#mezzo && drabble

[hanajay769]

“Okay, now we just have to wait until the food is ready!”

“What if I don’t want to wait.. what if I’m sick of waiting?”

All of a sudden this wasn’t about the spicy lasagna baking in the oven. Just how many times would they have to have this conversation? Especially now of all times. In their kitchen in front of a camera currently recording them live.

“Tamaki! You don’t have to be so impatient!! the food will be ready soon!” He jokes and laughs trying to push away the conversation again.

“Sou-chan be serious, please” he whispers a plea.

So now they’re having the conversation.. again. Sogo sighs and says “Why would you want to eat it half cooked? Or raw? You could get sick” of me, the words go unsaid.

“Won’t know until I try it. And even then I don’t think I’ll get tired of it” (I’ll never get tired of you, but Sogo refuses to hear it). Sogo is tired of this conversation already, and you can hear it through the tone of his voice. “It’s gross, cold and nasty until it comes out of the oven, so it should bake until it’s ready”. Still like his usual soft voice, but tense at the ends of words and short at the end of the sentence. Like he wants this to end. He does.

“You’re not asking me what I want. It’s always about you now isn’t it?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been waiting for a long time. For you to take me seriously” Tamaki now stands to face Sogo, he’s looking right at him. “For you to look me in the eye and be honest. Why won’t you..” Let me love you? The words are loud in the silence and Sogo can’t exactly ignore them. Suddenly it’s hard for Sogo to see the young, immature 17 year old he was when they first met. It’s hard to pretend that was the reason he was so hesitant about this, about a possible Tamaki and I. He can’t pretend it's because of their career anymore either, he never could, not after Yamato, Mitsuki and Nagi. So what was it?

His heart and body were ready, more than. He would love to be trapped in the strong mass of Tamaki's arms, warm and protected like always, or to protect Tamaki, like with his dad before. To be able to kiss him freely in the privacy of one of their rooms or in secret in their dressing room during IDOLiSH7 or MEZZO down time. To give eachother longing glances from across the stage and have the observant fans theorize about what it means. He wanted that. Badly. So what the hell is stopping him??

His inner turmoil is broken by soft hands clasping his own together.

A quiet whisper rains down on his ears like a calm river reaching a violent ocean. Sogo, Tamaki says right next to Sogo’s ear.

But our careers!!

But Tamaki’s Hands are so warm.

But his age?

Tamaki is 20. And if Sogo would’ve come to his senses earlier then he would’ve realized that he has felt this way towards Tamaki since last year.

But.. but

Tamaki is here, telling Sogo that this is okay. That he wants this, wants Sogo. And as hard as that is, for someone who hasn’t felt wanted in a long time, Sogo realizes that he wants Tamaki too.

#unnamed Drabble #Drabble for a Idolish7 fic Idea I had that’s still very much in the early planning stages but I just had to share this l #supposed to be a 3 years later au but still in the works. just got really inspired while writing this #hanajay #JayWritez #idolish7 #idolish seven #osaka sogo #yotsuba tamaki #MEZZO

[kamapon]

Mezzo" drabble

#idolish7 #ainana #mezzo #tamaki yotsuba #sogo osaka #otp #just playing around a little #trying to draw new outfits #things I do for killing time

[divinemissem13]

Writing Patterns

Thanks for the tag, @curator-on-ao3! This is a very interesting trip down memory lane...

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

Working in reverse posting order:

I'm With Her (The Closer: Brenda Leigh Johnson/ Sharon Raydor, 5+1 fic, completed but not fully posted yet; T) "The first time Sharon Raydor saw Brenda Leigh Johnson, she was waiting at the LAX baggage claim to welcome her son home from college."

When the Night Comes (The Closer: Brenda/ Sharon, double drabble; G) "Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson finds it easier to forget the horrible things she’s done when the days are busy and filled with new challenges to conquer."

Patheti-Q (TNG: Picard and Q, prompt based gift fic for Star Trek Winter Gift Exchange, one shot; T) "They are sitting in a bar when they see him."

Candy Hearts and Other Sweet Surprises (ST: Prodigy: Gwyn/Dal, Valentine's Day one shot; G) "At the end of his first week aboard the USS Voyager-A, Dal R’El decided that it was a lot more exhausting being an actual Starfleet warrant officer than it was being a fake Starfleet captain."

A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes (Star Trek crossover: Beverly Crusher/ Kathryn Janeway, multi-prompt fic from femslash feb; T) ""I like it,” Beverly said, fingering the grey streak in Kathryn’s hair."

The blue of your eyes, the gold in your smile (Star Trek crossover: Beverly/Kathryn, one shot multi-prompt fic from femslash feb; G) "The package contained only three things: a strip of black silk, an umbrella, and an envelope."

The Holo-Adventures of Data Holmes (Star Trek crossover: Data/Geordi, Janeway & Tuvok, prompt based gift for Star Trek Winter Gift Exchange, multichapter, G) "Geordi La Forge moved quickly across the grounds of Starfleet headquarters, hoping to avoid being stopped on his way to the holo-complex."

I'll Be Home For New Year's (ST crossover: Beverly/ Kathryn, one shot, T) "It’s late when Beverly gets home from the New Year’s gala, although she still managed to make her escape before midnight."

Resolutions? More Like Revelations! (Voyager: J/C, babyfic, multichapter, T) "Kathryn Janeway could not get out of bed."

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita (Voyager, post canon: J/C, Janeway & various, multi-chapter vignettes, T) "My childhood home shimmers into existence before me."

