#N. Paganini

[scottheim]

God, how I love late 80s / early 90s hard rock / heavy metal horror films

[lottieryy]

"Now at last I see—as long as you and 'this world' remain—I can forever be your knight."

LOTTIE she/him/them ~ early teens ~ requests: opened

NOTE TO READER: slow updates, random hiatus!

Rules M.list

[withlovebar]

En la plenitud de mi depresión, el sonido agudo y retumbante en mi cabeza frente a la pantalla que no mostraba más que el reflejo mío en la oscuridad, papá gritando que soy una ****** y mamá gritando sonidos inaudibles, mi cabeza a punto de estallar, pero aquella melodía me sacaba hasta de mi propio cuerpo, solo éramos la música y yo, mi alma tan sintiente y calmada, nada como la meditación en tiempo de crisis diría algún abuelo hippie.

[nausicaaandhermouth]

Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived. 

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ��pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Chapter 1 || Masterlist || Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: After your wedding night, you find Sherlock to be most unusual and confronting in nature.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Insults, Rough sex gone too far, internal bleeding, Menstration/Period, Arguing, Typical Victorian Era Sexism,

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: Hi all!! Here's the next chapter, sorry no smut but lots of tension. Love you all and appreciate those most that have been showing their support through comments or Reblogs or both ★

Inspiring Song: "Caprice N° 24" by Paganini

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

12:49pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

Sherlock, as he paced his own bedroom was frustrated...and furious to say the least...he touched the cut on his bottom lip and hissed.

He was not equipped for this arrangement. He was unprepared for the handling of a wife. He was not aware he would be so much for his new bride to take...no whore in Mayfair Row demonstrated such complaints...however he reminded himself they were experienced women...you were a new lamb.

He hit the side of his bed, hearing your crying through the walls. Guilt became his executioner.

You were so frigid, he just didn’t expect you to struggle so viciously. You were unexpectedly a savage bitch!

He decided to take a deep breath. The deed was done.

He palmed his soft red cock and wrinkles his nose at the blood. There was so much...his throat clenched, mayhaps he was too rough...normally blood excited him...normally tears and sobbing made his member thick and hard...

He eyed the trunk chest at the foot of his bed...you could not survive his flavours. There was no possibility...He was a wicked handler and he knew you couldn’t ever meet that side of him...

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

12:55pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221A Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

The Housekeeper slapped her novel shut. She heard the many thumps and shouts, and now she could hear the horrid sobbing coming up from the floor above...your bedroom.

She sighed...it wasn’t the first time she had heard such things from the apartment 221B. There was single difference...you were his wife...not some perfumed pretender with a pimp expecting a percentage of commission.

Mrs Hudson felt for you. She didn’t leave her apartment until she heard the stomping of Sherlock’s heavy feet going down the stairs.

Her eyes widened, surely he wouldn’t leave you when you were in such a state?

Mrs Hudson was an old woman, she knew it was expected she would ignore it and carry on with her daily activities, Mrs Hudson though knew many married women who had died from that lack of acknowledgement in a violent husband.

She stuck her head out her door and saw him making his way to the front door of the building.

“What have you done?” she scolded him as his hand clenched hard on the door handle.

His face was red. The elder gasped at the line of red rolling down his chin from a cut on his lip...His teeth were pink and set in a vile snarl.

“Nothing that concerns you Mrs Hudson, return back into your hole!” he hissed back as he left with another door slam.

Mrs Hudson tutted greatly and ignored his words all together.

She gathered her skirts and climbed the stairs to Apartment B. She slid the key into the hole and entered the premises speedily.

She heard your weeping in your room and followed to the closed bedroom door.

She wrapped her knuckle on the wood three times, “My dear,” she called, “It’s Mrs Hudson, may I enter?”

When you sobbed harder incoherently, she took it as a sign she should enter. In truth you didn’t know or have enough time to process what she had asked.

The elderly woman pushed the wood open and gasped in horror at what she saw...a naked girl...your bottom half and blankets drenched in crimson red. Your skin was covered in the stench of sweat.

She covered her mouth and tutted, “oh you poor, poor deary.”

You sobbed harder at feeling her cold hands touch your hot shoulder.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

2:12pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

You hissed and sulked softly as your body sunk deeper in the warm bath water.

Your housekeeper had so kindly spent an hour filling the tub up with hot steamy water. During that time you cried and faded into light sleep before coming back to life with the painful memory of what your holy beloved had done to you

The elderly woman would come back every so often to check the packing of linen rags between your legs. For a honest moment she was afraid you might die. She called for the doctor...one she could trust...Doctor John Watson.

After the bleeding had lessened, she encouraged you to drink a cup of water and come out for the room to enjoy the afternoon bathwater...

You hadn’t said a word to Mrs Hudson this entire time. Too ashamed and shocked to form a word.

You couldn’t even form a ‘Thankyou Mrs Hudson.’ Only quiet tears would melt down your cheek.

The hot waves helped your muscles relax and sooth the anxiety under your skin.

Your head flopped on the lip of the bathtub.

With fluttering eyes... exhaustion took over and you fell asleep in the bath tub listening to the crackling of the wood and flames of the fireplace.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

6:30pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

A hot hand touched your face and you gasped at the dramatic change in temperature. You were sitting in a freeze tub of water....it had gone cold hours ago...

Your eyes opened and focused on the deep smooth voice of a man. Not just any man however.

“Mrs Holmes...” he purred softly, “The bath is cold, it would be in best interest if you redress.”

Your body was incredibly weak and chilly while also impossibly hot. You were a slight dizzy and confused. Your lips parted and closed again repeatedly like a fish.

When his face met his voice and his nose and eyes came into true focus, you shivered and leant back and flinched away from his touch.

Your husband released a lengthy sigh and rolled his eyes, “Very well,” he murmured before forcing both his arms into the icy bath water and hooked them beneath your back and legs.

As he lifted you out, your stomach dropped and you squeaked, feeling that gravitational pull to which you might fall. Instinctively your arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders. You clung to him savagely digging your nails into his coat.

You felt him walk, your wet body trailing and dripping all over the carpet.

He journeyed back to your bedroom.

As the cold air hit your skin you started to tremble and felt him lay you down on your mattress.

Your mind was a mess.

Another person was in the room you noticed in the corner of your eye. You cowered in your nude state and whimpered. You felt delirious and confused.

You blinked up at the other stranger. Another man.

You didn’t know if he was real at first until his burning hands pulled from his black gloves and gently touched your knees.

“Sherlock, she’s sick.”

“Yes, how eloquently obvious Watson, check her,” you heard your husband hiss.

You tried to move away, roll and crawl but you were flipped once more onto your back, your legs weakly spread.

You groaned and your eyes fluttered. You needed to vomit.

You felt a body climb onto the bed with you. Sherlock. His thumb dabbed and rubbed across your wrinkled forehead, he hushed you softly like you were some weeping babe or startled horse.

You felt the doctors hand touch your intimates and you panicked, your breath hitched and you moaned a soft, “N-no.” You tried pulling your thighs together but Sherlock reached down and spread your knees forcefully.

You didn’t understand what he was doing and the worst thoughts washed over you, was Sherlock sharing you with another man like a sick villain?

You wept tiredly.

A cold hard contraption pierced the hole of your body. A shudder ripped out of you as you felt your vaginal walls expand.

“Minor tearing...what caused the amount of blood is your wife starting her menses.”

Sherlock sighed, “Thank god, I thought I almost killed her.” The metal object pulled out from between your thighs.

The room was lit by candles and kerosene lamps. And so in the low light, Sherlock’s face was softened. The shadows kissed his cheeks and lips.

“Bed rest and warm towels, give her a few days to rest, heal. Usually women finish their blood within a week.”

The doctor pulled away and you heard the snapping of a bag lock. You managed to catch a medical case in his hands in your blurry line of sight.

The doctor fled to your door, before he left, his hand clenched the handle and he turned lightly. He hissed at the detective.

“Be gentle next time you participate in these activities Sherlock,” John snapped, “She is your bloody wife, not your whore.”

Your husband, ever so gently pressed his hot lips to your forehead. You had not predicted such soft kindness after his mistreatment earlier today. He hummed. He held and pissed your back up, he forced you to bend you knees and slipped your naked body beneath the coverings. Your wet body soaked the sheets, your cheek dug into the soft pillows.

“My dear Watson,” you heard him snicker, “I am nothing more than a mere gentleman.” You heard the doctor scoff and shut the door behind him.

Warm hands squeezed your shoulders and rubbed your jawline.

Peaking up at Sherlock, he wore an unreadable expression...he did not appear happy nor angry, rather he appeared tired. Bags beneath his eyes could tell you that much. His bottom lip was slightly swollen, a little red line cut through it, you softly huffed, it was where you’d bitten him hours ago to get him off you.

You couldn’t believe you were back in the same bed he had hurt you in. It made you feel cold and a desire to be distant again...but the warmth of his hand and the blankets had a power over you.

Your chest was sore and a light cough climbed out of your throat.

He did not speak and for that you were grateful. It would’ve been a near impossibility to continue a conversation with him with the state of your being.

The nauseas sickness sweeping of your belly subsided. All you wanted to feel was the warm covers, the goose feather pillows and his warm hand, softly patting your head...it took you back to a happier time...a time where your father and you shared a bed and he held you until you fell asleep...some days it felt like a dream...

