#Intimacy Prompts

[urfriendlywriter]

25 "I'm in love with you and I'm scared to lose you" prompts!

(feel free to use!!! plsplspls tag me I'd love to readd. especially 3, 9, 11, 14, 19 and 24 ahhh<33 | @urfriendlywriter )

"can i.. hold your hand?"

"i trust you, [name]." ✿

"i come offering hugs :) a lott of hugs"

"i feel stupid, why do u make me grin like a spineless fool whenever i am around you?" >\\\<

them staring at you from across the room and getting flustered when u stare at them back <AAAAAH3

"I'll live for you, love."

"I'll love you right in all universe"

"... you trusted in me when everything else was pointed against me.."

them tenderly tucking a hair behind ur ear (my c. ai be like >\\\<)

listening to their heartbeat while laying on their chest. :')

a soothing, and tender "come here, sweetheart"

"you're not alone.. I.." they cup their lover's face in their hands, "I'm here for you, and I'll always be."

"what else do i need, when i have my world in my arms?"

leaning forehead against each other's [AAAHHH is my toaster waterproof-]

"what will i do without you? thank you-"

^ "no, thank YOU, [nickname]. thank you for coming into my life." *cries in me when??*

"you.. you're a dream." (rip my heart)

^ "no, my love. you are the dream and I the lucky one to be living this dream with you" imagine them saying this while their lips hover the other's, before giving in.

them taking your hand and placing it on their chest, "feel this heartbeat? this is how much effect you have over me."

"i don't have to search for truth when you say you love me, i can already see it all in ur eyes." [bawling into my pillows]

a sigh of release when they're finally in your arms like they longed for it all day !!!!!

laying with your back to their chest!!! their hands around your waist (the way I'd MELTT so fast)

"I am in love with you." ".... we've been together for the past several years." "that's what. What are you doing to me, darling?"

"i never stopped falling in love with you."

lazy kisses, softly sighing and gasping into each other's mouths.!! [me when yall. its ab time ffs.]

[avocado-writing]

hi hi! these prompts are so sweet - could I please send you "did you eat today?" + logan? I feel like he was on his own for so long and probably ate like shit (so might be soft when he’s asked if he’s taking care of himself like this?) 💖 thank you so much! Your request drabbles are all so stunning!

it's been a long while since logan was this looked after.

after everything that happened in the mansion he just didn't think he was a person worth receiving any kind of care, especially self-care. no. a man like him deserved to be punished for what he did, and a bottle to his lips every night was his self-flagelation. the years of alcohol put his body through hell, and food? well. it's been a long time since he ate something which didn't come in a greasy wrapper or needed to be nuked in the microwave.

if he were a normal man, no metal in his bones or healing in his genes, he'd be outright dead. as it stands when wade turned up, mentally and physically, he wasn't in great shape.

that is until he met you.

"did you eat today?" is a question he became accustomed to from your sweet little mouth. a concerned friend of wade's met on a lazy afternoon in the apartment, all smiles and soft edges, brow near-permanently creased in worry as you'd asked him when he'd last had a meal (and the answer was usually too long ago to be satisfactory). then without missing a beat you'd get to work feeding him. stealing eggs from wade and al's kitchen to whip him up an omelette, fixing him a sandwich if needs be, once you made a whole damn pie and sat there watching him devour slice after slice.

in fact, it wasn't long before you just started inviting him over for dinner, and then dinner became dinner dates, and then, well. that became him moving in.

your cooking is exceptional. that isn't just him being kind to the person he's sweet on, it's true. he doesn't know how you can put the same slices of bread together he does yet somehow make them taste like they've come from heaven but you do, day after day. just another little miracle from your never-ending supply of them. even now he's still not certain if he's deserving of your attention, your effort, your time, but you won't hear any pushback from him about it. these things are feely given to him, just like your heart is.

he knows what you really mean when you say "have you eaten today?" you mean, "I love you". you mean, "you're a person who's worth caring about."

he wraps his arms around your waist as you stand at the stovetop stirring a homemade stew. the smell drifts upwards and makes his mouth water, spiced beef and fine-diced vegetables never seeming so good. you laugh as he buries his face in your neck.

"you eaten, baby?" you ask.

he hasn't. but he'll get there.

[firstelevens]

23 + sambucky 💛

23. wearing someone's clothes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When did we establish that?" sputters Bucky.

"Are you saying it's not true?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sam."

"Bucky."

"You know who it was."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[thecubspeaks]

Intimacy prompts:

1, 11 or 51 - you choose :)

a palm kiss (prompts here)

"She's like that with everyone."

"She is not," her father says, firm. "It troubles me, Isobel."

"It needn't." She puts aside her book, impatient for this conversation to be over, impatient to stop her father's inadvertent needling at a very sore spot in her heart. Dame Aylin is like that with everyone: grand and courtly. She's seen her kiss other ladies' hands just the way she kisses Isobel's in greeting, like a knight from a story. It's simply how Dame Aylin is. It's neither Dame Aylin nor Isobel's father's fault that Isobel is in love with her. But that doesn't mean she has to enjoy talking about it.

"You're being silly, Father," she says as she stands, in her most prim, dismissive, Young-Mistress-Thorm tone. "It's enough of an honour that Dame Aylin is here at all. I for one would never dare imagine we could be worthy of more."

And before her father can protest, she hurries out of the room.

A day or two later, staring idly out from her balcony, it is Dame Aylin who comes to her. Isobel hastens to bow, but Aylin stops her, as she always does--not, as she always does, with an elegantly raised hand, but rushing forward to catch Isobel by the elbows. It's as if a shock passes between them at the touch, and for a moment Isobel can only stare, and Aylin stares back--then backs away with a start, as if the very touch burned.

