#BURNED TO THE GROUND IN 1999 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vaaaaaiolet · 3 months

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September 30th, 1998. Your world ended with Leon's death, or so you thought.

Or alternatively, how you spent two decades of your life tied to a man full of secrets who can't love you how you want him to.

gn / m, angst and hurt / comfort, mild smut, eventual happy ending, for the love of god someone give leon and reader both a hug :(

read this to 1999 by beabadoobee for optimal results

word count: 1809 // read on ao3

this work is inspired by @uhlunaro's "a tale of grief in 10 parts" :) please check out their work, it's absolutely amazing!

He would return in one piece. That was the most you could have hoped for when you gawked at the evening news, swaddled in your robe like some useless overgrown baby as a TV reporter boredly announced that your boyfriend had died.

Oopsy! Blown to bits like Lego bricks! The Raccoon City building set, discontinued forever.

Grief shot through your chest like the explosions peppering your television screen the more you watched. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from it. You’d actually gotten down on the floor and pressed your face to the display, hoping to catch a glimpse of blond hair on the live feed, searching until the news bulletin hit your head shotgun-style. No reported survivors.

No survivors.

There was no Leon S. Kennedy escaping the rubble. Nobody to come home and wisecrack that he was right about cops and their dependence on donuts. No one to make dinner for. Something had to be done about his favorite steak browning cheerfully in the oven as the world burned around you.

Had it burned for him too? You sat in his chair at the head of the kitchen table and shoveled steak into your mouth in a numb rage, peeking at char marks through the fork tines. They were black, burnt to a crisp, inciner-

You spent the rest of the night emptying your stomach into the toilet. The landline laid lifeless.

Leon’s world had ended in a flash; yours in flushes as you poured your heart into the plumbing. Hell, it didn’t even stay there, floating stubbornly to the top as your choked toilet spewed water and you sat and sobbed.

Months later, Leon came home for a week. A week you hadn’t been selfish enough to plead the heavens for (instead you’d sobbed, prayed for glimpses of him in strangers) but a gift horse of a week nonetheless.

The breath rushed out of your lungs every time he rounded a corner in the house, soundless as a ghost. It terrified Leon even more than it did you. He was scared. Leon wouldn’t tell you of what though, and you wasted the better part of the week wondering. Diagnosing him like the doctors on endless TV shows you’d whiled away your time to while he was dead. None of your guesses really scratched the surface of his fears; he just wished you’d stop asking.

Leon told you in the final hour of his last day home. Powder blue eyes committed every inch of you to memory when he kissed you slow and honey-sweet underneath sheets that had laid cold for far too long. In between his calloused hands, you bloomed to life.

He’d gasped as his lips trailed up the column of your throat, “I’m- ah, I’m so sorry…”

You hadn’t the foggiest idea of what he was apologizing for. All you cared was that he was here now, he was home. That was all you’d wanted, right? You didn’t even let him finish, surging up and planting your lips on his so that he’d have to swallow his sorry’s right back, smoothing his brow with your thumb when it furrowed in the dark. For now, Leon drank in every bit of your love that he could stomach.

Leon took you to the heavens you’d once prayed to, all while you dragged your nails down the cracked melamine skin of his back.

And then he told you that he wouldn’t be home for Christmas. As far as the United States government was concerned, Christmas (or any other holiday really) wasn’t grounds for him leaving his new, top secret “work”. Dangerous, life-threatening work that he made you promise not to worry over. Leon’s spare police uniform watched forlornly from his dust-ridden side of the closet as he laid bare any information he was cleared to – barely anything. You’d torn off your silver necklace and stamped a kiss to the cold metal to wrap it around his shaking wrist. Anything to give him a reason to mutiny, to come running back.

So in December of 1999, you stopped going to your support group for fallen police officers. You spent Christmas mourning a man whose life became a secret for you alone to keep.

A letter strewn on your front porch: the summer of ‘04.

It won’t be easy. He is stronger than you think.

The lipstick kiss at the bottom matched the red of the ink in Leon’s letter to you from Spain. You don’t get another until his writing in it begins to fade, but that lipstick, miraculously, never does.

