#back to only being able to draw on Sundays

[chaithetics]

maybe you could do one around toms bachelor party where stewy has to leave bc his gf is having a panic attack? you could make that super fluffy

An Addams Kind of Love

Pairing: Stewy Hosseini x fem reader (reader has anxiety). Word count: 1.6K Warnings: Anxiety, panic attacks, there are no physical descriptions of reader- it's you bestie! Reader is just called Stewy's girlfriend so you can read her however you like :) Fluff/comfort fic! A/N: Thank you for this request! I'm so sorry how late this is! I hope you all enjoy this Succession Sunday treat, we are so back! This is the first fic for my Sickcember event! You can read more Stewy fics here and more. Reblogs and comments are appreciated! I'd love to hear from you!

It didn’t take much, it never really did and you hated it. Sometimes you were completely fine, you could be having the time of your life with friends and then a thought would enter your head like a dark cloud and ruin it. Or you’d feel anxious critters nestle into your brain as you laid in bed, after you’d finally caught some sleep you’d wake up and the day would start with anxiety haunting you from the get go. 

You’d spent the whole evening at the Rhomboid party with a superficial smile plastered onto your face and a feeling of dread festering in your stomach. The anxiety had made you feel too nauseous to try and distract yourself with any of the perfectly arranged nibbles. But you did have a drink you’d been able to occasionally sip on, your fingers were clutching onto the glass so tightly it was a miracle it hadn’t shattered yet.

The sounds in the underground venue just echoed louder in your head, the conversations, music, even the sound of your shoes was just overwhelming you and your anxiety more. The fabric around your chest and torso was feeling too tight and you couldn’t breath, all you were inhaling was shallow. Your body started to pace away from everyone, desperate to lock yourself in some room and try to calm down before all the perverts claimed them. 

Your eyes were wide and darting around as you tried to quietly excuse yourself, Alex tried to check in with you but you just felt hyper-aware of your dysregulated breathing and knew that your forehead and pits were starting to get damp. Words didn’t feel so easy right now. 

“Panic attack?” He asked, familiar with your anxiety. You nodded and walked off, finding one of the small empty rooms to sit in and try to ground yourself. Alex waited to see which room you went into before getting Stewy. 

Alex walked over to Stewy and whispered in his ear while he talked to Sandy and Kendall, they were too invested in the corporate bomb that had been dropped to notice Stewy’s attention conveniently evaporating. 

“So apparently my girlfriend’s having a panic attack. I’m going to let you two just catch up now. Cool?” He says as he puts a hand on Kendall’s shoulder in an effort to be friendly and reassuring. He looks at Kendall before walking off, well aware of the shit he’s being in this situation to his oldest friend. 

But money talks, even when you’re with your oldest chum, money and winning gets to speak first if you’re like Stewy. Ken would do the same though, Stewy knew he wasn’t anywhere near the point of being self aware to clock it though, he was still wrapped up in despair like the damaging blanket it was. 

You were also a bigger priority, Stewy would still think that way, even if your anxiety didn’t give him a convenient exit to uncomfortable conversations, he adored you and just being in your presence made him fully understand what Gomez Addams was high on. 

Stewy walks off through the maze of people and conversations ranging from pleasure to business as you sit in a room with your fingers digging into your legs, if only they were a little longer you’re sure they’d draw blood, struggling to breathe. 

He steps into the dark room softly opening and closing the door, he thinks it feels too cold for a party as sleazily vibrant as the one on the other side of the door. But he recognises that the slightly cooler temperature is for the best. Stewy steps closer to you, his big brown doe eyes taking in your huddled up, anxious form and the way that he can see tears glistening on your perfect cheeks as you look up at him. 

“Hey… Hey, baby… What’s going on, huh?” He asks as he steps closer and puts a hand out to gently rub your shoulder, he touches you in a soft circular pattern as his eyes move across your face analysing you for any tells. Any signs of what’s wrong or what he can do to make it better. 

You felt awful. It had started with feeling like your thoughts were getting louder, too loud and that there were too many of them fighting and bouncing around your head and then the lights and music felt like too much. Everything was too fucking loud and too much. Before you knew it, you couldn’t breathe, you kept trying to inhale but your body was refusing to suck in the air and no matter how many deep breaths you tried it felt like the oxygen was stuck, that it couldn’t properly reach your lungs. And you definitely couldn’t feel it in your stomach like one of those guided meditations would tell you to do right now.

You try to suppress a cry and speak but it comes out as a choked sob and you just wave your hand and then start rubbing your eye and you blink your eyes shut tightly. You can’t describe it. You don’t know where to start. Stewy quickly sits down and wraps his arms around you, gently pulling you closer to him with your back to his chest. 

He keeps his arms around you just like the security blanket that he’s become and lifts a hand slightly up, encouraging you to hold it. You look at his golden hands, they’re warm but not clammy like yours are right now. 

Your eyes follow each of the small lines you can on his palm, visually tracing them as you run your fingers over his hand before holding it and squeezing it. He doesn’t complain, he never would in a moment like this. And his complaints were always arrogant, never over things like this. 

“I’m not judging… You’re safe here.” He whispers slowly as he continues to rub your arm. “It’s going to pass soon, I promise.” 

He’s so tender as you feel him against you, your breathing is still shallow and too quick but you try to focus on the feeling of his warm hand against yours, how it’s soft and tender. It’s soothing. 

“Just breathe and we’ll sit through this, I’m here.” Stewy speaks softly and you tilt your head, closing your eyes as you feel him rubbing your arms and every muscle he can reach with his free hand while holding you. You can feel him press his lips against your neck and the back of your head, they’re gentle and light. 

And slowly, very slowly it starts to become a bit easier. 

You keep your eyes closed and focus on the soft feeling of the pads of his fingers rubbing a comforting circle on your arm and the anxiety slowly starts to ebb out. Like he said, it eventually passes and your breathing becomes a bit more stable and doesn’t feel so difficult. 

The tight feeling in your chest stops and you take a shaky but deep breath and tilt your head. You blink back and move a hand to rub your eyes gently. 

“Feeling a bit better, babe?” He asks softly, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

“Y-yeah.” You reply and nod. 

You lean back into him. 

You lean back into Stewy and take an easier deep breath and relax into his touch, he’s a comfortable constant. He wraps his arms around you and presses a kiss to the top of your head as you stay cuddled into him and in his lap. He loves holding you and wrapping his arms around you, he’d spend his life always with at least one hand on you if he could. He’ll have to think about the logistics for that now, he can do that later though. Now he’s just enjoying you. 

After a moment Stewy starts to  nibble on your ear, you take in a quivering breath and tilt your head away before letting out a shaky laugh. Stewy lets out a small chuckle and rubs your hip, his smile growing at that sound and how your body shakes with a small laugh and not a tremor of worry. 

He goes to nibble your earlobe again and you laugh more. “You’re a weirdo.” You whisper and rub your eyes with your arm, your forearm picks up the teary residue from your cheeks. 

“And you’re my anxious weirdo. A hot one though.” He bites your ear again and wraps his arms around you more. He buries his head into the side of your neck. “Like a really hot one.” 

You sigh and close your eyes, you can feel his warm breath against your skin and it’s what you try to focus on in the moment. 

“So, you feel like leaving now? We can go before a Roy comes and tries to bite my fucking head off.” Stewy says before pressing a couple more kisses to your neck, you chuckle and nod. Spending the night out of there sounds pretty great and you can cuddle Stewy with a weighted blanket at home. 

“Yeah, that’s- that sounds good.” You nod. Stewy smiles and affectionately but playfully gives you kisses from your neck to along your shoulder. He continues with his kisses before he finally pulls himself away from you long enough for you both to get up and leave so he can spend the rest of the night showering you in affection and care.

Tags: @ateliefloresdaprimavera @thegildedblogger @mittos @biblichorr @angelicasavages

@foreverasleep717 @coocoolahh @jolie989 @piquedpizza @nadja-antipaxos

@inknopewetrust @superficialfeelings @thrilllifying @punisherinthealps

[nemocat-el]

Some practice

[honey-skulls]

Huge vent

Yesterday was the welcome thing for the beginning of the school year, only from 15h to 16h30. Still managed to end up late. Nothing to do either, just sit there and listen to the explanation of how the year is gonna go. Still came back home EXHAUSTED

First day of school and I'm already an hour late

They also said that if we come late, the teachers aren't gonna let us in

So now I'm just frozen, sitting on my chair after finally managing to prepare, with no idea on if i waste the little energy i have going to school in the heat only to not be let in

But they also said they'd do that last year, and they never did. So maybe they're not doing it again and I'm just wasting time when they would let me in

I don't know and that's the problem

And even if i can, the mental image of everyone in class turning to stare at me and judge while i enter in the middle of the class, because i spent more than half of last year being hours late if not straight up missing "for no reason" is too much (because this country has dog shit psychology knowledge that has been studied to be around 50 years late, and they know nothing about invisible disabilities. Not like I'd ever even tell them. This class sucks in all minorities fronts)

But also I'm literally already thousands of euros in debt for this damn school and every class i miss is money wasted

I don't know what to do

[sysig]

Things I’m aiming for: Having a Weekly TV Guide this Sunday

[ardensregias]

somnophilia (with or without consent you choose) with aventurine or sunday...

alright 👍🏻 i'm going with aventurine for this one, since his banner is tmrw yippee :3 may all avennie wanters become avennie havers ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

nsfw, consensual somnophilia, afab!reader, reader wears nightgown, fingering, spooning fucking (i have no idea what it's called (u_u)), established relationship, petnames used: darling, baby, sweetheart, little bunny.

"...my love?"

rubbing his tired eyes to prevent them from closing, aventurine enters your shared house together—only to find you asleep on the couch, filling the otherwise quiet living room with the soft rumble of your snores.

his lips slowly curl up to form a faint smile, little hearts dancing across his beautiful pupils as he steps closer to you, getting a good look at the way the silk gown highlights your curves—all the stress he accumulated from working instantly disappears into thin air the moment he came home to this, like something served only for him in a silver platter.

"you'll catch a cold..." he sighs, stepping closer to take you back inside your shared bedroom—while his eyes gawk at your body, glancing at your chest and legs, before he looks away and try not to act on his desire; you have said that it is fine for him to relief his stress by using you, even in an unconscious state—still, he'd rather not disturb your beauty sleep. slowly, he places you down on to the mattress and kissed your forehead, wishing you a good night's sleep before he stood up, attempting to leave and change his clothes first.

that is, until you decided to roll over, causing your dress to hikes up your thighs, revealing the skimpy and lacy panties underneath—aeons, how could you possibly be any more alluring? he wouldn't be able to hold back himself if this persists.

aventurine gently pushes the silky fabric further up, finally caving in, "'m sorry..." he murmurs, his gloved fingers slowly making their way inside your puffy folds, stimulating the sensitive nerves and getting surprised when he hears the squelching noises, already so loud when he barely does anything—he's starting to suspect that you may have been thinking of him a lot... probably not in an innocent way too (neither did he).

"are you dreaming of me, baby?" his lips curl up to form a small smirk, pumping his digits in and out of you faster, drawing out that little whines of yours that he loves so much, taking them as a sign to continue. he knew very well how skilled his fingers are, after all.

and continue, he did—laying down right behind you, slotting his erection between your thighs as the blunt head slowly slides into your tight little pussy, sucking him in so nicely as if this is the last time you can feel it. you're still so responsive, he thinks, groaning whenever you unconsciously push your ass against him, meeting his thrust while also arching your back.

the blond man tries to be as quiet as possible, burying his face into your nape and trailing kisses down your back with his arms settled on your hips to help him reach deeper and deeper, until his tip finally touches that one gummy spot—one that always makes you moan louder and beg him for more.

"fuck—i'm gonna cum, darling... ah—you're always so good for me..." he stammers, hips stuttering as the slapping noises intensifies, bouncing off the walls along with your soft mewls and his ragged breath.

it doesn't take long before the knot in your stomach snaps, your walls pulsating around his dick before he soon follows, stuffing you full with hot and sticky ropes of cum—so full that some of it form a ring around the base when he attempts to pull out. it surprises him to see just how pent-up he's been, but a sudden whimper from you brought snap him back to reality.

"'venturine... more, please..." for a moment, he was stunned—are you awake? or are you simply dreaming of doing this with him? the thought of being in your mind 24/7 easily flusters him, making his still-erect cock twitch inside you.

well, as a good boyfriend, what else can he do except to fulfill his little bunny's wishes?

his thumb finds its way back to your swollen nub, rubbing patterns across the sensitive area before he shoves his shaft back in, "as you wish, sweetheart,"

[qu1cks1lversb1tch]

☆ Silver's Sinful Sunday ☆

Week One: Alastor

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Smut essentially, Fem Reader, Alastor has a massive breeding kink for some reason, mainly mindless rambles of a tired woman who's down bad, tentacles 👀, no use of y/n

Word Count: 466

“Fuck!” You groaned into your sheets, eyes rolling into the back of your head as Alastor pounded into you from behind. 

It wasn't like him to be so careless — so needy. . . But when he saw you in that pretty little dress about to leave with Angel Dust, he almost couldn't resist the urge to rip it off of you and have you right there in the lobby. 

With the way your hips naturally swayed when you walked, something within him snapped and he couldn't let you leave — not when someone else would get to see how fucking perfect you looked. 

But only he would get to see the way you looked so beautiful — so perfect — constantly coming undone beneath him as he rammed into you, whether it be in missionary or thunderous backshots that have the head of his angry cock bumping up against your cervix in a way that should be painful, but somehow it floods your body with pleasure every time. 

“Such foul language, Mon chéri.” The static voice growled in your ear, his breath growing ragged as he bit into your shoulder, his sharp teeth drawing blood that elicited a whiny moan from you, muffled by the mattress. 

He was getting close once again — you'd lost count of how many times he filled you up in just one session. You stopped being able to count after the third time. 

One tentacle slid between your open legs, rubbing against your clit while two others held your hands behind your back. 

You clenched around him so beautifully — he could only imagine your fucked out face while you milked his cock during yet another one of your orgasms. 

His thrusts grew sloppy, a tell-tale sign that he was even closer than before. . . You knew you weren't going anywhere. . . You knew the dress was not only torn to shreds, but had a sinful mix of your cum, slick, and his cum in a puddle beneath you. 

His cock twitched inside of you and you felt him cum again — it was hard not to feel it with him so deep inside you. He thrusted again, just to feel your pretty little cunt around him before he pulled out and flipped you over gently. 

“Who gets to see you like this? Hmm?” He hummed, rubbing the head of his cock against your sensitive clit. 

You were sure your brain was gonna melt if he tried to lure one more orgasm out of you. 

“You, Alastor. . . Only you!” You slurred as he towered above you, his radio dial eyes flickering with lust and compassion as he stared down at you.

His girl. 

The only soul in the universe he could be himself around. . . The only one he would want to fuck over and over again.

“Right you are, Mon chéri!” 

[gay-dorito-dust]

Could I request Welt, Dan Heng, Sunday, Gepard, and Argenti finding their s/o's poetry collection of them?

Argenti:

Would sit himself down somewhere nearby and read every last poem, each one leaving him with a full heart, butterflies in his stomach and another addition to the list of reasons why he adored your creative soul.

He’s extremely honoured that you decided to chose him as your muse for your poems, for he could feel the love and respect you have for him through your writing, before holding the collections of poetry made in his name against his chest as he beamed with happiness.

He’d even openly praise you for your works if he were to see you later on in the day, which would make you understandably upset and embarrassed that he went through your things, but with the way that he passionately talked about your writing and the look upon his face that clearly shown his appreciation and admiration for poetry.

At the end you’re the one who ends up being flustered whilst Argenti was still sending appraisal after appraisal your way, all the while re-reading your works and proudly reciting his favourite passages without shame.

Sunday:

He thought it was sweet that you write poetry about him.

He didn’t feel as though he was invading your privacy at all, seeing as how he’d like to claim that whatever of yours was now also his by osmosis…totally not because he’s fishing for stuff to hold over you and maintain control should you act out…

Anyway- he’s taking his sweet time reading each and every poem you’ve written with him in mind and smiling at the hold he’s taken within your heart, finding it fascinating what adoration could make one do just to express their whole array of emotions.

