folkloreweasley

[folkloreweasley]

long hair & tattoos (bill weasley & reader) (12/15)

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

CHAPTER 12: You wonder if it's coincidence or a stroke of love luck that you and Bill have been closer than ever, but emotionally and physically, since arriving in France. A little nagging voice, however, keeps you from acting upon your true feelings. Then, your mother instigates the world's most awkward conversation in a café in Nice. (4.9k words) TAG LIST MOVED TO THE BOTTOM! Let me know if you'd like to be added or if I missed you. :)

CHAPTER 12: IN LOVE WITH ME

Your face was comfortably warm and your closed eyes were saturated with light.

Your first thought was that maybe you’d ascended into heaven after last night. It sure felt like it, anyway. Slowly, you stirred into reality. You cracked open an eye and squinted at the sunlight pouring in from the balcony window. Nope, still in France. Slowly, figments of what you, in a perverse manner, observed here last came to mind and you reckoned a place in hell was more suitable for you.

You forced yourself up and looked around the room. You knew Bill was in the room, but seeing him on the bed still jolted you a little bit. You ruffling about in the covers caught his attention and he set his book down. 

“Morning,” Bill greeted.

“Good morning,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “How’d you sleep?”

“Very well,” he responded. “You?”

“I slept well, too.”

You got on your feet and pushed open the curtains, letting the sun fully stream in. Below you, the sea glistened, rocking along the shoreline and sweeping the white sand back. There was a slight breeze that nurtured white caps on the water. The thought of taking a quick dip was very tempting indeed.

“We usually eat breakfast together downstairs, you yawned, covering your mouth, “but maybe some caffeine is in order first. I’m still waking up.”

“A morning swim is the best way to do that,” Bill suggested as if reading your mind. “It’s one of the things I miss about Egypt that we don’t have back home. And it helps quell the heat, too.”

“That’s a good idea,” you said with a nod. “Let’s do that.”

You took the washroom while Bill changed in the bedroom. Very consciously, you tied the straps of your bikini—a simple white triangle top—and wondered if your outfit was too revealing. You never ran into this issue in the past years, the only people to ever see you on the beach being your family and relatives. You huffed. Eventually, you resolved the issue by throwing on a white lace cover-up and hiding behind a towel when you left the washroom.

Bill didn’t seem to put as much thought into propriety as you did (not that he needed to). He proceeded down the stairs in navy swim trunks and a grey shirt.

You guided Bill down the set of the stairs that led directly out the beach in the back. It was still morning so the heat wasn’t stifling but it was just hot enough to entice you to swim. You sunk your toes in the white sand and looked up at the tall palm trees and the shrubs dotted with mimosas and lavenders. This private stretch of beach was paradise.  Then you admired Bill, his ginger hair illuminated by the sun and the field of freckles on his shoulders, arm muscles taut as he performed a quick stretch. Scratch that, this was a fever dream.

You kicked off your sandals and dipped a toe in.

“Gingerly grazing the water is not the definition of a swim,” Bill lectured from behind you, curiously regarding your actions. In less than a second, he’d already taken off his shirt and discarded it on the warm sand.

“It’s cold though,” you murmured in protest, retracting your foot. Your words were lost on Bill who’d already run in.

“Don’t think about it!” Bill called from the sea, sensing your hesitation. He had easily glided in the water like it was second nature. His strokes were languid but his long body carried him far. When he resurfaced, he continued, “If you were travelling with my brothers, Fred would have you by the arms and George by the legs and they’d throw you right in against your will!”

“I wouldn’t put myself in such a compromising situation in the first place!” you shouted back at him from the safety of the shore.

“Then Charlie would sweep in and throw you over his shoulder,” Bill added. “He handles dragons, (Y/N). You weigh nothing in comparison!”

So, you gave up, threw your towel aside on a chair, and ran into the water. You fought through the urge to retreat as the cold water crept up from your ankles to your thighs and up to your waist.  You didn’t know when your love for swimming as a child fizzled out to nothing, but it had something to do with ‘splashing about’ not being considered feminine or some rubbish like that.

Keeping your head above the surface, you swam to Bill.

“How was it?” Bill asked when you caught up to him. He was standing decently comfortably, the water up to his chest, while you were treading to keep afloat.

“Refreshing,” you answered. “I think this is enough.”

“You didn’t sink your head in,” he complained.

“I didn’t want to get my hair wet.”

“Come on,” he said with his arms folded across his chest. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“I’m trying to look presentable at breakfast.”

“Well,” he interjected politely. “What’s the point of having a private beach if you aren’t going to take advantage of it?”

Bill was smiling pleasantly at you, the rising sun behind him creating a halo around him. But the silence lingered awkwardly for far too long and it didn’t feel right; he usually was good at filling in the blanks. And it was too late when you realized why he stopped talking – his hands had already stealthily scooped up a bunch of water and launched it at you.

You let out a scream as the cold water hit your face. Bill let out a throaty chuckle and ran in the opposite direction. You held your breath and submerged your head, Bill having given you that frosty initiation anyway. A pleasant shock ran through your body and you shivered slightly. You swam with as much strength as you could muster in his general direction.

When you rose from the water, it was finally shallow enough to stand. Bill, though, was still bodies away from you.

“Come back!” you demanded, a laugh erupting from your lips. Your shorter legs were unable to keep up with Bill’s long ones and the water resistance wasn’t helping. He turned to face you and walked backwards, finding amusement in the one-sided situation. When he noticed you weren’t going to catch up, he stood still, a couple metres from the shoreline.

“Don’t go easy on me!” you scolded, wanting to get him back fair and square. When you were just inches away, Bill gracefully maneuvered away, evading your reach.  

“You’ll never catch me, (Y/N),” Bill teased. He sent another wave of water towards you to stall you, laughing as you squeezed your eyes shut and sputtered.

“This means war, Bill!” you cried, a rush of adrenaline coursing through you. You ran as fast as your legs could carry you, determined to catch Bill before he could find refuge on the sand. You outstretched your arms to pull him back towards you. You were aided by a little current that carried you closer and your fingers finally made contact with his strong shoulders.

“Ha!” you exclaimed, your fingertips getting a grip on him. “You’ll be sorry!”

If you were going down, he was going down with you. The next wave was stronger, giving you the momentum you needed to act out your plans. But before you could, an unexpectedly strong wave right behind the little one swept you off your feet. You fell forward, and your gasp was cut short by the sea water filling your mouth. The last thing you saw was Bill shutting his eyes, his hair pillowing out under him as he plunged into the sea under you.

When the waters had retreated and you’d settled back onto shore, you were aware of how compromising the position you’d fallen into was. In an attempt to avoid kneeing Bill in unholy places that might concern his mother about his future chances of fathering children, you let your leg splay out on each side of his body. Your elbows rested on the sand by his shoulders and he kept hold of you by your waist. You were pressed firmly on him otherwise; the thin layer of your bikini top the only thing separating your breasts from his toned chest. This was the most you’d felt of him, naked wet skin on naked wet skin, and your face was also a mere inch from his, the closest you’d ever been.

You stayed here for a total of five seconds.

One, to admire those beautiful blue eyes, each speck looking like they’d been carefully painted, that were purer than the sea.

Two, to feel his chest rising and his breath synching with yours like a symphony.

Three, to remember how his calloused hands felt on your bare waist, the rough sand adding delicious friction in between.

Four, to marvel how well your bodies fit together and whether it was a sign from the heavens that you were meant to be.

And five, to wonder if it would be so bad to close the distance between your lips.

If you were courageous enough to act on your desires, you’d stay here long enough for your body to meld into his, letting the water sculpt you like it did to the rocks. But no matter how much you wanted to, you couldn’t push yourself on Bill. It wasn’t right. There was something that you couldn’t put your finger on that told you not to. Besides, the probability he didn’t feel the same way was high, and you couldn’t risk ruining your vacation and your friendship over your misinterpretation of kindness. Plus, you were still best friends with his brothers; this little crush involved more than just two people.

“Time for breakfast?” you offered impassively, carefully looping your other leg over and rolling yourself off him. Sand stuck to the side of your wet legs. You offered him a hand.

“About time for it,” Bill responded as you pulled him up.

“That was fun,” you commented, wrapping the beach towel over yourself and slipping into your sandals. “Better than my usual idea of a swim.”

Bill hummed in agreement, saying, “your idea of a swim isn’t much of a swim,” and followed you back into the house.

Spending the morning with Bill at the beach made you feel alive. You pondered what the point of exercise even was when you had Bill to make your heart pump erratically and created those endorphins that everyone craved through your body.  Conversely, breakfast with your family made you want to burrow into the sand and die. It was the first time you’d all been reunited since the dinner your father offered the stipend for the house. Now, you knew why you’d ripped up your mother’s invitations. You weren’t a Seer, but you were sure your parents were glaring at your slightly frazzled hair and flushed face and wondering if Bill had anything to do with this. Yes, he did, but not in the sense they were thinking.

Breakfast took place outside on a balcony in the back and offered a beautiful view of the sea. You saw the footsteps you and Bill had taken no more than just a half hour earlier, but the imprint of your bodies on the sand had long been washed away. You sipped your café au lait and avoided the prying glances, choosing to stare at a vase of flowers instead.

“So, what are we doing today?” you asked, trying to break the silence.

“I want to take you and Astoria to town,” Narcissa said. “You’ll need to find something suitable for the wedding.”

You nodded. “I might as well wear my beach towel. Do you reckon that’ll meet Uncle Theodore’s standard for propriety?”

Narcissa shook her head in disapprovement at the joke. Bill smiled quietly beside you, forking a piece of cantaloupe.

You turned to Draco. “What are you doing today?”

“He’s coming with me to see Theodore’s Parisian estate with Claude and Maxime,” Lucius said on his behalf, cracking his egg on the stand with a spoon in a particularly rough manner. “And joining us for a game of golf after.”

“Who’s Maxime?” you asked.

Narcissa threw you a surprised look. “Genevieve’s fiancée. I’ve mentioned him in a letter.”

“Oh, right,” you said quickly. “Must’ve slipped my mind.” You turned to Draco and said, “Make sure you put your pride aside and let Claude win. He’s a sore loser.”

“William,” Lucius said. Bill looked up immediately. “How’s your stroke?”

Draco mouthed the words, ‘you should know’ at you from the other side of the table. You extended your leg to kick him for the dirty joke but you couldn’t reach.

“It’s alright. I admit I’m a little rusty,” Bill responded with a laugh.

“Then, fancy joining us for a game after?”

Both you and Bill’s mouths widened at the same time, Lucius’s invitation coming as a total surprise.

“Of course,” Bill responded quickly. “I’d be glad to.”

“Good,” Lucius stated, his lips tightening as if he had tasted something bitter in his food. “I’d rather not be outnumbered and outdone by my brother.”

“Will you be taking Dobby for the game?” Narcissa asked Lucius.

“No, Theodore is bringing his house elf.”

“Dobby!” you exclaimed. You reached out for Dobby’s little hand below the table and swung it around in excitement. “Looks like you’ll be joining the girls.”

Dobby smiled meekly at you.

After breakfast, the six of you broke off into two groups and departed; you, Astoria, and Narcissa to Nice; Bill, Draco, and Lucius to meet Uncle Theodore at his estate. You watched anxiously as Bill strode off, hoping that your father’s side of the family would go easy on him.

The first leg of the shopping trip proved successful for Astoria and not so much for you. She had easily found something suitable, but nothing seemed to fit you quite right. If you didn’t automatically like it, you weren’t going to try to, and you’d outwardly said so. You were growing hot, impatient, and hungry, and so was your mother apparently.

“Let’s take a break for lunch,” Narcissa suggested when it was midday, using her hand to shade her face from the balmy overhead sun. Dobby happily took Astoria’s purchases and apparated back to the villa to store them in her room.

The three of you settled into a café for lunch, favouring the indoor dining option to cool down a little. A waiter came by with a bottle of eau gazeuse when you sat down.

“Excuse me,” Astoria said, rising from her seat. “I’m going to touch up.”

You and your mother nodded. Then, a thick silence loomed in the air. Your mother’s mouth opened only to close again. You knew from her pursed lips that she wanted to say something, but you weren’t going to instigate it so you chose to look out the window instead.

 “So,” Narcissa finally said, her volume nearing a whisper.

“So,” you repeated. You raised an eyebrow and turned your head back to your mother. “What?”

Narcissa cleared her throat. “I’ve come to realize in your absence that we’ve never had a proper conversation. And as your mother, I should take responsibility. I just hope it’s not too late.”

“What about?”

“Being in love and,” she hesitated. “The things that follow.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” you responded, sipping your water. It fizzed pleasantly down your throat, but you weren’t prepared for what you were about to hear.

“If you’re on the proper potions and such,” Narcissa explained with a huff, hoping you would’ve decoded her veiled message the first time without her having to explicitly say it. “Healer Tousignant has some appointments the last week of August, and I can escort you.”

The water regurgitated up your throat and you had to keep yourself from spitting it out. This was another reason you were content to stay with Fred and George despite their living conditions: no awkward conversations with your mother.

“Can we talk about it elsewhere? Preferably not in earshot of everyone?” You buried your face in your hands and peered through the cracks at the crowded café. You prayed to Merlin your handsome young waiter didn’t hear this. “Why didn’t you ask earlier?”

“I felt it was an awkward topic to breach,” Narcissa explained. “And now that it’s a possibility, I’d rather you wed first before having children.”

“Why does it always have to be me?” you shot back. “Why can’t Draco marry and bear your grandchildren first?”

“Because he’s only twenty-one.”

“That’s what you always say, but I’m only twenty-three. I have a job I like and friends. I’m not going to stay home and ruin the best years of my life childrearing.”

“I had you young and I never felt like I ruined my life,” Narcissa lectured. “William is thirty-one, thirty-two next year. He will be well into his forties when your children go to Hogwarts.”

If your mother continued, you were going to let out a shriek so loud that Uncle Theodore and Claude would be able to hear you all the way in Paris.

“How do you know what Bill wants?” you demanded.

“Your father wanted children right away after we were married,” Narcissa responded. “I don’t imagine William is much different from your father in that regard.”

“Bill is nothing like father—”

Astoria walked from the powder room back to your table, and you thanked some higher deity for her return. You were not interested in what led to your conception and every moment that transpired between your parents, and especially not before lunch. Astoria was happily oblivious to your conversation and sat down gracefully.

“Thank you for waiting,” Astoria said. “Has the waiter come around for our beverages?” You shook your head.  She looked at the drink menu. “Oh, excellent, I was thinking of trying the Sauvignon Blanc.”

“And I’ll have an entire bottle of the house red,” you joked, staring at your mother who responded with a quick roll of her eyes.

By the time the trip to Nice concluded, you had picked up a beautiful dress for the wedding. It boasted a high neckline and the lilac material fluttered perfectly by your feet. The boutique owner agreed it looked lovely on you and that it complimented your palette.

You separated from your mother immediately when you got back home. Fatigue was your excuse, but your actual reason was that you didn’t want to hear about the offspring with Bill that you hadn’t even thought about. Okay, that was a fib; you’d only thought a little about it, just in micro-doses to get you to sleep quicker at night.

