Julien explained, that made everything seem so wonderful. Michael always wanted more blue and darker tones in the house, but never could get a word in before in his past life.

He laid in his bed, the sheets still reeking of Julien’s scent. No matter how disgusting it was, he refused to wash them until he saw him again. It would be a month of waiting at most. It all boiled down to the final divorce proceedings. As he got out of bed and went into the closet, he saw Julien’s clothes where Amanda’s used to be and felt like he got punched in the stomach. He had to sit down on the circular furniture stool to compose himself. It really felt like he lost the second love of his life. Julien didn’t take his “posh looking” clothes to Sandy Shores with him, so he saw his clothing suited for teaching and being at the studio on hangers and shelves. He saw that his suit he wore to the movie premiere was in its garment bag. Everything looked so clean, so organized.

He took his blue sweater from its hanger (the one that was very comfortable to Michael) and held it to his face, and tears welled up.

That was his security item. That blue sweater. It didn’t fit Michael, but he carried it around like a small child with their favorite blanket.

The house only looked half lived in, what with Amanda taking her belongings and what she considered were her valuables. He liked this house too much to leave, as it was the best house he ever lived in and he was used to living on the run. Stability in a home is what he wanted.

He looked at his kitchen. Julien’s wine bottle was empty next to Michael’s scotch, and he winced. He looked at his dining room table, the vase removed from the center after one night they bumped into it and had it shatter on the ground while in the midst of passion. And in the living room on that square coffee table, his ashtray and Julien’s hookah sat next to each other.

He loved that man so much, and to remove anything that he left just lying around would be a disgrace. Disrespectful.

Michael had Tracey over for a father/daughter movie night and she made the comment that she was cold, and went to reach for one of Julien’s blankets, and he barked out a hostile “NO!” Tracey jumped in her seat and got very silent, trying not to cry in front of her father.

“Shit, Trace, honey. I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Michael pleaded, but it was too late.

She stood up and looked at him dead in the eye. “You’re a real asshole! Maybe I should leave you alone while I find someone else to hang out with!”

Tracey stormed out of the house and once she was gone, he grabbed one of his empty liquor bottles and smashed it on the ground.

“FUCK!”

He had also pissed off Franklin unintentionally. They were at Casey’s Diner, one of Julien’s (and now Michael’s) favorite restaurants. Michael and the owner Roberto were catching up, and it was Julien this and Julien that. It felt like Franklin was the third wheel, and Michael specifically invited him! With a huff, Franklin slipped out of the booth and Michael looked at him.

“Frank, what’s up?” Michael said, finally looking at him since they sat down in the diner.

Franklin laughed sarcastically. “You playing with me? You invite me for some one on one time and I get reduced to this? I ain’t going to be silent while you ignore me. That’s real fuckin’ low. I’ll ask Lamar who’ll pay attention to my ass if he wants to eat with me.”

“Franklin, Frank, come on, I’m sorry.” Michael said with sincerity. He hadn’t mean to ignore him.

“You know dog, you’ve been acting real fuckin’ irritated with anyone and anything lately. I miss J too, but I ain’t throwing punches or hissing like a damn cat. Get some fuckin’ help.”

Franklin stormed out of the diner and Roberto looked at Franklin with sympathy and then turned to Michael.

“You love Julien and that’s who you can all think about.” Roberto said boldly, and took a look at Michael’s bare ring finger, making a comment Michael was unprepared to hear. “Don’t worry, I think he’ll say yes. One day.”

The days strung along, and the empty food containers were piling up. Dirty dishes too. Liquor bottles around the house. He even wore sweatpants. He curled up in Julien’s blanket on the couch during the day and at night, he slept on Julien’s side of the bed. His phone was always charged, and whenever Julien messaged him or called, he picked up the phone and was always so emotionally distressed.

“Mon petit chaton… baby… I love you…” would be used extensively when getting in touch with him. He then would sob and tremble after hanging up with him. He’d wake up in the middle of the night screaming out his name and looking over beside him to make sure Julien was okay. But he wasn’t there. This was Hell on Earth. He was going to be officially divorced soon, and his new boyfriend was with Trevor in Sandy Shores, one of the Hells on Earth. No matter how hard he tried, he seemed like he pissed off those around him.

It was so hard to keep Julien a secret. He wanted to scream and praise him from the rooftops. He mainly kept Julien a secret because many people, including his own friends, would see Julien as just a rebound from a divorce or worse, just a sugar baby. He only worried about his sexuality because he didn’t nor want to look and act like a stereotypical bisexual man, whatever the fuck that was anyway. No one would be against it, but it would come as a shock to Solomon and Amanda the most. Maybe Jimmy too. He envied Julien’s openness about himself, as putting all of him on display made him realize who really mattered in his life.

Julien was never a rebound nor out for his money. He met him in January of 2015 and it was now August. Eight months. Michael’s divorce proceedings began around June, he thought. It was shortly after announcing the divorce proceedings that night happened between him and Julien on the couch. He was first a friend, a really good friend who happened to be an absolute angel and wickedly smart. His kind disposition was such a stark contrast to his vengeful and cold hearted vigilante persona, the one he kept for criminal purposes. Julien kept those two parts of him apart. He was so like Michael in that regard.

He wasn’t happy when Julien wasn’t there by his side. He missed him. No one could ever be like him.

He hated being alone. Solitude scared him.

He felt so broken, like his life shattered this summer. But carefully, Julien put on gloves and scooped up a fractured Michael in his hands, and rearranged him into a mosaic. He glued his fractured self with blue and silver colored glue. Set him out in the sun to dry. Displayed him with pride. Kissed the glossy glass lips of his to transform him back to his human self, but with a slightly different look.

When he came back to his house as a divorced man, he went outside and went to the fountain to just close his eyes. It was sunny, per usual Los Santos summer weather. He felt the sun’s rays on him. When he opened them, he spotted a blue butterfly dance around him. His eyes grew with wonder, and as it stopped to rest its little legs on the fountain’s edge, he whispered so quietly:

“I love you too, mon papillon. Tomorrow starts our new chapter.”

[ineffable-endearments]

Under sun and shade alike

Aziraphale/Crowley Rating: Explicit Words: 2069 Content Notes and Warnings: explicit NSFT, he/him pronouns for both, the narrator addresses the reader for some reason, p-in-v intercourse, semi-public intercourse, fluffy and plotless Beta’d by Euterpein. Thank you very much!

=

It’s the future now, dear reader.

Set the scene: an early May morning, bright and sunny. A charming little Brighton inn, just a short drive from an old, half-maintained apple orchard. Inside one of the rooms, an angel (who you might not recognize as an angel if you haven’t heard the history yet) stands at the mirror, adjusting his bowtie with a prim enthusiasm that should be contradictory but somehow isn’t.

“I don’t suppose you’d be open to going for a walk,” he says, turning to his companion, who has his sunglasses on already and has returned to the bed for a good sprawl. (Though he’s much more shady-looking than the other, you would most likely not assume he’s literally a demon on first sight, either. He is, though, literally a demon.) “I did spot that nice orchard on our way in last night,” the angel adds.

The impulse to snarl about how demons don’t go for lovely walks in orchards has not gone away, no matter how retired he is. But the deep-down truth is this particular demon doesn’t, at heart, have a problem with orchards, or sunshine, or gentle outings with angels who are overexcited about springtime. And it’s their first vacation together under this...whatever sort of arrangement you’d call it when an angel and a demon cuddle on a regular basis and occasionally engage in the pleasures of the flesh.

So they head out.

The impending summer is an excited whisper among leaves in the apple trees, the sweet scent of their bloom lingering in the air. Amid a rather overgrown patch of especially verdant trees is a shed of some sort, bleached from the elements, apparently not in use by anyone except the two entities having an intimate moment against it.

Normally, the sight of a couple passionately making out in a relatively public place would draw negative attention, and maybe even the police as well, if they went at it for this long. You might cringe and wonder how people could possibly lose themselves that way in public. Aren’t they even a little self-conscious?

But, in addition to letting this happen in a locale that isn’t currently busy in the first place, these two are particularly good (supernaturally good) at not being noticed. So you wouldn’t, in fact, have any thoughts about them at all if I weren’t telling you all of this. They are surrounded by a vibrant Earthly beauty reminiscent of the very place where they met - and they can safely consider themselves alone together.

Continue on AO3 or read more below!

After a bit of hinting (“Let’s have a look at that quaint little building. Is it an abandoned shed?”) and a few shy gestures (the brush of their hands together, an intertwining of fingers and a gentle meandering toward the right spot), Aziraphale has finally got Crowley pulled in close to him. (It’d been Crowley’s idea to use the shed for support, nudging the angel against it as they kissed. Even in the haze of desire, as Crowley had removed his sunglasses for a better snog, he’d caught Aziraphale hastily double-checking their chosen spot for debris that might rub off on his precious coat; thankfully, he’d found none.)