Tagging 10 people (who hopefully haven't been tagged before?): @ussjellyfish, @madamairlock, @caitylove, @isagrimorie, @cleverlycrusher, @commandermeg, @ruthbaderjaneway, @captainhattersvoyagerstuff, @regionalpancake, @magdalenejaneway

#fanfic #ask game #writing tag game #tag game #i wrote this #lots of femslash and prompt fics lately... not mad about it though #ao3 link

[routeless-writer]

Tag List ˚ ༘♡ ·˚ ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

General Tags

not safe for tumblr: secret stash

requests: requests

non-requests: not a request

multichapter fics: long boys

mod/important: mod mezzo

mod/unimportant/rambles: mezzo mumbles

reblogs: get relog'd idiot <;3 (i would like to make everyone aware that this is based off of the get rotated idiot meme, i'm not calling the people i reblog from idiots. it's loving i promise, i'm just memeing and thought the tag was funny. i haven't had anyone come to me about it but just in case i reblogged your post and you're confused.)

navigation: navigation

blog rules: rules

masterlist: masterlist

ikemen series masterlist: ikemen series masterlist

dividers: divider credit

Anon Tags

none yet

Mezzo's Silly Tags

lilia sin hours: horny posting about lilia vanrouge thank you for the food: things that i have requested from other writers

smexy drabbles: short pieces of nsfw writing

#navigation #rules #blog rules #request rules #tag post #mod mezzo #masterlist

[ourladyoflight]

🐺🦌: 🎶!!

•°. *࿐ | From Musical Muses || Accepting

Canos : Dello Joio's Choreography for Strings; III. Allegro Animato

I was in the deliberation phase for such a long time on this, and it took me an almost embarrassing amount of time to actually make a decision!! Pinterest boards were checked, older DMs were searched, drabbles were re-read... I knew I wanted something that danced, because of Canos's connection to music (and a certain special someone), and I knew it needed to be something lively!!

After so much mental back and forth, (and racking my memory to figure out where I knew this melody from!!), I remembered the name of this piece!! The whole work is titled "Choreography" for Strings, which fit eerily well with the theme of dance that I was looking for- and it has a much more contemporary sound to it, which I thought was so fitting! In a world where tradition (musical and otherwise) is paramount, Canos stands out- whereas older orchestral works feature different chords and styles, this one pushes the tempo and asks its musicians for bowings, accents, and dynamics they may not be used to! Choreography feels less like a "classical" work, and more like a transitional one!! (For someone who'd aspired to become a rock star in life, this sort of challenge to the norm felt absolutely paramount!! ✨)

But make no mistake- this is still a dance, and a playful one at that! When the melody doesn't jut out, it seems to run around as it pleases- dipping in and out of sudden fortes, slipping into softer mezzos in the background. It feels almost teasing, juggling- or like chasing a shadow, something that can never truly be held onto. (And perhaps it never wants to.. Not unless it gets to choose.) Despite it all, there's no messiness or disorganization to it- it knows exactly what it's doing, especially when all parts unite for an accented finale!

(YouTube link above, and Spotify link just below the cut!! 🥺)

#𓆰 𝒞𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓈 𝓉𝒶𝑔 #𓆰 𝒜𝓈𝓀 𝒷𝑜𝓍 (𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒹) #(( Thank you for telling me so much about them!! It's been literally nothing short of a delight!! ☺️ #This piece is probably the least known out of everything I've suggested- it's one of the more hidden treasures!! 💜 #There aren't a lot of recordings but this one had JUST the energy that I was hoping for!! 🥺 This ensemble did wonderful!! ))

[littlepierrot]

Drabble da 300 parole partecipante all'ultima settimana del cow-t 13, missione 6.

Titolo: Luna Piena

Fandom: MHA

Pair: BKDK

Katsuki stava in piedi davanti all'entrata della tenda nuziale. Al suo interno avrebbe incontrato l'omega scelto dai suoi genitori e che dopo quella notte insieme sarebbe stata la sua sposa.

La cerimonia era semplice nella sua tribù. Mordere un omega durante una notte di luna piena per essere sposati.

Nulla di troppo complicato, se non ché Katsuki odiava l'idea di unire a sé chicchessia. Sarebbe stata sicuramente una palla al piede. Una squallida comparsa degna forse di quell'unica scopata a cui era costretto. Dopotutto lui era l'erede, il futuro capo tribù. Il suo compito era generare una nuova discendenza. Sperò che almeno l'omega che gli avevano trovato fosse fertile, così che rimanesse subito gravida e lui non dovesse più preoccuparsene.

Prese un profondo respiro, ancora fuori dalla tenda e volse gli occhi alla luna piena alta nel cielo. La fissò con odio, come a darle la colpa, e poi scostò il drappo di stoffa che celava l'entrata.

Subito fu accolto da un buon profumo che gli fece venire l'acquolina e scorse la sua futura sposa in mezzo alla stanza. Stava in ginocchio in mezzo a un nido che sicuramente aveva passato a sistemare durante tutto il giorno. Almeno era un lavoro preciso e curato. Non avrebbe accettato niente di meno da chi doveva condividere con lui il resto della vita.

Si avvicinò.

Non vedeva nulla del suo corpo o volto, celato da innumerevoli veli e monili.

Lentamente si tolse di dosso le pelli che portava in vita, rimanendo completamente nudo di fronte all'omega. La vide sussultare e abbassare il volto celato e questo lo fece ghignare.

Entrò nel nido con passo sicuro, attento a non spostare nemmeno un cuscino.

Con una mano gli sollevò il velo e spalancò gli occhi.

《Deku?》

#safe #landedifandom #cow-t #my hero acadamy #bkdk fic #bkdk #drabble #300 words #barbarian bakugou #omegaverse

[aven90]

27 Drabble, 1 Natale: 10

27 Drabble, 1 Natale: 10

Le drabble sono storielle di 100 parole sul Natale. Auguri, intanto! Aria di festa! Pupazzo di Neve “Vieni! Facciamo un pupazzo di neve!” La voce di Jennifer è calda in mezzo a questo freddo. Un vero e proprio toccasana, una tazza di cioccolata come lo sono i suoi capelli. “Ma non mi ricordo più come si fa!” “E te lo spiego! Dunque, si parte dalla base… ma che fai?” Mi osserva mentre mi…

View On WordPress

#blogging #drabble #natale #parole #random #regali

[arialiger]

Berceuse ♪ Answer

Cacophony ♪ Crossover Verse

Harmony ♪ Meme

Aria ♪ Images

Serenade ♪ Self Promo

Hymn ♪ Promo

Consonance ♪ Drabble

Cadence ♪ End

Chanson ♪ Open Rp

Air ♪ Starter Call

Stretto ♪ Headcanon 

Mezzo ♪ BNHA AU

Giocoso ♪ Sibling AU

#Berceuse ♪ Answer #Cacophony ♪ Crossover Verse #Harmony ♪ Meme #Aria ♪ Images #Serenade ♪ Self Promo #Hymn ♪ Promo #Consonance ♪ Drabble #Cadence ♪ End #Chanson ♪ Open Rp #Air ♪ Starter Call #Stretto ♪ Headcanon #Mezzo ♪ BNHA AU #Giocoso ♪ Sibling AU

[selfindulging-sleip]

Opera Populair

Me? Self inserting in Phantom of the Opera??? Yes, because I love Meg and we’re gonna be best friends from now on.

