#au: musicians

[lockwood-fic-recs]

Listener

by justice_for_skull on ao3

Rating: E | Category: F/M | Relationship: Lucy/Skull

(Click for summary)

For some bands, it was an act—for most even. It was an act for Lockwood, who she personally knew spent hours getting his hair to drape just so.

She’d never once seen Skull look in the mirror, the whole week she lived with him. Even before gigs, he barely glanced into his dresser before pulling on clothes.

He just had it, whatever it was.

70’s London punk scene AU

[2toplibrary]

Built to Burn by DefiantLee

(E, WIP, 2/5)

- Shoto is the son of a rock legend/record label owner who's lost faith in pouring himself into music. - Katsuki is the leader of an up and coming band that's struggling to make their mark.

- Two young stars who are burning out too quickly coming close enough together to set each other alight again.

Alternatively:

- Shoto doesn't know what he wants. - Katsuki doesn't know what he needs.

- And everyone else is exasperated because the answers are obvious.

Musician AU where Katsuki and Shoto find their way back to their love of music through one another.

[hairmetal666]

They start kissing on stage as a joke.

The night before the first time, they're at an afterparty, pounding shots, and Eddie is reading aloud a piece that just came out in Rolling Stone. "'One of the most noteworthy parts of Munson and Harrington's unlikely pairing is their chemistry on stage. It's like these two men--one on his way to being the latest metal god, the other an indie rock wunderkind--are two parts of one musical whole. Their singing, their playing, even their bodies twine and flow with assuredness; where one goes, the other follows without question. They share a single brain-cell and that cell is music'."

Steve giggles, pours some more Grey Goose into the glass. "If they say that now, could you imagine what would happen if we, like, kissed on stage or something."

"What the fuck, Harrington?" Eddie splutters, having just thrown a drink back.

"I don't know, other bands do it!"

Eddie snorts. "I'm cutting you off." He reaches for the bottle and the suggestion is forgotten for wrestling over the liquor.

Steve barely remembers it in the morning. Doesn't think about it at all as he gets ready to go out on stage.

They're playing one of the instrumental breakdowns when it happens. They're leaning into each other, Eddie smiling over his shoulder at him, their eyes locked, bodies moving together. "You wanna?" Eddie mouths at him.

Steve nods before the question actually registers and by then Eddie's warm, soft mouth is against his and he just-- completely forgets what he's doing. His hands still on the guitar strings, and he melts a little, going completely boneless when Eddie grips the back of his head, pulls him deeper into the kiss. t's over almost as quickly as it started, Eddie pulling away and swirling to the mic to start the next verse.

The kiss sinks into Steve's bones, and that's before it becomes a regular feature of their performances. After that night, they're never at the same time during the show, all initiated by Eddie, all over before he can catch his breath; each one chaste and surrounded by people but somehow more intimate than any make out.

He and Eddie, they're friends, bandmates, collaborators. They've known each other since they first started out, forging an immediate connection with they stumbled upon each other hiding out in the garden at some industry bigwig's party. And as much as he loved his friend, never once in that time had Steve considered wanting Eddie.

But now, now he falls asleep with the ghost of Eddie on his lips, goes into each show with a thrum of anticipation, catches himself thinking how beautiful his friend is when he's all rumpled and disheveled from a night in the tour bus bunks.

They've always been easy with physical affection, but once the kissing starts they're constantly in each other's space, idly playing with hair, laying across laps, heads on shoulders, twisting together on the tour bus couch. Steve is ruined with every touch, every moment; he can't get enough.

The first time Eddie uses tongue destroys every last piece of Steve's composure. They've added a new song to the setlist, a remixed version of Eddie's hit "Prince Charming". It's hard, heavy, sexy, one of Steve's favorites. And in the middle of it, right in the middle, Eddie shoves him against a low platform, kisses him like he's trying to own him, tongues twining eager and wet and full of sinful promise. It's like that every show after, Eddie kissing him deep and thorough, like he's trying to lick up every drop of Steve.

He is, unquestionably, fucked. Unquestionably falling. Can't properly fathom how he'd gotten himself here, desperate for Eddie's kiss, as performative as it may be.

They're packing up equipment after a show. Eddie's hair is piled in a messy bun and Steve is trying not to blatantly stare at the curve of his neck, the stray curls against his pale skin. Eddie's gesturing at something, says, "Can you grab those cords, swee--Steve?" He hands them over without thought, notices that Eddie's face is shining red. He's called away to deal with packing the guitars, forgets all about it, but at their next show, Eddie doesn't kiss him.

They don't talk about it.

Eddie doesn't try to kiss him again.

A week after Eddie stops the kiss, they have a night off between shows. He needs to get out of his head, goes out with Robin. He gets back fairly early, but all the lights are off in the bus. It makes him panic in a way it shouldn't; they've always done their own things. Still, he rushes on board, flips on the lights, his absurd heart beating too hard.

Eddie is curled up on the couch, face pressed to the pillows and covered with his hands. The panic kicks up a notch.

"Eddie?" He steps closer, slowly reaching out to grip Eddie's shoulder.

He jerks upright, earbuds slipping free, phone sliding down his hip. "Steve?"

His face is wet, tears actively slipping free from his eyes as Steve watches.

"What happened? Are you hurt?" His hands flutter around Eddie's arms and face, searching for bruises or wounds.

"I'm fine, Harrington," he chokes out. "Though you were out with Robin?"

"Yeah, I was, but Chrissy called. You know how useless she gets. But that doesn't--you--you're crying. What's wrong?"

Eddie's smile is a wobbly little thing, refusing to stick on his face. "Oh, you know, the usual. Fell for the wrong guy."

Steve forces down the gut churning hurt at hearing that Eddie's in love with someone, intent on comforting his friend. He tries to slip his arm around Eddie's shoulders, but Eddie shrugs him off. It jostles Eddie's phone again, slipping it toward Steve and activating the screen. He has a split second where he's looking at the cover of his own first album, before Eddie's snatching it out of reach, scrambling up from the couch.

"I'm fine." He swipes his sleeve over his face. "It's nothing."

And Steve is putting it all together, the being in love and listening to Steve's music, the kissing and how it ended.--

"Eddie." He sounds all wrong, choked and garbled.

Eddie doesn't turn around, is stuffing his feet into his boots. "I'm--I gotta go clear my head."

He walks towards the door and Steve just--"I've been obsessed with you since the first kiss," he says. Eddie stops, hand curled against the door. "We've been friends all this time and I didn't--I never realized. And then we kissed and--it's all I've been able to think about."

Eddie turns then, facing him, expression unreadable."Steve, what are you--"

"I love you. I'm in love with you." It comes out fast, all jumbled, but he can't stand Eddie leaving, not now.

"You--?" Eddie blinks, bites his lip. "That's not possible."

Steve smiles, can't help it. "It is, though. Turns out, I can't get enough."

Their eyes lock; neither speaks. Steve's heart pounds so hard it might spring free of his chest. Eddie moves first, crosses the small distance between them to pull Steve into his arms.

It's not a kiss, but Steve buries his face against Eddie's neck, breathing him in, feeling the echo to the pound of his own heart. "How long?" Steve asks.

Eddie's soft laugh vibrates through him. "Since I saw you walking in that garden and thought, 'jesus christ, Prince Charming is real'."

Steve pulls away to stare at Eddie in disbelief. "But that's--your--the song?"

"They're kinda all about you, Stevie. But that one most of all." Eddie whispers. His eyes glisten.

"Fuck, Eddie." He doesn't mean to whine, but he's not in control of his voice anymore. "I'm sorry I didn't--" He shakes his head. "I'm all yours, Ed. Whatever you want."

Eddie's thumb catches against Steve's bottom lips, eyes transfixed on his mouth. "Everything, sweetheart. I want it all."

[loguine-linguine]

Ok hear me out!!!

Steve is a musician who sings pop music and posts on TikTok. He’s kind of a C-ish list celebrity (definitely a bit of a nepo baby) and his music is poppy and catchy. It’s the kinda stuff that you can immediately tell is coming from someone who is actively holding things back/ isn’t writing from any truth. Mall music at its purest form. Then one day with no announcement Steve drops a double sided album that is like GOOD GOOD pop music. It’s also noted very quickly that the pronouns in all the songs have definitely switched to he/him. People freak out and he starts charting for the first time in his career. Kinda Chappell Roan-esque situation where he skyrockets to being a queer pop icon very very quickly.

He starts doing interviews. He shows up to these interviews in outfits aren’t dramatically changed from what he usually wore (polos, jeans, bomber jackets, 80s jock vibes) but it’s all just much more camp. The cropped shirts are shorter, the jeans are tighter, and the colors are all suddenly pastel. He has also started wearing makeup (not heavy makeup but it’s definitely a lipgloss, eyeliner, mascara, highlight/blush on the tip of his nose type situation). He shares that he dropped his old producer (who he had been set up with by his father) and that he’s now working with his best friend Robin. He comes out as gay, talks about his struggle with comp-het, and proudly shares that he is super excited to contribute to the growing movement of music that is being written by queer people, for queer people. His TikTok also blows up.

