#composing prompt

[hitlikehammers]

tremolo

…what if instead of learning clarinet or percussion, you could learn to read the music of hearts? 💕

rating: t ♥️ cw: love at first sight, car crash (off-screen), SUCH FLUFF ♥️ tags: ✨magical realism au, musician eddie munson, paramedic steve harrington, kinda soulmates (it makes more sense with the magical realism part), character study, softness

for @steddielovemonth day one: "Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet." —Plato

It was just like learning any instrument, really.

At least what they tried to convince Eddie to believe at the tender age of nine.

But it was all about finding an aptitude, apparently. Developing a talent. Fourth grade rolls around and he fucks up blowing with a reed, manages to give himself a tongue splinter. Nearly passes out on the brass. Ends up with the choir lady looking over horn-rimmed glasses and narrowing her eyes at him less like a teacher and more like a fortune teller or something, scrying what’s to come of him, like she can see through all that he is and will be, before she goes scribbling something on his little slip of paper already marking all the failed kinds of music he’ll never get to make and telling him: go to Room 011.

But no one ever goes to Room 011.

He meets a petite woman with mousy hair and clothes that look like they belong to someone else, somehow. She introduces herself as Miss L. She looks like a Miss L., so he doesn’t think any further on the point.

You will not play much, really, she tells him, and the way she talks is kinda funny, like she learned words but not from people actually saying them out loud. Eddie kinda likes it, though. The playing is only for emergencies, and if you find your True Note.

Eddie doesn’t know what most of that means, except for the fact that the whole point of trying—and failing—at all the instruments was to join the school band with something to play. So if that’s not what he’s going to learn, then what the heck is Eddie meant to be doing down here—is what he wants to ask.

He manages a little politer version of the same, his nan’d be proud. His dad wouldn’t care even if he was around and not behind bars. His uncle might be happy that Eddie’s kept his nose clean just this one time. So he figures he does okay.

But really, he just wants an answer. He was supposed to get to learn music. It was the one thing that was keeping this whole year feeling like he could maybe, maybe survive it.

It also means he doesn’t have to take the art class that’s mostly kindergarten crafts instead of real art, so.

“You will be learning music,” Miss L. answers, more patient than most grownups; “you are here to learn how to read the songs that hearts sing.”

And that is, by far, in all of his whole nine years of living, the most fucking absurd sentence that Eddie has ever heard.

——

He’d kinda thought it was a joke, when he left that first afternoon to get back before Language Arts.

Turned out: nope. It was not.

He’d maybe thrown something slightly less childish than a tantrum, when what he got was a big set of earphones and a box the size of an Easy-Bake Oven, where apparently he’d be playing some kind of recordings to start his lessons.

“Do you not wish to learn?” Miss L. asked so simply, and Eddie…

Eddie reminded himself that no matter how foolish and stupid this was, it couldn’t possibly be worse than making construction paper collages with Elmer’s glue, so.

He put the headphones on and pressed play.

——

His workbooks didn’t look like anyone else’s in band—in fact, Eddie didn’t think he was actually a part of the class band, like, he wasn’t expecting to play at the spring concert with the flutes and the trombones, anymore. When he had sheets of staves to fill out they didn’t have straight lines. He didn’t draw different circles with little flags and bridges connecting them. He…

“When there are no keys, and there is no time signature,” Miss L. had explained, and it took time to make any sense; “you are the rules, and you feel what is a melody,” she’d tapped something that feltbeautiful, like daffodils blooming, though Eddie couldn’t say why; “and what is a warning.”

And then she’d tapped again, and it clenched in Eddie’s chest like a tornado siren, and…yeah.

That was kind of the best explanation he could have asked for.

——

It’s in middle school, when everyone else gets new band directors while Eddie sticks with Miss L., that it starts to…well.

That’s when the fact that Eddie’s alone in his lessons, and no one seems to know quite what he does—and the other kids who get that kind of treatment are usually the ones who can’t add or spell right, who have some kind of problem to work on extra hard—but it’s around then that Eddie starts being called names for it.

It’s not too bad, at first. Eddie’s worked for his two full years of elementary school lessons to get through recognizing the songs, suffers the point where recognizing becomes unbearable, overwhelming—Miss L. never left his side when he held his head in pain for all the noise, all the songs because they were everywhere, in everyone, and how was he supposed to learn what was right and what was good and what was just okay but then what was also everything the opposite when he couldn’t even think—

But she taught him the tools, the ways to sift through the chatter, as she called it. Because not all of it was a warning; not all of it was bad just because it wasn’t beautiful.

Some of the noise just was.

She showed him how to trust his own ear; his own song in his own chest as a guide, because that’s why he was here: he had a gift, an aptitude, built in and in need of development. Liked they’d said in the beginning.

He’s nearly thirteen when she teaches him how to write his own songs, in the not-notes and the no-tempos. In the nameless flow of sound.

It’s when his classmates overhear one of those works-in-progress, the taunting gets worse, starts to hedge toward unbearable.

Until Eddie asks if he can just stop: quit this. It’s not worth it. He doesn’t want to be a freak.

“It is a rite of passage, to ask this,” Miss L. says slowly, no judgement, and weirdly no pity; “but I should tell you first,” and her eyes narrow more than Eddie thinks he’s ever seen them.