You didn’t want to admit it but you dearly missed those times. Sherlock smoked the same tobacco, the scent soaked in his vest. It brought you the tiniest comfort...

You yawned and lazily blinked up at him.

“Try and get some rest wife...should you need anything, knock on my door.”

And with that he climbed off the mattress. Your body flipping lightly as it sprung up. Your nose sniffled softly.

Your heart deflated, ah there it was again. The coldness, the disdain, the reminder...he didn’t want to marry you.

After his foul entrance earlier, you wondered if such a feeling was unanimous at this point.

You shut your eyes and moaned. You tried to roll onto your side...you hissed lightly at the sore stabbing of your pelvis and the stinging stretch inside of you.

As sleep carried you out of reality, Sherlock made his slow departure, quietly sliding his way to your bedroom door.

He looked over the room and shook his head slowly...this once was his friends chambers, and before that a space where he kept his fun tools and artefacts.

Now he had a sick woman in the bed, his wife whom he hadn’t meant to brutalise earlier.

You were finally snoring when he managed to find the courage to leave the room, put out the living room fireplace and finally return to his bed.

As he removed his own clothing, he stared at the wall that separated your rooms. He wondered how badly your sickness might continue and if it was permitted to leave you alone while you bleed so profusely. 

He thought about how these few weeks were in fact meant to be a honeymoon, how he had most furiously refused the ship tickets to France where his brother Mycroft insisted you both go for your romance to blossom.

Sherlock had very little intention to be a romantic for a woman he didn’t desire.

He tore off his shirt and rolled his eyes at the memories that transpired over the last two weeks.

You were nothing but a baby carriage to Mycroft, the future mother to the future Holmes son. So of course Sherlock could not understand his brothers incessant pandering to be a match maker of lovers.

The detective was no small minded idiot either...he knew plenty about you just from today...he knew about you before meeting you... He knew exactly why this marriage occurred on your end.

A bastard daughter of sir Y/L/N, son of the Lord and Lady Y/L/N. This was merely a way to keep your social hierarchy to a suitable and respectable level.

He had heard and read the scandalous rumours.

You were half the soft rose and half a weed in regards to your breeding...which meant you were a weed in the end, an illegitimate, unrecognised bastard.

He sat on his bed and untied his shoes.

Sherlock was not one to participate and discriminate the classes. Many a time it was speculated by John that Sherlock might’ve been a socialist.

The detective might’ve not cared for your breeding, but he didn’t appreciate being used as a climbing ladder of society which he didn’t receive well either way.

He was using you so that Mycroft didn’t cut him off financially, you were using Sherlock so that the people of culture no longer shunned and ignored your existence.

Mycroft was a down right fool if he believed such a union could ever bring together a matrimony of love. So Sherlock accepted it quickly...this would be what it was...a contract...you now needed to complete you aide of the bargain.

You needed to let Sherlock impregnate you...

With your stunt in rebellious adversity, you acknowledged his size and struggled to accommodate him, ergo your fear, pain and bite.

Sherlock huffed, he would need to wait another seven days before he could perform his husbandry duties upon you and press his seed within.

He laid back into his covers still staring at the wall...

He bit his lip. Oh if only he could punish you for such misdirected behaviours...he wondered how willing you really were and what lengths you were prepared to take to remain his Mrs Holmes so that the meek people of the middle and upper class might continue their false smiles your way.

A wicked smirk spread along his lips...

Perhaps a innocent bride was a perfect ingredient for his most filthy pleasurable plans...

Mycroft never stated how quickly it was expected of you to conceive and carry...he just said

“Soon.” And “Before he met the grave.”

He rolled onto his side and imagined you there with him in his bed. He imagined how your body curled up into such a small figure.

He envisioned the likeness of your tear stained face and an exhausted smile...

For now he would let you rest.

•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•≫≪•❈•

7:00am Tuesday 6th May 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

The sound of a loud violin cord strong woke you up from your hours of needed sleep. You groaned as your head began to ache....

You drowsily tossed your head to the direction of your door way...your eyes narrowed. Someone was playing a violin very loudly just outside your bedroom.

You sniffled unladylike as your runny nose clogged your breath. You lifted your hands to cover your ears. Onto shaking legs you pulled out of your bed and used the canopy wood to steady yourself. You walked slowly to the wardrobe and plucked out a nightgown.

You hobbled to your bedroom door and as you opened the wooden barrier, the buzz of Paganini hit your ears. You wrinkled your nose as you watched your husband play the instrument, leaning over a table covered in papers, maps, receipts and a plate of toast.

As he saw you, his eyes widened slightly...you were not dressed appropriately for the hour of the morning. At any moment he might’ve had a client come inside if it were not for his honeymoon.

“Good morning, Mrs Holmes,” said Sherlock as he placed his instrument down on the table.

You sternly eyed him. Your hands trembled lightly. His face. His handsome evil features upset you. He offered a soft smile and kind eyes. You didn’t dare fall for his trickery. From the moment you had met him he had provided a twisted exchange of false care that twisted quickly to brutal cruelty.

You decided, you did not like your husband and it was not something you would hide from him.

“My grandmother insists that is the devil’s music,” You proclaimed, “It is most wretched to hear of a morning.”

He sucked in a deep breath of air and grounded, “I do not entertain superstitious conversation,

Paganini was gifted and because of this, other composers jealously invented rumours of a pact with Satan to dissuade the public from ever enjoying the expanses of musical differences.”

You glared at him. Of course he would say something so infuriating and liberal in the works. His tone tilted on belittlement and you felt there was absolutely no standing that could allow him to talk to you like this especially after yesterday’s events.

You lightly snorted, “As it may be so, I still urge the request you refrain from playing it so early and while in my presence. It woke me up most fiercely.”

In truth it isn’t what woke you up…You could still feel him there. The memory of his violent embrace haunted the muscles of your lower half. He was like a ghost remaining between your thighs. It made you feel ill to think about.

He looked down. A deep frown on his face. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. He pushed the plate with toast closer to you, “Mrs Hudson bid you a fair morning wife, you should be up earlier from now on to receive her.”

You looked to the softly ticking clock on the fireplace mantel and blinked, “Indeed, I shall need to apologise to her,” demurely you conceded, “I usually rise by six in the morning.”

“You are ill,” Sherlock said now holding the plate out to you for your weak hands to take, “I insist you sit and eat and return back to bed for further rest.”

You wanted to raise your voice at him. You wanted to scream and yell that you were not I’ll but rather hurt and in suffering after his careless mistreatment.

You couldn’t figure out if his gentleness last night was really a delusional dream. This world around you felt like some vicious game.

You chewed the inside of your cheek. You wanted to be a spitfire and tell him he needed to apologise for hurting you yesterday before you take anything from him...yet as your insides tightened at the smell of the warm butter soaking the hot cooked bread, you obeyed his demand.

You glided over to him and lightly pushed some of the papers on the table around. Sitting at the end, Sherlock mirrored your seating and went about picking up a newspaper.

On the front was a illustration of Lord Thaddeus Pennicott, a baron who from the title of the paper had gone missing.

You looked back to your breakfast and pondered on your husband’s work. How the articles written by John Watson had designed Sherlock to be a saviour to the public with a intelligence that might put most scholars to shame. The Sherlock you had come to meet was nothing like the gazette’s description, rather he was rude, ill tempered and coarse in handling any woman.

You chewed the soft delicious toast and swallowed gradually.

It was difficult to accept but not hard to see, you had married a brute.

You glanced at Sherlock again. His face was hidden behind the paper, his thick long fingers cradled and framed the edges of the news securely as he flicked through the gossips.

You nervously fidgeted in your seat as you ate breakfast. You did not see any tea and assumed you slept through any Mrs Hudson might’ve deliver.

It was so unusual waking up in a foreign home, having to accept this would be your place of residence for as long as your husband desired to live here.

You noted the oddities of your surroundings...objects you didn’t much think of as you moved in yesterday. There was a underwater helmet, a skeleton of some type of odd mammal, and even a telescope sitting on top of a piano.

You read over some of the framed newspaper headlines which were the retellings of your husband’s crime and mystery stories.

The will to speak to him again with level head and calm tones was as hard as walking through mud up to your ankles. You squeezed your eyes shut. You couldn’t ignore him nor refuse to speak to him for your entire marriage.

You licked your bottom lip and coughed into a napkin. Looking back to Sherlock’s newspaper you nodded and called across the table, “Are you helping with the Pennicott case, Mr Holmes?”

He flattened the paper on the table and stared at you as if you’d said something obvious.

“Of course not. Clearly he’s a man who ran out from his wife. It happens more often than you think,” he cleared his throat and picked up his cup to his lips, speaking into the cup “Perhaps you should sit pretty rather than voice your false interests in my work which you have no business in.”

You didn’t like the tone he used on you. Condescending. Icy. You wouldn’t allow it to continue. You remembered your grandfather telling you to put your foot down as a new wife or else you would be unattended to. It’s not that you desired the attending after yesterday, but you wouldn’t accept rudeness.

“Sherlock,” you hummed and crossed your arms over your lap as you tongued the inside of your cheek trying to not scream at him, “I am your wife,” you said it sternly, “Not a child, when I inquire on the better part of your interest, do not speak down to me like a dog.”

