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jamilelucato · 26 days ago

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the punchline effect (fred weasley)

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n] Warnings: This story leans more towards those above the age of 16 or a PG-13 rating. While there's no explicit sex, the themes and some of the dialogue suggest a level of maturity beyond a general PG rating. Summary: In the chaotic world of Hogwarts' seventh year, Fred Weasley's bad jokes become an unexpected distraction for the studious [y/n]. What begins as a test of patience evolves into something deeper as laughter intertwines with longing. Amidst the mayhem of magic and mischief, can they find a genuine connection, proving that sometimes the best punchlines lead to the most unexpected love stories? About [y/n]: I don't place her in any house, so you're absolutely free to choose. But outside of that, she's written as a girl (18-ish) and I think (I'm not 100% sure) I have mentioned she's white, or that she turns very pale (in shock, or something). Words: Almost 9k. A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this! I missed Fred, truly. This one was absolutely just for me. But if you liked it, please leave a comment!

The class wasn’t exactly quiet. They teetered on the edge of acceptable behaviour, holding it together solely because the handful of students up front had decided to pretend they cared. The rest were swapping gossip, chucking crumpled parchment like Quaffles, and giggling in a way that would make a banshee jealous.

Professor Flitwick was fully aware, of course. But there was only so much a man under four feet tall could do when every time he tried to scold someone, they immediately transformed into cherubic little angels. And whenever he reached for an airborne note, it mysteriously ceased to exist. The man was clever. The students, unfortunately, were cleverer.

To be fair, no one really expected much from seventh-years at this point. The entire faculty had collectively resigned themselves to the fact that these kids were emotionally, mentally, and spiritually done. Frankly, if anyone snapped and hexed the ceiling, they’d probably just let it slide.

Which made it exactly the right moment for Fred Weasley to strike up a conversation with [y/n]. He leaned in, red hair gloriously unruly, smirk already forming. “Can I tell you a joke?”

They didn’t sit together by chance. No, this was most of the Professors’ grand experiment: seat the most notorious troublemaker next to the school’s most reliable nerd, and maybe her good influence would rub off. It was the academic equivalent of putting a cat next to a bath and hoping it would become a fish. George, the slightly younger twin, was exiled to the other side of the room by direct order of the Headmaster. Nevertheless, separating the Weasley twins was like cutting a Niffler in half and expecting it to stop nicking your silverware.

[y/n] sighed, long-suffering. She knew Fred. She knew that tone. Likewise, she knew that whatever came next was going to be deeply, profoundly stupid. And yet, here she was — the only one in the class not actively contributing to the unravelling of society — and, against her better judgment, slightly curious.

“Go on, then,” she muttered, finally turning to look at him.

Fred’s eyes sparkled.

“What’s the difference between a snowman and a snowwoman?” He leaned a little closer.

There was a pause — five, six seconds of mental preparation — during which [y/n] considered pretending she didn’t hear him and diving face-first into her textbook. She also considered dying of secondhand embarrassment. But ultimately, she resigned herself to her fate.

“I don’t know,” she said flatly. “What?”

Fred grinned. “Snowballs.”

Exactly as predicted: idiotic.

She rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t detach. Fred stifled a laugh — poorly — just as Flitwick turned his tiny, deadly stare in his direction.

It wasn’t the first joke she’d heard from him. But this one had somehow done something. It was unclear what, exactly. Nothing obvious had shifted. The air was still thick with whispered gossip, Fred was still grinning like a boy who’d never known shame, and [y/n] was still trying to care about whatever Flitwick was scribbling on the board.

And yet — something had changed.

What it was, no one could say. Not yet.

While most Gryffindors complained bitterly about every single minute spent in the dungeons with Professor Snape, [y/n] had a particular vendetta against Transfiguration. Or rather, against Professor McGonagall herself.

It wasn’t that McGonagall had ever said anything cruel. That would’ve been easier. No, it was the look — that quiet, cat-like assessment that suggested she knew [y/n] could do better, but had already made peace with the fact that she probably wouldn’t. It was judgment and disappointment, wrapped in tartan and pinned together with a brooch.

Was it personal? Likely not. Did it feel personal? Absolutely.

Still, as Hogwarts kept pairing its brightest students with its biggest troublemakers in a grand attempt at character development, [y/n] had once again found herself seated next to Fred Weasley. The idea, no doubt, was that her bookishness might tame him, and his chaotic energy might “bring her out of her shell.”

Utter rot.

She didn’t need Fred Weasley to drag her out of anything. She was social. Just… not in McGonagall’s class. In that room, her entire personality narrowed to “avoid eye contact and copy everything from the board like your life depends on it.”

Unfortunately, Fred had not received the memo. Or he had, and shredded it for fun.

“How you doing?” he asked, with the kind of faux innocence that could only mean trouble.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t blink. Just channelled every ounce of her nerdy energy into ignoring him.

He tried again.“What’s six inches long and has two nuts at the end?”

Her quill froze. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers, and her expression dropped every other function but pure disbelief.

She turned to him slowly, like someone preparing to confront a boggart. “What did you just—? I can’t believe you— Why would you—?”

“Oi, can you let me finish?” he whispered, grinning. “Oops, that was… that was not the dirty joke.” He chuckled at his own brilliance. “I’ll start over. What’s six inches long and has two nuts at the end?”

“Stop saying that,” she hissed, now more horrified than outraged.

“Relax! It’s an Almond Joy,” he said smugly. “Honestly, the things going through your mind. Merlin.” He shook his head in mock disapproval.

“I don’t even know what an Almond Joy—”

She never got to finish. Her voice had risen — just enough to carry across the classroom.

“What’s going on there?”

Professor McGonagall was approaching, her robes billowing like an oncoming storm.

“Professor, I’m trying to pay attention, but she keeps—” One glare. That was all it took. Fred’s sentence withered on his tongue.

“It was nothing, Professor,” [y/n] said quickly, shrinking in her seat.

McGonagall lingered for a second, just long enough to make them both squirm, before returning to the blackboard.

[y/n] lowered her head and scrambled to look productive. Her handwriting was now panic-shaped.

“Blimey,” Fred leaned in again, his voice low and maddeningly amused. “Are you afraid of her?”

“No,” [y/n] muttered.

“Hm.” He crossed his arms and said nothing more. For once.

But even in the silence, [y/n] could feel him smiling.

This time — alright, fine — it was slightly [y/n]’s fault.

They weren’t even in class. She could’ve not come looking for him.

But then Samara handed her two Sickles for a bet. Then Ursula added six Knuts to the pile, and suddenly [y/n] was standing on the pitch with a pocket full of wizarding money and two friends staring at her like puppies left outside Honeydukes.

“Pleeeease!” they said.

It was an official Hogwarts Quidditch match — and as such, you could not miss the unmistakable presence of Fred and George Weasley, standing at the edge of the stands with an old wooden box and expressions that practically screamed entrepreneurial mischief.

As tradition dictated, if Gryffindor wasn’t playing, then the Gryffindor Beaters were definitely running the bets. And the turnout was impressive — even a few Professors had wandered suspiciously close to the betting box, dropping coins and pretending not to see anything.

“Ah, a customer,” George grinned when she approached. “Can you assist this fine young witch, brother?”

At this point, honestly, it had to be deliberate.

He turned to her with the wooden box, and as he flipped it open, [y/n] saw a scrap of parchment taped to the inside lid — names, numbers, and teams. She swallowed and held out the coins.

“Yeah, well,” she blinked. “Two Sickles from Samyra — for Hufflepuff. And six Knuts from Ursula — against Hufflepuff.”

“You’re not betting?” Fred asked, already taking the coins and scribbling down the numbers.

“Nope,” she said, flatly. Please Merlin, let that be the end of it.

But of course not. He looked up with that very specific brand of Weasley mischief — crooked smile, dangerous glint in his eye, and that posture that meant he was about to be the worst.

“Can I tell you a joke?”

“No,” she replied instantly, already turning on her heel.

But before she could escape, he gently touched her arm — not enough to stop her, but just enough to make her pause. She turned back, arms crossed, expression set to absolutely not in the mood.

“Please,” he said, already laughing. Which was never, ever a good sign.

She sighed like someone accepting their fate. “Fine. Go on,” after all, they weren’t in class, and she could, now, kick him in the shins depending on how terrible the joke was.

He took a second to compose himself, which only made her more suspicious.

“Are you a Slytherin?” he asked, voice low and weirdly serious.

She stared at him. Then down at her scarf. Then back at him. Deadpan.

He pretended not to notice the absurdity of the question.

“Because…” he took one last breath, “I really want to slither into your Chamber of Secrets.”

She immediately placed her hands to her face, in a full, dramatic palm drag. From hairline to chin, like she was trying to reset her entire operating system. It was the worst — a tragedy of a dirty joke. Or pick-up line, rather.

Was that a pick-up line?

She didn’t answer. She didn’t look at him. She simply turned and walked away before her brain had the chance to process anything further.

But if you’d been paying attention — and I do hope you have — you might’ve noticed that she hadn’t rolled her eyes. Not once.

That was new.

At this point, it’s probably worth saying again: no, [y/n] and Fred Weasley were not friends. Or, at least, they hadn’t been when the school year started. Now… well, now it was harder to define what they were.

Fred was popular — the kind of boy everyone knew, or at least recognised by reputation. [y/n] had known who he was long before he ever looked in her direction. But apparently, he had known her silhouette from across the Great Hall for some time now.

It was a Saturday in Hogsmeade. Normally, [y/n] didn’t care much for the trip — not since third year when the novelty wore off. But now, with N.E.W.Ts looming and her Hogwarts days numbered, every corridor and crooked alley seemed to shine a little brighter. Like the whole place knew it was her last chance to love it properly.

That morning, she’d gone with Ursula. Samara had mysteriously vanished with vague talk of “plans” and “being mysterious,” which usually meant snogging someone behind Honeydukes. So it was just the two of them, arms full of sugar quills and chocolate frogs, wandering toward the joke shop.

