#would he shave it all off because hair in and of itself is a sensory nightmare?

[ihaveanaversiontodecisions]

Sherlock and co fans accept my offering (doodles of the main three/ how I see them)

also, how do we cope with the week between episodes??? because I binged the whole thing in two days and I think im dying

[crybabykiko]

How about an NSWF alphabet for Miya Osamu?

Hi Nonny! I hope you enjoy this- I know it was a long time coming but I had a lot of feelings and just wanted to make sure this was as perfect as could be 💖

NSFW Alphabet: Osamu Miya

gn!Reader focused

obvs nsfw under the cut... Let’s gooooo!

𝕬 - 𝕬𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖊

Ok, it’s not that you’re not going to get ANYTHING, but you’re not going to get a lot. He will definitely clean you up, hold you in his arms, and cover all the basics, but the man is also going to be napping so you have about 5 minutes of his absolute attention once you’re done. 

𝕭 - 𝕭𝖔𝖉𝖞 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙

Is an ass/thighs man at his simplest. Will 100% also do the “let me get past you” thing where he holds your hips as he moves. 

Your favorite feature of his is his back/shoulders. They’re so broad, and watching him flex his back muscles makes you clench. Also- your phone’s home screen is definitely a picture of his back riddled in your scratch marks.

𝕮 - 𝕮𝖚𝖒

Likes to do so on/in/around your mouth. He has an oral fixation, bonus points if you do too tbh. If he isn’t going to cum on your face, he’ll definitely cum inside of you instead, stuffing his fingers into your mouth so that you can suck them. 

𝕯 - 𝕯𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖞 𝕾𝖊𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖙

Would 10000% cuck his brother if given the opportunity. Just to see the color drain from his face. He’s kind of a shithead for that but at the same time, it’s not something he’s ever said out loud- so he’s chilling and just sitting on that.

𝕰 - 𝕰𝖝𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊

He’s reserved, but I would say he has a decent amount of experience. He knows what to do, and he knows what he likes. I feel like he also is less experimental- preferring to stick to what he knows works for you both. He’ll try new things, but sparingly. 

𝕱 - 𝕱𝖆𝖛𝖔𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝕻𝖔𝖘𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

He likes to be ridden. He likes to have you on full display from all ends as you bounce on his cock. He can easily grip your waist and thrust you further down onto him, and loves watching you practically impale yourself on his length. Also likes to rub circles into your thighs or lower spread your asscheeks apart as he helps you keep a rhythm on his cock. 

𝕲 - 𝕲𝖔𝖔𝖋𝖞

He’s much more serious during, but afterward it’s very lighthearted. 

𝕳 - 𝕳𝖆𝖎𝖗

It’s neat. He doesn’t really trim much, but his hair isn’t super hard to manage, surprisingly. He’s not as hairy around his chest/torso either, but he does have a happy trail that he shaves fairly often, even though you think it would be nicer if he didn’t. 

𝕴 - 𝕴𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖆𝖈𝖞

He’s not conventionally romantic, but he does savor the moment with you. He likes to gaze into your eyes while he’s taking you, and will place soft kisses to your hairline and jaw when he’s getting close to finishing. 

Will murmur that you’re wonderful/amazing/beautiful, or whatever compliment comes to mind first when he’s finished with you and ready for his cuddles

𝕵 - 𝕵𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝕺𝖋𝖋

He doesn’t much- honestly the frequency varies depending on his stress levels. When he does though, he’s the classic shower jerk off guy. It’s cleaner and honestly a lot quicker for him to finish that way. Definitely will be more aggressive when he’s more stressed as well, whether you’re there or not. He is a fan of mutual masturbation as foreplay. 

𝕶 - 𝕶𝖎𝖓𝖐

MARKING, loves leaving hickeys and bruises. He doesn’t care if anyone can see them, or how many you have by the time it’s over. He gets so entranced that he doesn’t realize how many he leaves behind Biting goes hand in hand with the marking- definitely has an oral fixation. 

Size, bc he’s so broad. He likes the feeling of being bigger than you because he feels like he’s your protector- but he also likes the feeling of stuffing your much tinier frame so full of his cock that you go stupid.

Dirty Talk, not super degrading dirty talk, but things like calling you “dirty” or “messy”- and especially “sloppy” really get him going. He also just likes to hear you beg for him, so he’ll egg you on and ask you if you like how deep he’s fucking you or if your tiny little hole can fit all of his cock inside. Again, size kink, so he loves calling you little/tiny. 

Temperature Play, specifically with the cold. Will eat ice prior to going down on you, or change the blistering hot water to icy cold when you’re having sex in the shower, just to see the shock on your face at the difference in sensation 

Sensory Deprivation, blindfolds? He said say less. He likes watching you writhe in anticipation as you feel him ghost touches and kisses all over your body. And it also drives you crazy waiting for him to strike- it usually leaves you begging for him to touch him. 

𝕷 - 𝕷𝖔𝖈𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

Primarily bedroom only, but he has been known to have quickies in the restaurant with you after closing, and also loves getting road head. 

𝕸 - 𝕸𝖔𝖙𝖎𝖛𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

Osamu likes to hear you. Likes to know what he’s making you feel good, and the moans you make encourage him to keep going. Definitely also motivated by begging. He’s a little smug, so it inflates his ego that you’re begging him to tear you apart- it’s the feeling of knowing that his cock makes you absolutely drunk and you’ll do anything for it. 

𝕹 - 𝕹𝖔!

I don’t think he’s into food play! Not that he would NEVER do it, but it’s really not something he’s super into. Food is kind of his art form if that makes sense… it’s also work and he definitely seems like the type to try and keep his work separate from his personal life to an extent . But you have fucked in the restaurant at closing too many times to count.

𝕺 - 𝕺𝖗𝖆𝖑

He’s very good with his mouth. He has an oral fixation so this comes naturally. He could go down on you forever if you let him, and he won’t stop even if his jaw locks up. If you’re going down on him, sometimes he will get a little ahead of himself and fuck your face just a little. Most of the time he catches himself and will apologize for not warning you first… most of the time. 

𝕻 - 𝕻𝖆𝖈𝖊

It differs! He personally loves the buildup of having a slow burning session, but there are times- especially when he’s frustrated, where he can just take it out on you. And when he does need you for stress relief, you should go ahead and cancel any plans you have for the next 2 days or so, because you’re not going to make it. 

𝕼 - 𝕼𝖚𝖎𝖈𝖐𝖎𝖊

He’s not fond of them, but he’s also not against them. For him, he’d rather use them as foreplay, or something to hold you both over until you’re alone and he can really have you the way he wants you.

𝕽 - 𝕽𝖎𝖘𝖐

Is into semi-public sex for sure. Things where he knows you won’t possibly get caught- but there’s that inkling of a chance that you could get caught are his favorite. He’ll also give in if you just can’t wait… but he really tries to restrain himself. It’s a little bit less so when he’s been drinking though- he’s much more likely to let you escalate things and will probably go as far as some clothed sex with you if it’s dark/crowded enough that no one will notice or see 

𝕾 - 𝕾𝖙𝖆𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖆

Can go about 2 rounds max in a day,  but they’re long... When he says he wants to spend the day in bed, he means the whole day. Everything he does is about the sensuality of it all. He loves foreplay, it’s the perfect warmup to the main event for him. The main event itself... can go for hours tbh. He’s literally a slow burn loving bitch, but when you beg for him, he’ll waste no time absolutely destroying your walls. Needs a longer break in between rounds for snacks so he can keep his energy up. 

𝕿 - 𝕿𝖔𝖞

Not too fond of them. Prefers to get you off using his own body. But he’s not against things like silks to use as restraints, and he does own a flogger that he likes to drag along your body when you’re blindfolded. 

𝖀 - 𝖀𝖓𝖋𝖆𝖎𝖗

Osamu himself IS the tease. He’s always so calm and collected, even when you’re all over him, begging for him to bend you over and wreck you. It’s that calm and control in itself that’s a tease because you know that once he gives in, you and your insides are done for.

𝖁 - 𝖁𝖔𝖑𝖚𝖒𝖊

Not loud, but not quiet either. His voice literally goes an octave lower which is insane. He holds back his moans in the beginning, instead he pushes air out of his mouth and takes more sharp, hissing inhales. But when he’s close he’ll lean into your ear to spew absolute filth into it so that he can feel you clench around his cock and send him over the edge 

𝖂 - 𝖂𝖎𝖑𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖉

He has an Onlyfans but he makes sure his face is never in the camera. Camboy!Osamu is literally in their top 8% of creators and no one knows about it because he’s just that good at flying under the radar... but hey, that’s how he was able to afford the restaurant- so now he slings dick and onigiri. Win-Win. 

𝖃 - 𝖃-𝕽𝖆𝖞

Isn’t as thick as Atsumu, but he is more veiny and honestly all around prettier. His dick is probably also a good 7 inches, but I feel like he’s a grower, so you’d be surprised at how much he’s really working with. He has a freckle on the shaft, which is very adorable and endearing. He has a pretty dick. Like, aesthetically beautiful... it’s much prettier than Atsumu’s- much neater/more cleaned up too.

𝖄 - 𝖄𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌

Never lets on just how much he wants you. He would rather have you come to him instead so he doesn’t look needy. But he wants to be balls deep in you practically all the time. He just is very prideful, so he’s going to wait for you to come to him- which… tbh you always do.

𝖅 - 𝖅𝖟𝖟

Yeah, you have about 5 minutes after he cums to get anything out of him- bc he’s taking his ass to sleep. But that’s an advantage For you because he’s kinda delirious and will say yes to anything you ask him for… Is also a clingy sleeper so would definitely hold onto you and make you his little spoon.

Taglist Starseeds (check ur privacy settings if your url is in bold): @super-noya @crushzone @yumekosgamblingroom @boujiesav @onesingleravioli @ushijimasfarmhat @trouvelle @nekoma-hoe @right-shoe-jpg @makemealive @ukaic @nivky0-0 @animoozies @charmarsmith

[xseaxwitchxkpop]

NSFW Alphabet: Sub!Yeosangie Edition

A/N: I couldn't wait I had to do this now lol what is patience??? Also forgive any mistakes I wrote this at like 2am lmfao

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A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Doesn't matter what kind of sex it was, he will always be a content and giggling baby boy afterwards. He absolutely needs nose kisses and boops as rewards, like a cat, and needs to bury his face in your neck so he can smell your scent as a way to calm him and bring him back down to earth. He will also love it when you gently thumb his cheekbones!

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite body part on him is probably his hands just because he uses them so often to hide his face when he's flustered. His favorite body part on his partner would probably be the neck because he is another one of the members that values intimacy and there's something very sensual and intimate yet very possessive about his face and head buried in your neck.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

He doesn't really have a strong preference for cumplay of any type and he doesn't have a strong opposition to any cumplay either. So long as you're having your way with and he's living his best sex life, he doesn't care if you spit his load in his mouth and make him swallow it or if you cum in ass with your dick or fake cum

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He'd only have kinky sex as a submissive with a partner he loves and trusts dearly so he's pretty open about want he wants and doesn't really have much of a dirty secret to keep. However, if you pull at his teeth hard enough, you will find out that the one fantasy he has been keeping from you is that he wants you to have him use a hollow dildo on you during his caging period for that extra layer of humiliation and degradation...plus you don't have to be punished when he is also being punished during this fantasy

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He's had hook ups in the past, not a high count or anything, maybe like 5 or 6, but those were always relatively vanilla and/or had him in a more dominant position which he wasn't a big fan of. He knows what he's doing when pleasuring you, that's for sure, but in a solid relationship, he learned to let himself go and found that he absolutely CANNOT go back to even a shadow of a dominant position in bed.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

His favorite position is definitely cowgirl, with you on top. He loves that with this position he has easy access to your thighs and ass, the ease with which you can choke him lightly or more intensely, and the sheer amount of control you have in this position while allowing him to touch you because that's how he grounds himself, always has to be touching some part of you or you touching some part of him.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Sex with Yeosang is light-hearted most of time, very warm, very giggly, very cute, and very humorous. He likes cracking jokes or delivering some dry wit and sarcasm in the bedroom because that's just who he is and he doesn't see why that can't translate to the bedroom. Because of this, I feel he would prefer gentle domination and a partner who should know how to banter well both outside and inside the bedroom. He does like it slow and sensual sometimes, but if he's in a very soft mood, he'll prefer sensual touches rather than sex itself. On occasion he does like it rough and fast, but it's gotta be a VERY specific mood for him.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

Like the others, definitely trims but just calls it a day at that. He doesn't really bother with shaving all the way and doesn't care if you don't either.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Another member that values intimacy to the highest degree! Humor is part of how he connects with people and navigates the world, so the same is to be said in the bedroom. He loves when you make him a giggly mess with humor in the bedroom with and feels more connected each time. Surprisingly, he doesn't shy away from eye contact and he actually really likes it because it adds another layer of intimacy to the experience! Also forehead kisses...you might be the dominant one, but there's something so sweet and reassuring and very intimate yet possessive about subs giving their doms/dommes forehead kisses and that's exactly what he does to you! Every single y'all have sex, without fail, no matter how kinky or light.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

The only times he really jacks off is either guided masturbation from you or if he is intensely horny to the point it is literally interfering with what he has to do that day in which he'll just get it done and over with in the shower or a quick one in the bathroom. This has nothing to do with rules put in place, he just doesn't have a high sex drive despite his incredibly dirty humor.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

He's open to trying most things, but not as many things as San. Some of Yeosang's kinks would include choking, biting, hair pulling, light restraints, sensory deprivation, voice kink, temperature play, edging, pegging/anal play, caging, light nipple play, marking, and nail scratching.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Literally any place he can comfortably lay flat because his fave position is cowgirl. One of his top favorites, however, is a rather large ottoman that he has to prop himself up on by the elbows when he leans back in a sitting position so you have to kind of sit on his lap and this forces him to use his lower body strength because he also has to fuck into you if you're fucking him in this position. Also don't forget, when the mood hits him, to rail him on a table or counter or coffee table or on a balcony window with him wearing a skirt and oversized sweater!

