#not betad btw

[raspberrysmoon]

richie lipschitz has a life. he quite likes his life. he doesnt need anything more from his friends.

~

aka my first uploaded hatchetfield fic. bam, babey

[souls-page]

Page 33

“Why do you wish to find out when you die?” Edwin asked Niko, letting himself ask, not because it had been lingering too long in his head, but because it was far simpler just to ask Niko, everything was simpler with her, easier.

Her head rested on his shoulder, her hand holding his arm, he wondered if she could actually feel him, because as much as he wanted to feel her he couldn’t, he felt her weight, and felt her hold on him tighten before softening again, but he doesn’t feel her warmth that he knows she has

“Because I just want to” Niko replied, simple straightforward, he glanced down at her before looking straight ahead again, resting his head on hers, hoping that she could feel him, that him being here brought her comfort,

“I don't really know what I would do if I actually found out when I’d die, but I think it would bring me some comfort to know when” She said, voice soft, somehow even when the topic was heavy, she could find a way to make it feel like it isn’t, he’s thankful for her of that, never once has he said anything he didn’t want to, never once had it been hard for him to say anything to her

Never with her

“That's odd, most people don’t seek out when they die” He said

“Well, I’m not most people” She replied a smile on her lips, tone soft but fond

“No, no you aren’t” He agreed, a small smile on his face before letting the silence stretch, as they both dangled their feet on the edge of the building, letting the wind pass by them, one feeling the coldness of the wind more than the other

The memory is slightly blurred now, two weeks have passed, and somehow it’s still not fully clicking in his head, He still somehow expects Niko to show up at the agency,

This is not possible considering they never told her where it is, but somehow he just does, he expects her to just show up, with that smile of hers

And on nights like these when they aren’t as busy, on when Crystal is asleep in her apartment and he and Charles are left alone in the room with Charlie being out, He can’t help but think of her, and he knows that Charles knows what he’s thinking

Niko’s books are put on the shelves nearest to the desk, at arm's length for Edwin, and on nights like these he doesn’t know whether he’s thankful to see them there, or saddened by the reminder that they offer

But on nights like these, he’ll always reach out and take one of them, and Charles's presence helps, he talks and sits near him, when he’s sitting at the desk or beckons Edwin over to the couch

Sometimes they both read, sometimes Edwin reads while Charles is just there and sometimes Edwin just reads to Charles, and it helps.

Sometimes more than others, the presence of someone while dealing with the loss of another. In hindsight it's weird, he’d never truly gotten this attached to someone else before, no one other than Charles, but now there's Niko, but Niko’s gone.

He closes the book after realizing that Charles has gone to sleep, they never needed it but he always chooses to do so, he looks so peaceful lying down on their couch, and he can’t help but think about when Charles died

He choose to stay with Edwin, but he can’t help but think about how the past thirty years would’ve been if he didn’t. He sighs and shakes his head, too many emotions for today, he sets the book down somewhere near, and for once he closes his eyes letting the quiet lull of the night lead him to sleep.

[dance-like-an-idiot]

Indefinite and Definitely Dreamed About

vampires and first meetings for @smallchaoscryptid's spiderbit week!

Teen, No Warnings Apply

Fandom: QSMP

Pairing: Cellbit/Roier

Additional Tags: Vampires, Fantasy, Royalty, Vampire Cellbit, Spider Hybrid Roier, First Meetings, Bad Flirting, mostly cause im aro, Romantic Fluff, Worldbuilding, character driven plot

Summary:

Cellbit knows that Mella has ambassadors in every country to keep close relations but he has not once seen the one at their castle. He simply assumed they had been already turned or too scared of getting turned, a very fair assumption for vampires. Though when the Vampiric Advisor introduces Cellbit specifically to a spider insecti telling him this was the new ambassador... Cellbit didn't know what to think, far too wrapped up in his new infatuation.

[denimpera]

“I told you to kneel” for Aurora and Swiss 👀

🫡

aurora frowns. “i told you to kneel.”

she did, almost thirty minutes prior. swiss had chuckled and called her attempt at domming him ‘cute’.

she'll show him cute.

she changes tactics, crossing one of her stocking covered legs over the other, sitting back on her arms where she's perched on the end of the bed. she looks down a little, subtly shaking her hair out from behind her ear, letting it cover her face. she smiles up at swiss from behind her lashes, coy.

“i think i've changed my mind, swissy.” she lilts, raising her voice up at the end the way she knows he likes, is weak for.

she watches his eyes go wide, jaw relaxing, hands going slack where they're folded over his chest. “yeah?”

