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lumosflairr · 5 days ago

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this isnt much to work with but imagine fred ron or harry doesnt matter with like that one scene from wolf on wallstreet with margot robbie putting her heel on the dudes forehead?? imagine how desperate they would be oohhh em jeepers just a desperate pathetic man is all i need in life

OH BABYYYY I LOVE THIS THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REQUEST!!! I chose to write with Fred because i really have nothing of him written AND this scene is so him core.

NO TOUCHING - Fred G. Weasley

Fred had crossed a line. Again.

He’d pushed your buttons all day—flirting shamelessly behind the register, brushing his hand too high on your thigh under the table at dinner, and worst of all… he charmed your favorite knickers to float down the stairwell like confetti in front of George.

So now here he was, on his knees in your shared bedroom, smirking up at you like he wasn’t the one in trouble.

“Aw, love,” he drawled, hands spread like he was being reasonable, “I was just having a bit of fun—”

“You think this is funny?” you said sweetly, stepping forward slowly.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the click of your heel on the wooden floor shut him right up.

Fred watched, transfixed, as you climbed up onto the low window seat—bare-legged, wearing one of his old Quidditch jerseys and nothing underneath. The moonlight pouring in behind you made the scene feel more like a spell than real life.

Then, you did it.

You lifted your foot, gently resting the tip of your stiletto heel right against his forehead, forcing his head to tilt back. His eyes fluttered closed. The smirk slipped.

“Oh, now you’re quiet?” you teased, voice smooth as honey. “Not so smug when you’re the one begging, are you?”

Fred groaned, equal parts flustered and absolutely wrecked. “I’d do anything right now.”

You arched a brow. “Anything?”

He nodded—slow, reverent. His voice came out rough. “You’re driving me mad.”

You pushed your heel just a little firmer against him—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him who had the power tonight.

“I know,” you whispered. “And you love it.”

He looked up at you, completely undone, and you knew you had him.

“You’re going to sit there,” you said, dragging your heel down slowly until it slid off his chest and hit the floor with a click. “And you’re going to earn me back. With your mouth. No hands. No spells. Just obedience.”

Fred’s pupils blew wide.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, already leaning in.

His breath ghosted against your inner thigh, his mouth inches from your skin, and still—he hesitated. Like he needed permission. Like this was sacred.

And maybe it was.

You let your heel slide down from his chest, letting it hit the floor with a deliberate click. You shifted back on the window seat just enough to open your legs wider—slow, deliberate, your eyes never leaving his.

That was all he needed.

Fred’s mouth met your skin like a prayer, soft and reverent at first—slow kisses pressed to your thigh, just beneath where the lace ended. Then higher. Then higher.

His hands stayed at his sides, clenched into the fabric of his trousers like he was restraining himself from grabbing you, dragging you closer. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. You hadn’t given him that.

So he used what you allowed.

His mouth.

You let your head fall back against the wall behind you, a slow smirk tugging at your lips as you felt him trace his tongue in slow, aching circles just where you wanted him. The heat of him. The way he murmured your name under his breath like he couldn’t help it—like it slipped out between kisses, between soft, panting groans as he tried to keep up with the way you moved your hips.

He was so eager. So good at this. Not cocky, not teasing—just starving. Like the only thing that mattered was you falling apart under his mouth.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging just slightly to guide him, and he moaned into you like he liked being pulled—like he’d let you keep him there all night if you wanted.

“You really are sorry,” you murmured breathlessly.

He nodded against you, lips not daring to leave your skin. His nose brushed your inner thigh. Then his voice—raw and low—came between kisses.

“I’ll spend every night like this if it means you’ll forgive me,” he breathed.

“Don’t tempt me.”

#harry potter #wizarding world #lumosflair #weasley #smut #hogwarts #weasley twins #fredrick gideon weasley#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley smut #fred weasley x reader smut #wolf of wall street

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staiyn · 2 months ago

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New memes

*throwing memes like bread crumbs.*

Meme dump ahead

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lxvchrismd · 6 days ago

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| Wandering Eyes |

| Pairing: Alfie Buttle x Reader

| Summary: As Y/n finished her leg extension set, she lets her gaze wander. As she does, she spots a relatively attractive guy on the pull up bar. She’s too engrossed into checking him out, to realise him staring right back at her.

| Warnings: Moderate smut, MDNI 18+, Swearing.

| Notes: Hey ml! This is my first ever attempt at smut, so it may not be amazing. I hope you enjoy! <3 (I hope someone gets the Clash of Clans reference 😭)

Y/n was a frequent gym goer. She was always working out in her spare time, usually after work. As Y/n just finished with her leg extensions set she got off of the machine sweating, legs shaking like no tomorrow. As Y/n was fixing her headphones, she allowed her eyes to wander.

