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kyber-crystal · 2 days ago

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'tis the season || f.w.

summary: it’s christmas at the burrow and you can’t shake off the enchanted mistletoe that always seems to follow you wherever you go

words: ~5.1k

warnings: holiday cheesiness. my bad writing. lots of fluff. getting together/first kiss(es) cliches. fred being a rizzler (or at least trying to). mistletoe cliches. basically a lot of cliches

a/n: i had to. it may be mid-march but i couldn't resist another cute holiday fic. also i’m so sorry lol i went overboard again. will i ever write anything short 💀

“Oh, my sweet girl, it’s so good to see you!” Molly exclaimed as she came forward, bringing you in for a tight, motherly hug. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been great,” you smiled kindly. “Thank you again for letting me stay, I didn’t want to feel like a burden but Fred and George said they already told you I was coming—”

“Nonsense! It’s no problem, dear,” she insisted, smoothing your hair back. “It’ll be wonderful to spend the holidays together.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” you said, “and I’m most looking forward to your roasts.”

“You’re too sweet,” she patted your cheek, “now, I’m sure you all are exhausted. Let’s head on home, shall we? George, Ron, help her and Hermione with their things, won’t you?”

“But Mum, we already have our own things to c—” Ron immediately stopped talking once he saw the warning look on his mother’s face. “Okay…”

While him and George took ahold of your things, Fred fell into step besides you, casually slinging an arm over your shoulders. “Excited to spend Christmas with me?”

“No,” you joked, trying to shrug his arm off. He only pulled you further into his side, and you chuckled lightly, “I’m only here for your mum’s cooking, of course.”

“Wow, so my irresistible charm didn’t work on you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“I’ll have to try harder then,” he shrugged, then leaned in to press an exaggerated, dramatic kiss to the side of your head. “Well, I’m happy you’re here.”

He spent the rest of the walk out of King's Cross making a show of being extra affectionate and cheesy, causing Ron to look over at Ginny and gag, and a nostalgic smile to grace Mrs. Weasley’s features.

The Burrow was a hive of activity in the final days leading up to Christmas—everyone was busy rushing around helping with something. Fleur was gliding through each room, feather duster and other cleaning supplies floating behind her in a glowing trail, Bill and Charlie were working outside in the front and back yards, and you were helping Mr. Weasley fix up various gadgets. You hated cleaning and repairs, but talking to the kind man made the time go by much faster than you expected.

“So, Y/N, I hear that you have some Muggle knowledge,” Mr. Weasley spoke up as you carefully took a clock apart, inspecting each of its parts, “could you tell me what is this thing called the ‘internet?’”

You took the cloth from his outstretched hand and began to wipe at the glass as you spoke, “Yes, my mother is a Muggle so I know a good amount of stuff. She’s been writing to me about the new computer her and Dad got back home, and it’s fascinating. You can do just about anything on the Internet. Search up cute animal pictures, read the news, play some games…”

“Do these pictures move?”

“No, but we have videos,” you explained, “they’re recorded clips and they’re kind of like moving pictures.”

“Fascinating. You’ll have to show me sometime,” he smiled, “And, I still have that—what is it? Camera recorder, that you brought over the summer?”

“Camcorder, sir,” you corrected, “it’s a video camera. You can record videos on there and play them as many times as you would like.”

“You’ll have to show me one day,” said Mr. Weasley.

Just as you were nodding in agreement, you felt someone come up behind you. A sudden warmth flooded your senses and you didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was.

“What’s going on here?” Fred murmured as he propped his chin on your shoulder and snaked his arms around your waist, squeezing tight. You couldn’t find it in yourself to tell him to let go; it was like every muscle in your body relaxed the moment you realized it was him.

“Well, Fred,” Mr. Weasley replied, “Y/N here was telling me all about the Internet and video recordings. Quite ingenious, these Muggles are.”

“Is that so?” His nose just barely brushed your cheek and you felt your heart explode. It wasn’t like he’d never put his hands on you in the past, but something about the moment felt more intimate than the rest. “You’ve got to tell me all about it.”

“She’ll tell you once you get your hands off her and go help Mum with dinner,” a voice sounded from behind you both. You turned to see Ginny standing there with her hands on her hips, a knowing smirk on her face. She exchanged a pointed look with her father that somehow, both you and Fred missed. “Oh and Y/N, she wants you to come too, if you’d like.”

Fred grumbled to himself and carefully released you from his arms. You tried to ignore how it suddenly felt cold when he did.

“Go on, Fred, go help your mother,” Mr. Weasley gestured with his hand, “I’ll take it from here. And Y/N, thank you for your help.”

Just as you were about to cross over to the kitchen, a hand on your arm stopped you in your tracks.

“What is it this time, Fred?” you sighed.

“We can’t walk past this, it’s bad luck.”

“For Merlin’s sake, what are you talking a—” you followed to where his finger was pointing, eyes landing on a bundle of mistletoe hanging from the top of the entryway. “—oh.”

“Mistletoe,” he flashed you a cheeky grin. “Pucker up, sweetheart.”

You felt heat creep up your cheeks. “Are you being serious?”

“I’m being dead serious—I promise I’m not bad.”

“Fine. Only because it’s ‘tradition.’”

That was all the signal he needed before he gently tugged you close and connected your lips in a tender kiss. You instinctively reached up to cup his cheek with one hand, heart beating rapidly when you felt him smile against your lips and tighten his hold on you.

After a few moments you pulled away, feeling as if you had just been doused in gasoline and set on fire. Your heartbeat hadn’t slowed down in the slightest.

“That wasn’t too terrible, now was it?” Fred raised a brow at you in question. Were you just imagining things, or were his cheeks kind of pink as well?

“Terrible,” you lied, pretending to look disappointed.

“But you know you love me,” he sing-songed as he walked away into the kitchen.

“As much as I love Umbridge,” you sing-songed back.

“Hey!”

You rolled your eyes and followed him, ignoring the pointed looks that your onlookers (particularly Ginny) sent your way.

This had to have been the first morning in ages in which you felt well-rested. Well, if you could call it morning; it was nearly noon and you had just woken up, almost suspicious at the lack of heaviness pressing down your eyes as they opened. You were one of the last ones to wake if you didn’t count Ron, who often slept until lunch.

Looking down, you realized you had somehow ended up wearing Fred’s sweater rather than your own to sleep, the giant monogrammed ‘F’ standing out against the maroon in golden thread. You were too lazy to try and question it, however, so you opted to brush the thought off and quickly got ready, brushing the tangles out of your hair.

“Y/N, guess what w—” someone called out from below as you made your way to the winding staircase.

Before you even had the chance to respond, your foot caught on the step below you and you slipped backwards. You braced yourself for a hard hit on the rock-solid floor, expecting to hear a crack, but didn’t, and felt a strong pair of arms catch you around the waist instead.

“Almost took a hard fall there, didn’t you?” Fred chuckled lightly, “you’ve got to be more careful.”

Even after you had steadied yourself, he didn’t let go of you nor did he step away. Your face flushed at the realization.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, suddenly feeling hot, “definitely. I’ll…try not to trip like that next time.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Several moments of silence passed, and his eyes were still on you, a slight look of endearment shining in them.

“What?” you were now feeling confused, “is something wrong? Is there something in my hair? Please don’t tell me it’s a spider—”

He simply shook his head, staring upward. You followed his gaze to see a familiar cluster of sage-green leaves with white berries hanging from the top of the doorway by a ribbon.

“Mistletoe,” he said confidently, but you could’ve sworn you saw a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks. “I wonder who put that there?”

“Dunno,” you shrugged, suddenly feeling flustered, “maybe someone’s just trying to spread the holiday cheer. Did they teach Dobby to scale the walls or something?”

“Now that kind of makes sense.”

“Totally.”

“Or maybe, Georgie did this,” he guessed, “can’t really think of why else we’d get caught under it again.”

“You think?”

“Possibly.”

“Yeah. That makes sense too.”

“...Alright, we’re delaying this,” Fred declared after several moments of silence, eyes flickering down to your mouth.

“No, we’re not,” you awkwardly coughed, turning away to try and hide your blush, “you’re delaying it, not me.”

“Then let’s get it over with, love.”

“Okay, fine.”

Rising up onto your tiptoes, you looped your arms around his neck and kissed him softly, trying your best to ignore the swooping sensation in your stomach.

“There, now we won’t be cursed to a life of loneliness.”

“Y/N, would you be a dear and help me with chopping the vegetables?” Mrs. Weasley called you from your spot in the living room where you, Hermione, and Ginny were sprawled on the floor, hovering various random objects in the air. “It won’t take too long.”

You stood up and dusted yourself off. “Oh, sure, of course.”

Cooking wasn’t your favorite activity in the world, but you didn’t hate it either. Still, it wasn’t like you went out of your way to whip something up to eat if you could help it. But you genuinely enjoyed it when it was with Mrs. Weasley; she always had a good story or two to tell, and made for great company. Her meals always reminded you of those of your grandmother and mother’s.

Taking one of the freshly washed knives, you slowly began to chop the onions, careful to avoid cutting the root because you knew you’d turn into a teary-eyed mess if you did. You knew you could use a bit of magic to speed up the process, but both you and Mrs. Weasley swore up and down that there was something different about homemade, handmade meals.

Right when you were about to finish your work, your hand slipped and the blade sliced across your palm. You hissed in pain and quickly jerked your hand back, muttering a string of swears under your breath. Blood started dripping from the cut, small scarlet droplets hitting the counter. So much for being careful…

Fred was by your side in an instant, taking your hand in his and peering at it worriedly. “You’re bleeding.”

“Way to state the obv—” you were about to say something snarky, but the moment he adjusted your hand, you winced and swore again. “That fucking hurt!”

“We need to get this bandaged up,” he stated, not caring that your blood was now getting onto his sleeves. He let go for a moment to hastily wrap your hand in a towel before holding onto it again, “Come on.”

You reluctantly obeyed and followed him to the nearest washroom where he gently lifted you by the waist and set you down on the countertop. Resisting the urge to swing your legs back and forth, you watched him curiously as he began to rummage around the bathroom, opening and closing several cupboards until he found a small box, setting it down beside you.

“Luckily, this isn’t a bed-binding injury,” he explained, setting a small box down beside you, “so it won’t need any fancy spells to fix.”

“Fred, I’m fine, you don’t have to baby me. I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself,” you sighed. “It’s just a cut. Maybe a little deep, but still—just a cut.”

“Well, I want to help you. And for what it’s worth, I don’t like seeing you hurt. Even if it is ‘just a cut.’”

Realizing he wouldn’t let up, you stopped trying to argue. “Alright then, have at it.”

Fred flipped the lid of the box open and pulled out a roll of gauze and several cotton balls, along with a small vial of some basic disinfecting tonic. He gingerly unwrapped the makeshift bandage around your hand, tossing it into the wastebasket by the sink.

“I’ll try and be as gentle as I can, but no promises…I’m sorry,” he warned.

“Just hurry up and do it,” you gritted your teeth, the stinging sensation in your palm growing worse. “Let’s get it over with.”

He first ran a cloth under the water and gently pressed it to your skin, cleaning the excess blood away. The cold felt good against your skin, but this relief was short-lived once he pressed the tonic-soaked cotton ball to the cut and you yelped in pain.