“mhm,” she hums, squeezing her thighs together for show. swiss lets his hands fall away from his chest, crossing the room in three big strides, coming to a stop in front of her.

“what does my girl want, huh?” he grins down at her and she has to resist the urge to laugh.

she brings one if her hands up to prompt him closer in a come hither motion, luring him in with a too sweet smile. “kiss me?”

he does, bending at the waist to press their lips together, purring into her mouth when she brings a hand up to grope him over his jeans, thumbing the head of his cock through the material. her other hand comes to rest on his cheek, dragging a claw over his cheekbone.

she waits until he's openly moaning into her mouth, tonguing the inside of her cheek, to strike; sliding her hand down to cup his jaw before she digs her nails into both of his cheeks harshly, delighting in the sharp intake of breath and the whine of pain he lets out. she brings the hand that'd been teasing his cock to his shoulder, digging in and shoving him down.

he practically crumbles, knees hitting the floor so hard he winces, staring up at aurora with wide, blown out eyes.

“stay.” she scolds, waiting for him to nod before she uncrosses her legs, slips her panties off of her hips and lets them drop to the floor. she spreads out her legs, dripping pussy on full display for him. she makes a show of trailing her fingers up her thigh, exaggerated gasps and sighs as she ghosts her fingers over her clit, rolling her hips into her palm as she dips two fingers to press into her tight cunt.

she fucks in and out of herself a few times, moaning breathlessly as she grinds down onto her own hand, little hips shaking with it. she giggles when swiss whines. “only good boys get to touch.”

she's enjoying this far too much, the small pants of breath hitting her thighs as swiss drools over her, she knows he wants a taste, wants to fuck his tongue deep into her until she's squealing, but he won't.

he hasn't earned it yet.

[juststayquiete]

She never was religious but kinda liked Padre's God. It was a merciful but cruel creature. She wondered if this God would forgive her sins, would find her deeds as something natural instead of unforgivable. Sometimes, when the nights were especially mute and heavy, she even prayed - not for forgiveness but for helping her find the truth.

***

The windows of the car were slightly opened but the air was so hot that the wind didn’t bring any comfort. She hated the heat, the way her hair was sticking to her sweaty forehead and her shirt was clinging to her spine. She was sitting in the front seat like it was some kind of the privilege but the view was always the same - the endless Wasteland, the constant dust and sand, their family's cars are before and behind them. Babushka refused to turn on the radio in the car and they were riding in complete silence every freaking time. She never knew what to talk about with Babushka - they were together almost all the time, everything that could be discussed was already discussed, and it wasn’t like Babushka cared about her and Ari’s personal lives that much. In the end the road was the personal torture for her - she was sitting, unmoving and unspeaking, while losing her mind out of boredom. She turned around to look at Ari who was peacefully sleeping, lying along all backseats. At least someone was happy in this car.

- Will mom call you tomorrow? - Babushka broke the silence so suddenly she almost flinched.

- Ah, right, I forgot to tell you, the last time she said she’s leaving somewhere, don’t remember where, for three weeks and she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to call.

Babushka scoffed but didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to - their mother dropped two kids on her own mother and left to live her life without any burdens. So to say, their mother being a cunt was a well-known fact even though Babushka never told it in words. 

She turned around to look at Ari again. The cheek she was laying on was squished in a funny way, her favorite plush bunny was tightly clutched to her chest. 

She blinked and out of nowhere there was blood. It was flowing out of Ari’s throat but the slash wasn’t visible because of the toy’s head. In a moment the pool of blood was so big it started to overflow the seat and spill on the floor. 

She trembled but didn’t startle. Her lungs were squeezed and she couldn’t breath but she didn’t look away. Ari’s slack face was starting to pale, the bunny fell from her limb arms. The wound on the throat showed up - and she remembered that cut as if she inflicted it just yesterday. The skin was opened up, the meat was glistening in the rays of the sun that were coming through the windows, the blood was leaving her body in the pulsating streaks. 

She knew it was a dream and she felt it fading away but she didn’t look away. Her sister never appeared in her dreams as an adult despite being nineteen when she was killed. Nevertheless, she was greedily trying to make the image of Ari’s face stuck on the inside of her eyelids. And then she was violently pulled out in reality.

She couldn’t even cry when she realised she doesn’t remember shit from her dream besides the ocean of blood. 

She couldn’t get rid of the metallic taste in her mouth for hours, the cigs and the liquor being no help at all and only lace bringing her much awaited oblivion. 

[gravyhoney]

The moment I take a deep breath and let someone beta my fics without being embarrassed, it’s OVER for you bitches.

