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chilling-seavey · 2 months ago

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I thought of this and had to share it for TWIG. George is away at a race and you are home with the kids. The night before the race, George calls you for phone sex but you know you have to be quiet otherwise the kids will wake up

↳ A/N Thank you for this, anon! You only sent this last night but it really inspired me and I was feeling kind of down and really needed a simple, easy, lighthearted thing to write to get my mind off the craziness of life. This was perfect <3

↳ Pairings: George Russell x Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 2.1k

↳ Warnings: 18+, smut, phone sex, male masturbation, dirty talk, unedited

“This triple header is brutal.”

George’s voice was tired through the phone. You could tell he was trying to hide it but you knew him well enough by then; the languidness of his syllables, drawing them out just a little more, the sparkle dulled in his tone.

Sitting on your side of your shared bed with an ocean between you, you held your phone to your ear with a melancholy smile. Your husband’s voice always warmed your heart but when he was more downtrodden, it was hard to fully feel it.

“I know.” you replied gently, your book laying open and forgotten on your lap, “They really work you and the team to the bone with those.”

“Not just that,” George sighed, “I miss you…the kids. I hate not being able to fly home between races.”

You rested your head back against the headboard with a fond smile at his sweet confession, “Aw, my love. We miss you too.”

“I really miss you.” he pressed.

Your fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of your open novel spread across your thighs as his familiar voice caused your heart to flutter. Your gaze was focused on the wall across from your bed where the dresser sat, a few of his things dotted along the surface, some spaces empty with things he had brought with him for three weeks away. With a softly playful tone, you asked, “How much?”

There was a pause through the line and then George chuckled warmly, replying with a cheeky, “What are you wearing?”

“Oh—” you scrunched your eyes closed with a gentle laugh, “You��re terrible.”

“What?” George laughed in return through the phone, “I’m serious.”

You looked down at yourself in your t-shirt and faded pyjama shorts, “Nothing sexy, I’ll tell you that.”

“You’re always sexy.” George countered with ease like he had been telling you that all his life. He pressed a little harder, “Come on. Fess up.”

“I’m wearing one of your old Mercedes team shirts from 2024.” you told him, picking at the logo of one of the now-bankrupt sponsors that had started to flake off after years and years of wash. A piece of the print fluttered down onto your open book on your lap. You added, “And some ancient pyjama shorts.”

“Ooh, the blue and grey striped shorts?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

George hummed in approval, “Those are nice. Make your bum look extra good.”

“What is with you?” you laughed breathily, shaking your head a little at the obvious intention behind his responses.

“What?” he protested, his voice raising a half-octave in defence, “I miss my wife and I want to flirt with her.”

You closed your book with your free hand and set it aside on your nightstand to give him your full attention. Your knees pulled up a little, tenting the duvet you were sitting under, and you teased him knowingly, “Your hand isn’t doing it for you anymore?”

George inhaled sharply, “Now who’s being forward?”

“Am I wrong?”

There was a pause and then a defeated sigh, followed by a one-word answer in which you could hear his playful smirk, “No.”

“Besides, tomorrow’s Sunday and you always liked to have a pre-race orgasm.” you stated knowingly, “Knocks you out like a light. Guaranteed good night’s sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah, you know me better than anyone.” George retorted in a feigned mocking tone.

There was a pause again. You could faintly hear the sound of his breathing. You nibbled at your bottom lip as if to physically try and switch your mindset from your calm relaxing night-in to having phone sex with your husband. Through the phone, you could hear the rustling of sheets as he shifted.

“I can’t go crazy with it,” you warned softly, “the kids are asleep and you know how thin these walls are.”

“That’s okay.” George’s voice was just as quiet, as if he had any reason to whisper on his side of the world, “I’ll take anything. Even just hearing your voice.”

“Okay then…want me to read you the grocery list?”

He let out a strained sigh, “Sweetheart.”

“Okay, okay.” you chuckled.

You could picture his pleading pout in your mind, the scrunch of his eyes, the tilt of his head. Deep inside you, your stomach stirred. You wondered if he was naked in the hotel room bed at that moment.

The pause wasn’t doing any favours for your poor husband who was impatiently waiting through the line. George pleaded with you in that sweet voice that somehow always wore you down, “Please, my love, I’m already so hard.”

Your eyebrows raised, “Already?”

George’s shy chuckle melted into a soft groan of a confession, “I’ve been trying to have a bit of a wank for almost an hour now but my brain keeps thinking of strategies and tyre management and I keep going soft.”

You swallowed back a joke about soft versus hard tyre compounds for the sake of not making him suffer any longer. Instead, you got yourself comfortable in your strikingly empty shared bed and adjusted your grip on your phone against your ear. You comforted him lovingly, “My poor love. Where are you? In bed?”

“Yeah,” George’s breath was shallow. Through the phone you could faintly hear the pop of the lid of a plastic bottle opening. It didn’t take much sleuthing to figure it was lube.

“And you’re hard…again.” you continued, “And missing me.”

“Yeah,” his voice was a little softer, the word drawn out a little longer than previous.

“Missing what part of me?” you asked.

George hummed lowly, “All of you, love, you know that.”

“My mouth?” you taunted, letting a moment for your two words to settle before adding, “My pussy?”

The tight inhale of breath through the line was answer enough.

“Yeah? That’s what you want, don’t you?” you whispered to him, “Want to be buried nice and deep inside me…right where you belong. Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah…” George nearly purred.

The sound of his voice alone was enough to make your insides burn and your thighs clenched together a little tighter. You could faintly hear the slick sound of his hand stroking his lubed up cock through the phone, keeping to a slow languid pace as you eased him into the wonderful pictures your words could paint. His every soft breath had you shivering, feeling his need through the phone and, almost, the heat of his familiar breath against your skin.

“Just want me squeezing around you so tight?” you continued.

“Yeah…so warm.” George slurred out.

“So tight and warm and all yours. All yours to stretch out and fill up.”

“Baby.” George moaned, elongating the vowels.

You knew not to stop, you knew just how much he loved your endless stream of consciousness, how your words didn’t hold back when you got in that right mindset. He loved your voice and every thought that spilled from it.

“What I wouldn’t give to be in that hotel room with you right now…in that bed with you…just bouncing on your gorgeous dick.”

