#fiddle and drum

[weaversweek]

"Coisich a' ruin" - Capercaillie

Traditional, arranged Capercaillie

Or, how to give Bruno Brookes a nightmare.

Part of the UncoolTwo50 project, marking the best singles from 1977-99.

Pop music was at a low ebb in 1992. Demographics meant there weren't many teenagers around, and we were fracturing into a zillion tribes - the grebos, the crusties, the goths, the celts.

Music from the Celtic fringes had always had a place, usually mid-evenings on Radio 2, jostling for space on the Folk Show. Enya had shown that it was possible to take Celtic music from Ireland, add some New Age sparkle, and turn it into a very attractive commercial proposition. Runrig had had decent success for Celtic rock from Scotland.

Capercaillie were the stereotype fiddle-and-dram band, updated for the nineties with electric guitar and judicious use of synthesisers. Karen Matheson is the lead singer and focal point, Donald Shaw the other songwriter.

"Coisich a' ruin" is the oldest song in this list, first recorded in the late 1500s. It's also the first of three songs not in English.

When released on "The prince among islands" ep, a slow sales week and very careful targeting of the Gallup cells allowed them to get into the GB-wide top 40 and earn plays on Radio 1. Which is a remarkable achievement: a song even older than Fluff Freeman on the chart show!

The folk scene is loyal to its performers; perhaps to a fault, as many seem trapped in the same music they've always made. Capercaillie have continued to perform, they've innovated a little, and I reckon they've inspired a lot - the fiddle-based entertainment, as much show as tune, might have helped us get the young Lindsey Stirling.

[danskjavlarna]

Source details and larger version.

Here's looking at you: over 1,000 vintage "faces in things".

[jt1674]

[doctoreveel]

Old Ways, New World; {Credit}

[vicit-vim-virtus]

[ Ooc: I'd just like to state that, yes, Luran is the kind of bard who'd immediately whip out his violin every time he enters a tavern and there's a band playing. He. must. join. them. ]

[causticcontemplation]

24?

Besides my elementary education in playing the trumpet? Everything is self-taught.

My main instrument is the guitar. I learned to play the ukulele years ago (tho I no longer own one). I taught myself a few songs on piano a while back, but I haven't had a keyboard in years (I don't count our synth, but I guess I'll be picking that up for this dnd campaign).

I guess it's really just guitar that I can play rn. I could probably take a crack at the bass and be decent tho.

Planning on getting a banjo this summer when my bonus hits. Mandolin is also on the list. I'm a sucker for folk instruments.

[stickerskingdom]

global musical instrument sticker

[note-a-bear]

The future the liberals want is a table of south Asian people all come to see their friend/family/lover(?) play fiddle at Irish music at a bar run by a (lovely) chaotic Irishman in the middle of Philly

[hagstones-and-howling-hills]

My dad told me he's getting me a bodhran for my 21st and I think he's expecting me to become his own personal one man irish band

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru is terrible at keeping secrets.

especially when that secret is you finally, after two years of relentless, dramatic, embarrassingly persistent courting, agreeing to be his girlfriend.

he swore up and down he could handle it—“…sure, sure, lowkey, hush-hush, i got you, baby,” he said, practically bouncing in place like the golden retriever he is, his white hair a fluffy mess, bouncing with every nod, bright blue eyes sparkling behind his blindfold—because, yeah, okay, it made sense. things were complicated. it would be messy if people found out too soon.

but also? it was satoru.

it was the lovesick man who has been hopelessly, pathetically down bad for you since the moment he laid eyes on you, and turns out, yeah, he can’t hide shit.

he’s doing the most. failing the most.

he’s staring at you during work like you’re the moon, the stars, the air he breathes, and probably breakfast, lunch, and dinner, too. the kind of gaze that has hearts practically floating out of his head like a bad shoujo manga. his lips tug upward in a soft, lopsided grin every time you so much as sigh. and it doesn’t help that he smiles like an absolute idiot every time you speak—his fingers fiddling with his pen, twirling it with that restless energy, like he’s got nowhere else to look but you. sometimes he props his chin on his hand, elbow on the desk, feet swinging beneath his chair, eyes glimmering with obvious affection. sometimes he kicks his feet, like he’s writing your name in hearts all over his notes.

and when people tease him about it?

“uh…uh…she’s just…” he chokes, rubbing the back of his neck, his white hair falling into his flushed face. his sunglasses slide down his nose as he stammers, his fingers nervously drumming on the table. “she’s cool! yeah! a really… really… cool… coworker!”

uh huh.

people start noticing real fast. the way you bring two drinks into meetings, both his favorite. the way his jacket mysteriously ends up on your chair, like he’s perpetually cold even though he’s not. the way you two walk in separately but somehow always leave together. the way satoru is always hovering two inches behind you like he’s your personal security detail, or maybe just your lovesick guard dog, his long legs struggling to slow his stride to match yours. his glasses slips sometimes, revealing those ridiculously bright eyes trained on you and only you.

and when you whip your head slightly and whisper scoldings under your breath, lips barely moving—"“you’re gonna blow our cover, dumbass”—he just beams, a grin so wide his cheeks push up against his blindfold. his fingers twitch, aching to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind your ear. it’s the kind of smile that could knock the air out of your lungs if you weren’t already holding your breath trying not to combust. he tilts his head like he’s imagining sliding a ring on your finger already, the soft flush on his cheeks betraying how much he’s already too far gone.