Everytime I write fics I write some shit that I get embarrassed about in the solitary of my own room and delete it and make it less embarrassing for me to have written, but I think I need to get sillier with it. Eviler even. I need to beat them to shit more I think.

[lovelovelovelovelove987654321]

One Year

A/N: Hey guys!!! Sorry its been ages and ages and ages since my last fic. Genuinely so sorry. Idk how I feel about this one and the next one I'm posting, so let me know what you think. I live off of comments, reblogs and likes btw!!! Also this is NOT BETAD. SORRY!!

TW: mention of sex, mention of pregnancy, mention of miscarriage

Simon stands next to you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. For a long while, neither of you says anything. After a few minutes, days, months, years, he breaks the silence with a mumbled "Remember when we got our first house?"

When you dont respond, he continues.

"You were so happy. I was so happy. We were young and in love and everything was good." He says 'we were in love' as if he ever fell out of love with you.

A deeply sad and bitter chuckle sounds from him.

"It was just a shitty flat. Not even safe to live in, probably. But it was ours." It was really yours, if he was being honest. Everything in his life was yours. But once he'd puttered about the place, tightening screws and greasing hinges, it felt like it could be a little bit his. Just a little.

He pauses, swallows, squeezes his eyes shut.

"I fucked you in every room of that house." His voice is hoarse, pained.

"We called it fucking because we wanted to be, I dunno, mature. Cool. But it was making love. Everything we did together was making love." His voice gets quieter and quieter before finally cracking.

"You got pregnant. It was the singular best moment of my life when you told me." He makes a choked sound, "A kid would have been lucky to have you as a mom. We would have been lucky to have a id. But luck was never on our side for long, was it?"

He shakes his head sharply, moves on.

"Remember when we bought our house? When we got married? When we went to the ocean for our honeymoon? I do. I remember every blissfully happy moment." He chuckles again, but this time its actually a slightly happy sound.

"Every time I looked at you I was struck dumb by how beautiful you were. How lucky I was to have you."

He snorts. "I say 'was' as if you ever got less beautiful."

"You always used to asked me if I was okay, if I was having flashbacks. But most of the time I was just stunned by how perfect you were."

He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes.

"Remember all our anniversaries? The flowers and the smiles and the photo albums and the extra kisses?"

He waits for a second, as if he expects you to say something. When you dont, he continues.

"I loved our anniversaries, but really they were just like any other day. We always loved each other. We would always go do things together."

His voice drops again like he's admitting something shameful.

"I dont know what to do with my days anymore."

He confesses. "I'm re-enlisting, I think. If they'll take me. Maybe as a training officer. Although I always did hate the rookies..."

He pauses, almost smiles.

"I remember whenever I came home complaining about them, you'd just give me a kiss on the forehead and say they 'just wanted to be me'." "I always told you that that was stupid, because why would anyone want to be me? I'm nothing."

"And you would always say 'you're mine' and then I had to agree: all the rookies probably did want to be me. Anyone would." The silence creeps back in, thick and suffocating. "I have too many things at home now."

He whispers. "Too many florals. I dont know what to do with 'em."

His voice is barely audible. "I miss you. I love you." He gently caresses your headstone and lets a few tears fall. Its been a year since you died, but he still visits you daily. After all, the both of you had promised to talk every day, even if you were mad at each other. Who was he to break that?

[ceilidho]

forced throuple part 4 is coming tonight btw :)) it just needs to be betad and edited

[nausicaaandhermouth]

Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

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

mdni

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

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

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

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

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

btw requests & taglist are open!

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

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

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

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

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

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

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

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

God, if you’re there…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

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

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cock a brow. "Please?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interesting.

100 bpm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only if you talk about yours,”

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

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

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

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

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

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

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

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

With your leg you push his knees apart.

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

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

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smirks. The fucker.

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

[secret-bug-pain-blog]

btw we're travelling rn so if our inages and such r low quality dont worry that is because we are in a different country & also primarily postinf via queue & whatever wifi we can parasitize. we have not betad shit bc we would have to like. contact a beta for that. and mantis god doesnt have discord on phone plus tumblr messagong super awkward

[heller-obama]

Should I post part of the fic I’ve written so far?

[dinosaursmate]

[ When We Were Younger | Explicit | 76448 words ]

Harry fidgeted in his seat. His stomach was twisting painfully and he was almost shaking with nerves. He was overly excited to see Louis for only the second time, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint why he was so nervous. As the train pulled into the station, he leapt to his feet and grabbed his bag from the overhead luggage rack. Throwing it over his shoulder, he stood at the doors and waited for the open button to light up. When it did, he punched at it with far too much force.