This is when Tommy Hagan first starts showing up. Tommy is an actor who is pretty well known for doing teen drama TV shows (like Riverdale type deals). He introduces himself to Steve at some sort of industry event right after Steve gets big and pretty quickly starts showing up in his TikTok videos. It comes out that the two are dating pretty quickly after that. They date off and on for about a year and a half. Tommy is a shitty enough boyfriend that even Steve’s fans don’t like him. He stands him up for dates, embarrasses him at events, says rude and dismissive things about his music, etc. Robin (who is also kinda famous by proxy/writes her own music now similar to Billie Eilish and Finneas) absolutely hates his guts. Publicly. They finally break up officially after Tommy cheats on Steve with an actress named Carol who is on a show with him. It gets exposed by the tabloids and Steve finds out by seeing a photo of them making out on one of those celebrity drama TikTok accounts.

Eddie is also getting famous around this same time. He’s the lead for Corroded Coffin and also starts acting occasionally in horror films. He doesn’t really pay much attention to other celebrities or the drama that goes on. He was never into that kind of thing before the band took off so he doesn’t see why he should now. Eddie and the rest of the band are at an awards show of some sort and the others make fun of him the whole time. He can’t stop staring at this absolutely beautiful man sitting at a table near them. “The guy is wearing a slutty little lace shirt, the tightest pants in existence, and has skin that looks like honey and caramel had a child Gareth you really can’t blame me honestly.” Steve and Eddie don’t officially meet until the after party where they immediately hit it off.

A few months later Steve announces a new album and releases a single. It’s just Please Please Please by Sabrina Carpenter but gay and clearly about Tommy.

The music video comes out and people loose their minds. It’s the same sort of video as what Sabrina Carpenter just released for Please Please Please with the stunning outfits and the whole bad boy thing. Steve spends the whole video in dresses and skirts. There’s even a corset at one point. The bigger freak out is the fact that the Barry Keoghan equivalent is Eddie and its a hard launch of their relationship that fans had absolutely zero clue was even a possibility because why would horror/metal man Eddie Munson even know Steve Harrington???? Robin and the Corroded Coffin guys think the whole thing is hilarious. Eddie and Steve are so so happy :)

[steddieas-shegoes]

Steve grows up playing piano, absolutely hates it, but is so good at it. His parents aren’t around enough by the time he’s a teen to force him to his practices, so he slowly stops going.

His music teacher happens to be Robin’s mom, who studied at Juilliard, and traveled for nearly a decade with various orchestras and bands before settling down with her husband in Hawkins.

She can see what’s going on with Steve from day one, but knows better than to interfere.

Until he quits.

She can’t stand by and let someone so musically gifted give it up.

She shows up at his house with a violin, her own violin that she hadn’t used in years.

He’s hesitant at first, but decides to give it a try as long as she doesn’t tell his parents. The last thing he wants is for them to find out he picked up a new instrument.

She can’t give him official lessons, so she shows up to his house twice a week and hopes that he practices in his own time.

He’s a natural.

He takes to it like a duck to water.

She encourages him to perform in a local talent show, all kids under 18, most of them not half as talented as he is.

He only agrees when she says she’ll be front row.

And sure enough, for once in his life, someone shows up when they say they will. She’s sitting front row with her husband on one side and her daughter on the other. She smiles as he takes the stage, nervous about people who know him seeing him and reporting back to his parents.

He performs with heart, something he lacked with the piano. He performs with talent, something he may have with any instrument he picks up.

But most importantly, he plays with a smile. He’s having fun.

He sticks around to watch some of the other people performing: Tammy Thompson singing a very out of tune rendition of America The Beautiful, some kid from one of his classes playing piano miserably, and some band performing very loud, very angry music.

Steve wins, and for once, it feels better than when he wins at a swim meet or basketball game.

He spends the next three years secretly practicing, only performing in shows out of town, never saying anything to his parents.

He doesn’t want them to ruin this for him.

He applies to Juilliard, not thinking he has a chance in hell, not with his academic grades.

Luckily, they see that he’s “exceptional with the strings” and “plays with emotion that can’t be trained.”

He gets in.

He goes.

He thinks he may actually be able to do this, use a gift he has to make his life better.

His parents even find it acceptable, mostly because he got into the best school he could have. They still don’t bother showing up for his shows, but Mrs. Buckley always finds a way.

In his sophomore year, Robin gets in, and they both move into a small apartment off campus together. He promised to look out for her.

She tells him that music wasn’t really her passion, she was just good with a trumpet. She really wanted to be an engineer.

In his junior year, Robin transfers to Columbia, starts doing what she really wanted to do from the start. He’s proud of her, but misses having someone on campus during the day to have lunch with.

Until he stumbles, literally, into someone vaguely familiar.

“Sorry, man. Running late.”

Steve pats the man on the shoulder and turns to get to his class when the man stops him.

“Harrington? You’re a student here?”

He turns back and finally recognizes the man in front of him.

“Munson? When did you get here?”

“I got in this year. Kinda fucked up my first audition last year and they were kind enough to give me another shot.” Eddie smiled. “What on earth are you here for?”

“Violin. You?”

“Guitar and songwriting.”

“That’s great, man. I’m just really running late. Catch up soon?”

Soon was two weeks later, when Steve ran into Eddie again while leaving class.

“We should probably stop running into each other like this,” Eddie smirked. “The universe is trying to tell us something.”

“What’s it trying to tell us?”

“Not sure. Maybe we should go grab dinner and find out.”

“Now?”

“Why not? Got better plans?”

Steve thought about how Robin was barely at the apartment due to studying for midterms. He thought about how his only other friend from here was busy rehearsing for their senior showcase.

“Nah. Let me bring this home first,” he held up his violin case. “Actually.”

Steve was on a budget. His parents gave him money, sure, but they thought he was living on campus so the money they sent covered rent and groceries and nothing else.

“I could make dinner. If you want?”

“Steve Harrington cooks? And plays violin?” Eddie fake swooned. “Be still my beating heart. How will I not be seduced?”

Steve rolled his eyes. He remembered Eddie’s dramatics from school and knew better than to feed into them.

“I can make some spaghetti. Nothing fancy.”

“Spaghetti sounds great,” Eddie’s fake swoon turned to a soft smile. “You want some help?”

Steve didn’t need help, usually didn’t even want any.

But something about the way his stomach dipped when Eddie stepped closer, and the way he thought about having Eddie in his apartment, made him agree.

“Sure.”

They walked to Steve’s apartment in a comfortable silence, though Eddie kept tapping the back of his fingers against Steve’s hand.

Eddie fit next to Steve. They cooked together, they ate together, they even managed to clean up together. It was easy to find something to talk about. He’d never clicked with anyone like this, not even Robin.

By the time Robin came home, Steve and Eddie were both passed out on the couch, fingers laced together as if they hadn’t been brave enough to do anything more before they fell asleep.

By morning, Steve’s head was on Eddie’s shoulder, Eddie’s arm wrapped around him loosely.

Waking up to a soft kiss on his lips was something Steve couldn’t have imagined when he first ran into Eddie, but he was pretty glad it was how he started his day.

And almost every day after that, whether he woke up to a kiss, or met up with Eddie on campus for a kiss, he started his day with love on his lips.

[littlewanibites]

Kidlawgust Day 11: Musicians

[phantomsies]

die for me • a. artlert - kinktober part one

“..once I get inside, you’ll wanna die for me..”

kink: drug play

📝 other themes and things: producer/artist!armin, fem!black reader, drug use (coke use, percs in nether regions, you get my drift), fingering him for .2 seconds, mirror play, choking, oral sex (m. receiving), backshots, heavy kissing, squirting, spit play, pet names, prone bone

wc: 2.2K

📃 foreword: hi lovelies! just wanted to say thank you for allowing me to start fresh and supporting my work/transition throughout all of this. Also, being patient with me bc I’ve been slow as hell about posting again!

═✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿═══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

euphoria. It’s a feeling of excitement that manifests in different forms..a sensation achieved by the best experiences. Some get there by taking substances, others through thrill seeking. And for Armin Artlert?

“Oh God…yeah, that’s it, beautiful. All the way down…”

it was the fulfillment of his carnal desires…a constant high he’d chase with liquor or whatever narcotic he was choosing to divulge in for the evening. Just one of his many, less than savory vices. He knew it wasn’t a lifestyle he could maintain forever..and hell, it may even catch up to him sooner rather than when he’d like. But for now, he was enjoying the chaotic ride and every bump it had to offer along the way.