It was almost as though they were on some timer that others couldn’t see just to express all their innermost feelings towards the special person in their life. Then again love tended to make people feel as though they were invincible, so the unthinkable and accomplish things that they never thought that they were capable of achieving in the first place.

So it didn’t matter whether or not you were able to wax poetry before him, but it was obvious to Sunday that the moment he had taken hold of your life and your every thought, poetry has became your primary outlet for feelings that you weren’t nearly brave enough to say aloud to him. Rest assured however for that day will come for you to open up about those unspoken feelings of yours…sooner or later.

Gepard:

He feels as though he was invading your privacy by reading your poetry collection and wanted to leave before he’d inevitably get caught, but just as he was about to take his leave, he stopped when the title of the first poem caught his eye;

Everlasting winter

He found himself reading through the first few opening sentences and immeditly made connections between himself and the person within your poem. To say it didn’t take long for Gepard to realises that the similarities between him and the person in your poem were purely intentional, and that he was the one the poem was actual about.

His face was blossoming red upon the realisation and averted his eyes elsewhere as he takes in the fact that you found him a perfect enough muse for your poetry. Him, the man who couldn’t hold a tune to save his life, grows flowers that unfortunately don’t last long, and wasn’t possessed with the basic skills of drawing.

And yet you found something about him that was worth writing poem after poem about. He didn’t know why that was but he was appreciative that you found something in him that urged you into written it down on paper, where your affection and admiration for him would be forever immortalised…He also may or may not have taken a poem to read to himself later on at night.

Dan heng:

He had noticed that you left a piece of paper laying about one day and was about to call out to you and give it back, while scolding you for leaving your messes everywhere for him to pick up after, only to see that it was in fact a poem about him.

Red faced, Dan Heng still planned on taking the poem back to you and journeyed to your room where he found that the door was left ajar, but could immeditly tell that your room was empty. Sighing, Dan Heng opened the door and quickly made his way towards your desk, where’d he found more poems in regards to him.

Much like Gepard, Dan Heng felt as though he was reading something he shouldn’t but he found himself unable to look away as he was secretly tempted to know how you viewed him. What he found was nothing short of you portraying him in a way that he’s never quite thought of himself before. If he wasn’t already so easily made flustered by your words alone, your writing was enough to put the poor man into a catatonic state.

Dan Heng wasn’t use to being smothered in a love like yours. Where you felt as though speaking your love for him wasn’t nearly enough, so you had to expand and start writing it instead in the form of poetry. He doesn’t feel as though he’s deserving of it but isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth and is more then willing to try to accept the fact that you care deeply for him; especially when he can not find it within him to find anything about him remotely worth being with.

Welt:

He’s made copious amounts of drawings of you that he’s kept hidden in his room. So upon coming across your poetry collection about him, it only made him feel more comfortable knowing that he wasn’t the only one to express his innermost feelings through an art form.

Besides it wasn’t like he was actively searching your room for your poetry collection, he really wasn’t as he just came across them out of pure coincidence. He was currently about four poetries deep and was finding it extremely endearing how you viewed him in most of your writing: which was mainly as an well educated, wise man with a young man’s heart and restlessness sense for adventure, who had a talent for drawing.

Welt would chuckle under his breath at all the moments you’ve shared together, before you’d then went on to write about how beautiful he was in every possible way. From his sweet, insightful eyes that seemingly held all the knowledge you could ever ask for, to his calming, velvety voice that could lull you into a deep sleep within seconds.

You posed him as this figure of comfort, a figure of warmth and Welt soon finding himself not so subtly sneaking some of your poetry into his pocket to read for later. Your poetry only gives Welt the confidence he been looking for, as he would then starts to leave his drawings of you in places where you’d be able to see them; all in hopes that you would know that you had just as much of a huge place in his heart as he did in yours.

[mxrccuryy]

Hard to read, part two

part one | part two | part three

♡ pairing theodore nott x fem!reader ♡ summary theodore nott  is so difficult to read, even though you pride yourself in being able to read others flawlessly. your friend, pansy is convinced that the boy likes you, but you’re really not sure. so, pansy makes you a bet. one week and theo asks you out, otherwise, she pays for everything you want at hogsmeade for a year. ♡ wordcount 1462 ♡ warnings house isn’t really specified but probably slytherin. theo is taller than reader.

sunday

pansy plopped down in the chair next to theo. the boy didn’t even look up, the aura of his friend was enough for him to know who it was. 

however, the girl opted to stay silent and just stare at him.

“what d’you want?” he asked, finally taking his eyes off of the book he was reading. 

“you like y/n,” she said seriously.

theo’s eyes widened [slightly] in shock.

“don’t deny it, nott,” pansy threatened, her pointer finger drawing circles in the air in front of his nose. “you are going to confess to her,”

“like shit, i am,” theo scoffed, eyes naturally finding his way back to his book, not making any effort in reading anymore. pansy noted how he didn’t deny it.

“you are going–,” pansy’s sentence was cut short when she heard footsteps come down from the girls dormitory. 

there you were in all your glory. with confident steps you stood in front of the two, at first glance, it looked like theo wasn’t paying attention to you at all. his eyes stayed glued to the words on the pages of his book. but theo wasn’t focusing on the words, instead the only thing that replayed in his head were your soft spoken words which asked them if you had to wait for them to go to dinner.

much to your dismay, it was pansy who answered you. she told you to go ahead, that she and theo had some stuff to speak about. before you could turn around, you were greeted with a sly wink coming from your best friend. 

the entire common room stayed silent. the only noise that echoed between the cold walls were your shoes hitting the floor and the ultimate closing of the door. 

theo eyes had followed your figure from the moment you had turned around but he had kept his head low, so that in the chance that you turned back around, he could pretend like he wasn’t watching you.

“you’ve got till sunday,” pansy smirked at him, happy at what she had caught with her own two eyes. 

theo looked at her in slight shock as she pranced out of the common room, blowing him an air kiss right before the door closed. 

theo took one of his hands and pushed back his hair. in the process he let his head fall back on the backrest of the couch. 

he was in for a treat.

monday

like usual, you were one of the first people of your and pansy’s friend group to make it to the great hall for dinner. it was only yesterday that you had made the bet with pansy. nothing had happened. you thought you had caught him staring at you during herbology this morning. when you, a second later, turned your head back to him, it looked like he hadn’t looked up at all. 

he was so invested in the conversation between mattheo and lorenzo. you probably just imagined it. afterall, there was part of you that wished for pansy’s words to be true.

dinner with the other slytherin was always a surprise. sometimes you’d sit alone, and sometimes you’d be surrounded by them. it all depended on who was first to choose their seats. most of the time, pansy would try and sit next to you no matter what.

right as you took a bite out of your food, you felt the air next to you shift. someone had sat down next to you. out of habit you turned towards the person, believing it to be pansy. you were ready to tell her newest drama that you had overheard while sitting alone.  

you quickly swallowed your words in. it wasn’t pansy at all who came to sit next to you, it was nott. theodore nott. 

“oh,” you said, surprised. not being able to help the confused waver in your voice. “hello?” 

theo only nodded. he interpreted your confusion as disappointment. the poor slytherin was close to standing up and walking away again, he didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable around him.

obviously he was wrong.

at the same time, your mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour as well. when you looked down the table [at the same time as theo] you spotted a very proud looking pansy nodding her head. she was encouraging theo to stay where he was.

but it your eyes, it  was the proof you needed, it was pansy who asked him to sit next to you. he didn’t want to sit there.

obviously, you were wrong.

tuesday

your books dug painfully into your arm as you finally exited the defence against the dark arts classroom. after what felt like hours, you were finally ready to spend your free time lying down on your comfortable bed. if it wasn’t for the wall you had just bumped into. though it was surprisingly fleshy and smelled really nice.

slowly you looked up and met the eyes of the italian slytherin.

“sorry,” you apologised at once, shuffling backwards again. your gaze shifted back to the ground. 

theo smiled slightly at how cute you looked. 

“you’re going to the common room?” he asked.

“yeah,” you answered, building up the courage to look up once again. 

“alright,” he answered simply. without any other words being exchanged, he walked down the hallway, his hands safely secured in the pockets of his trousers.

you stayed behind, confused as to what the point of that conversation was.

abruptly, theo stopped and turned to look at you. 

“What are you waiting for?” he asked, void of emotions.

“what do you mean?” you asked him, still just as confused.

“i’m walking you to the dorm,” he said, like it was obvious. “what does it look like?”

“well,” you quickly caught up to him. “not like that,”

the little hike started quite rough. both of you were awkward and didn’t really know what to say. but once you brought up the lesson you had. the conversation seemed to just flow perfectly. not once was there a moment of silence and for the first time, you swore you heard him laugh. 

it was so great that you were even sad when you saw the door to the common room. you didn’t want the conversation to end but it had to.

wednesday

theo had had a rough day. in two days, slytherin was playing against gryffindor. their team leader has been forcing more and more training sessions on the players than ever before.

the slytherin loved quidditch. the wind in his face, the speed that made his heart race every time. the feeling he got when he heard the other slytherins cheering for him was amazing. a nice added bonus was also seeing you in the stands. as a proud friend of theirs, you were there for every match, no matter the weather. and god, did he think that you looked amazing in green. it would have been even better if it was his jersey you were wearing, not some random other green thing you owned.

he followed his other team members inside the common room. his boots dragged over the floor as he left behind a trail of dirt and mud. it was cold outside and it had been raining and snowing at the same time which made the landscape very muddy and clad with not so pretty looking snow.

while the others were long gone up the steps and into their respective dorm rooms, theo stayed behind. He stared at a figure curled up on the couch, a book lay long forgotten on their lap. at once he recognized the person.

softly, theo made his way over. his hands grabbed the book on your lap. he made a mental note of which page you were on, before closing it softly and placing it on the coffee table. 

he had thought about waking you up. telling you that your neck was going to hurt in the morning but he couldn’t get himself too. you’d be too surprised that it was him worrying about you and not pansy or someone else.

he straightened out his back again, looking around the room for something he could put over you. the slytherin dungeons were notorious for getting really cold, especially at night. 

he didn’t spot anything. so without a second thought, he placed his broom down on the ground and started taking off his jacket. 

he bent down a second time to place it softly over your shoulder.

being seemingly happy with his work, he picked up his broom again and made his way down to his own bedroom.

he found it very difficult to sleep though.  his mind kept him up by showing him the image of you asleep over and over again.

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[vetteltea]

To Be Free | CL16

Summary: You had always dreamed that your creativity would take you further than you could ever imagine. You never in your wildest dreams imagine it would take you to Monaco [5.8K, A]

Warnings: Implied Smut, Charles Leclerc being a Red Flag

Note: Hi. I’m not dead, far from it. Thank you all for being so patient as I post my first piece in over a year. I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you to @a-distantdreamer for always being my cheerleader, to @vinvantae for getting my out of the mid-writing funk and @percervall for giving me the balls to post. I love you all.

In order for art to tell a story, it has to be free.

At least, that is what your creative design professor told you the week before your final project was due. It was hard to be creative in a mundane town full of the same people, conversations and routines. Every day you would wake up while your mother told a story about how ‘Jenny at the gym seems to have filled out again!’ Your father would grunt, tell you he would be home late from work, and slip out the door, half-drunk coffee on the table.

Maybe simply being creative was difficult because you were crammed into a squadron of children—three brothers, two sisters. You were never referred to as an individual; it was always ‘She’s one of their kids.’ Your friends at school only became that because of their established relationship with your family. Nothing irritated you more than when a teacher would call you by a sibling's name. You were your own person, or at least, trying to be. It didn’t matter what colour you dyed your hair or how loud the clothes were you wore; your identity was tied to them.

Art was an escape; everybody had insisted you would be the same as everybody else in that town. In the fullness of time, you would fit into a job where you were paid to sit at a desk and answer the same two questions: No, I don’t want a coffee. Yes, I sent that report over. Your story would end traditionally, with a wedding and children.

The thought of being just another figure in suburbia terrified you. It may have been the dream for so many, but it was not yours. Each piece of art you created seemed to come back to the beginning. A frown from your teacher. She had told you once to drive outside of the town, go to the lake behind the Old Manor House, and see how it makes you feel.

Being five miles away from your hometown had created the piece of art that had skyrocketed your grades. You could only wonder what being five thousand miles away from home would feel like. It was the push you needed, the metaphorical map to make you leave.

Overnight, you packed away your life in a suitcase, kissed your mother’s cheek farewell, and set out to be free.

It turns out that being free was a lot more expensive when you didn’t have a degree behind you like the rest of your family.

Something had led to Toulouse, the classified city of art and history. With the money you had saved, you had been able to manage a week in Paris. (It was terribly overrated in your opinion, and the only highlight had been the overpriced pair of ears and waffles at Disneyland, but you couldn’t live like an artist when you couldn’t sell art.)

You have to succumb, moving away from the capital and towards the south, wondering why you didn’t come here in the first place. There was something romantic, peaceful. Neighbours said hello, and something seemed to be happening on every corner, not just middle-aged women doing pilates or another school bake sale. (Bake sales were fine, just not when the one English-speaking cafe you now had a job in seemed to have one every three days.)

There were perks to working there: Tuesday and Sunday off, where you could sit by the Garonne with a set of pastel-half sticks that had been crammed into your suitcase. It was a view you could draw over and over, the deep blue twinkling in the afternoon sun. The contrast of the great greenery on each bank of the river made for a beautiful sight—maybe, in your opinion, a beautiful piece, too. Once or twice the locals had raised their eyebrows at the girl in a fluorescent jacket and mismatched trainers, arched over a sketchbook, but even they had stopped, paused to take in her artworks, and nodded approvingly. One woman had even placed a twenty-euro note at your left-hand side in exchange for one of the copious drawings in your book.

You didn’t understand all of their words, still picking up snatches of French each day (and Duolingo had been a welcome companion on your phone), but their smiles and points between the paper and the view were enough to confirm you of their satisfaction.

On the fourth Tuesday of your arrival, your position had adjusted slightly, setting up shop on the bridge rather than the greenery. You almost drop your pencil into the river when somebody stops behind you, humming in admiration. This piece was different; inspired by Lindsay Fox; softer colours, harsher lines in an almost marble effect.

The man says something in French, but you have to shake your head; it’s way beyond a 34-Day Streak for Duolingo. He smiles, understandingly, changing to speak in English.

“That’s a beautiful piece.” He pauses. “Is it your own style?” His accent is clearly from this area but seems almost more reformed and classier.

“It’s inspired by another artist.” You explain, never bothering to go into further detail; nobody ever understands beyond that. “But it’s my own take. I never get bored of this view.”

“Can I see more?” He asks.

You still find it strange; hearing people around the area speak English isn’t uncommon, but their few words are usually to tell you they like what you’re working on or to order a coffee. There’s a hint of worry in your body language when you pass over the sketchbook, but he’s careful, fingers gently turning the pages, pausing every few moments to take in one piece, gently following his fingers across the sketch lines.

“It’s incredible.” He insists, handing the book back. “Tell me, do you take commissions?”

You have to pause. Commissions had come so few and far between; since being here, you had managed to expand your portfolio. Sometimes, locals would ask you to do a sketch of them or their loved ones, returning later in the day to pick up the piece and marvel at the design. You can’t offer a straightforward answer, so you have to just nod.

For the first time, you look at him properly, too. Dark hair, tousled, and clearly in need of a cut. His eyes are the same colour as the river you draw almost every day, with mismatched dimples on each cheek. He’s beautiful.

“Perfect.” He nods, feeling in the pocket of his loose jeans for a pen. You raise your eyebrows, watching as he holds out his hand, nodding for you to give yours over. Hesitantly, you do, eyes fixed as he scribbles a number down on the back of your palm.

“Do you know how to get to Monaco from here?” He asks casually. You have to pause.

“Is Monaco nearby?” You ask, dumbfounded. It’s worth it, you decide. For the smile on his face that appears.

“A few hours away.” He clarifies. “Can you... do that? I can just show you a photo and come back myself, but... the place. It’s special to me. I’d like to see how you would interpret it in your style.”

A frown appears on his face when you don’t answer immediately.