Zonko’s was packed, as usual. Not that she or Ursula had any business there — they weren’t exactly prank-pulling types. But there was something oddly comforting about wandering the aisles and pretending to care about exploding sweets or belching powder. Like it was part of the Hogwarts package, and skipping it now would be sacrilege.

Besides, the place was warm, smelled like cinnamon and fireworks, and Ursula was dragging her by the wrist with the determination of someone on a mission.

“Just five minutes,” Ursula had said, which of course meant until one of them got distracted or bumped into someone embarrassing.

It turned out to be both.

Without quite realising, [y/n] found herself gently steered toward the shelves of potions, where the bottles gleamed like promises and mistakes. There were the usual suspects — Nosebleed Nougat, Perpetual Itch Powder, and, of course, the potions: brightly coloured, questionably legal, and temptingly labelled with things like Instant Obsession or Regret in a Vial.

She picked up the Hate Potion and raised an eyebrow. “Side effects may include irritability, brooding, and chronic eyeliner use,” she read.

Then came the Love Potion, all glimmer and pink swirls. She turned it in her hands, inspecting the label. People always went on about magical benefits, but no one ever mentioned what happened if you were allergic. Or if the magic decided it wanted something back.

She was just about to put it back when—

“Feeling desperate, [y/n]?”

The voice was a smirk wearing a human costume. She didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

She very nearly groaned. Or broke the bottle. Or both.

“Oh, hi, Fred!” Ursula greeted the redhead with a friendly grin. [y/n] couldn’t say the same.

“Hello, Weasley.”

“Looking for a good potion, girls?” he asked, lounging like he owned the place. Which, judging by the amount of stuff he probably bought there over the years, he might as well have.

“Not really,” Ursula replied, abandoning the potion she’d been fiddling with. “But hey — you’d know. Where do they keep the plush puffskeins now? You’re basically their number one customer.”

Fred looked mildly offended, but only for dramatic effect. “Near the back, between the dancing fangs and the hiccup powder.”

With a wink, Ursula left, no hesitation, clearly happy to abandon her friend and go off searching for adorable, overpriced puffskeins.

As soon as she was out of earshot, [y/n] turned to him, arms folded, eyebrow raised in amusement. “And you? What are you looking for, exactly?”

Fred grinned, the corners of his mouth curling up like he’d just thought of something outrageous.

“Always looking for trouble,” he said smoothly, like it was a well-practised line. “But when I spotted you here, I stopped looking. Thought I’d found something better. Also… I’ve got another joke.”

[y/n] sighed theatrically but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “Go on, then. Let’s get it over with.”

She had learned early on that resistance was futile. One look at his ridiculous, lopsided grin—his puppy-that-fell-out-of-a-moving-cart face—and any no would crumple into a yes before it even left her mouth.

Fred cleared his throat with the gravity of a performer about to hit the punchline.

“Are your legs tired?”

She blinked. That one caught her off guard.

“A little, actually,” she answered honestly, forgetting that she was being set up. “But I haven’t had nearly enough of Hogsmeade yet. I’ll be walking loads today.”

His eyes gleamed with mischief as he quickly adjusted course. “Well, if they do get tired, let me know,” he said, tone low and maddeningly cheeky. “Because as long as I’ve got a face, you can always sit on it.”

For a split second, silence hung in the air like a suspended spell—and then [y/n] absolutely lost it.

A laugh burst out of her so violently that she doubled over, one hand clutching her stomach, the other grasping the shelf for support. It wasn’t a dainty chuckle; it was a full-bodied, gasp-for-air, shoulder-shaking sort of laugh—the kind that turned heads and drew stares.

Fred stood there, blinking, slightly stunned. He’d told a hundred of these lines—maybe more—and, typically, he got groans, eye-rolls, or in the case of his brother George, outright heckling. But laughter? Real, honest, undignified laughter?

That was new.

And she wasn’t laughing with the joke—she was laughing at it. At him. And oddly, instead of feeling mortified… he felt rather proud.

He started laughing too.

“You—where—where do you find these?” she gasped, wiping her eyes.

Fred lifted both hands. “I admit nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes, still grinning. “You definitely read them somewhere. Come on. Spill.”

He hesitated. His ears went red.

“Fred,” she said warningly, “if you don’t tell me, I’ll assume it’s your own original material. And then I will cry.”

He winced. “Fine. I found a book.”

“You should write to the author and let them know they’re a menace to society.” She leaned against the shelf, catching her breath. “Good Merlin, Weasley. That was absurd. Completely mental. What’s the name of the book?”

Fred’s laugh faltered. His throat clicked audibly as he swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed like it was trying to escape. His cheeks flushed so deeply they were nearly the same shade as his hair.

“What’s the name?” she repeated, still giggling, not yet clocking the shift in his expression.

He exhaled slowly. “101 Pick-Up Lines for People Who Like to Laugh,” he said. And then, after a pause: “…Over the Age of 18.”

Oh.

[y/n] straightened ever so slightly, eyebrows lifting. She tried very hard not to read too much into the title.

“Well, they won’t make anyone laugh,” she said, aiming for casual but not quite pulling it off. “Besides, who’s meant to enjoy the laughing—the one telling the joke or the poor soul forced to hear it?”

Fred’s smile faltered slightly. The pink in his cheeks began to fade as he studied her expression, looking for any hint of mockery. But she was still cordial, still calm, still… kind. Which, somehow, worsened it.

“We should all enjoy laughing,” he replied, voice a bit more serious now, less performative. “I suppose it’s for the one who reads the joke, right?” His shoulders dropped a fraction, relaxing into the moment.

“I haven’t got a clue. You’re the one with the book,” she replied. Then, after a pause, she smiled—not wide, not teasing, but something soft, something that barely touched the corners of her mouth and still said everything. “Though… I must admit, I ended up laughing.”

“At me,” Fred said quickly, a little too quickly, his voice jumping an octave higher with defensiveness. “Not at the joke.”

It should’ve stung. But somehow, it didn’t.

Around them, Zonko’s remained its usual mess of spinning trinkets and prank-infused chaos, but for a heartbeat—or maybe a little longer—it all blurred into the background. It was just two nearly grown kids standing far too close in a shop they’d probably never browse together again.

“Hm.” She tilted her head slightly, a tone light but final. “I should go rescue Ursula before she marries a puffskein.”

“Already too late,” Fred said, following her gaze toward the back of the shop. “She’s registered three of them under her last name. Ceremony’s at noon.”

“Oh no,” [y/n] giggled, lingering just a second longer than necessary. Then she nodded once, like she’d decided something, and turned to leave. “See you around, Weasley.”

And just like that, she was off, disappearing between shelves of enchanted stink pellets and screaming yo-yos. Fred stood there a moment longer, staring at the spot she’d been, one hand fiddling with the edge of his sleeve.

He still had the book in his pocket. But suddenly, it didn’t feel all that useful any more.

It wasn’t exactly warm, but after what felt like endless days of snow, the sun had finally come out to make a bit of an appearance. Most students with free classes had migrated to the fields surrounding the school, especially the clock tower courtyard. [y/n] was one of them, basking in the rare moment of sunshine.

She sat alone, her body stretched out on a multicolored, plaid towel she’d thrown onto the grass, eyes shut against the harsh brightness of the sun. She was perfectly content, just listening to the distant chatter of students and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees.

Then, unexpectedly, she felt the familiar weight of someone sitting down on her towel, the fabric shifting beneath her. The change in balance was subtle, but unmistakable. She knew exactly who it was, even with her eyes still closed.

“Hot day?” His voice—deep, casual, and annoyingly charming—cut through the ambient noise.

[y/n] opened just one eye, peeking up at Fred Weasley, who was grinning like he knew something she didn’t.

“Not as hot as you?” she shot back, the words practically tumbling out, expecting yet another one of his ridiculous jokes.

Fred’s smile widened, and he gave a small, pleased nod. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

She smirked and closed the eye she had opened. “You’re rubbing off on me.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she realized what she’d said, and it made her laugh—a quiet, breathy giggle that only came out as a puff of air through her nose. If only the Professors could hear them now…

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the kind where you didn’t have to say anything to enjoy the company. The sun bathed them both in a warm glow, the sound of students and distant laughter creating a peaceful backdrop. [y/n] kept her eyes closed, but she could hear his calm breathing beside her, steady and unhurried.

“No jokes for me today?” she broke the silence, her voice low and teasing.

Fred shifted on the towel, his legs readjusting as he stretched out a bit more. She cracked open her eyes just in time to see him lay down, his head resting on the towel, even though she herself wasn’t with her head down.

“I donated the book to my brother,” he said, almost offhandedly.

“George?” she asked, the first Weasley name that popped into her head.

“Ron, actually,” he corrected, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I think he’ll need it.”

“Is your little brother an aspiring comedian?” [y/n] couldn’t help but ask, eyebrow raised in curiosity.

Fred laughed, the sound rich and warm.

“No,” he said, the word almost too ridiculous to be taken seriously.

“Then what’s he going to need it for?” she continued, genuinely curious now. “To embarrass himself?”

Fred chuckled again, the laugh almost surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting her to know so much about the Weasley family. “He doesn’t need any help with that department,” Fred replied, still laughing softly.

“So what’s he going to do with this classic piece of wizarding literature?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Fred gave a nonchalant shrug, but she could tell he was amused by her genuine, almost naive curiosity.

Since her question had gone unanswered, [y/n] let it drift away and decided to test another current instead.

“I heard you and your twin want to start your own joke shop,” she said lightly, as if it didn’t matter either way. “Is that true?”

Fred turned his head to look at her. The sunlight caught in his lashes. “We hope so,” he replied, at last. “I don’t really think of us as academics, you know?”

“But you guys are smart,” she said, the words escaping before she could think twice. The moment they left her lips, she regretted it—not because they weren’t true, but because she already knew what he’d say next.

“How’d you know?”

Right on cue.

She bit the inside corner of her mouth, cornered by her honesty. “Well, we’re partners in most subjects and… you catch up. That’s more than most.”

“We don’t get good grades, though,” Fred tilted his head slightly, brow raised.