When you walked into your shared room, you hung the dress in the walk-in closet. It was a his-and-hers, one side Bill and the other yours. That had a nice ring to it. You imagined Bill was still involved in the highly-competitive game that was Malfoy golf. From what you heard, it got bloody with Uncle Theodore’s need to win and Claude’s temper. You’ve never met Maxime but you didn’t imagine he was easy-going if he could tolerate Genevieve.

It was only three o’clock in the afternoon but a nap sounded highly tempting now. After you’d showered and changed into a simple shirt and shorts, you shut the curtains and loomed over the bed. It seemed Bill slept on the right, so you scuttled to the left.

“Oh.” You sighed. Bill’s bed was heavenly to sink into; the difference between the bed and couch was immediately discernable. You rolled around the fluffy pillows until you landed on one you liked. A laugh left your lips when you thought about the time, some seventeen years ago, when you and Draco decided it was a good idea to challenge Genevieve and Claude to a pillow fight. You were supposed to be playing peacefully together before dinner. It was immensely satisfying, slapping Genevieve’s smug smile off her face and wrinkling Claude’s perfectly-pressed shirt. All of you being underage, magic was legally allowed, and so by the end of things, you were all covered in feathers. You dreamt of doing it again, Draco by your side and following your every command.

There was a beam of weak light filtering in when you roused again. You wiped your eyes and looked around for the source. Bill was reclining on the sectional using a sliver of the opened curtain as light, reading again. He propped a leather-bound book in his lap. His linen shirt was undone at the top few buttons. That definitely wasn’t the same shirt he’d left in.

“When did you get back?” you asked, sitting upright.

“Not too long ago. I did take a shower while you were asleep.”

“How was the game?”

“Wonderful,” he responded. “We won. Your father was proper chuffed with the results.”

“Did Uncle Theodore throw a fit?” you asked with a giggle. You were surprised at how natural it felt for you and Bill to share a room. You were having a casual chat as if you’d done it many times before. You didn’t toss superlatives around easily, but you trusted Bill with your life and trusted your heart in his hands.

“If he did, he restrained himself well around me.”

You focussed on Bill’s book as he spoke, his words fading into nothing. This one didn’t look like anything he usually read. In fact, the dark brown leather exterior looked much more like the Madame Millicent book you tucked under the pillow last night. But your groggy eyes might’ve been playing tricks on you, so you had to ask.

“What are you reading?”

“Something interesting,” Bill remarked in amusement. “This Madame Millicent sure has a colourful imagination and an interesting take on gender roles. Where’d you get it?”

You jolted right up. You were beyond mortified. It was bad enough Draco had seen it, but now Bill? You knew you shouldn’t have bought the damn thing from the bookstore in the first place, never mind bringing it to France. This book was cursed from the start!

You racked your brain for a convincing answer.

“It might be a book your mother and I discussed one day,” you responded hastily. ‘Sorry, Molly,’ you thought. Technically, you weren’t ratting her out with your very liberal use of the word ‘might’.

Bill made a face and shook his head. “Mum still reads this? She’s always supported women having more independence. It sounds hypocritical since she’s a housewife, but she’s always going on about it to Ginny.”

You opened your mouth but nothing came out.

Bill perked up at your silence, his eyes gleaming. “You didn’t pick this up as a recommendation, did you?”

“Maybe I did, I don’t recall.”

Bill, with a delectable smirk on his face, kicked back, resting his legs on the sectional, and continued to read. He tapped the page with a finger. “See, I agree with Millicent here. I enjoy coming home to a home-cooked meal, too, but sometimes, the woman who promises me one sleeps through the night and I’m left to fend for myself.” With that, he let out a heavy sigh.

He watched as your face slowly morphed into one of realization. Bill was talking about you—!

“I thought you were different from your brothers!” you shouted as you chucked a pillow at Bill. He deflected it with one arm and firmly grasped the book with the other. Fred and George could tease the daylights out of you, but you thought Bill was too much of an angel to do so, or so he was previously. His teasing was highly effective; your heart was thudding in your chest and your grip on the sheets were tight.

“We all like home-cooked meals,” Bill deflected. “We were brought up that way.”

You pouted. “You know what I mean.”

“Anyway, let me be, (Y/N),” Bill commanded in a calm voice. “I was just getting to the next chapter. Page 289, was it?”

You saw your life ending before your eyes. Shit, shit, shit. If you ever met Millicent, you were going to inflict every curse from your repertoire so she could never write again.

“Is there something you wanted to reread? You have it bookmarked.” Bill’s finger flicked a little sticky note you had placed there. Something about his grin just screamed that he had already read through the section and was just fishing for a reaction.

Still, you screamed.

“No!”

Hastily, you jumped across the bed, limbs flailing across the bedsheets, and landed on the carpeted floor. You ran to the sofa and swung your body over the armrest with such force that you knocked the wind out of yourself.

“Sh,” Bill instructed, pretending to read and gently fending you off with a hand. You grabbed for the book and attempted to pull it from his grip. He didn’t budge and instead, made an amused face at something he read.

“Bill!” you whined. Just because he won a round of golf and was in your father’s good graces didn’t mean he could be so mean to you. “Come on!”

Seeing as one of Bill’s arms was enough to fend your whole body off, you were acutely aware you weren’t going to win by sheer physical strength. So, your hands shot out to cover the pages. Bill chuckled as he shifted the book, but your fingers followed him. You knew this was an infantile response, but the embarrassment of Bill reading about oral sex took precedence over any common sense.

“What’s so forbidden about this chapter?” he asked, bemused. One of his hands took hold of your wrists. Then, he tossed the book aside and took your other thrashing hand. “Your reaction just makes me want to read more.”

His grip on your wrists felt like a ring of hot metal against your skin, his fingers flickering embers. His intense blue eyes burrowed into yours and you were pretty sure you’d stopped breathing. Bill was continuing to shatter every conception you’d have of him, and coming out of this man were specks of personality like you’d never seen before. You’ve also never had so much physical contact and easy conversation with him and it was only your second day in France. It gave you a faint glimmer of hope that he felt the same for you as you did him. But that nagging voice…

As you continued to stare at him, you knew what it was.

Your mind pivoted and reeled back to his brothers. Fred loved to tease and flirt with you all the same. He’d even kept you in his arms watching a drive-in muggle film, kissed you on the cheek, vied for your attention, and told you he loved you. But that was just what friends did, that was just what Fred did, and you were certain he was not in love with you.

‘You’re just a friend’, you imagined Bill saying.

‘I think of you as my sister’ would follow.

‘You’re too young for me,’ he’d add.  

And ‘I’m afraid you’ve misinterpreted,’ would completely crush your heart.

So, you took advantage of Bill’s split second of weakness to pull your hands out of his grip. You quickly grabbed the book and ran to the balcony. With all the strength you could muster and an unfeminine grunt, you chucked the book into the sea. The momentum almost tossed you over the ledge. The pages flapped in the air before breaking the surface of the still water. The waterlogged paper cruised along deeper and deeper before it was just a speck in the background. You felt some sorrow that the book was gone.

“What’s got you so wound up?” Bill asked with a devilish smile as he pushed himself off the couch in pursuit of you. “You’re red.”

“I don’t read your books,” you mumbled weakly. You glanced at the balcony window at the rosy blotches on your face. Your wrists continued to burn.

“That’s because they’re not interesting,” Bill added. “Can you read hieroglyphics?”

You grabbed a book on his desk and flipped through it. “Was there ever a doubt?”

“Hey.” Bill changed the topic. “When is this wedding your mum was talking about at dinner?”

“In ten days,” you responded. “I may have forgotten to mention it. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know about it?”

“I didn’t think my cousin had the capacity to get married,” you said. “To love, you have to have a heart,” you pointed to your chest, “and I think it’s hollow for her.”

Bill chuckled. “Come on. Your relatives can’t be that bad.”

“You haven’t met her yet,” you said. “She’s the Salazar reincarnate.”

“Your father seems to have taken a liking to me,” Bill countered, entertained at the thought.

You smiled sweetly. “You unknowingly did him a big favour, Bill Weasley. He’s fond of those.” Then, you rerouted your attention to your stomach. “I’m famished. Let’s go down for supper.”

No matter how Bill felt, you were going to take advantage of your newly-minted physical relationship for the time being. Bill had opened the doors to it anyway. You found the confidence to take his hand, despite there being no one in sight, and led him out of the room.

To your delight, he seemed content with it.

>> NEXT CHAPTER: COMING SOON!

<<CHAPTER DIRECTORY

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#bill weasley x reader #bill weasley

[folkloreweasley]

Hues of Pink

Bill Weasley x Reader

Summary: On rainy day at home, Bill paints your nails.

Requested by @am-i-space : “Hey I recently had this thought and I would love to actually read this I think it would be adorable: Bill sitting behind you and and painting your nails, and like little neck kisses and stupid giggles from both of you and him resting his head on yours when he´s concentrating.”

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: mentions of scars, fluff, kissing

A/N: Thank you for such a sweet and fluffy request, I hope you enjoy it!!

(gif found on pinterest, credits to the maker)

The rain was steady outside, no intentions of passing any time soon as it pelted relentlessly against the chilled windowpanes. Fortunately, there were no pressing plans waiting for either of you, and the inclement weather had only further decided that it would be a lax day around your home. You weren’t complaining though, work had been rather taxing on the both of you as of late and this gave way to some much needed time to spend together. You would never complain about that, because days like this seemed to be few and far between.

Keep reading

#bill weasley #bill weasley x reader #uhh why isn’t bill Weasley here painting my nails rn #a crime #how do I get a bill Weasley

[folkloreweasley]

long hair & tattoos (bill weasley & reader) (11/15)

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

A/N:  I know apologies mean nothing so I'll have to make it up with some Bill Weasley smut (as an one-shot slightly related to the story, because it's otherwise clunky and doesn't fit in). I feel like I'll be more energized in the coming weeks with the nice beach weather & a less hectic work schedule. Thank you for your support - it means so much! I do think about this story & your comments all the time. TAG LIST MOVED TO THE BOTTOM. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged & if I missed you!

CHAPTER 11: You've only imagined what it was like to share a room with Bill. What if some unfortunate circumstances led to its fruition? 4.3k words

CHAPTER 11: WHITE HOUSES, RED DISTRICTS

The Mediterranean sun was a far cry from the English one – if it could be called that at all. Rather than a depressing globe of grey, the sun here danced warmly on your exposed skin. The scent of the sea drifted sweetly in the air around you and caressed your senses. You still clung onto Bill’s arms when you were back on solid ground, the amount of wine you had with him now manifesting into bothersome symptoms. 

Just metres in front of you, the summer estate stood in all its bright glory. The white stone was the foundation of its colouring. Three floors tall and endless rooms wide, the house sprawled across the lush green land. Four grand pillars were erected in the front leading to the entrance. There were two three of continuous balconies up front, but most of them were built in the back to overlook the water.

You could tell Bill was amazed by the size of the summer estate with the way his eyes followed the high ceilings and archways as you entered the building.  

“You won’t be joining us tonight, correct?” Lucius asked, looking intently at Bill.

“I’m afraid not,” Bill said apologetically. “I hope you have a pleasant evening.”

“Shame.” Lucius grinned for a split second before deflecting back to his usual face. “Dobby, take William to his room,” Lucius commanded with a grunt.

“Yes, sir.” Dobby was quick to obey, walking to you and Bill with your luggage floating behind him. “Follow me, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.”

Lucius’s eye twitched.

“Dobby.” You gave the house elf a polite nudge. “We aren’t married,” you corrected softly, in case Lucius would give him hell after. You leaned down and held his arms back to prevent him from hurting himself.

“Sorry, Ms. Malfoy,” Dobby wept, his eyes watery and his arms twitching in your hold. “Dobby assumed the reason Ms. Malfoy moved out was because she married Mr. Weasley. Dobby was not informed otherwise.”

“No, not yet,” Bill responded, giving Dobby a reassuring pat on the shoulders.

Bill’s words sent a quick rush of heat to your cheeks. Of course, you had agreed on maintaining appearances being within sight of your family and all, but did he have to go and say that? You’d been doing a decent job at playing it cool, but Bill wasn’t helping at all, especially not when he talked about marriage. You were knocked breathless thinking about what it’d be like to be Bill’s wife. Was that idea so far-fetched? A rush of reality and sadness quickly followed that high when you realized that yes, it was a pipedream, and it probably wouldn’t be you.

When Dobby (and you) finally calmed down, the three of you ambled to the guest quarters in the west wing where Bill’s room would be.

“Dobby hopes the room is up to your expectations, Mr. Weasley,” Dobby said as he let you and Bill’s suitcases down. “Please let Dobby know if there is anything you need.” The house elf bowed and apparated away.

“Ready?” you asked.

“Not sure I am,” Bill admitted sheepishly.

You did the honour of opening the door for him. Immediately, you could see that Bill’s room boasted a view of the water. Natural light saturated every crevice of the expanse room. A king bed was poised to the side, furnished with fresh sheets and multiple feathered pillows. There was a sectional sofa between the bed and the balcony. Facing the bed was a large oak desk with a fresh vase of flowers and a swivel chair. To its right was a walk-in closet and a washroom, the door ajar to showcase the amenities. You walked in with Bill to admire the space. The first place you went was to the balcony. You opened the door and motioned for Bill to follow.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” you asked breathlessly, admiring the sparkling sea. You almost forgot how beautiful France was and every August was a reminder of it.

“It sure beats any view in England,” he agreed.

“What will you be working on tonight?” you asked, shutting the door and following Bill back into the room.

“Some reports that’ll be due when we’re back home.”

“Speaking of work,” you started. “You didn’t have any issues taking a sudden vacation, did you?”

Bill pulled out some rolled-up parchment and quills. “Not at all. Working a desk job offers much more flexibility than working as a curse-breaker. I don’t miss that part of it, being on-call all hours of the day.” He paused. “Why?”

“Nothing,” you said. “I’m just grateful you could make it without any trouble.” You shuffled past Bill to the front door. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to settle in.”

“Where are you off to?” he asked.

“My room,” you responded. “Though it’s strange, Dobby usually insists on helping me carry my luggage.”

“I can help,” Bill offered, letting go of his belongings and turning towards you.

You shook your head at the door. “I’ll be fine, but thank you. I’ll see you later tonight.”

Bill smiled. “See you.”

You took one last look at him, taking in his tousled hair, loosened collar, and warm smile, and wished he was coming with you.

You dragged your luggage to the other side of the estate. To your luck, it seemed that your parents and Draco and Astoria were reposing so the hallway was empty. Like second-nature, you found your room and pushed the door open immediately. You were taken aback at what you saw. Was this a joke? Your room was a far-cry from what it was in the previous years. Firstly, it was stripped of what Bill’s room had: fresh linen, sheets, pillows, plants, flowers. Surely, no one expected you to sleep on a mattress without any bedding. Figuring it was an honest mistake, you’d ask Dobby about this after.

You perused your wardrobe, sifting through evening dresses, before deciding on a white slip dress with a cowl neck. You hung it on the rack and set it aside. Then, feeling fatigued from travel, you crawled on the mattress, splaying over it. You dozed off immediately, the sweet fantasies of marrying Bill overweighing the any discomfort of the bed.

