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m1d-45 · 6 months ago

Text

the pain of rapture

summary: there is no excuse for weakness in an archon. only explanations; no matter how impossible to find.

word count: ~3k

-> warnings: major spoilers for liyue archon quest . duh . unedited . also duh

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @sarienic || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

there was no underestimating the time that zhongli had waited for this day. it was every archon’s desire to fulfill their duty, of course, but he couldn’t help but feel as if his wait was all the more painful than theirs.

every archon—no, every person had, at some point or another, strayed from their ideals. whether inconsequential white lies or betrayal of that which they loved, no soul was pure. nobody ended up exactly as they intended to be, in exactly the life they meant to live, with exactly the views they had longed for as a child. it was simply impossible; the world was too unpredictable, forcing one through trial after trial to pull gem from slag and discover what color crystal lay within one’s veins. despite these unremarkable paths, it was equally everyone’s nature to seek out a reason that they were unlike everyone else. billions of unique voices joined an endless choir of individuality, cutting into the same earth for a place within it, blind to their actions being pushed along by the mob around them.

and perhaps, due to his position as archon, he had thought himself better. perhaps he, like everyone else, had thought that he was nothing like anyone at all. while he could never return to who he was before the archon war, his memory was not as easily washed away as time, and he had had millennia to reflect.

was it his own mind that decided to rewrite his history? actions were undeniable, but nobody but him could attest to his motivations. was he judging himself through the wrong eyes, and in the process blinding himself to the truth? or had he willingly turned away from what he already knew? even from an outsider’s view, he was a stark contrast to the morax he was. should it not follow that he has also changed internally? that the rough, raw ore of his pain had softened and smoothed? ah, but to argue that would be to admit that he was once a jewel that hurt to hold. what gem did not want to be admired?

there was a lot that has changed in his life. it should not be so shameful to acknowledge that he, too, had changed. stones in rivers did no good to travelers when jagged and unsteady. he had learned. he was not so foolish as to think he was incapable of learning. there were many things he did not know then, and still things he did not know now. what did it matter that “humility” was missing from the first list and “pride” from the second? circumstances had changed, and he had changed with them. there was no shame in adaptation.

(if put back in the thick of war, would he become who he was then? would he revert back to the mindset of selfishness and wrath that had kept him alive? was that really what had enabled his survival at all, or was it just his claws?)

the moon was not the only witness to these debates, but it was the most frequent. during the day, he could busy himself with work and walks and idle discussions with whomever he pleased. it was only at night, when the port had settled but his mind had not, that he was without reason to avoid such musings. the air was warm and yet he kept his hands close around his teacup, feeling the corners settle into the indents of his knuckles like there was never a time he didn’t spend his evenings like this. there was nobody around to fool.

sleep never came easy to him, in any of his iterations. morax had too much to do, plans to pore over, reports in one hand and a sharpening stone in the other. rex lapis got the closest, spending time not tending to his people quietly meditating, listening to the prayers brought through the stone beneath his hands. even now, if he pressed his hand flat against the earth and searched, he could still find the last vestiges of these pleas. he never listened for long, though.

despite shedding as much of his skin as possible, sleep did not come easily for zhongli. he could lay and wait until his muscles itched for any sort of attention, but his mind never slipped away. if work was particularly stressful and he had neglected this routine the night prior, he could perhaps slip into a fitful doze, but it was always easily interrupted. birds on his windowsill did not make him reach for a blade as they once would have, but they did once again bring his mind back into consciousness, identifying its call and guessing the time as if his internal clock ever wavered. he had long since come to peace with this—it made sense his transition into humanity would not be seamless—but it had become more troublesome recently.

if anyone asked, not that they would, he would simply say that lantern rite was coming up soon. with vendors focused on the event, it would be harder to fetch the supplies necessary for the parlor, and as a consultant his job was to be able to provide options for his customers. if florists were out of silk flowers until next week, or there were no dried birch available, then it fell to him to inform the client. those in mourning were already unconsolable, and he saw no reason this excuse would not work. the handful of times he’d had to use it, when he was new to the parlor and they hadn’t gotten used to his personality yet, it had worked fine.

it was good that nobody knew who he truly was. he had long since grown used to the desperate cries of his people, and heard enough of their disputes and conversations to know which words helped and which did not. his excuse was just that; an excuse.

zhongli did not have a birthday. not just as a date of the start of this identity—though that itself had taken several years of pondering, each of which could have been equally considered a “day of birth” in that sense—but as an absolute date. aside from the fact that the modern calendar had simply not existed back then, there was no date in his memory that was truly his birthday. consciousness was a hazy thing, and he’d never had a need to decide which of the days of his blurry existence constituted a “birthday.” however, humans placed importance on them, and so he did as well. like everything else about his new persona, he had chosen it, placing it at the end of the calendar year for no particular reason other than it feeling right. no day stood out to him enough to be “his,” and all carried some level of importance. he had experienced thousands of each day, and it wouldn’t be right to decide which stack of events was more or less “meaningful,” so he didn’t. the last day of the year, perhaps somewhat symbolic of his retirement.

before that day, he hadn’t given much thought to the passing of time. he was aware of it, certainly, but it had never weighed on his mind as it did. dedicating himself to human ideals meant noticing and appreciating when the year ended and another began, looking out over the city from ground level.

it also meant that when he looked up, he recognized the stars held within the night’s tapestry.

lapis dei. the stone of god. it hadn’t appeared until several years into his place among liyue’s harbor, and only a few months before his planned failure during the right of decension. his vision was glass, and yet it weighed heavy as jade against his back that night, the name settling against his heart like a snake around a sun-warm stone.

it was not that night that he sought. as your traveller had roamed the world, it was to be expected that you may have your pick of companions, and it made sense than an archon (however retired) would be among them. no, the day that had just closed, that left him with now cold tea, was not something as simple as a rearrangement of false stars.

it was that a special set of six had flowed brighter. it was that, before he could blink, he had been pulled into the sky. his teapot was in front of him one moment, and the. it was gone the next, replaced by sprawling clouds and a voice he’d never heard. all the same, you were familiar, a memory he did not hold but could still feel the shape of.

he had waited for years to feel this light. to be held in a sea of stars and to be something of desire, something the one who had all wanted. it was, in his mind, a final act of defiance against celestia, and a firm bind of his loyalty despite the distance between him and you.

(he asked, at first, for a contract to prove it, but you had just laughed. it made sense. he still wondered if you were laughing at the impossibility of the idea of you being limited by mortal paper or laughing at him for suggesting it.)

those years, however, were spent doing just that: waiting. sure, he busied himself with the harbor and considered himself as doing a rather good job as blending in with the people around him, but he was not a fool. to be worth someone’s time was to have something to offer.

equally, he was not some unsteady, sobbing servant. he did not win his seat in celestia through pacifism. he did not sprout stone forests without power within his hands. he felt nothing but pride as a new polearm was placed into his hands, hefting its weight. the stars faded and he was left in unfamiliar territory, led to a group of enemies that snatched up their weapons the moment he got close.

for good reason, he’d thought, leaning into your touch as you guided his hands to pull a stele from the earth. pure geo wrapped around his shoulders—a skill he hadn’t needed to use for several decades now; he’d have to brush up once you were done with him. that was secondary, though, to the planet befall collecting over his shoulder. already, undead habits rose to the surface of his mind, preparing for the dust to settle and his spear to once again seek blood.

but his opponents were not left frail and weak by his show of skill. within seconds, they shed the stone he’d built around them, looking little more than annoyed.

why?

his spear glanced off their armor without so much as a scratch, despite the force with which he swung it. you pulled him in and out of range of their swords, far too dodgy to be handling an archon.

why did it seem like he wasn’t doing a thing? why, when a crossbow bolt clipped his shoulder, did it feel like the shot had passed through his chest instead? you clicked your tongue like a parent who’s child had done something they weren’t supposed to and he was back in the skyless sea, watching distantly as unfamiliar vision wielders took his place with well-worn precision. he was barely bleeding, the shift of his coat over the scratch shouldn’t feel like he was dying, and his spear should not have been so blunt. he drew it again, testing the edge with a finger, and it caught the fibers of his gloves with ease. he could feel the steel itself hum under his touch, a fine, razor point despite the repeated reflections.

it was only then that zhongli had begun to worry.

he’d heard countless stories from both near and far about the feats of strength normal people could wield when under your blessing. why was he not affected by it? why did it feel instead like all of his strength had been sapped from him, leaving him unable to even nick a bandit’s skin? had he made a mistake somewhere?

what would you think? an archon made helpless. offering you his strength was one of the pitiful few ways left he could help within the bounds of his contract with celestia, and now it was gone.

or had you noticed how he had faltered? how he had slipped from being zhongli for a moment, and decided to punish him for it? would this state last beyond your influence? no, you weren’t so cruel as to leave him helpless for one mistake. and yet, his mind fell to late nights, wondering if his worries had crossed time and space to reach your ears.

it was a plain truth in zhongli’s mind that the only thing he had left to offer you was his strength. he had no stories you had not heard, no wisdom you did not already know, no information left for him to speak. was this a lesson of some sort? but why not tell him directly? your voice had cooed in his ear as a war plume was tucked into his lapel, talking about domains and rolls he didn’t understand, but could hear as clear as jade.

and yet. you led him on a few more walks through valleys and plains, the few interactions with enemies either sprinted away from or leaving him tucked on a shelf while your better equipped followers attended to the problem. when it was over, his house felt too oppressive, the pot barely moved off the stove before he pushed open the door and took to the earthen path.

it was the lantern rite, he lied, his vision heavy against his spine. it pressed against his lower back and swayed when he walked, like the guiding hand of one treading alongside him, except the streets were empty and he had little to blame but himself.

did you know it was his birthday? did you blame him for having one?

did you know that that single day with you had only pushed sleep further away from his grasp? did you know that he could not change the past, no matter how hard he tried? if he’d not signed that contract with celestia then he would not have been here to witness your golden messenger. was he not meant to?

why not tell him? or had you already? had he missed something, somehow? when? was it during the war, when his memories were still colored by his selfishness? what lesson was he supposed to learn from helplessness?

was this some indication that you preferred him as a human, without the earth-shaking power he had held with his gnosis? but why lower him to the strength of an insect? he didn’t know.

zhongli was not insecure. he was proud of his new life and had not been given any reason to doubt that self assurance. even now, he did not regret it, only… wondered. wondered, and thought, and pondered, and mused, and ruminated, and reviewed, and every other verb one could apply to the deep, unsettling feeling that he had made missed something somewhere, and the rapidly growing need to find it.

#aka. happy birthday old man <3 #genshin #genshin impact #genshin sagau #sagau #self aware genshin #genshin x reader #gender neutral reader #zhongli #sagau zhongli #zhongli x reader #zhongli x you #but like. to me #sagau x reader #x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #new year same bullshit sorry guys. i love putting this man through it for no reason #if this is nonsense rambling it’s because i’m gay stupid and tired. hope this helps <3

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lo1k-diamonds · 11 months ago

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Paramour 💜

SX Seoul series | Tae's entry

PAIRING: idol!Taehyung x (f) reader (you can also read it on AO3)

SUMMARY: You were born for the quick and glamorous life surrounding celebrities — they had their little dramas and breakdowns, and you were there to clean up the mess. But you have your own secret, and doing your job might get you in trouble with your paramour.

WORD COUNT: 6,2k

GENRE: secret relationship, smut

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: jealousy, drunk driving (❗), dirty talking, teasing, edging, fingering, slight degradation, brattiness, Sub/Dom (Tae), semi-public, exhibitionism, almost caught, unprotected rough sex, nipple play, hickeys and bruises, post-orgasmic crying 👀

A.N. Sorry guys, busy birthday yesterday💜 NCT members make a cameo just because I thought it'd be fun 😋 The paramour stands for the illicit/forbidden aspect of the relationship, not cheating. This oneshot is also part of the upcoming @bangtanwritershq 'Got A Secret, Can You Keep It?' quarterly event! (Thank you @eerieedits for the cool banner 💜)

Masterlist | Masterpost | Scroll my stories on Tumblr | Schedule and WIPs

You showed the badge hanging on your neck to the bouncer and waited quietly for him to cross-check your name. You glanced at the glacial blue striped lines above the club entrance while you waited. SX — the letters were so hot, that vapor was visibly emanating from them. You pursed your lips — you preferred them in red.

You rubbed your arms with a chill; it wasn’t snowing too hard yet, but you wanted to go inside where it was warm. He nodded and let you pass, and you smiled, hurrying inside.

Fortunately, despite having the day off, you were supposed to come to this label party, so they had your name. Of course, you were supposed to have leisurely done your makeup and hair, not rushed when called with a bawling demand, but you sighed.

You didn't bother hanging your coat and just crossed the dance floor to one of the private rooms where the sound was muffled enough for people to lounge, have a drink and talk. Yet instead you recognized the team circling a single armchair, and they moved to let you through with worry and relief in their faces. They were your team.

“Hey,” you called out, and as soon as Una saw you from where she was sitting on that armchair, she threw her arms around your waist, bawling convulsively. You eyed the stylists and makeup artists, holding her back while you mouthed, “Eunbi?”

Everyone shook their heads, and you sighed, giving up on it. She was supposed to accompany Una tonight so you could enjoy yourself for a change, but you were there now.

“Alright,” you said firmly, kneeling so you could look at Una clearly. She was easily overly dramatic, but there was usually a reason for it. “Tell me what's wrong. You know I can fix it for you, just tell me what it is.”

Una didn't hesitate, sniffling and smudging her makeup away as though a firefighter had come to rescue her. “He— He was— all giggly and close to her!!”

She hid again, crying on your shoulder next to your dress strap, that fortunately was black, and you sighed. You petted her head as you mused on how to fix this. He — Winwin, Una’s boyfriend. Her — another girl, inconsequential, anyone, it didn't matter. Una was a star, but she got insecure about their relationship way too easily.