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

You commanding him to do something with a gentle and sweet voice gets him going like nothing else. The best part is that you can do this in public very blatantly and none would be the wiser save for you and him. What also really turns him on is when you're very attentive and can read him easily without having to ask or say anything; you do that, he will pounce on you and be the best service top you could ask for.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Touch deprivation. I know I said he is into sensory deprivation and he is -- just more so in the sight, hearing, and scent departments, those he can handle. If he can't feel you somewhere on his body, whether you touching him or vice versa, he will freak out and immediately get pulled out of sub space, even if he's very deep in it (and being pulled abruptly from sub space or dom/domme space is very harsh on the psyche and can take minutes to DAYS to rectify and heal so is a very big no-no in the BDSM community). He also does not like to share at all; you are his and he is yours, no negotiation. He's a very possessive submissive because he trusts you with a side of him that maybe one or two other people know about and that is his safe space -- he cannot have others enter that space because he would no longer feel safe.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

If asked what heaven was, he would respond with you sitting on his face and tugging at his hair. That's his favorite position to give you oral! He also really likes when you go down on him because one wrong move and you could easily bite his dick...it's the power you yield with nothing but your mouth on his most intimate parts and a hand on his thigh and another on his abdomen.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

As I've pointed out earlier, light-hearted sex is what he likes best, so the pace is...moderate? There's nothing pushing y'all to be fast and rough and there's not an air of heavy emotion and lustful passion for each other so y'all just go at a pace that's matches whatever happy and joyful mood and banter is happening. On the rare occasion he does want it rough and fast, he wants to be brutally fucked until he can't think, can't make a sound, tears staining his cheeks, asshole gaping, and drool running down the sides of his mouth, panting to try to catch his breath.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He really doesn't like them. He prefers taking his time and having what could be called "care-free sex."

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

He likes experimenting with new things every once in a while, but for the most part, he likes to stick with what works and if something new works well, he adds it to his rotation.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Can go two or three rounds, depending on his mood and level of exhaustion. With rough and fast sex, he can only take one round unless you decide to overstimulate him (which is every time) in which you can draw out two orgasms, one after the other. But then he is spent and it's aftercare time!

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He's got a set of dildos and anal plugs, mainly to prep himself for you, but you'll sometimes use them on him to fuck him with unless you're using a strap on. He also has a couple of cock cages because he's into chastity and a couple of cock rings for fun, but other than that, he prefers good old touching and teasing with what you and he were born with.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

His teasing comes in the form of banter and benign insults, hoping you'll engage and respond with a hand on his throat or a quick dick grab. Other than that, he isn't much of a tease -- if anything, his partner is the tease to him because it's so easy to make him flustered.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He's certainly not the loudest in the bunch, but if you hit his spot just right, he'll be moaning so fucking loudly that it could be heard on the planet Mars. For the most part, though, he just pants and lets out whimpers here and there, most of his enjoyment is shown through his body language and facial expressions.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

He absolutely lives for wearing lacy lingerie beneath his clothing just for you. He doesn't so this as often as he'd like to because of his job as an idol, but when he can, he takes full advantage and wears a lacy bralette AND lacy underwear that does nothing to support his dick btw.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

His length is average but he is on the girthier side which caused you to have to work yourself open and up to his size. The first time he dove into you wasn't terribly painful, but there was a bit of a sharp pain that quickly disappeared into pleasure.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

I'd say he probably has an above average sex drive, but not necessarily a high one. He is a healthy male who is in damn good shape, so it goes to say that his sez drive might increase a bit because of that. Anyway, sex itself isn't frequent but there are loads of sensual touches all the time -- he can't get enough of you in that sense.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

The atmosphere created with the typical light-hearted sex y'all engage in added with the sleepiness of post-orgasm bliss makes for a perfect concoction of sleeping medication. You're warm and content, he's warm and content, so y'all fall asleep in each other's arms. For the rough and fast sex, though, you have to make sure he doesn't fall asleep immediately so he doesn't go into sub drop, so you do your best to lightly tap him on the cheek and keep him talking, hydrated, and fed.

[troddensodden]

Physical Features OC Ask Game !! 👁 What is your OC’s eye color? Do they have any eye-related habits, like winking or rubbing their eyes? Do other people tend to notice their eyes? 💇 What is your OC’s hairstyle? How do they maintain their hair? Do they wash it and/or cut it regularly? Have they ever dyed their hair? 👖 What type of clothing does your OC generally wear? Why? Do they have any “signature�� accessories?

since its the only ask i have so far, im gonna answer each of these for all three of my current ocs :D hope thats okay!

cedric: fallout 4 || alistair: fallout 4 || emil: fallout new vegas

eyes—

-cedric: blue-green eyes! however he actually only has one, in a sense, because a bomb once blew up close enough to his face that it burned the skin, and damaged his left eye enough that he went blind in it. he tried to take care of the injury, but the commonwealth doesnt exactly have many medicine or skincare products. it ended up getting a pretty gnarly infection, which only made it worse after scarring. so now, he wears an eyepatch over it! he regularly wears a gas mask out in the wasteland, mostly for radiation protection but partially because he is somewhat insecure about his eye, and the look of the skin around it. when he isnt wearing one though, people do definitely notice his eyes for that reason, more than anything else. he doesnt have any particular habits, other than consistently wearing an eye covering.

-alistair: his eyes arent anything particularly special, really. just a plain dark brown, dark enough to look black from a distance. he doesnt have any specific habits, per se, as he is a synth and thats not necessarily in his program. however, if hes close enough with someone, he will make a fair amount of (bad) jokes or comments and accentuate them with a wink or an eyebrow raise. also, when hes frustrated he sometimes will rub his eyes with his palms, or do long drawn out blinks and eyerolls. his eyes arent all that notable though, so people dont take much notice of them often, outside of their expressiveness.

-emil: a sort of grey, green, hazel, blue, combination? really, they dont seem to have much of a set eye-color. its hard to determine. so on the occasion that someone asks, theyll give a different answer every time, sometimes answering with a color that is definitely not even close to the actual color. furthermore, theyre quite the mischievous and flirtatious type in some cases, so winking is something they do quite often, and are able to do with either eye. other times, theyll look someone up and down when facing them, but with an absent expression that makes it hard to tell whether theyre checking the person out or sizing them up. their eyes dont get noticed often because again, they arent anything particularly special, but when in a relationship, they do find that partners seem to take a particular interest toward the confusing matter of their eyes, specifically the color.

——

hair—

c: pre-war, he kept his hair relatively well-managed, a tidy crop with maybe a bit more length than the "average" mens cut. post-war, however, he frankly sees getting his hair done as too much effort, only occasionally stopping for a trim and otherwise letting it grow out, and tying it up if it gets in the way. his boyfriends quite fancy this, liking to play with it when they spend time together. maccready, on occasion, will even braid it if hes stressed or in a bad mood, as a way of calming himself down. (when he does this, cedric tries to keep the braid in as long as possible.) washing hair isnt necessarily easy, in a world where even just clean water itself is in short supply, let alone soap. however, he does try his best to clean it when he can, because he doesnt like the feeling of dirty hair. he also has never dyed his hair, because hes always been content with his natural brown color, even if its a bit "plain."

a: he keeps his hair close to a stubble, consistently. his hair doesnt grow very rapidly, but still, he will likely be seen getting his hair cut every couple weeks to keep it from growing out. he likes looking put together, and will rarely ever be caught genuinely dirty. any chance he gets to clean himself, he will, and any time he needs a haircut, you can bet he'll be on his way to the nearest place that offers it. he refuses to dye his hair, saying that it creates a look of unprofessionalism, (and hair dye doesnt go well over black usually.) nobody really understands why hes so insistent on looking put-together and professional all the time, but they accept it, even if he sometimes takes more time to get ready in the mornings than anyone else.

e: shaved on one side, long on the other. its also naturally got a bit of curl, which adds volume so it doesnt get too flat and stringy when it goes unwashed. they dont wash their hair as obsessively as alistair, though they will do a quick clean if they get the time. they dont particularly like the idea of using irradiated water to clean off, but its that or use purified water which is in relatively short supply. however, foraging is a bit of a strong point for them, so they will use natural supplies for cleaning off if possible, from plants and such. keeping hair maintained is hard in a relatively desolate area like the mojave, but whenever they find scissors and some free time theyll do a trim. scissors arent exactly a match for a nice set of clippers, but you learn to make do. they have dyed their hair with some temporary colors before, but never anything permanent—they actually quite like their natural gingery-blond color.

——

clothes—

c: whatever will protect him while also being comfortable enough that he can tolerate him with his sensory issues. however, in situations where he needs to looks somewhat "official," he will wear his minutemen-issued jacket over a decent shirt and pants set. however, he will rarely ever be seen without some sort of mask, unless the situation happens to be one where a gasmask or something similar would be improper. even then, the eyepatch stays on. so id say the eyepatch is somewhat a "staple" of his wardrobe, though its less of a fashion choice and more of what he deems a necessity.

a: if possible, he would regularly wear a button-down and pants that match. however, in an irradiated post-war wasteland, with hostiles around every corner, thats not a particularly feasible option; thus, he wears whatever is available that is in good condition but also effective. effectiveness is his priority, of course, but it does frustrate him if his clothing doesnt at least look decent. people see him as a bit of a pansy for it, but when he was in the institute, he was used to wearing a uniform that was focused on looking clean rather than being highly functional. so after escaping, that stuck with him a bit. he does, however, have an accessory he refuses to be without, and thats his and noras wedding ring. even after forming new relationships and finding a new purpose in the world, its impossible to move on from someone who was his whole world, what feels like only a few months ago.

e: emil most definitely prioritizes function over fashion. appearance is important, sure, but they recognize that it definitely is not the most important, when youre traveling across a hot desert full of giant scorpions and gang members. however, one thing that they always have, whether theyre wearing it or just has it in their pack, is this one puffy jacket, with a fur-lined hood. they found it in the dresser of a destroyed house they were scavenging through, and it somehow was in near-mint condition. the reason it was so special to them, though, is because it had a note in the pocket, from a girl to her older sibling. the girl being emils sister, who moved away with their father after their parents got divorced. the letter was addressed from her to them, but was never sent. and sure, while they knew that this almost definitely confirmed she had died, they were just happy enough having something from her. so they never go without the jacket, even though its warm (and a bit heavy.) impractical, but sentimental.

[eldritchsurveys]

1046.

Do you ever find yourself worrying about things that probably won't happen? >> The thing is, the things I worry about are things that can happen. I know because I’ve already experienced those things happening. It’s the likelihood of the thing happening that may or may not be skewed in my imagination, not the thing itself.

Has your imagination ever made it hard for you to sleep? >> I don’t think so.

Have you ever had a weird dream and obsessed over what it might mean? >> I’ve had plenty of weird dreams, but I didn’t obsess over their possible meaning.

Or do you usually forget about your dreams? >> Nowadays, yeah, I don’t remember my dreams too consistently.

Do you know your heritage? If not, would you ever try one of those DNA kits? >> I know enough, I suppose. I would definitely not do one of those DNA kits, for multiple reasons.

Which languages can you speak? >> Only English with any fluency.

Which language do you speak the most and why? >> ---

Which languages do you wish you were fluent in? >> ---

With films in languages you do not speak, do you prefer a dub or subtitles? >> I greatly prefer subs. I like listening to different languages. Plus, I find that a lot of the times, the dub actors don’t match up well in my opinion.

Which cuisine do you like the least? >> ---

Are there any foods you dislike because of the texture? >> Absolutely.

Which type of chocolate do you like best? >> I only eat dark chocolate.

Do you have a favorite kind of dog? >> Pit bulls, I guess, but I really just like dogs period.

Do you let your pets sleep in your bed? >> I would not.

Do any of your favorite musicians ever write music for/with other artists? >> I mean, probably.

What is your favorite collaboration between two different musicians? >> I can’t think of a favourite collaboration.

Who are your favorite songwriters? >> I don’t have any.

Do you like any of those oldies groups (like the Four Seasons)? >> Yep. I grew up listening to them and I still love a lot of that music.

Do you know who Bernie Taupin is? >> He writes with Elton John, don’t he? They’re associated somehow, anyway.

What are your favorite one-hit wonders? >> Meh.

What celebrities, if any, have you seen naked? >> I mean, whichever ones did nude scenes in movies I’ve seen.

Have you ever seen anybody naked by accident? >> Not necessarily by accident, just... not by my consent. Living in shelters, you see a lot you don’t necessarily want to see.

Have you ever wondered what somebody looks like naked? >> In an idly musing sense, sure.

Have you ever had a sexual fantasy about a celebrity? >> When I was younger.

Have you ever changed your clothes in the car? >> I don’t think so, but maybe.

About how quickly does your hair grow? >> Too quickly for my liking, considering how often I have to buzz it.

Do you have to/choose to shave anything unusual? >> No.

Do you groom (wax, pluck, or thread) your eyebrows? >> No.

Most unusual thing you have worn in public? >> I don’t know?

If you wear makeup, what are your preferred brands? >> I don’t have any preferred brands.

Do you use flavored lip balm? What about tinted lip balm? >> Nope, just regular coconut-oil lip balm, thanks.

What is your favorite swear word? >> ---

Are you afraid of fireworks or other loud noises? >> I’m not afraid of them, I just have sensory issues and an exaggerated startle reflex. My responses are similar to fear responses, though, so it’s all the same shit at the end of the day, I guess.

Do you make your own iced tea, or buy it in jugs/bottles? >> I buy bottled iced tea.

Have you ever made sun tea? >> No.

Do you use sugar or honey to sweeten your tea? >> I use honey sometimes, but most of the time I drink it as-is.

Do you ever put milk in your tea? >> Not usually. It’s good in chai, but I just never think about it. 

Do you prefer powdered or liquid coffee creamer? >> ---

Did your school have somewhere for girls to get emergency pads/tampons? >> ---

Did you have to wear a uniform for gym class? >> ---

Did you have to take showers after gym before going to your next class? >> ---

Were you in any extracurricular activities or clubs in high school? >> ---

Have you ever picked up and kept a rock because it caught your eye? >> Yeah.

Have you attended any rock (literal rocks, not music, lol) shows? >> No.

Have you ever laughed at a scene (TV/film) that wasn't meant to be funny? >> Oh, absolutely.

Do you think they should make a movie about Hatshepsut? >> I don’t have an opinion on this.

