#i am once again asking for prompts | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

birgittesilverbae · 1 year

Note

dads: libby's first breakup oh the teenage angst

"Hey, MJ," Mary says, leaning out into the garage. "Your dad just called wondering if you'd stopped by."

Libby pushes her helmet up onto her forehead and takes a swig of water from the bottle resting on top of the net before responding. "What'd you tell her?"

"That you're here talking shop with Shan."

"Talking so much shop," Shannon agrees, flipping the puck up onto her stick blade and pulling it back and forth through the air in front of her with increasing speed. "All shop, all the time. Right, Libs?"

Mary rolls her eyes but can't keep her fond grin off her face. "Do you wanna have a chat about why you're actually here," she continues, turning her attention back to Libby, "or should we keep pretending you haven't been crying?"

Libby's shoulders sag. "You're not gonna let me choose the second option, are you?"

"If you wanted emotionally-stunted, you should've gone home. Come help me with dinner."

"Fine." Libby nods sullenly. "Fine. Thanks for shooting on me, Shan, and for the talk. I'll be in once I've got my pads off."

"Don't take too long," Mary cautions, and heads back into the kitchen.

Shannon joins her a few minutes later, when she's got ingredients arrayed on the counter. She hugs Mary from behind, hooks her chin over her shoulder, kisses her cheek. "Be gentle with her," she says as Mary leans into her touch.

"I'm always gentle."

"I know, babe, but on this especially. She's very Bea in how she's going about it."

Mary clicks her tongue. "If that isn't the most concerning thing I've heard tonight. You sure you don't want to handle this?"

Mary can feel the stretch of Shannon's grin against her cheek. "The little shit told me I was, and I quote, 'probably too gay to be able to give helpful advice'."

Mary nods her understanding. "So it is boy trouble. Lily didn't seem sure. She was mainly just concerned MJ hadn't checked in with them all afternoon."

"You're not gonna defend my honour?"

"Was she wrong?"

Shannon pokes her hard in the side. "You know she wasn't."

"If it makes you feel any better, she said something similar to Bea that time she got in a fight with Kumquat."

"Caleb," Shannon corrects with a long-suffering sigh. "Honestly, you're all going to give that kid an identity crisis one of these days."

"Was it him?"

"No, no, no no no. She was clear on that, at least. But I know she's been hanging around with a couple of the guys on the boys' high school squad lately."

"The ones you've spent the past month bitching about?"

"The ones I wouldn't have a problem with if they didn't exemplify everything that's wrong with hockey culture."

"Ah." Mary's jaw goes tight. "Right. That's– I can see why she didn't go to those three for this talk."

Shannon hums her agreement. "I don't imagine there'd be a rational response in sight. And if this involves who I think it might, I don't know that I'll be able to respond appropriately."

"So it's up to me."

"So it's up to you." The door to the garage is flung open, loudly enough to be heard across the house, and Shannon flinches. "Thank you, darling. I'll get out of your hair." She kisses Mary's cheek and heads for the hallway.

Libby slumps into the kitchen in the wake of Shannon's departure, dropping onto a stool at the counter island with a heavy sigh. "What're we making?"

"Just a stir fry and rice, a side salad. Lots of chopping for you." Mary pushes the cutting board and chef's knife across the countertop to her, watches the stranglehold grip Libby puts on the knife handle. "Don't go stabbing the carrots."

Libby grumbles something under her breath, not quite loud enough for Mary to make out, but she loosens her grip enough that the colour flows back into her knuckles and aligns a head of broccoli on the cutting board.

Mary sets up opposite her, hands making quick work of a row of chicken breasts while her eyes linger on Libby. "What's his name?" she asks after a few minutes of quiet chopping. "The boy?"

Libby's knife freezes in the middle of pushing florets to one side of the cutting board. "Carter," she replies, not meeting Mary's gaze. "I don't want to talk about him."

"Why not?"

Libby shrugs. "Because it's embarrassing? Because I was too stupid to see it coming?" She lays her knife down and scrubs at her eyes with the back of her hand.

"What'd he do, MJ?" Mary pivots to the sink to scrub her hands clean.

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." She shrugs helplessly. "I just– He said I was too smart for my own good, and didn't tell him anything, and–" her words disintegrate into low sobs that slowly climb in volume.

Mary wipes her hands on the kitchen towel slung over her shoulder and circles the island. "C'mere, I got you."

"Everything sucks," she sobs into Mary's shoulder.

Mary rubs her back, makes soothing sounds. "Yeah, that about covers it."

"I think I was in love with him, and he just–" Her hands clutch at the back of Mary's shirt. "He just–"

Mary huffs out a laugh. "No, you weren't."

Libby pulls back, rubs a sleeve under her nose. "You don't know that," she says, voice pitching higher in anger.

"Hormones, MJ. God help you."

"It's real, I'm allowed to feel like this."

"You are. I'm not trying to minimise that." Mary steps to the side to reach for the tissue box. "You're allowed to be hurt by it, and sad, and miss him. That's normal. He just sounds like a dick, and if he's saying that shit to you then you're better off without him."

"Is it supposed to hurt physically? Like, I feel like I took an elbow to the ribs or something."

"That's your body telling you you need to take a breath, babygirl. Nice and slow, like Shan taught you, alright? Can you do that for me?"

"I'll try," Libby forces out between ragged breaths. She flattens her hand over her diaphragm and takes a deep breath, the exact same way Mary's seen Shannon centre herself dozens, if not hundreds, of times.

"Well done, babygirl. What're you feeling for dessert? I think we've still got some of those brownies from the other night, if Shannon hasn't dummied the rest, or there's ice cream. Both together, even."

"I'm in season, Mary," Libby replies primly, picking up her knife again as though her face isn't still streaked with tears. All Mary can see is Beatrice all those years back, getting food on a table set for four instead of five, face damp and mouth drawn into a thin line. "No dessert except on game days."

"Pretty sure that's not a team rule. You deserve to give yourself a break once in a while, alright? Especially on a day like this. So, what's it gonna be? Ice cream or brownies or both?"

#fic: dads #mary x shannon #myfic #mywn #ask #anon #ty for the prompt!#once again shoehorning in shannon I am so valid

97 notes · View notes

tommarvoloriddlesdiary · 1 year

Note

Darling can you please do

[ same age AU, Budding Dark Lord, Oblivious Harry,]

no:10 [ stop staring at him ]

With Tom Riddle looking at Harry with burning hate and loathing but to everyone else it seems he's in completely love with harry and adores him

(Basically a simp) when tom does get to know this he's affronted and in shock then the slow realization sets in that he truly does feel something for Harry , after all.

LOVE AND HATE DOES HAVE A THIN LINE .

i would love to! this was a blast, though i got a bit carried away. even more so than the last prompt 😅 and this cuts off a bit abruptly because if i had kept it going it would have been triple the length 😬 i really hope you enjoy this! and if anyone else wants to send a prompt, please feel free. you can make your own or pick from here.

“Oh no.”

Tom looked up from Draco’s copy of the Daily Prophet. Pansy had drawled the words with a derision she only saved for two things in this world; One: A new Witch Weekly fashion trend that simply wouldn’t do. And Two: Harry Potter.

Breakfast was well underway. The clattering and chattering of students digging in and delighting in the first Hogsmeade weekend of the school year had the hall alight with feverous energy. The excitement to spend the day ransacking the little wizarding village and breaking away from the now monotonous daily life that Hogwarts provided always seemed to spur on the mischievous and untoward.

Tom glanced at Pansy’s hands (holding nothing save for a fork she clutched tightly) and at the table before her (displaying simply her morning meal) and concluded that there were no Witch Weekly fashion trends to bemoan. Which meant somewhere (and more than likely too close), Harry Potter was within sight.

“Just one morning,” Pansy muttered. “Just one Merlin damned morning. That’s all I want. Some Morgana blessed peace and quiet.”

If what he thought was happening was happening, then Tom would have to agree. And if he were a lesser man, he would nod slowly in commiseration.

“Prefects Riddle and Parkinson,” Hermione Granger called from just behind Tom, her voice polite and inquiring. Her timing impeccable. “Good morning.”

Pansy’s grip on her fork somehow grew tighter, leaving her hands impressively pale. Tom carefully shifted around to look up and over his shoulder; his eyes barely met Granger’s before landing on Potter’s.

Tom did not like Harry Potter. He constantly felt like he was on eggshells around him, especially after that incident two years ago. Potter hadn’t said anything at the time, but Tom was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. He hadn’t taken Potter as someone who would hold his cards close until the right possible moment, but he always seemed to surprise Tom in unexpected ways. Potter was a living, breathing menace.