“Ahh!—fuck…good girl. Now hold it..I know you can do it, baby. Just take that dick to the back of your throat f’r me..all the way.”

it was an evening like the many others (y/n) (l/n) spent in the company of the famed producer and notorious bachelor. You’d spent the entirety of your day seated in a high chair as makeup brushes patted your gorgeous face. That delicate crown filled with luscious, kinky curls sat atop your head and was styled for a photoshoot. It was in the midst of a break that you’d return to your dressing room, greeted by a dozen roses..along with the charming smile of your beau. He was adamant on the fact that he despised interrupting your work but he truly couldn’t help but to sneak in some quality time with you. It was widely out of character for him and quite frankly, hell had a better chance of freezing twice over than Armin being monotonous! However, you’d invoked quite the change in him and it was so obvious, it was almost laughable. He’d inform you that he wanted you to finish up your job without pause but tonight, he’d be coming to scoop you up and he wanted you all to his lonesome.

fast forward, and that plan became reality. Now here you were..being all but defiled on his bedroom floor as you sat with your thighs slightly spread and upright on your knees. Saliva had pooled and trickled down from your mouth to those plump breasts he adored. Your pretty face practically smeared with spit and his precum. A beautiful, delicious mess, all of his creation and he loved it.

“Here, open your mouth, beautiful.” “Mmmm..thank you...”

With that, he greeted you with another lob of spit whilst gently tugging your head back. That’s when you’d begin to devour that thick cock whole..from the base to the tip with little resistance. Swallowing every inch and allowing him to hollow out your throat as if it were nothing. It was no unbeknownst secret to him that you were pretty damn freaky of your own volition. Hell, there were instances that you’d made him tap out but you were on an entirely different wavelength at the moment. You were practically insatiable and Armin was enjoying every waking second of it! A grin would stretch from ear to ear on the producer’s face when you’d take his shaft into your palm and stroke it. Meanwhile, your lips suctioned around those swollen balls, alternating between them to place gentle kisses and licks along the veined perimeter.

“You’re such a good slut for me, baby. Oh my gosh, I love you..you’re going to make me come so hard, I swear..” his tone was almost desperate and whiny as you continued on. But perhaps, the best was yet to happen when he felt a foreign sensation emit throughout his body. Those gorgeous brown eyes had become dilated and you were practically unstoppable.

“Am I making you feel good, daddy? Like when I spit on this fucking dick for you?”

“Yes, sweetheart. You’re doing fucking amazing. Make sure you get all that precum too..”

So much so, that your head would completely lower onto his shaft, taking the entire thing down your throat and holding it in place with minimal gagging. You’d stay there for a few seconds longer before coming up and emitting heavy strings of saliva with you. Once you did so, strings of your bodily fluids would seep down his pelvis and once it did, you’d use that makeshift lubricant to tease his other entrance.

“Fuuuck! Baby… ‘S so good..swear I should marry you right now.”

Nearly reducing him to a babbling mess. Constantly doting on you as you awoke all of his carnal desires. Exploring and opening his eyes to things he’d never experienced. He’d had his fair share of sexual encounters but there wasn’t one girl who’d ever pushed the boundaries the way you had. He had fallen in love all over again at that moment. One could even chock it up the heightened sensitivity you gained when taking drugs. It were almost as if both of you were in another reality and completely out of your heads. He’d even sniffle a few times, wiping his nose from the powdery substance he’d consumed earlier. You on the other hand, had been given a pink tablet that had melted on your tongue and since, (y/n) had lost all sense of morality and self control. The only thing on your mind was fucking him until he passed out and vice versa.

What was even more attractive was that you hadn't stopped moaning around his shaft and stroking your clit since you’d been down there. Becoming increasingly more aroused and soon, you’d need something to fill that ache in your womb. Fingering yourself hadn’t been quite sufficient, despite your orgasm already. With a deviant grin on your face, you’d begin to giggle and lob more saliva around the entire area; even making slurping motions on his that sensitive sack.

“Yeah? I’ll really let you do whatever you want to me then.” Ironic considering that you had already surpassed limits that other girls wouldn’t dare. That’s when he’d lean forward and place a deep kiss onto your lips, shoving his tongue into your mouth and clutched your throat in the process.

“That’s very..very good to know. Here, do me a favor and crawl over to the mirror, sweetheart. I’ve gotten something for you.”

suddenly, you were on all fours..swaying your hips as you followed his instructions. Like a lynx in the wild who couldn’t be tamed. His view was consumed with that round, plump ass and those fat pussy lips in the back and it was enough to make his cock twitch once more. Coated in precum and spit, Armin stroked himself, bucking his hips up into his palm before joining you on the floor. His knees were grazed by the furry carpet whilst he mounted behind you. The giant reflective glass perfectly captured both of your expressions in that moment. Grinning from ear to ear, completely dazed but certainly not confused. You both knew exactly what you wanted. Those pupils had become dilated and the surrounding areas bloodshot…

“Look at you..so perfect. You have no idea how beautiful you are, baby…” it was whilst he was talking, the desperate blonde reached over and retrieved another small baggy from the bed. It was just one of many substances he’d procured for the evening. Affectionately dubbing them his ‘party favors’. He’d usher you to back up against him as he maneuvered so that he was somewhat positioned underneath you. With your thighs spread to the opposite side of his own and that ass placed atop his crotch, Armin would place a hand into the center of your back to ensure that it was slightly arched.

“There we go, sweetheart…keep it just like that.”

Meanwhile, he’d run a singular thumb between your wet folds and that puckering asshole. All of it was so perfectly on display for him. Sucking his teeth, the famed producer would go on to extract the pill from the baggy before teasing it against that other entrance. It took a moment for you to get acclimated but it didn’t take long for the sensation to kick in. That puckering hole accepted it with ease and immediately began to take effect. Strings of your arousal were already leaking but once he inserted that tiny tablet, you were practically insatiable. That dazed expression on your pretty face became all but a permanent fixture…drool seeped from the corner of your mouth and your pupils remained glossed over.

“G-aghhh…I love it..makes me so fucking wet..”

Armin, becoming ecstatic at the sheer sight alone uttered a laugh as he navigated your hips until that dripping cunt was positioned right above the aching tip of his cock. “Yeah, you always did like these…I swear you’re the only person who would let me do some shit like this.” “Well you’re the only man I’ve met, willing to do it..so I guess it works out.” The two of you exchanged another set of laughs before the real action began.

“Can I put it in now, angel?..”

“I’d be pissed if you made me wait any longer..”

“Somebody’s eager..that’s my girl. Now stay still.”

foaming both at the mouth and entrance to be stuffed full of him, (y/n) would take a glance back and await his next move. Suddenly, you’d find yourself releasing a loud moan and arching your back even further as that swollen tip penetrated your hole. The initial feeling was like none you had ever experienced..it always was as if it were the first time with Armin. Hell, that’s just how amazing the sex was. But it was something about those substances coursing your veins and adding fuel to the fire that hit differently. In a matter of seconds, you were both trembling but could not stop. Slowly but surely, he’d feed you deep yet rhythmic strokes, trying to maintain his composure.

“Oh my gosh…look at how wet you are already, sweetheart. This pussy’s so creamy.”

Just as you were beginning to become acclimated with those strokes, Armin would increase his speed and begin to feed you more rhythmic thrusts. His hips snapping against your backside as he dug his nails into your flesh. The collision of that thick ass made it all but impossible for him to maintain his composure.

“Mmmmph..that dick feels so good..so deep in me..”

“Yeah? I’m not even in your spot yet and you’re already dripping. Might have to feed you some of this shit more often, baby.”

the soft whine escaping your lips as your head tilted back and it allowed him the opportunity to coil his hands around your throat. It was then that you were met with a slight hinge of aggression. Not in a violent or mean way but it was stemming from the fact that he was overstimulated. Those drugs were coursing through your systems at rapid speed so any sensation you felt was increased tenfold. Every thrust, every thrash, every touch and every glide in and out of those wet folds were driving him crazy! The same applies to you..every stroke became far more intense than the last and that ball of climatic energy began to swell in the pit of your stomach, ready to burst at any second. Strings of dripping warmth began to stain his exposed thigh and the carpet underneath your clashing bodies. Before long, those minimal droplets would expand to a large puddle as he caught a glimpse of your face in that mirror…you’d watch your own reflection as your body jolted around and suddenly your eyes were at the back of your head.

“Shit! I’m fucking coming!..”

“Theeeere we go, sweetheart. Squirt on that fucking dick..good girl.”

Whilst you released a heavy stream of warm juices, Armin would keep a light grasp on your hips as he allowed you to ride out your orgasm. Those sweet moans and shrill cries pooled out along with those divine droplets of your bodily nectar. It wasn’t long before you’d find yourself writhing around underneath his entire body weight though…as he had maneuvered you into a prone bone position shortly after. Pinning those wrists behind your back, Armin would then plank himself atop of your trembling frame; bucking those hips against the rippling flesh of your ass. The sight of that recoil alone was enough to make him reach his own peak. But alas, he’d maintain his stride a little bit longer. After all, neither of you had any plans of quitting any time soon…the adrenaline of the moment and the influence of those substances were keeping you both amplified beyond what should have been normal human capacity. But perhaps, the strongest one of all flowing throughout your veins was pure, unadulterated lust!..an insatiable desire for one another that couldn’t be kicked with the strongest of rehabilitation. It was a night that had only reached its beginning stages and who knew what lay in wait next…

“I’m gonna play in all these pretty holes, baby…I don’t give a fuck how long it takes. Not gonna stop until we pass out..you know how I like it.”

and it was a venture that you were looking more than forward to!