As she was looking around, she spotted a guy at the pull-up bar, who looked like he’d just finished his set. He was attractive, to say the least. Brunette curly hair, tall, and bulky as all hell. She was too distracted on thinking about how attractive he was, to realise he was staring directly at her.

As soon as she noticed, she was quite literally mortified. She quickly looked away, face red. She immediately walks towards the changing room, gets her bag and leaves.

Y/n and “hot gym guy” had ran into each other a few more times since the first embarrassing interaction. At the gym, grocery store, the parking lot of the gym. There were only a few limited “Hello’s”, nice smiles, and a few nods, but other than that they never really talked, just two random strangers.

Until, fate took its course. Y/n and her girls were currently on a girls night, a reoccurring scene every Friday. She was currently sitting at the bar with her friends, halfway through her cocktail as she felt someone tap her shoulder. As she turned around, she seen those oh-so familiar eyes again.

“I didn’t know you cleaned up this well outside of the gym, otherwise i’d have asked for your snap earlier”. He says, his signature smile on display. “Mmh, yeah? Well I didn’t know you were capable of expanding your vocabulary from the word “hello”. She says, smiling widely.

He rolls his eyes playfully, before pushing her shoulder gently. “I’m Alfie, you are?” “Y/n.” She answers, a cheeky tone behind it. “Are you always this sassy, or is it just the vodka?” “there’s only one way to find out.”

Its safe to say that they didn’t last long at the bar. Ten minutes later, they were in the back of an Uber, his hand on her thigh, her lips brushing against his jaw, tasting whiskey and want. The ride was a blur. They crashed into his apartment like a storm.

Alfie pressed her against the wall the second the door shut, his mouth crashing into hers, hot and hungry. His hands gripped her waist, sliding up her sides like he was trying to memorize every single curve.

They stumbled toward the bedroom, clothes falling in their path. Her dress hit the floor, followed by her bra. His jeans and top were next. He laid her on the bed like she was fragile, as his head automatically went between her legs.

Y/n sat up against the headboard as she looked down at Alfie, her chest rising and falling quickly. Alfie slowly takes her panties off, throwing them behind his shoulder. He looks up ar her, silently asking for permission. She immediately nodded her head with no hesitation.

He slowly stuck his finger inside of her, watching her reaction. She leaned her head back, letting out a small moan as she felt his finger stretching her out. “Alfie!” She moans, her back arching as her hand lands of top of his. He starts to move his fingers faster, wanting her hear more of her moans.

“Alfie- OH! Alfie, I need you. Please!” Hearing this; he snaps. He immediately takes off his boxers, and slides himself inside of her. It was slow, deep. A stretch that made her bite her lip to stifle the moan. He filled her completely, holding her legs apart, watching her fall apart under him. “Fuck,” he groaned. “You feel like heaven.”

His rhythm was teasing, almost like he was testing the waters with how much she could take. But as soon as she dug her nails into his back and begged for more? that’s when things started to speed up. He gripped her hips, thrusts hard and punishing. But his mouth never left hers for long.

Even though this was their first time together, it felt like he knew her body inside and out. She began to clench, her moans turning into loud whimpers as she gets close. She closes her eyes tightly, throwing her head back in ecstasy. However, Alfie didn’t like this. Not one bit.

“Look at me,” he growled when her eyes fluttered shut. “I want you to look at me when you cum.” And she did. Loud, messy, clenching around him as he followed not long after, spilling into her with a strangled moan of her name. They lay there for a moment, breathless, sweaty, bodies tangled together.

His body collapses next to hers, chest rising and falling heavily as he catches his breath. After a minute or two, he finally speaks.

“So… you play clash of clans?”

Y/n immediately looks at him, eyebrows raised. the room goes silent before they burst out into laughter. Needless to say, this isn’t their last time.