His feet hit the platform and he took a deep, steadying breath before walking towards the exit. He could see the bustling forecourt of Manchester Piccadilly station ahead of him, and somewhere in the back of his mind he decided he was hungry and wondered what they’d do for dinner tonight.

His ticket had crumpled slightly where he’d been clutching it so tightly, and he needed a guard to open the ticket barrier for him. He thanked the guard, stepping to the side and leaning against the wall so he was out of the way, looking around for a familiar face.

He saw Louis a split second before his body slammed into Harry’s. Harry sighed audibly with relief, all nervousness and tension melting away as Louis hummed in his ear, wrapping his arms around Harry and squeezing him tight.

“Oh, darling,” Louis rasped, sighing. “I missed you.”

“So good to see you, Lou.” Harry smiled to himself as Louis pulled his head away from where it had been nuzzled in Harry’s curls. He pressed his lips against Harry’s eagerly, pushing his tongue in immediately and Harry got lost in him, zoning in on nothing but Louis. He felt dizzy.

After a few seconds, Harry became hyper aware of the fact they were in a busy train station. People were rushing to and from trains all around them, skirting around their entwined bodies and Harry, although very much enjoying the gesture, thought they probably ought to stop kissing in the middle of the bloody forecourt.

He pulled away, grinning at Louis. “Shall we go?”

Louis pulled Harry’s bag from his shoulder, throwing it over his own shoulder instead. A thrill shot up Harry’s spine, and Louis slipped his hand into Harry’s.

“I’m so glad you’re finally here.” Louis smiled happily, leaning into Harry and pushing his nose into his curls. “Can I suck you off when we get to mine?”

“Louis!” Harry giggled in shock, looking at the people around them. “Shh.”

“I don’t care who knows that I wanna suck your dick!” Louis laughed.

Harry laughed, despite himself, hanging his head and feeling his cheeks blush. He’d worried for the past few weeks that he’d built Louis up too much in his head, that he’d put him on some kind of pedestal and that nothing could possibly live up to it. But now, Louis’ hand clutched in his, he knew that he could never even imagine anything better than this.

“I love you,” Harry said quietly as they emerged into the car park.

Louis’ face softened. “I love you, too.”

Harry beamed, fighting the wild urge to cry. He just felt so… content.

“This is my first Easter away from home,” Harry mused as they arrived at Louis’ car. “Feels a bit weird.”

“Do you have, like… Easter traditions? Did you wanna go to church, or..? We can. I don’t normally, but if you want to…”

“No.” Harry raised his eyebrows, smiling. “Just lots of chocolate on Easter Sunday.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“Oh, and fish for dinner on Good Friday.”

Louis hummed as they both climbed into the car, Louis throwing Harry’s bag on the back seat. Harry watched the movement of Louis’ hands as he buckled his seatbelt.

“Remember when we ate fish and chips in the park when we first met? When we were filming?”

Harry let out a tiny laugh as he buckled his own seatbelt. “Vividly. I showed you my tattoo.”

“Yeah.” Louis looked at him. “Maybe we should go there on Good Friday to eat our fish.”

Harry nodded. “I’d like that.”

Louis drove them back to his, barely managing to keep himself from unbuttoning Harry’s jeans as soon as they were through the front door. Liam emerged from the kitchen to say hello, quickly retreating when he realised how determined Louis was to get Harry up to his room.

“Louis?” Harry asked as Louis made short work of Harry’s jeans, yanking them off with surprising force. “Do you think we’ll get sick of each other? Being together for a whole week?”

Louis snorted. “No.”

“Good.” Harry quickly pulled his t-shirt off, throwing it aside and feeling a little self-conscious under the lustful gaze of Louis. “What time are Nev and Max calling tomorrow?”

“About six, I think.” Louis wrapped a hand around Harry’s half-hard cock, making him whine. “Time difference, and all that.”

“Okay,” Harry breathed, closing his eyes as Louis moved his hand slowly.

“I’m gonna tell them I sucked your dick tonight.”

“For God’s sake!” Harry laughed, opening his eyes. “You’re so terrible.”

“But you love me.”

“I do.” Harry smiled secretly to Louis, who thumbed at Harry’s tip and moved up to kiss him. Harry couldn’t get enough of kissing Louis, if he was honest. The feeling of their lips moving together, the wicked flicking of Louis’ tongue, even the way kissing him smelt. The thought that one day they’d be together every day, be able to kiss every day, fuck every day… it threatened to send Harry over the edge.

