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leaentries · 1 year ago

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desperate | luke hughes

summary: luke’s girl has never had someone go down on her and he’d be damned if he didn’t change that

i believe this was a request but has been in my drafts for months...oops

warnings: smut, oral (f. receiving), teasing, begging, swearing

“Fuck, Luke.” You moaned into his lips. His hands gripped your thighs, perched on either side of his lap. You tugged at his thick curls as he trailed his lips down your jaw. He placed hot, wet kisses, making sure to leave a mark.

Luke’s hands traveled up your legs, grasping at your hips. He pulled you further into him, the feeling of his throbbing cock pressed against your core. His lips continued their assault downward, sucking between the valley of your breasts.

You tightly grabbed Luke’s broad shoulders, nails leaving angry red crescents in their wake. His light groans echoed in your ears. He began to work his way back up, dragging his tongue up the column of your neck. Luke pulled away to meet your blown-out eyes with his own. His chest was heaving with anticipation.

“I want to go down on you.” He blurted. Your eyes widened in shock, but the surprise was soon replaced with the timid batting of your lashes. Luke took note of the flush that covered your cheeks and ears. You swallowed thickly.

“I’ve, uh, I’ve never had someone go down on me.” You hushed out quickly. It was now Luke’s turn to be shocked. His eyebrows furrowed.

“So you’re telling me no one has ever made you cum on their tongue before?” His crude words made your skin ignite with new desire. Fantasies of Luke’s tongue deep in your cunt flashed through your mind. Your breath picked up, which did not go unnoticed by Luke.

A comforting smile made home on his swollen lips, “I promise I’ll take good care of you, baby. I just want to taste you, I bet you taste like fucking candy.” Luke swiftly flipped you over, laying you down gently.

Sensing the uncertainty in your eyes, Luke reached to lock your fingers with his. “We don’t have to do anything, angel. Not if you aren’t comfortable.” You shook your head.

“No, I want to. I-I’m just a bit nervous, that's all.” Luke placed a long, reassuring kiss on your lips.

“Okay, but if you want me to stop, tell me immediately.” He gave you a slight stare, before quickly removing his shirt. You just nodded in response, mouth going dry at the sight of his toned abdomen. You reached up to drag your hand over the ripples of hard muscle, taking note of every freckle and mark he had.

Luke’s heavy-lidded eyes bore into your own, an unknown flame dancing within the dark pools. He let his fingertips graze from your breasts down, goosebumps rising through each pass. Your hands gripped the sheets by your sides as he reached your panties.

He hooked his fingers through them, slowly slipping them down your legs. He didn’t fail to let his hands drag along the naked skin, sending volts straight to your core. After drawing your feet through, he placed a chaste kiss to the top of each ankle, marking his ascent up your calves.

Luke’s lips dragged teasingly up your thighs, which began to clench out of desperation.

“No, no, angel. Gotta keep those pretty thighs open for me.” He sucked in a harsh breath as you obeyed his demand, eyes glued to your glistening core.

“Fuck me.” You heard him growl lowly, “Such a pretty pussy, all wet for me.”

His words sent waves of electricity through your entire body. Your weeping hole pulsated at the lack of attention, wanting nothing more than Luke to bury his tongue deep inside. Your hips bucked pathetically, begging Luke to help.

“Please, Lukey. I need you so bad.” You whined, becoming restless at his hands that traveled in dangerous patterns around where you needed him most.

He took his lip between his teeth, burying a deep groan that threatened to escape his throat. The sounds of your whimpers making his cock twitch against his shorts.

“Why don’t you ask me nicely, angel. Tell me what you want.” He lowered his face to your dripping core, as more whines left your mouth.

“Please, please Luke! I, fuck,” you panted, “I need your tongue inside me.”

“See? Now that wasn’t so hard.” Luke wasted no time before attaching his lips to your swollen clit. Your back arched as searing pleasure plagued your mind.

“Shit! Lukey,” Almost pornographic moans left your body as you became unable to control your voice.

The sound of Luke’s mouth slurping at your aching cunt filled the room. His tounge danced in circles around your slit, sucking with just the right amount of pressure to drive you insane.

Your eyes rolled back as you brought your hands to Luke’s hair, gripping onto the curls for some grounding. His hands wrapped around your thighs, pulling you impossibly closer. His tongue brutally plunged in and out of your entrance.

Your slick pooled around his mouth, causing him to move with ease. Your hips moved of their own accord, grinding into his mouth, helping to ride his tongue.

Luke lifted for a moment, chin covered in arousal. His darkened eyes met yours in a heated match, before he returned his swollen, damp lips to your puffy clit.

Fire swelled in your lower belly, signaling the build of your impending orgasm. You dug your heels into Luke’s lower back as you trapped him between your legs.

Luke reached up with his right hand to intertwine it with your own.

Teetering on the edge, your cunt spasmed around him.

“Gonna cum for me, angel?” He looked up, gazing through his lashes while continuing his abuse to your clit, “Make a mess on my face, pretty girl. I know you can.”

The vibrations of his words were just enough to tip you over. The grip you had on his hand got tighter as your hips arched into his face. White-hot pleasure blinded your senses. Your ears rung as you felt your climax hit you.

Your eyes rolled back once more as your body twitched with orgasmic bliss. Luke continued to devour your cunt until you began to whine from overstimulation.

He pulled back, panting as he sat on his feet. Luke rested his hands on your knees, rubbing soothing circles into your, now sore, legs.

“You’re okay, angel.” He moved around to lay next to you, “Come back to me, baby.” Luke cradled your body, placing sweet kisses on your head until you came down from your high.

As your breath began to even out, you could only say one thing, “Holy fuck.”

#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes smut #luke hughes blurb #luke hughes fic #njd #new jersey devils #leawrites💋

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louvaine · 4 months ago

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pairing: aaron hotchner x reader synopsis: slow, sometimes uneasy, mornings spent with the love of your life. mornings you want to have for the rest of your days.

The early morning sunrise is welcoming as it spills through the crack in the blinds, swallowing the room up in a blend of soft oranges and reds. The sun continues to make a slow ascent over the horizon, waking the world with a gentle explosion of comfort as it splinters across the sky, expelling the lingering nightmares pulling at your subconscious. It’s the first time in weeks that Aaron’s next to you, so close that it’s hard to decipher where your body ends and his begins.

“Aaron.”

A soft grunt.

“Aaron.”

His eyes flicker.

“Baby,” another murmur.

But he still doesn’t wake up to the affection in your voice.

Nor does he acknowledge the faint touch of your fingertips as they dance across his abdomen, tracing the old scars that blemish his skin: memories of a survival of the fittest, where the reaper’s blade had permanently sliced his skin and almost destroyed the future you’d been building together. His body is eerily still except for the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he takes a breath, freckled skin pale against the dark sheets beneath him.

He looks peaceful; innocent.

Angelic in the early morning fragments of light.

Except you know Aaron Hotchner is anything but holy.

“Aaron,” you whisper, mouth pressed to his ear.

There’s a brief moment where there’s nothing and then, without warning, he’s quickly shifting his position, fists closing around the covers in anticipation of them being snatched from him. Even when he’s half-asleep, he seems to know you better than you know yourself, predicting the moves you want to make before they even enter your mind. There’s no flicker of regret or annoyance at the way he can read you so well, because this is the life you’d always dreamed of; curled up in one another’s warmth as though the world doesn’t exist outside the two of you. It’s barely dawn but you find yourself wishing that this moment never ends, that you never have to sacrifice another moment with him for the sake of his job.

“Morning, baby,” you hum.

He presses a tender kiss to your shoulder.

The sun dances along his skin as he adjusts his body so it rests against yours, the palm of his hand brushing innocently against your thigh. His touch doesn’t linger before he’s reaching for you again, toppling your body back onto the mattress and trapping you underneath him.

“I can’t breathe,” you groan out.