The next time Leon came back, it was for even shorter. Three days to make up for the six years he’d left you to pick up the pieces he promised not to break you into. You almost hadn’t recognized him in the doorway because gone were those bright blue eyes and cheeks that made him grumble when you pinched them; this Leon’s features were tailor-made. Cut to perfection, built to last. He lifted you into the air with the same breath he whispered hello with.

There was little to do except ravage each other, to put it lightly. You scavenged for answers in the seams of his scars; Leon looked for love in the lines of your forehead.

He kissed you like he had something to prove.

He wiped the tears that bubbled down your cheeks as you fought to fit him inside, cause your world had shrunk that much since he’d been gone.

He shaped the explosions that galvanized him into fireworks that wrenched every inch of resistance out of your core so he could introduce you to the living he’s made. This is for the man who gave me my first knife. This is how I learned to forget you during the day and ask the moon about you at night.

With each drop of your ambrosia sweat, Leon tore you apart and built you back again.

I’m begging you. Look at me love you.

But you? You begged for more than he could give you. You had more questions than the kiss-stamped note could provide answers to, especially when you spilled a box of his letters over the kitchen table, each one spaced more apart than the last. Clocks these days only read T-minus X hours until Leon’s next departure to Who Knows Where for God Knows How Long.

“You won’t tell me anything, Leon,” you choked at the table while he sat there and took it all like he was trained to. “Anything I ask, it’s all a secret. When are you going to tell me something?”

His voice was quiet, unbreakable. “I told you everything I could.”

“Really?” The kiss at the top of the pile shone like a scarlet A and you pointed at it, voice shaking. “Who’s this from, then?”

“No one, sweetheart, I just worked with her sometimes. I’ve only run into her twice.”

“You can’t tell me anything about your life but she knows where we- where I live?”

Leon’s resolution faltered at your slip. “It’s not tha-”

“You didn’t write after she sent me that, you know? You think I don’t know what it’s like to be lonely for years? You,” the long-brewing poison crawled steadily up your throat, “I don’t even think I know you anymore. You visit less and less and even when you’re here, I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours! I don’t know you!”

“Good!” Leon exploded. “Cause damn it, I don’t even know who I am!”

The silence that followed was worse, the absence of explanation weighing heavier than any answer could.

He muttered something about being late and rushed to the bathroom, leaving you in the middle of your fallen epistolary halo on the floor. The pipes wailed as you heard the shower turn on.

T-minus 1 hour.

A horrible, wretched sound crept into your ear. The sound of something prized being torn loose from a dark place.

It was the first time you’d heard Leon cry.

Your brand new TV had started buffering not even a week after buying it. Hitting it with a spatula worked just as well as adjusting the HDMI cables did: it didn’t. At least your old bunny-ears TV had enough definition so you could make out the moving shapes, HD or not.

Seconds away from you kicking the useless contraption, the TV flickered back to life and showed you Pittsburgh, plain as day. A news bulletin. The Carnegie Museum of Art had blown up in a freak accident, the reporter fretted, and the FBI were being deployed to investigate.

A familiar head of sandy hair looked up at the aerial camera. Silver glittered on his wrist as Leon tapped his earpiece – one two three – and rubbed his fist in a tight circle over his chest.

For old time’s sake. To ease the weight sitting there.

Your last name went unchanged for the next five years. You didn’t know he was keeping track.

June dawned sweet and heavy on your windowsill. The house you’d kept for 17 years welcomed Leon back with open arms. There was something to be said for consistency with the way you floated into his embrace the second he crossed your threshold.

Wrinkles etched into his brow, smile lines on your face. It was everything he worked for.

You watched him in the wee hours of the morning when he brewed coffee, regular as if he’d done it all his life, and sat at his old spot by the window. He didn’t tell you how long he’d be here this time. If loving Leon for all these years taught you something, it was to make the most of the little you had. You’d had time to ration your grievances, cremating them into ashes and letting them scatter with the rolling tide.

“Hey.” He’d spotted you in the corner of the kitchen.

“Hey yourself.”

Leon grinned and handed you a cup of tea. He’d remembered your favorite.

“Leon.” you turned to him.

“Hm?”

“I want to make one last rule for when you’re here. No more saying sorry.”

The sight of his raised brow in the window's reflection made laughter flutter in your chest.

