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saturnville · 3 months ago

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Superstar (A Playback Interlude) | David Cliff

Pairing: David Cliff (The High Note) x Black Fem OC (Sybelle Selene Jackson) Summary: A wife yearns deeply for her husband in a way she'd never done before. Warnings: Painful yearning. WC: 943 AN: Love the High Note. Love Kelvin's face. Love Weruche's face. Voila. This is one of my new favorite pieces. I truly hope you enjoyed. Please let me know your thoughts! Remember: likes are nice, but reblogs and comments are encouraged!

Tags: @kirayuki22 @greedyjudge2 @notapradagurl7 @irishmanwhore @honeytoffee @theogbadbitch @jazziejax @kumkaniudaku

Quiet. It was disturbingly quiet. The type of silence that was so disruptive that it would hinder her sleep. The kind that made her hyperaware of his absence. No heavy footsteps to detect what room he walked out of, and the next he entered.

The bedroom felt hollow. Empty. The bed was too big, the windows were too small, and the atmosphere was like a gloomy February morning where hovering nimbus clouds signified an impending doom of their home being attacked by heavy droplets of rain. Her body shifted as if making space for him on the king-sized mattress that seemed to swallow her whole.

A strong and unwavering frown settled upon her lips. Her long arms stretched across the bed as she ran her fingertips over the crinkles and wrinkles of the white cotton, rough and empty beneath her touch. With a soft grunt, she fell backward and turned her head to the right, her nose buried in his pillow. She inhaled deeply, relishing the last traces of his faded cologne.

It was husky and warm, like him. The perfect balance of musk and sweetness made her eyes roll every time the delicious scent passed her nose. She exhaled sharply, trying to return to center after orbiting the universe with her lover who had skyrocketed to another galaxy.

His voice, low and full of kindness, replayed in her mind like a broken record. Her body shuddered as she felt the ghost of his lips against the shell of her ear, his tongue tracing the inner lobe as he whispered “I love you” as they made love into the early hours of the morning.

She missed him. The weight of her yearning sat deep in her chest—unrelenting. She didn’t think she was capable of feeling it. She didn't know her heart was wired to produce such a deep desire to be at one with someone else.

Her eyelids fluttered as she fought to keep the growing tears tucked behind an eyeliner-clad waterline.

Everywhere she turned, he was there—the journal on the nightstand, an intention gift from him. It was wrapped in a beautiful satin bow, with her initials pressed into the leather in strong gold lettering. SSJC. A new era deserves a fresh start, baby, he told her when she looked at him with glassy eyes, questioning what the gift was for. So intentional, he was, having incorporated a pack of stainless steel pens in gold to match. A songwriter needs the right tools, and these felt like you. Her fingertip traced the notebook, flipping it open to see the small note he left on the inside. Write without fear, beloved.

Her fingers twisted her—his—shirt. She brought the collar to her nose and inhaled. She fell asleep in it without thinking, swaddled in the presence of him. Music played softly in the background, but with every riff and cry of the guitar string, it was him—the soft hum of his voice and rumble of his tenor.

Her body remembered him; his warmth pressed into her back as he pressed her into the mattress. The slow, lazy way he’d brush his lips along her shoulder to wake her up in the morning before pulling her closer.

Again, her hands clawed at the bed to grab cold sheets. He wasn’t here. The loneliness was palpable, suffocating. She felt like she was stuck in an elevator with inoperable doors. Stuck by herself with no one around.

She wanted to call. She needed to hear his voice, even if it was just for a moment. But if she did, she might break. Go into a frenzy of packing a bag and hopping on the earliest red eye she could catch. But she knew she shouldn’t. It was his moment. He deserved to experience it fully. She’d be at home waiting. At home. Waiting.

The dam burst. Tears rushed down her face like a waterfall. Frustration filled her body like a disease—frustration for becoming so used to being in his presence that becoming independent of him was an overwhelming experience. A longing so deep that it threatened to pull her under. Pull her deep into an abyss she was willing to drown in. Drown in him, she’d do it, she indeed would.

She sang under her breath, an old song. Their song. The same way he used to hum when he thought she wasn’t listening. The same hum that lulled her to sleep during the longest of nights and most treacherous days. The same hum that captured her attention all that time ago in the studio. The same hum that stilled her mind and silenced the storm inside of her soul.

She grabbed her phone, hands shaking, thumbs hovering over his content. She didn’t press call. Her thumbs rushed to type I miss you. She stared at it. Deleted it. Rewrote it. Deleted it again. Smaestro with a pen, an expert at her craft—yet, words had escaped her like a bandit feeling the scene.

Only one message seemed fitting. His name. David.

When he responded immediately—“I know, baby. I miss you too.”—she felt the first bit of air return to her lungs after having been breathless for what seemed to be a lifetime.

