(a mix of fluff, angst,nsfw&who knows what else)
⌚ for a drabble of my muse oversleeping while staying at your muses place
❂ for a drabble of my muse asking yours to watch the sunrise
☾ for a drabble of our muses camping in the middle of the woods
☄ for a drabble of our muses seeing a shooting star together
♘ for a drabble of one of our muses teaching the other to play chess
♕ for a drabble of my muse going down on yours for the first time
✍ for a drabble of my muse writing yours a letter
● for a drabble of our muses dancing together
♪ for a drabble of our muses doing karaoke together
۵ for a random drabble !!
oh yes but in a pre-dating way bc micah is no cheating scoundrel ✴
The taller, trendy-haired guy leans in and it’s so obviously a for a kiss that Lian’s breath catches in her throat. Her heart pounds so loud, she wonders if it’s audible. She licks her lip. The moment seems to stretch into eternity, a thousand years per centimeter as he brings himself ever-closer. He angles his head to one side, to make space for noses, and Lian catches out of the corner of her eye as his hands curl around the edge of the table, like he’s bracing to be rejected. Her toes curl inside her shoes, like they’re imitating the action. And then Micah leans in to close the gap between themself and the trendy-haired guy.
At this point, Lian knows she should look away. This is none of her business--watching the end of a date between a stranger and someone she went on a date with one time, someone she’d barely remembered until they’d walked into the bar tonight. And yet, she was transfixed. Her normal post-show high had made her hyper, and that hyperness so quickly turned to hyperfixation when she recognized the date for what it was. Her investment was unnatural, unnecessary--especially so, since she did not know what it was she wanted. Just to watch, she thought. Not for a particular outcome. But with the way she was already on-edge from her last show, she can’t tell if her nerves are residual or projected onto the couple.
The kiss is a first, she’s pretty sure, and it seems both too long and too short, which is perhaps par for the course. When they part, she forces herself to look away, wanting to give them some of their intimacy back. It wasn’t hers to take. She should not have stared. Familiarity is no excuse--Micah probably doesn not remember her, even if she remembers him--and the guilt she is feeling is odd, out of place in her normal rituals after a gig. She needs a drink, a distraction, maybe both. As she heads for the bar, the spot where the couple was falls back into her line of vision, but they are gone. Lian takes a moment to consider how she feels about that. Happy, she decides. Happy for them. They are an attractive couple. Hopefully, they enjoy each other.
“i want you to touch yourself for me.” | luc/renata.
nsfw prompts.
Vulnerability is utterly alien to Renata. It’s a bad omen, an implausibility, a cruel sense of false hope. Vulnerability is… a gilded cage.
And jesus, she’s not interested in falling apart for no reason. Especially not over someone who doesn’t know half the things she’s seen and done for the people who make up her blood. But there’s something more to say about Luciana, even if Renata’s viciously unwilling to give voice to the words.
Maybe it’s the sound of their voice.
The two of them have had a lot of conversation since the first time they’ve met. And hey, Renata’s used to people talking. She works for a radio station, for crying out loud. OLATE FM is both the bane of her existence and one of the few habits she doesn’t mind having adjusted to. Altogether, seeing Luciana around and getting to know them has been a strange matter of coincidences. It’s not like she sought her out.
They’re… attractive, yes. To the extent that Renata found herself trying to doodle the shape of their shoulder-frame in the margins of her to-do list. But that’s never sent Renata on a rampage to get to know someone before, and she likes to think she interacts with enough attractive people on a daily basis for that not to take away from her merit. Still, Luciana is attractive enough to make her second-guess the length of each glance she shoots in the other’s direction. Mostly because it seems both stupid to look and stupid to look away.
In so many words? That’s a new one. And Renata’s not entirely sure how to deal with it.
So, perhaps, she got a little out of her mind drunk with two of her cousins yesterday. And perhaps she is nursing a terrible hangover, but that doesn’t stop her from asking Luciana out for coffee. Or for going back to their place for a little while after to talk about something work-related. Something they should focus on, right up until the music that’s playing gets a little too easy on her nerves. A little too kind to the worry in her body. A little too inviting to the way she watches Luciana’s hair curling around her ears.
The way her heart beats at her ribs feels like a complaint. It’s caged, all right. And it’s gilded as all hell when twenty minutes pass and they’re kissing on Luciana’s couch.
