#played some piano

[icaruspartharmony]

Nobody tells you actually how funny it is to run into someone when they're waking up. Because my sleep schedule is more of a sleep plan, there's no set times but it's probably gonna happen. My brother was getting up for work and saw me and was like "??why are you awake?? Why aren't you asleep?"

[stupidlittlespirit]

glad you’re feeling better!

would you be comfortable sharing a sneak peek of the next chapter 👀

if not I totally understand please prioritize your well being!

Listen, I don't have a chapter sneak peak for you BUT..... because I'm making you all wait so long for this next chapter and I feel bad, I'm gonna give you a small snack.

This is an unpublished thingy that I posted on a little discord server that I'm in and people liked it there so I figured you might enjoy it here. It is just a very short warm-up drabble that I did ages ago and never used again. It's a bit messy and stuff, but whatever. It's set during MtB but it isn't really anything to do with the series. Just a little snippet of life within it:

I Got It Bad (and that ain't good) Rating: NSFW (only slightly) Type: Drabble Tags: Kissing, implied sexual stuff. Very, very tiny inference to muses but meant in no certain way. No pronouns/body described. Word count: 1233

When he's feeling contemplative, Ford likes to play the piano.

He is, like so many other things he turns his attention to, wonderful at it. 

Ford likes jazz. He pretends he's a classical purist but you've found the record sleeves on the shelves near his desk, you’ve done a little snooping, and you know they rarely correspond to the vinyl inside. They're just for show. He plays it mainly in the evenings when he's treating himself to a glass of scotch; he'll listen to a particular artist (this week it's been an awful lot of Duke Ellington) and then recreate it on his own instrument. 

He'll start small. Just a slow, leisurely tinkling of the ivories as he finds his rhythm, and then he'll settle into his groove and flex yet another of his many skills as you listen from another room while you tidy up.

If you're especially lucky, he'll ask you to join him and give him feedback on it. 

He doesn't care about the feedback, of course, because he knows he's good and so does everyone else, and you're sure he's just using it as an opportunity to show off but you never mind. 

He has, in typical Ford fashion, always refuted your accusation: “I assure you, I certainly am not,” he'd said one evening with a knowing smile, as you'd watched from your seat beside him. “I merely know that you like jazz and I play because you listen,” and you'd felt such an intensely affectionate warmth bloom in your chest that you'd dropped the point immediately.

(And when he had added on a quiet: “Plus, I like the way you look at me when I do it,” and you'd made him hit a bum note when you’d leant up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then, well, who can blame you?) 

Your favourite thing to do, beyond simply enjoying the melodies, is to watch his hands and fingers as he works. 

He'd been a little apprehensive at first, once he had noticed, but you had been quick to reassure him that your interest was appreciative, if perhaps salacious, and not even close to judgemental. 

“Would you be uncomfortable if I took a video?” You ask one dark winter's evening, leaning against the piano’s top while you observe him. “Just for myself, I mean.” 

“Whatever for?” Ford responds without missing a beat of his metronome. 

He's going away soon. He and Stan set sail in two days time and it’s a long trip this time, which means for four months, four long, agonising months, you’ll be without him. It’s almost too much to bear and your heart feels like lead at the thought. 

“Because I’m going to miss you and I’d like to have something to remind me of you when I feel like shit,” you say. 

The corner of Ford’s mouth curls upward a fraction and he spares you a thinly veiled, heated glance, his cheeks turning pink. “I thought our plan was to give you plenty of reminders the night before….?” 

Your stomach flutters. 

“I’d like more than bruises, if you wouldn’t mind,” you say, biting down on a smile. 

Ford laughs under his breath and after a moment, says: “And it’s just for you? The video?” 

“Of course,” you reassure him. “I don’t have to, I just…. Your hands are my favourite part of you and I think about them, often.” 

Too often, some might say. 

Ford laughs again, a little louder this time. “Not my dashing good looks?” he teases. “Or my dazzling personality? You wound me, my dear.” 

You grin. “All of the above,” you say with a shrug. “But especially your hands.” 

“Is that so?” Ford says, taking one hand from the keys to pat the empty space beside him. “And what, pray tell, do you think about them?” 

You go where he asks, taking up a seat at his side obediently. “Lots of things.” 

“Such as….?” 

He’s fishing for compliments, you both know it, but does sound genuinely curious, too. 

“I think they’re the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen,” you say, giving him exactly what he wants. “And I think about how they fit in mine. I think about how they feel, how your thumb rubs over my knuckles when we hold hands and how your little finger does the same on the sides, you know, just because you can do that….”

“Anything else?” Ford asks, voice warm. 

You smile, eyes transfixed on the way his fingers tick across the ivory. “And…. I like to think about how you hold my thighs when you have your head between them. The way you hold onto my hips. How your fingers taste when you put them in my mouth.” 

Ford makes a soft sound, somewhere between a contented sigh and an aroused groan, and his hands falter momentarily before he restarts his playing. 

“Is that so?” he says, hoarse. 

“Mm,” you hum absentmindedly. Your head is full of those same thoughts right now, your mind’s eye blurred with the memories of Ford’s fingers climbing underneath your jeans and inching past your underwear. Of touching you so intimately that you have to press your thighs together slightly to sate the longing. 