You jerked your chin dignified, holding your ground despite almost dropping the last crust of your breakfast.

He pursed his lips with narrowed eyes and thought before spoke. It was a chilling moment before announced, “You are my wife, that is true...and so I shall speak to you however you tempt me to, and this very morning you’ve put me in a disagreeable mood.”

Disagreeable mood?! You refrained from rolling your eyes at him.

You sat back and sighed, abandoning the last and tiny piece of bread. He was so foul to think of himself so justified. You expressed a disinterest to his music tastes and that indicated his deflating concern for you.

Not once had he asked in your wellbeing. Perhaps he was clouded with shame? ‘he should be shameful, he hurt an innocent woman.’

“Perhaps, you should practice on controlling and restraining your moods then Sherlock,” you griped, “I do not much care for your habitable outbursts.”

For the first time you caught his face expressing a new design...shock, flabbergasted. His face grew a small hue of pink.

You smirked a little at the small victory.

His chewed his bottom lip, “My habitable outbursts?” he pried, offence costing his words.

You swallowed and nodded curtly you leant back in your chair, “Now here at breakfast, the church flee yesterday, and the marriage bed rage also yesterday.”

An indignant chuckled crawled from his throat.

“You bit me like a wild cat,” he voiced rightfully, pointing hard at the small wound still in his mouth. The redden skin was a symbol of your defiance and escape. Instead of being embarrassed, you surged with pride that you punished him in such a manner.

You quipped back quickly, “and you stabbed me like an merciless villain.”

“A villain, you say?” his brows now raised and his eyes widened.

“Quite,” You glanced down at the plate and muttered, There’s no other term for what you did to me.”

Rape was not in the current vocab for this situation you believed. You were married and he was taking what was rightfully his as husband, he could have been gentler however. Your grandmother never shared that it could be so agonising, surely your grandfather had never inflicted such abuse into her?

Your husband slowly rose from the table and leant across it. You flinched and squeezed your eyes as you feared his sharp hand. Sherlock Holmes had every strength to hurt his weak wife, so why did you feel so mouthy in the sense of easily provoking him to rage or even potential violence?

The handsome detective with hot pale hands ran his knuckle down your cold cheek...it was wet. A tear had escaped. Dear god...you were trembling and clenching your skirts beneath the table.

“I can think of a plethora of words for what I did to you,” Sherlock muttered, he pulled his hand away and scoffed, “I did not think Mycroft to saddle me with such a stupid bride.”

A fresh flow of hot tears flooded your eyes.

A growl of outrage accidentally climbed from your chest, it came out like a needy whine, “I beg your pardon?”

“Granted my dear Mrs Holmes,” he smirked and clapped his hands gesturing to the room you left, “Now off to bed with you, I see your withering state worsen by the moment. Doctor Watson informed me you needed rest during your delicate...situation. Perhaps it has brought you to these hysterical theatrics.”

A light gasp of horror and a written expression of disgust painted your face, “I shall not, nay! I shall sit an disembowel your words,” you sniffled and tried not to fall into a pathetic sob, “D-did you just call me stupid?!”

As his smile widened and you angrily threw the last piece of bread at him, hitting his chest.

“You sir,” your bottom lip wobbled “Are out of place and feverishly I have discovered your lack of empathy most stunning, that or rather the amount of your selfish conceived motion that I am a docile woman who will put up with your conceited arrogance!!”

How dare he hurt you as terribly as he did in humiliation and physical behind that he should also find it acceptable to brandish you with further insults of your intelligence.

Before he could sit back down, you slapped your hands on the table, the china tinkled as you pushed yourself up to your feet. You hissed at him as you wobbled around the wooden furniture, “You may be London’s finest Detective, but I am your wife.”

You mapped your finger harshly into his chest and snarled with great venom dripping from your tongue, “By the lord of heaven, if I had only known the telling’s of our futures, I would announce full heartedly that you Sherlock Holmes would be the very last man I would prevail to marry.”

The room fell silent. His cold eyes burned I to your gullet. He licked his teeth, left slightly speechless and unsure if he should entertain the argument any longer than necessary.

Your belly felt tight. The toast was not sitting well. You were anxiously awaiting his roar, his bite or his strike. Your chest rose and fell with every desperate breath you took as to not fall into a heap of wailing. Breathe through the pain and the fear.

He stared at your lips and fluttered his eyes, shaking his head at you.

“...Good morning Mrs Holmes,” he bid gruffly and bowed his head before leaving the table to head over to the coat rack.

“And where is it you run off to this time?” You raised your voice shakily and waved your hands as if to conjure the words of his locations destination, “The same place you fled to yesterday and yesterday evening? To hide in a bottle?”

Mr Holmes snapped his head back at you, his eyes scowered your poorly glad form beneath the dressing gown. It took everything in him not to fuck your miserable mouth off.

“No...” he swallowed harshly, “I seek the companionship of bearable company.”

Your chest tightened and the whimper left, that could’ve been anyone or no one with how mysterious your husband had proven to be.

You rubbed your hot forehead and grunted softly to remind him, “It is our honeymoon.”  

During the week of a honeymoon it was deemed improper to seek or receive guests and the company of any other than your married partner.

Sherlock leant forward, right down to your cheek, his lips scarcely touching the skin of your love and jaw as he whispered hauntingly, “And your honey is blood. I shall not interrupt your peaceful rest....” he kissed your face gently, and said at a room tempt tone, “Good morning Mrs Holmes.”

Argument over it would seem.

He picked up a walking cane and a hat, leaving the flat to yourself.

You sighed frustratedly and stomped a foot like a feral child. You wouldn’t put up with this, for this is not what was promised by the outline of marriage by every book, paper and word of mouth. You crossed your arms and sniffled. You wiped your eyes again.

Sherlock made you feel more like a child than a wife with how he used his words and the looks he threw at you. It was unfair and cruel.

You were a very smart young lady and practiced the skills of refine ladyship over the years of your teenage hood. You were a paragon of brilliance and etiquette...only for some lout you called a husband to drive you to irritation so unbearable that you felt it necessary to toss your breakfast scraps at him.

You ground your teeth and returned to your rooms to pick out a modest covering wrap over the dressing gown you already wore. It would be most annoying to have to strip your body everytime you vomited or perhaps didn’t reach the bed pan in time.

You shuddered and went about washing your face and fiddling with your hair...

As you stared at your washed out features, you heard your landlady arrive...

You thought about your wifely duties beyond the bedroom. With Sherlock going off to god knows where, you were totally left to your own devices and for the very first time in years, you had freedom to decide your days habits.

You thought half heartedly about calling upon Sherlock’s brother or the Doctor Watson to grant a visit and answer some questions beginning to form in your head.

‘Why is Sherlock so different in person compared to the papers?’

‘What displeases Sherlock into his outbursts and what pleases him to calm those said outbursts to dust?’

You tried to wonder on your marriage contract. You were not entirely privy to it even though you felt you had every right. It was a deal conspired by Mycroft and your grandfather after all. You wondered if Sherlock even caught a glimpse of it.

Why did Sherlock even agree to marry you if it was only to lead to his foul manners and hands to you?

Tapped your lips and shook your head.

What does every contracted marriage consist of? Land? Babes? Livestock? Wealth? Status?

You looked around your room and out the open door to the sitting room.

Sherlock did not strike you as someone in need of money...and yet...many of these items, surely were not affordable on a wavering wage as his alone? His family wealth most likely was directed towards Mycroft as the eldest.

And then you recalled your darling sister in law, her shrieking at the wedding, the words echoed back like a tunnel, ‘I can help pay off your debts when I marry’ she had said.

So it was money...debts...and enough to cause strains that would force him to accept your hand in marriage. You tried not dwelling on being reminded how undesirable you were as a bastard woman. This newly accepted information could be used to your advantage.

A fabulous idea occurred to you. An idea that would prove to Sherlock that you were in fact not a stupid imbecile.

Helplines:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[gluion]

the book of us — masterlist

non-idol!zerobaseone x reader

wc — projected to be 10-15k words per story under side a, 5-10k words per story under side b general genre/warnings — fluff, angst, crack, band au, a mix of college, fresh graduates, and highschool aus, crazy case of loserism from the zb1 guys (as it should be), music is the connecting factor <3 make sure to read every story's respective genre/warnings important notes — stories can be read as standalones but it's highly encouraged to read through all! all previous and upcoming y/ns will be referred to as __!y/n titles and synopsis are subject to change but plots/genres are pretty set author's note — happy 500 followers! you cannot separate me from my zb1 guys and day6... i'm excited for this series so please send strength my way <3 i hope you guys stay seated for this series :D thank u again to @vernyangel and @shegotthewoobies for the support and helping me create this universe! always remember that reblogging helps a ton and will help me gain traction :3

want to be part of the series taglist? fill out the form! masterlist

synopsis — listen closely to the stories of zb1 as they find themselves entangled in lives filled with friendships, passions, hardships, love, and of course, music!