After two hours, you woke up. Outside the window, the sun was just beginning to lower, signifying you had about thirty minutes to get ready for the dinner at Uncle Theodore’s. You combed through your hair, put on a fresh face, and slipped your dress on. You threw on a pair of white heels and fasted the thin strip around your ankles then dashed off to the drawing room.

“You look lovely,” Astoria said from her seated position as you walked into the room.

“Thank you,” you responded as you looked at her deep green dress that brought out her eyes. “You do, too.”

“Is your boyfriend coming with us?” she asked earnestly.

“No,” a convincing sigh left your lips at the same time, “he’s very busy with work.”

She frowned. “That’s a shame.”

You nodded. “Where’s everyone else?” you asked. Your parents were usually the first to arrive.

Draco turned to you. “You got mother and father in an argument,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “They’re just about done cooling down.”

“What about?” you asked, picking at one of your nails. Draco was used to you as the instigator of most of their arguments and always rubbed the fact in your face.

“She was insisting Dobby prepare your room,” he explained. “But father said it would make no difference given you,” a look of disgust crossed his face, “lived with Weasley already.”

“Why are they discussing this and why with you within earshot?” you asked. You didn’t need Draco involved in these topics. “It feels like an invasion of my privacy.”

“I’m just saying that father won in the end,” Draco scoffed. “It was one less room they had to get ready, anyway.”

Oh.

So, that was the reason your room was barer than Draco’s bum was the day he was born.

“Whatever,” you said, pretending not to care. “It doesn’t matter to me. It changes nothing.”

“It should,” Draco retorted, then he quickly added, “Given your relationship is nothing more than a farce.”

“Always nice to know the idea of me being in love is so ridiculous.”

“It would never work out even if it were real,” he continued. “You and Weasley. I give it another two months.”

“Oh?” You quirked an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

“Because no man would want to slug themselves through the misery that is dating you,” he said bitingly, his lips curving up into a smile. You wanted to hit him back with the same insult, but then you saw Astoria out of the corner of the eye and refrained. You actually liked her.

“Prove it,” you said instead.

“I will,” he responded resolutely.

You scoffed, trying to brush off Draco’s comment. But in reality, it did sting. You didn’t need more doubts beyond your own about you and Bill’s relationship. If you didn’t believe it would ever happen, then who would?

As terrible as you thought your father was, your uncle Theodore Malfoy was in a league of his own. Being the eldest son of Abraxas Malfoy meant he inherited many of Abraxas’s traits: an egotistical attitude coupled with the need to brandish all the materialistic goods he owned. As you got older, you realized that every conversation always looped back to Uncle Theodore and his wealth somehow. Uncle Theodore had married a beautiful, pure-blooded French woman named Emilie and settled in France to raise his two children, Claude and Genevieve. They were both a few years older than you and very unpleasant people. You and Draco could never get along with them, no matter how hard your parents pushed you to.

Lucius’s younger sister, your aunt Rosamund, was also present tonight, strolling in with her husband and two daughters.

You sat on the terrace with Draco and Astoria before dinner was to begin. Uncle Theodore’s estate was obviously grander than yours and he did a good job at showing it off. You swirled around your Chardonnay as you reclined on the outdoor sofa, soaking up the evening sun. Draco sneered at the crowds. You were used to being treated as the runt of the family, but now you had Draco to suffer the same treatment. It was actually nice; you didn’t feel as alone as you usually did.

To your left, Genevieve was spitting undecipherable French to a man. Her soft blonde curls bounced over her shoulders as she motioned at one of the butlers.

A waiter walked around and offered an appetizer which you graciously took.

“I didn’t know they served your kind here,” you shot at Draco. You waved the snail in his face. “Small and slimy.”

“Don’t get that on me,” he warned, swatting your hand away. This caused you to swing it closer to him. He shuffled abruptly, bumping into Astoria and spilling some of his wine on the floor.

“Scared, Draco-kins?” you taunted as you shook it once more before eating it. Draco turned away, his face red. He had an irrational fear of snails and you would exploit it any chance you could. You reckoned it started when he was forced to eat it one dinner at the ripe age of five. Your mother chided him, saying it was rude to refuse what Uncle Theodore was serving, so he shoved it down his throat and looked green the rest of the night.

Genevieve’s voice got louder and shriller. She was now talking to her mother, who was trying to calm her down.

You nudged Draco. “What are they saying?” you asked.

Draco furrowed his eyebrows pensively before leaning in.

“She’s saying,” he started with a serious look, “something went wrong genetically and you ended up an abomination compared to me.”

“That is not what they’re saying!” you retorted in a whisper.

“You asked me to translate.” He jeered back at you.

You rolled your eyes. “In hopes you’d do it accurately.” You focussed on Genevieve pacing about, her white heels clacking on the floor. “It sounds like something about a wedding.”

Before you could say anything, a butler announced that it was time to head inside for the dinner.

The tension at the dinner table and the tail end of things was palpable. Genevieve and Claude looked proper prissy with their judgemental stares and frozen faces. Not invited to talk, you and Draco sat in silence. Uncle Theodore was still bragging about whatever estate he purchased this year, how he signed his most successful business deal to date, and his lunch last week with the French Minister of Magic. Lucius, over the years, learned not to talk about his own accomplishments because Uncle Theodore would one-up it immediately.

“Anyway,” Uncle Theodore said after recounting his influence on French politics. He set his dessert fork down and reached for his coffee instead. “I’m pleased your trip coincided with Genevieve’s wedding.”

“It’s our pleasure to attend,” Narcissa added.

“What wedding?” you murmured to Draco.

“Mother wrote you. Did you not see it?” he responded.

You grimaced. “No.” It must’ve been in that pile you ripped up.

“I think you’ll find suitable attire here in France if you are in town,” Uncle Theodore continued, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment. “Us French prefer refined modesty to the English expression of liberty.”

You looked around the room to find that you were the only one in the room with exposed shoulders and a lower neckline.

Narcissa gave you a look that screamed: ‘you-should’ve-worn-a-shawl’.

“Anyway, Lucius, I’d like to take you around this modest summer house. You’ll be the first to see the renovations I was talking about. In the coming week, I’d like to take you and Narcissa to Monaco to see my new estate, and spend time on my yacht for a better view of the country. Of course, I can have our chauffeur take us to Belgium if time allows.”

You and Draco simultaneously rolled your eyes. This didn’t go unnoticed by Genevieve, who kept a hard glance on you two. Lucius and Theodore left the room, your mother retreated with his wife, and Astoria was talking to your other cousins, leaving Genevieve, Claude, Draco, and you as the last people in the room.

“(Y/N),” Genevieve called, separating from her brother to walk to you. “I heard from your father that you have a boyfriend.”

“Yes,” you affirmed. “I do.”

She glanced at the strap of your dress and sneered. “How would he feel if he saw you in that dress? While he’s at home and you’re cozying up to the men on the Promenade des Anglais tonight?”

“What?” Draco whispered in confusion.

“Forget it,” you said, ignoring Genevieve’s smirk. You pulled Draco away and led him outside to where Astoria was. “She’s not worth it.”

Feeling both mentally and physically exhausted, you decided to retire for the evening when the five of you arrived home. But first, you had to ransack Bill’s room for bedding, maybe swipe a couple pillows or so. You’d ask Dobby, but if Lucius caught on and interrogated him, you were done for. When you arrived at Bill’s door, you gave it three steady knocks.

In a few seconds, the door opened. Bill had changed into looser-fitting slacks and a thin button-up. You remarked ink pots, quills, and rolls of parchment on his desk, and a single quill tucked behind his ear. It was clear he’d been working the entire night.

“Hi,” he greeted. “How was dinner?”

“Superb,” you responded with a bright mile. “Once again, made to feel inferior to my extended family and shamed for my choice of dress, but otherwise excellent.”

“Is there something wrong with what you wore?” Bill asked seriously. “It looks nice on you, I was about to say.”

“I didn’t think so,” you sighed. “But apparently, I look like I belong on the Promenade de Anglais.”

“What’s that?”

You rolled your eyes. “A red-light district near Nice.”

He scoffed. “Who said that?”

“My cousin.”

Bill’s face softened. “Well, being (Y/N), you must’ve had some excellent comeback.”

“Not really,” you murmured. “I’m their guest. It’s not as easy.” You cut the conversation short, not wanting Genevieve to be the focus tonight. You looked apologetically at Bill and changed the topic, saying, “My parents assumed we’d share a room, so mine’s not properly prepared. Would you mind if I grabbed some things?”

“Should’ve known. Your father is always a step ahead.” Bill guided you to the closet and opened the door. “Grab what you need.”

“Thanks,” you responded, fingers dancing on the spare bedding trying to decide which one to take. “I promise I won’t be much more of a bother.”

“You’re never a bother,” Bill affirmed. A smile flitted over his lips. He tapped the long parchment he was working on. “Rather, a welcome distraction from this pile of rubbish.”

You gave a demure smile back. He didn’t mean it that way, did he? He was just being nice to you.

“There’s a lot to do here if you need a break,” you said with a nod. “I’ll show the private beach tomorrow.”

“That’d be nice, yeah,” Bill responded, leaning against the wall. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Well, goodnight, Bill.”

“Goodnight, (Y/N).”

He walked you out and closed the door behind you.

Bedding and pillows in stow, you took the rehearsed steps to your room. You felt a wave of disappointment, mainly with yourself. You had two weeks of spare time with Bill and you couldn’t muster the courage to instigate anything. Seriously, what were you expecting? For Bill to get on his knees and beg you to spend the night with him? There was no chance – he was too mature and refined to do something so crude.

“Ahem.”

You jolted. You swerved around to face your brother, Draco. He was holding a lamp looking mighty pleased with himself.

“What are you doing here?” you asked. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I like to amuse myself with night-time strolls. You never know what kind of rats you’ll catch after dinner.”

You harshly patted the pillows. “These aren’t fluffed to my liking. Have you seen Dobby?”

“Uh-huh,” he mocked as he stepped closer. “And not because you’re going to your own room to sleep?”

“Why ever would I do that?” you retorted, coming closer to face Draco. You were close enough in proximity to spit on each other. “There’s no bedding or anything, is there?”

He pointed at the incriminating evidence. “Which is why you’re bringing these to your room.”

You laughed and deflected, “Do you ever give it up? You’re obsessed with me.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t go into your room if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“There’s irreparable flooding, dear sister. Dobby is taking a look. I’m afraid your room is out of service for the time being. But,” he stopped and pulled something from behind him, “I did save your book before the waters could drench it.”

You nearly screamed when he handed you Madame Millicent’s Guide for the Docile Witch: Pleasing the—

“Thank you for the warning,” you grumbled, snatching the book from him. It took every ounce of strength not to slap the smug look off him. “I wasn’t going to sleep there anyway.”

“Shame. And all the guest rooms except William’s. They’ve somehow all flooded, too.”

“Somehow?” you hissed. “I don’t believe you.”

“I can’t change what’s true.”

“You’ll get into a lot of trouble for damaging property.”

“Who says I did it?” Draco retorted, baring teeth.

“How does our summer house flood?” you asked, voice pitching up slightly. You were stressed and you knew it. “It’s enchanted with every protective spell. It’s near impossible.”

“Who knows? Maybe Uncle Theodore cursed it at dinner. Anyway, I’ve got to get back to bed.” He gave you a wave and pointed to the book. “Happy night reading.”

You fought the urge to knock Draco out with Madame Millicent’s hard, leather book. When he disappeared down the hall, you ran back to Bill’s door. You knocked hesitantly, knowing he was in the throes of work. You weren’t sure if the rush you heard in your ears was from your seething anger or the apparent flooding that was happening.

When the door opened, you expected him to be just like you’d left him, quill tucked behind his ear and hair mussed from his fingers. But he wasn’t. In the couple of minutes that transpired, he’d decided to take a shower. So, you came face-to-face with a bare and very toned chest. The vision knocked you breathless; you hadn’t expected Bill to be so muscular. He was holding a pure white towel around his waist with one hand, the other hand slicking back his hair. The veins running down his long arms were more prominent from the heat in the room. Drops of water fell tantalizingly from the nape of his neck, gliding down and filling the divots of his scars on his chest, then streaking downwards even more…

It was no shock that your will crumbled and your eyes trailed down to where there lay toned abs, moving as Bill breathed in and out. You were like a kid at Honeydukes, ogling the displays and not knowing where to start—keep staring at his abdomen, or revert to his chest, or focus on those bulging biceps instead—

“Yes?” Bill asked.

“Uh, uhm, flooding,” you squeaked.

“I’m sorry,” Bill said, leaning in closer. His towel jostled slightly, and you had to force your eyes away. “What?”

“My room is flooded,” you mumbled. “Apparently.”

“Maybe I can help,” Bill said. His hold on his towel loosened again as he shuffled back. He clenched it tighter to keep it upright. “Hold on.” He shut the door and opened it a few moments later. He had changed into a white t-shirt and shorts. “Where’s your room?”

You led Bill down the long stretch of hallway to an ajar door.

When you peeked in, it was worse than you imagined. The carpet was soaked and the water was almost the height of the mattress. Bill gave it a few goes, trying to break the curse, but it didn't seem easily doable. “This will take some time,” he admitted. “But it looks contained and as you said, Dobby will be on it soon enough, right?”

“Yes.”

“And the other rooms are—?”

“All like this.”

“I’m surprised to see that mine was spared,” he joked. He shut the door to your room. “I was certain I’d be the first to go.”

You paled as you followed Bill back to his room. Where would you sleep tonight if all the habitable rooms were out of commission?

“Would you mind if I slept on the couch?” you asked at the door.

“I couldn’t let you,” Bill said quickly, walking over to the bed. “It’s your house. Take the bed.”

“No, Bill,” you said. “I dragged you into a mess again and I feel awful for it.” You took the pillows you grabbed earlier and threw them on the couch. Then, you retrieved the duvet cover and was about to lay it down before Bill intercepted.

“No—!” Bill protested, reaching over your head to grab the covers from behind you.

You felt warmness creeping into your cheeks as Bill unknowingly pulled your body closer to his. His larger hands were holding yours in such a delicate manner, fighting for the sheets. You could’ve fainted there and then at his exquisite touch and show of chivalry. You leaned back to look at him and noted that your head barely met his chest. And now that you knew the sheer amount of muscle that lay underneath that shirt, you felt very, very, hot. Your heartrate was erratic now as Bill sustained his position. His head dipped down so that his chin was resting on your head.

“Let me,” he said. You could hear the rumbling in his chest as he spoke, the vibrations making you shudder.

“Uh, I—” you stammered. “I’ll take the sectional regardless. I’m used to sleeping in uncomfortable places.”

“Suit yourself,” Bill renounced. Then he shook his head and added, “It doesn’t seem I can ever win an argument against you.”

“And that’s the way it should be,” you teased, fluffing the pillows. You slipped the book under one of them. “Have a good rest and I’ll see you in the morning.”