“Might I ask why? I’ve had a lot of practice with you over the years, you know.” Leon quipped, his words bittersweet. It was the familiar tang of regret: tying you to him while he’d been thrown at the government’s every whim.

You were no stranger to the taste. “Because I want us to stop wasting time.”

“Honey, time’s all we’ve ever had.”

“Exactly.”

You smoothed a chestnut brown lock behind his ear, smiling. Leon kissed the back of your hand – his grateful answer.

Closure instead of sex, love without expectation.

His heart beats for you in both worlds. Here with you and wherever he goes.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy #no hate to my girl ada i love her #vivisaidso on ao3 #vaaaaaiolet

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romione-trope-fest · 2 months

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Six Weasley Weddings

Fic Title: Six Weasley Weddings

Author Name: Be11atrixthestrange

Selected Trope: Weasley Weddings

Brief Summary: Ron and Hermione attend six different Weasley weddings

Word Count: 7290

Rating: M

Any Trigger Warnings: NA

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Bill + Fleur, August 1997

The Burrow grounds had never looked so tidy. From his seat in a golden chair next to Hermione and a polyjuice-disguised Harry, Ron admired the detailed and glamorous decorations that the family spent hours setting up. Gold balloons lined the rows of seats, and a large arch of twinkling lights highlighted the altar, where his brother, Bill Weasley stood awaiting his bride.

The hard work of wedding preparations had paid off; Ron could tell by the sea of smiling faces in the crowd as everyone stood and turned to face the back of the tent in anticipation of Fleur’s grand entrance. Ron followed suit and rose to his feet as he squinted through the lights to catch a glimpse of the bride.

But when the tent flap opened and Fleur emerged, his eyes went elsewhere — to his brother standing at the altar. Hermione once told him that she always looked back at the groom at weddings, because he could never hide the emotion on his face when seeing his bride for the first time. She was right. Bill’s eyes had glazed over with tears and his face burned as red as the Gryffindor crest.

There was a time when Ron and his brothers would make fun of each other for crying, but that time had long since passed. These days it was a relief to see his eldest sibling shamelessly showing emotion. But Bill had always been like that, not oblivious to what his younger brothers thought, just unbothered. Ron remembered when Fred and George would pick on him for his fear of spiders, and Bill would look at them with pity, as if he knew something they didn’t.

And honestly, he probably did, not that it mattered. He was the one standing at the altar awaiting his half-veela bride, and although his face was murky with emotion, nothing suggested he felt undeserving. At the end of the aisle stood a confident man who was more than ready for his future.

As Fleur progressed down the aisle, Ron looked beside him. Hermione’s eyes welled with tears as she watched the bride. She looked like a Veela herself in that dress, or at least she had the same effect. He recalled his fourth year antics when he completely lost his cool around Veelas, and the overwhelming feeling that he’d never get a girl like that. He still felt that way now, looking at Hermione. And he did get a girl like that. Well, almost.

He still had work to do for that task, and the only way forward was to squash that lingering insecurity.

TIme to take a lesson from Bill, who’d never felt insecure a day in his life. Ron reached for Hermione’s hand and slipped his fingers through hers. She responded with a squeeze.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered to her, feeling the heat rise to his ears.

Hermione glanced at Fleur then back at Ron with an eyebrow raised. “Really?”

“Yes,” said Ron. “Gorgeous.”

Hermione smiled and tugged him closer. He shuffled closer to her and she laid her head on his shoulder. “Thank you. You clean up nice too.”

Ron’s ears remained on fire, but the rest of him relaxed a little. And for some reason, it didn’t feel remotely uncomfortable to stand this close to his best friend. Not one bit.

Percy + Audrey, June 1999

The open bar at Percy and Audrey’s wedding was a surprise to Ron, as neither the groom or the bride seemed like the type to regularly imbibe. But Ron was open to being proven wrong. He sat at the bar with a Butterbeer in hand, sipping away while he watched the party around him. Percy and Audrey had chosen to get married at a vineyard not far from the Burrow, and the grounds bore a striking resemblance to Ron’s childhood home. The ceremony had taken place underneath a pergola, which had now been converted to a dance floor. Chic cafe tables surrounded the bar, illuminated by the glistening sun at dusk which cast golden streaks of light across the rolling hills. There was even a small pond that shimmered in the late afternoon sun and a dock where the wedding party posed for photos earlier.

