#touch typists

[the-physicality]

this isn't a full postgame bc i've already shared many of my thoughts but i wanted to look at ice time

i do think it's funny that ard played for like 30 minutes and took 2 of our 5 penalties. love that for her

fix the powerplay please. otherwise teams will just take penalties to neutralize us. which is not how they are supposed to work

i think you have to put boreen on the third line but double shift every now and again for line 1 to manage minutes and try mgm and dalton with ko

the only good think about the tor pp is that it doesn't count against our +/-. as a result the gd in the game was 3 but everyone finished between -1 and +1 and even two of their people finished with -1s

this is actually the same problem we had last season, despite the circumstances with the schedule and labelle out. when we can't score early, we can't score at all [for the most part. or when we do, it's too late]

tbt to the 2-4 ott game right before worlds [mpp was not playing]. goals from m daoust and stacey but they both came at the end of the 3rd and we gave up an eng at the end

tbt to last year as well getting shut out 3 times...

constructive criticism time: if there is not someone of size to screen the goalie, stacey's one timer is not going to work

the pp was too slow today, the passes were not clean enough to get easy shots off, and if you are going to put barnes on pp 1, she should be qb

[robo-dino-puppies]

thank youuuu @salamanders-please for letting me know that my Wardens can look like Wardens in Origins :D

[airandangels]

Habitually, the left because it's slightly less effort. Looking at my keyboard right now, shift is right beside Z. When my fingers are placed on the home row, ASDF and JKL;, I have to stretch across ? to reach shift on the right.

I tend to forget there is a shift key on the right.

REAL personality test: do you use the left shift key or the right shift key on your keyboard

[webism]

pornstar!nanami who has a signature style to his videos—all of which are solo content consisting of him, manspreading in front of the camera in an awfully expensive suit. as his hands trace the muscles of his thighs, the seams of his trousers, the outline of his hardened cock.

pornstar!nanami who always takes his time getting to the good stuff, his voice silken as he speaks to those watching him. praise falls from his lips, which are always just out of view—the man doesn't dare show his face. something about professionalism and all.

pornstar!nanami whose videos usually end with him cumming into his closed fist, or into a toy if he's feeling so inclined. as a long time viewer of him, you've come to learn a few things about how he orgasms—he always bucks his hips up, chasing that instinct to breed. he always moans like he's in heat just before his climax, but because he's not great with breathing through his orgasms he chokes up just as he falls over the edge—it's a pretty sound.

pornstar!nanami who sometimes gets messy with it—he's such an organised and ritualistic man in his day-to-day that he sometimes just wants to let loose. sometimes, he'll only pull his cock out of his pants through the fly, and let the world watch as his precum dribbles all over those pressed pants of his. oh and does he go feral knowing that he's dirtying something so expensive with the receipts of his lust. who will stroke himself to completion just to watch his cum stain the fabric he's worked so hard to afford—there's no explaining that away to a drycleaner.

pornstar!nanami who likes to imagine it's a pretty thing riding his thigh that wrecks his trousers. wonders how many of his viewers touch themselves to his videos, hoping the could take him for all he's worth as well.

pornstar!nanami who, after a particularly messy session one day, gets an email after uploading his video. it's not even been ten minutes, which was the length of his video, so he assumes whoever has emailed him came particularly fast to that one.

pornstar!nanami who was more than right in his assumption. because as his eyes rake over the email sent by an adoring fan, he sees about a million different typos that indicate nothing other than messy fingers and a fucked-dumb typist. in your barely legible email, you explain that Mr. Nanamis videos are tagged 'near-you', and you'd happily offer your services as the next sex toy he uses to fuck-and-film in exchange for an orgasm or three.

and oh is pornstar!nanami intrigued. because his life is a busy one, he's a businessman when the sun is up time is precious and human connection is a scheduling conflict—his videos aren't solo out of preference, poor nanami, the pornstar, is a virgin.

pornstar!nanami who, after a few weeks of back and forth and some genuine conversation, ends up with his camera flashing red as you sit naked on his lap. and oh are you happy with the sight of him, blonde and sculpted to perfection underneath those lovely suits of his. Your ass is on display to anyone watching, upper half out of shot as your teeth clash with his.

pornstar!nanami who can't help the sounds he makes when you grind against his clothed cock. your slick, your pooling lust, it smears over the fabric of his pants and leaves a gloss behind in turn. he's ravenous, holding onto your hips and grinding you down against him in all the right ways. who moans into your mouth, already a little pussydrunk and he's barely had a taste of you.

pornstar!nanami who hopes he isn't unseemly in the way he manhandles you to sit properly on his lap. he knows you're as desperate as he is, what with the way you slip your hands down to undo his belt and pull his cock free. your fingers wrapped around his length is enough of a narcotic to cum on the spot, though he steadies his reeling mind and holds out.

pornstar!nanami who offers to fuck you on his fingers first, to use his tongue to warm you up and get you ready for his, frankly overbearing, size. but you're insistent, eager, and lowering yourself onto his aching cock with a kiss to his lips and a sharp inhale shared between you.

pornstar!nanami who thanks whatever god may be out there for letting him film a glimpse of heaven.

pornstar!nanami who can barely keep himself together as you ride him like he's the toy at hand. he's sure he's never been this vocal for his viewers, moaning alone is a feat that is hot at best and hauntingly awkward at worst—this, though—he's never been so mindless. and you love it. all the videos you've watched where his voice is smooth and confident and he's the picture of put-together. having such a man, a gentleman like nanami, absolutely melting with each clench of your dripping pussy around his length? it's an aphrodisiac in itself.

and when you catch onto the fact that pornstar!nanami is about to cum—the bucking of his hips, those drawling moans, the hitch of his breath—you kiss him stupid, and then speak against his pretty swollen lips. 'breathe'

and oh does pornstar!nanami breathe. a desperate droning moan escapes his breath, right into your mouth as he empties himself inside of you like he's trying to give you his last name.

pornstar!nanami who can't help himself. flipping you over and onto your back, pressing you into the mattress as he continues to fuck into you. he's going to pull as many orgasms out of you as he can—it doesn't even register in his mind that, due to the new angle of your bodies, he's just let the world see his face, and the pretty pussy drunk blush that paints it pink.

[you2018]

god this movie sucks so bad also i dont have aby keycaps on atm im soing surprisingly well

[cloudyluun]

No Cameras Allowed | famous!harry

Summary: You and Harry have been secretly hooking up for months, but at a high-profile event—surrounded by cameras, fans, and industry people—you have to pretend like nothing is going on. The tension builds to an unbearable level, leading you to sneak away for a risky, reckless rendezvous.

A/N: Listen, I started writing this thinking, “Let’s make this classy and controlled,” and then Harry had a meltdown over a missing condom and suddenly we were all in too deep. 🤡 This fic is 90% tension, 5% absolute recklessness, and 5% me screaming into my pillow because these two cannot behave. Hydrate, take deep breaths, and maybe say a prayer, because I swear, I’m just the stressed-out typist here. If you need me, I’ll be in horny jail. 🚔🔒🔥

Word Count: 2,7k

Warnings: 

Explicit sexual content (Smut, NSFW, 18+)!!!

Jealousy & tension-filled interactions - Both are very jealous. I probably would be too. 

Mentions of alcohol consumption

Strong language & dirty talk

Mentions of an implied lack of protection (brief but relevant to the plot)

Secret relationship shenanigans – They’re sneaking around, and they’re GOOD at it… except for when they’re not.

Unholy levels of sexual tension – You will feel the need to take a deep breath and maybe fan yourself.

Public sex – Yes, they did it where they absolutely should not have. No regrets.

Desperation – The kind where you physically feel the ache in your soul (and elsewhere).

No condom moment – Highly irresponsible. Highly hot. They make choices, not necessarily good ones.

Hand over mouth trope – He’s gotta keep her quiet. You already know.

Neck-grabbing, wrist-holding, wall-pressing – He’s got control issues, and you like it.

Mutual corruption – Neither of them is innocent, and that’s exactly why this is happening.

Proceed at your own risk. But let’s be real—you’re already in too deep.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The hotel room is bathed in the warm glow of the bedside lamp, casting soft shadows across the sheets that are barely covering your tangled bodies. The air is thick with the remnants of earlier touches, the room still carrying the heat of whispered confessions and the slow, lingering movements that had left both of you breathless.

Harry’s fingers trace lazy circles on your bare back, his touch featherlight, almost absentminded. It’s a stark contrast to the way his hands had gripped you just an hour ago—possessive, desperate, leaving invisible marks on your skin. Now, he’s all slow affection, the pads of his fingertips skimming your shoulder blades as if he’s memorizing every inch of you.