You attempted to get comfortable on the sofa, adjusting your position on the pillow and wiggling under the sheets. You laid on your left side to face the balcony. Bill hadn’t turned off the night lamp yet, so his reflection was visible as day in the glass window of the door. You watched him flush against the headboard as he stroked back his hair, eyes closed as he tilted his head upward. The way he clenched his teeth accentuated his jawline and the veins running down his neck which tensed as he exhaled before inhaling again. He began to move his hands downward, looping them under his shirt. You watched with bated breath as if your life depended on it. And it did.

He pulled the hem of his shirt upwards to remove it. It seemed like an eternity, his fingers pulling inch by inch, flaunting every bit of his abdominal muscles up to his ribs that were punctuated by his elongated position. You flushed under the covers as the neckline of his shirt brushed past the strands of hair on his forehead, sweeping it back. Merlin, did he look good with his hair pushed back.

You wanted to stare at Bill forever and memorize every inch of skin and muscle presented to you.

When he turned his body over to flip the switch on the nightstand, you quickly shut your eyes and hoped he hadn’t caught you staring.

One thing you did catch was the light murmuring of “good night” before he turned over again.

You groaned silently, trying to dispel the heat in your body. You clawed at the couch. You were in white houses, but your heart was blaring red lights.   

>> NEXT CHAPTER: COMING SOON!

<<CHAPTER DIRECTORY

TAGLIST: @inpraizeof @milkiane @lovesanimals0000 @alisslahey @milfodyssey @itscheybaby @lookingthroughmirrors @stiles-argent24@aki-ham @my-current-fandom-is @salvatoremuse @nimue-lady-of-the-lake @agathne @benbarnesismybaby@bangbaang @venus-d-vinyl @lexxxtacyyy @pink-hufflepuff @unicornicopia1@itsrhyann@awesomeowlbook @bamboozledflamplant @howpeculier​ @jaix-8102 @vilentia​ @sophneedsfandoms ​@dontbesuspiciousss @sugarrush-blush @actuallyade @thatgoodolswitcharoo @kakorrhaphiphobia @cigaretttes-aftersex @pandoraneverland @theluvcafe

#bill weasley x reader #bill weasley

[folkloreweasley]

Drunk! Peter and he’s all over reader telling her how he wants to marry her and being handsy lol

hi I hope this okay <3

"I like gardenias," Peter declares, drunk as a skunk and climbing all over you. 

You're never letting him go out with his friends again, you decide, brushing the hair out of your sloshed boyfriend's eyes. "Me too," you say. 

"Yeah?" he looks exceedingly pleased by this, more pleased than he has any reason to be. He smells like wine coolers. 

"Sure. They're pretty." 

"And lily of the valley," he adds. "Sweatpeas, jasmine. Oh! Astilbe." 

"You've lost me," you say. 

Peter wrinkles his nose and works his way further still into your lap, hands at your waist. You roll your eyes at his face, tucked against your chest, very obvious in its position. 

"That's fair. We'll ditch the astilbe. Astrantia instead?" 

"Baby, what is an astrantia?" you ask, fingers in his hair.

Each time you stroke his hair back from his face his eyes close, like a puppy. It's adorable. He might be drunk and a little messy right now, but he's still your boy. You'd die for this idiot.

"A flower?" he asks, squinting up at you. "I'm talking about a bouquet." 

"Oh," you say. 

You're distracted from asking why he's discussing bouquets with you at 2AM on the living room sofa when you should both be sleeping by his hands catching yours where it cards through his hair.

He sits up to kiss your fingers, your wrist, small pecks that turn open mouthed that turn nibbling, little wet nips running a course to the sleeve of your T-shirt. He grumbles at being stopped short. You're giggling quietly, endeared and adorned by his affections; you feel like the prettiest girl on earth, covered in his tiny kisses. 

"Red velvet?" he asks suddenly, encouraging you to lie back.

"Are you hungry?" you ask, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

"What? No." He sounds frustrated. "Do you like red velvet?" 

"Why are you asking?" 

"For the cake," he says, as if this is obvious. You realise Peter is having a conversation without you and elect to ignore his drunken woes, pulling his face down so you can hug him against your shoulder. 

"Maybe we should go to bed, hot stuff." 

"Are you kidding? We have so many decisions to make." 

"They can definitely wait until the morning, baby," you say warmly. 

He starts running his hands over your chest, your arm, your chest again. He doesn't touch anywhere important without asking, a gentleman even now, but the longing in his eyes makes you wish he would sober up for proper kisses. 

"They can't wait," he insists. "These are so important. We need to talk about them."  

You sigh dramatically, feeling very sorry for yourself, long suffering and tired. "Can we talk about them in bed, Peter?" 

"No, you'll distract me." 

"I'll be too busy sleeping." He pouts. You burst into laughter. "Babe! It's so late, I waited up for you so we could fall asleep together and you waylaid me with hickeys and a game of twenty questions!" You plead your case.

It's Peter's turn to sigh, though his is more of an indignant groan. "This isn't twenty questions, woman!" You raise your eyebrows, dying of laughter on the inside, and he amends, "My beloved. It's not twenty questions." 

"What is it, then?" 

He smirks at you, hands on either side of you and his knee between your thighs. You suddenly remember how tall he is and how stern he can be when he's not obliterated by cheap booze. 

He leans down to whisper in your ear. "I'm gonna marry you." 

"Get off of me," you say, rolling your eyes. 

"I'm gonna marry the fuck out of you, and then I'm gonna fuck the marry out of you, and we're gonna have centerpieces made up of a thousand white gardenias and asta- astrav- astantrias!" 

"And this has to happen tonight?" you ask, playing along, a feeling of white hot and reverential love blossoming from the centre of your chest. 

"If you don't mind!" he almost shouts. 

"I want vanilla cake," you say steadily, quietly, reaching your hands up to pinch his red cheeks.

His eyes are wide but he's calmer now he's realised you're on his side. "Good choice," he says, blinking. "What frosting? Buttercream, right? Fondant is for losers." 

You giggle until you can't breathe. He drops his head down into your chest, hugs your ribs so tight it aches. You can feel his smile even through your sleep shirt. 

#tasm peter parker #tasm peter parker x reader

[folkloreweasley]

The Wild ➾ Part 2 (tasm!peter parker x reader)

Summary: If your safety, your love, came at the price of your freedom then so be it. Was he, after all, not a prisoner to your wretched magic? It had to be so. After his wife, her life extinguished too soon, he had not thought it possible to feel such things again. You had done this to him, driven him to the brink of madness, dangled him over the precipice of derangement. And would he not dangle forever if it meant holding onto you? [part one] Words: 3.8k A/N: pirate!peter x mermaid!reader; 18+ for graphic violence (sword-fighting, stabby-stab); slightly obsessive!peter; imprisonment; non-con/violent touch; mentions of: food, injuries; implied smut; fem!reader; making up my own mermaid lore sorry; vee tries to write action scenes 🌻 if you like what you read, comments/reblogs make the world go round. part 2/3

The Playlist

The pain in your body, battered as it was by human weapons, held fast, fading but slowly. The absence of your necklace, clasped around Peter’s neck instead of your own, made your magic weak and slowed your ability to heal, despite how many tears you shed. Under the physical hurt you felt, shame radiated from the darkest corners of your heart. To have fallen in love with a pirate was the worst kind of folly. 

You were not so proud as to deny that Peter had intrigued you, that he had planted dreams of adventure and excitement in your mind. His words, like a weapon, had pierced the armour of your self-preservation, his touch lingering on your skin even when he was not holding you close. Peter had taken you prisoner long before you were ever dragged aboard his ship. And though you were made to be comfortable in quarters of your own, you remained a prisoner nonetheless. There was a bed, replete with silken sheets and a downy pillow alongside a large tin basin which contained water that was changed every night whilst you had your legs. You imagined the men would be loath to perform such a task if they had anything other than gold on their minds when they looked at you. 

Of course, Peter’s men were of two minds, some dreadfully interested in you and others terrified to be so close to something so unnatural, as they called you. You much preferred these latter few whose eyes did not leer at you, who did not lick their lips at the rare glimpse they caught of their Captain’s treasure when bringing you food or delivering word from Peter, who had taken to avoiding your presence entirely. 

Worst amongst these men was Peter’s first-mate—that awful, rat-like man you’d learned was named Harry. He entered the chamber most often, the key to your gilded cell kept in his breast pocket, his eyes fixed hungrily on your legs. He always visited at night, pulled you from the water whenever you refused to move yourself, watched with fascination as your tail changed to familiar limbs, bared under his gaze. It made you sick, filled you with desire to rip open his rib cage and crush his heart beneath your fingers. But even worse was the thought that Peter allowed him such access to you. 

*** Peter stared at himself in the dusty glass, nausea curling in his stomach. He hardly recognized his reflection—the eyes, the bridge of his nose, the beard, it was all his own, but he’d become monstrous in his own view, warped with the ill of what he’d done, or, in his cowardice, failed to do. 

It was becoming more and more difficult to think of you, to keep up the facade that this was about treasure or money at all. Deep in the darkness of his heart, he knew the real reason he kept you locked away in the heart of the ship. If you were with him, guarded and protected, nothing could harm you. And you could never leave him. 

The desire he felt for you ran deeper than your skin, he knew that. Your laugh was hypnotic, your eyes more beautiful than any jewel he’d ever seen, your soul soft with kindness and good humour. He never should have let this happen, never should have let your eyes, your gaze, your touch, dig down into his soul and root there, a weed clutching at the dirt that was his depths. His body had become yours, as had his head. It never should have happened. He’d locked his heart away long ago but his feelings for you were relentless, gnawing like a beast at his sanity. 

If your safety, your love, came at the price of your freedom then so be it. Was he, after all, not a prisoner to your wretched magic? It had to be so. After his wife, her life extinguished too soon, he had not thought it possible to feel such things again. You had done this to him, driven him to the brink of madness, dangled him over the precipice of derangement. And would he not dangle forever if it meant holding onto you? 

Angry, Peter’s fist flew out and cracked against the looking glass, shattering it upon impact. His knuckles tore open, stinging, as blood seeped from the broken skin. With a pained hiss, Peter closed his eyes and stepped away from the shards of glass that littered the floor. 

He needed to see you.  *** For five nights and five days, you refused to speak, moving about freely in the darkness, confined to your pathetic pool in the sunlight hours, arms shackled above your head to prevent you from leaving the water and allowing yourself a slow and painful death. 

You ached for the daylight, for the briny kiss of seawater upon your skin. 

On the sixth day, Peter entered, a long coat billowing behind him as a breeze fluttered into the room. The fresh smell of the ocean nearly brought tears to your eyes, but you resisted, turning away from your jailer with a fierce movement. 

“The men tell me you have not been taking your meals,” Peter said by way of greeting. He stayed far from you, lurking by the door, and when you cast a quick glance his way, you saw that he looked ragged and worn, as though he were the one living in a prison cell. 

You slumped further into the tub, away from his prying eyes, though they held only concern. “It’ll do no good to starve yourself.” 

You did not reply, fingers curling into your palms as your hands balled into fists. If Peter was frustrated by your lack of conversation, he did not show it, instead continuing to speak as though you were a willing participant in the dialogue. “We can dock soon, trade for some food that might be more appealing to you?” 

At this you turned toward him, eyes ablaze with a hatred you only partly felt for this man. Peter’s eyes never left yours where as they burned through him. He took a seat in the chair opposite you, his legs parted wide as he leaned forward, elbows on knees. You continued to glare at him, lips sealed as his boot tapped an impatient rhythm on the wooden floor. 

Finally, he spoke, hushed but firm. “Say something.” 

You longed to ignore him, to repay his cruelty with silence. But your voice was no longer willing to be cowed and you turned on him with ferocity bubbling under every inch of skin. “You betrayed me!” 

“You bewitched me.” Peter did not miss a beat, sat still on his chair, still watching you. He found himself drawn to you, even now, as you stared at him with ice in your eyes. Yet behind that cold glare, he could tell you were unravelling, hanging by a thread. He wanted to leave you there, dangling, but pull you up all at once. 

And Peter? He was not unravelled. No, his brain was a tangle of uncertainty, a briar, each thought he had of you another thistle in his side. 

“I did no such thing,” you hissed, your eyes closing despite your anger. Peter shook his head and ignored the poison in your voice. 

“But you can, can’t you?” 

You did not reply, instead turning away from him. He would not believe the truth, even if you gave it voice. 

*** You could hear the ocean calling to you, Her voice a cacophony of whispers each time she lapped against the side of the ship. She was calling you home, afraid that you, her precious child, had abandoned her. 

You awoke, chest aching, stomach in hungry knots. There was a stale-looking stack of biscuits, a bowl of beans, and an orange that had to have come from your island. You stumbled to the table on weak legs and clawed at the orange until its peel fell away. 

Juice flowed down your chin as you greedily bit into the flesh of the fruit, your body begging you for more. Sticky sweetness dribbled from your fingers up your wrists and you were almost reduced to sobbing once the orange had disappeared and you realized there was no other. With a sigh, you poked at the biscuits and broke one apart, chewing thoughtfully. 

It was only then that you realized your hands had been unbound. 

“I’m glad to see you’ve found your appetite.” 

The sound of Peter’s voice made you jump, shoulders squaring as you turned on your heel to see him there, watching you. You met his stare with defiance, but it was almost as if he didn’t see you, was looking through you and beyond you into a past you knew nothing of. His lips twitched, silent words mouthed from between them. You could not tell what he was speaking, nor whom his words were directed to, so you looked away, disconcerted by the growing agony in his eyes. 

There was no other way. Peter had not loved, had not felt drawn to the warmth of another for so long. 

Peter cursed under his breath, his hand coming up to run through his hair, tangled from the tossing and turning of a sleepless night. 

“You beguile me,” he admitted, “I do not wish to see you trapped here, but I do not wish to let you go.” 

He could not even begin to imagine it—you, lost to him, beneath the depths of the endless ocean, bewitching others.

“I want you,” Peter confessed, dropping to his knees, “But I do not know if that want is real.” 

“I am real.” 

His lips crashed into yours, desperate and needy. You could taste the cloying sweetness of liquor on his tongue as it pushed into your mouth. This was a harder kiss than Peter had ever given you, all urgency and violence. Gone were the soft and teasing touches to your lips, only reckless need in their place. 

When he pulled back, he brought the tips of his index and middle finger to his lip, pressing the thin and chapped flesh of his mouth to a line, as if committing the taste of you to memory. 

*** You’d fallen into a routine that proved enough to allow you to stay unshackled and the red marks on your wrists had all but faded on the night when everything changed. 

When the door to your quarters creaked open, you glanced up from the book you were reading expecting to see Peter. It was almost ritualistic now, him coming to you after sunset, laying his head in your lap as you read aloud to him from a book whose well-worn pages told that he was already familiar with the story contained therein. Though he would usually retreat to his own cabin after a short hour, there were nights when he would stay, pressing kisses to every inch of flesh he could, falling to his knees to praise you with his lips as they moved, with words and feeling across your innermost parts. 

But it was not Peter who entered the sanctum that had been created for you. 