“Should’ve let me sleep in then.”

He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, following the slope of your neck until eventually his forehead is resting against yours. There’s a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and it feels like you’re in a freefall, spinning out as you experience all the butterflies you felt when you first met, falling in love all over again. It doesn’t take much; it never has when it comes to him.

“Let me go, Aaron.”

He kisses you, then murmurs, “Never.”

A smile crawls across his face when the sound of your laughter echoes through the room. He’s still holding you close, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat against his as he profiles the way your body subconsciously seeks him out. He watches as you follow his movements, craving the closeness as you lean back into his emanating comfort as though you won’t be able to survive without him.

“I hate you.”

“Didn’t take you for a liar.”

Aaron’s kiss is warm and a little sleep-sour and slow, soft lips moving against yours. It’s chaste at first and incredibly sweet, making your stomach flip as you open your mouth. Aaron chuckles at your obvious neediness, breath ghosting over your parted lips, but obliges, licking his way into your mouth and deepening the kiss.

“I missed you,” you whisper into his skin.

Aaron’s been gone for longer than he ever has before, working through a backlog of cases that he can never talk about. He’s spent the last month speaking up for victims who no longer have a voice, but for each case the team dedicates themselves to, the weight of the burden that comes with it increases tenfold. The aftermath is written in the tired lines of his face, and this time, it matches the dark purple bruising across his cheekbones and split skin of his knuckles that look raw in the muted shadows of the sunrise. Seeing Aaron hurt makes your heart ache in your chest and all you want to do is take him in your arms and never let him leave again.

“How are you feeling?”

He nods, reassuring. “I’ll be fine.”

He almost sounds like he believes it, and deep down, it might be true. But all you can see is the bruises, the vacant look in his eyes, the fact that he looks like he’s been through hell and there’s not one single part of you that takes him at his word. There’s always a brief period of time when he gets home that he’s still Hotch, the stoic Unit Chief, the man who never smiles, all detached and cold, eyes closed off in a way that sets your frayed nerves on edge.

It takes time to teach himself how to just be Aaron again.

“And you? How are you?”

An ever-steady silence begins to grow, settling amidst the distance but he doesn’t loosen his grip. He allows you as much time and space you need to readjust to having him back, knowing that the thread tying you both together could slip from his grasp at any moment. He watches you, a sharp-clawed glance that pierces through skin until he’s so far deep into your soul, he can see straight through you.

“Better, now you’re here,” you answer.

He can feel the catch in your breath and the way your pulse races under his touch and knows, without a shadow of a doubt, you are his home and there is nothing in the world that could stop him from coming back to you.

“What are you thinking about?”

“How I’d sell my soul if it meant you’d never leave again.”

The words seem to trigger something in him, something so visceral you can almost feel it in the air. He pulls back, not too far, but creates enough distance that he’s able to scan you, seeking some clarity in the way you can’t meet his eyes. His keen eye surveys the room like there’s something out of place, like there’s something missing, something he hasn’t noticed before. He just can’t put his finger on it.

“I’m sorry.”

“Aaron──”

“I don’t deserve you.”

His voice is hollow; muted.

It’s something he’s thought about far too often before, losing himself in the what-ifs. He has this recurring nightmare where he loses you too, like he’s lost everyone else who meant something to him. He’s so used to losing those he loves, he doesn’t understand what it means when someone stays, when someone survives.

“Don’t say that,” you beg.

“It’s true──”

“I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.”

He shakes his head, and holds you tighter; there’s no telling when he’ll let you go again. It’s a tangle of bruised limbs against soft, dewy skin and arms entwined until there’s barely any space to breathe in between. He nudges his nose against yours as he mumbles soft, overdue apologies against your lips, like he’s trying to make up for his absence with excuses you’ve never really needed or excuses you’ve never once asked for.

“Aaron?”

His eyes soften as they meet yours.

He savours the way the morning casts a subtle light over your body like a soft caress of a hand, highlighting the soft freckles on your skin. He never takes this for granted, knowing deep down in his bones that he’s lucky to have you waiting for him at home, regardless of the bitterness inside him, regardless of the sacrifices you both have to make to stay together. Somehow all of the darkest times are instantly dwarfed by moments like this.

“Honey,” he says, with a grin.

“Why are you looking at me like that?

“Any reason why you’re on my side of the bed?”

The observation, as unexpected as it is, coaxes a laugh out of your throat, the sound bubbling up in your chest before you can stop it. It seems like a mundane thing in the grand scheme of things. Minutes ago, the room seemed smaller, the sombre mood immersing you in bruises and nightmares and the metaphorical distance separating twin souls.

“I missed you.”

Aaron frowns, then asks, “What?”

“It’s just──the pillow still smells like you,” you explain, voice low as you rest the palm of your hand against his jawline. “It made me feel a little less alone, like maybe you were here by my side all along. It sounds stupid, I know, but it helped.”

“It’s not stupid,” he breathes out.

He reaches out for you, fingers intertwined with yours.

He’s careful as he drapes his body on top of yours, leaning down to press the gentlest of kisses against your lips. It’s brief, but it’s filled with every ounce of the love he feels and your chest tightens at the gesture, choked up with the sudden rush of emotion. He kisses across your nose, then your cheek until eventually he seeks a path down to your neck, pressing another kiss there before he rests his head against your chest, hugging your body tight.

“I love you so much, honey.”

His voice is quiet; subdued as the confession lingers.

He’s said it before, a thousand times, in a hundred different ways but this feels different. He’s clinging onto you like an anchor in a raging storm and he’s afraid to drown in your absence. He says it again, and then again, and it strikes against your entire being as you melt further into his touch, relishing the moment before the outside world steps in to destroy it all over again.

But here, in this moment, his sacred declaration settles in your soul and for the first time in months, a semblance of peace washes over you.

A simple reminder that you’ve found a home in Aaron, and he’s found a home in you.

#criminal minds imagine #aaron hotchner imagine #hotch imagine #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #mine

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indigovigilance · 1 year ago

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Baraqiel and Azazel

Disclaimer: DO NOT ask Neil Gaiman to confirm or deny any of this. He doesn't want you to ask. I don't want you to ask.

SO DON'T ASK.

Edit: Neil confirmed this theory and it's not my fault: see the reblog

Now, on with the meta.

Thesis and evidence below the cut:

Dominion...

Angel of the Sky...

Hair an eye-burning ginger, eyebrows like grisly slugs, often draped in red…

Occasionally damp...

Most likely singed…

So that's everything from purely within Good Omens canon.

Baraqiel is described, additionally, in the Book of Enoch as:

Lord of Lightning

Who taught the forbidden knowledge of astronomy:

He is also the overseer of the Second Heaven, wherein lies the prison of Fallen Angels. More on that later.

The story of Baraqiel’s ejection from Heaven is contained in the Book of Enoch, but he’s not a main character. In fact, he’s only one of twenty major fallen angels, specifically, the ninth. The tenth is Azazel.

Who, then, is Azazel?

Firstly, Azazel is a fallen angel:

Who is damned because he introduces humans to forbidden knowledge, specifically, the knowledge of swords [and other devices of warfare]:

And also the knowledge of adornment, specifically, “the art of making up the eyes, and of beautifying the eyelids, and the most precious stones, and all kinds of coloured dyes.”

And insofar as Azazel is synonymous with Azzael, he denounces the authority of the Metatron:

In fact, Azazel is given all the blame for revealing the secrets of Heaven: “the whole Earth has been ruined by the teaching of the works of Azazel; and against him write: ALL SIN.”

and God orders Raphael punish Azazel: “And further the Lord said to Raphael: "Bind Azazel by his hands and his feet and throw him into the darkness. And split open the desert, which is in Dudael, and throw him there.””

We never learn in the Book of Enoch that Raphael actually does this (based on my reading), but it was commanded. In fact, Raphael would have had to throw Azazel into that prison which was in the domain of Baraqiel.