Well, Isobel thinks. And so it did, in a way. Even that brief touch kindled a heat that she can feel rising up into her cheeks. And elsewhere.

"My apologies, Mistress Thorm," Dame Aylin says, sweeping into a bow of her own. "I have come to make amends, and already I overstep."

"Amends?" Isobel echoes. "But you've done nothing wrong."

"That is not so," Dame Aylin says gravely. "Your father has spoken to me. Master Thorm has made it plain that I have misunderstood you. My manner towards you is unwelcome, my feelings unrequited." She bows again, and this time stays that way, head bowed. Anyone else, and Isobel might dare to think they were ashamed to meet her eye. "I can but beg your forgiveness, Mistress Thorm. I allowed my hope to blind me to the truth."

"Your hope? Your... feelings? Dame Aylin, I--" That heat rushes through her again--heat, and a dizzying joy. Relief, almost. She takes a stumbling step forward, to close the distance Dame Aylin made. "My Father had no right to say those things. He doesn't speak for me. Especially not to say things that aren't true."

Dame Aylin peeks up, still not quite lifting her head. "You-- you mean to say...?"

"I've done quite the opposite of you, I think." She laughs, breathless. "I didn't dare hope. So I didn't let myself see..."

Dame Aylin's head snaps up, but just as swiftly she drops to her knees. "Mistress Thorm. As the sword of my mother, I have never doubted I am beloved of her followers, just as I love them. But you-- never has my heart stirred as it does in your presence-- at your sight, at the sound of your voice. Mistress Thorm-- Isobel--"

For the first time she has ever seen it-- for what Isobel allows her to suspect may be the first time ever-- Dame Aylin's proud, ringing voice fails her. Eyes shining, fixed on Isobel's face with a look that has no other name except devotion-- and was she really looking at Isobel that way all this time? Did she really not see it?-- she extends a hand.

Giddiness has receded into a haze. Perhaps this is a dream, just her sleeping mind tormenting her in her state of pathetic pining. People must fall in love with Aylin everywhere she goes, there's no reason she of all people is the one who has actually brought the daughter of the Moonmaiden to her knees, here on a stone balcony in a little town of little consequence, on a greyish spring day that might threaten rain.

But there's only one way to know.

Carefully, almost trembling, Isobel places her hand in Aylin's.

Aylin seizes it, an almost convulsive enthusiasm, and Isobel can't hold back a brief gasp at the pinch of Aylin's gauntlets. Aylin's eyes go wide, but this time she doesn't pull away. She loosens her grip and, gentle as anything, turns over Isobel's hand, cradling it like some fragile, precious thing. Her pale lashes sweep downwards, and she lowers her lips to press them, cool and soft as moonlight, against Isobel's upturned palm.

[optimisticgrey]

58 ! <3

🫶 <3

intimacy prompts from this list - 58 being locked in a small space

VP by darling Astra over on bsky

"If you move over—"

"Stop moving!"

"Your left foot needs to—"

"Gale!"

"If you just adjust your hip—"

"Gale! Stop. Moving."

Finally — blessedly — he stilled. His breath brushed against her cheek, warm and shallow. And even though her sight was better in the dark than his, Celeste was painfully aware of just how close they were.

His hands were at her hips, locked in place from the awkward, sudden shift. He couldn’t move. Neither could she. His throat bobbed once. Twice. His breath tickled her right ear — hot, quick — and gods, how could she hear anything over the thunder in her chest?

Her heartbeat was deafening. Surely he could hear it.

Gale smelled of sandalwood, a long day and old books. And something that made her throat tighten.

Safety.

How was it possible that he still smelled like safety, after everything? After the polite decline that hadn’t really been polite at all — just a quiet devastation wrapped in soft words. After the careful distance he’d put between them, and all the things they hadn’t said. After how he’d stopped being himself around her.

Still, he smelled like warmth and ink and magic and something safe. And Celeste wanted, more than anything, to lift her arms around his neck and bury her face against him. To breathe him in. Just once. Just for a second. To pretend. To hope.

To imagine there was more than polite jokes. More than the long glances when she leaned into Astarion, glances he always averted the second she looked back.

She missed it. The lightness. That unspoken understanding. The feeling of being seen and not judged. Just witnessed, known.

How had they ended up here?

Yes, the trap had snapped shut. Yes, the door had slammed closed, locking them both inside.

A chamber? A tomb? Some kind of ancient storage?

Whatever it was, it was small. Far too small for two people.

Her thoughts had ceased the moment their bodies collided. She’d expected a protest, maybe a long-suffering sigh. Instead, he’d chuckled.

Chuckled.

Of all the wizardly reactions he could have chosen, he chose to laugh. The same man who had once said — very gently, too gently — that he did not “indulge in casual intimacy,” was now hard against her thigh, and very clearly not casual in his current state.

Her thigh felt it. Her back felt the stone. Her hips where his hands had landed. Her stomach felt every inch of panic and something else entirely.

Gale's breath hitched.

Are you comfortable in there, darling? Astarion asked through the tadpole, far too amused.

All is wonderful, thank you, Celeste shot back, straining to keep her voice even. A desperately needed break. How kind of you to ask, darling. Now get me the fuck out of here!

Astarion's laughter rang clear on the other side of the door. Loud, delighted, entirely unhelpful.

[galahadiant]

Sharing drinks for whoever you want!

prompts list

Surprise! You get Laz and Heinrix because the other day I was talking about how I need to write some stuff about them being friends.