It’s not their first mess, and she has this itching feeling it won’t be their last. Particularly because she’s used to calling all the shots in bed. They make out for a while, their shirts and jackets come off, she wants to rip up this couch and disappear. She wants to…
kiss Luciana until their lips are a little bruised.
It’s a difficult, encapsulating feeling. She’s hot all over, trying to swallow the star in her throat that keeps her from saying something that would destroy everything up until now. What are they doing? How far has she come, now that they’ve done this more than once? And what will it mean if they do it again?
She’s so stupid, and she doesn’t want to go.
“How do you want me?” Renata says, one hand on Luciana’s shoulder, the other at the inside of her own thigh.
Luc says I want you to touch yourself for me and Renata’s head almost lolls in disbelief. She goes lightheaded instead. Wishes she’d eaten earlier–she feels light and driven a little out of her head.
“For you––” She sighs, almost condescendingly. It’s not that literal. “All right.” She bites the edge of her voice back when her hand slips under the leather of her pants and the front lace, tipping her head back and her eyes shut.
“But kiss me, at least. For me.” Because she’s not certain she can bear making herself come apart in front of someone she’d like to touch her so much instead.
And they do kiss. Very much, in fact. For which, she supposes she’s blissfully and contentedly appreciative.
“i could’t stop thinking about you all day.” (ivan & mila!)
nsfw prompts.
The bathwater’s scented with rose petals and lavender oils; they ease the nerves that tense in Mila’s absence.
There’s a little paint in her hair and across the smooth lines of her fingers, and Ivan’s sure to warm their water so it comes off easily. When they’re close like this, time seems to move slowly. The relative gauge he typically uses to understand the world around him turns on its head. When he’s with her, when she’s with him, when their gazes hold steady, he knows that there’s something cosmically different happening.
Whether that’s a good or a bad thing is for no one but them to decide. Ivan’s stomach turns with thoughts of destiny and where it’s brought them. He’s had a complex relationship–and recent mistrust–in the notion of fate for a long while now. They’ve chosen each other, and that is a power greater than anything the world could have thought to create. He won’t allow any measure of kismet to speak over their love of each other.
That’s why he smiles when she rounds the bathtub and sinks into his arms. They are tolerating measures of daily destiny almost always –– today, for example. He would have done anything to go along with her to finish one of her recent canvases, but there were a few photographs he still needed to develop from a dark room. All of the time-sensitive things catching up to them is to be expected, but that doesn’t make it any less painful.
Any time away from her is.
Perhaps that’s not the most sensible thing in the world–but he doesn’t define himself as sensible, especially not when so much of her skin is exposed, and her hair is so soft at her shoulders. He loves the shape of it as one hand snakes around her waist, pulling her up to his bare chest while the other lifts to caress her jaw.
His mind doesn’t parse much other than the way the sunset’s light filters into her eyes. He does, however, notice the pain behind his ribs dissipating. Settling. Or quieting, maybe. Whatever it’s doing, it clears his head (or perhaps it’s just making it easier to forget the rest and focus on her, dizzy as that leaves him).
Mila says, “I could’t stop thinking about you all day,” and Ivan’s heart is carried away in their unending dance.
He lowers his head and she takes one soundless, tiny step closer to him. Onto her tiptoes, they revel in each other’s weight. The halfway-met sensation of her skin on his. The warmth that blooms like smoke from a hearth. He knows he was meant to live in this world when she touches him. It’s been more this way than it’s ever been, despite everything, in the last several months. And truthfully, Ivan is unspeakably grateful.
He kisses her before he speaks, because he is selfish. And because the taste of her is something he doesn’t know how ever to go without again.
“For me–it was the same. It was the same, yeah. I was thinking of what you might think while I was deciding which to bring home. I needed your eyes with me. ”
He feels her leg shift at his side, and Ivan’s hand grazes her side, drawing lower. She tips her head and he feels her hair trickle back, swept away from the pretty apple of her cheek.
“Pero te necesito conmigo siempre. So... not exactly new. I know.”
Her smile against his skin is his favorite shape.
He loves her so much that it almost always hurts. But right now, the hurt he knows when they’re apart is worth the warmth of his helping her out of her underclothes and helping them both into the hot water.
There is a little laughing, and a lot of kissing, and he maps her body in his mind with each palm.