“Positively delightful to be out here with you,” Aziraphale whispers against Crowley’s lips.

“Mmmmm, yes, the weather is nice, isn’t it.” Crowley lets his lips pull back in a smirk, just for a moment.

“You know full well,” Aziraphale says, before capturing Crowley’s mouth again, licking his way in with playful ferocity, “that I’m not talking about the weather.”

“Ah. Got a different kind of spring fever, have you?” Crowley nods vaguely downward, where Aziraphale’s been pressing his hips into Crowley’s, probably thinking he’s subtle.

“Angels don’t get any kind of spring fever.”

“And yet.” Crowley rolls his hips once.

“Just helping you blend in, my dear,” Aziraphale croons, almost effectively disguising the hitch in his breath with an arch of his eyebrows. “Springtime cavorting is a time-honored tradition among humans, after all.”

There is a grain of truth here. Though Crowley could never have said he understood it before they’d tried this together, and he still doesn’t understand how out-of-control some of the humans seem to get, they did throw a lot of “fertility festivals” around this time. At the very least, he now understands why a lot of people seem to like physical intimacy so much, and as he considers the metaphor, he can grasp why the sensual pleasures of the weather heating up and the flowers bursting open could pair well with the sensual pleasures of-- well. Of fucking.

Then again…

“Oh, they’re always looking for an excuse. Could there be someone here who’s got that in common with them?” Crowley teases, stroking his fingers through Aziraphale’s curls.

“Hardly my fault,” the angel murmurs against his lips, “when I’ve got the world’s first and best tempter here, always asking what I’d like.”

Crowley growls happily, pressing Aziraphale’s whole body against the wall as they kiss before trailing his way down Aziraphale’s throat. His kisses, punctuated by a gentle graze of teeth, draw forth the most sublime sounds from the angel, although he can’t help answering with his own sounds of enjoyment.

Crowley is excellent at reading desires. Right now, judging by the way he’s being pulled close, how he’s being caressed up and down, how Aziraphale’s hands go from playing with his hair to running along his spine to grabbing his arse and then back again, like he can’t decide where to settle, Crowley believes that maybe what Aziraphale wants is to be held in as many ways as possible all at once.

As many ways as possible.

And moreover, dear reader, while our demon is carefully conditioned to never, ever articulate such sentimentality out loud, he can empathize with what he very well knows our angel is looking for deep down: unconditional belonging, importance, adoration. Well, you can’t give those to somebody with sex alone, but you can make an example of it, and Crowley suspects a good orgasm would also be a welcome experience, if the heat being pressed against his crotch is any indication.

When he speaks, Crowley’s voice is a little rough, perhaps a little broken.

“Would you like,” he begins, kissing and nipping Aziraphale’s lip some more to stall. “Would you like it if I took you inside me?” And he strokes his fingers over the straining erection in Aziraphale’s trousers. Truth be told, Crowley’s own body is already hyper-receptive, as if making room. He can think of nothing but being filled.

Aziraphale hums. “Mmmmm, yes, please…”

Their clothes are barely even a thought at this point. The removal thereof could be narrated, but aside from Aziraphale’s vague understanding that he will eventually regret it if they don’t stay clean, our lovers have no interest in them. There’s no point in describing any of the garments they hastily push down and shove aside until they’re both exposed, Aziraphale leaning back against the shed and Crowley wrapping one very flexible leg around his hip, so they can press their naked parts together.

Aziraphale closes his eyes for a long, slow blink and takes a deep breath, which stutters on its way back out.

“Everything okay?” Crowley asks.

“Many times better than ‘okay,’” Aziraphale says. “Would you mind if I moved a little?” He places his hand on Crowley’s thigh, nudging his hips upwards by the slightest bit.

“You’re not even inside yet.”

“Oh, but it still feels exquisite. You’re so-- you’re so warm, Crowley, and soft, and,” he bites his own lip this time, “you’re sopping wet.”

Crowley is outright aching now, yearning to surround Aziraphale, to take him in and be the place where yet another part of him belongs. He circles his hips to rub his wet slit over Aziraphale’s arousal, provoking a delicious groan from the angel and very nearly moaning himself. “Well. Maybe it’s time to start in earnest, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale breathes, running his hands along Crowley’s thighs.

Keeping one arm around Aziraphale’s back, holding him tight for both love and stability, Crowley uses the other to reach between them, takes Aziraphale’s cock in hand, and rubs the head along his slit to get it all slick, nearly loses himself lingering against his swollen clit. The sound of his name spilling from Aziraphale’s mouth like pure gratitude refocuses him, reminds him he’s on his way to surround, to hold, to take in, to embrace.

Crowley poises Aziraphale at his entrance, his labia around the tip of the angel’s cock as if giving a kiss. “Angel,” he whispers, their eyes locking, and he pushes his hips forward, his welcoming cunt engulfing Aziraphale from head to hilt. “Oh, angel.” He sighs, lightheaded with Aziraphale’s hooded gaze only a few inches away, with the hot stretch of his girth satisfying the ache deep between Crowley’s legs.

Aziraphale’s eyes slide shut and he tips his head back. “Ooh. Crowley, I--” He pauses to gasp, grabs at the fabric over Crowley’s back. “I can’t last long.”

“You don’t worry about that,” Crowley says, voice low. He winds both arms and the leg he’s raised for access around Aziraphale’s soft, warm body in a tight hug, nibbles tenderly at Aziraphale’s earlobe. “Jusssst do what feels good,” he hisses.

It’s a good thing Crowley’s spine has such a fluid relationship with physics, because it allows him to thrust his hips in delightfully long, slow sweeping motions over Aziraphale’s length while holding him heart-to-heart, while drinking in kiss after kiss. Aziraphale graces Crowley’s lips with a series of soft, beautiful “oh”s and “ah”s, running his hands down Crowley’s back again to grab his arse and meet each of his thrusts, pushing as deeply inside his cunt as he can, murmuring the occasional compliment: “How lovely, to be inside you…oh, my, Crowley, you are exquisite…”

And Aziraphale was right - it isn’t long before he climaxes. The rest of him goes still as he spills, and Crowley reaches down to finger his clit until his own orgasm builds to a fluttering crescendo around Aziraphale’s still-twitching cock.

Their pleasure sounds quiet into slowly-calming breaths, eyes closed for several seconds before their taught corporations relax and both settle down together, Crowley’s forehead against the shed over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“You do, occasionally, come up with a surprise,” Crowley says at last.

There’s a secretive glance from the angel. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sex in a public place, Aziraphale. In case you hadn’t noticed. How premeditated was this?” Crowley is sure his delight is palpable; he can feel it beaming from his face as he pushes off the wooden siding. Aziraphale follows.

A snap of fingers and the two of them are all tidied up again, a dusty, prim, and proper bookseller and a maybe-former-rock-star in expensive sunglasses strolling in tranquility under the apple trees. If you stumbled around the corner at this moment, you would likely not suspect they’d known each other for over six thousand years, and while you might detect some flirtatious tension in the air, you probably would not assume they’d just been furiously rutting each other into the throes of orgasm against the side of the undisturbed old shed.

Aziraphale sniffs. “It’s doubtful whether it counts as public if humans are incapable of noticing us.”

“It’s the...oh, fair enough.”

“Besides, I said I was tempted, remember?” After this, all of the smugness melts off the angel’s expression, and he’s left with a tender look that isn’t, theoretically, supposed to turn the insides of demons into a mess of pure sugar. “By the very best. Come along, let’s finish our walk.”

And this, reader, is where our story leaves off for now. Take this idea with you, if you’d like…

Two beings, not completely like or unlike you and I, once reached across the gulf between Heaven and Hell. They shared secrets in the Garden of Eden, just as the first rain began to fall and humankind, too, was falling for the first time ever over the consuming of a forbidden apple. More than six thousand years and story after infinite story later, the very same pair has found the freedom to choose Earth and each other. They’ve just paused to make love in an apple orchard of humankind’s cultivation, and then set out together to continue on their way under sun and shade alike.

[jamesmoore]

Lying in bed, blindfolded, you’re not sure whether the first touch will be the sensual caress of the rose or the hard slap of the paddle. You only know the thought of either makes both of you incredibly aroused.

What is Sensation Play? How to engage your 5 senses to heighten sex and intimacy

Becoming aware of the different feelings and sensations can help keep you in the present and heighten intimacy. And yes, this awareness can also help you have better sex and pleasure (and orgasms, too).

That’s where sensation play comes in — it’s the act of engaging your senses in different ways to heighten your pleasure. These senses come in all shapes and forms, from visual to auditory to tactile.

There are many forms of sensation play that people enjoy. They can be pleasant or painful. You can even combine certain senses or use one sense to engage another or use sensory deprivation to muffle one sense to enhance another. Experiment, use toys or play with a partner (or both!), and keep track of the things you particularly like.