14. sharing drinks

In Commoragh, the new rules go away, and only the old rules are left. Such as, everyone stronger than you wants to hurt you. Such as make food out of whatever you can.

Such as psykers take care of each other.

"Here," he says, sitting down on a crate next to Heinrix. The taller man is looking a little improved from last time they spoke, his lips no longer entirely bloodless and the skin beneath his ragged shirt healed of all external blisters and injection marks. Heinrix's eyes can actually focus in on Laz now, keen-gleam and worried. He still has dark eye bags; he hasn't taken the time to fix his hair, either, it hangs in greasy hanks around his face.

"What is that?" Heinrix asks, squinting down at the battered tin cup Laz is offering him. He reaches out and accepts the cup anyway. His hands only have a slight tremor left, but Laz makes sure his fingers are well wrapped around it before letting go.

"Recaf," says Laz innocently, and grins. He knows it ain't a pretty grin, he has a tooth knocked out and one of the scabs on his lower lip splits with the movement.

Heinrix's expression makes Laz burst out laughing, the sound startling in the dim green air as he tips his head back and tastes metal in the back of his throat. A few of the Shriekers jump to their feet, looking around in rough, irritated confusion. He sticks his tongue out at them. "Really," he says, turning back to Heinrix. "Well. Sort of. There's a little bit of real recaf in there I traded for, the rest of it's a mix of, uh, crushed-up beetle flour and some mild stimms. Milder'n what the drukhari use, anyway."

"You've given me a cup of crushed beetles in hot water," says Heinrix in a low voice, and the corner of his mouth gives one of the little involuntary twitches it sometimes does whenever Laz says something harmlessly absurd.

"There's protein in it, ain't there?" Laz says, pressing his advantage and watching Heinrix try to choke back a slightly hysterical laugh. "Listen, I promise, it tastes pretty close to the real thing and it'll wake you right up. Here."

He takes the cup back, easing it out of Heinrix's hands, and takes a sip. It's almost too hot for comfort, gritty, and bitter enough to trick your brain into thinking it's recaf; he remembers his dad drinking something like this when recaf rations ran out. Laz hadn't liked it much then, but now it makes him think of home. His real home. "Look, it's not gonna poison you," he says. Makes his best effort at a winning smile as he holds it out again.

Heinrix sighs and takes the cup, giving it a careful sniff. The rebellious corner of his mouth twitches again as he raises his eyes to Laz. "I suppose it would be a shame for it to go to waste," he says, and drinks.

After a moment, he blinks in surprise. "I have to admit it isn't...terrible," he says. Shivers a little as the stimulant kick hits him, his shoulders straightening slightly as he awkwardly draws himself up. "Thank you."

"Yeah. Well, there's more in the pot, but I...wouldn't try and drink more'n two cups. It's got a punch to it." Laz squeezes his arm and bounces back to his feet.

[thatmexisaurusrex]

Sambucky for the prompt thingie, sitting in their lap 🥰

From these prompts

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

Sitting in His Lap

The quinjet jostled.

And.

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

But.

At the same time.

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

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

"Sam?"

Oh.

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

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

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

Sam.

Wrapped his arms around Bucky's neck.

Because.

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

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

But.

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

And Sam got lost in that kiss.

Got lost in so much more.

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

[zenkindoflove]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[queen-scribbles]

For the Intimacy Prompts! 27 for your choice! 😁

Some Ardrali for you <3 [27. Hug from behind] ----

Endrali's resolution to tone down on tracking people through the Force was being severely tested after she checked the third of the usual places with no sign of Arcann. She restrained herself because it wasn't like this was an emergency, it was just weird. Arcann tended to stick to certain areas of the base and she knew them all and--

There. Even with her awareness curtailed close, she could pick up the pulse of his presence in the Force. The next hallway over, one of the smaller observation decks.

What's he doing there....? She shook her head. No point wondering, she could just ask him.

He was alone, standing at the far edge of the deck, leaning against the rail to look over the canopy of trees stretching near-unbroken to the horizons below. "There you are," he said without turning around.

"Me?" Endrali laughed, crossing the deck to hug him. "I've been looking for you."

A rumbling chuckle chased Arcann's shiver at the warmth of her pressed to his back. "And it only took slightly longer than expected for you to find me."

"How long have you been out here?" She could feel the morning chill seeped into his shirt, and it made her grip around his waist tighten, pressing herself closer. "And why?"

"A couple hours." Arcann moved his hand from the rail to cover hers. The skin was so chill Endrali immediately folded his hand between hers to warm it, prompting another chuckle as he answered the second part. "I thought to have a change of scene for meditating."

She gave a faux-offended gasp. "Without me?"

"You were sleeping." He paused. "Or so I assumed. Chances for that are rare; I did not wish to disturb you."

It had been nice to sleep in, even a little bit. She couldn't remember the last time she had the opportunity. "I was, and thank you." She kissed the center off his back, grinned at the shiver that had nothing to do with their contrasting body temperatures. "And this seems to have worked well for you."

There was a sense of peace to him that, while becoming more frequent, was still too often absent in her opinion. She was glad he'd managed to find it today.

"Mm," Arcann hummed. His hand flexed in her grasp as if to curl around the one under it.

"What made you pick here?" Endrali asked idly. "Why the change from our regular spot?"

"Not many come here, it seemed a good choice for solitude. And..." he hesitated, releasing the rail and turning to face her. "I tried the clearing, but it felt... odd without you."

She cocked her head. "Honestly, I'd probably say the same." She giggled. "Funny how fast we adjust to new routines, isn't it? To people being there."

He nodded, studying her face. "Endrali, I..." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Even with some time, it's still hard to believe it isn't a dream that you... care for me."