It felt strange to be at a celebration, even a whole year after the war. Enjoying the music, dancing, and drinking seemed wrong somehow, and he couldn’t help but think that everyone was putting on a face, pretending to have fun, because that’s what you were supposed to do at weddings. Ron glanced to the dance floor and watched Bill and Fleur swirling around, dancing a little too slowly for the beat of the current song. His own parents sat at a table not too far, their expressions a strange mixture of pride and grief. They looked toward the pond, and Ron followed their eyeline to find George sitting out on the dock, his feet submerged into the water.

His heart fell to his stomach. George had spent the better part of a year as a shell of himself, always working at the shop, and rarely coming by for Sunday dinners at the Burrow. Seeing him down at the dock broke Ron’s heart.

But he wasn’t alone. The piercing sunlight and glare from the water muddied his vision, but Ron squinted and watched George lift an arm and drape it around someone’s shoulders.

Angelina.

A smile flashed across Ron’s face when Angelina laid her head on George’s shoulder.

Upon second thought, it wasn’t too surprising. George and Angelina had been spending a lot of time together as of late. She even picked up a few shifts at the shop in her spare time. Ron had assumed that they were just friends like they’d always been, but maybe something had changed over the last year. Shared grief could do that.

As if to confirm Ron’s suspicion, George turned toward Angelina and pressed a kiss to her temple. Angelina must have said something funny, because the moment George broke contact, he threw his head back and laughed.

It had been a whole year since Ron had seen George laugh.

“Come and dance?”

Ron tore his focus away from the dock to find Hermione standing next to him. He grinned upon hearing the words he’d thoughtlessly spluttered to her nearly two years before, at Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

“Of course,” he said before downing the last sip of his Butterbeer. He stood up, reached for her hand, and headed toward the dance floor.

Once under the pergola, Ron wrapped Hermione up in his arms. It felt so much more comfortable than before.

“Remember last time?” she asked, as if reading his mind.

“Of course,” said Ron. The moment played in his mind frequently, but she didn’t need to know that he still heard their conversation as if it were yesterday, wondering what he could have said to sound smoother, cooler, and less like he was on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

“I really wanted you to kiss me last time,” she admitted.

Ron smiled. The war was over. George was laughing. And finally, Ron could publicly kiss Hermione.

“I really wanted to kiss you too. And now I can.”

With that, Ron pulled her closer. Their lips met and her arms tangled around his neck. Ron let himself get lost in Hermione, ignoring any looks from fellow wedding guests, and squashing any embarrassment that he might have felt two years prior. He buried any shame he felt for radiating happiness too soon. At that moment the world seemed to stop, and it didn’t matter that they weren’t alone. It didn’t matter that they weren’t supposed to be happy.

They were happy, and this was all just one more step forward.

Harry + Ginny, March 2001

“What do you mean there’s no harp player?” Ron wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers while he confronted the wedding band. Everything about this wedding day was going wrong. “Where the bloody hell is he?”

“He’s out sick, we thought we sent a patronus, but it must not have gotten to you.”

“No, it fucking didn’t—”

“Ron, calm down,” said Hermione as she approached behind him, her lilac-colored bridesmaid dress draped along the ballroom floor behind her. “We’ll figure something out.”

Ron resisted the urge to ogle her and focused on his anger. “Well the wedding starts in an hour, and Ginny really wants a harp player. Do you play harp, Hermione? Do you know another harp player?”

When did he become the high strung one?

“I can play harp.”

Ron whipped around to look at the speaker and his jaw dropped. Oliver Wood stood before him, a non-committal expression on his face.

“Really? You play the harp.”

“Yeah, actually. Took it up after Hogwarts. Got pretty good, if I don’t say so myself.”

Oliver was a surprise guest at the wedding. Evidently, he had moved to Romania after graduating and was now Charlie’s roommate. And, apparently, sometime between then and now he had taken an interest in the harp.

“Okay. Thank you. If you want to convene with the band here, that would be amazing.”

“Sure!” said Oliver, who immediately turned to the band and started chattering away. Ron grabbed Hermione’s hand and tugged her along, happy to not be dealing with band-related drama right now.

“Oliver Wood? Harp?” he whispered to Hermione. “When did that happen?”