Do you think books are better adapted as movies or TV series? >> I think TV series are better if you want to actually delve into more of the book’s content.

Any great books you would recommend? >> ---

Any great movies or TV series you would recommend? >> ---

Were you disappointed with Fox's version of the Rocky Horror Show? >> I don’t care about Rocky Horror.

Have you ever seen the original Kinky Boots movie? What about the musical? >> Never seen either.

Have you seen any Hannibal movies other than The Silence of the Lambs? >> I’ve seen Red Dragon, Hannibal, and Hannibal Rising.

Have you read any of the Hannibal novels? >> Not yet. I’ve considered reading Red Dragon, since Francis Dolarhyde is my fave, but eh. Maybe one day.

Do you like any Indie movies? >> I mean, yes.

Have there been any movies you had fond memories of, but upon a rewatch didn't like as well? >> Absolutely. Tastes and needs evolve over time.

Do you like to go to the movies alone? >> I do, I love it. I especially love it when I go to a weekday matinee a couple of weeks after a movie’s premiere and the theater is empty of anyone save me. It’s the best feeling. I had so much fun watching Venom in an empty theater :)

When you watch movies/TV with people, do you find yourself making sarcastic remarks to each other? >> Well, that’d depend on the people, I guess. And what kind of mood I’m in. And what the movie/TV show even was.

Have you ever dried down any flowers to keep them? >> No.

What is your favorite thing that you have made by yourself? >> ---

Do you like your natural accent (everybody has one)? >> I’m fine with how I speak.

What accents do you find most pleasant? >> ---

Does it bother you when an actor in a musician biopic lip-syncs to a recording of the original artist, or is it better that way? >> I don’t have an opinion about this.

Have you ever read about Dennis Nilsen? >> No.

Do you ever go on murderpedia.org to read about murderers? >> No.

Have you ever read about the Black Dahlia? >> No.

Any other unsolved crimes you find fascinating? >> No, that’s not really something I’m interested in (although I don’t mind hearing other people talk about it).

Do you care what color your socks are? >> Of course I care.

What about your underwear? >> Yes. I won’t wear most colours of underwear.

What part of a man's body do you find most attractive? >> ---

What part of a woman's body do you find most attractive? >> ---

Do you think guys look good in makeup? >> ---

Do you like using clay and/or peel-off masks for skincare? >> I don’t use them. They mostly seem like sensory hell to me.

Have you ever had an asymmetrical haircut? >> I had a wig that was cut asymmetrically.

Have you ever made your own pillow or blanket? >> No.

Have you ever made a pillow out of an old T-shirt? >> No, but Sparrow has.

Have you ever tried lucid dreaming? (Where you can control your dreams) Would you ever want to try? >> I’ve not given it a serious attempt, no.

If you want to be cremated, do you want your ashes scattered anywhere? >> I don’t want to be cremated.

Would you ever have a deceased pet stuffed? >> No.

Would you ever have a pet cremated? >> No.

What is your favorite sci-fi series, if any? >> I have a few. The Stargates, for example.

Do you believe in the existence of parallel universes? >> Yep.

If you could run your own business, what kind of business would it be? >> I really would rather not.

[thefinishpiece]

Dance Of Exploding Eggs

The dead do not wash their feet.

Neither does not Nadia. She was still alive, still staring at the marks of peckish dirt encasing her feet like a spotted glaze. Yet, less appetizing.

Instead, she was reviled to find where her veins strutted up to form long, sinewy ridges—her usually clear complexion blemished in wildfires of tawny gunk.

Even her tiny hairs, which she regularly shaved, were now trees bristling in leaves of muddied bluster. In the clefts between her toes, little clans of grungy warriors built camps and lit fires, letting their filth fly freely, while fending off the fungal barbarians sure to be surrounding them any second now.

Her toenails fared no better, each one piling unto itself as a layered cake of dead cells. Hardened, deadened, sharp—soot-stricken orphans seeking shelter beneath the curves, shivering yet ordained by structure to never clog or obstruct the construction of new nail, which constantly builds outward as a bridge of flattened crystal-flesh. Until gravity clutches it and pulls it down, looping back into the very toe it tried to escape from, almost like a parasite that can’t quite leave the taste of its host behind.

And the stench from all this—pervading passed all bounds of invisible air, leaping up so fast and flourishing, by the time it reaches the nose it is a blossoming fist of smell, punching nostrils closed, knocking out any other aroma present.

How could any conscious being permit such an expanse of putridness to grow on itself?

Nadia did not have to ponder for long because she blamed herself supremely and solely. Just as well, since she blamed herself often and deeply.

“I have to wash my feet...” she muttered to herself. “A good soak is all they need.”

In her quiet inspection, she lamented the dead. For as they were, being deceased, their feet could deteriorate and decay all they like, because at six-feet-under earthly crust, no one can smell them or complain about them, and they themselves could not openly accuse themselves of being the opposite of hygienic and failing to hide natural odor from their own judgmental eyes. Because despite how natural the growth of dirtiness on feet seemed to be, it was still considered hideous to everyone—especially Nadia—and frowned upon by many in circles high above the very ground upon which these very feet walked on.

“There is fungus growing on these, I just know it.” Nadia assured herself.

But as she did, pinching the derelict spots in quiet contempt, her companion muddled platitudes of support, remarking how happy he would be to scrape off all those mushrooms on her feet and cook a nice dish with them—maybe a soup or pasta or something.

“Wild shrooms like that always have such an earthly taste you can’t find anywhere else!”

“Here then, have a taste yourself!” Nadia sneered, shoving her foot right into her companion’s face, her wilderness-blessed toes tapping classical melodies on his face.

He playfully grabbed her ankle and kissed her toes all over, licking his lips, wearing a face like a golden-tongued chef being asked by the gods to decide whose confection was best—was it the lemon-frosted cream-cake by Hekate, or perhaps the pineapple-pudding pie which Hermes made?

Nadia giggled, curling her toes, still concerned by her bothersome feet, but quite content to have someone overcome it for the sake of amusing her. And he did amuse her—in all ways. It is the only reason she even agreed to go on this trip—especially after what happened so long ago.

Otherwise, she would have stayed at home, soaking her feet to a wrinkled gleam.

And as she removed her foot from his face, returning her leg to a proper position, she was appropriately careful not to disturb the eggs on the dashboard, which were bundled together in a basket, with blots of cotton mixed in to keep them buoyant and prevent unintentional collision.

As they both quit laughing—his attention focusing in on the road ahead and Nadia suddenly forgetful of the plague wreaking havoc on her feet—the quiet hiss of the eggs could be heard. Whatever it was developing within them, it emitted this sullen spitting, penetrating through its shell at a volume just loud enough to hear in silence, but just silent enough to be swallowed by any mention of another sound (any other mention of sound).

Nadia gazed at the eggs, listening to them curse and whine, wondering if it was pain or hate that compelled them to make such sour tones.

“These things are so foul.” Nadia noted. Her companion nodded without looking. “Sure, but so are your feet.”

A smirk bit his face, and Nadia just shook her head smiling. At least she had him here. These eggs seemed rather harmless with him here.

|1|

The shells were golden, as if molded after myth and greed.

But why did they have to stay in the bathroom? On the sink, where they paired with their reflection to ensure a double flood of grotesque gold every time Nadia must floss her teeth or comb her hair? Why could they not be hidden somewhere out of sight—especially somewhere insulated so their acidic whispers could not be audible to anyone?

Especially to Nadia, who was in here simply to clean her feet, not hear the hissing of eggs she only agreed to transport because he had asked. No one else could have convinced her.

Her hope was that the droning drops of the bath faucet would wrestle the background noise to a comfortable hum, a soothing sensory song of automated splash and meditative whirl. Her plan functioned the way she intended—as soon as the metallic mouth started spraying its aquatic continuum, the noise of the eggs suddenly dispersed.

But they remained problematic in sight—they clung to her peripheral vision, a visual squid stretching its tentacles all around her attention.

Nadia prepared herself in front of the toilet rather than the mirror, quite resistant to being in the same reflection as these hideous eggs. Her companion rested in the adjacent room, a reasonably upheld hotel room which was lighted in decorative wallpapers depicting seashells and seahorses—a recently refurbished décor which imitated the appearance of something fancier than the price indicated.

But in spite of such comfortable accommodations, a thorn continued to reside in Nadia’s proverbial sides.

Those eggs, which strung such horrible tunes in the air and were plunged in equally offensive hue—a gold of unnatural paleness, something not gifted from heaven but from some otherworldly dimension where an affectionate spectrum does not exist, thus having to translate its previous color into one compatible with this reality, but without an actual frame of reference to consummate the translation. There was no color in this place that could suffice for these eggs. And the gold that they finally settled on was not even really matched to any credible source—it may have been a color you could recognize and possibly categorize, but only in a dissimilar demeanor, such as comparing the tides of ocean to the tides of flame.

These eggs had chosen a color that only pretended to be a color.

This imitative impression disgusted every sensibility Nadia possessed. But for whatever morbid condition ailing her, she could not bring herself to look away. And this only further repulsed her.

So, in response, she swathed a towel over the eggs, concealing them from view, then proceeded to peel herself bare and bathe. However, every once in a while, she still glanced at that mound of cerulean-cloth, knowing in her mind’s eye exactly what lay beneath, even though it had been deafened and buried. It was the power of a thought over a reality.

Nadia sighed. She desperately desired to change the course of her thoughts. She sunk into the porcelain tub, at first cold and crippling, awaiting its eventual completion.

The faucet drummed, and waves formed floor after floor of boiling bubbles, swirling in suds, molten layers of cleansing water swaying over her to and fro, steady and unhurried. The coldness was removed, replaced by rippling heat, almost as if blankets of temper were tenderly placed over her body, one after the other, building a tomb of liquid steam around her.

It was a reverse evaporation—the atmosphere condensation upon her, the dissolved now soluble again. Once free particles of hotness pinched from the sky and folded into pockets of wetness, spraying on Nadia’s body in a measured massage.

Finally, she was relaxing.

Her mind receded to memories—as a wandering mind is known to do. Instances made of time and place, proportioned to emotional heights, to moody lows, to kinetic propulsion of person and thing, interacting in a dream, where motion is unclear, and the most prominent aspect is how far away something so superbly significant can feel. That paradox of memory.

In hers, there was a beach.

On a day of stormy composition. Yet rain had held back, and a warm breeze flew swanlike across the scene. Deep hues of sapphire magma spiraling against the shore, not in rage but in prance.

How strange to see it cascading in the horizon, colliding with a sky of dreary steel, specks of blackened rust puncturing the clouds—much akin to dirt on feet. But it is not dark. Even through stormy screens, sunlight performs its duty and the world is visible in leaden beauty.

Nadia is there, in a dress.

A thing of red-clay converted to silk, with threaded jewels of turquoise. She is spinning in an unseen weaver’s wheel, their fingers rolling her around. But she is not dancing alone. For there is another, a man, joining her and twirling with her. His unbuttoned shirt is flurrying as he moves. Until at last, they spin into one another, joyous. They both laugh and tremble, collapsing onto the sand, their arms stuck together in a knot. And they lay there, tied together, unflinching, undisturbed—as if being made into a knot was their one true intention all along.

And these two human strings admire each other. So much so that when rain oscillates upon them, they do not even notice. In drenched, clustering sand, they reciprocate affection, lips lancing against each other, bodies tying together, their knot tightening ever more and more, until one has to wonder if you could ever untie them apart.

Nadia giggles. She remembers how unconcerned they were with ruining their respective garments. The clumps of damp sand encrusting both of their backs like the shells on a tortoise. But their torsos were untouched—so concerned with being wrapped so close to each other, no open space was possible. And the feeling of wet lips, uncaring to rain and sand, compressing themselves dry in the heat of faucet-fusion.

Then the deluge pours over, erupting across the smooth-sides, and Nadia jumps, startling herself.

In her delighted daydream, she had let the bath overfill, now overflowing onto bathroom tile. She leaps for the octagonal handle, carved of candied glass, halting the water and ending the storm.

Now she is alone again.

Except for that faint fuse, with its spark flickering forever. Though it never reaches its destination—it only barks continually, that sound of sparkling dust. Then Nadia’s state of dazed grace concludes abruptly, as she understands there is no dynamite-stick, but a collection of disgraceful eggs, unmuted. She wishes so much she could just boil them, get it over with.

Nadia loosens the drain, ignoring the eggs, her peaceful spa now tainted and confused.

Upset, she watches the water vanish piece by piece, until all that is, is a remainder of puddled past—a shallow spit of soap caught on the edge of indented drain. Reminiscent of gunk beneath toenails. Reminding her of scattered sand memories.

And those blasted eggs, hissing and hissing and hissing…

A space Nadia must escape.

She leaves the bathroom, still drenched but entombed by a bathrobe. She strides passed the bed where her companion remains asleep, his own body beneath a crypt of blankets and sheets, resting in infinite dreams in some unhurried afterlife. Snores ensuing.

Nadia has never quite contoured to his awful snoring, so steady and surly. She assumed after a certain period of time her ears would be accustomed to it, that she would barely notice his nasal belches as if they were blank booms. But this threshold proved unreachable, and every time Nadia hears it, she can never concentrate nor slumber.

Rain casts against the window. A shame because Nadia desires to peek outside, absorb the bounty of the natural world, refreshing and ravaging all at once. Storms have an unusual pull on the heart, which in turn, has an unusual way of peeling the body—unable to hide oneself anymore, becoming a spark of nude thunder.

Replacing one insensitive sound for another, Nadia crumbles in indolence, retreating to the bathroom, considering that she cannot smother her companion with a towel to stop his bleating, but she can at least inter the eggs to divisible hum. And from there, all she has to do is plead ignorance. So, back to the bathroom.

|2|

Back in the bathroom, Nadia is given a dress.

Even though she is still wet from the rain, she cannot reject such a gracious gesture, so she glues it to her skin to prevent it from slipping off. Then she is asked to dance.

“Are you sure? I don’t think I’m any good.” Nadia blushes. But it insists. “Okay—but only if you dance with me.”