“Your skill is already greater than any I have seen, and is only getting sharper, more keen.”

And hell if a teacher’s ever said something niceabout Eddie Munson, let alone something that sounds like flat-out praise.

“They cannot hear the music, this is why they say those things,” she flicks her wrist less like conducting a chorus and more like shooing a gnat, like that’s the appropriate amount of consideration the comments deserve. “Your task has always been to teach them what they do not know, to show them the wonder they are ignoring as they live and breathe.”

And while it really would have been nice to know that before signing up for this…this what, calling? Vocation?

While that would’ve been nice, Eddie…Eddie can at least mostly understand he wouldn’t have understood any of it in the fourth grade.

He barely understands now.

But he can feel it. He understands how to feel the music that fills all those gaps.

“This is common,” Miss L. turns back to him, steeples her fingers while humming something from the radio: not bad, but not beautiful. That’s what she means, he realizes. The radio plays common.

“This,” and she puts a hand over her own chest and keeps time with her fingers on the tabletop as she hums a wholly novel thing out of thin air, and Eddie has never seen someone else recognize the music, has never watched someone compose in the veins where the songs that hearts sing are played, let alone in real time; maybe she never had because he had to lean for himself, first.

But it is kind of exquisite to witness.

“This,” she stops, and raises a brow pointedly in Eddie’s direction; “is human, built in your cells.”

Eddie couldn’t name why, precisely, but he feels…shamed, but also empowered. So different, but they make an almost compelling melody together as they clash.

“They will call you freak before they call you prodigy,” Miss L. says it like a fact, which…kinda sucks to hear, in all honesty.

“They will label you insane, before they recognize you as genius,” and the way she adds that part makes him feel like that was her personal burden to bear, and he aches for her in it.

“They will cry out garbage and nonsense,” and here, these words: these are the ones Eddie knows immediately he’s meant to be hearing, be weaving into notes the strongest, the ones she wants him to keep closest and never lose:

“They will cry out worthless,” she spits out with a venom he’s never heard her use; “before they will sob in the face of your masterworks, and how they will breathe magic in the soul.”

And…Eddie doesn’t know exactly what to do in the face of the conviction she says that last part with. To doubt it, as he instinctively wants to, feels vile; the most egregious disrespect. He can’t bring himself to even try. So, he asks instead, voice rough:

“When will it change?”

Because despite everything: he doesn’t want to be a freak.

“That I cannot say,” she sighs, and she does sound sorry; “and it may never change at all.”

Eddie doesn’t know if he’s built to handle that, the possibility of never.

“But even if you leave, here and now,” Miss L. cuts into his despairing; “even if you stop your learning, the songs will never leave you.”

Oh.

Oh, so did they…did they teach him to hear a endless goddamn curse, and as a fucking kid—

“You would always have come to hear them,” Miss L. must read his mind, or maybe just his face; “just never with any place to funnel the noise,” and he…guesses he should be grateful. He nearly went mad in those early years, before she taught him how to make new melodies, concertos the likes of which even the great masters hadn’t penned, because they played in a different medium. Their notes and structured time were useful, but limited.

And if they never heard otherwise, how would even the most brilliant talents know what they were passing over, leaving behind?

“Do you still wish to leave?”

Eddie turns, almost having forgotten Miss L. was still sitting there, watching him. Almost having forgotten what he’d come to ask, to give up.

There’s no question left, now.

He gets out his notebook, his pen, and starts as he always does.

With the listening.

——

It’s a genuine distraction—the songs get louder with time, but Miss L. tells him that’s a sign of his skill growing, his notice of the equivalents of key signatures and ligature notes in the heartbeats he passes every day—but it costs him passing senior year once, and then again, and almost a third time until by the skin of his teeth, he manages. While every other teacher shames him for it, derides him as incurably stupid, or at the very least unambitious to the point of embarrassment, the extra years mean more time with Miss L., and Eddie…most days, Eddie is nothing but thankful.

More time means Eddie also learns that the songs he hears are as much a public service as they are an art form, as much a defense mechanism as a craft. He knows when bullies are on the prowl, and to make himself scarce for their screeching cacophonies. He knows when he has to be less of a coward and step in when a wild rhythm makes him sick with its fear.

The more he pays attention to the not-quite-beautiful songs—especially when he thinks on them later and stumbles upon nuggets of the exquisite inside every way they weren’t—the more he remembers years ago, out of almost nowhere, but maybe…maybe everywhere, like it’d been written in his heart’s song the day she spoke it:

“My first day,” he enters the same room—not the same-same room but the one in the high school that’s as abandoned as all of them have been, always Room 011—but he enters the room close to the end of the year, the last year, with the question thick on his tongue, and woven the same in his song as he closes the door and feels his heartbeat quicken for no reason and every reason, like he’s long learned these songs always do.

Miss L., for her part, just nods; waits.

“You said,” Eddie rolls his lips together; “emergencies.”

It’s a delay tactic. They both know it.

She’s kind to play along.

“Mmm,” she hums; “the slightest bits, yes, you can shift the rules to change the song, because you made the rules to begin with,” she eyes him carefully, then. “But only by bits, and in only the most dire moments.”

Yeah, yeah, sure. He never thought he could like…write lines to coax a heart to sing itself back from the dead or some shit. He gets the point.