You were musing on how to diffuse her breakdown when she pulled away to speak through sobs, “Unnie— Unnie—”

“Tell me,” you allowed gently, despite the way she was crying. Even her eyelashes were gluing together, but she was still like your younger sister.

“I want— to giggle— and be close to another man too!”

You did your best effort not to roll your eyes, and before you could get up and direct your team, she gripped your arms.

“Please! I'll behave! Don't send me away, just— I'll ask for only that.”

As if to convince you, she started to compose herself, reeling in her cry and wiping her face.

You sighed, “It's not nice to draw someone into this.”

“Pick someone from the label, someone nice. I'm friends with all of them, it's just pretend, please—”

She was going to start crying again, and you heaved a deep breath, holding her strongly in your arms for a beat. The senior manager would kill you and Eunbi if Una, the exceeds-expectations rising star, was caught upset and leaving the label party, but you weren't sure this option was better.

You pulled away when you felt her calm in your arms, then tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, “Are you sure? You can't ruin someone's night just to make him jealous.”

“I'll behave, I promise,” she sniffled, and to her credit, you did believe her. “Choose someone nice, unnie. Maybe Jungwoo if you find him.”

Your eyebrow quirked at the name, and you nodded, getting up and instructing everyone to make her look like the star she was. You turned to her, “I’ll see to it. No more crying, okay?”

“Thank you, unnie.”

Her smile was angelical, and you only sucked in a deep breath before leaving the room to the main dance floor. The loud house music reverberated along your rib cage while you scanned the room. You saw the managers, the staff, the artists; you knew almost everyone and smiled whenever they greeted you. Your eyes kept searching and stumbled on Winwin, leaning on the wall, talking to a woman. His blonde hair stood out as he played with the straw of his drink, and you rolled your eyes. He was just talking to the woman. If you reacted like that every time your man whispered secrets into another woman’s ear, you—

“Hey!”

A hand on your arm almost startled you, but it was Eunbi, and you squinted, “Where the hell were you?”

“Una’s dog swallowed a toy, I had to rush her to the vet!”

Poor Eunbi. She was sweating, with her dark bangs gluing to her forehead despite the snowy cold outside, which told you she had raced here. This was turning out to be an even shittier night for her.

“Una texted me, saying she called you! I’m sorry, unnie!”

She bowed frantically, and you placed your hands on her shoulders, “It’s okay, calm down. I was coming here, anyway. Just make sure she doesn’t leave the backroom without calming down first.”

Eunbi nodded and was gone before you knew it, making your eyebrows twitch. Was it because you had managed to sleep a proper eight hours tonight that it seemed to you like everyone was out of it?

Your eyes pinpointed Winwin in the same position, with the same girl, before you kept looking for who you were truly searching for. Your heart skipped a beat when you noticed Taehyung with his friends, chatting casually. His jewelry was sparkling under the club’s lights, with his newly bleached hair in that warm color you liked so much. It fell like waves over his eyes, and you couldn’t help your smile. He looked good no matter what, but that was a favorite of yours.

Finally, you found Jungwoo a bit further ahead. He was hanging out with his close circle in a corner of the room, and you nodded, agreeing with Una. He was gentle and quiet, almost shy for an idol — he’d listen to her story and respectfully help Una through this.

So you made your way to him, smiling up to him when his eyes fell on you. His mouth stayed open, as if he had forgotten what he was about to say, and you smirked, “Long time no see! Can I join you for a moment?”

Taehyung almost did a double take when he saw you pass without even noticing him. His friends were casual enough to not notice and to allow him to train his eyes on you; where were you going?

He saw you sit next to Jungwoo with a huge smile, and his guts twisted. Why were the other people around you leaving you two alone? Why were you sitting so close to him, talking into each other's ears? Surely it was to hear each other above the noise, but it still made him close his fists. Jungwoo could surely take a whiff of your perfume every time he leaned in like that, so close to your luscious hair, and it just wasn’t sitting well with him.

Taehyung was about to walk over, do something he wasn’t exactly sure what, when you got up and walked away. That was enough for him to just go for it, ignoring his friends calls. All he could see was you, standing on your long smooth legs barely covered by a black tight dress, leaning on the bar counter to ask for the bartender’s attention.

“What are you doing?”

You turned, your eyes finding his on sheer magnetism. The corners of your lips raised, “Ordering drinks.”

You knew your mischievousness was slipping through, you just didn’t care. He leaned in a bit more, glancing around before speaking closely to you, “Are you having fun?”

You didn’t hide a grin, your teasing tongue peeking through before you chuckled, “My night was almost ruined, but it’s sure getting better.”

Whatever he was about to say got interrupted when the bartender reached you.

“One whiskey sour, one porn star martini, and one vesper.”

The bartender left and Taehyung didn't waste a second, leaning close to you, “I didn’t know you managed Jungwoo now.”

“I don’t. I don’t manage male stars anymore,” your eyes trailed over his silhouette from top to bottom before settling on his dark eyes.

Your head tilted to the side, inviting him to say something more, but you could see his hesitation. His eyes were low, not just thinking about what to say, but actually apologetic.

He looked around at the bar, lips twitching before he voiced quietly, “You’re going to drink?”

“I’ll take a taxi.”

You felt his body press closer to yours, if pushed by the other people wanting a drink or just to touch you, you didn’t know. Either way, your eyes fixed on his, acknowledging that the world didn’t exist when he looked at you like that.

But then the bartender placed your drinks in front of you, and Taehyung moved away, pursing his lips. You smiled at the bartender with a thanks, and grabbed the whiskey sour, “Here.”

Taehyung looked down at the drink in your hand pressed to his chest, then at you.

“For your mood,” you winked, before grabbing the other two drinks and walking away.

You handed Jungwoo his drink and left to get Una, and were expecting to leave them together and go on your merry way. Instead, Una insisted you stay with them, and to your surprise, there was no wailing about Winwin. On the contrary, the conversation was pleasant, and you finally had one drink comfortably. It was not the networking you were expecting to get done that night, but at least it was calm and interesting.

At first, you thought Una needed her unnie’s support, then that it would be best you stayed so things wouldn’t get awkward or controversial. However, right about when you wanted to question Una’s decision, she got up and confronted Winwin. Or so it seemed, and you sipped on your drink as she jumped on him to kiss him, barely letting the man breathe. You saw Eunbi race to deal with it and chuckled; fortunately, that was not your job tonight.

Jungwoo shifted in his seat next to you, and you finally turned to him with a smile, about to thank him for his help with Una when he smiled, “Would you like to dance?”

Taehyung’s whiskey sour didn’t last long, but his sourness did. How could it not, when you stayed with Jungwoo after Una left? A part of him stayed rational; you were hanging out with people, and you were around idols all the time. But you weren’t talking to him professionally, not anymore, since Una left to make out with her boyfriend in one of the backrooms. No, you were quietly chatting just the two of you, and Jungwoo was leaning into you again, touching your beautiful hair.

He thought he could hold himself back by looking away and turning a purposeful back on you, but then he saw it. Your hand settled on Jungwoo’s leg and his blood boiled.

The water bottle he was holding cracked as he closed his fist, grinding his teeth with all the things he wanted to do and say, but couldn’t. You got up with a small head bow and Taehyung smiled, ready to open his mouth and say goodbye to his friends, but then Jungwoo followed you. And Taehyung saw just red.

He shoved the bottle to the chest of whoever was trying to stop him, pushing them all aside to get to you. He gritted his teeth, growling in annoyance; all those people in the way, some trying to grab onto him and talk to him, and meanwhile you and Jungwoo were further and further away across the club.

A familiar voice tried to hold him back with an arm around his shoulders, and he shoved them back. He didn’t care where he was, who he was, or when. He gave no fucks about appearances, no fucks about staying quiet. All he cared about was you, and you were walking out of there with him.

He kept pushing people aside to get outside until he finally managed. His thoughts were incoherent, only getting to you mattered. You’d have questions, you’d tease him, but he didn’t care. He was justified, he—

He stopped right outside the club, noticing you standing with Jungwoo on the curbside. Taehyung opened his mouth, ready to call out for you, when a taxi stopped in front of you, and he staggered. He stopped breathing when you smiled mischievously at Jungwoo and stepped inside the vehicle.

For a second, his heart stopped.

Then you closed the door and waved goodbye, and Jungwoo waved back before bowing. And Taehyung took a breath, but growled all the same, and ran to get to the label's parking lot where his car was. He drank, so he shouldn’t drive, but he had to confront you about this. He was about to explode and it was all your fault.

As soon as he parked, he had no recollection of driving, only of gripping the steering wheel and shaking as he raced there. The tall apartment complex where you lived stood right before him, and he fought the seatbelt to get free and out of the car. He ignored the snow falling and rushed to your doorstep, fortunately without slipping, only to stumble.

You were there, outside, leaning on the wall and absentmindedly scrolling through your phone. Your eyes raised to his, then put your phone away, turning to the side to dial your code instead. He saw you push the door open, but when you turned to him, he didn’t move. He was so mad before, but seeing you like this made him realize that was not all he felt — he was hurt.

You held out your hand to him with a welcoming smile and when he took it, you dragged him to the elevator. After selecting your floor, you wrapped your arms around his waist and sighed into his chest.

“Una wanted to make Winwin jealous with Jungwoo,” you revealed, safely tucked now that he was holding you back.

He took a second to press his lips to your head, “Yeah, and Jungwoo was totally into you.”

You almost chuckled, but had the sense not to, “Nah, he’s just kind, and took Una’s drama. He was just thankful I was there to help.”

You could feel Taehyung nuzzling the top of your head, inhaling your scent, and you just melted. You thought he’d be mad about the whiskey sour tease, but having him hold you like this told you this was about more than a silly cocktail.

He sighed, “Una is making things difficult.”

You pulled back and grinned, “Well, it happens when I can’t manage my superstar anymore.”

You booped his nose playfully and he searched for sadness or disappointment in your eyes, which he didn’t find, to his relief. “True, but… Maybe…”

When his voice disappeared, you incentivized, “Maybe…?”

“Maybe you should tell her about us.”

Your eyebrows jumped, “Why?”

“Because—” He held back for a second, but your wide eyes were enough to unravel him, “Because Jungwoo looked more than just thankful and if she had stayed with you, he wouldn’t have tried anything.”

You smirked, “How do you know he tried something?”

“He did?”

You couldn’t hold a poker face and laughed, even as Taehyung’s expression was turning from surprise to annoyance.

“Una can't keep a secret and I like my privacy,” you explained, knowing he knew this. You were cautious about the fact, not just who your SO was. You knew how the media and your coworkers worked — you didn’t want to plant the subconscious idea that it was possible. The less suspicion, the better. “Besides… if I did that, then how would I make you jealous?”

Your smile turned sly, and he had no qualms pushing you against the wall, “Is that what you were doing?”

You grinned, “Let’s say I didn’t shy away from the opportunity.”

Despite the irritation in his eyes, it was hard to resist smirking and teasing him. You could barely contain a giggle when he leaned into your neck to bite you in what to him constituted a punishment. But to you, it was far from it. You raised your hand to grab and intertwine your fingers with his hair, and closed your eyes, letting the tingling run down your spine. You bit your lip; it was a matter of time until he noticed that the marks he had left a few days ago were gone, and—

He snorted and bit harder, sucking hard to create new marks, and your grin widened. Even when he squeezed you impossibly, pressing you to the elevator wall and nibbled over a sensitive spot, you didn’t stifle your moans, though you remained quiet. You were melting between your legs with each bite and groan, knowing he couldn’t let you go because he wanted you so much. Your attention was so focused that the elevator doors opened and closed, and you didn’t even notice.

His lips trailed down to your cleavage, and your nails sank deeper into his scalp. You bucked your hips against him, blood running hot in your veins, far beyond the point of teasing. Making him jealous was the least of your concerns; rather, having him kissing and touching you was everything you always wanted, and you’d ask for nothing else.

He squeezed your waist to his, knowing well what your restless hips wanted when they bucked into him, but he had other thoughts. He licked and nibbled across your chest and nuzzled to get under the fabric of your bra, reaching with his tongue for one nipple. You shuddered from head to toe, losing the strength on your legs. He held you and the wall behind you supported you, but you were beyond waiting.

“Tae,” you cooed, torn between pressing him to your chest or pulling him to kiss you.

It didn’t matter what you wanted, because he offered resistance, more aggressively suckling and nuzzling your skin on your other tit. You moaned, sure that you’d be bruised at that point, and it only made you gush more between your legs. You didn’t want him to stop, but if he could do that while fucking you into the wall, that would be great.

Since pulling on his hair didn’t work, you let go of one hand to scratch down the back of his head and nape. His groan gave you shivers, and you licked your lips; you were so ready to consume him in any way he wanted, but he was still stubbornly away.

His coat was heavy, but he only had a silk shirt underneath, so instead of trying to strip him, you let him ravish your chest while one of your hands sneaked underneath his shirt.

His breath shook against your wet skin, and you grinned, knowing that goosebumps covered you both — you, from his licks trying to reach your underboob, and him, from your nails grazing his lower stomach.

“Baby,” you called again, continuing your torture. “Let me touch you,” your voice was sweet, yet he ignored you. He wasn’t able to hide his groans, though, or how you made him shake, so you continued, “I want to touch you, you’ll feel so good…”

Your tone was a playful promise, yet all he did was sink his fingers and teeth more into you. You were sure your chest would be covered in hickeys, and despite your smile, you were getting restless.

So you moved your hand expertly down, squeezing it past his belt, pants, and underwear to find what you were looking for.