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missust3l3vision · 1 month ago

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If it is possible I would love a fic where reader causes Arthurtv to be late at a sidemen shoot, because they can't stop cuddling. ty - 🍒

This is so cute, as soon as I saw it I knew it would be one of my favourites.

Missing on You

Description: Arthur gets caught up cuddling with his fiancé and is late to film. Once home he needs you in his arms.

Fourteen alarms and two friends are scheduled to text him, and yet Arthur was still late to the shooting. Walking onto the set with uncombed hair and tired eyes, the Sidemen were not happy.

Where was Arthur this entire time? Koala hugging his fiancée as they slept, with every alarm just a passing annoyance, and the text messages ignored.

Y/n was completely out cold and had no plans for the day, so she continued to sleep like a baby. It wasn't until a very distinctive ring tone cut through the couples slumber.

"Mate, you were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago." Simon said into the phone. Arthur flew out of bed and frantically got dressed as he tried to think of an excuse.

"No! Well, yes, but it's not my fault! My Uber is totally confused. I'll be there any minute!" Simon hung up without another word, and Arthur began to organize an Uber to pick him up.

Running out of the flat, he got to the sidewalk only to run back in and kiss your forehead before going back out and being picked up. Your sleeping figure shifted once realising his heat was gone but you remained asleep.

"You look like a bus hit you," Harry said the moment they saw him, KSI piping up from behind him

"For his sake, I hope he was." The tone of his voice made it difficult for him to tell if he was teasing or seriously mad. After dragging a brush through his hair they began to film with the sidemen all making small jabs towards Arthur who laughed along.

He had a good time filming, but if he was being entirely honest, he wished he were home with you, still curled up in bed. He bet you had texted him by now. Finally taking a break he grabbed his phone to check.

Seeing a notification for an image having been sent. It was of you still in bed with his favourite mug, wearing his hoodie. His heart melted and he desperately wanted to come home.

Hours pass and Arthur is released, apologizing again to the other, he ordered an Uber and orders Door-Dash to be delivered. He didn't feel like cooking, and he knew you wouldn't be either.

Walking in the door hands filled with the food he was met with you on the couch watching tik toks on your phone. Hearing the door click you looked up with a smile that made his heart stutter.

"Hi," he set the bags down on the coffee table, "How was it?" he shrugged, unloading the bags he handed you your favourite dish.

"Spent the whole day thinking about you," He said, taking a seat next to you. Putting his arms around you, he nestled his head into the crook of your neck, taking a deep breath in, "I was late today, the whole crew was upset with me." He confessed, his breath tickling her.

"I'm sorry to hear that, darling," you responded, bringing your hand up to his hair and lightly playing with his curls. "Do you have any shoots tomorrow?"

He shook his head, finally pulling away and grabbing a box of food. The two sat in comfortable silence as the TV played.

"Your mom called, she's flying in a week early to help set up the wedding." Arthur let out a happy hum. At any mention of your wedding, he became giddy. Falling into a calm but happy conversation on guests and flowers.

Arthur was thankful for you, even if you did make him late.

#ukyt #uk youtubers #original ☆#x yn #x reader #arthur tv #arthur frederick #arthur fredrick #husband ☆#arthur fic #arthurtv #arthurtv x reader

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mydairpercabeth · 1 year ago

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More Baby Annabeth thoughts to ruin your day:

In the show, Echidna explains that monsters trach demigods by smelling their fear; it’s part of the hunt. Once a demigod is aware of who they are and why they’re in danger, monsters will come for them. Annabeth was constantly hunted by monsters from the age of 5. MEANING THIS LITTLE BABY ANGLE WAS SCARED AND ALL HER STEPMOTHER AND FATHER DID WAS MAKE HER FEEL LIKE ITS HER FAULT!!! SHE WAS SO ALIENATED FOR TWO YEARS AND BLAMED HERSELF!!!

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cece693 · 1 month ago

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Please more Hannibal obsession pleaseee 🙏🙏🙏🙏 the one where he kidnapped the reader we need a 10 part series

Bound By Obsession Pt. 3

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: the real hannibal is slowly coming out, bwahahaha, you still are a little shit, what did you expect?, you're kidnapped, getting dolled up, cute and kind hannibal, if you squint

RECAP: “Shh,” he murmured, drawing you close as though comforting a lover. “Sleep now. Anger is exhausting, and we have plenty of time to revisit this conversation when you’re calmer.” Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The world blurred around the edges. Then only darkness remained, along with the nauseating warmth of Hannibal’s arms—his lips against your temple in a final, disturbingly tender gesture before oblivion claimed you.