Again, they both know: that’s not the point he’s here for, heart pounding high in his throat.

“But then you also said something else.”

This time, she doesn’t nod at all; just stares. Eddie has to clear his throat twice to make a sound so as to ask:

“What’s a True Note?”

Because Eddie’s had a couple flings here and there. And the idea of anything real with someone else, alongside the weight of this…talent of his, this training that’s defined half his life by now: it’s really nothing more than a stray idea. But Eddie can’t really hide from the fact that, somewhere along the way, he’s suffused that idea with so much promise and potential, but with no legs for it to fucking stand on.

And he’s about to graduate. About to go out into the world and…who the fuck knows what.

He needs to either hold onto this insane, silly notion of some cosmic meant-to-be match waiting for him somewhere, that it’s at least possible, and then hold on to it like burning—or let it go, and get on with the rest of his fucking life.

“Do you know how I said you could sway the rhythm just the littlest bit, in the greatest of need?”

Of course he did. She literally just said it.

“Your True Note will sing like you have never heard before,” she tells him like it’s not something…immense; “and that song will sway your rhythm so much more than the littlest of anything.”

She just fucking says it, like it isn’t already swaying the rhythm his heart sings in. Here and now.

“That heartsong will change your world.”

And all Eddie can even think to ask, to make more plain in it, is just one thing:

“Will I change theirs, too?”

Miss L’s eyes lock to his and hold for enough seconds where it should be uncomfortable, where his chest starts to grow unbearably tight.

“Hmm,” she considers finally; “if it is meant to be that way.”

Eddie wants to scream. It’s not enough.

And still somehow, it will have to be.

——

In the months that follow his freedom, he misses Miss L. Kinda desperately.

But the lack of structure, the openness of knowing he has to find a way to piece together all the snippets of song he’s bombarded with: it is the reason he ever picks up a guitar. It’s the whole learning heartsongs thing that he has to thank for it, a roundabout journey toward the destination he’d wanted from the beginning.

Or else, that he thought he did.

It’s not just guitar, though. He eventually learns the woodwinds without ending up with a splinter in his mouth. Figures out the different harmonies at hand in making sure he tempers the way he breathes for the brass. He loves the piano, and the cello especially, alongside guitar and double bass: he makes a trip back home specifically to see her and ask—Miss L. tells him it’s probably because of their strings, like hearts have, too.

It feels right in a way things haven’t felt in a very long time.

Which is really how he comes to not only understand, but to accept in his bones: no matter if they ever call him prodigy or genius, if he ever plays a concert hall or anywhere but on a street corner with an open case for change, he was made for this; built for this. The woman with the horn-rimmed glasses who sent him to the basement music room saw it in him. Miss L. proved it to him by teaching him to prove it to himself. He doesn’t know if he’d have picked it, but he knows it was never something he could have picked or turned down in the first place at all: it’s who he is.

He is the music. He is the songs that hearts use for singing. And maybe someday he’ll meet someone who sees it in him, and hears his song, and sings ecstatic. Maybe.

He hopes.

But either way: this is his life.

This is his melody.

——

It takes years before they do sob for his masterpieces, for them to be ready for a style and cadence they don’t understand because they will never comprehend the language, that speaks deeper than the logic required for any of those rules. It takes a long fucking time before they start listening with the lens of the first song any of them ever learned. But the time does come, and Eddie is grateful, because he’d genuinely feared the maybe-never he’d been warned about. He’s glad that’s not where he is, now.

But now? Things start to happen almost unbearably fast. Shows here and flights there, guest appearances and interviews, record labels and live recordings, a book deal he can’t even begin to think about. The world tips on its axis and Eddie only really considered that happening to him for one reason: because of a song so beautiful, in a Note so True—this isn’t that.

But everything still feels upside down anyway; totally off-kilter.

He’s crossed ten time-zones this time. He’s exhausted, but he has a performance tonight, just like he did in the tonight of the place he just left. The car he’s in on his way to the next venue is sleek, like they all are now; his team is already there preparing, so it’s just him and some local hires he hasn’t even had a chance to learn the names of yet, which he hates. He hates being privy to their songs and not even knowing their names, let alone their stories.

He jots the notes he gleans from how they sing without their words on the drive across town anyway. Waste not, and all that.

Eddie has the pen in hand, cap between his teeth, when the truck plows straight into them.

What follows would be unsurprising, if Eddie could process it from a bystander’s point of view—as it is, the only thing he knows in the melee is the music.

He is devastated, as he reaches out for the slowing songs around him, knowing in the back of his mind what their slacking tempos mean, and marveling with something like horror at how beautiful each one is as it starts to fade: still unique, still something Eddie could braid into a piece, certainly one to draw tears.

His own song is ebbing, he knows, but it’s less important than the sweet melodies around him, especially—

Oh.

Eddie thinks, with what may be the last thought left to him as pressure and heat and pain tingle at the edges of the music, almost too strong now to be drowned out by the notes that are what Eddie is at his core: but he thinks he may be too far gone already, because what he begins to hear is…

Exultant. It’s…

If Eddie believed in a heaven, this would be what the hosts there sang. When the idea of divinity is bandied about, they can only ever be talking about some cheap imitation of what Eddie hears now. Luminous. Effervescent.