"That I love you, you mean?" Endrali grinned at the flush that crept up his neck. She moved her hands to rest on his chest. "It's only been a week, Arcann. Give it more time, it'll sink in." Her fingers curled in his shirt and arched a brow playfully. "And I'm always happy to reassure you, if you need it."

A wry smile curved his lips. "I've no doubt you are," he murmured. He raised his hand to cup her cheek, fingers now warm as he traced her scar. "You are better than I deserve..."

"We'll have to agree to disagree on that," she said softly, and used her grip on his shirt for balance as she pushed up on her toes to kiss him. At least until I talk you around...

Arcann leaned into it, letting her settle back flat-footed. His left hand pressed the small of her back, cool metal sinking through her shirt as they parted with matching gasps.

"Did you have need of me?" he asked, a tremor in the quiet words as they whisked warm across her skin. There was a pulse of satisfaction from him when she didn't find her voice immediately. "You said you were looking for me. Was that for a purpose beyond saying good morning?"

"Oh. Right. Yes." Endrali cleared her throat. You sure don't kiss like someone who thinks he doesn't deserve me. "There's something I need to look into. Should be able to handle it diplomatically, but just in case I can't, I wanted you along for backup."

"Of course," Arcann nodded. He disengaged from their close proximity with plain reluctance. "Allow me to get my things and I shall join you. Is this...?"

"It doesn't seem connected with the other unrest, no." Endrali shook her head. "But you never know."

He inclined his head, catching her hand to kiss the palm before departing.

She let herself follow the sense of him longer than she normally would, enjoying the feel of him... content, if not happy.

She looked forward to the day that wasn't unusual.

[avocado-writing]

I think the prompt "opening the door for them or pulling their seat out for them" works great with Logan since he did come of age in the early 20th century. Surely he retains some of that courtesy!

he’s holding himself up straighter, you think.

Logan, realising it or not, tends to walk with the hunched posture of an animal. ready to strike if a threat should arise; constantly poised to jump into action.

but the other night, when the two of you were shooting the shit on the apartment block roof and getting real close after a couple of beers, and you’d asked him if he wanted to grab dinner sometime? well, since then, he’s acting like he has a board glued to his spine.

genteel isn’t quite the word you’d use for the mannerisms he’s displaying, but it’s not exactly wrong either. his jacket folded and laid across his arm as he waits on the corner, the way he holds open the door to the diner for you, how he calls the waitress “ma’am”? oh, it’s all so adorable.

he pulls the goddamn chair out for you, dusts the errant crumbs off. it’s such an… upscale gesture for the greasy spoon you’re in, totally out of place. you can’t help the huge smile that crosses your face.

“what?” he asks, looking around as if trying to see what’s wrong.

“nothing. you’re a cutie, that’s all.”

“cutie…” he huffs, but waits until you take a seat and helps scoot it back against the table, too.

“I like it. never had someone be so gentlemanly before.”

something passes over his lips, a twitch in his jaw like he’s not sure whether to speak - then lets it slip out anyway.

“you deserve it, darlin’,” he confesses. you hold up the menu to try and distract from the heat rising in your face.

[firstelevens]

3 + ty/tandy 👀

3. touching foreheads

also on AO3

Ty and Tandy have barely been back in New Orleans for a few hours when it happens. Ty is on his way back from visiting with his dad—he hadn’t mentioned to his mom that he’d be in town, and he’s still not sure he wants to tell her—and he’s just crossed the street when the woman in front of him up and disappears.

He blinks, sure that he’s seeing things, but she’s gone, just a cloud of dust left in her wake. Up ahead, he sees it happen again, and down the street a turning car careens into a curb like no one is steering. He whirls around, looking behind him, and sees little puffs of dust everywhere.

There’s a scream, too, from the road he just crossed: traffic is stopped at a light but a bus barrels through the intersection where a stroller sits abandoned.

He doesn’t know what’s happening, but he doesn’t have time to think: just cloaks to the intersection, grabs the stroller, and cloaks to the other side of the street. He forgets to flip up his hoodie, but things are chaotic enough that no one acknowledges him.

As the baby in the stroller starts to cry, Ty whips his head towards the screech of tires that carries down the block, the bus still speeding down the street, but…slower, somehow?

It’s not until they pass through a shadow that the bright white light catches Ty’s eye, and he realizes that he knows exactly how the bus is being slowed down. He looks from the baby to the bus and back, trying to calculate how everyone comes out of this safe, and he can feel his throat closing up as time runs out.

When the hand lands on his arm, he startles, the ringing in his ears fading out when he hears his name repeated firmly. Ty blinks, shaking his head, and sees Melissa Bowen in front of him. Vaguely, some part of him remembers that she and Tandy were having coffee nearby.

She doesn’t wait for an explanation or ask any questions, just puts her hands on the stroller and points at the bus. “I’ve got this. Go.”

Ty is cloaking away the second she speaks, landing beside Tandy and trying not to flinch at the bus bearing down on them by the second. Strong as her forcefield is, Tandy is being pushed back even as she slows the bus down, and they’ve done this enough that Ty knows she can’t hold it off forever. Eventually, it’ll roll to a stop, but who knows how much damage it’ll do before then?

“Tires!” calls Tyrone, as he slips his hand into Tandy’s, interlacing their fingers. “Slash the tires!”

As their hands link, the color of the forcefield shifts, crisp shimmering white to a wispy-edged, shadowy black. With her free hand, Tandy summons a light dagger. “You’re sure about this?”

“You’re the scientist,” says Ty, “but I know enough to know that a car with a flat isn’t going anywhere fast.”