“Prefects Potter and Granger,” Tom’s voice was smooth and quiet under the noise of the hall. “To what do we owe the visit?”

Tom could make a few educated guesses. Although, it was rare for any Gryffindor Prefects to make their way over to Slytherin territory. They tended to avoid crossing the hall like the plague, feeling much safer and stronger when approached versus approaching. Very un-lion like, if one were to ask Tom. So, with such a rare occurrence, it was more than likely that a professor had requested something of them.

Granger cleared her throat, and Tom stopped glaring at Potter long enough to acknowledge her properly. “Professor McGonagall requested that we pair off for Hogsmeade duties. Given Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw’s poor handling of last year’s final weekend, she suggests we divide our pairs with one prefect from each house.”

Suggests, in McGonagall’s speech, typically meant insists. Pansy clearly caught on to this as well because she protested vehemently, swinging her fork like a weapon, “There is no way I’m going to waste my Hogsmeade weekend patrolling it with one of you two Gryffindorks! I’d rather take a bombarda to the face!”

And though Pansy was often times overdramatic to a fault, Tom could see the appeal of that. With her by-the-book attitude, Granger would ideally be a good fit for Tom’s Prefect Persona, but they often butted heads over the most minor things. Tom’s goals were always self-oriented, and when presented with a good enough bribe resulting in excellent blackmail or a chance to have someone ingratiated with him, he would almost always rather that than hand out proper punishment. He couldn’t do that with Granger hovering around. And Potter was Potter.

Potter’s brows rose at Pansy’s little teardown, “Parkinson, you would have had to patrol no matter what. If that means by yourself or with one of us, what’s the big difference?”

“The big difference?! Obviously, just being near you two breaks me out into hives—“

Granger interrupted with a put-out sigh, “It’s just for the morning! Until we are relieved by Macmillan, Abbott, Goldstein, and Patil during lunch, it’s not like we’re spending all day together.”

“Yeah, Parkinson,” Potter smiled teasingly, “It’s not like you’re going on a date with us.”

Tom glanced back at Pansy when she didn’t respond with scathing and cruel words as he had expected. Instead, she was bright red and nearly vibrating with anger. Tom nodded once, “If Professor McGonagall expects this of us, we’ll do it.”

And when Pansy opened her mouth, no doubt to protest further, Tom frowned slightly and watched as she immediately snapped her mouth shut, going pale again. “Right. Yes, of course. Tom is right, obviously.”

“There,” Tom dawned his most charming and careless grin, “it’s settled, then.” He paused, considering. Granger would be a hassle to patrol with, and Potter is someone Tom wants to choke to death, but maybe there was a way to turn this inconvenience into an opportunity.

If he could get something on Potter, something of equal value to what Potter had on Tom, then perhaps he could gain an edge, and they would, at the very least, be at a stalemate. So, Tom continued, “Granger, why don’t you and Pansy patrol the north end of Hogsmeade while Potter and I take the south? We’ll meet in the middle by lunch and wait for our replacements.”

Tom watched Granger and Potter share a glance that spoke of too many things and nothing all at once. He could make out a healthy dose of confusion and surprise, but there was a long history of shared glances and a secret language that Tom wasn’t privy to that kept him out of the loop.

“Sure,” Potter nodded and replied for her. He looked back at Tom and smiled softly, “Let us know when you’re done with breakfast.” And Tom couldn’t help but think that Potter should wear a bag over his head. To hide his ugly scheming face from the world, of course.

Tom’s answering smile was strained but enough for Granger and Potter to take their leave. He turned back in his seat to find Pansy’s head buried in her arms and her plate pushed away but not far enough for a few strands of her dark hair to be spared of egg yolk.

“How could you do this to us, Tom?” Pansy muffled into her sleeves, sounding stricken and betrayed.

“Pull yourself together, Parkinson. You can make nice with Granger for one morning.”

She peered over her arms and glared. Tom watched her hesitate, debating her next words before she threw caution to the wind and mumbled, “I’m sure you’ll just love making nice with Potter.”

Tom was ready to dismiss the comment, but there was something about the implications and her undertone that made him pause. Before he could ask, Draco fell into the seat beside him, “Was that Potter and Granger I saw walking away from the table? What did they want?”

Pansy shot up, overjoyed to have someone to rant further with. “They wanted to ruin the peace and sanctity of MY precious Hogsmeade weekend, of course! Tom and I have to patrol in pairs with them because McGonagall clearly has a death wish for her little Gryffindors.”

“What,” Draco scoffed. “Absolutely not. Tell me you said no.”

“I didn’t have a choice. Tom agreed for us.”

Tom sighed, “Say it with any more resentment, Pansy dear, and I’ll think you’re truly upset with me. You act like this is how I wished to spend the day.” And that was another worry; Tom pondered while Draco tried to steal his Prophet back from Tom’s grip. He did have errands to run in Hogsmeade today, and he doubted Potter would be willing to tag along. Even if Tom went about his business casually, Potter might still catch on to what he was planning with the items he needed, which was far too great a risk.

Pansy whined, “How can I believe you when you threw me to Granger faster than Potter can catch a snitch?”

Draco dropped his hand and whipped his head from Pansy to Tom twice over. “Oh, Merlin. Is it happening? Is it finally happening?”

“Don’t act so excited, Draco,” Pansy sniffed, “It’s happening at my expense. I am a casualty in this.”

Tom’s brows furrowed for a moment. Was he missing something? “Is what happening?”

“You’re finally confessing your love for Potter,” Draco and Pansy announced in jarring unison. They said it like it was a fact, like it was obvious.

Tom, blindsided, could only say, “What?”

“You’ve been obsessed with him for years,” Draco carried on, as-you-please. “You stare at him all the time, sit near him during classes, and partner with him during Defence practicals,” He listed off all of Tom’s alleged habits one by one on his fingers, “You mutter about him constantly—I sometimes catch you doing it when you sleep—and whenever he finds a good enough reason to ask you something, you bend over backwards to comply.”

Tom did no such thing. That is ridiculous. So, he said as much, “That is ridiculous. I do no such thing.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, “You’re ridiculous.”

Tom’s answering glare was enough to turn a man to stone and Pansy to a quick escape. “Anyway!” She shouted, “Let’s just get going! We’ll grab Potter and Granger and make our way to the village.” She muttered at the end, “I’m sure this won’t be awkward at all.”

She jumped out of her seat and walked to the end of the table to wait for Tom with a surprising amount of patience. Draco just shook his head and sighed, “And here I thought you were making some progress.”

Tom turned slowly to look at Draco head-on. He smiled a perfectly pleasant and sinister thing, “Draco. It would be wise not to let your mouth undo the years of work you’ve done to prove your usefulness.” He stood up and carefully folded the Prophet, finally passing it back.

Draco accepted it green-faced and wide-eyed, “I’ll be mindful of that.”

“Excellent.” Tom excused himself and followed Pansy to the Gryffindor table. He couldn’t believe she and Draco thought Potter was someone Tom was…infatuated with. How could they not see Tom’s apparent disdain and loathing for him? How could they mistake Tom’s clearly coerced actions in an attempt to keep Potter from revealing Tom’s secret for some misguided want to please him?

What was there to like about Potter anyway? Tom wondered as Pansy said, “Chop chop! Let’s go, losers. Breakfast is over, and I don’t want to get trampled by the morning rush down to the village.”

The Gryffindors around Granger and Potter all looked at their housemates with various forms of pity. Then, Weasley laughed, “Yeah, Parkinson. No one would want that.” And his sarcasm was met with poorly muffled giggles.

“Ron,” Granger chastised and stood along with Potter. “Yes, yes. Let’s go. We have to make sure the third-years don’t wander.”

Granger naturally kept a quick pace, leaving Tom, Potter, and Pansy trailing after her. Pansy dragged her feet so she lingered even further behind, and Tom carefully kept stride with Potter while they all walked out of the Great Hall.

Tom took in Potter’s face with a close inspection. He supposed his earlier remarks of Potter’s ugliness weren’t exactly founded. Objectively, Potter had a sort of boyish handsomeness. Not at all like Tom’s more classic handsome with features sharp and forever in vogue. No, Potter was a little softer. A strong jaw without it being cutting, pronounced but not overly so cheekbones, a long mouth and full lips that were in a perpetual state of dryness…

Tom felt an odd stirring in his chest and disregarded it.

So. Potter wasn’t ugly. His dark hair and green eyes indeed lent a hand as well. Tom supposed that was something to like about Potter. Objectively. Subjectively for some, but not for Tom.