SIDE A

kim gyuvin’s track: missing home // teaser

when kim gyuvin is forced to volunteer at an animal shelter, the last thing he expects is to be compared to a rescued dog. (and to fall in love with you.) — strangers to lovers to exes to lovers, small town au, summer au, fluff, angst, based on “i smile” by day6

seok matthew’s track: the ballad of a lovestruck friend

while everyone seems to know who seok matthew’s crush is, he refuses to reveal the identity to you. (now, why’s everyone calling you dense?) — friends to lovers, university au, fluff, based on “i like you” by day6

kim taerae’s track: the plotted invisible string

if kim taerae had any regrets, it would be not asking out his first love. luckily for him, he’s got another shot now. (how’s he going to mastermind it this time?) — strangers to friends to lovers, highschool & university au, fluff, crack, based on “wanna go back” & “chocolate” by day6

zhang hao’s track: on (your) strings

if there’s anything zhang hao hated, it’s double harmonics, paganini’s caprice no. 24, and the annoying viola player in orchestra. (so why can’t he stop thinking about you?) — enemies to lovers, university (master’s) au, fluff, angst, based on “i wait” by day6

kim jiwoong’s track: first day(s) on the job

although kim jiwoong is set to impress his boss, he’s unlucky to be assigned with the clueless intern who seems to always cause a mess. (maybe you two wouldn’t be staying in your jobs for that long.) — strangers to lovers, workplace au, crack, fluff, angst, based on “man in a move” by day6

SIDE B

shen quanrui/ricky’s track: eye for talent

as ricky plans to invest in the next big band, his eyes are set on the university crowd’s favorite bar for their breakthrough. (and the owner who always says no to him.) — strangers to lovers, university au, fluff, angst, based on “emergency” by day6

park gunwook’s track: lost in translation

although park gunwook wants to make his name in underground hiphop scene, he’s set on meeting the respected, masked rapper that took the community by a storm. (it just so happens that he didn’t know he fucked up his first meeting with you.) — strangers to lovers, university au, crack, fluff, based on “what can i do?” by day6

sung hanbin’s track: 8,000 kilometers worth

if there’s one thing sung hanbin wasn’t expecting, it’s being kept far away from you. (did you two have what it takes to sustain it?) — established relationship, angst, based on “about now” by day6

han yujin’s track: slowly bruising but healing

han yujin’s biggest enemy is himself, but you’re here to remind him of his worth amidst a sea of criticism. (all you can hope is that he’ll listen to your voice as he hopes the same for you.) — platonic, highschool au, angst, coming-of-age, based on “marathon” by day6

[inferencesarchives]

`•- Their Love Languages

antonio paganini, andrew kreiss, kevin ayuso, luchino diruse, matthias czernin, naib subedar, william ellis x gn reader (all seperate)

prompt: love languages

warnings: physical touch (obvs cuz it's one of the love languages lmao)

a/n: wasn't able to get this out on time cuz i was busy but day 6 of the valentines event yippee!! also i have now spent 161 pulls for matthias and i still haven't gotten him yet. im now entering my villain arc

Starting off, Antonio loves giving you words of affirmation and physical touch. Every single day, whenever he's around you, he'll be holding your hand or hugging you affectionately as he whispers compliments and sweet words into your ears. He'll back off a bit if you dislike PDA, though. As much as he just wants to pick you up and smother you with his affection, he'll happily wait until the two of you are in private if that's what makes you comfortable. When it comes to receiving love, Antonio likes words of affirmation and quality time. He's often busy with matches or practicing a new song, so any time spent with you is time he treasures. It also makes him giddy whenever you compliment him. Whether it be you praising him after playing a song or doing well in a match, he always loves receiving your compliments.

Andrew is a bit awkward with his affection, but he loves to give you quality time whenever he can. It's not really something he can explain, but something about you just being there with him seems to wash all his worries away and make him feel truly at peace. Also, he likes to receive words of affirmation from you. Again, your presence is soothing to him, and whenever you give him kind words and reassurances, it always makes him feel calm and happy.

Kevin is extremely affectionate, and he loves giving just about everything. Oftentimes, when he's near you, he'll come up behind you and gently wrap his arms around your waist, giving you a surprise hug as well as a quick kiss on the cheek. He also likes giving you little compliments accompanied by affectionate petnames as he hugs you. Also, he'll be happy to take care of just about anything for you if he sees that you're feeling tired or unwell, and he'll give you a little gift in hopes that he can cheer you up, even if just a little bit. When it comes to receiving your affection, Kevin adores whenever you spend quality time with him or do little acts of service to help him. It never fails to make him feel warm inside when you offer to do some little mundane tasks for him before sitting down on the couch and cuddling with him.

Luchino is very busy, so he tries to apologize for it by spending quality time with you. He doesn't have very much time between matches and continuing his research on whatever new topic has caught his interest, but he always tries to make time for you at least once or twice a day. Oftentimes, he'll spend lunch with you, engaging in a pleasant conversation with you before he returns to his work. Sometimes, though, his work keeps him busy during your usual noon meeting times, so he tries to apologize by finding you sometime later in the day and spending a few moments with you. When he's receiving affection, Luchino loves whenever you give him words of affirmation and physical touch. It always warms his heart whenever you pay him a visit while he's working himself to the bone in his office. When you walk over to his chair and gently massage his shoulders while you whisper kind words in his ears, he just absolutely melts. He has a soft spot for you, and whenever you're sweet and kind to him, he always feels warm and fuzzy on the inside.

Matthias doesn't really know how to show affection, but he always tries to give you some quality time and gifts in order to show his love to you. Mostly, he just likes to be around you, as your presence tends to make him feel less worried and more peaceful. Oftentimes, the two of you aren't really doing anything specific together, he just likes to tag along with you wherever you go. Also, he'll often try to give you some small things that remind him of you. Typically, he either picks a few flowers from the manor's garden and gives them to you in a small bouquet, or he'll give you small little trinkets like a locket or something of the sort for you to keep in your pockets for good luck. When he receives affection from you, he values words of affirmation the most. Your kind reassurances always help him whenever he's feeling worried or doubtful of himself, and he feels honoured that you think of him so highly. He also likes receiving physical touch, though he prefers if you'd ask first before you touch him; It makes him more comfortable.

Naib isn't the best with affection, but he tries his best for you, and he often shows his love through acts of service and quality time. Most often, he tries to take care of miscellaneous tasks for you so that you're not too exhausted by the end of the day, and he loves to sit down and relax with you on the couch in the evenings. He's not used to receiving affection, so any kind actions from you tend to make him feel warm and jittery inside, really. Though, he especially loves whenever you give him words of affirmation or physical touch. After a long day, Naib loves nothing more than when you cuddle up to him and make him swoon with sweet compliments. He practically melts in your embrace every time, and all of his worry and stress that built up our the course of the day seems to dissipate immediately, leaving a happy and content Naib leaning comfortably into your touch.

Lastly, William is also very affectionate, and he likes to show you love through physical touch and gift giving the most. Several times throughout the day, he'll just casually walk up to you and proceed to give you the tightest spine-crushing hug ever before letting go, ruffling your hair, and walking off to go participate in another match with a goofy smile. He also gives you a bunch of random things, usually for no reason besides that he thought you'd like it. He gives you just about anything, whether it be flowers, chocolate, necklaces, or other things. He just likes to shower you in love and affection constantly. When he's on the receiving end, William is a sucker for words of affirmation and quality time. He just loves it whenever you tell him how great he did in a match or how well he did when practicing rugby, it just seems to always make him feel all giddy inside, and he can't help but grin like a lovestruck fool. He also adores the moments whenever you two are hanging around together. It doesn't matter what the two of you are doing, he just loves being able to spend time with you.

a/n: was gonna add some of the girls and also a few more guys in here too but i ran out of time rip

thanks for reading, and remember to take care of yourself!

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Hi, can I ask for some Sherlock Holmes with a side of spanking and cuddles?

Title: The Paganini Problem

Rating: Mature, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Wife!Reader

Fandom: Enola Holmes series

Word Count: 1.3K

Summary: Being Sherlock’s wife proves to be difficult when a case stumps him. For @princessphilly, I hope this works!!

Warnings: female!masturbation, spanking, softDom!Sherlock

A/N: I listened to “24 Caprices for Solo Violin, Op. 1, MS 25: No. 24 in A Minor” while writing this, you do not have to. But it is quite good if you like violin and suspenseful music. Also, Enola correctly guesses that Paganini is Sherlock’s favorite composer in the first Enola Holmes film, so like, research! Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best. 

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist 

The sounds of violin wafted through 221B Baker Street. You loved to hear Sherlock play most days. But, today was different. This was day three of a Paganini marathon, which could only mean one thing.

He was stumped on a case. 

A case he refused to talk to you about. No, he could only converse with his beloved violin about it. However, that’s not how you see it. No. 

Your perception? He decided to play instead of paying attention to you. Being the brat that you are, you are determined to make him regard your presence.

You don your tightest bodice and skirt, the deep sapphire one that Sherlock purchased for you as a gift when he asked you to move into Baker Street. He specifically had it tailored to your measurements, showing off your ample bosom and child-bearing hips. 

You make your way from your shared bedroom into the drawing room where Sherlock is playing. His violin is tucked between his chin and shoulder. His left hand bows at a speed that makes the messy curls on his head dance along to the music. His right hand holds the violin at the neck so delicately, it’s almost loving.

You step around several stacks of papers, narrowly missing a tower of books. You remind yourself to have that talk again with Sherlock about the difference between organization and chaos. 