Louis kissed down his body and took him into his mouth. Harry couldn’t wait to just spend time with Louis, watch TV and eat dinner with him. But for now, they had a lot of catching up to do. Phone sex just wasn’t enough for him anymore.

Harry came in an embarrassingly short time and was too exhausted to do anything but watch Louis pleasure himself, coming on Harry’s stomach where his own come was drying.

“Sorry, Lou,” Harry murmured sleepily. “Promise I’ll make it up to you later.”

“It’s alright, love,” Louis soothed, reaching across Harry to open his nightstand drawer, pulling out a pack of Wet Wipes and cleaning Harry off. “I had the best time.”

“Love you.”

Louis sighed, pulling Harry close. “Love you, too.”

[allwaswell16]

I saw in your post about being a writer who wants to read fic that YOU'RE WRITING A PIRATE AU??? THIS JUST MADE MY ENTIRE DAY, BLESS YOU ANITRA! I am SO FREAKING EXCITED TO READ IT. When does it come out?? Is it part of a fest or just something you decided to write on your own? (Like a for fun thing if you're anything like me and madly in love with pirate AUs) Thanks for all you do for us all btw! You're SO appreciated by us all! 😁💗

I am! I'm writing it for the @1daboficfest! Anddd I have an extension because I didn't finish it in time sigh. So I don't know yet when it will be published but I am nearing the end now. And thank goodness my betas have been so on top of everything and have betad everything up to where I am now! I'm so glad you're excited about it, anon! I actually did post a snippet yesterday I think? or maybe the day before. I'll link it here if you want to check it out! Thank you for this nice ask! I will uhhh go work on writing it right now lol.

[thorne93]

No Matter What (Part 12)

Prompt: Imagine you’re an Avenger and you meet Bucky for the first time during Civil War

Word Count: 2572

Warning: Language, fighting, violence, angst

Notes: This will follow Cap America: Civil War…. I envisioned a younger reader who’s like 19-24 years old, btw. Not betad

I’m so sorry this is late

Forever Tags: @capsmuscles​ @cocosierra94 @essie1876 @magpiegirl80 @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked @harleyquinnandscarletwitch @iamwarrenspeace @marvel-imagines-yes-please @superwholocked527 @myparadise1982sand @missinstantgratification @thejulesworld @rda1989 @marvelloushamilton @munlis  @bubblyanarocks3​ @thefridgeismybestie​ @random-fluffy-pink-unicorn @hardcollectionworldtrash @igiveupicantthinkofausername @kaliforniacoastalteens​ @feelmyroarrrr​ @kaeling @ijustwanttobepartofyourworld

Sebastian Stan Tag: @nedthegay @lostinspace33 @alwayshave-faith @elleatrixlestrange @buenostardissherlock @lenawiinchester​ @the-red-world-of-jess-chibi​ @memory-of-a-goldfish @mellsstark

Bucky Barnes: @nedthegay @lostinspace33 @alwayshave-faith @elleatrixlestrange @ultrarebelheart @lenawiinchester @its-not-a-tulpa

No Matter What: @void-imaginations @devil-may-cry-11-blog @james-heaven-barnes @mrs-lancelot​ @gingergrad​ @eyelinernim​ @fairchild21 @shifutheshihtzu

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The three of you moved forward, to a large open room.

“I got heat signatures.”

“How many?”

“Uh...one,” Tony said, confused.

Once you stepped inside the room, you saw the winter soldiers in cryofreeze capsules...a bullet in their heads.

“If it’s any comfort, they died in their sleep. Did you really think I wanted more of you?” a voice suddenly sounded over a speaker.

“What the hell?” Bucky murmured as the group of you continued to step forward. You were so confused. If he didn’t want more Winter Soldiers...Why was he here? Why were any of you here? What did he want?

“I'm grateful to them, though. They brought you here.”

A light came on, startling all of you. Tony charged his blasters while Steve threw his shield at the figure. You moved into a fighting position. The shield hit right where the figure was, hitting a wall. He was in some sort of room.

“Please, Captain. The Soviets built this chamber to withstand the launch blast of UR-100 rockets,” the man informed.

“I bet I could beat that,” Tony stated as he started to walk forward. Steve and Tony focused on the man while you and Bucky surveyed the area for any sort of sneak attacks. Bucly’s gun swung from left and right, then back again as he moved carefully on his feat.

“Oh, I'm sure you could, Mr. Stark. Given time. But then you'd never know why you came,” the man stated.

“You killed innocent people in Vienna just to bring us here?” Steve asked, anger brewing beneath the surface of the question.

“I thought about nothing else for over a year. I studied you. I followed you. But now that you're standing here, I just realized... there's a bit of green in the blue of your eyes. How nice to find a flaw,” he said with a hint of a smirk.