George’s breath caught a little. You could hear his hand speed up.

He let out a shaky, “Mm, please keep going.”

“And you can hold my hips and move me how you want…”

“Mhm…”

“And you could just feel how wet I am for you…leaking all over you…”

“Fuck—” George choked out, almost a sob, as if he were vividly picturing everything you were saying. In a barely there breath, he added, “Please—”

You shifted in bed a little as the sounds of him getting himself off through the phone went right between your legs. With your children sleeping just down the hall, you couldn’t stomach the idea of sharing in his pleasure just in case they heard you; it was always easier to be convinced when George was there in person. When it was just you, all alone in your bedroom, your nervousness out-powered your desire. That was okay; you were perfectly content just helping him out anyway.

“You sound so good, baby.” you breathed, your ears perked to his every small moan or groan or gasp. “Keep moaning for me…you know I like it when you’re vocal.”

George swallowed thickly, his words strained and drunken, “Yeah…feels so good…”

“Would feel better with my hands all over you, wouldn’t it? Kissing your neck…pulling your hair…”

The shaky moan he replied with was erotic, sending your heart racing and your thighs clenching.

“Yeah, I know, you love that.” your voice was low and languid, dragging on your words in a way that had him soaking in everything you were saying, “Letting me pull on the ends of your hair while I fuck myself on your lap…on your perfect fucking dick.”

George’s breathing was getting heavier through the phone, almost as if he was so in his head that he forgot you weren’t even there with him. The steady slick rhythm of his hand on himself was hypnotizing to you, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth, knowing exactly what he must have looked like alone in that empty hotel room half-way across the world. It was a sight you had seen more times than you could count but one that always had that unmistakable warmth pooling in the depths of your belly.

George writhed, his voice strained and urgent, “Don’t stop. Please, keep talking. Please.”

“I can tell you're close…listen to those pretty sounds you’re making.” you purred, rambling anything that came to mind, “I’d be all over you if I was there…I’m sure you’d have already made me come twice over by now…making me come all over your cock just squeezing around it and soaking it.”

George’s breath caught. You heard his hand speed up a little more.

“Yeah? That’s what you want?” you pressed on, “Wanna feel how hard you can make me come? Knowing you’re the only one who can do that to me? That I’m all yours? Absolutely wrecking me and still making me want more and more and more of you?”

“Yeah.” George moaned, “Fuck, I’m so close, baby, please—”

You always knew exactly what he wanted to hear, speaking to him with ease of your trust and familiarity, “You wanna come inside me? Wanna put a baby in me?”

George choked out your name in the handsomest groan.

“Yeah? I know you’re so close; bet you’re just throbbing. You gonna give me what I want? Gonna give me all your cum as deep as you can?”

“Uh huh—”

“Uh huh? Yeah, you are. That’s it.” you encouraged, your free hand dropping beneath the bedsheets around your middle to rub over your clothed pussy. You could feel your wetness already seeping through your panties and your shorts, your cunt only throbbing more beneath your fingers at the sounds of his strained breaths and soft moans as he drew closer and closer. “Come on, gorgeous. Gimme it. Come for me.”

After years together, you didn’t have to be in the room with him to know exactly when he came. Your ears easily picked up on the hitch of his breath that was laced in with the prettiest whimper (something that he was always a little self-conscious about, but something you loved most) before letting it out a second later with a wavering moan and another and another, falling into those long-awaited waves of pleasure.

“There you go,” you cooed softly, “That’s so good. Give me every last drop.”

“Yeah…” George panted, “Yeah, fuck, that’s…it.”

“Good?” you chuckled through the phone as his build up eased into silence of nothing but his breaths.

“Yeah. Perfect. You’re perfect.” he whispered dreamily, “Thank you.”

“Anything for you,” you reminded him sweetly, before following it up with a casual, “But you owe me when you get home.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.” George chuckled, his tone clearly worn out, “I would have done so anyway, even without you asking.”

There was a peaceful pause between you, both of you lost in your thoughts.

“It’s late here.” you finally stated, pulling your phone away to glance at the time before resting it back against your ear, “I should sleep. You know the little guy is going to have me up at the crack of dawn.”

George’s voice was soft and laced with a knowing smile, “Of course. I’ll let you sleep. I have to…clean up anyway.”

You laughed breathily and lolled your head back against the headboard with a dreamy smile at how flushed and gorgeous and messy he must look after all that. But, you knew the conversation needed to be wrapped up so you kept your thoughts to yourself and, instead, reminded him, “We’ll definitely be watching the race tomorrow…even if it means a bit late to bed for the tot. Give us a call after, okay?”

“Always do.” George replied simply, “I love you.”

“I love you.” you echoed with ease.

Another pause as if you both just wanted to hear the sounds of the other breathing for a moment longer.

Finally, George whispered a tender, “Good night, darling.”

“Night, my love.”

And the call disconnected.

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gay-dorito-dust · 10 months ago

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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.

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mxrccuryy · 6 months ago

Text

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 · 5 months ago

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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.

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sugurusbabygirl · 1 year ago

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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."

#jjk smut #jujitsu kaisen smut #nanami smut #nanami kento smut #kento nanami smut #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #nanami x y/n

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back2bluesidex · 7 months ago

Text

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 · 5 months ago

Text

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

#tom riddle x reader #tom riddle #tom riddle imagine #harry potter fanfiction #diary Tom Riddle #horcrux Tom

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sergeantcowboy · 2 months ago

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My farmer Vic is a veteran and fought for a few years in the Gotoro-Ferngill war. I always thought he and Kent would kinda gravitate toward each other, being the only war veterans in town and all that. Kent didn't know that Vic was a fellow veteran when he introduced himself, he heard about it later from Sam. And when he asked if Sam knew what faction or rank Vic was Sam responded with "I think he mentioned it had something to do with explosives" and Kent went "ah, beret squad" because in the ferngill army specialists wear berets with their uniform and other factions, especially the infantry, semi mockingly call them the beret squad. Jodi just went "please don't start calling him that"

And then the next sunday Vic and Kent ran into each other at Pierre's and Kent immediately went "hey, beret squad". Vic just saluted him and said "corporal".

They don't talk about the war much since it's not exactly a fun topic, but they both always had a mutual, silent understanding between them. They definiely use more army lingo around each other.

