#maybe I'll indulge in the most rare of pairs

[aajxs]

✷ and i promise, i'll be yours ft. lewis hamilton !

👑 જ⁀➴ you weren’t meant to matter this much to lewis. but somehow, between long calls, quiet coffees, and the way you never flinch under his gaze, something unspoken takes shape. he tells himself it’s harmless. that the line between you isn’t blurred, it’s just not there anymore. and maybe, that’s the problem. ( 6k / proofread and edited )

pairings ✷ lewis hamilton x fem!photographer!reader

contents ✷ age gap (40 and 24) / 18+ mdni / porn with plot / indirect workplace-adjacent power dynamics (freelancer x public figure) / oral (f receiving) / very lowkey praise kink / softdom!lewis / internal moral conflict is mentioned a few times (lewis) / couch sex / p in v / unprotected sex (wrap it up everybody)

authors note ✷ unfort this was completely self indulgent and was made solely because i was horny the other night and there is a lack of sir lewis hamilton smut, so i have taken matters into my own hands. enjoy and please thank casey for indirectly convincing me to write this

i recommend listening to. . . stay down by brent faiyaz . . .whilst reading for the best experience

masterlist / navigation

LEWIS ISN'T sure when the line, the one that separated you and him into two different worlds and deliberately warned him to keep away from you with an obvious ‘do not cross’ illuminated in bright red, became completely invisible. 

At some point, he had to have stopped caring.

It could've been a long time ago, before he had the courage to just do something about it. Or maybe it was only recently, when fleeting touches that he's sure you never meant to let linger, started becoming the highlight of his days.

You make him feel like a teenager, and there's a sort of embarrassment that surrounds him in that sense. Because Lewis is a little more than fifteen years your senior, head full to the brim with knowledge about the world you've only barely gotten to experience yet, and he's stuck thinking about how you'd feel warming his bed at night like a boy.

Lewis has never been a particularly nervous man. He's well known for being calm and collected and sure, rarely letting the frustration show. And you? You are a mess in motion.

He knew it from the first time he saw you that you were a walking hurricane, too many months ago to count when you first stomped into that Mercedes hospitality room with twitching fingers that itch to be of use and scuffed sneakers you probably don't care to replace, demanding answers from a PR intern who clearly didn’t know how to handle you in the heat of the moment. 

A photographer. Freelancing your way through his world with a confident mouth and a camera he's can tell you saved for years to afford, and too many opinions that he agrees with in the silence of his head because, unlike you, he has an image to uphold. Lewis has never known anyone who says no as often as you do, and it's not even out of rebellion. It's out of principle.

You mean every word, and you never think twice before speaking your mind. You wear what you want, out-dressing half the grid and nearly stealing the show without realizing it. You laugh too loudly, and Lewis sometimes hates that he lets it simmer. You make friendly jabs and poke at his defenses, crawling under his skin without trying too hard.

And Lord help him, he loves it.

There’s an edge to you that’s magnetic, and he's begun to let himself be alright with being the opposite pole that you tug in. You don’t defer to him like most people do; you treat him like he's achingly normal.

You tease him for little things like meditating and correcting people gently, but that doesn't stop you from listening. From watching him like you're memorizing him, noticing the things others don't, and painstakingly reassuring him when it becomes a little too much.

And it takes a while, but you let him in. You tell him you do other things, like paint and write and all the different creative stuff he imagines you're amazing at. You let him learn about you, and in turn, he tells you about the him he tries to keep far from racing. 

You become something unspoken over decaf between busy meetings and tired conversations on the phone when you're both tucked into your beds and fighting sleep. The bond between you and him isn't exactly romantic, much to his dismay, but it's a little more intimate than simply friends. 

Sometimes, when he's a little more aware and a lot less desperate, he finds himself deeming that as enough. 

And Lewis really tries to stay respectful, he does.

He tells himself that you’re younger. That you’re still in college and figuring it all out. That you're at the age where everything burns fast and bright before it fizzles out, and while he's not particularly old, he’s lived long enough to know that chasing fire like that always ends in smoke.

But you're you.

Dropping voice notes at two in the morning when inspiration hits and you're on the way over. Showing up in his life in scattered, brilliant bursts that remind him of the fireworks that crackle when he wins. Talking about fucking light and contrast like it’s the most interesting thing in the universe, then telling him that the lens feels different depending on what you’re shooting that day.

There’s a kind of certainty in you that makes him ache because he's deemed you as something he can't have. You don't have everything figured out, and you don’t pretend to like most people your age. You move through the world unpolished and unfiltered because being raw means surviving, and something about how real you are makes him want you more.

And somewhere along the line, Lewis starts craving you like he craves wins in Silverstone. Letting the thought of you eat at him like every loss or mistake he nearly brushed over.

He tells himself you don’t see him like that. That you never really will. But it comes to a point where he can't ignore it anymore, and the deference he's so carefully tried to maintain starts unpeeling at the seams.

It’s not nothing. He thinks maybe it should be. 

A fleeting moment in a quiet room. He’s at your flat for the millionth time this week, courtesy of the winter off-season. He likes your place more, a little less performative and much cozier than his. Lewis is somewhere across from you pretending to read, but instead of basking in the pages of his book he secretly basks in you through the curtain his curls cast over his eyes.

You're in the middle of editing a shoot that's likely due tomorrow, bare legs folded on the couch he's slept on too many times to count with your laptop propped against your knees and Roscoe, who you insisted he bring along every time he comes over, snoring at your side. You’re wearing one of his old sweatshirts, a throwaway one that's too faded for him to miss very much, and you’ve got your hair pulled out of your face to show off that focused look you get when you're in your element. It's maddening.

Everything about him being here, so comfortably in your presence, feels right. And that thought, quiet, natural, and a little dangerous, is what undoes him more than anything else. 

You glance up briefly, brows drawn in concentration, then look back down at your screen. “Does this color grade look off to you?”

The question beckons him over, and he crosses the room slowly. His socked feet pad against the carpet softly, uncuffed sweats sweeping the floor as he treks over. 

Lewis leans into the arm of the couch to get a good look at your screen, absentmindedly reaching past you to scratch Roscoe's head before drawing his inked hand back and clasping both of his hands together, like he's afraid of what might happen if they're free.

You're close enough to feel the heat radiating off of each other, but not quite touching. He pretends not to notice the proximity.

The image on your screen is sharp. Golden hues with shadows pulled in tight, your subject mid-laugh. He gives you a low hum of approval.

You nod once, distracted eyes flicking between layers. 

He should get up. Give you space and find his spot across the room again. But he lingers, his own gaze flicking between your bare thighs and his sweatshirt pooling around your torso and the way the winter sun peeks through your broken blinds and catches the curve of your nose perfectly. You're tearing him apart, and you don't even know it.

Or maybe you do.

Because you glance over at him again, a little slower this time. Your head tilts like you're seeing something new, or maybe you’ve finally decided to acknowledge what’s been there the whole time.

“You alright?” you ask, lips twitching into a half-smile.

He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, his own little grin threatening the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, jus’ tired. Hit arms this morning before my run.”

You hum, like maybe you accept that answer, and let your gaze sit on him for a few more moments.

Then, softly, without taking your eyes off him, you ask, “When are you gonna stop looking at me like that?” It’s not accusatory. It’s not teasing, either. Just knowing.

Lewis blinks because there's no denying he's been caught. But he can play. “Like what?”

Jesus, he really is turning into a teenager again.

You, on the other hand, are not playing. Your brows cinch together softly, “You know what.” You reply, tone all too serious.

Silence pulls at the edges of your small living room, like it's listening in.

Lewis doesn't say anything, at least not right away. He studies you for a few moments too long, eyes scanning your face and memorizing it because, for some reason, he feels like if this conversation goes wrong, that maybe he won't see this side of you again. The domestic side that doesn't deflect or tease through a lens and instead watches him with the kind of steadiness he's alright with letting disarm him. The side that makes him breakfast and absentmindedly rubs out the tension in his shoulder blades after back day hits a little too hard.

Then, suddenly, his voice still soft regardless of how thick the knot in his throat has become, he mutters a low, “It's hard not to.” 

His eyes don't leave yours, big and brown and bright enough that they remind you a bit of a doe.

That draws something nearly unnoticeable across your face. It's not quite a smile, not surprise, either. Just a quiet acknowledgment of what you already knew. You shift in your spot, and Roscoe stirs in his sleep with a sigh before hopping off the couch, scurrying to find somewhere a little quieter to continue his nap.

“It's not just you,” You admit, almost apologetically, “If that helps.” You add with a shrug. You avert your gaze when his becomes too much, eyes finding your computer screen again. 

It helps for a split second, and then it doesn't. Because now, the thread of morality he's been white-knuckling for months tugs even harder.

Lewis doesn’t shift. He stays perched over the armrest, still leaning in close, still pretending like this proximity hasn’t rewired his nervous system. His fingers are locked tightly together, elbows pressed into the cushion where you sit a little too close. His knees are threatening to buckle under him for no reason at all, maybe just because you smell of cashmere and pine like the rest of your apartment. 

You’re just beneath him, sunk into the couch with your legs curled under you and the stretched neckline of his sweatshirt slipping down your collarbone, entirely unbothered while he feels like he’s clinging to the edge of a cliff with his fucking pinky finger.

And now you’ve said it, that it’s not just him feeling this way, the admission already having settled somewhere deep in his bones. And you already seem ready to move on from the words you just uttered so simply to him.

He doesn’t respond right away. Lets the quiet ring around you both long enough for you to start getting comfortable in it again.

His voice, when it finally cuts through the silence, is rough around the edges. “I’ve been trying to keep it clean.”

You look up at him, watching as he rises from where he once leaned into your dainty couch. “You think this is messy?” You ask gently.

“No,” he says immediately, but then breathes out a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “Maybe. Not in a bad way.”

Lewis makes his way into the spot next to you, slow and calculated like he's afraid to move too fast, and you absentmindedly lean into him the moment he sits. He leans into his knees, hands still linked and elbows on his legs. The distance narrows on its own. Your knee presses into his strong thigh, shoulders touching like they always do when you sit closer than you should.

“I didn’t want to make you think I only come around for one thing,” he says as you finally discard your computer. His eyes flicker over to the laptop as you let it clatter softly onto the glass coffee table, then back to you. “Didn’t want to ruin it.”

“You haven’t,” you say, surely. “You won’t.”

You’re not fidgeting, not trying to make the moment easier. You’re just letting it be.

“I don’t want to cross a line,” Lewis adds, still hovering over the precipice.

You scoff out a laugh, “We are well past that.”

You say it so casually, with that unmistakable hint of dry humor you wear like second skin, but Lewis hears the truth in it. You’re right. You are well past that. You were probably past it the first time he woke up on this very couch, Roscoe curled up next to him, and your half-empty cups from the night before still on the coffee table.

His lips twitch upward, like he’s weighing the consequences of grinning. “Suppose we are.”

You don’t say anything to that. You just tilt your head, eyes on him again. Really on him. You’re sitting so close he can feel the breath you pull in, and maybe you’re the one who’s suddenly nervous now, but you don’t move away. Not an inch.

And Lewis, finally, lets go of the pretense.

He unlaces his fingers slowly, shifts his weight just enough to face you without fully turning, testing the waters between you both. His eyes drop once, to your lips, then flick back up, then back down a few times.

You watch all of it happen in real time. And then, with a slight pull at the corner of your mouth, you amusedly say just above a whisper, “You can kiss me, you know.”

He lets out a breath, short and sharp, that sounds like relief and disbelief tangled together. “Yeah?” Lewis asks.

You nod, already leaning in like you don’t want to give him the chance to overthink it like he does with everything else. “Yeah.”

So he does.

Your lips meet halfway tentatively. Soft and careful like he's afraid you might run away if he's too eager. Your hands bury themselves in his T-shirt, but Lewis doesn't let his hands wander, not yet. Just lets a big hand hover over your bare thigh, enough to feel the heat radiating off your body, but not ready to let it land.

Where Lewis is hesitant, you're confident, and suddenly you're climbing into his lap and straddling his thighs like you belong on top of him. You lean in a little further, lips parting with a small, eager noise that barely leaves the back of your throat before he swallows it.

It's then that the thread he was trying so hard to protect snaps completely, and suddenly where his touch was once afraid to land, it now wanders. 

A hand trails up to cup your face, and he lets his thumb stroke your cheek softly, like he's trying to sculpt you. His thumb brushes your jaw, tracing where it meets your neck, and that alone earns him the quietest gasp against his mouth. His other, the one that hovered just over your thigh, smooths over you slowly before finally bracing against your skin, like maybe he needs the grounding it gives. His fingers dig in just slightly, the way they might wrap around the wheel before a hard turn, firm and steady.

Lewis kisses you like he's been dying to, no more hesitation or lingering fear of rules and the heavy weight of expectations. You kiss him back like it's second nature, like maybe this was building in you for a while, too.

Your work is long forgotten, the laptop shut on the table behind you. The room hums with undeniable urgency, but neither of you is willing to go too fast. You pull away just barely, trying to find your breath. His mouth chases yours for a split second, and he breathes only because he has to.

Lewis murmurs your name, just under his breath as his eyes search yours. It's both a question and a warning. And you, still a little breathless and barely thinking about how this is a walking HR violation, nod like the answer has always been yes.

You pull him even closer by his shirt, not clumsy or rushed, just sure. Always sure. You tug him until his fingers are sliding up the hem of the sweatshirt you stole from him, fingertips grazing the soft skin of your waist. 

He tries not to seem pathetic, but a little grunt leaves his plump lips when he feels just how warm you are underneath the fabric. The realness of the moment finally hits him as he lets his hands glide across your ribs.

And when you say his name, this time lower, a little shakier, it’s the last permission Lewis needs.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for centuries.

The way you whisper his name, it’s not demanding. It’s not even really asking. It’s soft. It’s real. It’s you, right here, on top of him, letting him have what he’s spent too long aching for.

Lewis tilts his head, kissing you again with more weight now, but with purpose in his movements. You’ve officially given him the green light, and he regrets waiting this long for you. Your fingers curl at the nape of his neck, and when your fingers pull softly at his coils of hair, he groans low in his throat, the sound pulled from somewhere deep and starved.

You shift in his lap, and his hands fly to your hips to still you, shaky and firm. He’s holding you there, grounding himself with the weight of your body under his palms.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice dipped in warning and all the things he’s been dreaming of doing to you for months now, “You’re not making this easy.”

You smile against his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip enough to make his pretty fingers flex. “Wasn’t trying to.”

Lewis lets out a soft curse, the kind he only mutters when patience finally wears thin. He moves his hands, lets them roam a little more freely now. Up the curve of your thighs, under the oversized sweatshirt adorning your torso, across the bare stretch of your back. You lean into his touch because it’s something you’ve been craving just as long as he has.

