#instead!!

[coffeeflavored-tears]

i thought mickey was a lesbian

[tenjouu]

1. small kisses littered across the other’s face (from this prompt list)

“I won’t be able to see your face for a while,” Lancelot muses quietly when the morning light falls just so over Harr’s sleeping form turned towards him, the window—bathing Harr’s skin in softened beams and glinting off of his mask.

The forest is as quiet as Red Headquarters before morning drills. But this is closer to Lancelot’s idea of world peace.

An eyelid flutters, and he reaches up, hand trembling right under the left side of Harr’s jaw, where he wants to touch but doesn’t quite dare.

“That’s all I am to you,” Harr murmurs, eye still closed. “My face.”

He was awake. Lancelot stays composed. “Your body too,” he replies calmly, his hand sliding down from Harr’s shoulder to his waist. He gives a gentle squeeze, and the aborted tensing of Harr’s abdomen is not missed. “And more. For all these years.”

Harr’s face is flushed but when he opens his eye, he’s glaring. He bats Lancelot’s hand away.

“How long?” he grumbles, pushing moderate bedhead out of his face with a languid stroke.

Lancelot blinks at him, distracted by the movement. “Maybe five,” he guesses.

“No, I meant—“ Harr’s brow furrows and his cheeks pink delightfully, “—how long is ‘a while?’”

Lancelot quiets. He knows kings exist in the law, for the people, to serve the country. But right now, more than ever, he wants to exist selfishly in the vicinity of Harr and nowhere else. This pang of untenable desire leadens his tongue and leaves him swallowing his copper pipe dreams. Any timeframe of separation lacks measure. Any while is too unbearably long.

“Count,” Lancelot whispers, and presses a chaste kiss to Harr’s nose.

“Lan—“ The corner of his mouth.

Harr halts and then trembles like a fault line in the earth, in the ruins of his own desire.

His eye shuts when Lancelot greets his cheekbone with a soft peck. One over his fluttering eyelid for good measure. One on his chin. One in the tender spot underneath his jaw, so that Harr grips his arm warningly.

The upper lip, then the lower. The seam between. His right temple. Peppering along his laugh line. Tracing the curve of his cheek. His face is warm, but Lancelot burns just touching him.

Harr resigns himself and melts under Lancelot’s mouth. Lancelot leaves longer kisses pressed to skin to weather the blow, because they’re in the thirties now, and they both know this isn’t intended in hours.

“I’m running out of places,” he breathes, fingers dancing over the bare cheek beneath the mask.

“Good,” Harr says hoarsely. “No more.”

“Last one,” Lancelot promises, a little sadly, and leaves it like a hopeless offering of love, an untransmitted promise—(a tragedy)—over the silver metal.

[hueningkai]

idk whether to do big gifs or 268px gifs for the enha blessed-cursed mv set?