#m!seven

[infamous-if]

Spicy Snippet #3: M!Seven

VICTORIA - ORION - F!SEVEN

The high you feel hearing the crowd after a performance is one that can’t be replicated. Not even the strongest drugs can make you feel this…alive. Nothing else in the world can make you feel this alive. 

Aside from Seven, of course. 

But if the danger of the drug is measured by how strong the addiction is, you fear Seven Lawless is definitely the worst. 

Or best, depending on how you look at it.

That thought runs through your mind now when Seven takes your hand and motions to the bathroom. Your friends are too busy riding that post-performance high by dancing together, and you look away from them to give Seven a nod.

The sly, evil smile that rises on his face makes a shiver run down your spine, and you allow him to pull you through the crowd. 

When you two reach the bathroom, Seven looks under each stall as you throw cold water on your face. You’re panting, sweaty, and your skin still burns with heat from the performance. When Seven is satisfied that you two are alone, he turns to look at you through the mirror. The secret smile on his face makes your skin burn hotter, and you’re certain that performing on stage to a stadium of people won’t ever hold a candle to how he makes you feel with one look.

He keeps his eyes trained on yours when he walks over to you, stopping to stand behind you. A lump forms in your throat, and a swell of excitement and nervousness rises in the pit of your stomach when he puts his hands on the sink, looking away from the mirror to tilt his head at you, gazing at your face. 

“Hi.” 

You manage a smile when you drag your eyes away from the mirror to turn your cheek, meeting his eyes. “Hey.” 

His humor fades away once his eyes settle on your mouth and you subconsciously lick your lips. Doing the same to his own, he appears debate something for a brief moment. Then, with heated eyes, he leans forward and presses his mouth to yours. 

The action is cautious, delicate, which is funny considering Seven was just head banging on stage minutes ago. You can taste the strawberry chapstick on his mouth, and the heat of his tongue against yours makes your legs feel like goo. Kissing Seven is still something completely new to you. 

After being best friends for years, you thought you knew all there was to know about Seven. It’s only recently that you discovered there’s a version of him you were completely in the dark about. Like how he kisses. How, sometimes, you look at him while you two are singing on stage and feel like he’s undressing you with his eyes. Or how he makes a certain sound in your mouth when you kiss him just right. A sound only you can pull out of him. 

When he pulls away, it’s too soon. He smiles at you. “You did really well on stage tonight.” 

“Is that why you brought me to the bathroom?” you say with a smile of your own. “To compliment me?”

“Maybe.” Your nose brushes his when he moves his head to kiss you again, chaste and brief. You ache for more. “Are you disappointed? Is it not enough?”

“Not nearly,” you admit, the words leaving you in a sigh. 

His eyes glitter with happiness and he chews on his lower lip in thought before saying, “I like when you want me. For a long time, I wasn't sure if you did. Well...I hoped you did."

You hate how easily saying things like that come to him. “So do I.” 

“Well, I want you all the time so that’s not really anything special…” 

You sputter out a laugh, looking around the bathroom. Like most club bathrooms, it sits in disrepair from lack of maintenance. It’s dirty, and hardly romantic. When you look back at Seven, he’s looking at you with half a grin, already knowing what you’re going to say next. “Even now?”

“Especially now.” He looks at you. “Sweaty from performing and we’re alone…”

You snort and Seven smiles before he leans in again. All pretenses flee, and your skin grows hot when you turn fully to face him. He presses his body against yours, pushing you against the sink. 

You deepen the kiss, your hand going to his neck, pulling him closer. Seven’s chest vibrates against yours when he groans, his palm reaching under your shirt to swipe across your stomach, the heat of his skin against yours making your desire shoot up until you feel yourself reaching between you two, your fingers toying with the zipper of his pants. Feeling exactly just how much he wants you.

Seven pulls away, putting his hand on yours, stopping you. When you look at him, he shoots a pointed look at the door. Understanding, you smile and push yourself off the sink, grabbing his hand. It’s your turn to lead him and you do so to one of the empty stalls. 

The moment you lock it, Seven is on you. He pushes you against the door of the stall. He stifles your gasp with another kiss, this one hurried and urgent as if time is running out. 

When he pulls away to kiss your neck, you bring a hand to his hair to guide him. The strands are soft between your fingers, and Seven smiles against your skin. And then, between kisses, he says, “When do you think we’re going to tell the band about this?”