When Tom tore his eyes away from Potter to glance at their other two companions, Pansy’s look of utter despair and Granger’s quiet amusement felt like an omen. And when they reached the main doors, the brisk autumn air greeted them with an overbearing familiarity.

Potter hunched his shoulders at the cold, smiling. “Chilly today,” he said.

Granger sighed like an overworked mother of two and started rifling through her beaded bag. She frowned when it became apparent that whatever she sought wasn’t there, “Oh. Sorry, Harry. I thought I brought a scarf, but I must have left it in the dormitory.”

“It’s alright, Hermio-“ Potter cut himself off and glanced down at his hands in surprise.

Tom tucked away his wand and carelessly continued walking. “We’re wizards; I do hope you remember.”

Pansy snorted inelegantly and jogged lightly to catch up to Tom. She gave him an impressed look and two thumbs up before damning herself to hell for all eternity, “Nice one, Tom. Potter’s bound to fancy you back with all the suave chivalry.”

Behind them, Tom could hear Potter and Granger exchanging soft words. “Pansy. Stop talking,” he hissed. This was getting absurd.

Pansy shrugged but walked silently down to Hogsmeade for the rest of their journey. And when it was time to split apart, Granger and Pansy waving—or, rather, flipping them off from Pansy—as they set off to the northern parts of the village, the leftover silence between Tom and Potter turned…awkward.

That was the only word Tom could describe it with. Awkward. He immediately cursed Pansy for jinxing it earlier. Tom was decidedly never awkward about anything, having drilled out any sort of gracelessness or inconvenient feelings long ago. But after briefly exploring Potter’s objective handsomeness, suddenly being alone with him felt awkward.

“So, Riddle,” Potter began, saving them from the disquiet, “how’s your start of term been going?”

Tom had no idea where Potter was going with this and felt on edge. But he responded, “Well. And yours?”

“Yeah, no, it’s been good,” Potter nodded a little too quickly. His lashes fluttered with his roaming eyes. Eyes that were looking anywhere and everywhere except at Tom.

Potter had a small beauty mark at the curl of his jaw just beside his—

Stop staring at him. Tom reprimanded his own eyes. Once again catching himself paying too close attention to Potter’s face. He focused on surveying the village.

Their patrolling took them through the sparse beginnings of the morning Hogsmeade rush; the laughter of students and carefree happiness of the townsfolk provided a charming scene to the golden autumn backdrop. Tom was struck with the realisation that his goal of finding Potter’s secrets wouldn’t be met if they continued on silent—but…there was something rather companionable about all of this.

And now that Tom was spiralling down that thought path, he was caught off guard by how simply…nice…this was. He had thought Potter would be annoying, rambunctious, and generally disagreeable, but the reality turned out to be quite the opposite. Potter’s quiet enjoyment of their surroundings was like a magnet, and Tom felt himself slowly gravitating towards it.

“Riddle, do you mind if we stop by Honeydukes?” Potter asked, perking up at the sight of the sweet shop just ahead.

Tom was ready to disagree, not because he didn’t want Potter to shop—actually, it would be a great benefit if Potter did shop, just so Tom could suggest they go to some of the places he wanted to visit as well—but because he didn’t want to deal with the large crowds of students intending to stockpile their sweets to last until the next Hogsmeade weekend. Tom supposed this is what he got for finding pleasure in another’s company.

But while Tom was still weighing the pros and cons of saying yes, they had already arrived, and Potter had taken his silence as consent, entering the shop with practised ease. Evading crowding bodies left and right. Tom sighed and followed carefully, having decided he’d rather have Potter nearby and within sight than the opposite.

Potter selected a few candies, prattling on about who preferred what from his little group of friends. It only occurred to Tom that Potter hadn’t seemed to be getting anything for himself when Potter had asked, “Would you like anything?”

Tom blinked twice in quick succession, “Pardon?”

“Do you have a favourite sweet? Anything you’d like?”

Did…did Tom have a favourite sweet? Was Potter being serious? “Why?”

“Just offering,” Potter shrugged but waited. He stared at Tom with a ready patience. It seemed as though Tom would be answering, or they would be trapped here forever.

This is another thing, Tom thought, that one could possibly like about Potter. He was alarmingly kind towards others. Offering, gifting, teaching, helping—Tom had seen Potter do all these things and more. Yet, Tom had dismissed it as a weakness, a foolish pandering that made Potter less than.

But held in the steady gaze Potter had laid upon him, Tom felt that, if it truly were a weakness, Potter wouldn’t look so strong and self-assured at this moment. An answer slipped out of Tom unbidden, “White Chocolate Skulls.”

Potter’s face turned fascinated, his eyes widened behind his wireframes, and his mouth fell open ever so slightly. “White Chocolate Skulls? Riddle, do you have a sweet tooth?”

Tom nearly bristled, “I do not have a sweet tooth.”

“I beg to differ,” Potter smiled like he was holding back a laugh. “White chocolate is the sweetest chocolate they make,” he shook his head and continued, walking further into the shop and towards the Skulls, “I really would’ve pegged you as a Licorice Snap kinda guy.”

Tom made a face, and Potter caught the look and couldn’t hold himself back any longer. His pearling laughter caused a few heads to turn, and Tom strung tight like a bow at the sudden urge to smuggle Potter away, to keep his laughter only for Tom’s ears—

Tom paused. That was a strong reaction. He breathed through it while he picked apart what exactly was going on.

Did he like Potter? Did Tom like him enough to want to keep Potter all to himself? And had he been so obvious that Pansy and Draco had known for years and he hadn’t?

Tom had an unsettling feeling that this could all be traced back to the incident from two years ago and refused to look any further into it.

#tomarry #tomarrymort #harrymort #pov: tom #my fic #3k words #prompt ask #this went everywhere and nowhere #i really might come back to it #finish it up and post it on ao3 maybe?#maybe i should make a series on ao3 for the prompt asks #i am once again unsure if this will meet expectations 😭#but there are a lot of silly lines that make me laugh in this one

120 notes · View notes

oh-bonerline · 10 months

Note

Prompt 25? 🧡

25…as a ‘yes’.

Matty has been playing the same three chords over and over for half an hour when Ross asks the question. He’s been trying to get a song right, a song that’s been living in his head for months as a chord progression and a feeling and not much else.

He is about to loop back around to the first chord when Ross asks the question. His fingers are changing shape to find the chord, but Ross’ question throws him off and makes his fingers fall too far down on the fretboard. The chord comes out wrong. But, actually, maybe, on second thought, the chord comes out better, comes out right for the first time. So Matty plays the wrong but better chord again, looking at the position of his fingers and thinking about what should come next.

The whole song has changed now thanks to the question Ross has just asked him.

“Did you hear me?” Ross says when Matty doesn’t answer him. He’s too lost in picking out the individual notes of this new chord he’s found, dissecting it, breaking it down. Too lost in the whole thing suddenly feeling right and good. Too lost in that click that happens when things suddenly start making sense.

It’s raining outside, has been all day. A cold, damp, English feeling permeates the house. Raindrops hit the window at an irregular tempo. On the coffee table there are two mugs–one empty and one still half full of tea gone cold. Two cigarettes sit in the ash tray, their smoked down ends resting against each other. A perfect songwriting atmosphere, if there ever was one.

And then there is Ross’ question.

Matty forces himself to look over at Ross who’s sitting on the opposite end of the couch, watching him work. He’s got a book in his hand that he hasn’t really been reading, a finger between the pages, holding his place. He’s wearing jeans, his old Mortal Kombat t-shirt, and mismatched socks. And sometimes Matty looks at him and he’s fourteen-year-old Ross again and it throws him, especially right now, especially considering what Ross has just asked him.

“I heard you,” Matty says, but his right hand is still softly strumming the chord.

And he really did hear Ross and the question he’s asked. He really is paying attention. It’s just that Ross’ question has become part of the song now. The song and Ross’ question are the same thing. Each of Ross’ words correspond to a note in the chord Matty has found. The answer to the question is somewhere in between those notes, he thinks. And playing them, hearing them, feeling their vibrations in his fingers, is just him thinking it through, working it out.

Ross places his book on the coffee table and moves to sit closer to Matty. He drops a kiss on his shoulder and says, “It sounds nice,” because he understands Matty’s mind, how Matty works. And Matty is always so fucking grateful for that.

“I think it’s better than what I had before,” he nods. “I’m just not sure what comes next.”

Ross’ hand is warm on Matty’s back. “Should I ask you again?” he says quietly.