Your head rests against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, feeling the way it slows now that you’re here, settled, unrushed. His other hand is tucked behind his head, his bicep flexed just enough to make you roll your eyes at how effortlessly attractive he is, even in this sleepy, post-bliss state.

“I love how you think we’re subtle,” you murmur, a smirk pulling at your lips as you press a kiss to his warm skin.

Harry huffs out a laugh, shifting slightly so he can look down at you, his dimple peeking through as he grins. “No one suspects a thing.”

You tilt your head up, raising a brow. “Mitch literally asked me why I disappear at 2 a.m. all the time.”

Harry groans dramatically, rolling his eyes as he pulls you closer. “Mitch needs to mind his own business.”

You giggle against his chest, your fingers idly tracing over the swallows inked onto his skin. “I think he’s just concerned that I might be in some kind of secret underground fight club or something.”

Harry laughs, a full-bodied sound that shakes both of you. “Right. Because that’s the more likely scenario.”

“Exactly,” you tease, biting back a grin.

His laugh fades into something softer, more intimate, as his fingers slide down your back. Then, without warning, he shifts, rolling you onto your back so he’s hovering above you. His curls fall slightly into his face, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of you beneath him.

His voice is lower now, edged with something deeper. “Maybe I like knowing that no one else gets to see you like this.”

Your breath catches. It’s moments like this—when the teasing fades, when the weight of what’s between you presses against your ribs—that make your pulse stutter.

You reach up, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him hum in satisfaction. “You’re ridiculously possessive, you know that?”

He smirks, dipping his head so his lips hover just above yours. “And you love it.”

You don’t argue.

Instead, you let your lips brush against his in a slow, drawn-out kiss, savoring the way he melts into you. His body presses flush against yours, heat radiating between you, but it’s not rushed this time. It’s lazy and indulgent, like you have all the time in the world.

Which, of course, you don’t.

You sigh against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “So, the gala.”

Harry groans, dropping his head against your shoulder. “Way to ruin the mood.”

You laugh, running your fingers down his back. “I’m just saying—we’re really going to pretend we don’t even know each other all night?”

He exhales heavily, propping himself up on his elbows. “No flirting, no sneaky touches, no slipping away together,” he confirms, voice laced with mock seriousness.

You let out an exaggerated groan, throwing an arm over your face. “How am I supposed to act like I don’t want to drag you into a closet all night?”

Harry chuckles, but there’s something else in his expression now—something taut, restrained. “You don’t,” he says simply, leaning in so his lips brush the shell of your ear. “You pretend you don’t want me.” His breath is warm against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

You shift beneath him, already feeling the weight of what tomorrow will bring—the distance, the careful avoidance, the act you’ll have to put on for the world.

Harry pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his green eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Think you can handle that?”

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry.

No, you think. Probably not.

But you don’t say that.

Instead, you force a smirk, pressing your palm against his chest. “Oh, absolutely,” you lie.

And Harry, the smug bastard, grins like he knows exactly how much of a lie that is.

Now you curse yourself for ever agreeing to this.

The flashing lights are blinding, the chaotic energy of the gala buzzing through the air as celebrities step out of sleek black cars, each one greeted by a wave of deafening screams. The photographers shout names, demanding poses, each snap of their cameras preserving fleeting moments for the world to analyze later. It’s all so polished, so orchestrated, yet it feels suffocating.

And Harry?

He’s already here.

You watch from the backseat of your car as he steps onto the carpet, buttoning his perfectly tailored suit jacket with the kind of effortless charm that makes the world swoon. His presence commands attention—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, a smirk so devastating it could be classified as a lethal weapon. His dimple makes an appearance as he waves to the screaming fans, his rings glinting under the camera flashes as he adjusts his cuffs.

He looks like he was born for this.

And the worst part? He looks completely unaffected.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your dress as you watch him. He’s talking to an interviewer now, flashing that coy, knowing grin that makes people hang onto his every word. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you don’t need to. It’s the same carefully controlled persona he always wears in public—charming, composed, a little bit playful.

The side of your lip twitches. Bastard.

You’re still sitting in the car, waiting for your cue to step out, when you see it.

The shift.

One second, Harry’s engaged in conversation, his body relaxed. The next, his entire demeanor changes—his grip tightening around the glass in his hand, his jaw locking ever so slightly.

It takes you half a second to realize why.

You’ve been spotted.

Even from across the carpet, you feel the weight of his stare the moment you step out of the car. The cool night air barely registers against your skin as you straighten your posture, your carefully curated expression slipping into place. You’re aware of the way the crowd reacts—how the screams spike in volume, how the cameras angle toward you, how the buzz of murmured conversations follows in your wake.

You can feel Harry’s eyes on you.

But you don’t look at him.

You won’t.

Instead, you let your lips curve into a soft, controlled smile, pretending not to notice the ripple of attention your arrival has caused. You let the cameras take their fill, pausing just long enough for the photographers to capture the moment. Your outfit—a masterpiece of elegance and barely-contained sensuality—hugs your body in all the right ways, a choice you made with full awareness of the effect it would have.

And judging by the way Harry is gripping his glass like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, you were absolutely right.

The red carpet is a practiced dance, one you know how to navigate flawlessly. You answer questions with ease, your responses light but distant enough to keep them guessing. You pose for the cameras, move toward the fan section, offering them your full attention.

That’s when it happens.

“Are you and Harry friends?”

The question is innocent enough, asked by a girl barely containing her excitement as she clutches her phone, ready to record your reaction.

You keep your smile intact. You don’t falter. “Yeah, of course! He’s lovely.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you hear it.

A barely contained giggle. A whispered assumption.

“She totally blushed. They’re hiding something.”

You force yourself not to react, but the air shifts just slightly, your composure settling a little tighter around your frame. You laugh lightly, as if the idea is ridiculous, before moving along with the conversation.

But Harry?

Harry hears it.

From across the room, his fingers flex, resisting the urge to drain the rest of his drink. He watches the exchange with careful disinterest, his expression unreadable to the untrained eye. But you know him. You recognize the way his jaw tenses just slightly, the way his gaze darkens the moment your name is paired with his in that context.

Then, as if the universe is determined to push him closer to the edge, someone steps into your space.

It’s a man—some actor, charming and self-assured, the kind of person who knows exactly what effect he has. He leans in just slightly as he compliments your dress, his tone playful, his body language open. It’s harmless. Flirtatious, but harmless.

But from across the room?

Harry doesn’t look at it that way.

Your awareness of him sharpens. Even without turning your head, you know he’s watching. You can feel it in your bones, the heat of his stare like a brand against your skin.

You tilt your head, letting yourself laugh at something the actor says, just for good measure. Just to push back at the invisible tether Harry has wrapped around you.

Then you make the mistake of looking.

It’s quick. A glance. Barely a second.

But it’s enough.

Harry’s gaze locks onto yours, the weight of it nearly stealing the breath from your lungs. His fingers tap against the side of his glass, his lips pressing together in a way that tells you exactly what he’s thinking.

A silent challenge.

You swallow, looking away first.

Then, just when you think the tension has reached its peak, the night conspires against you once again.

The little moments start stacking up.

In passing, your hands brush—just a second too long. A lingering whisper of contact that shouldn’t mean anything. But it does.

Harry leans in to whisper something to a friend, but his lips nearly graze the edge of your ear as he passes. The warmth of his breath ghosts against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

And then—because the universe has a twisted sense of humor—you witness the moment that nearly breaks your resolve.

She’s stunning, the actress who leans in too close to him, her laugh like honey as she touches his arm in a way that feels practiced. You don’t know what she’s saying, but it’s enough to make Harry smirk, enough to make his fingers flex slightly where they rest on his knee.

You grip your glass tighter.

“I swear to god…” you mutter under your breath, not even realizing you’d spoken aloud.

Then, without warning—without a sound—Harry is behind you.

His voice is a low, taunting whisper, barely audible over the noise of the party.

“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not making it through the night.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

Your pulse jumps.

But you don’t turn around.

Because you know exactly what will happen if you do.

You can feel him watching you, his presence a weight against your skin, a force pulling you in even when you’re trying to resist. It’s unbearable—the tension, the push and pull of this secret that has stretched between you for months. You grip your drink tighter, the condensation damp against your fingers, and force yourself to stay rooted in place.

You exhale slowly. Then, in a move that is as reckless as it is calculated, you turn on your heel and walk away.

You don’t look back.