Your legs tighten around his hips. His lips move to your jaw, then just under your ear, then to the edge of your neck, where he lets his mouth linger. You shiver, pressing closer. His stubble scrapes soft against your skin, and you feel him smile, wicked and pleased.

“Do you think this is a good idea?” he asks against your throat. 

You laugh under your breath. Not mockingly or amusedly, “Not really,” you murmur honestly, your voice threading soft against his skin as your fingers brush along the nape of his neck, “but I know I want it anyway.”

Lewis pulls back enough to get a good look at you. Not far enough to create any distance, especially not when he is this close to something that he thinks is dangerous enough to be his undoing but addicting enough to bring him some relief after the time he’s spent imagining this situation. His eyes search yours, and as much as he wants to ask again, to make sure that you’re in this, the words can’t seem to leave his mouth. 

Your hands cup his jaw, fingers cradling him full of certainty, like you’ve already made your mind up and he’s the one with catching up to do. Your thumbs sweep softly along the edge of his stubble, and Lewis swears you could kill him and he would say thank you.

“Unless you don’t-”

“I do,” he cuts in quickly, quiet and firm. “God, I do.”

You smile, soft and bright and wholeheartedly pleased. You look like the one thing in this world he wants to be his.

You kiss again, like maybe your lips still haven’t gotten used to it, and Lewis sinks into you. Your hands slip under his shirt now, fingers skating across warm skin and toned muscle, and Lewis swears under his breath again. His hips roll without meaning to, pulling you closer into the cradle of his lap, like gravity is conspiring on his behalf.

He kisses down your jaw, across the hollow of your throat, leaving heat and promise in his wake.

Your breath stutters again, throat vibrating with a satisfied hum before you quickly stammer, “If we do this...” You trail off when Lewis looks up at you.

His thumbs brush against the waistband of your shorts. “It won’t be just once.”

You blink at him. “I’m not gonna be able to let this go after,” he clarifies. “Not interested in pretending it didn’t happen.”

Something about the way he says it, so completely confident, makes your heart do a dangerous stutter in your chest. You nod. “Good,” you say quietly. “Because I don’t want to pretend, either.”

Lewis lets his forehead rest against yours for a solid second, centering himself before crossing the threshold. Then he shifts, and suddenly you're beneath him with your head tilted back into the couch cushions and his strong arms braced on either side of your body, like he’s shielding you from the entire world and cocooning you into this moment. 

The couch creaks under both of you, definitely not built for this, but neither of you can find it in you to care. You’re still in his hoodie and nothing underneath except a pair of dangerously cut shorts that he’s been thinking about ripping off you for the past hour. 

Your fingers, once carefully wrapped around his nap, trail over his broad shoulders and curl into the back of his shirt. Your thighs bracket his hips, and whatever part of him was still holding out gives in completely.

Lewis finally lowers himself properly onto the couch, knees digging into the cushion that dips under the added weight of both of you and hips rolling into yours absentmindedly as his lips trail down your neck. Your body moves under him like you’ve both done this a thousand times already, like this is where it was always supposed to be.

He eyes you from where his lips are on your collarbone, chestnut gaze dragging over your flushed face and your kiss-bitten mouth, the sweatshirt that’s slipped enough off one shoulder to reveal the slope of your collarbone and nothing beneath, and Lewis feels his stomach tighten.

“You look…” He trails off, shaking his head, like even now, after feeling your skin and tasting you on his lips, he still can’t believe this is real. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, “Bit dramatic, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious,” he murmurs, leaning in again, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then another to your neck. “You don’t even know.”

You tilt your head a little further back into the armrest and stare down your nose at Lewis, fingers tangling themselves in his hair again before pulling him back into you with a gentle tug. His lips are warm and wet on your throat, nipping softly and leaving marks you won’t have the decency to cover up tomorrow.

You arch into his touch, his hoodie riding up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of bare skin above your low-rise shorts. His breath catches, and as if to anchor himself, his fingers dig into your waist where the skin is exposed.

“Lewis,” you moan, barely above a whisper, but it's enough. The sound of his name from your lips, ready and wanting, nearly undoes him on the spot.

He slides one hand along your side, under the fabric this time, slow and reverent. His fingers map the curve of your waist and the pattern of your ribcage, and for a moment, he’s learning you by feel alone. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says into your skin, voice hoarse.

You shake your head, “Don’t,” You reply quickly, “Please, don’t.”

He hums, deep and satisfied, and shifts to sit back just enough to pull the sweatshirt over your head. His eyes drag over you like he’s seeing you for the first time, every inch of newly exposed skin greeted with awe. Your chest rising and falling, goosebumps breaking out under the coldness of the room and the steely weight of his gaze. Before he can lean back down, you tug his shirt over his head, evening the field with a little grin.

His palms slide up your thighs, parting them gently as he settles back between them. His mouth finds your sternum, then lower, kissing a line down the center of you deliberately. It’s not hurried. None of this is. There’s a patience in him you wouldn’t expect, but maybe you should have. Lewis has never been the type to rush anything he cares about, regardless of the fast life he lives. 

And right now, in this moment, he’s never been more patient.

“You’re driving me mad,” he mutters into your sternum, thumbs brushing over the hard perk of your nipples, “lounging around for weeks in my clothes, looking at me like I’m the goddamn problem.”

You gasp when his teeth graze just below your breast. “I noticed,” Lewis groans. “Every fucking time.”

Your fingers card through his hair again, and he leans into the touch because it’s something he’s been craving longer than he’ll admit, and you’re finally in reach. Then his hands are at your waistband, and he pauses, lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes.

A part of him thinks that this is a really bad idea. There is a slightly twisted part of him that feels a little bit like he’s taking advantage of you, that he’s absentmindedly pressuring you into this. The sane part of him knows he’s not, and by the way you just muttered, “Please,” you want this just as much as he does. 

But the thought lingers, so he asks anyway, “Are you-”

You cut him off, “Lewis, if you don’t do something, I’m going to fucking blue-ball you.” You blurt sternly, your grip tightening in his hair like a promise. His lips upturn into a spit-slick grin, and he gets right to work.

“As you wish, my love.” The words leave his mouth so naturally that you nearly come undone then and there at just how easy they slip out.

His fingers loop softly over your shorts, then dig into your hip at the seam of your underwear. Lewis looks up at you briefly, catches a glint of frustration in your eyes, and he smiles as he hooks his finger over the band and slowly begins to tug both your undergarments and your shorts down your legs. He treats it like opening a present, similar to unwrapping something precious. 

When they hit the floor, he takes a second. Just one, but it feels like everything. Lewis breathes out hard, like the sight of you like this may have knocked something loose in his chest.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, not even meaning to say it out loud but not caring that he does.

Then his hands, the tatted ones you’ve dreamt of too many times to count, are padding against your inner thigh. They leave a trail of heat and long-forgotten reverence in their wake, the light touch of his fingertips keeping you steady even as you tremble almost unnoticeably under him. Your hips lift involuntarily when they ghost over the one place you want him, and Lewis chuckles softly, deep in his throat.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, voice low. “I’ve got you.”

The words fumble out the second he lets his thumb rub softly on your clit, eliciting the sweetest moan from you. He lowers himself slowly, like he’s savoring the moment, like if he moves too fast he might miss something important. His mouth replaces his fingers, kissing the inside of your thigh, bordering on devotion, teeth grazing lightly just to feel you jolt beneath him.

And then, finally, his tongue flicks over you. It’s gentle at first, testing. Teasing, maybe. A low, broken sound escapes your throat, legs tightening instinctively around his upper body. Lewis hums like that’s exactly the reaction he wanted from you.

His tongue moves with practiced control, slow strokes that build and build until you’re arching off the couch cushions and panting his name through clenched teeth. Your hands find his curls again, anchoring yourself, tugging him closer as if there’s any part of him that would ever consider pulling away.

“Lewis, fuck- don’t stop,” you gasp, voice unraveling thread by thread.

He groans against you, deep and satisfied. The vibration punches straight through you.

“Not goin’ anywhere,” he murmurs, mouth still working you open. “Told you, didn’t I? I’ve got you.”

Your eyes flutter shut at the words, your head tipping back and your chest rising and falling unevenly. You’ve been with people before, but nothing has ever made you feel so completely bare. Lewis knows exactly what to give and where to hold back, and your pleasure is the one thing driving him right now. 

When his fingers join his mouth, thick and gentle, scissoring into you and curling just right, you know it’s game over. You fall apart around him with a loud, stuttering cry, your thighs tightening and hips lifting and your body begging him right there. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, sensitive, and breathless, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you can seem to remember.

He finally pulls back, lips wet and swollen, beard a little damp against his chin. You blink down at him, dazed and flushed and utterly ruined. Lewis stares at you like he’s just witnessed a miracle.

Then, in practiced motion, he shifts back up to kiss you, deep and achingly slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue like a selfish claim. You wrap your arms around his neck and instinctively pull him closer, like you’re afraid the moment might end if he drifts too far.

“I told you,” he whispers between kisses. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

And the way you’re looking at him now, soft and certain and so completely his, he thinks already halfway there.

You’re still trembling when he moves back down your body, kissing along your collarbone and pausing between your breasts, just to plant a chaste kiss on your sternum. He nips and bites and teases, the heat of his mouth warming you in the winter cold.

Your breath catches when he pauses just below your chest, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“Can I?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, but there’s something weighted in it. He wants all of you, but only if you’ll let him.

You tilt your head a little, a lazy smile playing at your lips, “Lewis, you just ate me out, and you’re asking if you can suck my tits?”

He shakes his head, smiling to himself before leaning back. He stares at you like you’re art, taking you in like he didn’t do a good enough job the first time. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re unreal.” He mutters, running his thumb just beneath the swell of your breast.

Then he bends down and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling warm and slow, and your body jerks in response. You gasp sharply, fingers digging into his shoulders, steadying yourself as he litters your breasts with attention. His other hand kneads your opposite breast, rough palm dragging over soft skin, and the contrast has your thighs squeezing tight around his hips.

“Fuck, Lewis,” you breathe, the heat returning full-force, need curling low in your stomach once again.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just let me take care of you.”

And he does. He kisses his way down your torso again, pausing at your hipbone and kissing the sensitive spot there before slowly, fucking finally, sliding his sweats down low enough to free himself. You suck in a breath at the sight of him. Thick and heavy, a little flushed at the tip where pre-cum leaks. 

“Still good?” he checks in, voice strained and held together by sheer will.

You reach up and cup his jaw again, dragging him into a kiss that’s sloppy and deep and full of promise. “Better than good,” you whisper against his lips, his forehead against yours, eyes closed in ecstasy. That’s all it takes.

He lines up with your entrance, gaze flicking between your impatient face and where you’re sopping wet and ready under him, and he pushes in slowly. Inch by inch, he watches you like a man obsessed. Like he's afraid to miss even a second of how you fall apart beneath him.

You gasp, legs wrapping around him tighter because even though you’ve made it this far, there's no saying he won’t run away. Lewis just swears filthily against your mouth. 

He curses as he slides his cock into you, “You feel so good, baby.” Lewis grits.

He stills when he’s fully inside of you, and you stay like that for a beat. Hearts pounding in synchrony as your chests rise and fall in tandem. “Better than I ever imagined,” Lewis shudders, kissing your jaw. His first movement catches you by surprise, him sitting back into the couch and pulling you atop of him, taking a moment to get comfortable in what was your original position. Your legs straddle his hips tightly, and his head drops into the crook of your neck where he leaves soft kisses and lets ragged breaths warm your skin. 

You move first, thighs burning as you lift yourself up and then sink back down onto him with the softest noise leaving your throat. Lewis’s hands fly to your hips, eyes searching yours as he asks, “What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you do all the work?”

Your lips upturn into a lazy smile, “How courteous.” You joke in response. 

Lewis rolls his hips, lifting you in the process before thrusting back into you softly. It catches you off-guard enough that you wrap your arms around his strong body, using his shoulders as leverage. His arms find their way around you, too. One hand sits firm on your hip, and the other pushes you closer to him from where it sits on your back.

The rhythm of his thrusts is slow and calculated, but they hit deep enough to bruise. Lewis presses the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth, breathing in the moans leaving your lips when he pounds into you in the right place. Then another to your jaw, right on the corner where it's curved and slack in bliss. And another just beneath your ear, letting his lips linger there as he whispers sweet nothings while his skin hits yours. 

“You’re doing so well, my love, such a good girl for me,” He groans once. Or maybe twice, he’s too lost in you to be sure. 

You tell him, “Right there, Lewis,” in between cries, and then see stars as one just moments later.

His advances slow into occasional drives as you come undone for a second time, whimpers sliding off your tongue like chirps from a songbird. Music to his ears. 

Somewhere in the moment when you’re too lost in coming down from the pleasure to notice, Roscoe pads back into the room with a low huff, circling once before collapsing into his usual spot by the couch. The dog regards you with a judgmental look, and you and Lewis share a fucked-out laugh.

You glance down at Lewis, taking him in like this could be the last time. He smells like something familiar, arms wrapped around you. You’re in his lap, still stuffed full and dripping a mix of your liquids and his onto his halfway pulled-down sweatpants. Your bodies are bare, but there’s no rush to cover up or pull away. No guilt or lingering doubts.

Just you, just him, and the warmth of your bodies pressed into each other.

“Stay?” you ask, almost hesitantly.

Lewis doesn’t even hesitate before muttering a soft, “Always,” into the supple skin of your neck.

© 𝗔𝗔𝗝𝗫𝗦

[evilminji]

Okay, but? I just thought of the funniest/best crackship/rare-not-pair?

Tianlang-jun+Su Xiyan+Shen Jiu+Shen Yuan

As in yes, the Shen TWINS. Who? Probably weren't/aren't twins? Like? Shen Yuan definitely just sorta shows up out of now where? Hauled back to the Sect by Shen Jiu, who DEFINITELY was an only child the last anyone knew of it, from like... a night hunt or visit to town? And he's like...

"Found a weird plant."/"Qi deviation"/"Killed a malicious blue window spirit. Possibly a god."

No, he will not explain. This is HIS now. No one look at HIS brother. He's keeping him.

Like? Yeah, they can kinda SEE that, Shen-shixiong. Maybe relax the death gri-? *feral street kid territorial hissing* MOTHER FUCK! Yue-shixiong! Come get your nightmare!!! He's biting! AND MULTIPLIED!

At least? The new one? Seems very nice?

.....naive, almost...

T-too nice....

Okay, they can see why Shen-shixiong was worried. The Fairies of Cang Qiong collectively side eye each other, nod, and agree to cut-a-fucker if anyone tries to Lewd the Baby. No wonder Shen-shixiong is vibrating with aggression and stress.