Matty moves his hand, even though he’s afraid of losing that magic chord. But then Ross asks the question again and his fingers move on their own, finding another new chord. A chord that shouldn’t work with the first one, but it does somehow. Matty laughs and plays the two chords a few times. “Fuck me,” he says, reaching for his notebook to write it down.

Ross laughs too, his hand now in Matty’s hair, combing through his curls. “I better get songwriting credit on this one,” he says.

Matty says, “Ask me again,” and plays the second chord again.

So Ross asks him again, his mouth close to Matty’s ear, breathing the words against his skin. And, again, Matty’s fingers land somewhere new, somewhere they hadn’t been before, somewhere absolutely fucking right. He plays all three chords now, listening to the way they blend perfectly together. The way they capture that feeling that’s been in Matty’s head for so long.

He plays the progression a few times, singing along under his breath–no words, just the shape of sounds–to try to find the melody. “Still waiting on an answer, by the way,” Ross says, keeping his voice low, his chin resting on Matty’s shoulder.

Matty stops playing, stops singing, puts the guitar down on the rug. He turns to look at Ross whose face is so close to his. Their noses brush, their foreheads press together. “Ask me one more time,” he says, closing his eyes.

So Ross asks him the question one more time, “Will you marry me?”

Matty’s head fills with words even though there’s only one he really needs. His head fills with all of the things he always wants to say to Ross, but can never get right. His head fills with images of the two of them all throughout their lives–punching each other in the balls just for the fun of it, laughing in cars with their music too loud, kissing in bathrooms at terrible house parties, finally learning to love each other properly. His head fills with all those hundreds of other times Ross has sat next to him while he works out a song, all those thousands of other times Ross has simply been right there next to him.

His head does the thing it does where it takes something quiet and straightforward and makes it loud and messy.

He pushes everything, all of it, away, and opens his eyes again to find Ross looking right back at him. As always, there is clarity in his eyes. There is calm stillness in his face. The answer to the question isn’t hidden between the notes in a chord. The answer is there in the creases by the corner of his eye, in the freckle on his forehead, in the patch of beard where the hair never comes in quite as thick as the rest, in the curve of his eyebrows, in the soft stretch of his mouth as he smiles. Because he already knows the answer without having to hear Matty say it.

So Matty closes the short distance between them and kisses him. And when he does, the song’s melody comes to him, bright and loud and beautiful.

#asks #kiss prompts #the 1975 rpf #matty healy rpf #ross macdonald rpf #matty and ross #fic #i am once again romanticizing the songwriting process for fic purposes #my editing style with these is just post it and then let my wife point out my typos when she reads it later <3 <3

20 notes · View notes

allylikethecat · 5 months

Note

omg more prompts!! would love to see matty holding hands with george while he’s stressed out about something and then maybe later laying his head in george’s lap🥺

HELLO THERE ANON,

You sent me this WONDERFUL intimacy prompt literally three months ago, BUT I finally did it, I finally filled it! Better late than never? Right? I want to apologize though for taking so long to get to it, and thank you so much for sending it in. I hope that you're still around to see the response! I ended up combining the two- I hope that was okay! Please let me know what you think! Additionally, if anyone else wants to send in any intimacy prompts, the list can be found here. I can't guarantee that it won't take me three months to finish the next one, but I promise that I *will* eventually. I really enjoy working on prompt fills and even if it takes me forever to actually sit down and write them, just know that I am in fact always thinking about them!

Thank you so much for requesting this prompt, your patience since I am the worst and it took me months, for reading, and for your continued support! I look forward to hearing what you think!

❤️Ally

WARNINGS: Reference to past drug abuse

Holding hands during a stressful situation & Resting your head on your partner's lap

Matty hated flying. He hated the drive to the airport. He hated that they were always, inevitably, caught in stop and go traffic that made his already nervous belly churn, nausea burning the back of his throat. He hated leaving his bag with the airline agent, the worry that it would get lost, that it would get stolen, that it wouldn’t make it to his final destination even as he obsessively tracked its air tagged location on his phone. He hated going through security and border control. He hated taking off his jacket, and shoving his backpack into the plastic bin. He hated the scrutiny of the security agents as they took in his tattoos and the scars on his arms. He was always, without fail, pulled for random, additional screening. He always tried to smile good naturedly, anxiety bubbling in his gut, even if he knew he wasn’t truly chosen at random, drug dogs sniffing his ankles as they swabbed his hands for explosives. At least he got to carry his own passport now, it was no longer in Jamie’s clutches as if he was going to run off to score the second he was left unattended. (He never had even considered fleeing an airport to score, however, he had considered fleeing an airport to run back to the flat he shared with George and hide under the covers of their bed.)

He hated making his way through the crowded terminal, people rushing around him, knocking into him, suffocating him as he tried to remember how to breathe. The straps of his backpack digging into his shoulder. He knew there would be a red mark on the skin when he sat it down, there always was. He loved their fans, he loved them more than anything, but he hated that he could feel their eyes on him as he moved through the airport, taking pictures of him with his eyes downcast, the brim of his baseball hat pulled low as if it would be able to fully hide his mop of curls. Only for the pictures to end up on Twitter moments later, which led to more eyes seeking his location. The braver ones would approach him and ask for a picture with him rather than just of him from a distance. He would force a smile, his arm stiffly around their shoulders as he tried to focus on his breathing, his palms sweating as every fiber of his being screamed danger and run. He hated that they always seemed to be assigned the gate furthest away from the main artery of the terminal. He hated that his anxiety meant he needed to lay eyes on the gate, that he needed to verify that it was real before he could wait with the rest of their group in the lounge.

He hated that once he had dropped off his bag, and made it through security, and checked on his gate, that it was time to wait. Matty was not a patient person, he was even less patient when he was stressed, wanting things the way he wanted them right this instant. Demanding, George had called him one time with an amused smile and love shining in his eyes.

At this particular instant, he was both stressed and demanding, gripping George’s hand as if it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth as he dragged him through the crowded corridor towards their gate. He was more stressed than even his usual airport levels of airport anxiety. He hadn’t slept the night before, tossing and turning, worrying about the ten hour flight from LA to London they would be embarking on the next morning, popping piece after piece of nicotine gum as they inched towards departures in their rental van. They had played the last show of the tour the night before, and Matty was burnt out and ready to go home. Once at the airport, he had been, as usual, pulled for additional screening, the man that patted him down rough and inconsiderate. He had been stopped by a duo of fans less than five minutes later, forcing a smile as he tried to swallow down anxious tears threatening to spill. His heart was pounding in his chest, and his blood rushing in his ears as a man speaking loudly on the phone bumped into him, splashing him with iced coffee.

“You’re okay,” George soothed, giving Matty’s sweaty hand a comforting squeeze of his own, as the man turned away from them, glaring, as if they were the ones not watching where they were going. He swiped his thumb reassuringly against the back of Matty’s hand.

“The gate is just up ahead,” George said, pointing with his free hand to B37. “We still have an hour ‘til boarding.”

Matty nodded, wishing that seeing the gate with his own eyes would have loosened some of the tension in his chest, the way it usually did. George gave his hand another squeeze and Matty swallowed hard. George had calluses on his fingers and across his palm from years of playing the drums professionally, Matty loved that they slotted perfectly against his own guitarists calluses. Matty loved that George’s hands were so much bigger than his own, dwarfing his hand, his fingers wrapping fully around his own, engulfing them, protecting them from the outside world. He loved that even when he was shaking, even when his palms were disgustingly damp and sweaty, George never let go. He might have been the one clinging to George, but really, George was the one holding onto him. He closed his eyes, and tried to focus on the feel, on the weight of George’s hand, intertwined with his own. He could still feel his heart beating in his ears, but he no longer felt like he was going to drift away, like he was going to be pulled out to sea by the current and lost forever.

George pressed a gentle kiss to the side of Matty’s head. “Let's head up to the lounge, I would kill for a cup of coffee.”

Matty let himself be led through the crowd, their hands connected as if George was the tugboat guiding Matty’s ship to shore. George showed their passes to the hostess and they were granted access, the rest of their group already sprawled out on the couches, bags at their feet, coffee in hand. Matty swallowed a yawn, he was exhausted, and knew that coffee would help, but he also knew he wouldn’t be able to stomach the acidic liquid at the moment.

Matty sat down on an open two seater. Matty hated that he had to let go of George’s hand as he made his way over to the coffee bar, pleased that they were reunited a moment later, a steaming paper cup in George’s hand. He dropped into the seat next to him and without thinking Matty found himself leaning over, not caring that technically they were in public, to rest his head in George’s lap.