Below is a list of different sensations you can explore, categorized based on 5 of our most common senses.

Feel / Touch

Touch your arm. Touch can be as simple as touching your arm. Feel the skin to skin contact, your hand and fingers gliding or tapping your arm. Touch different parts of your body and see how different movements make you feel. You can also have a partner do the same.

If you want more reasons to focus on touch, try getting a bottle of lotion with a scent you like. Set aside some time every day to use lotion as a way to pause, listen to your body, and care for yourself.

Pulling hair, using nails, spanking, or pinching nipples. Similar to touching your arm, you can touch in a variety of ways and feel the different sensations that each provides. For nipple play, you may want to play with some adjustable nipple clamps to heighten your experience. Is there one sensation or place on your body that you prefer?

Wartenberg Pinwheel. Use a wartenberg pinwheel for more pinpoint sensations. You can explore this handy-dandy product by yourself or with a partner.

Wax Play. There are massage oil candles that can add a fun new dimension to a couples massage session. The warm oil from a massage candle is a fun sensation to drip on your partner and doesn’t get overly hot.

If you’re looking for something a little less massage-focused, there are also hot wax candles that are human/body-safe that you can also play with. Don’t use regular candles for this — they can be made of chemicals that are not necessarily safe for human body contact, and they can also be too hot. Get “safety candles” or other candles that are specifically designed for people to play with, since they burn at lower temperatures.

Temperature play. Adding a bit of hot and cold can add new sensations (and excitement) to something once considered routine. You can try some of the specific candles above for warmth, or even glide an ice cube down your body for a chilly feeling.

You can also get glass or stainless steel sex toys, which are easier to heat or cool down for additional play. The Njoy toys such as their Pure Wand or Pure Plug are great for this. Just make sure the temperature is tolerable enough for you and/or your partner!

Softness. A great feather duster can leave your average sex shop feather in the dust. A friend of mine turned me towards a traditional ostrich feather duster (yes, the ones you imagine used by French Maids for house cleaning), which are really soft and plush. I can’t go back to the single peacock feather ever again.

Impact play. This practice is striking your partner in different ways. Besides spanking, there’s also flogging, caning, cropping, and paddling.

Sound

ASMR (Autonomous sensory meridian response) is a tingly sensation that you may experience from certain sounds. Some people use it to help get to sleep or relax, and sometimes it is also used for sexual gratification. This video by Safiya Nygaard investigates the basics of ASMR as well as some cool behind-the-scenes footage of how “ASMRtists” create their videos.

Sight

Mirror. A simple hand mirror can help you get to know your body. Besides using it when checking for hairs on your face or putting on makeup, you can use your hand mirror to look at your genitals. If you have a vagina, it may be more difficult to see by just looking down, so using a hand mirror can help you see what it looks like. You can even touch yourself while using it to get to know what your body does as you become aroused or have an orgasm.

Blindfolds. Sensation deprivation of one or more senses can help heighten other senses. As sight is often one of the strongest senses we have, restricting sight can radically affect our experiences. I’m a picky person when it comes to sleep and light, which means that I’ve hunted for the blindfolds that do the best with blocking out light and other things in view. This blindfold does a great job of that, whether you’re looking to sleep better or looking to deprive your senses more for better sex (or both).

Porn / Erotica. Kind of obvious, but I had to include it in the sight category because they do quality as stimuli. 

Love is Art. If you want to get a little artistic with your sex, you can play with (body safe) paint during a lovemaking session, and then have a Jackson Polluck-esque painting to keep afterward. No one has to know your avant-garde painting above the fireplace mantle was by you… or that you had some great sex to make it.

Smell

Aromatherapy. Scents can bring back memories and deeply ingrained associations. Get a scent and an aromatherapy kit that makes you more relaxed, or keep a shirt or pillow with your lover’s scent (especially if they are not around and you miss them) so you can feel those good feelings while smelling them. This gift set is a great kit to help you get started.

Taste

Aphrodisiacs. It’s been said that certain foods can help you feel more aroused. Whether that’s true and what those foods are seem to vary depending on history and culture. There might be some rationale behind this, since a variety of studies have shown that our stomach and brain are closely connected, and what we eat may affect our minds, which in turn can affect our experience of sex and pleasure.

Other

These other things are less sensations in and of themselves, but they can change how we experience sensations by changing our brain.

Alcohol. Casually called “social lubricant”, a bit of alcohol can ease stress or help you loosen up a bit. Too much can cause a case of whiskey dick (or vodka vag), along with reliance and addiction. If you’re curious to learn more about the interaction of alcohol and pleasure, we experimented it and documented the experience here.

Cannabis. Different strains of cannabis and different methods of consumption can produce a variety of experiences, which vary from person to person. Certain types of cannabis can help keep you in the moment or make certain sensations feel stronger. Too much might make you couch locked or overstimulated, or too frequent usage may take away some of the novelty and benefits.

Learn about cannabis and pleasure in general here.

Learn about weed lube here.

Learn about the basics between different cannabis strains (e.g. indica, sativa, hybrid) here.

Experiment

Try new things and see how you react/feel about it. It’s hard to improve what isn’t measured (or at least tracked). You may try something that you really like, kind of remember it, but let it go. Don’t do that—people who consistently sex journal have been shown to significantly improve their sex life. Draw up a list of 2-3 sensations that interest you, try them, and write down how they went.

[baejax-the-great]

Intruders

Pre-relationship Fen/Hawke, 1762 words

Fenris finds his mansion is not as empty as he’d like it to be. 

Read on AO3!

~~

There were voices in the mansion. Fenris had been out, waiting for nightfall before heading down to the stalls to purchase some hot food. If he had been up in the room he had claimed for his own while he waited for the slave hunters to find him in Kirkwall, he might not have heard the muffled sounds over the crackling of the fireplace or the whipping of the wind by the window.

He padded down the dark corridors until he located light spilling from the cracks around a door. Hunters, burglars, whoever they were, they were unskilled, foolish, and they would not live long enough to learn from their mistake. Fenris unsheathed his sword, took a breath, and kicked it open.

The muffled sounds, laughter, he realized, immediately ceased. His momentum brought him over the threshold, his sword already arcing toward the unfortunate intruders, when he realized it was Hawke and Bethany in the room before him.

The force needed to divert his aim threw off his balance, his body smashing into the table just after his sword did.

Both Hawkes watched him with matching wide, brown eyes. Bethany’s mouth had dropped open.

Hawke was the first to recover. "Hello to you, too, Fenris," she said from her place on the floor, “Lovely evening.”  He scrambled to his feet, leaving the sword where it lay. Bethany sat behind Hawke on a chair, a bowl in one hand and a small brush that appeared to be covered in paste in the other. A blob fell off the end and landed in Hawke’s hair.

“You said he was fine with us using this room,” Bethany accused her sister.

“What I actually said was--”

“You know what you implied!”

“Well I didn’t think he’d even notice we were here! And I certainly didn’t think he’d greet us with enough force to level a building. Lesson learned.”

“What are you doing here?” Fenris demanded. Their squabbling along with the strangeness of the scene prevented him from beginning to process the fact that he’d almost murdered the two people in Kirkwall who had thus far shown him the most kindness during his stay here.

Hawke whipped her head around. “Isn’t it obvious? Bethany is touching up the roots of my hair.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. Did she not understand that he had almost killed her? “What?”

Hawke huffed. “Unlike you, I don’t have naturally pale hair. Or super-naturally pale hair, I suppose.” Fenris stared at her blankly. Bethany had finally noticed the glob of paste that had fallen on her sister, and was now attacking it with the little brush in her hand.  “I dye it,” Hawke clarified, “Or Bethany does, really. She’s very good at it when no one is swinging a sword at her. She could do any color you like. If you wanted to try a different color for your hair--”

“I don’t,” he snapped. He had almost taken her head off, and she was asking if he wanted to change the color of his hair? “I mean, why are you doing this here?”

“It’s very tight in Gamlen’s house,” Bethany said without looking up,  “And he disagrees with the smell. Hawke said you weren’t exactly using these rooms… Well, what she actually said,” Bethany continued, yanking on Hawke’s hair and earning an annoyed yelp, “Was that you wouldn’t mind, which I took to mean you knew she’d been using your mansion as a storage room and weren’t about to bludgeon us to death.”

By the looks of it, they’d been coming here for weeks. The cobwebs were gone, the hearth was stocked with plenty of firewood, and a pile of books sat next to an armchair. The table that he’d wounded with his botched entrance held a collection of weapons taken off the thugs Hawke was always attracting, along with poisons, lockpicks, and jewelry she had not yet fenced--things she would not want her uncle to get his hands on. He turned back to Hawke, who had apparently been very successfully evading his notice while carrying heavy burdens inside of his home.