“i’m gonna fuck you until you beg me to stop.” | quinn/nathan ✌️
nsfw prompts.
Nathan’s at the cliff face of longing: he stares it in the mouth as Quinn descends.
It’s not the first time he’s been eased into a life-altering blowjob. And it’s not like easing–er–cornering (no, that’s too absolving of his guilt) Nathan takes very much effort. At this point, the most that precedes his surrender is a cold glance and a tight pinch at the bridge of his nose. Nathan is exasperated with his own inability to stop wanting.
Perhaps it’s that life had no rhyme nor reason before now. Perhaps it’s that he was taking one slow march to his grave between the occasional slivers of half-entertainment. That not even a court of law in which chess pieces were the livelihood of guilty and innocent people could sate his urge for more purpose, more spotlight, more anything.
Of course he’s so resigned to Quinn’s heart-starved chaos. It’s a labyrinth of intimacy that hurts at the center of him, and he can’t stop himself from reaching for more. From kissing him. From letting his back fall against the wall where Quinn takes him into his mouth.
It’s like that for a while–muffled groans and unsteady breaths–the pace of Nathan’s heart loud enough in his ears to mimic the bang of a gavel that goes on without end. He’s had nightmares like that before, he’s sure. Where he’s not allowed to walk away from a courtroom because he couldn’t win, that his every word found the worst possible contention, and that his ears ring like this was the end of some terrible movie, like he was being punished.
He punishes himself when he tangles a tight hand in Quinn’s hair, sucks in a tight breath and holds it until his sternum feels wound.
“Fuck, Quinn… fuck.” When he’s about to fall apart, legs shaking and eyes rolling back, Quinn gathers himself and guides them to the bed.
“Yeah?” And he makes such a horrible promise: “I’m gonna fuck you until you beg me to stop.”
Nathan’s hard and leaking when his shoulders hit the mattress, his head halfway to the pillows and watching the ceiling spin. They kiss until their lips are raw and somehow, he holds himself together long enough not to spiral when Quinn starts to makes good on his word. He’s capable of surprising himself in all sorts of ways, evidently.
The further they go, the faster he feels like he’s rolling. He’s slick and hot and the sight of Quinn’s focus on him now is a sick kind of unbearable. When he blinks, there’s light behind his eyes. Maybe he sees the first time Quinn smiled–sees himself remembering/forgetting that person, sees himself recognizing the one that was always there amidst their game of judiciary pretend.
Amidst their dance of war and passion and everything that’s become of them.
What’s become of him, then? And what’s the explosion of feeling that blooms from his groin to his chest? Everything shatters around and inside him.
“Stop,” He says, shuddering and spending himself all over. “Ugh–my sheets…” They’re such a nice thread count. They cost so much money. This better come out. Who cares? He’s barely thinking. He messes a hand over the apple of Quinn’s cheek, spreads his thighs further apart. “Stop. I think I––”
“What’s that?” Quinn asks, voice a little labored, but sounding altogether pleased.
“I–– no, I love you.”
His eyes train back into focus so quickly once the words come out that his head yanks up. He bends onto his elbows, sitting up a little higher and fighting the urge to cover his face. “Forget it.” He can still feel Quinn inside him, fucking him whole. “Forget it.” He hopes this is one of those dreams where all his teeth fall out.
“just kiss me, i can’t take this anymore.” | gabriel/marina~
nsfw prompts.
Everything’s been on fire since she fell in love.
She’s not sure what happens when they touch: if there’s a cool moment’s reprieve, or if she just burns hotter and brighter.
Marina suspects both, each turn of events circumstantial. As with everything that comes to Gabriel, it depends.
Because sometimes, she’s a live wire about to frenzy in the middle of a city that’s already too much trouble for her own good–and his are the only hands that can help her come down from the fever pitch. And sometimes, she’s the dry edge of splintered wood and sage that needs a spark; oh, god, it’s like if she doesn’t find that source of heat, she’ll wither and disappear in a breath of ash. But Gabe finds him then, always manages to flick him back from the cold wind and dearth of unknowing. And when they move and press against each other, all of Marina’s sparks turn to aching pressure points of blazing heat.
It’s mostly the sight of him as he is now, wrists bound to the bedpost (with loose, pretty black ribbons that come from an old attempt to braid her hair), in and out of his shuddering breaths, that could put an end to life as Marina knows it. Body a little twitchy and succumbing to her affectionate ministrations. She’s propped up on her knees at Gabriel’s side, stroking one hand up his side, over his chest, before her head tips low.