“I know, I’m really sorry,” he whispered, continuing to gently dab at the wound. “It’ll be over in a sec.”

It was almost odd, seeing this gentler, softer side of him that you rarely ever saw make an appearance. He was dead silent as he worked, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way his brows creased in concentration and how he held your hand so gently as if it was made from fairy dust and starlight.

“Alright, you’re all good,” Fred announced a moment later, gesturing down to your newly bandaged hand. “You’re all good to go.”

“Thanks,” you exhaled.

With Fred’s help, you hopped down from the counter, feeling the cold floor against your bare feet. It was only when you looked back up that you realized how close you were standing—you were practically chest-to-chest—along with the mistletoe growing from the ceiling. The stupid plant was taunting you and you hated it. Were you ever going to get a moment of peace this Christmas…

“Was that there before?” you questioned. “I could’ve sworn it wasn’t…”

“Who cares?” Fred shrugged, “we’ve got to kiss now, right?”

“Obviously…” And before you knew it his lips were pressing against yours, arms sliding around your waist. The taste of gingerbread and firewhisky filled your senses as your lips collided, getting a whiff of something smoky and sweet.

It was weird to finally be at eye level with him because you were sitting on the edge of the sink, and this sudden dynamic change had butterflies sweeping through your insides.

“Right, well,” Fred cleared his throat as you broke away from him, suddenly bashful, “and they say a kiss will make it all better.”

“Yeah. I’m feeling loads better already.”

There was a different sort of look in his eyes this time; it was as if he wanted to say something more, but held back.

In spite of the ‘awkwardness’ you still let him hold your hand all the way back down to the kitchen. He didn’t mind, of course.

It was finally Christmas Eve and you were beyond exhausted but couldn’t have been more excited—Christmases at the Burrow were your absolute favorite. Mealtimes in particular were always filled with endless laughter; there was never a dull moment at the dining table and you loved every minute of it.

After a lively pre-holiday supper, Ginny declared that it was time for a giant lip-sync dance party, so you all cleared up the entire living area, pushing chairs and sofas to the edges of the room.

Mrs. Weasley had a wide selection of music for you to choose from and you decided to pair up, each person randomly sticking their hand in a hat and pulling out a slip of paper that had the name of the track they’d be ‘singing.’ You and Hermione were put together and got stuck with Celestina Warbeck’s “A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.” Everyone howled in laughter as you pulled out the thin sheet of paper, reading the title. Those howls only magnified as you launched into an overly dramatic, opera-like performance, dancing around the room with your best friend. The two of you ended the sequence with Hermione dipping you dramatically and almost dropping you, causing you to slip momentarily.

The whole room burst into applause and both you and your best friend bowed, grinning from ear to ear.

After everyone had gone for a round it was a free-for-all, so once Mr. and Mrs. Weasley finished their dance, Ginny tugged you into the center of the room. “Come on!”

“Oi, you’re staring,” George pointed out, leaning to whisper into his twin’s ear. “You’re so in love.”

“Shut up,” Fred grumbled, not taking his eyes off you. His eyes followed your frame as you and Ginny twirled each other around, heads thrown back in laughter and clutching each other because you had spun yourselves dizzy. It was hard not to; he was completely mesmerized. This was his Christmas gift, he told himself, he didn’t need anything else. “Am not. Besides, you know she only sees me as—”

“Are too. You know, you can be so thick sometimes.”

But then you nearly stumbled and fell for what felt like that millionth time this past week, and again, Fred rushed forward mid-conversation to catch you.

“Thanks.”

“Anything for you, darling.”

“Would you look at that,” Ginny snickered as she regained her balance, and jabbed her finger upwards, interrupting the brief ‘moment.’ The music continued to play softly in the background. “you two! Stop right there!”

“Bloody hell,” you let out a long groan. You didn’t want to look up this time. Fred looked just as smug as his sister did, if not more. “Not again.”

“Oh, no!” Fred feigned a look of surprise, “it’s as if it’s following us! Bit strange, innit?”

“Yeah. Very.”

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” you heard several voices—likely Ron, George, and Hermione—chant. Everyone else watched on in amusement.

“Why don’t we give them what they want?” Fred hummed, a hint of amusement painted across his features. “They get a show, and we get to kiss. It’s a win-win.”

“Whatever you say,” you muttered.

He then gently caressed your cheek and brushed his lips against yours, sending a strange spark of sorts shooting down your spine. It felt as if you’d been thrown into the icy depths of the Black Lake yet you were still afloat, missing the fate of drowning just by the feeling of his lips.

You were too caught up in the newfound feeling to try and figure out why you’d been caught under the mysterious plant for what seemed like the thousandth time already. This time around, though, you had less complaints waiting to burst forward from the tip of your tongue.

“Oi! Save the rest of it for the bedroom!” a loud voice jolted you from your trance, and the two of you finally broke apart for air, “keep it family-friendly down here!”

“Ron!” Ginny punched her brother in the shoulder, causing him to wince. “Stop ruining the moment!”

Everything resumed as normal, though Fred found himself sitting closer to you as the evening wore on, one hand placed on your upper thigh as if it was meant to be there all along.

By the time you had all washed up and gotten ready for bed, you were tired out of your mind, but still found it difficult to fall asleep. Hermione and Ginny watched with amused looks as you paced around the room in frustration, half-convinced that by morning there would be scuff marks in the floorboards from where your feet had been.

“I just don’t understand,” you groaned as you flopped backwards onto your bed, pulling the sheets all the way up to your chin. “It’s everywhere! How come no one else is getting caught beneath it as frequently as us?”

The redhead girl simply laughed, “are you complaining about locking lips with him this often? Last I recall, you seemed to quite enjoy—”

“Oh shut it,” you scoffed, “I like following a holiday tradition. Even if it’s more often than I’d like.”

“Uh huh.” Ginny didn’t look convinced in the slightest. “Keep telling yourself that, Y/N.”

“She’s not wrong,” Hermione chimed in as she got into bed as well, “if I didn’t know better I’d think you’d been together for ages.”

“It’s all fake,” you mumbled, voice trailing off as the realization hit you, “none of this is real. If I’m going to kiss him, I want it to be real real. No mistletoe, no bets, no nothing. I want to remember it and I want it to mean something beyond just a silly little tradition.”

The two girls fell silent for a moment as they took in your words.

“...He was your first, wasn’t he?” asked Hermione. “And second…and third…”

Your lack of response told her all she needed to know.

The delirious feeling remained when you woke up early the next morning.

Changing and getting ready felt harder than normal; the moment you sat up in bed, you wanted to lie back down and go back to sleep. Hermione and Ginny clearly felt the same way, judging by their bleary eyes and tired groans. It was Christmas Day, and the only present you really wanted was a good night’s rest. And you thought you would finally be getting some, until George had starting pounding on your door and demanded you all wake up before they broke the door down.

“How about I break your bones instead, you git!” Ginny snapped as she threw the covers off herself, storming to the door and swinging it open. “We’ll be down in a minute, geez!”

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed…” George sang. “That’s not the holiday spirit. Come on. Mum says we can’t open presents till you lazy bums get downstairs.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and promptly closed the door with a huff, walking over to her bedside to change. You wanted to wait longer out of spite, but knew that you’d be bothered relentlessly if you didn’t head down in time.

“Men,” Hermione chuckled lightly as she pulled her jumper on over her head. “They’re really children at heart.”

“You could say that again,” you rolled your eyes, “they don’t know when to stop.”

“Hey!” Ron interjected. “You can’t go generalizing like that, it’s not fair.”

“I second that,” Charlie spoke up, “it’s not fair.”

The entire family was already gathered around by the time you came downstairs; the large pile of presents that had been under the tree now moved to the center of the room. You made it your mission to ignore the way Fred’s hair was all messy from having just woken up moments prior, and the way he ran his hand through it, which only messed it up even further. It was infuriating that he looked good without trying, and it was even more infuriating that his cocky self just knew and had now caught you staring.

He sent you a wink and patted the empty spot next to him on the couch. Conveniently enough everyone else had already sat down, leaving you no choice but to sit by his side (But were you really complaining, though?).

“Happy Christmas, everyone,” Mrs. Weasley beamed brightly, clasping her hands together, “since we’re all here and awake now, let’s get started. We’ll go in a circle, and each pick something from the pile—Arthur, why don’t you go first.”

Any lingering frustration or bad moods had lifted the moment Mr. Weasley presented the first gift, which happened to be addressed to Fleur, from you. She unwrapped the package to reveal the skincare set that you knew she’d been eyeing for ages—it was from when you’d gone on a day trip to Paris together and she caught sight of it in the department store, and talked about it nonstop until you went to get dinner.

Fleur let out a small squeal and immediately came over to embrace you, “Thank you! I ‘ave been looking for zis for ages but couldn’t find it anywhere else! How did you get your hands on it?”

You and Bill exchanged a quick look, “I have my ways.”

She gratefully kissed your cheek and patted your head, “Thank you so much. I will be using it every day.”

Before long, everyone was drowning in their own pile of presents. One of your favorites had to have been the one that Bill and Charlie worked on together: they gifted you a hand-crafted obsidian dagger, which Charlie explained took months of convincing the goblins to make, but was worth it in the end. (He left out the part where they’d half-threatened Griphook with two dragons, of course.)

“Wait, Fred, you still haven’t given Y/N your gift!” Hermione pointed out. “Come on, stop staring and give it to her!”

“Huh, what—” Fred quickly snapped out of his momentary daze, blinking a few times and reaching behind himself, holding a small box in his hands. “Right, Y/N, this is for you—”

“If this is another box of mistletoe,” you began as you turned to fully face him, “I’ll punch you—”

“It’s not, I promise. But,” he cleared his throat and lowered his voice, trying to hide the slight nervousness in his tone, “can we head outside? I was planning on giving it to you to open privately, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah, sure…” you were a bit confused at this but got up with him anyway.

“You hurt her and I’ll hex you,” Ginny warned as he held the front door open for you, hand beginning to reach for her wand. “Don’t think I won’t do it.”

A gentle breeze blew through the air, carrying with it the musical sound of the wind chimes overhead. You breathed in deep as you sat down on the doorstep next to Fred, wringing your hands out—for whatever reason you were nervous, and you usually weren’t nervous around him. Maybe it was the cold December air or the fact that you had an irregular sleep schedule that gave you occasional migraines, you didn’t know…

“You okay?” he gently bumped your shoulder with his. “You’ve got something to open, remember?”

“Oh…yeah…”

Fred eyed you carefully as you undid the pale blue ribbon and unwrapped the small package, opening the box. Nestled amongst soft velvet was a pearlescent, heart-shaped locket outlined in glowing gold. For the first time since you met you were at a loss for words, which was strange given that you always knew what to say and were often quick to reply with something equally sharp-witted and sarcastic to match his energy.

“Open it,” he urged, and you just barely heard him over your rapid heartbeat, popping the locket open with shaky hands. Inside was a tiny moving image of the two of you together by the Black Lake, ear-splitting grins on your faces as you sat on his shoulders and his hands tightly clutched yours, trying to keep you from falling off. You remembered how Harry was laughing so hard that the camera shook and Hermione had to help him steady it before he took the shot.

He smiled softly at you. “Not mistletoe, like I promised. What do you think?”

“It’s perfect,” you exhaled, gazing up at him, “I love it.” I love you.