You squeezed his hard cock in your hand, and he crumbled a little, groaning louder against your skin. You let him rut into your hand for a moment before continuing, mercilessly, “Feel that, baby? You’re so ready for me,” your voice was sweet, but your smile was sly. Your poor baby was groaning and leaking into your hand, unable to shy away, and you knew you’d win. “To make me yours, right?” He bit harder on your clavicle, and you chuckled, amused by his annoyance. “Look at you pretending to be mad…” You leaned to whisper into his ear, “But you can’t stop fucking my hand—”

He suddenly moved away from your chest and wrapped a hand around your neck. He faced you so closely, your noses touched, but the dynamics weren’t necessarily inverted yet. Despite his hand on your neck or your vulnerability, his hard cock was still in your hand, and you knew how to make him kneel.

And you made that point by jerking him off a bit more, squeezing so hard, you knew it could have hurt anyone else, but not him. All he could do was fight back the pleasure with a mask of indifference, but you saw right through him.

“You’re dying to bury yourself inside me, aren’t you?” Your tone was taunting, and his dark eyes only riled you up more. “Come on, give yourself what you want most.”

He chuckled, and moved to whisper into your ear, “You think that’s you?”

You smirked, “I know it’s me.”

He was already biting down your earlobe; he hummed, “Maybe I should teach you a lesson.”

You let your head fall back to the wall with a laugh, “You’re welcome to try.”

Your laugh didn’t last long; with a hand around your neck, firmly pinning you, Taehyung took the other to raise your dress and reach your throbbing core. You bit your lip while you waited, defiance mixed with anticipation in your glistening eyes. He saw this too, and despite his harshness to pull aside your clothes and underwear and shove two fingers inside you, you could only crumble and pray not to unravel too soon. You moaned desperately, turned on by absolutely everything: his harsh fingers inside you, the sloppy sounds from your cunt, his firm hand around your neck keeping you vulnerable to him, your tits half out of your bra and dress, covered in hickeys, and his stone-hard leaking cock in your hand inside his pants.

His dark eyes on yours were unsurmountable walls, dead set on teaching you a lesson, and you smirked yet again. Despite his rough handling, he knew you loved it, and with just a few bucks of your hips, you’d unravel so fast—

“No,” he pulled his hand away. “Didn’t think I’d let you, hm? Not so fast.”

You didn’t answer; you were ready to beg and coo for more, but his fingers were inside you again in a second, making you keen. Your moans were desperate, and your face didn’t hide all the ways you were falling apart for him.

“You talk so big,” he whispered to your red cheeks. “But you fall so quickly. Look at you,” he whispered, and you couldn’t seem to open your eyes, so close you could pop any second if only he let you. “So close already, how pathetic.”

You only groaned, with your cheeks and chest burning at the insinuation, but as he added his thumb over your clit, you let go. You let your head fall back; you wouldn’t fight him anymore, you wanted him to take care of you in every way, take away every thought and responsibility, and to exist only to feel good in his hands, and make him feel good.

Your moans echoed in the elevator along with your obvious wetness, squishing around his fingers. You opened your eyes to see him, thinking how pitiful you must have looked, basically begging him with every eyelash bat to consume your very existence, but he didn’t budge.

Maybe he thought there was still defiance left in you.

“Think anyone else can do this to you?”

He bit his words between teeth, and you could only melt more, shaking with a wave that could start your rapture, if only he didn’t purposefully keep it at bay. You moaned, and let your free hand caress his cheek gently.

“Think anyone else can make you feel this way?”

Your eyes filled with tears, but you were so overwhelmed you couldn’t reply. His jealousy gripped your heart firmly, reaching a deep part of you that needed to feel wanted and desired unconditionally, irrationally. On the other hand, he was still rutting into your fist, edging himself just as he edged you, as though that torture was shared between you both. That was your Tae, your man, fulfilling you in ways you couldn’t even voice.

“Please,” you tried, but it was weak. You were trembling, melting, overheating, functioning at a primal level that could only feel him, nothing else.

You saw in his glistening eyes that he would crack too, especially as he nuzzled your hot cheek, “Think you’ll ever beg for anyone else like you do for me?”

“No, baby, please,” you stammered, supporting your hand on the back of his neck to keep him close.

The corners of his lips curved in the hint of a smile, but then he shook his head, nuzzling you, “No, baby.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, rubbing his thumb over your clit deliciously slowly just to make you keen unashamedly. “You told me to teach you a lesson.”

“I got it,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” He waited, seeing in your concentrated expression how you thought you would come, and he licked his lips. He knew you all too well, he’d keep edging you until he got what he wanted. “Tell me,” he insisted, drawing your attention again. “What have you learned?”

“I love you.”

You opened your eyes to tell him this, and his eyes flickered with a spark. He couldn’t tell if you were teasing him, pulling at his heartstrings, or genuinely crumbled and succumbed to anything that wasn’t your love for him. You smiled at his hesitation, knowing he had good reasons to think twice, and that was your undoing.

His fingers relented inside you, and he squeezed around your neck firmly, “You only learned that right now?” His tone was sharp, and you smirked, unable to stop yourself. Teasing him was too fun, even when you didn’t intend to do it, and having him all over you was the sweetest of rewards. He leaned over your lips, brushing them, “Such a smart ass you are.”

“You love it,” you bit back when he didn’t let you finally kiss him.

Your heart was confused between submitting to him or taunting him again, especially seeing how shaky and overheated you were, but then the world plunged. The elevator started going down and the sweats down your spine went from molting hot to freezing cold. You glanced at the panel, same as him — the elevator had been called back to zero from the fourteenth floor, where you lived.

You looked at him, ready to rationally deal with the situation, but all you found was a challenge in those dark eyes. Your eyebrow quirked quizzically, and his fingers restarted moving ruthlessly, making you jolt against the wall in surprise.

“I guess you have to convince me you’ve learned your lesson fast.”

You widened your eyes, the hot and cold shivers clashing on your lower belly, confusing you, “What?”

“You heard me.”

His eyes were dark and intent, and you almost cursed a cry. That was the serious Taehyung eyeing you intently. He wouldn’t forgive you if you failed, and you were totally adrift. The pleasure was undeniable, but so were the chills down your spine.

He bit down your neck, pushing his fingers so hard at your core, the contrast almost gave you whiplash. You wanted to scream; everything was mixing inside you in a storm. A minute ago you would have jumped and came hard, but now, with every inch the elevator went down, fear was gripping your heart.

“Baby, wait— stop— we’ll get caught,” you pleaded.

“I don’t care,” he pulled away to look into your eyes, and you fluttered around his fingers. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

His voice was softer now, as if he felt the same torment as you, and you were sure he did. He was still hard in your hand, reacting to your core around his fingers as though it was inevitable. So you sighed into his cheek, his scent bringing tears to your eyes still locked with his, sparkling the same as his. You belonged to him, always had, always would. You knew that, and he knew that, no matter how much you teased him about it. But you had never felt it so intensely, in your spirit, in your soul, in your bones. So owned, both in pleasure and otherwise. And safe. Even if that elevator reached zero and the doors opened, he would love you unconditionally always. Your love was undeniable, even when faced with the possibility of getting caught. Even if it would ruin your life, your career, or affect his. There was only the truth, and you wouldn’t keep it from him.

“I love you,” you said, and for a moment he thought you were still being defiant. “I love you, I belong to you, I’m yours. I want you to hold me for the rest of my life. No one but you will ever touch me, I love you so much—” Your voice wavered, and he instantly pressed his lips to yours for a sweet kiss that had a tear running down your cheek. As soon as he moved away, you still managed, “I don’t care about anything else.” His hand moved from your neck to your hair, holding your head up, so your glistening eyes didn’t hide. “I just want to be with you forever—”

His lips smashed yours while his hand darted from your hair to the stop button, making the elevator shake to a halt. Then he pressed your floor again, and as the elevator went up, so did you. His tongue was inside your mouth, showing as much desire and desperation as yours, while his hand restarted fingering you roughly. Only this time, it seemed like you were a firework ready to blast once the fuse ended, and you wanted it. You fisted him harshly too, your hand so wet you doubted if he hadn’t come already, but by his ruts, you knew he hadn’t.

You thought you were set to come with him when the elevator stopped, but as it stilled, so did Taehyung. He gave you a last kiss, took his hand out of you, and pulled your hand from inside his pants. The doors opened, so you thought you’d make your way to your apartment and finish things there, but he stopped you.

Right as you were passing the doors, he grabbed your arm and pushed you against the frame where the elevator doors had retracted into. He spread your legs with his so that one was outside, on your floor, while the other stayed in.

You sighed, “Tae?”

He pulled your hair to the side and kissed your neck, then glued your ass to his crotch. You both groaned with his hard cock rubbing at you teasingly, and he pressed himself fully to you, groping your tits harshly, “We’re not done yet.”

He sounded frantic as he kissed down your neck, squeezing and rutting into you so hard, you wondered why he wasn’t inside you already.

You raised your head to tell him that when you saw him out of the corner of your eye, through the elevator mirror. He had his eyes closed, lost in kissing every inch of your skin he could, while he used one hand to release himself. You moaned just at the sight of his juicy hard cock, and closed your eyes in anticipation while you felt him fumbling with your dress and underwear until the tip was pressed to your folds.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned, teasing you both while he got coated, and you only ground back into him.

He sounded desperate, but so were you, and nothing would stand in the way of feeling him again, of being part of him, loved by him, and used by him.

Your nails scratched the metal door frame, and you almost cursed and begged for him, but soon he was pushing himself inside you, and you groaned. He pushed further and further, giving you time to clench and feel the sting, adjusting to his girth, before finally tucking himself fully in, raw in your wet, soothing embrace. He tried bucking his hips, and you instantly keened, letting the stretch reminding you of how amazingly fulfilling it was to have your love inside you.

He didn’t wait a second to start fucking you in a demanding rhythm, grasping you by your hips, then waist, then chest, shoulders, neck, and even hair. His hips were ruthless, smacking into yours to fill you up every time, and you could feel yourself dripping down your thighs. You couldn’t stop moaning, and you didn’t stifle those down either, so drunk on him that someone could have showed and found you, and you wouldn’t have even noticed. All you wanted was the smack of his hips against your ass, the blunt shove of his cock inside you, pushing and dragging against your walls, poking you inside, turning your body into nothing but pleasure.

He leaned closer, changing the angle to hit your g-spot in a way that stole your breath, but not more than the words he grunted into your ear, “I love you so much. I fucking want you, you’re mine.”

You were ready to cry your love too, but then your eyes met through the mirror and the hint of anxiety in his hurt you deeply. His eyes quickly softened with his affection for you, but your heart couldn’t forget it. Teasing him was one thing, another was to actually hurt him or make him insecure about you.

“I’m yours,” you tried, though your voice was hardly your own with each moan. “Tae— I’m—”

His fingers had gone around your waist to rub your clit, and talking became nearly impossible. “I’m here, baby. I got you,” his voice was a groan. He was tucked so deep inside you that you knew he was holding his orgasm back. “I’m waiting for you,” he nuzzled your neck, and your eyes rolled back. “From the moment I met you, I’ll never stop— Never give up—”

Something in your lower stomach was about to explode, overheating you to the point you couldn’t breathe, until you snapped. You bucked your hips deeper, feeling the burst of your orgasm imminent, and you screamed. His fingers were the perfect push, and your core throbbed, sucking and pumping his pleasure out of him. He groaned into your neck, pressing you by your mound to sink on his cock as deeply as possible, and your nails scrapped the metal frame. His cock twitching deep inside you increased your sensitivity to the point that tears fell down your cheeks, despite the absolute bliss lighting up your body. The way he swayed his hips to jerk the last drops inside you, then pressed you closer to stay inside you and all around you, made you shake with a sob. That was how he loved you, attentively, completely, unconditionally. And you had stupidly hurt him.

“I love you,” he whispered incessantly as he held you and pecked your salty skin. “You’re everything to me, I never loved anyone like this.” You shook with a sob and his tone changed to worry, “Did I hurt you? Are you nervous?” He rubbed your hands and let you come further back into his protective embrace, “I’m sorry, baby. I wouldn’t ever let them catch us, I’d never risk your safety like that.”

You knew that, and it somehow hurt you more — that he’d do everything to protect you while you so childishly hurt him.

“I— I’m sorry,” you tried your best to stop your bawling. “I didn’t mean to hurt you or suggest that I’d ever want anyone else, I— I love you!”

He held you even harder, knowing you need that, “I know, I’m not mad. I was… worried he’d impose himself or something.”

“Jungwoo… He wouldn’t,” you sniffled, and before Taehyung had time to let his jealousy resurface, you continued, “I told him— I told Jungwoo I have someone. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said instantly, nuzzling your cheek with a half hidden smile. “I don’t mind.”

You nodded, still sniffling and cleaning your face, but relieved with his kisses and snuggles. Then you pulled your hair away from your face, and brushed the back of your knuckles to his cheeky smile, “Let’s go home.”

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phoenixblaze1412 · 4 months ago

Note

Helloo :) could i request a yan! reader x dottore?

The dimly lit laboratory echoed with the low hum of machines and the scratch of a quill against parchment. Dottore, the infamous Harbinger known for his brilliance and indifference to societal norms, was hunched over a workbench. His crimson eyes glowed faintly under the harsh lighting as he scrawled complex equations on worn parchment.

"Perfection is within reach," he murmured to himself, fingers tapping impatiently against the table.

Unbeknownst to him, a pair of watchful eyes lingered at the threshold of the lab. You stood there, a soft smile tugging at your lips, heart thrumming in your chest just at the sight of him.

The air was thick with the scent of chemicals, but all you could breathe was him.

Your love for Dottore wasn’t ordinary. No, it was an all-consuming inferno that burned rationality to ash. His sharp wit, calculating demeanor, and disregard for morality only fueled your obsession. You lived for his praise, hungered for his attention, and would do anything to keep him safe from anyone who dared to disrupt his work or stand in the way of your devotion.

Anything.

"You've been here for hours," you said softly, stepping into the room with a tray of neatly arranged flasks. "I thought you might need this."

Dottore barely glanced up, but the faint twitch of his lips was enough for you to bask in the glow of his approval.

"Efficient," he remarked, taking one of the flasks without breaking his focus.