And like? Somehow? Hiding them on the women's only (with only the exceptions WE allow) peak? Cuts down on Shen-shixiong's infamous brothel trips? Like he still GOES, but it's more "visits with occasional stays" and less "constant stays over night"?

.......waaaaait a second.....

*turns around and actually looks at what he's doing on their peak, which is sleeping while girls chat and play music around him as his brother does someone's hair near-by*

Motherfu-! Shen-shixiong is a prettyboy! Brothels are full of women and have GUARDS! Of COURSE! Is he even SAFE on Qing Jing?! *furious note comparing with each other as dots start to come together*

Like? His reputation is still SHIT. Shen Jiu is still "the lecher" to outsiders and jealous men who CAN NOT comprehend being surrounded, constantly, by gorgeous women for any other reason then sex. But like? The Fairy peak knows. He's their bitchy martial uncle. The "Never marry and all men are bastards" uncle. The "Will tear a person's soul out and feed it to them, if they cross him or us" uncle.

You can totally hide behind him and go Nyeyeyeye~ >:P at someone and he'll still side with you if you do it sparingly enough. It's GREAT.

Of course, this would get Qi-shemei and Lui-shixiong fighting. Because Lui-shixiong is listening to his peak mates, who are PERVERTS. And are slandering the Shen's, INCLUDING their wittle baby A-yuan(!!!), by suggesting they are-! ARE-! *furious martial sister seething*

Shen Jiu decides? Discretion is the better part of Valor here. Night hunt time. Let's go, brother. I'll even let you look at the beast before I kill it.

They stop in town. Near the Guady Assholes territory. Shen Yuan would like to peruse the book sellers. Indulge his favorite hobby... ripping apart the plot of Bad Books. He is, after all, a bit of a hate reader at heart. He gets his "allowance" (what am I, a child?) (Yes.) (BROTHER!) and wanders off....

Oh! OH? A Most Handsome Man?! He looks like Luo Binghe fanart made real! But slutty and more playful? Rougish. N-not that he NOTICES such things! Because he is very straight. Only girls.

Tianlang-jun? Meets a cute book buddy while waiting for his girlfriend. He got them big ol startled baby animal eyes. Tears apart books like he's gripped them in his teeth and mauled until the books entrails fell out. VERY fun to tease! Hey, Yan-er~♡? How about a third?

*Su Xiyan looks Shen Yuan up and down, sees the clueless Bambi eyed/easily flustered blink, and kinda wants to ruin him*

Oh FUCK NO! Says Shen Jiu! Crashing onto the seen. His "someone is trying to lewd my not-a-brother-but-you-cant-prove-that senses" a tingling. BeGONE, harlots! You degenerates! You-! YOU-! SEX HAVERS!!!!

Well now... what a high stressed, vicious, mean, bitchy, highly competent yet pathetic little man...

*dual interest noises*

So begins there chasing the Shens. Shen Yuan going "idk, maybe we should-" and Shen Jiu going "DO NOT! Don't make eye contact! Don't BREATHE in their direction! Their sex having kind need NO ENCOURAGEMENT."

And? The Old Palace Master? Slowly but surely losing his SHIT.

Because? It's ONE thing, which is bad enough, to lose his Pwecious Su Xiyan to another. But to lose her to THREE? People are TALKING! Whispering! Suggesting she's a DEGENERATE! When EVERYONE knows it's that Shen Jiu boy! And that DEMON.

And!!! The BEST part of this Ship? The SINGLE BEST part?! Is!

WHO'S HAREM IS IT~?

Su Xiyan? The only woman? The clear "Top Energy" Queen of this whole polycule? Only one with the people skill, ruthlessness, AND common sense? Does she have a harem of pretty boys?

Or is it Tianlang-jun? The obvious choice? What with being the Demon Emperor. Did he just... decide he has a thing for Cultivators? Picked a pretty empress and a pair of twins on the side?

Shen Jiu? Is his beauty/seductiveness/lewdness THAT powerful? That he would somehow hook not only his own brother? But a HEAD DISCIPLE? And the EMPEROR OF ALL DEMON KIND?! He IS said to be a strategist...

Or the quiet dark horse, Shen YUAN? Mysterious past, beauty that hits you like a punch to the gut. Kinda makes you want to throw your life at his feet and beg him to take it. Wifebeams. Wife beams EVERYWHERE. Truely, only the most powerful could defend a place at his side.

Again, the Shen's aren't related. Shen Yuan Transmigrated. Shen Jui was just like "hey, thanks gods. I WILL take this Free Twin. Mine now! You are literally never getting this back!" After most likely SUPER MEGA DEATH murdering the System for trying to kill him. Shen Yuan's body is a construct. It might not even be human.

But they DO look alike! And since when has Shen Jiu ever explain SHIT?

@mayfay @legitimatesatanspawn @babbling-babull @hdgnj

[laursdomain]

chasing pavements

pairing: bodhi durran & imogen cardulo | bodhi durran & garrick tavis

genre: angst

synopsis: Manifesting signets is based on who riders are at their core. Based on what they need. What could Bodhi Durran and Imogen Cardulo possibly need to manifest their signets? After all, they may have some of the most rare signets of their year–why them? Bodhi can’t help but revisit past memories to realize why he manifested signet countering of all signets.

warnings: PLEASE READ. cursing, trauma, mentions of death, mentions of depression, very low self worth/views, mentions of an eating disorder, brother!garrick, xaden’s a bad cousin, takes place during FW & pre-FW, change in POV for flashback, this is very sad i’m so sorry…happy-ish ending!!!!!

w/c: 2.0k

a/n: primarily bodhi/imogen, secondary bodhi/garrick; song ➳ chasing pavements by adele; welcome to day 3: signet counter (i'm so sorry in advance) @empyreanevents

ྀིb.d week masterlist

ੈ✩‧₊˚

“Do you ever wonder why we manifested the signets we did?” Imogen’s question forces Bodhi to look at her, raising a brow at her sudden question.

The two second-years have been laying on Bodhi Durran’s bed for the last two hours, recovering from their RSC interrogation. They were absolutely beaten, and probably should have stopped at the healers quadrant to get patched up–but they couldn’t trust anyone. Instead, they resorted to Bodhi’s hidden first-aid kit, the one Xaden had supplied for him after Conscription Day. Now, they stared at the ceiling, no words being spoken as they remained lost in their thoughts.

i build myself up, and fly around in circles, waiting as my heart drops

“What do you mean?” Bodhi mutters, returning his gaze back to the ceiling.

“Mind wiping wasn’t the signet Glane’s previous rider had,” she pointed out. “Apparently, we manifest a signet that at our core, we need.”

Bodhi thought for a second, was that true? Glane was infamously known for messing around with her rider, so could her word really be taken?

Bodhi opens his bond with Cuir, “is that true? Our signets manifest based on who we are at our core?”

“Yes,” a sleepy yawn comes from Cuir, having been woken up by his rider. 

“Cuir confirmed it,” Bodhi sounds out, noticing Imogen nod in his peripheral vision. “Why do you think you got mind wiping?”

Imogen went silent, most likely thinking. Bodhi thought too–why does he have signet countering? Now that he was really thinking about it, he had an inkling as to why–but he prayed to Amari that wasn’t the reasoning. 

“I think it has to do with how people always perceived me,” Imogen confessed.

Bodhi knew exactly what she meant, it’s no secret that people are absolutely terrified of Imogen, she holds herself the same way Xaden does. An absolute menace. But, Bodhi knows she isn’t speaking in that regard. She’s referring to her time in the foster homes, when so many of their fellow marked ones and those who were homing her had seen her in her most vulnerable position.

“I remember, when we were in the homes,” Imogen’s voice is low, a vulnerable tone lacing her words. “I would pray to Malek every night to come take me so that nobody could see me that way anymore. I hated seeing the looks on everyone’s faces whenever they saw me. It made me want to run away.”

i'll never say enough

“Maybe your prayers were answered,” Bodhi says, watching as Imogen looks at him. “Just not in the sense you were asking. You can mind wipe anyone who sees a version of you that you don’t like.”

She chuckles, “Glane wouldn’t object, but I think Xaden wouldn’t approve.”

“Not if he doesn’t find out,” Bodhi shrugs, giving her a mischievous smile. 

“Do you think if I wipe any memory of me from Garrick’s mind and act like one of the girls he usually takes to bed, he’ll get with me?” The question has Bodhi’s head whipping towards Imogen, eyes widened in horror.

“Absolutely not.” Bodhi retorts, wincing at how rude he sounded. “Garrick doesn’t indulge me in his love life, thank the gods, but I wouldn’t be able to handle you as one of those girls who practically jump him to go to bed with him.”

“Fair point.” Imogen laughs, a smile tugging at her lips. “Why do you think you manifested a signet counter?”

Bodhi hesitates, pretending he is thinking. He’s had an inkling as to why, and he knew it was why, but did he want it to be true? Absolutely-fucking-not. Bodhi always wished he could’ve done something to prevent the rebellion being exposed–maybe his family would still be alive. Sure, he had Xaden, but he feels he could’ve prevented everything. Maybe it was because he was a chronic empath, and naturally felt for everyone and everything. 

should i give up?

The day his parents were burnt, he couldn’t help but have one poisonous thought going through his head as the flames engulfed his mother and father, who were holding hands. “Why couldn’t I stop it?” That same thought lingers in his head as he lays next to Imogen, shaking it away. He’s gotten better about those types of thoughts, but he still felt the same way.

Bodhi thinks back to that day, the day he lost his parents. He was sixteen, and absolutely scared. At that point, they had no idea if they were to die next or not. Before Xaden took responsibility for all of them. He remembers his body shaking to no end, not until Garrick wrapped a steady arm around his shoulders, tucking him under his arm. Garrick had grounded him, but that didn’t stop the lingering thoughts.

Why didn’t I stop it?

Why didn’t I urge Mom to get Uncle Fen to slow down? To be more careful?

They’re dead because of me–because I couldn’t stop it.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Bodhi’s voice is small and vulnerable, and he notices the way Imogen furrows her brows.

“I won’t,” she swears, putting her hand over her heart.

or should i just keep chasing pavements?

“After Mom and Dad’s death, I,” Bodhi gulps, trying to form his words. “I would always have these thoughts that I didn’t do enough to stop it.”

Imogen props herself up on her elbow, looking at Bodhi. He meets her gaze, trying to read her expression. “You couldn’t have stopped anything, we were sixteen,” she points out, leveling her look with Bodhi. 

“I know,” he whispers. “But–I just, I think it was mostly because my mom’s death hurt too much. I refused to do anything for the first two months we were in the home. It made me unnaturally thin and gave me depression. All I would do was stare at the wall until sleep took me. Until Garrick intervened.”

Memories of the first two months in their foster home come flooding back, sending a shiver down Bodhi’s spine. He remembers being placed there with Xaden, Garrick, and Liam. Xaden was too preoccupied with the repercussions of the rebellion to notice what was happening with Bodhi. He hadn’t noticed the way Bodhi was crumbling. 

He remembers a specific day that was especially grueling for him. A day that changed his state since the rebellion ending.

Memorizing the patterns on the wall has become second nature. It was an ugly wallpaper, but I didn’t mind it. My stomach grumbled, but I ignored it. I’d eat something before bed, probably my usual piece of bread. I faintly hear the sound of the door closing nearby, but I ignore it. I always ignore it. Two hands wrap around my armpits, hauling me to my feet. I turn around, getting whiplash before regaining my footing. Garrick stands in front of me, worry written all over his face.

“You need to eat,” Garrick urged.

“I’ll eat later,” I assured him, looking away from his piercing hazel eyes.

He scoffs, “what? You’ll eat some bread, and call it a day?”

I don't answer, I simply keep my gaze averted. I’m not sure if I’m annoyed that he knows or embarrassed that I’m only eating a slice of bread a day.

or would it be a waste?

“Xaden may not notice it, but I do. I know you’ve been reeling back into yourself these past two months–but I’m worried, Bo. I’m worried for your health.”

“I’m fine,” I bite back.

“No, you’re not. I’m not leaving this room until you agree to come eat a meal with me.” 

Garrick crosses his arms over his chest, and I envy the way his physique has significantly increased. I’m the only one at fault for not training, no matter how many times Garrick tries to convince me–I always say no.

“We can have pasta,” Garrick offers, knowing how much I love it.

“What sauce?” I side-glance him, waiting for his answer.

“Red sauce, obviously.”

“Can I have chicken cubes in mine?” My voice comes out small and vulnerable, and I hate it. I know Garrick wouldn’t tease me for it, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. I’m supposed to be strong and brave, like Xaden, just like how Dad taught me.

“That’s the best way to have it,” Garrick pointed out. “We can have chocolate cake afterwards. Won’t be as good, but I’ll try my best.”

I meet Garrick’s pleading gaze, and he wins me over. I subtly nod my head, watching the way Garrick’s face lights up. He grips my arm, pulling me out of the room I hadn’t left for two months straight–except to use the bathroom–as he makes a beeline for the kitchen. Nobody was around, thank the gods, the only person who was allowed to see me in this state was Garrick. 

I watch as he hums a song his mother always sung, making our lunch and dessert with precision. The smell of pasta, chicken, and chocolate cake makes me much hungrier, ready to devour Garrick’s food.

even if i knew my place, should i leave it there?

“I didn’t know that,” she comments. Bodhi notices the way her eyes are filled with empathy, a stark contrast to the cold glare she gave everyone. 

Bodhi will always be eternally grateful for what Garrick did for him, because had he not–well, Bodhi doesn’t think he’d be here today. Had he survived until Conscription Day, he wouldn’t have even crossed the parapet successfully.

Bodhi shrugs, “it’s in the past.”

“Do you still feel that way?” 

“What?”

She rolls her eyes, “do you still feel like you could’ve prevented certain events?”

“Yes,” his confession comes out more raw than he intended. “I always thought I could stop those three assholes from killing Violet during Threshing. I’m not sure why, it’s not like I’m a god or a wingleader. I’m just a squad leader. I also thought I could stop Alic Tauri from picking on Garrick, even though I hadn’t even crossed the parapet at that point.”

“I would’ve loved to see you sneak into Basgiath to handle Prince Alic Tauri,” Imogen teases, pulling a laugh from Bodhi.

“Laugh all you want, nineteen year old Bodhi was very serious about it.”

“How’d you even know about it? They couldn’t send letters out,” Imogen questions.

Bodhi gives a sidewarded smirk, “I’ll never tell my secrets.”

Imogen lightly hits him, “curse you and your secret rule breaking.” 

Bodhi laughs at Imogen’s antics, grateful for her teasing to lighten the tension that lingers in the room. She begins laughing with him, something that’s rare for her–but she knows Bodhi needs it. He’s one of her best friends, alongside Quinn. 

even if it leads nowhere

She’d never tell Bodhi this, but she would choose his safety and happiness over everything, because that’s how much he means to her. 