“Right,” she nodded. “But grades aren’t everything.”

“They are to you,” he said, gently—not accusing, just perceptive.

She paused, drawing in a long breath, then letting it out slowly.

“No, not really,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “I thought they were, or maybe I just wanted them to be. Now…” She trailed off, searching for the right words. “Now, I wish I knew what I wanted to do with my life, like you and George.”

Fred didn’t interrupt.

“I’m just lost,” she said finally, pressing her lips together in a tight line before looking back up at the sky.

Fred didn’t offer a solution. He just lay there beside her on the chequered towel, quiet. The sun warmed her skin, but it was the closeness of him—his steady presence, the quiet understanding in his eyes—that made her feel less like she was drifting.

After a long moment, he spoke. “If it helps… even with a plan, everything still feels uncertain. We’re just pretending we know what we’re doing.”

She turned her head, finally meeting his eyes again. “You’re pretending?”

“All the time,” he said with a lopsided smile. “I just happen to be superb at it.”

She smiled—small, but real. It crept up slowly, tugging at her lips before she could stop it. And that was simply it. There was no need to say more.

Still, rather than let it drift too far into the future category (an area she wasn’t ready to unpack on a weekday afternoon), she nudged him playfully with her shoulder and asked, “Don’t you have any other jokes for me? I know you can conjure one with your mind.”

He turned his head toward the clouds again, lips twitching, voice mock-thoughtful. “Actually… you just made me remember one.”

“Please, go ahead,” she said, laying her head on the towel as well, next to his.

Honestly, she couldn’t believe she was the one begging for a Fred Weasley joke. Of all the things she thought she’d become by seventh year, “enthusiastic dirty-joke-enabler” hadn’t made the list.

“Do you have telekinetic powers?” he asked, his tone casual—too casual.

[y/n] narrowed her eyes suspiciously and turned her head to look at him. Fred turned toward her too, face close enough that she could see the faint freckles across his nose and the sunlight catching in his lashes. He looked like he was on the edge of laughing—and maybe on the edge of bailing out.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” he chuckled nervously.

“What? No! Come on!” [y/n] opened her mouth. “I’m curious now!”

He exhaled in surrender, still chuckling. “Just remember—you asked for it.”

“Go on,” she nodded solemnly.

Fred cleared his throat like a performer warming up for a very questionable debut.

“Because you just lifted one of my body parts without touching it.”

There was a full second of silence—then she gasped in outrage.

“NO!” [y/n] shoved him hard in the arm—hm, strong forearm, her brain noted—and scrambled back an inch on the towel, looking both mortified and scandalised. “Fred Weasley! We’re lying next to each other in public! That’s absolutely foul!”

Fred doubled over in laughter, clutching his stomach. “You asked for it!”

“I was expecting a pun!” she wailed, face red, but her eyes sparkled. “A clever pun, not—you know—perversion!”

He was still laughing, and she was too, despite herself.

She flopped back down with a groan, shielding her face with her arm. “I can’t believe I encouraged you.”

He peeked at her from the side. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m scarred,” she corrected.

“You’re grinning.”

“Only because I’m plotting revenge.”

Fred grinned at the sky again, satisfied. “That’s fair.”

The sun was still bright overhead, but the moment between them felt quieter now, the kind of quiet that comes when two people have laughed a little too loudly and are left with only the warmth of each other’s presence.

Neither of them said anything else. But neither of them moved.

And maybe that said more than anything ever could.

It was Quidditch match day again. The air buzzed with anticipation, banners flapped wildly in the wind, and students filled the stands in their house colours. However, that day there was no one orchestrating the underground betting ring or smugly redistributing galleons post-match. That was because the Weasley twins were both on the pitch, flying high on their broomsticks, darting through the air as they desperately tried to block Bludgers coming from all directions.

And somehow, despite knowing absolutely nothing about sports, [y/n] found herself once again in the stands, right in the thick of it.

“You’re drooling,” Ursula said dryly beside her, clearly enjoying herself. She was now very well-versed in her friend’s current obsession—mainly because [y/n] wouldn’t shut up about it.

“Piss off,” [y/n] replied without looking away from the field, showing a finger at her friend. Her eyes were locked on Fred, who had just zoomed across the pitch to block a Bludger headed straight for Harry Potter.

Gryffindor won—of course they did. Half the school seemed to be rooting for them. The crowd exploded into cheers as Harry caught the Snitch, and the players landed, brooms now in hand rather than between their legs. [y/n] left the stands, suddenly unsure what to do with herself.

Why was she going down there? Why was she following the surge of students onto the pitch like a Quidditch groupie?

Because she had a reason. Sort of.

Blending in with the crowd, she made her way closer, dodging hugs, backslaps, and the odd flying elbow. Fred was laughing, flushed from the match, surrounded by fans and teammates—but even in the sea of people, his eyes flicked toward her like he’d been expecting it.

When the crowd finally began to thin out, she jumped in front of him with a grin that could only mean trouble.

“I’ve got a joke for you,” she said, eyes sparkling.

Fred raised an eyebrow, grinning like a boy who’d just been handed a gift he wasn’t sure he deserved. “Oh, yeah?”

She nodded, taking a breath like she was about to cast a complicated spell.

“Do you know if I could become a broom?” she asked innocently, though the corners of her mouth were already twitching.

He tilted his head, very parrot-like. “Er… can’t say I do.”

“Because I’d love to stay between your legs for an hour or two.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she burst into laughter—half from nerves, half from sheer pride in herself. Her hand flew to her face as a blush bloomed furiously across her cheeks.

Fred blinked, clearly caught off guard. And then—he roared with laughter, clutching his side like she’d physically winded him.

“Bloody hell!” he wheezed between breaths. “You did not just say that!”

She turned away in mock shame, still giggling.

He leaned closer, voice low and full of that wicked, teasing tone she’d come to know too well. “If that was your way of joking, you just put every line I’ve ever used to shame.”

She peeked at him through her fingers. “Yeah, well. I learn from the best.”

Fred grinned, eyes crinkling. “I’ll need a full recovery before I can match that energy. Give me a day or two. Or three.”

“Or forever,” she said, rolling her eyes, though her smile stayed stubbornly in place.

Their gazes lingered a second too long.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile held stubbornly, like it didn’t care if it gave everything away.

Their gazes lingered—just a moment too long to be casual. Just long enough to feel like something was changing. Around them, the pitch still buzzed with leftover chaos—shouts, chants, streamers tangled in the breeze. But in the bubble of that glance, it all faded into the background.

“Oi! Kiss already!” George shouted from a few metres away, his voice booming over the noise and absolutely on brand.

The remaining players and fans burst into laughter.

And just like that, [y/n] folded inward, embarrassment blooming red-hot across her face. Without thinking, she ducked into Fred’s chest, hiding herself from the entire universe. He smelled like cut grass, sweat, and something oddly warm, like worn cotton and adrenaline. And weirdly… she didn’t mind. She didn’t pull away.

Fred didn’t flinch or tease—he just wrapped his arms around her and let her hide there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Dumbass,” Fred muttered fondly, patting his twin on the head as George passed by, clearly proud of the chaos he’d caused.

Then Fred lowered his voice, leaning just enough for her to hear over the fading noise.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

She turned her head, cheek pulling away from his chest just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes were sincere, still glinting with laughter, but quiet now. Waiting.

“Blimey, yes, please,” she breathed, a nervous giggle escaping her lips, fluttering like trapped butterflies.

Fred steered her through the thinning crowd with an easy confidence. His left hand clasped hers firmly, and before they knew it, they’d gone from a gentle stroll to a proper dash, legs pumping like they were kids again. Giggles bubbled up between them, that daft, happy sound only teenagers – or those utterly smitten – could manage.

Breathless and flushed, they found themselves a good distance from the echoing cheers of the Quidditch pitch. [y/n] watched, a touch of wonder in her eyes, as Fred’s gaze swept around, his mind clearly flicking through mental blueprints. He’d located a hidden area, a spot promising that much-desired privacy. And it had almost all four walls; one side was more of a charming archway. Still, it would absolutely do.

But it would serve the purpose of the moment.

Another tug on her hand – barely a moment of looseness this time – and he was guiding her towards the nook he knew from the legendary Marauder's Map (a perk from his less-than-angelic youth). Without so much as “Can I?” — as if he needed it at that point — he released her hand to cup her face, both palms warm against her skin, tilting her chin up to bridge their height difference.

A proper Weasley grin was playing on his lips as he finally leaned in for a kiss. [y/n] vaguely registered the fact that she was probably grinning herself, but that thought quickly faded into the background noise of pure sensation. The taste of him, the sheer pleasure of their lips meeting, the soft brush of his breath against her cheek. His lips, surprisingly cool at first, were then incredibly sweet, like a lick of Honeydukes best. Little details started to bloom in her awareness: the way she had to lean up slightly, the gentle caress of his fingers moving from her cheek to her nape, then tangling in her hair.

Given Fred’s reputation as the school’s prankster, this wasn’t exactly the snog she’d mentally rehearsed. Not that it was a bad thing, not at all! It was brilliant, actually, the kind of kiss that surely had fireworks popping off somewhere unseen. And judging by the way neither of them could stay away for more than a snatched breath, both were in complete agreement. They kept coming back for more, a silent conversation of lips and tongues.

Truth be told, his repertoire of dodgy jokes had led [y/n] to expect something a bit more… naughty. A bit spicier. This kiss, however, was pure, unadulterated romance, worthy of a movie — but a PG-rated one.

After so many dirty jokes, it was a bit of a surprise.

But she wasn’t about to complain. Not one bit. She simply melted into him, her hands finding a comfortable spot on his shoulders, fingers twirling through the glorious, untamed mess of his red hair.

Time seemed to blur and fade. Dear reader, between us, it was a good half an hour. They kept pulling each other in, with a proper longing hung in the air, a silent yearning for something more than just a kiss. Cor blimey.

Eventually, though, the moment had to wind down, and they found themselves chuckling again, like a pair of right idiots. And that was sort of it. For that day.