“Grace? Grace!”

The turned away from the mirror at the voice at the door and the quiet, rapid knock that followed. Grace stood then, brushing down her dress and moving to it, opening the door. “Meg?” She frowned, watching her friend as she hurried in and closed the door behind her. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“I have,” came Meg’s quick response. She turned back to Grace sharply, dark brown eyes wide. “I saw him!”

“Him—? You mean the Opera gh—“

“Shhh! You know what mother says,” Meg hissed, pulling Grace away from the door and looking around frantically. “He might hear you. But yes, yes, I did. He was...”

“A trick of the light,” Grace insisted, touching Meg’s shoulder. “I promise.”

Meg stared back, quiet. “No, I think not, Grace,” she whispered. “I saw his eyes. And— and he wore a mask, and cape, moving silently through the shadows. He looked at me, he looked me right in the eye, Grace.”

The dark-haired girl did not speak at first. Meg, she realized, was very frightened, in a way that Grace herself hadn’t been more than a time or two in her life. This wasn’t the sheepy fright brought on by a ghost story. She believed this.

“...There is no phantom of the opera, Meg,” Grace said at a length, but her voice, too, had dropped to a whisper, as if she too wanted to avoid being heard by the very ghost she insisted was not real. “I’ll walk back with you. Perhaps Christine and Madame Giry are waiting already.”

Rehearsal started at the usual time the next day, and neither girl said a word about the last night’s conversation, but neither girl had forgotten the cold dread Meg’s encounter brought upon them. Even when the other chorus girls and ballet girls grew suspicious of their strange behavior, crowding them separately — as the pair rarely were together when Meg danced, and Grace had to act and sing in chorus — they would fervently insist that they were simply tired, or that there had been a boy they spoke to that now distracted them, or even that they were simply bored.

It was during lunch that those who had pestered them most zealously that the pair were cornered together, led by a red haired chorus girl named Elise. “Enough excuses,” she declared upon sitting beside the two girls on the steps. “What has you two acting so strange? Really?”

“...I’m just tired—“ Meg began but she was cut off just as quick.

“You both say that but you’re both the ones who never let anyone get away with excuses!” Elise exclaimed. “Grace missed a whole measure three times today, and I saw you trip. You don’t do that!”

The little group watched the two girls intently and Grace and Meg shared a quiet, anxious look. What do we say now? it asked. Then, turning her dark eyes to the floor, Meg said very quietly, “the ghost.”

The hush remained for several moments, then broke into a clamor of questions and dismissals. What did he look like? Did he attack you? She’s seeing things, she’s a silly girl, there is no ghost, and most of this fell on Meg. But she did not look up or answer any of it. Grace too stayed quiet, at a loss for what to say then.

The questions didn’t immediately seize, and, feeling her nerves begin to fray as the stress of all the crowding and voices settled in, Grace grabbed her golden-haired friend by the arm and stood abruptly, dragging her away.

“Sorry,” Grace said in a tired voice, pulling Meg down a corridor. “I needed to get away.”

“Do you think me silly and fantastical?” Meg clearly didn’t care. She pulled Grace to a stop, brow furrowed nervously. “Maybe they’re right, maybe I’m just- just seeing things.“

“I don’t know what I think, Meg,” Grace told her. “I- I think you believe you saw the Opera ghost. Last night you were certain.”

“And last night you insisted I was seeing things.”

“Last night I wanted you to be seeing things.” Grace looked away and sighed. “I’d like to think that I’m very level headed and sensible, Meg, and sensible people aren’t supposed to jump at shadows and ghosts. But I do, and I don’t want to be more nervous alone after performances than I already am. I didn’t walk you out just for you. He frightens me as much as he frightens any of the little treble girls.” Grace spoke quietly, looking over her shoulder. “...I don’t know, Meg.”

The blond girl was quiet for awhile, letting out a breath of her own. “...I don’t know if he should frighten you,” she replied quietly after some silence.

“...what?”

“He scared me, but he seemed... sad.” Meg looked up at Grace’s bewildered expression and then added quickly, “He... he looked at me, I told you, and he stood for what felt like forever. He looked like he was waiting for something and nothing happened, not until I ran to your room. I don’t think he would have hurt me, Grace.”

Grace was quiet, contemplating this. She was not sure how to respond to Meg’s description of the Opera ghost. Most called him a skull-headed demon. This was new to her. “...Let’s get back to the stage,” she finally decided. “Your mother will be furious if you’re late, and Firman and Andre won’t give me speaking parts if I’m not there.”

#self insert #drabble #Mezzos and Tulle

[pacific-rimbaud]

45 and narcissa x remus (recissa? black wolf? blupin?)

Drabble #45: “Tell me a secret.”

Asylum Seekers

by PacificRimbaud

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Narcissa Black Malfoy

Tags: Angst, infidelity, brief blood, suggestions of violence, swearing, mild sexual content (Rated M) 

On AO3

Fall, 1978

The line to fucking another man’s wife is neither a straight nor a moral one. Would it help if I told you that of the two of us, I might be the werewolf, but the monster, unequivocally, is him?

Fucking is the furthest thing from my mind when I see her for the first time since she left school—four, maybe five years before I did. Hollow-boned and apprehensive as a hedgerow bird, she sits with one white hand splayed open on the surface of the table and the other one in her lap, like she’s waiting for one of us to serve her.

Sirius rounds the corner from Andromeda’s kitchen carrying three fingers of Ogden’s, no ice, in a cut crystal glass and sets it down, slow and noiseless, as though she’ll bolt at the sound of the contact.

She picks up the glass with the hand she’s keeping out in the open, drains it, and does it again the moment Sirius refills it.

She smells like whiskey and blood.

Arms looped around her own waist, Andromeda leans in the door frame, Moody talking close at her ear.

