I can't really front it - I mean, half my prompts are about some variety of two harming protagonists hitting it off and either adventuring around and enjoying riding the hell out of each other, or cuddling up and doing the exact same thing. But there's the occasional, awkward little voice in the back of my head that makes me wonder if I'm the odd one out here.

Don't get me wrong - I like being a dude; I like getting little yelps when I nuzzle someone with my stubble, and wearing nice-fitting suits and being a cheerily foul-mouthed vanilla pervert and seeing a woman's eyes go that adorable blend of fuzzy and lucid when I slide inside her. I'm all for pinning down and thrusting, and being the big spoon, because that, my friends, is not only a fantastic opportunity to soak in someone's body heat and get comfortable as fuck, but also a great time to really find that perfect spot where you can wriggle into so nothing goes numb.

But at the same time, it's like... sometimes I like being jetpacked, or sprawling together unselfconsciously after the gym, or awkwardly rambling together during a long car ride where I realize I'm stabbing my thumbs at the map routes to find one that makes the drive take longer. Or just being shamelessly grabbed and kissed, or gently and firmly pushed back against the bed, and I may or may not have a strange thing for women in suits as well.

I mean, damn. Ties and lapels shouldn't do that, but they do. Sometimes, and it's great.

Sometimes, it's even better to just... be, y'know? Just in the way of being comfortable with someone and letting your warmth mingle and enjoy a quiet night, and sometimes making a royal mess of the covers while playfully fighting for who's on top, for no other reason than it's fun, and fun to do together. I'd make a your place or mine joke, honestly, here, except my place looks like a small armory had a gorgeously weird baby with a Pusheen factory, so...

Ah, hell. You ever write something and find yourself blushing at the idea that someone who it resonates with might be reading it? Like... hypothetical embarrassment, except the warmth from burning cheeks feels oddly reassuring?

If I'm being honest, I'm not entirely sure why I wrote this, save for, perhaps, it's a bit of a mess, sometimes, not fitting cleanly into life's boxes. Sometimes I feel like one of those weird Magic Eye patterns, where the lines don't ever seem to find themselves parallel, and it feels strangely quiet, all the same. So just letting it all out, like a sigh after a long day, helps.

Thanks for reading.