“You dye your hair?” he asked stupidly. Pale hair caught attention, and he knew this not only from his own silver hair. Hers was striking. As tall as he was, with large, dark eyes set over high cheekbones, Hawke did not need gimmicks to draw the eye. He found his gaze constantly pulled toward her. But in her line of work, with a sister she wished to hide, it seemed foolish to alter her appearance to become more noticeable.

“Mine would be as black as hers, otherwise,” Hawke said, with a tilt of the head toward Bethany.  Then again, Bethany was also a beautiful woman, but he had not realized this until he had spent an evening with her in the absence of Hawke.

“When I was young, my mother cut my hair very short,” Hawke continued, “For a time, nobody could tell me apart from my brother. You can imagine how both of us felt about that. Bethany came up with the solution. She was only supposed to make my hair a little lighter, but it came out almost white. I liked it that way, so I kept it.”

He supposed beauty was its own sort of distraction. Fenris wondered if he would have allowed them to finish their work on Hawke’s hair if she had not aimed her most charming smile at him. Certainly his enjoyment of the evening did not hinge on the beauty of his companions once he had sat down in the armchair with his supper and opened a bottle of wine for them to share, but it may have been the catalyst for him to stay in the room at all. Even as she sat on the floor with her head covered in paste, he found his eyes naturally settled on Hawke. In the firelight, he realized she had freckles.

For their part, the sisters seemed happy to spend an evening without their mother or uncle. They stayed long after Hawke had washed her hair of the paste and sat drying it with her back to the fire, both of them happy to have someone new to share old stories with. Having none of his own, Fenris contented himself to listen.

But then, Hawke had a way of drawing him out. He had no childhood memories or sibling squabbles to relate, but she got him talking about his time in Kirkwall. This naturally led to his opinion of HIghtown, and from there his assessments of his neighbors, their goals, their weaknesses, the flaws in their security measures. Hawke’s face lit up as he guessed at their probable vices. A couple months with little to do outside of Hawke’s excursions, and he’d had time to observe the nobility of the city.

“They’ve all been in each others’ beds,” he noted, “Except for Lady Carrac. After a time, it became clear to me that she preferred the beds she found in the Chantry and the clergy who occupied them. Her husband touts her piety to all around.”

“No,” Hawke laughed, hand on her chest. “Next time I’m there I’ll be too busy wondering which one it is to properly ignore the Revered Mother.”

“They’ll be wearing perfume,” he replied, “Clergy can’t display fancy clothes or trinkets from their trysts, but a bottle of perfume is easily hidden and the scent can be worn in the open. It adds to the game.”

“So I’ll just have to sniff them all like a mabari. No, wait, I have one of those. Porthos can find them out for me.”

Fenris turned to Bethany, who had been silent for a time. Her head rested on Hawke’s shoulder, her eyes closed. Hawke followed his gaze and flashed a rueful smile. “Don’t take it personally. I think it’s something about being the youngest child. As long as she feels safe, she can fall asleep anywhere. It’s no reflection on your conversational skills.”

“If it were, it would be accurate.” He frowned. “After what happened tonight, she feels safe with me?”

Hawke grinned. “You only tried to kill us for a moment, and then you stopped. That counts for something. Anyway, you know how it is. People try to kill me every day. If I held it against them, I don’t think I would have any friends left in this city.”

Friends. He had used Hawke for his own ends, and offered his service in repayment. The truth was he needed the coin and she attracted jobs that he couldn’t.  But friends… the last people who had treated him kindly had ended up slaughtered by his own blade. He had nearly killed her tonight. Fenris could not afford to have friends.

“I should probably take her home,” Hawke said with a sigh, “But it was nice to spend a night out without risking the templars. She never complains, but I know the Hanged Man can be too loud for her. We are just simple country girls after all.”

An apostate and her mercenary sister who, in an effort to find an evening of peace, broke into the mansion abandoned by Tevinter magisters and claimed by an ex-slave with the ability to rip out hearts-- they were anything but simple. Their lives were complex, and Fenris didn’t need to add to it. They did not need a friend like him. Still, watching how Hawke coaxed her sister awake with some quiet words, Bethany’s small complaints and Hawke’s teasing nudges, he felt a sort of longing for an intimacy he didn’t remember. Perhaps he’d never had it. He turned his gaze away.

“Are you going to tell anyone my secret?” Hawke asked as he escorted them to the front door.

It took him a moment to understand her meaning. “That you are vain about your hair?”

“That’s one way to put it,” she muttered with narrowed eyes, but she nodded.

He assured her, “I will tell no one.” Both women stepped into the cool night air and out of his home.

“Good,” Hawke said with a smile over her shoulder, “Because I set up a card table the next room over, and I was wondering if you’d like to join us this week. Everyone will be over around eight tomorrow. Goodnight!”

Fenris let out a huff of air at her retreating back as Hawke guided her sister into the shadows. Closing the door, he considered bolting it, but he knew it wouldn’t matter. Hawke had a way of getting in places she wasn’t invited.

[fierypen37]

The Oasis: Chapter 14

Sorry of the long absence, my friends! Enjoy!

Rage was an acid burn in the back of his throat. His hands shook with it. He staggered into the bathroom, holding a dishtowel to his throbbing eye. That tricky little cunt! How had she held onto that pen knife? Ramsay let the soaked towel thump on the bathroom counter, watching thick drops of blood patter in the sink.

“Fucking Lorathi bitch,” he muttered, peering at the damage in the rust-spotted mirror. It was a fucking miracle that whore Shae hadn’t blinded him. The pen knife had sunk in and stuck just above his right eyeball, jiggling around in the socket.  Each jiggle sent a bolt of white-hot pain arching through his skull. Under normal circumstances, if a target had pulled something like that, Ramsay would have taken them home. Played all sorts of fun games with them until they begged for death. Shae’s little stunt had surprised him though, and he’d snapped her neck.

Too quick.

Not to mention he didn’t get the answers his boss wanted. Add to that leaving buckets of his blood at the crime scene . . .

Ramsay snarled a string of foul words. He held a wad of petroleum jelly-soaked gauze in one hand. With the other, he grasped the hilt of the pen knife. Pain arched like lightning through his skull. The blood made the handle slick. A quick yank---fuck! His hand slipped. Ramsay bit down on the bloody dishtowel and yanked again. The penknife fell free along with a hot trickle of blood running down his face. His boss wanted that bitch Daenerys Targaryen dead, and Ramsay never forfeited a contract. Her and Jon fucking Snow would die slow. Ramsay would flay them living, like his ancestors before him. Just because one lead had burned out didn’t mean the trail was cold. Just like his beautiful vicious dogs, he’d pick up the scent. It was just a matter of time.              

 ~

 As the sun set, there was little to look at to occupy her mind. Just darker landscape framed against a dark sky. Nothing but an eerie stretch of highway lit by the car’s headlights. The silence within the car was leaden. She couldn’t find words to ease the tension. Barry was dead. He’d been a steady, comforting figure in her life. He’d been her father’s bodyguard since she was a toddler—the only one Vis held in any esteem. So when they at last had enough capital to require and afford a security detail, a then-retired Barry Selmy was first on their list.

Daenerys felt the press of Jon’s anxious glances. Her misery deepened. Jon. Gods, what danger had she put him in? If Barry Selmy, a decorated war veteran and professional bodyguard couldn’t stay alive around her, then what would happen to Jon?

“We’re still about twenty minutes from the cabin. Maybe try and rest,” Jon said. A half dozen snarky comments rested on the tip of her tongue, but she bit them back. She was too anxious to sleep, too miserable to be any sort of companion.

“I don’t think I can sleep.” Her voice sounded weak and small. Daenerys studied his profile in the murky half-dark. A frown lingered on his brow, his generous mouth thinned into a hard line. Jon glanced over at her, his eyes as black as the sky beyond.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. Daenerys blew out a steadying breath.

“Well, De—Detective Seaworth said that Rakharo is doing ok. Vis is safe; he’s staying at Dragon with his security detail. Missy and her husband Grey are ok. There haven’t been any more threats or leads. And . . . and Barry’s family are t—taking him home to Harvest Hall for burial.” Tears clogged her throat. Going over it in such bloodless detail made it sound so bleak. Her life was in fucking shambles. Jon reached for her hand. Daenerys wove her fingers through his, squeezing his hand gently.

“Hey, it’ll be ok. They’ll figure it out. It’s their job,” Jon said.  They drove in silence for a time. The tires made a low whoosh against damp pavement.

“Did the detective say anything else? Do you know if anyone’s been by my apartment? Checked on Sam and Gilly?” Daenerys thumped her forehead against the window. What kind of self-centered ass was she? Jon had no less at stake than she did.  

“I’m sorry, Jon. Yes, they’re fine. The detective has a Watchman stationed at your apartment complex just in case.” Jon tugged her captive hand up to drop a kiss on the back. His beard was a ticklish counterpoint to the softness of his lips. The casual intimacy of the gesture made her heart flutter.