[ide4m4chine]

streamer au antics

[vellichor-of-the-solivagant]

With Them, Who Swallowed a Star

PAIRING: Professor!Task Force 141 X F!Student!Reader WORD COUNT 5.3k CONTENT WARNING: NSFW! group sex, age gap, fingering, cunnilingus, oral sex, handjobs, facefucking/blowjobs, unprotected sex, p in v, anal sex, slight usage of nicknames, reader is a pianist/student, tf141 are professors, smut with plot SYNOPSIS: A musician is a storyteller in their own ways. You had told yours and captured the sights of men you never expected to pull when you stepped inside an academy. AUTHOR'S NOTE: I tried to be poetic. This fried my brain and I'm not going to write something like this again. That's a lie because I have a series that has 5 love interests. This one was supposed to have Graves as well since he's actually my inspiration for writing this shit, but I ended up not adding him. I might do it on Drabbles if someone asks though. And yes, I have changed my username from DontFearTheReaperAzura. Here's the Masterlist for more! Also on Archive of Our Own

Your fingers fluttered slightly as you lifted your hands to the keys, blocking out the rustling from others as they sat in the grand auditorium. Long and drawn, you began to tell a tale you had held for a long time. Notes swam in the air, old friends that played with your tresses and caressed your skin.

The story started slowly, the sound of the beginning, the beginning of the end. Longing clashed with trepidation, your fingers sang a song of despair. You swayed with the music, lost in the whims of unspoken words—of a world you owned. Quicker and quicker, the notes climbed in sync with your heart, growing joyful in hopes of masking the mournful melody surrounding you.

It filled the emptiness deep within your chest for a moment, before like the heavens shed tears upon a barren land, you showed—you poured out the lore of your world, and with heavy reluctance to leave what you created, you played the last few notes.

For a few moments, you kept your eyes closed, and when a series of claps reached your ears, only then you opened them. You were shackled back to reality just as you held back your work.

You looked at the people, who in your eyes were nothing but shadows at the beginning, now enamored, yearning for the rest. You knew they felt it, too. Pulled, as though you were the center of the system. Like the Sun, a star.

And one man stuck out more than others, gazing at you, blue eyes almost ravenous. But it didn’t last for long, just like a song in the wind, he faded among the standing crowd, drowned out in the flurry of praise.

You breathed out a sigh as you stared at the towering structure before you, now your second hell—in replacement of the ramshackle place you call home—after you had gotten a scholarship to this prestigious university after years of a couple of years of working your ass off. Students rushed past you on their way in and out of their classes, but you stood frozen.

Suddenly you felt awfully unprepared for this unfamiliar place, of socializing and strangers, and of university. Of life. What did Google say about socializing with people your age again? How about impressing a professor? Good lord.

You shrugged off your thoughts and sauntered to your class. A large lecture hall welcomed your sight and you found an empty seat at the front row. Not the perfect place for observation of the whole place, but good for listening to the professor.

The sound of expensive shoes echoed throughout the hushed room and you kept your eyes down as you took out your notebook and pen. As the quiet dragged on, you glanced at the professor and found your brows raising at his sight.

He was tall, seemed to be fit, and in his thirties. He had a few wrinkles, a beard, and brown hair, but no sign of graying.

Above all, you could remember those eyes. An endless swirl of blue. The man at the concert hall.

You put your gaze down as the professor looked down on you, your heart hammered against your ribs, sudden nervousness springing in your nerves. You wished he wouldn’t recognize you, but at the same time, you hoped he did.

Yet, the silence remained, and in curiosity, you looked back up. Your breath hitched as your eyes met his, gaze shining with something you couldn’t decipher, and a smile formed on his lips.

You forced yourself to mirror it and batted a glance at the door. You wanted to get out.

The professor introduced himself as Jonathan Price, and told the class a few things about himself, before diving straight into the first lesson of Philosophy.

Time seemed to flow fast throughout his class and you kept your fingers busy, writing down his words. He was easy to understand, bringing out intricate details in his lesson, and asked questions now and then if he was going too fast while walking around the room.

You couldn’t help but notice his slacks fit in a certain area. Then again, that thing wouldn’t give you a brain cell even if you suck it off.

The bell chimed and you gathered and stuffed your notebook and pen inside your bag, jolting up to your feet. But as you approached the exit, his canorous voice called out to you.

“Pardon me, young lady.”

You turned to face the professor, keeping a respectable distance from him, which he closed off, only standing a couple of feet from you.

“Yes, sir?” You asked in a small voice when he remained silent, his eyes studying you with disconcerting intensity, just like how he gazed at you at your performance.

Finally, after an uncomfortable silence, he asked. “What’s your name?”

You spoke of your name in a steady voice, equally confused and intimidated, you gripped on the strap of your bag. Everyone had already left, now bringing quietness to the hall.

He smiled once again, his head tilting a bit to the side. “A pretty name.” His voice sent goosebumps on your skin, making you breathe in deeply, inhaling the scent of his pleasant cologne. “Such a shame I couldn’t catch it after your performance a couple of weeks ago.”

He remembered you.

Your cheeks began to burn.

Oh, how he yearned to caress your tinted cheeks, place a kiss on them, and mutter praise against your soft skin.

“Ah, you were there, weren’t you, sir?” You offered him a smile and a pause. “I think I caught a glance of you in the front rows.”

“Correct.”

“Thank you for watching, sir,” you said, not knowing what to speak of next, and nodded at him, reaching out to the knob to leave. But he reached for the door, making you blink at his unexpected actions, caged between the door and him.

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you,” he fessed, bodies now closer to yours that you almost touched, and you gulped. “You were magnificent.” He opened the door, a hand motioning at you. “See you on Wednesday. And I hope we see more of your performance.”

We?

You jolted awake at the loud laughter of a raucous group outside of your room and grunted at the sudden pang of pain in your head when you stood up. You glanced at the alarm clock by your bedside and muttered a crisp curse, hauling your bag. You burst out of your room, slipping past students in the hallway like a breeze, hurried apologies were called out to those poor victims she bumped into.

The morning had been long and tiring, and you decided to take a nap earlier, only to end up sleeping for a couple of hours. Now, you were about to get late for your next class, and the usual ten-minute walk turned into a five-minute run and an uncalled exercise.

You glanced from left to right in the hallway, glancing at your phone to make sure you were in the right building, and turned to the right, following the signs. You halted before a room, strangely closed even though the class was supposed to start in five minutes.

You used your phone as a mirror and patted down your hair, before turning the knob and opening the door. You walked into a softly lit room and realized the mistake you had made as you spotted a man splayed down on a couch across the room. A hand behind his head and over his stomach, and over the lower half of his face was a black mask.

Inside was a personal office, belonging to one of the professors.

You immediately turned away, about to exit the room when an angry voice echoed.

“Have you got no manners?” The man rose to sit, a scowl painted on his face.

For the nth time in your sorry life, you wanted to bury yourself alive. You dipped your head low in embarrassment. “I’m very sorry, sir. I thought this was the room my class was in. I didn’t mean to intrude.” You frantically fumbled on your phone, inputting the wrong password one time, and read your schedule.

You read the room number wrong.

Brilliant. Bloody brilliant.

The professor fixed his crooked mask. “What class were you supposed to go to?”

“Uh, a math class of Mr. Simon Riley,” you read on your phone, keeping your head low.

A hum escaped past the man’s lips, making you glance up at him. His dark blond hair slightly ruffled from his apparent nap and coat a bit crooked. He ran his hand on his hair, fixed his coat, and patted down the invisible wrinkles on the fabric.

He stood up and you inched back, surprised at his stature. A tall man with broad shoulders and arms noticeably strong, (massive honkers) and eyes like a pool of honey, swirling like molten gold under the light.

“You’re in luck, sweetheart. I’m Simon Riley. You’re in my office, our class is in the next room.” Unlike earlier, his cold voice had turned a bit softer, but the fact that he was your professor made your sweat run cold.

You nodded, inwardly wincing at your dumbass. “Again, I apologize, sir.”

He stood before you, next to the opened door. Gladly, there were no students passing by in the hallway.

“What is your name, love?” he questioned, his hands going to his pockets. His eyes narrowed at the way your head dipped, refusing to meet his gaze. Like a meek little bunny, scared of the world and what all those pretty eyes could see.

He wanted to place a finger under your chin and lift your face up to look at him.

You never knew introducing yourself could feel like an interrogation until now. You told him your name, averting your gaze down at his shoes that shifted slightly. “Nice to meet you, Sir Riley. I’m sorry it wasn’t under the best circumstances.”

He hummed once again and stepped out of the office. “Pleasure’s all mine."

You followed him out of the room and he swiftly closed the door behind you, his being a bit closer to you than comfort.