Beautiful in a way that exceeds the word itself so deeply that it barely fits, obliterates the notion on sight.

And what a gift, Eddie muses as everything dims to black, to hear such Notes, such perfect music as the last thing he has to hold onto in the end.

To end on something that’s True.

——

The next tones Eddie hears are mechanical. He winces—not bad but certainly not beautiful—and then winces harder because wincing itself fucking hurts.

He holds himself still, seeks the song he knows in his own veins: yes, and he’d been so sure it was gone, because there’d be an accident, a crash, he’d been thrown, crushed, songs all around him were dying and he’d heard the magnificent symphony of otherworldly perfection so—

“I’m technically not supposed to be here,” a voice interjects, or no: drips in leisurely, like comfort, like honey; “because you’re a patient, and I’m,” and Eddie forces his eyes open to see the voice come out of a man, who is pointing at his chest: a uniform. Medical.

“I’m not dead?”

All signs do point that direction but…Eddie had been kinda fairly sure he was done for.

“God,” the man chokes like he’s pained, like the idea hurts him, and why; “no,” and he says that a little fiercely, protective almost; “though not for lack of an effort.”

He looks tired, as Eddie’s vision starts to clear some more. He looks radiant. Exquisite.

Beautiful.

“You saved me?”

Because Eddie clocks the uniform now: paramedic. The ones who come onto the scenes and try like hell to save who they can. Heroes.

“I helped,” the beautiful man says, like a hero would, of course. But…it still doesn’t make sense. If the man does this for his job, then Eddie isn’t special, so then why is he so vehement, and then what of all the fading songs Eddie remembers, because Eddie had heard—

“What about,” he starts, but there’s a hand over his quickly, soothing.

“Everyone’s here, different wards,” the hero-beauty tells him in lows tones; “we don’t know if they’ll all make it through the night, but,” he nods, like…this is enough.

And it is. Except…

“How?”

And where Eddie is baffled, his hero just quirks a brow.

“Don’t tell me you never covered emergencies?” he asks skeptically. “Most dire moments, greatest of need?”

And it’s with those words that Eddie’s world slows very quickly to a halt. The music swells in a way he’s never known: because it’s always present to hear.

Buts it’s never been so tangible to feel, not like this, and with such…magnificence, no lesser word could touch it. Maybe he truly is closer to death than not, maybe that’s the reason for the fervor in this man he doesn’t know—the choirs of the angels Eddie wasn’t banking on swells and is visceral, and this hero sits before him, speaks the words that have haunted Eddie more days of his life than not, and—

“This was where the music took my life,” the man pulls at his collar, indicative again: the heroism. He…he saves people, because he, he also hears…

“But I couldn’t have done it without you.”

His hand on Eddie’s tightens, like gratitude, and Eddie…gapes like a fucking fish, and then—

“There’s something else.”

“Not just here to check up on the fruits of your medical miracle?” Eddie’s tongue feels heavy, thick in his mouth; he feels sluggish all over, weighted down and like he can barely move because…this man hears the music that hearts make.

Can he hear the ineffable beauty, like Eddie can? He must, that’s how it works, so why is he not in the same amount of awe—

“Not just,” the man smiles small, but real, a little hesitant. A little…shy, maybe, before he straightens, leans a little closer.

“Watch that screen,” and he tracks Eddie’s gaze until Eddie’s fixed upon the ECG, the most disappointing distillation of the songs he’s learned to find so much wonder in.

But then the man is pressing Eddie’s hand to his own chest, which…is forward, given they don’t even know each other.

Eddie is maybe still on, or at least just-recently-off, death’s door, and either way he’s fucking thrilledwith this development, warm beneath his palm.

“Now count.”

It only takes a moment, to put the gestures together into a statement.

The beat under his touch matches the line across the screen. Exactly.

But this man’s not the one attached to the monitor.

“Got it?”

Eddie nods, and the man doesn’t hesitate, lifts Eddie’s hand and presses it back to Eddie’s own chest.

“Again.”

And that’s…that’s not the same rhythm as the one on the screen; the songs don’t match at all.

But Eddie can still hear the one that does—the beauty. The exaltation.

“Can you,” Eddie asks, lifts his finger that’s got a clip on it, and the man’s a professional, he’ll understand—looks less than conflicted about disconnecting Eddie from wires and leads before clipping his own finger and letting the screen shift to a new cadence.

The same one under Eddie’s hand, in Eddie’s own chest.

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah,” the man barely breathes, and Eddie notices now how intense his eyes are, focused solely on Eddie, and…Eddie remembers the words that came after the ones about emergencies. About how little he could help, but that he could still do something.

But with only one person, it could be—

“You didn’t just sway my rhythm,” Eddie half-gasps; “you made it your own.”

And oh: Eddie never tied the song of hearts to the song of laughter, but from this man, the huff of incredulous joy that slips from him now—they’re made wholly of the same stuff.

Symphonic. Staggering. Weeping to feel this much, in the soul, to be privy to such a…

Masterpiece.

“Worked both ways, it seems.”

“I heard you,” Eddie blurts out, because it makes sense now; “before I, when I thought I was,” dying, when he thought it was all over; “like I’ve never heard anything before.”