Then one night Vic went to the stardrop saloon to relax after a hard day of work and ended up sitting with Kent. The night went from some light drinking and talking to getting a lot more drunk than either intended and laughing about funny service stories. I think after enough drinks and in a company that Kent can truly relate to he starts to loosen up more. The other patrons were a bit surprised at seeing Kent be this upbeat. Eventually they went outside for a smoke and started to get a bit more sentimental about all the friends they've lost and what war really is like. They sat in silence for a bit listening to the crickets and sharing a bottle before Vic stood up and poured one out to their fellow fallen soldiers. Kent didn't say anything about it but he appreciated the gesture.

They sang a few army songs, probably a bit too loudly, before deciding to head home. Vic walked with Kent to his place. Jodi woke up to them arriving (they were a but too drunk to be subtle about it despite their efforts) and she didn't trust Vic to be able to get home all by himself, even though he insisted he was fine. But she didn't budge and woke up Sam to make sure he gets home safely. Sam complied but while walking Vic home he was like "isn't it weird that you're my friend and you're also partying with my dad?" And Vic was like "no I'm old enough to be your dad" and Sam went "Vic you're 10 years older than me. No you're not."

Sorry to all the followers I suddenly got from making bully content because I might get back to drawing my stardew valley farmer oc again. (Don't worry I'm not abandoning Crow)

#stardew valley #sdv art #stardew valley fanart #artists on tumblr #farmer vic #sdv kent #sdv sam #sdv jodi #stardew valley headcanons #stardew valley ferngill republic #stardew valley gotoro empire #gotoro-ferngill war #sdv #stardew valley war headcanons #stardew valley art

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alyssawritcs · 23 days ago

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WINDOW WATCHING ( a trevante rhodes fanfic ) . one - shot .

love interest : trevante rhodes ( specifically 2016 - 2019 tre ) rating : m as shit . ( smut , drinking , smoking , voyeurism , masturbation , public sex , plain ol' p in v sex ) wc : 6.7k author's note : this is so old ngl , i wrote this like five years ago and never posted it so my apologies if anything feels off time - wise . this was pre - pandemic even ! but yeah , harking back to my moonlight / tre obsessed phase ugh what a time !

The hardest part about moving into the off campus housing for Ashley was the fact that she had to pay for laundry.

Back in DuBois Hall, where she'd lived for the past two years, there was free laundry. It was one of the few perks she liked, other than her friends always being within arm’s reach. Now, she lived in a small studio apartment just ten minutes away from D-Hall and she had to be scrounging up quarters for her to be able to wash her damn clothes.

Therefore, she was happy most of her friends had remained in the dorms and were more than happy to let her swipe their student IDs so she could get into the laundry room on her old floor and take care of business. Every Thursday, she'd roll her little wheel-y hamper over to the U-shaped building, enter on the left side, and ride the elevator to the ninth floor where she would spend three hours with her friends while she waited for her shit to wash and then dry.

This Sunday was no different, other than that it was a little later in the evening than usual. It was only nine o'clock when she'd thrown her clothes into the dryer and was walking back toward her friends Imani & Serena’s room. Suddenly, a group of giggling girls ran in before her. When Ashley turned the corner, there were about ten girls in the room, all gathered around the large window on the other side of the room.

“What are y'all doing?” Ashley pushed through the crowd, standing next to Imani who had a pair of binoculars, of all things.

“You know Nikki?” Imani asked.

“Ugh, of course I know Nikki.” Nikki was a cheerleader. Nikki had a slim little body with an ass that turned heads. Nikki had fucked almost half of all the frats on campus. Ashley usually wasn't in the business of slutshaming but when you made it a point to brag about sleeping with other girls’ men in their faces like it was a prize, she was more than okay laughing at the jokes made about you.

“Well, her room this year is across the courtyard, a couple floors down. We think it’s a single and her bed is right next to the window.” Imani held out the binoculars to Ashley, who had to smack away some girl’s hand so she could take it. “And it looks like she's got Tre in there right now.”

“Tre? Trevante Tre?” Ashley hurriedly looked through the binoculars and couldn't help the gasp she let out.

Tre was the captain of the school’s football team, the quarterback, in a prominent frat, and by far, the finest nigga at Laurent U -- and it looked like he was tearing Nikki apart.

She was on her knees with him behind her, face mushed into the mattress as he went to town on her. His dark body was muscly and glistening, sweat dripping down his body. The way his hips were pistoning into her, the way his hands gripped her hips, one of them rising up to smack her ass once, twice - it was far too much. His pearly white teeth bit down on his bottom lip before he slowed himself down, drawing himself almost completely out of her and then ramming himself back in. The gold chain around his neck glimmered in the light. The other girls made various noises of approval and Ashley hadn't realized it but she did too.

“He's way too fuckin’ good at this. He just had practice like, two hours ago! How does he have the damn strength?” Serena stood on the other side of Ashley, fully leaning on the window glass.

“He's a goddamn superhero, sis. He ain't letting up either, she’s barely hanging on.” Imani replied.

She wasn't wrong. From what Ashley could see, Nikki was gripping the sheets like she was holding on for dear life and if she'd had any arch in her back before, it was gone now. She went to place her hand on his lower stomach but he caught her wrist and lifted her upper body so his chest was pressed to her back. He said something to her as he rolled his hips up, holding her in that position for a minute as she nodded. Then he let her fall forward, pulling out of her but only long enough for him to flip her onto her back and reinsert himself. He placed both her feet onto his shoulders as he turned them on her daybed so he was standing beside it, now facing the window.

“Oop, he switched positions. Gimme my shit back!” Imani snatched the binoculars back from Ashley, who just sucked her teeth.

“Y'all are so nasty. This is such an invasion of privacy.” She shook her head, the black curly tendrils from her simple high ponytail bouncing around on top of her slick hair. She crossed her arms over her chest, still not taking her eyes off the window.

“Stop watching it then.” Serena pursed her lips.

There was a beat.

“I ain’t say all that now.” The other girls chuckled at that. For a couple minutes, they all stood at the window, heads slightly tilted, mouths a bit ajar, as they watched Tre drive himself into Nikki over and over again. There was almost complete silence in the room. Ashley pressed her thighs together slightly, the denim from her jeans rubbing against her cotton thong. It was entrancing.