This puts Baraqiel!Crowley and Azazel!Aziraphale among the ranks of angels that went to Earth and delighted in Earthly pleasures, which caused them to be “fallen,” that God refused to speak to from then on, that Enoch!Metatron was ordered by God to tell that they were unforgiven and would never be forgiven.

It’s worth noting that there seems to be some disagreement among rabbinical scholars over whether Samyaza, Azza, Azzael, and Azazel are separate entities or if these are different names for the same entity. We should also remember that in the universe of Good Omens, entities change names when they ascend to or fall from Heaven.

Tying this all back to the Metatron: In 3 Enoch, the book which describes the ascent of Enoch the man to Metatron the angel, we learn that the overseer of the Second Heaven is Baraqiel, angel of lightning. The description of the prison in the Second Heaven and the angels trapped within it is terrifying, but not more than Enoch’s own actions when he is there.

At this point Enoch has not been transfigured into the Metatron yet, but when he passes by, the angels ask him to pray for them to the Lord; and he refuses, for “who am I, a mortal man, that I may pray for angels?” He is told about them again in the Fifth Heaven, about their sins, how they followed Satan, and that they will be punished on Judgment Day.

So we have a lot of reasons here to see that there would be enmity directly between the Metatron and Azazel, for questioning his authority before God, and between Baraqiel and Enoch!Metatron, for either Baraqiel was guarding the prison or already in it when the human who would become Metatron was supplicated for prayers of redemption and refused. Either way, the Metatron is responsible for Baraqiel’s fall, most directly because he refused to take the petition of the fallen angels before God and instead relied on his interpretation of a dream.

There’s been a lot of implication and even exposition throughout S2 that memory is vulnerable to erasure. We’ve gotten some direct hints that Crowley doesn’t remember all of his past, but I would venture to propose that Aziraphale has a very troubled past that he does not remember, that the Metatron (and possibly Crowley) does, and that further, because his memory was [partially] removed, his name was changed to Aziraphale, for which we see precedent in Jimbriel and all the demons.

My absolutely unhinged, unsubstantiated S3 prediction is that Angel!Crowley sacrificed himself to rescue Azazel from damnation, and the price of Azazel remaining an angel was losing the memories of his transgressions, including (and especially) those he formed with Angel!Crowley. That at the Garden of Eden, Crawley!Crowley knew that these things had been erased, and that he was probably talking to a husk of his former friend, the way that Jim was a husk of Gabriel, but that when he learned that Aziraphale had given away the sword, realized that the soul of the person he loved was still in there.

Partner post: For a meta on why we should believe that Enoch!Metatron aka Human!Metatron is a possibility, go here.

Edit: I read the Book of Enoch from front to back, twice, but if you want to check my work (or write a response meta!) you can find the source material here and here.

If you liked this husbands-centric meta, you may like A Nightingale Sang in 1941

If you liked this historic event speculation, you may like Sodom and Gomorrah

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #metatron #good omens theory #baraqiel #azazel #book of enoch #this took a really long time you guys so please leave a note <3 #ivoc #erasure theory

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screenshotingmonstercinema · 8 months ago

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#dark angel: the ascent #linda hassani #angela featherstone #daniel markel #90s #directed by women

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reigns-devotee · 14 days ago

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Paring: Jimmy Uso, Fem!Reader

Warnings: Oral, body fluids, PinV, Minors DNI, 18+, Smutty

Word count: 2,755

Summary: What happens when you get a writers block? Do you do the unthinkable to overcome it?

You’ve known Jonathan—Jimmy Uso, as the world knows him—since you were twelve years old. Now, at twenty-three, you’ve carved out a life for yourself in your own cozy home, the result of a successful writing career that you’ve poured your heart and soul into. Yet, despite the achievements that surround you, you find yourself at an impasse with your current project, My Detox. The pages are filled with your thoughts and ideas, but every time you reach the chapter dedicated to sex, the words seem to not slip through your fingers like sand.

Frustrated, you push your glasses up onto your forehead and toss them aside, the metal frame clattering lightly against the desk. Rubbing your temples, you sigh heavily. It’s maddening how your lack of experience in the realm of romance and sex has you second-guessing every word. Watching porn to get a better sense of things? Fuck no—there’s no interest in that, and the very thought makes you cringe.

Just as you’re about to retreat into another round of self-doubt, a sharp knock interrupts your thoughts. You pull yourself away from the desk and navigate the soft carpet steps down to the front door. When you swing it open, it’s as if the universe decided to send you an angel: Jonathan stands there, a broad smile lighting up his face, his presence instantly lifting the weight from your shoulders.

“Hey, how you been doin’, Y/N?” he asks, slipping off his shoes and placing them neatly by the door as he steps inside.

You walk toward the kitchen, your heart warming at the sight of him. “To be honest, awful,” you admit, reaching for a can of cola from the fridge, its chilled surface a small comfort against your palm.

Jonathan raises an eyebrow, concern flickering in his dark eyes. “Aye, I don’t think it’s smart to drink a Coke this late. What’s got you feeling so down?”

You pop the can open, the fizzy hiss punctuating the air as you turn to face him. “That’s exactly why I need it,” you say, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I can’t even write a damn sex scene. It’s so fucking irritating.”

His laughter fills the room, warm and inviting, easing some of the tension in your chest. You lean against the counter, grateful for his presence, knowing that he’ll listen without judgment.

Jonathan strides across the room, a playful smirk dancing on his lips as he reaches for the can of cola. With a swift motion, he pulls it from your lips, the cool metal clinking softly as he holds it out of reach. “We can sit and talk about the book if it’ll make you feel better,” he offers, his voice steady and reassuring.

You nod slowly, the corners of your mouth lifting just a bit. “Alright, sounds calm, I guess.” The idea of discussing your writing with him, sharing your struggles, feels comforting. However, before you can dwell on it too long, he surprises you by tossing the can into the trash can with a decisive flick of his wrist.

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing toward the stairs with a theatrical flourish, as if you’re about to embark on a grand adventure rather than simply moving to another room. His enthusiasm lightens your mood, and you can’t help but chuckle at his antics.

You take your time walking up the stairs, savoring the familiarity of each step, the plush carpet underfoot cushioning your ascent. It feels like a small journey, one that transports you away from the nagging frustrations of the day. Jonathan’s presence beside you makes the climb feel less daunting, and you appreciate the way he falls into step beside you, his casual demeanor bringing a sense of ease to the air.

Once you reach your room, you don’t head for your desk as you usually would. Instead, you find yourself gravitating toward the bed, a haven of comfort and soft blankets. You sit down, sinking into the plush mattress, and Jonathan follows suit, settling next to you. The bed creaks slightly under his weight, and you can feel the warmth radiating from him as he takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

For a while, there’s a comfortable silence between you, the kind that speaks volumes without the need for words. You glance at him, noticing the way his dark hair falls into his eyes and how he leans back slightly, resting on his hands. It’s a casual posture, yet it exudes confidence and openness.

“So, tell me about this book,” he finally prompts, his gaze steady and encouraging. “What’s got you all tangled up?”

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of his attention as you prepare to share your frustrations and ideas, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he can help you untangle the mess swirling in your mind.

You launch into a rant, pacing back and forth across the room as the words tumble out in a frustrated stream. “I just… I don’t know how to even *get* them to that point, you know?” You gesture vaguely, feeling flustered. “Like, how do I make it realistic? They’re just… standing around. Maybe I should have deepened the tension, built it up more. It’s just so clear to me that there’s not enough of it.”

Jonathan watches you patiently, his gaze warm and attentive. “Where did you stop writing?” he asks, his tone gentle, coaxing more out of you.

You look at him, feeling a bit sheepish. “They were, well… basically just sitting in bed after talking about all the weird stuff that’s been happening over the last few months,” you explain, shrugging. You know it sounds flat, lacking that spark that you’re so desperate to capture.