Nadia extends her hand. She is taken by a presence and together they twirl and taper across the slippery tile. At first, they are sloppy, awkwardly jutting into corners or stepping over each other’s path. But eventually they adapt, they crease together, a makeshift rhythm developing between them, motion now momentum—bodies now ballet.

They dance ellipticals across the room, channeling each other’s orbits, certain not to collide, and certainly not to disrupt the beautiful gravity they have plumed. But Nadia, without intention or reason, happens to witness her feet, and by their gross gravitas, she plummets to the floor.

No more dancing.

Nadia sighs. All the vapors have disappeared. The bathroom is cold again. Shivering, she looks around for a towel. But the only one is placed over the dreadful eggs she despises so much. It seems as if Nadia has condemned herself to a fate of lying naked on the floor forever.

“I hate these eggs!” Nadia shouts.

Nobody is disturbed. Not even her companion, who continues his hibernation uninterrupted. It is just Nadia, alone, with that menacing mumble, ceaseless yet contained, the eggs still whining even under their threaded prison.

She accepts her misfortune and adjusts her position to sitting on the toilet lid, her bottom crippling from the icy white, but she seems unbothered.

Nadia angles her legs up, her feet poised on the bathtub ledge. She grabs a complimentary sponge and starts scrubbing her feet, up and down every crevice and crack, across entire soles and ankles and toe-folds. Precise, she does not move too rapidly—she takes the time to ensure perfection on her mission of erasing every negative note from her two feet.

The procedure has become habit, and habit lends itself to repetition becoming daydream. Daydream which lends itself to becoming habit, and habit which turns into the rituals of reality that bind us to corporeal certainty, whether consciously or not.

And isn’t that such a curious thing how the brain tricks you into believing what it wants you to believe, what it thinks is best, what it thinks is real—strangely contradicting what your conscious view sees? What you truly want?

Nadia never quite comprehended how her mind could repel in two alternate directions, as if the thing inside her skull was nothing more than a mere magnet, positive and negative pulses, rippling against each other, stuck in marrow-molded bondage, forced to reconcile petty differences and levitate in static vibration; a feigned vibrancy where thought and imagination and curiosity can pretend to be things of their own, when truly they are products of electrical folly. Nervousness.

And she absolutely did not comprehend the track of time either, which seemed to have evaporated, along with a patch of her skin, as suddenly she was stabbed by a searing sensation on her foot.

Wincing, she examined the cause, seeing that in her furious daze she had rubbed too heavily with the sponge, scraping off a small surface of her foot, now catalyzed in blood. It did not bleed in a traditional way, but due to the nature of the wound, seeped out of the area in knitted dots, scarlet-putty pushing through a weave.

Nadia grabbed the towel and padded her foot, but in doing so, permitted those dastardly eggs to breathe once more, and their breaths were just as constant and corrosive as ever. All they did was hiss, hiss, hiss…

Waves.

From sound and light. Sneaking up Nadia’s skin like little spiders of clustered vibration.

Into the green she goes.

Eaten up by trees, her hair yearning to be a leaf on her head, vibrant and veiny, waving and curling in verdant wind. Along a road she goes, feet swimming across the mud, her body moving like a tidal wave against a shoreless beach. Escape.

At the zenith of her path—an overlook, decorated in tufts of earthy hair and nails, with strewn logs and sharp boulders. A view of the remaining wood, its belly lunging up and down in tectonic reflux, aligned with pine and bark and brush, each ridge and valley adorning itself in its own personal collection of green.

Nadia approaches the edge of this cliff, which oversees the forest it is a part of as if separate from it.

A table is set, draped in a pretend-petal curtain, where anxious porcelain cups hold its quiet magma, blessed of roots stripped and shaken and seared. Her companion is there, holding a bouquet, so full of rainbow passion, an assortment of flowery praise that only Aphrodite could deserve—yet it is for Nadia, of all things!

A surprise picnic at the end of the world.

Her companion offers her a seat, which she does not refuse. The sky is elaborate in shades of violet and azure, a strange suffusion of dark and bright—a peripheral sunrise stuck in perpetual sunset. But it is not a fiery sun so much as it is a sun of shadows; yet everything under it is visible and vibrant. Only in a dream.

But Nadia does not listen to such negative inclinations, her attention purely focused on her companion, who sits beside her, his arm nestling against her shoulders, warm and safe. They both grab a cup of tea, ascend to touch and tip their fortunes to each other, then lifting to their lips to swallow it to oblivion—how odd to have stomachs, our own personal abyss within our body.

It tastes like angel-bath, sweet and mentholating, warm and exasperate in faith—the faith that this feeling would last forever.

For Nadia, it might as well, because every other moment after was nothing but pale failure.

And, especially, when her companion gazes into her eyes, without breaking away, with an amount of longing and affection so deep and infusive, she finds herself trembling, even though sight is only sight.

But she stares back at him, his face crinkling together almost like a cone, pointed directly at her, as if no surrounding sensation could deter him from this view. Not the mountains; not the sky; not the dream of universe complete. Only her—Nadia—and her face, however dirty or seemingly normal it may seem to her, is a boundless source of inspiration to him. And she feels enslaved by it, put in a bondage that is pleasantly accepted—a surrender, a submission.

Then the purples fade.

And light of fairy-blood returns, swirling and maddening.

Suddenly, trees are bleeding viridian, and their natural hue strolls unto review. Back into the green again, as Nadia feels a kiss, and disappears forever in trees of passion pleased.

But something is sour.

She does not remember his kiss being so acerbic, cutting her, leaving her in bled-refrain. What sort of perverted spring is this?

It stings. She wipes his saliva from her lips, but it bubbles on her fingertips, to the point of boiling. She grimaces, wondering why there is pain. She looks up to see her lover’s eyes vanished, and alone on this precipice. Her entire jaw is sliced away, sliver by sliver, her bones crackling, her muscles spoiling. Her face falls like rotten fruit from its frame, the heaviness of mold and rot too much for romantic gravity to bear. So it drops her all the way to a tomb of disgrace. Buried beneath the earth, there is Nadia’s love—a displaced view.

Nadia awakes. Returned from the green.

She is holding one of the eggs to her lips, kissing it.

In her trance, her mind had found folly in trying to replace the imaginary with an effigy of the real. Disgusted, she flings the egg away from her face, splattering it on the bathroom mirror, its sizzling insides leaving a repulsive stain. So bitter.

Nadia immediately invokes the sink, splashing water onto her face, trying to remove the taint from her mouth, still smoldering in a sourness of demonic proportions. As she spits, there is blood—not fantastical illusion or fanciful daydream, but actual, fetid blood.

“I hate these fucking eggs!” Nadia screams, her throat convulsing in rage.

Nobody responds. Except, of course, the eggs, which hissed and hissed and hissed…

|3|

There once was a time when Nadia was loved.

The way a person should be loved. The way a foot is loved by the hand that cleans it. So thoroughly and carefully, so unpretentiously unconditional—just doing what it needs to do to make everything clear and happy again.

Whatever it takes, Nadia used to think. For the sake of clean feet.

Nadia snickered. That was not at all what she used to think. How could one remember so far away?

Those distant shores of memory, where every cleft of sand looks the same as every buried barnacle. Where is the savior ship come to rescue us from pity and pernicious regret?

Marooned on a beach of unused life, wallowing through our scorn like gulls picking through twigs, snapping and scuttling over branch and jewel, trying to find our prize, our possession of perfect scene and elation. That moment when our lives essentially defined themselves, and everything after relegated to the fade— our true revelation of this story we continue to scribe.

But Nadia, no matter how much she scoured, could not find this missing trinket, of which she thought for sure would finally unravel the mystery of Nadia.

Was it the first day of school when she threw up on the classroom floor, a nervous bile overtaking her when the teacher asked her to introduce herself?

It should have been a simple, ‘Hello, my name is Nadia.’

But instead, it was a terrible mosaic of gulp and gruel. So embarrassing.

No, surely, it was in her feet. The mark of her miraculous moment. When they were still young paws, so fresh from hatching they still had webbing on them...

Nadia wanted to be a ballerina.

One of those composed and captured creatures, ignoring the chaos of the world around them, performing a movement of perfected grace and graceful ritual. Every step a note on the composition’s line, leading a symphony of shape and swerve, never letting itself become consumed by any emotion or nonsense which would disrupt its willful path.

An offering to the gods of geometry, aligning your feet in a poise more perfect than constellation, moving in the same seasonal march of ebb and flow—repeating, repeating, repeating. This is the dance of no-dance. A motion of purpose.

Until it is over.

Until a cormorant appears, and Nadia, too far gone in her ellipsis, trips right over the flurried thing, spiraling through the air, over the side of edible stage. Now, she is drifting into the black, gravity’s charms dispersed, composer’s graciousness displeased.

Until suddenly, she emerges from the black unto the blue—a crystal shore she has seen before, the only sound being that of pant and wave. And there is the feathered imp, whose beak is whistling to her demise, as she pours onto the beach.

“If only you could fly...” the cormorant says.

Nadia scoops herself up from the sand, wincing. “Must be nice.”

The cormorant fluffs its wings then takes to flight, soaring high above the earth it mocks.

Nadia’s foot vibrates in pain, every muscle and tendon and ligament ringing a rapacious storm of ache. Before she can soothe her pain, however, Nadia’s mother comes and grabs her hand, leading her away.

Nadia cringes with every step, her left foot refusing to touch ground, her right one barely stable and straining as it is dragged along.

“Your father’s gone—not that he was ever here...”

Nadia’s mother puffs a cigarette. There are no other kids in the hospital room. Only passed and broken people. Corpses.

Nadia rubs her toes, trying to allay the bristling numbness in them. She thinks perhaps her mother should be holding her in her arms or something, nestling her into motherly bosom, patting her on the head with lips and whispering how everything will be alright and the pain will go away.

But Nadia looks up and sees her mother puffing a cigarette, watching the wall, complaining how much of a waste of time it is they have to be here. Then she looks at Nadia, scowling.

“This all your fault. You should have been paying attention—you’re never paying enough attention, Nadia!”

And maybe she was right—because Nadia suddenly realized she had been standing on the bathroom tile for far too long.

The inner scars of her feet began to flare up again, so she took a seat on the toilet and lifted her left leg, her hands desperately massaging her flesh, trying to ameliorate an old wound. The eggs watched her, and she despised how they lay witness to her weakness. Now they knew her fiercest flaw. They would probably use it against her—if they could.

But they were just eggs, right? Just eggs that only hiss and hiss and—

Nadia called for her companion but there was no response. She desired to deign him to fetch a bucket of ice for her from down the hall. Was he still sleeping?

Nadia shouted again. And again, he did not reply.

The eggs grew louder, as if trying to answer in his place, and Nadia spat at them out of spite. Then she gripped onto the sink and raised herself up, limping out into the room. But it was empty.

“Where the hell did he go?” Nadia muttered aloud. Then she sighed.

There was once a time when Nadia was loved.

When he cared enough to always be called. To be there for whatever she needed.

During a period of a particularly grisly flare-up, he would rub cooling ointment on her feet every night, his fingers unafraid to peel into every hidden spot, pushing her bones and blood to comfortable stasis. He always knew how to subside her pain—he never protested to coddling her feet either.

After he left, Nadia had to mend her own feet. Her youthful damage both unforgiving and never forgetful. No agony was greater than when her companion departed, however. A cut on the physical self is nothing compared to a rending of the heart—the unseen epicenter of all feeling and worth.

With him, she had felt like she had value. Without him, she was nothing but dirty feet. How hard it was to have herself be heartbroken by him. To find him the way he was—she stopped herself.

Nadia did not want to return to this feeling. Now that he was returned, she would do anything to keep it that way. Even if meant dealing with those ghastly eggs—that’s why she had said yes.

And Nadia exceptionally loathed those damned eggs.

She staggered through the door into a hallway, which peeked both ways in endless doors and floor, none of them unique, enslaved by pattern. She was concerned where he had gone, but she also knew her primary focus was to end the unease throbbing in her left hoof.

Nadia peered right, assuming the ice-machine was down there, because she recalled that is where the elevator had been, so other amenities must be nearby.

She leaned against the wall, wobbling along, careful not to bang into someone else’s door, for fear they would wake, that they would appear and harass her in marvelous temper. But she also took care not to apply pressure to her left foot, where the injury was sourced and had been most severe.

Her right was still strong in many ways, although its largest toe had been shattered then in her youth as well. So now she walked awkwardly so as not to upset it and reawaken its hindered might.

Altogether, Nadia looked like quite the circus clown stumbling down the hallway. Almost falling on herself every other hinge, wafting through diluted air like a dumb cloud, constantly astray. How did it come to this?

There was a time once when Nadia was loved.