You finally make it to the chair next to his music stand, his eyes never leaving the sheet music. You make sure to sit down in a way that makes a squeak that Sherlock has commented on many a time. He’s actually shown you how to sit so that said squeak does not occur. You remarked that he could just get rid of the chair, to which he replied that you can sit elsewhere if you’re going to complain.

No reaction. 

You seethe, watching as he continues with 24 Caprices. You kick over the music stand and the sheets dance gracefully to the floor.

Nothing.

He simply closes his eyes and plays from memory. He plays it perfectly, of course. Paganini is his favorite composer, after all. He would know it forward and backward.

You were growing impatient, running out of options for how to get this man’s attention. Until it hit you. The idea was just ridiculous enough to work. It would be depravity in polite society, sure. But clever enough to get him to at least acknowledge your presence. And that would be enough.

You get up from the chair and make your way over to the chaise lounge. Arranging a few pillows to rest your head upon, you then lie down and pull your skirt up enough to get to your drawers. You pull them down and toss them out of the way, Sherlock being none the wiser as he continues playing.

You let your hand wander down to your folds, already slick with the frustration of being untouched for days. You allow yourself time to tease, playing with your swollen bud before dipping lower to enter a single finger within yourself. A sigh escapes your lips as you explore your inner walls. As another finger joins the first, Sherlock’s name falls from your lips.

Sherlock’s sense of smell is what pulls him out of his hyperfocus. He smells your arousal as he hears his name in the air. In an instant, his fixation becomes all about you.

He places down his violin and bow next to the fallen music stand, not putting it right-side up. Not bothering to be quiet, as your moans now fill the room louder than his playing did, he stalks over to you and clears his throat loudly.

Your hand stills and you open one eye looking up at your husband. The look on his face of disappointment is enough to cause heat to flare behind your cheeks. Then, his face changes to that of…impatience?

“Well? Are you going to finish then? Or must I intervene?” Sherlock’s words have a bite to them, and you can’t say you’re surprised. Well, you are stunned he is offering to help.

At least you were under the impression that he is offering to help. And that is why he is the expert detective and you are...well, not.

Before you can ask for assistance, Sherlock is lifting you off the chaise and throws you over his shoulder. He takes you into the bedroom and set you down on your feet before sitting on the edge of the bed. 

He points to you and beckons you with a curved finger in a ‘come hither’ motion. You begin to sit next to him, but he blocks your path.

“I don’t believe bad girls get to sit down next to Sir. Over my knee with yourself, girl. You’re going to practice your counting. And don’t make me repeat myself.” Sherlock’s voice is stern and you involuntarily gulp before settling your middle across his lap.

Sherlock pulls up your skirt so it rests along your back and the cool air of the room produces gooseflesh along your bare bottom and legs. No sooner do you register that feeling does the first blow land. You grunt as Sherlock’s hand grazes the skin of your left cheek.

“One, Sir!” You cry out, surprised at the white-hot heat of the smack.

“Good girl,” he praises.

He raises his hand again. He waits until your ass relaxes and brings down his hand upon your right cheek. This time harder than the first.

“Two, Sir!” You shout, the sting radiating through you.

“Good girl, I think you deserve one more though,” Sherlock informs you and you nod, “Use your words, girl. Do you deserve another?”

“Yes, Sir, I deserve another,” you whimper, clenching your thighs to try and gain some sort of friction.

“I wholeheartedly agree, my dear,” he laughs, punctuating his sentiment with one last swat to your left cheek.

“Three, Sir!” You gasp, clutching onto Sherlock’s pant leg as his hand finds its way between your legs to find you soaked.

“That’s my good girl, look how soaked you are for me. I bet you’re right on the edge. All you need is one…last…push,” Sherlock plunges two fingers into your sodden cunt and expertly finds your inner bundle of nerves. He massages it while praising you for taking your punishment so well. “You’ve been so good for me, my love. You take all the attention you need, girl.”

Before long, you are clenching around Sherlock’s fingers and he is working you through your orgasm with his skilled fingers. You send thanks to the heavens for marrying a man who understands the female anatomy. 

As you come down, Sherlock pulls down your skirt. He pulls a pillow from the bed for you to sit on as he turns you around in his lap. He kisses your forehead and presses your head down to lean on his shoulder, resting his head upon yours. 

“Now, my dear little one. Care to explain what that little show was for?” His voice is calm as his arms wrap around you, holding you flush to him as he rocks a bit back and forth.

“I hate it when you’re stuck on a case, you don’t pay any attention to your wife, my love,” You don’t attempt to hide the sorrow in your voice.

“You’re so right. I’ve neglected my dearest. She even had to turn to her own ministrations in the wake of my absence,” he pulls back and looks down at you, holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “As frustrating as a case may be, it is no excuse to ignore you. I promise you, my love, it will not happen again. You have my word.”

“Thank you, Sherlock,” you twirl your finger around a curl of his hair and watch it spring back, “I love you.”

“And I love you, dear one. Now, shall we solve this case, Mrs. Holmes?”

“That we shall, Mr. Holmes.”

**Tag List**

@brattymum96 @ambinxe @avengersfan25 @kebabgirl67

@astheskycries @enchantedbytomandhenry

Let me know if you wanna be added and for what plz  😁 Also, if you want to be removed from tags, lemme know!

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

NSFT Alphabet: Antonio Paganini

@turbulentscrawl screaming wonderwall with me

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Antonio massages the sorest parts of your body (wrists, arms, hips, legs), and would draw a bath for you both to enjoy (def the type to enjoy stay intimately close). If the devil was in charge though, you need to supply the emotional aftercare, yes you may have granted permission but it is taxing on Antonio. Would def cuddle after sex and likes the weight of you on top of him, again likes skin-on-skin contact. 

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His face especially his nose, has a beautiful profile and he knows it. Hands but like Frederick is a man of his time and would like your feet too. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Realistic he has none, his body is technically undead`` So yay no cleanup (sorry ppl who like creampies) but unrealistically I wish he had glowly cum hbfvhbbvbv (devil skin and crescent knight)

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He is an older man and like Luchino and Alva he pretty open with what he likes (he is this way with your wants too be open about it)

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

No virgin, there is no way this man didn’t get laid (ps though most of them was when he was drunk)

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He likes to be ridden 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

Can match your energy with this so if you start giggling he will too (esp for those who are ticklish this is great!)

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Ngl prob a brush down there and you know it prob soft and you just touching it cuz wow it soft wtf 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? The romantic aspect)

Again bounces from your energy 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Stress masturbate probably or the devil does it (sir go get your own body!)

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Foot fetish, bondage with his hair, spit in his mouth or he spit in your mouth, you pulling his hair

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Okay so if you are in-game with him, he might get frisky but not always but happens, has fucked in the music room (fuck off Frederick!), his or your bedroom

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Flirting can get him good, but so can deep conversations the type where you are genuinely trying to get to know him. There is something very intimate about that for a man whose whole life revolved around his talents and people being fake about their intentions with him. The deep connection gets him going and when you are expressing romantic intentions after awhile that gets him going.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Will say devil but he does not have a choice in that manner, it will come out and he hates it. It is complex and he fears one day hurting you-- The devil hurting you but again there is not much of a choice in this.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

This man, this man’s fucking nose, bye working legs.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Depending on the mood he can be fast and rough or slow and sensual or between that or a damn tease; maestro just built like that

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Depends on the situation but not one for quickies (the devil is though)

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

Because of the Devil’s involvement, you need to expect risks. Whatever Antiono has, he expected to know he will be forced to share. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? How long do they last?)

He can go as long as you need him to go

T = Toys (do they own toys? Do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Use them on him, no really use them on him. I think it important to show him he can be safe and in control while being the one submissive. Show him is safe while using these and constantly be with him

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

You both need to be unfair but not too much there needs to be an endgame

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Antiono can be vocal, and you might even try to be quiet just so you can enjoy how pretty his voice is

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Looks at that Devil that trying to get in your pants….

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

IT GOOD OKAY (it got bigger)

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Antiono has the average sex drive but then you got the hellion that is always ready to go so…

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

He doesn’t actually need to sleep but he does relax with you enjoying the peace

[shashamisen]

TW: Light fake dried blood, gory descriptions

I need to post it somewhere so I'll post it here! The paganini play I used in the audio edit is copyrighted on tiktok 🥺 laaaaaaame

Audio edit of Magnus Protocol episode 4, and my cosplay of the bloody violinist from that episode! Love that episode so much, I had to dedicate a video to it

The violin play used is Paganini's Caprice n°4 played by Itzhak Perlman.

No spoiler other than the case from that episode.

[atomicbonk]

★﹚ ANTONIO PAGANINI DISCORD LAYOUT

╰┈➤  credits : n/a

╰┈➤  requested by @ddenryu

╰┈➤  theme : dark purple

╰┈➤  free to use with credit

╰┈➤  reblogs appreciated

[bttrflyblu]

The Carnival of Venice - N. Paganini | Milan Řehák - accordion [OFFICIAL VIDEO]

[noonaishere]

Music of the Heart [J.YH] - prologue | a long time ago… in a town far, far away…

“How was your violin lesson, honey?” Your dad asked as he looked up from the newspaper.

You shrugged. “Fine.”