“Never,” is your immediate reply, and his kiss melts into a bite that makes you stifle a moan. You drop your hand from his hair to the waistband of his pants, forcing it down his hips. “They’d never let us live it down.” 

You and Seven have been hiding away for the past few weeks. You don’t remember the exact reason why you two agreed not to tell anyone, but it had something to do with “not ruining the delicate ecosystem of the dynamic” whatever that means.

“Do you think they already know?” he manages, the words coming out strangled when you hook a finger over the band of his boxers, pulling them down. "They must have an idea." Seven swallows when he follows your gaze to the space between you two.

“Don’t know,” you say, kissing him again. He bites your lower lip in playful warning and you pull away to spit on your hand. “And right now, don’t care.”

“Eventually we’re going to have to tell the—oh.” You know exactly how to shut him up. Your hand wraps around him and he jerks his hips forward, unable to stop the moans from leaving your lips. 

You kiss him again, and he puts two hands on your cheeks. You've barely settled into the rhythm he likes most when the bathrooms swing open, and Seven’s eyes widen. Sensing another groan from him, you put your hand on his mouth and his brows furrow together in panic. Then you quicken your pace and his drops his head against the door, his face melting back into that expression of carnal pleasure you like to see so much. Seven completely forgets what he was worried about. 

“…you think we’ll be able to come back next week?” You almost choke the moment the voice rises in the air, and your hand falters. Seven makes a frustrated sound in his throat and he puts a hand on your arm, urging you to continue. 

“You heard that?” Iris asks. 

You look at Seven with wide eyes, and his brows furrow in faux innocence. “Mfhfnmf?” he mutters against the skin of your palm. You want to scream in frustration—at Devyn. At Iris. At their impeccable timing. 

You hear the doors of the stalls slamming open and Seven shoots you a look. Ah. Shit. The last thing you need is for your friends to find out you and Seven are…whatever you are right now. 

You step back and Seven fumbles for his pants, grumbling in disappointment as he buttons it closed. You look around, uncertain at first, before you step on the toilet so only one pair of feet are seen in the stall. Seven spins around in confusion, not knowing what to do with his hands and...with himself, and you point at the door so he understands. 

“I swear I heard that,” Iris says. “What if someone is dying or something?”

“It’s…me,” Seven calls out. His voice is thick with desire, still hoarse from what you two just finished doing.

Well, finished isn’t exactly the word. 

“Seven?” Iris ventures. “You alright?”

“Yeah, just felt sick,” he responds, looking back with a shrug. The heat in the pit of your stomach hasn’t gone away, and when he looks at you, it takes everything in you not to tell Iris and Devyn to fuck off somewhere. 

“You need a hand?” Devyn asks.

"A hand?" You hear Seven snicker, and you want to kick him. Though you can't stop your own smile. "Nuh-huh. I'm not throwing up or anything." Seven puts a cheek on the door, then his hands. He looks like he’s getting irritated. You understand—you want them gone.“I’m alright. I’ll meet you guys back outside.” 

Your legs are starting to hurt, you shift in order to give your muscles relief, but the toilet seat moves with you, making you slip. 

You scream, because what else is there to do when you're slipping face first off a toilet seat?

“Wha—” Seven barely has time to spin and catch you before you’re crashing into him, making his head clatter against the door. The sound echoes against the bathroom, and your friends are gasping.

"Ow..." Seven groans.

“Seven?!” A moment later you see Iris peeking out from under the stall, her eyes widening. “[MC]?”

“Heyyyy,” you drawl out casually, your body slumped over on Seven’s as he uses his arm to hold you up. He uses the other one to open the door, and it swings open pathetically until Devyn and Iris are looking at you with twin expressions of surprise. 

“Hey.” Seven nods his head in greeting, smiling awkwardly. He puts his hands together to lock his fingers behind your back, holding you to his chest.

Devyn glances at the both of you, lips parted. “What the fuck are you guys doing?”

“I…uh.” He swallows. “Thought I had a bowel problem. [MC] was just helping me in making sure nothing wrong’s down there.” He forces out a laugh. "All good."

You look at him, wanting to beam your disappointment into his brain. Really? That’s all you could come up with? 

“Ugh.” Iris waves a dismissive hand, walking away. “You two are so fucking weird sometimes. Go to the doctor! It's not normal to be that close!"