Tre seemed to finally finish (“he was going for at least thirty minutes” said Serena) and he pulled out of her, taking off the full condom and throwing it into a trashcan. He grabbed a couple of wet wipes from Nikki’s dresser and helped wipe her down (“what a true southern gentleman” said Imani). Nikki was seemingly in a state of bliss, just smiling up at the ceiling. Just as he was finishing sliding his grey sweatpants up over his boxer briefs, he looked up and out the window, directly at theirs.

All of the girls shrieked and ducked, including Ashley who hid right underneath the windowsill next to a cackling Imani. Some of the girls ran out of the room.

“This ain't funny, Mani! We look like perverts!” Ashley scolded her.

“We are! But that nigga was putting on a whole show. A performance, if you will. Matter of fact ...” She grabbed a nearby notebook and Sharpie, quickly writing down 10/10 on it. She pressed it against the window while still laughing her ass off.

“You are too damn much. I'm leaving!” Ashley couldn't help but laugh too, along with Serena, as she duck-walked out of the room, still afraid of Tre seeing her. “Goodnight, ya nasties!”

Quickly, Ashley walked over to the laundry room, gathered all her now dry clothes into the hamper, grabbed her keys out of Imani & Serena’s room, and rolled her hamper into the elevator. Once she got onto the main floor, she headed out onto the courtyard and checked her phone. It was nearing 9:45.

Damn, he had been going for a while. She thought to herself as she walked towards the parking lot.

She hadn't even noticed the figure sitting on the bench to her right until he spoke.

“Enjoy the show?”

She nearly jumped out her slides at the sound of his voice, turning her head only to come face to face with the man himself, Tre.

“I - I - I -” She stuttered and looked up at him, seemingly losing the ability to speak. He stepped towards her, the smell of sweat mixed with deodorant and some bomb ass cologne invading her senses.

“Front row seat, huh?” He had the nerve to have a little smirk on his face as he said it. He looked down at her, eyes raking over her tank top and blue jeans, an otherwise normal outfit for the middle of September in the Louisiana heat. Yet, a shiver ran through her spine, despite the humidity in the air. She cursed her decision to go without a bra as she could feel her nipples hardening. He hadn't so much as looked her over and here Ashley was, nearly standing in a puddle. “Imagine my surprise when I finish with ol’ girl, I look up and the cute shorty from my econ class is staring dead at me. Had a nigga gassed.”

He licked his lips and circled around her, stopping behind her, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “Next time, if you wanna be the star, come and find me. I got you, baby.”

His Louisiana accent shone through on that last part and it nearly had Ashley weak in the knees. He walked away, toward the parking lot, leaving a very turned on Ashley standing in that courtyard with her little hamper and a whole lot of dirty thoughts.

Ashley’s tiny little studio apartment was starting to sound like a barbershop.

It had been three days since The Perving™️ ( mani had named it that) and Ashley hadn't been able to stop thinking about Tre since. Between the memories of him naked and their little conversation afterwards, she had plenty of ideas that kept her little vibrator going. She'd already had to change out the batteries and it was during said change that she realized, maybe this shit was getting ridiculous.

As the weekend came to an end and Ashley was forced to leave her dorm on Sunday night to return to the girls’ room, she recounted the story to both of her best friends.

“Wait wait wait - he said this to you and you didn't IMMEDIATELY jump that nigga’s bones? Are you dumb?” Imani exclaimed, sitting up in her twin sized bed. Serena pushed Ashley’s head in disbelief.

“Ow! No, I didn't! I was shocked, I just kinda stood there and didn't say nothing. I'm pretty sure I lost all ability to speak.” Ashley played with the fringes of her shorts to avoid looking at Imani, who was staring her down in complete disappointment.

“You gotta fuck him. Do it for us, in our honor. We gotta know if Nikki was just over exaggerating or if that man truly is that talented.” Serena spoke up from her bed.

“Yeah, that'll happen. Keep dreaming y'all.” And that was the end of that, as far as Ashley was concerned. She had decided that she was just going to keep to herself, mind her business, and keep it pushing. Tre was a nonfactor in her life, just another part of her spank bank. He hadn't mattered before, he wasn't gonna matter now.

Still, when Tuesday came around and the reminder that she had their shared econ class that afternoon at one dawned on her, Ashley may have decided to put a little extra effort into her appearance. She swore, to herself, that the Fenty body lava she was applying was so she could take cute pictures later. That the neon pink bodycon tank dress paired with the long white cardigan she fished out from the back of her closet were simply cute clothes and not because they accentuated her skin tone like nothing else. It also definitely wasn't because she'd spent the last six months in the gym doing squats so she knew she looked good as hell in the damn outfit. It wasn't none of that. The girl was simply going to econ, like she had already for weeks and like she would until the end of the semester.

After properly doing her hair and applying minimal makeup, Ashley was slipping on her white slip on Vans and throwing her big ass snakeskin purse onto her shoulder. She drove the five minutes back to campus where she bought herself an iced tea from the cafe & quickly headed over to the class, taking her regular seat in the back left hand corner.

She was fifteen minutes early but that was good. That meant she wouldn't have to run into him and could instead keep a watchful eye for the six foot two masterpiece as he walked in. She was sitting there, one AirPod in, sipping her tea when the sound of raucous laughter from the hallway seeped into the room and she knew he had arrived. He seemed to go everywhere with an entourage - a side effect of being that well known, Ash supposed.

Turning to face forward so she wouldn't appear like she had been door watching, she quickly inserted the other AirPod and turned up the volume on her Megan the Stallion while flipping through her textbook. The act seemed to work for a minute or two before two thick ass arms caged her in from behind. She removed her headphones.

“Excuse me, can I help you?” Ash turned her head to look up at him and immediately, the smell of his cologne invaded her senses. It was the same smell from the other night except now even stronger, though she couldn’t decide if it was better or worse when mixed with sweat. What a freak ass thought.

“I was wondering if you was gonna show up today - was tryna see if you got scared.” His voice was low in her ear and when she turned more, they were face to face, noses practically touching.

“And what was I supposed to be scared of, exactly?”

“I think I got an idea of what you might be scared of.” He answered with a smirk and then a lick of his lips. Jesus, be a fence.