You walked through the house and into your room, putting the violin case down where you normally left it next to your desk. You laid face down on your bed for a moment and sighed, the chastising from your teacher still in your head. ‘Lift your elbow!’ ‘These are the glissandos of someone who hasn’t practiced!’ ‘Do you think Paganini became the world’s greatest violinist with the amount of effort you put into it?!’

You grabbed your pillow and screamed into it.

“Hey.”

You sat up to find your brother, Intak, standing in the doorway.

“Mom said dinner’s ready.” He left.

You took your jacket off, threw it on the bed and went to the kitchen.

“I got a call from your violin teacher today,” your mom said as she placed the last plate on the table and sat down. “He told me you haven’t been practicing.”

You stared at your plate, wishing you were anywhere else. Swimming in the ocean near a shark feeding frenzy, perhaps.

“T/n?”

“I have been practicing.”

“He told me you haven’t been improving.”

“Honey, you need to practice.” Your dad added.

“Maybe I’m just not cut out to play violin then.”

Your dad sighed and looked to your mom for help.

“Honey, playing the violin will open up so many opportunities for you.”

You looked up at her.

“Take your father and myself for example: concert pianists and ballet dancers acquire a level of prestige that other jobs simply don’t have.”

“And what if I don’t want that kind of prestige?”

She scoffed. “Now honey, everyone wants that kind of prestige.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Don’t roll your eyes at your mother.”

You anchored your gaze onto your food since there wasn’t anything else you could do.

Your mom continued. “Your father has played concerts all across the globe, and I’ve danced all across Asia and Europe. I would have danced elsewhere too, if I didn’t give birth to your brother and you.”

You fought hard not to roll your eyes again. It was an age-old tale belonging only to her; that birthing your brother and yourself had ruined her waifish body and so she could no longer dance. An age-old tale that, to look at her, seemed to be a fabrication; she was about as thin as she was before she had either of you. The envy of most of the moms at your school because she seemed to never gain weight.

“Look at your brother,” your dad said. “He plays cello and he loves it.”

Your brother smiled at you.

“Well, I play violin and I don’t.”

“You understood the rules, honey.” your mom began. “You could choose between dance or an instrument, and you were kicked out of dance, so now--”

“Now I’m stuck with violin.”

“Don’t say it like that.” She said firmly. 

“That’s what it feels like.”

“You’re being disrespectful.” Your father reprimanded.

You turned to him with a blank expression.

“We have careers in the arts--

“Had.” Your mother corrected.

“Yes, honey, had. So did all of your grandparents. It’s in your blood.”

You looked back down at your plate. After getting yelled at by your violin teacher for two hours, you already didn’t want to eat. Now you just wanted to throw up.

“That’s why you need to go to violin practice. And that’s why you need to practice more.” Your mom said.

“If it’s in my blood, then why aren’t I just naturally good at it?” You looked up at your mom.

She chewed her food thoughtfully.

You watched her.

“Art is about effort, and passion--”

“--And about being forced to do something and not being allowed to deviate from the path someone else chose for you.”

She glared at you as she lowered her spoon back to the plate.

“Art is about not being able to experiment with style or form, it’s about being made to do something by someone else. Right?”

“When did I say that?”

“That’s what you’re telling me right now because you won’t even entertain the idea that I might want to play a different instrument. Or that I might not even want to be in the arts at all.”

She stared at you, expressionless. “Go to your room.”

The two of you locked eyes. She looked at you passively, the cold air of a parent who knew they would always get what they want because they are the one in charge. You? Your face was one of indignance. You knew that you were trapped. There was a world waiting for you outside your cage but you’d never see it as long as you lived under her roof. For a moment, you thought of saying something, starting a fight because it was the only thing you could do; at least you’d get to speak your mind.

You stood angrily, nearly knocking over your chair in the process. You stormed off to your room and slammed the door behind you. Before you could even make it to your bed, your legs gave out from under you and you collapsed, like a child in prayer your arms sprawled across the bedspread as your fingers came together and grasped the fabric in two fistfulls and you held on. Instead of calling on some higher power, you cried.

A few hours later, you were done crying your eyes out. The feeling of emotional release that crying provides already given way to feeling trapped again, and you knew that there wasn’t anything you could do. The only way to stop crying would be to change the situation you were in so you no longer had a reason to cry, and you couldn’t even do that until you graduated.

Because you could do nothing else, you lay on your bed listening to music. Contrary to whatever idea of you your parents had in their head, you genuinely liked music. You loved it. You were a true ‘music is my life’ child who used music as a way to ground themselves in nervous situations, listened to aggressive music when they were angry, and used it to change their mood from sad to happy.

You listened to songs over and over for hours as you deconstructed them in your mind, paying close attention to how they worked, what notes and chords made the listener feel what feelings, the use of metaphor and idiom the lyricists used to create a story. You liked so many different kinds of music. You didn’t like the idea of being the kind of person who only listens to one kind, if only because there was so many thousands of years of music that have existed throughout human history and it would be stupid to think that one band or genre that exists in the brief blip that is now could be the be-all end-all of human emotion and experience. Not listening to as much music as you possibly could would be a truly stupid decision, in your eyes. Humans have loved music since the first person realized they could make noise that was pleasing to the ears and share it with the other people around them; there was something sacred in that. Learning to make music shouldn’t be for - as your parents thought - fame and prestige. 

As you thought about how much you loved music and how much your parents just didn’t have the same mindset, a song you vaguely remembered adding to your playlist came on. A distorted bass note opened the song before sounding like it was spinning out of control into a flurry of electric guitar and drums, but the bass was still there in the background, stabilizing the song with its chunky, heavy sound. You picked up your mp3 player and looked at it, Around the World by the Red Hot Chili Peppers; it must have been one of the albums one of your few friends in band class let you rip from their cd collection like contraband, since your parents didn’t let you buy anything that wasn’t art music. Of the three kinds of music - art music, folk music, popular music - in your house you were only allowed to listen to one: art. Classical, baroque, romantic, opera: those were the genres that were permitted. The worst part was, there were movements and pieces that you genuinely liked, but all of it had been tarnished for you. You were a caged bird; the lines of the staff were the bars of your cage while the notes that rested on them were notes you wished to sing, but because you were not allowed to experience the emotion that would bring about song, they were meaningless.

You navigated to the album and played the rest of it. However you ended up with it, it had some amazing songs. Right On Time started with the weirdest sound you’d ever heard: a bouncy springy sound that you couldn’t identify. You got up and sat at your computer and entered a bunch of music terms trying to figure out what it was before just searching “RHCP Right On Time cover” and finding that, to play the song, the bassist was hitting his thumb against the strings and pulling the strings away from the instrument.

“Slap bass?” You said out loud, to no one.

It was so cool, and you loved the sound. Maybe you could play bass instead of…

No... No. You knew your parents would never let you play a rock instrument. There was no ‘prestige’, the thing most important to them. A word you had come to hate. 

Wasn’t the point of art to release your own creativity in a way that other people could experience it? Wasn’t the point of art to make others laugh, cry, think, and experience something? Wasn’t the point of making art to have a good time? For two artists who constantly extolled the virtues of art, their idea took on a decidedly commodified definition. Art wasn’t about creativity or pleasure to them, it was about physical and social capital. Even then, people in rock bands made millions of dollars and had fans who loved them. But you already knew what they’d say if you tried to make that point: that wasn’t the right form of social capital. It wasn’t the love from old money millionaires who could become your patron, throw all of their money at you, pay you to write or play things they want, put you up in the best hotels so you could play to a mere few hundred people at the fanciest concert hall. It was about the elitism. It was about being better than someone else. It was about accepting the cage because it was gilded.

Watching the cover over again, you felt something. Something that you had never felt for ballet or the violin. You wanted it. A sense of ardor that made your face flush and the heat rise from your neck. It was almost embarrassing how strong the feeling was. You had felt dead inside from the conversation at dinner and from crying afterwards, numbed by the idea that your fate was inescapable, but now your very being felt alight. Desire, tinged with anger. A conflagration of understanding what you wanted after having it kept from you for so long. It was just so cool.

You wanted to learn what he was doing, you wanted to play what the bassist in the video was playing, you wanted to be in command of such an instrument that could make noises so low you could feel it like a second heartbeat in your chest. But you could never have that. Not while you lived in your parent’s home, anyway.

You thought for a moment. You had birthday money. Actually, you had a lot of birthday money since your mom never let you have any of it. And you knew that she kept it hidden in her sock drawer because you snuck after her and saw her put it in there one year. She wouldn’t have had any reason to move it, right? And also…

It was your money.

You peeked into the kitchen and saw your mom cleaning dishes, your dad was in the living room watching the news, and your brother was in his room with the door closed. You snuck into your parent’s room and found the money exactly where you knew it was. You took a bunch of it out and put paper you had cut to the correct size in its place, hoping she wouldn’t notice. At least, she wouldn’t notice until your next birthday, and that was almost a year from now. That gave you a year to think of what you were going to say when she found out and screamed at you.

You calmly walked back to your room, and only exhaled once you closed your door and stood against it. Now, you could hear your heart hammering in your ears from the sheer panic of getting caught. You took a deep breath and looked around your room; you didn’t want to put the money in your wallet and risk losing it, so you needed to hide it somewhere she wouldn’t think to look. You opened your desk drawer: too obvious. Between the mattress and the boxspring: she’d see it when she was cleaning. You had it: you never pulled the bottom drawer of your dresser out all the way because it just had things that were only really for dressing up, which you didn’t do often. You could tape it to the underside of the panel the drawer above rested on. 