He shifts a little closer on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he leans in. “You mean… like this? Or should they be further apart?” he asks, his voice lowering ever so slightly, sending a ripple of awareness through you.

Your breath catches in your throat, pulse racing as you realize how close he’s gotten, his eyes locked on yours with a sudden intensity. “Yeah,” you murmur, your voice soft, almost breathless. “That… that might be it.”

“Maybe,” he murmurs, leaning in just a fraction closer, his eyes glinting with mischief, “you’ve just gotta build the tension… like this.”

Without warning, his hand finds your thigh, warm and steady, his fingers pressing gently into your skin. His touch is slow, deliberate, easing higher until his fingertips brush the hem of your sleep shorts, sending a shiver up your spine. The closeness, the heat radiating from him, everything suddenly feels heightened, more intense.

“I–Jon, what are you—” You start to ask, your voice catching as your cheeks flush. But before you can finish, he cuts you off with a quiet, soothing murmur.

“Shh, ma… just helping you with this scene,” he says, his tone gentle yet commanding, igniting a spark low in your belly that you hadn’t felt in ages.

The warmth between your legs builds, a magnetic pull drawing you toward him, your heartbeat quickening. Unable to resist, you rise to your feet in a haze, and he follows, his hands tracing down your sides as he slides his fingers under the fabric of your shorts. The sensation is electric, his touch firm yet achingly gentle.

Before you can process what’s happening, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you back onto the bed, the world spinning as you sink into the softness of the mattress. His hands find your hips, grounding you as he settles between your legs, his gaze intense and unwavering, locking onto yours with a raw vulnerability that sends a thrill through your core.

For a moment, you’re caught in a whirlwind of emotions, your mind racing with a thousand thoughts—questions, hesitations, desires—but you don’t pull away. Instead, you look up at him, feeling the tension between you build to an almost unbearable peak, his lips so close you can feel the warmth of his breath.

Jonathan’s grin is teasing, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark. “Maybe… they should kiss,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a thrill racing through you. The suggestion lingers in the air, electric, and without a second thought, you close the distance between you, crashing your lips against his with a hunger that surprises even you.

His hands immediately find your waist, sliding down until they cup the curve of your backside, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. Your tongues meet, a playful clash that quickly becomes more heated, a tug of war that neither of you seems willing to lose. The sensation is overwhelming, your breaths mingling, growing heavier with each passing second. Desperation builds within you, and without thinking, you press your hips against him, grinding yourself shamelessly in search of relief.

Jonathan lets out a soft, breathy groan, the sound full of pent-up desire, before he firmly turns you over, guiding you down onto the bed beneath him. His weight settles over you, warm and solid, and he leans down, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. His lips trail from your mouth down to your neck, lingering there as he nips and sucks, each touch drawing quiet gasps and soft whimpers from your lips.

He doesn’t stop there. His kisses continue, trailing lower, his mouth exploring the sensitive skin at the base of your throat before making its way down to your chest. With practiced ease, he slips a hand behind your back, undoing the clasp of your bra. He pulls it away, and in the next moment, his mouth finds your breast, his lips capturing one of your hardened peaks as his tongue teases and flicks, sending jolts of pleasure through your body.

A moan escapes you, his name slipping past your lips as your hands clutch the sheets, your body arching beneath him. He pauses for a brief second, looking up with a smug grin, clearly reveling in your reaction. Then he continues his path downward, his lips leaving a trail of heat as he kisses down your stomach, his hands following the curve of your waist, his touch both possessive and tender.

When he finally reaches the place where your need is most intense, he looks up, holding your gaze with an intensity that makes your pulse race. You feel utterly exposed, completely at his mercy, yet you’re exactly where you want to be.

Jonathan’s eyes never leave yours as he leans down, his gaze smoldering with intent. He tilts his head, capturing the delicate hem of your thong between his teeth, the metal of his grillz glinting against the fabric. His touch is teasing, deliberate, his movements slow enough to make your anticipation mount. With a knowing smirk, he sits up, using one smooth motion to slide the material down your legs and cast it aside before settling back between your thighs.

He trails his hands up your legs, leaving a path of warmth in his wake as he draws closer, his breath hot against your skin. Placing a series of feather-light kisses on the sensitive flesh between your legs, he lets his lips linger, each kiss sending sparks of pleasure through you. Slowly, he shifts to gentle licks, teasing your core with just enough pressure to make you shiver, your body arching instinctively in response to his touch.

When he finally wraps his lips around your swollen clit, a sharp gasp escapes you, and you find yourself moaning his name, “J-Jon!” Your voice trembles with the raw intensity of the moment, and your back arches as the pleasure coils within you, hot and insistent. Instinctively, your legs start to close around him, but he’s quick to press them apart, his strong hands gripping your thighs to keep you open and vulnerable beneath him.

With a quiet groan, he begins to work you over with a fervent intensity, his mouth moving in a rhythm that leaves you breathless, his tongue exploring every sensitive spot, every inch of you. His hands hold you firmly, grounding you, as he devours you, each flick and swirl pushing you closer to the edge, until every thought, every worry fades away, leaving only the pulsing heat of the moment between you.

You look down at him, your breath coming in shallow gasps as beads of sweat trickle down your cheeks. With trembling hands, you reach out, cupping his face and tilting it up to meet your gaze. Your voice is soft, filled with raw need as you plead, “I need you now… please, Jon.”

His expression darkens with desire, and he rises up, positioning himself between your legs. You watch as he shoves his pants down, his movements controlled yet urgent. He looks back at you, his voice a low growl, thick with intensity. “Say it again.”

Your body shivers at the command, his deepened tone sending a thrill down your spine. “I need you… so bad right now,” you repeat, voice barely a whisper as you feel the ache within you grow unbearable.

He lines himself up, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you can already sense just how much he’s going to fill you, even without looking. His gaze locks onto yours, filled with a challenge, his voice dripping with hunger. “One more time…” he demands, his tone laced with control.

“I… really… need you—” Before you can finish, he pushes forward, slowly easing himself into you, inch by inch. Your mouth falls open, every word stolen from you as he fills you completely, stretching you in a way that makes you gasp. He lets out a low, satisfied moan, his breath hot against your ear. “Ma… you’re so tight,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe and desire.

He begins to move, his strokes slow and deep, each thrust deliberate, making you feel every inch of him. The pressure is overwhelming, and you can’t hold back the sounds escaping you. “So big… so fucking big,” you whimper, your voice trembling with pleasure.

A growl rumbles in his chest as he quickens his pace, his thrusts becoming more insistent. “Keep talkin’ like that,” he warns, his voice rough, “and I’m gonna fuck you crazy.”

Your body arches beneath him, your own voice betraying the intense sensations flooding through you. “You’re… stretching me so well,” you murmur, your words barely coherent.

In one swift motion, he flips you onto your stomach, his hands firm as he lifts your hips and positions you to his liking, your back arching under his guidance. He plunges back into you, his rhythm wild and unrestrained, each thrust driving deeper, pulling raw cries from you with every movement. His head falls back, a series of deep, breathless moans escaping him. “Fuck, Y/N… tight as fuck,” he groans, his voice filled with a mix of pleasure and frustration.

His hand reaches up, gripping your hair and pulling you up slightly, your back arching even more as he moves inside you with a relentless intensity. Every sensation blends together, the world blurring until all you can feel is him, overwhelming you in every possible way.

“Jon… oh god… Jon…” you cry out, the sound echoing around you as he pushes you further, taking you over the edge.

The sudden sound of the door swinging open snaps you back to reality, the sharp creak echoing through the quiet room. Everything stops, and you jolt, realizing with a rush of embarrassment that you’re still at your desk, glasses tossed haphazardly to the side. The vivid daydream dissolves, leaving you breathless—and there he is. Jonathan. The very man who had just occupied every inch of your mind.