“About the mistletoe, though…” Fred continued, “you’re probably wondering why we got caught under it so much.”

“Funny enough, I was going to ask,” you said, looking back down and watching him trace slow patterns into your palm. “How is it that it kept catching just us? As if it was following us around…”

“Because it was,” he admitted sheepishly.

“So you’re saying…”

“I bewitched them to do that, of course. Just like…” he lightly snapped his fingers, causing a bundle to appear over your heads, “...this. I thought that making excuses to get you under the mistletoe would get you to realize how I felt but Merlin, you didn’t catch on at all.”

You sucked in a breath. “I don’t get it. W-what do you mean—”

“I’m bloody in love with you, Y/N, what other girl would I willingly try and kiss five times in a row?” he shook his head, cheeks flushed a bright pink both from his blush and the icy breeze, “You really thought I’d care that much about an old holiday ‘tradition?’ I only cared about you, and I still do. That isn’t going to change.”

Then he gently brushed your hair to the side to clasp the necklace on; once he was done, he lifted his hand and placed it against the side of your face, thumb skimming over your cheekbone in a gentle motion. He brought you in close and connected your lips together, sending a searing heat through your body like an all-consuming wildfire and it was utterly intoxicating. And it wasn’t fast or terrifying in the slightest bit—it was slow, steady; just like the way you fell in love with him.

He tilted your chin up just the slightest bit to deepen the kiss, and you felt like you were going to explode. The world was spinning but you had come to a standstill, the feeling of your lips moving in sync and his warm hands keeping you tethered to the rocky earth.

You couldn’t help the grin that crept up your face when you pulled back for air. Leaning forward and resting your chin against his shoulder, you let out a breathy laugh, holding him tight around the torso. Maybe you were quite oblivious for taking until Christmas Day to realize your best friend fancied you, but at least you got something (well, multiple things, really) out of it—which neither of you were complaining about.

“I take it that it went well, then?” a voice sounded out from behind you both. “Did it work?”

“Merlin’s saggy beard, Georgie, the love of my life and I were having a moment,” Fred groaned quietly, and you too would’ve been equally embarrassed except all your brain seemed to focus on were the words, love of my life, and repeat it over and over inside your head.

“You were in on this too?”

“How could I not be?” George winked, “when your idiot of a twin brother won’t fess up, someone’s got to step in and help.”

The rest of Christmas zipped by in a flash—nothing really changed, asides from the fact that Fred’s hand now remained on yours at all times except for when you were eating or went to go wash up and change.

And no more rogue mistletoe appeared above you in hallways or doorways of any kind, but Fred still waited patiently on the other side, hoping to steal another kiss or two.

(And he did, of course.)

tags: @lizzyrose200 @4ngeltrumpettt @laniirackssss @xhanthexzoria @gemofthenight

#fred weasley #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley fluff #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #hp fanfic #hp imagine #fred weasley fic #hogwarts

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whiskeyskin · 2 days ago

Text

Electricity

Premise: See @chaoswritesthemultiverse's ficspriration beloow 😜⚡

• Gale x gn!reader • 18+ • Act 2/3

Ficspriration, established relationship, gale x gn! reader, "you", experimenting, interrupted, loving, sweet, let me lick you up and down, fuck Mystra

1.4k words

Tag list: @optimisticgrey

(let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist loves 😚✨)

_____________________________

You admire the view beneath you, straddling Gale's lightly tensing hips.

His long hair falls against the pillow, the swollen pink of his lips glistening with long, messy kissing. The telltale bulge of his arousal pressing into yours, as you gently rock yourself.

He lifts his chin to take a shuddering breath, revealing the glorious column of his throat. The faintly glowing lines of the orbs power marring the taut skin, growing brighter with every roll of your hips.

His bare, haired chest swells and falls underneath the touch of your splayed palms. The periwinkle bloom of Karsus' Folly thrumming under your fingers.. vibrating, ever so faintly.

You lick your bottom lip, sucking it between you teeth, "What does that taste like?" You wonder aloud, with a crooning lilt.

"What, my love?" He asks, slightly bemused.

You draw the circular shape of the Orb, tracing the angry lines, "This. It's humming." You state, almost trance-like, as you glide your fingers to his neck.

"It likes you." He jests, flexing both his eyebrows upward with a goofy smirk.

"I like you." You tilt your head to reply, descending towards his lips. He expects you, leaning up to lessen the distance.

Tongues and breath, heat and serenity.

He tastes like the purest heaven, of brandy and warm spices; desire and need, comfort and adoration.

You know what his skin tastes like, the salt of his sweat. You know the feeling of his cum spurting on your tongue, or hitting the back of your throat. But in all the few times you'd spent the night together, you didn't know what the orb tastes like.. felt like.

Breaking the kiss; you trail open-mouthed hot breaths to his jaw, down the lines of his neck, to his collarbone. The brilliance of the Orb's light guiding your way.

You give a gentle suck high on his right peck, "Can I try it?" You whisper against the flush of his tight skin, glancing up toward him with one eye.

"As long as your delectable lips, never leave my body. You may do whatever you please with me." He surrenders, a dopey smile on his face.

Using your hand to play with his left nipple, and your mouth to bite his chest, you sigh a devious laugh. His back arches, lifting from the bedroll.

"You're a cruel thing, sometimes." He chides through an elated gasp.

"I know, I'm so unkind." You moan through pouted lips.

Settling yourself above the gleaming mark, you pause to regard it. You can almost hear the faintest, high thrum of magic within it. Again, you trace the outline; the divet of the scar denting his perfect skin.

Leading with a curious tongue, you edge down and lap your tongue once along the bottom curve.

It's quite indescribable.

It's like it tastes alive, like it has energy.

You take another long swipe up the right boundry with your tongue, it sizzles against the wet flesh. You flick it quickly between your teeth, giggling.

"Ha! So, what effects did your experiment garner?" He queries, a casual hand tucked under his head as he tucks his neck to look at you.

Clacking your tongue between your teeth you answer, "It buzzes. Tickles."

"Really?" He moves his head to the side and rubs his hand over the space, flexing his lips down at the corners, "I feel nothing." He shrugs.

"Hm, you know. I believe I need to gather more evidence.. do you mind?" You offer with a light, conversational tone and a playful glint.

"Oh, we must be thorough in our investigation. What would my old professors back at Blackstaff say?" He tuts, indulging in the charade.

Once more, you lave your tongue along the glowing lines of the orb. Gale hums out in contented pleasure, carding his finger tips through your hair.

"It reminds me when your about to cast Shatter, the tension in the air," You muse, between sucking and gently biting, "the raw power behind it."

"Mmn, what else?" He inquiries, grasping onto your bicep, gently thumbing the skin.

"It feels like standing in a thunderstorm. When you can feel the energy in the atmosphere, the static clinging to your skin," You sucker your lips and teeth, while pattering your fingertips to dance across his chest, to illustrate the point.

"It tastes sharp, and vaguely metallic. But also like you." You ponder, then grin, sliding your hand down his torso, "I wonder.. if.."

He exhales through a smirk and raises his hips to allow you to pull his underwear down, releasing his thick, pulsing erection and rolling the head within your fist.

You press a kiss to the Orb; it vibrates stronger against your lips, tingling the sensitive skin. You laugh at the sensation, your other hand flying to tap the strange feeling away.

"Ha! Serves you right, Devil." He jibes with a smirk.

"Shall I stop then?" You ask, feigning innocence, pausing your hand.

"Gods no." He responds, using his spare hand to shirk his underwear down further.

Pushing up into a more comfortable position, you stroke him in languid lengths, precum slickening the ministrations. Gale moans in delight, biting his bottom lip to attempt contain the sound.

"I love the sounds you make for me, these soft little noises at the back of your throat," you whisper against his skin, "I can't wait to hear my name falling from those beautiful lips." You press a needy kiss against his buzzing skin. Gale groans, his legs beginning to cricket below you.

Still trailing your mouth against the electric lines of his self-professed greatest mistake, you swear you can taste his excitement. It zaps and electrifies, but it's exhilarating.

The Orb could never have been a mistake. The choice to betray Mystra's trust was obviously a terrible shame that he carried and regretted, but it couldn't be called a mistake. His blindness to her manipulations and selfishness had cleared, thanks to his newly forged friendships, and the confidence gained from being appreciated for more than his magical prowess.

Because despite all the horrible and traumatising things that had happened to you both, and what clearly threatened to be even worse ahead; it had brought you both together. And, as you gaze up towards your Wizard, lost and consumed in pleasure; you could truly not be more grateful for "Gale's Folly".

His breath grew stunted, short and sharp. His hips wriggle beneath your touch. He hisses through his teeth soft, not quite curses.

Suckering like a drunkard on their last bottle, you bask in the singeing energy of the Orb. It tingles, it thrums beneath your tongue. The sound, something you'd never really paid mind to before, now growing bassy through your ears.

"Agh. Close. So close. Ngh." He manages through tight lips. You stroke faster, urging him towards release.

His orgasm begins to peak towards no return and the Orb violently trembles beneath your mouth; the tension, the tingle, the feeling of limitlessness.. you imagine this is what kissing lightening would feel like -

Suddenly, a sharp painful zap streaks from the Orb, through your body and blows you backwards.

"Agrh!" You sound out involuntarily, as the pain throws you back, pushing you violently away by your jaw and chest.

"I'msorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He repeats coming down from his halted high; half with near orgasmic delirium, half with concern, "Did I hurt you?" He blindly paws himself upright, to check on you.

"No, no.." you soothe, shaking your head, "it was like something threw me back." You touch your lips gingerly but there was no pain, or tenderness.

"Threw you back?" He repeats with a puzzled squint in his eye. Gale's eyes suddenly whirl around wildly, inhaling sharply, "Do you smell that?" He remarks, suspicious.

You sniff the air and there it was, plain as the orb in his chest; Rosewater, charred and burnt.

Glancing down to confirm a suspicion, you see the angry, burning star of Mystra searing through the hollow circle of the Orb. A not so subtle warning by the Mother of Magic.

You raise your brows, and suck in the side of your mouth, "Wow," you point your discovery to him, "She is a spiteful Goddess."

His face sours, his nose sneers, "One that we will soon be rid of, my love." He warns through a firm and irritated tone. His expression softens, then a hand moves to hold your cheek and bring your foreheads together, "Are you alright, my dear?" His voice full of concern.

You smile, cupping your hand on his forarm, "Yes, love. I'm fine."

He kisses the tip of your nose, then sits back, "Maybe we should leave the Orb alone. It's more trouble that it's worth." He laughs looking sheepish, despite his bravado.

"Well, regardless of that. I will always be grateful that it brought you to me." Your lips purse into a blushing grin, gazing at your flushed Wizard.

"As am I, my love." He smiles adoringly, his waterline filling slightly.

"Besides, I'm sure there's something else that I can run my tongue along," You croon, kissing his soft lips and lightly grazing your fingertips over his swollen cockhead, "If you don't mind repeating this particular experiment." You request with a playful tone.

Gale moves to lie back down, "I will reiterate; 'as long as your delectable lips, never leave my body. You may do whatever you please with me'." He grins, his warm chestnut eyes shining.

You let a devious grin spread across your face, "Then she's going to hate what comes next."