He hushes Gabe with a sharp upturn of her mouth at its hopeful corners, holding his gaze for a moment. His eyes are the sweetest blue.
He loves him, always, but very much like this, when he lets himself be at her mercy. Mostly because he’s had a long road of rough patches, and he’d rather just look after him. Adore him, and show him that sometimes it’s good just to shut down and trust somebody. Now that she understands the sensations herself, having done the same thing, it’s only fair that they trade this strange little foreign glory.
Love is revenge. It’s her revolution, too. To show him love is to fight what refused to.
So he grins, intent and cunning, foxlike, when he wets his mouth and lets his free hand snake down past Gabriel’s ribs.
She wraps her lips around him and lets her tongue twist around the piercing at his chest, toying and teasing. Her head’s light with all the heat in the room, buzzing and rhythmic with the dull reverb of their instruments in her memory. Marina’s hand slips under his waistband without much of a struggle, appreciative of the fact that he’s all hands and Gabe can’t steal any more of his attention by touching her. He palms him and works his tongue in concert, a simultaneous moment’s maddening pleasure when the piercing clicks against her teeth.
It’s only when she makes a fist around him under his boxers that Gabe jolts a little, further up into his hand. Marina, a little relentless, elects to shift her delicate, however messy mouthing to his chest just beside the sensitive flesh. She leaves a mark.
“Just kiss me,” He finally says, and Marina pulls her lips back like she’s hit the satisfaction she’s been chasing all this time. “I can’t take this anymore.”
“Oh, okay.” Defeatedly, he slips his hand back up the taut line of his core, because she’s not ever very interested in telling him no. “You win.” And she brushes her nose against his before she kisses him.
Graham likes getting out of his head. Piper’s good for it.
Too good, apparently.
Sometimes, the way Piper’s eyes hold him in place feels like static stillness. She’s electric with the way she moves, always quick and fluid and making him certain that if he so much as blinks, he’ll miss something that he’ll never forgive himself for. They’re about to shower and he’d offered to help wash her hair, but she slipped out of her shorts and the soft curves of her legs were too lovely not to hike up with a slide of his palm.
In other words, he’s hoisted her up against his waist where he’s slanted near the bathroom counter. Incredibly thankful that they bought this apartment because they loved how large and spacey and–what was it, ambient?–this bathroom is. The lights are soft and her dimples under the orange glow are irresistible targets for a kiss; Graham dots both of her cheeks with a peck, playful before she wraps both arms around his neck and starts to sink.
She grinds against him and all his blood rushes to his cock. His boxers tug against the strain. He ducks his head and shuts his eyes at her record times, which never fail to make him shudder. Quietly, Graham nurses an itching feeling that there was something in his face twenty minutes back, while they were still in bed.
Something concerned about Sutherland-typical drama in the way he watched the window–he suspects Piper saw it, because she makes quick work of him and helps to pull those useless thoughts from him a la long, hungry kisses and the friction of fabrics that he blames all unmerciful gods for them not having magically vanished already. She’s never had trouble reading him like a book–no matter how private he tried to be, for both their benefits. It’s his gratitude for her that makes it impossible to bury his face in the curve of her bare shoulder and disappear in the constellation of freckles.
That’s great, don’t get him wrong, but he takes to resting their foreheads together instead.
She’s insistent once they take the last of their clothes off and Graham’s smile is as wolfish as it gets. They work each other open, breathless and drowning in each other’s heat for a while, reminding each other to be careful of the glass doors with occasional quiet laughs and warning glances.
When her muscles start to tighten around him, Graham clicks his teeth shut and exhales. She goes totally still, quits moving and tips back to look at him. This is the second time now that he’s come down thirty second from the precipice–he’s almost certain he’s going to spill. He blinks, not daring to turn around and look in the mirror, or he’s sure to lose this game they play.
“Does that feel good?” She asks, though it sounds like, are you about to lose? He creases his eyebrows as he works himself down from the peak he’s about to reach, unable to get enough of her skin under his hands.
“Slow down, sweetheart. Slow down, before I melt here.” Graham answers with a slow breath, then a kiss. He sucks on the low of her lip, grazing with teeth, feels her nails lightly scrape his shoulders when she sinks onto him and begins to move once more.