He steps into the doorway, looking at you with raised eyebrows. “I’ve been knocking on your door for a long ass time,” he says, his voice laced with impatience. “What’s going on—” His words trail off as his eyes drift downward, catching sight of the evidence of your desire: the way your hardened nipples press against the thin fabric of your top, your cheeks flushed a deep, unmistakable shade of red.

A knowing grin spreads across his face, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. He closes the door behind him, the soft click sealing the space between you. Without breaking eye contact, he murmurs, his voice low and commanding, “On the bed… now.” His words hit you like a Drako in your chest.

His words hang in the air, thick with intent, leaving you stunned yet undeniably drawn to obey.

#wwe #jimmy uso x reader #jimmy uso smut #jimmy uso fanfiction #jimmy uso #wwe fic #wwe fanfiction #wwe jimmy uso

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thrashkink-coven · 30 days ago

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“First of all, we have to be aware that the concept of “light” can be understood in many different ways. For the followers of the right-hand-path traditions, “light” is the domain of God, the superior being, the highest principle of spiritual enlightenment. The Tree of Life is the emanation of this divine force and it is permeated with God’s splendid brilliance that flows from above the whole Tree. This divine light is known as Ain Soph Aur (Ain: Without, Soph: End, Aur: Light) and believed to be the origin of all creation. Mystics and adepts of these systems seek to ascend to this infinite brilliance and unite with it, thus fulfilling the highest goal of the path. It is a process of many ordeals that requires absolute devotion and faith in the Absolute.

But the Tree of Life is imperfect and unbalanced, contaminated by the forces of the Qliphoth that continuously seek to destroy the cosmic balance. In many Qabalistic theories, the Tree of Death was not a part of the original picture at all. There was no material level of Malkuth, either. The Tree of Life consisted of ten Sephiroth with Daath as the central and balancing force behind the whole cosmic harmony. In the original Tree, Daath was the upper “sun” that cast the divine light upon the neighboring Sephiroth. While Tiphereth was the lower “sun,” casting its rays upon the lower regions, Daath illuminated the upper part of the Tree as the second, mystical “sun.” The lower sun was ruled by the archangel Michael, the upper by Lucifer: the Bringer of Light.

Residing close to the highest trinity (Binah, Chokmah, Kether), Lucifer was the mediator between the divine light and the lower spheres. There are many legends of his “fall” which is also the fall of Daath, referring to the sin of pride, the exile of angels from celestial regions, the disobedience of Lucifer against the God’s law, the forbidden union of angels with the daughters of man, etc. What is significant here, when Lucifer-Daath fell, the original cosmic harmony was lost. The divine triad was separated from the lower Sephiroth and Daath became the Abyss, the gate to the Qliphothic anti- worlds in which Lucifer established his Pandemonium.

For those who do not fear to follow Lucifer and separate themselves from the divine order, these anti-worlds are the alternative path of salvation—leading not upward, to the divine light, but downward, into the inner darkness—the very core of being. While the way to God strives to reconstruct the original cosmic order and reunite with the divine brilliance, the Initiate of the Left Hand Path seeks to deepen the fall, separate oneself from God’s emanations and ignite the spark of Godhood in the darkness of the inner Void. This inner spark of Godhood successively becomes the fiery pillar of Ascent on Lucifer’s path of Ascending Flame.

Therefore, the light of Lucifer is not the same “light” as the one recognized by the right-hand-path philosophies. It is not the “splendid brilliance” of a superior being that the Initiate seeks to unite with. This light shines from Within. It is found in the utmost darkness of the inner Void, powering up all evolution and growth on the Luciferian path of flames. It is the fire of the Dragon, the flame of self-salvation, the fiery essence of lust and fury, the driving force of self-creation. This light is represented by the torch of the Light Bearer, one of the most familiar Masks of Lucifer. On the one hand, this concept refers to Lucifer’s stellar and cosmic nature. He is the star that shines proudly as the brightest object in the sky after the sun and the moon. He is also the bringer of fire that is the origin of all things and the patron God of Illumination through knowledge and wisdom. In this sense, he is identified with Prometheus from the famous Greek myth, who brought the divine fire on earth and taught man how to use it. In other words, he endowed man with the soul, the divine fire, and taught mankind how to become equal to gods. The esoteric interpretation of the myth explains the gift of fire as the awakening of the inner spark in man, the source of spiritual power which corresponds to the Tantric concept of Kundalini. The Promethean fire is the inner potential, the spark of Divinity Within, the limitless source of individual power. As Prometheus teaches mankind how to become like gods, so Lucifer shows man the path of independence and the way to our own Godhood.

On the other hand, this is the forbidden light, knowledge denied to man. Prometheus is severely punished by the gods—they chain him to a rock and each day his liver is eaten by an eagle (or a vulture) while each night it grows back so that his pain may last forever. The first couple in the Garden of Eden is exiled and its gates become forever closed for them and their descendants. The angels who left heaven to fornicate with the daughters of man are imprisoned in the valleys of the earth until the day of their judgment, when they will be cast into the abyss of fire and confined to the end of all generations. These horrible fates of those who dared to act against the gods show that the gift of Lucifer holds great power but does not come without a price, and his path is only for those who are willing to accept all that it may bring, be it success or failure.

The Bringer of Light is the initiator of Illumination—in the intellectual and spiritual sense. To many practitioners he reveals himself as the Giver of the Flame, associated with the Egyptian God Set who endows man with the Gift of Consciousness, the potential of Godhood. It is the Flame of Self- Deification, the Light of Isolation that is different than the torch held by gods and spirits who act as guides and patrons on the path of devotion, or the “path of priesthood.” Lucifer’s Flame represents the path of isolation or the “path of sorcery.” These two concepts are connected with two antinomian ways rooted in the East and known as the way of jnana (“knowledge”) and the way of bhakti (“devotion”). In the former, the adept seeks illumination Within, following the guidance of an “internal guru,” in the latter, the adept maintains continuous devotion to an entity viewed as a being outside of the self. The Light Bearer teaches that the way of Luciferian Illumination is the way inward, the search for experience Within. Everyone may carry the Flame and everyone may become the Light Bearer in one’s own right—there is no single god, spirit, or man who can claim this title for oneself. His Light is the Flame of self-awareness, the active, solar aspect of Self-Deification.”

Light & Darkness in Luciferian Gnosis

Asenath Mason

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emeritusemeritus · 11 months ago

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No Good Deeds [George Weasley x Reader]

Part 1 2 3

Part 3

Title: No Good Deeds. Part 3.

Pairing: {George Weasley x Reader} mentions of previous Fred Weasley x Reader.

Timeline: Set a few years after DH, loosely following Canon.

Summary: A few years after Fred’s death, the investors of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes demand changes to the name. All it would take is two years of a fake marriage to fix the issues, but no good deed goes unpunished.

Warnings: Fake marriage trope because we love the cliché. Mentions of death (Fred). Friends to lovers. Slow burn but mentions of kissing and eventual smut. Swearing. George calls us Angel. Drinking. Angst, sadness, grief. Tags will be updated with each chapter.

This one got a little sad I’m sorry, I’m in my Freddie feels right now 🥀

Arriving at the shop, you noticed that Ron was still not here yet as the shop was in complete blackout except for the window lights which remained on at all times. You pulled out your wand and recited the unlocking spell that Fred had created and personalised, as well as the counter spell for the anti-alohamora charm he'd placed upon the building. You locked the door behind you with a flick of your wand and illuminated the store, making your way straight up to the office. The store looked good and tidy, though you did notice during your ascent up the stairs that there were a few stock items that needed replenishing, something you could do once you'd set up everything in the back.

Around half an hour later, Ron burst through the office door, calling for George and immediately froze upon seeing you sat there at his brother's desk.

"Oh, thought it was George this morning," he says, running his hand over the back of his neck, slightly embarrassed at barging in.