it’s not just the staring. it’s the giddiness. the way he forgets to keep his distance when you’re around. the way his shoulders instantly straighten when you walk into the room, like his whole body is magnetized to you. the way his fingers tap against the desk like he can’t wait to talk to you again. the way he fumbles, dropping his pen or knocking over his water bottle, when someone catches him looking at you like you’re his entire universe. it’s the way he instantly brings you snacks he swore were “for everyone” but somehow always end up on your desk, the wrappers piling up as you pretend not to enjoy the attention.

it’s also the way you’re absolutely pissed when you realize he’s blowing the secret wide open. your jaw tightens, your foot taps the floor, your arms cross, and your glare sharpens to a laser beam. you’ve warned him. you’ve scolded him. you’ve threatened to dump him—half-joking, half-very-much-not—if he keeps being so obvious. you press your palm to your temple in frustration as you whisper, "you're killing me here, satoru."

and suddenly, he’s panicking. his hands flail, baby blues orbs widening . his voice cracks, desperate. his fingers clutch the air like he's trying to grab the right words before they scatter.

“no, no, no, babe… please don’t dump me. i’ll do better, i swear. i’ll look less. i’ll… i’ll stare at the wall instead. i’ll wear sunglasses indoors. i’ll look at the floor forever. i’ll… i’ll even switch departments. please, please don’t leave me. i won’t survive it. i’ll just crumble into dust. i’ll haunt you. but like… in a hot way.”

he's clutching his chest dramatically, leaning into the nearest table for support like he’s seconds from collapsing. his bottom lip juts out in a pitiful pout, and his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you but knows he can’t—not here, not now. his feet shuffle in place like he’s trying to root himself to the ground, but his whole body screams to be closer to you.

“you’re so bad at this,” you deadpan, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, pretending you’re not melting inside because you’re emotionally constipated and you like to act like you’re not just as whipped. but your ears are pink. you know they are. you can feel the heat blooming across your skin. you shift your weight onto one leg, tapping your finger against your elbow in mock annoyance, but your foot has already inched closer to his.

“but you still love me right?” he pouts, voice softening, tilting his head as he leans closer like a puppy waiting for a treat. his hair flops forward over his blindfold, his grin tentative, hopeful, like he’s staking his entire existence on your next words. his toes point toward you, his shoulders curling in, like you’re his center of gravity.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” you grumble, rolling your eyes, but you’re already reaching for his hand beneath the table, already letting him lace his fingers with yours, his thumb stroking soft circles into your skin like it’s instinct, like it’s home. he squeezes your hand like he never plans to let go.

he brightens instantly, a soundless laugh puffing from his chest, his white hair bouncing with the force of his excitement. his entire body relaxes, his feet kicking slightly under the table. “i’ll be better! i’ll be so sneaky, baby! like a ninja! you won’t even see me coming! i’ll be a ghost! you’ll be so proud of me!”

spoiler: he does not, in fact, get any sneakier.

he gets worse. because now he’s trying so hard to “be sneaky” that he ends up staring harder. he waves at you across the room with a smile that’s way too fond, his hand flopping in a lazy, unmistakable greeting that lingers just a second too long. he trips over his own feet when you so much as glance in his direction, scrambling to play it cool like his heart didn’t just somersault into his throat. he texts you from three desks away: “do you miss me?” like you’re not in the same building, like he hasn’t seen you in five minutes. he sends you selfies from the next room with captions like, “thinking of you” and “missing my girl.”

he's a terrible liar. but he’s the best boyfriend.

so you let him. you let him slip up. you let him look at you like you’re his whole world. you let him wear that stupid grin. you let him love you loudly, even when he’s supposed to be quiet about it. you let him text you unnecessarily, bring you snacks with your name written on the wrapper, and you let him keep leaving his jacket on your chair.

you’re just as hopeless, aren’t you?

[physalian]

How To Make Your Writing Less Stiff 5

Movement

Dredging this back up from way back.

Make sure your characters move, but not too much during heavy dialogue scenes. E.g. two characters sitting and talking—do humans just stare at each other with their arms lifeless and bodies utterly motionless during conversation? No? Then neither should your characters. Make them…

Gesture

Wave

Frown

Laugh

Cross their legs/their arms

Shift around to get comfortable

Pound the table

Roll their eyes

Point

Shrug

Touch their face/their hair

Wring their hands

Pick at their nails

Yawn

Stretch

Sniff/sniffle

Tap their fingers/drum

Bounce their feet

Doodle

Fiddle with buttons or jewelry

Scratch an itch

Touch their weapons/gadgets/phones

Check the time

Get up and sit back down

Move from chair to tabletop

The list goes on.

Bonus points if these are tics that serve to develop your character, like a nervous fiddler, or if one moves a lot and the other doesn’t—what does that say about the both of them? This is where “show don’t tell” really comes into play.

As in, you could say “he’s nervous” or you could show, “He fidgets, constantly glancing at the clock as sweat beads at his temples.”

This site is full of discourse on telling vs showing so I’ll leave it at that.

Epithets

In the Sci-fi WIP that shall never see the light of day, I had a flashback arc for one male character and his relationship with another male character. On top of that, the flashback character was a nameless narrator for Reasons.

Enter the problem: How would you keep track of two male characters, one who you can't name, and the other who does have a name, but you can’t oversaturate the narrative with it? I did a few things.

Nameless Narrator (written in 3rd person limited POV) was the only narrator for the flashback arc. I never switched to the boyfriend’s POV.