“I just want to go home,” Matty said softly as George tugged Matty’s hat off to run his fingers through the messy squashed curls.

“Soon love,” said George, “we’ll be home soon.”

13 notes · View notes

plothooksinc · 4 months

Text

Hueso sighed. And took his place, staring down the tiny yokai with the most unimpressed look he could manage. Mayhem stared mildly back. “I am going to put together some pasta and burritos for the Hamatos,” Hueso said finally. “When I am done, kindly make sure it gets back to wherever they are staying and deposit the two in my office directly into their beds. Then I will consider us even.” Mayhem tilted his head as if he couldn’t possibly know what Hueso was talking about; as if the little sneak hadn’t dumped humans in his lap not one week before. His tail dipped off the ledge he was sitting to wave dangerously close to a pot full of bubbling mince. Hueso pointed a finger bone at him. “Do not threaten me, pequeña mierda. I know where you came from.”

#rottmnt #rottmnt fic #no rest for the weary #(adjacent)#nekotsuki #I am once again asking my muse to consider 3-4 page responses to a prompt--

16 notes · View notes

tvrningout-a · 6 months

Text

hmm how would we feel if i remade

#i am so horrible about feeling okay with deleting drafts or asks and tbh i think i've overwhelmed myself with options #i'm hanging onto everything i've ever been sent and everything i've written and it gives me decision paralysis #like i wanna write and the muse is booming but i can't decide on one thing #and tbh!! this blog won't save new tags which is a minor inconvenience but still #there's that and the fact that there's so much extra stuff from muses i've gotten rid of #hmm i dunno i'm just thinking once again i just need a clean slate and to hopefully manage my inbox and drafts more responsibly #like i write as much as i can for certain prompts and then delete everything i don't have muse for #so i don't open my blog one day to 200+ asks that are unanswered #me @ me every day: pls get some help oh my gosh #i will say i hate the thought of moving bio's and headcanons but! we do it in chunks and then it's not so bad :' )#sorry to ramble so much asdfg i'm just wondering if on top of everything that's going on rn #i'm not helping myself by holding onto so much #get ready to ramble | ooc

10 notes · View notes

kpforpresident · 2 years

Note

how about "38. because they're running out of time"?

Lexa smiles to herself as a pair of persistent, chap-stick coated lips press insistently to hers, disappearing for a breath before angeling back again. She gives herself over to the moment, running her free hand gently through painstakingly curled golden locks, careful not to muss them. Clarke tastes like the vanilla Burt’s Bees she applied earlier, the lingering taste of champagne coating her tongue as Lexa swipes gently through her mouth.

Around them, people in various levels of cocktail dress from nice restaurant to ballroom ready mill around, admiring the bright and eclectic art pieces that are staged intentionally around the large, cavernous white room. A string band plays quietly in the back corner, the quiet clink of champagne glasses mixed with the murmur of chatter as people drink and talk.

Lexa opens her eyes and pulls away gently, locking with a sparkling blue gaze as she does so. She glances at her watch- five minutes remain. Clarke presses one more playful kiss to her cheek, derailing her train of thought as her honeysuckle perfume clouds Lexa’s head pleasantly. She was wearing the same one as on their wedding day- the bottle that she only pulled out on special occasions, because she claimed, it’s good luck, Lexa.

“See?” Clarke smirks as she angles away slightly, running both hands down her close-fitting black dress as she preens slightly at the attention. She gives a little spin under Lexa’s appreciative gaze, a flash of pale thigh peeking through as she twirls in her black heels. Slinky silver earrings hang from her ears to dangle just above her collarbones, her hair artfully mussed in the style she insisted was very popular among her Brooklyn art crew. Lexa straightens her own dark green blazer jacket with the hand that isn’t cradling a fluted glass before she passes it off to Clarke, snagging another one from a passing waiter.

“You look beautiful, Clarke,” Lexa says softly, sincerely, as she takes a small step closer to her wife, slipping a hand to rest gently on her waist and smoothing her thumb over a hipbone. Clarke smiles into her glass as she takes a dainty sip, foregoing a verbal thank you for a physical one as she leans in for another kiss. Lexa tastes like the expensive, miniscule hors devours that had made their way around the room earlier, Clarke earning an extra adoring glance from a slightly distraught, food deprived Lexa when she had quietly let her know that she had ordered their favorite Thai curry to be delivered upon their arrival home later.

Lexa, ever the tactician, cuts her off with three shorter pecks, squeezing her tighter to cut off the protest she knew Clarke was sure to be brewing at being kiss-embargoed.

“There’s plenty of opportunity for that later, love,” Lexa purrs as she gently nudges Clarke towards the three short steps up to the stage, where a bright spotlight and a microphone awaits her very talented wife. “But for now, we are out of time”

Clarke gives her a blinding smile as she carefully climbs the steps, champagne glass cradled confidently in her right hand. She readjusts the mic as she surveys the impressive turnout, the modest brick studio in the heart of Brooklyn teeming with the best and brightest art talent on this side of the Hudson. Art collectors and enthusiasts alike turn patiently towards the stage upon its occupancy. A bright flash is seen from the back left corner, a photographer and writer duo from the Times surveying the scene with a critical eye.

Lexa holds her breath as Clarke carefully glances at her notes that are concealed on the podium, the dull roar of the room gently softening to a hush as hundreds of voices quiet.

“Hi, everyone,” Clarke starts, her voice faltering slightly but then gaining power quickly as she chances a glance at Lexa. Lexa smiles encouragingly, hovering in the shadows at the bottom of the steps as she adjusts her hold on her glass, her nervous palm sliding slightly.

“Welcome to the first annual art silent auction in my new gallery space- I’m so thrilled to see so many new and familiar faces! As many of you know, this mission is partnered with my wife, Lexa’s law firm, to help raise money and awareness for the nearby pediatric oncology ward…”

Lexa smiles and relaxes with a soft sigh as she watches her wife shine onstage.

#i went the sappy route with this instead of the potential angsty tbh #clexa #kiss prompt #orphanmaker #thanks for asking friend #once again the NY AU because i am A Sap #kpprompts #ny au clexa

67 notes · View notes

datastate · 3 months

Text

it is really weird to just lift my hcs/meta almost word for word and post it as your own but okay

#jestersvaguely #i'm thinking abt some past events nothing major really #though i am once again hit with the urge to remake my account.#ahhh i like discussing things in my little circle i appreciate the asks/prompts i get but man

6 notes · View notes

crescentmoonrider · 7 months

Text

Toji-san didn’t say anything after Yuuta’s outburst. Or even later, when Yuuta asked for his kimono, to try and close the hole Rika-chan made. He just handed his clothes to Yuuta without a word, and went back to taking care of the swords. Yuuta can’t help but feel it’s his fault. He shouldn’t have gotten so angry. He shouldn’t – he couldn’t help it. The idea of someone insulting Toji-san in that way, even if that person is Toji-san himself… He grits his teeth. He was scared, too. It felt like, if he didn’t do anything, if he didn’t say something, he was going to lose Toji-san somehow. What was he supposed to do ? Using two fingers to grab one of the needles he keeps in his obi, Yuuta winces. Holding his hand in this way, he feels the base of his thumb tense, and the newly re-opened wound pulsate in time with his heartbeat. Still, he pushes through. Pulls a thread loose from some leftover cloth, pinches it tight to pass it through the eye – “Ah !” It hurts. The more strength Yuuta puts in his thumb, the more it feels like fire, climbing from his hand to his head. It’s a good thing he didn’t try to sew Toji-san’s wound shut earlier. The result would have been… He can’t even stab the needle where he wants it, even when holding the cloth as close to his hand as possible, and using a finger as a guide. Both his hands are shaking, too. There’s blood on the thread. Why can’t he do just this single thing right ? Yuuta stabs the needle through the kimono at random, before putting everything down. He sighs. He managed to bleed on Toji-san’s kimono, too… It’s useless, isn’t it ? “Give me your hands.” He raises his head. Toji-san is sitting close, holding out a hand for Yuuta to put his own onto. “You’ll need new wraps,” Toji-san says after examining Yuuta’s now exposed palms, and the state of his wounds. Then he picks up a small, oddly shaped container made of roughly weaved leaves. Puts a few fingers in it, emerging with a bit of greenish paste. Yuuta used the last of their plants on the cut Rika-chan made, he is sure of that. Maybe, just maybe, that knowledge is even more soothing than the yomogi on his wounds and Toji-san’s hands on his.