•°•°•

Hey, psst. Plenty more smutty Gale content in my Masterlist 😏🤭

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale fic #gale fanfic #c: gale #gale fanfiction #bg3 gale #gale x tav #gale x gn!tav #gale x you #gale x gn!reader #bg3 #bg3 smut #baldur's gate 3 #gale #whiskeyskin masterlist

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kissboybyler · 3 days ago

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just saw a byler post saying “if byler isn’t endgame, then why make the van scene the gayest shit i’ve ever seen” and one milkvan had commented “it’s literally been proven that it’s not gonna happen chill out” and another said “it’d be so fucked up if byler is endgame because mike is literally in love with el and el and will are basically siblings”.

BRO WHAT THE FUCK?!!? First of all, how has it been proven that it’s not gonna happen? Literally nothing is set in stone until s5 comes out. We don’t know shit, we can make theories and come to logical conclusions based on past material, but for better or for worse, it’s not up to us to determine the outcome of the show. And based on the given evidence, byler makes the most sense from a narrative standpoint.

Also what the fuck is the whole “mike is literally in love with el”? Why is this the only argument they have? Everytime i see a *toxic* milkvan defending their ship it’s almost always along the lines of “they are in love” BITCH, based on what exactly? Because they are a boy and a girl and they’ve kissed? They love each other, yeah, but this is not the kind of love used as a foundation for a romantic relationship meant to last. They are not the loves of each others’ lives, because first off, el has barely even had time to get to know herself and understand the mechanics of the world around her, let alone be able to determine what true love looks and feels like. It breaks my heart that people want mike and el together, especially when they claim to love el, because my girl was literally like “but you don’t love me anymore?” “who said that i didn’t” “you never say it” “i say it” “you can’t even write it mike”. She’s not fucking stupid, she can tell something’s off. And mike is literally gaslighting her.

What part of their relationship points to them being truly, irrevocably, selflessly in love? Im genuinely wondering. How can this be true love, when they can’t be themselves around each other, they can’t grow as individuals, they can’t exist outside of their relationship and surround themselves with other people, when el feels unloved, when mike has to change who he is for el’s shake, when they don’t have anything in common, when mike feels inadequate next to el, when el wants to be seen as a person and not just a superhero and mike continues to idolise her? When they can’t communicate with each other without everything leading to miscommunication? What exactly about this is romantic? Mike waiting for el in s2? The season where mike was by will’s side 24/7? What, the snow-ball scene? The weird making out scenes in s3? The “blank makes you crazy”? Because If we’re talking about the ball scene, there’s also something to be said about byler. If we’re talking about the making out, that’s literally the only thing they did and they were 13 and didn’t have anything else in common. And seriously? “Blank makes you crazy”? I don’t think i have to further my point here.

Anyway- um. I really don’t want to come off as rude but this ship is bad for all parties involved. Milkvan endgame doesn’t make any sense, the trope has been overdone before, it wouldn’t add something original to the story, and it would further prove that mike just woke up one day and decided to be an asshole. Oh and also the writers hate Will. Oh and also El had to compromise and stay in a relationship she called quits on twice and made her feel unloved and unseen.

Oh and also-

#am i being mean?#to be fair i don’t care #I DONT CARE #byler #mike wheeler #will byers #byler endgame #byler nation #miwi #antimileven #byler is canon #byler brainrot

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kpop-imgaines-at-your-demand · 1 day ago

Note

Can you write something about husband! Haechan ?

Hello 🌞, you didn't specify what you wanted, so I made some headcanons for you. Here are husband ! Heechan headcanons for you :

Morning Cuddles Enthusiast– Haechan loves waking up early just to wrap himself around you, trapping you in his warmth while whispering sweet nothings (or annoying jokes) in your ear.

Chef in the Making (Kind Of) – He insists on cooking breakfast sometimes, but it’s always either slightly burnt or way too sweet. He makes up for it by feeding you and stealing kisses between bites.

Teases You Relentlessly– Whether it’s poking your cheeks, mimicking your habits, or calling you the cringiest pet names, he’s always keeping things playful.

Jealous but Cute About It – He acts dramatic if you even look at another guy, sulking and pouting until you shower him with attention.

Loves Surprising You – Whether it’s with small gifts, spontaneous date nights, or randomly serenading you with his voice, he’s always keeping the spark alive.

Clingy, Even in Public– Holding hands? Non-negotiable. Hugging you from behind while waiting in line? Absolutely. Resting his head on your shoulder in crowded places? 100% happening.

Spends Hours Gaming but Always Makes Time for You – He’ll be in the middle of an intense match but will pause everything the moment you call his name.

Argues Playfully Over the Smallest Things – “I swear you always take up 80% of the bed.” (Even though he’s the one clinging to you.)

Sings You to Sleep – If you ever have trouble sleeping, he’ll hum or softly sing your favourite songs while tracing small patterns on your back.

Loves Taking Cute & Embarrassing Pics of You – Half of his camera roll is you looking adorable; the other half is the most chaotic, goofy shots he secretly takes when you're not looking.

Dramatic Whenever You Leave for Even a Few Hours– “You’re leaving me alone?! How could you do this to your loving husband?!”

Loves Being the Little Spoon Sometimes – Even though he acts like the confident one, he secretly loves it when you hug him from behind and play with his hair.

Wants to Match Outfits All the Time – Hoodies, sneakers, or even pajamas—he’s all about that cute couple aesthetic.

Random Love Confessions– Out of nowhere, he’ll say, “You know I really love you, right?” with that rare soft, serious look in his eyes.

Promises Forever Like It’s a Given – Whether he’s holding your hand, teasing you, or just sitting beside you in comfortable silence, he’ll always remind you, “You’re stuck with me forever, got it?”

Teasing, Always - Haechan lives to tease you—he’ll take his sweet time, dragging things out until you’re begging for more. He loves watching you squirm, whether it’s through whispered dirty talk, slow kisses, or purposefully stopping right when you’re about to fall apart.

Playful, but Can Flip the Switch Instantly - One moment, he’s laughing against your skin, cracking a joke between kisses; the next, his voice drops, and his hands grip your hips like he owns you.

Obsessed with Your Reactions - He wants to hear you—soft whimpers, desperate moans, and breathy sighs. If you try to muffle them, he’ll call you out immediately. “Nah, don’t hide it, baby. I wanna hear how good I make you feel.”

Loves Being in Control (But Can Be a Brat Too) - He enjoys taking the lead—pinning your hands down, whispering commands—but sometimes, he’ll test you by being a little bratty, just to see if you’ll take control instead.

Completely Addicted to Foreplay - He’s not the type to rush into things. His hands, his mouth, his voice, he will use everything to drive you insane before even giving you what you want.

Not Afraid to Make a Mess - Haechan loves seeing you ruined. Hair messy, lips swollen, sheets wrinkled from your grip—he thrives on knowing he’s the reason you look like that.

Dirty Talk & Praise Mix - Filthy words mixed with so much praise.

"You take me so well, baby."

"Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?"

" Look at you, falling apart just from my fingers."

Weak for You on Top - He acts cocky, but if you straddle him and take control? Yeah, he’s done. Eyes locked on you, hands gripping your hips, completely lost in the way you move.

Can Go Multiple Rounds - This man has insane stamina.One round? Please. He’ll keep going, especially if he hasn’t seen you completely wrecked yet.

Would you like any of these to expand into a short scenario, anon? 🤔

#nct 127 #nct #kpop #kpop imagine #nct 127 imagines #nct imagines #nct dream #nct dream imagines #haechan #haechan smut #haechan headcanons #headcanons #nct headcanons #nct 127 headcanons

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cavernsandcod · 2 days ago

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BELLADONNA - II

SERIES M.L | AO3 VERSION | PREVIOUS | NEXT CHAPTER

CONTENT WARNINGS: NON-CON KISSING/TOUCHING (no smut). stalking. obsession. violence. blood. injury. fear. strong language. POV switching, TBI johnny; a.k.a MWIII spoilers by default. not proofread or edited. (stalker!soap x reader)

WC: 5.5k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this ended up longer than expected, but i'd argue it's one of the key chapters for the rest of this fic. i cannot stress enough to please HEED THE WARNINGS, YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR OWN CONSUMPTION! // divider credit @/cafekitsune

Your eyes are wide as saucers when they meet him.

They glow in the morning light, lapis and agog. A lake so clear you can see into its frozen depths, jagged mountains surrounding it, dusted with frost, caked with ice. The flail of your limbs seems to do nothing against his strength, except egg on his delusions. When you buck your hips and bend your knees, his own tightens, their bony caps digging into your hips until it's painful.

“Ye know,” he grits, squeezing you tighter, "for someone running scared, ye sleep like the dead." His accent rolled thick with disapproval.

A sudden noise from outside the room—a door slamming, children yelling—made your gaze slice from him to the door. There are people here, people that might help. You don’t have to die like this. Salty streams flow down the bend of your cheeks, trickling to your ears, along your collarbones until your neckline is soaked.

Johnny notices and knows what his bird will do before she does. He wants you clever; he always enjoys a challenge. The pad of his thumb digs into your jawline until you let out another noise that makes his heart skip.

Your lungs release oxygen as you let out a piercing shriek against his palm. It’s strained and muffled, interrupted by sobs. He counters it by lobbing your torso against the floral bedspread until the rest of your breath is knocked out of you and your exhales are coming out as wheezes.

“Enough.” His words are sharp, pearly teeth gritting. “Ah’ll do that again if you move, lass. But ye won’t do that, righ’? You’ll be good?”

The ache radiating across your spine motivates you to nod your head. Your screams aren’t heard here, or perhaps nobody cares enough to break down the door and intervene.

“I take my hand off,” he starts, jostling your head gently, “and ye won’t scream.” It’s not a request; it’s an order.

You can’t lie with pure weight and muscle crushing your ribs for long. The look on his face indicates that he’d sit like this forever if he had to. The thoughts race through your head as the pressure releases from your mouth and then, eventually, your chest. Is he what you expected? Is he merciful? Is this going to be quick?

“Sit up… There we are. See—no’ so bad is it?” His hands splay between your shoulder blades, anchoring you until you’re upright. Your sniffles continue, but he doesn’t pay them mind. This is all natural to him.

His other hand curls under your chin, tilting your head up until he overtakes your view. “Need ye here with me, love, payin’ me due attention. Aye?”

“Yes,” you whisper, meeting eyes for a flash and swallowing.

He’s leaning in now, and you wonder if he’s going to kiss you, and then he’s doing just that. The angle is awkward, his mouth not in line with yours, pecking the side of it and trailing below your eye and down. He trails over a streak of tears until your face is somehow wetter than before, making you wince in discomfort.

It’s a relief when he stops somewhere along the way.

You have to commend yourself for not coming apart more, considering the situation. You’ve been stuck in His maze for months, eluding and evading all the warning signs that irrevocably lead to this moment. All those scenarios in your head where you were a hero, fighting back, have proven futile. When the beast is directly in front of you, touching you, every muscle paralyzes itself.

Things have gone upside down, and you’ve metamorphosed into stone, gone complacent. The fighting, valiant girl turns coward.

His wet lips press to the furrow of your brows before he retreats. The shag carpet snags on his boots as he takes a step back, eyeing the setup you have. You peer at your phone still on the nightstand, calculating how quickly you could grab it and dial. If you could do it before it’s inevitably wrestled from your hands is a long shot.

