#cummunication

This kind of thing is typically Dave's idea. A suggestion he makes when they're sat down to dinner, while Bro's hands are otherwise engaged. But somewhere between this morning and this evening, he's been convinced to facilitate... this. Red silk stretches taut between fists, keeping the worst of his confusion at bay. This was Bro's idea. That part is really sinking in, contradicting a natural order of things, an aversion to relinquishing control.

Maybe it's ironic; the biggest fucking bit of the century, localized entirely to his messily-made four-poster, originating from the hottest motherfucker to grace the sexy spectrum. Fuck, he's getting ahead of himself. Dave should be preparing for a masterful dunk, but those abs are— distracting. Everything about this is taking him for a goddamn spin, caught in piercing citrine and the idle curves those heavy hands make above Bro's head.

They've been staring at each other for a fucking minute, assessing, or just internally panicking. How much time has passed escapes the younger Strider, shelved as a tertiary priority in the face of Bro's chest visibly shivering between breaths. Nervousness, maybe, but anticipation is more likely. They both feel it. The blood pounding in Dave's throat makes it hard to swallow.

Communication. Should be checking in here. Fuck, right. Left hand upright, forefinger hooking the air towards his palm, face scrunched to ask: "Are you sure?" He offers out the blindfold, still quizzical, "About this."

Out of his depth, but in a good way. His trust in Bro's ability to whoop ass and take prisoners overrides the weirdness behind being Mister Daddy for once. Side-lines the awkward until all that's left is the boner soaking right the fuck through his briefs. It's embarrassing to be this excited for silent stares, lax posture, lips curved slightly in amusement. Vague, but arousing as hell. The audacity on this dude.

One nod, simple. It's a head jerk, a come-hither too firm to be polite. "C'mon, Dave," he's urging wordlessly, "—wrap me up like a present."

No time to waste, lose, otherwise squander. His dick's an impossible-to-ignore reality, seeping pre onto his bare thighs as he leans forward. Crimson silk smooths over a crooked bridge, high cheekbones, blond-going-silver sideburns. Bro lifts his head, downright gentlemanly of him, to let the blindfold be secured. That acceptance is... doing something.

Moreso than the rest of this anticipation, being given control by— him feels out-of-touch with reality. Good, but strange. Hot, but with an anxious desire to over-perform. A white hot knife twists in Dave's gut, arousal and want and need at the sight of Bro. Restricted. Unable to see the hand wafting in front of his face slowly; he doesn't even twitch. The realization pulses in his cock, somehow going thicker despite not feeding into that unsuspecting mouth yet.

Fuck, he wants plow Bro's face.

Shuddering out the impulses, one palm gently connects with taut skin just below his ribcage. Every fucking muscle in his body goes tense, strong hands balling into tight fists. White-knuckling with the exertion of— not interfering. Letting Dave take the reins and slip his touch down to his aching cock, groaning outright when he squeezes. The younger hunches forward to press wanting kisses against the thudding pulse beating a tattoo in Bro's throat.

Whispering. Yearning. "You're doing all of this for me?"

"So it opens on Stacy's Mom."

Roxy's voice is very carefully flat, unable to betray a shred of emotion for fear of losing her shit as she confirms: "...Stacy's Mom."

If she even cracks a smile, it’s over. The giggles will escape. But Dave's nervous shifting says he's misunderstood, interpreting a lack of amusement as disappointment. Fucking dork. Immediately, hands smooth over his shoulders, eyes crinkling, "Hey, hey. It's— I mean, it's a song, it's about sex, it's on a playlist. It counts, right?"

"You hate it," he says, somewhat indignant. It's the final straw. He’s indignant, as though this is not the funniest shit in the world. Crumpling forward, until her forehead knocks against his shoulder, Roxy shakes with delighted laughter.

He blusters, but letting arms squeeze tight around his torso. "That's so cute," she manages between choked off wheezes, "But holy shit?"

"Look, I have some good ones too.” A largely subjective statement, but he stands firm, stating, “Personal Jesus, for fucking instance."

Roxy is giggling harder, so much so that it's chipping away at Dave’s stern mask of annoyance. He can't compose himself enough to answer her questions— largely "What the fuck else?" —because her laughter is actually contagious. They’re lost causes, shaking, hugging at one another until Dave gasps out, "—and Delta."

"The fucking pussy song!?”

"Fucking yeah."

Trust is... immortal, a myth long passed into legend. Something so believed it may as well be fact, true like the ocean breeze and dry land. Implicitly correct. Nothing compares to it, the trust she has in him, the Rogue looking to the Prince for security— safety— surety.

Dirk's eyes burn amber-gold as he leans over her prone body, on a bed made of stone. His hair is wild; a miscalculated halo sanctifying his own claim to divinity. Surely there’s a congregation, hidden away in the folds of the universe, that reveres him. Worships him like all impossible things, like stars or clouds or facts. A religion that Roxy knows intrinsically, partakes in without question.

His hand cradles the back of her head, shielding her from the quest rock below. Navy stone, perfectly temperate, kisses the back of her bare calves. But her attention is arrested, preoccupied with the flat of his blade. It slips up her thigh, bringing the hem of her dress with it. Meticulous. Unhurried.

Her exhale goes on forever, never-ending in the moments between seconds, only to stop short when the tip of that blade nears her panties. At this angle, his arm is fully extended, shoulder rolled back. Every muscle is flexed, defined for her admiration. His eyes sear into Roxy’s, focus unbreakable. The cool metal is in stark contrast to heat in her gut.

Dirk is her guidance, sliding the katana just past the waistband of her underwear. Then, downwards, tugging the fabric free until it spreads taut between her ankles. Discarding his sword to the other quest bed, focus now favors her wet thighs. Calloused fingertips push into place, running over flushed skin, teasing her open.

"Do you really think it’s gonna work?" Roxy asks, breathless. Knuckle deep already with two fingers, he’s leaning down to her level. Their foreheads press together, aided by the hand still cupping her skull— treating her like a precious, prized, beautiful thing. Is she sweating?

01_Typography + Colour briefs - Typography terms, Call my Name,Macro-Micro, Alphabet street, Your Colours and Key Principles

02_Magazine design brief Arkitect, Filmmaker, or The Gentle Woman Magazine 03_Social causes brief - a campaign for a social cause of your choice

04_10 blog posts about design agencies and their work