"Time is the best teacher, but having an actual teacher also helps"

-Part 2 of "If this unreliable self can become someone..." - a Jujutsu Kaisen Edo AU fic series-

illustration made during

Kinktober 2023 - Day 1 "Hand holding"

6 notes · View notes

miamierre · 2 years

Note

I’m the sleepy sex anon and omg yes!! That fic you linked is actually one of my all time favourites 😭💕💕💕

I can’t believe you’re even considering writing more sleepy sex piarles 🥺

My heart is so full i could kiss you right now 😘

Ily 🥰

HI HI thank you for sending this requestttttt <3 to be totally honest i think i may have tried too hard on this one BUT ive been wrestling w/it for a couple days and i think its time to just...let it go. bestie i hope u enjoy this. i love u sm. thank u for reading my writing. im kissing u right back.

(word count: 4,871) (NSFW)

Charles is still asleep when Pierre returns to bed after his morning shower.

Which—honestly, Pierre had kind of predicted. It's summer break. They get a chance to breathe, to settle, to go at their own pace instead of frantically running behind their respective teams; it's been a long first half of the season, and he knows the second half won't be much better. So this is important time for them: rest, recovery, relaxation.

Pierre just can't sleep for shit.

Even after a night of drinking, or of keeping Charles up til the early morning hours wringing him dry of pleasure, Pierre seems to always be awake by 6 and alert by 7.

It kind of sucks, more often than not, because if there is one person in the world who's practically built for lounging, it's Charles.

It definitely sucks right now, because Pierre, fresh out of the shower, had gotten a little worked up under the hot water and had been hoping, against all hope, that Charles would be generally awake enough to start their morning off a little rough. If the way he's drooling and snoring softly into his pillow is anything to go by, Pierre's wish has fallen on deaf ears.

"Fuck," he mumbles, rubbing at his half-hard cock from under the towel wrapped around his waist. There's nothing on their agenda for today, really—it's raining this morning, although that isn't exactly an unwelcome thing since it's been so hot lately, so any attempts at beachgoing are, for the time being, tabled. Going out for breakfast is always a hassle because people have been recognizing him lately, and Pierre loves his fans but he knows he can't jeopardize the secrecy of his relationship with Charles by trying to be a normal twenty-something with his boyfriend.

So, technically, he could jerk off this morning waiting for Charles to wake up and not have any real interruptions to their wide-open schedule. He shrugs at the thought as if someone else suggested it to him. In bed, Charles has rolled over onto his stomach, face smushed entirely into the pillow.

He's sweet like this. Pierre wants to pet him, coo to him like he's some little woodland creature that Pierre has taken home. He sinks onto the mattress slowly, so he doesn't jostle his sleepy boyfriend too much, and combs a hand gently through Charles' sleep-mussed hair.

"Mon cheri," he hums quietly. Charles, still out cold, makes a little noise at the contact. Pierre chuckles to himself, wordlessly continues to tussle at his hair again.

And then—

"Mmm, Pierrot." Pierre watches, captivated, as Charles grinds into the mattress. He's not subtle about it—in fact, Pierre is pretty sure he'd done this awake the other day, when they were messing around with a new toy he'd indulgently purchased on the road. Then, at least, Pierre could tell what was going through his pretty boy's head.

Now? He's kind of dumbstruck, watching Charles begin to rub off on the mattress beneath him. The fog of lust is starting to cloud his brain again. Before he knows it, he’s moving on autopilot, falling into step with whatever game his slumbering boyfriend is trying to play without him.

"Mmm, Charlito," he purrs, continuing to pet at his sleeping partner. "Does this feel nice?" Charles moans in his sleep, grinding into the sheets more noticeably. Just to check, Pierre uses his free hand to lift the blankets just a little—and, yes, of course, he can see that Charles is half-hard right now, just from this.

"Fucking hell," Pierre breathes. The idea of jerking off by himself is suddenly not as appealing as having the real thing right beside him, clearly worked up and clearly having a sex dream about him. He tightens his fingers in Charles' hair and tugs, gentle, until another noise sputters from his mouth. This time, as he whimpers, Pierre watches the way his eyelids flutter open slowly, hazy and the most perfect shade of green he could ever imagine.

"Pierre," he half-greets, half-whines. His hips are still on their slow grind. "Mmmgm?"

Pierre chuckles softly despite himself, shifting so that the towel barely clinging to his body has fallen off in the places it needs to. He watches as Charles sees this. The pretty green of his eyes is beginning to get swallowed. "Good morning," he whispers, delicately rearranging himself over the sheets. "You sleep good?"

Charles nods a little, clearly more than half asleep. He's barely conscious, really: Pierre thinks the hand in his hair might be the only thing keeping him from falling back into the pillow. "Mmmmmmgh." Definitely not the response of a man fully awake and coherent.

"You sounded like you were having a good dream," Pierre murmurs, scooting a little closer. The warmth radiating off Charles is crazy. "Like you were enjoying yourself, cheri."

He's awake enough to blush at least. The low whine that comes out at Pierre's words is followed by another, more-conscious movement of his hips. "Yeah," he manages in his sleepy drawl. Charles' first real word of the day. Pierre's brain is startlingly awake in contrast; his dick is throbbing it's so hard, he has to fight every instinct not to beg Charles here and now to wake up so he can get inside, burrow deep in him the way he can never get enough of on mornings like these.

"Yeah," Pierre echoes, tucking even closer. The head of his cock bumps against Charles' thigh through the thin sheets, and he can see by the way the color in his cheeks gets darker that he'd noticed.

"Mmmm, Pierrot," he moans softly, hips jerking a little again.

"Does that feel good, Cha?" He's really burning up all of his self-control here and now, huh, in the first hour of being truly awake. There's nothing he wants more than to rub up against Charles until he rolls over and spreads out the way he always does when he's so good with Pierre. The restraint he's clinging to is quickly dissipating.

"Mm," Charles nods, breathy. When he speaks again, his voice has gone a little higher, thready with pleasure. "Yeah."

"Yeah," he repeats back. It's not even 8, he doesn't have to be good at talking dirty right now. Charles doesn't even seem to mind; he ruts into the sheets again at Pierre's utterance, mindless in the way he's trying to get off before even being fully awake. "Easy, calamar, easy—" he rests his free hand on Charles' lower back over the sheets and gets a slightly-louder noise in response. "Hey, let me—can—do you want—?" Do you want to fuck is the question, but Pierre doesn't need to actually finish his sentence. Even in sleep, Charles knows how his mind works. Hell, considering the fact that they're both this turned on so early, it's like they have the same brain.

Beneath his hand, Charles squirms. "Mmmmmgh," he answers after a beat, entirely unhelpful.

Pierre huffs a laugh, although he's so turned on it's a little less than funny right now. "Bebe, that is not an answer." He shifts, sucking in a sharp breath at the way Charles' hot skin feels even through the sheets against his shaft.

"Mmm, Pierre," he starts, and there are the words. "Yes, I—if you do the work, yeah." He grinds down again. "I am so tired, I don't understand how you can be so awake right now."

Pierre hums, satisfied, and shifts even closer so that he's nose to nose with his boyfriend for a moment. "You have no idea how you look right now," he says lowly. "You could wake the dead." He earns a whine in response. "I will take care of you, cheri, I promise." Pierre drops a gentle kiss to his nose, then one to the not-smushed cheek currently in view. "Roll over for me, love? I want to see your pretty face."

Charles makes a breathy little noise at his words. “This does not count as you doing all the work, you know,” he mumbles, although there’s a little smile curling on his face. Pierre just thwacks him in the shoulder gently. Charles whines again, but eventually obliges Pierre’s request—he’s graceless as he rolls over, drool dried at the corner of his mouth to make him look all the more disheveled. Pierre can only chuckle at the sight, even with the way his cock is hard enough to start aching a little at this point. When he peels the sheet away from over his boyfriend, he gets another whine. “Cold,” Charles mumbles.

Pierre just tsks at him, pushing up from his sprawled-out position to get a proper look. “Pushy,” he murmurs, and Charles chokes on a little laugh as Pierre ducks down to catch him in a kiss. It’s easy like always; Charles opens for him immediately, even half-awake at best like this, and Pierre takes no time in using it to his advantage. His boyfriend hadn’t been exaggerating about not wanting to do the work—Pierre is entirely in control, tongue in Charles’ mouth, teeth sunk into his bottom lip, swallowing down every little noise that comes out of him. Charles hasn’t even lifted his arms from where they’re laid up in bed; it’s all Pierre, it’s entirely Pierre.