With a nod, Professor Riley led you to the classroom. Dozens of students had already occupied the room and you silently made your way to a vacant seat on the second row, placing your bag next to you.

Just like Mr. Price, the masked professor went straight to the point, briefly introducing himself to the crowd, and began his lesson. He, too, was easy to understand, repeating the equations some couldn't get well, and was kind enough to let the class take a few minutes of break, before continuing. You had also come to notice he would fix his mask every once in a short while.

And when the bell chimed, he bid his students goodbye, yet called for your name. You halted on gathering your things as he approached you. His eyes glanced at the students who last left the room before he spoke.

"Feel free to come by my office whenever you have a question or need anything. Can't have you lose your way again, do we?" He asked, a bit of amusement in his voice as he leaned close.

You smiled at his offer. "Thank you, sir."

Sure as shooting, you asked him where your next room was for Chemistry. By good fortune, he knew where it was and who the professor would be.

"Ah, there he is." Sir Riley abruptly came to a stop, making you halt in your tracks as well and follow the direction of his gaze, to see a man with a mohawk.

"Simon!" The man jogged towards the two of you, a grin playing on his lips in contrast to the man who never took off his mask. Another person with blue optics, but his were bluer as though someone took a piece of the briny deep and placed it in his optics.

He kept a smile as his attention swept to you. "And who's the little bird?"

You frowned a bit at the nickname, nonetheless gave him your name, and watched his eyes light up with fascination. The man began to tell the pull he felt by the notes of your music, how enamored he was by the unspoken words of your tale.

He was there, too and Sir Riley was along with them.

Your face flushed as he ranted and they both noticed, taking note of the shades painted on your skin, bashful of the sudden recognition.

"He is John Mactavish, your Chemistry professor," Sir Riley piped in, placing a hand on the other man's shoulder, before bidding his farewell at the moment, marching down to his next class.

Left all alone with Professor Mactavish, you turned to him. He grinned at you and he beckoned at you to follow him. The man was, well, talkative and wasted not a second expressing his applause of your performance and how he never expected to see you in the university.

You could only mutter small words and nod, already feeling exhausted. But it was pleasant to hear him compliment you. You could get used to it.

And you could get used to his enthusiasm for teaching. His first lesson went straight to an experiment and dragged you to his side as his assistant, instructing you to mix chemicals. Occasionally, his fingers brushed over yours as you passed vials.

Your eyes met, and sparks flew all around.

Literal spark.

And fire.

Professor Mactavish pulled you to the side, hand remaining on your arm as the chemicals were set ablaze.

With a couple of ticks of the clock, a giggle erupted from your lips and like there was a pull, his chuckles followed.

In the sea of awes, his laughter floated on the surface.

You sprinted on the hall, navigating through the winding routes of the structures, and arrived at one of the most exquisite auditoriums you had ever set eyes on. Your eyes took in the magnificent chandeliers and the divine paintings stretched across the ceiling.

The sound of a throat clearing pulled you from your stupor.

“Are you just going to stand there?” a voice called for your attention to where he stood near the stage. The man basked in the warm glow of the concert hall, skin as though molten caramel, and eyes like embers.

“Oh, forgive me, sir.” You straightened yourself up like a soldier before a superior. “I was just, well, this place is beautiful.” You couldn’t help but glance around once again.

“Isn’t it?” A soft smile crawled its way to his lips and he approached you. “I am Mr. Garrick and you are . . .” your name rolled out of his tongue like a serenade, gentle to the ears, a sight to see the way his lips moved, and he extended a hand to you.

You clasped it gently before realization dawned on you. “Pardon me, Garrick as in the Kyle Garrick?”

In a flash of a moment, something sparkled in his eyes and searched yours. “Yes, it is me.”

You nearly squealed and ran around the room in excitement. “Oh my God. Wow. I-I’m a huge fan, sir. You were such a huge inspiration to me—and, and, I wished I could have watched your performance at the concert before, but I was busy preparing for mine. Oh, that must be why Mr. Price, Mr. Riley, and Mr. MacTavish were there! You are friends!” Your words tumbled out of delight.

"Yes, well, thank you for the kind words." His hand sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, his smile becoming wider.

You gazed at him for a few moments before you snapped out of it, your brain slapping it to your face that you just rambled in front of this gentleman. "I'm very sorry, that was unprofessional of me."

"No need for apologies. But I do want to get a feel of your play today as soon as possible." A hand landed on your back, his warmth slipping through the fabric as he led you towards the grand piano patiently waiting for you at the stage.

Your fingers itched in anticipation.

Sir Garrick gave you a comforting smile and sat on the front row seat. "Feel free to play whatever your heart desires."

What your heart desires.

With a shaky breath, once again, you began to tell a tale, the notes sounding like a human voice as it wove its sonorous song.

A ballad to tie what dream your heart made. An andante at first and increased tempo at each heartbeat.

Lightning striking and thunder howling, Kyle was consumed with the way you swayed from one note to another. He couldn't peel his eyes off you as though you had him in your grasp, a puppet for you to control. And only when the last of the music hung in the air, could he snap free of the strings.

He walked towards you and dropped to his knee, taking one of your hands in his palm. "You were truly astonishing."

"I'm telling you, she was marvelous," Kyle exclaimed, pacing around Price's office and pointing at his fellow professors. "Blimey, if only you guys were there the other day, you'd feel chills."

Simon kept a straight face as he sat on the couch, legs spread, his knees bumping with Johnny who took a seat beside him, sipping from his mug of coffee. Whilst, Jonathan inclined on his chair behind a mahogany desk, decorated with intricate carvings and souvenirs he had gathered as they traveled across continents.

"I get that you're delighted, but could you quiet down?" Price grumbled on his desk, a pang of pain shooting his head.

"No, I am not shutting up." Kyle raised a hand, shaking his head. "She recognized my name. My name.” He pointed at himself.

“Anyone would recognize your name if they’re yer fan or hater,” Johnny quipped and placed the mug down on the coffee table.

Kyle turned to him. “You don’t get it, mate. She said she’s a fan of mine. I was a huge inspiration to her—”

“Was a huge inspiration to her,” Simon echoed, leaning back against the couch. “Used to be, not anymore.”

Kyle glared and stomped towards the masked man, grabbing his collar when the other merely raised his brows in a challenge. “I swear to God, Simon, I swear to—”

“I swear to God if you three don’t shut the fuck up—” Price paused, straightening himself from his chair as Kyle shook Simon, and glared at them— “I’ll have you asinine blokes chopped into bits!”

Kyle let go of Simon, who simply fixed his crooked collar and tie, and raised a brow at the man behind the desk. He sat down on a vacant chair, his eyes not leaving Price, and asked, “Are you jealous she recognized me, Price?” he was answered with another glare, which he shrugged at. “Or not.” He definitely is.

For a few moments, they sat in silence, each lost in their train of thought. All centered on a certain lady, whom they had watched from afar, now within their grasp. They only acted as though it was their first time meeting you.

Each born to a wealthy family, presented interesting things which soon died down as they broke them down into pieces, they had grown bored. And had found that there were only a few they could put their trust in this world. Though not related by blood, they shared everything since they were younger. They knew one another strengths and weaknesses. Their faults. Their passions.

Their desires.

A knock pulled them out of their reveries.

Johnny being the closest to the door, got up and opened it. A smile was brought to his face as he found you. “Hello, bonnie. C’mon in.” He swung the door open, a hand motioning at you.

You hesitantly stepped in as you saw your professors inside the office, eyes all settled on you. You put a hand on your other arm to hold down your nervousness as the door behind you shut.

Four men who were strangely overly friendly to you. You could think of a couple of reasons. The first being a musician they had watched and the second, being their student.

A hand landed on the small of your back, guiding you further in, making your face flush. “Have a seat,” Sir MacTavish waved a hand at the sofa, where he and Simon sat. 

You kept your gaze low as you obeyed him, sitting between him and your math professor, red cheeks going in a deeper shade as you met Kyle’s gaze. Embarrassed, you finally faced Price, and asked, “What is it that you called me for, Professor?”

Price put his elbows over his desk and intertwined his fingers. “We have a proposition for you . . .” Your name rolled sensually out of his tongue.

The proposition was to be their assistant. Given their overlapping schedules these days, it was hard for them to handle them. At first, you refused the offer, telling them you had a part-time job to do, along with practicing your skills in piano. But they had already thought about that and said they could pay you for your work.

A tempting proposal. Perfect for a student like you who got into this prestigious school through a scholarship.

You tapped your pen on the table and heaved a sound sigh, slouching on the chair. You were in a cafe near the school, in an attempt to change the atmosphere and help you write a report for Sir MacTavish's and Sir Price’s classes, but it didn’t seem to be helping at the moment. A pleasant music came from your earphones to block out the background noises and you closed your eyes to lull yourself.