Instead, you slip into the nearest group of people, throwing yourself into conversation like it’s effortless, like your pulse isn’t hammering against your ribs. You laugh—too loudly, too carelessly—letting the sound carry just far enough. Your fingers graze someone’s arm, your smile lingers for a second too long. You don’t even register what’s being said; the words mean nothing. The only thing that matters is what’s happening behind you.

What Harry is doing.

Or rather—what he’s about to do.

You feel it before you see it. The energy shifts. The air crackles with a new kind of charge.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch him.

Harry is watching.

His jaw is tight, his fingers flexing around the glass in his hand. He looks calm to the untrained eye, but you know better. You know that slight clench in his jaw, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the restless way his thumb drags along the rim of his glass.

You keep talking. You keep laughing.

And then Harry downs his drink in one swift motion, his throat moving as he swallows the last drop of whiskey. He sets the glass down with just a little too much force, and without a single word, he turns and walks away.

Your breath catches.

You don’t move. Not immediately.

You wait.

One second.

Two.

A full minute passes before you finally allow yourself to move.

You slip away, just as quietly as he did, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. The further you get from the main event, the quieter it becomes. The music fades into the background, the distant murmur of conversation growing softer. Your heels click against the polished marble floor as you move down an empty hallway, your heart pounding harder with every step.

You don’t have to look for him.

You already know where he is.

The moment you turn the corner into the restricted hallway near the VIP lounges, you barely have time to register anything before—

Strong hands grab your waist.

You gasp as you’re yanked back against the wall, the cool surface biting through the heat radiating off your skin. The shock of it barely registers before Harry is there, his body flush against yours, his scent wrapping around you—something deep and warm, laced with the remnants of whiskey and frustration.

His voice is low, rough, each word vibrating against your skin.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?”

Your breath is uneven, your pulse a wild drumbeat beneath your skin.

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, biting back a smirk. His eyes are dark, burning with barely contained hunger.

“I think I have a pretty good idea,” you murmur, resting your hands against his chest.

The muscle beneath his suit jacket is tense, coiled tight like he’s barely holding himself together.

And then—

He kisses you.

Hard.

The second your back hits the wall, Harry’s on you. There’s no hesitation, no space, no air left between you. His body presses into yours, solid and warm, and his grip on your waist is possessive, like he’s making sure you don’t slip away.

He kisses you like he’s starving, like he’s been thinking about this all night—which, knowing him, he has. His mouth moves over yours, hot, open-mouthed, desperate, his tongue sweeping against yours in slow, deep strokes that make your knees go weak.

You fist your hands in his shirt, yanking him closer, feeling the crisp fabric tighten under your grip. It’s unfair, really—how he gets to look so put-together while you’re already falling apart for him. His suit, all sharp lines and tailored edges, contrasts with the way your body melts against his, your dress already slipping up your thighs.

His hands wander, explore, claim—roaming down your sides, gripping your hips, guiding your body against his. He tugs at your dress, fingertips skimming beneath the hem, teasing the fabric higher—so high that his knuckles graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

You shudder. He notices immediately.

A slow, knowing smirk curls his lips against yours, but he doesn’t say anything—just drags his hand higher, his fingertips just barely brushing the damp heat between your legs.

You gasp into his mouth, your fingers tightening in his shirt, and he chuckles—a low, dark sound that makes your stomach tighten.

“You’re already shaking for me, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and teasing.

You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction just yet. Instead, you tilt your chin up slightly, meeting his eyes, and shift your hips forward—just the tiniest roll of your body against his.

The reaction is instant.

Harry groans—deep, rough, almost guttural—and his head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. His fingers dig into your waist, tight, desperate, like he’s barely holding himself back.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he pants, his voice rough, vibrating against your skin.

You smirk, breathless but smug. “That’s dramatic.”

Harry lifts his head slowly, green eyes blazing with something dark and dangerous, and then—before you can blink—he rolls his hips into you, pressing his body flush against yours.

You feel everything—the solid heat of him, the hardness pressing against your core, the undeniable proof of just how much he wants you.

A gasp catches in your throat.

His lips brush against your jaw, and his voice drops lower, rougher, more strained.

“Am I?”

The hallway is too quiet, the distant sounds of the gala making this moment feel even riskier. Muted laughter, clinking glasses, the murmur of conversations—all of it feels like it’s happening in another world, one you’ve completely abandoned the second Harry pressed you against this wall.

It should be a warning. It should be a reason to stop.

But all you can focus on is him.

The way he’s crowding you, caging you in, body heat rolling off him in waves. The way his eyes stay locked on yours, pupils blown wide, like he’s daring you to tell him to stop. The way he’s breathing heavy, shoulders rising and falling, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Then his hands are moving.

Sliding up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, higher, bunching the fabric at your hips. His fingertips graze the damp heat between your legs, teasing, barely there, but enough.

You whimper.

A quiet, desperate little sound that you try to swallow down.

But he hears it. Of course, he hears it.

And it makes him lose his patience.

His palm presses against you through the lace of your underwear, applying just the barest amount of pressure—but it’s enough to make your stomach tighten, enough to send a bolt of pleasure straight through you.

His lips aren’t on your mouth anymore. They’re moving—hot and insistent—trailing along your jaw, then down to your throat, biting, sucking, his teeth scraping sensitive skin. He’s not careful, not like he normally is. He doesn’t care if he leaves a mark. Maybe he wants to.

Maybe he wants you to feel him long after this is over.

Your breath catches when his other hand finds your wrist and pins it to the wall beside your head. It’s not rough, but it’s firm. Controlling. Like he needs to keep you exactly where he wants you.

His voice is a murmur against your ear, low and wrecked.

"You’re already soaked."

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you squirm against his hand, hips pushing toward his touch despite yourself.

"Wonder why," you breathe.

Harry chuckles darkly, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. Then, without warning, his fingers slip under the lace, dragging through your slick folds. He groans—low, deep, almost pained—his forehead pressing against yours like he’s trying to hold himself together.

"Fuck."

His fingers find your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that make your stomach tighten, your thighs clenching around his hand. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and your breath stutters, your fingers twisting in his shirt.

You bite your lip so hard it nearly hurts, trying to suppress the moan that’s threatening to spill out.

Harry watches you, studying every tiny reaction, his jaw clenched, his brows furrowed like he’s mesmerized by the way you come apart for him.

Then he slides one finger inside you—slow but deliberate—pushing in deep, stretching you open just enough to make you gasp.

And then he adds a second.

Your back arches off the wall, nails digging into his shoulders, your body desperate for more.

"Feel so good," Harry grits out, his voice thick with lust. His fingers work you open, slow and steady, curling just right, dragging against your walls until your thighs are shaking. His restraint is slipping—you can feel it.

"Always so fucking tight for me."

His words make your breath hitch, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You try to hold on, try to keep some kind of control, but his fingers are relentless, moving in and out of you, stroking your clit in slow, precise circles.

"Harry—" Your voice is barely a whisper, your eyes fluttering shut. "Someone’s gonna hear us—"

His free hand leaves your wrist, and before you can react, he covers your mouth, his palm warm against your lips, muffling the tiny sounds spilling out of you.

A smirk tugs at his lips, his breath ghosting over your cheek.

"Then you better be quiet, baby."

Harry’s fingers leave you, leaving behind nothing but an unbearable ache, an emptiness that makes your body tense with need. He doesn’t waste a second—his hands move fast, frantic, reaching for his belt, undoing the buckle with sharp, impatient movements.

You’re gasping, panting, your nails digging into his shoulders, hips rolling up to meet his, desperate for more. For him.

But then—he stops.

You barely notice at first, too caught up in the heat, too lost in the way his body presses into yours, how close you are to getting what you need. But then you feel it—the hesitation. The stiffness in his muscles. The way his forehead suddenly drops to your shoulder, his chest rising and falling with deep, frustrated breaths.

And then he curses.

"Shit. Fuck."

His voice is low, rough, like he’s physically forcing himself to stop. Like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him.

Your body stills, your mind foggy and desperate, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

"What?" you whisper, blinking up at him, confused, needing answers, needing him to keep going, needing him to fix whatever’s wrong.

Harry pulls back just enough to look at you, his jaw tight, his fingers threading through his curls in frustration. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen from kissing you, his whole body wrecked with restraint.

"I don’t have a condom."

The words hit like a slap of cold air against overheated skin.

Your stomach flips, pulse pounding in your ears. You should stop. You both should.

This is the moment.

The moment to take a breath, to come to your senses, to remember that this is a mistake. That it’s reckless, that it’s too risky, that there are a million reasons why you shouldn’t do this.

But none of them matter.

Because the heat between you is unbearable. Because your body is screaming for him, because the throbbing ache inside you is too strong to ignore, because stopping now would feel more painful than giving in.