Still, Ashley played it cool, rolling her eyes. “I ain’t scared of you or what you got in ya pants, sir. Don't you have to find your seat?”

“Oh but I already got one?” At her raised eyebrow, his mouth broke out into a full on grin, white teeth and all. “If you wanna lift up, I can slide on under you and we can get this class crackin’.”

Ashley couldn’t help the laugh she let out and he chuckled with her. She turned back, waving her hand at him. “Boy, good-bye. Get to your seat Trevante.”

There was a beat then regrettably his arms lifted from around her and his smell already started to fade away. “Aight, I'll get to my seat.” With that, he slid from behind her chair and situated himself to the right of her.

Ashley had picked this spot because while there were nearly fifty people in the class, it was a huge lecture hall and most everyone was seated in the middle or right sections. Up here in her corner, she was all alone, with no one behind her. The people in front of her were several rows down. It had been just her while Tre typically sat in the middle sections, front & center. They were far too alone up here. This was not good.

Class had started and Tre hadn't moved and Ashley was sure she was gonna die. He had gotten very comfortable, leaning back in his chair, worksheets out and his textbook open in front of him as the professor droned on & on. It was boring as hell, as per usual, but Ashley was so hyper aware of Tre’s presence that she couldn't focus on anything else. She hadn't even looked at him since he sat down next to her.

She could see him moving out the corner of her eye, leaning forward onto the desk with his left arm. He whispered low enough for only her to hear.

“You look like somebody finna bust down them doors and hurt you, shawty. You needa calm down. Relax.” Slowly, Ash felt his big ass hand slide up her calf and over her knee, stopping right at the end of her thigh, millimeters away from where her dress ended.

He was sitting up straighter now and she was holding her breath, unable to speak. To anyone else, they looked like two students patiently listening to their professor but one look at the way Ashley was gripping her pen and you could tell something was amiss.

It was only when he slid his chair closer to hers and his fingers slipped under the material of her dress that she moved. Her hand clamped down his thick ass forearms, freezing his fingers where they were - right on her inner thigh.

“What the fuck do you think you doing?” She gritted out, her teeth clenched together.

He waited until she made direct eye contact with him and then whispered. “Making you relax.”

Her grip loosened out of shock and his fingers continued on their path, the heat coming from between her thighs seeming to call to him. She bit her lip in anticipation before jumping a little when his middle finger swiped gently over her pussy through the material covering it.

“Is that lace? Hm, I bet that shit looks amazing on you. What color is it?” He whispered, letting his finger continue to stroke over her mound. “Hm? Can you even remember right now?”

“Green. It's green.” Ashley managed to breathe out.

“I like green. Almost as much as I like pink on you.” Now, his index finger had joined his middle in the stroking and Ashley could feel the material of her panties getting wetter by the second, so she knew he could too. “You like this huh? You got these big innocent eyes and got everyone fooled into thinking you're some little angel but clearly, you a little freak like me. Look at you, wet already and I ain't even get to the good part.”

Ashley closed her eyes for a second, still lightly gripping his forearm before she reopened them to look him directly in his again. “So get to the good part.”

His jaw clenched and they continued their eye contact for a second before Ashley looked back at the professor. “Aight then, but you asked for this, remember that.”

First, his thumb rubbed her clit through the material, causing Ashley's thighs to clench together for a second before Tre pushed them apart again. She felt his two fingers from before push the lace to the side and make direct contact with her lips, running over the slick that now covered it. They were thick as hell so when he finally dipped his fingers in past the lips, it felt like she was already filled up to the max.

Her mouth opened in a near perfect O and Tre kept his eyes on her lips as he slowly pumped in & out of her. She closed her mouth after a second but the grip on his arm tightened. That seemed to only encourage him forward, fingers picking up pace as his thumb now rubbed that little bundle of nerves that sat tight at the top. When he curled his fingers inside her, Ashley could feel her stomach coil. Her gaze was still on the professor, who was giving his closing remarks.

“Oh, you finna cum huh? You gonna cum all over my fingers, right here in the middle of class?” Tre picked up the pace of his fingers, now driving into her at an almost brutally slow but deliberate pace, watching her bite down on her lip so hard he was sure she was going to draw blood.

She nodded meekly and held back a whimper, nails digging into his arm while she clenched her thighs together as much as they could go with his hand between them. He watched her close her eyes and twitch once, twice, three times, her walls gripping his fingers in a vice. Now all he could imagine was her pussy doing that to his dick and he didn't think it was possible, but his shit got harder.

Her nipples were hard, her legs were shaking slightly, her pupils dilated - if this was how she reacted to just his fingers, he couldn't wait to see her after a good three or four rounds with Junior.

While she was still catching her breath and the class was starting to pack up their things, he slipped his finger out from in her, sliding her panties back into place. She quickly gathered her materials into her purse before they both stood up, chest to chest, hers still heaving slightly. He looked down at her with a smirk as he sucked his index finger into his mouth.

“Just like a good cobbler.” He went to do the same to his middle finger but she grabbed his wrist before he could and sucked the finger herself, letting her tongue roll over the top of the finger before she let it go with a pop & a smirk.

“See you Thursday.”

She wasn't going to see him on Thursday, Ashley remembered as she ate dinner while watching TV in her apartment. Tre was the quarterback and as the quarterback, he had to lead his team to a win against their rival, across the state that same week. The only way she was gonna see Tre that weekend was if she joined the rest of the school to watch the game live on Friday night.

Which she did.

Imani and Serena had dragged her down to the local bar where they were airing the game & had a five dollar deal for 15 wings. A two for one deal as far as Ashley was concerned. She opted to not tell the girls about what happened in class, instead wanting to keep it to herself for just a little bit longer. Not forever, just until she could figure out what the fuck she was even doing with this nigga.

Come Saturday morning, all Ashley could think about was going out that night and getting drunk. Drunk her always managed to figure shit out for sober her anyway.

There were three frats on campus but Rho Nu Tau always put on the best parties, even more so now that they had the three star players on the football team as official brothers. Ashley’s first real college party way back during her freshman year had been a Rho party and she remembers a tiny pledge named Tre running around being an errand boy as a part of his initiation. Clearly, he wasn't taking orders no more.

