There will be no freeze until after the conferences are over, should
you want a freeze at all.
The usual things:
1) All fills for prompts of the earlier prompt posts go in the post
the prompt was posted in. No re-posting or splitting up prompts
and fills.
2) Self-prompt when you post unprompted fic. (This means posting what the fill is about in a first
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Andy, however, is grumpy at Ed's steering and, worse, natural control of the situation.
"Feck's sake, mate, can't you be gentler?" he grumbles.
"You could always learn to propel yourself, you know?" suggests Ed, who then bites his tongue at the potential faux pas he fears he might just have made.
Andy, however, is looking thoughtful.
Ed doesn't press him, knowing that when Andy looks like that it's best to let him get to the end of whatever he's mulling over before even attempting to discuss it. He tries to avoid the rough patches on the path, and steers Andy into a gentle shade underneath a magnificent acer whose leaves are just on the turn.
Putting the brakes on the chair, he heaves his bulky form down to sit on the grass, so Andy now has the height advantage over him. He is almost irresistiby tempted to rest his head in Andy's lap, in yet another clumsy attempt to prove that he still loves him, despite everything. But he doesn't dare; and looking at Andy's rather mutinous expression, it would appear that he's guessed Ed's intention.
Or maybe he hasn't. Maybe he's just been wrestling with some inner demon of his own, for he says quietly, "Stand up, Ed."
Ed just looks confused. He's only just gone to the effort of sitting so far down, after all, and now he's meant to get up again?
Andy suppresses a smirk, a sight which causes Ed's heart to leap and makes him summon the strength to force himself back to a standing position.
"Come here. No, closer."
And then Andy's hands are unzipping his trousers, and he's already halfway hard, and when Andy's soft mouth is round him - a sensation he thought he'd never again feel - it's all he can do to stop himself giving it up immediately. He grounds himself by twining his fingers in Andy's soft hair, hoping that Andy isn't giving himself too bad neck and back ache by contorting himself like that.
Andy teases him with his mouth, and that oh-so-clever tongue, and his shameful hands cupping his balls, and those gorgeous fingers tracing circles round his entrance, and the perfectly-manicured nails scratching softly along his perineum; it's sensation everywhere, all at once, and always moving, and in the end - quite a quick end - it's too much, too fast, and he tenses and groans and spills himself hard into Andy's mouth.
His head's spinning, and he doesn't know what it is he's feeling as he softens and slips out of Andy.
He's still breathing hard when he drops to his knees - his legs were about to give way anyway, and it was either that or prop himself up against the acer, sole witness to their coupling - and reaches up as far as he can to claim Andy's mouth. He tastes himself, and Andy, and Andy's toothpaste, all intermingled, and it's the best taste in the world.
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