He comes undone when she shudders around him, and his head swims with the slow-setting bliss.
When they’re through smiling and kissing, she turns the shower faucet and grins over her shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ll put cool water on.”
Nathan can take a lot with his head down, but this case–this man–it’s come around to too much.
See, he knows he can take a lot because he’s a lawyer. He went to school to learn to take it. Defendants chewing him out, judges shutting him down, criminals worming their way around laws because of the things he does and doesn’t say. Law school was its own hell and case of its own: he wrote who knows how many papers he didn’t believe in, stuck around for who knows how many office hours with professors who couldn’t put their money where their mouth was. Altogether, he’s not so bad at seeing things through that degrade and upset him.
But right about now, he’s a candle all out of wax. The last of the cigarette, mouth full of ash.
Last week, he was grazed with a knife and his hands were bloodied. Today, a man who matches the description of the one who cornered him is missing on the news. He puts two and two together faster than Quinn moves his key through the front door.
Nathan’s self-loathing crushes him like a thousand inches of heavy snow. He suffocates himself underneath the weight, could go blind and numb under the pressure of what he’s done. Perhaps he’s got no right to work himself up over this any longer: he knows he’s accountable for everything that’s happened.
Quinn Elliot is a thousand times free to do as he pleases. The city belongs to him, and Nathan is at fault.
It was his pity, his heartstrings that were tugged. Him and the neuroscientist who caught onto the idea of a violent, second identity that went hand in hand with the horrible hand Quinn had been dealt. Or something along those lines. Years of study and memorization and dry intrigue built on a spotless record–Nathan’s never failed one of his clients, but he’s never failed as spectacularly, on this magnitude, as he has with Quinn.
And his relentless housemate sidles up next to him like a cat who owns this place. And what can Nathan say? That he doesn’t? That he hasn’t completely dominated the situation? That Nathan didn’t let him get away with murder? That he doesn’t continue to?
He’s got Frank Sinatra loud on the living room radio, burning a cigarette between two fingers, sunk low into his reclining chair with his tie loosened enough to fall into the open split of his collar. The back of his throat burns with the taste of old smoke: he wants to blaze away, to disappear through the vents and not have to look at himself when Quinn asks if he wants to dance.
Yes, there were times, I’m sure you know, when I bit off more than I could chewBut through it all when there was doubt, I ate it up and spit it out…
When he looks up at that pretty, unmoved face, his insides spin like a washing machine. It’s always Quinn who turns him on his head. Rends him like a lion might turn his chest to ribbons and mess him up.
“No.” He says. But he stands up anyway, in his very nice shoes, thank you. “No, I really don’t. I don’t want to dance with you.” He drops his cig in the ash tray and burns his thumb on the edge where he snuffs out the light. He feels immaculately cursed by god for the games he’s played with his law degree. Worse, he knows he deserves it. Worse, he thinks Quinn’s face looks as sweet and as awful as he did when he made Nathan believe he could never really hurt anyone. When he had him thinking his innocence was the only thing worth fighting for in his entire career.
I faced it all and I stood tall, and did it my way…
The night slows. The air grows heavy around them. “You’re too much, Quinn. I can’t. I can’t–” He speaks slowly, like every word’s a question he’s asking himself. And he takes a few steps, too, starting to walk Quinn into the corner of the room. Quinn’s looking at him like he’s already won this match, and Nathan only riles because he knows… of course, he has.
He hangs his elbow up to the wall and pins him there, at a loss in terms of proceeding.
The record shows I took the blows, and did it my way––
He feels fevered when he leans over him, sick with the way he wants to taste him more than he wants Quinn to taste the rust of his mouth.
“You’re in my head. I know you are.” But there’s a second’s reverence somewhere there, because he couldn’t want anything the way he wants to be looked at the way Quinn’s looking at him now.
So he lets himself be turned smoothly around, where Quinn presses their chests flush together and shifts his weight, so Nathan’s back moves to the wall.
“So clever, Nate. Relax, would you? You’re all worked up.”
He thinks he might just go up in flames. But Quinn yanks his hands and works him into the appropriate form for a waltz, and off they go.
However his legs manage to carry him, even Nathan’s not completely sure. He must’ve been aching with a lonely feeling, because he half-notices it fading away.
Marisol’s made an impatient mess of herself, and she’s nothing if not terrible at waiting.