Imani and Serena were standing beside Ashley in the backyard as they shared a blunt with two boys she recognized from the dorms, damn near freezing their asses off in their little FashionNova fits when there was a cheer from inside the house. Ash almost went to check out what was going on when the blunt was passed to her and she was heartily distracted.

It took only a couple more minutes for her to get tired of shivering and walk back into the kitchen, eyes low & mink lashes fluttering. A vodka and pink lemonade was calling her name. After fixing herself the drink, she began to wade through the crowd before bumping shoulders with a familiar face.

“Ashley, you always bumping into me, damn!”

She looked up to see her bio lab partner, Alex, smiling down at her. He was cute, in a nerdy type of way, and totally not her type but he always made her laugh in class. She let her lips spread into a small grin before play shoving him back.

“I know you not talking, clown. What’re you even doing here, I thought you’d be locked in your room binge watching some new anime or something?”

“Oh, you got jokes? Nah, Rho’s game celebration parties always be the best ones, you know that.”

They stood talking to one another for a couple more seconds before You by Lola Brooke & Bryson Tiller started playing overhead. Ashley started bopping her head on beat and Alex raised his eyebrow at her, smiling all wide & shit. She rolled her eyes, finishing off her drink and pulling him further onto the makeshift dance floor where all the bodies were grinding against one another. She turned around, pressing her ass right up against his crotch and began moving her hips and her ass in accordance with the beat. Now, she wasn’t no expert but all those years of high school cheerleading and dancing in the mirror did have their payoffs.

Alex’s hands remained on her hips and as the song progressed, Ashley could feel eyes on her. She looked up at the top of the staircase where Tre was standing with two more of the team’s players, his eyes trained on her and Alex. His jaw was clenched tight from what she could see and the veins in his arms were bulging as he death gripped that railing.

Now, Alex had always made it very clear that his type of woman was always more the Dua Lipa type than the Rihanna so Ashley knew he wasn’t interested in her like that but damn it if it didn’t amuse her a little to see Tre standing up there all jealous while she threw it back for another man. If anything, the sight of him reinvigorated her and suddenly, she was putting a lot more work into her dance with Alex. The song did come to an end, however, and JT Coming filtered through the speakers which meant that Imani would be in Ashley’s face within the second.

Like clockwork, right on time for JT’s verse, Imani pushed through the crowd to get to Ashley as they screamed the lyrics in each other’s faces. Alex had disappeared at the beginning of the song but returned with a closed bottle of water for both himself and Ashley. Serena was not far behind and soon the four of them were dancing around one another with the music. It didn’t take long for Serena and Alex to start dancing together instead. As much fun as she was having, Ashley couldn’t help but let her thoughts drift off to Tre, who had vanished from his post at the top of the steps.

Role Model by Brent Faiyez was playing as Ashley looked around for a bathroom half an hour later, her high slowly wearing off and the two bottles of water plus her cups of alcohol finally getting to her. The bathroom downstairs had a line wrapped down the hallways but luckily for her, she knew that there were several upstairs. Unluckily, all the ones in the hallways were also sporting lines so that left her to seek out one of the en suites. Almost every one of the doors were locked except for the one at the far end of the hall. She’d never been this far into the house before but she need to pee so she said fuck it and pushed open the door.

The bathroom was on the other side of the darkened room, lit up only by the moonlight filtering in through the windows. She rushed over, locked the door behind her, and took care of her business. As she was washing her hands, Ash looked over her hair and makeup, surprised to see both in pretty good condition considering she was sweating like a whore in church. She figured at the very least, she’d be dealing with excessive frizz or her eyelashes falling off but she was all set. Ain’t God good?

Stepping out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, she took in where she was. There was a little desk to her left and a bookshelf to her right. Looking at the shelves, she noticed trophies, ribbons, medals, certificates - all the clear signs of a winner. There was a picture of a beautiful woman holding a precious little black boy and then another of a family standing with a tall young man wearing a football helmet. Her eyes focused, however, on the number six on his jersey and then subsequently, the sign the woman was holding: “Congrats Trevante!” She gasped and stepped away from the shelf, accidentally falling backwards onto the queen sized bed just as the door opened and in came Trevante himself.

It was awkward for a moment, but he quickly let a smirk take over his features as he closed the door behind him and crossed his arms over his chest to look down at her. From this angle, staring up at him, she was almost face to face with his crotch. She had to refrain from biting her lip.

“Now, how’d you manage to find my room of all the rooms in the house?” He licked his lips, unmoving from the position and ever so slightly thrusting his hips forward.

“Completely by accident, don’t get too excited.” She answered, sitting up and twisting her body to face his. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

“There are three public bathrooms in the house.”

“With lines damn near going out the door. I figured one of the big guys would have an en suite and I was right.”

“Oh so I’m a big guy now?”

Yes sir, you definitely are. “You know what I meant.”

“Well, why didn’t you ask that nigga you were dancing with if he had a bathroom at his place? It seemed like y’all were having a good time.” His smirk dropped and he crossed over to the desk, sitting on the spinning chair. Ashley's head tilted and she let out a small laugh.

“Is Trevante jealous? Oh my my!” He rolled his eyes as she got up from the bed, dancing over to him while singing “Tre’s jealous! He’s jealous! Very jealous!”

He stood back up and they were suddenly chest to chest, abruptly putting an end to her singing. His large fingers gripped her wrist tightly, and she looked up at his beautiful face. She was physically closer to him at this moment than ever before, even in the courtyard and in the classroom.

“Why would I be jealous? That nigga can’t make you cum like I did, in a public place, with two fingers. He ain't the one you think about when you in bed late at night, right? That’s me, all in your dreams, in your head - that’s Tre right?”

For a second, she lost her breath but she could see that smirk creeping back onto his lips and a part of her snapped.

“What about you Tre? You been thinking about me?” She trailed her hand down his pants to the waistband of his jeans, letting her fingers play with the button for a second. “When you in this bed at night, playing with this big dick of yours -” her fingers wrapped around his growing bulge through the denim and she heard his breath hitch. “- are you thinking about this pussy? How tight it was? How wet it was? Thinking about how many rounds you’d last with me?”

He didn’t answer, instead wrapping one large hand around her throat and letting it slide around to the back of her neck, pulling her face to his in a fierce kiss that took her breath away. She let out a sigh, one hand still on his dick and the other on his neck. Their tongues fought for dominance for a minute before Tre bent down to pick her up, wrapping her legs around his waist and easing them both onto the bed. His lips made their way from her lips to her throat, her legs tightening around him as he hit her sweet spot at the part where her ears met her neck.