"You have no idea how close we are," Seven mumbles, and you nudge his rib. He coughs, and then smiles again.

Devyn stands there, not so easily convinced, but then she follows Iris out anyway. Not without shooting you two a look. 

When they’re gone, you two glance at each other. "I think it's time we tell them." You detangle yourself from him, adjusting your clothes.

Seven lets out a laugh, letting his head fall back against the stall wall.

“You think?” 

[s7ven-art]

Michael distortion

[leonardcohenofficial]

always such a delight to (re)visit the MASH set! even in 95° weather the hike was totally worth it (:

[pocketgalaxies]

C1E60 || C3E88

[eddiestightywhities]

Twenty-seven seconds.

Buck had counted each terrifying one of them. Those moments, between one to the next, they'd felt like entire lifetimes.

Twenty-seven seconds.

The length of time they’d held each other's steadfast gaze through the glass that separated them; he and Eddie in different rooms yet locked together in a shared, living hell.

Twenty-seven seconds.

It was how long it had taken the CDC doctors to inspect Eddie's hazmat for rips or holes as they'd checked in minute detail for any place the toxic substance could have breached the suit and reached Eddie's skin.

Twenty-seven seconds.

That's what it had taken, in the end. Barely a half-minute—not the full four, as that psychologist from New York would have the world believe.

Buck had read about it in a Big Think article one time:

‘Holding four minutes of sustained eye contact with another person is a sure-fire way to fall in love.’

There had been some other stuff in there about asking a series of tailored personal questions before beginning the looking part of the experiment, but he and Eddie already had six years worth of personal.

No two people on earth knew each other the way Eddie knew Buck and Buck knew Eddie—and although some folks would say that couldn't possibly be true, Buck didn't give a damn about a single one of them.

Twenty-seven seconds.

And Buck knew that Eddie was just as in love with him as Buck had been with Eddie for those six years they'd spent by each other's side. Or, at least, Eddie was in love with Buck now; Buck was sure of it, after the terror he'd seen in Eddie's eyes that was reflected in his own, when they’d each thought they might be about to lose the other half of themselves.

Twenty-seven seconds.

It was more than long enough, after everything they'd been through together.

Twenty-seven seconds.

Then the doctors had given Eddie the all-clear and the pair of them had burst into relieved, happy-tears.

Buck had already speed-dialled Carla (they'd taken Eddie's mobile from him) because he knew Eddie needed to hear Christopher's voice—they both did—and Buck handed the phone to Eddie as soon as the doctors let Eddie tear his way out of that awful room that Buck never wanted to see ever again for as long as he fucking lived, and they'd held back the tears as best they could, for their boy's sake, while they chatted on speakerphone just like it was any other day, about Eddie's shitty cooking and which Lego structures they were going to build when they got back home.

Because that's where they both knew Buck belonged: With Eddie and Chris. The three of them, at Casa Diaz.

Together.

Twenty-seven seconds.

That's how it began.

Twenty-seven seconds.

With those three words.

“Twenty-seven seconds... Eds, that's how long it took me to realise how stupid I've—”

It took Eddie's hands no time at all to find Buck's face and pull it down into his own, Eddie pressing his lips to Buck's and kissing twenty-seven seconds and six years of pure, unadulterated love into them.

Twenty-seven seconds.

Until they were uttering those other three words to each other, over and over again.

They cried more, and laughed about it.

Then they kissed more.

And if Buck had to hazard a guess at how long it took before Hen and Chim and Bobby were able to pull them apart, trying their best to admonish them through their fits of giggles?

Twenty-seven seconds.

Or thereabouts.

[nope-nora]

happy valentine’s day!

Tia Williams, Seven Days in June | Mikko Harvey, “For M” | Niall Horan, “You Could Start A Cult” | @mjalti | Catullus, 48 | Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story | @kanyasstuff | @chloeinletters | Plutarch, Moralia | @/vwictims on X

[ellas-purnell]

JESSICA CHASTAIN — Watch What Happens Live With Andy Cohen (January 5, 2023)

[julianavalds]

SPIKE in Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas (2003) dir. Tim Johnson, Patrick Gilmore

↳ requested by @thesparksbro

[thosegayoldmen]

Seven Sentence Sunday

Thanks for the tags lovelies! @elodiah & @lokimobius

Here's me sharing my first snippet of my @lokiusbang piece for The Automat servers event!