Boyfriend had only a couple epithets that could only apply to him, and halfway through their relationship, NN went from describing him as “the other prisoner” to “his cellmate” to “his partner” (which was also a double entendre). NN also switched from using BF’s full name to a nickname both in narration and dialogue.

BF had a title for NN that he used exclusively in dialogue, since BF couldn’t use his given name and NN hadn’t picked a new one for himself.

Every time the subject of the narrative switched, I started a new paragraph so “he” never described either character ambiguously mid-paragraph.

Is this an extreme example? Absolutely, but I pulled it off according to my betas.

The point of all this is this: Epithets shouldn’t just exist to substitute an overused name. Epithets de-personalize the subject if you use them incorrectly. If your narrator is thinking of their lover and describing that person without their name, then the trait they pick to focus on should be something equally important to them. In contrast, if you want to drive home how little a narrator thinks of somebody, using depersonalizing epithets helps sell that disrespect.

Fanfic tends to be the most egregious with soulless epithets like "the black-haired boy" that tell the reader absolutely nothing about how the narrator feels about that black-haired boy, espeically if they're doing so during a highly-emotional moment.

As in, NN and BF had one implied sex scene. Had I said “the other prisoner” that would have completely ruined the mood. He’s so much more than “the other prisoner” at that point in the story. “His partner,” since they were both a combat team and romantically involved, encompassed their entire relationship.

The epithet also changed depending on what mood or how hopeless NN saw their situation. He’d wax and wane over how close he believed them to be for Reasons. NN was a very reserved character who kept BF at a distance, afraid to go “all in” because he knew there was a high chance of BF not surviving this campaign. So NN never used “his lover”.

All to say, epithets carried the subtext of that flashback arc, when I had a character who would not talk about his feelings. I could show you the progression of their relationship through how the epithets changed.

I could show you whenever NN was being a big fat liar about his feelings when he said he's not in love, but his narration gave him away. I could show you the exact moment their relationship shifted from comrades to something more when NN switched mid-paragraph from "his cellmate" to "his partner" and when he took up BF's nickame exclusively in the same scene.

I do the same thing in Eternal Night when Elias, my protagonist, stops referring to Dorian as "it" and "the vampire" instead of his name the moment they collide with a much more dangerous vampire, so jarringly that Elias notices in his own narration—the point of it being so explicit is that this degredation isn't automatic, it's something he has to conciously do, when everyone else in his clan wouldn't think twice about dehumanizing them.

—

Any literary device should be used with intent if you want those layers in your work. The curtains are rarely just blue. Whether it’s a simile with a deliberate comparison or an epithet with deliberate connotations, your readers will pick up on the subtext, I promise.

[hymnsofink]

Sing my song and my sanctuary will open to you.

“  ━━ ◤ the banjo playfully plucks ; int. ◢

“  ━━ ◤ the violin shudders with a piercing voice ; event. ◢

“  ━━ ◤ the bass fiddle sings with deep articulation ; promo. ◢

“  ━━ ◤ the piano delicately calls ; starter. ◢

“  ━━ ◤ the drum echoes out once more ; musing. ◢

“  ━━ ◤ the phonograph recalls an old melody ; ask. ◢

“  ━━ ◤ the cycle continues ; v: cycle. ◢

“  ━━ ◤ the preacher sings ; v: cult. ◢

“  ━━ ◤ your loyal sheep ; ooc. ◢

[hyckstarz]

can i plzzz request bimbo yn and nerd! mark 🥺🥺🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

of course!! this was a fun request to write ♡

my little nerd | l.mk

pairing. nerd!mark lee x bimbo!reader

word count. 2k

genre. smut

warnings. 18+ minors do not interact, use of pet name (baby), choking, oral (m. receiving), degrading language (slut, whore), unprotected sex, bimbo reader, shy/dom Mark, breast play/fucking

Mark didn't know how he got here. Maybe it was her honey, dewy voice that spoke pretty little words, or her manicured nails that drummed along the desk as she peered sexily up at him through her lashes. Either way, he found himself agreeing to tutor her, at her home, in the evenings of every weekend. He groaned out in frustration and disbelief, clutching the healthy locks of his hair.

Y/N giggles at his weird antics, placing a hand on his leg as she rubs circles on his inner thigh, which immediately has his eyes snapping to her, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, "What's got you so worked up? Is it because I don't get what meiosis is? It's just sex, is it not? I'll ace it after you give me a demonstration."

Mark really doesn't know how he got here. But he finds himself leaning in, blaming it on her intoxicatingly cheap, soapy perfume and her words that get increasingly quiet, drawing him in like a siren's call. He snaps out of it, however. His leg bounces under the table in an attempt to get her hand off of his thigh before he loses it again, "It's not sex exactly... not in the way you're thinking of, at least," he grumbles, trying desperately to distract himself from her plush, glossy lips that puckered cluelessly. Pushing his glasses back up his nose, he turns to his study notes, "Besides, I'm only here to tutor you, you said you needed to pass science."

She pouts obnoxiously at him. Yet, when his gaze catches a glimpse of those perfect, god-crafted tits, he really feels like he should be paying a thousand thank yous to the man above, expressing his immense gratitude for having them press against his arm as she continues to whine with that sugary voice, "But I learn through hands-on experience! And sex is sex... how is it any different?"

Maybe Mark should take back his gratitude. There was no way his tutoring alone could save her from failing science in only two months and, he was starting to believe even miracles weren't strong enough, "No, it's different with cells. You'd know this if you paid attention yesterday. We went over this during class."