He turns his attention back to you and looks like you voiced the entire plan out loud, then stashes your last lifeline in his tee pocket. The admonishment you are expecting never comes. A loss of hope is worse than any lashing he could give.

“Ye mind if I have a look?” You do mind. The bed creaks when he lifts your duffel onto it and starts rustling through it like his own.

He pats down the sides. “Cannae risk hurting you yerself with somethin’ in here.” You wish you could.

You aren’t sure what he’s hoping to find in there; it’s all essentials. Drab and remarkably unerotic outfits for ‘blending in’, the basic toiletries, and your wallet. You let out a shaky breath and pray that the nightmare ends.

Johnny holds a pair of black panties, rubbing the satin between his thumb and middle digit. “Bet these are a vision on those hips.” He grins, but all you see is a predator baring its teeth. The words come off so bona fide that you physically recoil and turn in on yourself. Following a discontented shake of his head, he stuffs everything inside the pack without care and then tosses it aside, a grimace on his chiseled face, as if your lack of approval wounds him deeply.

Your phone is out of his pocket and in front of your face when you look up, automatically unlocking from face ID. The reflection you make eye contact with looks ill; she is not you, can’t be. You are a withered variant of the person you used to be.

The screen illuminates his face as he thumbs through it, digging into your photos—most he’d seen months ago on your profiles. You thank God that there isn’t anything particularly embarrassing in the collection. Small victories. His collectedness makes you wonder how he’s going to strip the remainder of your dignity from you. He is searching for the right accelerant to douse you in.

It’s only when you see him swiping through profiles that you realize what he’s looking at now. Soap's scarred fingers grew tauter, his expression darkening with each swipe.

A notification sound pierces the tense atmosphere, causing you to jolt.

“Hey, beautiful. Wanna grab coffee?” He recites the words like they are putrid. All the boyishness in him before evaporates in an instant.

Johnny scrunches up his face and lets out a pained groan, pacing back and forth as he works through the betrayal. “Danae believe this, lass— flirtin’ with every Tom, Dick, an’ Harry that comes yer way. Meeting strange men fer bloody coffee.”

You can’t make heads or tails of what he’s saying, but the heat radiating off him is enough.

His fingers rake through his hair when he returns to your side of the bed and towers over you, tapping his boot like he is about to scold a disobedient puppy. You muster the courage to pitch up your chin and hope your regretful demeanor begs enough mercy. His chest rises and falls rapidly, fists balled at each side of his wide frame, jaw clenched like it’s wired shut.

“Please.” You whisper, walking on the tightrope of a quiet tremble. The monster in front of you keeps scowling.

It’s not a question anymore; he’s going to hit you. Maim you. Sculpt your delicate brain like clay. Dig in his nails until the finished piece bleeds enough crimson to satiate him.

The air crackles around you, a sharp pain between your ribs before your head slumps toward your lap. Each sob comes in waves, raw and reeking of sheer devastation. Reality settles beside you like a thick, unavoidable smog, weighing you down like a dull ache. The hourglass is full; you are going to die.

All you ask is that it comes quickly while your head is down.

The mattress begins to sink beside you. A muscled bicep slithers around your torso, his body a heavy, fervid overcast.

“Ach, none of that, birdie. Hate to see ye cryin’.” He swipes away the tears as quickly as your ducts can produce them. The man nuzzles his head until he rests between your clothed breasts. His other arm hooks under your thighs and tucks them up until you’re a small bundle he cradles. “Just need a bit of guidance, baby. That’s all, eh? Am not mad anymore.”

His words are a rare nectarine. Deceptively soothing. Soft like cotton. Your sins have been absolved, and nothing is your fault now.

You aren’t sure where you can put your hands without touching him. So, they ball into the sheets while you calculate the best way to defuse the bomb.

You let your eyes flicker around the motel room now that he can’t see them. For apparent reasons, you’re feeling particularly trapped now.

“Why are you doing this? You can just p-pick another girl.” The emotional whiplash makes your head spin. “I— I won’t tell anyone.” Your hiccups persist as you grovel with the devil.

Johnny lifts his head, mouth downturned and eyes pathetic. “Another girl?” His bottom lip is all but quivering when he leans back on his haunches in front of you.

“Ye’re… not understanding this, dove.” His voice is low like his head, which he scratches like he’s recalling something important. Your hands are dwarfed when he takes both into his, caressing your knuckles. “Was supposed ta move on from ye a long time ago. Couldn’t, though. Ah knew you were meant to be mine, hen, the more I got to ken you. Goddamn face of an angel kept me hooked.” His globes scan you up and down before he bows toward you again, latching to your mouth head on this time.

He sucks on your bottom lip until your jaw loosens enough to let him in, tongue licking at the roof of your mouth. The kiss borders on animalistic, and you find your eyes wide open the whole time.

It parts, but a rope of saliva connects you two. “Fuck, hen, ah knew you’d understand—” The panic in your eyes is null and void to a man so far gone. Even as your nails bite into his forearms until the skin bleeds, he does not budge. The room shifts into a chasm of wet noises and the involuntary, soft whines you let out.

Johnny’s fingers flex against your shoulder before inching their way south, his body growing more eager and impatient. The protests linger and die on your tongue, never making it past your lips. He kneads your tits through the thin cotton, enclasping and releasing the fat on your chest empirically. Like he’s trying to get a feel for them rather than warm you up.

His kisses taper off when he’s in between the cleavage, and his entire posture slumps. Dead weight on top of you, beginning to tremble.

A war wages inside you between what you should feel and what is at heart. Animus and trepidation dwell in your frontal lobe; You should be screaming, fighting, clawing his eyes out, and running for the hills. The man you’ve been running from has been reduced to a puddle, aching and whimpering like a kicked, mangy mutt—and you feel pity for him.

“Shite,” he hisses, but the frustration seems to be more aimed at himself than you. Warm droplets seep into your shirt where his brunette head lays on you. His toned shoulders shake each time he weeps, but his thumb rubs patterns along your belly.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out and saves you. Somehow, he’s got you more at his mercy than ever before.

Time passes, but you lose track of how much. All you know is that your limbs have gone stiff with pins and needles and your mind is running wild. Can you get out of this? Could you get the upper hand? The man lets out a deep sniffle and seems to get his bearings, returning to his haunches on the mattress.

“You must think I’m—” he flicks a hand toward the ceiling, “—some sort of headcase, but I’m no’. Swear it.” The bed groans when he shifts his position to sit on the edge with hunched posture.

“I don’t think that,” you gulp, barely camouflaging the fear invading your bloodstream. How the words betray all the rancors for him that dig into your flesh like barbed wire. The way your voice shakes is a dead giveaway, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

His smile starts at the corners of his lips, a small, subtle tug that grows as if it’s stretching against something tight inside him. You can’t deny how delicate and sugary it appears. But knowing all he’s done to you, the warmth feels potent enough to poison you.

“Oh, bonnie.” He extends a hand to run a knuckle along your cheekbone, cerulean spheres turned soft. It makes you freeze, but you figure it better than him straddling you again. “Think ye’re the only thing I’ve done right with. Cannae let you go now, can I?”

The only thing. Thing. You’re nothing more than something pretty to conquer. The plastic, twirling ballerina in a music box she can’t free herself from.

After a few moments of what looks like heavy contemplation, he rises to his feet. The suite feels calm, eerily so once he’s collected himself. The hum of the air conditioning is the only thing you can focus on without breaking apart. Stark air runs down the back of your neck until goosebumps form, but you know that’s not why you’re shaking.

He steps in front of you and leans downward. His lips press to the top of your head in a long—and what feels like bittersweet—kiss.

“Goin’ to get some air. I’ll be back.” The low rumble of his brogue reminds you of reality.

Instinctively, you glance over your shoulder when he rounds the bed and heads for the door, but he’s already peering back at you. “Be good.”

The door slams shut behind him.

You’re alone.

This is your only chance.

A stream of smoke curled into the evening as Johnny leaned against the motel’s eroded exterior wall. Sparse light poles did nothing to illuminate the lot, leaving it dim and foreboding to the average eye. The parking lot was nearly empty at this hour, only a few scattered vehicles casting long shadows across the asphalt.

His bonnie is good at hiding; this place is a dim, dead end, for sure. But, thankfully, its his job to track targets much more inconspicuous than her.

Watching her was fun, bordered on pleasurable. Learning her ins and outs, playing his games to corner the prey. And finding her was the thrill he had been aching for.

In spite of that, nothing felt as it should be.

He was supposed to feel complete once he had her, touched her. All the nights Johnny spent staring at the cracked ceiling in his flat, picturing how she’d be. How having a beauty tucked away somewhere might make him feel man again. So, why didn’t he?

As he takes a long drag, he lets his lids flutter shut. He needs to get it together. She’s here, she’s his. It won’t be long before she’s at home with him, safe and finally living the vision he’s had for her. Poor thing doesn’t see it now, but she will. A soft, warm lass to wait up for him and keep him sound.

That’s what his mates kept telling him while he was recovering. As if all he needed was a quick fuck to set him straight. But the hookups never worked, never stuck for long. Johnny never did “casual” very well, even before the bullet. Once his fangs are in, he can’t let up.

Sweet talking his date in the bar came natural, and so was taking them home and making them feel euphoric.

He thought they’d be it for him. Despite that, their side of the bed was always vacant come morning. Nothing left but the wrinkled sheets, sometimes a flirtatious note that led nowhere.

Johnny snuffs out the cig under his boot after tossing it, still watching the traffic race by. He should get back to her soon, and hopefully be on the road by morning. If he treads lightly, he figures she may see it his way. It was smart to come out here and clear his thoughts, since he’d nearly lost his head going through her phone. Scared her, too. He can’t do that again; it’s not her fault that she doesn’t know better. The image of all those dirtbags and their messages replays in his mind for a moment, making his jaw tense. That won’t happen again, either.

His eyes shift toward the flickering vending machine a few feet away.

Coming back in there with a peace offering, like her favorite sweet, seems like a good place to start.

His shadow casts on the blinds, and so do his steady exhales of smoke. You don’t have long, maybe five or ten minutes to get as far as you can on foot. Maybe flag down someone sensible and never have to see your admirer again.

You inch off the bed, darting to look at him every few seconds. Your skin practically buzzes with anxiety, reverberating through your chest and making it tighten. He could burst through that door any second and catch you in the act, and then who knows what’s in store for you. That’s why you’re fighting the ever present urge to stay in that spot and rot.

You need to try. It’s something you owe to yourself.

Every creak of the boards beneath the carpet makes you cringe. Your breaths are too shallow, and too loud for comfort. You press your lips into a tight line and slip on your shoes, tugging on the tied laces to ensure they won’t get you killed.

Your legs wobble as you tiptoe toward the bathroom and step inside, cursing at every small squeak of the door. You latch it once it’s closed. It’s not strong enough to stop him, you know it, but any obstacle in his path will be better than none.

The gnawing fear blooms bigger now that the small washroom confines you. You turn on your heels and lock eyes with the small window above the toilet. It’s the only way—tight and by the skin of your teeth.

A door opens in the distance, and you freeze. The silence feels like a tortuous lifetime. You wait for the door to be broken down. For his arms to swallow you whole and never let go.

It never does. The drone of voices in the next room over makes you let out a sharp sigh of ease.