The first dagger flies out of Tandy’s hand quick, clipping the tire but also part of the bus’s housing. The second and third land more soundly, and though Ty still has to plant his feet to hold the bus back, it’s slowing down now. Tandy looses a fourth and a fifth, both hitting their marks, and this time the bus comes to a complete stop.

Ty sighs in relief, his heart hammering in his chest, but of course that’s not the end of it. A quiet gasp from Tandy makes him snap his head over to her, and she points at what’s puddling beside the bus’s slashed tire.

“Is that…?”

“Gas,” says Ty. They look at each other for a moment, and their year-long vigilante road trip has left them in sync enough that Ty doesn’t need to say anything beyond, “I go left and you go right?”

Tandy is already rounding to the right side of the bus, carving an opening in the side as Ty cloaks into the bus, herding people out as fast as he can. There’s an elderly woman who he cloaks to the safe side of the street, and then he pops back in to do the same for a man with three small children. Tandy is helping down whoever she can, but Ty can hear pops and crackles that he thinks might be an electrical failure, and that pool of gasoline is big enough that one single spark could send the whole bus up.

There’s a handful of people left, and moving them one by one just isn’t an option. Instead, Ty turns to them and holds out his hands, reminding himself that he’s done this a dozen times before, saved his own city and a few others to spare, and these people are under his protection even if they don’t know it.

“I’m gonna get y’all out of here,” he says. “But we have to move fast, so I need you to take each other’s hands and hold onto me if you can.”

The man sitting by the window starts to argue, but Ty holds up a hand.

“Sir, I will argue about it with you once you’re safe on the street, I promise, but right now, we need to go.”

The lady beside window man elbows him hard, which, in combination with Ty’s words, seems to stir him to action: he grabs onto Ty’s forearm and takes the hand of the lady who elbowed him.

Ty does a quick scan of the group clustered around him. “Is that everyone?”

The murmured yeses are all he needs: he summons as much of his power as he can spare, brings to mind the empty stretch of sidewalk half a block down, and feels the tendrils of his power curl out and envelop them all. A moment later, he feels the sun bearing down on them, the ground solid under their feet.

He staggers a little bit as he shakes his head to clear it, just in time to hear one of the people from the bus point and ask, “What’s she going back in for?”

Wide-eyed, Ty turns towards the bus again to see Tandy climbing in, and he swears under his breath, then apologizes to the elderly lady beside him. She waves it off, and Ty doesn’t wait to hear more before he’s reaching out for his power again. He can taste blood at the back of his tongue now, can feel the threads of the Dark Dimension pulling on him, but Tandy looks worse off, and that bus is going up any second now.

He stumbles when he reappears on the bus, and Tandy is inexplicably on her hands and knees. When she turns to look at him, she’s squinting in confusion. “What’re you doing here?”

“Me?” asks Ty. “Tandy, what are you doing here?”

But she doesn’t answer him, reaching out for something under a seat and surfacing with a triumphant, “Aha!”

Clutched in her hands is a blue teddy bear. 

“Tandy,” says Ty. “Tell me you didn’t come on this bus to rescue a teddy bear.”

“I didn’t,” says Tandy, and he doesn’t like the way her words slur a little, or the slow way she blinks up at him, or the buzzing and popping that sounds from near the driver’s seat. “Or, I did, but it was for a little girl. She needed him.”

Something in Ty’s heart squeezes and he sighs. “Okay, you got her bear, right? We can go?”

Tandy shakes her head. “Just a minute,” she says. “I’m dizzy. If you cloak with me I’ll puke.”

He huffs and drops to his knees in front of her, putting his arms around her and summoning the last bit of power he has in him. “I’ll take my chances.”

Ty squeezes his eyes shut as he hears the roar of fire kick up, holding Tandy tight and calling to mind the park where they were supposed to meet, already bargaining with whoever he needs to to get them there. He’ll dig as deep as he has to, go into debt with Legba and Samedi if that’s what it takes.

He doesn’t open his eyes even when he feels cool grass under them, holding his breath until he hears her voice. He can feel her in his arms, knows exactly what it is to hold Tandy after an entire year of them running around to save the world together, but his heart is pounding so loudly that he can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t, can’t tell if the sensation is right now or any of the hundred times they’ve saved each other before this.

“Ty?” Tandy finally says, after seconds or years. Her hand comes up to the side of his face, tentative but warm. “You with me?”

He blows out a quiet breath, letting his forehead drop to rest against hers as he opens his eyes. “Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah, I’m with you.”

“Okay,” she whispers, and he feels the breath of it against his mouth. He files that away to think about when the world maybe didn’t just end. “Okay, good.”

[thecubspeaks]

49 from the intimacy prompts? You can pick the pairing ☺️

sorry this took so long!! I love this trope too much and couldn't pick a pairing and then kinda picked none of them

(prompts here, still happy to take them!)

caring for them when they're ill

She should have gone with Gale. The thought keeps circling round and round in her head, an annoying background hum. She'd hemmed and hawed and finally concluded that he'd be happier not having to worry about if she was bored or antsy while he talked to a dozen wizards about something or other, but now she's certain this was a mistake. What if something were to happen? What if he needs her, for some unaccountable reason? What if, what if, what if--

That particular line of thought is cut off by a violent sneeze-- or at least, the reminder, in sneeze form, that the decision was made for her anyway thanks to the nasty cold she'd come down with as soon as he left. She has no memories of being ill, though she must assume she has been. She doesn't recommend it.

