seen from Philippines
seen from United States
seen from Costa Rica
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Colombia
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Indonesia
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seen from China
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seen from China
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@envisas.
legs twisted with tyrell’s legs, its front pressed to his back, its nails making little grooves in his shirt against his chest, its chin pressed against his shoulder. the limpet behaviour is only unique because there’s no consistent umms and ahhs of smug happiness. it’s very smug with tyrell. ‘ i’m hungry. ’
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@envisas.
SNAPE KNOWS EXACTLY HOW OLD TYRELL WELLICK IS. he’s a seventh year. he’s a beater on the quidditch team. overall, he’s neither impressive or disappointing as a member of slytherin house — but that doesn’t mean he can’t be brought down a peg or three, like every other arrogant brat he’s trying to keep under his heel.
so with a voice cold and silky: ‘ how old are you again, wellick ? ’
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He likes home visits, he likes seeing how people live, especially those with money and especially people around his own age-- he can lift from them, chameleon-style. His Armani suit looks good with the furniture, and he did wear it special. Zip codes still have a lot to say for themselves.
‘You’re real smart to get a jump on this tech, it’s up and coming, it’s gonna be fully integrated in people’s lives within months and it’s got way more potential than something as simple as an audiobook, even if it’s just as easy to use. You know how it is, as well, people find uses for these things like you would not believe.’ Lenny’s not trying to put his potential customer off, but his own interests have a way of just falling out of his brain into his conversation when they maybe shouldn’t. It might be bad timing, or it might be the kind of honesty this person finds preferable. He’s cut himself off at a good point.
‘It’s better to see it.’
He picks the viewer up out of the case he’d brought it in and stands up from the bean shaped stool he was sitting on, ready to put the product into a demonstration.
*1 kiss*
he catches it by the mouth, by the waist, kisses it with the kind of sweet ( not gentle but instead cloying, treacle-thick ) impulse that memphis indulges in as often as possible. it wonders if this is anything to do with the way its sprawled on him, comfortable in the seat of his lap, fingers in his hair ( as usual, he all but purrs if you touch him like that, which is why it always does ), near enough to chest to chest. it curls its toes in the sinky fabric of tyrell’s boyfriend’s couch and bites a little to kiss him back.
It’s the third worst thing that’s ever happened to me during sex. 😬
PLEASE LIKE ME(MPHIS) // ACCEPTING.
‘ the third? ’ it sits knock-kneed, hands clamped between its thighs, shoulders hunched as it leans forward. its laugh rumbles in its chest. ‘ that’s nothing. you have worse. you must have worse? ’
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@envisas.
it has a nowhere voice, spongey; memphis picks up the rounded scandinavian edges of tyrell’s accent and echoes them back at him, completely without intention or shame or regard. it touches the shortest hairs on the nape of his neck. it’s joking when it says: ‘ do you hate me now? ’ because he confused it for kennedy, and then said, oh, you’re not, lost all his hot air, and then told memphis the mess.
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' i like this. ’ elliot haphazardly gestures at the loft stairs. up the stairs is a platform. on the platform is where the bed would go. it looks out across the rest of the apartment. it should be noted it’s the first positive thing he’s said in three apartments.
1/3 when tyrell rolls over to check his watch where he left it on the bedside table, it's 3am. he lies still, watches the second hand make two full rotations and then pushes the blanket away, sits up and swings his legs out of bed. when he stretches his arms up over his head a joint somewhere clicks and he winces. he pads through to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and just stands with his cheek pressed against one of the shelves, trying to cool down. it’s hard for him to sleep in unfamiliar beds.
he stands there until the fridge starts chiming at him, politely, and he shuts the door. if he didn’t wake joe up getting out of bed he must be awake by now. tyrell takes a tall glass from a cupboard, fills it with water and has a few sips. when he gets back to the bed he places the glass by his watch and lands heavily on the mattress, full-body exhaustion suddenly catching up to him. the side of his face squashed against the pillow, he shifts onto his stomach, one arm flung out haphazardly over the space between them on the bed. ‘sorry,’ he says, plaintively, voice muffled. ‘i was thirsty.’ his fingertips brush joe’s arm by accident when he shifts a little, and then again, on purpose.
joe sleeps like the dead. it takes a little while to reach the cognizance required, to pull his limbs together and relight sleepy nerves; when he does, he reaches for him, touching the hand that touched him and then moving past that, the small of tyrell’s back, the curve of his spine. he touches tyrell in the same way he wakes up. a bit at a time. not quite all at once.
‘did you find something to drink?’ he turns onto his side to look at him - only lit by the moon, by the city, what light filters through into joe’s bedroom. he’s indistinct. he maps his way to tyrell’s shoulderblades, the notches of his spine. he can still taste tyrell in the back of his mouth. he might be imagining it but he’s thinking about it.
he moves and mouths against tyrell’s shoulder, just for a moment, says against his skin, ‘do you need anything?’ an open-mouthed kiss closer to his throat: ‘do you want anything?’