“What is this?” you demanded, your nerves bristling. You didn’t like this at all. Something was wrong. This guy planned and did way too much just to get you all in a room.

Why? What was his end game?

“You're Sokovian. Is that what this is about?”

Steve and the curious man went back and forth on why were there. Then he mentioned something about toppling from within again. An empire being dead forever. A monitor turned on with a date. All of you gravitated to the screen to see it.

“I know that road,” Tony suddenly informed. “What is this?” Tony called to the man in the room.

The man didn’t answer though as all of you stared at him, he stared back, a cold look on his face. A car slammed into a pole on the video, someone on a bike doubled back and pulled up beside the car. Your eyes flashed to Tony’s face as he examined the footage. You had no idea what this was. A man was crawling out of the car, but another man...Bucky...walked to him, grabbed his hair, and pulled him up. That was Howard Stark. You’d seen his face before from numerous videos online and pictures in Tony’s room.

Tony looked up to Bucky, astonishment and horror painted on his face. Bucky’s eyes finally met Tony’s before Tony’s eyes flashed back to the screen. You both looked and Bucky’s fist smashed into Howard’s face a few times before he let him fall.

You gasped and covered your mouth with your hand. Tears welled in your eyes as they flashed to Bucky. You knew he couldn’t help what he did but the brutality...the coldness of it was shocking to you. Bucky seemed so...gentle to you. He wasn’t capable of murdering your friend’s parents.

On the footage, he drug Howard back to the car and put him in the driver’s seat before moving to the passenger seat and assumably killing Tony’s mother. When the job was done, he shot out the camera.

The footage stopped.

As did your heart.

Tension in the air was so thick you were practically choking on it.

You wanted to console Tony. That had to be the most horrifying thing for anyone to witness.

Tony moved to go after Bucky, making your eyes flash up to them. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at either of them until then.

But Bucky stepped back, lowering his gun for whatever Tony was going to do to him. That’s when you realized….He wasn’t the monster that was on the screen. A monster would fight Tony, not lay down his guard and accept any fate dealt to him. The same sweet, broken man you had fallen for was still in there. He was still good.

Steve stopped Tony and he spun back to him.

“Don’t.”

Tony turned around and asked Steve, “Did you know?”

This was a question you had wondered yourself. Could Steve have possibly known that Bucky killed Tony’s parents and...withheld that information? He wouldn’t do that...would he?

“I didn’t know it was him,” Steve answered.

“Don’t bullshit me, Rogers! Did you know?” he demanded again.

“Yes.”

Tony jumped away from Steve and you felt your heart break for Tony and for you. The shock from his answer made you take a step back. How could Steve not tell you or Tony? How could Bucky not? How...how could he do it?

Betrayal and heartbreak snaked through your body.

You knew he couldn’t help it. You knew he couldn’t control it. But that didn’t change the fact that Tony was like family to you. The Avengers were the only family and friends you had. The fact that he killed Tony’s parents wasn’t something you could just...forgive or forget. Whether he could help it or not.

Bucky’s eyes flashed to yours for a fraction of a second, trying to assess your thoughts of him, but your glassy eyes just peered back into his. You didn’t know what your thoughts were of him. Your system was on total overload and you were sure your face expressed that, because a look of loss was injected into his gray-blues.

After a moment, Tony suddenly slammed his arm hard across Steve’s face, sending him flying.

“Tony!” you shouted. Seeing them fighting made your heart hurt so bad you thought you couldn't stand it. Tears finally spilled onto your cheeks.

Bucky raised his weapon to face Tony who was now fully suited up. Tony blasted the gun out of Bucky’s grasp and they started to fight hand to hand. Tony grabbed Bucky by the throat and started to fly off.

“Tony, no!” you screamed as you formed a glider and followed him. “Tony, stop!” you begged, horror, anxiety, fear, and worry all balling together to make a tight ball in your throat and stomach.

You knew that Tony killing Bucky would bring him no peace, and that Bucky couldn't help what he had done. If it wasn’t Bucky, it would’ve been some other poor soul that Hydra fucked up in the head sent to kill Tony’s parents.

Just as you had told him on the jet: he had no choice and we couldn’t let our pasts define us.

He slammed Bucky onto the ground, held his metal arm down with his iron boot, and aimed his blaster at his face.

“No!” you screamed again, knocking into him. Of course it didn’t phase him though. Steve threw his shield and knocked him off Bucky. Tony got up and charged at Steve, knocking him back as he threw a handcuffing device to his legs. Bucky got up and hit Tony in the jaw. Tony picked him up and held him against a container. Bucky grabbed his arm and broke his blaster shield.

