nurseallthethings is one of the sweetest, kindest, most generous, most thoughtful people I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet on Tumblr; she is pure goodness and it’s a joy to talk and RP with her. If you follow her, you will smile at some point—I guarantee it. This is for her birthday:
It’s a lazy summer afternoon out on Agora; the sandy ground is a warm purplish-red from the sun, a blue sky stretching out lazily overhead. They’ve shared a couple bottles of wine between the three of them and now they’re sprawled out, melted and blurry and boneless against the ground. The air is heavy and humid, and a bird makes a half-hearted squawk in a flapping of wings before drifting off.
“Eventually we’re going to have to deal with all these weapons,” Messy says aloud, drowsily. Fifty tons of high-grade explosives and laser guns are stocked up in crates behind them.
“You can’t say no, I called dibs.”
“Dibs don’t apply to Parseenian indrate.”
“Well? Go on and stop me.”
“Can you colour it?” Rory is looking thoughtful, flat on his back with one arm behind his head. Parseenian indrate looks like plain white paint to an Earth observer; it dries quickly, and on that instant violently explodes whatever matter it’s come into contact with. Talk about paintball games. “You know, make it not white?”
“Not pink, for some reason,” Messy says sleepily, turning over onto her stomach. “Doesn’t matter the chemical compound or all the experiments they tried, it won’t go pink. They had to get the Queen of Vigys on Atrios to switch her regular manicure when they infiltrated her stylists.”
“What’d she do?” Rory wants to know, and their chatter goes hazy. It’s too hot and comfortable to move and the sun is blinding; there’s barely any wind, the air is thick and muggy. Lilly sits up and takes her top off, letting it drop to the ground, and then unfastens the hooks on her bra.
“Sunbathing,” she announces cheerfully to their stares, shoulderblades and spine moving sinuously under her skin as she reaches down to wriggle out of her pants and underwear. “Can’t have any tan lines, can you?”
“Lilly, someone is going to see you,” Messy cracks up, beet red through both hands on her face, as Rory leans back to appreciate the view.
“So stop making other people feel envious!”
Lilly lands again, a warm weight on top of Rory, all sweaty flushed skin and soft lips against his neck; she’s pulling at the edges of his shirt. “That’ll only happen if you join me.”
“No,” Messy protests, but Rory is already tugging his shirt over his head and exposing his back, solid square muscle—blocky and sturdy. Lilly’s mouth opens his, her tongue teases his, her hands are tugging his hair and pulling his head close as she moves to straddle his hips. He pulls at her, easing himself back down onto the ground, until her thighs are over his shoulders and she’s kneeling on the ground.
Her legs part willingly at the scrape of stubble against her inner thigh and the drag of his mouth, wide and wanting; she’s already wet, sliding against his tongue as he nudges her apart. She’s moaning and keeping her fingers knotted in his hair, nails pressing into his scalp as she bites her lip, and it’s not hard to imagine her teeth scraping his skin, tearing it—she’s like fire, a sharp searing edge, a lifesaving heat, too bright to look at directly. She’d keep him tied up until the ropes cut into his wrists and ankles, leaving chafing marks; she’d tease him with the point of a knife and taste his blood—and snuggle close and purr with satisfaction afterwards.
Rory’s hands are gripping her hips tight, fingers sinking into her flesh to bruise, and he gropes blindly at his trousers to try and undo his fly. Messy’s hands deftly knock his away and she gets his trousers open, resting her lips briefly on his stomach and kissing there with a warm huff of laughter, before her own tongue trails a wet line down the length of his cock and traces the tip in a slow circle, sucking gently.
She’s doing her best to mimic his own movements on Lilly, teasing and sloppy, and his hips buck up in spite of himself; her tongue is flat against the underside of his cock, stroking, as she takes him further into her mouth. The flat of Lilly’s back is damp with sweat when he touches it, her skin shivery with electric goosebumps, and Messy has ducked her own shoulders underneath his legs to sink down further on him, her mouth warm around the base of his erection. There’s really no telling where anybody begins or ends anymore, everyone half-melted together in this heat.
Lilly comes first, the sound rough in her throat as she tenses up and pulls tight enough at Rory’s hair to make his eyes water. She slumps forward and eases off him, tumbling over in a heap of limbs and getting her breath back, as Messy slides her hands underneath his arse to pull him even closer; he runs his hands through her hair—it’s pinned back but rapidly falling out of its bun, a disheveled mess—and strokes her cheek, her neck, keeps touching and caressing her until he stiffens and cries out inarticulately.
Messy wipes at her mouth a bit self-consciously, resting her head against his knee, and goes flailing when Lilly tackles her and the two of them fall over giggling. Everyone is in a heap, semi-drunk and floppy and blissed out, and Rory could lie here in complete contentment for the rest of his life.
(Lily does insist on writing her name across the cliffs in Parseenian indrate, before they leave.)