“Just go with it,” said Hermione with a shrug. “One less fire for us to put out.”

Who goes from Quidditch to the harp? “Do you think Gin will notice?”

“That Oliver Wood is playing the harp? Yes, probably,” she laughed. “Let’s just not make a big deal out of it.”

Ron and Hermione proceeded up the stairs of the Grand Hotel ballroom, back to the bride and groom’s changing quarters. As the best man and maid of honor, their duties to make sure everything went off without a hitch at Harry and Ginny’s overly extravagant wedding turned quite stressful. Ron’s blood pressure had not returned to normal since he and Hermione had been thrown into wedding coordination earlier in the day, and that was up from a brand new baseline after they’d begun planning the gala months prior.

That’s when he became the high strung one. This fucking wedding.

Hermione, however, was cool as a cucumber. She thrived under pressure, obviously. That was good to know for the future, when it came time to plan their own wedding. Someday, maybe.

“Okay, lets go check on these fuckers,” said Ron as they parted ways at the top of the stairs.

He could almost hear Hermione roll her eyes at his swear before he turned the corner toward the men’s changing room.

Ron found Harry there, along with his other groomsmen, Ron’s brothers. Empty shot glasses lined the dresser, and Harry sat in a chair with his feet propped up next to the mirror. “Hey mate! The band’s all here?”

Resisting the urge to tell him everything, Ron nodded. “Everything is fine.”

“Great! Want to do another pre-wedding celebratory shot?”

“Do you really want to be stumbling over your vows, mate?” asked Ron. “The Daily Prophet’s here.”

“Eh, good idea. We’ll wait until the reception.”

“Probably best,” said Ron as he plopped into an empty armchair.

A frantic knock on the door made Ron lose any hope of resting before the ceremony. “Come in.”

Hermione appeared at the doorway, an anxious look on her face. “Ron, can I talk to you for a second?”

“Um, yeah. Sure.” Ron rose to his feet and followed Hermione out the door, shutting it behind him.

“So, the chocolate fountain is apparently broken…”

“Fuck.”

* * *

Hours later, Ron and Hermione found themselves glued to two armchairs in the lounge, cocktails in hand. The party was only beginning to die down, but there was still a determined, albeit intoxicated crowd bouncing on the dance floor. The news team had thankfully left, allowing the real party to begin.

Any other day, Ron would have loved to be on the dance floor with Harry, his brothers, and a ragtag crew of Gryffindors, but he was exhausted. And Hermione appeared the same. She yawned in between sips of Sauvignon Blanc, and her straightened hair was beginning to frizz. Honestly, Ron loved that look on her.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m supposed to be relaxing now, but I’m still stressed.”

Ron scooted toward one side of his armchair, and nodded to the small space he created. “Come here.”

Hermione wasted no time joining Ron on his armchair, curling up in his lap. He loved that they were comfortable with public affection now. Or at least, they liked to take advantage of those times when everyone else was too drunk to notice. Ron slipped an arm around her and she nuzzled into his neck.

“Well, I have to say,” he whispered. “We’re amazing wedding planners.”

“Yes we are,” she laughed. “But if we get married, we should definitely elope.”

Her words lingered in Ron’s mind. Did Hermione think about marrying him?

“We can elope when we get married,” he said. “That’s fine by me.”

“I said if,” she clarified, but the smile on her face signified it was just a joke. They might not talk about it, but they already knew.

“We can elope if we get married,” he repeated, overemphasizing the correction. He noted her eye roll as he planted a kiss on her temple.

“Maybe someday,” she added, her voice muffled against his shirt.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Ron hoped she could hear the smile in his tone.

George + Angelina, September 2001

Ron shuffled through a throng of party-goers and made his way to the far side of the dimly-lit room, eventually taking a seat at the bar next to his girlfriend. Hermione held an almost-empty daiquiri with one hand and used the other to support herself on the bar counter. He cracked a smile at her state. Drunk Hermione pretending not to be drunk was always a joy to witness.

“How are you?” she greeted him, her syllables slurring together ever so slightly.

“Drink too much?” He wasn’t one to judge, as the entire ballroom looked to be spinning in circles.

Hermione shrugged and looked longingly at her daiquiri. “I think everyone here has had a bit too much.”