She’s capable of waiting something out, but trying to comprehend the last several months (maybe well over half a year now) of her life is like sitting at the center of a tornado and trying to watch what happens outside. It’s an excruciatingly weird situation.
No matter how well-acclimated she is to those, few compare to what Jesse’s brought into her life. Sometimes she thinks she understands him – has a clear picture of the whirlwind of nightmares he’s endured and continues to endure – and sometimes she’s certain she never will. Although Mari knows they’re more a team now than they were, it’s still a frustrating, unknowable situation.
Sometimes that frustration gets to her in a way that ends in her pacing her tiny apartment, feeling like Stillmoon just isn’t big enough for the crisis they have every other day. But the back of her mind keeps drawing to the way Jesse sometimes looks at her–how his eyes are dark as pitch under street lamps or when they kiss indecisively in her car.
She doesn’t figure thinking about him as hard as she is now warrants a knock at the door, but she gets one. She knows it’s him before she looks through the shutters, knows the heavy weight of his knuckles rapping on the surface, opens the door before she can think straight. She’s not thinking straight, for the record. Or... at least not as irrationally as she could be. Her head’s still buzzing from the single shot of Triple Sec she took to crawl out of the worst of her skin.
It’s so cold out tonight, she doesn’t even think when she steps aside to let him in. She doesn’t know how to move forward from this point–not when his life was so isolated for so long. Being the first person he’s known this intimately feels both a relief and an intrusion, but she’s addled by the question of why he’s stuck around this long. Just yesterday, they narrowly escaped another discovery attack by the scientists. She’s still trying to wrap her head around the feeling of his hands when he shoved her out of the way of her own reflex’s mistake.
She’s good, she thinks, but he makes her better. And that thought renders her a little unreasonable, particularly after they go back and forth for a little while about why he’s here when he should be resting (she pesters him even knowing he doesn’t need it–mostly because she wants him to have a dash of normalcy, even if it’s a pretense before a necessity). But somewhere in the mess, he says you’re all I want, and she feels cut through.
Marisol watches his face for a second, feels herself run down when she blinks. She just wants and she hasn’t wanted anything this much in so long.
It’s really no wonder that she takes his hand and leads him to the edge of her little bed.
“If you mean that,” and she doesn’t know him to be someone who says things he doesn’t mean. Marisol moves to her knees on both his sides, into his lap where she pulls her hair out of its tie, lets it fall over her shoulders and takes a deep breath. She tries to watch for hesitance, thinks herself careful – where do they go from here? – prepares herself in case he wants to back out. “Then have me.”
But she does kiss him first, hand loose against his jaw as she grinds against him and feels the fire building. “For the record... I want you. I want you to have me.” It’s better than the rain outside, she guesses, no matter where this ends.
All the tight breath in her lungs is stolen into his mouth, and time slips out from under her as they fall in together.
1. for one muse to give the other oral (savannah & karina!)
nsfw prompts.
Karina’s mouth is the kind of pretty that aches to watch.
Savannah’s known ever since her eyes first drew to the shape of it. She didn’t miss the way she smiled over her bowl of cookie dough: couldn’t escape the peripheral distraction of that focused look of her face – the way her lips pursed when she got lost in thought. Maybe she’s been aching for her ever since.
Needless to say, their recurring and seemingly inevitable nights together have begun to pile up. She loves when they end up here, though – where she can forget about the way her heart beats so hard it starts to burn – where she can think less about the lies she tells Karina and the ones she tells herself. The ache only abates while she feels Karina mouth across the nerves that wind her up so tight; she’s centered by the devout sweep of tongue. The rest of the world blurs with stars when her eyelashes flutter.
Right now, she’s got little more than a hair tangled gently in Karina’s wavy hair. She cranes her neck to watch her where she bends forward from the head of the mattress, though it’s more a matter of selfish indulgence than it is anything else. It’s hard to look, but she can’t bear not to see her.
“You’re perfect..” She licks the dry away from her own mouth. “Right there––” But her head falls back against the wood with a muted sound, and she closes her hand almost tenderly where she guides her, brushing a few loose hairs away from Karina’s forehead.
Karina’s gentle, but she’s diligent while she navigates. She massages the tender, inner flesh of Savannah’s thighs while she works, leaving Savannah a shuddering mess under her touch. She sighs when she draws closer, feeling herself hum and melt against Karina’s tongue. She must be getting to know Savannah’s body so well… it’s rare that she makes any noise at all.