The sisters are representative works by the same artist, in two different moods. Andromeda is taller and more substantial: dark, warm and still, a heavy-canopied forest in an abundant summer. Narcissa is hard daylight and the sharp, mythical line of a distant peak, white-capped in perennial snow.

Her eyes are her sole submission to softness; between hers and Andromeda’s, Narcissa’s are the warmer iteration of blue.

Moody mumbles, his face erased of everything but formless intensity, and Andromeda’s vision fixes on Narcissa’s pale, restless hand, the pads of her fingers lighting on the table again, preparing themselves to take flight.

Andromeda mutters, and then she moves, palming something from Moody and taking a seat beside her sister at the scrubbed dining table.

“They’d like you to take this." Her voice comes in at a crawling crescendo, pianissimo to mezzo-piano, then retreats.

She places a vial on the table: Veritaserum, in olive green glass with a tiny cork.

Narcissa pulls in a breath, filling her belly and then her chest, and then she bends away in violent submission toward the floor, her gut belatedly rejecting what I identify as several days of nothing but booze.

Ted arrives at her elbow before she’s finished, carrying a glass of water.

Two glasses, one wet cloth to her mouth, and a full minute later, and Narcissa tips the cork from the top of the vial with her thumb, and drinks it down.

“What do you want to know?”

Her voice is scraped and austere, wounded with whiskey and sick and some other interior, mechanical insult: crying, or screaming, or both.

“Tell the rest of us what you told your sister,” says Moody, turning a chair around at the table and straddling the seat.

Narcissa’s right hand rises from her lap.

For a moment I think she’s wearing an elbow-length glove, like she’s come from a formal ball.

But she’s dressed in nothing more than a thin satin slip, lace-edged, with narrow strings for straps, skating over her unrelenting leanness, either black or dark, dark green.

It's not a glove.

She’s slicked from her fingertips to the curve of her inner elbow with dried and drying blood, a lavish, painterly layer, thick and congealed. It’s an opaque garment of gore, covering everything but a row of four lines where her weakly pigmented skin shows through, like someone has grasped her arm, then drawn their fingers away.

I don’t understand why she looks at me. Between her sister, her cousin, her brother by a hated marriage, Moody and Alice Longbottom nipping at her thumbnail by the window, she settles her wide warm eyes on me.

I watch the tide rise inside her.

I watch it breach the barrier.

I watch her flood.

She closes her glazed fist loosely, fingertips touching her thumb, in the way you would make a compassionate cage of your fingers to carry an injured bird.

“I tried to help.”

*

She has a flat in Muggle London that her husband knows nothing about.

It’s small, purchased with her private money in another name. She only has two rooms and a bath, but she’s cleaned it with magic, repaired it, made it sharp and neat and softened it with pale fabrics, made it private, and made it her own.

“Why me?”

It’s the first thing I say, after I’ve come through the door, and just before she closes it behind me.

She doesn’t answer straight away. Instead she pours herself a gin from a cupboard in the galley kitchen, and asks me whether I’d like one. I would, but I tell her no, thank you, and she sits on her sofa, ankles crossed underneath her thighs, and tells me why I’m here.

“Because of the way that Sirius looks at you.”

“And how is that?”

There is so little in the way of the unintentional to her that it’s unnerving.

The tilt of her head isn’t a tick or a quirk. It’s a communication.

I could press the issue, but she and I would both understand the deflection.

Call it what you will in another language, in English there’s only one word for love.

For Sirius, and for me, I believe it’s enough.

“Why not him? Andromeda?”

She’s amused by me.

I can’t help but wonder what else she delights in.

Her hair falls over her shoulder, iced gold against the fabric of her white wool jumper, while I draw a plan of Malfoy Manor to her specifications.

The entry. Staircase. Ballroom. Drawing room. The room where she sleeps. The one Lucius keeps for himself.

Where Tom Riddle lays his head down on the nights he stays.

Where else he might be found.

I don’t push for more than she gives me.

When it’s time to go, I roll the diagram, shrink it down, and shove it into the bottom of my trouser pocket next to my wand.

“Thank you,” I say. “For your honesty.”

It makes her laugh.

*

The next time I meet her in her flat, it’s uncomfortably close to a full moon, and I half gag on the smells of two different men clinging to her body.

She’s washed with an intensely herbal soap, but underneath that is a tinge of nervous sweat, and every unctuous, enzymatic marker of sex.

We cover things the Order already knows, and that she knows we know, but we both understand the nature and necessity of what we’re doing.

It’s safer for her, I think, to start slow, without fully understanding why I would care.

“Good luck to you,” she says while my hand finds the doorknob.

She doesn’t bite her lip. There is never a twist to her mouth.

She’s practiced to rote. Her performance of herself is without error.

I turn halfway around.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

*

I spend the hours of my turning in a vast, borderless desert of physical suffering.

I map it with my own blood, and by the time I wake, it’s a void I can’t recall.

*

“Try this next time.”

She sets a pot of ointment that I can’t afford on the table in front of me.

I leave it behind when I go.

*

She keeps rare and beautiful wines that I refuse to drink.

When I arrive at night on a Wednesday, two months into our regular, irregular meetings, she’s so glassy with ethanol that I nearly leave.

I don’t think about what she wears at home.

When she’s here, she dresses down, in satin trousers and jumpers that fall away from her lustrous white shoulders.

I wonder if this is home.

The surface of her wine rolls and coats the interior of her glass as she lowers herself to sit.

My gut pings with anxiety at the unnecessary closeness, but then she leans away, and rests her head on the leather arm of the sofa while her knees fold against the back.

“I’m going to tell you about death,” she says.

I hear the wine on her breath, and lick my own lips.

I take names, where she recalls them. Where she doesn’t, I make ticks beside dates and locations.

She finishes a bottle, and opens another, her thin arms flexing with the turn of a Muggle bottle opener.

Does she feel safe here? With her magical signature tucked away with her wand? It’s folded between the pages of a day-old newspaper, on the table beside a wingback chair neither of us ever sits in. She never so much as glances in its direction.

Half the new bottle disappears inside her.

“He smells like blood when he comes to my bed.” Her performance falters. “Every time.”

I realize, too late, that the curtain has lowered, and that the house lights have come on.

I’m not prepared to see her this way.