Harry stood there, the door closing behind him with a thud that sent fear shooting up your spine. His presence here was nothing new, but there was something unfamiliar behind the usual hunger with which he surveyed you, a glint of recklessness that made you set aside your book and stand, trying to make yourself look bigger than you felt. 

“We’ll be reachin’ Barataria Bay soon,” Harry commented, swaggering into the room with uneven steps. Drunk, you thought. The worst way to encounter such a man. “Have y’off our hands and be sittin’ pretty on more gold ‘an you can count.” 

You remained silent, watching as he neared you, trying not to blink as he hovered over you, his breath wretched. 

“Whaddaya think’ll happen to ya?” There was a tinge of glee in his voice, malicious excitement at whatever awful prospects might await you. 

“I have some idea,” you replied cooly, working to keep a neutral expression set upon your face. “Men are predictable.” 

A beat of silence passed and then you felt a terrible stinging across your cheek, a slight ringing in your ears. He had slapped you. On instinct, your hand came up to rub the pain away, but Harry snatched your wrist. 

“Predictable, hm?” He was sneering now, his face more rodent-like than ever, but he looked pleased at having hurt you. “I hope they don’t cut you up too badly,” he continued, pulling your hand down, pressing it to the hardness in his trousers. “Mighty shame to see those legs all ruined.” 

You yanked your wrist away, rage bubbling in your chest. “Do not put your filthy hands on—”

Harry cut you off with another slap, this one harder. You tasted blood in your mouth, your tongue having slipped between your teeth on impact. 

“The Cap’n thinks you have eyes for ‘im, poor fool. He doesn’t know he ain’t the only one you’ve bewitched. I’ll have my turn with ya, witch.” 

You were reeling at his taunts as he backed you up against the wall. His body pressed firmly against yours, disgust welling up inside you. A hand came up and wrapped around your throat, squeezing tightly as you lost air. You sputtered, grasping at his wrists, trying to loosen his grip, but it was futile. 

Gathering your nerve, you drove your knee into his stomach with as much force as you could muster, knocking him back a step. You lunged for the door, desperate, but Harry grabbed you round the waist and sent you both careening to the ground, your head bumping against the floorboards. Dizzy, you tried to scamper away, dragging yourself across the floor, a splinter of wood embedding itself into your palm. 

“Bitch,” Harry spat, grabbing at your ankles and yanking you toward him. You skidded closer, coughing as he threw his body on top of you and clawed at your blouse, ripping at the fabric until your chest was exposed. Crudely, he spat on you, the sheer humiliation of it bringing unwanted tears to your eyes. You could feel him growing harder against your stomach, fear rippling through you. But as he saw the glimmer of your tears, he paused, awed. His fingers touched your eyes, the tears pooling on his skin. 

“Stop,” you whimpered, “Don’t.” 

Harry blinked at you, a smug grin on his face as he trailed his touch from your eyes to your lips. He slid a dagger from his belt and held it to your throat, making you stop the kicking of your legs as you struggled underneath him. 

“Scream an’ I’ll gut ya,” he warned, his free hand moving to unbuckle his belt, pausing to wander over your exposed chest first, hands rough and unyielding on your skin. 

You continued to cry, terrified of what was going to happen to you, angry that Peter was not stopping it. 

But just as the sound of Harry’s belt being unnotched hit your ears, his weight was pulled off of you and he was thrown away from you with a resounding crash. 

“You dare lay a hand on her?”

It was Peter, standing over you, vibrating with rage. His hands were balled into fists and his face was contorted with venomous anger. He looked likely to rend the earth from the sky, so heavy was the rise and fall of his shoulders. 

Harry began to rise shakily, shifting to all fours, but Peter was too quick, kicking him square in the stomach, the air pushed harshly from his lungs. You scrambled backward across the floor, sinking into a corner in an effort to make yourself small. 

Again, Peter delivered a heavy blow to Harry’s stomach, cursing him. With strength you’d hardly thought possible for a mortal, Peter grabbed his first-mate by the hair and pulled him up to standing, forcing him against a wall with their faces inches apart. 

“You rat,” Peter hissed, “You do not even deserve to look at her, your gaze is so profane.” 

He raised his hand again but was stilled by the calling of his name from the doorway. In the commotion, neither of you had noticed another man enter, his soft brown eyes taking in the scene before him. 

“Captain,” the newcomer entreated, hurrying to your side. You shook your head as he reached out to you, cowering and afraid at the way he began to shrug off his coat. 

“Tobey,” Peter mumbled, releasing his hold on Harry so that the offending man crumpled to the floor. “She is afraid.” He flew to your side, already shedding his jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders, covering the places where your shirt hung in tatters from the skin. He helped you to conceal yourself, his thumb then pressing under the skin of your eye. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “Darling, I’m sorry.” 

You curled into his side and Peter frowned, meeting the gaze of the other sailor—Tobey—over your bent head. “I’ll need you to get something to cauterize a wound,” Peter instructed. 

“But she’s unharmed,” Tobey countered. You felt Peter stiffen beside you, heard the way his breathing continued to be laboured. 

“She is not,” Peter said quietly, a threat of malice in his voice, “And it is not for her.” He cast a withering look at where Harry lay, still heaped on the floor. Tobey rose and hurried out of the room, taking care to close the door gingerly behind him. 

“You’re safe, my opal,” Peter whispered into your hair, pulling you into his chest. His words, though saturated in conviction, did little to reassure you. 

“I’m sorry,” you sighed, hands clasping his jacket closer around you, “I could not fight him off, not without—”

Peter shushed you, pressing a soft kiss to each of your tear-brimmed eyes. “He will not touch you ever again.” And though you wanted Peter to stay by your side, you did not falter as he stood and strode over to Harry, lifting the man into a slumped seat against the wall. 

Tobey came back into the room, eyes darting between you and Peter, who was drawing his sword from his belt. In his hands was a torch, its flame flickering hot in the confined space of your room. He moved quickly to his captain’s side, in such a fashion that you suspected this was not the first time they had done something such as this. In one hand, Tobey balanced the torch. In the other, he took Harry’s hand and tugged, outstretching the man’s arm. 

You knew what was about to happen and a sick satisfaction simmered in your gut, keeping your gaze trained on the scene before you. 

“Since you cannot keep your filthy hands to yourself, I will gladly take them.” Peter’s face was grim, his eyes hollow as he raised the sword and brought it down in one swift arc to Harry’s wrist. Harry screamed, agony ripped deep from his chest as his hand fell away from the rest of his arm, blood spurting from the broken flesh. Tobey was on him in an instant, a torch pressed to the wound until there was nothing but the nauseating smell of burning flesh and weak whimpers that trickled from Harry’s lips like a dying stream. 

In a graceful manner, so at odds with the violence he’d just committed, Peter wiped his blade on Harry’s shirt and tucked it back into its scabbard before returning to your side. It was when he pulled you into his arms that you realized you were shaking. It had been years, longer than a man’s lifetime, since you’d seen such brutality. 

“Take him and go.” Peter waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the door. Tobey wavered for just a moment, uncertain as he tilted his head to the side. “Leave us,” Peter instructed, this time more firmly, his eyes never leaving yours where they burned with gratitude. 

“You are the wild,” Peter whispered against your ear, “Something I was a fool to try to contain.” He kissed you then, as though his lips were an apology that could not be uttered aloud. You responded in kind, unable to help yourself as your arms twisted around his neck, pulling him closer. Breathing him in, tasting him, sent your heart into a frenzy and your lips parted in a low moan. Peter took the chance to slip his tongue into your mouth, exploring with the familiarity he’d long since come to have with every part of you. 

“My beautiful darling,” he whispered, a large palm holding the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. 

“Peter,” you replied in kind, pressing yourself further into him as though you wanted nothing more than to be consumed by his fire, eaten alive by his passion for you. “I am yours.” Peter’s breath hitched in his throat and he pulled back slightly, his free hand caressing your bottom lip with tenderness. Then, his hand lowered and Peter tugged at the chain around his neck, your lapis pendant coming loose in his hands. He pressed it into your palm, fingers over yours as he folded them in to cover the gem. 

You glanced up at him, eyes wide and disbelieving, trembling as you clutched your power in your hand again.

“You are not mine,” he corrected with a sigh, “And I am sorry you were ever my captive. A prison cell, even crafted with best intentions, is still a prison.” 

You blinked, swallowing hard to stop the trembling in your hands as you felt the familiar surge of power beneath your skin again. “I am free to go?”

Peter nodded. “Yes, though I hope I’ll see you again.” 

You licked your lips, concerned. “Your men…” 

“Perhaps if they mutiny, you will be my company should they maroon me on some godforsaken island.” 

With a nod you pressed yourself to the tips of your toes and captured his lips in another fleeting kiss. When you pulled away, a sad smile on your face, you whispered your thanks before you lunged, the dagger you’d stolen from Peter’s belt in your hand and suddenly sinking into the soft flesh of his belly. Peter gasped, staggered forward, his blood running over and staining your skin as you pulled the weapon back. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, tears welling in your eyes, “I’m sorry.” Sputtering, Peter sank to his knees, his eyes unfocused as they looked at you searchingly, accusation etched upon his face. Gently, you set him on the floor, careful not to let his head hit the ground as you kissed his forehead, the back of your hand coming up to brush away the tears that rolled down your cheeks in shimmering drops. 

#tasm!peter x reader #so happy with this ending

[folkloreweasley]

The Wild (tasm!peter parker x reader)

Summary: The steady and sure rhythm of his heart, blood pumping beneath his skin—it sang to you in its own beautiful, enchanting tune. You knew that men believed your voice to be hypnotic, able to lure sailors to their death, but of all you were capable of, such a thing was not one of them. Perhaps, you silently wondered then, counting the stars in the sky and thinking only of Peter’s freckled face, there was something to be said about the magic of a man’s heart. Words: 5.3k A/N: pirate!peter x mermaid!reader; series warnings: 18+ for some graphic violence (sword-fighting, stabby-stab); cursing; slightly obsessive!peter; imprisonment; non-con touch; mentions of: death, food, injuries; light smut; fem!reader; making up my own mermaid lore sorry; vee tries to write action scenes 🌻 plz validate me. if you like what you read, comments/reblogs make the world go round. part 1/2 because i couldn't quite help myself oops...

The Playlist

It was the pungent scent of blood curling itself into your nostrils that first alerted you to his presence. On any other day, you might have left happenings to unfold as they would, but on this day, the smell brought with it an unfamiliar churning in your gut, an anguish at the thought of not intervening. As it was, you careened through the water with grace, following that sharp odor, out of place in this world as only a man’s blood could be. 

As you swam, memories slithered their way into your mind, visions of drowning men you had long ago saved, those you had not been quick enough to rescue, and those you had left to watery graves. This was a distraction you did not, in your haste, heed. Instead, you focused on the way the water broke around you and the schools of brightly-coloured fish that parted in your wake. It was not that you were drawn forward, pulled toward this bleeding man. No, it seemed it was the weight of loneliness that pressed you forward, spurred you on from behind, like hands on your shoulders, urging you into the arms of the unknown. 

Of all the life beneath the seas, yours was amongst the most solitary. There were so few of your kind left, and those that remained kept to themselves, hidden in the darkest recesses of the depths. What else could one do, having been hunted to the brink of oblivion, having passed into myth and legend? You’d known men—and women—in the past, and loved them in spite of their mortality. You’d felt the sting of their deaths, knowing that while you would surely die one day, by sword or decay, it was fated to be long after those who went before you. And for so long you remained isolated, a self-imposed reclusiveness sheltering your heart. 

Time, when left to its own devices, stretched out in front of you in an endless path. But once you needed it to, it would not slow. There was something intriguing in the smell of him and so you pressed on, determined.

You smelled the drowning man before you saw him. The coppery scent of blood gave way to the musk of dirty clothes, the rot and waste of a prison cell. As you neared, his form began to come into focus, the long and sturdy limbs of a sailor, an unkempt beard and ragged clothes telling of neglected months. 

Coming up behind him, his long hair tickling your face, you wrapped your arms around his torso, straining as you swam toward the bright light glinting above, a sign of sunlight and air. All you needed to do was get him to air, provide the opportunity for him to take that life-saving breath. 

As you breached the surface of the water, your own lungs were burning. You’d stayed under longer than you’d intended, distracted, and the gulps of fresh air that filled your chest caused pain and relief to ripple through you simultaneously. With each breath, your chest rose and fell with less tightness, allowing you a chance to feel for a pulse at the neck of this discarded man. Two fingers pressed into the soft tissue at the base of his throat, searching, searching, searching. 

There.

A faint thump, weaker than the rays of light that penetrated storm clouds, but there nonetheless. With a surge of energy, drawn from somewhere deep within yourself, you swam to the surface, dragging the limp and heavy body of the man with you. Pausing for a moment, you closed your eyes and briefly let one hand wander from your charge, fingers working a cadenced pattern just below the surface. All at once, water surged around you, buoying you up and forward. Your arms enfolded the man once more, your focus on keeping him close. You trusted the ocean to bear you accordingly. 

* The island was close, for that you were grateful. A secluded spot, lush and verdant, you’d come to call this speck of land in the vast endlessness of the ocean your own and had long since guarded it fiercely. For as much as humans interested you, for all the fondness you held in your heart for past loves, men were often not to be trusted and none whom you did not permit could approach this sacred space of yours.

Amongst the scattered remnants of ships that had gotten too close, you hauled the man ashore, your muscles aching with the exertion, though you were glad to have your head above the water, crisp sea air filling your lungs. You couldn’t move him far up the beach in your current state and the water still lapped at his ankles as you struggled as far into the sand as you possibly could, the sun hot against the delicate skin on the back of your neck. 

It was painful to be so exposed, and the tide seemed to rise unnaturally around you as if to beckon you back into the safety the water provided. You swallowed, bracing against the intensity of the day, and urged the water backwards, away from your rescued man. 

Gently, you lifted his shirt, peeling the wet material away where it clung to his lean body. There was a wound on his side, thin and angry-looking, though the bleeding had mostly stopped. It was unlikely to be fatal, though it looked deep and would surely have proven enough to have drowned him had you not intervened. There was little else you could do, so instead you took to raking your eyes over the visible parts of this man’s body—the unkempt beard, the sunburnt bridge of his nose, the smattering of freckles that danced across his cheeks and over his shoulders, and the tattoos; spider’s webs inked onto the backs of his hands in criss-crossing black lines. 

You tilted your head to the side, a wry smile tugging at the corners of your lips. There was little doubt in your mind that you’d gone and rescued yourself a pirate. 

*  You had hoped that the human wouldn’t wake until after sunset, though were disappointed as he began to stir partway through the afternoon, his fingers twitching first, then his lips parting as he gasped in air. He coughed, sputtering water, chest beginning to heave as life flooded back into him. 

While you knew you ought to disappear beneath the waves, leave this man to his fate, whatever it might be, you were hard-pressed to do such a thing. Instead, you watched him from your spot beyond the shore, wondering when he’d notice you, pleased when it didn’t take him long at all. You noticed his eyes grow wide as they fell upon you, first in disbelief, then in scrutiny. Coyly, you lifted a hand out of the water and waved, giggling when the man’s jaw fell open. 