When you opened your eyes, you jolted up your seat. “Shit!” your hands immediately flew to your potty mouth and straightened your spine at the sight of one of your professors, Simon, across the table. “Ah, uh, I’m very sorry, sir. I didn’t notice you—”

“Why do you apologize so often?” his rough voice was low and he placed a cup of tea on the table. His eyes landed on your notebook, full of notes, written clean as though it was printed.

You pursed your lips, unable to think of an answer, and ran your tongue over the soft flesh, catching Simon’s attention. “I . . .”

Simon glanced around the empty cafe, the only other person within the area was the staff over the counter, who kept her eyes on her phone. And you had perfectly picked a secluded spot. He looked back at you and reached out a hand, placing it under your chin. He lifted your face to bring your eyes to his.

Your heart raced at his actions.

“An angel as brilliant as you are should carry yourself with confidence, sweetheart.” His thumb caressed your lips. “Perhaps, we could teach you that.”

Your lips parted at his touch, warmth pooling at your stomach. You knew this was strange—wrong, and yet you didn’t want him to stop.

But he let go and leaned back, and you found yourself gripping on your thigh. “Have you thought of our proposal last week?”

You nodded, clearing your throat. “I have, sir.”

“What do you say?”

“The offer is good, and I don’t think it will clash with my schedule under normal circumstances, either.” You paused, letting him wait for your answer as you gazed into his caramel eyes. “I’ll take it, professor.”

You were fond of puzzles. You were interested in mysteries. And you were drawn to danger.

Being their assistant had more perks than you initially thought it was. You talked with them about their terms and added some of yours, and they seemed to be pretty considerate about it.

Maybe, a bit too much.

You had moved to an apartment they got you, so you wouldn’t be distracted by your roommates. When you had breaks, they would call you to their offices and give you desserts and snacks.

And more often than not, their touches lingered, turning into hugs, caressing, and pinching when in private. To close, seemingly the start of a taboo, a risk, and yet when Professor Price had you pinned between him and Professor Garrick in his office one late night when most of the people at school had gone home, you didn't want them to stop.

You wanted the heat to rush over you, like a forest fire, unwavering.

Didn't pull back when he planted his lips on you. Didn't stop the very professor you looked up to as a musician to bunch up your skirt and grind his dick against your ass. Didn't stop even when the other two entered and Sir Price had his hand rubbing against your clothed cunt. Didn't stop when Professor Riley locked the door behind him as Sir Mactavish joined in.

Johnny’s snaked a hand around your waist, a bit harsher than the ones he’d always done, but you didn’t mind it. Not when his lips were gentle against yours, patient and exploring as he led you on his lap when he sat on your couch, stealing you from Price and Garrick. He drank on your gasp as you felt another pair of lips on your nape, dusting kisses along your flesh.

Simon breathed against your shoulder, hand grasping the swell of your breast and performed maddening massage that got your nipples pebbling under the fabric of your top. You flinched when he took them by fingers, the rolls languid, and shifted on the other man’s lap as you felt a poke underneath.

Johnny groaned against you, parting the breathtaking kiss. He removed you from his lap, only to turn you against him, now facing the professor who had shed his mask. His fingers dipped under the band of your panties, into your untouched bud and your wet folds. He rubbed with a hum, spreading your filth.

“You're so wet, hen,” he commented and inserted a digit, rubbing it against your slick walls.

Your teeth sunk to your lower lip, biting back a squeal at the sudden intrusion.

Simon placed his fingers under your chin and leaned down on you, his tongue running over your lips, something he had always wanted to do before. “Don't bite your lips. That's something we're supposed to do, yeah?” He whispered on your lips and explored your mouth, savoring the echoes of your pleasure, and left to plant his marks on your collarbones. Hands gathered your shirt and lifted it, exposing your chest to his sight.

His mouth dropped to the nipple, sucking while his hand went to work on the other. 

Johnny began to pump faster, making you throw your head back to his chest, moaning out in pleasure as you shot a glance at other professors.

“You are not so innocent after all, hm?” Price took your jaw and ran his thumb over your lips, before pushing it in, muffling your cries.

“No one's that innocent nowadays, Price,” Garrick remarked, watching the frown on your face and the flutter of your lashes at every jerk of Johnny's hand made and Simon’s tongue did. His tongue ran over his lips, hand cupping over his hard-on, palming himself through his pants.

You began to suck on Price’s finger, making his dick twitch in his pants—his brain wondering how good your mouth would feel around him. He pulled his hand away to work down on his belt and pants, hands pulling out his shaft. He gave it a few pumps, chuckling when he noticed the way your tongue ran over your swollen lips before a groan escaped from it as Simon planted a bite on your neck and Johnny's thumb began to work on your clit.

Price brought his tip to your mouth. “Open up, dove,” he demanded and grunted as he pushed his shaft in, breath hitching at the warm feeling of your tongue and your throat. Your face twisted a bit at the taste of his precum. He let you adjust for a couple of seconds, hand going to the back of your head before he began to thrust.

One of your hands flew to hold onto his hip as you let him use your mouth, eyes fluttering closed and focusing on breathing through your nose. Out of the blue, Johnny pulled his fingers out and Simon stepped away, eliciting a whine from you. Vibrations ran down Price’s body and he groaned.

Unbuckling of belts echoed in the air, and you were pulled away from Price, making him curse. The next thing you knew, you were staring into the eyes of the man you had admired for so long.

“Sir—”

Kyle put his thumb over your lips, cutting off your words. “Not sir. Call me Kyle.” He positioned his cock under your cunt, rubbing the tip on your entrance.

You gasped at the sensation. “Kyle . . .” Your jaw slacked as he slowly went in, hands pulling you closer to his clothed body, fingers running on your flesh, gentle just as how he played his instruments. 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, hands sliding down to your ass to guide you up and down on his length.

Now, he made music out of you.

It didn’t take a few ticks of the clock until they fucked you with all they had.

Simon’s cock was buried in the confines of your mouth, fingers tangled on your tresses, watching the curls of your lashes get soaked by the tears that rolled down on your cheeks as they relentlessly pounded on you—Kyle on your pussy, Price on your ass, and Johnny on your grasps. You had never felt so full, so complete.

You feel your legs shake—the sign you have reached the pinnacle of pleasure and exhaustion when Kyle hits the spot deep in you. You whined against Simon’s cock, groaning as beg for the overdue orgasm that they had been keeping from you.

You felt a hand slide down your thigh, finding your swollen clit, before the rough pads of the fingers rubbed aguishly gentle and slow. If they weren’t your professors, you would have cursed at whoever the one was doing it. But your wish had been heard and he picked up the pace until you were crying, arching your back.

But they weren’t done.

You felt Kyle and Price become rougher at each of their thrust, Simon tugging on your hair harder, and Johnny losing his rhythm on your hands, until they all pulled back, coating your skin with their cum.

You slumped on Kyle’s chest, limbs like a stringless puppet as you ride out the aftermath of your orgasm. Your heavy lids fell close, tired from the deed, but you fought back the drowsiness, not wanting to fall asleep in the state you were in.

“You did good, love,” Kyle cooed into your ear and planted a soft kiss on your temple.

Johnny leaned down and pressed a kiss on your shoulder. “Yer amazing, bonnie. Can’t wait to have more of ya.”

A hand caressed your flushed cheek, swiping the transparent mix of tears and sweat. “Let’s bring you back to your apartment, dove,” Price said in a gentle voice.

Gentle fingers scraped your scalp, gaining a hum from you, must be Simon with how his fingers feel on your head. An unspoken apology about the way he tugged on your locks.

Like the sky glowing, your skin glittered in the ruins they drew up. A masterpiece you were, vulnerable, vincible in their sight, like walls that had fallen. And yet as though a book which held thousands of words, they still had more things to know about you. 

Like every start of a relationship. How fortresses were made. Each beginning of a story. 

You basked in the echoes of their praise, letting their words bring you comfort and slowly help you regain your mind and strength.

Like after a fire, new maps were drawn. A new tale was written, with them, who swallowed a star.

Taglist: @itsyellow

[ghast1yghosts]

famous steve wearing a mask when he can, declining hugs, and limiting events he goes to bc the person he lives with is currently immune compromised.

meanwhile rockstar eddie munson has been out of the spotlight as of late, nothing even on his social media—unusual for him.

steve mentions his roommate at a con panel to explain why he’s not doing big hugs & limited photo ops.

the dude has a cameo in one movie and apparently they’re besties? sus.

their fans pick up on it, as they do. eddie comes across a tiktok some someone breaking it down-

“i feel like there could be more to this we’ve missed. this is crazy oh my god- also this isn’t a discussion on whatever’s going on with eddie, i hope he’s doing okay.”

eddie stitches it with him half cut off on the bottom, and in the most monotone voice: “oh my god you might be on to something.” it cuts to him still cut off but with a selfie of him and steve sat in some chairs, u can see an iv bag pole but that about it for context.

“has anyone brought up this picture yet 👁️👁️” then in his normal voice, “idk just food for thought.” and the video ends.

people, rightfully, start losing their shit. does it confirm they’re roommates??? why are they together??? are they together??? it’s all very entertaining.