“Which one?” I ask.

She smiles, her mouth a narrow bow.

“All of them.”

*

I walk home in the dark, staring at my hands.

I feel an urge, sharp and angular and immediate, that can I only explain as the opposite of sexual hunger.

What I want is for my palm against her flesh to cancel and negate every other hand that arrived there before it.

I would smooth my skin against every inch of her.

Outside, and in.

I’m not angry. I don’t know what I am.

I won’t touch her for the world.

I’m desperate for her to ask me to.

*

“I can’t be her handler anymore.” I can’t look at Moody when I say it.

*

A week later, Moody glares at me over the rim of a soup spoon. “She won’t speak to anyone else.”

*

I emerge from my next change three kilos lighter.

I couldn’t afford one of them.

In the mirror in the bath, I run my fingertips through the bloody trenches of my ribs.

*

“Oh,” I say, dumbly. “You’ve cooked.”

I haven’t seen her since her last drop a month ago, and I’m grateful for the smell of garlic and onions, seeped into everything and overwhelming whatever secrets her body keeps failing to keep from me.

Standing at the Muggle range, she holds a spoon out over her cupped palm.

It’s more shocking than anything she’s ever done.

I open my mouth, and think, briefly, about the weight of a pomegranate seed.

My mouth blooms.

*

I don’t know what I need. I look for it inside the cunts of the women I meet in the discos of Muggle London.

They’re sweet, and warm, and smell like cocaine and strong perfume and laboratory hormones, and they feel fine.

They feel fine.

Sometimes when I’m inside them, I think about white-blonde hair and narrow hips.

I think about the time I saw her wearing a single red glove, ending at the inside of her elbow. 

When I’m looking for what I need inside of other women, I think about her.

I’m looking for her.

*

“You’re moving too fucking much,” says Moody, never once looking up from his parchment. “Go out.”

He doesn’t make suggestions.

So I go.

The gleaming street reeks of urban petrichor, and the steady incursion of moisture tells me about a new hole in the right side of my left boot.

I’m waxing gibbous inside, something I’ve never tried to explain, but it encompasses something like an unreachable itch, and an ache in the marrow, and a skin-crawling restlessness that I’ve tried exorcising through bone-jarring movement and gallons of liquor, by screaming in train yards and flattening the cilia inside my ears with catastrophic decibels of music, through aggressive sex that turns me into someone I no longer know.

I dance, curled into the form of a brunette with silver eye shadow and no knickers under her shining nylon dress.

I’m stretching my own skin, ready to hurry up the inevitability of what I can already smell between us, when I see her.

She’s wearing a tight silver dress and a glamour that would fool nine out of ten wizards.

Dark hair, dark lips, dark eyes. She’s left her breasts unchanged. Left the unpadded divots of her ribs beneath her constricting dress. Left the perfect lines of her long, long legs.

I follow her out when she goes, and at the mouth of an alleyway I stop five paces behind her, and call out her name.

*

She’s already pulling at the frame of my belt buckle, but she does ask.

When I fuck her for the first time, against a brick wall behind a bin full of wet newspaper, she’s wearing a face that doesn’t belong to her.

I smooth my hands up her thighs.

I slide my fingers through the pulse of damp between her legs.

I erase anything she needs me to.

*

“Was it—”

I’m barely through the door.

An hour later, I wonder if I’ve ever been naked next to a woman.

I have.

I never have.

She lets me in again.

And then again.

Then again.

“Don’t come here if you smell like another man.”

I say it while I’m inside.

She takes shallow, open-mouthed breaths.

“That’s not fair.”

“I know. But I don’t care.”

I extract promises she can’t keep from her flesh while it quivers below mine.

*

While my bones construct a wolf from the materials of a man, I leave my body behind me, howling in a voice that isn’t mine.

I find my way into a dream about the scent of her hair, soaked through with both of our sweat.

* 

“Tell me a secret.” Her open mouth lands against the skin of my belly and then slides closed, a gorging, formless kiss. She skirts my aching cock with a generous deliberation. “I’ve told you all of mine.”

“Not all of them,” I say.

I’m panting like a dog, sweating through sheets we ruined three hours ago.

She looks up at me, hair draped over one warm blue eye, the perfect proportions of her mouth still sliding beside my cock, her legs wrapped around my calf, her knickers slipping against my thigh.

*

I wrap her secrets in a bow, and pass them along to those who can use them.

I keep my hands buried in her hair.

I keep her secrets for myself.

#drabble #my fic #Remus Lupin #narcissa malfoy

[swaps55]

Master Fic Post

Master post of fic and some Mass Effect meta from the Way Back Times of Headcanon Wednesday. I’ve starred what I think is the best of the best. Hope you enjoy!

Sam Shepard Meta Tag | The Yang Gang Meta Tag | World building & biotic headcanons | LE Screenshots | Opus Fanart

Sam Shepard/Kaidan Alenko

Cantata – set pre-ME1. Long fic, complete

Concerto – Virmire. Novella, complete

*Sonata – set post ME1, pre-ME2. Long fic, complete.

Fugue – Alchera and the 2 year gap. Long fic, complete.

Mezzo – set during ME2. Long fic, in progress.

Sam/Kaidan one shots & ficlets

Toccata | Bedtime Fluff | *You Just Might (Sam & Anderson) | Little Spoon | *The Way Back | Cafune |  Biotic Piggy Back Ride | Malestrom | Through the Door | Mornings | Our Constellations | Compliments | Laugh Lines | The Pasta Incident | Dirty Talk | Bronze Star | Freckles | *Late Nights, Slow Dances | Object In Motion | *The Beautiful Lieutenant Alenko | Barn Dance | Make Me | Warm With You | The Fusion of Stars | Picnic | Headless Horseman |Dark Star | Silver |

Sam/Kaidan AU First Kisses

*Practice Kissing |*The Words That Change Us | Mnemonic | The Things We’ve Done | *The Hand and the Heart | Untitled Goose Fic | Let the Walls Cave In | Yours | Space Talk | Heartstoppers from Beyond the Veil |

Sam/Kaidan kiss prompts

Campfire | Snow/Life or Death | *In the shower/sad | Missing the other in the snow | *Longing for someone in the street | kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing | *routine kisses where the other person presents their cheek/forehead for the hello/goodbye kiss without even looking up from what they’re doing |starting with a kiss meant to be gentle, ending up in passion |

Sam/Kaidan, wordless ways to say “I love you” prompts

Folding their clean laundry and putting it away | Letting them warm their cold hands under your shirt | Staying up half the night to finish a game | *Holding their hand while they’re shaking | Sharing a soft smile across a crowded room | *Getting them a coffee just the way they like it | Mending an item of their clothing that was ripped |

Sam/Kaidan Winter Prompts

* Hot Chocolate | Caught in a Snowstorm | Sledding | Drunk Snowman | Santa Baby

Ensemble Fics

*Exordium – ME 1 novelization. Complete. With a side of mShiara, but that is not the focus.