She's spent the past two days huddled up in the corner of the kitchen feeling sorry for herself. Bed would be better, she supposes, but this at least leaves tea and what small bits of food she has any appetite for close at hand. And it's the warmest part of the house, which is pleasant, and she imagines that the smells of Gale's cooking still linger in the air. They don't, of course, but that also doesn't matter because she wouldn't be able to smell them anyway. She can imagine, and periodically laugh at herself for being so entirely tragic.

It is the case, of course--and a fact she didn't quite realise until it had happened--that it is the first time they've been apart for more than a day since they met.

She's worked herself into a nice, hazy doze in her little nest in the corner of the kitchen when the door swung upon and startled her, sniffling, back to alertness.

"Oh, Izar!" comes Morena's surprised voice, and Izar tries to scramble to her feet, bringing a tangle of blanket after her. "I thought Gale was back today."

"Tomorrow," she croaks. "Or should be." She rubs her face. "Sorry, um. It's nice to see you, Mrs-- Morena. Is there anything I can--?"

"I was going to surprise him with supper, so he wouldn't need to cook when he arrived," she says. "But it appears it's good I've come. You ought to be in bed."

"It's warmer in here," she mumbles, because the rest sounds too ridiculous to say out loud, and especially to Morena, who she's certain already doesn't know quite what to make of her. She can only imagine the sort of person Morena assumed her son would end up engaged to: Waterdhavian, for one thing. A mage of some kind or another. Elegant, if not well-to-do. Anything but a scarred, tattooed, former assassin. And they haven't even broached the Bhaalspawn topic with her yet.

But for the very first time, there's no awkwardly polite hesitance in Morena's manner. This is a problem she knows how to deal with.

Gods, but the two of them are too alike.

Morena tuts. "I tell him and tell him, but he's always insisted cool air is better for the books. Just look at you! Well, maybe that will show him." She beckons Izar to follow her. "Come, I'll start a fire in the bedroom and we'll warm it up, and then I'll make some soup."

"I..." Izar hesitates, the silence cut with a sneeze. From behind her handkerchief, she asks, "Can... can I stay, while you...? He always, in the evenings... and I sit there, and I... miss it."

Morena's look of officious concern melts into a smile smile, and she suddenly strides across the kitchen to cup Izar's cheek in her hand. It takes everything Izar has not to jerk away in surprise. Then, just as abruptly, Morena's back to business, and gives Izar's cheek a sharp pat.

"You're too skinny," she says. "You settle there, try to get some sleep. I'll have some soup for you before you know it, that'll help."

Morena makes for the cupboards and Izar curls herself back into her nest of blankets on the chair in the corner, where she always sits while Gale cooks. She pesters him sometimes, or sometimes makes her labourious way through a book, eased in her frustration by the sounds of his work, the way he hums softly to himself. Morena does the very same thing.

[optimisticgrey]

3. touching foreheads

35. running your finger down their spine

42. doing each other’s hair

Pleeeeeease ☺️✨

Anything for you 🫶🫂😘

from the intimacy asks

VP by alstromeri-a

Touching foreheads - Celeste and Gale Running your fingers down their spine - Halsin and Celeste Doing each other's hair - Celeste and Shadowheart

Touching foreheads - Celeste and Gale

The chaos of battle ensnared them - screams, smoke, and spells melding into one relentless symphony. There were too many attackers to count: twisted undead, raging goblins, shadows of nightmares she’d rather not name. But Celeste loved every second of it. Magic thrummed through her veins as a second heartbeat, her sword slick and singing in her hand, a spell half-formed on her tongue. She was fire and fury, reckless joy wrapped in deadly purpose.

She didn’t need to look to know where the others were. She trusted them with her life, as they trusted her. They moved like one, potions flung without looking, shields raised in split seconds, bodies thrown in front of blades, arrows and spells for one another. Too many battles had forged them into something more than a team: a family of the blood-soaked and battle-worn.

Her back collided with someone behind her, solid and familiar. She didn’t have to look.

“Are you enjoying yourself, my love?” Gale’s voice curled into her ear, warm even amid the roar of carnage. His hand found her hip and gave a brief, playful squeeze before he cast a fireball with a sharp “Ardē!”

The explosion lit the sky, a halo of flame behind her.

“Quite well, my lo - ” Celeste began, breathless, only to break off as a snarling goblin lunged toward her. Her spell turned it to ash mid-air, and she stepped forward to cleave through the next with her blade. “I love you,” she giggled, dancing back to back with Gale, the two of them moving as though choreographed: her shoulder brushing his, her step mirroring his, backs aligned.

“Kell, dodge!” Karlach’s voice rang out.

Without hesitation, Celeste’s hand shot behind her, shoving Gale downward as she ducked, and Karlach’s massive axe sang above their heads, splitting a hobgoblin nearly in two with a bone-shattering crack. Blood sprayed across the stones. The body hit the earth behind them with a thud.

Rising, Celeste’s fingers ghosted over Gale’s shoulder, trailing down his arm until her hand found his and linked tightly.

“Well done, Kalla!” she called, scanning the field - just in time to see the final enemy fall to Wyll's blade.

Gale turned, pulled her into him, his arm fierce around her waist, his free hand cupping her cheek with reverent tenderness. His forehead pressed against hers, their breath still fast from the fight.

“I love you too."

Running fingers down their spine - Halsin and Celeste

Halsin had never cared for events such as these: gatherings that smelled more of politics than purpose, of perfumes masking grief, of silk draped over the bones of sorrow. The ballroom shimmered with candlelight and jewels, but he felt no warmth in it. Only artifice. Pretense. A hollow celebration dressed in finery, honoring a city scarred by fire and loss.

It was, to his mind, an insult to the fallen.