[lockwood-fic-recs]

listening to lovers rock

by devilstongueknot on ao3

Rating: T | Category: F/M, M/M | Relationship: Lockwood/Lucy/George

It was like the moment a flock of birds take off in an explosion of feathers, when a crew of oarsmen begin to pull with one stroke instead of eight. It was swing, it was flawless and in tune and in sync, and as the three slammed on their instruments on tempo with each of their heartbeats, it was clear this was something different from what they'd played before.

When Lockwood met Lucy's eyes, he wasn't tired anymore.

Or, lockwood and co. battle the london music scene, solve a mystery, and maybe fall in love along the way.

[ultimate-shipper-trash-blog]

What Are You a Cop?

Eddie is drowning his sorrows at the bar. His band didn't get the Saturday spot at 'Damsels' and when he went home to complain about it he caught his boyfriend in bed with someone else.

He feels someone come up behind him and he quickly ducks his head onto the counter, cigarette still in hand.

"Hi! Um I saw you from across the bar- can I buy you a drink?"

"Fuck off," he mumbles into his elbow.

"Are you ok?"

"Fuck off."

"You know...you shouldn't smoke in here."

That makes Eddie's head pop up off the counter. It actually pisses him off to the extreme. Straw that broke the bank etc. He acts in a flash, grabbing the closest drink to him.

"What are you? A cop?" He growls and throws the drink at the voice.

His eyes are blurry and have trouble adjusting to the light. When they do the first thing he notices is the earth-shattering beautiful man in front of him, vodka cran running down his face, and a smirk on his lips.

Wait.

Fuck

The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a police badge.

"How'd you guess?"

"Well-" Eddie's wide eyed and stuttering. "I thought either those handcuffs in your pocket were real or you were excited to see me."

"HA! Oh that's a good one. You're gonna have to come with me."

"Shit."

-------

"Come on officer! Lemme go!!!! I'm sorry ok. I'm so sorry. I was having a crappy night and I didn't mean to take it out on you."

"Mr. Munson, you attacked a police officer, smoked a cigarette indoors, and you're too drunk for me to send home without supervision. One night in the tank is not gonna hurt you. I won't even put this on your record."

"Eddie."

"What?"

"I've heard cops say Mr. Munson enough in my life. Eddie's fine."

"Ok then Eddie, I'm Steve."

"Perfect."

Eddie rambles to Steve for hours until the alcohol starts to hit him a different way and sleep overtakes him.

---

There's a bang on the cell door and Eddie shoots up out of his slumber.

"WHUH"

"Goodmornin Eds, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three."

"Perfect! Let's get you home."

"You're...taking me home?"

"Well I...I want to make sure you're ok. I did enjoy spending time with you I wouldn't mind getting in an extra ten minutes." Steve smiles at him sheepishly.

A small blush grows on Eddie's face.

On the drive back Eddie becomes enamored with Steve. He loves the way he snorts when he laughs, he loves hearing him sing along to Fleetwood Mac, and he loves hearing about the kids he helps through a police program. He forgets all about his cheating boyfriend and knows Steve is all he wants. He feels devastated when the car comes to a stop.

"Well...I guess I'll see you around?"

Panic shoots through Eddie.

"Well I uh, never got that drink from you. Would you like to come in?"

Eddie will never forget the red face and glistening smile on Steve in that moment.

"How about coffee?"

"It's a date."

----

COMMENT 🫵

[shakingparadigm]

modern college au where model ivan comes home late after photoshoots and listens to till's demos for hours on repeat to wallow in his agony (the songs are always for mizi)

[diazsdimples]

Some of y'all are sleeping on classical music I fear, like nothing will get me more emotional than the final few bars of a piece with a full orchestra playing at top volume, bonus points if there's an organ or a choir involved

[starry-bi-sky]

Stuck in the middle of a forest made of

Flesh and bones and they're all scared of

A lost little boy who has lost his heart

Fear's not enough, they have to

Tear him apart —-------

There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well: 

He’s adopted.

He can’t remember anything else before that.  

‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents. 

What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill. 

When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.

(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.) 

The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.

It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one. 

The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself. 

His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.

(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.) 

(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.) 

They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.  

(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)

Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe. 

He turned back around and went inside.

—-------

Where do we go

When the river's running slow

Where do we run

When the cats kill one by one

—------

One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.  

He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal. 

It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking. 

He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter. 

Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind. 

(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)

After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous. 

He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.

—------

Hazel beneath our claws

While we wait for cerulean to cry

Unsettled ticks run through time

Enough for the hunt to go awry

—-----

There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own. 

He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t. 

Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward. 

(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”) 

(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)  

He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell. 

A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his. 

He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it. 

His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.

Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.   

—-------

Harpy hare

Where have you buried all your children?

Tell me so I say

—-------

When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now. 

Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.

He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.

Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own. 

(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)

(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)

(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)  

—--------------

It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders

And they will never

Hear me here listen to croons and a calling

I'll tell them all the

Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow

Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare

—-------

More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother. 

Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten. 

His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands. 

They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely. 

It is a fast dream. 

His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.

His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods. 

The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him. 

The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal. 

His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train. 

(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.) 

—---  

She can't keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

Mother, tell me so I say

(Mother, tell me so I say)

—-------

When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again. 

The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person. 

(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.) 

(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)   

Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird. 

(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)

—------

Seeker, do you ever come to wonder

If what you're looking for is within where you hold

Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path

You'll soon forget

Home

—---------

When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is. 

When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.

‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off. 

He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.

He ends up calling himself Phantom. 

(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.) 

----------

Home is where we are

Home is where you are

Home is where I am

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

Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Musician Age Gap AU Pt 20 of 20

The first year, Kara knows she made the right decision. But that doesn't make it any easier. She retreats for a good week and a half before she forces herself out of her apartment to walk the streets of National City. Day after day she wanders, until one afternoon a spot of color catches her eye.

A butterfly alights on a park bench-- perhaps, Kara thinks, the same one she and Lena had sat upon-- and sits, lightly winking its wings open and closed. It seems out of place, even in the park, at odds with the industrial buildings and zooming cars. Kara sits and stares, thinking unable to help the next thought that runs through her mind.

I wish I could show Lena.

There's nothing that says she can't... the split was amicable, and maybe-- maybe they could still manage to be friends. But as soon as Kara snaps the picture on the phone, she knows she can't. They were never really just friends, were they?

She almost deletes the picture. But at the last minute, she simply slips it into a new folder in her photos app. There it lives, soon to be joined by other images she captures on her walks.

Kara sends a few to Esme, just to satisfy her trigger finger that wants to fire the thing off to Lena. On Kara's birthday a few weeks later, Esme gifts her a slip of paper with an instagram username and password. When she logs in she finds a carefully curated feed of her National City photos, with simple descriptions and minimal hashtags.

It takes her breath away, to see the images reframed not as the product of her heartache, but as hidden glimpses into the city. It makes them less her guilty pleasures, and more... a gift.

It sparks something in Kara, inspires her to continue, and expand her horizons beyond city limits. She starts hiking, first with Esme, then on her own. She buys a real camera and enrolls in classes to learn how to use it.

By the start of year two without Lena, she's hopping planes to other countries, other continents, in search of secret vistas to capture. Her instagram turns into a sister channel for a travel blog, which gains her followers and a small amount of popularity online. She's careful, though, not to put her face on it. She operates faceless, under the penname of KD, and that's enough for her.

She can't say if she hides her identity to ensure any traction she gains is for her work rather than her brief stint as a celebrity's date, or whether it's to keep her work more honest (its more rewarding to find areas on her own, to travel on her own terms than it is be sponsored or reviewing upon request). Or maybe it's simply to avoid the restrictions that notoreity had put on Lena. Not that Kara thought her site could elevate her to such a status, but... she's content with who she is, and how she is.

Every so often, the magazines and tabloids explode with news of Lena, and each time Kara's heart breaks a little-- even as it beats a little harder.

First, there's a bit of a hubbub about ownership rights of Lena's first three album masters. But then, six months later, Morgan Edge is indicted on charges of sexual assault, sexual harrassment, sexual abuse of minors, and emotional abuse. Lena isn't listed among the identified plaintiffs, but Kara knows. Kara knows, and her hear breaks.

The world is shocked when Lena testifies to her own abuse at Morgan's hands, the world is shocked, but Kara isn't.

Kara *is* surprised when news breaks of Lena obtaining new management shortly after the trial. Though the press frames it as Lillian retiring, Kara knows nothing short of a cataclysmic schism could cause a split between Lena and her mother.

And when Lena does release new music, three years after she leaves Kara in Alex's driveway, it sounds... different. Not a bad different. A good different. Kara has known since Paris that Lena's personal life fuels her songwriting, and it's clear that's still the case-- just as its clear that this album had been written in the midst of the legal battles and personal journey of confronting her abuser and coming out the other side.