She scoffs, pulling back and fixing her top whilst looking at the mirror on her desk, pushing her breasts together which has Mark reeling, "Who cares about class when I have such a cute tutor?" She grins at him, leaning in enough for him to feel her warm breath brush against his lips, "What about you?"

"W-what about me?" Mark squeaks, his voice cracking at the close proximity.

She giggles, "Do you think I'm cute?" Her hand comes up to cup his jaw, thumb grazing his bottom lip as she watches it jutter out, entranced.

Mark squirms in his seat, cheeks a bright red under her intense gaze, "Yeah... you're cute."

He doesn't know what came over him, but fuck was she perfection. Sure, all of God's works were perfection, but when she pulls back to unzip her top, exposing the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra this whole time, he'd come to the conclusion that she needed a word that went beyond perfection itself.

"Fuck," he kept his eyes locked on the soft mounds and perky nipples. He wondered how they'd fit in his hand and whether they were as soft and plush as they looked.

"Surprised I wasn't wearing a bra? Well, it's one less garment to fiddle with," she giggles dumbly, leaning in to whisper in his ear, "that includes underwear. Wanna find out if I'm wearing any?"

But Mark, being the barely experienced, book nerd he was, forces his eyes to bore into the textbook in front of him. He tries to make sense of the words on the page, but it's hard when he can see her pretty, perky tits in the corner of his eyes. He desperately shifts in the chair, trying to calm his raging hard on. He hated how easily he was turned on by her. She was an air head. A gorgeous, sexy, air head that drove him insane despite being used by hundreds of men for being a cumslut.

She pouts, "You're gonna ignore me?"

Mark swallows thickly, eyes fluttering shut as if to drown out the pretty voice from the pretty woman next to him, "We-," he clears his throat, "We need to study... I need you to pass-"

Suddenly, she swivles his chair to the side, planting her knees to the carpeted floor as she lodges herself between his legs, "We can study after, Mark. I need your cum... need you to paint my mouth white, I can't focus otherwise. Not when you're so cute," she bites her lip, doe eyes pleading as she looks up at him.

It felt like Mark had experienced whiplash with the way she fit so perfectly between his legs. He was starting to believe her middle name was indeed... perfect. He moaned, clutching onto the armrests as she licked over his clothed crotch, yanking him back towards reality. Another lick, and he swore he could see stars, "Fuuuck, Y/N... w-we can't."

Mark clutched desperately onto the armrests, knuckles turning white out of fear that, if he were to let go, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from going all the way with her.

"We can't or you won't?" She slowly starts to unzip his jeans, giving him the option to pull away. But, when he doesn't, she feels the anticipation start to throb between her legs, and she has to rub her thighs together when his cock springs free from the confines of his boxers, "Gonna make you feel so good, my little nerd. Wanna taste you so bad."

In a heartbeat, she leaves kitten licks along the raging red head of his cock. Each lick causes him to shiver, "S-stop teasing..," Mark groans, peering down at her through hooded eyes.

She swipes her flat tongue up his length before swallowing him whole. He bucks into her mouth, desperately grasping at her long hair, bunching it up and shoving her down on his cock, "Fuck... your mouth... so pretty wrapped around my dick..."

She hums, sending shivers through his body. Her tongue swirls around his length, sucking and bobbing her head with a vigour that leaves him breathless and, the erotic sight of her drool dribbling down his length, has him panting. When she pulls away with a pop, a string of saliva connecting between her lips and his dick, Mark can see the whore beneath the pretty exterior, and his dick twitches at the sight. He stops her before she goes back in, "Tits... wanna fuck your tits."

That alone has her clenching around nothing. She sits up, wrapping her breasts around his dick, "Go ahead, make a mess of them, baby."

Mark groans at how pliant she is. Slowly, he ruts into them, loving how soft they feel, and he can't hold back anymore. He picks up the pace, rocking his hips between her breasts and he swears this is better than any fantasy he could cook up about her. At the same time of his thrusts, she rubs her breasts around his length, spreading the wetness from having sucked him off, watching his dick twitch and the skin tug with every drag.

But Mark forces himself to pull away before he reaches his orgasm, and Y/N starts to complain "Mark, why did you stop?"

He sends her a lazy chuckle, one that has her swooning. Sure, she could get with any man without a care, but Mark was attractive in a subtle, cute and sexy way, as she now realises with the look he sends her. She swallows hard, his heavy gaze raking over her smaller frame. She swears if he continues to look at her like this, she'd come on the spot and stain her favourite rug.

Mark grabs at her waist impatiently, yanking her out of her thoughts and manhandling her as he hoists her up onto the desk without much gentleness, "Look at you, you'd sooner bend over for any dick than pass your exams," his hand cups her cheeks, squishing them roughly, "If you're gonna act like a whore, maybe I'll treat you like one."

Without warning, he reaches under her skirt, feeling the cloth of her panties, "So, you were wearing one." His lip twitches into a smirk, tugging her underwear to the side as he thrusts into her, and it's a feeling she found herself addicted to — getting filled up, used and fucked until she couldn't form coherent thoughts. Sharp moans pushed out of her throat, echoing in the room as she rocked her hips against his, spreading her legs wider for him.

Mark's hand moves down to her throat, applying enough pressure to have her gasping, "You're just a slut. Say it."

"I-I'm a slut," she moaned, her eyes rolling back and jaw going slack. She could feel every ridge and vein of his cock as it stretched her out, pulling back just enough before slamming back in. He was the perfect size, and she swears she lucked out after perfecting her dick radar. That little nerd tucked away in the corner of the library, unsuspecting and easily flustered... who would have thought he'd be so... commanding and intense. It made her clench around his dick, earning a groan from him as his glasses slipped further down the bridge of his nose, already fogged up from their coupling.