Your heart soared. Praise from him, no matter how curt, was worth more than gold.

"I noticed someone lurking near your lab earlier," you added casually, eyes flickering with something dark beneath your sweet demeanor.

"They seemed... curious about your work." Dottore finally looked up, brow arching.

"Curiosity often precedes foolishness," he said dismissively.

You tilted your head, a serene smile on your face. "I took care of it."

His eyes narrowed. "Took care of it?"

"They won’t be a problem anymore," you assured, voice syrupy sweet.

There was a beat of silence. Then, a smirk tugged at his lips. "How efficient indeed."

Days turned into weeks, and your obsession only grew. You were his shadow, always anticipating his needs before he voiced them. You memorized every habit, every preference, every quirk.

But it wasn’t enough.

You needed more.

When another researcher was assigned to assist Dottore, your blood ran cold. The mere thought of someone else being close to him, sharing his space, hearing his rare musings — it was unbearable.

"They're inadequate," you said one evening, voice trembling with poorly concealed fury. "They'll only slow you down."

Dottore shrugged indifferently. "Their presence is inconsequential."

But to you, it wasn’t.

That night, the researcher abruptly resigned, citing "personal reasons." You hummed a cheerful tune as you wiped your hands clean, satisfied that Dottore's space was once again undisturbed.

Dottore was many things — genius, manipulator, visionary — but he was not naive. He had noticed the way your eyes gleamed with something beyond admiration. He had seen the faint stains of blood on your gloves, the knowing smile when problems conveniently disappeared.

"You’ve been... busy," he remarked one evening, his tone laced with amusement.

You tilted your head innocently. "I only want what's best for you."

"And who decides what's best for me?"

Your smile widened, unblinking. "I do."

Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken tension.

Dottore's smirk returned, sharp and dangerous.

"You're quite the fascinating specimen."

Your chest swelled with pride. "Only for you."

One night, as you stood by his side watching him work, you finally spoke the words that had been clawing at your throat for weeks.

"I love you."

Dottore's hand stilled, the pen hovering above the parchment. His gaze flicked to you, unreadable.

"Love," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "Such an irrational concept."

"Maybe," you admitted, stepping closer until there was barely any space between you. "But it doesn't matter. You belong to me."

His lips quirked into a sardonic smile. "Is that so?"

"I'd do anything for you," you whispered, voice trembling with fervor. "Anything to keep you safe, to make sure no one ever hurts you or distracts you from your work."

Dottore studied you for a long moment before leaning in, his voice low and mocking. "Be careful, little one. Obsession is a dangerous thing."

You smiled, unafraid. "Only if it's not reciprocated."

Despite his warnings, Dottore found himself drawn to you in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Your devotion, though unsettling, was intoxicating. He was a man who thrived on control, yet here you were — wild, unpredictable, and utterly devoted to him.

And perhaps, in his twisted mind, he liked it.

One evening, as the lab bathed in the soft glow of flickering lights, Dottore stood behind you, his breath warm against your ear as he looked over the corpse of his deceased receptionist swimming in her own pool of blood just because she tried to flirt with him on the first day of her job.

She would have been perfect enough to be his test subject if only you didn't chopped her head off her shoulders.

"You’ve caused quite the mess," he murmured, his voice dark but teasing.

You shivered and giggled, heart racing as you felt him closely behind you. "I only did it for you."

His gloved hand cupped your chin, tilting your head back to meet his gaze. "Such loyalty," he mused, eyes gleaming. "It would be foolish not to reward it."

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, lips brushing against yours in a fleeting, teasing touch.

"Consider this... acknowledgment," he whispered against your lips.

Your world spun, heart pounding as he finally closed the distance, claiming your lips in a kiss that was both possessive and consuming.

And in that moment, you knew — no matter how twisted or unconventional, your devotion had been worth it.

For you belonged to Dottore, and now, he belonged to you too.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #dottore #dottore x reader #zandik x reader #il dottore #il dottore x reader #female reader #gender neutral reader #yandere

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liliannadelaphinehartifelt · 1 year ago

Text

Alastor - [ HIDDEN HEARTSTRINGS Pt. 2 ]

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A/N: Don't kill me please guysss! I started like 3 classes last week so I haven't had time to write!

WARNINGS: [ NSFW ] + [ MDNI ] + [ FEM READER ] + [ SLIGHT BDSM ] + [ CREAMPIE ] + [ BRANDING ]

xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxx

Swallowing your pride was easier said than done. Every nerve in your body screamed to move away from Alastor, cower somewhere safe and out of his reach, even if it wouldn't do you much good. He could do as he pleased with you, demand your obedience as he saw fit, and force your compliance without a second thought.

All of that imminent control loomed over your head and weighed your chest with anxiety while the courage to speak faltered, but as scared as he made you feel, he still felt like the safest person to be around.

Sitting there, in his lap, alone with no chance of avoiding him, was personalized torture. You hadn't muttered a completely coherent phrase since he'd brought you to the Radio Tower, face burning rose red as your brows knitted together with worry and your eyes fixed on the details of his suit rather than his face. You noted how smooth and taut the fabric spread over his form; you'd always been aware of how much larger the stag was compared to you; his thighs were firm against your ass which helped spread your softer ones apart. If you so much as shifted an inch or he decided to lift his leg, your skirt would ride up and reveal what was hidden underneath. A perfect position to rut in, a prime opportunity to alleviate the ache building in your cunt, but you refused to admit or show the desire to do so in his presence.

You'd have to take care of it yourself later in the evening like always. The objective of walking out of this intense situation was your concern at the moment, and so you lifted your head to stare at him, hopefully.

“What I said earlier…” you trailed off as Alastor hummed, a low crackle coating the noise as he brought a hand to rest under his chin. You watched as he leaned back, utterly relaxed, waiting for you to continue.

The smirk on his face annoyed you, a clear sign he either found your flustered state inconsequential or laughable. It wouldn't be abnormal for Alastor to react that way; it was his nature, and your fire little crush on him wouldn't change that.

I might as well get this over with…

Your face fell into a pout, hands raising to hug your arms to ease the goosebumps rising on your skin. “What I said earlier was in the heat of the moment. You're my master, and I see you as nothing more..”

The lie stung your tongue as it slipped off, gaze hardening to mask the disappointment felt in yourself for doing so.

Alastor remained silent; an elongated beat of anticipation hung above you both, growing denser as his predatory red eyes bore into yours. “I see,” he muses, voice low and thoughtful, but his smile strained.

“You feel nothing for me at all, my dear?”

You nod timidly, counting the seconds until he lets you off his lap and allows you to leave, “Nothing at all.” You repeat, gulping a whimper down as his free hand kneads the fat of your hips. “I'm not sure I believe that, darling. You’ll need to prove it to me.”

Your eyes widen, your tummy backflips, and your hands ball into tight fists as panic sets into your bones.

He couldn't be serious?!…

“W-what? How am I supposed to do that?!” you whined defiantly, frustrated with the stag and unbearably antsy.

Now, he was toying with you. Like always, you didn't deem that fair on his part -as if he ever played by any rules.

Alastor cocked his head to the side, “Oh, I think you're well aware of how sweetheart. It's truly a matter of what you prove to me by the end.” The commotion of radio static overlapped his voice heavily, emphasizing his hidden command with demonic prowess, and your body buzzed with unbridled fear at the sound.

What the hell is he talking about?..

Wait…

Within seconds, your brain caught up to his implication, and your hips instinctively bucked forward. Embarrassment crept up your spine, written all over your face as the overload chuckled at the impulsive action.

It would help if you had forced yourself up; you should've put up more of a fight as his hand on your hip lowered to slip under your skirt and up your inner thigh. It would help if you had leaped away, ran, or done anything to distance yourself and Alastor.

Yet, all you could manage was a soft, “Please don't..” as he touched you, but your plead received no compliance. Your body betrayed your consciousness; arousal pooled on his deft digits as he pushed two past your lace panties and straight into your eager cunt. The unusual invasion had your walls clamping down hard, spasming with need as he roughly curled his clawed fingers forward, and you yelped in shock at the immediate assault of your sweet spot. You weren't accustomed to being stretched by anyone else besides yourself, used to your fingers, but constantly thinking of having Alastor’s inside of you instead.

He was anything but a gentle demon, so you'd conclude that he'd be brutal in bed, but it still overwhelmed you. “You're not convincing me very well, little one.” his free hand found your face, clutching it tight as he dragged your head up to pull you closer. You whimpered as his nails pricked your soft skin, adding to the mix of agony and amazement you felt while he stretched your cunt in an unpredictable pattern.

“I. I don't feel anything for you. I’m not lying-ah! Nngh! Mm..” you writhed in his grasp, trying to pull away but only amplifying the friction of his hand against your cunt. Alastor pressed his palm to your clit, dragging a surprised scream from you as he rubbed slow circles on it. You lost it then, mind shutting off as he edged you tirelessly, and the added pressure on your bundle of nerves collided with the fullness his fingers provided.

Alastor hovered his lips above yours, drinking in your sultry whines and bashful moans. The fear never faded from your eyes; battling the lust that threatened to take its place and seeing the conflict in your innocent nature had his blood running hot.

Ruin you.

He wanted nothing more than to chip away at your indifferent demeanor, know just how soft and gullible you could be for him, and figure out how to abuse it until your soulbinding contract extended to ownership of your body.

His cock twitched to life at the thought of fucking you, dumb; hearing you admit over and over again that your affection for him knew no bounds doused his being in pure excitement.

A growl rumbled in Alaster's chest; his antlers grew larger with every desperate moan you let out, and his ears twitched upon hearing them reach a higher pitch.

You were dangerously close to your end, thighs quivering from the force of his hand thrusting against your slippery folds, slick dribbling down your inner thighs, which created an absolute mess on his lap.

“Look where your sweet little lie got you, my dear. Desperate for pleasure and willing to whore yourself out to me to prove a pathetic point..” The coil in your stomach wound tighter as the owner of your soul belittled you; the harsh word should've wounded you and made your senses reignite, but all it achieved was bringing tears to your eyes.

Bit by bit, your self-esteem declined, dulling the pride that ruled your heart and scattering to the furthest parts of your brain as he curled his fingers forward against a spongy sweet spot. “Oh fuck!” you shouted, trying to raise your hips away from him as a dizzying high rushed through your veins, steadying yourself by fisting the lapel of his suit for dear life. Alsstor turned his gaze downward, breathing in the scent of your cum with a pleased him vibrating in his chest as the creamy liquid drenched his hand, “Never imagined a tiny thing like you could make such a mess .” He slowed his pace, milking your cunt for all it was worth, marveling at how much cum he could extract from you with just his touch.

You shivered violently, choking on wanton screams and feeling lightheaded as he continued to stretch your gummy walls. If he didn't let up soon, you'd unravel again, faster than the first time, and so with the last bit of your self-awareness, you slumped forward into his chest before pulling your head to whisper in his ear.

“Wanna feel you, please.. I'll say whatever you wanna hear. Just fill me up, please.” The hold you had on his coat tightened, your claws elongating as a feverish need built in your core again, intensifying as Alastor nipped at your ear. You jolted, whimpering as his fangs drew blood from you, and the roar of white noise died down to allow his average voice clarity as he muttered into your skin. “Begging becomes you, my dear.”

The satisfied laugh he let out burned you, consumed you entirely, and though it felt cruel to hear it, you smiled proudly.

Your desperation pleased him. That was all you cared to know or think of as he withdrew his slender, blackened fingers from your generously stretched entrance. He left you empty, dripping with excitement and purring in his ear for more.

“Mmm, sweet, you are a little one. You should have a taste as well,” Alastor lapped at his hand, tongue lazily running from the heel of his palm to the tip of his claws, savoring your essence with a widening grin before pushing a single-digit pad on your lips. “Mphm,” you whine as you suck, eyes rolling as the mixture of your drool, his saliva, and the lingering residue of your cum dissipates onto your tongue like melting honey. He watched you intently, finding your willingness adorable, “Yes, just like that little one. Give me your all…show me how filthy you can be..”

His praise was enough to make you come again, untouched but gushing as if he'd shoved his fingers back inside you. The blush on your cheeks grew, shy whines spilling past your spit-slick lips, muffled as he replaced his hand with his own. Alastors tongue found yours, forcing it to compete for dominance, though it was apparent you were far from intelligent thought, and you let him explore your mouth as he pleased.

Borboun, blood, & brimstone.

That's what the Radio Demon tasted like, and you greedily accepted one heated kiss after the next, mewling and trembling as he sunk his fangs into your bottom lip. The deliberate pain he inflicted shocked you into a stupor; blood doused your tongue and consequently coated his as well. Alastor groaned in delight as you squirmed against helplessly, fearing the taste of your blood and afraid he'd draw more of it if you didn't break yourself away from him. He let you struggle, pants tightening at his crotch, an almost painful pulse coursing through his cock as your small body tried to peel away from him.

“Careful, little one,” he disconnects the kiss, breath fanning over your swollen lips as he warns you, and fear gets the better of you then.

Alastor could hurt you.

He would if it pleased him.

You'd crossed a line into territory no bound soul should ever do with its captor.

The limits you set not longer applied, thrown to the wind as the stag turned you in his lap, ripping your skirt and panties to shreds with a pass of his claws. You watched the fabric float to the floor at his feet, unconsciously shaking as he snaked his arms around your chest and waist, hugging you close like a puppet tied to his strings. You were exactly that, a frightful little thing who could barely think straight as he reached to undo the front of his pants, pulling his cock free with a heavy growl in your ear.

Your eyes went wide, feeling his length against your Lowe back, warm, throbbing, and not a size you could take in one go -let alone for the first time. “That's not going to fit-,” He rutted against you, silencing your apprehension with a statiky groan, “Nonsense, sweetheart. You've done splendidly for me so far. I know you'll be just fine..” Alastor had lost control of his voice, letting it slip into normalcy as lust clouded his judgment, and the minuscule deviation made you dizzy.