When Kara listens, she hears acceptance, empowerment, and forgiveness. She hears Lena's value in herself, and a strength in herself that Lena has fully embraced. One song in particular resonates, not just with Kara but seemingly the entire planet. When Kara watches the VMAs with Esme that year, Lena performs *that* song with a full chorus of women behind her, making it a veritable anthem for victims' strength.

If Kara cries, she knows she's not the only one. It may no longer be her place to be proud of Lena, but she is. She is so, so proud.

After that, Lena becomes more visible. She takes more interviews, more guest appearances on talk shows to both advertise her new album and to advocate for victims and the charities that proceeds from the album will support. Kara doesn't go looking for these interviews, but when she sees one playing in the airport lounge she can't help but stop and watch, and marvel at the peace she can see in Lena's features.

Right around her birthday, five years into her travel-photography life, Kara readily accepts Esme's invitation to help her tour Metropolis University. They make a weekend of it, including sight seeing around the city, and even getting last minute seats to the taping of a talk show.

To their shock and surprise, the guest who walks out is Lena herself.

Kara clutches Esme's wrist, who blanches under Kara's accusatory glare. "I swear I had no idea!" Esme hisses. Her eyes are wide and frantic. "Do you want to leave?"

Part of Kara does want to leave, but she knows that bustling out now would only call more attention to themselves. So she simply shakes her head and settles in.

The interview starts just like all of the others Kara has watched over the years. Good natured banter, then a segue into the purpose of Lena's visit. She discusses her philanthropy, her album, all the usuals, and Kara sits enraptured.

Her heart flutters at the smooth cadence of Lena's voice, richer and more velvet than Kara remembers. And the Lena she remembers had always contained such coiled energy that Kara wondered how she ever sat still. But now, she's relaxed and at ease-- upbeat and engage, but with a calm she didn't have five years ago.

Towards the end of the segment, Lena asks to share something new.

"Well, some of you may have heard it, but it doesn't officially come out until next week, so it's *mostly* new. I wrote it a while ago, when a relationship was still new, so-- here's to all the people hoping for more."

A production assistant carries out an acoustic guitar, and when Lena starts to strum, Kara's heart leaps in her throat. The lyrics Lena sees are bright and hopeful... starry-eyed if a song could be such. It's a song of a crush hoping to be something more, a promise of love if only it were accepted.

Kara can feel Esme swaying to the tune, bopping just a little bit to the chipper beat, but she only has eyes for Lena. For most of the song, Lena looks either at the strings or the middle distance. But then, as the bridge leads into the final chorus, she scans the audience.

Holding her breath, Kara expects Lena's gaze to slide right past her. But with wide eyes of her own Kara sees the moment Lena catches sight of her. Green eyes widen momentarily, sparking with surprise, then pure delight. Lena's features spread into a kilowatt smile before she slides her gaze away. Kara swears the strumming gets a little more enthusiastic, Lena's voice a little brighter.

When it finishes, the applause from the audience should be deafening, but Kara can barely hear it, even when the crowd stands in ovation. She watches as Lena and the host exchange thanks and pleasantries, and then Lena exits, still waving and beaming.

Kara leaves with the rest of the audience, numb and quiet as Esme stands anxiously beside her. Had that song-- could it have been about--

"Wait!"

A vaguely familiar call makes Kara pause. She and Esme turn to see a young woman with dark hair trotting towards them.

"Excuse me!" Jess calls as she nears. "Would you come with me please?"

Esme's hand closes defensively on Kara's, but Kara responds before her brain can talk her out of it.

"Sure."

Jess leads them back past the soundstage, through a maze of turns that terminates in a cinderblock hallway lined with doors. Kara doesn't have to guess who's behind the one Jess drops them in front of.

Jess meets Kara's gaze with a smile. "It's good to see you again, Miss Danvers."

Kara can barely offer a smile back before Jess reaches out to turn the knob. The door opens.

Lena stands on the other side, a respectful distance from the door but plainly anticipating their arrival. She straightens as the door swings wide, and Kara can barely bring herself to step inside for the way their proximity has turned her legs to jelly.

Lena smiles. "Hey there," she exhales.

"I--" Kara's voice cracks, forcing her to try again. "Hey."

"Hi, Lena," Esme offers nervously. Kara could kiss her. The distraction pulls Lena's gaze from Kara, giving her the chance to catch her breath.

Lena's eyes widen slightly. "Esme?! Wow, look at you! Does this mean you're too old for a hug now?"

Esme giggles. "No!"

The two hug warmly, and Kara's amazed to see that Esme is almost taller than Lena, now.

"I loved the new song," Esme tells Lena, grinning.

"Thanks," Lena returns. Her gaze slides back to Kara. "I've been profiting off my pain and heartbreak for years. Figured it's time for some of the good stuff to see the light of day."

Kara swallows thickly. "Was that about..."

Lena nods, shifting self-consciously on her feet. "Yeah." She looks at Kara, her gaze open and vulnerable. "Did you like it?"

"Did I--? Lena, I think everyone in the world is gonna like it."

"No offense to the rest of the world," Lena says in a low voice, "but I don't care what they think."

Kara can feel Esme's eyes bouncing between them.

"Honey, could you give us a minute?"

"Yep," Esme says swiftly. "Right. I'll just go wait... It was Jess, right?"

The door closes, leaving Kara and Lena in a room charged with electricity just waiting to spark.

"Do you still feel that way?" Kara can barely bring herself to ask the question, but knows if she doesn't she'd regret it forever.

Lena shifts again, wiping her palms on the front of her jeans. "Would it make any difference if I do?"

It's a fair question. Has anything really changed? Lena is still a critically acclaimed and internationally beloved artist, and Kara... Kara pauses.

Lena's circumstances may not have changed, but Kara's have. She isn't a forty year old a hairsbreadth away from a mid-life crisis anymore. She isn't miserable in her day to day. She lives comfortably doing something she loves, something she knows she'll never give up. And though she may not have had any serious relationships since she last saw Lena, she's closer to her family than she's ever been. She isn't *alone*.

That knowledge allows her to offer the truth.

"Yes," she breathes. "It would."

Lena's eyebrows lift hopefully, an astonished smile sprouting on her lips. Then it softens to a mirthful grin. "Slower this time. Lest I whisk you away on tour again."

"Hey, now," Kara chides softly. "We had some good times on that tour. All five weeks of it."

Lena laughs, the sound bright and happy and golden. "Yeah," she agrees, before falling quiet. She gazes at Kara with soft eyes. "I've missed you, Kara. You have no idea how much."

"I might have some idea," she allows, thinking of her own life the past five years. "A lot has happened I've wanted to tell you about."

Pressing her lips together, Lena guiltily shoves her hands in her pockets. "I... I think I might have already seen some of it."

Kara blinks. "What?"

"Okay, maybe all of it? KD Photog on insta?"

"Wha... how!?!?"

"I saw a picture on insta of a park that seemed familiar, and when I looked a little closer, I found out the photographer lived in National City. I swear I didn't know it was you, I just admired the photos. It wasn't until I followed to the website that I suspected."

Kara stares at her, breathless. "Wow," she exhales.

Lena's expression falters. "I didn't mean... I'm sorry, I guess I should have-- I should have stopped reading once I suspected."

"No, Lena, it's fine," Kara reassures her, regathering her wits. "I don't mind. It's just..." She hesitates for a moment. "Esme is the one who actually first set up the instagram account. I'd sent the photos to her... so I wouldn't send them to you."

Green eyes blink at her, shocked. "Oh."

"I never thought you'd ever see them," Kara continues. "But I'm glad you did. Because I did want to show them to you. Every single one."

Lena's eyes crinkle at the corners. She tilts her head to one side. "Then it sounds like we have a lot to catch up on."

Kara nods. "We do."

"I'm actually in town for a while," Lena tells her. "Maybe... maybe if you'll also be here, we could maybe... do dinner."

Kara considers the offer. "Are you free now?"

Lena blinks, the breaks into a brilliant smile. "Yeah."

"Then how about dessert first?" Kara turns her chin over her shoulder. "Esme?" she asks totally conversationally.

There's a squeak at the door, confirming that Esme's curiosity had her pressing her ear to the door. Then, "um... yeah?"

"Would you like to get ice cream with me and Lena?"

The door flings itself open. "Oh my god, YES!"

Lena's laughter fills the room, filling Kara with a warmth she hadn't totally realized she'd been missing.

As they gather up their things to leave, Lena clasps Kara's hand gently. "Dinner...?"

"Just us," Kara promises. "If that's okay."

Lena nods, her fingers tightening on Kara's.

"I can't wait."

Stepping out into the open air of the city, Kara feels something new bloom in her chest. Seeing Lena this time feels less a whirlwind than more a simple fork in the path on one of her hikes. The paths look largely the same, except that one includes Lena holding her hand.

One thing Kelly said, in perhaps the first year after Lena, that had really resonated with Kara was that lasting romances really only required three things: the person, place, and timing.

Right now, even in these early minutes, Kara feels hopeful that maybe--just maybe-- they might finally have all three.