“It’s ok. You’ve got a lot on your mind.” The silence that followed was a warmer one. Daenerys groped for conversation.

“How long has it been since you’ve been to the cabin?”

“I came north for Bran’s nameday, but that was at Winterfell. The cabin . . . hm, it’s been six, seven years? Since before my dad died.”  Daenerys felt a pang. Orphans, the both of them. Ned Stark’s death had been all over the news, but Daenerys couldn’t remember the details.

“Was he ill?” she asked. A muscle fired in Jon’s jaw.

“Brain aneurysm. He died on route to hospital.” The suddenness of it was couched in the abrupt sentence. Much like her own father’s death by violence. Like Barry.  

“I’m so sorry, Jon.” He gave an uncomfortable shrug and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

“It’s ok. It was a good trip. The last time we were all together. Sansa came home for the weekend, Arya had just graduated and was headed to uni, Robb brought Margaery and her brothers, Bran was finally finished with physical therapy and Rickon won a sailing medal on the lake.” Daenerys blinked in surprised pleasure.    

“Rickon sails? What type?”

“Uh I’m not really sure. A fast one?” Daenerys giggled at Jon’s aggrieved expression.

“I sail too. Does she have a cabin? Is she designed to sail on open water?” In the greenish light of the dashboard, a trace of a bemused smile graced Jon’s face.

“I think Rickon’s boat is . . . sloopy?” Daenerys snorted.

“Sloopy?” Laughter embroidered her voice. Jon grinned and offered a one-shouldered shrug.

“I don’t know anything about boats.”

“Does he still sail?”

“Not as much. His mother has him enrolled in one of those prep schools for college.”

“Is this the same stepmother who denied you your inheritance?” Daenerys asked. Another uncomfortable shrug was her answer.

“The same,” he said. Daenerys kicked herself. The stepmother was a touchy subject. She couldn’t imagine what it had been like growing up as a motherless boy despised by the only female role model left in his life. Chewing on her lower lip, she offered a tepid apology.

“Don’t sweat it. I’m used to dealing with her,” Jon said, squeezing her hand. Daenerys stroked his knuckle with her thumb. Jon negotiated another turn.

“We’re here at last.”

The pitted concrete road gave way to a smooth asphalt drive. ‘Cabin’ was apparently a relative term. A two-story log structure lorded over neatly manicured grounds. A balcony wrapped around the second floor. Daenerys looked around slack-jawed as the two of them parked and walked up the drive. The lake was a sheet of black glass roughly a hundred yards from the house. Threads of mist clung to the ground. The air smelled of crisp pine and lake water. Insects chirped and far away, she heard the hoot of an owl. The cool peace of it soaked into her soul.

“So, the ‘cabin,’ huh?” she said, framing the operative word in air quotes. Jon cracked open the fake rock holding the spare key, side-eyeing her with a raised brow.

“Is there a problem, ‘Dany Steele?’”

Daenerys snorted.

“Fair point.”

The door creaked open and Jon flicked on the light. Daenerys trailed after Jon as he moved toward the kitchen, drinking it in. Warm blond wood floors, exposed beams overhead, soft lighting, gleaming granite countertops in the kitchen . . . the understated beauty soothed her ragged edges. She turned at the sound of Jon’s low curse.

“What is it?”

“Robb and Margaery. They stocked the place for us, and they uh . . . went a little overboard,” he said, riffling through the fridge, “filet mignon with truffle butter, roasted asparagus, lobster, turtle soup, chocolate covered strawberries--” The subtext was clear: decadent food for a romantic getaway. Daenerys bit back a rush of surprised pleasure. Even if it was meant in a teasing manner, it was a tacit approval from Jon’s brother.

“I told them all we needed some food and clothes. Typical,” he said dryly. Daenerys chewed on her lower lip. In the heat of passion, he claimed her as his. In the cool of parting, he asked her on a date. Why is he so irritated now? Breaking the silence, she cleared her throat.

“Mm, clean clothes sound wonderful. I think I’ll take a shower,” she said. Jon took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. His expression softened.  

“Of course. The master is on the second floor, last door on the left.”

The rest of the house was as rustically chic with polished hardwood floors, stained glass windows, and glass doors leading to the balcony garbed in room-darkening curtains. The large bed beckoned, smelling faintly of laundry detergent. How sweet, they thought to change the linens.  Shopping bags on the dresser bore a post-it note with ‘Daenerys’ written in looping feminine script. Daenerys peered inside.

“‘Overboard’ is right,” she said under her breath. Inside was a heap of blouses, sweaters, jeans, socks, sneakers, heels, and a tangle of what could only be described as slutty lingerie. A flush washed over her. A note was pinned to a sheer black lace bra:

Daenerys,

I got you a couple different sizes. I hope our Jonno is treating you right. Robbie and I would be delighted to have you both out at Highgarden once all this mess is dealt with.

Warm Regards,

Margaery      

Daenerys breathed a soft laugh, clutching the note and bra to her chest. A giddy rush burst in her chest. How surreal could things get? She was on the run for her life from a shadow human trafficking organization, she’d been swept up in the arms of her god-like masseur-turned-bodyguard Jon Snow, and now Margaery Tyrell—an award-winning actress—was buying her lingerie. Daenerys plucked her favorites from the bag of goodies and hurried to the bathroom.

Twin vanities in granite countertops, rustic sconces over the large oval mirror, a faint tang of cleaning chemicals. Robb and Margaery really had thought of everything. The shower boasted two shower heads, the walls made up of grey river rock. Blissfully hot water undid the knots in her muscles. The nature of her life and work made finding female friends difficult, she thought as she shampooed and scrubbed. Even Missy who she considered her closest friend was her masseur at first. So the thought that someone like Margaery Tyrell would be interested in her relationship with Jon was an odd one. Cherishing her crush on Jon, it was easy to spin a fantasy of making their leisurely way south. Stopping at charming bed and breakfasts on the way, taking a barge down the Mander, a wine tour of the Reach district . . .

She stepped out of the shower and toweled off, taking special care to comb and moisturize and primp with all the lovely products Margaery left for her. Ah, the silky glide of high-end moisturizer. It felt good to blow her hair dry until it fell in a fluffy silver cloud around her face. The lingerie was she chose was robin’s egg blue stretchy lace panties and matching bra. Daenerys smiled coyly at her reflection. In between all the madness of being on the run, they hadn’t discussed little things like Jon’s favorite color. Would he like it?

Belting the sash of a terry cloth robe, she saw the heap of her discarded clothes. A thrift store shirt and bloodstained jeans. Stained with Barry’s blood. The happy bubble popped with startling violence. The cost was too high. Already an innocent woman had been violated and killed, then Barry, not to mention the countless people—including Jon—put in harm’s way after the attack in King’s Landing.

“Am I really worth all this?” she asked her steam-blurred reflection. The shadows in her violet eyes held no answers. A soft rap on the door made her start.

“Come in,” Daenerys said, clutching the folds of the robe tight to her chest. Jon appeared in the doorway, his curly hair damp. His dark eyes were fathomless behind the lenses of his glasses. The plain grey t-shirt stretched taut over the bulk of his shoulders, athletic shorts showed off the length thigh and calf. He really was more beautiful than any man had a right to be.

“Do you uh, have everything you need?” he asked. Daenerys hid a rush of hurt. When he suggested the master, she assumed they would be sharing a bed. But maybe time to cool off is what they needed. After hearing about Barry, gods knew she felt depressed and clingy. Not a good look for her.

“Yes, thank you,” she said. Cool and polite, she thought, inwardly congratulating herself. Jon lingered in the doorway, cracking his knuckles one at a time. A nervous habit, she’d noticed.

“Are you hungry? It’s probably a crime in culinary circles, but I could nuke some of the steak.” Daenerys grinned at the weak joke.

“I’m fine, just tired.”

“Right. Me too.”

A short, uncomfortable silence.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

It wasn’t until he turned to leave that her thin bravado gave way. As inviting as the bed looked, the thought of the long hours until dawn with nothing but her thoughts to occupy her made her stomach clench. That, and she’d gotten far too used to the sound of Jon’s heartbeat lulling her to sleep.

“Jon,” she said. The naked hope in his face calmed her worries.

“Stay. Please,” she whispered. Jon exhaled a breath and gave her a relieved smile.

“Of course. I just didn’t want to impose . . .”

“Impose? Are you joking? We’re standing in your family’s cabin and I’m wearing clothes your brother’s girlfriend bought for me. If anyone is imposing, then it’s me,” she said. Jon closed the distance between them and cradled her cheek.

“You’re worth it,” Jon assured her. Daenerys felt a big, stupid smile stretch her face. She turned into his hand and kissed his palm, tasting salt. A shy silence fell between them as they turned down the bed and drew the curtains. Daenerys slid into the bed with a happy sigh. Cool sheets over a downy mattress and a heap of pillows. Better than simple creature comforts was the underlying release of tension. Here the two of them were safe. Safe and hidden in their own private paradise. Jon’s gaze wandered over her with a familiar sleepy heat.