Because you don’t care.

Your throat feels tight, your breath shaky as the words slip out before you can even think about them.

"I don’t care."

Harry’s head snaps up, his gaze locking onto yours so fast it makes you shiver.

His eyes—dark, intense, searching—burn into you, like he’s trying to see if you really mean it. Trying to find a reason to stop, a reason to be the responsible one.

But all he finds is desperation.

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his breath uneven.

"Are you sure?" His voice is rough, raw, almost pained—like he wants this so fucking bad but needs to hear you say it again.

Your legs tighten around his waist, your arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

"Please," you whisper, the word barely audible, but it’s all it takes.

His control snaps.

Harry’s mouth crashes against yours—hot, messy, consuming—all teeth and tongue and raw need. His kiss is desperate, like he’s trying to devour you, trying to silence every thought, every doubt that should be pulling you both apart.

But there’s nothing else in this moment. Nothing but him.

His hands are greedy, impatient, everywhere all at once—roaming over your thighs, gripping your waist, tangling in your hair—taking, taking, taking, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you against him.

He drags your underwear to the side, not bothering to remove them, just getting them out of his way. The fabric is soaked, ruined, and he groans when he feels just how wet you are, just how ready.

There’s a shaky, fumbling urgency to the way he shoves his trousers down, just enough, just far enough to free himself, because there’s no time for anything else.

No time to think.

No time to stop.

His cock presses against you, hot and aching, the tip slick with need.

You tense in anticipation, body going rigid, your fingers digging into his back as you feel him right there—so close, too close, not close enough.

Then—he pushes in.

A sharp, deep stretch, the overwhelming burn of being filled so fast, so suddenly, so completely.

You can feel every inch of him—thick, hard, hot, pressing deep, stretching you open until it’s almost too much.

Your lips part on a gasp, a sharp, startled moan spilling from your throat before you can stop it—

But Harry is faster.

His hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your cry, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath shaky and uneven as he tries to hold himself together.

"Shhh," he rasps, his voice wrecked, strained, like he’s just barely keeping control.

His jaw is clenched so tight, his arms shaking from the effort of not losing himself completely. His fingers dig into the plush of your thigh, his other hand flexing against your mouth, making sure you stay quiet.

"Fuck," he groans, voice low and guttural, his breath hot against your lips.

"Fuck, you feel so good."

You clench around him, the pressure making your whole body arch, making your legs tighten around his waist, your nails biting into his biceps.

"So deep," you whisper against his palm, already breathless, already drowning in him.

Harry lets out a choked, strangled sound, his head dropping to your shoulder, his teeth scraping against the delicate skin of your neck.

He grips your hip tighter, yanks your thigh up higher, angling you just right—

Then he moves.

His first thrust is slow, deep, pulling out just enough before sinking back in, like he’s savoring it, like he’s relishing the way you stretch around him, the way your body grips him so perfectly.

Then—he snaps.

His hips slam into you, his movements turning frantic, punishing, wild, as if he’s been holding back for too long and can’t anymore.

It’s rough, raw, overwhelming, his cock dragging against every sensitive nerve, making you feel every inch, every inch, every inch.

The wall is solid behind you, but it does nothing to ground you, nothing to brace you against the way he’s pounding into you, forcing the breath from your lungs with every sharp, perfect thrust.

Your hands scramble for purchase, fingers clutching his shoulders, his hair, his back, anything to hold on to.

The contrast is unbearable—the cold marble against your back, the scorching heat of his body against yours, the wetness pooling between you, the rough press of his fingertips against your thigh, your hip, your waist.

"I can feel you squeezing me," he pants, voice deep, wrecked, laced with pure lust.

His teeth graze your jaw, his breath hot, heavy, uneven as he presses deeper, harder, better.

"You close, baby?"

You can’t even think.

All you can do is nod frantically, your nails scratching down his back, your voice breaking, muffled against his shoulder.

"So close—please don’t stop."

He lets out a low, throaty growl, his hands tightening, his hips slamming into you even harder, rougher, faster.

"I got you," he grits out, his voice tight, desperate.

"Let go for me."

And you do.

It hits you all at once—a blinding, earth-shattering pleasure that crashes through you so violently it nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

Your walls clench, pulse, flutter around him, drawing him in deeper, tighter, squeezing him so hard he lets out a wrecked, strangled moan.

Your whole body locks up, then shakes, trembles, collapses as your orgasm tears through you, leaving nothing behind but a pounding heartbeat and the echo of his name on your lips.

Harry doesn’t last long after that.

His rhythm stutters, his grip on your body tightens, his breath turning ragged, uneven, choked.

Then—he slams into you one last time, burying himself deep, so deep, as deep as he can go—and he lets go.

A deep, shaky groan rumbles from his chest as he spills into you, his fingers digging into your hips so tight it’s almost painful.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but harsh breaths, trembling limbs, the sound of racing hearts.

Your bodies are still pressed together, still locked in place, neither of you willing to move, to let go, to face what you’ve just done.

No space between you.

No words.

Just the wreckage of this moment, of the heat, of the mess you’ve made together.

The world around you is silent.

Or maybe your ears are still ringing from the intensity of it all—the overwhelming pleasure, the crash of your heartbeat in your skull, the way your body is still trembling from the aftershocks.

You’re breathless, boneless, your limbs heavy and warm, still wrapped around him, still feeling the echo of where he’s been, of where he still is.

Neither of you move.

Not yet.

Harry’s forehead presses against yours, his breath hot and unsteady, his chest rising and falling against yours in the same frantic, uneven rhythm.

His hands haven’t left your body—fingertips tracing over the dips of your waist, the curve of your thigh, like he can’t stop touching you, even now.

He should feel guilty.

He should regret this.

This was reckless, stupid, dangerous.

Someone could’ve caught you.

Someone still might.

But instead of guilt, instead of remorse, instead of the sinking weight of what the fuck have we done—

All he feels is satisfaction.

His lips twitch. The corner of his mouth quirks up, amusement flickering in his dark, lazy eyes, like he already knows what you’re about to say.

And sure enough—

"We’re so gonna get caught one day," you breathe, still a little dazed, still not sure you can feel your legs yet.

A smirk spreads across his face, slow and wicked, as his fingers brush damp hair from your forehead, his other hand still gripping your thigh, holding you in place, keeping you where he wants you.

He shifts slightly—just enough to remind you that he’s still inside you, still buried so deep it makes your breath hitch.

Then he whispers, low and deliberate, his lips brushing against yours—

"Worth it."

You leave first.

Your legs are still shaky, your breath uneven as you move quickly down the hallway, trying to compose yourself before stepping back into the crowd. The moment you’re back under the bright lights of the gala, surrounded by elegant chatter and the clinking of champagne glasses, it’s like stepping into a completely different reality.

You fight the urge to touch your lips, knowing they’re still kiss-bruised and swollen from Harry’s mouth on yours. Instead, you fish through your clutch with trembling fingers, pulling out your compact mirror and flipping it open, only to let out a quiet curse under your breath.

Your lipstick is completely ruined.

Smudged at the edges, faint traces of it smeared beyond the natural curve of your lips, a dead giveaway to what you’ve been doing.

And that’s not even the worst of it.

You tilt your chin slightly, angling the mirror lower—your neck burns with the ghost of his teeth, the imprint of his mouth. You squint at your reflection, but you don’t have to look closely to see the faint red bloom of a mark beginning to form just under your jaw.

Jesus. You need to fix this.

Your heart pounds as you swipe a fingertip over your lips, smoothing away the damage as best you can, trying to make yourself look normal, untouched, innocent. You pat at your flushed cheeks, inhale a steadying breath, and pull your dress back into place before making your way deeper into the room.

No one is paying attention to you.

Or at least—that’s what you tell yourself.

Because the truth is…some people are.

The ones who notice everything.

The ones who have been watching you both all night.

It’s only five minutes later when Harry returns.

And that’s when the whispers really start.

📱 Twitter Explodes:

@YNUpdates: "Harry and Y/N disappeared at the SAME TIME and now her lipstick is smudged??? Someone explain." 👀

@Hstylesfan88: "Tell me why Harry looks wrecked after being ‘away’ for 20 minutes???"

@Directioner_for_life: "LOOK AT THIS. WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE HE JUST GOT LAID." [Attached: a blurry photo of Harry stepping back into the gala, tie loose, hair messy, jaw tight as he adjusts his suit.]

@StylinsonLover: "I swear to god if they’re secretly fucking and we don’t know I will RIOT."

It’s all so fast.

You don’t even realize how much people have picked up on until your phone vibrates in your clutch, a message from a friend—

"You might wanna check Twitter."