"He had some stuff to sort this morning, said I'd cover for him," you explained with a little shrug, grabbing the floats from the safe and the morning banking book.

"Oh right, yeah okay," Ron says, following behind you as you walk down the stairs. "Think he's got a secret girlfriend?"

Ron's words make you momentarily freeze, having not expected him to say that.

"Don't know Ronald," you said with another shrug and a smile, "but if Percy can get a girlfriend then George definitely can." Ron laughs with a nod and helped you set up the shop as you work together, laughing and joking like usual. He tries to pry into George's love life a little more, assuming that you know more than he does but you successfully manage to deflect his questions, hopefully without any suspicion.

You winced as the stones of your engagement ring caught the palm of your hand for the third time since you'd been restocking the shelves and looked down to see a little imprint of the outline cut into your hand. You sighed, checking around you to see where Ron was before walking up towards the office and turning left instead, towards the flat. Approaching the wooden door, you took a deep breath in and tried to gather your courage, suddenly feeling emotional and overwhelmed at returning to the flat you'd once known so well, dreading stepping through the door.

You huffed out a breathe and opened the handle, immediately greeted by the dark corridor that wrapped around the flat. You walked past the closet and then past what used to be Fred's bedroom, pausing only briefly to touch the doorframe as you felt your lip wobble, tears threatening your eyes. You shook them away and carried on walking towards George's room, looking for something specific that you knew he had, hoping he wouldn't mind you borrowing it.

You felt uncomfortable intruding like this, but it was the only solution you could think of. You stepped through the door and found the room to be much neater than you imagined, with only a few pieces of clothing and ties strewn on the floor in the otherwise rather tidy bedroom. You walked over to his dresser, seeing his leather watch box on top and raised the lid. Immediately you were met with a photo of you, George and Fred in your fifth year, building a snowman in the courtyard at Hogwarts. You all looked so young and happy, dressed in layer upon layer of warm clothes topped with coats and hats as you beamed at the camera, Fred's arm wrapped around you and George holding onto your shoulder, each one of you proud of the enchanted snowman you'd created. A tear leaked out of your eye and you bit your lip to try and prevent anymore from falling as you quickly wiped it away, unable to take your eyes of Fred's infectious smile. You placed the photo down onto the lid and reached to grab a silver chain that was beside the watch that his parents had given him for his 17th birthday, the same watch that sat beside an identical one in the box. You'd bought both of them a chain for their 17th birthday with a little engraved pendant attached that you had customised. The engraving was a 'w' sign with a little star at the top, the very same sign that would become the logo for the shop. Fred was buried in his chain, having never taken it off, but you noticed that George hadn't worn his much in the past few years, which you understood. You took out the chain and slipped the engagement ring through it before securing it around your neck and tucking it underneath your shirt. The last thing you wanted was to lose the ring and this was the only way you could keep it safe whilst you were at work, knowing you'd be panicking if it was in your pocket all day and you vowed to keep it at home tomorrow. You closed the lid of the watch box, casting one last glance at the photo before walking out of the flat and back down to the shop. Ron was none the wiser and you carried on restocking the love potions, no longer hurting from the ring, as Ron grabbed the skiving snackboxes in preparation for you opening the store.

You briefly thought of George as you wiped down the counter, wondering if the furniture had been delivered yet and what he was doing at home before a knock at the front door dragged you out of your musings. Verity had arrived for her shift and you let her in with a wave of your wand, greeting her before disappearing into the office for one last check over the inventory books before the shop opened.

"Morning stranger," you heard a voice say a little later as you deposited some cash into the safe. You turned around and saw George leaning on the door frame, arms crossed with a smirk on his lips, looking well rested and quite frankly, very handsome in his suit and burgundy shirt.

"Morning Georgie," you smiled, locking the safe and turning to face him completely.

"You ran off this morning," he teases, stepping forward to sit next to you on the desk, his long legs leaning beside you.

"I left a note," you countered in a mock-argument, giving him a wicked smile. He chuckles and nods, his eyes flicking over you.

"Did everything come okay? Didn't expect you in yet."

"All set up," he says with a nod before frowning gently, his mouth opening and closing twice before he says the next part, "look about last night, I'm sorry if-"

"Georgie," you said, moving to stand and place your hand on his chest to stop him. "I offered."

"Yeah not for me to sleep with-

"It's fine, actually it was nice to sleep beside someone again," you said honestly, the image of Fred's smiling face from the photograph filling your mind as you thought of the only person you'd ever shared a bed with. "Except for the snoring, that I could do without," you joked. He immediately grabbed you and pulled you into him as you let out a little squeal at the sensation of his beginning to tickle you.

"Snoring!?" He repeats with a shout, trying to look outraged but the grin on his face told you that he was far from angry. "How rude Mrs Weasley," he jokes, stopping the tickling but still keeping his hands on your waist. His eyes flick down to your left hand and his brows knit together momentarily as you follow his train of thought.

"Couldn't let Ron see it yet," you said as you both looked at your left ring finger, "I have to confess something though."

"Don't say you've lost it already," George says with a small, goading smirk which transforms into a laugh as you hit him on the chest for the little dig.

"No I haven't lost it," you say with a huff before reaching down into your shirt and pulling out the chain that sits around your neck, the ring hanging off of it like a pendant, knowing he'd recognise it instantly, "had to borrow this from you, is that okay? Please don't be mad, I tried to put the ring on my other hand but it kept digging in and it cut me and."

George immediately stops your babbling by pressing his lips to yours, a move that shocks you to your core as you stand there frozen, feeling his soft lips on yours. The kiss lasts no more than a few seconds but you can't help but stay perfectly still, more than surprised by his actions, your eyes slowly fluttering open after instinctively closing as he leaned in. George pulls away and looks at you with equal amounts of surprise, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done too. His shocked expression drops from his face after a few moments as he draws in a breath before explaining, never taking his eyes off his chain around your neck.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't think of any other way to stop you rambling," he says with a small tilt of teasing in his voice before his gaze flicks up to look directly into your eyes, a soft look on his features. "I don't mind, looks good on you."

He strokes your arm as he pulls away and without any other words, he walks through the office door and down the stairs, leaving you utterly bamboozled as you stare at the spot where George had just been. George just kissed you. George Weasley had just kissed you.

The rest of the day was a bit of a blur, with paperwork and inventory checks needing your attention and taking up most of your time. You'd run into George a few times over the course of the day and each and every time you had felt his eyes on you before you even knew he was there. The look in his eyes was unfamiliar to you, like he was deep in thought or concentration but it only seemed to be when he caught sight of you which was strange. At one point he had winked at you as you walked through the store after grabbing some lunch for the both of you and it made you feel giddy and restless as there had seemed to be a shift in your dynamic since the kiss.

After your last inventory check was done and recorded in the files, you stepped out onto the shopfloor at 10 minutes before close to ask George about what he wanted for dinner tonight but you stopped short when you saw him laughing with an unfamiliar woman next to the till. They were stood pretty close together and she was laughing at something George was saying as he chuckled along, looking fairly animated in his reply. Your eyes rolled when you saw her laugh and reach out to touch his arm, a move you'd seen over and over again in all those tragic muggle romantic comedies that Hermione had made you endure over the years. You couldn't deny that your stomach sank at seeing the scene before you, George and the pretty woman flirting openly in the near empty shop, especially after he kissed you earlier in the day. You considered just backing away and pretending that you'd not seen what you had but that plan was immediately rendered impossible when you heard your name called out by a very familiar voice. George.

He waved his hand at you, gesturing for you to join them and you willed your feet to move across the floor, trying to force a smile onto your face though inside you were a maelstrom of hurt and rage.