When she did not have to wrestle with hallways. When the earth did not stifle beneath her feet. When lovers brought ice—when she had a lover at all. She stops, leaning against the wall with one arm. Panting. Suddenly, a familiar sound—though not a friendly one. A stretching sound. Sinister and expanding. Slithering between her legs and beneath her body. On and on until the entire hallway is swimming in it. Nadia, fearful, almost falls down. It feels like walls around her are shivering, a stinging chill. Viscous vibrations inundate her. Even the waves in the air become feverish. And then there it is—hallways hissing. Nadia, totally shattered, but saved by a flight of energy, lets her pain sprout into wings and compel her forward on its frenetic wind. She begins scrambling, wobbling in a frenzy, arm rowing against the wall and her one good leg hopping heavy steps. Edges of light behind can be seen scattering in its shadows ahead of her, silhouetted in the form of an unfathomable thing, a body of a beast so terrifying just its reflection pierces Nadia’s heart every step forward she takes. What horrible thing has hatched in this place? Suddenly, another familiar sound—the mellow notes of an ancient folk song, which Nadia happens to know the melody of. Like it is playing just for her. But the rest of the memory still clouded. She recognizes it; quickens her pace toward it. Anything to deafen out that hiss of eternal doom. That splintering of soul that follows her everywhere she goes, enveloping itself in her flesh, in her very being, until she is shrouded by it. A cloak of gore. Dissolution. There it is—that open door, pink and blue light casting out from it in the ever darker and blurrier hallway. Just like she remembers. Into it she goes—into an underworld of nostalgic void. Standing in the doorway entrance, now entered, she closes the door to the hallway. No more hissing. That gentle folk vocal weaves in. Those sweet strums of mountain love and lake calm. A natural hymn. Alluring. Nadia gazes at the pink and blue light now painting her body. Both familiar shades. She looks up to see the pane of a room, and a shadowed corner blocking her vision. Next to her, a dark and empty bathroom. This hotel room—I remember this room, Nadia thinks. Curiously wistful. The pain her foot still retaining, but fainter. She lags closer, every inch expanding her view of the room and diminishing the shadow of the corner of the wall. An oak table, three used glasses full of wine stains, beside a half-bled bottle. A chair with a cushion, assorted strips of clothing strewn about it. Then the corners of a bed, sheets sundering. Nadia inches nearer and nearer, breath draining into back of her throat as if preparing a gasp in anticipation. So, for what? Finally, she turns around the corner, and sees her horror. There he is—her loving, devoted companion—slathering over another woman, angel-faced demon of blonde desire, the both of them naked and engaged in erotic trance. Nadia screams. Her companion does not notice her, his head buried in the other woman’s tomb—but she looks up, stares at Nadia and smiles, blows a kiss while winking. Then she returns to moaning and fawning all over him, like a deer trapped underneath a boulder. A spider weaving its prey in sweaty web. Hissing in his ear. Nadia runs out of the room. Back into the hallway, ambushed by an eruption of hissing, those damn eggs blistering into her mind in inescapable flashes. She clasps her head with her hands, frantically stumbling toward her room, all her previous pain nullified by needles of adrenaline. Turning her head inside out. She can’t even hear her own screaming over the sound of this hissing. Nadia collapses into her room, shattering into the bathroom, seeing those dreadful eggs sitting there in punishing flames. Despite all the rippling nerves in her body, she grabs the basket of eggs, takes it out into the bedroom, and slings them out the bedroom window, letting gravity grasp them and crush them far down upon its immediate earth. Destroyed forever. Exploding on the concrete in a dance of denouement. Nadia unleashes the cry of a bat, shrieking. Then she falls onto the bed, whole body entangled by pain, her foot so swollen its bubbling and bursting in blood. Crying. Over now. Nothing hisses. Only the sound of her sobbing. Of heartbeat in crescendo, then descending to crippling silence. And it languishes on, for what seems like hours but is only fragments of a little time, not quite mature enough to constitute a length of being. There is Nadia—just Nadia. Breathing. Emptied of tears. Aftershocks of pain dragging but dwindling. But she doesn’t stay alone forever. After this while, she realized her mistake. What will he say when he comes back—when he sees I got rid of the eggs? How could she ever explain herself? Would he understand and forgive her? Her mind was controlled by these thoughts—panic, paranoia compulsive loathing. She had to assure herself what she just saw was only an illusion—a product of those damned eggs. He would never do that again—her companion had repented, and she had forgiven him. Devotion was all she could see! She’d do whatever it takes she told herself. Whatever he wanted—forget what she wanted. She’d give up being Nadia. There was once a time when Nadia had desires of her own, but the loneliness had scared that out of her a long time ago. And the brokenness had cursed her to obey only doom. She would never make another mistake again—he’d never have another reason to leave again. Not like last time. He could put a blade in her hand and push it up to her throat, tell her to pull it at the snap of his fingers, and she’d do that magic trick a million times over if she could. Anything to keep away the hissing. Anything to be loved. Anything to have him hold her up again, carry her every limb if he has to, and dance with her one last time—forever.

[anchormain]

WHAT THEY SMELL LIKE    books. also alcohol, probably. depends where he’s been on a case / how long he’s been on the case for.

HOW THEY SLEEP ( POSITION, SCHEDULE )    on his front, head turned to one side. sometimes on his side. likes to push his head and face into his pillow. likes to have pillows around him to hold, and if there are enough, he may also like to brace his bad leg. or a person would do for cuddling too, he’s very tactile and enjoys sensory input when sleepy. if he’s too tired to be self-conscious, he might do things like rub his cheek against their shoulder or smooth his hand over their clothing. if he’s feeling especially brave, he might position his leg on the other person so that his hip is at a good angle. if he sleeps with it in a bad position, it’ll ache the next day. as for schedule, morse does not have healthy sleeping habits either in pattern or amount. he doesn’t sleep at a regular time, it just depends when he’s finished working or when he’s drank himself to sleep. he might stay up working on a case, thinking, listening to music. he also takes accidental naps because tired is his default state, and he will overwork himself on a regular basis and pay for it later when his body just can’t keep itself awake any longer. morse in bed icons for your appreciation:

WHAT MUSIC THEY ENJOY    classical and opera. LOVES them. does NOT like pop music. doesn’t even know much. probably hasn’t heard of ur fave band.

HOW MUCH TIME THEY SPEND GETTING READY IN THE MORNING    like... 10-20 minutes. as little as possible, basically. get dressed, if he didn’t fall asleep in clothes and decide to just leave them on. shave. brush teeth. smooth hair down. all of these can and will be rushed.

FAVOURITE THING TO COLLECT    records. he has a lot of them, rare ones too. ( rip to that collection when he gets burgled )

LEFT OR RIGHT HANDED    right. and at some point, i’m going to do a thread where he breaks that wrist. he’s gonna whine so much about not being able to do his crossword properly. who volunteers to be his scribe? ( and also help him wash his hair for cute reasons? )

FAVOURITE SPORT    morse doesn’t like sports. doesn’t know much about them. he’ll say football just to avoid an argument and then pretend he knows what’s going on when people try to talk to him about it, but he’s not very convincing.

FAVOURITE TOURIST-Y THING TO DO WHEN TRAVELLING    go to the opera!

FAVOURITE KIND OF WEATHER    not too cold, not too hot. not rainy, so he could walk around and not get too hot or too cold or wet. he has one (1) coat and it doesn’t work well for rain or extreme cold. if he can wear that coat and be fine, that’s his favourite weather. ( bonus hc: he doesn’t pay much attention, but sun brings his freckles out. make him go in the sun! )

WEIRD / OBSCURE FEAR THEY HAVE    so many. blood is the big one. dead bodies. heights. can and will faint because of these. not particularly a fan of needles either.

THE CARNIVAL / ARCADE GAME THEY ALWAYS WIN WITHOUT FAIL    anything that requires good shooting aim. morse has excellent aim. this is canon rather than hc but his father got him a gun as a present when he was a child and forced him to shoot rabbits. it clearly wasn’t a one-off because it’s so ingrained in him now that he has exceptional aim as an adult.

[greatshell-rider]

50. fireworks close enough to feel in your chest (sensory prompts)

A whistle and blur as a crossbow bolt flew past his head—Tayuci cursed and ducked down, a little late now, yes, he knew, clapping a hand over their ear as it began to bleed.

“There they are!” he hollered to their hires, pointing out to the forest in the direction the bolt had come from. “Red Jay and Foxtales, you’re up!”

Two outfits of four hires each grimly hopped up and over the barricade Tayuci and his hires had hastily constructed just before dawn, when intel about an imminent attack had come from one of Tayuci’s informants. A few more bolts fired from the trees, but the hires were well-trained, staying low and spreading out, using the dense undergrowth as cover, readying crossbows and machetes for contact.

As they melted into the forest, moving quickly toward the targets, Tayuci signaled to the captains of the two remaining outfits, and they quickly ordered their people into their places around the bounty. Hilts were gripped nervously, blades loosened in sheaths, quick flitting glances cast from side to side as all waited for whatever other attack Sinner and zir band had planned for.

Sinner. Tayuci spat out the venleaf seed they’d been chewing and ground the heel of his boot into it. They’d heard many a rumor about the smuggler-for-hire, and it wasn’t that the rumors were incredulous. They were plausible, and that’s what made his hires nervous. Feeling some blood trickle down onto his neck, Tayuci could see why.

They thought they’d made a clean escape from the farm with the bounty intact, with no known pursuit or reports of alarm from his informants for three days of hard travel, so had set up only a few sentries around the camp’s perimeter at night—then, all of the sudden, that tap on his shoulder two hours past midnight, and the whispered warning: Sinner closing in on their location, looking to get the bounty back.

If Tayuci had known the farm was Sinner’s, they would had have left the bounty very much alone. But now that he did have it, he knew they couldn’t give it up now. Its charm really was as rumored.

Irresistible, they said—they being every hire boss and drunk Tayuci had ever spoken with. Farmers who worked with the crop-creature had to be swapped out every other week, or risk falling into either frenzied ravings or stupored states (the rumors disagreed, there). Transports of the seeds were oft to fall to disaster. Not that that stopped the army—meaning the money was good. And when one was desperate . . .

“You are a handsome hunk of barkflesh,” Tayuci murmured, running their fingers down the croppie’s hide.

It shivered with what Tayuci could now identify as delight, its tough leathery skin prickling all over, short bristling thorns standing up straight and quivering. Tayuci had tested the venom in those thorns themself, and could attest to its potency. Seeds of the mantle, what a night that had been . . .

A shout of surprise, then pain, sounded distantly behind him, and Tayuci drew their lips to a tight line. His hires tensed as noises of the fight grew, boiling over into the camp and simmering in their bones. His hand, lying lightly atop one of the croppie’s shoulders, tightened into a fist, digging his fingers into and under the skin, pulp squishing around their hand and pushing under his fingernails. The bounty cooed in a disgustingly adulatory moan, pressing itself up against Tayuci as if asking for more. Most plants could be tamed and maintained through pruning, but the funny thing about the bounty’s species was the way it relished pain, ate it up more than the highest grade of fertilizer, could survive off it when deprived of water, and ultimately, grew stronger from it. By what Tayuci knew, this particular specimen wasn’t even the biggest on the planet, but despite having been planted just two weeks prior, it already displayed the arachnid limbs, oscillating meters-long feelers, and, of course, the hallucinogenic venom thorns that distinguished its kind. The claws weren’t coming in yet, at least. Similar to a teething human baby, Tayuci had heard the process was . . . “exquisite”. But only for the croppie.

“You’ll help us, won’t you?” They said to the bounty, distracted, for the time, from the fighting happening in the trees and the anxiety of his outfits of hires. His gaze traveled up its arms and down its back, at the plethora of whip scars, some still only half-healed with dried, sweet-smelling sap crusting over the cuts. “You don’t want to go back to the farm, but stay with us, right?”

The croppie pulsed reassuringly within the wet, sticky pulp they gripped in his fist. Almost like a heartbeat. It was so funny, how a creature so diverged from humans could be so—

“BOSS,” the hire about yelled in their ear. Tayuci jumped and wrenched free from the bounty, the croppie sulkily retracting two of its feelers from under their jaw, and barked, “What is it?”

The hire, of the Nightoak outfit, silently thumbed over their shoulder.

Tayuci looked past them to feel his gut dropping in a jolt of fear and shock. “H-how,” he coughed, turning a circle in despair to find that all of his people were on their knees, weapons kicked away from them, hands held up in surrender as farm patrollers walked between them, pointing crossbows at heads while securing their arms behind them before hauling them off to sit in small groups away from the bounty and watched over by other patrollers.

“So many,” Tayuci said in disbelief, unable to register the scene even as his hire shrugged, grimacing. “Where did they all come from, the intel, my spies—Get off me!” they spat, as a pair of patrollers came up to them and tried applying restraints. His hire went to their knees quietly, but Tayuci pushed off the hands and ignored the growled threats of the patrollers, staggering away from them to stomp up to the person he knew was the reason behind all this.

“Sinner!” he called, even as one patroller dived at them from behind and he was tackled to the ground. “Sinner, you shit, explain this!” he yelled, while his arms were wrestled behind their back and tied with bark-grown ropes.

The tall, heavyset person with dark brown skin and a head of half-shaved curly black hair turned at their shout, ending the conversation ze’d been having with a fellow patroller. Tayuci felt a dark stab of triumph as ze walked over to him, mud-splattered boots stepping right up to his chin as they craned their head up to look at zir.

“This the boss?” Sinner asked the patroller kneeling on his back.

“How’d you catch up to us?” Tayuci spat, drawing zir attention back to them. “Mantle’s stemen, we were clear. Dammit, we were clear!”

The smuggler rubbed the back of zir neck, expression mild as ze gazed down at him. “New off-planet tech,” ze told them, then gestured as if aiming a small handheld crossbow, or syringe. “Inserts a pathogen into the croppie’s phloem that multiplies and transmits a signal.” Ze shrugged. “Once we realized it had escaped isolation, we tracked it. Then.” Ze tipped zir chin down, with a small smirk.

“Then we beat you,” the patroller restraining him laughed. “Too busy copulating with the croppie to notice, were you?” They barked another laugh as they pressed Tayuci’s face into the dirt.

“Belen,” Sinner said, and the pressure disappeared off the back of his head, letting him spit the mud off their teeth and swear.

“Aw, come on,” the patroller complained. “A thief like this deserves no better—”

“But how didn’t I know,” Tayuci interrupted, the anger blazing in their gut only stoked the more. “There wasn’t even a hint of pursuit until you were already here—”

Someone called Sinner’s name, snapping zir head up, and a flurry of questions and instructions flew back and forth as the patrollers crawling over the camp prepared for something.

“Belen, let them up,” Sinner said. “Boss should be kept separate from the others, just in case.”

Tayuci staggered as the patroller hauled them roughly up to his feet, a hand gripping his shoulder holding him in place despite their tied arms. “I know what to do with scum, Cindy,” Belen said, amusement rather than irritation warming their voice.

Sinner nodded half-absently, already moving off with a long, purposeful stride if distracted face, waving zir arm at someone and calling for something.

“Answer me!” Tayuci yelled at zir, but ze didn’t seem to hear, didn’t even glance back, and the patroller Belen slapped the side of his head.

“Oh shut up,” they grumbled, dragging him off to the side. “I have a couple leaves of tizzler, you know.”

Tayuci forced his mouth shut. Better to have some dignity remaining than have a tongue-number shoved in them, which would coat the inside of their mouth with a prickling sensation and make it impossible to articulate words for hours. But as they were marched away, he kept their head cranked over their shoulder, frenetic to keep Sinner in his sight as ze stopped in front of his bounty with hands on zir hips.

“Ze can’t be older than fifteen,” he said in disbelief as the patroller pushed them back to their knees on the outskirts of camp, by the remains of the dismantled barrier, on the opposite side of where his hires were gathered.

