He’s not really sure how it happens. He’s not really sure what cruel twist of fate had them run into each other in Diagon Alley one evening, unplanned. He was just killing time, because Sirius is visiting his uncle and his parents are traveling. She was just killing time, because Petunia doesn’t speak to her and Severus wants her dead, in a manner of speaking, and Mary’s been traveling abroad as an early graduation gift from her parents.
James vaguely remembers his mother saying something about idle minds being a dangerous thing.
They were both just killing time. It wasn’t supposed to lead to this, to her letting him talk to her, to her letting him ask her for a drink. It wasn’t supposed to lead to this, his body pressed against hers, her hands tangled in his hair pulling him closer, closer, closer.
This isn’t how James Potter wanted to kiss Lily Evans for the first time. In daydreams and idle fantasies in times spent drawing out her initials on his parchment, he pictured her arms flung happily round his neck after a glorious victory on the itch or some homework assignment gone wonderfully astray. In fact, he’d been spending his idle summer time trying to map out just how he could convince her to do any one of those things, hyper aware of how precious little time they have together in school for her to even consider fancying him the same way he fancied her.
He didn’t picture Lily wandering alone, he never imagined the dullness that seemed to overcome her usually vivacious eyes, never fantasized about the way she looked at him straight on and asked, “Want to do something stupid?”
He, apparently, was something stupid.
So one moment they’re in the Leaky Cauldron and the next they’re stumbling into the alley way and she’s tearing at his shirt buttons and he’s learning that his hands like running through her hair much, much more than just rustling his own. Her hands are burning the skin across his shoulders, lightly scratching at his back while she’s being supported by her hips and the press of his body against hers into the brick wall. It is entirely, entirely too fast for him, but then Lily Evans moans into his mouth and he gets that same thrill he’s felt when flying a broom towards the ground again and again and again and can’t will himself to stop.
They do stop, though. Eventually. He isn’t losing anymore of his dignity crammed between two crates of bottles for the pub. James gets some amount of satisfaction from the fact that she’s as out of breath as he is, then even more satisfaction that in her glazed eyes, he can see life there for the first time all evening.
He stares at her, completely unable to think, knowing that no thought could make any amount of sense of this. But all Lily Evans does is stare back at him, her bright eyes flickering across his face looking for something he doesn’t know how to give her. Her lips turn up in a friendly sort of way.
“Thanks,” is what she says, like all he did was help her with an essay. Then she untangled herself from him and was gone.
Petite-Madame’s Avengers Food Calendar - (2020) - 12 artworks (This is a link to the masterpost, click on the links in the caption for the full size pictures)
These are so good holy shit! The Order of the Avengers and the Wakandan Tribes are my favorite. And the Marvel League. I really want a Rogers baseball shirt (specifically Buckys). I really want those calendars too!
thinking about my love tying me up, laying me on our bed and touching me gently up and down my body. telling me how pretty i am, how soft and perfect, how they’re going to train me to be such a good puppy.
their hands in my hair, scratching behind my ears. my eyes flutter closed, so relaxed and trusting in their care, under their touch. they grab the ropes across my chest and pull me up, kiss my face and adjust my position so i lay sideways, head leaning off the side of the mattress. that’s when i notice the fucking machine, the dildo lined up right in front of my face.
i’m not prepared for this, i think, my throat wont take it, i don’t wanna, and as if they sense my apprehension, my love slides a hand between my thighs. their fingers rest on my cock, gently touching but still. soon, the pressure drags a moan from my throat and they pull the machine closer, carefully forcing the dildo past my lips and into my mouth. i whine, thrashing weakly in my restraints and they laugh at me, tell me how cute i am and begin playing with my dick, rubbing small circles around the little head.
come on, puppy, they tease. you wanna be my good boy, baby? i whine, of course, not that i can get the words out. my eyes roll back into my head as they play with me, two fingers sliding into my cunt and starting to thrust. oh, daaaaaddyyyyyyy~
the machine clicks on. the dildo forces its way into my throat, i choke and gag on it but they just keep playing with my cock, thrusting their fingers in and out of me. the machine sets a steady pace, in and out and in and out and combined with the fingers inside, my body rocks back and forth in time as i moan and cry around the cock in my throat. daddy said they would throat train me, said i needed it to be perfect, and daddy is always right, i want to be good and perfect for them, want them to be proud of the slutty little puppy theyve trained.
good boy, they praise. ive never felt lighter. good boy. their good boy. their property, their puppy. all for them.
wide-blown eyes, quick, hyperventilating breaths, trembling shoulders, the glistening of sweat on a forehead making their hair turn dark and damp and stick to their skin. their jerky motions as they desperately look for help or escape.
maybe they’re mumbling soft reassurances to themself under their breath, maybe they’re getting frustrated because they need to stop shaking, but they just can’t.
maybe their pursuer is close by, and they have to be as quiet as they possibly can, they have to calm down so they can think clearly, but they can’t force their lungs to slow, they can’t stop the little whimpers of despair that keep escaping their lips.
they can’t force their thoughts clear because oh god, oh god, they’re going to get me. they’re so close. oh god, please, please—I don’t want them to take me, please don’t let them take me.
I love a whumpee clamping a hand tight over their own mouth, as if that will help anything. as if that will stop the trembling, gasping, too-loud breaths coming frantically in and out of their nose. as if it will stop the pounding of their heart that pulses painfully in their throat because they know, they know they can beg and hope and pray all they want, but they’re going to be found. they’re going to suffer.