"This is her, y/n," George says, introducing you as you approach them, placing his hand onto your waist as you stand next to him. "She came up with these, bloody brilliant actually," George says, holding out the familiar packaging of the weather in a bottle product you'd created together in your sixth year. "Excellent diversion tactic or just a harmless prank if preferred, a rain cloud will actually follow the receiver around and it creates no mess, except for the unsuspecting victim, they'll be wet through."

Usually, George's praise would have made you blush, especially as his hand held your waist so openly, but in the current circumstance you just felt enraged. The woman he was chatting with had pulled away from him and clearly had a face like thunder at your interruption, though she tried to mask it around George.

"It seems your employees are very talented," she says with a tight lipped smile that certainly didn't reach her eyes. You didn't miss the inflection on the word 'employees' and it pained you not to roll your eyes at her purposeful goading. You shot her a sarcastic smile in return before looking around for Ron but you couldn't see him.

"Employee?" George says questioningly before looking down at you, pulling you in slightly, "my fiancée." You froze, feeling suddenly on the spot at you tried to search for any sign of Ron or Verity in hearing distance but there was no one else around.

The woman seemed to baulk at the new information and all pretence of a smile dropped from her face. She suddenly made up some excuse about having to collect something from Flourish and Botts and quickly hustled out of the store, leaving you and George alone.

You snorted as you watched her exit, "should rename the shop 'Weasleys' Wizard Whizzes, with how fast she just ran out."

George barked out a laugh before checking his watch and flourishing his wand, effectively closing and locking the door. He nudges you with his hip as he squeezes past to get to the tills, opening up the first one that Verity had manned for most of her shift.

"So fiancé Eh?" You said quietly, moving around to the second till to begin cashing it up just as George had with the first one. George gives you a little look as he counts the sickles before jotting down the total on the little piece of parchment beside the till.

"Only one more day before we tell mum, might as well start the rumours," George says with a knowing smirk. The mention of telling Molly made your stomach lurch and it was all you could think of as you counted each galleon, knut and sickle in the till.

"You ready my beloved?" George asks jokingly, reaching for your hand as he puts the last of the cash in the safe.

"What about the accounts?" You ask, looking through the inventory receipts laid out on your desk.

"They can wait till morning, I'm starving, let's go home," George says, taking your hand and begins leading you down the stairs. His use of 'home' gave you a warm, fluttery feeling that made a goofy smile want to cross across your lips, knowing that he meant both of you.

You walked out of the shop and George turned out the lights and locked up with his wand before placing it into his suit jacket pocket, never once letting go of your hand as you walked around to the back of the store and apparated back to your flat.

As soon as you made it back, you walked into your bedroom and threw off your bra just as you did everyday, followed by your socks and jeans, changing into your loungewear straight away. You threw on a big cardigan and walked back out to see George in the kitchen, looking through the fridge.

"Made you a cup of tea Angel," he says with an absent nod of his head as he peruses the ingredients.

"Thank you!" You gush, elated at the prospect of having a warm cup of tea, "I knew there was a reason I'm marrying you," you joked.

George huffed mockingly, closing the fridge as he turns to face you. He'd taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves and you couldn't deny how good he looked right at that moment.

"Not my movie star good looks? Towering height? Flaming red hair?" He jokes, stepping closer to you.

"Hmmm," you pretend to think, dramatically tapping your chin, "no it's definitely the tea."

"Remind me why I'm marrying you again?" He teases, reaching behind you to grab his drink.

"I'd say my impeccable sense of humour and sharp whit but we both know it's for a savvy business move," you replied with a sarcastic grin that falls from your face as you watch George's face sink. He recovers quickly but you definitely saw the stricken expression on his face and you immediately regret your words, though you were of course only stating facts.

You start tea as George nips in the shower and as the rice begins to boil and the chicken comes out of the oven, the kitchen heats up exponentially and you have to take off your cardigan due to the heat, casting it to the wind to land somewhere on the sofa behind you. Just as you reached for the jar of sauce from the cupboard, you saw the bottles of daisyroot draught you'd bought for George a few days ago and pulled it out for him before adding the sauce to the chicken.

"Georgie, I got you some daisyroot, if you want it," you said, turning to face him as you stir the bubbling pan. He's wearing his pyjama bottoms and a black T-shirt as he rubs his hair with the towel, walking barefoot into the kitchen. He opens his mouth to reply but he seems to briefly pause, focusing intently on something around you before snapping out of it a few moments later, looking bashful.

"Great, yeah great, thank you," he stammered, stuttering through his words as he avoided eye contact with you and walked past you to grab a glass from the top shelf. You frowned at his peculiar behaviour but decided not to question in, realising that it might be an adjustment thing from him moving in with you, after all the only person he'd ever lived with as an adult was Fred. Perhaps you shouldn't have bought him the daisyroot, thinking that somehow you might have overstepped.

"Tea's nearly ready," you say, perhaps a little delicately in hopes that you wouldn't upset him but his reaction is normal so you try to put it out of your mind, putting it down to a bad turn.

"This is amazing Angel," George says, taking huge forkfuls of the chicken curry and rice you'd haphazardly thrown together. You smile appreciatively at him and scoop up some of your own food, admittedly taking much smaller bites than George. "So, you ready to tell Mum tomorrow?"

Your eyes shoot up to his with a glare, seeing him smirking at you and you roll your eyes, feeling a lump in your throat and nerves at the pit of your stomach.

"Yeah can't wait," you mutter sarcastically, already anticipating what could happen in your mind, picturing her utter elation, or her outrage.

"You know she'll be happy right?" George says, scooping up another forkful of rice.

"You think we can actually convince them?" You ask, changing the direction of the conversation slightly, not realising how much that question had been playing on your mind. George is quiet for a minute as he considers his answer, taking a sip of the daisyroot before picking up his fork again.

"Don't see why not," he says with a little shrug before turning to look at you with a little smile, "not exactly unheard of is it? Falling for your best friend."

George's words make your stomach flip and roil in numerous ways, the smile on his face only furthering those complicated feelings within you.

"Guess not," you reply, trying to act neutral as you absently eat your food, though you couldn't deny that your appetite had waned dramatically from the topic of conversation. "So, do I wear the ring tomorrow or do I put it on after work?"

"Whatever you want Angel," George says, reaching for his glass again, "Ron's off tomorrow and I doubt Verity would notice anything even directly under her nose, it's just you and me." When you don't reply, silently considering your options, George leans over and grabs your hand on the table, stroking where your engagement ring should be. "Keep in on my chain tomorrow, around your neck and then put it on before we get back to mum's," he suggests, a softness to his voice that made it seem like a hopeful request. You nod and smile at him, still feeling a little conflicted as you tuck into the rest of your meal.

When you climb into bed later that night, your thoughts are consumed by your situation, of your impending engagement and your future after that. Truthfully, you hadn't taken much time to process everything since that first initial day, getting caught up in George moving in and all the things that came along with that. You were already anxious at returning to the Burrow tomorrow, having only been back a handful of times since the war, once for Harry and Ginny's engagement party and a few other dinners that never quite felt the same as before, like something obvious was missing, as it always was these days. Your thoughts were plagued with what ifs and nervous thoughts of what lies after but mostly all you could think of was Fred.

You had to remind yourself that you were doing this for George and for Fred's memory, to keep the business exactly as it had been created, to honour Fred. They were your oldest friends, your best friends and you'd give anything for them to succeed and to be happy and if that meant sacrificing your own life and happiness temporarily, then you'd do it in a heartbeat, regardless of the emotional strain.

You felt shame at lying to the people that had become your second family, that had housed you and welcomed you into their home like one of their own. You felt sad that you were holding back George from finding someone and even more conflicted that the idea of George finding someone else caused you to hurt in ways you couldn't explain. And most of all, you felt immeasurable guilt at your arrangement with George, namely because it felt like you were disrespecting Fred. Moving on, even though you were never officially together, seemed to imply that you had chosen George over him, that you could be so selfish and heartless that you'd marry his twin brother after his death, casting all of your memories away and rendering them insignificant. In your heart, you knew Fred wouldn't see it that way and he'd be proud of you for doing what you were doing for his and George's sake, though your mind wouldn't listen to a word of that, instead choosing to attack you.