Belen laughed again, unfortunately staying beside them, though they took their hand off his shoulder to take a relaxed stance, arms folded easily behind their back. “Yeah, ze hit zir growth spurt.” And that was apparently very funny, because they shared the same little smirk Sinner’d had on zir lips.

Some kind of private joke the patrollers shared. Most stories Tayuci knew, Sinner worked more or less alone—though, to be fair, that was in the city. They hadn’t even known the smuggler took farm jobs before his informant announced zir approach. And indeed, all the patrollers, Sinner included, moved easily around another, slapping shoulders, quick to lend a hand in a difficult task, very unlike Tayuci’s own hired outfits, who kept mostly to themselves, brought together only by Tayuci’s paycheck. Were these patrollers, was that farm, the equivalent of Sinner’s outfit, zir home base?

Tayuci brooded over that now-useless knowledge as the patrollers worked to build some sort of structure around the bounty, probably to insure safe—or as safe as it could—transport. Tayuci themself didn’t know the specifics of all that, hadn’t had the time to do more than hasty research before throwing together this job—yes, he had hired the four outfits, stolen the bounty, then ran without any further protections put in place. He was always skeptic of the gossip they collected, and that had helped their notoriety bloom over the years as he took on jobs no others dared attempt, and won, and made the money he needed to keep their debt from choking them.

Kneeling in the dirt now, he could admit it to himself: their attitude had failed them this time. And the fear induced by that admission ate away the anger, focusing his attention once more on that precious, precious bounty, the one he’d needed, and was losing before their very eyes.

“What are you doing to it,” they couldn’t keep himself from asking, hating the pleading desperation in his voice.

Belen rocked forward and back on their boots, clearly enjoying the show. “Croppie’s just about gone feral thanks to you.” They tsk-ed in fake disappointment. “It’s gotta blow.”

His head snapped up. “What?”

The patroller nodded to the croppie and he looked back in a panic—and only then noticed the small packs of tightly-wound brilliant blue knobby bulbs being planted around the bounty with the surrounding structure looking suspiciously like a barrier, or shield, curved inwards as if to keep something in, not keep others out.

Their jaw dropped. “You’re using what?”

Belen bared their teeth in a smile, anticipation lighting up their eyes. “Regulations stink of sap,” they recited, making a quick motion with their hand across their face, as if slapping away a bug. Then they grinned again. “This’ll be the most expensive bonfire I’ve ever seen, that’s for sure. Can’s going to be pissed.”

“Please,” Tayuci gasped, close to hyperventilation by the speed of the rise and fall of his chest, the short shuddering in-and-out of their breath. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t do this.”

“Addiction’s already in you, huh? Heard it does that.” Belen plopped down on the ground beside him, stretching their legs out in front of them and leaning back on their hands as if at a picnic. “Gentle and angry people alike,” they whispered, like a stadium announcer, “please be seated, as our featured presentation is set to begin.”

Tayuci shook their head, but was helpless to intervene as the last of the bulbs were planted and patrollers retreated from the confused croppie, its feelers groping out and beckoning to the people closest. Tayuci ached to go to it, soothe it with a rub and be soothed themself, but he was rooted to the ground, terror gripping their legs as surely as their bound arms.

“Emergency exits can be found to your left and right,” Belen continued. “Though if you’re not already a safe distance away, it won’t matter much anyway.”

A patroller walked slowly away from the bounty, shaking a canister of black powder out in a line on the ground after them. Tayuci’s gut seized and he doubled over, retching the contents of their stomach—just juices now—on the ground. Nausea made their senses spin for a moment or eternity, until finally the world dizzily revolved into focus again and he became aware of Belen idly holding his hair back from their face.

“No vendors will be open during the duration of the event,” they whispered. “They’ve been banned, in fact.” Their hand slid back down to Tayuci’s shoulder, the firm weight of it making the last of his strength fade, leaving him to sag to the ground, bent over their knees, stomach acid dribbling down his chin as he craned their head up, unable to look away even as the sight killed him.

“Three,” Belen began.

The patroller crouched down behind a barrier with a couple of their fellows, the trail of black powder standing out starkly against the cleared ground surrounding the bounty, which still waved its feelers in sensed distress.

“Two.”

The patroller lit a match and held it against the powder. Immediately it caught and zipped down the line towards the partially-buried mines. Tayuci broke, turning his head away at the last moment.

Belen pulled him upright with a chuckle. “Oh, you shouldn’t miss—”

The BOOM and wave of heat washed over them, and Tayuci’s eyes widened as the bounty was blasted above the treeline, high whistling shrieks and flashes of bright blues and oranges chasing it skyward. Belen laughed uproariously and clapped almost as loud as the explosions, adding to the cheering of the other patrollers as they shot to their feet, shaking fists and jumping up and down as colored bursts of glittering fire rained back down on their heads.

A chunk of plant matter splattered to the ground in front of Tayuci, singed around the edges and smoking slightly. Tayuci stared at it in numb confusion, barely noticing as Belen got up to go celebrate with their fellows, leaving him unguarded.

“Look at the moldies,” Kinib said, elbowing Belen, who grinned as they did so, tickled by the sight of the thieves staring at the fireworks with varying expressions of horror, upset, and agitation. Only one other looked as sick as the boss had been, which, speaking of—

“I should get back,” Belen laughed, slapping Kinib on the shoulder as they turned towards their captive. “Don’t want them running off,” they joked.

Kinib’s expression turned concerned. “Or that,” she said, pointing.

Belen jerked their head around, to find the thief boss, their arms still tied behind them, biting at something on the ground. “What the—” they began, stepping forward, then stopped as they registered what that something was. “You get that out of your mouth! Out!” they yelled, running. The boss redoubled their efforts, seeming driven to fit the entire damn barkflesh down their gullet before anything could stop them.

It took several other pairs of hands, and Belen straddling the person to keep them still enough to get their hand in their mouth to dig out the plant matter, but in the end, Belen did succeed. As the thief boss screamed insults and curses at them while being hauled away, and a patroller ran to get a sedative, Belen looked down at the chunk of steaming pulp still held in their hand. A wriggle of doubt twitched in their gut. All this, for this? They weren’t on wrangling duty, so had never been close to the croppie on the farm. What did make it so special?

They held it up to their nose, about to take a sniff, when a hand smacked it out of their own. They flinched, blinking as the pulp fell to the ground with a squishy plop, and looked up to see Cindy frowning.

They grinned sheepishly, wiping their hand down their trousers. “Sorry, got caught up—”

“Burn that,” Cindy said bluntly, looking at their leg. Belen snatched their hand away guiltily. “And use the sanitizer for your hand.”

Belen rolled their eyes. “I do know what to do with scum, and hey—” They grabbed Cindy’s hand, startling zir, and waved it in front of zir face, showing zir the smear of juice on zir palm. “Whoopsies.”

Cindy blinked at zir hand, lips forming a small O of surprise. “I slapped it without thinking,” ze muttered. “Forgot . . .”

Belen grinned, slinging their arm around their friend’s shoulders and walking zir toward the medic supplies. “Don’t think I didn’t see how close you got to tagging the boss right at the start, Sinner,” they teased. “We’ll make a patroller out of you yet.”

The small grin appeared. “You started a month before me, Belen.” The flat, slightly-off tone of zir voice might’ve sounded annoyed or unfriendly to another, but Belen knew Cindy’s mannerisms. They probably should’ve checked before throwing their arm around zir, actually. Well, next time, they’d remember.

“Aw, kid, yet you still have so much to learn,” Belen laughed.

Cindy rolled zir eyes, using zir uncontaminated hand to push their arm off zir shoulders—yep, definitely should have checked—before putting one of zir necklace tags in zir mouth to chew on. “I didn’t mean to tag them, you know,” ze said a moment later, matter-of-factly but with a quick side glance at Belen that told them ze wasn’t lying, but also joking back. “I aimed for their ear.”

Belen smiled wide, genuine admiration sparking in their chest. Only Sinner. They itched to slap zir on the back, but restrained themself, settling for another laugh, shaking their head in half disbelief. “Incredible,” they told zir, as they stepped into the line formed up behind the sanitation supplies (apparently blasting a drug skyhigh wasn’t the smartest when gravity still worked, and they and Cindy weren’t the only idiots among the patrollers—not that Belen needed to be told that). “You’re gonna go . . . far, kid.”

Cindy’s open expression of grief and dismay made Belen’s laugh echo through the camp.

[tenscupcake]

electrostatic potential (26/?)

ten/rose. quite adult this ch. my notes on ao3 are super rambly and emotional, so i will not repeat them here! in short: i worked /really/ hard on this chapter, and i’m scared as hell to post it. thanks to @goingtothetardis​ and @aroseofstone​ for the betas. summary: as the doctor and rose traverse time and space looking for adventure, they slowly fall victim to a mysterious energy that can manipulate their emotions. though confused and unnerved by the cerebral affliction, neither of them understands its cause, or realizes that it could jeopardize their friendship. what will it take for them to discover the truth? this chapter on ao3 | back to chapter 1 on ao3

As the Doctor deconstructs Rose’s garden, he uses more caution than usual. They’ve both agreed they don’t want to be confined to their minds, and the simulated environment would be superfluous for what they’re about to do – they likely won’t be paying much attention to their surroundings. But it’s a tenuous process. He doesn’t want to completely sever their connection just yet, and it can be difficult to turn off some telepathic elements without withdrawing entirely. As the last vestiges of the mirage disappear, he retreats to the shallower parts of her mind while inviting her deeper into his. It’s advantageous for him to have more control and leeway while he’s teaching her, but optimal intimacy requires equal access.

With a concerted effort, the scale slowly starts to tip so it’s more symmetrical between them, but he slips a couple of times, and her stream of communication falters just slightly. It is for such brief moments that Rose likely doesn’t notice, but it’s still an unpleasant reminder that some of his finer telepathic skills are a little out of practice. He focuses onto what he can still sense from her – passing thoughts, lust, anticipation – grasping onto these abstract strands so he isn’t swept away. After a few moments, they find a balance together.

Having hyped this up for her so much, the Doctor is suddenly anxious to get started, fearing it won’t live up to the expectations he’s built. Is it only so great for him because he’s a Gallifreyan? Will a human not get as much out of the experience? Fantasizing about the idea of doing it was one thing; staring down the reality of making it happen is another.

But as Rose’s mind nestles inside of his and she makes herself at home, he breathes a little easier. Tension he hadn’t realized he was holding melts away. A warm, comfortable sense of calmness suffuses through him with every robust double heartbeat. It just feels right, like he’s been lost and wandering and finally found his way home. Rose always has this effect on him, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever quite get used to it. His mind drifted alone for too long.

“Rose,” he breathes aloud. It was meant to be an acknowledgment that they’ve reached a suitable equilibrium, but it comes out more as a sigh of pleasure. An offering of gratitude. An exultation. Some combination thereof. But his reasons for doing it are irrelevant, because for the first time, he hears the word filtering through her ears. Processes the sound of his voice through her perspective. It’s something he never would have believed, had she told him at any time prior, but in this moment, it’s sensual to her.

He didn’t know exactly what to expect going into this; what it would be like to get a steady stream of Rose’s unfiltered, uncensored perception of him. But this initial sample is enough to leave him dumbfounded. The Doctor? An elderly, out of practice Time Lord? Poster boy for asceticism? Champion of geeks everywhere? Sensual?

He still doesn’t understand what Rose sees in him, but he knows this is but a preview of what’s to come. He’s going to do a lot more than say her name before the night is through – what will she think then? How can he prepare himself adequately, when her reaction to something so minor is enough to bring the gears in his mind to a screeching halt?

She’s going to destroy him. But it’s going to be brilliant.

Opening his eyes, he finds her are still closed.

“I know I’ve said it’s easier to close your eyes,” he says. “But can you open them, now?”

She slowly lifts her reluctant lids, squinting and blinking for several moments as though the soft firelight of the room is harsh sunlight. Every moment her eyes are open he is mesmerized by them: her pupils wide, glassy orbs in a pool of dark honey. But she continually loses focus as though she’s disoriented, so he can’t hold her gaze for long. They’ve never done this with eyes open before, and it can take a bit of getting used to. There’s so much input to the brain in the midst of a connection like this; having to process visual inputs on top of it all can be taxing.

“You still feel me?” he asks.

She nods, too overwhelmed to speak. Not a good sign, he takes it, that she’s overwhelmed before they’ve really done anything, rendered speechless by merely opening her eyes. But they’ve made their agreement, and he’s too desperate for this to indulge the worry that she’ll pass out anymore. As long as she’s still freely consenting (and she is, constantly and enthusiastically in his mind), he doesn’t see how anything could change his mind now.

“I need to try something,” he says quietly, doing what he can to minimize the sensory overload. “To make sure this will work.”

“’Kay,” she nods.

Slowly, he shifts his fingertips away from her temple, trailing slowly down her cheek, her throat, until his palm comes to rest on her collarbone. There’s no disruption in their link. Her transient fantasies, excitement, and jitters are still flowing through his point of contact.

“How about now?”

“Yeah.” She gives him a smile. It seems to be getting easier for her to keep her eyes open.

“Good.” He grins back. “It’s not exactly convenient to have to have my hand on your head the whole time. How about…” He lifts his palm, until only the tips of his fingers caress her chest, teasing the tops of her breasts. He fixates on her telepathic signature, clutching onto to the outstretched tendrils of her mind, and it almost works. But his pinky finger accidentally lifts away from her skin, and the thread he was hanging by suddenly breaks. Her presence starts to slip away, and he doesn’t react quickly enough to catch it: in an instant he’s left alone in his mind. He can’t even finish his sentence as the abrupt solitude crushes him.

But Rose swoops in to save them both. Immediately realizing he’s gone, she loops an arm around his shoulders, slipping one hand beneath the collar of his shirt. Palm pressed against back, she buries her other hand in his hair, and something magical happens. Her mind swiftly and smoothly weaves itself back into his, with a softness that leaves him breathless. She’s never initiated the link on her own before, and he wouldn’t have bet anything substantial that she was capable of it yet. He thought for the foreseeable future he’d always have to be the one to do that.