Peter wondered if he was dreaming. Or perhaps he had died in the brig of that fucking Navy ship. No, no, that couldn’t be right—he felt pain, a stinging in his side that reminded him of his ill-conceived escape plan and the knife he’d received to the ribs as a parting gift from the Admiral. Still, he was alive. He was free. And he was looking at a mermaid. 

As though he were a puppet, suspended on strings he could not control, Peter pulled himself along the shore closer to the creature, still slack-jawed. His teeth chewed on his bottom lip as he stared, taking in the absolute ethereal beauty of her, the curve of her spine, the tint of her lips, the glittering tail—a fucking tail. 

“What are you?” There was wonder in his voice, awe at witnessing living legend. He had to ask the question, though he already knew the answer. 

You laughed, a delicate sound that reminded Peter of the ocean in a summer breeze. He watched you intently, his mind trying to mistrust what his eyes were seeing. Where your legs should have been there was instead a playful splash.

“Your kind call us merfolk.”

Something dark flitted across Peter’s face, suspicion perhaps, though a rush of self-preservation was equally as likely. He rocked back onto the balls of his feet, squatting low with his elbows balanced on his knees, tongue running quickly along the inside of his mouth as he figured out what words to say next. He settled on the obvious. 

“You pulled me from the water.” 

“You were bleeding,” you told him, gesturing towards his blood-stained shirt, now stiff with salt having dried in the late afternoon sun. The clipped tone he used disquieted you, made you guarded in your curiosity of him. 

Peter glanced downwards, seemingly unbothered by his wound. It was, of course, nothing compared to the presence of a mermaid. “That tends to happen when one is stabbed.” 

At this, you giggled again, an amused popping of your lips as you delicately slipped a little closer to the sand. “Do you imagine merfolk do not bleed?” 

Your nearness seemed to unsettle him, a scowl creasing his forehead. “Should you try to attack me, I am sure to find out.” You watched him as he groped around his belts, your eyes intent though your lips had narrowed into a taut line. Peter’s fingers wrapped around the handle of his knife and he pulled it from its sheath, pointing the blade at you. It was a stunningly pretty thing, stolen no doubt, with rubies encrusted in the hilt. 

“What is your name?” You asked the question hoping to bring some peace to the thick tension that had suddenly risen, like a thundercloud, between the two of you. Yet the sailor only looked at you with grim suspicion in his darkened eyes, their soft honey replaced with a sharp glint. He had heard enough stories about the power in a name, the danger of revealing such a thing to creatures beyond the human. 

“What is yours?” 

“There is no word for it in your tongue,” you replied, shrugging gently. 

He looked at you thoughtfully for a moment, measuring you upon some scale you could not see. “Then perhaps I might call you my tempest.” A small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips and you wondered if he was teasing you or if he was quite enjoying treating you unfairly. 

“I deserve no such cruelty.” You frowned, hurt by his insinuation, though unsurprised. You were beginning to consider that you had made a mistake in waiting for him to awaken, in plucking him from the waves to begin with. 

Peter surveyed you, the dazzling creature in front of him. His eyes darted from the small of your back, where the scales of a pearlescent tail faded into bare skin, up your abdomen to the curve of your coral-covered breasts, finally meeting your gaze. Your eyes were like nothing he’d ever seen before, shifting in hue each time the water rolled around you, each time the sun glinted between your lashes. It reminded him of a precious jewel he’d once stolen from an Austrian noble’s ship en route from England. 

“Then perhaps my opal?”

You bristled, though seemed slightly less displeased with this latter name. “Why must I be yours? Perhaps it is you who are mine.”

“Are you toying with me?” 

“I saved you from drowning,” you declared, “Is that not enough goodwill for you?” 

Peter shuffled further up the beach, away from you once more, boots leaving a trail in the heavy sand. “There’s a reason all our stories of your kind are warnings to stay away.” 

At this, your eyes narrowed, tail hitting the surface of the water with a displeased slap. “I could say the same thing of you.” 

An impasse. Silence fell between you then, broken by the lapping of waves on the shore. Peter lowered his knife, stabbing it half-heartedly into the sand. He fell back, a frustrated groan heavy on his lips. 

“There is fruit further inland. And freshwater, a beautiful lake.” You offered the words as a treaty of sorts, a kindness to ward off his fear of you. He tilted his head upwards to look at you, perhaps wondering why you’d offered him such generosity. You simply blinked in response and disappeared below the waves, knowing you’d be unable to resist the pull to return later. 

* You swam languidly for the remainder of the afternoon, charting the sun’s westward journey until its flames were pulled down beyond the horizon, the pale purple of dusk giving way to night as dark as spilled ink, speckled with innumerable stars. 

Steeling yourself, you floated to shore, your body morphing as you touched dry land, the single appendage of your lower body shifting until it was cleft in two—legs, a little unsteady at first, but strong and confident as they found sure footing on the beach. 

A sea-change, transformative and absolute, if a little painful each time you underwent it. 

The waning moon overhead provided little light, but you were accustomed to this place and knew that the only danger on your island was the one you yourself had brought to shore earlier in the day. The breeze was cool on your skin, the gauzy white dress you wore hanging off your shoulders as you wandered inland, bare feet light on the ground. Somewhere in the distance, the trilling of a warbler sounded, piercing the stillness of the night. 

In the midst of thoughts about where your pirate had gone off to, something cold and sharp pressed against your throat, a rough and grasping hand wrapping around your belly to pull you up against a solid chest. You stumbled backwards, about to scream when his voice, stunned and disbelieving, beat you to an exclamation. 

“You!” 

You blinked, suddenly released, and whirled around in a rage, your hands raised in retaliation.Your sailor’s face came into focus in the dark. His eyes were alert, face drawn, as he lowered the small dagger that had just been pressed against your neck. Your fingers trailed over the place where the blade had pinched your skin, swallowing your anger. He glanced down, as if noticing your legs for the first time, and staggered backwards. “How?” 

“It’s after dark,” you replied grimly, “We are not so different once the sun sets.” 

The sailor grunted in response, sheathing his knife and turning away from you. He walked with purpose back in the direction of the lake, his boots clomping heavily in the sand. It seemed awful to you, to be so weighted on one’s feet. 

“Did you find the fruit?” You called out as you began to follow behind him, your bare feet flitting over the impressions he’d left on the ground, as if by magic you nearly floated along. You received no answer and frowned, though you were not deterred. It had been so long since you’d had the company of a human and perhaps your conversation skills had calcified a little in the interim. 

As a strange couple, you neared the lake at the eastern edge of the island. You noticed a trail of smoke, wisps of black against the deep blue of the sky. 

“You made a fire,” you observed, unnecessarily, you realized, as your companion fixed you with a perturbed expression. You chose to feign not noticing it, instead focusing on the tongues of orange and yellow flames on the shore as the man’s camp came into view. 

You took his not asking you to leave as a sign to continue following him, settling yourself at a comfortable distance from the fire, perpetually wary of its bite. He took a tentative seat across the flames from you, kicking off his boots and rolling up his pants. You watched with interest as he stretched his arms up overhead, his tattered shirt lifting to expose sculpted lines along his lower abdomen. 

“How did you end up in the water?” you asked, tucking your legs up under you, smoothing a crease from your skirt. His body was enchanting and you opted to distract yourself from it. 

“I jumped,” he said simply, a ghost of a grin on his lips. You imagined he was remembering some daring escapade and it made you long for adventure. “This is a beautiful place,” he continued after a spell, gesturing vaguely all around him. Something like pride welled in your chest, a feeling of great happiness at having shared this place with someone who could appreciate its wonders. “How have you kept it unmapped?” 

“Magic,” you replied with a soft giggle, “And sea monsters.” 

The sailor eyed you warily, not seeming amused at your response. You rolled your eyes at his solemnity and shuffled round the fire to be closer to him, pleased that he didn’t recoil from your nearness this time. “That was in jest,” you chided, “Mostly.” 

He looked at you again, this time in a new way, as though his gaze were probing you, searching for something to distrust—or trust. Whatever he found was seemingly satisfactory as his shoulders relaxed and his feet dug into the ground, heels pushing up little mounds of dirt as he settled back onto his elbows.

“Are you alone here?”

“Yes.” You drew your knees closer to your chest, wrapping your arms around them as you watched the barely moving surface of the lake beyond the fire. “It has been this way for a long while now.” 

“A peaceful existence,” he commented. Hardly—you bit back a remark, a revelation of your loneliness and instead smiled. 

“You are welcome to stay,” you offered. He looked surprised for a moment before recovering himself, laying down in the tall grass that tickled the back of his neck. 

“A little while,” he conceded, “Until I am healed.” 

You smiled to yourself, sinking onto your back beside this stranger, your fingers threading through his between your bodies. For a moment you felt his hand stiffen in yours, a twitch and a hesitation, and then calm. His hands were large compared to yours, capable of violence and certainly not innocent of it, given his means of making a way in the world. But there was something soft in the way he allowed you to dip your fingertips into the lines that creased his palms, tracing him.  

The steady and sure rhythm of his heart, blood pumping beneath his skin—it sang to you in its own beautiful, enchanting tune. You knew that men believed your voice to be hypnotic, able to lure sailors to their death, but of all you were capable of, such a thing was not one of them. 

“It’s Peter, by the way. My name is Peter.” 

Perhaps, you silently wondered then, counting the stars in the sky and thinking only of Peter’s freckled face, there was something to be said about the magic of a man’s heart. 

* Truth be told, Peter had not felt so calm, so absolutely blissfully unburdened for a long time. It was as if the island dissolved every uncertainty he felt, healed his very soul. He might have stayed there, with you—for he was growing quite fond of your presence—yet, there was something restless in his soul, bound to wander, borne by water. 

It had been days—a week, maybe two—since Peter had woken up on this unpopulated island with a beautiful creature watching him. He was glad for your company, when he had it. You usually spent days in the lake, though sometimes at dawn he would bid you farewell at the shore, watch you disappear into the waves, and return to greet you after sunset. He became nocturnal, awake when you were human, on land. He longed to see your transformation, to witness the magic of you, but it was a desire he did not voice, worried it might frighten you. 

In your absence, Peter was often left brooding, eagerly awaiting your return. There were moments of what felt like lucidity that crept in amongst the fantastical serenity of the island. At those times, Peter could barely contain the curling tendrils of obsession that consumed him—the absolute dread that you had tired of being his host and had gone on to find another. Such dread often gave way to desire, a flame of it stoked deep in his belly, until you returned to him with another rare pearl or long lost golden medallion. 

For your part, you’d brought Peter wonders, treasures sunken and thought lost to the depths. In return, he told you stories. Peter was a wordsmith, his words like poetry each time they poured forth from his lips. Often, he spoke quickly, as though the words were flooding his consciousness, but you found you quite liked the sound of his voice and the way he waved his hands about as he regaled you with stories of his past exploits. 

If nothing else, you learned that though a pirate, Peter had a good heart. You’d felt it that first night when you laid on the beach next to him, but you came to know it for certain in his language, his history, his tales. You longed to keep him here for yourself, to keep him from growing old and make it so that the only lines to ever streak his face were the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. Yet, you knew, this was unnatural. Impossible, even, without some great sacrifice. 

You returned one evening later than usual, charting the familiar path to Peter’s camp with a treasure wrapped carefully in the cloth of your dress. The area was quiet, Peter strangely absent, and for a moment fear gripped your heart—had he left you? 

“You’re late, my opal.” 

You turned toward the lake, toward the sound of Peter’s voice, and saw him nearly entirely submerged, only his broad shoulders and grinning face above the water. His hair was wet and hung nearly to his bare chest, droplets shining on his skin in the starlight. Relief flooded through you, followed by another sensation—this one a deep and gnawing hunger in your belly, spurred by the sight of Peter’s clothing strewn about on the shoreline. 

“I was searching for something,” you replied, grinning as Peter waded nearer to where you stood, the decreasing depths of the lake revealing more of him to you, a muscled chest, a lean abdomen, a slender v-shaped curve down his front. 

“Did you find it?” Peter asked, a devilish smirk growing on his face. You licked your lips and nodded, beginning to unravel your dress, allowing it to fall from your shoulders first, then your waist. When your gaze returned to Peter’s, his eyes were hazy with lust, heavy-lidded. “Will you show me?”

“Perhaps later,” you winked, stepping into the water, its chill spreading over your skin. Peter’s arms opened and he pulled you to him, pressing his body against yours so that you could feel every goosebump on his skin. His fingers trailed from the base of your spine, up your back, and around the front of you, over the lapis crystal you wore like a talisman around your neck. 

“I’ve never seen you without this,” he commented, running a thumb over the gem. You shivered, causing him to release his grip on the stone and press his forehead to yours. 

“It is dear to me,” you conceded, afraid to say more. “As you are.” 

“As I am,” Peter echoed, his large hand coming up to capture your cheek and lead you into an evocative kiss, coaxing your lips apart with his tongue. 

Later, as you laid upon the grassy shore, your head resting upon Peter’s chest and your body aching, you reached for your discarded dress and pulled from it the gift you had brought for him—a magnificent opal of the palest green. You pressed the small gem upon one of Peter’s closed eyes and he slyly opened the other one to survey you, a playful smile on his lips to match your own. 

“I thought it a fitting present,” you laughed. Peter held the stone between his fingers for a long moment before he rolled over onto you and kissed you again, a knee pressing your legs apart to accommodate him. 

“It is beautiful,” he whispered, lips hot against your ear, “Allow me to thank you properly.” 

*  Restlessness grew within Peter. He had watched an entire lunar cycle elapse, full moon to full moon, before he could bear it no longer. There was a marked shift in his demeanour, a distancing that told you this was coming. Still, it cleaved your heart in two when Peter greeted you in a way you’d grown used to—on the shore one evening with a hand on your hip and one tangled in the hair at the nape of your neck—and asked leave of you. 

You stared, wide-eyed, at his earnest face, your lip quivering. “Are you not happy here?” 

“Darling,” Peter sighed, looking you straight in the face, baring himself plainly to you, “I have hardly ever been happier. But I wish to return to my ship. My crew. My life.” 

“Of course,” you nodded weakly, “I can…” The trailing off of your voice caused Peter to stir, bringing a hand up to your face and gently stroking your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. 

“I do not wish to die here.” 

Your stomach tightened, chest aching. “You need not die at all,” you offered. Peter took a moment to process what you’d said and took a step back from you, uncertain. 

“It is only natural that I should,” he said slowly, each word carefully chosen, though he gave the impression of nearly choking on them. You knew the truth of his words, of course; it was the fact of mortality that plagued you. When you remained silent, Peter continued, brows furrowed. “What is it that you fear?” 

“I do not wish to be tormented by your crew,” you replied, voice cold and cutting, “Men fear what they do not understand. They hurt what they perceive to be weaker than them so that they may continue to feel powerful.” 

“My men will not harm you.” 

At this, you laughed, and instead of the ocean, it now reminded Peter of the rumbling of far-off thunder, a threat of danger lingering on the horizon. “You cannot possibly promise me that.” 

“I swear it,” Peter insisted, “Please.” 