Mark leant in, his hot breath tickling her neck, "That's right... my filthy slut," he nips at her skin, trailing open-mouthed, sloppy kisses along the column of her neck, biting into her skin as he ruts into her, "So... so sexy..."

Her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging with each thrust. She loved the feel of his soft lips against her skin and the cool metal of his glasses bumping into her jaw, "Your f-filth... filthy slut..."

But it wasn't enough. It never was enough. Mark pulls out of her, flipping her over so that her ass presented itself to him tantalisingly under her mini skirt. He groaned at the sight, spreading her apart as his dick rubbed along her folds, teasing her entrance, before pushing back in. This new angle had her knees buckling, gasping as her clit brushed over the desk with every hard thrust. Her manicured nails dug into the desk, gripping as spit dribbled down her chin. She hadn't been this fucked out in so long, and it was none other than a nerd who had the slut seeing stars.

She cries out, and Mark leans over, tilting her face to meet his lips, kissing her lazily, swallowing her wanton moans and smearing her spit along her cheeks, "So dirty."

Y/N rocks her hips back against his and Mark grabs a fistful of her hair, pressing her face to the desk, free hand splayed out on her lower back to hold her firmly down as he picked up the pace, feeling his climax approaching, "Fuck, I'm close... wanna cum on your tits though, like I was supposed to."

She concluded he was a tit-obsessed nerd, but she loved every second of it. She nods her head eagerly, "I don't care where you cum as long as it's on or in me," she begged, desperation eating away at her as she came, shuddering under him, "please... please..."

Mark smirked, yanking her head back enough so that she lay on her side as he pulled out, cum spurting on the side of her face and along her breasts. He leans in, suckling on her cum-coated nipple before moving up her body to kiss her. She tasted sweet, mixed with the saltiness of his release, and he swore again that she was perfect. Perfect just like this; fucked out and smeared with his cum as she babbled pretty, incoherent words.

© hyckstarz

[yougavememyopia]

18+ NSFW, but it's clothed, sub yandere, mean afab reader, he falls between your legs and y'know, "master," degradation

Clumsy yandere, who constantly looked at you with lovesick eyes. Following you everywhere and basically worshipping the ground you walked on. Every item that you touched was sacred, added to his little shrine. Every angle of you was a picture in his poorly made scrapbook.

He'd accidentally bump his drink into random nobodies while he was busy trying to get a sniff of your divine scent. Frustrated that his clumsiness led him to losing sight of your fleeting figure.

You tried your best to ignore him. The loud thud of him falling over objects or his small "oof" when he bumped into walls never went unnoticed by you.

He'd instinctively apologize to the inanimate articles and walk away awkwardly. Ashamed of the attention he drew to himself.

You finally decided to confront him, getting tired of watching him trip over his shoelaces and timidly fleeing the scene. "What's the matter with you, huh? Why are you such a fucking klutz?"

He had no idea how to answer that. It was as if he was cursed to be so uncordinated ever since he was born. He chuckled and shrugged you off with a joke about bad luck. Hand brushing against yours while you helped him up. He had never felt so warm— his cheeks flushed scarlet as a heat wave traveled through his body, building awkward sweat.

You didn't understand how you managed to make his knees buckle with your mere presence. He'd trip over nothing, ending up injured at your feet. Looking up at you with glistened eyes and a dumb smile. It took everything in you to not step on his pitiful face.

"Guess you could say... I, uh, fell for you?" His laughter triggered another eye roll from you. It was truly pathetic how he thought that he could win you over one day. After all, his luck was bad. Very, very bad.

He kept getting caught by you doing the most unhinged things. Sniffing your dirty laundry. Stealing your useless trash. Lurking around your place at strange times.

Denying the truth from you always got him nowhere, so he'd try to confess over and over of how much he loved the little things about you. Sounding incoherent as he stumbled and jumped between words.

"I just can't– s-staying away from you is– I mean, I am sorry... a-a little? But you're like my master. N-no, wait, I... I didn't mean to say that–"

Loud drums of his heartbeat banged in his ear every time your eyes met. The repulsed look on your face making his stomach twist with glee. You were looking at him. Paying attention to him. He didn't deserve any of it. He truly didn't.

“I didn't do anything terrible this time! Just stole your straw. Is that bad?" He'd say in an ashamed voice— head down, eyes studying the ground. His sweaty, shaky fingers fiddled with each other as he waited for your verdict.

You forced him to throw the object in the bin. He felt orgasmic as you lectured him about his creepy behavior. The pure displeased look on your face giving him a high. Only if you knew the thoughts going on his head, you'd slap him without hesitation.

He had a detailed diary about all the little things about you that he loved. Each physical and personality characteristic was intricated in unusually specific details. Of course, his terrible curse led him to accidentally lose it at your place the first time he broke in.

Not only did he get an injury collapsing on your floor— running away when he heard your security system— but he also exposed you to his most disturbing private thoughts.

Pages and pages of your name and doodled hearts. I love you's and perverted fantasies written all over. Scribbles of how he wanted to carve your name into his skin with a knife. Feel you inside his veins. Finally belong to you and only you~♡.

You were disgusted. Particularly grossed out (and a bit turned on) at all the sexual positions he wrote about. The shameless smut written like he had already experienced it. Most of it about rough punishment that made your mouth agape.