Perched on her bed, [y/n] was doing her best to hide the monumental disappointment bubbling inside as she answered Ursula’s interrogation.

“And how long has it been, exactly?” Ursula asked, referring to how many days had passed since the kiss [y/n] and Fred Weasley shared.

“Four days,” [y/n] replied, perhaps a tad too quickly. “Give or take,” she added, attempting a casualness that felt about as convincing as a Niffler denying a magpie.

As if she hadn’t been counting the hours, marking them off on an invisible calendar.

“Hm,” Ursula pursed her lips, stretching them out. “A bit of a long time, that,” she declared, sounding like a right scientist analysing a particularly baffling test tube.

“A long time!” [y/n] exclaimed, indignation momentarily overriding her attempts at nonchalance. Then, she bared her teeth in a grimace that was more “agggh” than a smile, before returning to her best uncaring expression. “Not that I'm bothered, mind you.”

“You have nothing,” Ursula observed, like a post-it reminder.

“We have nothing,”[y/n] echoed, confirming the dire situation.

“Still, you’d think he'd have said something,” Ursula mused, tilting her head. “Has he even spoken to you?”

The question sent another wave of frustration through [y/n], who mentally flicked through the last few days, desperately searching for any sign of Fred acknowledging her existence beyond the bare minimum in their shared classes.

“He did… sort of. He went a bit like this,” she demonstrated, raising her eyebrows and giving a sort of half-hearted upturn of the lips that barely qualified as a smile. It wasn’t a great impression of Fred, admittedly, but it conveyed his lack of effort. “And then he said, ‘What up?’ Who says that?”

Ursula, witnessing her friend's building fury, had to agree, it was a bit rubbish.

“No cheeky jokes?”

“Not a single one,” [y/n] confirmed, her tone still laced with disbelief.

“Shocking,” Ursula declared, shaking her head in mock disapproval.

Defeated, [y/n] flopped back onto the bed, sinking into the mattress.

“You were just another conquest,” Ursula offered, her tone taking on a slightly mournful note.

“Just another…” [y/n] started to agree, to wallow in the disappointment, but then she stopped herself.

She refused to let Fred Weasley off scot-free. If he’d wanted her to fall for him, well, now he had a girl properly smitten, and he’d better deal with it. Because if not, Merlin’s beard…

“This is not how it’s going to be,” [y/n] announced, suddenly leaping out of bed with a newfound determination. It was nearly eleven at night; everyone should be tucked up in bed (or at least pretending to be for curfew).

“What are you going to do?” Ursula asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

“I’m going to get what he owes me,” the girl stated, her eyes gleaming with purpose.

“And what exactly does he owe you?” Ursula asked, thoroughly bewildered, as if she’d missed a crucial plot twist. [y/n]’s sudden change of mood had left her slightly behind.

[y/n]’s expression hardened. “A punchline.”

It was not some sudden descent into full-blown stalker territory that had [y/n] knowing Fred’s whereabouts, mind you. Absolutely not. In fact, the cheeky git himself had let slip, the day before that disastrous Quidditch match that led to all this kerfuffle, that every Wednesday night he and his twin would sneak off to Hogsmeade.

“Where d’you reckon we get half our brilliant prank ingredients from?” he’d grinned, that familiar Weasley smirk plastered across his face. Zonko’s, naturally.

Well, now the tables had turned, hadn’t they?

Being a seventh-year, [y/n] and plenty of others were clued in on the secret passage to Hogsmeade. Still,[y/n] hadn’t exactly been using the clandestine route, not even for a bit of off-season shopping. But Fred must have been on his way back from the village just as she was legging it down the stairs and along the corridors to intercept him.

Reaching the hidden entrance, [y/n] stopped just shy of it, bathed in the rather dramatic light of a solitary chandelier halfway down the corridor.

She looked almost spectral, despite the fact her night robe was a rather fetching shade somewhere between purple and wine. A proper nightgown it was, tied snugly just under her bust. Not exactly see-through, but light enough. Still, no need to fret on that front, as she had her trusty pajama shorts and vest top underneath.

Leaning against the cool stone wall, she waited, patience wearing thin. Just as she was about to give up, she heard muffled noises, and her heart gave a little flutter. Did she actually have the nerve to go through with this?

Swallowing hard, she held her breath until he and his brother emerged from the passage, chuckling away with bags in their hands and that unmistakable waft of butterbeer clinging to them.

“Want to hear a joke, Weasley?” she called out, perhaps a tad too theatrically.

There were two Weasleys, however, both looking utterly bewildered at the ghostly figure illuminated in the dim light.

“Fred Weasley,” she clarified, clearing her throat and making it crystal clear which ginger menace she was after.

George didn’t hesitate for a second. He swiftly relieved Fred of the bags he was carrying and scarpered, a look on his face that suggested he either knew exactly what was going on — or at least, would soon understand; Fred would certainly tell him later. [y/n] could have sworn she even saw the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.

And then George was gone, vanishing with surprising speed, that [y/n] felt hazardous. But Fred, the remaining Weasley, didn’t look scared. More…confused.

He didn’t look guilty, either.

“Well,” he said, voice low and slightly hoarse, like he’d forgotten how to use it. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He took one cautious step in her direction — but there were still a solid five feet between them. A deliberate distance. “I want to hear the joke.”

[y/n], who was still mentally processing George’s Olympic-level retreat, blinked at him.

“Go on,” Fred coaxed. “Tell it.”

She didn't actually have a joke thoroughly prepared, not one bit. She was going to have to pull one out of thin air, cobble something together from the chaos in her brain because she refused to look like an idiot.

“Are you my homework?” she asked, miraculously managing to keep her voice steady.

Fred raised a single brow — and not the amused kind.

And suddenly, she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He didn’t look amused. He didn’t look irritated. Fred just looked tired. Not the kind of tired that came from sneaking around with your twin in the middle of the night — no, this was deeper.

Realising this, she took a deep breath, all hope draining away. Resigned to her fate, she delivered the punchline, ready to turn tail and run:

“Because I should definitely be doing you.”

But she didn’t run.

Couldn’t. Not with his eyes on hers like that — fixed and unreadable, and yet… He wanted to laugh! Oh, it was written all over him: the way his mouth twitched at the corners, the faint scrunch of his nose, like he was physically restraining the chuckle. And yet — he didn’t.

And that’s what got her. That right there. The rational part.

Why was he being rational?

“What?” she asked, blinking, part bewildered, part boiling. “Say something, for Merlin’s sake.”

Still, he said nothing. He looked just as dazed as he had when he’d first spotted her in the corridor.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, a smile curling bitterly at her lips. “Leave me hanging, Weasley. Snog me in the middle of nowhere and then act like it was some shared hallucination.”

She laughed — sharply, dryly — and then, to her horror, kept going. “Better yet, don’t talk to me at all. I’ll do the honours for you, yeah?” She mimicked his voice — that low, cheeky drawl he used in the back of Potions class. “What up?”

She took a step toward him. Then another. Neither of them noticed the space between them shrinking — there was too much tension fizzing in the air, humming like a misfired spell.

Fred stuffed his hand into his front pocket — a small, nervous gesture she might’ve missed if she weren’t watching him like he held all the answers to her unfinished diary entries.

“I’ll tell you what’s up, Fred Weasley,” she declared, jabbing a finger in his direction with each word like she was reciting a particularly aggressive haiku. “I need to know where we went wrong. Was I just another name on the list? Another laugh between broomsticks?” She inhaled sharply. “If so, fine. Not ideal, but fine. I can handle that. But if you’re ignoring me because—”

Don’t say it, her brain whispered.

“Because I’m a terrible kisser,” she pushed on, her voice wobbling only a little, “then just tell me. Honestly. That’s all I’m asking for. I mean, if you were a terrible kisser, I’d have said something. Kindly, obviously. Maybe even offered a second chance. For improvement purposes.”

She was rambling now, properly spiralling, but she didn’t want to dare give him a chance to speak.

“If my kiss didn’t set off your fireworks — pun intended — then fine. I’ll resume my day, quietly and gracefully. But, you know, we could keep with the dirty jokes, they are relatively funny, they’ve grown on me — pun not intended — and I…”

She trailed off only when she saw it — the tilt of his eyes, the almost-smile.

It wasn’t full-blown, not quite. But it was there, hovering.

Mouth still half-open, [y/n] froze like the sentence hadn’t quite finished leaving her lips. She glanced from Fred to the room, as if retracing her steps, searching for something she’d missed.

“You talk too much, you know that?” Fred said casually, hand still buried in his pocket.

She frowned. “I didn’t use to.”

That earned a real smile from him — quick, unguarded, boyish.

“No, you didn’t,” he agreed. “But then some genius professor had the bright idea of sitting the quiet ones next to the troublemakers. You know, to ‘balance each other out’.” He chuckled under his breath, gaze flicking away. “Seems it worked.”

“Oh, it did,” she shot back. “Now I’m the one who won’t shut up, and you’re quiet as a—”

“Uhm,” his brows perked up. “I think there was a joke in that book about flies.”

“What was it like?” she asked curiously, then scolded herself, scowling. “Well, I don’t want to know it,” she snapped. “Stop deflecting! Are you going to answer any of my actual questions?”

“They were more like wild guesses,” he said, smirking.

He had that look — smug, maddeningly attractive, and about five seconds from saying something entirely inappropriate.

“Stop smiling like that,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “Honestly. It’s infuriating.”

“I’ll be serious then,” he said, drawing in a breath. And he was — all the mischief softened, replaced by something sincere.

“I didn’t like kissing you,” he paused. Dramatically. “I loved it.”

She blinked.

“But then,” he continued, “I got scared. Because the thoughts running through my head — during and after that kiss — were… a bit intense. And frankly, they’d been lurking long before we even kissed. Since the moment you laughed at one of my ridiculous pickup lines, something… grew.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“Pun very much intended,” he informed, just like she had, before. Then he went on, “The lust definitely grew — along with, well… other things.”

Her eyes widened, and she asked, with a kind of horrified curiosity, “During the kiss?”