*Noel | Wishes

mShenko

Reflex |*Celestial Navigation (Explicit) | Better Angels (incomplete) Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 | Holy Night | *Plans

mShenko drabbles/prompts

Stars | Before/Now | *To the Shore | Diplomacy | Patterns | Migraine | Faraway, So Close | Drinks | Maybe I | Strategy | Everything | Sunrise | More | Believe | Scream | Sometimes |*Zip Me | Phalanx | Windshear | Missing the other under the stars | A bet

Shenko

Snow | Awake | The Letter | Priority: Heat Rub | Flirting | *Nocturnal |

mShiara

The Headdress | *The Lifecycle of Butterflies | Lost | The Thing I Wrote in Retaliation For the Thing You Did to Get Revenge For the Thing with the Popsicle | Sea of Storms | Quarks

Ashley & Kaidan

Coffee | Reparations | Instead | Are You Fucking Kidding Me | The Sangria Problem (background mshenko (Sam Shepard)

Gen/Friendship/Shepard Backstory

Archangel | Ships | *Not Fine (Shepard & Garrus, TW – Blood/Suicidal Thoughts) | Potatoes – (TW – Trauma)| Lower Decks (TW – Death) | *1600 (Joker & Chakwas) | Squeak (Shepard & Garrus) | Sonsini (Ashley) | Joker’s Team | Boots (Ashley & Tali) | Geth Flier (Legion & Shepard)| Stuck (Shepard & Joker) | Ghosts (Joker & Kaidan)| Good Faith Effort (Vega & Dr. Chakwas) | Drunk (mShep & Garrus) | Unknown Variables (Jack & Mordin) | *Superradiant Scattering (Kaidan & Liara)

Miscellaneous

Scars (Jack) | Big Blue Madness (crack prompt fill in which fShep loves Kentucky basketball) | Four Hour Rule (Shakarian) | Poker (ensemble) | Hug (fShep & Vega) | Kaleidoscope (Shakarian)| Bourbon of Questionable Origin (mshep/Miranda) | A Sort of Homecoming – mShep/Mordin queerplatonic, with a side of mShep/Kirrahe | Stray – fshep/Miranda

Headcanons

The Citadel Arboretums | Turian Subvocals | Mating & Marriage Customs | Quarian Personal Expression | Asari Sex & Reproduction | Sleeper Pods | Bone Knitters | On the Volus | On Batarian Slavers | The V.O.L.T.R.O.N Project | Why Does Everyone Want Fucking Benning?!

#fic master post #wow there was more then i remembered when i started going through my fic tag #it was a pleasure to rediscover a few of these

[aurantia-ignis]

I spent an hour in bed last night thinking about this high school choir AU thanks to sad-goomy so I’m just gonna drop my musings here even though I will probably never write it because it feels more like drabble-land than Full On Plot land but yeah here:

- Moon is a mezzo-soprano who sings soprano 2/alto 1 parts depending on chosen piece. Appointed as student conductor because she can yell at people to shut up and they listen.

- Gladion is a baritone who normally sings bass 1 parts because the choir generally doesn’t have enough true basses. He and Lillie have been trained in music since young (piano and cello/violin respectively), and he joined the choir mostly to accompany Lillie for a while. 

- Lillie is a soprano singing soprano 1. She’s trying to learn how to belt, because she’s far more used to using her head voice normally. Plumeria offered to teach her. 

- Sun, younger twin of Moon, is a tenor who sings tenor 2. Does not like singing slow songs. Secretary position, where he handles all the money. 

- Hau is a tenor singing tenor 1. Section leader who sometimes has trouble getting things done because he’s having fun laughing and joking with his section mates instead. 

- Guzma is a bass singing bass 2. Got kicked out of soccer because he got into a major physical disagreement with the coach. Due to a dare with Plumeria, he auditioned for choir and got in. Has perfect pitch and an imperfect attitude towards singing. 

- Plumeria is not in choir, but can belt like the dickens. Manager of Team Skull who nearly quit after Guzma got kicked out, but decided to stay to look after the rest of the gang. Is doing her best to get the coach fired. 

Other people in the choir and their roles

Kiawe: Bass 2, but also beatboxes when they do pop song arrangements. Section leader.

Mallow: Soprano 2. Section leader.

Lana: Alto 2. Current president of the choir.

Acerola: Alto 1

Mina: Soprano 1

Sophocles: Tenor 1

They go to some small competitions and perform school concerts but also once in a while collaborate with the drama club (Ilima is the president there) and orchestra to produce musicals. At some point they probably attempted Phantom. 

#choir au #yes I spent time on this so bite me

[chromium-siren]

I Don’t Sing

(why is it that I always get random drabble ideas but never get anything for Swing or Nightingale?)

Captain Phasma always denied that she could sing. “I sound like a caterwauling Loth-Cat,” she would say. However, anyone who heard her true singing voice would say otherwise. It was a potent and wonderfully robust alto, and if she tried, she could make her way up to a nice mezzo-soprano. But no one dared to ask her to sing, fearing that she would pull a blaster on them and accuse them of insulting her. Until one fateful day...

She made her way down the hall in search of caf, when she heard wonderful music coming from the officer’s break room. It was probably General Hux and some other officers, since she knew of no one else on board who played the saxophone but him. Sure enough, the door swung open, and there he was, playing his instrument. Lieutenant Mitaka accompanied on piano, while another played a bass guitar and a petty officer sat at a drum kit. The others listened to the music, mugs of caf or tea in hand. Gently removing her helmet, Phasma prepared herself a mug of caf and listened to the song ending, the general playing a triumphant sounding phrase on his instrument. They then acknowledged Phasma’s arrival with clamors for her to sing. 