His hands were moving at a pace so slow, Ash almost screamed. He was ghosting over her tits, fingers almost brushing against her nipples but not quite yet. It wasn’t until he pulled the neckline of the shirt down to reveal her pretty blue bra did he finally pinch her nipples through the material. Her hips bucked up at that and she could feel him smirk against her throat before he sat up a little to help her pull off the shirt. He pulled the cups down and immediately dove in, pulling one of the hard buds into his mouth as she let out a groan of pleasure. He knew exactly what he was doing, his finger expertly twisting the other one.

“You’re way too good at this.” She managed to get out and he chuckled, letting her go with a pop.

“I’m good at a lot of things.” He bit his lips, kissing down her bare skin as he unbuttoned her jeans. “Wanna see what else I’m good at?”

If she wasn’t wet already, she was sure that the combo of how he was looking up at her along with those words would’ve flooded her panties anyways. He pulled her pants down and off, throwing them on to the floor before sliding a finger over the material covering her pussy. She held back a whimper, which proved to be even harder when he gently pushed it to the side and blew on her weeping slit.

Her matching blue thong was the next thing to come off and he looked up at her with a smile, pushing her legs up so they were bent. “Hold onto the back of your knees for me, sweetheart, and don’t let go. If you let go, I’mma stop. We clear?”

She couldn’t formulate words at that moment so he would have to do with her following his instructions and nodding her head yes, letting out a little ‘mhm’ through bitten lips.

“That’s a good girl. You a good girl right?” She jumped as he lightly smacked her clit, almost letting go of her legs but not quite yet. “Answer me, Ashley.”

“Yes, I’m a good girl.” She managed to grit out.

“Good girls get rewarded, don’t they?” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead diving straight into to put his oh so talented mouth on her pussy. She was biting her lip again, holding back the moans trying to claw their way out. He paused for a moment, spreading her lips with his fingers as he did so. “Uh-uh. I wanna hear you. Let that shit out shawty.”

He went right back to it, thrusting his tongue in & out of her with a force. She could feel one of his thick fingers playing with her clit and she was sure she was letting out noises but honestly, the whole thing was starting to feel like an out of body experience. Her hands gripped the backs of her thighs even tighter as her back arched up. His tongue replaced his finger on her clit and then he inserted that finger into her pussy, followed by a second one. The two together were driving her insane and causing small sweat beads to formulate on her stomach and chest.

“Oh fuck, Tre, I’m gonna cum, oh fuck fuck fuck!” Her moans were breathy, her legs beginning to shake in her hands as she could feel the coil start in her stomach. He nodded his head as he sucked her clit into his mouth and picked up the pace of his fingers. When his fingers curled upwards into her, tapping the roof of her pussy, she dropped her legs on his shoulders and let out a small scream, cumming right into his mouth. He didn’t stop as she was cumming, lapping her up like some whipped cream. He finally pulled away a couple seconds after she finished, sliding back up her body to give a wet kiss on the lips, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

Ash ran her fingers over his defined abs, popping open the button on his jeans and pushing the pants down with her feet. He was practically bursting out of his briefs at that point but she made quick work of those too.

“Condom, condom - get a condom Tre.” She managed to squeak out in between kisses and he pulled away, looking at her for a moment. “What?”

It took him a second but he shook his head. “Nothing. I got you.” He pulled open the bedside drawer, pulling out a Magnum from an already open box. “I’mma finish this box with you, trust me.”

“It’d be my pleasure.” She smirked, biting her bottom lip as he tore open the wrapper with his teeth. “Here, let me.”

Tre closed his eyes as she stroked his member, using the precum at the tip to lubricate the nine inches of him she could. Her hand tightened a bit at the base before sliding back up to slip the condom over him. She was still stroking him as she led him toward her opening, spreading her legs wider for him.

Now, Ash had had sex with a total of two people in her life but neither of them had ever been as big as Tre. Just the tip of him was enough for her to let her mouth open into a perfect ‘O’. She wasn't even sure he could fit all of himself in there but Lord knows, he was gonna give it the good ol’ college try. She moaned as he pushed through, pleasure ripping through every part of her, and kept going until he was fully inside of her.

“Please fuckin’ move, Tre.” She whimpered.

“Gimme a fuckin’ minute, sweetheart. If I move right now, I ain't gonna give you that show you wanted.” His lips connected with hers and then his hips began to thrust into her, rolling. She sighed into the kiss and tried to meet him thrust for thrust. He pulled his head away to bury into her neck. “Fuck, you feel good girl. You been hidin’ this shit from me?”

She wanted to respond smartly but her brain wasn’t formulating cohesive thoughts at the moment. Instead, she dragged her nails down his glistening back and moaned out his name like a chant - “Tre, Tre, Tres, yesssss.”

“S’tight, oh my fucking -” His own thoughts were jumbled as he drove in to her, winding his hips, trying to prolong the moment. He knew that, with the way shit was going, he was gonna have to make her cum at least once more and fast or else he was gonna ruin his own reputation and leave her hanging.

“Right there, yes!” Ashley exclaimed as his thick finger came down to rub her clit again, which paired with the motions of his hips extremely well. Her hands had slid down to his side as he lifted himself up on his arms and she let her nails dig into his skin, creating little marks there he’d probably get whistles about in the locker room tomorrow. “You’re so good, Tre, yes, yes, yes!”

Her last yes came out as a squeal as he picked up his pace, rubbing faster and thrusting without abandon. She could feel that coil in her stomach again, moaning over and over again. Tre felt her tighten around him and let her ride out her second orgasm of the night before his hips began to stutter. He groaned out his release, nearly collapsing on top of her.

“Gahdamn!” He exclaimed, which made her laugh. She whined a bit as he pulled out of her, taking the condom off and climbing out of the bed to walk into the bathroom. He returned moments later, prompting her to rush in after him to clean herself up. When she came back, he’d pulled back the covers and was laying beneath them. She looked at him for a minute with her head tilted. “What?”

“I don’t know, I was expecting for you to make a run for it like ...” Ashley trailed off but he caught her drift.