“I can pay you an advance now.” The man insists. “Eighty? Ninety?”

You have to pause then. Eighty or ninety euros may seem minimal in some precautions, but that could buy your groceries for a week; it was practically a day’s work at the coffee shop for a piece of art.

“That would be perfect.” You smile. “I’m off next Sunday. Would that work for you?” You ask. He’s smiling now, nodding in confirmation.

“It would work for me.” He clarifies. “Text me over your bank details." He nods, watching as I reach for my phone, typing in his phone number. “I’ll send you the advance and we can arrange a meeting time.” He finishes, looking down to his watch; his footsteps draw away from you, giving a final nod, but then holds out his hand.

“Charles.” The man introduces himself with his name. You don’t hesitate in taking his hand, shaking it back, and giving your own name to him. “Nice jacket, by the way.” He adds.

You raise your eyebrows, looking at the deep brown leather jacket around your shoulders. It oddly complimented your black and white plaid dress and deep green boots, or so you thought. A grin appears on your face when you pull off the garment, taking in the prancing horse on the back.

“It's a Ferrari.” You explain. “Pretty unique, but people don’t seem to realise it. Found it in a second-hand store.”

“Honestly.” Charles grins. “Some people wouldn’t recognise a Ferrari if it came and shouted in their face.”

Sometimes you need to clarify details before agreeing to something with a complete stranger.

To begin, he hadn’t told you that he meant Monte Carlo; you were being asked to commission in the most expensive city in one of the most expensive countries in the world. You had taken a train out of Toulouse on Saturday evening after your shift, bustling through the crowded town of people on their way out to enjoy the weekend. Suitcase in hand, you had curled up in the corner of a carriage, watching as the ocean and scenery passed you by, practically falling into bed when you arrived at the last-minute hostal bed you had booked, bypassing the sounds of the noisy couple above you.

Secondly, ninety turned out to be an incredibly misleading number.

You had let out the oddest mix between a scream and a gasp when you checked your bank later on that evening, seeing that ninety-thousand euros had been sent over under C.LECLERC. It not only gave you a heart attack, knowing that money could keep you afloat for a lot longer than it would take saving from working in the cafe, but it also gave you a name.

Typing the name into your Google search later that evening had been like discovering a state secret. Charles Leclerc, Formula One driver for Scuderia Ferrari. His face was plastered over your home screen, adorned in red fireproofs, atop a podium, in a car with aerodynamics you couldn’t even begin to understand.

Your stomach had twisted. A truly evil part of yourself had the idea of disappearing and never returning, ninety thousand euros richer. That money could lead to your freedom. But in your heart, you knew what you were. An artist, trying to path their way, and how would it look if you had disappeared after taking money from such a well-known being?

The train from Nice to Monte-Carlo is only forty minutes; before you know it, you’re stepping onto the train platform, mismatched converses in red and black complimenting the cherry red clip pinning back your hair. You had shoved the scrap of paper you had scribbled the meeting point on in your dungaree pocket, pulling it out and shuffling to the side of the platform. It’s only a short walk, but it’s made longer by the constant pauses, taking in the sight of the city. Extravagant, classy, old buildings piling up either side of the winding roads, peeks of an overcrowded harbour, boats that were worth more than you would ever make in your life on view. It was like walking around a movie scene; there was no other way to describe it.

The main character of the city is sitting at the bridge on the address, hands in his pockets, lips turning into a grin when he sees your figure, identical from the day back in Toulouse. Immediately, Charles has left his spot, smiling at your presence.

“You made it." He grins, starting to speak before your tone interrupts him.

“And you didn’t tell me who you were!” You exclaim, your moral compass falling over you. “Charles, I can’t accept that much.”

“I’m sorry?” He pauses. ��I thought we discussed; that was just a pre-”

“It’s a pre-nothing!” You shake your head. “I’m not a proper artist—I can’t charge that much!”

“Really?” Charles pauses, nonchalantly. “You seem like a...proper artist to me. Your work is incredible.”

He doesn't give you time to argue further, offering his arm out and motioning to follow him. You can’t help but raise an eyebrow, falling into step alongside him. It suddenly makes sense; why is he keeping his head lower than when you originally met, keeping the sunglasses across his eyes? You want to try and make conversation; you want to feel less awkward than walking alongside a literal billionaire.

You don’t need to; he makes the conversation for you.

“Why Toulouse?” He asks, slowing down his pace, wanting to hear your answer. “Not many artists stay around the South of France for too long.”

“Paris was overrated.” You shrug, giving a completely honest answer. It doesn't hit you until you’ve said it that you had practically insulted the country where you were currently residing and your hand comes over your mouth in realization. “Oh my god, you’re not from Paris, are you?”

Charles is laughing. Something about your expressions made him grin. “You searched me up, but didn’t think to check where I was from?”

“I didn’t get to it.” You quip back. “I was kind of distracted by the fact you’re a multi-race winner in the biggest Motorsport in the world.”

“And you still didn’t recognise me on the bridge.” He pauses. “I’m from Monaco. I’m not French. Just…a lot of drivers live here.”

“A Tax-Haven, right?” Your personality comes through at long last, any sense of awkwardness washing away. “You set up camp here, but you’re not here most of the year, so... more money.” You can tell from the way Charles stays silent you’re banging on, correct in your guess.

“Monaco is my home, too. I am actually from here.”

Our pace slows as we reach a hill. The road is more prominent there, curving in a hairpin. Everything in its surroundings seems to complement it: the high buildings, the shrubbery, the bright red and white stripes outlining the road. Charles has frozen in his spot, and you can tell that this is the spot he was talking about. His commission. You can practically see the memories from track in his vision, almost as if he’s taking in every turn he’s ever made, every time he’s walked along this road since a toddler holding onto his mother's skirts.

“This is it.” You narrate for him. “This is your spot.”

He turns to you, eyes lifted, bright. “What do you think?” He asks, your own eyes still focused on the place.

“It’s beautiful.” You say it with sincerity. It is the way the entirety of Monaco, of its racing pedigree, seems to be captured in one shot. It almost feels too surreal; it almost feels as if you wouldn’t be able to do justice to this place with a mere canvas. “What kind of style?”

“That’s completely up to you.” Charles pauses. “Your creative style. How do you see this place? Because I think you see it the same way that I do, yes?”

“Yes.”

A lot can change in two weeks.

Your bedsit in Toulouse had been the biggest change; in the centre of the room was a large canvas, a curved road in the middle of the page clearly outlined. The sofa is littered with various paints, chalk, and pencils—a collage of rich reds, deep greens, and charcoal black.

The cafe hadn’t been forgotten; you had taken a sabbatical, insisting you needed two weeks—just two weeks—then you would be back to making overpowered coffee and refolding a newspaper four times in twenty minutes to place back on the front table.

Charles stays in contact; it’s a little difficult, within the midst of time zone differences and media releases. Sometimes it’s a text, and other times it's a video sent of where he is, insisting it would be good inspiration for your next portfolio piece. You don’t know how many times you have to explain it’s different; you need to feel it. Understand it further than a picture on the screen of your run-down phone. Sometimes it’s difficult to deny the flutter in your stomach when you receive one of these messages.

You get a FaceTime call on the Saturday night of his current race weekend in Barcelona. The weather is cloudy and there’s already been engine issues on his teammates home turf; Charles was frowning when he originally joined the call. Clearly a weak qualifying was looming in his head.

“Hey.” You’re starting the conversation, a paintbrush tucked behind your ear, a colourful shirt misbuttoned. “Is everything alright?”

“I just wanted to see how it was going.” Charles explains. “I mean, the painting—and well, you obviously. Did you find a chocolate pastry in the end this morning? I know you were craving one.”

A smile falls to your lips; in the midst of a race weekend with no luck, no speed, and no chance of getting into Q3, he has still found time to check in, lying back in the stupidly expensive sheets of his hotel bed, stubble and hair both overgrown, the buttons of his Ferrari Polo discarded, golden chest peeking outwards.

“It’s…going.” You shrug, “I want to do it justice—to find the colours and style that just...” One hand moves in a dramatic gesture. Charles nods understandingly as you continue your rant. “I’ve gone back there three times since the original visit, you know?”

A smirk appears on the driver’s face. “And you didn’t bother to let me know?”

“You were in Canada. You’re also my client; I want to make sure it’s what I promised.” You insist, walking back over to the array of shade pallets on your couch, fingers reaching down to select your third red chalk of the afternoon. Charles is content to watch your eyes focus, the nudge of the camera indicating you were rotating through your next tool.

“Hey.” His tone causes you to turn your attention back to the camera. “Do you want to see something cool?”

“I always want to see something cool.” You grin, watching as Charles sits himself up from his bed, the sound of his bare feet padding against the tiles of his Mediterranean hotel room. There’s telltale signs of his presence in the background: the phone charger by the mirror, the watch he had worn the first time you met him in Toulouse, a bundle of friendship bracelets, lovingly made by the Tifosi.

None of it, however, compares to when he lifts his phone, skin glowing in the soft sun, and flips the camera around to portray his balcony view.

The sight of Barcelona in the deep sun from Charles’ phone makes your heart stop. The sky a deep blue you crayoned as a child, roads twisting into an abstract stroke of tar and coloured dots of various sporting cars. There’s bright greens, specks of colour from the greenery. In the distance, you can still hear the ocean and the lapping of the waves.

You’ve always been clear that before you commit to creating art, you want to see the place and feel the place first. There’s almost certainty in your mind that the rule can be relaxed for the view you’re currently experiencing.

“It’s beautiful.” You finally whisper, after a full five minutes of transfixing through the phone screen.

“I’ll take you here one day.” Charles insists. “Paints and all.”

He doesn't miss the way your eyes flicker to the side, the pink that decorates your cheeks and matches the ribbon tying back your fringe whilst you work.

Monte-Carlo on the Saturday evening before the Monaco Grand Prix is an experience like no other.

Charles had pleaded to send a car to collect you from France, despite the fact the journey would have been faster by train—a whole two hours faster. In the end, the compromise is a ticket that would keep you safe and well-looked after in the First Class carriage. While you reclined in the leather seat, a high-end soda on your table, a canvas wrapped in brown paper, secured with nimble string, was nestled at your side.

You were certain you had spent an entire hour just…staring when it was completed. In your hearts, it was certainly your most intricate and perfect piece. A part of you could have spent the rest of eternity just staring at the landscape, the rest of your bedsit out of focus while you were transported back to that road in Monaco. It helps the mental stimulation that had overpowered you for the weeks; how you had spent an evening comparing your books on Sylvia Hikins’ minute but powerful detail and the reflection work of Dmity Oleyn.

It’s not a huge walk to Charles’ apartment from the train station; what makes it longer is the amount of racing fans, clad in bright red, papaya orange, or deep blue. A cacophony of colours lines the streets of Monte-Carlo, attention diverted to the paddock nestled alongside the arbor. Your heart rate increases as the crowds become thicker, desperately trying to keep your packaged painting away from nudges and knocks.

It’s only when you reach the edge of the city that the crowds loosen a little and there’s a chance for you to slide out your phone, thumb-tapping in the address on Google Maps, a reminder of your first encounter with Charles almost three weeks ago.

There was in fact no need for this in the end. You’re not sure which event takes place first: your map location updating to announce you were less than a one-minute walk from your destination or the shout from above you. Instinctively, your head turns upwards, feeling the long braid of hair fall down your back and locating the source of the noise as a smile beams from your mouth.

There’s two figures on the balcony, both leaning over the glass barriers. One is shorter, a mass of dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses, waving wildly to gain your attention. The other is blessed with brown hair and instantly turns from the balcony when he sees your figure.

A minute later, the door to the complex in front of you is opening, your client grinning as he steps out from the foyer, feet covered in just socks as he hops down the path to you. Maybe it’s the soft sunset, or the way his oversized tee shirt makes the muscles peeking from his arms look even more defined. You’re certain Charles Leclerc could look beautiful by any means necessary.

He doesn't give you time to process these thoughts any further as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, clearly in high spirits from his home race weekend.

“Is that for me?” He grins, eyes widening at the parcel as you shake your head.

“No.” You hum. “I just tend to carry around a giant square wherever I go.” You grin, looking down to your own outfit, then to his own. “Are you sure I’m in the right city? I feel very overdressed compared to the people in sports shirts.”

“You look perfect.” He insists, his arm falling from your shoulder to your bicep. “Come on. Come up and meet everybody.”

“I’m sorry?” You falter. “You want me to come and meet-“

“Please?” His hand falls lower, fingers tracing around your wrist as he slowly connects your palms together. “I want to introduce them to you. Put a name to a face.”

The insistence is good, and you refuse to move your hand away when he entwines your fingers together, praying that you aren’t going to drop the painting or your jaw from the unexpected intimacy.

The smile only grows on this face when you nod, letting him slip your threaded backpack from your shoulder, guiding you into the foyer.

The painting reveal goes…incredibly well.

Four hours ago, you had been led up to his apartment, introduced as ‘The next Van Gogh.’ He gives you a few moments to introduce yourself, noting to you that this wasn’t the entity of his group; you would meet some more faces tomorrow, should they be celebrating. When somebody had opened their mouth to argue that if you were really that good, you should have been nicknamed after Leonardo DaVinchi. Charles only grins when he gives his response.

“But DaVinchi was never a landscape painter like my girl, was he?”

You’re lucky enough to get to watch the reaction of several Monegasques seeing one of the most iconic portraits of their country come to life. There’s applause, cheers, and for the first time in your life, you feel like an artist. Not just somebody who places pencil and pastel to paper, hoping for the best. Your eyes can’t even focus on the work; the colours and strokes entwine into one. No, they fall to Charles; blinking back the tears, he's... overcome. You saw his vision. You got his understanding. You understood him.

He doesn't hold back from walking over to you, arms wrapping and squeezing you oh-so-tightly, applauding and thanking you over and over for your work.

In the remaining three hours and thirty-eight minutes since the reveal, there had been celebrations, soft drinks, and music. Your attention has been completely stolen by a golden dachshund—Leo, somebody tells you—who licks your ankle and insists on being lifted. Do you spend the rest of the gathering with the puppy in your arms? Quite possibly.

When the group dies down, Leo is placed in his sofa spot, chewing on one of his toys, occupied whilst you take the opportunity to look over the lights of the city—lights of buildings twinkling along the shoreline, a clear sky enveloped in black, how the deep blue of the ocean in the harbour is illuminated by the streetlamps.

You’re so engrossed that you jolt when you feel a hand on your back, before a string of apologies and a soft laugh fall from Charles’ lips. A comfortable silence settles for a moment before he speaks again, looking back over the skyline.

“I used to look out over the harbour when I was young.” He explains. “After I had a bad race or lost on something... I knew my home would always welcome me back.”

“It is quite beautiful.” You hum, shuffling from the open-aired area and back into the lounge. Your art piece now hangs in pride on the wall, next to a silver trophy. His first win, one of his friends had told you when they had caught you staring.

Both of you stare at the trophy and then the art piece, and the smile crawls back onto Charles’ face. Before he can fall into an endless spiral of gratitude again, you have to speak.

“Did you always want to be a racing driver?” You ask. Charles nods.

“It’s a part of me, no? Like I believe that being an artist is a part of you.” His expression softens as his vision finally meets the side of your cheek. “I want to know the other parts of you, too.”

It’s enough to make you turn your head from the view, and for the first time all evening, you see Charles. The same one you had seen at the hairpin turn all those weeks ago. Slowly, his hand comes back out, gently circling your wrist. You swear the entirety of Europe could feel your heartbeat, most certainly the man in front of you.

“I want to know about these paintings you love.” He murmurs. “About the necklace you always wear and why your eyes sparkle when you see open water.” His forehead skims across your own, noses bumping, lips dangerously close as his hand moves from your wrist, dancing up your arm, holding your chin.

“Will you come to the race tomorrow?” He asks softly.

Words seem almost incomprehensible until you softly breathe out. “Yes.”

That’s all it takes; the butterflies in your stomach swarm as he surges forward, finally pressing his lips to yours. The world seems almost right; everything finally makes sense; you don’t need to be free to create art; you just need to be found. Found by a man who understood art on the banks of France. Who understood the tri-colour shirts you wore on a phone call? Who understood you?