She aggressively wiped her tears away, almost angry with herself for feeling his absence so profoundly. But, wasn’t that love? The kind that made you ache, even when you knew they’d come back? Her husband, lover, and friend wouldn’t return for six weeks. Her heart yearned to be with him again.

He sent another message. Smile, Sybelle. I’ll be home soon. I love you forever, baby.

#saturnville #black!reader #black reader #kelvin harrison jr.#kelvin harrison jr. smut #kelvin harrison jr. x reader #kelvin harrison jr #the high note #black actors #chevalier #luce #waves 2019 #david cliff #david cliff the high note #the high note 2020 #weruche opia

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saturnville · 2 months ago

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Patron de la Scène | The Untimely Arrival

Pairing: Joseph de la Scène (Kelvin Harrison Jr.) x Black Fem Oc (Adama Ndiyae) Warnings: Mentions of slavery/enslavement, sexual situations, angst (I will add more if they come up). Reference: Chevalier (2023) AN: So, as a Black woman who loves Black Excellence (and also has a history degree), this movie was right up my alley and provided a perfect opportunity to tap into the historical fiction genre. Hope you enjoy!

Wandering hands woke him up that Tuesday morning. Wandering hands, two (or three) pairs of dry lips against his neck, and sweet nothings whispered in his ear pulled him from a quiet, short-lived slumber that ended much sooner than he preferred. Straight teeth grazed his skin, pulling a child-like wince from him. Sagging eyelids opened one at a time, struggling to adjust to the light that poured between the heavy artisan-crafted curtains. To his left, a woman. To his right, yet another. Both were as bare as the day they were born. Both gazed at him with hunger in their blue eyes--he was a gazelle, and they were seductive lionesses, waiting for an opportunity for their prey to stand still and allow them to pounce.

One hand, tucked beneath a featherlight body, twisted and turned for release. The other rested against a pale breast, grazed one, two, three times, his ears perking at the soft, wanton sigh before retreating. A low voice passed through a constricted and dry throat: "It's been fun, ladies. The maîtresse de maison will escort you out."

Quiet moans of distaste and sounds of discontent poured out of their mouths, to which he cooed half-sympathies and false promises in response, insisting they'd come together again one day. It took fifteen minutes to pry their hands off his body so he could wash the desperation and remnants of the evening's events off his body. They gathered their belongings with slow, deliberate movements as though delaying the inevitable. He didn’t watch them leave; he didn’t need to.

Once the door clicked shut, he exhaled heavily, the weight of the room settling over him. For all their softness and warmth, they left no mark, no impression, nothing lasting. He couldn’t quite explain the following ache, but he knew it had little to do with them.

His nose turned up as if he was in the presence of animals and was the sole competent being in the room. "Can we get a candle lit in here?" His voice fleshed out in the atmosphere, speaking to no one in particular but expecting it to land on listening ears. Soon, he heard a muffled pitter-patter coming down the hallway. A quiet, shaking hand slid through the space the door and its hinges created, gently placing a brightly lit candle on the table beside the entryway. A muffled, Good morning, Patron, came from the subject, which he acknowledged with a gruff “Bonjour."

Long fingers curled around a meticulously crafted dressing gown and yanked it off the chair to his in-room desk. One arm through each opening, he slid the heavy fabric on carefully, adjusting it to stay seated on his broad shoulders and comfortably around his slim waist. Blunt fingernails scratched at the braids that were usually covered. Matted and in desperate need of a wash, they were. He'd have to send for someone who knew what they were doing; he'd end up bald if he allowed yet another uneducated woman to get her fingers caught in his thick tresses. He couldn't take any more pulls and tugs, at least not in that manner.

He prepared for the day; the Lord knew he needed it. He soaked sore arms and tired legs in a gold basin filled with hot water, oils, and various soaps from neighboring countries. His ears caught birds chirping, the bees buzzing, and the soft knock against the door. The urge to outwardly grow sat on his lips like a pigeon on a branch. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. "Come in." Throwing his arms over the basin, he craned his head to the right, acknowledging whoever had entered. He recognized her--Eloise. A young woman hired by his father to tend to his needs. He had no interest in the young woman, and whether she had an interest in him was a care he'd kicked like a ball into the sunset.

She was professional. She kept her head down and did as requested. A primary reason why she found favor in his sight. His eyes softened a bit. "Yes, Eloise?"

"The carriage will arrive shortly. The guest quarters are prepared for her arrival, Monsieur." At her words, his eyes shifted forward. The day had arrived. His lips parted and then closed. Time seemed to move faster than he knew it to. He nodded twice. "Your attire is in your quarters. May I be of any additional assistance?"

