Beautiful Morning With You (Patreon)

EDIT: (The two difference versions are legit because I couldn't settle on butthole styles. That's it. Now you get double donut for real.)

I was trying to sort out some YCH poses, and this MIGHT be one of them. What I'd like to do, mayhaps, is just let people pick poses from any of my previous non-commission work so the whole process can be streamlined! It's a nice thought. Also, I haven't drawn bare and very visible hole in a looooong ass while, so this seemed like a good excuse to practice! So many great button styles, so little time.

Below is just a little thing I monkey-typed up as something about the vibe of this piece made me feel extra comfy cozy. Like a chilly lazy morning where you don't want to do aaaanything else besides enjoy one another's company! I'm usually not one for first-person perspective when it comes to fic writing, but I felt like leaving it vague and open ended so folks could just inject whomever they want on there, lol.

-----------------------------------------

The cold autumn rain had been fickle that morning, waxing and waning between heavy pattering pounding the city pavements and misty breaks where the sun tears its way through the stormy clouds in warm streaks of vivid gold. The quick and cutthroat November chill that’d settled in had dissuaded most sensible folk from outdoor escapades, encouraging more to nestle into the comforts of their homes where the blankets were fluffy and their socks remained dry.

Ceran so savored those rains. He’d often remarked to you about how they reminded him of his native country of Isklendos, and how the aisles were always their rainiest this time of year. He’d once sheepishly admitted the guilty pleasure of entertaining this nostalgic longing, looking for any excuse to do his daily jog whenever a chance of rain was reported on the forecast. This morning’s excuse was a promise to bring home breakfast before your waking, and while he technically did deliver, it was mostly an array of pastries and rich coffee that wafted potently throughout the apartment the moment he hip-checked the door open to accommodate his burly frame.

As you sluggishly rise from the bed to inspect the boston creme bounty he’s brought back, he’s already in the process of peeling off his rain-damp jogger’s apparel and glancing with unprepared uncertainty for a proper place to hang them. You can’t help but give a soft charmed smile as you watch his ears flip this way and that as he makes his choice, before both lobes springing up union as he finds the towel rack will do just fine.

“Do you gotta’ go into work today, honeypie?” Ceran’s deep but warming voice drawls out as he feels you press your form affectionately up against his back, arms snugging around his tall waist that was but a layer softer than it had been during the summer. You tell him no, that you scored the weekend off since Monday was a holiday. You catch his mirthful grin reflected back to you from a saucepan hanging overhead; the big bestial fangs that fill up his smile would normally be intimidating if not attached to such a well-meaning hug-bumble.  

You two haven’t been dating long, but enough to be well acquainted with what that mischievous smile means. As such, you decide that maybe your honey-cinnamon croissant will taste better in the bedroom. You can hear the rain has ceased for a bit, and warming luxurious light penetrates through the late Autumn cold and invites you to melt back into that oh-so-spacious bed like an omen from a very horny god. He’s quick to join you, and although your eager hands make quick roaming contact with the rich heat of his skin you find your sense of touch occasionally interrupted by the stray droplet of cool rainwater that still clung to him from his poorly dried off jog. You trace a roaming raindrop down to the valley of his chest where it vanishes between the soft pillowy plateaus that you confidently mash together with enamored enthusiasm. Their soft heavy shapes bounce in such sweet lurid motion in your playful grip, rolling atop him in slow indulgent waves as you seat yourself proudly atop his torso. A deep rumbling approving purr powers through his chest with every push, and pump, and SQUEEZE; with his own hands gliding up the shapes of your thighs and cupping at the shapely meat of your ass where his claws just barely drag along the tender susceptible flesh that goosebumps beneath them. It’s a nice, slow, and comfortably lazy type of intimacy, where neither has any sort of rush or motivation to hurry through all your pawing and petting. You feel close, safe, more than happy to faceplant atop a torso that’s two times your size and listen to him talk in his slight southern sound about his plans for the rest of the day. It all sounds simple enough: finish the laundry, approve the front desk submission for a new washer in apartment 132, order takeout from that new dumpling house on Jameson Street, explore and over-stimulate your every nerve fiber until your toes curl so hard they wrinkle the sheets, et cetera and et cetera! You remark that you are not convinced he can finish all these tasks by the afternoon— because he never brought in the laundry hanging outside, and by the sound of that reoccurring rain the dry-time is gonna be a little lengthy. May as well do step 4 twice, to maximize their availability.