That fucker drugged you again. How dare he.

You woke feeling as though your bones had been replaced with molten lead, your mouth dry, vision swimming. A groan rasped from your throat as you tried to sit upright. Your skull pounded viciously, protesting the sedative Hannibal had plunged into your veins.

"Motherfucker," you muttered bitterly, pushing through dizziness to take in your surroundings.

This wasn't the small, sparse cell you'd awakened in last time. It was opulent, absurdly lavish—a master bedroom designed with obscene decadence. Deep burgundy drapes fell across high windows, velvet and silk mingling in an extravagance that made your stomach churn. Ornate golden moldings framed the ceilings, the air scented faintly of sandalwood and cedar. But your admiration was short-lived; reality snapped sharply back into place as you moved your arm and felt cold metal pinch the tender skin of your wrist.

Handcuffs.

You glanced up, heart skipping painfully in your chest. Your right wrist was bound to the intricately carved headboard by sleek silver cuffs, the chain just long enough to let you shift position slightly, but no more. Rage boiled instantly. You jerked your arm roughly, trying to wrench yourself free.

“Fucking bastard,” you hissed, pain slicing your wrist as the cuff bit deeper into skin. A streak of crimson trickled down your forearm, splattering onto the silken sheets. “Goddamn psycho freak—”

The door opened quietly, almost silently, but you sensed his presence immediately, like a cold shadow slithering across the room. Hannibal stood poised, dressed immaculately, eyes assessing your wound before meeting your venomous stare.

“You’re injured,” he said with gentle disapproval, stepping closer.

“No fucking shit, Lecter. Maybe because some psychopath chained me to a bed.”

Ignoring your tone, he moved deliberately toward the bedside drawer, retrieving a small first-aid kit. “Struggling will only exacerbate your discomfort.”

“Fuck you,” you snapped. “Didn’t know you cared so much about my comfort, asshole.”

He gave a faintly amused smile, unwrapping gauze with precise, practiced motions. “Your aggression is understandable. Though it is counterproductive.”

“Counterproductive?” you mocked bitterly. “You think kidnapping me and cuffing me to your little fucked-up fantasy bed is productive? God, you’re pathetic.”

His eyes sharpened slightly, though his voice remained maddeningly calm. “It became necessary due to your persistent lack of cooperation. Trust must be earned, after all.”

You laughed harshly, mocking him openly. “Trust? Jesus Christ, Hannibal, you drugged me twice! And now I’m cuffed like a damn pet. Trust isn’t something you’re capable of.”

“On the contrary,” he murmured, leaning closer to carefully dab antiseptic against your bleeding wrist, unfazed when you jerked violently away. “I trust you implicitly—to resist, to challenge, to defy. You’ve proven remarkably consistent.”

“I’m consistent because you’re consistently fucking insane,” you hissed, leaning closer, teeth bared. “You can’t handle rejection, so you resort to kidnapping and bondage? Pathetic excuse for a man—”

A dangerous spark flared briefly in his gaze, patience fraying at the edges. He grasped your chin abruptly, fingers firm yet controlled, forcing you to meet his piercing stare. His voice was deadly quiet when he spoke again.

“Careful. I have shown you restraint thus far, but even my patience has limits. You would do well not to discover precisely where they lie.”

You swallowed sharply, heart hammering against your ribs, suddenly hyper-aware of the danger you were truly in. Until now, you’d dismissed him as merely obsessive, disturbingly eccentric, yet ultimately harmless—but now you saw the truth behind those careful eyes. Hannibal Lecter was not simply a twisted romantic; he was a predator in human form.

Yet your pride wouldn’t surrender.

“Or what?” you challenged, your voice low and fierce despite the tremor beneath. “You’ll drug me again? Big fucking surprise there—”

“I can do far worse than sedation,” he said evenly, releasing your jaw with deliberate calm. His hand dropped slowly, lingering at your throat for just an instant too long, a silent warning. “And if you cannot behave yourself, I may find it necessary to make a harsher example. Perhaps Franklyn.”

Your pulse spiked violently. “Leave him out of this.”

A thin, chilling smile curled his lips. “His safety is entirely in your hands. Your compliance ensures his continued good health. Your defiance, however, invites consequences he might find quite…unpleasant.”