No matter how hard you tried to avoid him after that, he was always there. With a weary expression and a bruised body. His fearful gaze had changed to something cloudy and crazed. Like at any point, he would break.

The tension between you grew each day, and so you invited him over to talk. Feeling the need to do something about the lustful glances exchanged.

Then he did it again— ruined everything with his clumsiness. He brought over a drugged drink. Your favorite flavor with an addition of something that'll aid in kidnapping. Before he could hand you it over, he collapsed on you. The cup spilled and flooded the ground, turning the tiles slippery.

When you opened your eyes, you found yourself to be okay. Sighing relief as no weird cliché kissing moment happened. Instead, warm breaths fanned your thighs. The clumsy yandere faced with a sight he had only imagined.

Your smell flooded his nose, and his eyes shut in ecstasy. He felt as if this was the best thing that could ever happen to him. Happy that his luck led him to the source of your scent. Moaning loudly without intent.

"I-I'm so sorry-" You could barely hear his muffle words, the vibration of his voice sending shivers right through you. Your thoughts unclear with the feeling of his mouth moving on your crotch. "S-so sorry."

"Nngh—" You let out a noise from the simulation. He wanted to move away but found himself unable to find the strength to. Your mind became hazy. A hand reaching down to hold his head there, earning a small whimper from him. "You... already made a fool of yourself. Use that mouth for something better and show me how sorry you are."

"...really? T-thank you! Thank you so much." That was all he needed to stop hesitantkng and create a wet stain on the fabric of your front. Whining each time his tongue felt a little bit of your private through the pants. He wanted nothing more than to rip your clothes off and taste you. "Please... please give me a chance to worship you like you deserve it. Keep me as a toy to use whenever you please. Please master-"

"-shut the fuck up already! I have no interest in you gross fantasies." You tugged on his hair and forced his flushed face to get as close as possible. His breathing hitched while you grinded against his tongue, making his pants feel tighter. But all his focus was on your voice. "Just make me come, you worthless creep."

Oh, how he loved when you spoke to him with such disgust in your tone. He wanted to serve you as best as he could, so maybe one day, he'll finally get the privilege of being praised.

[bigheartbuck]

8.17 fix it/canon divergent

"Eddie," Tommy says, and he sounds like he does at work. Firm. Calm. He's navigated helicopters through much worse than this. Raging storms and hurricanes. "Eddie, step away."

Eddie whips around, head snapping at him, eyes angry. Finger still pointed. Nostrils flaring. Buck is looking wide eyed. The tension in the air is palpable. Thick and heavy. "What are you doing here?" Eddie asks sharply and Tommy raises an eyebrow. Holds up the empty food containers. After the funeral, they'd all eaten at Hen's place. Buck had brought food for everyone. No one had really eaten anything. But it'd been nice, regardless. Or well, as nice as it gets when your captain dies and you have to do normal things after his funeral, such as eating and sleeping. Tommy had stayed behind to help Hen clean up. Had promised to drop off the food containers at Buck's.

So here he is. Backdoor wasn't shut and he walked in on Buck's face twisting into shame and grief and guilt and Eddie's raised voice.

Tommy puts the containers on the counter. Tries to meet Evan's eyes. It's charged in here. Tommy feels his stomach knot at the way Evan curls in on himself. Something isn't right. "Just came to bring these back," Tommy says, and then finally Evan looks back at him. "You okay?" Tommy asks.

Eddie scoffs, crossing his arms. “He’s fine. We're okay. Buck doesn't need you.” Buck shifts uncomfortably. “Eddie, come on…”

But Eddie ignores him, stepping closer to Tommy. “You’re not part of this team. You don’t know what we’ve been through.” It's a grief response, probably. Eddie is hot headed. Can be arrogant and mean. Buck's mentioned it jokingly before but it doesn't seem funny now. Nothing about it is fucking funny.

Tommy meets Eddie's gaze, unyielding. "I’m just here for Evan.”

Buck pushes past Eddie and towards Tommy and Tommy can see it in his tense shoulders, his set jaw. He's going to cry. And he definitely doesn't want Eddie to see right now. Whatever their argument was about, he needs to get out of here. "You wanted to catch that movie, right?" Evan says, voice brittle and sharp and he pointedly ignores Eddie. Tommy doesn't even blink. He touches the small of Evan's back. "Yeah," he says gently. "We're running late, come on."

Evan doesn't say anything on the drive. He stares down at his phone and bites his lip, and then out of the window and then back at his phone again. Fiddles with the seam of his jeans. Bounces his leg. At a red light stop, Tommy reaches over. Places his hand on Evan's thigh. Evan stills underneath his palm. Outside it's starting to rain. Drizzle, really. "My place okay?" Tommy asks and keeps his hand right there. Eyes on the road.

"Please." Buck's voice is rough, hoarse. Another beat. "I don't need you to save me, by the way. This isn't -- I was handling it fine."

Tommy glances at him. His chest clenches. "Hey, I know. That's not what--"

"He said I always make it about me." Buck blurts out, and he's angry and hurt. Grips Tommy's hand with his own, squeezes tightly. "Said I-- I don't know. Doesn't matter." His breath hitches. "I tried so hard to be okay, Tommy, I really did. And I - I know I'm a lot but I really thought I-" He lets out a wet huff. "I was there for everyone, I really tried to be. Like he said. To be what they needed but I was selfish, apparently and I-"

Tommy parks the car. They're here. He kills the engine and twists in his seat to look at Buck properly. The rain is picking up now, drumming against the windows.