“I don’t sing, and you can’t convince me to!” she would say, a faint smirk playing on her face. 

“But you have a beautiful voice,” Hux protested. “Please, Phasma.” There was now a hush that covered the room, as everyone waited in expectation for the captain’s reaction. Smiling sweetly, she closed her eyes and raised her voice. 

I don’t know why, but I’m feeling so sad 

I long to try something I’ve never had 

Never had no kissin’, oh what I’ve been missin’ 

Loverman, oh where can you be... 

She sang a melancholy ballad of lost love, pouring her heart and soul into the lyrics. It was like a siren call, enticingly beautiful but sad at the same time. The musicians accompanied her, making her song sound much more seductive with every note that escaped her lips. The last words were sung, the final notes played, and then all was silent for a moment. 

“That was wonderful,” Mitaka said from his spot at the piano. “Do you want to sing another one for us, Phas?” he asked, as everyone in the room looked hopefully towards the captain. She smiled and nodded, eager to enchant them again. 

“I’d love to, but this time, let’s make it a duet. Shall we, Hux?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes in the general’s direction. 

“I’d love to, my siren,” he said with a smile, raising the saxophone to his lips and playing a sensual phrase, accompanied by a breathy hum from Phasma. The two then began to sing, her alto a husky purr intertwining with his rich baritone that dripped like honey with every note he sang in counterpoint. Just as they had with the first song, everyone was enchanted by the sound of the captain’s voice. From that day forward, Captain Phasma always sang, and she did it with great pride.

#my writing

[catastrophic-success]

Non-Drawing Commissions

My tablet is finally on her last leg. She’s had a long run (around 4-6 years), but I’m going to have to look into a replacement. She was a gift from my friend and I’ve replaced the pen twice before this. But it’s sadly time for me to get a new one. Which is why I’m going to be opening up different kinds of commissions in order to save up.

Voice Talent:

$10 per minute of dialogue - I can do old women, young women, and children. I can do gruff/growly voices or soft ones. I can voice from several different fandoms, (SU, Undertale, etc) just ask. Inappropriate content allowed for $15 per minute, posted privately off of tumblr.

Voice overs for products/services are $50.

I have a mezzo-soprano voice and have been classically trained if you need a singer for $20.

Writing:

I can do drabbles </= 2,000 words for $10 and </= 5,000 for $20. Anything more than that is negotiable.

Poetry is $5. Sonnet style iambic pentameter is $10.

Song lyrics are contract based.

Other artistic mediums:

Dice bags: $30-$40. Your choice of small, medium, or large. Each dice bag has eight (8) smaller pockets around the edge of a big central pocket and a draw-string to close it up. Can also function as a jewelry bag.

OOAK doll repaints: These ones vary greatly and are a minimum of $50.

Traditional Art: This one varies depending on medium, just ask and I can give you a quote.

Tattoo Designs: Anywhere between $10-$100

That’s just about everything. If you have any questions just ask.

#commissions #non-art commissions #voice talent #writing #dice bags #ooak #traditional art #tattoo design comissions #etc #for reference

[mildsweetness]

MEZZO” Drabble 04

Wordcount: ~ 1500 words

Pairings: TamaSou

Warnings: mentions of attempted rape, angst, hurt/comfort, probable OOCness

A/N: Continued from Drabble 03. Enjoy~

-

Sougo tried to hide it at first.

When they got home that night, he greeted the others with the same pleasant smile as always, lingering in the kitchen as he always did, trying to act normal. But Tamaki could see it in the way he stood, the way his shoulders were bunched up and he stiffened, involuntarily, when Riku got too close.

The redhead was telling him excitedly about his day, the skit they were working on for the next regular broadcast; “… and then Nagi will enter dressed as a policeman, and you’ll—” He stopped short though, bright eyes blinking several times when he got a closer look at Sougo’s face. A look of confusion passed over his features, followed by worry.

“… Sougo-san, what happened to your head?”

Sougo flinched at the question, panic lancing through him. He’d forgotten about the bruise—it hurt, but he had an unusually high pain tolerance, so he just hadn’t been thinking about it… He ducked his head quickly, averting his eyes from the other, and tried to give a convincing laugh. “Oh? N-Nothing.” He lifted a hand to cover the bump; suddenly he felt as if he was going to be sick. “I just ran into something on set. It’s no big deal.” It was an unconvincing lie. Sougo was always careful.

Yamato stepped around the kitchen counter to join them, wiping his hands on a towel. “What happened? Let me see.”

Sougo bit his lip, hand unmoving. “I’m really all right.”

Neither Yamato nor Riku looked convinced.

Tamaki eyed his partner warily. He wasn’t all right. But he didn’t know what to say, or if he should say anything at all. He moved to stand beside Sougo, perhaps almost protectively, and scratched nervously at the back of his neck. “Uhm. Sou-chan wa—”

Sougo cut him off, though, voice louder than usual, more demanding. “Tamaki-kun, you still have to fill out that survey they gave you.” He latched onto Tamaki’s wrist, grip surprisingly strong.

But Tamaki could feel him shaking.

“You said you’d do it when we got home. Come on.”

Yamato and Riku could only stare confusedly as Sougo dragged the other member of MEZZO” off. Yamato tried to speak up after a half-second; “Sou…” But the violet-eyed boy ignored him, didn’t so much as even spare him a glance. And then they’d disappeared down the hallway, Sougo’s door slamming in their wake.

Riku ventured a worried—almost frightened—look at their leader. “What was that about…?”

…

In his room, Sougo released Tamaki and sat heavily on the bed, bag falling to the ground with a thud. Tamaki gave him a moment, standing there awkwardly as he buried his face in his hands once again, wondering apprehensively if more tears were on the way. What would he even do if Sougo started crying again? What could he do?

He was relieved when he didn’t have to figure it out, though; finally, after what felt like ages, Sougo ran both hands through his hair and lifted his head to face Tamaki, violet eyes glistening a bit.

It took him a moment to speak, but he eventually licked his lips and forced the words out. “Please… Don’t tell them.” His voice was so much smaller than usual.