Bodhi would never tell Imogen how much their friendship means to him. He’s used to being overlooked, especially when Xaden exists. Sometimes he doesn’t mind living in the shadows, but on other days it's hard. Imogen is the only one who truly understands. He’d never tell her that she is the only one he truly feels comfortable confiding in, and that he would never tell another soul about what they just spoke about. Not even Xaden. 

Teenager Bodhi would have never expected that he would manifest a signet that would partially satisfy the want to prevent terrible events that have already occurred. He never thought his overwhelming thoughts from his parents death would lead to that. Deep down, he knew he couldn’t have stopped any of the events that led to now, even if he already had his signet. Countering signets can only do so much, and even if he was a balance–he wasn’t a balance for everything. Eventually, he’d no longer be useful. 

Bodhi couldn’t help but think back to his younger self, the young, innocent boy who dreamed of going into the riders quadrant like his father. He would expect to manifest a signet that would be powerful, just like Xaden. Not one that is a reassurance. But he knew that was his life. He was the reassurance. 

The reassurance for the revolution. 

The reassurance for the marked ones. 

The reassurance for Xaden.

He didn’t know it yet, but he would be the reassurance for Tyrrendor.

Trauma is the root of manifesting signets.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

[explosionkatsu]

Random Number (Upcoming Series)

Pairing: Adult!Bakugo x F!Reader

Summary:

Bakugo Katsuki's phone beeped as he received a text from an unknown number. Feeling curious about the contents of the message, he unlocked his phone and opened the text to find an unexpected list of grocery items. Perhaps it was a wrong number or maybe someone was playing a prank on him.

Warnings: None. Ya’all know I don't write stuff like that! Haha!

PROLOUGE ————

Y/n had put in a lot of effort throughout the week and was eagerly awaiting her paycheck. She had been looking forward to her evening, filled with relaxation after a long day at work. The idea of having some quality 'me time' was exciting, and she couldn't wait to indulge herself by staying up late and binge-watching her favorite series on Netflix. She had also planned to treat herself to some delicious food, which would only add to the enjoyment of her well-deserved break.

"Hey, Y/n! Do you want to join us for some Shabu-shabu?" Y/n's colleagues asked her.

"That sounds like fun, Mika. But I already have plans for my evening. You know, some 'me-time' would be nice," Y/n replied.

"Haha! Well, you deserve it after this hellish week we've had. You're probably the hardest worker here," Mika responded playfully.

"Oh, shut it. Haha. Well, I'll be off now! Say hi to everyone for me and have fun with the team!" Y/n giggled as she picked up her bag and waved goodbye to her colleagues.

As soon as Y/n got out of the building, she rushed to the nearest cash dispenser and withdrew a good amount of money from her account to pay her bills and buy groceries for the month. She had worked overtime the previous week, and she felt pleased that her hard work had paid off.

Humming happily, she walked towards the supermarket, enjoying the cool breeze of the night. When she reached the store, she fished her grocery list out of her bag, only to realize that it was missing.

Panic set in, and Y/n started to rummage through her bag in search of the list. She even planned on flipping her bag upside down, but it was nowhere to be found.

Frustrated, Y/n muttered under her breath, "It's not here. I must have left it at home." She pondered for a moment about what to do next. She could either go back home to get the list or try to remember the items she needed to buy.

Finally, Y/n decided to use her phone to make a list of the things she needed to buy. She hoped that she could remember most of the items, but she knew that she might forget some of them. She sighed and muttered to herself, "Hopefully, I still remember some of it."

Without wasting any time, Y/n pulled out her phone and opened the messages app instead of the notes. She swiftly listed all the items she required and then hit the send button. However, she immediately noticed that she had left the contact details empty. Not wanting to waste any more time, she quickly typed in her number and hit send again. Unbeknownst to her, the last digit of her number was incorrect.

—

"Hey Bakugo, I'm so pumped up! Our dine-out is going to be epic!" Kirishima exclaimed with unbridled enthusiasm as he met up with a scowling Bakugo, who was already bundled up in a thick scarf to protect himself from the chilly weather.

“I'd rather spend time alone than be with you idiots,” Bakugo said under his scarf.

“Aw, come on bro. We’ve rarely got this chance,” Kirishima insisted. “Besides, today is the only day we’re all free!”

“Tsk.” Bakugou only said in response.

As they started walking, there was a sudden sound of "ding" emanating from Bakugo's device which caught their attention.

“You should check that out. It's probably something important,” Kirishima pointed out and continued walking.

“For god’s sake," Bakugo said with a hint of frustration evident in his voice, as he reached for his phone in his pocket.

Bakugo's eyes widened in disbelief as he read the message. "What the hell?" he blurted out, scanning the text again. His mind raced as he tried to make sense of it. Could this be some kind of sick joke? “Is this a prank?”

Kirishima glanced at Bakugo's phone and asked, "What's up, bro?" After reading the message, he snickered and said, "I told you it's important. And let me tell you, strawberry milk is amazing. Don't be shy about enjoying it." He teased.

Bakugo's voice boomed with anger as he shouted, "Shut the hell up, Shitty hair!" His outburst drew the attention of everyone in the vicinity, causing them to turn and stare at the source of the commotion.

“A-ah! Sorry about that! That's just nothing!” Kirishima apologetically said to the people looking at them. “Bakugo! Keep it down will ya!”

"Whoever this person is, is screwed!" Bakugo exclaimed, clenching his jaw.

“Hey, hold on a minute. What if that person is an elderly woman who’s unfamiliar with using phones?" Kirishima suggested. "Also, have you thought about how it might affect your reputation if she finds out you're Dynamight? Think about this carefully, man.”

“Tsch!” Kirishima's reaction might seem excessive, but he has a point. It's best to just let it be.

————

Upcoming series? Does that mean sluggish uploads again? Haha. As you all know, the series I'm currently working on is coming to an end. Only two chapters more. 👀

See you again in my next series! 😘

[fereldanwench]

OC Interview - Valerie Powell

I was tagged by @gloryride forever ago to interview my girl--Thank you, bb! I'm so late to doing this that I'm not gonna tag anyone else, but feel free to yoink it if you wanna do it!

[Answers are directly from Valerie's POV before the heist in 2077.]

.ೃ࿔*:･ NAME?

Valerie Irene Powell. [laughs] Yeah, my initials are VIP. My dad had a dorky sense of humor, and my mom let him get away with it. "Irene" is my great-grandmother's first name on her side of the family.

.ೃ࿔*:･ NICKNAME?

Pretty much just "V" these days, which was all Jackie's doing. A lot of the staff and some regulars at Nishimura's used to call me "Blue," but that was ages ago. Overly familiar acquaintances who don't know me well but think they do usually call me "Val."

.ೃ࿔*:･ GENDER?

Biologically female, no gender alterations or augmentations.

A/N - Valerie is a cis woman, but I don't see that specific language being in her vernacular.

.ೃ࿔*:･ STAR SIGN?

I was born in Night City on October 12 2041. Misty tells me that makes me a, uh--Hey, Misty, what am I again?

[Misty, calling from the other room: Libra Sun with a Taurus Moon and Scorpio Rising!]

Yeah, that. [laughs] Whatever the hell that even means.

.ೃ࿔*:･ HEIGHT?

Tall. 5'10" or 178 cm. And I admit I have a weakness for a sexy pair of heels, so I usually look a lot taller.

.ೃ࿔*:･ ORIENTATION?

People are out here fucking cyborgs with four eyes and chicks with gold dicks and electric nipples--What does this even mean? [laughs] I've never given it much thought. I like what I like, and I've liked a lot of different types of people with a lot of different things going on. [laughs again]

A/N: I say Valerie is bi, because that is the contemporary real-life word that best reflects her sexuality for me when I'm talking about her, but when I was really thinking about it from her POV and in the context of her world, I don't think she'd be too hung up on a label. She'd also probably see her wide spectrum of attraction as closer to the default, not the exception.

.ೃ࿔*:･ NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY?

I'm a typical American mutt. My dad's side of the family can mostly be traced back to Western Europe--my grandmother told me "Powell" is an Anglicized form of an old Welsh surname--and my mom's side is from the Eastern Mediterranean. Dad's side has been in NUSA for a long time (like two centuries before it was even called NUSA), but Mom's family has only been here for a few generations.

.ೃ࿔*:･ FAVE FRUIT?

I just love fresh fruit. It's such a rare treat in Night City--I'll take fresh strawberries or melons over any other kind of sweet treat.

.ೃ࿔*:･ FAVE SEASON?

Spring! When everything starts turning green and flowers are blooming. There aren't a ton of places in Night City where you can really experience that, but I know a few hidden gems.

.ೃ࿔*:･ FAVE FLOWER?

Hydrangeas, probably. Especially the blue and purple ones. Oh, and wisteria! A tree covered in blooming wisteria is one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen.

.ೃ࿔*:･ FAVE SCENT?

Freshly brewed coffee; new car smell; woodsy, smokey colognes and perfumes; real leather; whatever incense Misty uses in her shop; clothes right out of the dryer; lavender; a ton more that I know I'm forgetting!

.ೃ࿔*:･ COFFEE, TEA, OR HOT CHOCOLATE?

Strong coffee, black, maybe a little sugar if I'm feeling indulgent. Tea is nice, but it's not my caffeine fix. I like a cup of lavender or chamomile tea at night. Hot chocolate is too heavy and rich for my taste. A sip is nice, but I could never finish a cup.

.ೃ࿔*:･ AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP?

I try not to get any fewer than 6 hours, but that's easier said than done some nights. Okay, most nights.

.ೃ࿔*:･ DOG OR CAT PERSON?

You know, I've only ever seen one dog in person. A childhood friend's family had one--I don't know the breed, but it was a yippy little shit and it bit me! Never really wanted to see another dog, if I'm honest.

I like cats, though. There's a stray that hangs by Misty's place--He's the sweetest little guy. I picked up a bag of kibble we keep there to feed him when he comes around.

.ೃ࿔*:･ DREAM TRIP?

I've actually traveled a lot--My parents had to go to Biotechnica's HQ in Rome a few times when I was a kid, and they usually turned those trips into an excuse to have an extended European vacation. And I went all over the globe working for Arasaka for 7 years. I'd love to go back to Japan for non-work reasons.

.ೃ࿔*:･ FAVORITE FICTIONAL CHARACTER?

You're gonna laugh, it's so predictable. In my defense, I can't remember the last time I watched or read anything new--Actually, that's not true. Jackie made me watch one of those Bushido movies last week, and I just don't get it. Anyway. It's Elizabeth Bennet. Don't look at me--What's the next question?

.ೃ࿔*:･ NUMBER OF BLANKETS YOU SLEEP WITH?

Just a sheet and comforter.

.ೃ࿔*:･ RANDOM FACT?

Oh, no, don't put me on the spot like this! [laughs] Um, okay, I shot my first firearm when I was about 7. Under intense adult supervision--My dad was really serious about self-defense and the right to bear arms, which always surprised people because he came across as such a meek science nerd. I didn't like it--It was so loud, even with earmuffs. Funny how things change.

Is that kind of a heavy note to leave on? [laughs again] Okay, how about this one: I can't roll my tongue.

[majachee]

HIIII ok so I have a question about the power ranger TD au!!

Are there gonna be any ships? (I’m mostly interested in Noah ships (totally not my favorite character)) likeee is there gonna be Noco? Nowen? Is duncey gonna be canon?

(Also is Gwen gonna show up? IF SOO will there be gwourtney or gwent instead? Is the Duncan, Courtney and Gwen triangle gonna come?)

ALSO I CANT WAIT UNTIL THE DRAMA BROTHERS SHOW UP GANSNKSBAKAKAAH

ok that was all thank you very much good person 🫡

CRAWFISH SPOTTED YEAHEAHHHHHHHH

As for relationships... 😈

Since this is a self-indulgent AU made primarily for enjoyment, I'm pretty lenient when it comes to romantic pairings! If someone suggests a ship and I feel fine towards it, I'll give them some crumbs to work with lmao

Focusing on the pairings you brought up, though...

Noah - I headcanon Noah as being on the aroace spectrum, meaning he rarely feels attraction towards others. This identity is brought up several times in the AU, though not exactly by name (I don't think Noah would use specific labels, tbh)...

HOWEVER, he is not immune to the ship-bait crumbs! Noah and Owen are close in this AU, and can be read as romantic or queerplatonic. Nowen is explicitly canon in this AU, and most TD related things I'll write or draw! But, whether they're romantic or queerplatonic is up to the readers, I've decided. I love both interpretations equally, and I love Nowen because of how both interpretations work almost perfectly!

As for NoCo... I have mixed feelings towards this ship, but that's usually because nobody ever interprets it the way I interpret it: and that's Cody fucking sucks /aff /derogatory.

He had a weird one-sided situationship with Noah for 3 days in October of freshman year, said something FOUL and KINDA CRINGE about rizz and women, and Noah just got up and left. No hesitation.

Let Cody be a loser... genuinely. He gets mauled by a bear at least once. Other than that, no hints of NoCo in the main plot. Cody's out there freakin it loser style, and Noah is gay married to Owen in every universe.

Now for the questions about Gwen and Courtney - No for the love triangle, I felt that entire thing ruined all three characters. Like, Duncanis suppose to be a "punk with a heart of gold" and yet he's down to cheat??? Gwen, the anxious yet very progressive goth who's like... genuinely nice??? And bro what'd Courtney do to deserve that??? ... She did help carry WT tho

As for Duncey and Gwent? I'm on the fence. I don't think Duncan and Courtney are good for eachother. And Gwent was really cute in season 1, but the way they handled Trent's breakdown in Action just felt... off. I think I prefer both of them being single, unfortunately. Might have Trent and Gwen be exes on really good terms though? For world building and lore? Because both characters are revelant to the plot due to their connections with Courtney, Duncan, and Harold (primarily Trent for that last one but yk)

Qwourtney is a maybe, I did promise some Heather/Courtney crumbs for an anon so I'm down for that lmao

Honestly, if you wanna write or draw ship art for this AU, even if ifs not explicitly "canon" then go for it. I'd love to see it! This is a self-indulgent AU, and I'm chill w/ letting you guys get self-indulgent with my self-indulgent AU lmaoooooo

And to finish this off...

I'M GONNA USE THE DRAMA BROTHERS AS AN EXCUSE TO REFERENCE BUFFY, LET ME TELL YOU... DUDE. THE SCENES AT THE BRONZE AND THE COLLEGE HOUSE PARTIES WHERE INDIE/ROCK BANDS ARE PLAYING LIVE AND SMTH INSANE HAPPENS... CHANGED ME FUNDAMENTALLY. Omg i love buffy the vampire slayer hashtag feminism

[misscammiedawn]

Hiiiii!!! I wanna know so much about your ocs!! I am Terribly Sorry for the abundance of questions I am about to ask, so please feel free to choose only what you wanna answer!!