“That’s true.

Ron inched his barstool closer to Hermione, wrapped an arm around her, and took in his surroundings. George and Angelina had chosen to get married at an event center in the middle of wizarding London. They’d decorated the open concept warehouse to their liking, with cozy cafe lights, tropical plants, and plush furniture reminiscent of a 1920s nightclub. In the middle of the large space was a dance floor lined with floating candles, a callback to the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

Ron spotted Bill and Fleur on the dancefloor with their daughter Victoire, who was thrilled to be showing off her new walking skills. Victoire had attracted a crowd of cheerleaders as she waddled in circles around Bill and Fleur, laughing through her toothy smile. Even Charlie, who normally preferred to be by himself, had joined in on the cheering and dancing. Ron was sure the half-empty rum and coke in his hand had something to do with that.

On the far end of the dancefloor sat Molly and Arthur, engulfed by squishy armchairs as they watched the commotion around them. It had been a while since Ron had seen a genuine smile on either of their faces, but that was the only way Ron could describe their expressions now.

“Maybe having a big party isn’t so bad,” said Ron.

Hermione didn’t need him to clarify what he meant, even though the last time they spoke about weddings was over three months ago. “You’re right.”

There was definitely something to be said about enjoying a wedding rather than planning one. But from Ron’s perspective, sitting at the bar with minimal responsibilities, a drink in hand, observing a room filled with laughter, drinking and dancing, the efforts were worth it.

“George looks so happy,” she said, nodding toward the middle of the room, where Ron’s brother stood, his arms wrapped around Angelina as they danced, her ivory gown bouncing with each step.

“He really does.”

At that moment, the candles and tea lights flickered out and the music stopped, leaving the whole room quiet and dark. Ron’s heart rate immediately skyrocketed, and his instinct was to reach for his wand, but the next few seconds proved he didn’t need to.

Moments after the room went dark, the ceiling illuminated with magical fireworks. Wonderstruck gasps replaced the silence as the wedding guests paused to look up and take in the light show.

Ron snuck a glance around the room. Molly and Arthur’s faces reflected the light above, and both of their faces glistened with tears. And they were the happy tears he hadn’t seen from them in a while. At the other end of the bar, newlyweds Harry and Ginny sat watching, his arm around her shoulders. Charlie had retreated to a sofa in the corner of the room with his roommate Oliver and the pair watched with their feet kicked up on the coffee table in front of them. Even Percy and Audrey, who normally retreated early from such gatherings, had stayed up to watch the show from a pair of armchairs by the window. Both of them held mugs of steaming tea as they admired the display above. George and Angelina shared a kiss in the middle of the dance floor, their silhouettes illuminated by the flickering lights. And next to him sat Hermione, still a little drunk, with a light trickle of tears cascading down her cheeks, as she scanned the room to soak up everyone else’s happiness.

“So, if we get married, are we having fireworks?” asked Ron.

Hermione nodded and smiled up at the ceiling. “When we get married, there will be fireworks.”

Charlie + Oliver, July 2002

Ron and Hermione sat in the living room at the Burrow, soaking in the smell of Molly’s homemade pie wafting from the kitchen. Ron wrapped an arm around Hermione, and her head nestled against his shoulder. He stole a glance at her left hand, currently ringless, but not for long. Sunday dinners at the Burrow were a regular occurrence these days, but this one was going to be different — because Ron and Hermione had an announcement to make.

It happened a week ago. They had just gotten home from a two week vacation to the coast with Harry and Ginny, who helped him orchestrate a romantic candlelit dinner on the beach where he could finally pop the question. Honestly, she’d been expecting it, and she even picked out the ring — a simple marquise solitaire on a gold band — but that didn’t make the actual event any less romantic, exciting, and tear-inducing.

At this point, Harry and Ginny were the only ones who knew. At the moment, the ring felt heavy in Ron’s pocket, and he couldn’t wait to put it back on her finger and openly share their news and discuss wedding planning with his family.

“Charlie should be arriving any minute!” shouted Molly from the kitchen. “Ron, can you make sure the fireplace is clear?”

“Sure thing,” said Ron as he untangled himself from Hermione. Ron and Hermione as well as Harry and Ginny stood and made their way to the fireplace to greet Charlie.