“I like the clothes,” he whispered huskily, trailing a knuckle over the lacy strap of her bra. Daenerys gave him a coy smile.

“Really? Does it give you any ideas?” she said. Jon’s hand disappeared beneath the duvet.

“Lots of fun ideas,” he said with a wicked smile.

[tomjopson]

The idea of a fic director’s cut is fascinating to me and tbh if you pasted any fic of yours in a doc and wrote a commentary, I’d be delighted to read it, but for the purpose of this meme: anything you’d like to say about “hope lost on yesterdays”? 🙌✨

I all but copy-pasted the fic, condensed with added commentary below the cut!

Sorry mobile users since read mores dont work properly on the app  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

“hope lost on yesterdays” writers commentary addition  *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

//

The grind is deep enough that Edward feels the vibration inhis bones. It is a deep, guttural bellow, like that of a mammoth gate of ironand rust scraping open to reveal a deep descent into the bowels of the earth,beyond its molten crust into the unending conflagration of hell.

[Portrayals of hell in literature and media alike havealways fascinated me. Now of course, my portrayal here leans the traditionalfire/brimstone imagery, but I also like to play with the idea of a frozenwasteland, such as the Arctic itself, being indicatory of a hellish landscape.]

//

The ship groans again, as magnificently and terribly as acrack of lightning, and for a brief, heart-stopping second, Edward wonders ifthis was the final one; the wood of the ship splintering and bending to theintense pressure of the ice, crumpling inward as easily as a paper boat crushedin a child’s careless grip. [Is it a Terror fic without the ice groaning andsome metaphor about the ice crushing the ship? I think not. But I was pleasedwith the analogy of the child and paper boat which took me more time to comeup with than I like to admit because it makes the ice as careless and indifferent as a child with a plaything; it removes the malice from the force of nature.]

//

“You’d think it get easier,” Solomon’s rumbling andsleep-filled voice says, “ignoring the ice. Damn noise wakes me up every time.”[For all the people who sayI get Solomon’s voice down (which, by the way thank you ), Iliterally mutter dialogue to myself as I write it, and if I can picture DavidWalmsley saying it, I call it good.]

//

Edward hums in response, sliding deeper under the covers ofthe bunk when the man beside him turns toward him and wraps a pair of strongarms around his middle. The tip of Edward’s nose brushes against the man’sbeard, and he sniffs at the tickle.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Edward whispers, his eyesfluttering shut again when Solomon’s fingers start rubbing circles on his lowback. [Lots of casual intimacy in these paragraphs, constant little touches,a continual desire to be in contact; this plays off my belief that Edwardhimself is very tactile but also the intimacy that has blossomed between thesetwo and has translated to how physically comfortable they are with each other]

//

Solomon nudges a leg under him, and Edward allows him to twist them around sothat Edward lies on top [I love making characters manhandle Edward. Not surewhat that says about me…], the new position accentuating the leftover achebetween his legs. 

//

…Sergeant Tozer had crept through the vacant wardroom to Edward’scabin door, sliding it open quietly and quickly, without invitation, but asmall and warm grin on his lips that dispelled any reprimand forming onEdward’s tongue. [Part of the appeal of many, many pairings in Terror isthat they’re all forbidden, to a certain extent. There’s always thethrill of secrecy and the risk of being caught, that makes each relationshipfeel dangerous and exhilarating, portrayed differently depending on thecharacters and how he would personally react to breaking/bending rules.]  

//

…further loosened by the bottle ofmadeira that Solomon retrieved from the inner folds of his coat, lifted duringthe re-organizing of the ship’s stores as they prepared for the long walkacross the ice. [Although at this point in the show’s canon, Solomon does not like Hickey and has not flirted with the idea of mutiny yet, hehas made his feelings on authority pretty clear, so I like to think that hisway of “sticking it to the man” would manifest in things like his stealing thewine.]

//

“And who will punish me? Can’t be the first lieutenant.He’s a habit of breaking rules himself.”

“What rules would those be?”

Solomon had given him a wicked smirk as he handed him thebottle.

“I don’t think the Admiralty takes kindly to theirofficers sucking cocks, sir.”

[Another trope I like exploring in Terror fics is how themen react to homosexuality, his own personal sexual preference, the need forromantic vs platonic vs sexual love, and how that translates to hisinterpersonal relationships. Now, because I am an absolute sap, Itypically lean romance in a lot of my portrayals, but I like to think that whatdrew Solomon and Edward together in the first place was physical.]

//

They fucked in near silence, the pillow swallowing Edward’ssighs and Solomon digging his teeth into Edward’s shoulders to muffle hismoans. [The sex scene is straightforward because these two clearly know whatthey want from each other and don’t feel the need to draw it out withunnecessary pretense. Plus, at this point in their relationship, I believethey’ve fucked a few times before and have their nonverbal communication and rhythm down.]

//

Perhaps it was the acceptance that their expedition had failed, and now, theywere simply trying to escape the Arctic with as few casualties as possible. [Ireally want to highlight the last line of this paragraph because I think, in alot of ways, conceding defeat and accepting failure is one the biggestcharacter flaws of numerous Terror characters. Admitting failure is tough,sure, but the stubbornness and arrogance of this led to men’s deaths and further suffering. And of course, the failure is even worse when you add the ever-increasing number of men lost.]

//

That night was also when Sergeant Tozer—some unspeakablequality also altered in him, following Carnivale and the death of PrivateHeather—had crossed the threshold into officer country for the first time andelbowed his way into Edward’s cabin and bed. [It was important for me tomention the loss of Heather, whether as the loss of a friend to Tozer or theloss of one of his “men” so to speak. This loss was what propelledTozer forward, to pursue Little. The use of the verb elbow wasjust a further nod to how Tozer wrenched his way into Little’s life, but youknow like affectionately.]

//

“I don’t want to go,” he admits, the words falling from histongue like the last leaves clinging to a long-dead tree.

“You don’t have to. This is your cabin.”

The attempt at humor is poor, but the irritation in Edward’svoice is dulled by his exhaustion.

“The ships, Tozer. I don’t want to leave the ships.” [I love this exchange, because Edwardis broaching a very difficult topic, and Tozer just lets it slide off his backlike water, still attempting to bring lightness to the situation.]

//

Instead, Solomon’s voice is muffled by the hair on Edward’s headwhen he says, “We may die yet, and all this will finally be over.” [self-destructiveor simply realistic? This fatalism that grows in Tozer is partly what made himso susceptible to Hickey’s mutiny later.]

//

Edward sits on the edge of his bunk, and Solomon’s kneesbump into his as the man fumbles toward him in the darkness. Solomon gropes forEdward’s hand, and he unfurls each finger, tracing the lines along Edward’spalm. The longer he stands there, holding Edward’s hand, the more that Edwardfights the urge to interlace their fingers and pull Solomon back. [It was soso so important to me that it wasn’t just 1) drink 2) fuck 3) leave, so I triedto infuse as much sensual intimacy as I could into this story. The sex is aperk, sure, but what ultimately draws these two together is a deep desire for connection, understanding, and comfort. The hand holding is another exchangethat shows how they don’t want this shared moment to end, and how both of thembenefit from and desire this intimacy.]

//

“See you on the other side, sir,” he says as his goodbyebefore he slides the door open and leaves. [Significant that this is what he says vs simply a goodbye or, worse, nothing.]

//

Edward settles himself back into his bed, burying his noseinto the portion of his pillow where traces of Solomon’s scent clings. [The yearning.Still clinging to traces of Solomon, even as the man’s presence disappears fromthe room.]

//

[Final note, I wrote this in a single evening, literallyout of a desperate desire to have more Little/Tozer content. I went into itdeciding that I didn’t even care if the fic was any good or not, and, much tomy chagrin but also relief, this ended up being one of my better fics. Removingthe crippling perfectionism and expectations does writers wonders. I also very much want to write a companion piece that takes place during the first day both of them are at Terror Camp together, so fingers crossed that I write that sooner than later.]

[zainbap]

like autumn leaves, we fall

BangDae college/university AU  •  masterpost  •  AO3

words: 3778

part four

~

It's Sunday, and Daehyun jumps onto his bike a little too late to reach the coffee shop in time. Not that it'll be the first time he's late — had overslept once, got stuck in a conversation with some neighbors another — but he always feels bad about it.

Yongguk is never late, always first on the scene. He claims their usual spot and spreads out his things on his half of the table, looking up from his books and notes to greet Daehyun with a warm smile when he arrives. Sometimes he's even ordered their drinks before Daehyun gets there, Daehyun's latte waiting for him when he slides into the booth. They've been doing this for a few weeks now, long enough to learn each other's coffee order. Yongguk always brushes off his apologies, that kind smile never failing to reassure him.