Did you entice him that much to the point he faltered in his persona?

Fascinating.

A shallow giggle left your lips as he mumbled obscenities into your ear, switching between adamant praise and shameless degradation while his shadow tendrils materialized around your thighs. You squealed quietly as they dug into your skin, lifting you off his lap just high enough to hover your count over his cock. “Take a breath, darling,” Alastair whispered, a hint of care in his tone, and you craned your head to give him a curious look, “Why-?! Alastor! Fuck, wait!-” You yelped as his shadows pulled you down onto him with force, knocking the wind out of your chest and gradually splitting your cunt open to fit him entirely.

It hurt like hell, as if you were being ripped down the middle, but as quickly as the agony began, pleasure burned in its wake. Alastair felt it first, antlers doubling my size as his claws dug into your skin and his patience waning thin. Your creamy walls engulfed him deliciously, a feeling he could only describe as heavenly, intensifying with every resistant jut of your hips.

“S’ too much! Al, please,” you cry, out of breath and lightheaded. One glance downward, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to take much more, a small mound already visible in your stomach and your cunt squelching as he shifted underneath you. “Oh, but you feel so divine, little one.” He coos in your ear, growling a curse when you sink on his cock inch by inch, and your hands fly to grip at his larger ones that rest over your breasts and abdomen.

His encouragement rings in your ears like bells, diverting your frenzied doubts long enough for your body to be tense, allowing his shadows to bring you down.

Thank satan, I’m dead already, or this would surely be my end…

Alastor groaned loudly, head tipping back, crackling waves of white noise emitting from him as you took all he had to offer. “Knew you could do it, baby. Fuck, I’m so proud…of you,” the overload drawled lazily, smiling softly as you went weak against him, mindlessly rolling your hips to take him deeper.

To hell with thinking about anything. You found no use for it being stuffed full with no choice of escape.

You thought about him all day.

Did what he asked of you, obediently and without complaint.

Caring for him was bound to happen; craving to know what it felt like to have him all to yourself couldn’t be helped, so why deny this glorious opportunity to quell both desires?

Strings attached or not, you wanted him and couldn’t bear lying about it any longer.

A sick smile etched its way onto your face, spreading wide as you took control of your hips, setting a timid pace to get accustomed to his size. Alastor huffed a laugh, head tucked in your shoulder, fangs nipping at any skin he could reach while you slid up and down his length. It was no easy task for a fragile demoness like yourself, the little strength you had dwindled quicker every time the head of his cock hit your cervix. Yet, you couldn't stop moaning louder, slamming down harder to feel the burning stretch that followed tingles of pleasure as your warm walls committed the very shape of him to memory.

Alastor peered at your face, red eyes glowing as they zeroed in on your twisted expressions—satisfaction, pain, determination, and desperation.

He'd never imagined you to make such faces, used to seeing your usual sweet smile that could melt the coldest heart or the delicate frown you'd present when something didn't go your way. You hid a lot from others, him exceedingly, and he couldn't be you for it.

However, if this is what you looked like, delirious and nearly fucked out, he wouldn't mind seeing you express yourself in his presence.

All that need in your eyes when you levered your head back, the stars in them when he began to meet your tired thrusts with vigorous ones of his own, and the blissful scream you let out in gratitude amounted to a resolution he'd previously set aside.

Owning your soul would never be enough.

No, the radio demon needed a tangible claim to you, a mark of some sort to let every being in hell know your body belonged to him.

“Tell me, do you wish to be mine, Y/n?…” he held your gaze, hands finding your hips to slow the rise of them, and you immediately whined an answer to his question from the loss of friction. “Yes..w-whatever you want from me, I'll g-give it… hmm.” your skin crawled as the knot in your stomach begged to slip free, enduring solid strokes from the demon holding you, shamelessly covering you into another deal.

One that'd leave more than a green chain around your neck.

Alastors ears twitched at your confession, signaling his amusement, but the action went unnoticed by you as he hovered a hand over your chest. “A wise choice, my dear,” he muses, a green glow passing from your palm to the center of your chest, eliciting an intricate sigil on your skin. You glanced down, admiring the distinctive red markings on your skin, and you could only describe the sight as endearing.

He hummed as you clung tighter to him, trying to speak but giving up as he relented his steady strokes to rapid thrusts. Your mouth fell open, back arching away from his chest as you erupted into a fit of high-pitched moans. It crossed your mind for a second that the entirety of hell might hear you, that heaven might very well know his name solely from your screams, but you could care less.

Alastor did not seem to mind either, grunting and growling in your ear lowly. The tremor of his overlay shattering as his cock twit he'd inside you and his grin pulling itself taut as your slippery cunt suffocated it in response. You were close, deathly aware of it too, but intended to last as long as he did.

Intended, but ultimately unsuccessful.

“For the love of- Alastor!” you groaned incredulously, losing your grip on reality as his shadows wrapped around your knees, bringing them in close together before pressing into your chest. The new angle made you feel every vein in his cock, how it fits just right in your womb, how hard it could press into your sweet spot.

It made you delirious within seconds, your horns revealing themselves and nails digging into the back of his hands viciously as your high reached its peak.

“Fuck!” Alastor hissed, disregarding his aversion to cursing while you came, walls holding him in with a vice-like grip. A shaky whine tumbled from you as your essence leaked out, coating his comic in a thick sheen and turning cold as it trickled down your skin.

There was so much of it, more than you were used to, but it made it all the easier for him to continue slamming up into you. “M’ going to come again if you don't stop,” you mumbled dazedly, body going weak as overstimulation raced through it, but Alastor paid your warning no mind. “Then so be it, little one,” he purred, voice more profound than usual as it ran in your head. You smiled mischievously, giddy after coming down from an intense high and on the verge of another as he used you like a ragdoll.

Your delighted giggles stirred Alastor, creating a lethal combination with your unapologetic smile as he chased his release. The red markings on your chest caught his eye, dimly glowing under his scrutiny and a visual reminder to you both what this exchange meant.

You reached a hand up to trace over the sigil on your chest, shivering as he watched your fingertips gingerly graze his binding on you. The docile action drew him over the edge, buried to the hilt inside you as he painted your walls white. You writhed in pleasure, mewling softly as your stomach swelled slightly, and your thighs shook from the intensity of your reaching end in the midst of his.

Alastor inhaled sharply, radio waves humming through the air as he finished, refusing to pull out of you entirely until he was sure you'd taken every drop of his cum. The specters on your legs vanished, leaving you to slump back into his chest, and you considered falling to the floor in fear he'd put you there himself.

You were surprised when he didn't do so, opting to settle his head in the crook of your neck while trying to catch his breath for a moment before sitting straight up again. Alastor let a beat of silence pass, straightening himself up to look decent but not saying a word to you as the air of lust evaporated. You frowned, a little hurt he wasn't speaking, but primarily concerned if you disappointed him.

You went to stand up, head hanging low as you considered what to do or say, but a force tugged you back down into his lap. The mark on your chest stung a bit, only calming when you felt his arm wrap around your waist, “M’ sorry!” you quickly rushed out an apology, afraid of his possible wrath, but he merely chuckled at your sudden fear.

“There's no need to fret, little one. I mean, you no harm from here on out so long as you remain at my side..” the stag emphasized his demand by trailing a hand from the cum induced hump in your abdomen to the etchings on your chest. A timid blush rose in your cheeks as the radio demon hummed melodically, admiring his work on you as he snapped his fingers. The room was no longer stuffy, spacious, and filled with his scent.

Your eyes trailed the expanse of the new view, familiar with it despite only visiting his room once before for a few moments. It felt cozier than you remembered, or maybe exhaustion was getting to you.

Whatever the case was, you were simply happy to be in his space, perplexed by the arrangement but grateful for it nonetheless. Alastor held you steady in his arms, letting you marvel at the room as he guided you toward the nearest sofa. “You don't have a bed?” you asked him innocently, concerned that he wasn't getting proper rest, but he didn't seem to be bothered by your questioning.

“I'm not one to rest often, my dear.” he sat you down on the plush couch, smile softening as you stared up at him, ears flattening while worry clouded your tired eyes. “How do you not sleep, Alastor? Aren't you ever tried?..” you looked him up and down, blushing as he laughed, “Are you always this curious, little one, or does your special interest in me make you bolder than usual?”

“N-no, it's just that…” you paused, watching as he summoned himself to change clothes, doing the same for you with a wave of his hand. Alastor took his time addressing, waiting for you to continue explaining with a knowing smile plastered on his face.

You avoided staring at him as he changed, catching a glimpse of scars on his body as he slipped on a white dress shirt, and you swore it looked just as good on him as the red and black one he always wore did.

“Don't keep me waiting, doll. Speak.” He scolded, amused by your stalling but not a fan of unfinished sentences. You gulped, becoming skittish as his command hung in the air, but complying within seconds

“I just hoped to spend a little more time with you. Besides what we just…” you couldn't put it into words, biting your tongue at the recent memory, and you half expected Alastor to disregard your implication, but he did nothing of the sort.

“The seal I've placed on you won't allow you to leave my side unless I explicitly give my permission. If you're asking to stay the night with me, I can assure you I've already decided you'll do so.”

You blinked, smiling wide as he rested a hand on your head, petting you just as he'd done in the hotel lobby.

“I don't think I'd ever want to leave your side anyway,” you mumbled absentmindedly, leaning into his touch as he crouched down to be eye level with you, “So, it's settled then. You'll need no one else besides me, correct?”

You nod, eyes lighting up with pure submission, “Yes, sir.”

xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxx xxxxxxx xxxxxx xxxx

Someone said Alastor stands when he sleeps and just stares at a wall in his room and I think that's fucking haliarous. Imagine walking in on him sleeping and he literally flinches from shock and falls backward on his ass cause he doesn't realize he's fallen asleep until someone startles him. In all honesty he is me and I'm him cause I don't sleep either. ❤️

[ BONUS CONTENT + ]

He’s so…corny but fucking cute so I’ll let it slide THIS TIME… also I love it when his eyes narrow like oh my god yes glare at meeee silly red takes mann! ❤️ credit to creator!

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sunny374940 · 5 months ago

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I have my moments, darling

Hello, it's egg crackin' time. Remember how Emmrich was so mad at Solas in May I kiss you? (it's here if you want it) Now Emmrich gets his revenge. It's just a short scene, but I had to get it out of my head.

Here on ao3

Rest of my stuff here

Minrathous was a horrible blighted mess. Emmrich had seen enough of the blight to last several lifetimes and yet there was ever more of it. They rounded a corner and saw another writhing mass of blight tentacles, which were all converging on a solitary figure. The person dispatched the tentacles with great bursts of magic and then they turned around and there was no mistaking who this was.

Solas.

Emmrich saw red. He wanted to hurt him so badly. Hurt him, like Rook had been hurt. He would never forget the terrified expression on Rook's face when he believed that Emmrich hated him. And he believed it because Solas imprisoned him in that horrible place.

He longed to make him pay. For all the suffering Rook endured, for all the sleepless nights on Emmrich's part. But he couldn't. He would lose quickly in an outright fight against Solas, for one. And they needed him, couldn't win this war without him, so he couldn't allow himself to even try destroying him, no matter how much he wished to do so.

Rook was coming up to Solas to talk, and Emmrich's ears were ringing with all the rage he felt, but some of Rook's words filtered to him, angry and betrayed and hurt.

“You used blood magic on me?”

What?

Solas was making apologies, but Emmrich didn't hear a word he said, because this was the last drop that overflowed whatever vessel was holding his fury in check. Emmrich strode up to them and Solas dared to address him.

“Greetings, professor,” he said, as if this was an academic meeting, as if the only thing keeping him safe right now wasn't the fact that they sorely needed him.

Emmrich took a breath to scream at him, but words failed him. He wanted to kill him, bring him back and kill him again. But he had to be reasonable, no matter how much he hated to be so. He let his breath out in a sigh and settled for what was attainable at the moment.

He punched the Dread Wolf in the face.

Solas reeled back, though he unfortunately remained upright. Even so, Emmrich felt glorious satisfaction at the sight of the bastard that hurt his Rook touching a hand to his nose and having it come away bloody.

He shook out his hand. This would probably smart for a while, but he wouldn't waste mana on healing something so inconsequential now. And maybe feeling the evidence of his revenge wasn't so bad.

“I suspect this was deserved,” Solas said, wincing at the pain, and Emmrich was satisfied indeed.

“It was,” Emmrich nodded. But it wouldn't do to dwell on this anymore, time was short and whatever revenge was possible had been had. “Shall we go? I believe we have a world to save.”

“That we do,” Solas replied and Emmrich was gratified to hear a note of respect in his voice.

Rook took his hand, their fingers intertwining, and there was so much awe in his expression that Emmrich almost blushed.

“You're such a badass, love.”

“Thank you, darling. I have my moments.”

Hii @mercars-musings, @lavender-tea-fling, @starfleetteddybear, @spinfins, @sorrowsfallallaround, @redheadsramblings

#emmrook #dragon age veilguard #emmrich volkarin #emmrich x rook #dragon age the veilguard #veilguard

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crownmemes · 2 years ago

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Injuries, Old and New Prompts

(Prompts for scenarios for injured muses. Add "+ 🔄" or "+ reverse" to reverse the scenario!)