It's err...a tad angsty, but I swear it's actually a spicy fic! This just turned out to be the best bit to share that wasn't too spoilery 😖

...Enjoy? 😅 (Also it's eight sentences but shhhh)

It isn’t exactly what Mobius would call an appealing view, his nerves making him hunch over slightly, emphasizing his awful posture and the extra weight he carries these days around his middle. He reflexively tries to sit up straighter, but when it makes little difference he finds himself hunching again in shame, his arms coming to wrap around his stomach and chest - a weak attempt at hiding. He’s entirely too self conscious like this, his entire body on show, every bump and scar and wrinkle right there for him to stare at, and he finds himself closing his eyes again so he doesn’t have to look at all.  It’s not that he doesn’t like his own body, he just doesn’t see what it is that Loki apparently does. He tells him about it often enough, but any time he’s tried to see it in the past, all that ends up looking back at him in the mirror is an old, washed up analyst.  He knows what he is, a mortal man, past his prime and well on his way to retirement. Or whatever kind of retirement you would even get at the TVA. And it boggles his mind every time he stops to think about the fact that Loki is an actual god.

No pressure tags for yall! @in-my-loki-feels @mythical-magik @loki-is-my-kink-awakening @devilbearingtrouble @impulsemuppet

@andthekitchensinkao3 @mirilyawrites @scifikimmi @silentxsymphony @kcscribbler

@doomed-spectacles @boredintjqueen @ilaytrapsfortroubadours

[tosailuponthesea]

Brennan: I’ll “yes and” anything

Rekha “I give birth while falling through the air” Shankar:

Rekha “I shit and save his life” Shankar:

Rekha “I stab him in the ass with his own brush tail” Shankar:

Rekha: while driving at 4000 mph, I take off and throw my oily shirt out the window in front of the car to make it go faster

Brennan: NO

[loki-is-my-kink-awakening]

Seven Sentence Sunday

Lokius. Mobius believes his trysts with Loki aren't about love. He's wrong. Mildly suggestive.

It was just sex, Mobius thought as he panted into the crook of Loki's neck, his cheek rubbing against their sweat-soaked shirt. It was stress relief, it didn't mean anything. Loki was in love with someone else It didn't matter that they kept doing this, that Loki would push him into a closet, kissing him, hands unzipping his slacks. They kept doing it because they needed it, not because of love. Mobius’ heart broke further each time, but he would never deny Loki this. His friend had been through so much already; if this little bit of comfort was all he could offer, he would.

There's the softest kiss from Loki just 2 pars after this, but to change where the snippet started wasn't really working. Anyway, I need you to know it's there.

Tags below the cut

Tagged by the ever-lovely @elodiah and @kcscribbler 💕💕

Passing the tag onto my fellow creatives

@cha-melodius @starport-seven-five @dewdropreader @lgwilt @dreamycloud

@insert-witty-user-name-here @mirilyawrites @chaos-monkeyy

@lokimobius @thosegayoldmen @mystic-voyager

@impulsemuppet @peppermintkamz @in-my-loki-feels @stillwanderingflame

@kusakichan15 @boredintjqueen @silentxsymphony @rins-love-wins

@doomed-spectacles @devilbearingtrouble @fauxvvounds

@andthekitchensinkao3 @loki-tree-of-life @sparrow-the-tired-lesbian @starrose17

@blackbirdofasgard @illiasha @primewritessmut @ceeceetv

@voulezvulcan @lettingtimepass @typewriterwolf  

And if you've read this part and aren't tagged and want to be, please consider yourself tagged (and please tag me so I can see your snippet).

[she]

She always made sure the bad was outweighed by so much good. I... Well, I didn't do that for her. I made it fifty-fifty. Which is about the cruelest thing you can do to someone you love, give them just enough good to make them stick through a hell of a lot of bad.

—The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid

[billcarden]

who does he think he is?

[i.d. in alt text]

[poppy-purpura]

You said that SRS and UI were dancers for the ancients, yes? Can you draw more of that, it’s a really cool idea

[redbuddi]

general rule of thumb, if a movie's advertising talks more about how the film was made than what the movie is actually about, that means that the movie doesn't have much going for it and even the advertisers know it.