Daehyun doesn't deserve him.

First they had only agreed to meet every Sunday, not seeing each other much for the rest of the week other than in passing at the library, but after exchanging numbers Yongguk had started inviting him to random study sessions at the coffee shop during other days of the week. Daehyun had been thrilled, obviously, and always made his best to make it. Most of his classes ended in the early afternoon, and he doesn't mind staying downtown with Yongguk for the rest of the day before going back to the dorm.

He dares say they kind of know each other now, balancing on that line between acquaintances and new friends. It's exciting, and while Daehyun has finally made some real progress in bonding with his own classmates, he cherishes the growing friendship with Yongguk above all else.

He's still waiting for that initial crush to go away, for his heart to stop flip-flopping every time Yongguk smiles at him, but it doesn't happen. If anything, it's just getting worse the more time they spend together, sitting across from one another at a table in a busy café. Daehyun takes a break from his studying to glance up at him sometimes, amused by how Yongguk has to push his glasses back up his tall nose every so often when he's hunched over a book.

Sometimes Daehyun daydreams about reaching over and do it for him.

All leaves on the trees have changed color now, beautiful in their impending death. It's cloudy, but not too cold, so Daehyun only brought his thin jacket. He'd forgotten his gloves, and his fingers long to wrap themselves around a hot cup of steaming coffee once they're out of the wind.

When he's barely two minutes away, the sky opens up. Rain starts falling, suddenly, brutally. Daehyun swears under his breath, gritting his teeth and gripping the steering wheel of his bike so hard his knuckles turn white. But there's not much else to do but to keep going, all while asking himself why he hadn't taken the bus, today of all days.

By the time he arrives at the café, he's absolutely drenched. His jacket and jeans are soaked through, and he can feel every piece of clothing stick to his skin. He keeps cursing to himself, parking the bike around the corner before heading inside.

Yongguk looks up from their table as soon as he steps inside, and Daehyun feels his face heat up. He's embarrassed, lingering just inside the door, because he doesn't want to make a mess all over the floor. He can tell, just glancing around, that he's far from the only one coming out of the rain — one of the baristas already walking around with a mop —  but he still feels awkward about it.

"Hey." Yongguk has left the table to come meet him by the entrance, bag still packed. He's still wearing his coat, the shoulders dark from the rain. He'd been lucky, Daehyun thinks.

"Hey," Daehyun echoes, exhaling a breath. He wipes a palm across his face, desperately trying to get rid of some of the water tickling his skin. It doesn't help much.

"Shit, are you okay?" Yongguk asks, a slight scoff in his voice.

Daehyun snorts, even though he's embarrassed, and gestures to his soaked clothes.

"I'm—" He makes a face, looking over to their table waiting for them. "I don't really feel like sitting down, to be honest. Fuck, I hope my books are okay," he mumbles, resting the urge to let the bag slide off his shoulder and check right then and there. Those text books are expensive.

Yongguk nods in understanding, making a little noise of sympathy. He hesitates for a moment, eyes traveling over Daehyun's clothes. It does nothing to help stop the blushing.

"We could go back to my place," Yongguk says then, eyes returning to Daehyun's face. "It's not far. We could dry off and study there instead. If you want," he hurries to add, scratching the back of his neck. The tips of his ears go dark, sticking out from under his beanie. "Tigger's staying with Natasha this week, so it'll be quiet and stuff."

Daehyun parts his lips in surprise at first, before getting out an answer.

"Sure."

Yongguk smiles, nodding. He looks out the doors at the rain, frowning slightly as he adjusts his bag and the collar of his coat. Daehyun doesn't really have anything to protect anymore, it's all wet anyway. Even his hair, that he'd washed only this morning. Awesome.

"Ready?" Yongguk asks, hand on the door, and Daehyun nods.

"Let's go."

It isn't far, just like Yongguk had said. They half-run through the hard rain, laughing and bumping into one another in a way that makes Daehyun's heart flutter. Soon they reach the apartment building about two blocks away, and Yongguk digs for his keys to get the damn door open. They stumble inside, the squeaky sound of their shoes echoing up the stairwell.

Daehyun doesn't know what to expect when stepping into Yongguk's apartment on the third floor, but somehow it just seems to make sense. It's clean, but not too clean. Most of the furniture seems old, second-hand, and the lighting is warm. There's more colors than Daehyun expected there to be, the red couch cushions looking worn but comfortable.

"Wait here, I'll get you some clothes," Yongguk tells him, once he's stepped out of his shoes and hung up his jacket. It's just as bad as Daehyun's now, and there's wet patches on the sweater he'd been wearing underneath. His hair looks damp in odd places.

"Oh, I don't need to—" Daehyun tries, being polite.

Yongguk huffs, shooting him a smile over his shoulder as he walks further into the apartment.

"You're completely soaked. Wait here."

He disappears inside what Daehyun assumes is the bedroom, and Daehyun is left standing right inside the front door. He's taken his shoes off, but water is dripping from his jacket as well as his hair. He finally unzips his bag to look inside, pleased to find his books and papers dry. He exhales.

When Yongguk returns, a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants folded in his hands, he's taken the sweater off. The tank top he's wearing must've been underneath, because the wet patches have bled through. It's sticking to his body like a second skin, and Daehyun feels his eyes widen at all the black ink that's suddenly revealed. He's caught glimpses of the tattoo on Yongguk's chest before, but never realized just how big it was, or that there's more.

"How many tattoos do you have?" He hears himself asking, accepting the clothes.

Yongguk blinks, clearly surprised by the question, but then he grins and ducks his head down. He's taken his glasses off, and it's the first time Daehyun has seen him without them. He looks strangely naked without the black frames on his face, but he's just as pretty.

"A few," he admits, which is an answer that only makes Daehyun even more curious. Yongguk steps back after handing Daehyun the clothes, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. "I'll get changed in the bedroom. You can take the bathroom. There's a clean towel on the top shelf."

"Oh," Daehyun says, feeling his blush return full force. "Okay. Thanks."

Yongguk heads back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and Daehyun does his best not to make a total mess when moving himself into the bathroom. He gets out of his wet clothes, having to wriggle out of his jeans with how badly they're sticking to his legs. He strips down to his boxers, his face pink in the mirror at standing in Yongguk's bathroom so underdressed. He tries to hang up his clothes on a rack, despite there being little hope of them drying by the time he needs to leave.

He dries off best he can, slipping into the clothes Yongguk gave him. The sweats fit him perfectly, but the hoodie is a few sizes too big. Yongguk isn't much bigger than he is though, so it must be big even on him, and the thought makes Daehyun smile. He can't help but nosing into the soft fabric, breathing in the faint scent there. It's the same scent that lingers around the whole apartment, and Daehyun realizes that it's Yongguk's scent, unfiltered. Up until now, he's only smelled it together with dust and books in the library, or coffee and sugar in the café. It's never been just Yongguk, and the intimacy of it makes Daehyun feel almost like an intruder.

When Daehyun steps out of the bathroom, Yongguk is sitting cross-legged on the couch, books spread out on the coffee table in front of him. He's got his glasses back, dressed in a big t-shirt and track pants. He smiles at Daehyun as he walks into the room, eyes briefly darting up and down.

"There's not a lot of space," he says, looking around himself as if to make a point. "You can use the kitchen, if you want," he offers, not looking at Daehyun right when he says it. "It'd be easier, I guess."

Daehyun hesitates, licking his lips. He can taste the rain.

He recognizes that it would be easier to sit in the kitchen, with a proper chair and a better table. But being with Yongguk is one of the reasons he enjoys their study sessions to begin with, and the idea of them sitting in separate rooms makes his heart sink with disappointment.

"I'd rather be in here," he admits. "I don't mind."

Something flickers across Yongguk's face as he looks back at him, but then he ducks his head as he smiles and nods. Daehyun wonders if Yongguk's ears are still pink from the cold.

They sit right next to each other on the couch, Daehyun hyper aware of how his elbow keeps brushing Yongguk's knee every now and then. He tries not to, embarrassed yet happy about their closeness, but with the way Yongguk is sitting it's next to impossible. Yongguk seems unbothered.

It's different, and Daehyun realizes it's the first time they are truly alone. Even if their conversations haven't involved anyone but the two of them, there's always been other people around. In the library, the diner, the museum, the café. And even if the library is usually relatively quiet, Yongguk's apartment is really quiet.

Daehyun can hear Yongguk breathing, every scribble of a pen against paper seemingly loud in the silence. He wonders if Yongguk can hear him breathing, if he can hear the fast thumping of his heart. For a long moment he can't focus on anything else, rereading the same paragraph over and over without understanding a word. He starts thinking maybe he should've set up in the kitchen after all, because he's being ridiculous right now.

But eventually he's able to relax, once the initial shock is over and he's not as overwhelmed. He leans back, sinking a little into the couch, and focuses on reading his book. He's not behind on anything, hasn't been for a while thanks to his and Yongguk's consistent studying, so there's no pressure. He just allows himself to get lost in the text, intrigued by the topic.