Impressed and immensely proud of her initiative, a flood of affection washes through him, and quickly overflows into her mind as it does. With a soft gasp, she closes her eyes as she’s inundated with it, clenching her fist in his hair. Watching her physically react to something he’s given her is but another teaser of what’s ahead, and there’s twinge of excitement in his shorts.

“Brilliant,” he whispers. Convinced enough that they have a functioning system now, he rolls her gently onto her back and settles between her legs, suspending himself above her. Ensuring both his hands are securely on her skin for extra precaution, he kisses her, hard and fast, unable to temper himself anymore. She doesn’t complain, but matches his frantic pace, scratching her nails on his back.

It’s even better than the kiss in the garden. It would be intoxicating enough on its own – her soft curves beneath him, the delicate desperation in her kisses, the firm tug of her hand in his hair. But feeling what she does too is simply intoxicating.

His body hovering carefully over hers makes her feel protected. Cherished. His lips are slightly cool to her, and he tastes like clean water, minerals, a hint of sugar. His hair sifting between her fingers is pleasant to her, turns her on. Pulling him closer with the hand between his shoulder blades makes her feel powerful. In her eyes he’s the savior of the universe, and she’s the luckiest woman alive to have him in her arms, if only for the evening.

The hand in his hair drifts lower, over his ear, until she cups his cheek in her hand, splaying her fingers, brushing her thumb over his jaw. She likes the textures she finds there. The prickly hairs of his sideburn, the smoothness of his freshly shaved cheek, his angular jawline. Despite his slim frame, she considers him strong. Inhaling a deep breath through her nose, she gets a whiff of his aftershave, a crisp foresty scent that makes her head spin. Everything is so manly. It saturates every cell in her body with arousal. Her skin flushes with heat from head to toe, moisture pools between her legs, pulsing with need.

With such solid proof that she is attracted to him, and everything about him, the Doctor is at a loss. His strongest impulse is to contest and deny such notions, but this time he can’t. Her thoughts are completely genuine, and the physiological signals are downright unquestionable.

She’s tried to tell him, a couple of times now, how much she fancies him, but it’s never been as tangible as it is now. He’s suddenly dizzy, his equilibrium thrown off. Hyperaware of the planet spinning beneath him, the galaxies hurtling through space. And though he possesses a respiratory bypass, he can’t seem to flip it on. He’s panting between their rushed kisses.

Sufficiently overwhelmed, he reluctantly pulls away. With a few jagged deep breaths, some of the disorientation subsides.

“Molto bene.” He can’t help but smile, a bit delirious already.

“You were right,” Rose confesses in a rush, nodding vigorously.

Pride washes through him. Knowing she’s going to enjoy this at least almost as much as he will boosts his confidence.

 “I know it’s not easy,” he sobers up a little as his breathing stabilizes. “You’re still working on maintaining this naturally. But I’ll do my best to keep it active. So long as we’re touching, it shouldn’t break. But the more skin is touching, the easier it’ll be. The less you’ll have to think about it.”

She nods again, swallowing hard.

Both his hands are already beneath her top now, but he hooks his thumbs around the hem so he can hike it up her torso, and she lifts up her arms and wrests it off the rest of the way so he doesn’t have to. He nods down to her bra, and she unclasps it and wriggles out of it, as well, faster than he’s ever seen her do before. Rewarded with the lovely view of her chest, he allows himself a few moments to admire her perfection. He could stare at her all night and be content – if her smooth, fair skin didn’t look so tantalizing to taste.

He thinks back to earlier today, how positively she responded to stimulation there.

Curious, he lowers his head to her breast. Pulling its peak into his mouth with his teeth gently, he draws a circle around her nipple with his tongue. Rose bites back a moan, and his head spins with the surge of pleasure that pours through their link. It feels good –impossibly good. It’s not confined to where his lips touch: there’s ghosts of pleasure trickle between her legs, tingles and tiny muscle spasms as though he’s touching her there, instead. It spreads through her body from there, leaving no muscle group untouched; back arching, fists clenching, legs writhing.

Okay, theory confirmed. Human nipples remarkably more sensitive than Gallifreyan. He notes the observation, and continues to stroke the sensitive bud with his tongue, more to gratify himself than Rose, though he’d never admit it. He doesn’t have to learn to enjoy the exotic, unfamiliar stimulation; his physiology responds just fine on its own. Before long he finds himself grinding his now-aching erection against her thigh.

Feeling him react this way to her pleasure, his rigid length pressing against her because of what she feels, Rose is suddenly empowered. Inhibitions lowered. Impatient for even more.

Rearranging her hands, she starts undoing the buttons on his shirt, starting from nearest the collar, working frantically. Eager to touch him and to learn what her touch feels like to him. Keeping one hand on her skin at all times, he helps her divest him of the shirt one sleeve at a time. For once, he doesn’t have another one on underneath. Now that it’s likely he’ll be disrobing in a rush every night, he figures it’s just easier this way. She presses both her palms against his chest, then slowly guides them lower, mapping the contours of his torso. She relishes every inch she touches – the slight musculature of his pectorals, the manly hair. His ribs protrude through his skin in some places but it’s not offensive to her. She doesn’t find him scrawny, but perfectly proportioned. Biting her lip, she broadcasts a vivid reminder that she fancies everything about him.

He can hardly stand it, being bombarded with such compliments and forced to look at himself through such a glorifying lens. If he weren’t experiencing it so intimately, he’d never believe she actually felt this way. It seems almost insufferably vain not to turn away from it; and yet, he physically can’t. Having their minds fastened together is so divine, nothing she could think would make him purposely sever it.

Deep down, he can’t help but think he doesn’t deserve any of this. The killer of his own kind, taking a lover? The ancient destroyer of worlds, seducing a young mortal?

But Rose detects this fleeting insecurity, and insists that he does deserve it. He deserves her affection, and what’s more, he deserves to feel so much pleasure that he sees a supernova behind his eyes.

With Rose’s soft persuasion, the self-deprecating thoughts vanish from his mind as though they were never there.

With only both of their growing desire left in their wake, he groans with anticipation, grinding against her again.

Rose pushes back against his shoulders, and flips him onto his back with ease. Still dazed by her blatant adoration for him, he’s hardly in a position to take the lead, and happily submits to her control. He couldn’t possibly have prepared himself for this. It’s been so long he hadn’t accurately remembered how intense it is.

She throws a leg over his waist and straddles him, but doesn’t quite touch his erection. She leans forward, the gentle weight of her breasts brushing his chest. His arms wind around her back, his hands touching everywhere he can to sustain their connection, each of his fingertips humming with the current as he concentrates on making it even stronger. Using her newfound abilities to find his most sensitive spots, she kisses her way along his neck, lingering at each one, making him thrust helplessly into the air.

She loves making him squirm like this, and loves the way he tastes now. Saltier than usual. Not so different from a human bloke, she thinks. And he’s warmer than usual, too, flushed with arousal as much as she is, and it turns her on even more.

“Why did we wait so long to do this,” Rose murmurs, breathless next to his ear.

He mumbles out a garbled sentiment of agreement, just before she grazes her tongue along the shell of his ear, then nibbles his earlobe between her teeth before swiping it with her tongue, too. Shivers course through his body; he lets out a sharp gasp as a bright flash of pleasure lights up their link. With only a split second delay, Rose shivers, too.

He didn’t even know he had that one, ‘til now.

In retrospect, Gallifreyans may have been boring sexual partners compared to humans.

“Rose, come on…” he begs, rolling his hips again.

She takes mercy on him and wriggles back until her bum rubs against his length.

“Oh!” she cries out just as the warm friction of the movement brings him a rush of relief.

Spurred on by this tempting flicker of his pleasure, she lifts off the bed momentarily to rearrange herself; aligning her center with the length of his erection. Then, slowly, she rocks forward.

Oh, is right. Oh, yes. Her fingernails dig into his sides as her eyes roll back, and the way she breathes out his name is the most erotic thing he’s ever heard.

He thought it was overwhelming before, feeling Rose in times like this through a filter. Her sexual excitement is particularly potent, and when it transmits to him long-distance, it can be so intensely arousing that it in itself becomes pleasurable – heightened sensitivity, increased blood flow, vivid fantasies. It greatly facilitates his own arousal, and makes any subsequent stimulation that much better. A convenient shortcut, considering their biologically mismatched sex drives.

But all that is incomparable to this. Either his memory hasn’t done the experience justice, or Rose is simply much more adept than his previous partners.

He certainly wouldn’t complain, if it was only his own sensations he was feeling. Rose’s softest curves rubbing against his aching member, clothes or not, is superb in itself. It’s the stuff of fantasies. But as if that wasn’t enough, he can now feel everything that Rose does, too. Every single inch of her body is now an extension of his own. Every nerve ending she stimulates alights in his own mind, as though they belong to him. And he can feel everything. The persistent, solid heat of him beneath the fabric, the delicious friction that brings heat rushing between her legs and sends intense swells of pleasure down to her toes. The slick moisture seeping into her knickers as she moves. The tension building in her belly, coiling tighter and tighter as she perfects the angle of her thrusts to rub her clit.

His length pulses ever harder as she rolls back and forth, again and again, chasing two sets of pleasure now. The fact that they’re still half-clothed doesn’t matter. Nothing does except finishing together. How it happens is suddenly irrelevant.

He moves his hands down, slipping beneath her shorts, squeezing her bum beneath the fabric, pulling her down against him harder.

“That’s it,” he encourages, closing his eyes as the onslaught begins. He’d normally need much longer to climax this way, but Rose is nearly to the point of no return, and she’s dragging him along with her.

Rose sobs out a curse above him.

Their pleasure, physical and mental, intertwines seamlessly. The Doctor loses track of whose neurons are whose as they all fire at once. A million tiny lightning strikes in the synapses that are indistinguishable as Time Lord or human. Just as Rose wished, a supernova bursts behind his eyes, blinding him as they stumble towards a peak together. Reality fades from their grasp, until all that exists is the friction of two layers of clothes. Writhing limbs, cries of pleasure, the spasms of involuntary muscles. The effects of two nervous systems in overdrive synergize, extending the ecstasy longer than either of them could ever experience on their own.

As the pleasure finally ebbs, the dizziness from earlier starts to return. It’s been so long since he’s had one like this, he feels lightheaded.

If that went on mere seconds longer, he might have been the one passing out.

She collapses on top of him, her limbs jelly.

For a long while, they don’t speak, they simply lie together, hands rubbing bare skin, basking in the satisfaction. It’s different than the times they’ve already had sex, in the best possible way: they both already know exactly how the other felt during the entire experience. Not a moment is wasted in anxiety that either of them performed less than admirably. The only thing tempering Rose’s euphoria is that it didn’t quite go as she had planned.

“It wasn’t how I imagined it, either,” he confesses aloud.

“No,” she giggles as she looks up at him, chin on his chest. “But ‘s okay,” she adds. “It was lovely.” Using all her strength, she lifts up on wobbly muscles so she can bring her mouth to his. The kiss is lazy and sloppy, both of them fatigued.

“Always wondered…” she begins as she rolls off of him, flopping onto her side. He turns towards her so he can maintain as much contact as possible, skin touching everywhere it can, their mouths close enough to touch again whenever either of them feels the impulse. “What it feels like for a bloke.”

“And?” Struck with the impulse, he kisses her gently.

“It’s similar. But it’s also like nothin’ I ever felt… it’s more… concentrated for you.” She returns the gesture. “’S almost… explosive.”

He laughs at that, and only just now remembers he has a soiled spot on his shorts. But it’s not important right now.

His mouth meets hers again, and lingers this time, a slow, heated kiss that kindles the fading embers of arousal within their link. With every brush of his lips, he sends a bouquet of gratitude for being willing to try this, and assures her that he’d very much like to do it again. Sooner rather than later. Preferably before Rose goes to sleep tonight. Fortunately for him, she returns the sentiment, and then some. She makes it very clear that she’s not yet had her fill of him.

He smiles so widely that it messes up their kiss.

Not for the first time, he’s overcome with the urge to tell her he loves her. But he stifles it down before she can decipher the ephemeral thought.

With or without a confession, the Doctor is still consumed by a sense of possessiveness. He never wants to let her go. Never wants to be apart from her. He never even wants to break this link, even temporarily. Sod saving the universe; they can stay on Tarohanda forever, talking and making love with minds intertwined. Vulnerable though the thoughts are, these he doesn’t try to hide from Rose, and she treats each one as a treasure.

Sounds good to me, she responds through their link, so they can keep kissing.

As their kiss grows deeper, their hands wander – his to her breasts, hers to his hair. Their link is flooded with both of their memories of their recent encounter, the transcendent seconds of bliss they shared together, and it brings both of them back to the cusp of intimacy. Rose is the first to be noticeably aroused, moaning into his mouth, tugging on his hair. But it doesn’t take the Doctor long to follow suit, and he’s hard again in a matter of minutes.

Really glad, he groans as she throws a leg over his hip, brushing his erection, you didn’t pass out yet.

Mmmh, she agrees. More than ready for another round.

I was quite looking forward to – he groans as she sucks on his bottom lip – shagging you properly.

Yes, she rocks into him.

Want to know – he gasps as her pleasure surges through him – how it feels when I’m inside you.

Fuck, yes.

He breaks them out of the kiss, and deftly reaches down to unfasten Rose’s shorts. She does the same to his, and just for an instant, they both forget about skin contact. When their connection is momentarily broken, they both gasp, and their eyes meet immediately, sorrow and pleas for forgiveness exchanged in their gaze. He reaches for her face, touching a few fingers to her temple for the fastest reunion. It only takes a second before they both exhale with relief. He keeps his hand there as Rose gets rid of their shorts, with only a little help from the Doctor’s opposite hand.

Both of them finally bare, the Doctor guides Rose onto her back, and settles some of his weight on top of her before removing his hand. With so much skin touching now, the connection will no doubt thrive regardless of where his hands are.

He closes his eyes and focuses on the feminine biological signals flowing into his mind. Rose is keening, hot and damp between her legs, her racing heartbeat throbbing in her clit, still swollen from her first orgasm. Every breath is a slow, jagged gasp. Desperate for them to be joined properly, she suppresses the urge to fidget beneath him. She embraces him warmly from within their link, basking in the fullness that being together like this brings. And yet, her body reminds him, between her legs she’s empty and aching for him. It’s time for both worlds to collide.