You had never felt more found then when your lips pressed back into his and he softly guided you back into his bedroom.

Being found washed over you for the next fifteen hours.

You had rolled out of the Navy Blue bed sheets that morning after a deep slumber, wrapped up against Charles’ bare body. Any detailing of his room had been completely bypassed when you had sauntered through his apartment, the top he had been wearing the previous night covering your frame.

Part of you is disappointed to see his golden torso now covered by a scarlet shirt as he bends down to give Leo his water bowl, humming in contentment as his puppy excitedly laps at the water. The happiness only grows further when he reaches back up, arms opening to envelope you into his chest, a hand threading into the back of your head as he tucks you into his neck.

“I didn’t expect you to be up so soon.” He murmurs. “Did I wake you?”

“Leo did.” You grin. “But I could never be mad at that face.” You insist, feeling Charles’ chest vibrate with laughter. Eventually, the hands on your hips have to pull away, a soft kiss being pressed to your hairline.

“Joris is going to be here in a couple of hours to bring you and Leo to the track.” He hums. “I left your Paddock Pass next on top of the mantelpiece. Otherwise the raptor would have chewed it.” He grins, his smile dropping when he sees you look out of the window, towards the track layout. “I’ll… You’re still coming?” He asks curiously.

“I am.” You smile. “I said I would.”

True to your word, you do so. True to his word, Joris appears at Charles’ apartment door one hour and a bit later. He greets you pleasantly enough, asking how you found Monaco and congratulating you again on your art piece. When he goes to collect Leo into his arms, the puppy backs away, sniffing at your legs as he practically demands to nestle back into your arms. You can’t help but laugh, letting him nuzzle into your chest.

Joris says nothing, but when he leads you to his car and you’re reunited with the group of friends who would be attending the race in the Paddock, he makes sure that he takes Leo so that you can enjoy the conversation with the remaining people in the group.

The conversation flows freely and happily, only interrupted when the puppy begins to bark, pulling on his lead towards a figure in front of the group. A beautiful, slender figure dressed in soft pink, dark hair glossy and neat, a smile worth a million stars as she steps in time with Charles.

Joris laughs as he lets go of the lead, and Leo goes bouncing over to the figure, clearly recognising her. When she stands back up, the puppy in her grasp, and steps closer to Charles, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, your stomach immediately drops.

Charles’ own eyes flicker to you for a split second. He’ll never erase the look that was washed over your face when the girl nudges him softly, telling the group that her Charles must have slept well the previous night, which he never usually does before a race day.

Part of you—a strong, passionate part of you as deep and as powerful as the paints in your works—wants to scream out and tell this woman that her Charles had been wrapped up in your hot touch less than twenty-something hours ago. That he had whispered in your ear as his hips rolled against yours, that he had told you soft stories of a promised future together as you had found rest in his arms.

In such a short amount of time, you had allowed yourself to be chained, to be latched into a rope of feeling from the beautiful man who had approached you in a city that was almost perfect. If it had been perfect, the man would have walked to you, squeezed your hand, and gently kissed you again. Instead, his hand finds the woman’s hip, walking with the rest of the group whilst you falter behind, barely giving a second glance, slipping away from the gaggle of conversation, unseen.

As Charles climbs into his car that afternoon, you slide the keys to your bedsit into a small envelope, leaving a wad of cash and an apology note for leaving your contract so early.

In order for art to tell its story, it has to be free.

Charles returns to Toulouse on Monday morning, low on the P8 result he had received the afternoon before and the way his girlfriend had kissed his cheek and told him not to worry, that his luck would change. All whilst she whispered praises into his lips, caught in a kiss at the back of some overpriced club, his mind is overpowered by the thoughts of you, as bright as the landscapes in your sketchbook.

He has to explain. He longs to pull you into his arms and tell you he meant what he said. When he arrives, he looks everywhere. In every art shop, every park, every museum. He remembers you mentioning a part-time job in a cafe. On his ninth attempt, he freezes when he steps through the entrance, the chime of a bell hitting the front foot in mid-ring when he sees a landscape displayed proudly on the wall.

He doesn't need to ask. Feet come over to the counter as he looks over. Two girls. Neither of them are you. One of them turns around and smiles nicely enough, asking what the man would like to order.

“The woman who painted that.” He nods to the picture of the Garrone. “Where did she go?” It’s clear the girl behind the counter knows something and bites down on her lip to stay silent. It only takes one more pleading look from Charles before the words spill from her lips.

“She’s gone. Left the city on Sunday.” She pauses. “She’s gone to be free. I don’t think she’ll be back."

Charles feels his heart crack as harshly as the damages in Manet sculpture on your phone screen wallpaper. Your story insisted on you being free. After all, you had been the art. The piece where no matter what he saw for the rest of his existence, he would never be able to forget.

[sugurusbabygirl]

Can I request priest nanami ? >_<

Thank god I don't go to church anymore :p

oh boy....

priest!nanami who is a good man and a good priest. At least, over the threshold of the church. Leading service every Wednesday and Saturday, twice on Sundays. Beloved by all the Sunday school kiddos, accepting their drawings and little gifts with a warm smile.

priest!nanami who is anything but once the collar comes off.

priest!nanami who fucks you dumb Saturday night because "we have to be up early for church" and he knows he can get you nice and tired.

priest!nanami who whispers the most unholy things to you, taking you from behind, pinning your hands behind your back. "Gonna be able to behave tomorrow? 'Mhm, mhm', use your words, angel." "Gotta make sure you have something to keep that pretty head of yours busy while I'm up talking, yeah?"

priest!nanami who thinks you just look so beautiful sitting in the pews watching him. Only you and him knowing you decided to forgo underwear under your pretty innocent dress. Who fingers you back in his car, unable to not give you a little something for being so good.

priest!nanami who doesn't even let you take off the dress once you get home. He's simply too eager. Too desperate from not being inside your heavenly cunt all morning.

priest!nanami who's not nearly as rough as he was last night. Making sure you know just how loved and worshipped you truly are. "So beautiful like this. Can't go a minute without thinking about you, angel. Those eyes...these lips....God help me."

[back2bluesidex]

Hard Luck - JJK & KTH (18+) - Chapter 1

◆ Pairing: CEO Jungkook X Fem employee Reader X Legal advisor Taehyung. 

◆ Summary: You have a good face, a nice body, a fat amount saved in your secondary bank account, a stable job that you love, loving friends and family, you are good in bed. You have almost everything other than a good luck in love. Sleeping around with random dudes don’t feel enough when your friends are getting married and having kids. If you are being honest, you have started getting bored of this prolonged singlehood already. 

Your last light of hope fades away when your work crush, aka the hot guy from the legal department, Kim Taehyung (with whom you might or might not have slept once, okay! twice!), asks you to set him up with your work best friend (who, apparently, is the most asked out woman of the company). But what you don’t know is that the CEO of the company has taken a liking to you and has started on a mission of winning your heart. 

But wait… Taehyung might have started developing feelings for you in the process of receiving your help.

◆ Chapter summary: Two meetings - One went good - another went downhill.

◆ Theme: Romance, drama, light angst, my poor attempt of humor, fluff and eventual smut. office romance au,

◆ Warnings: Tiny bit angst.

◆ Word count: 3.2k+

◆ A/N: let me know your thoughts.

Minors aren't allowed in this blog!!!!

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You have a very love-hate relationship with weekends. 

Love because who the hell doesn’t like free times, no rush to drive to work, a quiet time on their couch with some unhealthy snacks and a good movie playing on the TV? 

Hate because weekends make you feel alone. Today is just a copy of yesterday.  

On most Friday nights you end up going drinking with your teammates, save your Saturdays for your friends and your precious Sundays are for yourself and yourself only. 

But lately, your said friends have changed, not by choice but by circumstances. Two of them are married, one is engaged and another just started dating after a prolonged singlehood - leaving you completely out of the order. Now they name most of their Saturdays to their partners, which makes you angry but you know that’s the only normal thing to do. 

So, now you are the one that neither has a partner and nor anyone to spend most of your Saturdays with. 

You sigh as you scroll through netflix. 

There is nothing that catches your eyes, intrigues you enough to start watching. 

Just when you are about to read the description of this new cheesy romcom, your phone vibrates with a call. 

It’s your mom - she calls you ten times a day. 

“Hmmm?” you greet her absent-mindedly. 

“Mia just gave birth to a baby boy!!!” she squeals on the other side of the phone. You can feel her excitement through the vibration of her digitized voice. 

The news lights you up as well. Mia is your favorite cousin and older than you by a year only. 

“Really? Woah! Is the baby fine? Is she fine?” 

“Both of them are fine, ddal.” Your mother, now, replies calmly, “it’s only me who is not.” 

“What? What happened? Joint-pain again?” you sit up on the couch. 

“No. That's not it.” your mother whines. You love to hear her whines. 

“Then?” 

“When will I have my grandchild?” she huffs, making you laugh. 

“Eomma, I’m only 27.” you remind her. 

“That’s why I am reminding you, darling. If you start looking for a man now, you will be able to gift me a grandchild before I hit seventy.”  

The mention of a ‘man’ draws a very particular face on your vision. 

You know you should not think too much, read too much into someone’s actions. But at this age, when you already started feeling alone, feeling the desire for someone to come back home to, you can’t help but to feel the need of holding the next best person who shows you a silver of interest. 

And Taehyung has shown a lot of it. 

You will win in life if you manage to bag someone as nice, hot, handsome and successful as him. 

“Maybe… maybe very soon, eomma.” you add a trail of words to end your thoughts. 

“Omo! Really? Are you seeing someone?” she’s now way too much excited and her excitement makes you want more from the guy who only fucked you twice. 

“No- it’s not that. I am just talking about the possibilities.” your voice sounds frail for some reason. Possibility is what it is. Nothing is confirmed. 

You know you have a crush on Taehyung but at the same time you have no idea if there is more than just lust in his mind.

You try not to think of negative things and engage your mother in off-topic conversations. But in the back of your mind, Taehyung stays still, with his baritone voice and boxy smile. 

“Good morning, sweetheart” Hani, the colleague you are the closest to, chirps in with her sweet voice. 

She is the epitome of perfection. 

The girl looks like a goddess, very friendly, the life of the party, smiles at everyone - doesn’t really matter if she knows them or not, is an amazing cook, and good at the job she does. 

Her amazing persona accompanied by that next level face card, makes her the most desired woman of the company. 

There is hardly any bachelor who hasn’t asked her out yet. And Taehyung is one of them (which makes you think that he must be into you). 

Sometimes you are jealous of her - okay! Scratch that! Most of the time you are jealous of her ability to make friends, to have people wrapped around her fingers without having to do anything while you practically have to beg your own friends to spend their weekends with you. 

And being asked out? That’s a completely different story. 

What you have understood from your experience is that guys love to have you on their bed. You are a good fuck, you know that. But a wife material? No. 

You are way too aloof, emotionally unattached to entertain anyone more than normal boundaries allow you to. Hence, you end up pushing people away.  

And now - at an age where you should be in a long term relationship - you are alone. 

“Good morning, Hani.” you reply with a genuine smile gracing your lips. Honestly, very few people can pull a genuine smile out of you and Hani is certainly one of them. 

Had it been anyone else as popular as her, they would have a big fat ego. But Hani is different and that’s why you love her. 

“How was the weekend?” she asks, placing her order for her usual iced americano. You still don’t understand how people consume this as the first thing in the morning. It’s nothing but cold and bitter.  

You grab your iced vanilla latte and take a mouth full of the sweetness, “as usual. Boring. Only me and my couch and netflix” 

“Oh? You could have called me in. I was mostly alone too.” she sips her aa-aa, and makes a delightful face. You scrunch your nose at that. 

“Really? I thought you do those volunteering stuff on weekends?” you two walk towards the elevator while sipping on your beverages. 

“That’s for day-time. I am usually free during the nights. So, try calling me if you need a companion.” she eyes you expectantly. 

You know she feels alone too, just like you. 

Hani came out of her two year long relationship just a few months ago. She probably feels alone during her free time as her partner is not there to entertain her anymore. 

And maybe it’s a good idea. 

Even though you don’t like to extend your professional relationships beyond the gates of your workplace - Hani can be different. 

You can take this friendship a little further, you guess. 

The elevator door slides open, revealing a certain someone you look for a lot these days. 

Taehyung smiles brightly at you. Two strands of his dark hair fall on his forehead, his siren eyes are full of mirth as they quickly dip down to check you out. But then his eyes fall on Hani. And if you are not wrong then they have a brief eye-contact before someone behind asks you and your friend to get inside and make space already. 

An odd feeling blooms inside your chest. 

Taehyung checked you out, that’s for sure. But what were those love eyes that he regarded Hani with? Did he just fall in love at first sight or something of that sort? 

You settle inside the dingy space of the elevator rather uncomfortably - both physically and metaphorically. 

Hani is standing in front of you and Taehyung is just behind your back. You are sandwiched between the two of them and weirdly enough - you don’t feel too good about the situation. Because you can see Taehyung staring at Hani through the glazed metal door or the elevator. Something churns inside of you at the thought of Taehyung being smitten by your work best friend. 

But maybe you are thinking too much? Maybe time will soon prove you wrong. 

Wrong. Everything is wrong. 

Your teammates do an impressive job everyday except for the days when there is an important meeting and you need documented reports. 

Today is one of those days. And today is even more horrifying because this will be your very first meeting with the new CEO who took over less than a month ago. 

Streets say he is as strict as his father if not more. That’s basically all you know about Jeon Jungkook. You don’t know what he looks like or what he sounds like. And that makes you anxious. 

The prospect of having an one-on-one meeting with the new, young CEO has been freaking you out already and now your subordinate had to do a sloppy reporting job.  

“Oh lord! Sooho! Why did you write ‘no penetration this month’ when the chart is at its peak?” You don’t like to scream at all but the migraine that is climbing up through the path of your neck mixes with your frustration and turns your sentence a little more high pitched than what you usually use. 

“Oh?” your teammate blinks at you being dumbfounded, “is that called penetration?” 

“Yes of course? What did you think? We are asking about your sex life in the reports?” you can’t help but mock the boy. 

Laughter echoes through your workspace but it quickly dies down when you glare at your teammates. They mumble apologies but you pretend not to hear any of it. 

“Sorry, seonbae. I will fix it right away.” he runs towards his cubicle. 

“You have five minutes.” you issue a warning. Taking your phone in your hands, you find a text sitting on your screen. 

Taetae: Any plans tonight?

Your chest heaves with the long breath that you inhale upon reading the text. See… Taehyung still wants to see you! It’s you he wants to see! And you went on an overdrive thinking he might ditch you now and start chasing Hani like the other men of the office. 

Your nails clink against your phone screen as you type your reply. 

You: nope. 

You don’t even get the chance of putting down your phone because his reply comes right away. 

Taetae: Then let's get a coffee after work. I will wait at the lounge. 

You: Sounds cool. 

You don’t know what you feel about this one-on-one meeting situation. 

The previous CEO, Mr. Jeon Jae Gyeong, had meetings with all of the department heads at once and got done with it. 

But the younger Mr. Jeon has sent out emails to everyone stating very clearly that he would be changing the meeting format. 

So, now you are here. Waiting outside his massive office (that could fit your entire workspace and still leave space for a snack pantry), on the verge of an anxiety attack. 

The more you wait, the more restless you feel. Your heels start tapping against the floor creating a rapid sound. The CEO’s assistant, a beautiful guy with blonde hair and soft features, looks at you with an assuring smile - as if to tell you that ‘it’s okay. Don’t get your nerves worked up.’ 

you smile back at him feeling a tiny bit better. 

Just then the huge door of the CEO’s office slides open. The head of the finance team walks out and from the look on his face you can tell that his meeting didn’t go too well. 

Your throat dries at the assumption of what you might face when you go inside. 

You are not going to get fired, right? Right?!

Mr. Bae, the finance head, walks out in haste heightening your anxiety even more. 

Just then the assistant receives a call on his line and murmurs something. He looks at you and says, “you may go inside now.” 

Your legs almost give out. You start planning to go home and update your resume to look for opportunities.  