And now: of course this man hears the heavenly movement Eddie thought was a mercy before the end but was instead the arrival of everything he’d ever hoped to one day find, literally coming to rescue him in more ways than one; but that song is somehow commonplace to this unfathomable angel on the earth.

And what this man hears stronger, louder, dearer seems somehow to be Eddie, the song he sings from the chest, in how it’s causing those caramel eyes to glimmer, and to barely blink lest they miss something in just…Eddie.

“You never stopped,” the man says with urgency, with feeling; “your song never stopped,” and then he’s closing his eyes and laying both his hands over his own chest, where Eddie’s heartsong is ringing full and maybe changing his world, because the song in Eddie’s chest sure as hell has already changed his, and—

“It’s extraordinary.”

And Eddie, in years of ridicule, in months of celebration, in all the ups and downs and doubts and hopes this life of songs and hearts and rhythms and beats has left him with, in all of it—

Those two words rewrite his whole fucking being.

“True Note,” Eddie mouths more than speaks before he scoffs; “shit, but that seems like a really fucking inadequate thing to call it,” and his eyes lift to take in the man who he knows, he knows is going to be his magnum opus, or more: is going to write the magnum opus they will be and breathe and share from here to all ends:

“To call you.”

And there’s the clearest sense of a trip in a beat, but who it belongs to isn’t clear, and maybe that’s the reality for them both now: every subtlety of the song is now shared, now theirs.

“You could start with Steve.”

Eddie looks up, breath a little heavy, but the smile on the man’s face is broad and kind of overjoyed, kind of looks like Eddie’s chest feels:

“My name’s Steve.”

And that?

Best damn title for a symphony Eddie’s ever fucking heard.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @rebellatlas @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yesdangerpls @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here

[maiumeni]

my favourite ship dynamics if that makes sense:

[johnslittlespoon]

omg it was so hard to pick butttt could i request 1 and 2 from the smut dialogue list (list 3) with buck and bucky!

prompts | "i want to hear you beg" + "arch your back for me" + playing around with smth a little different for their dynamic <33 ~800 words of filth below the cut >:-) this was so much fun ahh thx sm for the request!!

“Oh, baby,” John rumbles appreciatively, sitting back to get a good look at Gale while he rolls his hips languidly into him. “Look at you.”

Golden hair frames Gale’s head on the pillow like a halo, blue eyes half hidden by heavy eyelids, doll–like lashes fluttering each time John sinks his cock in deeper. Messy love bites mark a trail south, scattered across his chest and stomach and increasing in numbers where angular hip bones and soft thighs had just begged for John’s teeth to make themselves at home.

Gale rocks his hips down, dragging his kiss–bitten bottom lip between his teeth to muffle a needy little noise as John’s eyes rake over him. That just won’t do.

John stills, wrapping firm hands around Gale’s thighs where they drape over his own, squeezing gently.

“Keep going,” Gale breathes out, eyebrows knit together in frustration, still trying to fuck himself on John’s cock.

John purrs out a laugh, heart twisting in his chest at the glare Gale shoots him; it’s hard to look intimidating when he’s laid out pliant and pretty and cock–drunk beneath him, but John doesn’t tell him so. He just snaps his hips forward once, watching with satisfaction when the scowl leaps off of Gale’s face as flushed lips fall open to let out a gasp.

“John,” Gale almost, almost whines when he makes no move to continue, lithe hands coming up to wrap around John’s wrists imploringly, and John hums thoughtfully, stroking his thumbs over Gale’s thighs.

“You need something?” He tilts his head, feeling a little thrill at the huff he gets in return.

Gale levels him with an unimpressed look, but the light flush that creeps over his cheeks betrays him.

“I want you to ask for it,” John murmurs. He grants Gale with the smallest roll of his hips to egg him on when he stays silent, and he feels his hands tighten around his wrists.

“Want you to fuck me, John.” 

And oh, that’s something– his cock twitches at the rare vulgarity, and judging by Gale’s sharp inhale, he feels it. But it’s not quite what John’s looking for.

“That’s good, baby,” he praises him, delighting in the way his flush deepens. He leans down, sliding his hands up Gale’s hips as he goes, settling them on his waist. He brushes his lips against Gale’s in a ghost of a kiss, trailing them along his jaw until he reaches his ear.

“But I wanna hear you beg for me, Gale,” he whispers. 

The immediate pressure around his cock as Gale reflexively clenches down has his head dropping into the crook of Gale’s neck momentarily, cursing under his breath. He can’t help but press his hips forward, needing just a bit of relief, sitting back up once he collects himself, determined to keep the upper hand.

“C’mon,” he rasps out, running his hands up and down Gale’s sides, fingers splaying over his ribcage. “I know you can do it, angel.”

Gale does whine this time, high and desperate in his throat, eyes slipping closed to hide from his own embarrassment. But–

“Please, John,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Need you.”

“Jesus, Gale,” John breathes, head spinning. “Good, so good, baby.”

John’s not going to push– that’s already a lot more than he’s usually able to goad out of Gale, and he’s going to unravel a lot quicker than he intends to if he keeps talking like that.

“Arch your back for me, pretty thing,” John prompts instead, beginning to shallowly fuck into him, and Gale does, tilting his head back on the pillow to bare his neck as his spine curves beneath John’s hands.