Your stomach flips as you glance around the room, trying not to be obvious as you spot him across the crowd.

And holy fuck, yeah—they’re right.

Harry looks wrecked.

His tie is loosened, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, the strands of his hair slightly tousled, like someone’s fingers had just been gripping at it.

You swallow hard.

You shouldn’t be staring at him, shouldn’t be biting your lip at the sight of him still looking a little ruined from fucking you against the wall.

And yet—

The way he carries himself so effortlessly, the way his expression is calm, unaffected—like he hasn’t just been inside you, like he hasn’t just come undone in the deepest parts of you—it’s infuriating.

Because you feel so obvious.

Like everyone in this goddamn room knows.

And the worst part?

Maybe they do.

--

The night is winding down, the music softens, the lights dim just slightly, and the energy in the room shifts from excitement to exhaustion.

People start to leave in waves—celebrities slipping out with their teams, photographers packing up their equipment, security guiding fans toward the exits.

You keep your distance.

You have to.

For months now, you and Harry have been careful—so careful.

Because if anyone found out, the questions wouldn’t stop.

Who made the first move? Who was the one who set the rules? Who got attached first? Who’s more obsessed? Is it real? Is it fake? When did it start? How will it end?

You already know what the media would say.

That you are just another girl Harry’s using.

That he is just another celebrity falling into a meaningless fling.

That this is just another story waiting to be ripped apart, twisted into something ugly, overanalyzed until there’s nothing left.

They wouldn’t understand that it’s not like that. That it’s never been like that.

So, you play your part.

You pretend.

You act like you’re just another guest in the room, sipping champagne and offering polite smiles and nods.

And you ignore the way your skin still burns where he touched you.

But every few minutes—you feel him.

A glance across the room.

A flick of his eyes down to your lips.

A tiny smirk when you press them together, nervous, flustered, still feeling him everywhere.

Your cheeks heat up, and you force yourself to look away, heart hammering.

You have to be careful.

But then—just as you think you’ve made it out without another close call—

A hand on your wrist.

Warm. Quick. Certain.

Your breath catches as you turn, only to find him there, impossibly close, standing just slightly behind you, tucked into the shadows where no one else can see.

Your stomach tightens.

You don’t even have time to react before his fingers slide down, trailing over your palm, catching your hand in his.

His grip is gentle but sure, fingers threading through yours like this isn’t just another secret touch. Like he’s holding on.

Your pulse jumps, and his thumb brushes over it, tracing the rapid rhythm.

When you meet his gaze, his eyes are dark, still hooded from everything you’ve done tonight, but there’s something else there now, too. Something deeper.

"See you later?" he murmurs, voice low, teasing, soft in a way that makes your chest ache.

You should let go.

You should be careful.

But instead, you lace your fingers through his.

Tighter. Certain.

You tilt your head, let a slow smile curve at your lips, and whisper back—

"Yeah."

A pause.

A flicker of something dangerous. Something real.

Then, his hand squeezes yours—a silent promise—before he finally lets go, slipping away into the crowd.

But this time, you don’t just feel his touch lingering on your skin.

You feel him everywhere.

And you already know—

This isn’t just some secret anymore.

It’s too much. Too intense, too deep, too important to be treated like something you can just hide forever.

You take a steadying breath, smoothing a hand over your dress, mentally preparing yourself to leave.

And that’s when you hear it.

A sharp click.

A hushed gasp.

A flicker of movement in your peripheral vision.

You turn your head—just in time to see a fan clutching their phone, eyes wide, staring straight at you.

The screen still glowing.

Still open to the camera app.

Your stomach drops.

The fan’s mouth parts like they might say something—might call out your name, might ask if what they just saw was real.

Your breath catches, a cold chill racing up your spine.

And then—

They take off.

Vanishing into the crowd.

With their phone.

With the photo.

With the secret you and Harry just lost.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

[part 2]

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

taglist:

@oscahpastry

@mema10

@angelbabyyy99

@iloveharrystyles04

@cinemharry

@drwho06

@donutsandpalmtrees

@panini

@mads3502

@imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa

@one-sweet-gubler

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@harrrrystylesslut

@georgiarose94

@stylestarkey

@watarmelon212

[my-great-big-book-of-fan-fiction]

can i request a yan! L? It’s kinda rare and i would appreciate if you’d done it.

I love these requests, I could definitely write a long oneshot of Yandere L Lawliet 😭 hopefully this is enough, I had so many ideas this seemed like the best format!

Warnings: explicit material here and there (NSFW, sexual content), implications of murder of loved ones, unconsensual surveillance, technical breaking and entering, theft of clothing items, L is a pervert, L is in love

yan!L loves you very much. You bring him peace. He can't think without you around. Technically you're an intern/secretary, but with how he treats you, you're basically his pet. He has you sit next to him, and eat from his plate. He tells you not to worry about fieldwork, because you're perfect at note-taking and he simply can't risk losing his best typist. He asks you about your favorite sweets so he can keep them on hand. He asks you to try a bite of everything he has, just so he can spoon-feed you without it being too terribly weird.

Yan!L lets you stay on your own floor, like misa. A floor that, of course, is covered with security cameras. Every angle, in every room. He's sure you wouldn't like that very much, but he has to be sure you're safe. Wiretaps are a must as well.

Yan!L checks your internet history through the router every few minutes (you're always on your phone, he hopes he's not boring you), just to find your interests. When he gifts you the perfume you've been looking at, or the luxury shoes you can't stop visiting the website of, you don't really question it. He's just L, maybe he somehow deduced that you wanted them. He only hopes they get him in your good graces.

Yan!L spends every night watching you through those cameras. Memorizing every movement, every set of pajamas, every shower product. He doesn't do anything other than watch you, he's not a pervert, despite what misa says. He watches respectfully. He would never touch himself to your image, with you only a floor or two away.

Yan!L wouldn't touch himself to your image, but...when you're out shopping using your extremely bonused paycheck, he just has to take a keepsake. He crept into your room, slow, careful, reverent. To be surrounded by your scent was heaven on earth. He found your hamper, it was so much bigger than it looked on camera. He knew what was inside. With two fingers, he plucked a pair of panties out of the pile of other clothes. You had these on last night, while you were masturbating. They were still warm. They smell just as sweet as he imagined.

Yan!L wraps your panties around his long, pale cock, pumping it up and down, the texture only adding to the intense pleasure. This was different from watching you, it was less intimate. He wasn't getting off to your sweet face, or that perfect ass, or those jiggly tits, or those plush thighs...he was getting off to your underwear. Thats how he made it make sense.

Yan!L can't keep them once he's gotten his cum all over them, over and over again. They're not perfect anymore. He'll throw them away, and get a new pair the next time.

Yan!L eventually decides cameras and clothes aren't enough. He wants to see you up close.

Yan!L finds himself seated on the edge of your bed. It was incredible luck that you were such a heavy sleeper. Your little snores and snorts and grumbles are perfection. It was so intimate, in a way. Not sex, but...domestic. he wanted domesticity, if it was with you. You shift, and he holds his breath. Thankfully, it was just to curl onto your side. He wanted to touch you, to reach out and caress your skin like he deserved to- but he couldn't. He was wrong, he didn't deserve you. This was a puzzle. To win was to have your devotion. To win was to do anything it took to get that earnestly. To win was to deserve you.

Yan!L discovered you've started seeing someone. You didn't tell him, but you texted one of your friends about it. He hopes this is just a date or two, otherwise he'd have to intervene...

Yan!L awkwardly pats your shoulder as you cry. As you vent about how it's not fair, how he was too young. Personally, L thinks it was necessary for the common good, but he understands you need time. On the upside, you say he's a true friend for helping you through all of this. The title needs reworking, but he likes that he can be close to you on some level.

Yan!L is growing tired of having to wait. He was patient, but he needed you so badly. He needed you to put your head in his lap, to pet his hair and tell him you loved him, to promise never to leave. He needed you naked beneath him, on top of him, on any part of him, just to know the taste. He needed you slathered in cream and strawberries, between his fingers, on his tongue, in his stomach.

Yan!L doesn't want to cut you off, he doesn't want to deprive you of contact with your loved ones, but he was beginning to think taking a month off to attend a handful of funerals was better than taking multiple days a year for various birthdays, parental holidays, and Christmas. However, he could stay placid, for you. Your happiness mattered to him. And your friends and family mattered to you.

Yan!L didn't want your internship to end. Not like this. He couldn't bare to be alone on this case, without your comfort. So, he offered you a job as his personal employee. He half expected rejection, which was why he had your arrest forms ready to go, but to his delight, you agreed. You were excited to work with him, which excited him even more. There was no need to detain you, and for that he was joyous.