Taking a long breath, you push the door open. 

Your eyes fall on the prominent figure that is sitting on the large mahogany table. His eyes are focused on the ipad. Mouth shut tight, lips pursed, his downturned face is casted with a shadow, which prevents you from taking a good look at his face. 

What you see is the silver ring that glints on his eyebrow. And are those tattoos on his hand? 

Even if he heard you coming in he clearly didn’t plan on providing you with any of his attention. 

“May I come in, Mr. Jeon?” you curse at the way there is zero confidence in your voice. 

He then looks up at you and locks his eyes with yours. 

Holy shit! He is handsome! 

Your chest heaves with another long breath. 

You wait for him to call you inside but he just sits still staring at you with big doe eyes. His gaze is piercing, intimidating and makes you weak on your knees. 

His Adam's apple bobs as he gulps once before clearing his throat, “Miss Y/N. Please come in.” 

You take careful steps towards his desk praying that you don’t trip and embarrass yourself. He ushers his hand towards the chair, asking you to take a seat voicelessly. 

You do as he asks. 

“How are you doing, Miss Y/N?” Jeon Jungkook asks without diverting his piercing gaze from yours. 

He is looking at you so intently as if he has known you for a long time. 

You give him an easy smile, “I’m doing fine, Mr.Jeon. What about you?” you return his courtesy. 

“Doing great.” Jeon Jungkook gives you a very pretty, heart fluttering kind of smile. 

If your heart really flutters a little  - you are not going to dwell upon it. 

“So, let’s talk about work.” he hums as he dives into his laptop and probably opens the reports you have mailed him earlier. 

Taking a minute to check all the reports, he opens his mouth to speak, “pretty impressive. I have gone through the reports from previous months as well and as I am seeing this month's reports - you have been bringing great results. Online traffic is at an all-time high, ad-clicks have gone past the five million mark, there are an average of 20 real-time users and at least 5 of them are from the states. Great. I must say” he pauses to look at you, “I am very impressed.” The last part of his sentence comes out breezy, a little bit suggestive as if his words are not only about your work. 

Your stomach feels light. 

“Thank you sir.” that’s all you manage to reply. Absent-mindedly you take your lower-lip in between your teeth and nip on it. 

The action catches Jungkook’s eyes. 

“Are you nervous?” he places a very unexpected question, catching you off-guard. 

“Ah- yeah. I mean, It’s my very first encounter with you as the CEO, so I could not help being a bit anxious. Apologies if my actions have disappointed you in any way.” you straighten your back and speak confidently this time. 

He doesn’t seem rude at all. You allow yourself to feel at ease. 

“Don’t worry about that. I get you. But be assured I am not going to eat you up.” he giggles. His giggle makes you break into a smile as well. 

“That’s all for the day. Looking forward to working with you…” Jungkook extends his hand towards you. You wrap your smaller one around his palm and he mutters, “...closely.”  

When you look into his eyes, you see mischief. 

“Sure.” you reply, sucking in all the air you could. 

By the time you come out of his room, your heart is thumping inside your ears. 

What the fuck was that? How is he so handsome? And what were those eyes he looked at you with? Why did he murmur ‘closely’ like that? 

No! You are overthinking again! You scold yourself. 

The assistant gives you another smile as you bow at him a little and walk away. You find Hani waiting to be called inside. 

When she sees you, she approaches you with a nervous grin, “how is the new CEO?” she whisper-yells. 

“Very nice and handsome.” you whisper back. She makes an “O” with her mouth before she gets called inside. 

You check your lips once more in the mirror. 

Being too focused on perfecting your lip liner, you don’t see Hani coming inside the washroom. You only become attentive of her presence when she smacks your ass. 

“Ouch!” a painful groan leaves your lips, “don’t do this! People might think we are dating!” 

“I’d have totally dated you if I wasn’t straight.” Hani chuckles standing beside you, “what’s the occasion tho? Have a date or something?” 

“Nope. Gonna meet Taehyung for a quick coffee.” 

Hani’s eyes wide at that, “Taehyung? As in Kim Taehyung from the legal team?” 

“Yup.” 

“Ohh hooo” she sings “I didn’t know you guys have coffees with each other, huh?” 

“It’s not what you think, Hani.” you look at her, raising a brow. 

“Oh? Really? But I think he is a good guy. He even greeted me when we met during lunch and I’m sure he didn’t even know me before this morning.” 

Huh? Taehyung greeted Hani? That’s weird. Because he hardly ever smiles at people he doesn’t know properly. 

You don’t let your expression give away your thoughts when you murmur a little ‘yeah’ to your friend. 

Teahyung looks like a painting - or better - a sculpture as he sits there facing the huge window of the lounge. 

He is devastatingly handsome. A smile creeps up to your lips without you realizing so. 

This time you walk confidently, marching towards him as if you own it all. The sound of your heels against the floor makes him face you and look up at you.

“Hey” he greets you as you sit down across from him. 

“Hi” you greet back, waving your hand to a waiter. 

“How was the day?” Taehyung asks, once you are done placing your order. 

“Nerve-wracking. I almost fainted before the one-on-one meeting.” you recall the incidents, then the man. 

Jeon Jungkook’s handsome face flashes before your eyes for a second. 

Taehyung chuckles at your answer, “I know. Jungkook can be really intimidating.” 

You pout, “oh? You’re talking as if you know him personally?” 

“Actually yes. We are not at all close and probably talked a few times but we share the same group of friends.” 

Your eyebrows shoot towards your hairline at the information, “Really? That’s great. It would have been easy for you to face him then.” 

“Oh god! Not at all! He had me pinned at my seat for the entire meeting. All serious expressions and no smile.” Taehyung grimaces at the memory. 

“He smiled at me though. Actually… giggled. He was super nice.” you start recalling the encounter again. 

“He must have really liked you.” Taehyung muses. 

Is he jealous? You ask yourself. Even though Teahyung sounds anything but envious. 

“By the way, Y/N. I asked you to meet today for a selfish reason.” he smiles sheepishly. 

“What is it?” you ask sipping your coffee that just arrived. 

“Are you close to Hani?” 

As soon as the words leave Taehyung's lips, your world stops moving. You know what is about to come and it breaks your heart but you are determined not to show it on your face. 

“Yeah. why?” you manage to voice upon gulping the lump that formed in your throat. 

All of a sudden Taehyung lunches forward grasping your hands with his big ones, “help me please. Set me up with her! Pleaaaaseeeee” his boxy smile is on full view. 

Once that smile warmed you up but right now you feel nothing but cold. 

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[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

The Diary of Tom Riddle- Diary! Tom Riddle x Reader - P3

pairing: Tom riddle x Fem reader

warnings: Horcruxes, Manipulation, Tom being Tom, side effects of being possessed.

summary: 16-year-old (y/n) finds a mysterious black book on the floor of after it slips out of Ginny Weasleys caldron, curious, she picks it up and keeps it-which leads to one thing after another and discovers the book is far more than it seems.

-Part 1- -Part 2- -Part 4-

=

Thankfully, as she woke up, (y/n) hadn't moved from her bed throughout the night. She sighed and slowly sat up, rubbing her face, drawing back the curtains of her bed, seeing her roommates all up and getting dressed for the day. It was a Sunday, so it was Hogsmeade day for years 3 and up.

Hogsmeade sounded fun.

(y/n) looked at the diary and grabbed it, popping open her ink well and grabbing her quill, flipping open a book to the now blank page she’d been writing in the night before.

“Morning Tom.”

Tom took a moment to respond, her ink disappearing into the page as his elegant scrawl appeared in its place.

‘Good morning (y/n), did you sleep well?’

“yes I did, thankfully. Woke up where I should be too, in my bed.”

‘Very good. Are you feeling better?’

“yeah, much better, thank you. Im going to go to Hogsmeade today, would you like to come with?”

‘Well, I wouldn’t be able to do much, would I?’

(y/n) hummed in thought, Tom had a point, as he could only see what she wrote/illustrated in the book.

“good point, but I could maybe bring you to the bookstore there and get some ink you’d like?”

‘I don’t eat the ink (y/n)’

“not what I meant but that’s a very funny visual thank you.”

(y/n) giggled to herself, imagining the book eating the ink instead of just absorbing it to write back to her.

“I meant like, would you like some fancy ink? I saved up some money from my allowance and can get some good ink from the store if you would prefer it?”

‘How…generous of you, (y/n)’

“thank you :)”

Tom took a very long moment to respond, as if he was thinking long and hard about her offer. Finally, after a few minutes, he wrote back-though he did so while (y/n) was getting dressed for her outing to Hogsmeade, putting on an oversized sweater for maximum comfort.

‘I suppose it couldn’t hurt if you brought the diary along, I certainly don’t mind good inks to write with, I myself was never able to afford more than the most basic brands.’

(y/n) tilted her head a bit, a smile growing on her face. Tom was opening up to her a bit! Okay-play it cool-don’t overreact.

“aww really?”

‘I don’t need your pity (y/n)’

Oops.

“not pity! Im sorry! Just…idk”

‘What in the merlin does ‘idk’ mean?’

“Oh-I don’t know-its an abbreviation.”

‘Why don’t you just write ‘I don’t know’, it’s not hard?’

“idk, just easier.”

She felt like she could hear him sigh, which made her giggle and she finished getting dressed before writing to him again.

“okay okay, im going to go eat, ill be back to grab you before everyone heads out to Hogsmeade.”

Tom didn’t respond so (y/n) closed the diary and put it back on her bedside table, capping her ink well and cleaning her quill before leaving her room, heading out to the great hall for breakfast.

-

Hogsmeade, thankfully, took the rest of the events from the night before off (y/n)’s mind as she went from store to store, starting at the book store and writing down ink brands and types to Tom, who eventually picked out a non-expensive India ink, but it was definitely more costly than the usual ink she got.

She closed the diary and put it back in her bag, taking the new ink to the front and buying it, the shopkeep wrapping it in paper and then giving it to her in a paper bag.

She counted how much money she had left as she walked down the main path of the village, nodding to herself as she pocketed the coins. She had enough to do someday after Halloween candy shopping.

She hopped straight into Honeydukes, where loads of other students were buying their own discounted candy, and quickly got some candies that were under the discount.

Including a bag of candy corn, and it was the type made in shop-which was even better.

“What is it with you and candy corn (n/n)?” one of her friends that had accompanied her to Hogsmeade asked teasingly, attempting to steal one of the candies (y/n) had bought.

“It’s good!” (y/n) defended the candy, holding the box to her chest. She knew candy corn wasn’t a worldly liked candy-but it was hers and her dad's favorite, so it not only tasted good to her, but it also was nostalgic.

(y/n)’s friend snickered, taking a caramel apple lollipop from (y/n)’s bag full of discounted Halloween candy. (y/n) rolled her eyes, the two catching up with the rest of their friends, hanging out at the three broomsticks for a while before heading back to the castle.

Upon getting back to her dorm room, (y/n) poured out the candy onto her bed and spread it out, sorting it and eating a few pieces here and there as she separated the chocolates from the hard candies, and the lollipops from the taffy.

She took out the diary and the new well of ink, opening the wax around it and setting it aside, testing the ink on her actual notebook before writing to Tom.

“back from Hogsmeade! Using the new ink as well :)”

‘I can tell, it’s far smoother than the ink you were using before.’

“I’m glad you like it! I also got a lot of candy from honeydukes, they were having a day after Halloween sale, I got nearly 5 pounds of candy for one galleon.”

‘Sweet tooth?’

“big one.”

(y/n) smiled brightly as she continued her conversation with Tom, which turned to her asking Tom what his favorite candy was…is.

‘I haven't tried much candy if I must be honest, though I do like treacle tarts.’

“yum, those are pretty good”

“great now Im craving treacle tart thanks Tom.”

‘You’re welcome, (y/n)’

­-

(y/n) happily painted on some Slytherin green and silver face paint onto her cheeks, today was the first quidditch game of the year, and the Slytherin team had gotten a new seeker-the spoiled as fuck Draco Malfoy, who everyone knew bribed his way in but he still wasn’t a terrible flyer-and brand new brooms.

The whole Slytherin house was excited, ready to win the first match of the season against Gryffindor, since they hadn’t won a game against Gryffindor since Harry Potter joined the team the year before.

“You almost ready (y/n)?!” her friend called from the bathroom as she herself finished her makeup.

“Yeah!” (y/n) said, hopping to her feet after pulling away from her desk mirror. “I’m all done!” she wrapped a scarf around her neck and hooked her arm with her friends and they all went down to the quidditch pitch together, the roar of excitement already humming through the stands.

The game started quickly after that and it was exciting! The Slytherins were walloping the Gryffindors easily-quickly overtaking them 90-30. (y/n) whistled and cheered for her team, throwing her fists into the air with each score. “Woah what the fuck?!” she heard her friend suddenly exclaim and (y/n) turned to see where she was looking, her brows furrowing as a bludger began to deliberately chase Harry Potter.

“Is that a rouge bludger??” (y/n) said, her lip curling in confusion. “What the hell they’re like-impossible to tamper??” (y/n) and her friend stopped paying attention to the game as a whole, watching in near horror as Harry was chased around by a bludger.

The Weasley twins tried to bat it away from him but it kept coming back.

“that’s not good-we should tell a teacher-“ (y/n) stuttered, turning to head off the stands, maybe catch Madam Hooch’s attention and stop the game before someone got hurt. (y/n)’s friend nodded and followed her through the crowd of Slytherins and down the stands.

Just as they reached Madam Hooch, the bludger had slammed into Harry’s arm as he reached for the snitch and he hit the dirt soon after; though he had the snitch in hand, Gryffindor had won the game. “Oh shit,” (y/n) muttered under her breath, looking at Harrys very broken arm, as Madam Hooch blew the whistle, ending the game.

The Weasley twins somehow caught the tampered bludger, getting it back into the box and locking it down. Madam Hooch instantly saw to it, and while that all happened-the idiot Lockhart…erm…mended Harry’s arm.

“Ew,” (y/n) muttered as her friend gagged at the rubber look Harry’s arm had taken. Lockhart hadn’t mended shit; he’d removed Harry’s bones!

“That is so nasty,” (y/n)’s friend muttered, and (y/n) nodded in agreement, heading back to the castle after Headmaster Dumbledore told everyone the match was over and to head back to the castle while Harry, and any other injured players, went to Madam Pomfrey.

“Gotta be honest, Gryffindor deserved that win, I mean-odds stacked against them, with those new brooms and that bloody bludger, they won. Shame Potter’s arm got broken for it though.” (y/n)’s friend ranted as they walked back to the common room, (y/n) nodding in agreement. “I have to wonder who tampered the bludger? I mean Madam Hooch checks them right before the game, and if it wasn’t tampered then, how could’ve someone hexed it within the minutes before the game began?”

(y/n) shrugged as her friend continued to rant. “Maybe someone tampered with it mid-game? Because it wasn’t doing it at first, if it was tampered with before the game-it would’ve gone after Harry straight away? Wouldn’t it?” (y/n) suggested, walking into the common room after several other students and her friend nodded, tapping her chin.

“That does sound logical, though I’m not sure how or why anyone would do that, I mean-he’s just a 12-year-old kid? Who’d want to charm a bloody iron magic ball to hurt him?” (y/n) shrugged in response to her friend's rhetorical question.

“Someone fucked up,” (y/n) answered anyway and her friend sighed, the two entering their dorm room. Her friend went to wipe the Slytherin-themed makeup off her face while (y/n) went to her bed and grabbed the diary.

“Potter almost got killed by a bludger at the quidditch match today.”

(y/n) could almost feel the sense of ‘!!?!?!’ from Tom as he hurriedly wrote back to her.

‘Who starts a conversation like that? also what? how? I never liked Quidditch but I’m sure those Quidditch gear chests are impossible to get into?’

“that’s what I said, I think someone jinxed it mid game because it wasn’t going after him at first.”

‘How odd. And it was going after Potter specifically?’

“yeah! Only him, the Weasley twins kept batting it away from him but it would go right back after Potter. Its really weird.”

‘I cannot tell you it isn’t, because it is very odd.’

“yeah”

(y/n) perked up as her friend came back out of the bathroom. “I’m going to go get lunch, you coming?” her friend asked and (y/n) nodded.