The sight nearly knocks the breath out of John, and he groans, sliding one hand under Gale to flatten his palm against the small of his back, feeling the way it flexes as he jerks his hips forward.

Gale cries out so sweetly when he really starts driving his cock into him, grasping desperately at John’s arms, face going slack as he finally gives him what he needs, and it gets to John like nothing else, forever dizzy with the knowledge that he gets to make Gale feel so good.

Dragging those pretty noises out of Gale and feeling him tremble because of him is what really does it for John every time, and it’s what inevitably has him tipping over the edge seconds after Gale spills over his stomach with a broken whimper.

John sinks his teeth into Gale’s collarbone just to feel him squirm beneath him as he fills him up, hands digging into his hips, rutting into him like he can bury his cock impossibly deeper, feeling nails scrabble at his back as the softest mewls escape Gale’s mouth.

He laves his tongue over the fresh indents in apology before lifting his head to capture Gale’s lips in a messy kiss, swallowing his gasps and sighs as he gives him a few more lazy thrusts, chest warm and fuzzy and lovestruck. 

John smiles into the kiss, and Gale laughs softly, and god, he’s going to be the death of him.

[hylialeia]

"i can't come up with a fantasy name for my world so i HAVE to use chatgpt to get the gears flowing" have you all forgotten what fantasynamegenerators.com has done for you

[nightfal1n]

Unyeilding Avalanche - Blaze a Trail -

(Timelapse under the cut)

[darby-rowe]

On a completely unrelated note to a more submissive Billy, I think about him pressing his cock and balls to your cheek before and or after you suck him off :,) maybe after cause you’ve got your mouth open still and some of his cum on your lips, and you already started mouthing at his balls the moment his dick is out of your mouth so you know he just…like he just…presses the back of your head to him…holds you more to him…in awe of you…praising you…you know…I shouldn’t be feeling like this im on my period and in pain

thinking of billy softly rocking his hips, watching your tongue lazily run along his balls. his shaft sitting atop your face as you still try to gasp for air. maybe making this a little dirty by bubbling his cum at your lips and getting some of it on his balls, just as a way to "mark" him. thinking there's a leftover bead of cum on his tip that gets on your forehead. and he's muttering to you, "so pretty... look at you..."

also his little gasps when you go to suck on his tip again after he already came so hard down your throat.

[sailforvalinor]

"Greek" for Doctor Who!

The cool mountain air whipping her hair into her eyes, Rose squinted at the words carved into the walls of the Athenian treasury, and frowned.

“Doctor, it’s all Greek to me.”

“Nah, you’re just saying that because you’re not used to it yet—Delphic culture really is quite delightful, if a little pretentious—but maybe that’s just ancient Greeks for you—you know, this is also where they hold the Pythian Games, which is held in honor of Apollo supposedly killing the great beast Python—‘great’ is a little much, I think, it really wasn’t much bigger than a German Shepherd—“

“—no, Doctor—“ Rose grabbed his chin and turned his face towards the inscription “—it’s all Greek.”

The Doctor stared for a moment uncomprehendingly at the unfamiliar letters on the wall, then his eyes went wide with realization, and he yelped, “The TARDIS!” and sprinted back down the path.

[fe-fictions]

Are there any other bath tent prompts left over from The Great Deletion™? (If so, I have a preference for Lon'qu. If not, I just reeeally like bath tent prompts so anyone flies.)

(I have Frederick's still mercifully, but other than that I don't have any left! ;; 3 ;; which sucks because the Basilio and Vaike ones were rly good U m U )

When Frederick heard your scream across camp, he was terrified. Had you been assaulted? Ambushed, or worse?

He grabbed his lance and sprinted off, rushing towards your cries and curses when he found himself in the midst of a very strange scene.

There stood Lord Chrom, the flaps to the women’s bathing tent wide open, and dozens of projectiles. He quickened his pace with the intent to drag Chrom out of the line of fire and engage whoever was throwing things at him.

However, when he came in sight of the thrower, he realized it was you; wrapped crudely in a towel, soaked from head to toe with suds still running along your skin, mid-throw of the last soap dish. His grip tightened on Chrom’s arm. The Exalt was peeping on his wife.

“Would someone please explain what in the gods’ names is going on?!” Frederick demanded icily, quick to turn Chrom away from his view of you. He had yet to release the man, much to his discomfort.

“I-I was just looking for Robin to ask her a question, Frederick! I didn’t realize where I was until she started screaming, a-and then…it was an accident, I swear! I didn’t mean to-”

“Accident?!” You suddenly jumped in, storming over to the pair now covered with your coat. Your face was a deep scarlet, fury barely overruling your embarrassment. “It’s the women’s bath! How hard is it for you to see  that?!”

“She has a point, milord. Surely you should be familiar with the camp’s layout.” Frederick replied, narrowing his eyes at Chrom. “I find it hard to believe you capable of this, but it brings me terrible sorrow and, dare I say, fury, to see you staring at my wife.” He said, and had Chrom shaking  in his boots.

“F-Frederick I swear, I didn’t mean to peep on her, a-and that’s the truth!” Chrom would’ve disappeared if he could. “Please Frederick, Robin’s my best friend! I’d never jeopardize that.”