Fred had the nerve to grin, cheeks turning a shade of pink. “Also right now.”

“But we’re fighting…”

He leaned in slightly. “And I’ve never seen you look so hot.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he said, deadpan. “It’s making me want to keep arguing.”

“But I still don’t get it,” she pressed, exasperated. “And no, I’m not dragging this out for vanity’s sake, to keep looking hot. I genuinely hope to understand. If you were so… enthusiastic about me”—she waved vaguely toward his trousers—“then why did you ghost me?”

Fred let out a strange sort of laugh — rough and awkward, like it scraped up the back of his throat on the way out. He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, his face softening like he was about to deliver news of a lost pet.

“Because you’re a virgin,” he said, voice full of tragic respect. He even tilted his head forward a bit, as though observing a moment of silence. “I was trying to be decent. Give you time.”

She stared at his hand. Then at his pitying, chaste little face.

And burst out laughing. Not a giggle — a full-on guffaw that echoed off the stone corridor, wild and unstoppable.

“I’m not a—” she tried, choking on a sob of laughter.

Fred looked wounded.

“I’m not a virgin, you absolute melon,” she wheezed, wiping at her eyes, still grinning like mad.

“But…” his eyebrows crashed together. “You blush every time I make a more sexual joke.”

“Yes, because you say those things in class,” she snapped, still giggling. “With Professor Flitwick like two feet away.”

“Oh,” he said, blinking.

They stood in silence for a moment. [y/n] was catching her breath from laughing so hard, while Fred was… well, recovering whatever shred of ego he had left — after all, he’d called her a virgin when she wasn’t, and had apparently sworn himself to celibacy for no reason at all.

The castle stayed quiet, but the air had turned colder as the hour crept on.

“So,” she finally said, relaxing her shoulders, her voice calmer now, almost casual, “was that kiss of yours the PG version?”

Fred looked at her, head tilted.

“What would you have done,” she went on, “if you’d known I wasn’t… chaste?”

He didn’t quite smile, but something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Memory? Something just shy of dangerous.

“Why do you want to know?”

She gave a little shrug. “I don’t think I hate you anymore. Not now that things are cleared up — the confusion, the vanishing act, the… sexual urges.”

“I never explained my sexual urges to you,” he said, frowning slightly.

“Oh no?” she asked, dragging one finger in a casual path over his chest, then up his neck. Half-pointing, half-caressing. “So what was that Chamber of Secrets line about, then?”

He bit back a chuckle. “I don’t want to fuck you in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“That wasn’t the line,” she smirked. “You said you wanted to sneak in and crawl to me.”

“It wasn’t crawling either,” he stepped closer — close enough now that he had to tilt his head all the way down to meet her eyes.

“You're giving me a hard time, Fred Weasley,” she said, narrowing her eyes playfully. “What’s a girl gotta do around here to earn a big reward?”

He exhaled slowly, as if the words had physically affected him.

“I think you’ve had enough puns for one night.”

She smiled — slow and wicked.

“Oh, but you know what I haven’t had enough of yet?”

Fred’s eyes searched hers, scanning for any sign of hesitation. There was none.

The half-light made her look ethereal — like she belonged to this strange hour of the castle, somewhere between dream and trouble. Her lips were parted, breath shallow but certain. Fred brought one hand to her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheek like he was memorizing the shape of her. Then, slower still, he dipped his head.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It didn’t slam into her like the last time, like something impatient. It unfolded. A murmur of heat passed between their lips as they met, warm and unhurried, the kind of kiss that asked, Are you sure? and answered, Yes, I am.

His other hand came to rest on her waist, drawing her into him. She responded with fingers curling into his shirt, tugging slightly — asking for more. Their bodies fell into place as if they'd done this a hundred times before. As if they were always meant to fit this way.

Fred pulled back for a breath, their foreheads touching. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her like she was the beginning of a very good secret. And then he kissed her again — deeper this time, more urgent. His hands were moving now, one threading into her hair, the other pressing her closer until there was no air between them, just heat and want and years of almosts.

She gasped against his mouth when he backed her into the cold stone wall, and he laughed softly — not mocking, just amazed.

“I really didn’t plan to kiss you against a wall,” he whispered.

She tugged him forward by the collar. “Shut up, Weasley.”

They kissed again, and again, the world shrinking to the echo of their breaths in the corridor. She felt his fingertips graze beneath the hem of her shirt, just a brush, not daring more than the skin at her waist. But it made her shiver all the same. And Fred noticed.

“You’re cold,” he murmured against her lips.

“No,” she replied. “I’m on fire.”

He smiled, eyes half-lidded. “Good.”

They stayed pressed together like that for a while, as the castle held its breath around them — two people caught between recklessness and reverence, between the thrill of wanting and the sweetness of being wanted back.

#Fred Weasley #Fred Weasley fic #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x y/n #harry potter universe #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley imagine #harry potter universe fic #hp fanfic #hp fred weasley

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stellocchia · 4 months ago

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The problem with ColorKiller becoming more popular is that now everyone is showing them as soft and healthy when Killer has no capacity for that kind of relationship. Ugh

I profoundly dislike this kind of anti-recovery sentiment.

I'm assuming that the reason why you think Killer cannot be in healthy relationships is because of his history of being an abuse victim. Which... Sure is a take. Not a good one though.

I definitely do think it would take time for Color and Killer to get to a healthy point. Mainly because, yes, Killer's ideas of how to interact with others are based on his relationships with Chara, with Nightmare, and with his cats (with the latter being the only healthy one). So I don't doubt that he would be testing limits, pushing boundaries, and probably become unhealthily dependent on Color at the very least at the start (although I do think Color would be enforcing boundaries and doing his best to prevent that. And, when he fails to, he has a ton of friends right there to support him. Delta, Epic, the whole Abyss Team. They love him and they'd be there for him and Killer).

It also will take time for Killer before he's able to stop using violence as a crutch to deal with his boredom. Especially since that was pretty much the only coping mechanism he was allowed for the longest time. Likely years.

So yeah, things wouldn't immediately be sunshine and rainbows between him and Color.

However this is a relationship that has the potential to get there. And I don't think there is any problem with people wanting to focus on their healing, and their happiness instead of just beating Killer down further (plus there are both pieces of fanart as well as fanfictions that focus on the angst too, it's not like they don't exist). Sometimes people just wanna see their ship (be it romantic, platonic, queerplatonic, or something else entirely) be happy.

Lastly, my opinion on the "there isn't enough of this thing I like" kind of complaints will always be the same: if you used the time you use to complain to create something instead, this would no longer be so much of an issue. Draw, write, analyze, create and you'll see that fandom spaces become a lot more enjoyable.

#anon ask #utmv #killer sans #color sans #colorkiller #color spectrum duo #sans aus #undertale aus #sanshipping #relationship analysis #it really shows that I've taken my own advice to heart #nobody look at how many fic I've written #I promise I have a life #and a full-time job too #T-T

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drdemonprince · 6 months ago

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The word “vanilla” comes up a lot in your writing and it’s always with negative connotations.

I fully accept that my own reactions to it are my responsibility alone and no one is making me feel a certain way. But I do wonder if there are ways to have conversations around sexuality that don’t elevate one kind of sex over another in a demeaning way that make vanilla sex almost a running joke.

As someone with pretty severe sexual trauma history for me even having enjoyable vanilla sex is pushing boundaries. To actually be able to initiate, seek out and enjoy sex of any kind has been challenging.

The increased use and acceptance of vanilla as a derogatory term is unfortunate I think as it invalidates the experiences of many sa survivors and makes it feel like sex is only valid if it’s kinky.

In saying that having lots of friends in the kink/fet scene I know they’ve fought really hard to not have their sexual preferences demonized.

So I do understand.

I just wish my preferences weren’t always made out to be boring and dull, and thereby made me boring and dull.

This seems especially prevalent in queer spaces.

I think one of the biggest problems in how people conceive of diverse sexualities is by attempting to place all sex acts upon a single spectrum from "extremely kinky" to "tame." Under this framework, activities like PIV and oral are viewed as neutral precursors to the more racier and extreme forms of sex that a person must "work themselves up" to -- and this obscures that those supposedly neutral sexual activities can be both incredibly exciting to some, and downright disturbing and traumatizing to others.

I am also harmed by this and have written about it on this blog quite a lot.

Like you, I am harmed by the presumption that PIV, fingering, and oral are neutral sexual acts that are lower on the intensity spectrum than things like being slapped or choked. I find receiving oral to be far more intense, triggering, dysphoric, and disturbing than anything in the rape play/primal/dub con/intoxication/hypnosis realm that I enjoy -- because I like and want those things, and I do not want oral.

My problem with oral isn't that it's "boring." It's that it is fucking traumatic for me.

I also find completely un-kinky sex in general to be profoundly alienating and triggering in most instances.

I am harmed by the idea that PIV and oral are more benign, neutral forms of sex, just as you are.

I need language to articulate that the sex acts that most people view as the default are in fact alienating and disturbing to me *as a sexual assault survivor*. In fact, the most common form of sexual assault that I have experienced has been people forcing non-kinky sex on me that they assumed I had to be game for, since I liked the stuff on the more "intense" side of their imagined spectrum.

The cishet, nonkinky world has already created terminology for the views around sex that create these problems, and that's "vanilla." And so I use "no vanilla" to broadcast that I want absolutely nothing to do with anyone who holds that worldview.

I don't think expressing my boundaries (which people repeatedly and forcefully attempt to trample over in all sexual spaces, including kinky ones!) is me derogating people who do not share my kinks. I don't think I'm hurting anyone by rejecting the dominant viewpoint of society. And for what it's worth, I will reiterate again, I don't think people are boring for liking non-kinky sex.

I think that we all benefit from unpacking our assumptions surrounding what sex is or can be, and for many sexual assault survivors it is immensely healing to take pre-written societal expectations surrounding sex off the table.

It's not inherently kinky to reimagine what sexual pleasure might look like, I suppose, but anyone who is doing that kind of deep reflective and interpersonal work is already taking steps to liberate themselves from the cishet power structure that gave us the notion of obligatory "vanilla" sex.