But she’ll start rocking and shaking if they take this any further, and Savannah’s never been certain how to let herself just be taken care of.
Gingerly, she takes both her hands to Karina’s cheeks and ducks to meet her in a kiss. She tastes herself and smiles, cheeks warm and temples alight with longing. “I’ll finish if you keep doing that, and I want to warm you up a little more before I do. Come here, pretty girl.”
i’m always tired of seeing the cringiest sentence starters for smut so i’m back at it again kids. feel free to adjust sentences or specify who does the action.
ACTIONS:
1. for one muse to give the other oral
2. to skinny dip with my muse
3. to shower with my muse
4. to take a hot bath with my muse
5. for sex in public
6. for sex in the car
7. to catch my muse naked
8. to undress my muse
9. for sparring to turn into sex
10. for an argument to turn into sex
11. for make up sex
12. for friends with benefits sex
13. to tie up my muse
14. to blindfold my muse
16. to make one muse watch the other masturbate
17. for a threesome (specify muses)
18. for one muse to wake the other by fingering them/giving a handjob
19. for one muse to deny the other orgasm
20. for angry sex
21. for break up sex
22. for sex after a near death experience
23. for after battle sex
24. for sex to get revenge on an ex
25. for one muse to give the other a lap dance or strip tease
26. to make my muse whimper
27. for one muse to take the other from behind
28. for sex against the wall
29. for sex on a table/counter/desk
30. for sex in a pool/hot tub
31. for one muse to choke the other
32. for rough sex
33. for our muses to try a new position
34. for our muses to try a new kink together
35. for one muse to use a toy on the other
36. for one muse to sit on the other’s face
WORDS:
“touch me.”
“kiss me here.”
“you have to be quiet if you want to cum.”
“say my name.”
“oh fuck-”
“i need you so bad.”
“i’m so wet right now.”
“i want you to touch yourself for me.”
“let me hear you, baby.”
“come for me.”
“i want to hear you cum.”
“harder.”
“i need to feel you.”
“i want you.”
“you’re so hot.”
“can i come yet?”
“please, baby—”
“i’m so close.”
“i told you to be quiet.”
“i told you to stay still.”
“are you gonna be good for me?”
“i promise i’ll be good.”
“i’m not done with you yet.”
“i’ve been waiting all day…”
“you’re all i want.”
“just kiss me, i can’t take this anymore.”
“just shut up and fuck me.”
“i’m gonna fuck you until you beg me to stop.”
“say please.”
“i could’t stop thinking about you all day.”
“your fingers feel so good.”
“your mouth feels so good.”
“i want your fingers inside me.”
“i want it to hurt.”
“more—”
“i want you to forget everything and everyone else but me.”
“make me forget.”
“i just want to feel something.”
“make me.”
“be quiet.”
“they’re gonna catch us—”
“yes— right there.”
“that feels so good.”
“does that feel good?”
rae: you swear it wasn’t a bad wipeout?? caleb called me and said you were being taken to the hospital! you don’t get sent to the hospital for no reason!rae: can you facetime me when you get a chance? i’ll be there in like 30 minutes tops!
a loving text
rae: only the sweetest and most handsomest boyfriends will have a surprise in their fridgerae: (its you, you are the sweetest and most handsomest boyfriend with a surprise in your fridge) rae: love you!! i can’t wait to see you tonight! 🥰
a half asleep text
rae: i will going to am be checking tomorrow promiserae: i will let you knowrae: sweet dreams i love pookarae: and you
mila: [img of stella on ivan’s side of the bed]mila: look! she loves to steal and is so so proud of herself!mila: the morning light is so pretty right now. i know you are getting the loveliest shotsmila: 💖love you! 💖miss you! 💖
a text that wasn’t sent
mila: can you come back? i didn’t mean what i said. i don’t want to be without you tonight
a goofy text
mila: [img of a painting in progress]mila: something looks off… no? can you see it?mila: is it the eyebrows? are they too high above the eyes?[ten minutes later]mila: EARS! I FORGOT ABOUT THE EARS!!!
🍆 : your muse makes a suggestive joke but my muse actually acts on it
“Bite me,” Micah says, which really, was the first mistake. Lian is impulsive at best, and these moments where his eyes are bright and clear and normal bring out the most playful in her.