He loses track of time, the two of them exchanging a few words here and there, taking turns to use the bathroom and refill their water glasses. The excitement is still there, of course, of being let into Yongguk's private space. Daehyun tries to picture Yongguk in his messy dorm room, but it's hard. He can't imagine why he'd ever want to come there.

"Slept badly?" Yongguk asks suddenly.

Daehyun blinks, first then realizing how he's slid down in a corner of the couch, his eyelids heavy. He's not certain if he's been reading anything for the past couple minutes. He groans, embarrassed, as he pushes himself back up to sit properly.

"Kinda," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. He hesitates before continuing: "Sometimes I feel like I stay up just because I can, because it's weekend and I don't got classes. But it's a shitty reason," he adds, needing Yongguk to know that he's fully aware of it.

Yongguk shrugs, non-judgmental as ever.

"I do that too, sometimes," he says, voice deep. They're so close that Daehyun can practically feel the vibration from where their bodies are touching. "Even though I shouldn't."

He parts his lips as if to say more, only it takes a while. Daehyun can sense the hesitation.

"I'm back on my sleeping pills," Yongguk finally admits. He doesn't sound ashamed of it, exactly, only sad. "And I really shouldn't put off taking them, but sometimes I do, because I want to stay up and write, read, whatever. I think it's something about still having control," he hums, sounding thoughtful. As if he's just now thinking it out loud, letting Daehyun be there for the process.

"Yeah," Daehyun says, because it makes sense. Most things Yongguk say makes sense.

Yongguk turns his head to offers him a small smile. Their faces are so close like this.

"You didn't have to come out today, if you were tired."

Daehyun desperately tries to not let his gaze drop to Yongguk's lips, meeting his gaze instead.

"I wanted to come," he murmurs, heart skipping a beat. Because it seems like an important confession. He's always been willing to drop whatever he's doing to see Yongguk, today had been no different. "I'm fine," he tries to assure him. "I'll go to bed early."

Yongguk hums, not sounding convinced, but he still nods as his gaze falls away again.

They return to work, Daehyun trying to recover from how warm his chest feels from the conversation. He starts reading again, picking up where he thinks he left off before his attention drifted. He's vaguely aware of how Yongguk seems to struggle getting back to it, too; his eyes wandering across the room every now and then.

After a moment, Yongguk puts down his highlighter and turns to Daehyun again.

"Would you mind if I played some piano?" He asks. "My lesson is tomorrow, and I wanted to—"

"Sure," Daehyun says, immediately, feeling excited. He'd noticed the keyboard set up in the corner of the room, but he hadn't thought much of it. "Of course."

Yongguk grins, crowfeet appearing around his eyes. The way his nose scrunches up makes his glasses move.

"You sure it won't disturb you?" He asks, even as he gets to his feet.

"Nah," Daehyun says, waving off his concerns. "You taught me to study in a crowded coffee shop, I think I can handle some music. Go on, I don't mind."

Yongguk chuckles, nodding as he pads over to the keyboard and sits down. Daehyun notices how his hair has dried now, looking even more like a mess than it had before. He keeps his book in his lap, head slightly bowed as if he was still reading, but instead he watches Yongguk spread his long fingers and let them hover over the black and white keys.

Daehyun is not surprised to learn Yongguk is a skilled pianist. They've talked about music before, who their favorite artists are, what genre they like more than others. He remembers Yongguk mentioning his piano lessons all the way back at Culture Night, when in the art gallery, he just somehow never let himself imagine Yongguk playing it. But it's beautiful, and even in track pants and tousled hair, he still somehow looks the part.

"That's awesome," Daehyun can't help but tell him, once Yongguk starts the song over.

Yongguk flashes him a smile, looking almost shy at the praise. The smile is contagious, and Daehyun grins right back. It feels special, somehow, like they're sharing a private moment. He can tell how focused Yongguk is as he directs his attention back to the keyboard, playing the song all over again. The soft notes fill the quiet apartment, and for a long time Daehyun does little else but stare.

Eventually he finds his way back to his reading, managing to make sense of it while still listening to Yongguk's playing. He can't help but sag a little on the couch, now left with more room after Yongguk got up. He gets comfortable, telling himself he'll at least finish this chapter.

At some point his eyelids start to get heavy again, and the next thing he knows he's waking up. The room is darker, the sunlight gone outside the windows, and he's lying curled up the couch. Daehyun blinks, confused as he pushes himself up to sit.

Yongguk is gone. His books are where he'd left them on the coffee table, highlighter where he'd dropped it before moving to the keyboard. The corner of the room is dark, empty.

Daehyun's head jerks towards the kitchen when there's a faint noise, heart jolting with something as he pushes himself up and off the couch. He finds Yongguk by the stove, stirring two chopsticks in a big pot of noodles. He looks up when Daehyun comes to stand in the doorway, their eyes meeting. Daehyun's chest feels too tight suddenly, not sure how to describe what he's feeling.

"How long did I sleep?" He asks, voice hoarse.

Yongguk smiles softly.

"Not sure. A little more than an hour, probably. Didn't wanna wake you."

"Why not?" Daehyun asks, confused. "I feel like an asshole, falling asleep on your couch."

"I don't mind," Yongguk shrugs. "Are you hungry?"

Daehyun eyes the pot of noodles, feeling his stomach grumble. He feels as if he should excuse himself and go home, that it'd make the most sense. It's getting late, and they're clearly not studying anymore. But Daehyun doesn't think Yongguk is offering just to be polite. He looks hopeful, almost.

"Yeah," he hears himself saying, running a hand through his messy hair. "Shit, thanks."

Yongguk chuckles, turning off the heat.

"It's just noodles," he says, as if Daehyun got over-excited.

"I'm a college student," Daehyun reminds him. "I love noodles."

They don't talk much while they eat, other than Daehyun apologizing once again for falling asleep and Yongguk assuring him, again, that it's fine.

After, Daehyun leans back in his chair and thinks once again about how he should probably excuse himself before Yongguk needs to start dropping hints about wanting him out of there. He wonders if his clothes have dried any in the bathroom, not looking forward to put them back on again and fetch his bike from outside the café. Just the thought of having to go outside makes him want to curl in on himself. It looks like the rain has stopped, but the streets will be wet, puddles everywhere.

"I took my pills," Yongguk says suddenly, breaking the silence.

Daehyun blinks, because the way Yongguk says it is weird. Like he doesn't want to say it.

"Oh," Daehyun says, trying to think. "I should… go then, right?" He asks, feeling stupid, because he's not sure how the pills work.

Yongguk shakes his head, letting out a sigh and his shoulders slump with it. It's the farthest from the collected man Daehyun knows that he's ever seen him. It's scary and fascinating at the same time.

"I took them right before you woke up," he tells him, voice solemn. "Because it takes them like two hours to kick in, for me to start getting tired, and I— I always have to time things." His voice doesn't change, and yet Daehyun can feel the frustration in his words. Yongguk drops his gaze down to the table between them. "I didn't think you'd wake up, so I figured I'd take them and then— I'd just go to sleep, too."

It takes a moment for Daehyun to understand exactly what Yongguk is saying; that he'd expected him to stay, to sleep there.

"And now I feel like asshole," Yongguk sighs, dragging one hand down his face. "Because you're awake, but within two hours I'm gonna be— I'll need to go to bed."

"That's okay," Daehyun tries to assure him, finally understanding why Yongguk is regretful. It makes him feel good, knowing Yongguk doesn't want to kick him out. "I should head home, anyway."

Yongguk opens his mouth again, but closes it. He nods slowly, offering Daehyun a regretful smile.

"Sorry."

But Daehyun shakes his head, getting up from the table.

"Come on. It's okay. You should sleep. Me too, actually."

Yongguk just hums, rising from the chair and follows him back into the living room. Daehyun packs up his things, feeling just a little awkward with Yongguk standing there watching him.

Just as he's about to put on his shoes, he remembers his wet clothes still in the bathroom. He opens his mouth, but Yongguk makes a disagreeing noise as he shakes his head.

"I'll put them in a plastic bag for you," he says, already moving. "You can keep the clothes on. You can give them back some other time, it's fine."

"Thank you," Daehyun says, once handed his wet clothes in a carefully folded plastic bag. He's standing right by the front door, shoes on. He's had to put his jacket back on, and it's still damp, but it's okay. He'll survive until he gets back to the dorm. "For everything today. It was great."

Yongguk slides both hands into the pockets on his track pants, smiling at him. Daehyun's heart jolts, at how soft he looks just then. He lets himself imagine what Yongguk looks like once the sleeping pills kick in, when his eyelids start to feel heavy.

"Hope you get some sleep," Yongguk tells him as they wave goodbye through the door.

"You too," Daehyun tells him honestly.