Which. He won’t complain about by any means, really. Charles putting up a fight is always fun, and Pierre does love to wrestle, but a loose, pliant Charles does just as much for him. “I was thinking about you,” he mumbles against the younger’s mouth, breath coming sharper than he’d wanted it to. “In the shower.” Charles moans at the little confession. Pierre swallows it whole with the next kiss, exchanging it with a low, pleased noise of his own. “Thought about how—how loose you are, like this, sleepy and careless and ready for me.”

“Pierre,” he gets in return, and Pierre grins against Charles’ mouth, the short little huffs of breath indicating that Charles is a little more awake than he’s letting on.

“Charles,” he replies, dotting one last kiss to Charles’ now-reddened lip before shifting to get to work. “Are you loose for me, calamar?”

“Mmmm,” Charles breathes. He doesn’t seem capable of forming any words, really, just these lovely little noises and Pierre’s name. (Again, not that he’s complaining—it’s like music, a symphony composed just for Pierre, every sound he’s ever loved strung together and spilling from his best friend’s mouth all at once.) Pierre brushes his hand against Charles’ cheek, traces the swell of his pretty lip with a finger that Charles, intuitively, sucks into his mouth. He’s not mouthy with it, no: just allows Pierre’s finger to sit on his tongue for a few beats, pressing into it just enough to get it slick with saliva.

Satisfied, Pierre eases it back out; the accompanying noise is wet and filthy, forcing him to swallow down the muted noise of pleasure now curled in his throat, ready to come roaring out just from the way Charles looks like this. “Good boy,” he murmurs, using his thumb to pet affectionately at the curve of Charles’ cheek. His face gets pink at the praise. For a half-second, Pierre flies out of his body and watches the way Charles settles more heavily into the bed beneath him—the way his legs spread a little more, the way he arches his neck just so in a way that gives Pierre all the access he needs. He keeps blinking his slow, sleepy blink, and he’s just.

He's just.

Pierre is going to use lube, of course, but he’s a little bit out of his mind with the way Charles is just going with everything right now, so entirely boneless that Pierre might think he’s already been fucked to completion today. He’s got to just—with a low noise, he slips his saliva-slick finger into Charles’ hole, more exploratory than insistent. How loose is he still? Pierre had fucked him pretty good last night, but there’s no guaranteeing he’d stayed that stretched overnight, especially with his tendency to stress-dream. They’re about a week into summer, Pierre thinks he’s done a good enough job at keeping his boyfriend’s mind off of their mutually-aggravating job, but he can’t know for certain.

It takes all of one finger to figure out, though, that he’s doing that off-track job of his well. Charles is almost exactly how Pierre had left him last night; all but gaping, loose enough that Pierre could probably lube his cock up and slide in without too much work at all. Charles likes it like that, sometimes—rushed and heavy, frantic in a way that doesn’t quite allow him to swallow Pierre up inside him the way he’ll do if given the opportunity. He can’t fight the groan of pleasure that claws its way from his throat at this discovery.

“Charles,” he says through his teeth, “you are so fucking—”

“I dreamed about you,” Charles interrupts, voice still weighed down from sleep. He clenches around Pierre’s one finger for a hot second, sending a spiral of insanity up Pierre’s spine and directly into the front of his brain. His cock throbs. Whatever praise that had been on his tongue dies immediately. Fuck. “You were so, your hands, you kept me open when you—” Like he’s reliving the dream all over again, Charles moans pitifully.

Pierre can’t believe he didn’t already grab the fucking lube so he doesn’t have to miss out on Charles’ heat for a single second. Unfortunately, it’s on his side of the bed, which means there is ground to cover that will require him to leave here. Stupid stupid stupid. “What did I do, cheri,” he whispers, then catches Charles in a biting kiss for a hot second just to alleviate himself of the guilt that comes a second later when he slips his finger out, clumsily leaning across the mattress to get a hand on the bottle he’s after. “Tell me what I did to keep you so—open.” He closes his fingers around the bottle and immediately returns to where Charles is now squirming more actively, one knee tucked up towards his chest.

He's so ready he’s not even making Pierre do this part. Fuck.

“You—Pierre, your mouth was so, it was—” he cuts off with a sharp whine as Pierre, with a properly-lubed finger, presses back in and languidly crooks it forward. “Pierrot, oh my god—”

“I fucked you with my tongue, eh?” He’d probably be more effective in talking back if he weren’t so ready to get to his favorite part of all this, feeling how hot and tight Charles is for him every single time, even when he’s worked open all the way. If he were more poetic, he’d call them puzzle pieces; perfectly fitted, designed to be slotted together always. “I am sure you loved that, Charlito, you are very noisy when I eat you out like a fucking girl—” He slides a second prepped finger in and scissors lazily, wrangling another noise out of Charles’ now-parted mouth. The dried drool of sleep has been glossed over by the wet drool of mindless arousal, dribbling down his chin ever-so-slightly. "Fuck, I don't even have to—" Adding a third finger goes so quick Pierre almost swallows his tongue. Charles is ready. He's ready, he's half-awake and writhing under Pierre's touch and he's ready to get fucked after being awake not even, what, ten minutes? "Charles, fucking hell—"

"'m ready," Charles whines like he can read Pierre's mind. "I—Pierrot, I am ready, I need you—"

"Shhh, sweetheart," he purrs, leaning forward so that Charles' leg can properly hook over his shoulder. When he finally pulls his fingers from Charles' hole, his boyfriend whines pitifully, just this side of bratty. (Pierre's second favorite part, a very close second, is that little sound—petulant Charles, how demanding he can be when he's not all-the-way full all the time. Toys can only do so much.) "Easy, cher, easy, I'm going to take care of you." Pierre rubs at the back of Charles' other thigh like he's trying to soothe a wounded animal. He responds easily, leg lifting so Pierre has an improved angle, and ducks forward for one last kiss, one that's definitely less of a kiss and more of a clumsy-mouth-collision. "Are you ready for me, sleepyhead?"

Charles rubs his cheek against Pierre's, catlike. "Yeah," he manages faintly. It may be the best Pierre will get—he can tell already that Charles is lost in the experience from the way his eyes, lidded from sleep, have now gotten even heavier from the way Pierre has finger-fucked him open. He’s saturated with pleasure. He doesn’t even have to look to know that his dick is weeping precome just from how blissed out he is. (A little tingle crawls up his spine at that—at the reminder that, yes, Pierre is the one who gets to have him like this. Who gets to do this to him, who makes him feel this good.)

"Good boy," the Frenchman repeats, nuzzling at Charles gently. And, with one final kiss nestled at the faint crease of his boyfriend’s dimple, Pierre finally gets what he’s been after all morning.

“Pierre—” Charles’ voice is high and thready as Pierre eases in, slow like always even despite his ceaseless desire to thrust right in all the way. Charles can handle it, he’s done it before—but this morning, Pierre wants to keep Charles the way he is right now. Easy. Pliant. Sleepy. “Pierre, oh my god, Pierre—”

“You are taking me so good, cheri,” Pierre murmurs, rubbing at the meat of Charles’ thigh soothingly. “So good, sweetheart, you are so—fuck you are so tight, even with all that work we did, yeah?” Charles seems to be beyond words; he nods, eyes screwed shut, lips parted so pretty Pierre wishes his phone were closer so he could capture the moment. “You feel so good, Charles, fuck. Fuck, cher, fuck—” every second has Pierre closer to bottoming out, and Charles’ voice keeps breaking with every bit of Pierre he’s taking in.

“Pierre,” he manages with a soft whimper. His arm finally lifts from where it’s been draped across Pierre’s pillow, fingers sinking into the flesh of Pierre’s shoulder. Even with dull nails he can feel it like a branding iron. “I want all of it, all—please, oh my god, Pierre—” The words have broken off into half-formed noises as Pierre finally, finally bottoms out inside him. He’s dizzy with it, to be honest—there’s no getting used to how good Charles feels, like he’s made for Pierre and Pierre alone. They’ve done this a thousand times before, Pierre has had Charles a thousand different ways, and yet: he’ll never be used to this. Not ever.

“There we go,” he finally says, unable to keep the grunt of pleasure out of his voice as Charles clenches around him tight. “Fuck, there we are, calamar, all in. You have all of me, sweetheart, you did so good.” He thumbs at Charles’ cheek again with the hand not currently keeping him balanced, humming quietly at the way Charles leans into it even here and now. “How do you feel, mon cheri.”

Charles moans, the sound so familiar to the noises he’d been making in his sleep not too long ago. “Full,” he whispers, eyes still shut tight. The fingers dug into Pierre’s shoulder press even harder for a beat. Then: “Feels right.”

Pierre laughs lowly, ducking forward to kiss the place his thumb had been attending to. “Yeah?”