"No." His reply was quick. No room to interject. Eloise toyed with her fingers, waiting for her dismissal. There were only so many places her eyes could roam to keep them from landing on his broad chest, damp with condensation and kissed by heated droplets of water. The clock in the corner was lovely, she noted. So was the painting near the window. She swallowed stiffly. Finally, he said, "Merci," and sent her on her way.

The sighs they released seemed in sync as she scurried out of the bathing room and he dunked his body further into the water.

Self-consciousness was not something he felt often. It was quite the opposite. However, when he received word that she'd arrive within a few moments, he found himself patting what he assumed to be stray hairs back into place, pulling his jacket down as if it had the ability to touch his knees and rolling the letter she'd sent in his hands like a toy. He was nervous. He couldn't remember the last time he was nervous. It was a foreign feeling. He hated it.

Whatever the next step after nervousness was, he felt it. It crashed into him like the waves that almost rocked his boat overboard when he traveled from France to Portugal. Horseshoes kissed the pavement with loud smacks, warning him of her impending arrival. Muffled voices of horse tamers ricocheted off the columns. He swallowed thickly.

His brown stayed trained on the carriage. It rocked side to side like an unsteady man after a night of indulging in spirits and white powders. A well-dressed man pulled the door open. A petite body was assisted down, and tiny feet covered in old shoes hit the floor. His heart was a drum in his chest. It couldn't be.

One suitcase was placed by her feet. He saw her side profile as she thanked the attendant with a smile. Her smile was small, almost forced. Much of her features were unseen from his angle. He strained to keep his throat from closing. It couldn't be. She didn't move for many moments, instead opting to stare at the French sunlight. He was like her, unable to move until another body joined her. "Who..." They knew each other; he could tell by how they smiled at each other.

Suddenly, the glue had been removed, and his feet carried him out of his home and to the front, where the women stood side by side, chattering lowly. His heart drummed louder with each step closer, the world quieting around him. She was a shadow of the woman he once knew, yet so damn familiar. Time had not been kind, but her presence alone shook the foundations of his composed façade.

At the sound of his footsteps, they turned. One over her left shoulder, the older over her right. His lips parted to make room for a shuddered breath. It was so. His shoulders dropped, and his grip loosened on the letters in his grasp, falling to the concrete with a soft scrape. His eyes dropped to her lips, full like his but dark from dehydration, lack of moisture, and faded bruises from countless times he'd seen her head get whipped left and right. His heart ached. It was her.

He couldn't find the words. He'd imagined this moment many a time. Over and over, it played like his favorite Shakespearean play. He'd lay in her arms like he did as a boy before she was pulled out of his arms, forced into exile. A twenty-year exile that haunted his spirit and traumatized his soul. The anger that had developed over the years seemed to dissipate the longer his brown eyes shared her gaze. He could hardly make out her face behind the tears.

His eyes traced the curve of her shoulder, her collarbone that once held a necklace but now housed a long scar, jagged and never able to fully heal—an ever-present reminder of a despicable history they shared. The skin was not as taut as he remembered, now looser with age and trauma. Her skin was still as rich and beautiful as it was when he was a boy. Time had carved lines into her face, and her experiences should have forced her shoulders to cave in, but still, he saw the regal woman who held herself high despite being humbled to that of a servant, the woman that men would fawn after. The beautiful Fatou. His mother. His dear mother.

He had almost forgotten the sound of her voice. Almost. He was born when she was young, nothing but a girl herself. Her voice was soft and airy, like an early morning in June. Back then, she had only been with his father briefly, and her accent hovered over her words like dew over the sea. When she taught him his name, it was in quiet moments by the window of their small room, her lips curling around the syllables as though tasting each one for the first time.

“Jo…seph,” she’d say, her brow furrowing as she pressed a warm hand against his chest. “This you, my son. Joseph.”

As a boy, he giggled at her careful pronunciation, his tiny hands clapping together in delight. “Jo-seph!” He’d echo, his tone triumphant and proud.

Now, hearing her say “my son” after all these years, his chest tightened. Her hand, warm and hard from years of work, touched his cheek. His eyes closed softly as he winced from her touch. Not that he didn’t want it; it was unfamiliar. A mother’s touch was foreign, like the land she came from.

“I…” she became choked. Her handle trembled against his face, and her tears gathered quicker than ants at a dirt hill the longer she looked at him. “I’m sorry.” Sorry. Sorry. Sorry for the years she spent running through the woods to find a way to get to him. Sorry for the beatings she endured to keep him unscathed. Sorry that she had no choice but to leave him in the hands of a man who’d brainwashed him into believing he was God’s gift to humanity for giving her son the life he deserved. Sorry that he was robbed of the opportunity to have a mother.

He tried to smile, but it came out wobbly like a pirate’s parade on land. “Let us not dwell on the past, yeah?” He couldn’t take any more of it. It was too much for his heart to handle and too small to expand—he wouldn’t allow it.