You wrapped the money up in some paper and taped it to the panel, far enough from the entrance that it couldn’t be seen. You tested this by pulling the drawer out, and found that it was well hidden. Step one: complete.

Step two: now you just needed to figure out a time when you could go to the music shop in the next town over. You couldn’t go during the week, so it’d have to be a weekend. But you also didn’t have a car and the music shop was pretty far away. You’d have to walk back with it. That was no problem, but what were you supposed to do with it once you brought it back?

You certainly couldn’t keep it at your house, your parents would kill you. 

But if someone could hold onto it for you…

  main cast | masterlist | next

Send an ask or leave a comment if you want to be added to the tag list! 🎵

[shdwwlkrsblog]

A RACE TO YOUR HEART | naruto boys | gn!reader| modern au!

Naruto-Masterlist

Characters: madara , tobirama , kakashi , naruto , sasuke , itachi , obito and indra

Plot: the boys are competeting in a race for a date with you (idea from a genshin playlist on yt)

Tw: ramming Cars ig?

A/n: English is not my first language so please excuse any mistakes , and this is really long so please let me know what you think and if i should edit anything or if you got tips on what i could improve

The cars were aligned waiting for your starting Signal. Naruto brought the idea up and surprisingly they all agreed to it , even indra and tobirama.

The race had only one rule , no jutsu or sharringan everything else was pretty much allowed.

They were talking shit to eachother mostly , tobirama close to jumping out of his car to beat up madara and naruto and sasuke doing their usual arguing . Kakashi and obito exchanged deathglares while indra stayed quiet and focused. (A/n indras personality is slightly changed btw)

You smiled wielding the flag downwards .

First to start was naruto in a modern bright yellow car with Orange Details, then sasuke in a lamboghini aventador with pumped up handling in a shiny black . closely followed by the dark grey sportscar (mclaren mp4 c12 but speed was improved) of tobirama wich had the senju Clan Symbol on its Front.

Next Was kakashi . He took off with a wink at you in his silver Lamborghini aventador with black lightning details across its sides . Next Was the matt Black car of madara with golden fancy decorations of symbols (Paganini huarya) and the red ,decorated with matt Black crows , car of itachi .

Closely followed by the matt Black Paganini zonda r of obito who gave you a oh so selfconfident smile before hitting the gas . And last but not least indra hit the gas on his pure matt white bughatti Vision Gt decorated with purple ink stains and other stuff .

This race was going 3 laps, the Route wasnt exactly easy . Too much Speed could throw one off it . Handling mattered a lot .

The boys were gone fast from your Vision, you hoped (fav character) would win but all of them had enough experience .

After 2 minutes or so 2 cars appeared behind the corner , indras matt white bughatti and madaras car in a close tie of overtaking eachother . Just like tobirama , madara pumped up his car for more speed . But indra had a lot of experience on this road . Behind them naruto and kakashi appeared close behind them sasuke popped up inbetween obito and tobirama . Itachi also showed up and took narutos place with what looked like ease throwing naruto into the place behind him

Meanwhile madara took the lead and kept indra exactly behind him

Tobirama , now racing to the Front overtook madaras place earning some curse from the Black haired male

Indra fell back to last as sasuke rammed into his side giving him a hard time to get back in control

Kakashi and naruto were busy trying to overtake eachother unable to notice obito racing past them , Window down, flipping kakashi off

Tobirama was now struggling with madara trying to get back to first place

Naruto finally overtook kakashi and was now struggling with obito

The males raced past you . shortly after they disappeared behind the corner again leaving you to guess whats going on

~Timeskip to the last lap~

The holder of the first place changed rapidly as the last lap began

Noone wouldve Been able to oversee who was in wich place , it changed too fast .

They raced past you once again behind the curve.

You were exited and worried who might come out first

A Minute or so passed and the first car showed up

====================================

Kakashi

The silver Lamborghini of kakashi showed up , a good distance to the 2nd place - indra

The car drove through the finish line , slamming the Breaks as hard as he could and stopping with a drift . You rolled your eyes "such a showoff" you thought but still smiled at him as he left his car while the others came to a stop too

You secretly hoped it was him who eon it and he did it . You could see the grin beneath his mask as he walked up to you "So, when and where dear y/n?" He asked as smooth as the polish on his car

(Others were secretly pouting behind him lmfao)

Madara

You saw the Paganini huarya pulling up , itachi close behind but unable to overthrow madara in time

As soon as he passed the finish line madara slammed onto the Breaks . He waited a bit Till everyone arrived before stepping out . "And who won dear?" He asked his voice filled with pride and already knowing who you were going to say .

You wished from the start that madara would win it and of course he did , how could you ever doubt the god of War and racing ?

"You madara " you answered with a smile seeing the others look pissed off , disappointed in themself or just getting into their car again

"So where would you like our date to be?" He asked , a strong flirtly undertone present.

Naruto

The bright yellow car Was closely followed by sasuke but naruto kept the uchiha succesfully behind him.

After crossing the finish line he basically jumped out of his car and ran to you "So, i got the date with you?!" He asked and you smiled "yay!" He cheered punching the air with one fist

Sasuke

Sasuke drove through the finish line , a good bit of distance to kakashi who was behind him

Sasuke didnt leave his car in a hurry like most of the others did . In fact he flashed you this "proud of himself" smile before leaving it and walking up to you

"So , where and when do you want to go?" He asked that smile still present on his lips . You smiled back at him suggesting (your fav place)

Itachi

The Red car with crows decorating its body , closely followed by indra . Near the finish line indra almost overtook him but itachi crissed the finishline in time

Itachi halted his car close to you , looking over to you and giving you a warming smile . "When are we having the date?" He asked while slamming the car door shut

"How about tomorrow?" You suggested smiling back noticing the grumpy and sad looks of the other boys behind him . "Sure , let me know where and when and I'll pick you up" he replied

Obito

The matt Black zonda easily overtook madara in the curve with a skilled , perfect timed drift. Both uchihas fought over the 1st place before the zonda r crossed the finish linish first

Out came obito , smiling proud of his skill and amused by madaras look

He walked straight up to you "when and where dear?" He asked leaning down to your ear .

You could hear this mans wide grin in his voice . "How about 8pm at (fav. Place) ?" You suggested feeling a blush creep up your face by how close He was

"Sounds sweet . I'll pick you up on point " he grinned and straightened his back again before giving on last glare like "i won , haha" to the other racers

Indra

His skilled hands threw the handwheel around just in time to hit the curve perfectly . Indras handling Was easily better than narutos so he was able to steal the first place from him quiet easily

Crossing the finish line and stopping with a 360° drift near you just proved this guys want to show off

And out came the maybe most skilled driver of them all , indra. He walked up to you amused by the glares He got . "So where would you like to go darling?" He asked with a flirty and proud undertone "how about (fav place)?" You replied .

"Cool with me , is 9pm okay? I need to get the scratches etc fixed first" he asked pointing to where sasuke rammed into his car earlier in the race .

"Yep" you smiled and caught a glance of indras smile before he turned around "perfect , ill pick you up 9pm tomorrow on point"

Tobirama

The mclaren mp4 c12 pulled around the corner with impressive accuracy and speed , closely followed by indra .

Those must've been the most heated last 200m you have ever seen .

Indra fighting for the first place while the senju had trouble keeping indra behind him

In the end tobirama came in first , stopping the car rather softly but in a " cool " way

He didnt go out of his car so you went to check on him and found him rubbing his Temple trying to get rid of the headache

You knocked on his Window getting his attention . He instantly rolled it down and apologised.

"Aw dont apologise tobi you won! " you cheered giving him a warm smile

His lips slightly curved upwards into a smile , a rare sight . "So how about 4pm at (fav place) ?" You suggested

"Sounds good to me , i'll pick you up " he answered catching madaras jealous glare in his rearview mirror

He felt pretty good after that

Please tell me what you think about this and give me tips /critic on it

Also requests are open

[silverbladexyz]

Um... How about the Flags + Rimbraud and Verlaine with a s/o who plays the violin but is very shy about it so they walk in on them practicing? If you don't feel comfortable with this, feel free to ignore it! Have an amazing day and awesome rest of your week my dear friend!

YOOOOO I LOVE THIS REQUEST SO MUCH!! AND VIOLIN? ONE OF MY FAV INSTRUMENTS?!! HECK YEAH (lmao sorry for my energetic mood I'm just happy)

Stormbringer spoilers below!

The images do not belong to me. They belong to their original owners.