“I wish to believe you, milord,” Frederick said in a clipped tone as he released the Exalt. He sighed sharply and came to your side, “However, your actions speak louder than your words. For now, return to your duties until I summon you for proper disciplinary action. Understood?”

“Y-yes sir.” Chrom sounded meek and frightened; two things you never thought him capable of.

You watched him trudge off for a few moments before Frederick guided you away, taking your hand tightly in his. The ridged, angry confliction in his expression had yet to fade.

“Until I make my decision, we should get you properly dressed. If I’m not mistaken, I believe you’re in need of clothes beneath that coat.”

“Y-you’re not.” You blushed, the adrenaline and shock of what happened to you slowly starting to fade. Frederick picked up on the warble in your voice swiftly, and could see the unshed tears glistening in your eyes.

He made good time returning to the tent, latching the flap shut and making sure it was absolutely secure. Then he turned his full attention to you, assessing the situation.

You looked down at your feet, your hand never once letting go of his. You had been mortified, and now that the anger cleared, you were nothing short of ashamed.

Wordlessly he detached his chestplate and the armor about his upper body, knowing precisely what you needed. You barely got a question out of your mouth before he  drew you into his embrace.

“F-Frederick…?”

“Forgive me. I was not diligent enough in protecting you.” He murmured in a soft, remorseful whisper that had you frozen. “I failed you, and for that, I must apologize to you, my love.”

“You’re not the one who walked in on me.” You giggled weakly, but reciprocated his hug all the same. You buried your face in his chest, your hot tears dampening his clothes along with your soaking hair.

Frederick didn’t mind it. His fingers gently stroked your hair, the guilt that racked him far more powerful than his anger.

“All is well, my sweet. I highly doubt he did such a thing on purpose. The odds of him speaking to anyone about it is minimum, and if he even considers it I’ll be swift to punish. …Severely.”

All you could do was nod against him, calming yourself down slowly with the help of his gentle touches and reassurances.

At some point he settled you on the bedroll, fetched a towel and worked on drying your hair very gently. His tender touch soothes your shame, all the anxiety and fear you felt as a result of the mad debacle starting to ebb away.

You sigh after some time and bury your face in your hands, letting him continue his sweet ministrations.

“I can’t believe he did that…he saw me, Frederick. Gods, I’m never gonna live it down. It was so embarrassing…and then for you to come and see him, too…” You groaned, and he frowned softly.

“I think no less of you for what happened; you needn’t be ashamed.” He assured you, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your neck. “It was an extremely unfortunate accident…at least, that is how I prefer to view it  unless evidence proves otherwise.”

“You really want it to be an accident, don’t you?” You mumbled, slowly turning to look at him. Frederick shifted some and gave a soft grunt, brow furrowed.

“I know that Lady Emmeryn raised him properly, and I was quite strict and attentive, myself. He was brought up with strong morals, and the idea of him peeping on anyone, let alone you, my beloved, is difficult to believe. Lord Chrom is well known for being oblivious, after all.”

“Even to this level?” You replied, unconvinced.

“I wish to punish him severely, my sweet. There is a rage…white and hot that is building whenever I think that he looked upon you…gods, it is infuriating. However, he is also my liege, and the years we’ve spent together, I simply…I find it hard to believe he’d do it on purpose.”

“I want to believe it, too. I hope that your investigation brings about an innocent Exalt.” You offered with a tired sigh, leaning your head against his chest. Frederick set the towel aside and drew his arms around you, his soothing warmth returning and relaxing your tension.

“As do I. …However, regardless of the results, he will still receive harsh punishment.” He stated seriously, making you smile against his skin.

“Harsh, you say? How harsh would you be?”

“Well, we mustn’t forget that it was my wife he looked upon. Therefore, if he did it purposely, he will be worked until his limbs cannot be lifted anymore. Verbal reprimands will carry on for several hours, followed by an extensive lesson on conduct in the army, and three times the chores for the following year.”

“My goodness.” You blushed, “How valiant of you.”

“It is the least I can do for you, Robin. Besides, that’s only off the top of my head. I still have plenty of options to think up.”

“Look at you, defending me as knight and husband.” You smirked up at him, brushing your fingers across his cheek. He took your hand gently and kissed your fingertips, beaming at you.

“I swore to do so, did I not?”

“You did, however…I feel as though I should repay you for your efforts.”

“There is no need for a reward. Easing your worries and bringing justice to milord is reward enough.”

“Then perhaps you could help me with something, instead. So long as you don’t think of it like a reward, it should work just fine.”

"What’s that?”

“Well, Chrom’s eyes did wander a bit. He saw an awful lot of me, you know.” You began, fiddling with the buttons on your coat. “And…I’m not wearing anything beneath this.”

Frederick was very quick to catch on, and grasped your waist, turning you into the bedding and helping you remove the coat.

“Tell me where he looked at you, my precious wife…I will erase his gaze from your body.” He promised with a swift, deep kiss, which was quick to delve into far deeper, sweeter intimacy between you.

Chrom didn’t really see anything, thanks to the thickness of the steam. However, you weren’t about to tell Frederick that, especially not after he ravished you so (and punished Chrom for his foolishness promptly after. The poor Exalt couldn’t look you in the eye for weeks afterwards).