Yan!L is surprised when you come to his room door, trembling and blushing. He thinks for a moment that you're upset, until you confess your feelings for him. He's silent as you do, his pokerface perfect as usual. He only holds his hand out. You take it, and he plants a chaste kiss on your cheek. "Thank you for your honesty."

Yan!L finally gets your attention, exactly how he wants it. He gets to spend every waking hour in your presence. He gets to possess every part of you, mind, body, and soul. He gets your head in his lap as you choke on his cock, your hand in his hair as he bites into your shoulder, your proclamations of love and devotion as you beg for more past the gag in your mouth. He loves you, and will do anything to keep you with him.

Yan!L has already decided. When he dies, you will join him in his casket, one way or another.

After all, he's finally won.

He deserves it.

[fuck-customers]

I’m a touch typist, have been since high school, so my favorite little flex is maintaining eye contact with customers as I enter their phone number into our rewards system. I love when people notice and mention it, but today I had a customer who was really impressed by it, and as she left she told me to stay awesome 🥰

That's why I hated the flat panel register upgrade my store did a lifetime ago. The registers were all together on a cabinet 90° from the customer. Meaning if I am facing the customer the register is behind me to the right. Most people would stand to half face the customer and half face the register. I would only turn when someone paid cash and the drawer would open.

Every so often someone would realize I would key in produce codes and phone numbers almost behind my back. But mostly it was Karen's complaining "you need to watch what you are doing so you don't over charge me."

-Rodney

[hereticpriest]

Bite

Rating: Mature?

Relationship: Laszlo Kreizler x reader

Warnings: Heavily implied odaxelagnia, period typical misogyny, period typical relationship culture, period typical discussion of a physical disability.

Note: Kincsem means 'my treasure' and szerelmem means 'my love' in Hungarian.

Warmth sinks into your back as you lean heavily against the strong legs and plush sofa behind you, chasing away the chill you might've had from sitting on the cold floor. Your upper body is wedged somewhat between bony knees and soft thighs, holding you in place in case you were to fall asleep. It wouldn't be the first time. A blissful sigh leaves your lips as you nuzzle your cheek against your arms, pillowed beneath your head and draped lazily over your dear doctor's thigh. The fingers of his non-dominant hand comb shyly through your hair, still learning to touch you with what he refers to as his deformity when he manages to speak of it.

His voice, thickly accented when he's as relaxed as he is now in the fire's crackling light with you at his feet, lilts over the words of whatever book he's chosen to read for you tonight. You haven't absorbed much of it, though you believe it to be a text rather than a novel - delving into the science behind love, how quaint - since he keeps pausing to underline passages as he goes. He doesn't ever seem to do that with novels - that's your territory. He often remarks that he likes to read some of his favourites again after you've made your way through them simply because he likes to read the little notes you've jotted down in the margins.

You let out a plaintive noise as he removes his hand from your hair, blinking open heavy-lidded eyes to look up at him with all the disgruntled displeasure of a toddler told no. His eyebrow raises at you as if to ask what you plan to do about it, and you scoff, shifting your arm ever so slightly to give you room to sink your teeth into the meat of his thigh. He yelps, fisting your hair in order to wrench your head back, and you let him. Your lips form a smug grin, eyes half-lidded and smouldering. The would-be pain of having your hair pulled bleeds into pleasure instead, sparking like wildfire under your skin.

"No biting, kincsem." He murmurs, guiding your head back down to his leg delicately for a man who’d just yanked on your hair. You wait on baited breath to see if he'll keep touching you, and hum with delight when he does, indulging you despite the fact that it reinforces your unfortunately bratty behaviour. He's been trying to get you out of the habit of biting since you met, with very little success. First, as a typist at the Kreizler Institute with a bad habit of biting the skin around your nails - stress induced, due to the pressure from your parents to marry instead of working for him. He had recommended a healthy outlet for your stress and a set of gloves to redirect you, and while the gloves did work when you weren’t actively typing, you hadn’t yet found an outlet for your stress. Then, your parents found a suitor for you willing to overlook your unfortunate desire to make something of yourself beyond a wife and mother, which led to you biting the thenar eminence of your dominant hand until you had to wear gloves to hide the marks and bruises. The gloves were somewhat of a deterrent when you wore them, as you learned to get quite adept at wearing them while typing, and had to pull them up to bite properly.

As you were reluctantly contemplating the aforementioned suitor's offer of courtship, Laszlo came to you with an offer of his own, a decidedly sweeter offer despite your parent's distaste for foreigners and lack of respect for his profession. He was still a wealthy man (wealthier than the alternative) of good standing (relative to the man they'd found for you) with a somewhat prestigious job, who wished to marry you with some level of expediency. Up until that point, you'd done your best to look at Laszlo as Dr. Kreizler - your boss first, and a man a distant second - in order to avoid any misunderstandings or scandals. You did not acknowledge his good looks, or his delectable accent, or the way his eyes seemed to see right through you. None of those things were relevant to your job. Somehow, you’d managed to do quite well in removing the man of him from the equation.

When he proposed a courtship, it had not been a way to save you from a worse fate like you might have feared it to be if you'd ever even had an inkling to the idea that he might ask. Which you hadn’t, because you had blinded yourself to him willfully to achieve a healthy working relationship. An entire world of possibility opened up between you when he forced your hand and made you finally acknowledge him as something other than your polite and kind boss, Dr. Kreizler. Your good doctor had asked you with sweetly pink cheeks and a flustered tongue, an honest fear in his eyes as he attempted quite needlessly to be forthright about his faults and how he might make up for them. You knew who he was. As you allowed yourself to think of him as an option, you realised how good of a man he truly was. He wasn’t a perfect man, certainly. He had a habit of being manipulative, and was far too shrewd not to recognize it. He lacked some social graces, which had given him the ability to see people that society had shunned, but also made him a bit abrasive at times. He was profoundly intelligent, which led him to sometimes confront people with the things they did not want to be faced with.

And yet, he was kind. Compassionate. He saw beyond your pretty wrapping to the heart of you, and appreciated both. He indulged you even when you were difficult. He gave everyone a chance based on merit, not class. His love warmed you like a fire, and very rarely burned you in equal measure. He was incredibly handsome, distinguished, and carried his age well. He dressed well, groomed himself appropriately and his voice made you quake. His arm did little if anything at all to quell your passion for him, once he lit the fire. All it took was one spark for you to burn.

It was as if the moment he began courting you, you began to see things you had never noticed before. Things that had always been there, and yet you had been completely blind to them. Despite the difficulty it gave him, he always pulled out your chair for you. He offered you his arm anytime you two had to walk anywhere together, and helped you in and out of the carriage despite having Cyrus there to do it for him. You, quite by accident, noticed him staring at you in the quiet moments in his office while you were typing up his notes for him, or taking his dictation. It wasn't the first time, though you had always passed it off as the man thinking, the direction of his gaze less important than the thoughts running through his brilliant mind. It wasn’t until you knew the fire in his eyes when he looked upon something he wanted that you began to recognize it in his gaze whenever he was looking at you.

Once, long before your courtship began, he had invited you to dinner with his motley crew of investigators at the Delmonico. You remember playfully remarking that you would have to buy a new dress for the occasion, only to find a dressbox laying on your desk the following morning when you came into work. Your insistence that he not waste his money on you was met with a disdainful look at the simple notion and a reminder that it would be impolite to refuse a gift given in earnest. Your parents would have had a fit if they knew you accepted such a gift from a man, but what they didn’t know couldn’t possibly hurt you. Every compliment from Ms. Howard and Mr. Moore made Laszlo subtly preen, apparently pleased to have picked something that suited you so well. You had thought his behaviour a tad odd - inviting the group's admiration of your dress, subtle as it may have been, was certainly not the doctor's usual style.

You had kept yourselves to courtship rules, holding hands only in presence of a chaperone for your good public image, what little remained. He took you on several long, chaperoned walks in between dinners with your family, and exchanged letters with you despite the fact that he saw you nearly every day for work. Your engagement swiftly followed, perhaps a bit faster than might’ve been acceptable if your parents hadn’t been in such a rush to be rid of you. The first time he kissed you, you swore you heard and felt him whimper. He was endlessly gentle with you, cherishing you in ways you never expected. He loved you long before you even knew that was a possibility, and he had hungered. Your next bite was to his lower lip, and then his chin, and then his neck. Instead of using gloves to redirect you, he now wore higher collars or guided your nipping mouth further down under his clothing.