Your frown was nearly enough to make Peter fall to his knees and claw at every word that had left his lips, dragging them back into his mouth and swallowing them away as if they’d never existed. But he was not made for one place, not made for peace. That was not his life—not anymore. 

“I will find them,” you relented, finally providing Peter with an answer. “I will bring them to you.” He drew you in close, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“How do I know you will come back?” 

Your hand unconsciously lifted to the polished lapis stone threaded around your neck on a delicate golden chain. Fingers toying with the precious gem, you sighed. “I swear it.” 

* It was easy enough to find the ship, to roil the water and direct the fog as best you could to lead them in the direction you wanted. For all their advances, men remained simple and superstitious. They heeded the ocean, though they did not trust her. Their faces were constantly turned upward, searching for signs amongst the stars and in the shrieking of gulls, allowing you to remain hidden just below the foaming surface of the water, pendant heavy where it rested between your breasts, pulsing with each quiet word you uttered to the sea. 

In the days that would follow, you’d look back upon the moments just shy of approaching your island, each minute elongated into hours. Though, in that instant, events transpired so quickly you had not time to consider your careless stupidity at surfacing, believing—foolishly, you’d later realize—that Peter would honour his word to keep you unharmed.  

There was shouting, some terrified and some awed, as they first laid eyes upon you. You hardly heard it, so glad were you to see Peter again, an expression of gratitude written across the face you’d dearly missed since leaving. It was only when Peter’s eyes grew wide, his mouth opening into a warning you had no time to heed, that you felt fear grip you. It was followed shortly by a burning stab of pain in your shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed in anguish just after seeing the tip of a small harpoon pierced right through your flesh. Another excruciating pang rippled along your abdomen as you were hit with shrapnel following the sharp crack of a gun. 

Groggily, you were sinking, spiralling below the surface of your consciousness just as you were disappearing beneath the waves. As though from a great distance, you felt your blood leaving your body with every slow beat of your heart in your chest. It struck you that you would die here if you did not move. 

The sound of splashing met your ears and for a long moment you believed it to be of your own creation, your tail slapping the water as you fled. But, as you felt rough hands grabbing at you, you realized the noise of your escape was only a fantasy, belonging instead to the heavy boots of pirates. 

Snippets of conversation breached your foggy mind, your body all of a sudden too warm, too dry. Your lower half twitched, desiccating outside the water as you were thrown roughly to the sand, the tiny grains irritating your skin where it had been broken by human cruelty. 

“What are you doing?” This was Peter’s demand—of that you were sure, even in your stupor. You could not mistake the melodic lilt of his voice despite the tone of anger it had taken on, a threat in him that you were not familiar with. 

He was answered by a cacophony of voices you did not know, some harsh and gravelly, others gentler and more timorous. 

“She’ll be worth a fortune, captain.” 

“She rescued him. Brought us here. Bad luck to repay kindness with violence.” 

“Tricks! She’ll sing us to our deaths if we let her. Look at them there wrecks.” 

“It’s bad luck to take a sea witch aboard.” 

“If so, we’ll slit her throat and send her to Davy Jones’s locker. But think of what we might gain for her.” 

A booming shot cut through the air and there was silence. Your eyes flew open, darting about to see where you’d been struck this time, but it was Peter, a gun restored to his hands and a hat upon his head, who had let the bullet thunder through the air. All around him, the men quieted and you finally saw Peter for what he was—ruthless, commanding, dreadful. 

By his side was a thinner man with a rat-like face, a red scarf tied around his head. He made to approach you and, with what little strength you had, you waved your hand listlessly, trying to harness some of your power. 

It was no use. The glint of the lapis around your neck was the man’s first target. You hissed and thrashed as he moved his rough hand to your throat, dirty fingers wrapping around your jewel and tugging it free. “Captain,” he appealed, “This alone is treasure enough.”

You stared, panicked, at Peter, imploring him with your gaze, begging him to remember the softness he’d shown you. 

“Aye,” Peter agreed, looking away from you. He held his hand out, palm upturned and waited until the shorter man surrendered your jewel. His fist clenched around it and you watched, helpless, as he tucked it into the pocket of his coat. 

 “Bring her aboard. And hoist the colours!”

#tasm!peter x reader #PIRATE AU IM LIVING

[folkloreweasley]

Cuddly Chubby Maria

#other

[folkloreweasley]

the horror genre of what if it was night and there was a man outside. nothing scares me more

#other

[folkloreweasley]

❝  i no longer know where i end and you begin.  you’ve wound yourself around my soul so tightly,  you’re all i feel anymore.  ❞ with matt 🥺 (the yearning is *extra* today)

Matt Murdock x Reader

fluff, 1.6k

Matt had taken you out for your anniversary. The night had been perfect. It was warm, with a gentle breeze blowing through. The moon was full and it casted a gentle glow over Hell's Kitchen that the city lights couldn't achieve.

You had both planned this, more or less. Matt had tried to make it a surprise but you'd stumbled across the reservations he'd made for some high-end place uptown. You'd waited til he got home before you told him.

"Oh, uh-- You weren't supposed to find those." Matt's cheeks were stained red, the color spreading down his neck. You could only smile.

"It's fine, Matty. I was just thinking, maybe not someplace so fancy? I appreciate the idea but I think we both know that's not really our style."

Matt nodded, taking the reservations from you. "No, you're right. I just thought... It doesn't matter. Where do you want to go?"

You both had went to several places that night. First through the park while the sun was still up, then by your favorite Chinese place. You even went by Josie's just to have an excuse to walk with each other halfway across town. You had pulled Matt into a corner booth, reminiscing on when you first kissed.

"Do you even remember? You were so drunk, it was St. Patrick's." A laugh danced through your words and you felt tipsy without any alcohol. It was just from sitting here with him, his fingers laced in yours. "Karen made you wear those ridiculous green glasses and Foggy lost like a hundred bucks trying to beat that homeless guy at pool."

Matt's face split into a grin, shaking his head gently. "That was our first kiss? God, I'm sorry. I do remember that night, I just didn't realize it was the night we kissed."

You started laughing, leaning into him. Neither of you had even bothered to order anything, you both knew Josie didn't mind.

"Yeah, it was great," you could barely get your words out through your laughter, your nose brushing against his jaw. Matt tilted his head closer to you, the light of the bar reflecting against his glasses. "So amazing, you missed and had to try again."

An embarrassed smile pulled at Matt's lips. "You must've liked it too, from what I remember we did more than just kiss after that. And you weren't even drunk."

"You must be mistaken, I'd never take advantage of you like that." Now it was your turn to be embarrassed. You had woken up in Matt's arms the next morning, in his bed. You hadn't had sex that night but that morning was a different story. "Besides, you're making it sound way worse than it was. I at least waited until you were sober."

"At least," Matt teased, his teeth flashing at you as he grinned. You rolled your eyes, hitting his arm playfully. You opened your mouth to reply but he had closed the few inches between you, capturing your lips with his.

The two of you proceeded to make out in the corner of the bar like no one was watching, with Matt pulling you into his lap and your arms snaking around his neck. It didn't matter much, there weren't many people at the bar on a Wednesday night and the ones who were knew you both by name.

Eventually, Matt picked up on Josie's not-so-subtle banging. She made out like she was just cleaning out her dust pan. She wasn't.

He pulled away from you to whisper in your ear, "I think it's time to leave."

You laughed and pulled Matt up from his seat, both of you acting none the wiser to the look Josie was giving you as you walked out the door.

Your final stop was at a hole-in-the-wall candy store. It was a place Matt had showed you, a place you never would've found on your own it was so small. Everything was homemade and delicious and it smelled like fresh baked cookies, taffy, sugar, and jam.

"I never would've pegged you for having a sweet tooth," you mused, one hand holding a bag that was filled with goodies both of you were eating from. "I figured you'd prefer more subtle tastes."

Matt shrugged. "I've kind of always liked sweets. That didn't change just because my senses got stronger, y'know?"

You nodded, stopping in front of the stoop to your shared apartment building. You sat on the steps and he joined you, his body pressed as close to yours as he could manage even though there was no reason to. You smiled and he pressed his forehead to yours.

"So, are you gonna kiss me or?" You kept your tone coy and Matt raised his eyebrows at you.

"A kiss? I usually wait until the third date for that."

You tried your best to hold back your laughter but you couldn't hide the grin that spread across your face so wide it hurt your cheeks.

"Oh, okay, I guess that's fine. I just thought you really liked me."

Matt's tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip and you could feel his arm going around your waist. "Well, I hope I'm not being too forward but... I think I do really like you. More than like, even."

You bit your bottom lip at the way he was teasing you, leaning in close enough for his lips to hover right over yours before he'd pull back just a tiny bit. A smirk played on his lips at how you tried to close the gap, failing by mere centimeters each time.

"Matt," you whined, pulling at his shirt, a smile still on your lips. He chuckled, his hand coming up to caress your face.

"Okay, fine. We can kiss, it'll be our little secret."

Your cheeks burned as he pressed his lips to yours, his hand squeezing your side. You hummed against his lips, pressing your chest to his and tangling your hand in his hair. He was soon retreating, shaking his head and laughing at how eager you were.

"Come on, let's get inside."

As soon as you were through the door your hands were on him, dropping your things. You grabbed him and pulled him close, keen to continue your kiss from before. He moaned when you slipped your tongue in his mouth, the door shutting as he kicked it closed behind him.

You started to reach for his buttons but he caught your hands, pulling back and shaking his head. You raised your eyebrows, a bit confused.

"Did you not want to--"

"No, I do, I just-- shit," Matt chuckled nervously. "This wasn't exactly how I had this planned."

"Planned what?" You knit your eyebrows together as you watched him fumble for something. Matt sucked in a breath of air, his hands shaking a bit as he opened a small box in front of you, revealing a ring beneath the velvety exterior.

For a moment, you were sure your heart had stopped as he lowered down to one knee. Then, you could feel it start beating again as it slammed into your chest.

"I spent so long trying to put how I feel about you into words. Hell, this night alone I've been planning for months. I've had Foggy and Karen's help, I even asked a friend at the DA's office to get reservations at that place uptown and--" He laughed, his voice faltering. "I typed up what I was going to say, recited it like it was a goddamn opening statement for trial and now I can't remember a single word."

He paused as you got down on your knees. You reached up and took his glasses off, trying to hold back the tears that were already starting to form. "Keep going."

"I-- I love you. I love you so much I no longer know where I end and you begin. You’ve wound yourself around my soul so tightly, you’re all I feel anymore. It's just you. It's always been you. You've shown me what it means to love and be loved. I don't want to spend another day pretending that my soul doesn't belong to you. Will you--" Matt's voice broke and you could see the tears welling up in his eyes. "Will you marry me?"

Tears broke free, streaming down your face as you sucked in a breath of air. Your grip on him tightened and you nodded quickly, trying so hard to form words. "Yes. Yes, Matthew."

You pulled his face to yours, crashing into a kiss that said what you couldn't. You heard something thump to the floor and then you felt both of Matt's arms curl tightly around you. He pulled your body flush to his, deepening the kiss.

When you pulled back both of you were breathing hard. You hadn't let go of his face, caressing his cheek. You used your thumb to wipe away stray tears that escaped his eyes. Both of you couldn't stop smiling. You stayed like that a moment, taking each other in, memorizing the feeling.

You broke the silence when you glanced down. "Where's the--"

"Oh, shit." Matt let go of you, reaching for the box that laid on its side on the floor. You laughed gently as you realized that was the thump you heard.

You gave him your hand and held your breath as he placed the ring on your finger. You couldn't stop staring at him, your brain caught up in that he was yours and you were his.

Matt tilted his head up to you, tears still glistening in his eyes. His voice was soft when he spoke. "I love you."

You grinned, your heart speeding up at the thought of getting to hear him say that again and again, forever. "I love you, too, Matthew."

#matt murdock x reader #sobbing

[folkloreweasley]

Hello there Ren! I just saw you’re asking for prompts, how bout

❝  you’ve got me in the palm of your hands.  you could crush me and i would still thank you for touching me at all.  ❞

With the one and only Matt Murdock, please 🥰

sorry this took so long, thx for the ask my love <3

Matt Murdock x Reader

fluff, matt being a flirt, 1.2k

When you opened your door to see Matt standing there in his black suit, completely soaked to the bone, confusion and surprise grabbed your body. His skin was very pale, his fingers a faded blue color. You acted instinctively, grabbing him and almost going to the ground when he stumbled, his body shaking violently from being so cold. Your mind then went into overdrive.

"Matt, can you speak? How long have you been outside?" It was below freezing out and you lived several blocks from the docks, where you assumed he came from. His reply was mumbled, indecipherable, which only worried you more. You managed to get him to your living room, his body sprawling against your arm chair.

You started to remove his clothes and boots, throwing them into a pile on the ground. You cursed at the several cuts and bruises you saw. You went for your first aid kit, pulling out gauze and bandages. You stuck a thermometer in his mouth, chewing on your lip anxiously as you waited for it to beep.

You started patching him up, cleaning the wounds thoroughly and ignoring his pained noises. If he'd jumped in the Hudson he'd need to be dipped in isopropyl alcohol later but this will have to do for now. Your head jerked up at the sound of a beep and you cursed when you saw his internal temperature was just below 90F.

"Matthew, only your dumbass would manage to get hypothermia while out beating up bad guys." You glared at him and he grumbled something you couldn't understand.

You finished patching up the worst of the cuts before going to your closet, grabbing several blankets and a hoodie. When you returned Matt was hunched over, his arm curled around himself and his eyes squeezed shut. His body was still shaking.

You helped him get the hoodie on and pushed him back against the cushions. You could see some color starting to return to his skin. You wrapped the blankets around him and Matt moaned gently as your hands wandered over his skin. You got closer, straddling him and wrapping your arms around him.

Your cheeks felt hot with embarrassment as his head rested on the crook of your shoulder, more moans escaping his lips at the warmth you brought him. You clenched your jaw and ignored your feelings, knowing him getting warm was your top priority right now.

"Feel like heaven, sweetheart," Matt mumbled and you rolled your eyes. Only he could manage to flirt with you while half-conscious. You pressed your chest to his, relief overcoming you as his shivers seemed to be subsiding.

You pulled back just a bit, making sure the blankets stayed around you both and prevented too much heat from escaping. You sighed at the blood on your shirt. Not like it was the first time.

You started doing a more thorough check of his body, pressing into bruises and checking for any big bumps. He tilted his head back when you grabbed his face, a smirk appearing on his lips. "No one touches me like you do, you're always so soft. Even when it hurts, it feels good."

Your cheeks burned again.

"You won't be saying that later when I have to reclean your wounds." Your hands cradled his face and you tried to remind yourself you were supposed to be checking his injuries.

"No, angel, you’ve got me in the palm of your hands. You could crush me and I would still thank you for touching me at all."

You just stared at him, your heart speeding up at his words. He always flirted and teased you but he'd never said anything like that. It was so soft, so genuine. You could feel his grip tightening on you, threatening to pull you closer.

You dropped your hands, shaking your head. "You really are out of it, huh? All that dirty river water must've gone to your head."

