#he fits perfectly under my fucked up desk setup

[auroraphantasma]

OH MY GOD HE IS SO SMALL, LOOK AT HIM!

I LOVE HIM!

#danny phantom #he fits perfectly under my fucked up desk setup #i did not realize how small he is when i ordered it but i am delighted

[anordinarymuse]

can you do a dom!reader x sub!fredweasley, like Fred being a lil bitch and her fucking it out of him 😭😫

i won't lie i was excited to write this bc this is the first time the reader is a dom !!!

malicious.

Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Summary : #you already know it's the request

Warnings : dom/sub roles *not explicit* (dom!reader + sub!fred) unprotected; mommy kink; teasing; swearing; unedited.

Word Count : 860

A/N : all i gotta say is i love my setup for my o.s. i think it's the most superior and is v pretty so thank you me lmfao

also it's the me doing like five requests today but still ending the day with the same # of requests are started with-

the masterlist.

request here.

"Fred, give me your Transfiguration homework," you yawn as you flip through your incomplete essay.

When you don't receive a reply, you flip around in your chair, turning to face Fred. His arms are crossed and his expression is grumpy.

"What's wrong now?" You ask, slightly annoyed with his grouchiness. You were exhausted from doing work all day.

"Nothing," he mumbles, he's so focused on looking down into his lap that he'd probably set the blanket on fire.

"C'mon tell mommy what's wrong," this time you soften your voice in hopes for a different reaction from Fred.

"All day all you did was homework," he complains, whinging like a child. You could hardly believe the six foot two man in front of you was whining to your face.

"Wanna have some fun, then?" You ask, putting on a baby voice and doe-eyes. Fred nods excitedly, his mood immediately perking up.

You move from the desk to Fred's bed, biting your bottom lip as you do so. You throw the covers off Fred's lap, your eyes gleam as Fred's bulge grows in his pants.

You situate yourself on top of Fred, straddled on top of his lap. If you moved you'd feel the friction of his length against panties, you were wearing a skirt with nothing underneath. You could feel Fred squirming underneath you as you stir.

"Why else are you mad at mommy, baby?" You whisper mumble into Fred's ear as you place dainty kisses on his neck. He whimpers at the touch of your damp lips against his skin.

"I- I-," Fred tries to answer but is left helpless as you sneak your hand under his shirt. You fingers hover over his skin, drawing lines down his chest.

"Baby, just tell me, I promise I won't get mad," on the inside you knew very well that you could get mad, but you'd only said it to make Fred feel better.

"I- I just want- want mommy to- to- to spend more time w-w-with m-me," Fred sputters as you slowly rock your hips against his.

"Is this good baby?" You beam, not picking up your pace at all, keeping it slow and steady.

Fred whimpers a reply which you can only guess is a yes.

To award Fred's good behavior, you unbuckle, unzip, and unbutton his pants, pushing them off and throwing them aside, next were his briefs.

As you do his bottoms he pulls of his shirt and you do the same. The only things that remain are your bra, panties, and skirt, though those won't remain for too long.

While Fred's length is revealed, his cock bulges with pre-cum dripping down the sides. He trembles when you wipe it with your fingers, proceeding to lick it, swirling your tongue for show.

"Are you gonna be a good boy for mommy, baby?" You ask, eyeing his dick with desire. Your panties were soaked and you could feel your pussy pulsating.

Fred grunts a response, but that's not good enough for you, "Baby you have to use your words," you coo while tracing his jawline.

"Y-yes m-mommy," Fred whimpers. The tip of his dick is red and the both of you are desperate for some real action.

"Very good," you whisper as you push aside your panties and move onto Fred's length. You let out a groan as he fits perfectly inside of you. "F-f-fuck."

You move up and down his shaft, feeling his dick against your fragile walls. Fred very much overstimulated, grips the bedsheets tightly, he almost shakes beneath you, which makes you smirk.

It was malicious, very malicious, but whining boys got punishments, do they not?

Without warning, you begin going fast, very fast, and Fred jolts with wide eyes. You hold on tight to the straps of your bra to keep steady as you move up and down.

Noises emit from both you and Fred. You had begun to lose conscious and you were falling into your own ecstasy as you allowed Fred deeper and deeper into your heat.

Fred was close to coming, you could feel how hard he was, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't. Your body was edging closer and closer to the edge with every move. Your walls began to contract and to get through it you bite your lip hard.

The final push is when Fred, without allowance, bucks his hips into your heat forcing the both of you to release at the same time. Normally that'd ensue for more punishment, but tonight you would let him off easy.

You feel the warm juices flow out heating your thighs as it slips down your skin. Fred grunts as you move of his length, you pussy still vibrates as you situate yourself next to Fred.

Your legs hurt and are sore, but you let your body relax once you're laying down comfortably.

"You did good baby," you almost whisper, your eyes closed taking in a deep breath. Fred just mumbles a response, nuzzling his head between the crook of your neck and shoulder. His hair is soft on your skin which almost tickles, forcing you to crack a grin.