😴 My muse wakes up in the middle of the night to find your muse injured in their living room

👊 My muse gets hurt during a fight

🔍 Your muse spots an old injury belonging to my muse that they didn't know about before

🩹 Your muse takes care of my muse after a bad injury

🔓 My muse reveals a hidden injury to your muse

🛡️ My muse gets hurt while trying to protect your muse

😑 My muse accidentally hurts themselves while doing something mundane

🤫 My muse tries to hide an injury from your muse

💔 My muse sees your muse getting hurt but is unable to stop it

🧳 My muse has been away for a while and returns with a mysterious injury

🙈 Your muse helps my muse to hide an injury

🕒 My muse is still affected by an old injury and they need your muse to help them

💭 My muse's opinion on something changes after getting hurt

🎭 My muse pretends to be injured for a specific reason

😖 My muse feels guilty after accidentally hurting your muse

💫 My muse has temporary memory loss after an injury

😤 My muse complains about a small, inconsequential injury to your muse

#rp meme #rp memes #roleplay meme #roleplay memes #rp prompts #roleplay prompts #emoji memes #original;#injured;

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your-local-simp-writers · 1 year ago

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Laughter

Word Count: 682

Warnings: None

Malleus Draconia x Fem!Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

The quest to elicit genuine laughter from Malleus Draconia had become more than a mere challenge; it had evolved into a journey of connection, a dance of two souls weaving through the tapestry of daily life at Night Raven College. Each day, you presented a new act in the comedy you hoped would crack the stoic exterior of the Dragon King.

Your attempts were many and varied. One day, you tried to tickle a chuckle out of him with a cleverly crafted joke that played on the words of an ancient Draconic spell. Another day, you staged a humorous play with the help of the drama club, complete with exaggerated costumes and over-the-top performances. You even were able to orchestrate a playful riddle, clever and intricate, designed to appeal to Malleus’s intellect. Another day, you enlisted the help of the mischievous students, setting up a harmless prank that left Malleus with a surprised chuckle, though not the laugh you sought.

As the week drew to a close, you found yourselves walking together in the moonlit gardens, a place where the hustle of the college seemed like a distant memory. The night air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of roses and the distant sound of the nocturnal choir of crickets and frogs.

Each failed attempt was not a setback but a step closer to understanding the enigmatic Dragon King. But as the week progressed, so did the bond between you. Shared smiles, exchanged glances, moments where your hands brushed while walking down the corridor—all these tiny threads wove a connection that was palpable, a silent understanding that grew with each passing day.

It was on a night adorned with a velvet sky and a radiant moon that you found yourselves strolling through the enchanted gardens. The air was cool, carrying the scent of jasmine and moonflower, the garden bathed in a soft, ethereal light.

“You have been quite persistent,” Malleus remarked, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to blend with the rustling leaves. “I must confess, your dedication to this quest has been… quite endearing.”

You smiled, a plan forming in your mind. “Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong,” you mused. “Maybe it’s not about the act, but the moment.”

You looked up at him, the moonlight casting a soft glow on his features. “Laughter is the melody of the soul, Malleus. I want to hear yours.”

He considered your words, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “And what makes you believe that you can draw it out?” he asked, his gaze meeting yours.

“Because,” you replied, your voice filled with conviction, “even the sternest of hearts can find joy in the unexpected.”

The two of you walked in comfortable silence, the gravel crunching softly underfoot. You spoke of small things, inconsequential things, and yet, in those moments, they felt significant. The conversation flowed like a gentle stream, natural and unforced.

And then, as the song “Teitur - One and Only” played in your mind, you found the moment you had been waiting for. With a twinkle in your eye, you recounted a humorous anecdote, one that was personal, heartfelt, and unexpectedly funny.

Malleus listened, his expression unreadable in the moonlight. But as the punchline approached, you stumbled, not in your words, but quite literally over a wayward vine. The surprise on your face, the grace with which you regained your balance—it was a scene straight out of a play, and it was real.

The laughter that followed was rich and warm, echoing through the garden like a melody. Malleus’s laughter, unrestrained and joyful, filled the night air, mingling with the rustling leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.

“I stand corrected,” he said, his laughter subsiding into a series of delighted chuckles. “You have indeed found the right moment, and it was… perfect.”

The two of you paused, the laughter still hanging in the air like a cherished melody. In that moment, under the watchful eye of the moon, you realized that laughter was not just a sound—it was a connection, a shared language that transcended words.

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jamilelucato · 2 years ago

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possibility - fred weasley

pairing: fred weasley x slytherin!reader

(it can be read as a one-shot) (part 02 here!)

summary: Amidst the boredom, an unexpected connection sparks between (Y/N) and the charismatic mischief-maker, Fred Weasley.

note: They are in their last year at Hogwarts, so, for purposes, they are 18; besides, the whole canon of the book (it would've been Order of the Phoenix) is mostly nonexistent here.

the reader: can be interpreted as someone with ADHD; she loves literature and she has no friends.

words: 7580

Enjoy!

The lesson trudged on, dripping with tedium.

In truth, (y/n) quite liked Professor Flitwick. She had, in fact, eagerly accepted his invitation to become his assistant whenever the First Years graced his class. Being an assistant delighted her to no end. Yet, being a student, well, that was a different cauldron of bubbling potion altogether.

Today, Flitwick's lecture on Spellcasting and its perils was dragging on and on. As a sixth-year student, the curriculum seemed more intent on delving into existing knowledge than offering exciting novelties. While these topics might hold allure for a future Auror or the like, they were a one-way ticket to Boredomville for her.

Ever since (y/n) had decided upon her career path – a decision that seemed to have been brewed in the deepest recesses of her being – most of her classes had metamorphosed into a soporific ordeal. Hogwarts wasn't particularly renowned for its prowess in teaching language and literature, but that was precisely where her ambitions lay. A writer, a wordsmith, perhaps even an editor or a high school pedagogue. Anything that would let her commune with the magic of words, not the sort that burst from wands.

Now, she wasn't a woeful spell caster by any means. Professor Flitwick wouldn't have sought her assistance if she weren't a smart witch. But, her heart preferred the dance of ink on parchment over the intricacies of wand-waving, often rendering her classroom hours relatively inconsequential.

Seeking refuge from this stifling monotony, (y/n) allowed her gaze to wander. And in this sea of faces, her eyes collided with Fred Weasley – the school's most notorious ginger-haired mischief-maker. He was already watching her, a mask of effortless nonchalance draped over his face. He raised his brows at her, noticing she was staring back, and he did not look away. And so, they locked eyes, neither relinquishing the connection. It was not a duel of gazes; it was more like a shared secret, a silent agreement over how tedious the class was.

A minute passed in this silent communion until Fred graced her with a faint smile. The spell was broken, and her attention returned to her empty parchment. A quiet sigh fluttered like a long-forgotten page being turned, but it vanished into the air, unheard by all but her.

With pen in hand, she felt an almost magical compulsion to transcribe Flitwick's words onto her parchment. His voice, though droning before, now seemed less boring.

“To its nature, we shall survive it, but the opponent targetted... not so much,” the professor intoned, the words finally finding their mark within her consciousness. Cruel nature, indeed. “Well,” she mused, her back moulding into her chair as her quill danced across the parchment, “Every spell I remember does possess a hint of danger.”

At long last, her notes held substance, and her enthusiasm, while subdued, had been rekindled. Her gaze again drifted sideways to where Fred Weasley was, only to find he had shifted his focus – to his twin, George.

They sat side by side, mirror images of naughtiness. (y/n) sometimes forgot that they were identical twins because she was so used to having them around that they started to look apart. George's height had a mere smidgen of variance, while Fred's nose was a tad more prominent. Freckles played a symphony across their faces, arranging themselves differently – Fred’s were more concentrated around his forehead. Yet, at that moment, as (y/n) blinked through her confusion, she wondered if she'd mixed up their features. Had she glimpsed George's grin instead?

But then, as if choreographed by fate, Fred resumed his original posture and caught her looking. His lips curled into an unmistakable smirk. “It's certainly Fred, then,” she thought, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, unwanted. She redirected her attention back to the good Professor Flitwick and his lesson, and weirdly enough, after all that gazing, she had regained her focus and was more ready to be a satisfactory student.

Amidst her studies, (y/n) was ensconced within the library's embrace.

This day bestowed upon the library an uncommon hush, a tranquillity that seemed to defy the norm. The librarian always managed to get the kids quiet, but she couldn't stop them from coming all at once when frenzied by the looming spectre of approaching exams.

However, an anomaly unfolded on that Friday afternoon, bestowing upon (y/n) the most unexpected gift – the library, in all its boundless expanse, was hers to claim. A rarity that, peculiarly, she found herself not enjoying. Amidst the solitude, her focus waned like a candle in a draft, flickering and unstable. Concentration eluded her, much like the fleeting caress of a dream upon waking. Reading, that intimate act of solitary exploration, seemed to have metamorphosed into a daunting endeavour. It was one thing to lose oneself in tales of princesses or the adventures of chiselled, sun-kissed heroes, but an entirely different ordeal to grapple with the intricate world of potion brewing.

For (y/n), the allure of fantasy books or any literary work was nothing short of enchanting, capable of whisking her away on wings of imagination. These volumes, she devoured with unbridled speed. Yet, a profound disinterest surged within her when it came to the theoretical tomes packed with knowledge mirroring the lectures she endured. If she were to be entirely frank, she might even admit a smidgen of disdain for these volumes.

So she would never take them to the dorms with her — she would much rather read them in the library, filled with other students. The presence of others functioned as a gentle but firm tether, binding her to the task at hand – reading, absorbing, and taking notes. The collective energy of focused minds bolstered her resolve.

Alas, a rather desolate air hung over the library's expanse on this day.

Thrice (y/n) had shifted her position, seeking companionship in proximity, only for her hopes to be dashed within thirty minutes. A sigh, tinged with resignation, escaped her lips, and in that crestfallen moment, a shock of crimson manifested in her field of vision. A pair of vibrant red-headed twins strode in. Nestled at the tables near the corridor's entrance, she watched them meander, their steps unhurried, eyes wandering. “Searching," her inner voice concluded. Certainly, the twins held a more potent allure than the secrets of cauldron cleaning or its ilk, a fact her current book seemed intent on imparting.

Though (y/n) watched from her vantage point, removed yet intrigued, the twins' presence would've caught anyone's attention had there been any other student around. As their gaze swept the expanse, (y/n)'s musings dipped into the realm of speculation, imagining the myriad thoughts dancing behind those crimson veils.

In a place where solitude was typically her archenemy, she now sat pondering the enigma of the Weasley twins, the allure of their presence momentarily overshadowing the dusty tomes that lay before her.

Fred and George stood at a distance, too far for (y/n) to gain a comprehensive view. Instead, they ambulated the space with a purpose that eluded onlookers – a relentless quest for something unbeknownst to her. As they wandered, their forms flickered in and out of her view, now one visible, then none, then both, and once more only one boy.

Fixated on the one nearer her, she strained her vision to discern. Could it be Fred? A question played a merry dance in her mind, teasing but refusing to commit to a definitive answer. His profile was turned towards the shelves, a curtain of red hair obscuring details. Besides, distinguishing the twins remained a daunting task without a survey of their noses.

Abruptly, a voice infiltrated her thoughts, causing her to startle in her seat, “You know we saw you, right?”

She swivelled around, only to be met by the missing twin positioned just behind her. Leaning over her chair's backrest, he inclined his head inquisitively, a solitary auburn eyebrow arching with playful curiosity. Witnessing her wide-eyed astonishment, the Weasley released a soft, subdued chuckle, a mischievous symphony woven into the sound. “If you want my brother's number, you can just ask,” he added.

So the one talking to her was Fred. She quickly glanced at his nose bridge, trying to see the intricated details left by a Quidditch match gone wrong, yet his voice functioned as the telltale sign. He audacity to issue such a provocative remark to a girl with whom they held only the most tenuous of connections – that could only be Fred's doing. Moreover, his tone carried a specific timbre distinct from George's. It was, for lack of a better word, smoother to her auditory senses. Not that George's voice was anything less than agreeable, but his was a quieter, more reserved resonance. She mused that her lack of familiarity with George's vocal cadence stemmed from his status as the quieter half of the duo, while Fred's unending stream of chatter had made his vocal imprint indelible in her ears.

A manufactured laugh escaped her lips, a tinkling facade, "Haha, Weasley. I don't want no one's number."

Fred inclined his head, a bemused glint in his eyes as if coaxing her to reveal more.

Nestled more comfortably in her chair, she raised her chin a fraction, a silent assertion that she was unreservedly facing the boy. This small shift seemed to foster a sense of openness between them.

"Studying is boring, so you guys looked like a distraction," she declared with a nonchalant shrug.

His voice dripped with theatrical incredulity, “We? A distraction?” Fred's lips curled into a playful smile, his head tilting as he leaned slightly away. He stood tall, towering over most, a fact he seemingly embraced with ease. Though his height wasn't sufficient to overshadow Ron (a surprise, really), it cast a considerable shadow over (y/n), particularly in her seated state. The disparity in stature unfolded in a tableau that her neck found almost physically taxing to endure.

With the book held closer to her chest, (y/n) drew a deep breath, her response tinged with a touch of exasperation, “Honestly, anything is a preferable pursuit than deciphering 'how to brew... a potion.'” Her fingers clutched the book, the page title a weighty secret she held close, refusing to vocalise it aloud.

An unexpected shift occurred as Fred commandeered the neighbouring chair, situating it with a proximity that nudged their personal space. “And weirdly enough," he said. Lowering himself into the seat, he offered a sly grin, his gaze steady upon her, “You always get good grades at Snape's classes.” A movement almost imperceptible – a twitch of the head, a hint of satisfaction – played upon his features.

(y/n) registered the proximity with an awareness that tickled her senses. The book, her veiled treasure, lay nestled in her grasp, poised for closure to deter prying eyes.

She shrugged, expecting him to forget what she held close, “I'm Slytherin, after all.”

“Ah,” Fred snapped his tongue in the roof of his mouth, a sound almost as if he had drunk something and was now satisfied.

Shifting her gaze quickly at George, she hoped he would come to her rescue and take his twin away.

“Not so fast,” Fred interjected, his large hand sweeping down to rest atop the book's cover. “What secrets are you hiding there?”

Her gaze flitted from his eyes to his hand, a growing wariness churning within her. Her fingers tensed around the book, futilely attempting to shield its contents. But deftly, the book was relinquished from her hold and into his.