As soon as they’d found themselves in front of the floo, emerald flames began swirling within the fireplace like shaken potion and a coughing Charlie stepped out onto the hearth.

“Charlie!” greeted Ron. “And… Oliver!”

Molly came rushing out from the kitchen to greet her son. “Oliver, so nice to see you again! Charlie dear, I didn’t know you were bringing your roommate too. You’re always welcome, Oliver, we’ll just have to make another bed for you—”

“Mum,” interrupted Charlie as he went in for a bear hug. “I have something to tell you.”

“What is it dear?” asked Molly, pulling away. She brought her son to arms length distance and held both hands in hers. At that moment, her eyebrows knit together when she felt something on Charlie’s hand. “What’s this?” she asked, lifting up his left hand, where a black band sat on his ring finger.

“Mum.”

“Charlie—”

“We got married, mum,” said Charlie, his voice shaking. “Oliver and I.”

Charlie glanced back at his roommate, his husband, and sent him a sheepish smile. “We didn’t know how to tell you.”

Molly looked as though she might cry.

“Congratulations!” yelped Hermione, who ran to embrace both Charlie and Oliver in a hug. She was followed shortly by Harry and Ginny.

The rest of the Weasleys and Weasley wives appeared in the room and echoed their congratulations as well as Arthur, who embraced his new son-in-law. “I always knew you were more than his roommate,” he whispered to Oliver, who let out a laugh.

Molly had disappeared into the kitchen, and was already busying herself with the oven. All Ron could hear was pots and pans banging around the stove.

“She’ll come around,” assured Arthur, who had an arm draped around Oliver’s shoulder as if he was his own son.

* * *

Charlie and Oliver now sat in the same spot as Ron and Hermione earlier that afternoon, surrounded by Weasleys as they retold details of their story, recounting their journey from roommates, to friends, to lovers, to spouses. Ron could almost see the stress and weight of holding such a big secret leave his brother’s shoulders as he looked more lively and lighter than ever.

One change in plans, however — Ron and Hermione definitely wouldn’t be announcing their engagement today. Ron stole a glance at Hermione who was engrossed in Charlie’s story, but when she met his gaze with a soft smile, he knew she was thinking the same exact thing. It was okay, they could wait.

“So, why didn’t you tell us?” It was George who finally spoke to the hippogriff in the room. “Did you think we wouldn’t approve?”

Charlie and Oliver exchanged a look. “We were going to,” said Oliver. “We told my family first, but they reacted… poorly. They’re very traditional, you see. Sort of like…” Oliver didn’t finish his thought, but gestured toward the kitchen. The rest of the family nodded.

Arthur brought his voice down to a whisper. “I think she’s more upset about not being told than anything else.”

As if on cue. Molly Weasley emerged from the kitchen, her hair frizzy and nearly singed. She still looked angry, like steam was about to shoot out from her ears, but there was a softness to her expression that wasn’t there before. “Oliver, you still like buttercream frosting, right?”

Oliver looked at Molly with a wide-eyed expression. “Erm, yes, I do. Why do you ask?”

“For your wedding cake, obviously,” she huffed. “You can’t expect to take this away from me too?”

Oliver shook his head, “No, of course. We’d love a cake.”

“Good,” chirped Molly. “And I hope you don’t mind if we have a little celebration tonight. I can’t bear the thought that I missed my son’s wedding.”

“Mum,” said Charlie. “There was no wedding. We just went to the courthouse and had dinner at home. You didn’t miss anything.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Molly as she straightened out her apron and tamed her hair. “We’ll celebrate tonight.”

Charlie’s face illuminated with the signature Weasley blush. “Thank you, Mum.”

“I’m still angry,” she said, cutting him off. “But not for the reasons you thought. I love you.” And with that, Molly shuffled toward the sofa where Oliver sat and wrapped him up in her arms. “And you too. Welcome to the family,” she told him, her voice muffled by his cotton t-shirt.

Oliver’s eyes welled with tears. “Thank you, Molly.”

“Call me Mum,” she said, as she pulled him away to arms length, looking at him the exact same way she would look at Charlie. “Okay I have a lot of work to do to get this cake ready.”

With that, Molly Weasley scuffled back to the kitchen. “If anyone wants to help me, that would be lovely!”