“Yeah, lemme just wash my face,” (y/n) said, looking back down at the diary and telling Tom she had to go, setting the book down on the bedside table and going into the bathroom to wash her face.

-

(y/n) woke up very late that night, a ringing in her ears as she opened her eyes, feeling kinda nauseous. She groaned lightly, realizing she’d fallen off her bed, her head pounding as she attempted to get up, pressing her palms to her eyes as they ached.

“What the fuck,” she muttered, rubbing her face. She’d never fallen off her bed before, but considering the odd dream she had-she wasn’t surprised. She eventually got to her feet after the nausea had passed and climbed back into bed, yawning.

She laid back down, but couldn’t get back to sleep. Her mind kept going back to that odd dream. She had been walking through the halls of Hogwarts, at what seemed to be a late hour, and went into one of the bathrooms and…spoke a strange language-a hissing language, and the…sink had come apart??? After that she woke up, having fallen off her bed mid weird dream.

She huffed and drew the curtains around her bed, grabbing her wand, the diary, and her quill. “Lumos,” (y/n) murmured and the tip of her wand began to glow and she opened the diary, flipping through pages and pages of notes, and doodles.

She dipped her quill and began to write to Tom.

“I fell out of my bed,”

‘And why is that so important to tell me? It’s late I’m sure, you should be asleep.’

“you’re right but I cant get back to sleep, I had a weird dream and woke up after falling out of my bed, which ive never done”

“or at least I havent done since I was a kid?”

‘Interesting. What was your dream about if I may ask?’

(y/n) wrote down what she remembered from the dream, and then added a small detail she hadn’t realized till now.

“it felt like I was having an out of body experience, or like I was watching through someone elses eyes? You get what I mean?”

‘I suppose I do, though im sure there’s nothing to worry about, everyone has odd dreams sometimes.’

“have you ever had an odd dream?”

‘Yes, I’m not divulging that information though, you’ll tease me relentlessly about it.’

“no I wont!”

(y/n) huffed as Tom didn’t respond, and she could imagine the expression of ‘sure you wont’ on his face. She wished she knew wha the looked like…wait maybe she could find him in the gallery! He did say he was a prefect in his time, maybe there was a picture somewhere of the 1942-1943 prefects.

“you’re no fun.”

‘Go to sleep (y/n),’

“fiiiine, goodnight Tom.”

‘Goodnight, (y/n)’

-

“A first year got petrified?!” (y/n) asked in a hushed tone, her eyes wide as she gripped her friend's hand tightly as they walked to breakfast Monday morning.

“Yeah, apparently it happened Saturday night, or well, early Sunday morning if you think about it that way-but Professor Dumbledore found him in the middle of the night-just-stone still, petrified.” (y/n)’s friend rambled and (y/n) frowned, squeezing her friend’s hand tighter.

Early Sunday morning…she’d had that weird dream and fell out of her bed Sunday morning.

“What time did the first year get petrified?” (y/n) asked and her friend shrugged.

“Dunno, I’m only telling you what I heard from the grapevine, all I know is Sunday morning, a first year got petrified.” (y/n) huffed nervously in response, swallowing harshly, that weird feeling of paranoia returning to her gut.

Just a coincidence, just a coincidence. It had to be; besides, she’d just fallen out of her bed this time, she hadn’t sleepwalked, she hadn’t even left her dorm room.

…right?

-

“I’m leaving.” (y/n) huffed as dumbass Lockhart came onto the long dueling stage that was set up lengthwise in the great hall, replacing the house tables. Her friend grabbed her arm as she attempted to escape, tugging her towards the edge of the stage-making them be front and center.

“Oh, come on (y/n)~ it’ll be fun!” her friend said cheerfully, she’d didn’t understand why (y/n)…disliked ‘Professor’ Lockhart, even thinking he was hot.

It was one of the few things (y/n) vehemently disagreed with her on.

“it’ll be cringe as fuck that’s what it’ll be.” (y/n) grumbled, crossing her arms as she pouted. She expected maybe Professor Flitwick to be the head of the dueling club, but noooo it had to be the obvious fake Lockhart.

Though-Professor Snape had agreed to…help Lockhart in a demonstration, and that, was going to be fun.

(y/n) couldn’t help the peal of laughter that came from her as Snape sent Lockhart across the dueling stage, her friend gasping as Lockhart landed with a thump. “Is he okay?” her friend asked and (y/n) just snickered with the rest of the Slytherin members of the club.

“Who cares? That was funny.” (y/n) chuckled, smirking as her friend gave her a glare. After that everyone got paired into groups, Lockhart nearly putting the little 1st and 2nd years with the 5th and 6th years attending, Snape correcting that mistake and putting (y/n) against a fellow 6th-year Slytherin, though (y/n) hardly knew his name.

“Remember, disarm only!” Lockhart said and (y/n) rolled her eyes, bowing her to dueling partner with her wand at her side and then holding it out in front of her, her other arm over her head for balance.

The dueling began moments later, and spells shot out of their wands every other moment. (y/n) began with the disarming charm, expelliarmus, but her opponent blocked it and returned with a Stupefy. (y/n) went to block but it felt like she wasn’t in control of herself anymore, she stepped to the side-avoiding the spell-and held out her wand in a grip that wasn’t her own.

“Relashio!” With a wave of her wand her dueling opponent was forced to drop their wand and then (y/n) twirled her wand again. “Depulso!” A blast of white magic flew towards her dueling opponent and they flew back, hitting the ground with a loud thud.

There was an intense satisfaction that ran deep in her bones for a split moment, and an odd feeling to finish her opponent off-but that quickly went away and (y/n) pocketed her wand, rushing over to her dueling partner. “Are you okay?” (y/n) asked, offering her hand and her dueling partner chuckled painfully, rubbing their lower back as she helped them stand.

“I’m okay-that was wicked casting though,” (y/n) only nodded in response, licking her teeth as the dueling groups were stopped, a green haze in the air from the dueling 2nd years. She began to leave the great hall as Potter and Malfoy began to duel, only stopping when she heard a strange hissing coming from the stage.

She turned, the hissing sounding too familiar, coming from Potter as he…hissed at a black snake? Her ears began to ring, her vision going a bit blurry as she stared at Potter, the boy hissing at the snake before Snape destroyed it.

What the fuck?

That was the same hissing she’d heard in her dream on Sunday.

-end of p3-

im very happy with this part and i hope you guys are too-taglist!!!

@dracosslxt4eva @dream-your-own-way @slaggylemon

@slytherinbackintomyroom @starryhiraeth @larallott

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Claimed by the Devil

Small Creatures, Chapter 1

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader

summary: When the well-known vigilante of Hell’s Kitchen saves you from disaster, you realize he might mean more to you than you thought.

warnings: swearing, Matt Murdock’s self-destructive tendencies, mentions of a cult and subsequent trauma, allusions to drowning

a/n: This is it, y’all! A Matt Murdock soulmate AU as requested by that poll a few weeks ago. A HUGE shoutout to @zomtart for helping me plan this AU!! I am so excited to share this new verse with you, I really hope you like it! As always, please let me know what you think by replying and reblogging! This chapter takes place about a month before the beginning of Daredevil S2.

w/c: 4.1k

“For small creatures such as we, the vastness is only bearable through love.” Carl Sagan

Since the creation of man, each soul was created with another. Two, sometimes more, mirrored fractions of a whole, destined to forge a bond. Particles of a spiritual atom, drawn to each other by invisible forces, finally satisfied through connection. Soulmates. Each body marked with a symbol, to help them find their other half. Sometimes a word or a shape, a small clue to start their journey.

For a while, that journey was short. It would still take time, of course, to meet your soulmate, to fall in love—but it took less than one lifetime, while the world was still small, the human race still growing.

After a few generations, and centuries of invention, the population began to travel. Groups of people living on all 6 continents, developing new cultures, traditions, languages. As they moved, the average distance between bound pairs grew. It became less common to ever meet your match. Humanity found love in other places, built families on opposite sides of the globe, living their entire existence without their intended.

With each non-bound couple, came children without bonds. Scientists have puzzled over the phenomenon for years, some drawing the conclusion that our biology began to reject the bond, to continue without it as if it was a recessive gene. Through countless wars and plagues, and the continued spread of humanity, finding your soulmate was almost an impossibility.

And then the pendulum swung back. Wars became fewer, food more prevalent, medicine more exact. Lifespans were stretched and, with the help of machines, it was easier than ever to find your soulmate. The damage of an era without them began to repair itself.

Within 5 generations, chances of forming a true bond soared from one in one-thousand to one in thirty.

A sharp vibration from your laptop interrupted the voice in your head. Glancing at the bubble that flashed across your screen, you rolled your eyes at the message. It was the seventh—yes, SEVENTH—in a string of emails from the same haughty woman demanding the pictures of her great aunt's 90th birthday party.

The party was beautiful, and the photos reflected that, but it had been less than 48 hours since the event. Every contract you signed gave you a window of 5-7 business days to edit the photos, more time depending on the length of the shot list you were given and the number of pictures they wanted. If this woman wanted professional, edited photos, she needed to give you a damn break.

Clicking on the small white cross in the corner of the pop-up, you huffed out a small laugh, imagining the fuming woman growing redder in the face when you didn't answer her at 4:02 on a Sunday afternoon. Setting your own hours, as well as being able to ignore frustrating clients during your down time, were just two of the perks of running your own photography business. The flexible schedule and lack of strict routine were a welcomed change after your upbringing in a highly controlled community.

While you did understand why experts used that terminology, you were much more content calling your “community” what it was: a cult. “High control group”—or whatever other politically-correct, secular terminology people wanted to use to describe a bunch of adults deciding to use their limited power to exploit others in the name of some bogus goal—was too polite for the assholes from your hometown. The bumfuck rural town where “religious” leaders congregated to torture dozens of children over a tiny, immovable mark on their skin.

A brand of the devil. That’s what they claimed soulmarks were. The sign of a being destined for evil. And, in order to save humanity from said evil, it was up to this specific community to cleanse you of your threatening aura, to rid the demonic energy from your body and spare your soul.

They’d used written and verbal propaganda, forbid outside contact, relied heavily on fear-mongering—the whole nine yards of brainwashing, all to supposedly grant the town salvation. Given that your particular mark was on the inside of your right wrist? Well, it definitely didn’t help the “damned” accusations coming your way.

Something flashed across your mind. A memory. Tepid water, turning frigid as you were forced deeper and deeper. All traces of oxygen slowly draining from your lungs, your body struggling desperately against the hands gripping you forcefully by the arms, holding you under.

Shuddering with discontent, your mark itched fiercely, as if it was trying to snap you out of the flashback. Absentmindedly dragging a nail over it to quell the unpleasant sensation, you inhaled deeply, studying the image as you did.

It was a simple thing, a series of a few lines just over the pulse point on your forearm. Two triangles, placed horizontally and pointing away from each other, with three small straight lines fanning out beneath. From your limited knowledge, it was a rune of some sort, though you hadn’t been able to narrow down the origin or meaning quite yet. Not scary enough to warrant the actions taken by your wonderful hometown though.

After surviving, and escaping, your upbringing, a lack of a rigid schedule was a necessity—which meant freelance event photography was a perfect career path. Unfortunately, an anxious mind and spontaneity didn't always mix.

It didn't matter that you didn't hear the messaging daily anymore. You were still struggling to unravel the mind games and indoctrination you'd been subjected to, hence the re-reading of this particular article. It wasn't the most informative, and the author clearly had a fully-realized bond herself, but it was the first piece of literature you'd ever read that wasn't propaganda.

There was a historical explanation for the disappearance of your condition, as well as a documented existence of others like you. Your mark didn't make you evil—it meant you were loved.

You re-read the blurb on days like today. Days where your conscience buzzed with apprehension, adrenaline flowing freely despite the lack of danger. There was something in the air around you. A warning, illustrated by the tiniest changes in your environment. On days like these, you felt like a bug beneath a descending shoe, scrambling to understand what was coming so you could make it out alive.

Expecting a disaster was illogical, you knew that. But reason wasn't the driving force in your brain on the anxious days. It was your desperate need to survive, to be prepared. On your bad days, your eyes flew open like you'd heard the door come crashing in or felt the cold steel barrel of a pistol against your temple—your body readying for a fight before you were even fully conscious.

Those days, your heart hammered in your chest, battering your ribs until they ached. Your lungs constricted when your blood pressure rose, each breath coming as a pant as you struggled to inhale enough oxygen. One wrong move and you'd send yourself spiraling into a full anxiety attack. Hopefully, you'd at least be able to stave that off over the last hour of daylight today.

Chewing at the edge of your thumbnail, you aimlessly scrolled through the page again, blowing out a terse sigh. The biggest annoyance when it came to your anxiety was that each experience was unique. There wasn't a universal solution. Sometimes, staying at home where it was familiar and safe was all you needed to settle your nerves. Other times, the constancy only made you more jittery.

As much as you'd wished that a sedentary day would slow your pulse and ease your breathing, that clearly was not in the cards.

Time for Plan B.

Growling almost inaudibly, you resisted the urge to start pulling your hair out strand by strand. Working up the energy to get through the door was always the hard part. As exhibited by your professional side, freedom to roam and choose your own path was vital. Despite your nervous brain trying to deny it, leaving your place to wander on a small adventure would be good for you in the long run.

When you'd escaped the clutches of the nutjobs running your old neighborhood, you'd made a promise to yourself–try at least one new thing every week. It seemed childish, but you'd missed out on so many things when under the control of the Order, you wanted to make up for that. Pretty quickly, it became clear that you thrived on flexibility and exploration.

So you kept up with it. Made a list of things in case you ever ran out of inspiration or couldn't decide what to choose next. That line of scribbles in a worn notebook came in handy on days where you disappeared into yourself, where you lacked the excitement that normally accompanied your little outings. Allowing the intense reluctance in your gut to churn, you reached for the leatherbound pages, sliding the book from where it lay on the coffee table and into your lap. Heaving out a breath, despite your protesting lungs, you thumbed through the paper, letting the smell of ink and coffee-stained parchment wash over you.

You weren't looking for something big. And the idea had to be plausible, there would be no mountain climbing or language learning in a single evening. Trailing a finger to the side of the dried ink, you skimmed each bullet point, eyes lingering on a particularly messy string of words.

“Golden Skyline Ink 48”

Thankfully, the gibberish you'd immortalized was recent enough that you could decipher it. Sunset photos of the skyline from the Ink 48 Hotel. You'd swung by the prestigious building for a meeting with a potential client, but you'd been too busy to snap a decent shot from the roof before your next errand of the day.

Pondering for a minute, you decided to go with your hesitant gut instinct. You craned your neck, hunting down your camera bag as you rolled your shoulder to unravel the tension balled up in them. Shoving up from your horizontal position on the couch, you closed your laptop and shuffled towards the door. Hefting the bag into your arms, you strode down the entryway.

Your hand reached for the doorknob at a snail's pace, halting mere inches from it as if the brass had a forcefield around it. ”You can do this.“ You muttered to yourself, forcing your fingers past the barrier and around the knob.

Stepping through the door, you flinched at the bright fluorescence of the hallway lights, hissing slightly like a vampire seeing the sun in a cheesy TV show. Swallowing the flash of pain in your head as the lights continued to beam down, you took another step. Here goes nothing.

Matt was grateful for the new body armor. He was, really.

He just wished Melvin’s talents included making the damn thing breathable. He’d never admit that, of course. On the spectrum of pain he lived with, being a bit overheated was closer to the bearable end. It wasn’t a stab wound or a broken bone, it wouldn’t impede his patrolling. If he could work through a punctured lung, he could handle a little sweating.

But when the nights got quiet and slow, it was more difficult to keep his mind from latching on to the discomfort–blown out of proportion by his fickle senses.

Sitting atop an apartment building on 55th Street, Matt could feel pure thermal energy bubbling up from the concrete beneath his feet. The waves of heat collided with his shoes, seeping into the rubber soles and blanketing his skin. Around him, the short ledge wrapping around the roof refracted more warmth, sending the sweltering air to smack directly into him.