Your hands convulse as you tug on the latch with a knee digging into the lid of porcelain. It doesn’t budge until your teeth are gritting and a bead of sweat runs down your brow.

The handle lets loose with a thud. Every limb is taut as you climb atop fully, a constant throb across your entire body. As you push on the pane and open it to its full capacity, the crisp air engulfs the room. The smell of the grass, the roar of engines and horns, the rush of the breeze, It’s relentless, but it’s also your freedom.

It takes every ounce of your dwindling strength to grip the edge and lift yourself. The burn of your biceps is almost enough to rip you from it, but sheer adrenaline keeps you going.

The narrow frame feels like it's crushing your ribs, making every inch of you squeezing through agonizing. You expect hands to wrap around your ankles any second. To bite down and tug you back inside. The thought in itself makes you hasten more than before.

The fall is shallow, but your ungraceful dive knocks the wind out of you. Damp, beryl blades on top of dirt do nothing to cushion the descent. Your mind says run, now, but your body won’t let you yet. Not while your lungs sputter and your blood vessels surface on the points of impact.

You fight the dizziness when you begin to roll onto your stomach, digging your palms into the earth as an anchor. Pushing yourself up, you feel like a fawn learning how to orient itself. There’s nothing but woods behind the building. The fog is a ghostly veil that cakes onto every tree, concealing the paths between them.

The momentum is a tremor, coming in waves that causes you to teeter back and forth, hands at the ready to stop a potential tumble. He’s probably back now. You need to move. Faster. You expel a groan when you force yourself to get going.

Without looking back, you begin to sprint the uneven ground. The concealment of the forest feels welcoming, but the landscape does not. Every stick scapes against you, each rock almost making you go facefirst into the dirt. It feels as if the earth itself is conspiring against you; it plays games of sabotage for its own amusement.

You’re deep in now. Swallowed by ancient trees that conceal the trails, if they exist out here. All that you rely on is the notion that any way is safer than what awaits you back there.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, echoing in your ears like it will burst through flesh. Animals chirp and birds caw from the pound of your feet. The metallic taste on your tongue lets you know that it won’t be long before you’re out of fuel. Each glide takes another ounce of it and adds to the pain.

The underbrush begins to elevate the further you go, slowing you down. A stream gurgles in the distance, split up by larger, sharper rocks. It carves a path through their shards, causing them to glisten. If you cross here, he may be able to lose you.

Your shoes squeal, caked in mud and icy waters while you tiptoe across the stone barriers, arms out cautiously. Your socks are soaked, swishing with every step. The ground is more uneven across the water—jagged, with roots that twist like hands threatening to snatch you. Moss softens the trees and fallen logs, now invaded by the green, sodden coating.

A soft stir distracts you; the sound of leaves rustling that is too close, and then a twig breaking in two. It propels you into overdrive again. Has he caught up already?

A sharp, jagged root, hidden beneath the layer of fallen leaves and moss, catches your ankle. Your foot twists, and for a moment, everything goes still. The shock of the twist radiates up your leg, the pain crashing through like a tidal wave.

You cry out, and the next thing you know, you’re falling—crashing through the underbrush, limbs flailing for something to catch you. A low, guttural sound escapes your throat as you hit the forest floor, knees slamming into the dirt, hands scraping against the base of a tree.

A raw, biting ache travels from calf to toes, making any mobility impossible. Though your hand is pressed to your mouth, you know your sounds of agony aren’t hushed.

The stillness of the forest feels suffocating now that you’re sedentary.

A thousand eyes are watching from the shadows.

The baggie rustles as he plays with it; it’s your favorite snack. Maybe it’ll be enough to get you engaged, at least.

Johnny stops in front of the door when his phone vibrates. The last thing he bloody needs is another interruption when he’s so close to his girl. No matter what, or who it is, he won’t be dropping everything again. Last time he did, she slipped away.

His eyes roll when decides to check the message. It’s only Kyle asking how he’s getting on, if he’ll meet soon for drinks. Somehow, the friendly concern annoys him more than if it had been something important.

All the company he needs is here.

When the door opens, he expects to find her in that same spot. Like a delicate, ossified sculpture.

The room is empty, a stillness that feels too unnatural, too deliberate. A chill spreads through Johnny’s spine, seeing that her imprint on the bed was the only trace of her left.

Could she have—? No, she wouldn’t. She was fine when he left, sweet as pie.

The bathroom door was shut, briefly putting a pause to the panic fluttering in his chest. With a sigh, he rapped a knuckle against the wood.

“Lass? Are you in there?” He shifts awkwardly, chewing his lip. “I brought ye somethin’ to eat.” He expects to hear movement behind the door. The sink running, feet shuffling.

That she’ll open the door and prove all his suspicions wrong. That his girl wouldn’t run off when the going got tough.

His ear presses to the door after she leaves him hanging, his pulse starting to hammer. Only the whistle of a faint breeze on the other side; not his bird.

The bag in his hand is forgotten, tossed aside as he steps back. He’d done the maneuver more times than he could count. Somehow, this was more nerve wracking than doing it with bullets whizzing by him. In one swift, driving motion, Johnny’s foot stuck above the handle, splitting the wood on impact. The weak hinges let loose instantly, blowing the bathroom door wide open.

Frigid air hits him full force, blowing from the window above the toilet. Dirt prints on the lid, fresh scratches in the paint, scuffs on the frame, and she was nowhere in sight.

His eyes burned into the evidence, full of wrath and what feels like an intense betrayal. “FUCK!” A feral growl bounces off the grimy tile, followed by the squeal of his wet boots when he turns on them, snatching his bomber off the back of a chair.

The forest line loomed in the distance when he rounded the building, shrugging his jacket on. No doubting she was somewhere lost in those trees, stumbling around. She couldn’t have gotten far, not without knowledge of the terrain. Johnny didn’t have much of that either, but he did know next to everything about tracking.

Through storms of all kind, bombs and gunfire, night and day—it was all on his belt. As his feet sunk into the mud, starting into a tactical sprint, he kept his eyes trained for smaller, reluctant tracks. They wouldn’t be hard to find on soft ground.

He should’ve known better.

With some daylight left, he could use his own eyes to guide him. Every few feet, a disturbed patch of dirt or broken twigs would steer him. Sweat glistened on the pallor of his flesh, his training working overtime to listen to the land.

He was too soft on her.

The ground gets steep here. Too steep for the average civilian to navigate quickly. Her tracks are messier here, long drags and claw marks rather than solid steps. Poor thing probably stumbled and raked her way up the hills, thinking she was getting herself ahead.

Played like a fuckin’ fiddle—

His jaw ticks every time he feels he’s gaining on her. Promised himself, and indirectly her, he would not lose his head again. That he could learn to not always be in control. But this? This is maddening.

He couldn’t fight the ire lining his gullet like a black tar.

When he reaches the sound of icy, rushing waters, he puts himself in her shoes. She crosses those rocks, hoping to outsmart him by taking the long way. Thinks he can’t play out every gait and qualm her untrained, exhausted body would have. The way across is easy for him, not winded and wearing footwear with proper traction.

The wind bites into his cheeks and hands, making them flush. Insects chirp and buzz, sticking to his sweat. Every moment, the sky grows darker, navy clouds rolling in. Freezing rain will surely flush her out; turn her lips blue, dust her hair with frost, leave her huddled against the gelid ground until her body shuts down.

Each exhale becomes a fleeting cloud as he goes through the maze of split trees, slowing down to a trek.

Somewhere ahead, concealed behind a thick pillar of bark, someone moans. Starts to rustle against branches—lets out a groan when he imagines they are pulling themselves to their feet.

Johnny stops, cocking his head.

A hand emerges, caked in moss and mud as it guides the body connected to it.

His bird limps, tilting back and forth as she trials a jog. Another strained groan expels when her palm rests against the next tree, her head darting in every direction. Her foot wobbles when she tries to lift off, and knows he’s seen enough.

All it takes is two glides—less than a second. Johnny’s fingers dig into the delicate muscle of her shoulder, jerking her in his direction, until his stomach presses against her back like iron. She flails, her throat straining to scream, but neither sever his grip.

One arm snakes across her belly; it undulates rapidly as her lungs hyperventilate. His other hand is meant to control her jaw, keep her from breaking his nose with a headbutt.

Her teeth sink into his thumb, breaking the skin until his hand retracts from her face. She tosses her head back, right as he turns to the torn digit. It nails him in the jaw, makes his molar tear into the inside of his cheek.

“Dammit—” The words taste metallic, his tongue glazed.

She takes an unbalanced leap forward, scurrying through the leaves. Another howl echoes through the woods, drowned by the pressing wind and highway. Sticks crush under his footing when he lurches, pushing through the migraine behind his eyes.

His biceps bulge when he forces her into a bear hug, her face toward him this time. The whole way through, her words are unintelligible, a mix of fury and panic.

“Stop it!” He hisses, hand cupped under her jaw. Her back digs into the bark, and he’s finally got the upperhand, in a wide stance to keep her in place. All he wants is for her to stop running. He’s not out here to hurt her, she’s hurting herself.

Hot tears run down her cheeks. She looks at him like some sort of monster, a cruel beast that only wants to rip her apart. It’s not true. “Listen to me. Ah need ye to calm down before ye—”

Her arm whips through the cold mist. It feels like slow motion, a hiccup in time. The hard side of her fist collides with his temple, striking the agitated scar tissue there.

His vision doubles, a deafening ring in his ears. Flames churn in his stomach, accelerated by the stabbing in his cranium. He can’t see, can’t hear anything but static.

Utter delirium forces his hand.

The hold on her jaw tightens, and he thrusts it. “Stop. Fighting.” Each word was punctuated by another shove of her soft skull against the unyielding bark.

His world goes still. Not a sound. A weight slumps against his chest, one that isn’t screaming anymore.

It isn’t until then that the reality dawns on Johnny. He blinks rapidly, finally adjusting his vision back to normal. She’s limp, lips cracked slightly in unconsciousness. Something like guilt swarmed him as he assessed the injury, wondering if he’d gone too far. If she’d make it through.

All his pain vanishes when he’s zeroed in on hers. The sun has vanished fully, a darkness surrounding him. He scoops her up into a cradle carry, his legs already moving before he has her weight settled. Right now, she feels like nothing, because all this is his fault.

He finds sure footing despite the murky forest, relying on moonlight and how close the sound of water is. And then, eventually, when the sounds of traffic grow closer, he knows he’s made it through the chase again, only backward.

Orbs of light, a flickering green sign in the distance reveals the lot, which is just as lifeless as before. Last thing he needs is someone seeing this and getting in the way.

He can handle this. She’s going to be fine.

Once he reaches his car, he’s able to fish out his keys. It takes a bit of deliberation, but he’s able to get the back door open and drape her across the backseat, knees slightly bent. Her head, still seeping, lulls to the side when it meets the leather. She’s on her side, and it almost looks like she’s sleeping if it weren’t for the obvious.

The door shuts. Johnny leans his back against it, staring out at the barren landscape.

All the previous confidence vanishes the longer he stands there, scrubbing a hand over his face. He has no plans. No idea where to go from here. Doesn’t know how long she’ll have without stitches.

He can’t do it alone. Both of them will end up dead, he knows it.

Johnny moves before he knows exactly why. Tugs the screen from his pocket and opens the contacts, before tapping one.