Tears were still flowing freely from your eyes. Your two best friends in the world and a man you had already fallen in love with were at war with each other and you weren’t sure where you stood.

Tony pulled his arm back and opened up a rocket launcher to which Bucky diverted it, causing it to blow up a large piece of equipment above you. Steve worked to free him of his shackles. Nothing you had would even stand a chance against Tony. The equipment started to fall, breaking the fighting men apart.

You raced over to Bucky to check on him.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded as he got up. You two looked to Steve.

“Get out of here!” he commanded. The two of you began running, checking over your shoulder for Tony. You ran around the corner and right behind you, a blast came at the wall. Bucky hit a button and a door opened up at the top of a shaft. Bucky started to climb as you formed a glider.

“Come on!” you urged before your eyes found that Tony was in the area with you, blasting an area so that Steve couldn’t come in. Tony tried to fly  up to bucky who was hopping and running to each platform. You took your eyes off of them for a second and Tony kicked him across the shaft.

You immediately flew down to protect him. Kneeling in front of a hurt Bucky, you formed a shield. “Tony! Don’t! Please!” you pleaded through a rough lump in your throat.

“Move, Y/N. I will go through you to get to him, don’t test me,” Tony warned.

“Please. Tony, if it wasn’t him, they would've sent someone else,” you stated.

“And I’d kill them too,” Tony said as he blasted at you but you formed a shield, trying to keep it in tact from his blast.

You cried out in pain as you pushed yourself harder than ever before to keep your shield up and intact.

A shield hit Tony, distracting him for a second. Tony blasted down to Steve, but the hit bounced off the shield and knocked Tony back against a wall. You urged Bucky to keep going up with you. Below you, Steve had yanked Tony down with a cord, slamming him into a platform far below. Steve threw his shield and Tony deflected it.

Finally, you reached the ladder, almost out, Bucky right ahead of you. But a missile hit the hinge and the blast knocked both of you back. Bucky hit a platform but you fell in the middle of the shaft, falling fast.

“Y/N!” Bucky screamed as he rolled over to see your falling form.

You formed a shield of sorts under your back, hoping it would stop or at least cushion the impact. It didn’t help though. You landed hard on the concrete, an unbearable pain rocketing through your entire bod, knocking the wind out of you.

“Ugh!” you wheezed as soon as you could breathe again. Your vision was hazy, your head hurt, your back ached. Through blurry vision though, you saw that the three of them were still fighting high above you. Until suddenly Tony and Steve were crashing to the floor and you had to roll to avoid them.

Steve and Tony stood up but you were still doubled over in pain, blood starting to spill around you. You thought it was yours but you weren’t sure.

“This isn’t gonna change what happened,” Steve suddenly said from below you and Tony.

“I don’t care, he killed my mom.”

Tony launched over to Steve and they began fighting, from what you could hear.

A second later, Bucky landed beside you.

“Oh my god...Y/N...I never wanted you to do this for me,” he said as he lifted your head and blood covered his hand.

“I told you...You’re my mission. I have to protect you,” you said weakly, the smallest grin on your face.

“No. No. No…” he said as a plea, his face pinched in pain and fear. This fear was new though. For the first time, it wasn’t fear for what would happen to him. It was fear for what would happen to you.

“Go...Steve needs you,” you encouraged. Steve needed Bucky more than you did. You couldn’t lie here uselessly while Tony was on the grief driven warpath.

“But you’re hurt...bad,” he replied, his eyes brimming with despair as they frantically looked onto you.

“I’ll be fine,” you assured. “Now go.”

He nodded before he let you go gently, then picked up the shield and dove at Tony. You were fading in and out of consciousness. But you suddenly heard a blast that was louder than the others. Gathering some strength you had left, you rolled on your side and began to pull yourself until you reached the edge of the platform-like area and looked down to see Bucky standing with his back to Tony, his left arm blown off, right before Tony blasted him again.

“No!” you shouted, the pain in your head still pounding as you laid there, useless and weary.

Steve launched up and ran forward at Tony. They continued to fight, each blow another blow to your heart. Bucky lay there, wounded and out of breath.

Tony blasted Steve’s stomach, forcing him to his knees.

“He’s my friend,” Steve said in defense.

“So was I,” Tony reminded before he landed a hard punch to his cheek. Tony battered Steve until he threw him between two rounded pieces of the construction. “Stay down, final warning.”

Steve stood up, his fists raised. “I could do this all day.”