- What is your favorite part about each Honoria, Madison, and Belladonna?

- Are there any motifs, like symbols or animals or stuff like that, that you associate with each of them?

- What are some aspects of each you would like to explore more?

- If there's any fact in particular you want people to know most about each, what fact would that be?

- Visually, what's your favorite trait about each?

(I hope you're having a wonderful day btw!!)

- favorite parts

Honoria: Honestly how well her backstory fits into Final Fantasy XIV. I am certain that there will be people who assume we knew about Shadowbringers prior to porting her into the game but we really didn't. Every time the game offers us something to build off of it is a boon. She really is the gift that keeps on giving.

Also roleplaying her back in 2010 she was one of the rare times I, Dawn, got to front unambigiously in our pre-transition life.

Madison: I like that Madison, despite being a singlet, has her own level of trauma and maladaptive coping mechanisms that allows her to literally meet Belladonna half way. She understands that brains can be spicy and she is able to use her perspective to see things from her plural partner's perspective. I want to have this story be about healing and it is central to telling the story as I wish to tell it that Madison have her own journey to mental health and happiness, even if Belladonna's is center stage.

Belladonna: we won't make a joke and say our favorite part is "Bella" because we do not play favorites with alters. That all said our favorite part of Belladonna is that she is a vehicle for us to naturally discuss things like how our brain handles waking up in a trauma time state or days where we are blended. Her being a perspective character is a way of us kind of getting to display what living with a complex dissociative disorder feels like for us. We like that.

- motifs

Honoria: She is bakery themed. In an Utena inspired AU her "heart weapon" was a giant whisk.

Madison: It has never come up in the story but inspired by Tsukutabe (as much of the story is) I have imagined their user icons on Discord. Madison's is a Aloloan Vulpix.

Belladonna: and Belladonna's is the flower she shares a name with. Maybe I'll have her change it to Elphie later on in the story?

- aspects we want to explore more

Honoria: This deep into FFXIV (we are in Shadowbringers 7.3 right now) Nori should have some more understanding of how she wishes to handle her story in Arcadia. She held some powerful titles that could unite the courts and rebuild Titania's fallen territories but couldn't wield them effectively and spent her efforts liberating Changelings (the Lost) on a very limited basis without impacting systemic change. I need to answer the question for her "what does she do when she returns to Arcadia" and though Shadowbringers gives us a damned good prompt as to where to start, we need to actually *answer* the question.

Madison: Madison has a lot of history that we know about but haven't put to the story yet. I want to flesh out her social circle and support cast. Belladonna has Dove and Kayleigh in her day to day life and at present Saph hasn't really made too many appearances. I have a couple flashback stories centered on Madison in mind but find them harder to write about as they would focus neither on hypnosis or plurality and we aren't confident enough in the story to survive without those pillars right now.

Belladonna: I really want to do a chapter dealing with dysphoria and being in the closet at some point. Flashback chapters are indulgences for us to explore with hurdles in our own journey that we have overcome. The focus of the story is the pair's romance and navigating the struggles of their present but Flashback chapters give a lot of context and I have to be careful about using them to full effect. We may get one of Ben and Marcie down the line but it's not a priority.

- fact we want people to know

Honoria: We had no idea Titania was in FFXIV when we started Nori's story and our party were "stepping on their tongues" (their words, not ours) every time we brought up the fact that Honoria was claimed and subjugated by Titania in her backstory.

Madison: Though Madison and Belladonna are fictionalized versions of Daja and ourselves they are *not* us. You would be surprised which stories are 100% true with names changed, though. Reality loans itself to fiction quite well. Also the story takes place in a reality where COVID never happened.

Belladonna: It's only implied because the system only know what they know but Belladonna's entire presence in the online hypnosis community was built up when Donna fronting, even in their youngest days. Aqua and Donna are the same alter under different names.

- favorite visual trait

Honoria: The original design for Honoria had braided wheat colored hair (a trait her FFXIV retainer has been given) and that was always our favorite part of her visual design. We switched it to red for FFXIV because her glamour is a disguise and we became so accustomed to it that we didn't want to switch it when the story gave us a chance to.

Madison: We usually go light on visual descriptions for Madison/Belladonna so don't usually keep a visual in our mind (honestly we just think of Daja and ourselves of whom each character is obviously based upon) but to select a trait, she has a radiant smile which is described in loving terms many times in the story.

Belladonna: same as Madison. Though pushed to answer we'd say her eyes which are expressive and signal which alter is fronting if you look closely enough.

-

We hope you are having a wonderful day too! <3

[fonulyn]

20 Questions for Fic Authors

thanks for the tag @thebrandywine 💖

answers under the cut.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

268 works.

2. What is your AO3 wordcount?

1,256,253 words.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

RE. and still have the urge to write Gears but lol if you thought nivannedy was a rare pair...

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

nobody's perfect (TOG, pretty gen)

now drunk on lust I drown in you (forever within I'm lost in you) (RE, Chreon)

and who's to find the way right through you (RE, Chreon)

scattered fragments of time (that's all we are) (RE, Chreon)

how to accidentally get adopted - a guide by Piers Nivans (RE, Piers-centric, also background Chreon)

5. Do you respond to comments?

always! i know i missed a couple, sometimes i take ages, but i do always try to respond bc i love and cherish nice comments.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

the bad endings on three words to last forever. i still like the angstiest one the most :'D

7. What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

lmao like everything else idk i want them happy. i've written loads of fluff idk how to quantify which is the happiest.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

only ever got a few nasty comments thankfully, so no, not really.

9. Do you write smut? If so, which kind?

yeppp. idk what does 'which kind' mean? anything that feels inspiring lol.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest crossover you’ve ever written?

not really. i did start a few back in the day but i didn't really finish them. i am not really into crossovers tbh i don't even read them 99% of the time.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

yeah. someone was selling it on amazon pffth.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

a few. apparently five on ao3 lol but i think there was one or two back in the lj days too. might be wrong tho :'D

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

lol loads. at one point in life like... fifteen years ago, most things i wrote were co-written with a friend. and i've done it a couple of times after that too. i really like co-op stuff tbh but haven't found people to collab with lately.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

right now i would sell my soul for nivannedy. might already have.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

ehhhh at this moment i doubt i'll ever finish anything. maybe the lifeguard au? i was red-hot for the idea at first but then it kinda... fizzled out. kept changing. got ruined by pushy ppl lol. but maybe i'll get back to it one day bc i would love a nivannedy summer romance tbh.

16. What are your writing strengths?

uhm. characterization. dialogue. emotional shit? idk i think i do best when i have intimate moments with two people. tiny everyday moments and mundane shit. like that. if i get going writing sometimes flows super well and i think i can get consistently readable stuff done in one go. but that'd require getting going lol.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

action. i suck at action. i also suck at it in the way that i can't actually make myself start writing. i got way too co-dependent when i still had people excitedly participating in the process and now i sit here sad doing nothing :'D but anyway. writing action and having some self-discipline lol.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

depends very heavily on the context. in general i do think it should be all in one language for readability but there are exceptions. i've done it too lol but it was only like a line or two in finnish :'D

19. First fandom you wrote for?

diru, twenty years ago lmao, it's like a different lifetime. i only learned of the existence of fanfic at the ripe old age of nineteen lol but yeah it's still been so long now.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

asdjfngkn i can not choose between all of my children c'mon. uhm. am just gonna say the self-indulgent series bc it truly was so important to me for so long and i'm still devastated it ended. sigh. now i made myself sad again :'D

[beesflowers]

𝓔𝓲𝓶𝓲 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓿𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼

Characters: Eimi Ochida, Haruka Kiritani, Mafuyu Asahina, Emu Otori, Shiho Hinomori

Type: headcanons, fluff

Note: Just realized I didn't made any hcs of lovers for Eimi- Also she's not cannonically shipped by me with anyone so feel free to take your pick or maybe even suggest someone!

Haruka Kiritani

Their relationship would be most likely through idol career since that's mostly how they met in the first place... I mean... it's technically perfect but at the same time very risky! Eimi can't let it show too much to not loose her job and Haruka can't let it show because it'll go all around the internet in just a second!

As for their match... they're both rather calm and hardworking but also caring for others! So I just feel like they'd watch out after each other to make sure none of them is overworking themselves. They're also really quiet and rarely affectionate couple but actually really sweet!

"Haruka, you've been working out for 2 hours straight... let's take a break now, I'll give you a massage."

"Was it this long? Wel... alright. Even if I decline, I know you'll be persistant..."

"Ah- I'm sorry... I simply care about you. So I'd say it'd be the best if you stop for now or even today and we could get some comfort food after the massage?"

"Then best to order it! I didn't took my disguise with me today..."

Mafuyu Asahina

This choice might be surprising for some and I'm gonna spoil some backstory here but I want to give accurate hcs so! but both of the girls actually have bad relationship with their parents. Eimi is just noticing they're actually bad while Mafuyu stays slightly oblivious to that fact so far. And while purple haired girl can get emotionless in a second and actually shows her true self, green haired girl has small problem with that... untill she got into relationship with Mafuyu! She began trusting her and now just she knows her worries~

As for their relationship... they're helping each other in different ways! Eimi offers her girlfriend a place to stay when she decides to run off or have a break, while Mafuyu let's her lover get her emotions out into her shoulders and give her advices, and speak words she needed to hear.

"So, are you running away for good or did you made sleepover excuse again?"

"Sleepover."

"Fair enough. I'm happy to have you around then~"

Emu Otori

Chaotic ray of sunshine and her calm girlfriend who get's her out of trouble... that's relationship between them! But they're so different... you may ask yourself, how did they even got together? Well... Eimi fell for pink haired girl's childishness and how she can always brighten the mood! While Emu fell for green haired girl's ability of never being tired from her ideas and always indulging in them, thinking of better solution instead of straight up rejecting them, it showed she cares!

Plus, Emu doesn't need to worry about her family accepting Eimi, since she's naturally pretty formal and from rich family so she knows how to make good first impression. In fact, they may've even trusted their youngest sister when her girlfriend's around!

"Won... Wonderhoy, Eimi! Gues what I got for us today!!"

Wonderhoy, Emu~ Well... I'd guess it has something to do with the taiyaki you're hiding behind your back?"

"AH- How did you know?!! But yes! I wanted to have super fun date with you before show starts!"

Shiho Hinomori

Similiar with first pairing... both have actually rather similiar personalities! Not as much, but still rather similiar... except! Eimi is usually gentle with her remarks and suggestions, while Shiho can be considered a bit cold sometimes... but that never was a problem to green haired girl! In fact, she liked how she didn't hid anything nad spoke her mind out. As for gray haired girl... she liked dedication of the other girl towards her profession and the perfect advices she always gave.

And their relationship... both usually settle on quieter date's, when both can work on their stuff usually handholding or Eimi having her hand on her lover's lap if she's playing on bass. The manager is also working free for Leo/need since she can't help but help with their grow when she sees them and her girlfriend so motivated!

"Hm hm hm hm~♪"

"Peaky Peaky?"

"Yeah... but how did you know? I played it once to you and in it's demo..."

"I tend to remember your songs~"

[madbuns]

Omegaverse

[k0komis]

hello! i really loved your hcs about having a lover sensitive to cold and i was wondering if i could get the same thing but with alhaitham and heizou :) have a nice day !

❦ Having a Lover sensitive to Cold (II) ❦

Pairing: Reader with Al-Haitham, Heizou and Diluc (separately)

A/N: I'm glad you liked the previous part! I'm more than happy to provide you with more characters!! Saying so, hope you don't mind me adding Diluc because 'the Rule of Three' ~

Warnings: Established Relationships, Al-haitham and Diluc are smooth bastards, I used Heizou's birthday art I'm sorry

-

.｡.:*♡ At first, you were self conscious that your boyfriend Al-Haitham might judge you due to your weakness to the cold. You tried to hide it from him, pretending to be busy or distracted when it came to anything cold.

.｡.:*♡ Of course, you should've known it was never possible to hide anything from the Scribe himself. He caught you in your act and had got suspicious of you.

.｡.:*♡ When you sheepishly told him that you were just weak to the cold, a smile painted his face- the most rare sight on Tevyat.

.｡.:*♡ He had simply shaken his head, gently scolding you for scaring him like that. He later gave you the biggest lecture on how it is completely normal and valid to not like the cold.

.｡.:*♡ He was careful about learning your comfort zones and would always visit you during Sumeru winters to make sure you were healthy.

.｡.:*♡ When one day you greeted him with a sore throat, he was very unpleased and a sense of protectiveness enveloped him.

"You are NOT doing anything labour intensive today." He commanded you, checking your temple for any signs of fever. You huffed, he had already told you that ten times before.

"Who's cooking then, you?"

The look he gave you felt almost mocking.

"I'll go grab something from Puspa Cafe, silly." He remarked, before picking you up bridal style.

"Weakening yourself like this will prove to be a great tactical advantage for your enemies," He said, "And anyway... Guess what?"

You looked up at him, hands wrapped around his torso. He leaned closer to your face and whispered, "Only I'm allowed to make your throat sore."

The heat that rose to your cheeks was enough to combat the cold outside.

.｡.:*♡ Being a detective was very demanding. One thing people rarely talked about was about how you need to run from place to place to gather even the tiniest of leads or clues. Being Heizou's partner in many cases meant you had to often go to these locations in his place.

.｡.:*♡ Heizou had noticed how there were specific places you simply refused to go to. He had noticed these places were mostly wintery lands. At first he had concluded maybe you had something personal against Snezhnaya and the Cryo Archon.

.｡.:*♡ But when he found out you were reluctant to indulge in cold foods too, he finally understood that you had problem with the temparature itself.

.｡.:*♡ He absolutely adored teasing you to hell for it, albeit making sure you were okay with it at first. But at the end of the day he was very gentle and caring for you too.

.｡.:*♡ He loved buying you a cold drink and then warming it by holding it between his palms. He remarked how it was "warmed with his affection".

Heizou had brought you over to Tomoki's stall. Apparently he had made a new drink in addition to his dango-milk. It was some form of creamy slushie.

"Are you sure about this?" You asked him, tightening your shawl around your body. He laced his fingers through yours, giving you a warm smile.

"Trust the detective." He winked.

As usual, he ordered one large serving, for you two would generally share the same drink. He didn't mind his cold drink being warm at all, he just wanted you to be safe.

You leaned on his shoulder and watched him warm up your drink. You smiled, and promptly placed a kiss to his cheek. He did the cute thing where he'd pout after any pda.

"I appreciate you so much, love." You murmured.

.｡.:*♡ Diluc undeniably owned the concept of warmth and fire. You felt relieved knowing that whatever may come, your boyfriend will always be able to protect you.