"You're not selfish," he says firmly. "You're grieving and taking care of everyone. You're the least selfish person I know." Throat working, Buck shakes his head, looking down at their hands. His eyes are wet.

"Come on, let's head inside. Got some sweats you can borrow." Steal. Buck used to steal them. Sleep in them, sleep in Tommy's shirts. Buck seems to remember too because he manages a small, soft smile.

They get inside and Tommy flicks on the lights, door falling shut behind them. He's barely out of his shoes when Evan steps into his space, crashes into him. Tommy lets out an oomph sound and then folds his arms around him. He's put on muscle, has become so solid and filled out but he buries himself deep into Tommy's chest. Tommy thinks about watching Buck through the monitors and how badly he wanted to hold him then. How badly he wanted to catch his pain with his bare hands. "I got you," he whispers and presses his nose into the curls. "I got you, baby." The pet name slips out like that. Evan doesn't seem to notice, he's trembling and shaking, and Tommy can feel him crying more than he can hear him.

Tommy holds him. Holds him through it all.

[ohcaptains]

𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬.

 pairing. anakin skywalker x f!reader 

synopsis. anakin finds loopholes in the jedi code.

warnings. 18+. this is sexually explicit, do not read this or interact with my blog if you’re a minor. do not copy my shit, i’ll find out. cock warming, p in v penetration but no movement. whimper-y anakin, if you move i'll leave the jedi order type beat.  

an. just a little something i wrote for the kinktober i never did. I thought i'd post instead of letting it collect dust in my drafts. the prompt was cockwarming! hope i did anakin justice<3 pls comment & reblog.

You find him at the window.

Sitting, with his thighs open and chest bare, staring out into the abyss. The night glints at the beads of sweat sliding down his chest, and his fingers drum endlessly against his thighs.

He heard you wake up, so he’s expecting your company, and has leaned back against the chair – thin black gown falling open – ready for you to climb all over him.

It happens often.

It’s not uncommon to wake up without him.

Most nights, you startle out of your slumber – as if even asleep, you’d sensed a shift – and blink at the space on the mattress beside you.

Finding him was easy.

You pad through the living room and wordlessly reach him in his post-nightmare state. His hair is tousled, sculpted chest is slick with sweat -- there’s an energy vibrating off of him, and you can taste it in the air.

Stepping behind him, you gently run the tips of your fingers over his shoulders, and the whirlpool in Anakin’s belly settles for a second. When you move into frame, it’s gone completely, replaced by a warm heat that has roots. He breathes a smile.

“Like clockwork.”

You give him a sheepish grin in return and fiddle with the fabric of your small nightgown. There’s a moment where Anakin gets to look at you – all sleepy and cuddly – and he’s ready to escape with you off of this forsaken planet.

His will holds strong.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?” he asks, raising a scarred brow, and despite your groggy state, you still manage to roll your eyes. Stepping closer, you use his broad shoulders as anchors to slip onto his lap.

“Don’t make that face,” Anakin hushes, and while you settle back onto his thighs, his metal hand comes up. He traces the line of your jaw, “You know I let you do what you want.”

His spare hand steadies your hips, and it’s still warm from his lightsaber. Calloused fingers run over your skin, reminding you of the fight that’s leaving scars – the war that’s brewing, both inside and outside of his mind.

In moments like this, though, there’s a subtle calm.

An impenetrable force that hums over the pair of you.

You lean into his palm and whisper, “Not everything.”

There’s a haunted edge to your gaze, and your words are loaded. Anakin knows what you mean, knows all the intricacies of your subtle dig, and yet, he still manages to smile.

Well, smirk.

“What do you want? Just say the word.”

You wouldn’t, and Anakin knows that. He’s caught your bluff, and you manage a bashful smile before gently leaning forward, dragging your hips against his lap.  

Anakin’s cloth-covered thigh nestles against the thin fabric of your underwear. Your smile falters, lips parting. You push your forehead against his, and whisper, “If I say the words, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“I know,” he breathes, “I know.”

I want more.

A life together, not stolen moments when the sun is down.

An attachment. A bond.

But it’s forbidden.

It’s why it can’t go any further than this.

“What’d you dream about?” you wonder. Anakin pulls his eyes away from you, instead looking to where his thigh sits. The silence is your answer.

“I’ll still ask, even if you never tell.”

He takes hold of your bare thighs, rubbing his hands up and down, and you hum his name, reaching out to push his hair behind his ears.

“Pretty boy.”

“Stop it,” he huffs, cheeks reddening.

But how can you? When he’s all sharp lines and long hair. You run your hands up the bare panes of his muscular chest, feeling the deft of his muscles, and the dampness on his skin.

The air changes – hums electric – and it buzzes as you push his gown off his shoulders.

Carefully, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss against his collarbone.

“That’s better.”

Anakin hums a laugh. His hands snake around to your lower back, dig into the fat of your ass, and using the grip there, he gently rocks you forward once, forcing your clothed cunt to drag against his muscular thigh.

You whimper. It’s quiet, but Anakin can hear it, even if it’s muffled by his shoulder.

“’ S’what you came out here for, huh?” he whispers. The electric flooding through the walls hums, but the room is still eerily silent. Anakin’s voice is a roar.

You lick your lips and drag your face up to see him. “No,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss against his top lip, “I like being with you, even if we don’t do this.”

Anakin has to close his eyes. Words like those are fuel to the fire brimming in his chest, and it doesn’t help that you wrap your arms around his neck and fiddle with the tail end of his hair.