It was a happy marriage. It is a happy marriage. Only a couple of months in and you’ve never been happier in your entire life. Your doctor, your husband, takes very good care of you. You want for nothing, except a moment more of his time. Just one more look. One more touch. One more kiss. You’re voracious - he’s accused you multiple times of being spoiled with a fondness in his voice that said he was perfectly okay with that. You think he’s been so hungry for you for so long that it’s only fair that you suffer the same ailment.

Your doctor combs your hair back from your face, leaning over you just the slightest bit to see your open eyes before he speaks, “You, my little wife, have not heard a single word I have said for the last hour, have you?”

You smile against your arm.

“Oh, no, my love. I was definitely listening.” You correct him, and he sighs, stroking the pad of his thumb over your plush lips and inviting a bite he knows is coming. He barely even flinches as you clamp your teeth around his skin, then he does shudder when you pull his thumb into your mouth.

“Some day, I will rid you of this compulsion.” he murmurs, and you bite around the base of his thumb before letting him pull free of you. His hand slips below the neck of your nightgown, and you shiver at the wet swipe across your nipple.

“You hardly want to, husband. Deny it all you like, we both know you like when I bite.”

He smirks, his strong hand slipping under your arms to help you stand on shaky, numb legs. Despite himself, he likes when you walk like a baby deer around him, whether due to his nightly (and often daily) passions, or simply because you like to kneel at his feet so often until your legs go numb.

“Come to bed, szerelmem. I think there’s still an inch of my neck that is yet to be bruised.” He teases, and you laugh, leaning into him as he helps you towards your bedroom. You’ve no doubt he’ll find yet another way to make your legs shake before the end of the night.

[dykepuffs]

I want to argue that Dracula is the first work of Nokiawave.

-It's heavily concerned with new technology which drives the plot: Telegrams between everyone being collated into the text, Dr Seward's audiolog on the phonograph which Mina types up, mass transit in the form of both trains and Tube, steamships (and specifically the contrast between steam and sail) and loads of minor examples.

-It's concerned with new social technologies and social change: Mina is a typist, a respectable modern job for a young middle-class woman. Jon is a clerk and is working in an exciting emerging market. Dr Seward uses all the modern methods and keeps up with theory and scientific developments. Lucy is pleased to have plenty of male friends, not just to be seeking to marry. And it contrasts this with both the "good" Old Ways - The helpful, hopeless, peasants who give Jon his anti-vampire icon, the "broad minded" but also clearly steeped in superstition Van Helsing - and the "bad" Old Ways - Obviously, Dracula and also the enslaved Roma (Who, oh god, I I have to write about them in the context of Romanian chattel slavery of Roma, which was technically abolished in stages throughout the 2nd half of the 19th century, but where emancipation came with enforced sedentarism and obligation to a landowner - And where many remained enslaved in all practical terms into the C20th, and specifically in Transylvania the effects of Maria Theresia's Four Decrees that were still in effect that meant they would both be indentured to a landowner as "new farmers" and their children would be kidnapped by the state and given to white families for "reeducation" - but most people analysing the text seem to treat them as willingly Evil Minions).

-It's full of the anxieties about what Eastern and Southern Europe will do as they "modernise and open" (ie become financially and culturally available to the West) and specifically the fear of the Rich Slavic* Oligarch (to a certain kind of British mind, anyone east of Berlin and north of Athens is Slavic, sigh) spreading their malign influence in the Capital Cities of the West. Even the touch that Dracula was once a warlord but is now a slick investor and man-about-town.

-It has lots of continent hopping, focusing on the ~local colour~ in Transylvania and the contrast between both the "superstitious" locals and the traveller who finds it all very quaint and interesting but not very serious, and between the poverty of the normal people and the wealth and seclusion of Dracula, and then likewise giving us whistle-stop tours of the interesting bits of Whitby and London, making the city as much of a character as the humans. The Westerner abroad is seen as just a natural phenomenon, but the foreigners* in Britain are notable and exotic.

- It has a mysterious superweapon/monster which is hidden around a big western capital city, where most people (and even the police and regular military) have no idea what it is and are powerless to stop it, and a lot of tension lies on the crux of "What happens if this gets out here, surrounded by all these civilians?" - In a way that treats the mythological East* as a natural place for atrocities to occur, but them happening in London is a shock.

-It has spying: Jon sneaking around the locked-up Carfax with his miniature camera, trying to take pictures to find out what Dracula is doing in there, could have absolutely been in a 1990s thriller. Likewise, meeting in Harrods to avoid suspicion because it's a plausible place for a fashionable young lady to be, surrounded by anonymising crowds.

-It has information warfare: Dracula reading up on British politics, studying maps of London, paying clerks and using shell companies to disguise his property acquisitions, and likewise the heroes using the telegram and port records and the sheer mass of paperwork generated by his activities to track Dracula, which feels like close kin to the Nokiawave staples of finding someone on cctv or by their credit card, or their car registration being flagged at a checkpoint. Jonathan lamenting the lack of an Ordnance Survey in Europe and the unmapped bits of Transylvania specifically really fits with the idea of the "Control Grid" posited by Gregory Flaxman who writes a lot about surveillance and information control in cinema.

-It has a team of both specialists and laypeople who were dragged into the action by circumstance, and much relies on their relationships. The laypeople's "unimportant" skills (Jonathan's knowledge of property and finance especially, and Mina's skills with logistics as well as her innovation and bravery in using herself as a conduit to Dracula) turn out to save the day. The team is multi-national and basically represents The Free World (TM), as well as allowing for jokes about national stereotypes.

-Mina being notably not a damsel in distress, but instead using her personal connection to the villain to absolutely ruin him in ways that nobody else could, is very much like the role of many women in Nokiawave films: She may be traumatised and in danger, more than anyone else because of the villain's obsession with her, but she's smart and deadly and willing to take risks to complete the mission.

-It ends with a massive cross-continental vehicle chase with tonnes of explosions.

[asenith]

lets give alan a keyboard and see how that man's 13 year typewriter muscle memory can destroy all other professional touch-typists in contemporary era

[buckbuckbarnesstuff]

Ongoing/Unfinished series

Get yourself a snack, enjoy these wonderful series and leave some love for the creative writers :)

♤ - includes sexual themes

Bucky fic recs Masterlist

Also, his hair is so perfect

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Time after time [60.6k+] @intrepidacious

Bucky x time witch!Reader

Summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

{personal comment: Everything about this is perfect. From the characters, to the tiniest details. I'm in love}

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Reflections @breadqueen95

Bucky x Hydra experiment!Reader

Summary: Steve and Natasha lead the fight against Hydra in 2014, they had no way of knowing just how many secrets there were left to uncover. They suddenly have one more person to add to their list as they search for Bucky Barnes.

Fast forward to 2018. Bucky Barnes is living with the team at the Avengers Compound, trying to settle into life as an Avenger and as a free man. Steve and Natasha, with the help of the third part of their leadership trio Tony Stark, have finally managed to track down the human subject that escaped four years ago.

And you...you've been on the run for four years. Desperately avoiding any detection by hiding your identity, resisting your memories, and suppressing any flicker of power raging to get out. What happens when an unexpected arrival forces you to face everything you've been running from?

{personal comment: This is the first series I've read on this app and it's still stuck in my head. It’s that good}

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Smog & Spirits @artficlly ♤

Gangsterboss!Bucky x Witch!Reader (fantasy 1920s Gang au)

Summary: Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

{personal comment: I'm so excited about this. I love the reader's powers and the storyline is so interesting. I'll be patiently waiting for more of this delicious piece}

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Friendship is Mandatory @sarahwroteathing

Bucky x reader

Summary: With the help of a new therapist and a recklessly kind and unapologetically damaged new roommate, Bucky learns how to start living instead of just surviving.

{personal comment: I enjoyed the insights in Bucky's therapy session and how they grew a friendship. Also I love the reader's sarcasm. Would certainly love to read more of this}

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Moth to a Flame @tmpestuous

College!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes was the love of your life, and you were his. There was no denying it. But after two years of dating, you found yourselves on different paths and decided it was best to go your separate ways. The only problem was how drawn you’d always be to him even after moving on.

{personal comment: I was so anxious when I started this and it gave me so many feelings. I truly appreciate and love how soft and sweet Bucky stays even after the breakup and the way they still interact and communicate with each other. It’s beautiful and I'm so excited to read more}

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All We've Got is Time @hispeculiartreasure

40s!Window Washer!Bucky x Typist!Reader

Summary: In a world where Bucky never falls off a train and Steve lives after crashing the plane, Bucky is trying to adjust to a new peace-time normal. Spring 1946, Reader starts a brand new typist position in one of the many New York office buildings after being displaced from her factory job once the war ended. An unconventional friendship starts which leads to all the romance and fluff.