He wasn't a fan of the heat, never had been, but the thick, skin-tight suit he was wearing only exacerbated the issue. Sweat beaded in the paper-thin gap between his skin and the fabric surrounding it, suctioning it impossibly closer to his body. Grinding his teeth in aggravation, Matt prowled to the edge of the roof, leaping off and rolling to deflect the impact from shattering any of his limbs. With a quick jump, he was back on his feet, taking off towards the next building in the line.

If he patrolled towards the Hudson and back around, he could escape the worst of the heat without neglecting his duty to the city.

Not that there was much action these days. The past handful of weeks, his outings in the suit had been unusually unproductive. It wasn’t that he was missing out on fights–it’s that they didn’t exist. Gangs were staying holed up, petty crime had taken a dive, even the steady drug or arms traders like Turk had gone radio silent. As much as Matt wanted to believe that his time as Daredevil had made a lasting impact on the city he loved so dearly, a current of doubt continued to whirl beneath his skin.

Crime was more likely in the summer, that was an inevitability. Increased temperatures shortened people’s fuses. Spats with loved ones were more likely to turn violent, miscellaneous expenses are more likely to add up and cause financial distress, it was statistically probable that he’d have busier nights leading up to the fall. And yet, here he was, twiddling his glove-clad thumbs while metaphorical tumbleweeds were swept down the streets.

He was confident something had changed, but he hadn’t quite determined what. So, despite the lack of problems he felt the need to solve, he continued to remain out until all hours, ears straining to pick up a scream or the explosive pop of a bullet leaving the barrel of a gun.

Body on high alert, he ambled towards the piers, vaulting from roof to roof in a familiar trajectory while his brain fought off an incoming onslaught of guilt at the notion of staying out. Foggy would be furious tomorrow, when he saw Matt gulping down the cheap coffee from their machine–which was held together by masking tape and sheer luck these days. Matt had foolishly admitted his conundrum to his business partner, remarking that the city had been eerily still lately, that there was less of a need for him. That he’d been searching so urgently for justification that he’d been going out before dusk.

The idea that Matt’s nighttime activity was no longer an absolute necessity had upset the tenuous understanding the pair had reached over said activity. A simple slip of his tongue and Matt was on the receiving end of Foggy’s chastising, being told he should take advantage of the lull and “get some goddamned rest for once”. (Foggy’s words, not his own.) The renewed argument had become such a frequent topic of discussion that Karen had almost been clued in a few times when Matt’s frustration had narrowed his senses. Just that morning, he and Foggy had been going at it when she’d arrived at the office, surprising both of them with her bright greeting and intrigued glance.

Hurling himself to the next rooftop, Matt huffed out an aggravated breath, clenching his fists as his muscles tightened with irritation, his friend’s desperate pleas echoing in his head.

“You can’t keep going like this.”

“You’re hurting yourself for nothing.”

“The city will be fine without you.”

That last one stung the most, ripping open an invisible wound he’d crudely stitched after taking down Fisk. His work had helped people. His infamous alter ego was the final straw in the case against the organized criminal, imperative to his arrest. To the people of this city, Daredevil mattered–which meant Matt Murdock mattered.

If he boxed up the suit…

No. That wasn’t an option. He couldn’t–

The shuffle of a shoe on concrete caught his attention, snapping him out of his downward spiral. His chest trembled as he panted in and out, his shallow breaths deepening as he focused in the direction of the noise. He wasn’t alone.

Mouth parting as his atypical radar closed in, his nose scrunched with slight confusion, brow furrowing with concern. There was a person perched on the brick ledge–a woman, balancing on her tiptoes and facing the city. She hadn’t noticed him, her pulse far too slow. Her hands held something blocky, the plastic object dragging along her skin as she positioned it, arms outstretched over the nearly 20 story drop to the pavement below.

He bit back an incredulous scoff as she bent further towards her death, practically rolling his eyes to the heavens as he approached. Not only was this position begging for disaster to strike, she had one headphone in, her lips moving as if mouthing along to the lyrics. She heaved in a dramatic exhale.

“Let’s try this again,” She murmured, finger slotting into a divot on an edge of the thing in her grasp, prompting a series of mechanical clicks to burst from it. Shutter sounds. A camera. A camera? You were risking your life for a photo?

Before he could judge you too harshly, your mouth twitched and your heart rate jumped. You’d realized he was there, then.

“You know, if you fall off that ledge, the effort you went through for that picture will be wasted.” He quipped, his lips twitching with a hint of a smirk as you squeaked indignantly.

It was only amusing for a moment.

As you whirled to face him, apparently surprised that he was there, you lost your footing, tumbling backward off the ledge.

For what it was worth, your little adventure had been going pretty well before the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen almost killed you.

There weren’t too many people out tonight, probably because it was disgustingly hot, so you’d made good time–jogging the few blocks to the hotel and sneaking into the elevator with a young couple who were too busy being at each other’s throats to care that you slipped in. The roof was vacant and more perfect than you could’ve dreamed. Swathed in the lights of nearby skyscrapers, you were presented with a gorgeous panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline at sunset, the stark red-orange hue of the sky peeking between towering steel.

Once you’d attached the proper lenses, you began snapping photos, but you couldn’t get the exposure to set correctly. To capture a good picture at this time of evening, you needed the settings to be just so. It was a tedious, attention-consuming process, that, when combined with the soft music blasting from your lone earbud, had prohibited you from hearing someone approach…until he spoke.

“You know, if you fall off that ledge, the effort you went through for that picture will be wasted.” His growl was low, but contained traces of a humor you weren’t expecting.

Damn your anxious self for startling so easily. With a tiny squeal, you slipped from the ledge, your careful posture crumbling as you fell. Your heart lodged in your throat, air rushing into your ears as you began to descend, but before you could even scream, a pair of warm hands grasped you firmly by the arm.

Face jerking up, your eyes locked onto the masked vigilante’s snarl of exertion as he hauled you over the cement shelf and onto stable ground.

Breathing shakily, still in his grip, your face went slack with a nauseating combination of shock and relief. “Th-thank you.”

He let out a puff of a laugh. “You’re welcome. That was a close call. Do I need to call a hotline?”

His lips twitched with a smirk, his face clearly displaying humor despite his eyes being covered by a mask. Head tilted cockily, he seemed to be studying you, maybe evaluating whether you should be in a psych ward.

Shaking your head furiously, you scrambled to your feet, nearly tripping over yourself as you backed away from your savior. “No, I’m good, that wasn’t the plan. I just–”

As you began to retract himself from his hold, his thumb brushed over your forearm, tracing the faintest line over your exposed soulmark. When his fingertip made contact with the lines over your wrist, the world exploded.

When you were a small child, you’d electrocuted yourself when unplugging a lamp. It was an act of rebellion against your parents when they had demanded you clean up after compulsory bible study. The inflicted shock had careened through your entire body, feeling as though you’d been dipped in boiling water and then flash-frozen as your body tried to adapt to the new current. An abrupt change of temperature, the suddenness uncomfortable but the aftermath numbingly calm.

Touching the Devil felt like that.

Your mark glowed with warmth like embers in a dying fire. The hair along your arm stood on end, your heart nearly bursting with energy as you were clobbered with a realization.

“You..you’re my–” You whispered, taking a step closer to the vigilante.

His hand had clasped around your wrist, holding it delicately, chin dipping towards his chest. His breaths were labored, his complexion seeming to grow more pale as he ran a calloused finger over the mark again.

“I don’t–” Dropping your arm as if it had burned him, Daredevil’s face settled into an angry mask as he hurriedly stepped away from you. “I have to go.”

“W-what?” You stammered, running your hands over your arms as your body recovered from his touch, goosebumps undulating beneath your palms. “But we–”

“It’s late. You should get home before it’s too dark.” He responded tersely, turning away from you. Striding across the roof, his hand landed on top of the short stack of bricks, head turning over his shoulder with a sorrowful pout. “I’m sorry.”

Gracefully jumping over the side, he was gone.

Feeling dumbfounded and slightly defeated, you stared after him for a minute before shouldering your bag and beelining for the fire escape.

Karen stretched her arms over her head, groaning softly as the knot of tension between her shoulders unfurled. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, she jiggled the mouse on the desk before her, turning her laptop back on to try and appear busy. After the law firm of Nelson and Murdock put Wilson Fisk behind bars, the clientele began to pour in–though whether that was for their proven representation skills or their shitty but functional AC, she wasn’t sure. Regardless, there had been a steady stream of walk-ins this week. And now that it had finally slowed down, she felt almost disappointed.

Being a secretary at the tiny little office was one of the most interesting things she’d ever done. Each case presented completely new realities, new opportunities and challenges. It was like she was given the chance to start fresh every day, and she was grateful for it. But in moments like these where the people filed out of the crooked doors, it made her a bit antsy.

Foggy and Matt were buried in new evidence for a guardianship revocation, holed up in Matt’s office, leaving her to schedule their appointments. She sighed, contemplating whether or not to interrupt them, to ask for something to do. Depending on when the guys would be heading out, they might want dinner or more coffee…

As she was running through a list of takeout that all of them could stomach, that hadn’t been ordered too recently, her phone’s display lit up, a new message appearing on the lock screen. An anonymous message in a chat board she frequented–one dedicated to opinions about Hell’s Kitchen’s hero, Daredevil. 

When she joined the board, she was solely intending to be a spectator. Unfortunately, the internet made it easier for trolls to share their bullshit opinions. Call the vigilante a threat to justice. Say that he should be put down. There was only so much she could handle before her blood boiled over and she sent her responses. 

These days, she was a pretty active poster. She rarely received private messages though, so the notification set her on edge. 

Hesitantly tapping the glowing bubble, she held her breath as it opened. No context, no identifying information, just two bizarre sentences that she was not prepared for.

“I know this is strange but..I think Daredevil might be my soulmate? And I was hoping you might know where I could find him.”

Taglist: @marytheweefrenchie @cheshirecat484 @siampie @xxdrixx @gracethyomen @ignore-mp3 @silas-aeiou @screechingphantommaker @spiderstyles04 @paradox-brody-chase

[kinardsevan]

several sentence sunday

i got inspired after reading @station18908's mini about Evan not being able to sleep, and this is techincally kinda? finished, but idk if i'm satisfied with it, so here, have this:

.

Evan’s hand is dug tightly into the collar of Tommy’s t-shirt as their tongues tangle, Tommy lapping into the inside of his mouth with a hand grasped firmly around the inside of Evan’s thigh as his thumb brushes dangerously closer to the height of his pelvis, feeling like a weight on his body. He can’t even express exactly what it is about this moment, just that he needs. 

“Evan,” Tommy tries to murmur against his lips, but the younger man is fervent, pressing himself closer if it’s possible, clinging tighter to the collar of Tommy’s shirt. 

Still, Tommy’s experience in all things outweighs Evan’s needs, because his hand leaves Evan’s leg, drawing a soft whimper from the younger one as Tommy’s hand comes to wrap around his hand and gently peel his fingers from his shirt, tilting his head forward and pressing his forehead against Evan’s as he breaks their kiss. 

“Tommy-..” 

“We should slow down,” Tommy whispers hoarsely. He leans back just enough to catch Evan’s gaze, and Evan stares back at him with the saddest expression he thinks he’s ever seen on his face, one that he doesn’t want to see at all. 

“I don’t want to stop,” Evan assures him, leaning forward and ghosting his mouth over Tommy’s, hot breath colliding—he can still smell the sweetness of the wine from dinner from Tommy’s mouth. 

“Evan,” Tommy replies, his tone hedging a gentle warning. They’re playing in dangerous territory, and Tommy knows his own limits, and even though Evan Buckley really loves to push every single one of them, they’re still not there yet, and he won’t push him. But also, he can only handle so much. 

Evan gulps, looking up at his boyfriend, lifting his hand from where Tommy still has it against the collar of his shirt, until he rests it on his cheek. His eyes skate over the surface of Tommy’s face, from the three-day-old stubble on his jaw, the curve of his lips, the angle of his nose, and those ocean-blue eyes, and something in his chest cracks. 

“I-I know we’ve talked, and I-I’m not really ready yet, b-but…” He doesn’t know what else to say. They have talked, extensively, about how he’s not ready to go all the way yet. But he needs to feel Tommy’s skin under his fingers. He needs to touch parts of him far too covered by clothing. He just needs.

Tommy takes a breath, his own gaze skating over Evan’s body and face as he tilts his head slightly, slips his tongue between his lips to wet them, and it makes Evan growl lowly in his chest. Tommy’s nose twitches slightly with a smirk at Evan’s reaction. 

“Are you open to oral sex,” he asks. 

A grunt escapes Evan’s mouth before he can even reign himself in. Tommy’s mouth? On his dick? Oh holy fuck. He doesn’t even have the words in that moment, and all he can do is nod hurriedly, having to remind himself to keep swallowing from how dry his mouth just got. Tommy’s smile widens briefly, and then he leans forward and pecks him quickly before he pushes up off the couch and extends a hand to Evan. The younger man watches him with curiosity, taking his hand a bit apprehensively. 

[magics-neptunes-things]

BabySister (2)

It been asked, it's here ladies and gentlemen!

I didn't realize that there is so much people asking for Leila's content but here it is!

You can find the requests here and here and here and here too

It's the part 2 of "Babysister*t that you can find here :) Please enjoy!

TW : Jealousy

______________________________________________________________

Despite the fact that your sister is aware of your relationship with Leila, you both decided not to make an official annoucement for now. Your friends are starting to be nicely made aware, but you’ve never been for the big announcements and you just talk about it to people who are interested in you and your personal life.

Shortly after the revelation, Jenni had to go back home. Two days later, it was Leila who had to return to Manchester and you are back alone in Barcelona. Even if you have friends and family here, their departures aren't easy. Especially Leila’s, of course. Seeing her go through airport security after one last long hug will probably break your heart every time.

Your week then went on, between work, a few drinks with your friends and the routine that settled back after the holidays. You regularly called Jenni during the week and every night you call Leila, but it’s clearly not enough compared to being able to see them every day while they’re in Barcelona.

"Is everything okay?" Leila asks you Friday night, having noticed your morale at half-mast.

"Yes" you answer simply by shrugging your shoulders.

Leila is preparing herself something to eat, you see her stop to look more closely at the screen of the phone. It's true that you are less local than usual, something that was obviously quickly noticed by Leila. She knows you well.

"I can tell when you’re lying, you know?"

You sigh softly, letting yourself go on your back on your bed. Of course she can.

"I’m fine. I miss you, that’s all"

"I miss you too, Cariño. What are you planning for your weekend?"

"Tomorrow we go out for a drink with my colleagues probably. And Sunday afternoon I watch my girlfriend play on TV"

"I like the second part, but the first? Will there be Aida?"

You roll your eyes when you hear her. You don’t understand why Leila reacts every time she hears that name, you already have had a few comments about her from your coffee with Jenni. All turned around a jealousy that absolutely doesn't deserve to exist.

"She wasn’t sure she could come" so you answer honestly.

"Perfect. Let her continue like this"

********

The following weekend is a little more glorious, since you have the opportunity to fly to Manchester to see Leila play. With Manchester City at home, you can enjoy Leila’s apartment while she’s at training before joining her at the stadium to be on time for the game. You’re happy to see her start the game, just like Laia Aleixandri, your compatriot.

The match ends with a draw and you quickly notice the disappointed look of Leila. She likes to win when you come to see her, probably to add pride.

"You were perfect" you smile at her when she comes up to you after the game.

"We didn't win" Leila objects but you smile tenderly while shrugging her shoulders.

"Not everyone can be as perfect as you."

An amused smile appears on her face when hearing you and you know that her morale isn't as low as you might have feared.

"The girls want to go out tonight, you want us to go too?"

You willingly accept, freeing Leila so that she can go to take a shower and warm up a little. You have time to go home for a while before going out again and you enjoy having her only for you for a few hours. You can imagine that once in the evening, things will be a little less easy.

You spend a little more time than usual in the bathroom getting ready, wishing to impress Leila. Now that your sister knows about you two, you’re a little less afraid of getting caught by someone and ending up on social media. And you can say just by seeing Leila’s look when you come out that it’s successful.

"Do you like it?" you ask Leila, looking down at your outfit.