TW: Slight mentions of death

The Flags + Rimlaine who walks in on S/O playing the violin

Pianoman:

-This man is an artist and you cannot tell me otherwise. When he walked in on you practising, he was actually kind of surprised, but afterwards a smile forms his face

-You were very good at violin, so let's say that you were practicing Paganini's 'La Campanella'. When Pianoman walked in, you literally squeaked and was immediately going to apologise for not telling him, but he was looking at you with a lot of admiration and curiosity in his eyes

-Who knew that his beloved s/o could play the violin? Pianoman is very interested in the instrument, because I feel like he likes music as well. Definitely asks you questions about the violin and your experience of playing it

-Tell him all the random facts about the violin! He would love to hear it from you, and it makes him even more interested in the instrument. Teach him how to play it! He would love to learn it, and don't worry, he will never drop your violin because he's way too elegant for that

-He has jokingly asked one time if he could use violin strings to replace his wires. Slap him. Hard. (and fyi violin strings normally aren't strong enough to behead someone lol)

-Loves listening to you play. I feel like his favourite piece would either be Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D or Mozart's Violin Concerto No.5

-But if you were practicing too much, Pianoman will make you take a break. He'd hate to see you overworking yourself, and the calluses on your fingers pains him. Would delicately massage your left hand if the piece you played was too intense

-Oh and if he ever dares to use violin strings as his weapon, slap him very hard for me. But he wouldn't dare to do it because it's an insult to art plus I would slap him myself loool

Albatross:

-When he walked in, he was immediately star-struck by your lovely playing. Definitely goes all 'Y/N!! You could play the violin? Why didn't you tell me it's so cool!!' while you were going slightly red from the embarrassment

-His energetic personality erases all embarrassment from you, because he thinks that your violin playing is the coolest. Definitely brags about you to the Flags, and asks you a lot of questions on the violin

-Now Albatross would actually ask you to teach him how to play the violin. Even though he does bounce around a lot and nearly drops the instrument a lot of times, he won’t actually drop it because he’s good with his hands (fixing vehicles requires hand dexterity) But please be aware of where he puts the violin, because sometimes it can end up dropping to the floor or being sat on

-Loves to hear you play. Albatross probably prefers pop songs, but who said that he didn’t like a good old classical piece every now and then? If you play him Zigeunerweisen or Erlkönig he will love it

-If you’re insecure about your violin playing skills, he will give you lots of encouragement and love to make you feel better

-Albatross would buy a violin as well so that he could play a duet with you when his skills are good enough. I recommend the Bach concerto for 2 violins in D minor. Also please educate him on what type of violin is best for him, because he might buy than expensive asf violin that doesn’t even suit his playing lmao

-Might even make Chuuya listen to his violin playing. Please save Chuuya’s ears because they will be bleeding by the end of it xD

Doc:

-Doc might tilt his head in curiosity when he walks in on you playing. I feel like he hasn’t listened to a lot of music due to his busy career as a doctor, so hearing an in-person soloist-level violin playing is very refreshing and nice for him

-He would ask you a lot of questions about the violin, perhaps even ask you to teach him. Feel free to do so, but please keep your lessons shorter than an hour... because I feel like Doc doesn’t have enough stamina to stand while playing the violin for that long

-He will treat you if you get injuries from violin playing. Even if it was just a mere callouse, Doc is still insistent on treating it, and plus I know you secretly love his touch. But that one time when you practiced a bit too much and cut yourself on the violin strings... Doc hid the violin from you until your fingers healed it was under his bed lmao

-Loves listening to your playing as well. Whenever he feels stressed, sick, or just any negative emotion in general, he will sit down and listen to the wonderful melody coming out from your bow. Play some Paganini or Shostakovich and he will fall in love with you more

-Watch TwoSetViolin with him!!! I headcanon he secretly is a Twosetter, and also a Ling Ling wannabe. Doc will definitely practice 40 hours a day if he could

-When you played him a piece on his birthday, I swear that you could’ve heard his heart beat all the more for you

Iceman:

-He didn’t show that much of an outward reaction when he walked in. Probably a slight raise of his eyebrows, but he was pretty chill about it overall

-Would slightly question on why you hid this skill from him, but he isn’t mad! Just a bit curious, that’s all

-Iceman will comfort you if you were feeling embarrassed and guilty of hiding your ability to play the violin from him. He’s literally the most patient guy and it takes a lot for him to get mad

-Literally just wants you to be as comfortable as you can... he even volunteers to step out of the room if you wanted to practice your violin in peace. Hug him

-Wouldn’t really ask, but he would love it if he could listen to you play your violin. It’s canon that Iceman likes listening to his old records, but that doesn’t mean that he dislikes listening to anything else! Play him some nice and calming music, like Meditation by Jules Massenet

-Could listen to you talk about the violin all day. Iceman would never judge or criticise your passion for your instrument, and your passion makes him even more interested in the violin

-Would actually not use the violin for his assassinations anymore. He has used a few to kill some people, but he won’t do that anymore because of his love for you 💗

Lippmann:

-He was honestly quite surprised when he found out, but that surprise quickly melted away. Lippmann thinks that playing the violin is quite a nice skill to have, and he isn’t mad that you kept that skill from him

-Would kiss your callouses and scars on your fingers. His kisses are the best and they always make you flustered (but you know you love it)

-Also would listen to you play! He doesn’t have a lot of time due to his jobs, but Lippmann will take any chance he could to listen to your violin playing. It helps him to calm down whenever he’s in a stressed mood from what he was going to say for the interview or the negotiation

-I headcanon that he likes listening to pieces from the Romantic period. So play some Tchaikovsky or Brahms and it would be his go-to music from now on. Besides, Lippmann himself is quite romantic too

-He would ask you to teach you a bit of violin. Sometimes, he would have to play the violin in a few movies as part of his acting career, but now that he knows you play the instrument, he wants to make sure that his playing isn’t sacrilegious in any way. Lippmann is a pretty fast learner, so after a few lessons he could probably make a good sound for a beginner

-Takes you to violin concerts. Lippmann is rich and he wouldn’t mind spending every single dollar on you. And the violin concerts he takes you to are the best, where everybody dresses up formally and the music is just breathtaking

-He so would use a lot of violin and musician pickup lines on you. They make you blush a lot every single time, but when you start saying them back, that is the only time you would see Lippmann flustered. And I guarantee you that it is a sight to see

Rimbaud:

-Rimbaud was pleasantly surprised when he walks in on you practicing your violin. In fact, he may just stand in the corner while admiring your playing, not speaking so that he wouldn’t interrupt the flow of the music

-When you finished practising your piece, he slowly stepped forward with a small smile on his face. When you turned around you did get a little scare, but Rimbaud just told you how much he liked your playing

-He is very curious about the violin, but he won’t ask too much about it. So please tell him anything you know about the instrument, because Rimbaud loves hearing you talk. And he will remember whatever you say because it just reflects his love for you

-Rimbaud will be curious if you teach him about the violin. Despite how cold he always is and the fact that his fingers are constantly trembling, he’s actually very careful! Also puts a layer of subspace over your violin so that if it drops, it wouldn’t get harmed

-Play some French songs or pieces for him! He strikes me as the sentimental type, and if you played him something that he liked listening to when he was a child, you might even catch him softly humming along. I headcanon he might like Debussy because his pieces are just nice

-But that one time your violin string snapped and nearly hit you in your face, Rimbaud was so scared for you. Literally kept asking you if you were alright, while taking the violin out of your hands and tried to see if you were hurt anywhere. Definitely keeps an eye on the strings from now on to see which ones were close to snapping

-When you played him a nostalgic piece for his birthday, he nearly cried. Hug him and give him lots of love please

Verlaine:

-He is one smooth guy. I mean, he is the King of Assassins, so you definitely don’t hear or sense him when he walks into the room

-Verlaine was a bit surprised, but he smiles as he watches you practice your violin the whole time. When you finish practicing and put your violin down, you get the biggest scare of your life when you turn around

-He does chuckle a little, and says ‘who knew that mon amour was so talented at violin?’ But Verlaine will apologise for scaring you he better

-Now unlike Rimbaud, Verlaine does ask you questions about the violin. While he won’t go overboard with questions that he could find the answer of online, he will ask you about your experience with the violin as well. Verlaine loves it when your eyes light up with passion as you talk about your instrument; he thinks you look all the more attractive

-While you play your violin, Verlaine might sing along. It won’t sound weird or anything, because it is canon that his voice is ‘as graceful as a violin solo’, which means his voice sounds so fricking nice and goes well with your violin playing Rimbaud you lucky bastard

-But sometimes he would like to listen to your violin playing in comfortable silence. The tranquil melody helps him recollect his thoughts and sort out his feelings, not to mention Verlaine likes having a glass of wine while listening to you play

-I feel like Verlaine might know one or two things about the violin, but he’s never really played the instrument. So teach him! He is a fast learner, and when he plays he channels all of his feelings into it; his playing gives the piece a storm of emotions that only he alone could comprehend

-Definitely researches more into violin classical music. He appreciates art, and each time he hears you play he closes his eyes in appreciation. It soothes him and gives him a temporary peace in his always restless soul

-Will kiss your hands when you practice too much. Verlaine will gently scold you if you get callouses or small cuts, but he won’t stop you from playing. He just tells you to not overdo it, and even keeps track of your practicing sessions so that you wouldn’t practice too much Verlaine just let them practice their 40 hours lmao

@pixyys @pianotross @angolicious @the-mourning-stars @fi-nn-losofia @yuugen-benni @nekokinax @lakeside-paradise

[crisvesan]

María Dueñas | Paganini | Violin Concerto No. 1 | 2017 Zhuhai Internat...

Hoy, Concierto nº 1 de N. Paganini...🍀🎶💕🍁🍒🌹🌻