Matt laughed, his head turning from you. You got up, grabbing the thermometer again and handing it to him. You felt reassured by how he held it firmly, his motor skills seeming back in tact. He lifted it to his lips, putting it beneath his tongue.

You started packing up your kit, taking it back to your closet and rummaging for the bottles of cleaning alcohol. You heard the thermometer beep as you turned around, reaching out as you walked back to Matt. You smiled as he handed it to you.

"Okay, great, you're getting back to normal. Mind telling me what happened?" You sat in the chair next to him.

"Russians. It was a pretty usual night but there was one too many this time, had to escape and I jumped out a window of a warehouse by the docks. Ended up in the water. Your place is a lot closer than mine." He smiled at you and you sighed.

"Lucky me." Your eyes landed on his wet clothes and you stood, going to your laundry room. "I'll put these in the dryer for you, if that's okay. It'll get them warm which I'm sure you'll appreciate on your way home."

Matt nodded. "Thank you."

When you got back Matt had moved to your couch, a couple blankets over his legs and still wearing the hoodie you gave him. You sat next to him and felt his arm go around you.

"What are you doing?" you teased, turning your head to look at him.

Matt smiled. "Still cold."

"There's plenty of blankets in my closet, Matthew."

His head turned to you, leaning in close enough you could feel his breath as he spoke. "None of them warm me up like you do, sweetheart."

Butterflies beat excitedly in your stomach, making your jaw clench. Matt picked up on the way your breathing hitched and the way your pulse got faster. He reached up, his finger brushing over your hair before leaning closer, his lips ghosting against yours. You pressed forward, smiling into the kiss.

When he pulled back you were both breathing hard. "Took you long enough, Romeo. Been flirting with me for months."

Matt grinned, taking your breath away at how beautiful he was. Then, he leaned back in for another kiss, this one no where near as soft or cautious. His tongue teased around your lips and his grip tightened on your body. You grabbed his face, moaning at how good his skin felt against yours. His lips were rough and his hands were rougher.

When he pulled back this time you couldn't find words and you had a sneaking suspicion that was his intention.

"I've gotta go but I'll be back tomorrow. I think it's only fair I take you out on a real date after all this, right?" You nodded and he stood, going to your laundry room. When he came back out he was dressed in his black clothes, now a lot drier than before.

"You really need to clean those wounds again, I'm sure you're very aware of how disgusting the Hudson is."

Matt smiled. "I promise to take a shower as soon as I get home. Come over and you can join me."

You ignored the way your face felt hot. "Whatever. God, you're such a nuisance. Tell me, Matthew, why am I agreeing to this date again?"

He walked closer to you and you regretted even asking. His arms curled around you, his head tilting to one side. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Hmm, let me think. Maybe there's something I can do that'll help remind you?"

Your heart pounded against your chest and he started laughing. He let go of you, leaving you flustered and annoyed as he walked to your door. "See you tomorrow, sweetheart."

#matt murdock x reader

[folkloreweasley]

the moon loves you even on your bad days

#other

[folkloreweasley]

500 notes on Incomparable that’s fucking insane thank you!

#folkloreweasley talks

[folkloreweasley]

Blooming Room

#other

[folkloreweasley]

stubbornly, irritatingly — anthony bridgerton

summary: it’s not easy to help the viscount find a wife when he continues to reject every woman you introduce. it turns out he has a better reason for it than you realize.

a/n: okay so my other anthony fic is taking far longer than i thought it would because it has literally turned into a 10k word monster and it is still growing so here is this shorter thing i wrote in a day to placate you all until i finish the other one lol. i hope you enjoy

wc: 2k

warning(s): a whole lot of frustration and a short argument that is resolved in fluff

You stood on the side of the dance floor, watching with bated breath as Anthony moved through a waltz with your best option yet. Anthony had officially declared his intentions to find a wife this season, and he’d asked you to aid him in the journey. Knowing the likelihood of his search ending in either dissatisfaction or the literal opposite of a love match, you agreed. 

It may not have been the most brilliant decision, helping the man you were in love with find a wife, but you knew you did not have any chance at his affections. Anthony saw you as a friend and respected you immensely, but there was nothing more there — you were sure of it. You figured if you had a hand in Anthony’s search for a wife, he would at least end up with a woman that he liked, or even loved. He was far too pragmatic to go for a love match and far too stubborn to admit he deserved one, and so you took the responsibility yourself — Violet certainly appreciated your help after all the years she had spent on her own trying to find her son a match. 

But Anthony was pushing your patience to its limits. His list of demands for what he desired in a lady was far longer than you thought, but you'd still managed to find and introduce him to several eligible debutantes. You had been quite proud of them all, finding each lady to be lovely in her own way and definitely good enough for what Anthony wanted, and yet he refused every single one. Whether it be her poor dance skills, her lack of intellect, an inability to voice her opinions, or just his own ‘bad feelings’, Anthony consistently found a way to shut down every debutante you found. 

But this time, you had a good feeling. Lady Delilah Addlebury was of good breeding from a respectable family and considerable wealth. She was an excellent dancer, she spoke English, French, and Mandarin and could hold an intellectual conversation in any of them, she could play the pianoforte and the cello with such skill she rivaled the musicians hired to play at the balls, and she, if you dared to say so yourself, had fantastic hips, perfect for childbearing. Surely, Anthony would be satisfied with Miss Addlebury — she was not only perfect in every way, but she was perfect for him.

The waltz came to a close and they bowed to each other, Anthony touching her arm lightly and saying a few words before they separated. Delilah returned to her mother and Anthony started towards you, and you could not contain your smile. This had to be it.

“Well?” you said as he came to a stop by your side. “What did you think of her? Isn’t she—”

“She is not the one,” Anthony interrupted, and your smile immediately faded. 

“What?”

“She is not the one,” he repeated as he folded his hands behind his back. “She wants five children; that is far too many for a woman like her.”

Your brows furrowed as you crossed your arms. “Anthony, you have seven siblings and you played a part in raising each one. I should think you could handle five children.”

“I can,” he agreed, “but she cannot. I can tell — she is not fit to be a mother, nor a viscountess.”

You nodded, your annoyance rolling off of you in waves. “And how exactly can you tell?”

“It is just a feeling I have,” he said. “After all these years I have learned to trust my intuition.” 

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, and before you could question what you were doing you grabbed Anthony’s arm and stormed out of the ballroom, all but dragging him behind you. 

“What— what are you doing?” he protested in hushed whispers, too much of a gentleman with far too much honor at stake to cause a true scene. “Have you lost your mind?” 

You ignored him as you ducked into the first spare room you found, and you shut and locked the door before you stalked to the other side. You knew it was improper to be in here without a chaperone, especially with Anthony’s reputation, but right now you simply did not care. 

“What in God’s name was that?” Anthony demanded, staring at you completely bewildered as he rubbed his wrist. “How is your grip so strong?” 

“I have quite a bit of practice dealing with half-brained men,” you fumed. “You ask me what I am doing — what are you doing?” 

He huffed as he walked over to the mirror — you’d ended up pulling him into a guest bedroom, it seemed — and adjusted his lapels, very pointedly avoiding eye contact. “I am attempting to find the woman I will spend the rest of my wife with, which you apparently see as a very light matter.” 

“You know I don’t; it is just that I do not understand what you want from me!” you exclaimed in pure frustration. “I am sure that I have introduced you to every eligible lady in all of London, and yet you refuse every single one!”

“None of them are right,” he said simply. “I have given you my reasons; are they not enough?”

“Your— your reasons?” You huffed a laugh as you threw your hands up in exasperation. “There is no rational reason to reject a woman like Lady Addlebury! She is beautiful, intelligent, an excellent dancer and musician — I cannot imagine why anyone could turn her down!” 

“She is just…” Anthony trailed off and shook his head. “She is just not right.” 

“Then who is right?” you cried, your frustration reaching a peak. You loved Anthony in every way, shape, and form, and yet he was simply the most infuriating man you had ever met.  “You have gone through the entire ton by now — I do not admit this often, but I am at a loss. I truly have no idea what will satisfy you.”

“That is where you are wrong,” Anthony said, and you raised your eyebrows. “There is still one woman you have not yet entertained.”

You laughed in disbelief as you shook your head. “Oh, pray tell! What woman is perfect enough for Lord Bridgerton’s endless list of needs that I have overlooked?”

Anthony let out a loose breath, adjusting the fit of his vest before he turned around. “You are.”

It took you a moment to process what he had said, and when you did you blinked and took a step back. “Excuse me?”

“You are the perfect woman for me,” he repeated, his words crafted so easily and so surely that you could hardly believe it. “I have known it for a very long time, but I have only just now allowed myself to accept it.”

“I… I do not understand,” you floundered. 

“What is there to understand?” he questioned. “I love you. I want to marry you.”

There was so much buzzing around in your head that you opened and closed your mouth at least thrice before you managed to form any semblance of a word. “How long? I mean— how long have you known this?”

Anthony cleared his throat, tugging at his collar. “Since the beginning of last season.”

“Good god,” you whispered, pressing your fingers against your temples before setting your glare on him. “Are you completely inept?”

He frowned. “Excuse me?”

“In what world does a man ask the woman he is in love with to help him find a wife?” you cried. “Anthony, have you anything at all in your head or is it all just empty space?” 

“I had a perfectly good reason for doing things in this way!” he defended, and you huffed an incredulous laugh as you crossed your arms. 

“You have my full attention.” 

Anthony sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head once again before his gaze returned to you. “You must understand that I have never thought I would get a chance with you. You are a wonderful woman of good standing, a lady that any man would desire. A lady that wishes to marry for love, a love that you so completely deserve. A love I was convinced I could never give to you.” He paused for a moment, tongue darting out to wet his lips before he looked back at you.

“But the more time we spent together, the more I began to feel for you. Every time you sang while Francesca played the pianoforte, every game you played with Gregory and Hyacinth, every conversation you held with Eloise over the analysis of poetry—” Anthony managed a small laugh. “I almost considered asking you to stop visiting, for I knew every time I watched you merge so flawlessly with my family the harder I fell. I could not stop imagining you as my wife, as Viscountess Bridgerton, and so I did what any foolish man in love does and threw myself into my work. My work just so happened to be a search for a woman that would allow me to get over you. I admit that… asking you for help was not my wisest idea.” 

Not his wisest idea. He simplified it far too much. 

“I cannot believe what I am hearing.” You shook your head yet again, still completely incredulous. “You are stubborn, and irritating, and—” 

“In love,” he interrupted with a smile. “I am stubbornly, irritatingly in love with you, so much so that you consume my every thought, and I cannot seem to make even one rational decision around you. I do not expect anything in return, but you should know how I feel about you.”

You let out a loose sigh as you crossed your arms, more than slightly miffed. “Well, you should try harder to have a conscious thought when around me. It would have saved us both quite a bit of pain had you the simple foresight to not ask for my aid in your search for a wife.” 

It slowly dawned on Anthony, his eyes widening as a rarely seen hopefulness emerged on his features. “You mean to say…?” 

“I am in love with you too, you idiot,” you huffed, more than a little frustrated that you had to spell it out for him. “There is a reason I have gone three seasons without ever accepting a proposal. I cannot believe how long it took you to figure it out.” 

A wide grin bloomed on his lips as he drew nearer, a palpable weight off of his shoulders. “Perhaps it took me so long because of all the insults you insist on throwing my way.” 

A smile tugged at your lips as you shrugged. “Someone has to keep you humble. It clearly has not worked.” 

You heard a noise from the hallway and you blinked, your senses coming back to you as you realized exactly where you were. It was your idea to come here, but it truly was not a smart one. 

“It is improper for us to be in here together,” you said, focused on the door as if you expected someone to break it down and catch the two of you. “We should head back to the event.” 

It was then that you felt Anthony’s arms around your waist and his breath against your neck, and you craned your head back to look at him with a barely contained smile. “Did you hear anything I just said? We have to return to the party.” 

“Must we?” Anthony asked as he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth.  “We will be engaged soon anyway; I believe we can have some fun after all the trouble we have caused each other.” 

You raised your eyebrows, attempting to bite back your smile. “You so readily assume I will accept your proposal after the agony you have put me through?” 

“Of course,” he responded with a cockeyed grin. “Where else are you to find the stubborn and irritating husband you desire so?” 

-

perm tags: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin @maruchan77 @simonsbluee @kwyloz @masteroperator 

#anthony bridgerton x reader #i love when fic writers just absolutely obliterate the man the fic is about like yeah fuck him #but also like *tucks hair behind ear* hi #anyway that’s my fav writing trope like do I hate him or do I like him? probably both

[folkloreweasley]

HARPER’S BAZAAR MAY 1949

KODACHROMES BY ERNST BEADLE

#other

[folkloreweasley]

Thank you! I hadn’t really thought of making one but I’ll see what I can do :)

Incomparable

fandom: Bridgerton

pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader

summary: you don’t fit in quite well with the rest of the ton, but you still manage to catch the eye of the Viscount

note: this is for the girlies with resting bitch face and also i’m trying so hard to make these bridgerton fics gender neutral but it so hard besties, i gave up regency society is just so heteronormative so fem!reader for this one

It was only one of the first balls of many and you were already regretting your position as a newly presented flower of the season. You never thought you had what it took to be this year’s diamond, nor its ruby, nor its pearl, or any jewel for the matter. Of course, you knew everything you should know to be presented into society. You sat through the pianoforte lessons and even tried your hand at singing (which was a terrible mistake). You learned to embroider from your mother, much to the dismay of your aching fingers which always manage to burn and go numb far to quickly for her liking. You read all the textbooks though you much preferred novels, though you didn’t even understand why when you soon learned from any interaction with a gentlemen that men like to know a women is well read, but hardly ever that they use that knowledge in conversation. 

But somehow, even after the painstakingly long hours at the modiste getting fitted for dresses and the even longer time you spent getting into them and every minute in between that was preparing you for the day you were presented into society, every other lady and her mother have had to comment on how you are so far from even the realm of possibly being considered a diamond. You heard their whispers through the silk and lace of their folding fans as clear as night. 

‘They barely graced the Queen with a smile,”

‘They’ll definitely grow to be a spinster with that face,’

Oh, but this wasn’t only from the women, of course not, they just have the decency to try and say this behind your back. You are well aware of how men love to grace you with their opinion despite you caring very little for it. They always have the audacity to say these things straight to your somber face as if it would do you any good.

‘You know, you would be slightly prettier if you smiled,’

‘If you would smile, you would seem much more amiable,’ 

and most recently,

“I am sure more gentlemen would ask for a dance if you didn’t look so miserable, my Lady,”

You had been approached by a well respected gentlemen named Mr. Hastings when you had escaped your mother’s disapproving clutches and found solace at the refreshments table as you drank lemonade desperately wishing it were wine. He asked you to dance and you couldn’t fain a full dance card as it was much to your current misfortune empty. Which has left you enduring a dreadfully boring conversation about his horse, how much it had cost him, how much it is actually worth, and just how incredible this horse was. You quite frankly wished to be anywhere else, that must have been evident in your face. 

Keep reading

[folkloreweasley]

Billie Eilish attends The 2022 Met Gala in New York City (02/05)

#other