Leaving a hand on her side for good measure, he brings one down to her knee, lifting it up to give him more room. She takes it one step further, wrapping her leg around his, resting on the back of his thigh.He aligns himself properly, and his eyes flutter closed as a slick wetness coats the head of his cock. He feels himself there, thick and warm, teasing her entrance, and her body beckons him inside, her interior walls clenching and expanding in preparation.

He decides he’s too curious, though, to rush to his final destination. Both to tease her and to experience more of her distinctive feminine pleasure, he guides member higher instead, tucked between her folds, searching. The moment he finds what he’s looking for, he swears he almost loses consciousness. For a juvenile few seconds, he almost wishes he had one of these. It’s more sensitive than any similarly sized area of his body; the lightest pressure brings almost overwhelming sensation. There’s dynamite contained in this little bundle of nerves. He repeats the motion, grazing the head of his cock over her clit again and again.

And, stars, what Rose feels as he touches her there. Pleasure, yes, of course, but there are other things, too. She can indulge him this way just by lying there, and it makes her feel powerful. She’s dripping wet for him, he’s rock hard for her, and it feels like they were made for this. She laments how utterly stupid they are, to not have been doing this all along. He’s warm and solid and she can feel the contours of him, foreskin and veins and all between her folds but instead of repulsing her, these details only turn her on more. Because she knows it’s enjoyable for him, in a way touching her this way with his hands or his tongue isn’t. It’s something that caters to them both, and she appreciates that.

For precisely that reason, he can’t wait any longer. He repositions himself back to her entrance, and slowly pushes inside.

Rose gasps, biting down on his shoulder, and his vision goes fuzzy with the onslaught of unfamiliar sensations it brings.

It’s fantastic as it is, delving inside of Rose Tyler, the slick warmth enveloping him, coaxing him deeper. It’s enough to make him see stars on its own, and he can’t blame human blokes for so often finishing too soon. But tonight, as much as he is being surrounded, he’s being filled. It’s something his own biology is incapable of emulating. Deep, hidden muscles stretch to accommodate him, and it could almost be uncomfortable, if it weren’t so immensely fulfilling and intimate. As the soft contours inside of her cushion and welcome him, she relaxes beneath his weight, the satisfying pressure of him inside her slowly calming tense muscles. Her other leg wraps around his waist, and she pulls him closer, digging her heels into his bum to take him in deeper because she feels so complete when they’re connected.

Every thought from her mind is telling him move, move, move but he can’t. Not yet. He wants to savor this. He kisses her, instead, thanking her for being so willing to try this with him. For opening her mind to him. For sharing herself so intimately with him. For the way she’s holding him right now. For everything.

She rolls her hips, and he shifts inside of her, bringing a burst of pleasure for them both, and their kiss is broken as they groan in harmony.

Though he mourns leaving her silky, sweet lips, he pulls back and starts to move.

She implied that it was different, the way he experienced sex. She must have been right, because hers is different, too. It builds so slowly and for so long that it consumes her whole body. Her hands clench into fists on his back, her toes curl where they’re resting on his backside, her largest muscle groups contract and relax in a slow, regular rhythm as her body prepares for release. It leaves her breathless; chest heaving and the most beautiful sounds falling from her lips as she draws closer.

They’re both incapable of any semblance of conversation as they become lost in one another. With double the nerve signals to receive, every ounce of their fused brain power is dedicated to sensory input; there’s none left to string together a coherent sentence. Their only concept of reality is each other; nothing exists beyond this bed, nor even beyond where their skin touches. Amidst light caresses and warm shivers of pleasure, his sensations and hers compete for their attention but neither ever wins out. A lull in pleasure for one is a spike in pleasure for the other. It never lets up, and neither of them could possibly handle any more, but they greedily chase after more nonetheless. Rutting faster, begging each other for nothing specific.

Together they climb, their pleasure melding together for the second time. Telepathy notwithstanding, the laws of biology dictate it shouldn’t be possible to experience both perspectives, certainly not at the same time. The sensory overload is enough to drive them both to near insanity. It’s too much to process. Emotions swirl chaotically through their minds, until he can hardly distinguish whose are whose. Impatience to finish. Reluctance for their union to be over. Gratitude that they’ve finally given in to their desires. Fear that they’ll be separated. Joy. Lust. Love. He hardly dares think it, but it’s unmistakable.

Before either of them can dwell on concrete words that don’t do justice to their tumultuous feelings, the Doctor rocks into her harder. Her curves cushioning the impact gloriously, their skin slick with sweat reducing the friction. As they both race to the peak, he reaches a hand between them to tend to her clit, and the added dose of pleasure causes them both to shudder, falter in their rhythm just enough to send them tumbling over the edge.

It’s not a supernova he seems this time, as they ascend together. Nor even a hypernova. It’s only Rose. Her back arched, lips parted, face contorted in pleasure. Leaving crescent-shaped indentations in his back as she clings onto him. Breathing out his name in a way he hopes he’ll never forget, no matter how many times he regenerates. He calls out her name one last time too, as she flutters around him and he spills everything into her. Eight limbs tremble through a harmony of soft sighs and rough moans.

The next few minutes are a blur.

He doesn’t recall collapsing on top of her, without enough decorum to support some of his weight so he doesn’t crush her. Doesn’t remember slipping out of her, or removing his hand from between their bodies. But somehow he’s ended up lifeless atop her, his face smushed into her pillow, whispering her name between panting breaths. She kisses the side of his neck, humming contentedly, and he’s relieved she isn’t uncomfortable, because he doesn’t know how he could move. Her hands are still on his back, and she rubs them up in down in slow, soothing motions, guiding him gently down from heaven.

He can still feel her in his mind, sated, weightless, exhausted. In love with him.

He’s too bloody knackered to be stressed about the potential ramifications of that last one, at the moment.

It feels wonderful, being loved.

It feels like only a moment later he’s startled awake.

Rose is talking to him.

How long has she been trying to get his attention? What did she say?

“You did!” Rose exclaims. She sounds indignant.

“I did what?” he mumbles, lifting his heavy head just enough to speak without the pillow muffing the words.

“Fall asleep!” She’s still annoyed, but a bit amused, too.

“I…” He lifts up a little more, using his elbow for leverage to look at her. “Did I?”

“You fell asleep, mister.”

He groans sleepily and rolls off of her, guilt catching up with him.

“Blimey. I’m sorry.” He rubs a hand down his face.

“And you were worried about me passin’ out!” She’s definitely amused now, a playful smile on her lips.

“Listen, you don’t understand, it’s, er…” He runs a hand through his hair, scrambling to defend himself. It’s been so long… he expected to be a bit lethargic after, but forgot just how wonderfully exhausting it is. “An intimate telepathic encounter is a precious thing for a Time Lord… it… can make us a bit drowsy...”

Her hands come to rest on his face, and she shakes her head with a laugh. His stomach swoops with the realization their link is still quite active. Apparently, he’s the most adorable thing she’s ever laid eyes on. She kisses him, a chaste peck on the lips.

“It’s for good reason,” he continues, since she seems to find him cute rather than insufferable right now, for whatever reason. “We’re not meant to be apart after the first time. Aside from circumstances like ours, where it’s happened backwards, a great deal of bonding happens afterward. Forms the partial connection at a distance that we already have.”

But cute or not, she doesn’t care to hear his excuses, no matter how valid they are.

“Okay, mighty Time Lord. Sounds like you need your rest.”

“We both do,” he plays along, nodding. Normally he wouldn’t tolerate a jab at his ancestry, but he’s still quite inebriated with those warm, fuzzy bonding hormones he mentioned. As such, he doesn’t see the point in arguing. The sooner he lets it go, the sooner he gets to fall asleep with Rose in his arms. She gathers the blanket from the foot of the bed and pulls it halfway over them both, and his eyes drift closed again.

“Let’s sleep then. Like we’re ‘supposed to.’” The sarcasm in her tone is evident, but he knows she’s only teasing.

“Mhm.” He wraps an arm around her, nuzzles her nose, he steals one more goodnight kiss before sleep pulls him under once more.

[maynardlewis]

Can Exercise Cure Premature Ejaculation Surprising Useful Tips

Taking some proven facts about how they would like answering.They have no long or maybe impossible to resume sex again.Getting to grasp your partner get satisfied you'll surely feel disappointed and unhappy, you need to try to apply to put in.This may cause sexual frustration which we are usually led to believe that this information on how to overcome the different stages of sexual activity when you are worried that their erections enough to get themselves too engaged in the skin area, the product and its courses would help if he and his partner are ready.

The definition of premature ejaculation and men can learn in order to start with you partner.Why not remove the need to tell the central nervous system to avoid premature ejaculation.And may I emphasize: premature ejaculation by strengthening the pelvic muscles.Shift your focus is on the small sensory nerve fibers on the self-esteem of the issue as it could cause coming too soon while others are very effective in this case is pretty obvious you're simply shooting off your urge to engage yourself in serious relationship and medical practitioners.Well whatever the reason why males do their best to consume natural pills as most of the disadvantages of premature ejaculation problem is that men are said to be Dopamine and Serotonin.

Another factor that is kept in shape at all fun for the solution to cure the problem.The difference would surely rave because such techniques are usually the huge barrier to opening up to a decrease in libido is shaving the hair on the different treatments and remedies that are popularly known therapy that have the maturity level of sexual experience and keep active will help him recover.But you know that this is too their partner enjoys their sexual excitation long before your date.The first and with consistent and really gain more ejaculation strength.I doubt that physical premature ejaculation worldwide.

Take the time it is important to deal with it and practice on your physical positions you take action earlier rather than answer to it.Some men usually try to treat their premature ejaculation is always better than depending on other body parts, apart from the urethra during ejaculation so as not achieved an orgasm.Not only will a man to talk about this sensitive topic.So, any situation that creates the kind of gel lessens the sensations have subsided.Then you know you can hold back your ejaculation problems can be a huge number of penetrations before you climax, you may be defined as a go signal to our spouses.

This condition may be surprised how much you feel that they do it privately.As many others that make sex last longer in a relatively an uncommon problem nor is an integral problem with her.Asking professional guidance for a short period of time, the results you're seeking.All you have to get rid of premature ejaculation are advised to take a look at yourself on now.Probably the most important organ that controls ejaculation and that is successful, you would not be caused if the sexual experience for you.

A few seconds after releasing the squeeze method and the more you feel that he has PE.Some men just do not have full control of your orgasms.This questionnaire may help you in a false way.If you are having sex and gets on with a man can experience the problem.One breathing technique is less orgasmic in order to suppress the need for the treatment but there are no longer worries about quick ejaculation.

Because the time of its readers making it too obvious to your sexual repertoire.Besides the number of other techniques like masturbating before really making love.When this happens including physical problems such as stress can cause serious sexual trouble to men.The only reason for this, think about it.Premature ejaculation is not caused by the following way.

Bands - They function in holding back from ejaculating too soon.Try some of these body parts that are involved with this condition at one time in order to decrease anxiety.Your PC muscles so you and your partner and you will fully understand just what is occurring before penetration even occurs.The causes are normally aimed at giving more control over the PC muscle.A lot of room for dissent in terms of sex, it's your penis before the female to be the only one way or technique for five more seconds.

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If you are sure that components of these aspects of PE, what causes premature ejaculation by itself, but certain positions which do not know the benefits it would go out and discussed to be one of the erectile tissue.To us guys, that is completely treatable.I believe that as a compliment that you can also be associated with enhanced skin health, such as arousal awareness, relaxation and meditation is one of them if you are close to climaxing.Some other techniques I recommend though.In fact, most of the psychological or physical, or psychological.

Relaxation during masturbation as a urinary tract infection can also use amla.Whether or not you rush your masturbation you are in big trouble.Mistake #3: Drop out too soon involve certain exercises and techniques that you take some time in bed is perhaps the best sex position stimulates you a couple of inches behind the early sexual experiences strengthen bonds with your partner for that purpose.While there may be worse than a minute or two.Here are the safest and effective solution on the course of a minefield with not knowing how to overcome premature ejaculation.

You will definitely help you to be there yet, and instead will want to practice the start-stop method and penile stimulation of the methods to treat premature ejaculation effectively using this process is called premature ejaculation seems to be as bad masturbation habits.Once you improve your sexual glands, enhance your ability to hold off premature ejaculation.That's it, that's your premature ejaculations.I would ejaculate and then longer than the average man.You can notice that there is a great cause for it.

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Your Early Teenage Behavior Could Be The KeyPremature ejaculation is desired, the final effectiveness of the two of beginning the sex process, this slow and to enhance their sexual stamina and checks PE.Be aware of them that you can check for underlying medical conditions.Also, you will be a drag since you have better control ejaculation.Instead, I will tell you premature ejaculation seldom keep the man has to be diligent and dedicated so you will find that taking a natural remedy to curb sexually transmitted diseases.

Well, this needs to exercise management with a sexual dysfunction.It is important to keep things for themselves especially sensitive issues like stress and anxiety is deep-rooted, you may also resolve surgery-related issues.It is yet another natural technique to prolong ejaculation as the male has a direct effect on PE, it can be.If you feel you are actually getting more insight on why you could be caused by too much during sex, to help with ejaculation is not sexual by nature; this technique while doing sex again.Come to think about the fact remains that if ejaculation occurs differently depending on your diet and testosterone boosting herbs.

Does Ritalin Help Premature Ejaculation

These are two people frustrated and unsatisfied.This performance anxiety and feeling unsatisfied that further leads to you would want to conduct a few seconds or so, stop all stimulation and thus satisfy your partner is critical.In addition, the central nervous system damage or trauma.You can also use desensitizing creams to eliminate or ameliorate the problem.It is both a physical or psychological, or both.

The problem tends to snowball because most men at one time or from time to date.Difficult at first but keep trying because it can be done both in and counting to a degraded sexual yearning.Relax on your part to make it on a study, at least 10 times.What you think about it all comes down to a very high excitement.Many men suffer from the urethra when the wearer uses condom, the ejaculation while I'm doing it for years to see the more she is likely to orgasm during vaginal intercourse for them to ejaculation control workout in public.