Charles nods, a quick and dramatic little thing. He looks a little silly. Pierre would laugh if he weren’t buried so god damn deep in him. “I feel—” He inhales sharply as Pierre has to re-balance on the mattress and jostles them a little. “I want to be like this always.”

The words are quiet but slap Pierre across the face open-handed. “You do, huh,” he says after a moment, aiming for teasing but knowing he’s missed the mark from the way his voice has gone ragged around the edges. He really isn’t going to last long at all the way things are going now. There’s no recovering from Charles’ lust-driven earnestness, especially now that he’s got his eyes open again. They’re so dark. Pierre knows he could get lost in them if he’s not careful.

“Fuck me, Pierrot,” the Monegasque breathes, lashes fluttering, and Pierre can’t do anything but oblige, drilling a singular thrust to send Charles skittering beneath him. The sob that wrenches from his throat is anything but soft. Pretty boy, pretty boy. Pierre sinks into him again, presses a clumsy kiss to Charles’ begging mouth, catches his teeth just right to draw another stuttering whine from somewhere at the back of his throat.

“Charlito,” he gasps as Charles meets his next thrust. “I am not going to—you—fuck, stay down, sweetheart, let me—”

Charles’ moan cuts him off. “Touch me, touch me,” he’s begging between shuddering gasp-sobs. Still clinging to Pierre’s shoulder with one hand, he rests the other over Pierre’s hand and lingers only for a moment before closing loosely around his wrist. “Pierre, please, please Pierre.”

A wrecked laugh spills out of Pierre’s mouth, somehow. “Eager,” he says, the rest of his thought utterly lost on his tongue at the way Charles continues to work with him thrust for thrust. He’s definitely awake now. “Yes, cher, yes, I—touch you, yes, fuck, of course,” so inelegant and clumsy as the words come out. Charles moans at them anyway, tightens his grip on Pierre’s wrist. “I have you, I have you.”

“Please,” he repeats, nodding frantically. He doesn’t release his hold on Pierre. (Maybe he’s not planning on it. The idea makes him dizzy again.)

He’s normally more controlled than this—although, lately, he’s been making that excuse to himself a lot when it comes to Charles, the way he’s been out of his mind every moment he gets alone with his best friend. There’s something gnawing at his gut, something he can’t quite shake: the fear that Charles will realize who he is, what he is, and see Pierre for what he actually is under the years and years of fond memories.

But he’s not going to psychoanalyze himself now, not as Charles has started bucking into the hand currently loose around the hilt of his cock.

“Pierrot,” he choke-sobs, drool spilling from the corners of his mouth like a waterfall. Charles is entirely lost in this, entirely; head thrown back, chest heaving, looking like an absolute painting of lust incarnate. Pierre is the one in control, here, doing all the work even if Charles is now trying to meet him halfway on it. It’s a very Charles thing of him to do, really—unable to fully let go even when he says he wants otherwise.

Admittedly, seeing Charles nestled in bed had triggered something in Pierre’s brain—something quiet. Something domestic. Something private. A summer just for them, not Instagram or anybody else’s eyes.

Fucking Charles until he’s wild might be a bit of an obstacle to this.

So he figures he’ll just have to take matters into his own hands. “Easy,” Pierre murmurs, slowing his thrusts but keeping the force behind them as best as he can. Charles keeps clinging to him. “Easy, Charles, I—” he shushes instinctively, thumbing at his boyfriend’s cheek again. “I have you, I promise.” His free hand wanders through Charles’ sleep-flattened hair, tsking quietly. “Be good for me, mon amour.”

Charles, to his credit, seems to settle at Pierre’s touch and words, especially as Pierre’s nails scrape a little at his scalp. The way his eyes roll a little at the sensation makes something warm in Pierre’s gut curl. “Pierrot,” Charles repeats, voice low and hoarse.

“Charles,” he answers with a soft look. “Close your eyes, cher. You trust me, yes?”

Charles’ eyes flutter closed immediately. “Always,” he answers.

“Then let me make you feel good.”

Charles moans softly, and Pierre can see the way he visibly relaxes again, once more pliant and sleep-soft. A surge of affection swells in his chest at the sight. He’s known Charles for most of his life—knows that he gets so quickly worked up about so many things, knows that he holds on to things even when he says he doesn’t. So to get Charles settled so quickly again like this… “Okay,” his boyfriend whispers.

“Okay,” Pierre echoes, then steals a fleeting kiss from Charles’ just-open lips. “Okay, cheri. Okay.” He closes his hand around Charles’ cock, strokes him once slowly. “There we go,” he says, distantly hearing how he sounds—choked, hoarse, barely hanging on by a thread. “What do you want, bebe.”

Charles whimpers. “You,” he answers, and Pierre hears this clear as day, like his lips are pressed right to Pierre’s earlobe. And—well—they might be, they really might be; Pierre can barely tell where he ends and Charles begins, which also feels like it’sbeen happening more these days. The lines have always been blurred for as long as Pierre can remember, but this—this is new, almost. Maybe it’s just summer.

Maybe it’s just Pierre realizing that he’s capable of wanting things outside of the track.

He’s been moving on autopilot, he realizes vaguely, as the noises of pleasure spilling out of Charles finally register in his ears once again. He’s quick to lock back into the task at hand, of course, working to align his hip and hand movements so that Charles is being barraged with the sensations the way he loves. Pierre, he’s begging, Pierre Pierre Pierre like it’s the only thing he knows how to say, and it’s—

“Fuck,” he groans, the resurgence of his self-control collapsing at the way Charles’ voice breaks on his name. “Charles, fuck, I am going to—”

“Please,” he interrupts, already sure of what Pierre is going to say as he thrusts up into Pierre’s hand. “Please, I am—yes, Pierre, I need—I want to feel you—”

That’s it. Graceless, he comes still buried deep in Charles, body once again completely disconnected from his mind as he thrusts helplessly. Pierre burrows into Charles’ shoulder as he lets go, mouth open and breathing wet against the freckled expanse of skin he loves so dearly. Charles, of course, comes right after him, streaking his stomach and Pierre’s still-working-him-through-it hand and even towards the glittering silver chain sitting heavy around his neck, but Pierre doesn’t move from where he’s slotted himself. He still feels like he’s wading through his own desires—like somehow, fucking a half-asleep Charles in his apartment in his Milan apartment has unlocked something new within him, something complicated and heavy and easy all at once.

And, well, maybe it has.

He’s still breathing heavy, a little dizzy from coming down so quickly from his high with so little air getting to his brain from his spot. Pierre slowly lifts off of him—face first, then hand, then cock, all departures that draw little noises of disappointment from Charles as he’s exposed once again to the cool air conditioning of his apartment.

Charles, who is so effortlessly beautiful like this, filthy with sweat and cum and blissfully riding the little aftershocks of his own orgasm. The sheets look sharp against his tanned skin. He does look like a painting, everything about him—Pierre’s eyes flicker over his body and see, with a little overstimulated pang of hunger, that his own cum is leaking from Charles’ puckered hole. He moves like a man possessed—still working on autopilot, Pierre’s action feels instinctive, to use two fingers and press the filthy mess back inside him. “Mine,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Charles whines again at the contact. His breath is warm and strong against Pierre’s cheek.

“Yours,” he murmurs against Pierre’s lips, voice shredded. He lifts a hand to rake through Pierre’s hair. “Yours always.”

Pierre hums, the weight of the morning suddenly heavy on his limbs. He collapses beside Charles, whose eyes are glittery and once again heavy looking with sleep. “I hope I lived up to your dream,” Pierre says after a beat, reaching over to touch Charles’ glowing skin again.

Charles chuckles softly. “Eh,” he answers, trademark catlike grin splitting his face in two. With a soft grunt, he scoots closer to Pierre (like they were even really that far apart) to rest gently on his shoulder, nuzzling him once again. “Perhaps I will dream of you again, Pierrot, and you can try once more.”

Pierre snorts softly. “You are insatiable,” he murmurs, unable to keep from pressing a formless kiss to Charles’ head. He gets a muffled noise in response. “Maybe I will, huh.”

“Mmmmmgh” is the response he gets.

Pierre’s never been one to nap—especially not this early in the day—but with Charles’ weight tucked into his side, pleasure still covering him like a blanket, maybe he’ll consider it.

The shower’s not going anywhere, after all.

#piarles #pierrecharles #10 x 16 #fic #prompt #ok literally im never writing smut again i swear i am exclusively sticking to normal soft not insane things #if u read this. forgive me. my brain worms just decided to up and leave me all at once #ask reply #Anonymous

77 notes · View notes