“You wouldn’t—”

He leaned back, straightening his cuffs casually. “I am many things, but idle is not one of them. Would you like to test my resolve?”

Silence stretched painfully, broken only by your harsh breathing. Your shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of his words settling like lead in your chest. “Fuck you,” you muttered finally, turning your face away, voice bitter but subdued.

Hannibal acknowledged your reluctant submission with a small nod. “Better. Now, your attire is…unsuitable.”

“My what—”

“You’re filthy,” he stated bluntly, gesturing at your stained, sweat‑crusted clothing. “It displeases me. Your clothes are beneath you.”

“Then don’t look,” you spat.

He ignored the barb, lifting a hanger draped with an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, silk tie, and polished Oxfords. You barked a laugh.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“On the contrary, I insist. A man of your beauty deserves attire to match.” The key slipped into the cuff. Click. Your wrist was free, but his fingers tightened, steel hidden in velvet. “Bathe, then change.”

“Or?”

A slow, glacial smile. “Or I do it myself. While tempting, I believe it would wound your pride more than necessary.”

“Fine,” you snarled. “Point me to the damn shower.”

He shepherded you down a lamp‑lit hall, palm at the small of your back like some fucked‑up newlywed. The bathroom was obscene: marble floors, a rainfall shower the size of a phone booth, towels rolled into swans. You half expected angels to sing.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said, setting fresh toiletries—oak‑moss soap, sandalwood shampoo—on the counter. “The door stays ajar.”

“Peep show for free, huh?” you sneered.

“I’m safeguarding my investment.” He replied before stepping back to lean in the doorway like a sentinel.

You stripped, spine crawling under his gaze, and stepped beneath scalding water. It pounded grit and dried sweat from your skin, but couldn’t rinse the rage. While you scrubbed, you cataloged the room: no windows big enough to squeeze through, towels thick but useless as weapons, brass fixtures too solid to snap off. Escape plan: zero.

When you emerged, Hannibal handed you a white robe. He even warmed it first, the sadist. You bit your tongue so hard you tasted iron, because gratitude would kill you faster than any sedative. Back in the bedroom he presented the charcoal suit again.

“Put it on.”

You dropped the robe and dressed, every movement stiff. He watched like a stylist: straightened your lapels, smoothed your waistcoat, tugged each cuff to perfect length. When he produced a silver comb and a boar‑bristle brush, you almost laughed.

“Seriously?”

“Turn,” he said, voice velvet. You sat at a vanity while he brushed through your damp hair—slow, methodical strokes that might’ve been tender if they didn’t feel like ownership. In the mirror his eyes gleamed, pleased as a sculptor admiring marble. Outside, you wore calm like another piece of tailoring; inside, you rehearsed jamming that brush through his eye.

“You look exquisite,” he murmured approvingly, setting the comb down. “Anger suits you nearly as much as fine tailoring.”

“Thrilled to be your dress‑up doll, Doc.”

Hannibal smiled, utterly missing—or ignoring—the contempt. "Now, I think some fresh air will do us good." He extended an arm. “Let us take a short walk in the garden.”

Finally—terrain intel. You forced a neutral nod. “Fine. Whatever.”

He led you down a gallery hung with oil portraits, then paused at a pair of French doors. Sunlight gleamed on the handles. Hope fluttered—until he produced a length of heavy black silk. “Blindfold,” he said.

The hope died screaming.

“Why?” you barked.

“Because I’m not stupid,” Hannibal replied pleasantly. “You haven’t earned the privilege of location.” He tied the silk around your eyes—snug, not cruel. “Relax. Let other senses guide you.”

“I hate you,” you muttered, but stood still—memorizing the direction of every step, every draft of outdoor air. His hand settled at your lower back, steering you down stone steps into cool night. Gravel crunched under polished shoes, night‑blooming jasmine filled your lungs, and somewhere water trickled—fountain? stream? You counted paces, angles, turns, building a map in the dark.

Hannibal’s voice drifted above the hush of crickets, smug and soft. “See? Trust can be cultivated.”

You clenched your jaw till it hurt, letting him think obedience was blooming. Inside, you charted murder. Patience, you told yourself while the monster guided you deeper into his perfumed yard. Play the husband’s little game—long enough to learn the exits. Then burn his palace to the ground.

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