As soon as the idea crossed your mind, you pulled back your covers and hauled yourself out of bed to crouch on the floor, reaching for a large shoebox that was stored under your bed, filled with your most treasured items. The top of the box had scribbles all over it in both in pencil and quill ink, with writings and drawings of Weasley products all over in a mixture of yours and the twins' handwriting. You sat and chuckled at the difference between everyone's writing; yours was the neatest and most consistent with cursive tails and joined letters. George's writing was small and a little 'curly', though it was quite neat for a boy's writing. Fred's writing however, fluctuated between indecipherable scribblings and various levels of darkness as if he's taken too much ink on the quill. You ran your fingers over the markings, smiling to yourself, before opening the lid to the shoebox. You didn't do this often, only when you needed to feel him, to be surrounded by memories, like right now.

You pulled out a stack of photos front the top, some magical and some not, seeing you, George and Fred at various ages and places during your Hogwarts years. You looked through them with fondness before coming across a photo of you and Fred at the Yule Ball in your sixth year, both of you dressed in your fanciest clothes. Fred's rust coloured waistcoat matches his vibrant, long hair perfectly and you looked at the photo carefully, thinking of how handsome he looked. Memories of dancing and laughing through the night entered your mind, both with Fred and George after George had stolen you away for a dance when Fred had stepped out to get drinks. Fred had walked straight up to the pair of you pretending to be angry and had tried to steal you back, both of them never missing a step of the waltz choreography as you were passed back and forth between the brothers, their matching red hair just a blur as you spun around.

You couldn't stop the tears that filled your eyes and steamed down your cheeks as you looked at the photo of Fred, trying to remember every little detail about him, the scar on his eyebrow and the light freckles on his cheeks, his smell and his laughter. You put down the photos and picked up the button that was underneath the stack, one of the buttons from your dress that night that Fred had unceremoniously ripped off of you, this singular button popping off and rolling underneath his bed, only for you to find it two months later. You placed the button down onto the photos and pulled out a stack of letters that you'd saved, some from Fred and some from George, not feeling strong enough to be able to read them at the moment.

Just as you pulled out a little stuffed toy of a Niffler that Fred had bought you in your third year and cuddled it into your chest, there was a gentle knock at the door. You called out for George to come in, trying to stash the things away before he could see them and get upset as well as quickly wiping away your tears before looking up to him.

Whatever he wanted from you disappeared the second he saw your tear strained face, crouched over a box he recognised immediately.

"Angel," he says quietly, which only makes more tears fall. He moves like lightning over to you and immediately wraps his arms around you, sitting beside you and pulling you into his embrace so that you were near enough sat in his lap. He holds you, rocking gently as you cry, no longer seeing any reason to hold back your emotions.

"Your T-shirt's all wet," you say in a weak, apologetic voice with a sniffle a few minutes later, pulling away from him slightly. "I'm so sorry, it's not fair of me to do this with you," you say, noticing that his own tears are working their way down his face.

"Not fair? What do you mean?" He says gently, allowing you to pull away but not completely, keeping a comforting hand on you.

"He was your brother, your twin, I-"

"Enough of that," he says with a shake of his head, reaching down to wipe away a tear under your eye, "he meant everything to both of us."

His words make you want to cry all over again but you don't, trying to stay calm as you rest your forehead on his shoulder. His hand strokes your back as you try and calm your breathing, feeling a little embarrassed by your outburst after you'd got it all out of your system.

"I'm sorry, I hadn't considered how hard this must be for you, you and Fred were together for-."

"It doesn't matter," you say, cutting off George, not wanting to explain that you were never really together, "it's not that, not really, I just really needed him."

George gives you a single nod that holds all the weight of understanding, clearly knowing exactly how you felt.

"I remember this," George chuckles, pulling something out of the box delicately. It was a piece of parchment with the ingredients for the ageing potion you'd found in an old potions book that the twins had used to try and enter their names into the triwizard tournament. You'd warned them that it wouldn't work against Dumbledore's age line but they hadn't listened. Attached to the sheet of parchment with an old paper clip was a photo you'd taken of the twins in the infirmary, both of them sporting wild white hair and beards, including bushy eyebrows, their arms around each other with cheesy smiles.

You watched as George reached down to touch an old, faded T-shirt of Fred's that was tucked down into the bottom of the box, an old quidditch T-shirt that had outgrown him by his third year, golden thread stitching up a hole in the collar and another smaller one on the seam of the sleeve. You wore it to bed nearly every night for years, the softness and the smell always so comforting to you.

George's fingers ran across the Gryffindor logo for a moment before catching sight of a keyring he'd bought you from the Quidditch World Cup, the green shamrock dangling from the binder ring, the Ireland logo on the back a little scratched up now but the green, white and orange colours were still as vibrant as ever.

"I bought you this," he said with a smile, placing it into his hand as he inspected it. You nodded eagerly, remembering it clearly. You'd painted the boys faces before leaving the tent with the face paint you'd taken with you and when they'd been to look at the merchandise with the limited money they had, they'd both returned with matching green and white scarves, Fred decked out in an obscenely large hat and George had nervously held out his hand to you, passing you the keyring as he moved you to stand between the twins.

"Knew you would want a momento from the trip but I didn't think you'd appreciate one of those hats like Fred and Ginny had," he says, a fondness in his eyes as he looks at the metal keyring.

"I used it everyday for five years," you said, giving him a little smile. "I caught it on the door one day and I thought I broke it, had to reattach the shamrock and then I switched it out, it means too much to me to get broken or lost."

George looks up at you with emotion filled eyes, a look shared between you both that held so much depth that it stole your breath for a few moments.

"Feels like another lifetime," George says after a few minutes of silence. You made a noise of agreement, flicking your eyes down to look at the box filled with distant memories that were now bittersweet and a little twisted.

"You're wrong, you know."

George looks up at you with a puzzled frown, confused by your words. You breathe out a puff of laughter and smile at him, reaching for the hand that wasn't holding the keyring.

"Fred isn't the only one who means everything to me."

Your words seem to affect George in a way that you hadn't anticipated as a tear comes to his eye, his hand tightening around yours before he pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you. You hug him back without question, feeling his soft (and now dry) T-shirt against your skin, his arms around you and the comforting smell of his hair and skin taking over your senses.

He pulls away ever so slightly and for a moment you think he's going to kiss you again, his face so close to yours but he doesn't, slowly releasing you from his hold until you climbed off of him, a little disappointed.

"Right, enough mushy shit, we need a plan, for telling your family," you say, standing up and pulling your pyjamas back into place.

"That was what I came to tell you," George says, moving to stand as well as you bent down to slide the box back under your bed. You turned around and looked at him expectantly, wanting him to elaborate. "Mum sent an owl, said something about a gnome infestation, apparently they're vicious this time of year, dad's been bitten twice just walking to the car."

"Oh."

"I was thinking we could meet them at the leaky cauldron or get a meal out? We'll need to tell them soon," he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Invite them over! I can cook, might need to leave work early to prep everything though," you reply, trying to save the plans you'd made.

"Really? You don't have to but,"

"They need to believe we're really together, what better way then to show them that we're living together," you say before reaching a bump in the road, "your stuff will probably need to move in here though, can't have it look like we're sleeping separately, we're not exactly priests."

George nods, following along with your train of thought. "I could bring more of my stuff over? Litter it about, just for a couple of days?"

You shrug in reply, "I don't mind."

"I'll write to mum now and offer them to come here, take the day off tomorrow, then you won't be rushing around, like I know you will," he says with a knowing smirk that you roll your eyes at.

"But you'll be on your own."

"I'll send Ron an owl."

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