Arching your back, you slowly roll backwards, then forward, teasing the bulge between his legs.

Releasing a shaky breath, you repeat the motion, again, and again, near humping his leg.  

A familiar ache begins to swell, coiling between your thighs and up into your belly. It makes you clench around nothing, and you mewl quietly, wishing for more – always wishing for more.

Still, you continue, slick pooling into your underwear and against his thigh.

Anakin can’t look at you. If he sees your face, his resolve will falter.

His nerves are shot. If he couldn’t feel how wet you are, he could smell it, and it makes a groan bristle behind his teeth.

He buries his head into the crook of your neck and busies himself with kissing at the soft shell of your throat, careful not to leave marks.

Once, you left a mouth-shaped mark against his stomach, and he looked at it every day for a week.

Caught himself with his top up in the mirror looking at the reflection, eyeing the way the mark sat on the firm lines of muscle, fading away with time.

A dark part of him wanted the mark on the slope of his neck.

“Wanna be inside of you.”

His admission rests heavily against your throat, and you’re thankful that he can’t see the way you clench your eyes closed.

Though, he does feel you tighten your grip on the back of his head. Feels you shift up against his thigh, and the warmth pooling in your underwear burns against him.  

He can sense you’re hesitant.

“’ can be like last time. Just – Just --” he stutters, licking his lips and struggling to release the words from the back of his throat. Finally, he manages. “--Sit on it.”

“Anakin.”

He pulls away from your neck and looks up at you.

“We can use it as an exercise.”

A laugh bursts from your throat, “To test your will?”

He smiles, and because you have to, you push your cunt against his crotch, uttering, “Want me to make It difficult for you?” and white flashes through Anakin’s eyes.

He grabs your hips to steady you, tensely pushing his fingers into your skin.

“Hardest challenge I’ll ever encounter.”

“You eager to impress?”

He kisses your jaw, “Don’t I always?”

“Mm,” you hum, cradling his chin. You shift back so he can pull his trousers down, and when you take his cock in your hand, he melts. His commanding aura switches for a moment, and you watch Anakin still his breathing.

You push your underwear to the side, and as you lift yourself to sink onto him, Anakin breathes, “Just the tip – just a little bit, j-just—” and he chokes on his words, gasping as you brush the leaking head of his cock through your folds.

You halt. Whimper. Have to grip his shoulder to steady yourself, or you’ll push him inside of you all at once and hurt yourself.

You inhale steadily.

“Have to – have to go slow,” you spurt, trying to calm your tremors.  

“It’s been a while since…”

You don’t have to finish your sentence. Anakin knows, and he feels a mix of pride and guilt. Only me, he thinks, and then, like a flash, only me, he swallows. And I can’t give her everything.

This. This is as far as it’ll go. He knows he’s pushing it. Knows that he’s come up with some convoluted rule to both have his cake and eat it too.

If he fucks you the way he wants to, he’ll fall in love with you. As if it hasn’t happened already.

Anakin has made lying to himself a speciality.

You push against him once more, and the tip of his cock nudges between your folds, forcing an ache to shoot through your clit and make you dizzy. You stop. Pause and curse yourself.

A slow burn builds in your thighs, and you clench down to try and mediate the burn. Anakin grunts.

“Maker,” he utters. “Sorry—” you splutter, sucking in a tight breath.

Anakin wraps his metal arm around the back of your hips, hoping to steady you. “Lemme,” he mumbles, and gently, he flexes his hips up, slowly feeding his cock into your soaked pussy.  

Your lower abdomen immediately burns.  

He’s being calm about it – using all his training – but there’s nothing calm about the words trickling out of his mouth.

“Oh stars,” he groans, voice wrecked, “You gonna take all of me, sweet girl? Gonna let me fill you up?”

When you finally sink to the hilt, your resolve snaps. The pair of you moan out in unison, loud and high-pitched.

Anakin buries his face in your chest, and the heat of his mouth against your breasts adds to the tension coiling in your belly.

“Don’t – don’t move,” he grunts, and you shake your head, “I won’t – I’ll come on your cock if I do,” and you don’t mean to say it like that, don’t mean for the words to come out like that, but you feel Anakin pulse from inside of you, warm and hard and wet.

He manages to laugh.

“Tryna kill me,” he shakily breathes, shaking his head. His wet lips brush against your breasts, and you want more – want all that he can give you – so you clutch the back of his head, pulling him closer, hoping he gets the message.

His wet kisses make your skin prickle.

You’re full up. Can feel him stretching you out, this feeling something that’s only happened a few times before.

“If you move,” Anakin begins, out of breath, “I’ll leave the Jedi order and spend my days inside of you.”

“Don’t t-tempt me.”

He laughs, and you accidentally clench around him, causing him to groan deep and long against your tits.

“If you do that again, I’ll come inside of you.”

You imagine it. Imagine him spilling out, the wet white of it dripping out of your cunt and back onto his cock, and the mere image of it has your clit throbbing.

Keep still. Don’t move.

But he wraps his tongue around your nipple and begins to suck.

You cry out, and all of your muscles tighten, forcing you to clench tight around his cock. Anakin jolts and whines your name against your tits.

“S’your fault,” you mewl, moaning. You hang your head back, “Stars, Anakin.”

“Try and stay still,” he mumbles, and you stutter a laugh, “Impossible.”

“It can’t be,” he responds, and while he speaks in jest, his words are sincere. The line between love and lust runs thin, and if Anakin is being honest with himself, it’s close to snapping.