His melodious voice breathed life into the words etched on the page, “Let's unravel this mystery... 'How to Brew a Love Potion,'” he read aloud, his playful and teasing tone. Amusement twinkled in his eyes as they danced up to meet hers. “Wow, (y/n), I'd never take you for one who needed a love potion.”

To match his wit, (y/n) maintained her playful gaze, a smirk curving her lips as her retort unfurled, “Oh, I don't know, Fred. Perhaps that's my secret to acing Snape's classes.”

Not even the weight of dark humour could ruffle Fred Weasley's composure. His smirk swelled, infused with a brew of mischief that danced in his eyes. “If that's the case, you're terrible at it. I distinctly recall a certain incident involving Snape's homework, and if memory serves, it nearly rendered you floundering.”

She averted her gaze, her attention shifting to the captured book still cradled within his hands, the prospect of regaining it receding into the distance.

“Thanks for the recall, top-tier student,” she quipped, a playful glint in her eyes. “Now, are you willing to tell me your secrets? What are you doing here, in the library?”

Fred's laughter danced like a secret melody, an intimate note that lingered in the air, his eyes shimmering with a clandestine glimmer. “What's life without a little mystery?” he joked, his voice a velvety caress.

She mirrored his stance, a symmetrical lean that brought them closer, the gap between their faces now an invitation. Their proximity wove a delicate tapestry between their banter and a realm of deeper connection. “Is that so?” she inquired, her words drawn out in a languid purr, the air heavy with a mingling of intrigue and allure.

He matched her pace without the need to ask. The dance of their words had woven a tapestry of amusement, their shared enjoyment eclipsing the pursuit of concrete answers. After all, Fred barely had learned a secret. He was smart enough to know (y/n)'s book had been opened on a random page.

“If I tell you why I'm here,” he mused; his gaze, which had been steadfastly locked onto her eyes, dared trace a path to her lips, “what will you give me in return?”

(y/n) thought herself very wicked when her answer came quickly, “A love potion?” she playfully suggested.

His smile faltered, his breathing taking on a deeper rhythm, a transformation she couldn't help but notice.

“I don't need that,” he purred, voice dipping lower, “however, you...”

An eye-roll framed her response, though she didn't retreat from his proximity.

“Weasley...” her voice began, her tone laden with a mix of exasperation and uncertainty, an attempt to convey a sentiment she was grappling to articulate.

“Fred,” he interjected, the word a soft murmur, his eyes holding hers earnestly. Noticing her bemusement, he continued with a gentle lilt, “Call me Fred.”

She processed his words, pondering the significance of calling him by his name instead of his surname – a departure from the collective label that often accompanied the Weasley clan around Hogwarts.

A nervous throat clearing preceded her tentative utterance, “Fred." She tested the name as if savouring the syllables as if she did not know it before.

Flirting was an uncharted territory for (y/n), a realm she now tiptoed into, fueled by trepidation and exhilaration.

“Lucian Flewchief's book.”

The words hung suspended, (y/n)'s brow furrowing as she sought to decipher their meaning. Was that Fred’s way of flirting back? Suggesting a book? (y/n) was puzzled. That was a new way of flirting she never knew of, but she hoped the book was some young adult fae fantasy.

Fred's perception of her confusion prompted him to lean back slightly, dissipating the cosy bubble they'd woven. He clarified, “That's our objective here – locating Lucian Flewchief's book."

Her understanding unfurled with an "oh" of realisation, the pieces clicking into place.

“We're also the reason behind the library's current solitude,” he continued, an impish glint in his eyes. “George and I orchestrated a bit of a distraction to ensure we could slip away without drawing any undue attention, Godric forbid, with a book in tow!”

So that explained why she was the only one lingering at the library. Though it made sense, it stirred a tinge of melancholy within her.

Curiosity nudged her to question further, her tone now coloured with intrigue. “Who is this guy? Flewchief? And why the necessity for secrecy around his book?” Her queries were genuine and earnest, though sadness crept into her voice as their playful exchange segued into a more sober dialogue.

Fred swayed his head before replying, “He's a master at pranks.”

An eyebrow arched in response, (y/n)'s curiosity unabated. While she may not have been an expert in the art of pranking, one would expect to have heard of such a renowned figure, right?

Observing her perplexity, Fred inhaled deeply before disclosing, his voice lowered almost to a whisper, “He's a muggle author.”

Recognition flashed across (y/n)'s face, though she remained silent. Yet, subtle shifts in her posture – a subtle sag of her shoulders, a slight tightening of her lips – betrayed a sentiment that did not escape Fred's notice. He understood the Slytherin disposition all too well; prejudices were not uncommon.

She unravelled a piece of herself with an unexpected candour, her words confounding Fred's expectations. Instead of disparaging comments or dismissing glances, she offered something else entirely.

“I want to be a writer for muggles,” she confessed, her voice tinged with vulnerability. “I like to write fantasy, you know. But that's not a genre for wizards; our reality often rivals the most fantastical of fiction. So, my focus turns toward the muggle readers.”

Though caught off guard by the revelation, Fred remained silent, feeling a surge of admiration for her. He hadn't anticipated such a response.

“I can help you find Flewchief's book,” she offered, swiftly transitioning past the exposure of her own secret, determined not to let her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I know this library well, particularly the section reserved for muggle authors. I presume you and George have little familiarity with the place.”

A crooked smile curled upon his lips in response. “Indeed,” he admitted with a chuckle, “you could even say 'no familiarity'; it's quite fitting.”

While (y/n) couldn't quite fathom how any student or individual could navigate life without venturing into the depths of a library, she empathized with their unfamiliarity. The muggle literature section was cloaked in segregation as if Hogwarts itself was disconcerted by such volumes.

Rising from her seat, she gathered her assortment of potion books. Truth be told, she harboured no illusions about accomplishing any meaningful research that afternoon. She left only one book behind – the one currently cradled in Fred's grasp.

“Are you coming or…?" Her voice hung in the air, a hint of playful theatricality accompanying her question.

Promptly, Fred sprang from his chair, the solitary book still in his possession. With (y/n) as his guide, they embarked on a journey through the library's labyrinthine aisles. Initially, they returned her stack of books to Madam Irma Pince, whose sole acknowledgement was a fleeting glance, her eyes flitting over the pile as it landed on her counter. Her gaze flickered momentarily as if recognition finally settled in at the sight of the redheaded companion beside (y/n).

“A Weasley," Madam Irma Pince declared, her observation stating the obvious. Fred, however, found himself grappling with an appropriate response. Ultimately, he opted for a shrug, his head tilting in acquiescence.

“I’m Fred,” he offered, his voice laced with a touch of formality. “But, you are absolutely correct, I am a Weasley."

It was abundantly clear that the librarian was well aware of which Weasley he was.

“Don’t tear my books apart,” she cautioned, her voice edged with warning. “And don’t you dare burn this place down.”

Fred's lips pressed into a tight line, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. He responded with a curt, “Noted."

(y/n) glanced up at Fred and then to the side, studying his expression. His tone left her somewhat perplexed – she couldn't discern if he was indulging in sarcastic provocation or if he held genuine offence at Madam Irma Pince's admonitions. She reflected that the torrent of criticisms from every adult figure must have been tiring. Yet, the twins hadn't acquired their notoriety by chance; their reputation as school pranksters was well-earned.

The three exchanged furtive glances before Madam Irma Pince averted her gaze to her counter. Her intentions, on the other side, remained veiled to (y/n). Fred possessed the capability to peek, but (y/n) held doubts about him exercising that prerogative.

Clearing her throat, (y/n) eased away from the librarian, and Fred followed suit.

“Take me to George,” she requested. Detecting Fred's immediate confusion, she elaborated, “So both of you can scour the shelves for the books. I can assist, but I'm not quite tall enough to reach all of the shelves.”

“Again," Fred inclined his head toward her, and at that moment, a subtle shift occurred, the playful dance of flirtation vanishing as swiftly as it had emerged, “Thank you for the assistance”. His expression was appreciative, genuine, a quiet acknowledgement of her assistance.

With a soft smile, she replied, “Don't mention it," her voice bearing a hushed quality, her gaze evading direct eye contact. “You’ll just own me one.”

He chuckled, “Uh, the unspoken possibilities.”

Indeed, Fred. Indeed.

It was a rather cold day.

But it was Saturday and Hogsmeade trip day, so (y/n) put on her thickest coat and decided to face the snow.

Her fellow housemates buzzed with excitement, eagerly anticipating the visit. Yet, for (y/n), this outing held a more sombre purpose – a pilgrimage to Honeydukes. While her friends were pursuing quills and ingredients, (y/n) sought only solace in candy. These past few days had been trying, and the kitchen house elves had quietly declared her persona non grata, etching “no longer welcomed" onto their secret walls. So she’d have to buy her own sweets from now on.

“Feeling hot today?” a voice chimed from behind (y/n).

She clutched herself, attempting to stave off the relentless cold. Hogsmeade always exuded a chill, but it seemed that nature was intent on pushing the mercury even lower today. Not even her trusty coat could entirely repel the biting wind.

The voice was familiar; she recognised it as belonging to Fred Weasley.

“Where’s your other half?” she asked, noticing George wasn’t around.

“At the school,” Fred replied, bridging the distance with a few long strides. Given the frigid weather, (y/n) moved slowly, rivalling the old ladies of Diagon Alley. “He's caught the flu.”

A chuckle escaped (y/n), though her amusement was laced with empathy. “After today, I might end up just as sick.”

Fred mirrored her laughter, his eyes gleaming with a twinkle. Then, shifting his gaze towards their right, his expression became more earnest. “Come on, let’s get you something warm. Tea?”

True to his suggestion, Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop loomed just a few steps away.

(y/n) scanned her surroundings, from Fred to the inviting facade of the shop, and for a fleeting moment, the idea appealed to her. But then, a mental alarm sounded – this place was renowned for romantic trysts, a haven for couples from their year. For a time, (y/n) had considered herself above such traditions. But as her sixteenth birthday came and went, and she remained unattached, she longed for the experience of a boy inviting her to tea. Now, at eighteen, it seemed more a fanciful dream than a tangible possibility.

So Fred was definitely not suggesting it as a date.

“I actually have to head to Honeydukes,” she replied, her features arranged in a grimace, and she gestured with her body towards the store at the far end of the bustling Hogsmeade street. “That's the only reason I'm still here.”

Fred bit his lip in thought. “How about we grab a tea to go, then?” he proposed, his determination unwavering. He peered down at her, shivering in the cold, taking in her petite frame. “In less than fifteen minutes, you'll be on your way back to Hogwarts.”

The notion of sipping on something piping hot was increasingly appealing.

“Promise?” she asked, her tone a touch childlike.

Fred extended his pinky finger, encased in a slightly faded red glove – likely a Weasley hand-me-down. Not that (y/n) considered herself entitled or wealthy, but it was common knowledge that the Weasleys weren't the richest in monetary terms. Yet, they were undeniably wealthy in children.

Her own pinky fingers remained nestled deep within her pockets, safe from the cold. Fred glanced down and chuckled.

“Come on.”

She sighed, “Fine, Weasley. But you're footing the bill,” and when she noticed he was about to playfully protest, she added, “You were the one who insisted, after all.”

They walked together, resembling a pair of penguins navigating the icy terrain. (y/n)’s hands, nestled within her coat pockets, were shielded from the biting cold, yet their elbows still grazed one another now and then as they strolled leisurely.

Fred gallantly held the door open, allowing her to enter the cosy shop, and she expressed her gratitude in a soft murmur. While he proceeded to the counter to place their order (when queried, (y/n) simply requested, “Any tea will do, as long as it's the hottest available"), she contemplated the peculiar friendship that had taken root between them.

She'd never been an opponent of Fred, or the Weasleys, or anyone within Gryffindor, as one might have assumed. However, their closeness was a relatively recent development. When confronted with one of the twins' pranks, (y/n) was often the first to laugh, captivated by the sheer audacity of their exploits. She believed magic should be harnessed for amusement, not as a weapon; consequently, she found their approach to their magical talents endearing.

Because of her laughter, Fred and George had never targeted her with their pranks. Their mischief was generally directed at Malfoy and his ilk. Occasionally, she'd return to her common room and find something amiss, but she understood it was their way of rebelling against the entirety of Slytherin and its values rather than a personal affront.

By her fifth year, (y/n) considered Fred and George her acquaintances. They exchanged nods in the classrooms and other shared spaces. Being in the same year, she had grown accustomed to their voices and learned to differentiate between them.

Moreover, the Weasley twins had a certain charisma that she couldn't deny. She had met Fred’s older brothers before, so their good looks were no surprise. She realised this charm extended to Fred as he approached with two cups of steaming tea.

His freckles had always been a distinctive feature she admired. Yet now, she also noticed the appeal of his height, his shoulders broad and strong, typical of a Beater. His hair appeared soft and straight, inviting her fingers to run through its fiery strands, although she knew better than to entertain such notions.

Strangely, it was his nose that intrigued her the most. It was the distinguishing feature that allowed her to differentiate between Fred and George. She found it more masculine and captivating than the rest of his features. Not to mention his chest, which had once tantalisingly revealed his abs through a sweaty Quidditch shirt during a match. The sport certainly worked wonders on bodies.

“Thank you,” she said before taking a sip. She freed her hands from her pockets only with the prospect of holding something scolding hot.

Fred observed her closely as she tasted the tea, noticing how her eyes momentarily closed in bliss and how her body seemed to uncoil, the tension in her shoulders dissipating.

“All right, off to Honeydukes I go," she declared, pivoting towards the Tea Shop's exit.

Fred followed her, hastening to hold the door open once more. A subtle blush dusted her cheeks, and she was relieved that the shop was still relatively empty. A couple occupied a dimly lit corner but seemed too concentrated on each other to notice Fred Weasley being nice to a Slytherin girl. So that’s saying a lot about how entertained that random teenage couple was.