“Like with Nikki? Well first of all, this is my room this time so not really any option.” He laughed when she scoffed and held up the blanket, patting the spot next to him. She hurried to get under the covers, still naked like he was. “I also kinda wanna keep you around ... to finish off the box, of course.”

“Of course.” She smirked, tucking into his side.

“So?” He inquired. She raised her eyebrow. “Was it as good as it looked from across the courtyard?”

“Hmm ... I think I might need a couple more encores to truly decide.” She tapped her chin like she was deliberating and he rolled his eyes.

“Oh, I’ll show you an encore.” Ashley let out a small shriek that quickly turned into a moan as he rolled her on top of him and began to kiss down her neck, dragging his thick fingers down her body to get her ready all over again.

#trevante rhodes fanfic #trevante rhodes smut #smut #❥ 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 、one shots .#trevante rhodes #black reader #trevante rhodes x reader

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himefemme · 25 days ago

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bunny and her butch - ' strawberry scented '

banner not mine!

the night after your date, sevika woke up feeling as if she'd been doused in a cold splash of water, heaving. her body had caught a mean, sudden waking up. she narrows her eyes at her sister, shivani, who stands at the foot of her bed with a large, maroon bucket, beads of water still clinging to the curve of the top where the water had left only moments prior. shivani whips her dark, glossy hair over her shoulder and narrows her eyes sharply at sevika, who sends a pillow flying at her head- missing the original target, it lands on her desk with a crash. "very smart, sevika" shivani jabs, tapping her foot on the grey carpet where she was standing, the carpet had become worn from the years it had been there, it was sevika's childhood bedroom, though (plus their mother had since adopted three cats to keep her company). sevika lifts herself from the bed, damp sheets clinging to her skin like a dog had licked her, gross, she still couldn't understand why some people allowed their pets to do that to them willingly. "you didn't have to dump a whole bucket of water onto me, you could've poked me- or kicked if that didn't work!" sevika hisses, rolling her shoulders back- she still had a subtle, phantom feeling of relief when she'd stretch her arm- even though the other would have to be replaced with a mechanical one. with heavy footsteps she walks over to her desk, shivani moves out of the way as she watches her sister attach her mech arm- a hiss of pain filling the silence. it had been about a year since the accident happened, the family still hadn't grown completely used to it, but no matter what they stayed supportive of sevika, even though she insisted she didn't need help. but she couldn't make that excuse forever could she? as soon as sevika and shivani made their way down the stairs, they were greeted with kisses and hugs from their mother, ati, her grey hairs wrapped like wires around her face, framing her round cheeks- wrinkled with age but showing nothing but a life full of smiling, atleast that's what she said. she wore a plain white tee, joggers , which shivani introduced her to, her eyes a deep brown as was her skin. ati tiptoes to peck sevika's cheek, squeezing her face. "ah, sevika, i thought you'd never wake up! i made breakfast, pancakes, your favourite." ati smiles, pulling away from her daughter and sauntering off to the kitchen, dishing up a plate without sev asking. shivani nudges sevika with her elbow, a grin on her face reveals her pearly whites, it reminded her of her father for a split second but she cut the thought off as quick as it came. ' she still treats you like a baby ' shivani mouths before walking off elsewhere- likely the living room but sevika couldn't remember, she hadn't been home to visit in a few months and her mother was constantly changing the layout of the house.

by the time sevika left, it was around midnight, driving on the freeway whilst tapping her fingers on the wheel, your scent still lingering. she silently curses herself for not being able to message you the whole day, her phone pinged with your worried texts. in a debate with herself, she sharply turns into the next lane, apologetically holding her hand out of the window at the driver behind her. she needed to visit you. she didn't care.

you were in your room, after a 'self care sunday', freshly showered, wearing the cutest babydoll to sleep, hair fanned out evenly against your silk pillows and sipping on sweet chamomile tea. a knock at your window disturbed your nightly fanfic-reading, must've been the neighbours kids, they'd always throw tiny pebbles and stones at people's houses for a reaction. angrily storming over, you draw back the pink curtain, narrowing your eyes to see sevika, arched nose almost pressed up against the glass pane, a stupid smile on her face. "m' so sorry, bun, I was visiting my mother, then i got caught up in my thoughts, i had to see you and i couldn't just leave you wondering all night, im not like that, promise" her voice was muffled, she could tell because your face scrunched up in the same adorable way it would whenever you were confused. opening the window, she climbs in, you hear a crack and splintering of wood but choose to ignore it. once sevika had climbed inside she shut the window behind her, engulfing you within her beefy arms, the chill of the metal one against your skin was comforting, it was barely enough to hide how flushed and warm you were though. sevika took it upon herself to cook, as a gift- the fragrant aroma of spices and herbs was tantalising, you could picture sevika at the countertop, chopping carrots and potatoes, scraping them up skillfully with a knife from the board and allowing them to drown into the thick, brown stewed sauce alongside chicken breasts and another pot filled with steaming rice, air whistling through the gap of the lid. she served you up a plate and watched as you ate, all of your cutlery had hearts or pink on them as well as your plates- lined with bow patterns or cute bunnies, those ones sevika had gifted you for your month anniversary. "this is so good, sev, you're a great cook.." you hummed, the burst of flavours was simply divine, you couldn't get enough, scraping at the last grains of rice left. sevika's cheeks bloomed with warmth and she smiled, you washed the dishes together and sevika fed your cat before you both walked back to your bedroom. sevika wore the shirt and shorts she'd left here last time she visited, which were neatly folded in your drawer- the dark green and black was stark against all of your light clothes. pulling the chain of your lamp, it turns on- both of you bask in the ambience, enjoying the silence for a moment before finally falling asleep.

in the morning, you find that sevika has already left, which was a given considering the importance of her job. she'd left a note tucked among your plushies, which she'd neatly placed in a crowd beside you, where she previously laid. her pillow carried her scent of cologne and the rosewood incense that her mother would always burn. you read the note and smiled, her first words were 'sorry', though it wasn't her fault, duty calls after all. she'd left a bowl of freshly washed fruit on the bedside table, you pluck a green grape, perfectly sour. she really did know you like the back of her own hand.

#sevika x reader #sevika arcane #arcane

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sunflowersandsapphires · 8 months ago

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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

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