It rings for a century, feels like a taunt that makes his hands shake.

It ends, he expects the automated voicemail to signal defeat.

Instead, the person on the other line answers with a stoic greeting, if it can even be called that.

Johnny swallows, closing his eyes so he can spit up his ruin.

“Ghost? I need yer help.”

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worstgenerationloser · 20 hours ago

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hi, im the one that asked if you did ships.. what about rayleigh x shakky headcanons (sfw and nsfw) and them with a f reader too

,, My Girlfriend's Girlfriend. ''

Pairings... Silvers Rayleigh x Shakky x F! Reader.

Synopsis... headcanons revolving around your relationship with two charismatic lovers. (and between themselves)

Contains... SFW and NSFW! Be advised.

A/N: my heart is telling me yes and i should 100% marry them both

One thing you need to know about Shakky and Rayleigh's relationship— they're very open, if you catch my drift. Rayleigh; the charismatic devil he was and always will be, he seeks out women quite often and he ends up bringing them home with him. If Shakky wasn't okay with it then she would definitely let it be known, but they have an arrangement so it's more of a routine as of now.

Yes, they do love each other. Most of the time when they run off with others it's simply an exchange of bodies or them robbing the unsuspecting civilian... They end up together eventually, even if sometimes Rayleigh tends to go missing for extended periods of time.

Rayleigh and Shakky are charming and charismatic in their own, Shakky likes to tease and Rayleigh likes to rile people up, they're so different yet so similar in the same way— you would think it's because they've been together so long that they've taken after one another, but it's not. It's like they were destined to be together.

Overall... They are pretty laid back, so they are totally open to telling more about themselves outside of the bedroom, and that eventually leads to the three of you all joining into one couple. Lucky you... As long as you can adjust to their lifestyle and get used to the both of them, there's no issue.

Speaking of adjusting to them, you definitely will be subject to a few experiments; some kinky and some not so much.

Shakky and Rayleigh aren't too public about their relationship with eachother unless they're preparing for a threesome— because they've grown used to the quiet nights where they simply sit together and enjoy eachothers presence. There isn't any need for them to announce it to people they've met less than a few months ago.

They won't mind if you want to shout it from the roof, though. Just wait a few years before they grant you the privilege.

Shakky is the one calling the shots, she's a top whereas Rayleigh is a switch. Honestly? Rayleigh is happy just getting his dick wet wherever it may be, so he doesn't have a specific preference for topping or bottoming. He does find it nice sitting back and letting Shakky tie him up while you two take turns doing what you want to his body.

Did someone say kinky? I did! Roleplay, bondage, brat taming, spanking, edging... As long as you're up for it, these things will be taken to the extremes, specifically bondage and spanking; if you couldn't tell by looking at him, Rayleigh likes the thought of punishing a lady by bending her over and giving her enough spankings to make her sob, (with pleasure of course) while Shakky likes watching you squirm helplessly all while being unable to close your legs or buck your hips while she fingers you at a ridiculously slow pace.

They know your body can take it, so they like testing your limits every once in a while. There's no harm as long as there's a safeword in place, according to Shakky.

An ideal night with all three of you together would be with you legs spread wide open, ankles bound to the posts of the bed while Shakky kisses your neck slower than usual and peppering kisses down all the way to your sternum, stopping to gently massage and lick your breasts, meanwhile Rayleigh takes care of your lower body.

Rayleigh massages your feet and legs, stopping when his heavy hands find their way to your hips or thighs and then he starts to mark you up the best he can without giving up and shoving his face between your legs. Before you three were official they were much more patient; but they aren't getting any younger, and they would rather die than show you how much they want you each night.

If you ask nicely, they'll bend to your will, though.

Long nights are followed by ''dates'' or lazy days... Which naturally end in more long nights. There's no complaints from you, though.

#silvers rayleigh x reader #rayleigh x reader #one piece smut #one piece x reader #one piece x you

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lotusloong · 2 days ago

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Nothing and no one save Sun Wukong himself could convince me the Monkey King doesn't love dancing. Especially Netflix Monkey King, but any of them I could see acting like this.

Any kind of party with lively music you bet your ass he's on the floor shaking it like no ones business. When he's young and living with his monkey's on Mount Huaguo you could argue it wasn't dancing so much as...throwing yourself around in a wild manner, laughing and giggling the whole time, Wukong among them, very drunk.

Then when he entered the world of man he learned what "proper" dancing was. Specific steps to follow to make a specific pattern, with or without a partner. Some were more eye catching and fun looking to him than others, but one thing for certain was that the Monkey King wanted to learn everything.

On his way across two continents, looking for his first immortal to teach him the secrets of immortality, he would stop and ask the people he saw to teach him the steps, and he would practice while crossing the seas and climbing the mountain ranges.

Even trapped under the weight of Five Elements Mountain he would hum songs to distract himself, tapping his fingers and moving what parts of himself he could to mimic the dances he remembered so fondly.

When he's finally free, he spends nights with his fellow disciples, showing them the fascinating (if a little out of style) dances he learned. Imagine his surprise when Bajie mumbles how he remembers one from his days in the Celestial Realm, probably very out of practice after so many centuries. Wukong shocks him by getting close to his face, practically demanding the pig yaoguai show him the steps he remembers. Wujing recalls a far off memory from when he was little, a dance his parents used to perform that Wukong all but drags him to his feet to recreate. Tang Sanzang laughs at their fun, saying he had never spent much time learning the art. Wukong is understandably appalled by this, begging his Master to stand and dance with him just once, he promises it'll be fun! The monk can't refuse such a happy grin.

And it's now, with your hand in his, arm around your waist, that he thanks the universe for giving him so many opportunities to learn. Your own dancing skill level doesn't matter, he's an amazing lead, taking you around and around the campfire as his fellow disciples and Master clap and laugh to the music one of Wukong's clones is playing. You're smiling and giggling as you go, the fire dancing across your features in a hypnotizing way the Monkey King will commit to memory.

"Your hand in mine, and-" He hums softly, his voice warm and breathy where he whispers it in your ear, unheard by the others of your group. "I could never choose to love another..." He pulls away, meeting your gaze with his golden one, smile soft and secretive. He's trusting you to not make a big deal of his feelings, to keep your hand in his and spin around and around for the rest of the night until you can't move another muscle.

So you do so, pulling him closer even as Bajie gives a loud "WHOOP!" from behind you, resting your head on his chest and following him into another pattern of steps.

And if you whisper those same words back to him later in the dark of the night...well, the only witness would be the full moon, it's heavenly glow blessing your first kiss.

#Sun Wukong X Reader #Monkey King X Reader #Sun Wukong #Monkey King #Zhu Bajie #Sha Wujing #Tang Sanzang #Journey to the West #Netflix Monkey King #Lego Monkie Kid #Black Myth Wukong #Monkey King Reborn #Monkey King Hero is Back #New Gods Nezha Reborn #I don't know where I was going with this really #I just started thinking about much Wukong must love dancing and needed it out of my brain #My Writing #I also relistened to 'We become We' while writing the ending lol

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7urtlequeen · 23 hours ago

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Just finished AMC's Interview with the Vampire last night, and fucking christ it was so fucking good. I wanted to jot down my favorite bits from the last couple episodes:

The scene where he finds Lestat in New Orleans and Lestat asks him about September 8th. The pained look in his eyes, the absolute torture behind the words, "did you hurt yourself?"

Claudia with the scene, her use of the song that the theatre, that Armand, uses to subjugate her as a last moment of defiance-- chef's kiss, no notes. Also the way she delivers the line "never been about me" is going to stick with me to my grave. Thinking a lot about how she's both right and wrong. With the telling of the story, everything is both about Claudia and not. No matter how much she mattered to Louis, the story wasn't ever going to be about her, it was always the story of Lestat and Louis.

Honestly absolutely love the big twist with Armand not being who we thought he was, but even moreso Louis. We watch this whole show basically from his perspective, we think we know the narrative, think it's all black and white, Lestat was evil and Louis was good, but no. Louis was abusive too. Louis was manipulative too. Louis was violent and unstable too. Loving this depiction of two sided abuse, where both were hurting each other, where both were traumatized hurt people who wound up traumatizing and hurting others.

Last thing is re:Louis and Armand. It's a heart wrenching depiction of how someone who has been abused often winds up with another abuser because it's the only way they know how to be loved. And I think the way they lead the audience was meant to be like when your loved ones dont see the abuse, when the abuser is manipulative enough to have everyone fooled. We were so convinced that Armand was good for Louis, that he takes care of him, especially in scenes like when we first see the rock room. It's like in older movies and shows when it looks like someone is just putting a hand on their wife's shoulder to guide her away, but really they're squeezing the collar bone so hard it hurts to gain submission.

Idk, this isn't worded the best, but that show was absolutely beautiful.

#interview with the vampire #amc interview with the vampire #amc iwtv #iwtv #lestat de lioncourt #claudia de lioncourt #louis de pointe du lac #claudia de pointe du lac #armand

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optiwashere · 2 days ago

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11 … a kiss in joy please!

Thank you for requesting this one! 💜

11. A kiss in joy.

---

For all the comforts of their new home, a vague emptiness filled the otherwise comfortable, welcoming rooms of their freshly built cottage. The kind of sparse, uncertain space that Shadowheart could not quite put her finger on, and it sat with her all day as she lounged on their front porch steps to enjoy the blossoming midday sun. An uncertainty that followed her wherever she went but alleviated itself when she was not alone. Asheera would be back soon with supplies from the nearby village.

It had only been a few weeks in this new home, this quiet corner of the world away from anything but the Winding Water river, and the serenity of listening to nothing more than rushing water and the sounds of birdsong first thing in the morning brought ease to every day. Like sunlight on her face, bare feet in the dew-sewn grass. The taste of a cheap beer on her lips after so much time spent wandering on the road, fearing for their lives after they thought all the pain had already ended. Watching the woods behind their cottage at night for signs of wildlife peeking out to stare back.

After all that suffering, came this. This, Shadowheart thought as a figure approached from the faint path leading from the village to their cottage, was more than she ever believed she would have.

Shielding her eyes from the sun with a hand, she spied Asheera carrying the satchel she took with her over one shoulder. Her arm held fast to her chest, and she cradled something that Shadowheart couldn’t quite make out at this distance.

“Did we decide to buy something else again?” she shouted, fighting back a smile. It was always so her to pick something up for Shadowheart that she hadn’t meant to buy at first. “You know, your spending habits might come back to bite you. It’s—”

Shadowheart’s words died on her tongue as Asheera came closer. Her eyes were bright as crimson clay, a smile pulled across her features with lips flush against the backs of her tusks. Right where Shadowheart expected to see a bundle of flowers or a sweet treat from the baker, a bundle of orange fur squirmed on Asheera’s arm flexed paws over her sleeve.

“You didn’t…?” Shadowheart stood and her breaths hitched in her throat. “You didn’t.”

“I think I might have,” said Asheera, fixing her attention on the cat attached to her arm. “Everyone thought he was a barn cat, but he came right to me in town. Hopped right up into my arms and wouldn’t let go.”

“So, we’re taking him to his owner, then?” Shadowheart asked. She did not know which answer she wished to hear.

“I tried. Really did.”

“Tried?”

“An old woman called it a sign from Sune.”

“Sune?”