Ford catches it. 

“You’re thinking about it right now,” he mutters, and his tone holds no question.

He’s stopped playing. His hands are frozen over the keys. 

“Aren’t you?” you answer, eyes still on them. 

Ford exhales slowly through his nose, shaky,  restrained. “I’m always thinking of you,” he says simply. 

You tear your eyes away to look up at him, only to find that his gaze is already on you. 

Ford’s eyes are molten, half-lidded and hot, and they flick down to your mouth and back up to your own. 

“You’re terrible,” he says, in such a way that it’s obvious he means it in the most complimentary context possible. “A terrible, terrible influence on an old man like me.” 

A smirk creeps onto your face. It’s always satisfying to see the effect you have on him. “I can leave, if you’d like me to. I have plenty to do and I-!” 

Ford pushes the stool back with one leg, your combined weights little more than a minor  inconvenience to him, and he hauls you into his lap before you can even finish the thought. 

You laugh, loud and bright, and fling your arms around his neck to hold on tightly to him and avoid sending you both to the floor in a heap. “Or not,” you concede. 

“Never,” agrees Ford, and then he’s kissing you. 

It’s slow and tender and white hot as always. 

You can feel his arousal press between your legs and it’s enough to make you smile against his mouth. 

“What a dirty old man you’ve become,” you say dramatically, nudging your nose against his. 

“I'm only what my muse makes of me,” Ford says raggedly. “And you are an awfully seductive force, you know….” 

“So I've been told,” you smile, one hand wandering below to palm him gently through his slacks. 

Ford groans, low and deep, and tilts his head back. “I'll make a deal with you,” he says quietly. “I swore off them a long time ago but just for you, just this once: if you keep doing that, I'll let you take footage of any fucking thing you like….” 

You grin. 

“Deal.” 

[idontmindifuforgetme]

I’m basically counting on piano classes and pilates to fix every single mental illness in my body btw

[lilpuffyart]

OH WHAT'S THAT??? More ihnmaims art I never shared hell yeah

Also from like May, I still really like them

[titsthedamnseason]

HAPPY LONDON N1 YALL!!! i can just feel this run of shows is going to be CRAZY. also if you haven’t realized hi it’s me juli titsthedamnseason and yes even under yet another new url i am hosting the surprise song game! the rules are simple: leave your guesses in the tags or replies and if you’re right i will give you a shoutout <3

i’m personally about to give the worst guesses ever but i already submitted them to mastermind so i feel like i have to stick with it. so im going imgonnagetyouback / better than revenge and robin / never grow up i definitely should be going with a london song or the black dog but hey. whatever

[shitpostingkats]

Rebirth really looked at Cloud Strife and said "that man knows how to play the piano"

[gone-to-flowers]

Arknights orchestra

[johnnyvalance]

“Sing us a song, you’re the piano man.”

[goobstr]

Petscop fake tweets made by yours truly!1!!1!

[pianokantzart]

Seething. Rage.

[avampyone]

Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light And listen to the music of the night~

[wuntrum]

wish arcades could make even more of a comeback in the us ONLY so that we can get rhythm games as good as the ones in japan...like listen, i love the guitar hero cabinet in my local arcade (and love saying hi to hatsune miku at the imported cabinets they have!) but it'd be cool to have even more songs with charts and controls as cool as chunithm / sound voltex / etc.

[simplydnp]

something about the fondness in which phil looks at dan and says "this is me trying to play the piano" makes me think about the two of them sitting on the piano bench together while dan tries to teach him

[im-a-mess-of-a-person]

regulus black is a shameful bob dylan enjoyer

no i will not elaborate he just is

[alkemylabz]

been thinking about deviantart lately and i cant help but remember during the later years of the site's popularity where people would go out of their way to find what was (in retrospect, very clearly) art made by literal children and shit on it and cyberbully the kid about it. what the fuck was that. even shit that was like, well made was subject to overly critical bullshit about being unrealistic or a mary sue or whatever. its frankly bizarre to me as an adult that anyone ever tolerated this culture or even like, participated in it and -wasn't- a child themselves. or even saw it and didnt feel the need to say "hey what youre doing is really fucking stupid and pathetic"

[moonsavior]

♪ Philos was home to a species capable of communicating primarily through song ♪

Philosophers were extraterrestrial humanoid species who heavily communicated through singing. They sang in low, hooting tones in the language Philosophian to mark territory and regarded response calls as a challenge. Philosophers dedicate part of the formative years of their lives perfecting their personal songs; Some Philosophers glow while singing, others emit a low vibration or teleport rapidly in place as if blinking in and out of existence .

When Daughters are born, the Mother sings a certain pitch that her daughter will learn to imitate.

When Sons are born, they learn to imitate the sounds of other male figures around them.

While perfecting their personal songs, Philosophers sing to connect and will sing until a specific voice matches them. Afterwards, they are matched and become Partners who must sing out a verbal vow renewal to help solidify the harmony in their Pair Bond.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆.˚✮🌟✮˚.⋆. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