"You are to die for" Leila assures you, eyes wide open.

You can't hold a small smile and you gladly accept her hug even if her hands are a little wandering on your body.

"Be good, we have to go" you remind her by laying a kiss on her cheek.

Despite a grunt of protest, Leila finally lets you go and drags you to the bottom of her building. Both planning to drink, you preferred to use an Uber rather than taking risks on your way back home. Maybe one of Leila’s teammates can take you home if she doesn’t drink, but you’ll have plenty of time to check in later.

Most of Leila’s teammates are already at the bar when you get there, your hand in Leila’s. You greet them or you greet them again, even if you are easier to communicate with those who speak Spanish. Your English is great actually and that's a good thing.

The evening goes well and you have a good time, dancing or just chatting and talking with the girls. After a long time of dancing on the dance floor, you went back to sit with Leila and other girls.

"I’m going to the bathroom, I’m coming back" Leila whispers in your ear before getting up.

You nod, smiling as you feel her letting a kiss on your neck before shifting your attention to your glass, to see that it's empty. Given the heat, you don't hesitate long before getting up to go get another one.

You take the time to ask those around you if they want something and you refuse the proposal of Laia who asks you nicely if you want her to accompany you, despite the arms of her boyfriend passed possessively around her.

The crowd is dense and you have to go around the dance floor to reach the bar. But you finally get there, leaning on the corner of the bar waiting patiently for someone to come and serve you. There are a lot of people so it takes time, but you wait while looking at your phone. When you feel a hand on your shoulder you turn around smiling, expecting to see Leila. But it's actually a smiling blonde you’re facing, who you absolutely don’t know. The surprise must be read on your face since she apologizes almost immediately.

"Hi! Sorry, but I saw you’ve been waiting for your drink for a while. I’m not working today, but I work here, so I’m gonna put you in front of the others."

"Uh… thank you?" you mumble.

You look at her hand still positioned on your shoulder but you are quickly turned away from it when she shouts what you imagine to be the name of one of the bartenders. And indeed, in two seconds he's facing you to take your order.

"You’re not from here, are you? I can hear your accent"

There was a time when her hand got off your shoulder while taking the order, but she continues to smile cheerfully at you.

"I am Spanish" you answer simply with a slight smile.

"Oh so great. I’ve never been to Spain, but I’d love to."

You smile at her and don’t know what to answer at that. Unlike your sister, you’ve never been very comfortable interacting with other people. It's always much better for you when you are introduced into a group by someone you completely trust. The way Jenni quickly attracted people’s sympathy has always been something you admired about her.

Fortunately, however, you are saved by the bartender who comes in front of you with the glass you asked him for.

"I’m offering it to you" says the blonde, watching you grab your purse, putting her hand on yours. "Sorry about the question, but you’re a lesbian, right?"

"What?"

The surprise can be seen on your face again in front of the question she just asked you. Yes you are and no you never hid it, but you don't understand why this question was asked to you now.

"Don’t take this the wrong way" continues your smiling interlocutor "But I don’t know, it’s just something I can see. You’re like very gay, right?"

"She’s also very in a relationship" makes an icy voice behind you.

You turn around and see Leila and her black eyes. She really doesn't seem happy about the situation but tries to remain cordial. And now that you see her behavior, you finally understand that the girl was hitting on you.

"And I’ll pay for her drink thanks."

Her voice is calm when she grabs her bank card and her other arm slips around your waist to squeeze you against her. But you know perfectly well that inside her, her brain must be exploding.

"Lei" you whisper to try to get her attention.

Talking normally would have been enough, given the ambient noise, but you especially wanted to prevent the blonde from hearing you. You study Leila’s gaze at length when she puts it on you. You don’t have a lot of time together this weekend and you really don’t want to waste time arguing.

But before you have time to draw conclusions, her payment is accepted and she leads you to the table you left a few minutes ago. It's now almost empty, there is in truth only Laia and her boyfriend who discuss by looking tenderly the other in the eyes, probably forgetting the rest of the world. Moreover, Leila chose to sit opposite them.

"I told her not to leave you alone" Leila groans, glancing at Laia.

"I told her I didn’t need her to come" you explain, not wanting her to blame Laia.

"Well, she shouldn’t have listened to you" said the brunette, raising her voice.

"Leila, please"

You give her your best little sad puppy look by laying your hand on her knee. Leila is looking at you and it seems to work even better than you had hoped. She finally sighs softly and you take the opportunity to lean against her, kissing her elbow.

"That’s exactly why I don’t like it when you go out without me. It already happens when we are together, I prefer not imagine what happens when you're alone"

"Believe it or not, this kind of situation only happens when I’m with you. It never happens in Spain, I guess people are more used to the Latin charm there" you smile softly.

"Maybe it’s not a good idea that I suggest you come and live here then"

You freeze suddenly, your brain recording what she just said. You take off from her to observe her, falling face to face with her amused smile.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. My contract is coming to an end, and I don’t know where I’m gonna go next, but I don’t think you’re gonna have a hard time finding work around here for some months. And even if you don’t, you don’t have to spend a dime since I’ll be there. Now that Jenni knows, it makes things less complicated, no?"

You can’t help but smile softly as you imagine Jenni’s face when you will announce her that you're leaving Barcelona to join Leila in Manchester. You know your parents aren’t going to be against it, you’ve been living alone for a long time now. And anyway, you’re an adult and vaccinated.

"What do you think?" Leila asks after you’ve been quiet for a few seconds.

"I’d say yes, but you said it wasn’t a good idea" you joked mischievously.

But the joke doesn't seem to be Leila’s taste since, after pouting, she imprisons your lips with hers for a long and tender kiss.

"Come and live with me" Leila whispers against your lips after your kiss.

"I’d love to" you answer with a smile.

This will probably require a lot of adjustments, but you don't hesitate a single second. You know Leila won’t be against you going back to Barcelona whenever you feel the need. But the idea of waking up every day at his side is already filling you with happiness.

[toournextadventure]

everyone but her pt.6

a/n: we get a bit of backstory about our dear little reader. let's see how she handles parents weekend, shall we?

Word Count: 2.3k Warnings: light swearing Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Reader Taglist: @extinctspino @basichextechml @cfvgbhndun-new-blog @jinxscatbomb @awolfcsworld @n0p35 @suzhiman @gengen64 (Masterlist)

Parents Weekend. Most of the students at Nevermore loved it; it gave them an opportunity to show their family how they were doing, who their friends were, what they were doing with their young lives. And truthfully, it was a joyous weekend. There was more laughter and joy than any other point of the year, even the Rave’N.

Even in the past, you had enjoyed Parents Weekend. The few days Momma and Pop could come up and visit and talk and give you the family you never truly had. Filling that void and giving you the space and opportunity to just be a child. You and Nicky had never been more grateful for something you hadn’t realised was so important.

You understood why they hadn’t been able to come the past few years, truly you did. The others had plays, concerts, events, exams. They were all a little more important than a weekend away, especially when it was a full day’s train ride. They had offered to come, but you told them to stay; being one of the oldest definitely had it’s downsides.

But you enjoyed seeing everyone else’s families rolling in, all the excited chattering and hugs. Even Enid’s family had arrived. You gave them a quick wave and polite smile before running off to hide. If Mrs. Sinclair made one more comment about no one coming to visit you, you were going to scream. The concern was sweet, but there was no point in dredging that fact back up.

“Will you be heading out soon?”

Even though your heart rate accelerated at the sudden appearance of a voice, you shouldn’t have been surprised. Principle Weems knew of your plans for the day and had already given explicit permission to be out all weekend. So why you flinched at her voice, you had no idea.

Must have been nerves.

“A lot sooner now that Mrs. Sinclair saw me,” you said, sending a smile to Mr. Sinclair when they all turned to look at you. “I’m trying to avoid the attention this year.”

“I know you were planning on staying away for the weekend,” Principle Weems started, “but maybe tomorrow you and I could socialise with the other families.”

The tone in her voice, now that was a reason to be surprised. An uncertainty accentuated by the slightest shake behind her words. Without drawing any attention to you both, you looked at her out of the corner of your eye to see that yes, that forced smile of hers was real.

It would mean cutting your trip in half. These trips only happened every other Sunday and this was your one shot at a full weekend. Would it be worth it? Is it what he would want you to do? Probably, you thought with a silent sigh. As much as it felt like throwing your heart into a juicer, you knew what the best thing to do would be.

“I would love to,” you said far too softly. Hopefully Principle Weems had heard you because you weren’t sure you could say it again around the tightness in your throat.

But Principle Weems smiled. “Then we will see you tomorrow.”

She left you standing there with nothing but a dry mouth and an uneasiness in your stomach. It continued to plague you on the flight to Hanover, and reached a crescendo as you greeted Nurse Jackie at the desk and walked into the room. Only when you sat down in your chair by the bed did you feel that anxiety and fear metamorphosise into a comfort you couldn’t put into words.

“Hey bubba” you said as you started digging in your bag for the book. “You look like shit, when was the last time you shaved?”

The high pitched, headache inducing beeping of the heart monitor answered.

“We’ll clean you up before I leave,” you huffed, “I’m not kissing your scruffy cheek.”

The ventilator hissed.

“I told you about that girl I like, right?” You asked. The chair creaked underneath you as you pulled your legs up and crossed them. “The goth girl that looks like she wants to murder everyone, except it’s kinda hot?”

One spike of the heart monitor.

“I was thinking of asking her out again.”

An increase in the beeping of the heart monitor.

“No, it’s not a date." You rolled your eyes. "She doesn’t use that word.”

Another rapid increase.

“I know that’s what it is, she just doesn’t like the word.”

The heart monitor returned back to normal.

“Anyway, I need your thoughts. Would it be stupid to ask her to the Rave’N? It’s not either of our style but it’s still tradition so I just… need some brotherly advice.”

Three breaths from the ventilator before the heart monitor spiked twice.

“You were supposed to say yes,” you said with a huff. “Fine, I’ll ask. But if she turns me down, I’m blaming you.” You pointed your finger at the bed. With a smirk to yourself, you flipped the pages of the book open. “Okay, let’s see, we stopped after Gandalf and the Balrog, right?”

The heart monitor spiked once.

Your smirk turned into a smile before you started reading. Line after line, page after page. At the end of each chapter, you would look up to check on your captive audience, listening for any indication of his thoughts from the heart monitor. With each new chapter your stomach dropped all over again, some sad desperation for a response that was never going to come.

A groan escaped your lips as you shifted in the chair, stretching your legs out until they rested on the bed and you could lean back a little further. You made the mistake of looking up in the middle of the chapter. Your throat constricted, the words becoming harder to force out.

“Sorry,” you said as you cleared your throat. You picked up where you had left off.

Nicky laid there and listened as you read through the rest of the book, the uneasiness in your voice disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.

—---

There was nothing in heaven or hell that was quite like love. It came in all shapes and sizes, from romantic to familial to platonic. That unbearable queasiness that settles in your stomach like a body settles at the bottom of a lake and gives a certain sort of intrigue and comfort. To know that someone would kill for you, to die for you. That was what made love so exciting.

Morticia could see it in everyone present at the Parents Weekend events. Although the day was rather dreadful - far too bright and sunny - everyone was filled with love for whoever they were with. She could see it in Enid Sinclair’s family, whom she had introduced herself to. It was present in Wednesday, although a much different expression (she knew Wednesday still loved them).

And she saw it in Larissa and the young woman accompanying her.

She had noticed Larissa immediately, as she so often did, but the young woman caught her eye. The way she would look up at Larissa as if she hung the moon in the night sky. Morticia knew Larissa had no children, and yet she looked at the young lady the same way Morticia looked at her own children.

“I’ll be right back,” Morticia told Gomez before making her way to where Larissa was standing.

“Morticia,” Larissa called out once she was near. She sounded far more joyful than usual. “Always a pleasure.”

“I see you’re enjoying the festivities for the day,” Morticia said even though her gaze fell to the young woman who was actually quite tall, now that she was up close.

“We are,” Larissa said, her smile softening as she looked at her companion. “Allow me to introduce you both, this is Morticia Addams.”

“Oh, you’re Wednesday’s mom,” the young lady exclaimed with a grin and enthusiastically reaching her hand out, “I’m Y/N.”

Ah. So that’s who you were. Morticia knew exactly who you were. Numerous times she had heard Wednesday or Enid talk about you, even just in passing, with an admiration that she rarely saw from her own daughter. Her features would soften and she would threaten you bodily harm far less often than usual. 

It had been so unusual at first to hear Wednesday talk about anyone, let alone someone that brought out a completely different side of her. They were only occasional mentions of you, but they were enough for Morticia to catch on to it. One mention of your name and Wednesday’s eyes would go wide before trailing off to the side, her train of thought completely derailed for a fraction of a second too long.

While Morticia would never proclaim to know for a fact that her daughter had feelings for you, it was easy enough to tell. And when Enid had let it slip all those weeks ago that you had taken Wednesday to perform an autopsy? Then the immediate darkening of her daughter’s cheeks and nose before changing the subject? It was all Morticia needed to know.

And now she could put a face to the name.

Across the field, Wednesday stared in abject horror as her mother shook your hand. The same horror that she assumed one would feel when witnessing something traumatic, such as a car accident. A feeling that settled deep in her stomach, clawed it’s way up her throat because as horrifying as the scene was, she just couldn’t look away.

That feeling of horror slowly morphed into one that she couldn’t explain when you smiled at her mother and your feather’s twitched at something she had said. That single twitch, the ruffle, put a weight on her heart and forced it to beat harder, so hard that she could feel the physical pain within her chest. Why were you smiling at her mother like that? What had she said to make your wings twitch in that childishly giddy way?

Oh no.

Her heart’s struggle to beat came to a full stop like a car hitting a brick wall. Her mother was leading you over to where Wednesday and her family were situated. The way you followed her, with your hands swinging at your sides, reminded Wednesday of an avenging angel; dark and foreboding and your eyes on every little thing that passed.

She wanted you to follow her around like that. Would you keep her safe from those who wished her and her family harm? Her heart told her you would, you always would, you had already done so time and time again. But as you got closer and closer to seeing her family, her entire being, her mind told her no. No, you wouldn’t keep her safe, you wouldn’t keep her family safe. You were far too innocent, far too sweet, so adverse to trouble.

But she wanted you to stay. She needed you to stay the way a gaping wound needed stitches. Craved your touch the way a an infection craved moisture. It was humiliating to think such thoughts, Wednesday knew that, but if it was the truth then it was the truth. She needed you to stay and be near even if it was as nothing more than an acquaintance.

Though she refused to ever admit it. It was a weakness she would never act upon.

Her mother finally brought you to the family and introduced you to Wednesday’s father and brother. You shook their hands, a polite smile on your face, and Wednesday felt that budding feeling in her stomach again. Your smile should have been reserved for someone more deserving than her father and brother.

You were invited to sit with them for a time, and you agreed quickly. Most would have tucked tail and ran, no one quite understanding how her family could be the way they were. But you sat down beside Pugsly - why would you not sit beside her? - and engaged in conversation far easier than most.

All Wednesday could do as you talked was stare at you. At the way you gestured your hands wildly as you talked, or how you held eye contact with everyone when they talked. You got along with Pugsly; why could you not get along with her the same way? Your conversations with him flowed as effortlessly as a river flowed into the ocean. Wednesday certainly couldn’t hold the same amount of engagement.

She noted the way your eyes flicked over to her every now and then as you talked or listened. Whenever someone would ask you a question, you would look at Wednesday first, almost as if asking permission to answer. She would give you a singular nod, and you would continue. What would cause you to look to her in such a way? Surely you knew how to answer questions on your own, did you not? And yet, she almost found herself enjoying the attention, no matter how discreet.

“I should probably get back,” you finally said once the conversation had lulled. “It was a genuine pleasure to meet all of you.”

You gave a polite wave, shook her father’s and Pugsly’s hands, kissed her mother’s knuckles, and walked back to where Weems was standing. Wednesday already felt feelings about you leaving; feelings that she didn’t know what to call since she admittedly hadn’t felt them before. She didn’t know why, but she desperately hoped her family had liked you, had seen you in the same light that she oh so often did. She-

-were you wearing her sweater?