.｡.:*♡ When you had told him your fear for the cold, it had reminded him of the harsh winter scape of Snezhnaya, and he had embraced you in the tightest hug ever.

.｡.:*♡ Sometimes winters in Mondstadt got too cold, and in those days Diluc would unapologetically take all his days off to spend time with you in the Dawn Winery.

.｡.:*♡ He'd have you sitting on his lap, his vision making his body slightly warm so that you fit snug on his chest. You loved hearing his heartbeat echo in your mind.

.｡.:*♡ He appreciated how you coming into his life made his vision hold a much more higher value to him.

.｡.:*♡ His kisses were direct on your lips, fiery and passionate. It made you feel hot inside, not that you were complaining.

Night light poured in through the big windows on Dawn Winery. You were in Diluc's embrace, slowly dancing to the rythm of the music gently playing in the background. Nothing seemed to matter in that moment except the eye contact you two held.

He lifted you up by your hips, spinning you around him once, twice, before you were all giddy and giggling, begging him to stop.

You laughed and kept you head on his chest as he smiled and caressed your hair. How he enjoyed the soft silence that hung in the air. There was no tension, no past grievances he had to worry about.

[philliam-writes]

on that tree i'll carve our names (01)

pairing: Ominis Gaunt x fem! Hufflepuff Reader; Sebastian Sallow x Male MC

Synopsis: You have never believed or trusted in Prophecy, not with the way you were brought up. Paying attention to Prophecy is like tossing real diamonds in the air mixed with shards of broken glass. The grab is rarely worth the injury. But when the new fifth year arrives, so do trouble and mischief, and you're inadvertently thrust into adventures and secrets too grand to deal with by yourself. Yet with hardships come friendships, and while you learn to trust the new student with your life, you're less keen on trusting the cunning Sallow boy or the quiet Gaunt heir. Still waters run deep, as they say, and you can't shake off the feeling something dark hides at the bottom of those white-veiled unseeing eyes.

content: canon divergence, fighting prophecy, enemies to friends, reluctant soulmates, platonic soulmates, slow burn, basically HL but Reader isn't MC, angst, hurt and comfort, Sebastian and Reader can't stand each other (until much later), they're all mean, because they're starving for love, will love and kill for each other, dark(ish) ominis, satisfying female rage, also Quidditch because screw Black

notes: [02]

words: 5.9k

a/n: this is so self-indulgent, i don't even know if i'll keep this up. but right now i need to get this out of my system, so here is tragic platonic soulmates with delicious slow burn for borth of them and my favourite slytherin boys. hope you enjoy!

01: hawthorn makes the heart burn

The new student has been at Hogwarts for only a week, and already you cannot stand him.

It’s got nothing to do with the fact that he is a Slytherin. You have never been a fan of the sorting system, because even if it is partly at fault for sticking kids into boxes and teaching them to think in categories, the students surely don’t make it better living by these stereotypes. Not all Slytherins are bad people, just like not all Gryffindors are brave; not every Ravenclaw is a genius, and not every Hufflepuff is a saint, e.g.: You.

“You’re joking! Three Sickles and fifteen Knuts for a Pocket Sneakscope? That’s way too expensive!”

Lifting your eyes from the list of gadgets you need to buy on your next trip to Hogsmeade, you raise an eyebrow at the second-year Ravenclaw boy. He’s taller than most of his fellow housemates, shows signs of a long, hawkish nose and has pimples scattered on his cheeks like a Leaping Toadstool Cap. You can’t really remember his name. Freddy or Fred or August, maybe.

This early in the morning before classes start, the air is especially thick with the smell of late-summer: sweet buddleia in full bloom, the rich green leaves of trees as they sway gently in the wind. Mist hangs low in the valley and over the Great Lake, a milky curtain hiding its resident gently poking long tentacles into the warm sun. The castle is only slowly waking up after a short night—the last grace of long summer days approaching their end as October draws closer.

A beautiful landscape you can hardly enjoy with the second-year’s whiny voice buzzing around your head like an annoying mosquito.

“Look, you wanted a Pocket Sneakscope, I got it for you,” you say and unhitch yourself from the cool stone pillar, one of many holding up the roof of the Viaduct Courtyard’s passageway. “It’s not my fault the underground path is infested with spiders.”

Damned Weasley could have warned you though. You have been using the secret passage under the humpbacked, one-eyed witch leading to the cellar of Honeydukes since your second year when you spied Garreth Weasley sneak through it, and since then you both agreed on staying out of each other’s way as long as nobody rats out the secret passageway to the faculty. He gets to obtain whatever he needs for his weird concoctions, and you get to continue your little business of providing first and second years whatever they want from Hogsmeade since they can’t go themselves yet—all for a certain price. It makes trips to Hogsmeade easier when you can’t use your broom, though the occasional acid spit launched your way is less favourable than the breathtaking view of Hogwarts towering majestically as the sun sets, throwing the whole castle in stark, black contrast against the warm, orange sky.

“Unless you want someone else to get you stuff from Hogsmeade,” you continue with a shrug. “Good luck finding them though.” You move to put the Sneakscope back into your pocket, barely managing to keep on a neutral expression when Freddy or Fred or August, maybe, gasps as though you have reached into the Ravenclaw’s house point hourglass, grabbed a handful sapphires and chucked them at the Headmaster.

“It’s just—it’s just a whole Sickle more than I can spend this month!” he protests, but judging by the quiver of his voice he’ll eat out of your hand in no time.

You give your brightest smile. “Not my problem.”

The Ravenclaw-boy fumes, but when you hold out your hand, he slaps the coins into your open palm, his pale face blotched red with fury.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” You hand over his Pocket Sneakscope and watch him stamp off towards the double doors leading inside the entrance hall. He stops with a small, pale hand on the bronze doorknob, turns around as by his touch alone the doors squeal open with the magic that recognises students entering. “You are the worst Hufflepuff at this school!” he shouts and quickly dashes inside.

You don’t know why he felt the need to point it out. It’s not as though people don’t know who you are: the Hufflepuff who burnt down the left greenhouse in her second year when trying Incendio after agreeing to a bet; the Hufflepuff who broke a Ravenclaw’s nose because said Ravenclaw accused her of cheating in Defence Against the Dark Arts; the Hufflepuff who smoked Silverweed in a corner under the Great Staircase in her third year to see if it would yield any relaxing effects; the Hufflepuff who actually cheated on her very first exam in History of Magic—all in all the Hufflepuff who really should have been sorted into Slytherin on her first day, according to everybody else. Except the Slytherins have no love left for you because you wear yellow.

It is a wonder you have not been expelled yet, surely to do with the fact that despite it all, one student outshines your delinquent record. Your grades are passable, neither at the very top nor bottom, though you do have a knack for quickly learning spells and charms. What keeps you in somewhat good grace is being the Beater for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team—and what a Beater you are: ruthless and quick with strong arms. Maybe not as fast as Slytherin’s Captain on a broom, but you feel comfortable enough up in the air. All your problems seem so much smaller when you soar through the sky. Speaking of Quidditch, a Gryffindor second-year asked you to get a fake Snitch to practice for the team’s try-outs. Hopefully the Spintwitches Sporting Needs opens within in the next week; you’re in need of a new broomstick servicing kit, preferably before practice starts.

You move towards the Great Hall before they clear out breakfast. You did ask Javi to save up some Pumpkin Pastries for you, but he’s been in a foul mood since yesterday because Peeves destroyed a bust in the Astronomy Tower and he had to take the brunt of it. But while you’re crossing the courtyard, you notice a shadow standing under a wide archway, tall and sinewy, though body shapes are usually hard to guess under the loose, floaty school robes. Yet you know that despite looking lanky, this boy is nimble and quick, and his presence is utterly unappreciated—that is how the circle closes; the reason why you can’t stand him.

Even from this distance, you can make out Callum St. Jude’s pale grey eyes—they stand stark against his unruly map of ink-black hair. Paired with skin pale as moonlight, he looks like one of Hogwarts’s residual ghosts.

You feel your face turn into a scowl. It seems that no matter where you are these days, he is lurking nearby. At first you thought he was spying on you to check out the competition for tonight’s Crossing Wands duel. It is the finale after all. But when you had confronted him about it, catching him on his way down to the Slytherin dungeons in the Grand Staircase after your shared Charms class, he had considered you with a blank expression. “Who are you?” he’d asked, looking down at you from a few steps above.

Behind him, trailing him like a shadow since day one, Sebastian Sallow had sniggered. “Seems like you already have admirers,” he’d said with his insufferable haughty voice. “Though that Hufflepuff is more trouble than she’s worth.”

You were about to show him trouble, face hot with shame, when Javi hauled you up, hands under your armpits, and carried you away as if you were a sack of potatoes. “You can’t get detention now, it’s still the first week,” Javi had said mildly.

At least it would have been worth it. It would have been so satisfying to blast that cocky grin off Sallow’s face, to silence St. Jude’s little mocking huff. You firmly believe St. Jude is suffering from the worst ailment to date: Main Character Syndrome.

The symptoms have been evident since his first day: joining Hogwarts as a fifth-year, arriving late to the Sorting Ceremony due to a dragon attack, besting Sallow on his first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson (though you can hardly criticise him knocking Sallow down a peg) and mastering every new spell and charm as though it is as easy as breathing. Just last week, he fought off a grown troll and defended Hogsmeade, and now the whole school doesn’t shut up about it.

It is with eager anticipation that you await tonight’s Crossed Wands’s finale. Your fingers practically itch to draw your wand and Flipendo him just to juggle him around a little and wipe that blank expression off his face. He is beautiful, you hate to admit, feeling a sour taste in the back of your throat, but he’s using that face in all the wrong ways. He has the sort of face they’d probably frame in a museum, the kind that’s unbelievably pretty, but unattainable.

“Preying upon second years this early?” St. Jude tuts. “It seems there really is no rest for the wicked.”

“Looks as though I am already punished for it,” you grumble. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have to deal with you.”

St. Jude cocks his head to the side, looking thoughtful. “Interesting way to talk to someone you fancy.”

“I do not,” you press out between gritted teeth, shouldering past him as he steps into the entrance hall first, “fancy you.” You hope the Thunderbrew potion will be the first you’ll learn in Potions class. Watching St. Jude getting struck by lightning would lighten your mood considerably.

“For someone who pretends not to be interested in me,” he continues, ignoring you, “I see you around an awful lot.”

You consider tripping him as you two ascend the stairs. “Yes, that seems to be the very problem.”

“Won’t make me take it easy on you tonight though.” Since he is nowhere near a gentleman, he doesn’t hold the door open for you and it almost slams in your face. “I always duel to win.”

“I hope you don’t mind spending the next couple of days in the hospital wing.” You bump into his shoulder, hard, when you finally enter the Great Hall and immediately aim for the Hufflepuff table to the far right of the hall without another glance at him.

The hall is buzzing with students, the air filled with the tasty smell of crispy bacon, grilled leak, slightly burnt toast with melting butter on top. It isn’t as crowded as at lunch or dinner time—most students tend to skip breakfast to either sleep in after a long study night or use the hour before classes to finish assignments and homework.

The ceiling shows a clear blue sky with thin clouds drifting past lazily. You slide in the free seat next to your fellow Beater near the front of the table. Javier García is shoving scrambled eggs into his mouth, his bright brown eyes fixed on the Daily Prophet. In your first year, you didn’t pay much attention to him. If you look up Hufflepuff Student in any dictionary, it will show Javi’s face—a hard-working, loyal individual that always reminds you of a golden retriever until he steps on the field and turns into a pit bull from a fighting ring. Every summer he returns to his muggle family where he helps tending to the crops and fields, evident in his arms the size of tree trunks used to heavy lifting. Perfect for hitting Bludgers at opponents and slamming them off their brooms.

You pour yourself coffee and begin spooning slabs of apple-cinnamon-oatmeal into a bowl.

“Ranrok’s Loyalists have put up more camps around the Hogwarts highlands,” Javi says, mouth half-full. “It looks like they’re moving closer towards Hogwarts.”

“Why would they come to Hogwarts? There’s nothing here.”

“The castle has tons of secrets still uncovered. Why wouldn’t they try and get inside?”

“As if they’d manage to get through the defences. Hogwarts is impenetrable.” You take a long sip from your cup, hoping the caffeine kicks in fast. “No one’s going to get inside. Forget about the goblins. Did you see the Quidditch board? Our first game this season is against Gryffindor.”

Javi groans. “I hate their Seeker. Too small to hit with a Bludger, too quick to slam off the broom. We might as well throw in the towel.”

“Don’t let Captain hear that or she’ll turn you into a fox and wear you as a collar.” The Hufflepuff’s Quidditch Captain, Mary J. Lockwood, is sweet in pretty much every aspect except when it comes to Quidditch, and she never hesitates making you take the brunt of it. You’ve stopped counting how often she’d condemned you to run laps around the field as punishment for talking back or disrupting practice.

You finish breakfast and quickly drop by the common room to get your parchments and books for Divination class, hoping it will let time pass quickly until evening. But while staring for roughly an hour into the lazily swirling fog inside a crystal ball without an answer to how this year’s Quidditch season will end, time seemed to move slower than a snail. After dozing off twice and woken up by Adeleide Oakes’s pointy elbow to your ribs before Professor Onai could notice, the class finally ends.

Next up is Herbology and after that you’ve got two free periods until lunch and then end the day with double Potions. It’s a slow day for a Wednesday, and you can’t wait until practice starts in October to give you some change from sitting for hours in the library and going through dusty old tomes or watch the first and second-years getting roped up into playing Gobstones in the common room by the older students, filling it with the putrid smell of its foul liquid. You just enjoy being outdoors more. Which is why Herbology is somewhat fun, even if you and Javi prefer to pass time by betting on who can stick their finger closest to a Chinese Chomping Cabbage, earning a scornful side glance from Leander Prewett.

You promised Samantha Dale and Nellie Oggspire to work on the assigned group project for the essay on Ghouls for DADA during your free period, but when you’re about to set out to the Great Hall to grab a few snacks before going through the list of books you’ll need from the library, Professor Garlick appears before you suddenly as though sprouting from the ground like a flower.

“Oh, delightful, my dear, there you are!” she beams. Small brown parcels flutter around her head like butterflies. “Here is the delivery for Mr. Ollivander, if you’d be so kind and bring them to him now.”

Just in case, you look behind you. Nobody there on the stairs leading up to the central hall. Even Javi has made himself scarce already. She really is talking to you.

“Why me, Professor?” Someone must have hit you with Obliviate. You can’t remember having agreed to any favour for her.