Tamaki swallowed, fidgeting uncomfortably. “… I wasn’t gonna,” he muttered, with the faintest hint of irritation, or perhaps guilt. He averted his eyes. “But… Yama-san and Ricchan… They’re gonna ask about it. You acted weird back there, Sou-chan…”

“I know.” Sougo sighed. “And I… I’ll tell Yamato-san. And Riku-kun. It’s unavoidable.” He leaned over to rest both elbows on his knees, hanging his head, exhaustedly. “But… not right now.” His voice was wavering just the slightest bit; he laced his fingers together and squeezed, shaking, until his knuckles went white. “I… I can’t right now.”

Tamaki’s brow knit, an anguished look passing over his features as concern swelled in his stomach again. “Sou-chan, are you okay…?”

The softest, saddest excuse for a laugh escaped Sougo then, unbidden. His eyes ventured up to Tamaki’s, full of hurt and a lingering terror. He looked on the verge of breaking, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked.

“No,” he managed, giving Tamaki a pleading look. “But I can’t let the others see me like this.”

Tamaki found himself moving then without meaning to, crossing the room in long strides to sit nervously beside Sougo on the bed. He reached a hand up to touch the other, but hesitated at the last moment, hovering awkwardly, unsure.

Those purple eyes regarded him warily; Sougo’s gaze flickered from his face, to his hand, and then back again.

Letting out a vaguely frustrated noise, Tamaki dropped his hand back into his lap, staring intensely at Sougo, almost desperately. He was desperate; desperate to do something, anything, to help the other, but what could he possibly do?

Finally, he spoke up; “… I’m an idiot. Sou-chan knows this, so…” He swallowed, gaze flickering searchingly over Sougo’s features. “… Just… tell me what you need.”

Sougo seemed to shiver a little at the words, and then he exhaled, shoulders slumping wearily as he relaxed for the first time since they left the studio. Pure exhaustion showed on his features then, and his eyes gleamed dangerously in the room’s dim light. Tamaki panicked. Was he going to cry?

“S-Sou-chan…”

“You’ve already done enough,” his partner managed finally. Sougo seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then leaned in, awkwardly, to rest his forehead against Tamaki’s arm. He kept his arms close to his body, guardedly. “If you hadn’t shown up when you did, I…” He trailed off, choking on the words a bit, the taste of them. “… I might’ve been really messed up.” A mirthless sort of laugh. “Who knows what he would’ve done to me.”

A bit of anger flared up within Tamaki again as he remembered the man in more detail, that disgusting would-be rapist. He took a breath. “I’m just glad I got there when I did,” he muttered. He wasn’t sure if he should move to reciprocate the other’s touch, so he just let Sougo lean against his side, gazing at the other although he couldn’t see his face.

“Me too,” Sougo said, and swallowed, thickly. “Thank you… Tamaki-kun.”

The absurdity of the gratitude made Tamaki’s head spin, because Sougo didn’t need to thank him for that, Sougo never needed to thank him for that. He caused so much trouble for the other on a near-constant basis, and Sougo did so much for him, that something like this… Something like this was a given. Tamaki had saved him without a second thought, and he knew he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

He’d put himself in harm’s way for Sougo’s sake, he realized suddenly. He’d do it as naturally as breathing.

Tamaki took a deep breath, trying in vain to get his sudden surge of emotions under control. “I know… I-I cause you a lot of trouble,” he mumbled suddenly. “I-I’m stupid, ‘n I’m irresponsible, ‘n I get mad really easy, ‘n I know that causes trouble for you.” The words just kept tumbling out. He tried to swallow down the lump in his throat.

Sougo lifted his head to look warily at him. “Tamaki-kun…”

“B-But I… I don’t wanna see you hurt, Sou-chan.” He met the other’s gaze and held it fast despite the tears that clouded his vision and threatened to overflow. “’Cause I really love you, you know?”

Love.

He didn’t know what exactly he meant by that yet, but he knew that’s what it was—this feeling.

Sougo stared at him with wide eyes for what felt like an eternity, and Tamaki cussed softly, under his breath, when he realized he was crying. God. What was he doing? He had no reason to be the one crying in this situation; he needed to be strong for Sou-chan. Sou-chan was the one who got hurt. Sou-chan was the one who’d almost had something important taken from him. And yet Tamaki was the one sitting here, crying like the big baby he was.

“D-Dammit…”

Tamaki tore his eyes away and ducked his head, rubbing furiously at the tears as if he could make them disappear. “S-Sorry… ‘M sorry…”

Sougo shushed him though, with that soft motherly tone of his, and when Tamaki looked at him again, he thought he looked as if he was really present for the first time that night. Sougo’s cheeks were just a tiny bit pink as he reached a hand out to slink around Tamaki’s neck, pulling the taller boy in for an awkward hug. He bit down hard on his lip as he leaned his head against Tamaki’s collar bone, nuzzling very slightly against the other boy’s neck.

Warm, he thought. Tamaki was warm.

He took a shaky breath and clutched tightly to the front of his partner’s shirt.

“S-Sou-chan?” Tamaki ventured, and finally put a hand on his back, feather-light. He echoed his question from before, despite the trembling in his own voice and the tears still drying on his cheeks; “Are you okay?”

Sougo closed his eyes, and let his breathing sync up with the sound of Tamaki’s heartbeat.

“I will be.”

-

A/N: Omake here.

#tamasou #idolish7 fanfiction #mezzo" #idolish 7 fanfiction #idolish seven fanfiction #sougo ousaka #sogo osaka #tamaki yotsuba #idolish7 #idolish seven #idolish 7 #mywriting #fic #text #fanfiction

[aven90]

100 drabble, un'estate: 52

100 drabble, un’estate: 52

52 – Ispirare “Sai, a questo punto mi sono fatto ispirare” disse lui a lei, ché aveva finito di ballare in mezzo al campo di girasoli. Per poco, un gabbiano non l’aveva colpita in piena testa. Decise che era meglio smettere e dedicarsi a quella stramba melodia. “Da chi, da che cosa?” chiese lei. “Dal complemento di termine” rispose lui. “Vuoi sentire la canzone o non c’è bisogno?” “No, ma se…

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#blogging #drabble #estate #internet #random #word