**********

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[luminis-infinite]

Okay sooo - Post-Grindelwald Greenie scenario. Percy's gone back to his charming, smartly-dressed, effortlessly seductive self - but this time, all is part of the delightful game he plays with his wife Queenie. He's a knuckle-kisser; she sits on his lap and drives him quietly mad; sometimes, when he suddenly paper-pale at galas, she brushes at his hair and his thoughts, sending off words of soft love. "I'm here, darling. Always and forever, I'm here."

This is ridiculously long and didn’t necessarily go where I intended it to, so it might get a re-write later. But for now, I hope you enjoy. Thank you so very much for the lovely prompt, darling.

“You’d never believe what I heard,” one of the coffee witches – the one whose name O’Brien can never remember, whispers to one of the interns under the guise of pouring coffee and handing him a biscuit. She gets a raised brow and a bemused shrug for her trouble, but she bats not an eyelash and continues on anyway.“So Nancy was takin’ afternoon coffee around the Bullpen, you know, and she always goes to Mr. Graves office after doin’ the bullpen, and when she knocked she thought she heard Graves say ‘come in’, so in she went and then…” Here the coffee witch looks around, dyed strawberry blond too-tight curls bouncing around her heavily powered neck when she looks right then left to make sure the coast is clear. O’Brien remains in her blind spot, just out of sight. “So in she went, like I was saying, and there was Queenie Goldstein sitting in Graves’ lap.”

The intern splutters loudly on the sip of coffee he’s just taken, nearly spraying the coffee witch and his own starch white shirt. The coffee witch dances out of the way in time, leaving the poor intern choking and coughing for a moment before he croaks out, “You can’t be serious.”She nods at him, eyes impassively wide and framed with thick, mascara-black lashes that bat at him. Red lips quirk up, “I am. She was sittin’ on his lap all pretty like and Nacy says he had his hand on her thigh, under her skirt… Can you believe it? It’s all-“O’Brien finally decides she’s had enough, pushing herself into the woman’s line of view and putting on her best frown.“A bunch of bullshit,” she says firmly, glowering at the coffee witch with her ill-fitting blouse and shoes and the makeup that might come off in a perfect imprint on O’Brien’s hand if she were to slap her. The witch gasps, the intern splutters again. He knows well enough to be afraid of O’Brien, she’s already laid into him twice this week for lollygagging. “You, Lysander, know full well that you have two reports due by the end of the day. Your possibility of landing a job at MACUSA after this grows slimmer with every passing second. And you, whoever you are, are not paid to spin the gossip wheel. Now git, before I report you to your supervisor.”They both stare at her like dying fish for a moment, gaping with their eyes bugging out of their heads. O’Brien, the merciful taskmaster that she is, gives them a full minute to get themselves out of their funks. But when they continue to gawk, she loses her patience. “Scram!”Lysander jumps and squeaks, the witch flinches and they’re both all but dashing off in opposite directions, spines stiff and eyes straight ahead like good little soldiers. O’Brien watches them go before huffing and reaching for her cigarette case. As she heads towards the lobby, O’Brien selects one and shoves it between her teeth. Queenie in his lap and Percival’s hand up her skirt in an unlocked office, honestly, she thinks to herself, he has much more tact than that.

—

After the incident with Nancy this afternoon, Queenie is eager to lie low for the rest of the day. She could skip home well enough, but she knows it will simply feed the gossip mill, and there’s already enough flying around about the both of them right now, thank you very much. So she does the reports Picquery’s asked her to complete, about the raids she’s helped with and the statements she’s gotten from some of Grindelwald’s followers, currently residing comfortably in the very highest rafters of the building, where the owls nest. But reports only keep Queenie occupied for so long; she’s a neat writer and a quick one, signing her name off with a flourish and sending the proofed reports directly to Seraphina with a flick of her wrist. And that leaves Queenie with a suspiciously large absence of anything to do. She decides to make herself some tea, and when that’s done she take a cup to Seraphina and bother the president with chatter for a few moments. Maybe get another assignment, or go find Tina. Tina could use a distraction. Queenie finds herself occupied with making her tea in the quiet breakroom of her department, humming a tune to herself while she sets the water to boil in the kettle and goes about selecting one of the many teas in the cabinets.

Queenie’s narrowed her choices down to camomile or honey lemon when a field of magic brushes gently against her own, much like the waves lapping against the shore at Ilvermorny on a misty morning in October. She grins and leans back into him, giving him space to wrap powerful arms around her ribs. Soft and dry lips pepper little kisses along the neckline of her dress, up to her jaw before he speaks, stubble brushing Queenie’s skin.“I’m sorry about earlier,” Percival murmurs and presses his big hands flat against her belly, smoothing down invisible wrinkles in the satin of her dress. Queenie hums, turning her head to accept his kisses properly. He tastes like an orange, the orange she left for him on his desk after hurrying out following Nancy’s shocked and squeaking apologies. “It ain’t your fault, honey,” Queenie replies. She sets one tea box down and reaches behind her to cup his jaw, tugging him in closer. Percival hums now, quiet and contemplative, enjoying Queenie’s touch and attention as much as she enjoys him. The static of his occlumency quiets around her, the sharp edges left by Grindelwald rounding out, sea glass worn smooth by waves and time. They stand in silence for a moment before the camomile tea box falling off the counter shatters the peace. Queenie jumps and Percival rears back with a quiet curse, before they both roll their eyes at their own silliness. Percival stoops to pick up the tea box, and when he offers it to her, his hand doesn’t tremble. Queenie accepts the box with a grin, “Thank you, kind sir.”Percival laughs and collects her other hand in his, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. The twinkle in his coffee-dark eyes tells Queenie that he knows full well what it does to her. “You’re welcome, my darling.”He leaves her to make her tea then, meandering out of the breakroom with his hands in his pockets and seemingly no care in the world. Percival makes every space his own, giving his easy confidence to every moment, every stride. But Queenie knows the hitch is there if she looks for it.