“Oh? Frederick Gustave told me you would offer! Quite an attentive, nice boy! He will grow into a splendid Ravenclaw student one day!” Frederick Gustave? In Ravenclaw? You don’t know anyone called Frederick or Gustave or—the thought strikes you like lightning. Freddy, Fred or August. “All you need to do is bring these little parcels to Mr. Ollivander in Hogsmeade. These are magically nourished woods he has requested, and I am quite eager to see the results for myself.”

With a flick of her wand the parcels change course and begin to circle around your head before you can even begin to explain that this is a huge misunderstanding. She pats your cheek affectionately and twirls around, descending the stairs back to her flowery domain.

Javi is waiting for you at the top of the stairs, ignoring your scowl as he whistles the tune of The School of Jolly Dogs. His face lights up. “Since you’re heading to Hogsmeade, can you bring me some white Chocolate Frogs? Mine hopped out of the window last night because Arty forgot to close it.”

You answer with a rude hand gesture and stomp out of the hall, heading for where you keep your brooms stashed in the Hufflepuff locker room.

~ ⋆｡°✩ ~

The flight to Hogsmeade takes longer than usual. Every time you move too fast, the parcels begin to cry and whine like little abandoned ducklings until they catch up to you. Other than that, it is a beautiful morning as the sun keeps dipping in and out between wispy smears of clouds on the wide blue canvas. The tiny, homey town is alive with witches and wizards scurrying around to get their errands done. The novelty and excitement from visiting Hogsmeade in your third-year has worn off after two years, but it’s still a nice change from the dark school corridors and unending spiralling stair cases.

You leave your broom leaning next to the entrance of Mr. Ollivander’s shop. This shouldn’t take more than five minutes, darting in and out; you’re pretty sure you’ll be quicker than a Niffler digging through a pile of Galleons.

The door swings open easily. It has been five years since you last set foot into the small, cramped shop, yet nothing has changed and suddenly you feel as though you’re eleven again, entering for the first time. It smells of polished wood and something burnt underneath like a misplaced Incendio. Nearly every wall is stacked high with countless wands up to the ceiling, waiting to choose their witch or wizard. Back then you felt very small as a first year, anxious and excited to finally attend Hogwarts and get your own wand—the very first object that truly belonged to you and was not one of your older sisters’ hand-me-downs.

From the back of the shop you hear heavy knocks and a shrill screeching sound that makes you want to put your hands to your ears. Just like five years ago, you reach for the bronze bell on the counter but before your fingers can touch it, it lifts on its own and jingles beautifully. The knocking immediately stops, followed by a last dull clatter and then Mr. Ollivander emerges from the back room, dusting himself off.

He looks at you over the rim of his golden glasses, and a small smile spreads on his face as recognition dawns. The wide counter flap squeaks open when he swishes his wand to step through.

“Ah, the Hawthorn girl,” he says in greeting, quickly closing the space between you and taking your hands in his; you feel every wrinkle against your palm, every patch of rough skin from decades of work as he squeezes your hands. “I have hoped that I would see you soon.”

The question mark must be evident on your face, for Mr. Ollivander explains, “I remember every student and wand I paired, and you my dear, I remember the day five years ago when you came to my shop and your wand found you. Spiral, twelve inches, and a phoenix feather core. Unyielding. But what makes your wand so special is the wood it is made of. Hawthorn makes such a strange, contradictory wand, as full of paradoxes as the tree that gave it birth, whose leaves and blossoms heal, and yet whose cut branches smell of death.” He chuckles to himself, blinking as if lost in a memory; not noticing how tense you are and the way your uneasy smile curls downward. As though you could forget what the hawthorn means. But instead of allowing your mother’s voice inside your head and poisoning your heart, you square your shoulders and pull your hands away from Mr. Ollivander’s grasp.

“Delivery from Professor Garlick,” you say with a faux cheery voice. It seems only then does Mr. Ollivander notice the parcels still fluttering around your head.

“Ah, yes, yes! Allow me.” He points his wand at the parcels, then to his back room and they float through the shop in rank and file, all in proper order. “And here of course, the payment.” Mr. Ollivander hurries behind the counter, and produces a heavy pouch that he hands over to you. It jangles handsomely when you take it from him.

“Well then, I wish you a nice da—”

“Tell me, dear, have you met him?”

Feet already pointed towards the entrance, you turn your body halfway back. “Met who, sir?”

Mr. Ollivander looks up from the account books he’s been writing in. Something glints in his eyes, but maybe it’s just the reflection on his glasses. “Why, the Blackthorn boy of course.”

You rack your brain for anyone you know who’s called Blackthorn but come up empty. “I’m afraid I have not made any acquaintance like that, sir.”

The wandmaker’s eyes are calm, a sparkling blue of sunlight lancing off a stream. “I see,” he says. “Well, my part of this was fulfilled when I matched your wants with you. Everything else is up to you.” He gives you a little secret smile, then goes back to his ledger, the conversation clearly over even though you have dozens of questions swirling in your head.

Back out on Lower High Street, you have been released of the fluttering parcels and instead Mr. Ollivander’s words torment your mind. You can feel a memory hiding behind a thick fog, blurry and barely visible but its presence heavy and lurking like a ghost.

Wasn’t there something he had told you five years ago? When he had presented your wand to you, still resting in its narrow satin casket. You were too excited to pay him any mind—it had sounded too much like one of your mother’s stories; like an augury or worse even, a prophecy—when he had told you about a cursed kingdom, two brothers, and a hawthorn and blackthorn tree. Why listen to old fairy tales when the real adventure—Hogwarts—was waiting for you?

Besides, if by ‘Blackthorn boy’ he meant someone with a blackthorn wand, finding that person would be nearly impossible. And why would you look for him in the first place? Superstitions and divinations have no place in your life. Not after how it had dictated your childhood with a cold iron fist.

The trip back to Hogwarts is significantly faster without having to look after enchanted parcels behaving like newborn Fwoopers. With what happened at Mr. Ollivander’s, you completely forgot to drop by Honeydukes for Javi, which makes him look like a kicked puppy for the rest of the day.

You manage to start your essay for the group project, although you don’t get nowhere near where you wanted to be before the match. Lunch is a blur of tasty shepherd’s pie and grilled mushroom skewers with a small handful of students passing where you sit to wish you good luck, pattung your shoulder hard enough you almost choke on your pumpkin juice. Others send you little notes with crude drawings showing St. Jude zapping you with a spell and losing tonight’s duel. The messages are charmed to head dive into your cup and plate, splattering mashed potatoes on your uniform.

Adeleide plucks a nervously flapping piece of paper out of your meal and unfolds it. “At least they’re creative,” she notices mildly.

You throw a wary glance at the note. “That doesn’t even look like me.”

“I don’t know.” Javi slurps loudly from his cup. “They got your scowl right.”

Double Potions after lunch flies by for a change. Your Wiggenweld Potion tends to be a tad bluer than Professor Sharp’s apple green concoction bubbling at the front table for reference, but you have a hard time focusing when your mind is already occupied with how tonight’s duel might go.

You have a handful favourite spells that you’ve practised long enough they come as easy to you as breathing. But from what you have seen during the last Crossed Wands duels where St. Jude has participated, he seems to have a natural gift for duelling. You’ve heard he competed alongside Sallow in his first duel, but every after he’s been on his own and you’ve seen the battered and bruised leftover competitors limping out of the Clock Tower. You don’t plan to follow in their footsteps.

When evening falls on the castle and the long, narrow corridors awake with dim candlelight, you follow the throng of hooded students hurrying towards the Clock Tower after dinner. The excitement ripples through the lines of people like a physical force, alive and rearing when the first students file into the Clock Tower and find a seat close to the walls and away from accidental stray spells.

You spot Lucan Brattleby surrounded by a handful Hufflepuff and Slytherin students. Javi is among them, and when you draw closer you notice the ledger in Lucan’s hand and the Sickles being passed between him and Javi.

Javi startles when you step next to him like a Mooncalf facing an oncoming card. “Hiya,” he says in the very familiar voice that sounds a lot like him hoping you won’t be mad.

You raise an eyebrow. “Placing bets?” Your eyes linger on the page as you scan the names on the chart on your side. Only a few names—Leander, who’s been especially snappy since he lost against St. Jude in the semifinals, a handful other Gryffindors, one or two Ravenclaws and the rest are students from your house. On St. Jude’s column, Lucan has started to write the names as tiny as possible to fit them all on the page. Javi’s is amongst them. He ducks away from your scrutinising gaze. “He slew a fully-grown troll last week!” he pleads his case. So much for the infamous Hufflepuff loyalty. “I’ll invite you to Honyedukes after and pay whatever you want from the win.”

“Whatever.” You turn away to get ready, walking into a hard, solid body.

Callum St. Jude steadies you before you can stumble. “Easy there.” His smile slices white. “Am I already sweeping you off your feet? We haven’t even started yet.”

You shrug his hand off your arm. “The only sweeping happening today is when I wipe the floor with you, St. Jude.”

He hums thoughtfully. “We’ll see.”

You stare daggers at his back as he retreats to his side of the hall, welcomed by other Slytherin students who pat his back and ruffle his unruly jet-black hair as though he is the fifth year’s Champion already. He doesn’t linger around them for too long, and instead retreats to a far corner where Sallow is already waiting for him. What an annoying duo.

Tugging your black robe off, you begin to stretch your limbs. For today’s occasions you’ve chosen to wear a simple shirt with ribbon uniform tucked into your plaid trousers. More mobility, less fabric flapping around. A tie or a blazer would allow too much surface for a nasty Accio. From the last duels you’ve watched, you know St. Jude is as sharp as a whip, and he uses everything in his so far meagre arsenal of spells to win.

You’ll need to keep all your wits about you. If he, and the majority assembled under the giant swinging pendulum today, underestimate you, it will be your pleasure to remind them what vicious creatures badgers are. And that they devour snakes.

When you turn, St. Jude is already standing ready, his wand raised. He’s shrugged out of his robes as well and pulled off his tie, following your example. Gone is the hint of the cocky smile he always wears, so infuriating and inviting to punch. Now he is serious, his face an impassive mask that betrays nothing but you have seen it change within a heartbeat before knocking an opponent out with a savage blast of his wand. Like a snake, waiting and watching, until it strikes viciously and sinks its venomous fangs into your skin.

“Attention!” Lucan Brattleby hops in the centre, his arms raised. “Wizards and witches! Welcome to the fifth year’s Crossed Wands Championship Round!” He lets the audience get the whistling and bellowing out of their system before he introduces both parties. “Competitors, let’s get started!”

He quickly dashes out of the way—rightly so, for St. Jude’s opening move is always a lightning-quick Levioso, just like Professor Hecat taught him. You dodge the spell and hear it disperse against the wall behind you, feeling the sparks nip your skin.

“Accio!” You whip your wand towards you, only able to catch St. Jude by the cuff of his white sleeve as he evades with a side-step. But it’s enough to unbalance him as his arm is pulled in your direction and he retaliates by using the moment to blast a few Basic Casts your way which you block by well-timed Protegos.

The crowd’s cheers disappears into background noise as you and St. Jude continue your tense dance of attack and parry; a step forward, another step back, his Incendio is answered by your Glacius; since he prefers fire you do him the pleasure of casting Confringo which forces him to dive to the side. Your spell blasts the wooden weapon rack behind him into splinters and pieces, showering the Slytherins sitting beside it with glowing embers.

“Come on, new guy, give her a proper Slytherin treatment!” one of them yells. St. Jude doesn’t let himself get distracted, not even by the instructions of his fellow housemates or the quips from your side of the room. His eyes are pinning you like a butterfly on a corkboard, following your every step. They are frighteningly bright, you have the feeling that no move will go past him.

From behind you, you pull a large crate from under the buttocks of two Gryffindors with Accio, ignoring their protests when in the last second you fling it bodily towards St. Jude with Depulso. You’ve been working on the right timing for this for a long time—people usually don’t expect to be thrown at with things instead of spells. It hurls through the hall, and to your utter astonishment St. Jude blocks it in the last second with a flying object of his own—a practice dummy.

But where was the spell? You didn’t see him cast one when he hurled that dummy through the air.

At your puzzled expression, St. Jude grins at you, his smile so sudden and jarring as a thunderclap. You narrow your eyes. There’s something growing in the pit of your stomach, rearing its ugly head and snapping sharp, volatile teeth. Basic Casts don’t feel enough, and every vicious Diffindo St. Jude parries or dodges in the last moment. His retaliation is a fiery Incendio after Incendio—you’d think after this time one of you would grow weaker, lose focus, but the heat flaring your way and the flames licking up your uniform feel anything but harmless or tame.

Sweat runs down your temples, along your cheeks, down your neck. Your wand feels hot in your hand, but you grip it tighter, knuckles white. Your lungs feel tight in your chest, but you breathe in stronger, eyes wide. That rage that always lives inside you rears. It is an almost physical pain, like nails against flesh; like teeth against bars. That unwanted animal is starving, it wants nothing more than to get out and you’re surprised nobody else can hear it howling.

“Not as quick or cunning as that Sallow boy, but her spells pack a mean punch,” they say about you. You couldn’t best Sallow, and now there is this new contender and you refuse, refuse to slide down to number three; always coming in last, always pushed aside. You snarl at St. Jude as though trying to wrap your teeth around the world.

The air crackles with magic. Faintly, you hear an echo of a familiar voice. “Do not be surprised at your wand’s ability to perceive your intentions—particularly in a moment of need.”

It seems your wand shares your taste for violence—you can feel that this is the best Expulso you have executed since you taught yourself the spell in year four. You swing your arm, wand scorching hot in your hand—vibrating even—and hurl the Blasting Spell at St. Jude.

You can see his mouth move as he speaks a spell, blue sparks fly from the tip of his wand and then crackling lightning intercepts your attack. Through the sparks and bolts you see St. Jude’s puzzled expression—now is the chance to strike. A surprised opponent is a weak opponent; you swing your arm back—your arm is stuck.

From the tip of your wand a wiry crimson light crackles across the room, connected to St. Jude’s wand. When you try pulling back again, an invisible force lurches you forward, forcing your arm up until the thin light grows stronger, redder like spilt blood. Your arm shakes with the feeling of wrongness crawling up your arm, a kernel of god-awful flavour that has you biting your bottom lip. You feel an awareness. No. More than awareness, more sentient than that. It is recognition.

The point of your wand, shining a blazing white, shakes with the effort of you trying to pull back; shakes from whatever magic is transpiring between you two. On the other side, St. Jude has his free hand around his other wrist, trying to lower his wand, his face as white as a wall. To no avail.

The magic spreading from your wand through your body is like curious, warm fingers touching up along your arm, curling around your shoulder, settling against your cheek. They wander lower and splay across your chest, then sink through your ribs. Close around your heart. Squeeze.

The world explodes.

The magical blast sends you flying. Your teeth clang together as you slam on your back. Pain radiates through your body. Black dots dance before your eyes and blur your vision as you’re struggling for air.