I think that instead of feeling like the term "vanilla" is a thing that you have to defend, you might be better served by simply defending your own right to define your sexuality in whatever ways you choose.

People who are having weird hypnosis fantasy sex are not sneering at you for enjoying what you enjoy. We want you to be free and at ease in your body. What we're sneering at, when we criticize "vanilla," are the dictates that a person must have sex in a certain way, that some forms of sex are more neutral than others, and that we OWE sexual partners certain activities and sexual responses.

"Vanilla" sexual values and assumptions are the enemy of all sexual assault survivors. You don't have to be interested in any remotely freaky shit in order to benefit from us all collectively destroying the notion that certain forms of sex are the default that we owe to people. We ALL benefit from being able to reject the sex acts we do not like as loudly and proudly as we want.

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bebsi-cola · 2 months ago

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something i've been mulling over is the idea of the disabled that exists within the imagination of our cultural consciousness. i automatically wrote "disabled person" before i changed it. because the whole thing is that "the disabled" has been stripped of their personhood and dehumanised. i'm using polite language here but tbh the words for us that exist in people's minds are much less polite.

it seems to me like this. the disabled person exists as a disability first and foremost, and a person last, if at all. much how people conceptualise "the criminal" to strip basic rights away from any human given that designation, the disabled person isn't a person. they're "a cripple" or another slur. and within the social imagination, that class of person exists outside of regular society. like an underclass, they're deliberately excluded by physical and social means.

which comes to a very common thing that happens when you're disabled. because a "disabled" person has crossed some threshold in the minds of ableds that write them off as a lost cause, people end up downplaying someone's disability because they have some human aspect that warrants personhood (in the mind of the abled). this is how you get parents refusing to acknowledge the disability of their children, even if that disability is quite severe, because that child has always been a person first to them. it's why people respond to disability with things they think only persons (i.e. the non disabled individual) can manage to do. such as complete schooling, or talk really well, or hold down a job, being "smart" or even being nice. the concept of the disabled has been dehumanised to the point that subconsciously people are taking any acknowledgement of disability as a form of degradation. the same way fatphobic people will respond like you have insulted yourself for saying "i'm fat" (regardless of how factually true this might be), saying "i'm disabled" is seen like putting yourself down. even significant and severe disabilities or visibly signs of disability can get this treatment, where people are profoundly uncomfortable with acknowledging it in any meaningful way. a lot of disabled people misinterpret this behaviour to mean that qualifying as a "real" or "proper" disabled person within the mind of an abled will grant them some social capital, compassion, or help. when in fact the opposite happens: when you've passed the event horizon of disability and truly become "the cripple" in people's minds (or that other word i'm not saying) then you are facing a constant battle to be seen as a person, as human, as complex as anyone else with a rich inner world and meaning to their life.

#bebsi posting #disability #physically disabled #cripple punk #chronic illness #ableism #actually disabled

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daosies · 11 months ago

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how they love you

xavier, rafayel ♡ gn!reader

warnings: major xavier and rafayel story spoilers, reader is the protagonist from the game (but gender neutral), rafayel is his own warning (hes a bit of a freak)

notes: im writing this like i understand xavier and rafayels lore (i dont. all i did was read up on reddit and the wiki before going straight off the dome.)

"xavier," jeremiah calls incredulously, "you're staring."

"no, i'm not," xavier lies straight through his teeth. his periwinkle eyes trail after you like they're bound to you, held together by a red string that knots at his irises.

(maybe they are.)

xavier blinks, resting for but a moment before his gaze returns. it'll always return—xavier thinks he does a lot of that. return.

"at least try to pretend," jeremiah remarks, tender expression betraying his incredulous tone. despite the fact that xavier is loitering in philo, posing a hazard to the nearby flora with his intense aura, jeremiah can't bring himself to say anything more.

xavier is in love—but that's not right, jeremiah thinks. xavier has always been in love. he loved you back in philos, in all your incarnations and the ones thereafter. xavier loved you when you sparred against him, when you rose to the throne, and even when you suffered and while everyone was against you, he loved you then, too.

jeremiah supposes that it's only right that xavier loves you now. because xavier loves with his whole being, it's not just his eyes that follow after you, but rather, his existence.

xavier follows you despite the era, traveling centuries back and staying just to catch a glimpse of you, to glimmer, ever so slightly, in your incomparable radiance.

we could go back, jeremiah thinks, conjuring up the possibility despite his nerves telling him not to. we could go back to philos. the core within your heart holds infinite possibilities.

if xavier wanted to, he could obtain your aether core, and that would be enough to return to the future—where you still exist, sure, but more importantly (to jeremiah, at least), where philos exists.

("we will not kill them," xavier muttered darkly, "do not bring this topic up again. i will find another solution.")

(and that was where jeremiah went wrong. because to xavier, philos is nothing. you have always been the whole, vast universe. you are the most important thing in this life, and the many more thereafter; and to xavier, no future matters except the one you exist in now.)

so, he did. he tried, at least. xavier scoured the ruined earth for protocores that could mimic the same capabilities of yours. he lived through centuries on earth, fighting for existence despite knowing that the answer lied, as it always has been, in you.

when your incarnation appeared, jeremiah never once doubted xavier's judgement. while the other backtrackers under xavier's command went mad, trying to harvest your aether core to return to philos, xavier fought—but more than that, actually. xavier loved.

xavier loved, no, loves, so fervently, so profoundly, that he killed the backtrackers who had tried to harm you. you are not the same incarnation that he loved back in philos, but the fact that it's you is enough for xavier to rid all doubts.

and jeremiah thinks that, despite xavier's desperate intent to return back to philos, he wouldn't mind living here on earth with you now. jeremiah has noticed that the fervent expression his captain once wore has dwindled into something more mellow, into something tender.

something like the looks he'd send to you from afar, chasing you across school rooftops and coexisting in between the clashing of blades—xavier loves.

and love has made him content. and love has made him present, when he never was before. when all he could do, prior to your incarnation's existence, was think of returning to philos.

(how could he return to philos when you're right here?)

"[name]," jeremiah calls, feigning ignorance to the way xavier glares at him, the captain's tender expression suddenly dissipating into nothingness. ouch, jeremiah thinks, mouthing to xavier, "you don't have to make it that obvious you don't like me."

"yeah?" you reply, glancing up from the foliage. xavier reaches over the many shelves of flora—much to jeremiah's dismay—before parting them to get a good look at your face. xavier smiles. jeremiah's jaw drops.

"did you find something you liked? you said you had to get a bouquet for a friend, right?" jeremiah asks, egging xavier on.

"a friend?" xavier echoes, not even bothering to look at the florista behind him.

"oh, yeah! i'm choosing a bouquet for this one guy—" jeremiah sees the way xavier's expression goes blank, lips thinning into a line whilst his periwinkle eyes, somehow, manage to retain their enamored look.

ah, jeremiah realizes, it's 'cause captain is still looking at them. of course it is—why did he expect any other reason?

although xavier remains silent, jeremiah knows that the only thing running through the captain's mind is: guy, guy, guy?!

"a guy?" jeremiah queries, deciding to put xavier out of his misery.

"yeah. he worked with my grandma when she was younger, but i have to deliver it through one of my friends because he lives in the arctic..."

"that means he's old," jeremiah whispers, loud enough for only xavier to hear. the captain glances away.

at least try to hide that look of relief, jeremiah thinks incredulously. still, it's fun to see xavier like this: with his tense brows easing up, his thinned lips turning slightly upwards. when xavier loves, he does it with his whole being.

it's in the way he slips in between the aisles of flora in order to be next to you. in the way he carries the vases of flowers for you despite knowing you're perfectly capable of doing so yourself.

when xavier loves, it's evident in the way his cold, indigo eyes melt into hues made of periwinkle. it's in the way his touch, hardened by years of training, melts into something as light as a feather. it grazes past your face, brushing a stray leaf away.

"how much will it be, jeremiah?" you ask, preparing your coin pouch. jeremiah feels xavier's glare piercing his skin.

i know, i know! is all jeremiah thinks. "for free. don't worry about it!"

"huh? that can't be right... these are a lot of flowers, jeremiah."

"it's okay, [name]," xavier interjects, resting a hand over yours to prevent you from getting your money. "he owes me a favor, and i never buy flowers. so it's best used for your bouquet."

again, xavier lies fluidly through his teeth.

"are you sure...? you could buy a couple flowers, xavier! you know, to decorate your room?"

xavier shakes his head. "i'd forget to water them, probably."

liar, jeremiah thinks. for his own safety, he opts to keep his mouth shut, observing the situation with a suppressed smile.

xavier can't even be bothered to hide his infatuation—when he does so much as look at you, his world comes to a halt, his attention fixated wholly on you when usually it drifts off into wonderland.

when he does so much as hear you, or perceive you, or exist with you, xavier shrinks into nothing, permeating wholly into your skin, melting into your bones and becoming a part of you.

forget his title as captain, or lumiere, or crown prince—xavier becomes yours. and that's all he needs to be.

somehow, jeremiah thinks that xavier is more than just a lover.

he's love itself.

rafayel taps his foot impatiently. with his arms crossed, his gaze darts back and forth between the clock and the door, brows furrowing once he realizes you're nowhere to be seen.

"ugh, that bodyguard!" he cries to no one. "always making me wait for this and that.... puh-lease, like i care!"

rafayel turns around and starts heading into the art museum, lips curled into a pout whilst he glances occasionally over his shoulder. eventually, he stops, still trying to discreetly scope out the premises.

they're still not here?! is all he thinks, reaching for his phone with newfound passion. rafayel tries calling you a couple times, somehow getting more and more offended when you don't pick up.

he then resorts to spamming your texts, his phone flailing around in his hands from the onslaught of his madness.