The shifting of a neighboring body was the perfect scapegoat for the emotionally charged interaction with his mother. Fatou’s hand fell from his face to grab his hand. Her grip was so tight he thought he’d lose it—she was afraid to let him go as if he’d flee from her or he’d be snatched from her arms again.

As the air shifted, as the atmosphere seemed to thicken, Joseph felt the subtle presence of another. He tensed, his gaze turning toward the movement. There, standing a mere three feet from him, was Adama. Adama Ndiaye…Indy.

Adama stood there, holding herself with a quiet, reserved confidence that Joseph couldn’t quite place. This woman in front of him, this unknown version of someone he knew what seemed to be eons ago, was foreign. Despite her place in society, her presence commanded the room the way of a queen. Europe’s monarchs would tremble in her presence.

She was no longer the scruffy child he played with behind the quarters until the sun dropped and they blended with the night. She had shed that form, leaving only a striking image before him—a woman. A woman who, unlike what he’s seen in France. Skin rich like the mahogany beams that supported his home, eyes deep like the wine he’d guzzled last night before bedding two women while he awaited his mother’s untimely arrival. Her breasts, round and succulent, peaked from the breast line of the dress that he’d only guessed her mother sewed for her by hand.

Her hair, once braided with escape routes threaded between the strands—routes to freedom and rice, evidence of a life lived in stealth—was now hidden beneath a headscarf. Though absent from view, the braids still carried the weight of history. A history embedded in every fold of the fabric, the weight of survival, resilience, and a shared past that Joseph had long since tried to forget.

He could see this transformation now, though. He was no longer a child, no longer the girl he had once shared fleeting moments of joy with. This was a woman. And for the first time, he saw her beauty with the clarity of someone who had only known blindness until now. He swallowed, feeling something stir deep within him—desire, fear, shame, and something more he couldn’t name.

"Petit Jo?" she said, the name slipping from her lips like an unexpected breeze.

Joseph froze. His hand clenched his mother’s, who peered at him. His jaw clenched, and his throat bobbed. That nickname was the one he hadn’t heard in years. The one that brought him back to the fields, to the moments before he became Joseph Fontaine, Patron de la Scène—before he had built his life from the pieces of his past.

His mind scrambled, stirred like wet and dry ingredients. It took everything he had not to let his composure slip entirely. "What did you call me?" Joseph asked, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. Adama’s lips twitched, but there was no smile—not yet. She studied him for a long moment, almost as if savoring her words' effect on him.

The corner of her lips lifted. She cleared her throat. His fell on her chest as she inhaled deeply and exhaled sharply like she’d exasperated herself on an exhaustive run. She stood before him, relaxed as though she was his equal.

“Pardonnez-moi,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm now, the distance between them suddenly charged with something more. "I didn’t realize I had the honor of addressing Joseph Fontaine, Patron de la Scène." She leaned slightly to one side, her eyes never leaving his. "I suppose you prefer that now, don’t you?"

Joseph’s stomach twisted at how she said it—like it was something to be discarded, a name too far removed from the boy she had once known. She wasn’t finished. Her jaw ticked like the hands on a clock, and whatever emotion had taken over had wound her up. “It seems Petit Jo has grown up.” Her words landed like a slap, and Joseph felt the burn of them deep inside him. She had always known how to wound him, to remind him of the boy he had tried so hard to forget.

Joseph’s nose jumped as he cleared his throat once more. His eyelids lowered, and her figure suddenly seemed small behind his lowered eyes. With a renounced sense of control from counting the leaves on the trees behind her head, he mustered the strength to ask, ”Why are you here?" his voice low, though there was no genuine warmth.

Adama didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped forward, her gaze unwavering. She held his eyes for a moment, then flicked her eyes toward Fatou almost imperceptibly.

Joseph followed her glance, and the unspoken words hung between them like thick smoke. Fatou failed to meet his eyes, looking like a child who’d been told to grab a thin branch from a tree to prepare for their punishment. She squeezed his hand once more, the hand that seemed to loosen its grip on hers the more realization suffocated him.

Adama’s voice softened just enough to be heard but still sharp with meaning. "Perhaps the better question," she said, her gaze still lingering on his mother, "is why you’ve become someone who has to ask it."

Tags: @kirayuki22 @greedyjudge2 @notapradagurl7 @irishmanwhore @honeytoffee @theogbadbitch @jazziejax @kumkaniudaku @becauseimswagman1

#saturnville #black!reader #black reader #kelvin harrison jr.#kelvin harrison jr. x black reader #kelvin harrison jr. smut #kelvin harrison jr. x black oc #kelvin harrison jr. x oc #chevalier movie #chevalier #chevalier 2022

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