A hushed silence has settled inside the Clock Tower. You shake your head, your free hand rising to your chest where you still feel a sharp twinge. Gingerly, you pick yourself up, carefully feeling for injuries. The whole room is a mess as though a wild Graphorn has ravaged inside and destroyed most of the furnishings. When your eyes lock with St. Jude’s across the room, your heart beats in your throat, making it hard to breathe.

Mirroring you, one hand is pressed against his chest, the other holds his wand in a vice-grip as though his life depends on it. You see him shudder helplessly, as if it were winter and he has gone outside without gloves and caught a terrible chill. His eyes meet yours, then drop to your wand. His lips mouth a single word, and you stare at him, throat tight, the cold sweat sensation of dread spreading slowly through your limbs.

And all of a sudden, you remember very clearly one thing Mr. Ollivander had told you all those years ago.

Once your paths cross, your fates will be irrevocably connected, growing together like the roots of old trees. Your wands have come from the same seed. There is no doubt that you fill find him.

Your Blackthorn boy.

A/N: If anyone is interested in this story, I can make a taglist :) Would also appreciate any sort of feedback, or just hitting the little heart so show me you enjoyed it

[venusandsaturnsrings]

HGGNNNNN IMAGINE INCEL CHILDE JUST LEAVING LOVE MARKS ALL OVER AND FUCKING READER AS HE'S STREAM DJCNEJFDNGNF *cums for childe*

THIS IS REAL!! this made me think of a streamer who i watch that got briefly banned for getting drunk and showing his dick while live LMAO for any of those out there who watch streamers think of childe as adjacent to jerma... childe energy fr anyways small blurb btc just for u baby ( ˘ω˘ )

Ajax, or known online as Tartaglia, didn't have much of a filter in the way of words. he often ended up having issues a result of this but, as his audience accumulated larger as he continued to stream throughout the year, it became one of his funny traits known to the community. people thought his impulsive words and actions were endearing as well as hilarious. he ended up earning well over a million followers and average fifty-thousand viewers per stream; he was wildly successful.

upon obtaining a girlfriend his audience, refreshingly, was happy for the development. someone to be around to make sure he doesn't end up dying upon putting tinfoil in the microwave? great! you being adorable and fitting perfectly next to Ajax was a bonus. the pair of you looked as if you were made for eachother and were rarely spotted without something of the other on you. you with Ajax's shirt or sweater and him with a hickey or a necklace you got for him. regardless of what exactly it was, no one could deny that you were the most perfect couple to ever grace the earth. but his impulsiveness would always come back around to bite him.

after a particularly lengthy stream, he was in desperate need of physical attention. this wasn't unusual for him so you entered the office space not long after he finished ready to cuddle him into oblivion. however, that wasn't what he decided he needed today. what he needed was to indulge himself fully in your form.

it wasn't long before you were perched prettily on his lap with Ajax's lips and teeth covering your neck. large palms grabbed greedily at your hips and thighs to create friction between you both while your hands desperately tugged to rid him of his shirt. through heavy breaths and whines you found yourself barely stripped, shorts and panties slipped aside and sweatshirt pulled up between your teeth, before he began lowering you down onto him. it often took you a bit of waiting before the pain could decide but something had clearly gotten him riled up worse than usual based on the way he pulled you to his chest and began thrusting up into you from below. Ajax set a quick but steady pace that left you crying from both pain and the jolts of pleasure he elicited from your insides. it always felt as if he was fully sheathed within your guts.

a couple signature 'pings' from Discord rang from his speakers that both of you opted to ignore until they got rather insistent and coupled with vibrations from his phone. with an irritated grunt, Ajax shifted the both of you further upright with one hand reaching for the mouse and the other sliding from your hip to your clit to continue the stimulation and have you clenching desperately around him.

"ah, fuck," was the small whisper you heard before his hands were both poking away at keys and buttons. you had half the mind to be irritated as you turned around only to notice he was closing out of OBS and Twitch which he had clearly forgotten to do beforehand. torn between being humiliated and aroused, you gave a sharp smack to his shoulder, mouth agape. you were truly at a loss for words. Ajax gave you a hesitant and guilty smile. "willing to pick up where we left off? i'll deal with all the flack, you just need to stay of Twitter for a couple of days, yeah?" his hands against your skin were warm as they drew absent minded shapes.

"maybe we'll have to release a real sex tape after this, girlie." he truly has a way with words.

[selene-tempest]

I'm alone in the flat tonight, but I don't feel lonely. It's a rainy, windy, cold night in Camden, but I don't feel cold. I'm warm and safe inside and I love it. It's something I often find myself missing when I'm on the island, we never get a truly cold, rotten night like this.

I quite like the cold months, they're not my favourite, but there's always something positive to love about them. Winter for me has always been a time of reflection, of semi-hibernation where I take some time out to focus on self care. It's a time of indulgent activities that I rarely have time for back home.

It's funny how I've come to count the island as home more than this place. But I guess it's true, home is where the heart is, and my heart is with them.

But that doesn't stop me enjoying my time away and making the most of it. This little flat has always been my sanctuary since the moment I moved in. At first it was my refuge from the nastiness of my past and a place where I could truly be myself without anyone judging or telling me I was wrong. Then it became the place where I fell in love, where I spent quiet nights talking to the love of my life, drinking in everything he wished to share with me, getting to know the amazing man that he is away from International Rescue and his duties. Just him, just John, with no siblings to compete with for attention, and just me, with no fear because this was my place and I was safe here. Then it turned from my refuge to ours. Our place to snatch some quiet time without brothers popping up at random times, where we could be ourselves by ourselves.

Yes, right now I'm alone but I'm not lonely.

Tonight I'm curled up on the couch, under a blanket my nan made years ago, wearing a hoodie I stole from Jeff a few days ago. It's well worn, but that just makes it softer and more special. It's warm and cozy and it smells like Jeff and the inhumanly strong aftershave he wears and it still feels like a dad hug. I'm wearing one of John's T-shirts and a pair of Gordon's sweats and I'm comforted by the knowledge that I'm surrounded by my family even when I'm not there.

I'm alone but I'm not lonely.

When I moved in one of the first things that caught my eye was the antique wood burning stove set back in the old fireplace. It hadn't been used in years but my dad paid to have it serviced and the chimney swept so I could use it. It's lit now, crackling merrily, the colours of the flames dancing on the walls just as the flames of my candles are. I've got no other lights on, I don't need them.

I've got a flask of hot chocolate so I don't have to move, I've got a book on my lap, soft music on the stereo and a big bar of chocolate. This is my spot for the rest of the night. I've nowhere to be and nothing to do but please myself and that's a good thing. Once upon a time I might have felt useless, like I should be doing something for someone but now I'm content to know that I do enough, I am enough.

I'm alone but I'm not lonely because I know I could go home if I wanted to.

But I like it here. The rain is battering the windows, the wind is howling around the building, the trees are swaying outside and I think I just heard one of my neighbours bins take off down the road. Yet, being Camden, there are still people outside, shrieking as the rain soaks them to the skin, running as they try to get away, yelling for taxis that haven't turned up yet and calling goodbye to their friends.

I'm alone, but I'm not lonely.

There's a quiet peace in the noise of the British weather outside. The rain is comforting, its pitter patter on the glass reminds me of nights I spent at my grandparents house where I'd lay in bed with Nan and she would read to me until I fell asleep. John does that sometimes, he'll start reading something that he found interesting in his book because he wants to share it with me and, even though I understand maybe ten percent of it, I'll listen and I'll relax just as I did then.

I'm alone but I'm not lonely. I'm lucky. I've had bad times in my life but they are outweighed by the good. There were times when I was so terribly lonely when I wasn't alone because I wasn't with the right people. It was only the thought that those right people had been there and still were there that got me through.

I don't have to worry about that now. I know that I could reach for my phone and talk to someone that wants to talk to me, someone that wants to be there for me.

Others might think this is a rotten night and wish they were on a tropical island somewhere where the sun is shining and the palm trees are swaying. And I can understand that, I used to be like that, but tonight I don't.

There is a peacefulness in solitude if you care to find it. I'm physically alone through choice and I'm not lonely because I know that I'll never truly be alone again.

[talesofsonicasura]

DSB Sun Wukong with Duelist s/o: Ruler of Tuners

Official first part folks! No matter the iteration, Sun Wukong is the Monkey King. Whether it be normal monkeys, monkey yaoguai or both, he is the king. So this came in mind for this particular headcanon. It's mainly set in Sun Wukong's perspective so I hope it turns out good. Can be read gender neutral or preferred gender! Enjoy.

Sun Wukong curiosity had never been peaked so much for the entirety of his immortal life. Sure he seen all of sorts of wonders and indulged in its treasures. But none of them were like you.

It began with your strange contraption, a 'Duel Runner' you called it. And those monsters you brought to life from playing cards. The same type of card where you returned your device too.

For a mortal, you made this bizarre group even more stranger but in an appealing and manageable way. You didn't take shit from anyone, he wasn't an exception either. Threats filled with fire when certain lines were crossed.

The pig, Zhu Bajie didn't slack off so much under your watchful eye. You made a compromise that if he did some work each day, then you'll do his duties for the next. Never seen the flirt being so quick to work.

The group needed an negotiator as the monk wasn't the best at it. (Well more like his three yaoguai disciples go a bit overboard in their own ways.) Luckily you had the skills to do just that.

Negotiations were either peaceful or borderline threats depending on who you were talking too. The Monkey King really enjoyed the threatening ones as you brought your peculiar summons for extra assurance. (Especially when the one under threat soiled themselves.)

What made Sun Wukong the most curious is the smaller monsters that you brought out from time to time. Most barely reaching his true form's shoulders while a few were a bit taller or tiny to said form.

Some were mechanical, beasts of some kind, peculiar animals to even dragons. Tuner Monsters you called them and how you usually brought out the bigger more powerful 'Synchro' monsters. What was adorable is that you have nicknames for every one of them.

Amongst them all, you tend to summon one in particular. A small orange robot called Junk Synchron, one which affectionately named Tinker. To him, this strange creature is cute to say the least.

Always trying to assist in anyway he could. Tending the fire, gathering wood, or just try to provide moral support. Baldy definitely been more relaxed with the little 'warrior' around.

He did try to scare Tinker only for the machine to punch him in the face! "My little bud doesn't like scares. Not the first time he punched someone and it won't be the last." Duly noted. A decent punch though.

Speaking of you, these Tuners often flock around as if you were their ruler. Whether they were dragons, flying rabbits to even imps of all kind, love and affection were always shown.

Sun Wukong honestly chuckled at the thought. A pair of royalty in this makeshift disaster of a group. Who would've thought?

Maybe a courting ritual is in order. Your courteous reaction to his true form only solidified this thought further.

'Ruler of Tuners and Sage of Synchro'. Perfect title for the potential mate of the Monkey King, Great Sage Equal To Heaven: Sun Wukong.

It looks like the a certain stone monkey is thinking about courting Duelist Reader. He seems like the type to be invested in interesting individuals. *Looks at DSB*

Junk Synchron had been a big influence to the entire Synchro era, not just being a good card in general. Trust me when I say it's rare to come across a Synchro deck not running a Junk Synchron in some shape or form.

I believe the next headcanon might be the time where our Reader brings out their signature monster and takes the 'White Dragon Horse'.

Until next time folks, I'll see you back on the journey westward. Here is Junk Synchron!

[jimothystu]

Top Ten Fic Game! share your top [10*] fics by Kudos! drop the links so people can read them! bonus: do you agree or disagree with the readers on these being in your top 10? tag some homies who might want to do it too!

thank you @milf-arteta!!

10 better than in my dreams [cole caufield/nick suzuki]

agree/disagree?

this is one of my personal favourites, so i'd say i agree that it's one of my better ones. though i feel like more of my recent ones are better in general re the writing style, the plot, etc.

9 later [juraj slafkovsky/arber xhekaj]

agree/disagree?

oh yes. this was my first xhekovsky fic and i fucking love it lmao. it was so much fun to write and also @donttelltheelff helped me with it so that made it extra fun. idk i also just enjoyed the like, not quite edging but the teasing of them almost getting time to be alone together but things keep coming up. but they do, eventually, get their alone time in the second chapter lmao.

8 you're my instinct [auston matthews/mitch marner]

agree/disagree?

meh. this was one of my first hockey rpfs i think, and maybe the first one i wrote for 1634 so i don't feel like it's my best work.

7 they're not glass slippers but they're close enough [tim stutzle/brady tkachuk]

agree/disagree?

i love me some crack mixed with more serious stuff, and this has pretty much everything - crack/fun, smut, and fluff. i also just find the idea (shoutout to @may-the-puck-be-with-you) to be hilarious - timmy seducing brady with crocs lmfao.

6 the bitterness upon your lips [juraj slafkovsky/arber xhekaj]

agree/disagree?

i am a sucker for angst. writing and reading, and i also like how i was able to have various hab players in it, not just slaf and arber. and it was fun to play with the jordy/arber roommate thing a bit!!

5 paper thin walls [auston matthews/mitch marner]

agree/disagree? neutral

i liked the idea i had for it (4 times auston heard mitch through the walls + 1 time he joined him) and it was fun to write for the most part, but idk reading it now i'm not super proud of the way it was written ig, or i feel like i should've added more maybe

4 the secret truth off your numb lips [tim stutzle/brady tkachuk] ignore the title similarity to number 6 i named it without remembering and then just couldn't think of anything better

agree/disagree? neutral

this originally went down a different path and was going to be pretty angsty, but i changed the second half of it and while i do like how it turned out and i liked writing it etc etc part of me still wishes i had finished the angst part. but i did save the angst i'd written so i'll probably write a different fic around it

3 don't break the dam or you might drown in the current [tim stutzle/brady tkachuk]

agree/disagree

this fic. this 12k fic. this is one of my favourite fics i've written. it was very self indulgent and i 1000% projected onto brady so that in and of itself was therapeutic lol. but i'm also just really proud of how i wrote the emotions and how i conveyed everything. and how i was able to write so much!! it's the longest fic i've written to date

2 intoxicated [tim stutzle/brady tkachuk]

agree/disagree

hell yeah i love this fic. writing it was so much fun and i do go back and read it (bc if i don't want to read my own work then why bother writing it). it was just some dumb idea i had one night while trying to get to sleep and it turned into a crack/fluff piece that i enjoy a lot

1 je t'aime [thomas chabot/josh norris]

agree/disagree

okay this is also one of my favourite fics i've written. chabby and josh grabbed me by the throat and i just had to write something about them. i'm actually shocked and really happy that this is my top fic because i didn't think there'd be that many people who'd want to read about this rare pair! but i love it, and i am tempted to make a part 2 at some point!

tagging @saintknightcowboys and any other writers who'd like to do this!!