—

The thing is, he looks like he’s bounced right back. He returned to work a month before Queenie wanted him to, barely out of the hospital, barely holding himself together with pepper up potions and bone growth serum and glamors for what the makeup couldn’t hide. Percival strode into work that day in his best, double breasted suit with the tiny silver pinstripes and not a single fuck to give to anyone who got in his way. He doesn’t look like he limps, he doesn’t look like his hands shake or he couldn’t hold a coffee cup the day after they found him. He looks perfectly alright, leads his team perfectly alright, handles everything they throw at him perfectly alright. He’s convinced them that he’s fine. Hell, most days he convinces Queenie that he’s alright – flirting with her, playing the little game they have going flawlessly. He looks fine. He sounds fine. He seems fine. But he isn’t fine. He isn’t.

Someone, Queenie can’t remember who, said to her not too long ago that it was amazing, how well he’d recovered, as if the process of healing from out and out torture at the hands of the darkest wizard in modern remembrance was over. As if Queenie didn’t have to hold him at night anymore when he was shaking like he was going to shatter, or force Dreamless Sleep down his throat raw from screaming, or deal with the heartbreaking reality that he had tried to convince her to divorce him. They don’t see that, they don’t hear his words, thick with tears in their heads.

I’m no good, Queenie. You deserve someone better. You deserve someone s-strong… Not a broken, pathetic old man.They see what he wants them to see. They’ve never bothered to look past the veneer. Maybe that’s why they didn’t notice it wasn’t Percival.

—

“We’re staying for Picquery’s speech and then I’m taking him home.”O’Brien sups from her flute of champagne, her only acknowledgement of Queenie’s words being a slight incline of her head to the right. She surveys the crowd, filled with visiting dignitaries and the who’s-who of Wizarding America. It’s the biggest night of the year, aside from Halloween.They’re about half way into the Wizarding Congress Gala, alcohol freely flowing and all acquaintances made or remade by now. It will be acceptable for the Director and his wife to slip off into the night, they’ve done their duty. But Queenie doesn’t need to hear this from O’Brien. She’s done these things before, lighting up halls and lobbies and small back rooms in pubs alike with her bubbly personality that makes even Graves – stern and brooding and mysteriously dark – smile and laugh. So O’Brien keeps silent, watching as Queenie floats back over to her husband, O’Brien’s one-time protégé (the son she never had, nor wanted until Graves came along). He is wan under the gently glowing enchanted lantern orbs. Soft golden light reflects strangely on his skin, giving him a dewy appearance that is no doubt reflexive of a sheen of sudden sweat. It isn’t that warm in here. O’Brien was part of the setup team and helped weave powerful cooling charms into the tapestries and walls of MACUSA’s grand foyer. So whatever it is that’s causing him to sweat isn’t that. She sets her empty glass on the tray of a nearby house elf, tucking her hands in the pockets of her pantsuit and slowly begins to meander her way over to Graves and Queenie, keeping her eyes roving, searching for whatever’s set Graves off. A subtle extended hearing charm cast through the material of her trousers gleans nothing. Her scanning gets nothing either until she turns about fifteen degrees left and spots it. Blond hair in a rather unfortunate style. Ah.

Percival swallows, passing his hand over his face in a way that makes it look like he’s rubbing his jaw, but O’Brien notices how the shiny texture leaves his skin. But there’s nothing short of a glamour that will restore the colour to his cheeks. Queenie leans in, whispering something to Graves, unaware or uncaring of O’Brien approaching them. The extended hearing charm catches strains of what she’s saying.“I’m here, baby. You’re safe. I’m here always and forever, Percy. Always and forever.”She squeezes his hand and Percival nods, short and choppy before he spots O’Brien at last. The glassy expression in those dark eyes breaks, and he manages a weak smile for her. Just then, Picquery takes the stage in a magnificent cream satin dress that rustles around her feet like doves’ wings and an equally elegant head wrap. O’Brien doesn’t get a chance to say anything to Graves or Queenie following Seraphina’s speech. They slip away into the night like a ship leaving harbour when the moon is new, silent and quick. But that’s alright. Graves has everything he needs in Queenie.

#percival graves #queenie goldstein #adene answers #adene writes #percival graves/queenie goldstein #greenie #my jam #my loves #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fantastic beasts #fbawtft