And yet, as one of the so-called Saviors of Baldur’s Gate, he was expected to smile and endure it. To bow. To speak when spoken to. To play at civility in a place where the universe itself had nearly unraveled beneath them all.

He had slipped away to a quieter alcove, near a lavishly overstocked table of fruit - absurd in its wastefulness, but at least honest in its simplicity. Something that still grew from soil and sun. He ate in silence, chewing slowly, grounding himself in the simple act. Letting the sweetness of summer berries soothe the tension in his shoulders.

And that was when Celeste found him.

She moved through the crowd like a shadow kissed by moonlight - graceful, self-assured, and beautiful beyond all sense. In black silk and tulle, she looked every inch a queen, though no crown would ever suit her quite like the wild freedom she carried in her eyes. That knowing smile - wry, warm, and unmistakably hers - slipped over his spirit like a balm. And she came to stand beside him, as she so often did, without needing invitation or excuse.

“Deep breaths, big bear,” she murmured into his shoulder, her lips brushing the fabric of the tunic she had picked for him. Not because he was incapable of choosing his own clothes, but because it delighted her and he, ever devoted to her desires, had long since given himself over to the joy of letting her delight in him.

He turned slightly, amused. “One might guess,” he mused with a faint smirk, “that an Archdruid of my age would be well equipped for such gatherings.”

She laughed warmly. Then she leaned against him, resting her temple on his shoulder. Her hand reached behind him, fingers lightly grazing his back.

“Yes, one might think that,” she said, lifting a finger from her glass to gesture at the crowd. “Then again, you chose me as your partner. And somehow - after all this - you still underestimate just how well I know you.”

And with that, she slipped her hand beneath the back of his tunic, dragging her fingertips in a gentle line up his spine. Just skin against skin. No magic. No ceremony. Just presence.

His breath caught, his eyes fluttered closed, and it was only with effort that he swallowed the groan that rose in his throat. A lesser man might have been undone by such a touch. But Halsin was not lesser, he was simply hers.

“Relax, my heart,” she whispered in Elven, her voice warm and grounding, words chosen with deliberate care. “I am here with you. You are not alone in this. These people don’t know who we are, not really. They don’t know what we endured to make it to this moment. This is just a charade. We are being paraded.”

Not her words but her tone struck something in him. For all her wildness, Celeste saw him clearly. Perhaps more clearly than he sometimes saw himself.

“I am here with you,” she promised again. “As I have always been.”

He let himself lean into her touch then, just slightly. Enough to allow himself a breath that didn’t carry the weight of obligation. For a moment, the noise of the ballroom faded. The clinking of glasses, the rustle of dresses and clicking of heels, the hollow laughter...all of it receded, like wind through distant trees.

And in its place, her touch. Her presence.

In his heart, he offered silent thanks to Silvanus, the Oak Father, for guiding her path across his. For planting her like a sapling beside him, wild and untamed, with roots strong enough to hold him steady.

He had rarely spoken the truth of his love aloud. But in moments like these, it didn’t need words.

Some things grew best in shared silence.

and, because I am a big fan of non-sexual intimacy

Doing each others hair - Celeste and Shadowheart

The world had paused.

Not for long, not for good, but long enough to let the stillness in. Long enough for the rain to wait, the wind to hush, and the war drums of tomorrow to fall silent.

Celeste sat on a weathered log, her lute cradled in her lap, her fingers absentmindedly tracing out a tune . The melody was low, meandering, not quite joyful, not quite sad, just there, steady and soft.

Shadowheart knelt before her, arms full of combs and brushes, bottles of oil and balm. She set them down one by one, each with a reverence that made Celeste raise an amused brow.

“You know I don’t care about these things,” she said, lips curled into a half-smile, her fingers never missing a note.

Shadowheart didn’t rise to the bait. She only smirked and said, “And I’ll argue that our dear leader can’t very well go around with dull, lifeless, and uncombed hair.”

“If you say so,” Celeste muttered with mock offence, scooting down obediently on the log. Her smile deepened when she felt Shadowheart settle behind her with all the grace of someone who had done this many times before.

Then came the fingers, slow and sure, parting her long black hair with the patience of a gardener tending sacred vines. Celeste closed her eyes, the quiet music of her lute filling the space as Shadowheart began her familiar ritual.

Comb first. The one with the wide teeth to untangle.

Then the finer one. To smooth.

Then the brushes, each with a different purpose: boar bristle, wood paddle, soft goat hair for shine. Shadowheart worked with devotion and certainty, each stroke pulling Celeste deeper into the stillness.

Celeste leaned into it, leaning into her, the careful touch, the quiet knowing. The song she played shifted, slower now, more mournful. A lullaby for no one. A requiem for the woman she used to be, maybe. A prayer for the woman she was becoming.

She didn’t know who used to do this for her. The memory was gone - erased or locked behind the walls of her mind. But the way her body responded, the way her muscles eased, her breath deepened, it spoke of ancient familiarity. Someone had done this. Someone had once loved her hair enough to care for it like this, had once loved her enough to care for her like this.

And now, it was Shadowheart. No ceremony. No demands. Just a steady hand and quiet presence. A woman who knew better than to ask if she was alright.

Celeste didn’t sing. The song didn’t need words.

She drifted. Not quite safe, not quite whole, but content.

Even if only for a moment. Before Shadowheart would ask her to return the favor and Celeste would need detailled instructions.