“Where?” she answers.
Micah, she can tell, doesn’t mean to answer. The words are out of his mouth before he caught himself. “My neck.”
Micah’s body is too often trapped in a prism of nightmare-feeling.
It’s colors are pretty and distracting–they must shine in the too-bright of his eyes when he gets away from himself. He knows this hex is much like an apology dance: what he suffers is what the woman from a few years back wants from him.
He makes for the clay marionette on a witch’s strings he couldn’t love, and now that he does, his body insists on finding a way to end it.
Only, thank the sacred name, Lian seems incapable of coming to an end. That should overwhelm him–what does it mean that someone cursed like this should find the one person that cannot die for longer than a moment’s choked-out breath? What brought them to each other, when they’re so cosmically bent out of shape in the one way that makes them… compatible.
(If anyone could call killing and resurrecting compatibility.)
There’s never a moment where his heart beats faster than it should that Micah can actually appreciate: being able to fondly think on his feelings is a privilege that’s been hollowed out of him. Each time he does, the prism envelopes him.
Sometimes, it happens when he’s scrolling through pictures of them on his phone. Sometimes when he hears her singing in the next room over. Sometimes, when he’s in his studio and he’s carving cold clay and thinking of her warm hands on his skin. It usually ends somewhere in-between some small degree of self-immolation or pricking himself on a sharp edge. It’s sacrificial, but it’s not always a success. Sometimes he’s moving so unlike himself with the poise of someone he’s never met, with the intention of a honed killer and a droning grudge. But his head fogs out of focus and he loses control of himself.
Sometimes, when he’s sculpting, he reaches for the back of his skull, trying to make sure he’s still all in one piece. It’s hard to feel like you’re in tact all over when your mouth is the only thing making you something other than a ventriloquist’s dummy.
But they have a habit of stealing their suffering from themself –– mostly because Lian is the one who’s mostly at stake here. What happened to them is a consequence for two people, not just one, and Micah refuses to make this about him, when…
seeing Lian hurt is a death all of its own.
It happens once in the morning, when he sculpts into the late hours and the late hours become the early. He comes out from his studio with one of his throwaway shirts and feels the shiver of an ache like a premonition. One too many warm thoughts about the day they’d spent together before, he guesses, where the love inside them was enough to overflow like the fountain in the city square.
The unraveling comes up his spine like a twist of bone and will; he clenches his teeth against the strangeness that’s now become so familiar that he can actually recognize it. Fighting the impulse becomes easier and harder.
He’s lucky enough to pull a scarf off the doorknob and twist it around the length of his neck. He jerks inelegantly back and his shoulder he coughs, the sound involuntary and jarring. It’s a little like watching a zombie movie where someone’s stupidly trapped and moving against the natural order of things. Micah considers himself so fortunate that pain like this wipes him out enough to stop the wind-up will inside him.
It isn’t until Lian scrambles around the corner, at the harsh sound, that he regains enough of his autonomy to pry the cloth away from the tight knot against his throat.
“Oh–” He says, somewhere around the apology on the tip of his tongue. He loosens the knot and catches his deep breath, feeling the oxygen rush to his head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Please don’t tell me that was just you tripping on the door.” Lian says, her shoulders set and expression tight like she’s just walked into an autopsy room and he reeks of formaldehyde. She doesn’t want him to lie about what’s going on anymore, and he knows that. The reflex (of lying–of everything gruesome between them) just seems second-nature at this point.
They break eye contact, making a few slow, careful movements to undo the scarf and hang it up on one of the wall racks. “I’m fine. I mean–I’m okay. It was harmless.”
“This?” Lian brushes a hand through the billowing fabric of the scarf against her hand, “is not harmless. You are not breathing.”
“Yeah,” Micah shakes his head, closes his eyes and rubs them over a couple times. “I am. I am, right now. But I get that there’s probably not a ton of blood going to my head.” His right hand falls over his throat, where the strain patterns his flesh, irritates it in a rope of red.
“Lian––”
She looks like she wants to ease the marking there with her hands, but that she doesn’t want to touch it and make it worse.
“This has to stop.”
Helplessly, he nods. When she secures him into a tight hug, he does what he can to be grateful that his hands are empty, and lolls against the comfort of her weight.
He knows she’s right. Realistically, he knows. But what else can he do?