"you think this is just a game, huh?!" rafayel texts. "fine, it is! whatever! not like i care!!!!"

when you don't respond, he blinks owlishly in disbelief, staring at the screen with his mouth hanging agape.

no way they ignored me! rafayel thinks, somehow even more offended than before.

but the irritation nestled in his stomach morphs into worry, and the worry contorts into yearning. oh, rafayel thinks, staring at your contact name for far longer than he'd like to admit. what if something happened to them?

rafayel's imagination eggs his yearning further. what if you're waiting for him somewhere—with nothing but him on your mind, of course—tears spilling from your eyes while crying his name? what if you're injured, clutching your wound whilst thinking of him—and his killer looks—wishing you could see him right now?

oh. rafayel's imagination eggs his yearning further. oh, what if they're injured? he thinks, his fingers beginning to glide all across his phone's keyboard, spamming you like a madman whose lost all sense of reason.

"you don't have to show up," he starts texting, but quickly deletes that sentence. "text me when you see this," he manages to send, hand coming up to fiddle with some stray strands of his wisteria hair.

he feels his heart thrash against his chest like a fish out of water, his skin beginning to feel stuffy while he grasps at his shirt, crumpling the pearl fabric under his hands. what if you're hurt? what if something happened to you? what if you're leaving, and he isn't able to catch up?

rafayel hates waiting. he turns around, heading toward the exit of the museum, ignoring the looks of confusion from the people who just watched him enter and clutch his head manically.

again, rafayel's imagination runs wild, feeding him delusions and convincing him that he's your knight in shining armor, saving you from the clutches of despair. obviously, after he saves you—with his killer looks and killer moves—you're going to grovel at his feet and beg for forgiveness, hoping that he'll spare you so much as a glance for your impudence.

he tries to ignore the way his ribs begin to constrict, the way his chest begins to ignite with agonizing pain. not again, is all he thinks, rushing out of the museum. not again.

rafayel loves you. sometimes, he hates to admit it. sometimes, he knows it's fact. rafayel loves you—how could he not? you are bound to him, no, rather, he is bound to you.

rafayel is bound to you, yet even then, he struggles to keep up. he follows you hopelessly into every incarnation, trailing after your existence like a drowning man at sea, gasping for air and a wisp of your presence. he had you, once. and what a twisted thing love is, to give him so much hope and radiance, that he can't possibly fathom to live without it now.

rafayel is hooked on you, drinking you in greedily with his eyes, searching for you desperately amidst the tides. rafayel is hooked on you, he's left in a constant state of wanting more, more, more, even though you don't feel the same. even though you're perfectly okay with leaving him, oblivious to the effect you have.

you have carved rafayel's being, forcing his hands to be a perfect fit with yours, forcing his eyes to only ever hold you. you've dismembered rafayel's bones, taking apart the shafts and forcing yourself in, your existence running through his marrow, your existence running through his veins.

sometimes, rafayel hates what you've done to him. he hates how he's reduced to a spectator in your presence, the way he's destined to love you despite all you've done to him.

rafayel hates the way you go around, saving everyone, saving everything, even though he was the first. he was your first victim, your first lover, your first everything.

and you've forgotten. and you've forgotten. how could you? sometimes, rafayel envies you. he wishes he could be as blissfully ignorant as you, he wishes he could rendezvous around the world, unaware of what he's done before.

(how could he? how could he ever forget you? how could rafayel ever be anything more than what you've made him?)

he laughs bitterly to himself, running a hand through his hair when your caller id shows up on his phone. rafayel half-considers letting you go to his voicemail, but oh, the way his heart constricts, the way his hands instinctively move to answer.

rafayel isn't like you—he has a heart, first of all—he's made of memories, made of century-old pacts and vows that have haunted him across lifetimes.

rafayel isn't like you, because, first and foremost, he loves. he loves you. he loves you! and oh, how could he not? how could he ever forget what you've done for him? how could he ever forget what you've done to him?

(and yet, he loves you anyway. rafayel loves you, despite the way you betrayed him, despite the way you forgot. rafayel loves you, not only because he was made to love you, but because it's you. does he need any other reason?)

just before your call gets forwarded to voicemail, rafayel picks up. he swallows thickly, letting his yearning drip down his throat, permeating into his organs whilst he says, dreading the way his voice cracks, ever so slightly, "ahem. what took you so long, huh?!"

your voice glitches on the other end. rafayel feels heat rush to the tips of his ears, feeling the way you sound so close to him. he presses the phone closer to his head.

"sorry, rafayel! i was busy,"—rafayel scoffs at this, so is he, you're not special—"but i'm coming right now! just wait for me, okay?"

"ugh! no, i don't wanna! i'm leaving! did you hear that? i'm," rafayel trails off, pausing for extra emphasis (hoping that you'd care enough to interrupt him), "i'm leaaavvii—"

you hang up. rafayel gasps, staring at the end screen with a flabbergasted look.

"no way! ugh! nobody respects me around here! making me wait... who do they think i am? a waiter? the waiter?" rafayel mutters incredulously to himself, sending glares towards anyone who eyes him weirdly.

still, he remains put, crossing his arms with a pronounced frown whilst sunset eyes scan the area, looking for your familiar motorbike.

rafayel waits. begrudgingly.

then again, he supposes he does a lot of that when it comes to you.

he opens your contact one more time. "some bodyguard you are!!!" he texts. "i could be dying right now and you still wouldn't pull up, huh?!?!"

"i'm dying! i'm dying! heeeelllooo?! i'm dying!" he spams. the familiar whirring of a motorbike appears, and rafayel glances up from his phone, horizon eyes growing wide.

rafayel hates the effect you have on him, the way your sudden appearance can bring tsunamis to a lull, the way your sudden appearance makes an utter fool of him.

still, rafayel lets you get away with it.

(you've gotten away with a lot of things.)

"raf!" you call. "quit spamming me!"

when you take your helmet off, rafayel's breath hitches. you steal the oxygen from his lungs, a mere wisp of your existence making the world tumble.

"hmph!" he crosses his arms, hoping you don't see the way his ears bloom a violent red. "don't tell me what to do! do you know how long it's been?!"

"ten minutes?" you reply, unamused. rafayel glares at you.

too long, he thinks, eyes tracing over the bridge of your nose and the curl of your lips. the artist instinct with him begins to flare—he wants to paint, he wants to devote himself to you all over again, drawing tirelessly into the night.

"no. eight-hundred years, you idiot!"

you roll your eyes. "what an exaggeration."

rafayel huffs. "puh-lease! i just say it as it is!"

you start heading towards the museum, and rafayel scrambles to catch up, his throat beginning to close. his heart—whatever's left of it, at least—lurching forward.

it chases you. it chases you! it always, always chases you.

into every life, into every eon. rafayel chases you, desperate and made of memories, hanging onto the depths of your soul, forfeiting the ocean and the tide and all that ever mattered.

then again, rafayel supposes that none of it matters now. you're here.

and even if you don't remember, rafayel will love you anyway.

(how could he not?)

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace mc #love and deepspace x reader #xavier x reader #rafayel x reader #lnds xavier #lnds rafayel #lnds #xavier love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #loveanddeepspace #love and deepspace xavier #love and deepspace x you #xavier x you #rafayel x you

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hello-gloomy · 3 months ago

Note

I know you are currently writing a fanfic of Stanley Snyder and will do Xeno next so I won't rush you or anything you could just put this aside and come back to it later.

Stanley Snyder x reader

Where reader is senku's bio older sister of a few years and has some mental issues due to seeing their parents die in front of them soon after senku was born and she didn't have much of an emotional relationship with senku but deep down she really loves him very much. Reader leaves Japan when senku is in middle school to pursue her ballet career in America where she was petrified. She woke up because she was somehow conscious during the 3400 years. She was found and taken to xeno and she tries to prove herself useful to them so not to get killed and somewhere along the way she has taken Stanley's interest. And the rest is up to you 😅. But also add the reunion of the two siblings where reader cries that senku isn't a stone and senku realizing he missed his sister(angst/comfort)

Add smut if you want that's all up to you🫰

-thanksssss🫶🫶

AHGSSGSHHSHSHS, how elegant, my dear anon!

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Never Again

Stanley Snyder x Fem!Reader

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Description: Finding Senku was the one thing that kept you awake while being trapped in stone. When finally awoken, you expect to see your younger sibling, but to your surprise, you find a much rougher situation entirely.

Warnings: Violence, loss of family, PTSD, anxiety, inadequate descriptions of ballet, smut, Dubocon, spanking, threats of violence against the reader, slight BDSM mild Dom/Sub dynamics, power imbalance, kinda toxic relationship ngl. Probably OOC. SPOILERS FOR THE MANGA AND SEASON 4!!

A/N: I'm so proud to be writing my first ask truly; I just wanna thank everyone for bringing me here today(lmao), but in all seriousness, I hope u enjoy! (later note: sorry this took so long; I was debating on the spicy stuff and the ending)

Words: 2,662

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After the accident with your parents, you hated ships; even looking at one made you sick, and the fact that they got on for someone else's sake and not even for yours or your brothers hurt you even more. So, when Byakuya came along, he was happy to take you and Senku in. It made you wary of his kindness, how he could leave for something else, thinking about you and Senku last, leaving you alone in the world again.

He signed you up for dancing lessons while encouraging Senku with his interest in science. 'To help with the anxiety,' he said with a smile; it made you scowl. But after the first few, it became like walking to you, like breathing a field of flowers, every step calming you, the music flowing into a dance with you.

You won a scholarship to America with your dances when your brother and adoptive father found out; the latter excitedly encouraged you to go on the trip; you told him to drop the matter entirely as you weren't leaving Senku by himself. (Or Byakuya, but you would say that to him.)

"Don't wait up for me, " he told you one morning, with a passionate glaze over his eyes. He gave you a tight side hug before walking off.

When you woke up, the stone encasing you crumbling off, you inhaled profoundly and quickly looked around yourself. A blanket was put around you, and some clothes and shoes were dropped before you. You look up to see two men in front of you, one with blonde hair and the other with white. The blonde was currently smoking.

"Looks like a few thousand years past." You told them tersely, shuffling the blanket and putting on the clothes while still keeping yourself covered. The one smoking let out a quiet snerk while the platinum let his lips twitch at your comment.