[dr-demi-bee]

2. Laying on top of each other, kissing shoulders

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[galahadiant]

7

11

23

As much as I'd love to do all three of these, I got a few asks and I want to write at least one prompt in response to everybody who sent one in! So for now here's #7 with Laz and Einrich, but if I have time later I definitely have something in mind for #11 with Hulst and Daniel.

prompts list

7. kissing scars

Einrich swears softly and with feeling, crouched over a cargo crate he's using as a temporary table. "-mperor's fucking phalanges," he mutters, right as Laz walks up. The Infernus Master looks up with an exhausted grin, giving an awkwardly left-handed salute with a tiny screwdriver. His right hand's half-disassembled and resting on the crate, several minuscule screws laying next to it with a small roll of electrical tape.

"Didn't hear you coming, your Lordship," he smiles, though the corner of his mouth catches on a wince. "You've caught me at a bad time. Hand's acting up- got some metal shavings lodged in there on a job and the finger motor's gone and jammed. Had to disconnect the whole thing."

"Mind if I look?"

"Well, it's not a pretty sight," says Einrich, gesturing slightly with the screwdriver as Laz crouches down next to the crate.

The scar tissue on the side of the Infernus Master's hand is thick and shiny, pinker and lighter than the skin around it. With the augmetics spread out on the crate, only connected to the control panel in his wrist by a few wires, it's easy to see the full extent of the damage to his three-fingered hand. It looks like parts of the melted flesh were cut away with a knife, clean lines, hard pale scars left behind.

Einrich squints down at his hand as he picks out the metal shavings with tweezers. Most are wedged into the motor mechanism of his detached fingers, but one has worked its way into the scar tissue. He extracts it with a slight wince, a drop of blood beading to the surface.

"You got medicae for that?" Laz asks. Medicine's so scarce on the lower decks, even now that he's increased medicae rations and prioritized a larger stockpile of regenerative stimms and antibiotics for outbreaks like the one on the freight line. "No, here, lemme do it. I've got the good stuff."

He fumbles with the pocket of his coat and pulls out a foil packet of cataplasm gel.

Einrich makes a soft, amused noise. "As you like, your lordship."

His breath catches as Laz smears a thin layer of blue gel across his hand, careful to press the gel down into the cuts in the scar tissue. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, the tight curl of his fingers relaxing as Laz's thumb travels over his scarred knuckles.

"Your hand's chafed," says Laz, smoothing the gel over the irritated skin. He can tell it's raw around the implants in Einrich's wrist, too, where the metal overlaps with the skin. "We oughta get this thing fitted better."

"...They don't waste too much time on augmetics for the Inferni," Einrich says, his voice flippant in the way that means he's angry deep down. Laz can feel the heat of it, like a banked fire. "Since it ain't likely we'll live long enough to care if they rub a little bit."

Laz smooths another layer of gel over the side of Einrich's mangled hand, and then impulsively leans down and kisses it. The scar is smooth under his lips, and slippery with cataplasm gel. A bitter taste of medicae lingers on his lips as he straightens back up, grinning at Einrich. "All better," he says, trying to smile without blushing.

It's hard to tell, but he thinks Einrich might be a little flushed under the permanent layer of soot that mottles his face. His mouth is slightly open.

After a moment, the Infernus Master chuckles, his eyes finding an interesting spot on the deck to focus on. His goggles reflect the overhead lumens and Laz's pale, embarrassed face. "Well, now. Guess we know you aren't squeamish."

Laz snorts. "Why would I be, Infernus Master?" he asks. "It's a nasty wound, but you came by it honest. Keeping all of us safe."

"...Let me build that hand back up, my fingers are smaller'n yours. I can do the screws better," he adds hastily, moving the conversation away from where it teeters on the edge of turning into something too soft, like the exposed inside of a wound. He picks up the screwdriver, his head bending down as he inspects the unadorned pieces of Einrich's augmetic.

Einrich reaches into his pocket with his good hand to pull out a battered lho-stick, clenching it between his teeth before fumbling for his cutting torch. Casually, Laz reaches up and lights the lho-stick with a mote of flame, barely glancing up from piecing together the newly cleaned finger motors.

[thatmexisaurusrex]

Are you taking prompts from the intimacy prompt list? How about the sharing each other’s clothes one for SamBucky?

Intimacy Prompts

Oooh, I love that 👀

Sharing Clothes

Sam watched Bucky peruse his closet.

He knew Bucky hadn't expected to stay the night. The nights, really. Bucky Barnes had come to Delacroix with the clothes on his back, a suitcase just for Sam, and nothing else.

Sam wasn't sure if Bucky had actually expected himself to find some motel to hole up in for an early morning flight, but Sam knew there would be no way.

Sam just.

Wanted him around.

And it wasn't as if Bucky didn't still have to work on himself. Sam hadn't forgiven him for the ghosting. For talking over him about the shield.

But.

But Sam saw Bucky was working toward that forgiveness. He had started with an apology. He needed to show improvement.

But.

But Sam still wanted him around. He wanted to see Bucky. He wanted Bucky there.

And he hadn't expected to fall into bed with him. Or maybe he had. It wasn't as if Bucky hadn't made eyes at Sam before that final battle for the fate of the universe. It wasn't as if Sam hadn't wanted him back then too.

It wasn't as if Bucky hadn't stolen a kiss from Sam before the battle began.

It wasn't as if Bucky hadn't asked, "After this, maybe - maybe we can go out?"

It wasn't as if Sam hadn't said, "What took you so long to ask?"

So, now they were in Sam's childhood bedroom. And Bucky was putting on one of Sam's high school shirts. And it was definitely too tight on him. Sam snickered at that, but - it did look good on him.

"What?" asked Bucky as he wandered back over to Sam's bed, "I like wearing your things."

"I like you wearing my things," agreed Sam as Bucky leaned in for a kiss.

Another.

And, okay, maybe Bucky could put that shirt back on in a little bit.