yoixhette
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“Is this your new safeword?” Isagi pointed out unhelpfully in response.
“Does it look like a fucking safeword,” Michael thrusted into Isagi impatiently, seeming pissed off, even at the helpless moan that gurgled out of Isagi's throat. “Yoichi?”
They did need a suggestion box. Isagi might strap it to a trashcan, or a paper shredder if he's in a bad mood, but at least it would be there, intercepting ideas before his overstimulated body and mind have to. -
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Because the more Ivan stares at his husband, drinks him up with his eyes, the more he understands why and how Helen of Troy’s face moved warships. The more he stares, when those irises of molten gold stare back at him, the more fury forms in his gut and snarls like a living thing, and the more he detests that his husband is allowed out into the merciless world where one too many eyes would leer, ogle, and fantasize.
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“Babe?” Ivan breathed over her ear sleepily, wanting to inquire and lacking the energy. Draped his entire upper body over hers, realizing it was suddenly, slightly larger, and realizing as his arms wrapped around her chest that it was rather flat. “Everything alright?”
His eyes, that have been droopy and bleary just a few seconds ago, blinked open when Io shifted. Well. What must have been Io. A little different, but there was no way in hell someone could feel that similar to her, without being her. It was her, right?
Right?
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“Can't,” The word dragged on too long and he blurted out before Ivan’s judgmental gaze could settle on him. “I'm pregnant.”
At seventeen, Till faked his pregnancy to his first-sight crush.
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His hair, wild and damp, fell softly over his forehead and nape. Ivan washed it with gentle, calloused hands, smoothing it in wavy patterns, although the slimy texture that stuck to it took more effort to wash down and made Ivan physically coil at the touch. Luka shut his eyes, feeling the warm water spill all the way down his scalp and to the bottom of the tub. He liked to believe it would, finally, somehow, cleanse him.
“You can stop,” he mumbled, hesitant, because he didn't want Ivan to stop.
“I can wash myself.” He couldn't, and he knew it.