"You catch on fast; that will be useful in our current situation." He let his metal claws click together behind his back. You dropped the blanket after putting on your clothes, moving to put on your shoes next. You held eye contact with them, showing them you were still listening. He gave you a rundown on the current state of society and the earth, thinking logically. It seemed like you didn't have much of a choice but to help them or risk being killed or worse.

"Any special skills to speak of?" Stanley, the blonde, asks, butting in on the doctor's speech. You rise to the tip of one foot before lifting your foot close to your head, then drop it down to do a few pirouettes, ending the last spin with your left foot pointed outwards and with a bow. Stanley gives a low whistle, and the doctor claps gently at your display.

"I do ballet, know basic hand-to-hand combat and martial arts." You list off, hoping that will buy you a bit of gain for at least manual labor or some sick entertainment for the two of them.

"She can go to your team, Stan." Dr. Xeno says with a wave of his clawed hand while walking away, leaving the two of you alone. He stomps out the last of his cigarette before motioning you to follow him; you follow behind him with a foot of distance between the two of you as you walk, getting a better look at him and his apparel while you have the opportunity: a tight black catsuit, spiked boots, a gun holster. It's nice to know America still loves their gun rights.

"You can come closer, " he says, eyeing you over his shoulder. You try not to flinch at his sudden jibe, walking up side to side with him now, avoiding his gaze.

"I won't bite. Not unless you want me to, that is." He tells you with a smirk, you give him a look, and he chuckles at that. Stanley shows you around the entirety of the operations they have set up, introducing you to everyone and showing you where things are and how to find him or Dr. Xeno. He shows you where you sleep and lets you settle in. The next few weeks, you spend training with Stanley and people trying to befriend you, learning how to use a firearm properly, flying a plane, and going out on scouting missions. And before you know it, a year and a half passes by, and you are attached at the hip to Stanley.

"Could you dance for me?" he asks you one night while the two clean firearms together, relaxing uniquely for two of you. You scrunch up your face while looking at him, and he raises one of his eyebrows.

"It's too cramped, " you say bluntly. He puts down the weapon he was cleaning, grabs yours, and puts it back, holding your hand and taking you outside. Walking with each other, he leads the two of you to a clearing you recognize, which gives you another dirty look; he gives a little shrug and let's go to move and sit down on a rock, letting the grassy night be your stage. You walk out to the open area, trying to think of another excuse to give.

"There's no music."

"Want me to sing for you?" He teases. You roll your eyes before thinking of a simple song and dance you remember to show him. Twisting and jumping, spinning and bowing your legs, as you hum to yourself a part of Swan Lake. Opening your eyes as you come to an end, you see a sparkle in Stan's eyes as he watches you, and finally, you come to an end, and you give him a curtsy while smiling at his interest. He claps as he walks over to you, and you reward him with a slightly bigger grin. He stops before you, and it feels like the air stills between you; he raises his hand to your face before you get interrupted.

"Stanley, I need you and Y/N to go scouting." Stanley sighs as he moves to respond to Xeno's demands. You walk ahead of him and head back to weapon storage to gear up.

The small group of what looked like teenagers stopped to investigate the ground, picking corn kernels. They had what looked like an armored car and a motorboat with them; it looked like something Senku would have built if he had been here.

"Want the first hunt?" Stanley's voice crackles in your ear; given the go-ahead, you attack first. You hit the tallest teen first, swiping him off his feet; the boy in yellow starts firing his arrows while the girl with greenhorns swipes at you; you sweep your leg across and launch her into a tree nearby, making her cry out, the girl in blue lunges at you and the previous tall teen gets up to attack you. Seeing you surrounded, he fires off the machine gun at the group, knowing that you dodge just fine.

"Everyone back to the boat." The voice that yelled that out made you freeze and look up to see where it was. Hoping it was just your head, the white and green hair you saw made your heart seize in your chest. You felt dizzy and wobbled a bit while trying to catch your balance. In your frozen state, a bullet whizzed by and got a little of your arm; you let out a hiss before jumping back into the trees for cover. The group took off, and you and Stanley regrouped.

"You alright?" He asked while he fired up the plane. You gave him a nod, and he spared a glance at you.

"Stay here just in case." You wanted to argue with him, but his hard stare made you drop it; you gave a sad 'Yes, sir' before he took off after them. You fix your arm before hopping along the trees, following his flight path. You lose sight of him momentarily, and in that short moment, you see his plane heading downwards into the forest, hearing a deafening crash and a scatter of birds and smoke. By the time you make it to the crash site, the teen has already beat you to it. You go up a bit higher in the trees and hear a laugh that catches your throat. It was him, Senku, and of course, he was laughing over his victory, and you let out a soft chuckle at his excitement. It makes your heart ache and scream. Seeing him surrounded by so many friends and still finding happiness is such a tense situation.

"Fall back for now." His voice fills your ears, reminding you of whose side you're on. You meet up with him later and see he acquired one of your brother's friends. The boy, Gen, as you've come to find out, makes a face at you before returning to neutrality. They finish questioning and showing him around, and you finally take the chance to ask him about your sibling.

"How is he?" These are the first words out of your mouth to him when you are alone.

"How old is he now?" He tells you to slow down and answer all your questions when he tells you that Senku is now twenty and doing well and about all his progress in Japan. You let out a long-winded sigh before hugging the magician, squeezing him tightly. He squeaks in surprise before returning it.

"Thank you. Thank you for taking care of my baby brother." You finish your conversation with Gen before leading him back to everyone else and sneaking off when you are sure no one will follow you. You leap through the trees and make your way to where Senku and his ship are; not wanting to cause panic amongst the others in his group, you find the right moment to pull him off to the side where he'll be alone for you to talk to him. He panics before he sees your face and freezes at the sight of you; his eyes are widened and sparkle at your face. You cup the side of his face and look over him; he does look older, more mature, like a true leader. You give him a small smile before flicking him in the head.

"For someone so smart, I think you would plan better for when you're attacked." He chuckles and hits you lightly in the arm before tightly embracing you.

"I missed hearing you." He mumbles into your suit; you hold him tightly, silently communicating that you feel the same. You cut the hug short and inform him that his friend is okay and what Dr. Xeno's plan for him is. You feel slightly bad for betraying them, but you would always put your brother first. You give a bit further of a run down on things inside the American colony before telling him you must leave before they start looking for you.

"Where are you? Xe wants us to go scouting." Your heart jumps to your throat; you tell Senku one last goodbye before leaving the ship and heading out into the woods.

"I'm just stalking where the kids are to get a count of them." You lie, hoping that he won't read too deep into it. He lets out a hum in response before the line goes dead. You leap among the trees again before something heavy crashes into your back, giving you a harsh descent into the forest floor; you let out a cry from the pain before getting abruptly cut off by the gloved hand around your throat. It's Stanley, and he looks pissed; he squeezes your throat, and you claw at his hands in response.

"Fraternizing with the enemy, are we?" He grits out with a quiet rage; he releases your throat before moving to trap your upper body under his legs; you cough at the sudden rush of air to your lungs and flail your legs a bit.

"No matter. I'll gladly remind you of which side you're on." He informs you darkly; you stutter out apologies while he hushes you. He rubs one hand along your chest while the other holds your face. You close your eyes while still kicking your legs, turning your face away; he strikes you across the cheek, and that makes your eyes snap open. He forcefully unzips your suit and moves your hand along your bra before he rips the fabric off and slaps your chest. You cry, getting a sick sense of enjoyment from his harsh slaps. He hits you a few more times while he holds your face roughly while kissing you. Asking if you like it when he hits you, the rest of your dignity leaves you, and you tell him yes while reciprocating his kisses. He hauls you off the forest floor into his lap, ripping off the rest of your top and moving on to your shorts.

"Keep looking at me." He commands you, and you obey. He grasps and ties your hands before moving you onto all fours. He rakes his hands down your back, ultimately reaching your ass and slapping it harshly. You whine at the abuse, and he hits you a few more times while groaning to himself at your noises.

"Who do you belong to?" He questions.

"You." You mumble to him pitifully, face pressed against the ground, exposed to the cold air. He slaps your backside again before telling you to repeat yourself.

"Good girl." You whimper at his praise and hear his zipper moving and the sound of a metal belt buckle. The warmth between his legs presses against your exposed sex, and you moan out to him; he leans over your back, one arm pressed against the ground beside your head, the other on your hip as he guides himself into you slowly. When he's fully sheathed, he hardly gives you any time to adjust before fucking you slow and harshly. You simper at his treatment, and he mouths at your ear, grunting quietly to you.

"Doing so good." He tells you, and you respond with a soft 'yes.' He picks up the pace, and your volume increases; you clench around him, and he moves the hand on your hip to between your legs to rub at your clit. You give him a loud wail at his rough circles with his fingers.

"Until we deal with that group properly, you will not be out of my sight." He grits out and grabs a fist full of your hair, making you look at him; slowing his thrusts, you keen out a yes to him, hoping that will make him pick up his pace again; you were so close.

"Yes, what?" He commands.

"Yes, sir!" you shout; he gives you what you so desperately, picking up his pace again. You jerk your head back against his shoulder and finish, him falling not too far behind. He rides out the last waves of pleasure before stopping. He shifts into a sitting position with you on his lap, he pulls out, and some of him drips out from between your legs. He continues to kiss you for a bit before speaking again.

"Do something like that again, and I'll make sure you won't dance for a month." He whispers in your ear cruelly; you only nod, accepting the situation, having lost the motivation to fight. He holds you closely while cleaning you up, whispering praises into your ear and petting your hair. Maybe it was a good thing you ended up on this side of the battle, and you could even convince Stanley to have mercy on your brother. He covers you up and fixes himself after removing your restraints and carries you back to the colony. Safe and subdued in his arms, you pass out from the exhaustion of the situation; in your last conscious thoughts, you can only hope for the safety of your brother.

#x reader #dr stone senku #dr xeno #dr. stone #dr stone #dr stone x reader #dr stone x you #dr stone stanley #stanley snyder x reader #stanley snyder #dr stone xeno

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