[smaller-comfort]

still need ideas for necron/tyr kinktober? zultanekh/djoseras captive prisoner roleplay, breeding kink, orikan/vishani dominance, oltyx/yenekh voyeurism or some flayer group sex stuff?

Oh shit, a flayer orgy sounds delightful. (I'm gonna keep complaining about writing group sex but am I going to stop doing it? Never.) I have a lot of Thoughts about how things work on Drazak, but most flayers don't have any sense of shame or propriety. Even the ones who still retain their sense of self find themselves largely unbothered by any of the necron and necrontyr taboos around flesh and bodily functions. It's all just hunger, in the end, and nothing will stop them from trying to feed.

(Which is a long-winded way of saying yeah, they're fuckin' in the streets.)

Asjfhdk captive prisoner roleplay for Djoseras/Zultanekh I feel like my third eye has been opened here. The first time they do it, Zultanekh plays the part of the captured warlord- and maybe he's not so much playing a part, is he? Maybe clever Djoseras has outmaneuvered Zultanekh, to lure him to his tent at such an hour of the night, and hold him hostage. What demands does the kynazh of Ithakas have for the scion of the Ogdobekh? Zultanekh will do whatever is required of him.

(Alternately, the only way Djoseras will ever submit to Zuktanekh is if they both pretend he has no choice in the matter- *chews my fingers off*)

Orikan/Vishani has so much untapped potential, and nearly all of that potential is extremely fucked up. I love it. He needs to be squashed like a bug.

[filmcourage]

Epic Movie Soundtracks - Inspirational Music For Writers

Listen on Youtube here.

[i-bring-crack]

A HSR AU idea

Caelus and Stelle are a demon and human pair of siblings, both are very unique in their own way. Stelle is a demon that doesn't need to eat humans to survive and Caelus is a human that eats demons to gain their powers. The two have decided to join the Trailblazers, a group of stand alone demon investigators and sometimes hunters when things get serious.

March 7th: Another member of the Trailblazers that is looking for a demon who has all her memories, or so she thinks.

Dan Heng: A demon hiding as a human and choosing to make his living as one, but so far he still needs to drink blood every now and then. He doesn't remember much from his past life but he gets glimpses every now and then.

Himeko: A human investigator who looks around for more demons regarding their origin. She didn't have teaching in mind when she came to this field of study but so far her four students have learned many things from her.

Welt Yang: One of the so-called ‘Reformist demons’ who, unlike normal demons, completely rejects eating any kind of human tissue and blood. So far he has survived by eating animal flesh that has a lot of proteins related to that of human flesh.

Pom-Pom: Vengeful spirits come in many forms, and one of them is Pom-Pom. Although the only thing Pom-Pom seems vengeful about is cleaning everyone's mess after a fight.

[harper-dearest]

I asked my friend who I should draw as a mermaid and she chose Frederick

My drawing skills positively suck but hey free mermaid orphrick aus

[hopeful-hugz]

"Umf" when she's Aethered up

Send me “Umf” If your muse thinks my muse is hot. || Accepting

"I- You-" What, what, what, what- "That's- Ahem- That's definitely a new one."

"N- Not in a bad way, just that no ones ever really said anything on the full aether form before, ah-hah- I'm glad someone's said they like it." Makes her feel a bit better about it, honestly.

[beryllineart]

I'm working on composing video game boss music. Choose a trait and I'll make a comic and a song.

Usually I have a little something besides a poll to catch people's attention... but it doesn't really do anything, even when I leave it up for a week. So we're just doing a barebones, 1 day poll and if I don't get any votes, oh well.

[thebutterleftoutatroboticsstate]

Was watching Dungeons and Dragons Queens and thoroughly enjoying Brennan’s descriptions of events coupled with the reactions of people brand new to dnd when a thought struck me.

Imagine Maxiel dm au. I was thinking for some reason or another that Daniel never raced in this situation, Maxiel are already established. They’re both dming for a group of four or five, (Max with drivers, sessions before or after race weekends) campaigns about fighting for the deities of Life and Death, personified as Dm pcs. Life is Daniel, Death is Max, I think the characters should have the names switched though. Both groups are lead to believe they are the good guys, I mean what happens with no life, but also what happens with no death? Apocalyptic consequences either way.

The final sessions are held on the weekend of the Australian Grand Prix, at some board game shop with open tables. They’re basically right next to each other but tuning each other out. As the final battle happens the deities fight via the players and then with each other, each campaign thinking the enemy are just npcs, when in actuality Daniel and Max and their players are fighting each other. Honestly I like the consequences of Death losing more, so when Max loses, as he’s describing it to his party, he and Daniel say the final line of the fight in unison.

As they say it Max moves his chair back and looks at Daniel as he moves to face both parties to describe what happens next. Both campaigns realize they’ve been pitted against one another and are basically gaping as Daniel finishes describing the consequences of the battle.

Cue the parties meeting and realizing what’s been pulled, and Maxiel revealing their relationship. As they talk all their friends realize that they’re disgustingly compatible and in love.

They finish describing the campaign together, perfectly in sync. This is the climax of months and months of campaign at this point. All the players are sharing and realizing when their storylines and actions intersected, realizing how complicated the logistics and world building must have been for this to be pulled off. Cue looking in impressed awe at Maxiel, who definitely look proud and smug as shit as all their work pays off.