As they stepped back into the brisk Hogsmeade air, (y/n) noticed that Fred was still at her side. She didn't voice any complaint, though. Ever since the day he had sought her help at the library, she had resigned herself to the idea that she might never get the opportunity to converse with Fred alone again. George was always around, and if not him, then someone else. And even though, if she tried, (y/n) could engage in conversation with the other twin or with a Gryffindor student, she would rather not.

In fact, it was rare to find someone she would like to engage in conversation with.

Fred was a… welcoming surprise.

“Uh," Fred's voice cut through the silence, which had settled between them as they enjoyed their tea, “can we make a quick stop here?"

They were passing by Zonko's Joke Shop, renowned for its extensive collection of prankster essentials. Of course, the shop would undoubtedly be on Fred's daily checklist. However, his request to pause at the store intrigued (y/n), given that she had never envisioned walking with him that day. Sure, he had treated her to tea, but that hardly counted as an expense, and she had mentioned her eagerness to return to Hogwarts promptly.

“It won't take long, I promise," he assured her, taking note of her delayed response. “Just add five more minutes to your wait. I'll escort you back, no worries."

(y/n) hesitated for a moment. “You really don't have to do that," she replied, taken aback by his gentlemanly offer.

“As if I'd let you make the journey alone."

She gazed at him in the wake of his response. “I'm a witch," she pointed out the obvious. “It's not like I can't handle a few dangers."

Fred cocked his head, a teasing remark on the tip of his tongue. “Can you defend yourself against the cold?"

She didn't respond; her answer would have been a resounding ‘no.'

“That's what I thought," he declared, a knowing smile dancing on his lips.

She arched an eyebrow, her free hand resting on her hip, her other still cradling her tea. “And what can you do to protect me from the cold?" she challenged Fred.

His smile grew, and he knew he had the perfect response. “Keep you from slipping on the icy ground."

Annoyed by his accuracy, she sighed loudly as they entered the joke shop.

The shop was bubbling with people: it was a living organism. (y/n) struggled to recall the last time she had set foot in this place. She had certainly visited the joke shop before, back in her third year when students were first allowed to venture into the village. Like her peers, she had eagerly explored every store without exception. However, as time passed, most of the shops had become familiar and somewhat ordinary to her. She only made the trip to Hogsmeade with a purpose now. Coming just for butterbeer seemed pointless, especially when she lacked the company of friends to sit with and share laughter.

So, following Fred Weasley as he browsed around the shop put her in a silent trance of observation and gaping. He moved confidently, searching for items and locating them quickly, with the same precision she'd demonstrated when she'd guided him through the library the other day. (y/n) followed at his heels, like a child following its guardian. In less than three minutes, they were already in line to pay.

“How do you know where everything is?" she asked, enjoying the moment of calm the checkout line offered. “I don't think gathering all that took you more than five minutes."

And it was indeed quite a haul. Fred's two hands cradled dozens of boxes and items like precious cargo in his lap. The teacup he had been carrying was now held securely by (y/n), ensuring that her hands were occupied with warm objects to fend off the cold.

Fred responded with a casual shrug to her question. “How do you know where all the books are in the library?" he countered.

“I don't know," she replied, her response unfiltered. “I guess I've just memorised it over time."

“Me too," he said, his eyes fixed on the shop as if watching his beloved. “Not to give reason to my fame at Hogwarts, but of course, my favourite shop has to be Zonko’s."

The line at the checkout stretched long, leaving (y/n) and Fred standing in contemplative silence, pondering the curious connection that seemed to be budding between them. Amid it all, (y/n)'s thoughts swelled like a bubbling potion. Were they friends now? Could she consider adding him to her list of friends for Christmas shopping? These questions lingered, but she found herself without a clear answer. It felt odd to directly ask such a thing; friends didn’t ask if they were friends. They either were or weren’t, organically becoming over time.

But despite the comfort she felt around Fred, she couldn't quite label it friendship. The issue, she concluded, was her own. She had a deficit of friends and now understood why: she wasn't wired for it. Friendship wasn't part of her programming. Fred, on the other hand, was a different breed. Friendship was his natural state, woven into his very essence. He exuded a friendly aura, even if many Slytherins would vehemently disagree.

She didn't need to wonder whether he considered her a friend. He most likely did. He never targeted her with pranks; he exchanged glances with her in class often and was currently offering to escort her back to school. Fred saw her as a friend.

But did she want that?

“What are you thinking?” he inquired, pulling her out of her contemplative reverie.

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie,” he said, relaxing his shoulders. “I can see the smoke coming out of your ears like a cauldron.”

She had no clever reply, so she was content with wrinkling her forehead and lying. “I’m thinking about how quickly I will be able to get all the candy I want. Definitely not as quick as you, here.”

He frowned, puzzled. “Why?”

“I love candy and definitely know where everything is at the shop,” she explained, tilting her head unconsciously as she spoke. She explained, unconsciously tilting her head while talking. “But I have to gather enough to last until our next trip to Hogsmeade, and I'm not certain I can calculate that. I love chocolate, so one would assume I'd need to buy a lot to make it last. However, if I get too much, I'll eat more than I should. And trust me, I will eat everything I buy," she concluded with a hint of warning in her tone, as if she were issuing a threat rather than sharing a piece of information.

Fred swallowed hard, trying to wrap his head around her unique thought process. “Are you stockpiling sweets?"

She nodded, feeling a twinge of embarrassment.

“Well, if you do end up eating it all, I'll show you where to get more, you know, from the kitchen with the house elves," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up as if he were secretly pleased with himself for sharing this tidbit.

“Oh, Weasley," she shook her head, dramatically feigning pitifulness. “I already know the secret passage to the kitchen. That's precisely why I have to stockpile chocolate in the first place. I've been painted as a criminal there for how many sweets I've pilfered."

He couldn't help but chuckle, though he kept it discreet.

“I can't believe it," Fred said with mock disbelief, then paused as if pondering again. “Well, actually, I can."

With the two cups of tea-to-go in her hands, she raised her shoulders in a half-shrug while raising her hands in tandem.

“So yeah," she concluded, “I have to stock up until the Professors allow us to come here again."

Staring at him, (y/n) couldn't help but think that Fred was on the verge of saying something. However, something must have caused him to change his mind, and he remained uncharacteristically silent. A few seconds later, he was called to the cashier to settle the bill for his items. (y/n) patiently waited behind him, casually sipping her tea.

When Fred returned to her side, the numerous small boxes he'd been clutching had been consolidated into just two cardboard bags, which he effortlessly carried in one hand. The two of them exited the joke shop, savouring the last remnants of their teas. By the time they reached Honeydukes, the cups had already been discreetly disposed of in the nearest bin.

“Have fun," he wished her warmly, courteously holding the door of the candy shop open for her to enter. (y/n) returned his friendly sentiment with a smile—precisely the sort of well-wishing one would expect before embarking on a shopping spree in a candy store.

Fred lingered in a quiet corner of the shop, surreptitiously observing as she gleefully navigated the aisles, carefully selecting her candies and placing them into a plastic basket a diligent store employee offered. She appeared far more animated here than he had ever seen her before—back in the library, she had come across as somewhat bored, and the same was true in their shared classes. While she undeniably held the status of a top student with excellent grades, Fred couldn't help but wonder why she seemed to lack the enthusiasm and focus he might have expected from someone of her academic calibre.

However, gathering her desired assortment of sweets took considerably longer than the five minutes Fred had initially anticipated. When he finally met up with her at the cashier, the man behind the counter handed over not one, not two, but three full bags of assorted candies and confections.

Fred couldn't help but jest, “Wow, someone's clearly outdone me."

“Mine's supposed to last longer," she retorted with a wry smile, determined to maintain her composure.

Fred's grin only broadened. "Will it, though?"

There was no malice behind his teasing; his natural inclination was to engage in playful banter, a habit he would have indulged with George, Ginny, or anyone else. If anything, he found himself enjoying the camaraderie that was forming between them, appreciating the quick-witted exchanges that characterised their interactions. And (y/n)'s response was predictable by now—a blend of half-anger and half-challenge that had come to define her expressions.

They left the candy store, their playful back-and-forth continuing as they walked, with Fred progressively leaning in closer with each exchange.

Fred's next question unintentionally left (y/n) feeling mortified as they approached the Three Broomsticks.

“Are you sure you don’t want a good, old butterbeer?” he asked. “It’s alright if you do. I won’t linger at your friends’ table; I’ll just drop you there and find Oliver Wood or someone else.” He said, using Oliver as an example, for he was the one name he remembered to have seen around the village.

It was weird, now that Fred had come to think of it, how he did not recall seeing one person from Hogwarts around Hogsmeade, even though he knew it was a crowded day there.

She had no friends to meet there or anywhere else. She cleared her throat, avoiding eye contact, “I don't have friends in there."

The proximity to the inn allowed them a clear view through the frosty windows, revealing the familiar faces of fellow students enjoying butterbeer.

“Why? Haven't they come to Hogsmeade?" Fred asked in surprise, momentarily distracted by the scene inside. “I swear that's Carmen Highland if my eyes aren't deceiving me," he remarked, gazing at the occupants within.

Lost in the sight of her former friends, Fred hadn't noticed that (y/n) was gradually distancing herself from him. She knew Carmen and recognised the other kids at her table — Andrea, Miniu, and Shenny. But they weren't friends anymore.

At least, not anymore.

“It is Carmen,” she reassured him, in case Fred would start considering he was indeed blind. “We’re just not friends, though.”

Fred finally snapped out of gazing through the cold glass window and returned his gaze to her.

“I distinctly remember all of you being quite lively at dinners and walking around classes," he said, furrowing his brows. “Unless Carmen has look-alikes I'm unaware of, I'm certain it's her. I've seen her during my Quidditch practices, competing for the pitch."

A smile tinged with embarrassment danced on (y/n)'s lips. She smiled not because she was pleased with the memories but because she was trying to conceal her inner gloom. “I used to walk with Carmen, and Miniu, and Andrea and Shenny. But that was way before.”

“No, I…”

“It was, Freddie,” she interrupted before he made her remember another memory. It was only because of her use of his nickname that he understood she wasn’t alright. “We were friends in the first year. Us and a bunch of other kids, so tight together because we were Slytherin, and we had to stick together because then we’d be victims of bullying from other houses.” Fred opened his mouth, but she continued, “Don’t deny it.”

Fred sighed and nodded.

“In our second year, the group started to shrink, and it ended up being just me and that table," she explained, her gaze distant, as if the memories were playing out before her eyes. "But I began to feel like I was there because I forced myself to be. I was being pushy. So when I stopped going, they didn't chase after me. That's when it became clear to me what our relationship was."

“What was it?" Fred inquired, genuinely perplexed, prompting (y/n) to wonder if he had ever experienced the abrupt end of a friendship.

“They weren't my friends," (y/n) stated matter-of-factly. “We didn't have a falling out or anything. I still greet them, and occasionally, we help each other with homework in the common room. But that's about it."

Fred pursed his lips thoughtfully, pondering the right words to respond with.

“Alright," he finally conceded. “I won't pry further," he said, his expression more serious now. “I can't quite fathom how a friendship could simply unravel like that, but it's clear it's not a cheerful matter. However, that doesn't mean you can't be with your other friends."

She rolled her eyes with exasperation and turned away from Fred and the entrance of the Three Broomsticks, her boots crunching softly in the freshly fallen snow.

“I don't have friends," she sighed, her breath visible in the crisp, wintry air. She could hear his footsteps, somehow always close behind.

Fred waited until he was walking right alongside her before he replied; his tone was soft and comforting. “You have me," he said, then hastily cleared his throat. “I mean, you have us. Me and George. I still owe you one from our library escapade."

“Consider it settled," she responded, her voice edged with a hint of exhaustion and her gaze averted. “You gave me a cup of tea, after all."

“That was just courtesy," Fred explained, his lips curving into a friendly smile, thinking their usual playful banter had resumed.

But (y/n) was weary, and it showed in her demeanour.

“Well, you're accompanying me back to the school," she tried again, her tone tinged with finality. “So consider that debt paid."

“Nah," he waved his free hand dismissively. “That's just me being a proper gentleman."

She rolled her eyes once more, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. “Fred..."

“We're friends, alright," he insisted, his tone gentle yet resolute, raising his voice slightly. “You have a friend... in me."

Without warning, (y/n) halted in her tracks, pivoting to face him fully, her expression a mixture of astonishment, incredulity, and a hint of amusement.

“Did you just quote a Muggle movie at me?" she asked, her voice showing disbelief.

“I’m sorry?”

“‘You have a friend in me’,” she repeated his words, this time adding a melody to her tone. “Did you quote the Toy Story song?”

“A toy story? Where is it?” he was genuinely confused, which led (y/n) to drop the subject since it was evident he had no idea what she was talking about.

“Never mind," she sighed, resuming her pace. “It's from a Muggle movie."

“And you've seen it?" Fred's stride matched hers again, his curiosity piqued.

“Unfortunately," she replied, her lips twisting in mild distaste. “I didn't quite enjoy it."

“Oh, why not?" Fred inquired with interest.

“It was... about friendship," she said, taking a moment to complete her sentence.

“I see," Fred mused, nodding thoughtfully as they walked towards the school, the snow beneath their feet offering a soft, comforting crunch with every step. “Perhaps I should watch it.”

“Yeah, why not,” she replied, not really wanting to participate in the conversation.

Fred knew when to shut up when he should, so they remained silent until the school entrance was visible.

“Uh, thank you,” (y/n) told him as they stopped in the middle of Hogwarts’ entrance corridor. It was a relatively empty hallway.

“See you around,” he nodded, and she bit her lip, turning her heels towards her House. “Friend,” Fred added a second later, only to see her turn her gaze over her shoulder.

“Bye, Weasley,” she said with a heavy breath out of resignation.

#fred weasley #fred and george #harry potter #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x slytherin reader #fred weasley smut #fred weasley fanfic

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