{personal comment: This is such a wonderful series, so deeply touching and meaningful. I love all these characters and interactions and even if this won't ever be continued, I'll keep it in my heart and hope people will stumble upon it, it deserves more recognition}

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Ashes to Embers @redwing4life ♤

Firefighter!Neighbor!Bucky x reader

Summary: When an unfortunate event forces you to confront the crush you’ve had on your neighbour since you moved in, you learn that Bucky knows you better than you know yourself. As the two of you grow closer, how does he deal with his past without pushing you away?

{personal comment: Loved Bucky being vulnerable and letting her be there for him. I also enjoyed the teasing and the way it got so heated, damn}

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The Day after Yesterday @bombsonboard

40s!Bucky x reader

Summary: Time travel is volatile, dangerous, playing god. And then sometimes  it drops you in just the right place at the perfect time. It’s a matter of perspective. You decide.

{personal comment: This made me realize just how much I love 40s!Bucky! He's so charming and the storyline is really interesting and I'm dying to read more of it}

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The Bet @bucky-at-bedtime

College!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: You’ve been at college for a year and have managed to avoid the party lifestyle. That is until you meet Bucky Barnes and he decides to educate you on the benefits of being social.

{personal comment: I love oblivious idiots in love! This is wholesome. Bucky is lovely and I enjoyed the many friendships with the others}

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Point of Ignition @sunriserose1023 ♤

College!Fighter!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: A fresh start.

That’s what you’re focusing on. You’re leaving your past behind you and starting fresh, joining your best friend at college. You’re focused on your studies and nothing is going to get in the way of you being “normal,” for once.

Enter Bucky Barnes.

The campus bad boy has his sights set on you, but you are determined not to become just another notch in his bedpost. When his best friend falls for your best friend, the two of you are stuck in close proximity, and you are set on staying strictly in the friend zone.

However, the more time you spend with him, the more you like him, and the more time he spends with you, the less he feels like hanging around anyone else. You’re set on being just friends, but Bucky has other ideas on that, and he’s determined to convince you to follow his lead.

{personal comment: So glad I stumbled upon this, I'm obsessed. I love this dynamic between her and Bucky and I can’t wait to read more}

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[gemteeth]

Pathologic OCs :D (excluding Ilya)

Irina Olgimskya - Married Vlad Sr for his money, helps the Town via manipulating him. She loves his kids. She helps the Healers as well. Also having an affair with Katerina.

Alana Burakhova - Studies volcanic activity, gems/minerals. Married Artemy, their twins weren't planned but they both adore them. They divorced when Artemy learned he's gay but they are still the closest of friends. She lives in the Capital.

Inessa Burakhova - Ornithology, more social/outgoing than her sister. Likes to dress up, keep tidy, loves her hair being done. Prefers to speak when spoken to.

Ksana Burakhova - Botany, very introverted and quiet. Hates shoes and flashy clothes. Sensitive to loud sounds, likes to be outside as much as possible, hates having her hair brushed/done. Usually speaks only if it's worth saying.

Lada Kuznetsova - Inquisitor, peanut body type, BIG POOFY HAIR. Bubbly, "good cop", very much a lesbian, has a huge crush on Aglaya. (not much on her)

Tseren - Steppe boy (part of the Kin), Ksana's boyfriend, strong, great cook, has four siblings (he's the second youngest) (not much on him)

Divij Khabra - Traveling sculptor from India. Very laid back, enjoys smoking, sculpts with clay and chiseling stone/marble. Finds a muse in Peter Stamatin, develops feelings for him.

Rosemary Sidorova - Typist from the Capital, dropped out of medical school to take care of her child, invited to live in the Town via the Kaine family to teach at the school. Has a child with Andrey Stamatin who doesn't remember having the child.

Vanya Sidorov - Rosemary's older brother, was in the frontlines of the war but was discharged due to a severe facial injury from a bayonet fight. Moves with Rosemary to the town to better manage his shellshock. Meets Lin while recovering from his injury.

Zhaohui Lin - Chinese born medical student who volunteered as a field medic. Very cheerful, hard working, upbeat! (not much on him yet)

Aleksia Dankovskya - Daniil's twin sister, were born conjoined by the shoulder blade/shoulder. She and her brother are the type of twins are the exact same person. She has a doctorate in forensic medicine and an office in the same building Daniil is in. The two have the same hobbies, habits, coping, recreational choices and fashion. Both have touch-sensory issues.

[greenticklerdreams]

A concert pianist who knows the piece by heart.

A touch typist who can bust out 100 wpm with no errors.

That's how well I want to know your body. I want to my hands to fall upon each and every one of your most sensitive spots with practiced, casual precision. My fingers slotting in with out even thinking. Knowing just what reaction I'll get from each and every touch.

[thedevillionaire]

If I may be greedy, 3, 4, 6, 9 (yes I am 👀ing Cerb) & 11 for Cerberus and Kia?

Greedy is totally fine! This is a nice bunch, too. :D

3) What song describes your OC?

Cerberus has two main "theme songs": Dance With Fire by Operus, and The Cage by Attrition. He's had more than one Underworldian song written about him, too, though I don't have actual music for those, just lyrics, due to me being a craptacular singer. Only one of these is currently anywhere online: Green Fire

For Kia, Love An Adventure by Pseudo Echo.

4) What song describes your OC and their partner/love interest?

As a couple, they have a few, actually, but the main two are A Touch of Evil by Judas Priest, and Body and Soul by the Sisters of Mercy.❤️

6) If your OC is in a fantasy setting, what profession would they be in the modern day?

Cut time!

This is really tricky for Cerberus, actually, and the only thing I'm confident of is that he'd be his own boss. Possibly the world's hottest occult bookstore owner/operator lol. But I can also see him not working a "regular" sort of job at all, and being the kind of super-successful investor that can live off passive income and do whatever he wants in his (significant) spare time, and that may not be a whole lot different - although with a "mortal plane" skew, of course - to what he does now.

lol maybe he'd be a cult leader. 🤣 He was mortally pyrokinetic, after all. Kia had all sorts of odd jobs when she was mortal. She's been a masseuse, a supermarket checkout chick, a fashion consultant/assistant, a pole dancer, a telemarketer, a typist... She'd probably settle into something customer-service focused that didn't require a degree/formal qualifications.

9) How does your OC handle their physical health? Do they take care of themselves?

Cerberus is excellent at this...until he gets sick. 😂😂 He's very physically fit, in great shape, looks after his physical needs overall extremely well. Eats well, exercises, is very hygiene-conscious. He's kind of a workaholic and should almost certainly take more time off for just relaxation, but that's about as lax as he gets about his general physical wellbeing. And he doesn't often get sick at all. BUT. Partly due to infrequency/unfamiliarity with getting ill, partly just that he's always so resentful that it even happened, how fucking dare this happen, that he's just...patently terrible at accepting his fate about it. 😅 So when the Healing meds don't instantly and completely cure things, he's prone to completely disregarding everything he's told to do, because it's already proved pointless again, as usual, so why not try [insert probably bad idea here] instead. Kia's made things way better for him in this regard, and he's the best of all possible selves with her around, but still. He's a notoriously dreadful patient and he deserves every bit of that reputation lol.

Kia is also very fit, although less hygiene-conscious, and also far more likely to socialise in large groups, etc. She gets sick a regular amount, and is much better at looking after herself when it happens, too. She gets a bit cranky about it at times, sure, but she's pretty accepting of it as just a part of life, and just...deals. Not to say she doesn't enjoy a good spoiling when she's unwell. Cerberus, for all his failings at being a good patient, actually makes a wonderful caretaker.

11) What was your inspiration for your OC?

Cerberus was supposed to be a one-off serve-a-purpose temporary creation and problem-solver. I made too many OCs in early Underworld times and thought if I just had...like half of them killed off in one fell swoop, sort of thing, I could get back on track, haha. Anyway, so, he was meant to just come in, do damage, fuck off.

He...did not do that. 🤷‍♀️ I mean, he absolutely did do what I, um, brought him in for. He just also decided to stick around and take over the place afterwards.

IDEK. I'm just a dumb scribe lol. And I genuinely do not remember what/who inspired Kia, but she was also an unexpected "success story". She was an Incept, brought into the Underworld's Vampirism Caste by another OC pretty much nobody's met here - Vesuvius - and just...went about being Kia. And here we are. 🫠

[sarasa-cat]

When you are a very fast touch typists

And you sit down at your keyboard without realizing that it has shifted just a little

smf s;; pg yjr diffrm rbrtuyjomh ;ppld ;olr yjod