Tony raised his blasters and you screamed for him to stop but he ignored you. Just as he was about to fire, Bucky grabbed his foot and tried to pull, but Tony landed a swift and terrible kick to Bucky’s face, a gut wrenching cry escaping his lips. The sight of that was more unbearable than you thought it could be.

You finally mustered strength and hobbled down to Bucky, each step down the ladder sending a new wave of pain over your body.

“Are you okay?” you asked, a fresh wave of tears coming.

He wasn’t moving though.

“Bucky?” you pleaded, cradling his head between your hands as Steve and Tony fought mercilessly. “Stop it! Stop it both of you!” you practically demanded as you turned to look at them, the sight making your chest tighter than ever.

But the pleas fell on deaf ears as they continued to wage war on each other, until Steve obliterated Tony’s face mask with the shield.

“Steve,” you began before he raised his shield again, ready to slam it down on Tony. “Steve!” you screamed so loud it made your throat hurt. But the shield landed on the heart of the suit, disabling it with a hard, effective blow.

In utter shock, you kneeled there open mouthed as Steve stood up to help Bucky up. The three of you started to walk away before Tony told Steve the shield didn’t belong to him, and he dropped it on the ground. The sound deafening your ears. You knew in your heart what that meant. He wasn’t just dropping a shield.

Steve started to help Bucky up the ladder as you gave a final look to your friend. He had moved to a kneeling position.

You walked over to him and knelt, the anger and betrayal clearly painted on his face.

“I’m sorry,” was all you said.

“Leave,” he ordered in a low voice, his eyes avoiding yours.

Without another word, you stood up, and the three of you left.

[ao3feed-mcufemslash]

mcu stories and legacies

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3eJeTBs

by leste

Avengers watch their movies, basically. Fic starts in 2013-2014, pre-HYDRA and post-Iron Man 3 Basically the future Avengers decided to drag the past Avengers to watch movies and fix their goddamn messes before Thanos comes and beats everyone's asses with his sparkly rock collection, you're welcome. Also adding in a few scenes that aren't in the actual movies but marianat is good and I just needed ONE watch it fics with blackhill content.

Words: 2303, Chapters: 2/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/F, F/M, Gen

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Clint Barton, Maria Hill, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Thor (Marvel), Bruce Banner, Nick Fury, Carol Danvers, Stephen Strange, Peter Parker, Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones, May Parker (Spider-Man)

Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Maria Hill/Natasha Romanov

Additional Tags: more characters and relationships to be added, we'll see how this goes, i was rereading all the avengers watch their movies fic, and decided to give it a go but also squeeze in marianat, blackhill superiority, but i am very busy and have no time to rewatch all the movies, so i will adapt and watch clips and maybe consult the god fic a beautiful journey, Avengers watch their movies, yay, first up is, The Avengers (2012) Compliant, yes - Freeform, we are starting there, btw this is like 2013-2014, So yeah, have fun because im trying to fix my sleep schedule and also be on top of my work, in need of betas but i will deal with having un betad fics

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3eJeTBs

[ao3feed-that70sshow]

new years

by Bi_Bi_Bi_Writer

what happens when you mic buddy morgan with his crush and former friend eric forman in a new years eve party?

so i've been informed this isn't a thing everywhere, so basically a new years tradition here where i live is that everyine gets a cup of twelve grapes, and you have The First Minute of the year to eat them all and make wishes inbetween. you have to eat them all in that minute or else the wishes 'don't work'. sorry if it didn't make sense but it doesn't get explained again so rip

Words: 2934, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: That '70s Show, T70S, buddy morgan - Fandom, eric forman - Fandom

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Buddy Morgan, Eric Forman (That '70s Show), Jackie Burkhart, Michael Kelso, Steven Hyde, Donna Pinciotti, Fez (That '70s Show)

Relationships: Eric Forman/Buddy Morgan, Steven Hyde & Buddy Morgan, Jackie Burkhart & Buddy Morgan, Jackie Burkhart & Eric Forman, Eric Forman & Steven Hyde, Eric Forman & Donna Pinciotti, Steven Hyde & Michael Kelso, Jackie Burkhart & Michael Kelso

Additional Tags: New Years, Second Kiss, Fluff, Fluff With Happy Ending, i wrote this from 2 am to 6 am im sorry for how bad this is, this ship deserves more fanwork, this is gonna flop asf but idc, jk i do i need validation, im tired what tags am i supposed to add, idk uh, Happy Ending, smoking mentions tw, Um i think thats all, Dont expect anything good, Not betad, Not Beta'd, idk how to say it, im tireddddddddd, btw i have to explain smthn in the summary so yk read it pls

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