Asheera stopped before her, holding the wide-eyed orange close to her chest. “She swears she saw us arrive the first day, and she knew. C’mon.” She gestured for Shadowheart with her free hand. “He’s friendlier than the owlbear we used to have at camp.”

“I highly doubt it. Do you know that sweet thing would eat whole fish from the palm of my hand?” Shadowheart gingerly cat’s beautiful, short coat. Catching Asheera’s eye, she understood what that empty space meant and struggled to find the words. “Why did you do this?”

“You wanted bright colors. You’re already starting yourself a garden, so… why not?”

Forever she might struggle to find the right words and how to place them when it came to Asheera. There were some moments that felt impossible to describe, impossible to relay. Feelings and desires that never came to her tongue because she had never been trained to understand those as a Sharran.

But this? This was simple.

Without another word, she pushed forward and leaned up to press her lips against Asheera’s. In an instant, a broad hand fitted itself against her hip and pulled her closer. The kiss was no longer than the span of a handful of breaths, but it was enough to steal every single one from Shadowheart’s chest, leaving her with nothing but awe as she pulled away at last.

Brushing her thumb along Asheera’s sharp jawline, Shadowheart blinked away a warm presence from the corners of her eyes.

“What’s the matter? I thought you always wanted cats?” Asheera whispered, her brows turning up in concern.

“I do. I…” Shadowheart dug deep for the words. For what she felt.

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I might be,” she admitted, “but it’s because I can’t believe you sometimes. Can’t believe you’re real.”

#bg3 fanfiction #shadowheart #shadowheart x tav #shadowtav #oc: asheera #asheera x shadowheart #opti writes #anotheropti prompt fics

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gumii-bearr · 1 month ago

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i just know nanami loses control sometimes.

he doesn’t mean to, but he just loses himself in the feeling of your heavenly mouth wrapped around his thick cock.

he loses his composure, the normally professional, level-headed man who becomes a writhing, groaning mess with how you slobber and whine around his cock as his tip kisses the back of your throat.

you like to please him. you bring him his lunch when he “accidentally” forgets it at home, and you look fucking gorgeous in that little dress and your hair still messy from last night’s rendezvous.

and one thing would lead to another, and nanami sees everything, he sees the way some of his subordinates look at you when you walk through the office, how they look at you so shamelessly; as if they don’t know you’re the wife of the ceo.

but now you’re on your knees, nanami’s thick fingers laced with yours on his thigh while the other pets your hair, pushing your nose into the coarse happy trail on his taut abdomen.

you feel him in your throat, almost in your neck with how he pushes the tip own your throat with reckless abandon.

he loses control when it comes to his gorgeous wife, your adorable fucked out expression, the way tears prick at the corners of your eyes but you just keep forcing his length down your throat, and how your small hands squeeze his fingers harder and harder with every bob of your head.

“doing so good for me, angel girl. you treat me so well, baby.”

and he doesn’t care that his office is made of glass and his subordinates can see your adorable little sock-clad feet from under his desk <3

anyway, ceo nanami can fuck my throat any day thank u for coming to my ted talk.

#jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #x reader #nanami kento smut #nanami kento x reader #jjk nanami #nanami x reader smut #nanami smut #jjk smut #nanami kento #nanami x reader #jujutsu kaisen nanami

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grimandghoulish · 8 months ago

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#once upon a time i had this guy friend that i was super close to we were best friends #i had a dream about him a few nights ago and i haven't been able to stop thinking about it #i can't tell my partner about this dream #i swear to God I've never thought about this guy as anything more than a friend ever so this was quite a surprising dream to me #i just wanted to tell somebody about this though #so we run into each other last time we saw each other was like at least 7 years ago #and we start talking and catching up and I'm telling him about the kind of awful thing my partner did to me #and he's just so kind and encouraging to me and he says he'll protect me now and all #and i was like no i can handle it myself you know I'd never let you do something like that for me #and then one thing leads to another and he kisses me and i was like kind of trying to be like nooo we're just friends I'm in a relationship #and then i just kind of think well fuck it and we make out and then we're somewhere #not sure where it was it was a bedroom maybe his #no no it was his because it looked like the room he had when i visited his house when we were younger #and then we had sex #i haven't thought about him in a while so having that dream about him was kind of confusing to me #i want to reach out to him but all i have is his old email that I'm not sure if he even still uses #I did send an email but it's been a couple of days and he hasn't replied #so either he doesn't check it very often or it went to spam or it's defunct or see did see it and doesn't know how/doesn't want to respond #i don't think anyone i know still talks to him but it would be really helpful

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luvvictoria · 1 month ago

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I've been thinking abt a poly!tf141 with a fem!reader who like is from the country side AND I'M CRACKING, OH LAWD!!!

Task Force 141 had seen you kill a man from 700 meters away. They had seen you tear through enemy lines with the precision of a seasoned warrior, your movements deadly and efficient. But what they hadn't seen—what they couldn’t wrap their heads around—was the life you returned to after every mission.

Because while Ghost, Soap, Price, and Gaz spent their leave in safe houses, military bases, or the occasional urban apartment, you?

You went home.

To the countryside.

To your massive, luxurious farmhouse nestled in the hills of a quiet village, where the air smelled of fresh hay, wildflowers, and the occasional whiff of cow.

And when TF141 finally visited, they were not prepared.

The First Time They Saw the Farm : "What the fuck—" Ghost had been the first to say it when you pulled up to your estate in an old pickup truck, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as you parked in front of a sprawling wooden house with a red-tiled roof.

There were animals everywhere.

A massive black and white cow lazily chewed its cud near the wooden fence. Chickens and roosters strutted about like they owned the place. A gray donkey stared at them with judgmental eyes. Two ducks waddled past as if they were on a mission. Dogs barked excitedly at the sight of you, tails wagging. A cat lounged on the porch, stretching in the warm sun.

And then—a fucking horse trotted up to you, nuzzling into your palm like a puppy.

"Price," Gaz whispered. "She has a fucking farm."

"A fancy one at that," Soap muttered, still stunned.

"You lot gonna stand there all day?" You grinned, tossing your duffel bag over your shoulder. "Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready."

They were bewildered. They had spent years with you, fighting side by side, seeing you covered in blood, sweat, and gunpowder—and now you were leading them up the front porch of your cozy countryside mansion like a perfect little housewife.

And the worst part? They liked it.

You, The Deadly Soldier and The Perfect Housewife

Soap had expected you to relax on your leave. Maybe sleep in, drink some tea, read a book.

But no.

You were up at the crack of dawn, slipping out of bed before any of them could pull you back in, dressed in overalls and a white tank top, heading out to feed the animals like it was just another mission.

"Morning, sweetheart," Price murmured, leaning against the doorway as he watched you toss hay to the horses.

"Morning, Captain," you teased, kissing his scruffy cheek before moving on to collect eggs from the hens.

Ghost watched in silence, arms crossed, as you scolded a particularly feisty rooster. "You peck me one more time, and I swear to God, I’m making soup outta you."

Gaz almost choked on his coffee when you turned around and gave them the sweetest, most innocent smile.

"You boys want breakfast?"

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting at a massive wooden table in your warm, sunlit kitchen, eating fresh farm eggs, homemade bread, and smoked bacon.

And Soap was ready to propose.

Domesticity With a Side of Chaos

Price: Loves sitting on the porch with a cigar, watching you work. He helps with repairs, fixes fences, and absolutely adores the peacefulness of your home.

Ghost: The animals are terrified of him at first (except the donkey—the donkey hates him). But the barn cats adopt him, curling up in his lap whenever he sits down.

Soap: Thinks farm life is the best thing ever. He learns how to milk a cow, names every single chicken, and gets way too attached to a piglet.

Gaz: "Babe, I love you, but this rooster is evil." (He got chased one too many times.)

And at night?

After a long day of farm work, you slip into something soft and lacy, curl up in their arms, and remind them that you’re not just a soldier, not just a farmer—you’re theirs.

They Never Want to Leave

By the end of their stay, not a single one of them wants to go back.

"You sure we have to leave?" Soap pouts, feeding the ducks.

"Darlin’," Price murmurs against your neck one night, arms wrapped around you in bed, "Ever thought about retirin’ here? With us?"

Ghost doesn’t say it out loud, but when he watches you laugh, your hands covered in flour as you bake bread, he knows he never wants to be anywhere else.

And Gaz?

He just sighs, watching the sunset over the hills. "I never thought I’d say this, but…I think I’m in love with farm life."

They were all in love. With you. With this. With the life they could have, if only they stayed.

Maybe one day.

For now, they’d enjoy every stolen moment in their countsyde paradise. But what if we make thing spicy ? A little bit, at least.

Ghost Was The First To Break

Ghost had held strong. Longer than the others.

While Soap got weak-kneed watching you bend over to pick up hay, and while Gaz couldn’t stop staring at your thighs in those tiny denim shorts, Ghost had kept his cool.

Until that damn sundress.

White. Light. Flowy. Just enough fabric to tempt, but never satisfy—clinging to your curves, slipping off your shoulders as you carried a bucket of water to the horses.

He had been cleaning his rifle on the porch, but his grip tightened the moment he saw the fabric sway with your every step.

And then?

You had the audacity to look over your shoulder and wink at him.

He dropped the rifle.

Soap Lost It In The Barn

Soap had always been shameless about his attraction to you.

But you?

You were even worse.

It was an accident—(was it?)—when you walked into the barn one night, looking for something. The others were inside, drinking whiskey in the house, but Soap had been alone, brushing down one of your horses.

And then he saw you.

Wet.

Covered in rain.

Your thin white blouse clung to you, completely see-through, nipples pebbled against the fabric.

"Lass," he had rasped, watching as you closed the barn door behind you, stepping forward, voice all honeyed and sweet.

"Johnny," you had purred, voice dripping with something that wasn’t innocence, "I’m cold."

He snapped.

The horse had seen things that night.

Price Was The Most Dangerous

Price was a man of control.

A man of restraint.

A man who knew how to bide his time.

But you?

You tested him.

You liked to push. You liked to see how far you could go before he gave in.

And God help you—you found his limit.

It was late. The others were asleep. You were making tea in the kitchen, standing on your tiptoes to reach a mug from the top shelf.

Price had walked in just as your nightgown slipped up your thighs.

It wasn’t fair.

The soft, white cotton. The little lace trim. The way your bare legs looked so smooth, so inviting—and the sleepy way you turned, so unaware of what you were doing to him.

You looked up at him, mug in hand, and smiled. "You want some tea, Cap?"

And then—his hands were on your hips.

Voice rough.

"You know damn well what I want, sweetheart."

Gaz Had It The Worst

Gaz?

Gaz was a goner the first time he saw you in nothing but boots and his shirt.

You had come in from the field soaked in sweat, hair messy, thighs speckled with dirt. You had tossed your muddy clothes into the laundry room, grabbed his green tactical shirt, and walked around the house like it wasn’t driving him insane.

"Babe," he groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, watching you stretch, the hem of his shirt riding up to dangerous levels.

You blinked. All innocent. "What’s wrong?"

Gaz was a patient man. A respectful man. A man who was about to lose his goddamn mind.

"Come here."

You smirked, walking over slowly, pressing your hands to his chest.

"You’re so easy to rile up," you giggled.

His hand wrapped around your throat.

"And you’re about to learn what happens when you push too far."

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