Bill and Fleur rose to their feet. “We’ll be right in!”

Ron and Hermione shared a glance of agreement before climbing out of their chairs as well. “We’ll help too.”

* * *

Only a few hours later, the Weasley family was finishing up dinner outside, and the sun had begun to set, casting a crimson hue across the sky. Molly had done the honors serving a beautiful red velvet cake with buttercream frosting, complete with two miniature groom figurines made out of chocolate.

Harry and George had charmed candles to float around the Burrow grounds, and at Molly’s request, the sound of Celestina Warbeck’s greatest love songs permeated the air.

Charlie and Oliver had joined Ron and Hermione on a pair of wooden loveseats by the garden.

“Did you expect a full wedding reception today?” asked Ron.

“Of course not,” laughed Charlie. “This is a thousand times better than what we imagined.”

“So, if my math is correct,” said Oliver. “You two are the last singles standing.”

Ron’s face turned bright red. He didn’t want to share his news with Charlie and make him feel guilty about stealing the thunder. “Your math is correct,” he confirmed.

“Do you have any wedding advice?” she asked.

“Wait. Are you two—?”

Ron nodded and Charlie’s eyes lit up. “It just happened last week. Don’t tell anyone yet,” urged Ron.

“Well congratulations,” whispered Charlie. “I’m happy for you.”

Ron wrapped an arm around Hermione. “Thank you.”

“If you want my advice,” said Charlie, “Let Mum be involved. I feel awful that I hurt her.”

Ron shrugged. “I think you’ve more than made up for it. She seems thrilled now.”

“But,” added Oliver. “A secret elopement was definitely the least stressful way to go about it. And I can’t recommend that enough.”

Charlie let out a laugh. “Unfortunately, I don’t think there is a way to let Mum be involved in a secret elopement, so choose your poison wisely.”

Ron glanced at Hermione, who looked lost in thought. “Yeah. Probably not.”

The sound of glasses clinking interrupted their conversation. The rest of the family looked at Charlie and Oliver, anticipation on their faces.

“We have to kiss now,” stated Charlie. “I hate this attention.”

“Just go with it,” said Oliver.

“This is why we elop—”

Oliver cut Charlie off by planting a kiss on his lips. Charlie’s ears burned red between Oliver’s hands as the Weasley clan whooped and cheered.

Ron held Hermione a little closer.

One more wedding to go, and he couldn’t wait.

Ron + Hermione, March 2003

Harry and Ginny had transformed their backyard into a luxurious event space for the wedding, which honestly, didn’t take much transformation at all. The gold tables and chairs contrasted nicely with the greenery of their garden. The flowers were in full bloom, creating a colorful backdrop and thick floral fragrance in the air, and Ron and Hermione sat underneath a steel arch entangled with vines.

As the rest of the table enjoyed their meal, Ron slipped his arm under the table to hold Hermione’s hand. Their wedding was perfect. They had incorporated something from each of his siblings’ celebrations. The golden chairs from Bill and Fleur’s added a mark of elegance. The forest green bridesmaids’ dresses and grooms’ ties from Percy and Audrey’s wedding looked amazing with the flowers, as well as the Weasley red hair. Harry and Ginny had charmed the large fountain in the middle of their yard to flow with chocolate — their request, since they never did get their chocolate fountain running at their own wedding. Later, there would be a magical firework show straight from the backyard, courtesy of George and Angelina.

But the best part about this wedding was that it wasn’t even their real one.

* * *

One month prior…

Ron and Hermione’s real wedding happened one month ago, on Valentine’s day. Just like Charlie and Oliver, they had opted to get married in private, without anyone knowing. On February 10th, they caught a portkey to a remote coastal town in Australia and checked into a secluded beachside villa.

Everyone else thought they were just on a quick holiday, which they desperately needed amidst the perceived stress of planning their wedding. No one knew that there really wasn’t much anxiety associated with the big event, because it wasn’t the one that truly mattered. Either way, their villa provided a reprieve from everyone asking them about napkin colors, seating plans, and appetizer menus. For three days, they went to the beach, cooked their own food, soaked in the oversized bathtub, and drank wine by the fire. Forgetting about their work responsibilities and family engagements back home was the perfect way to spend their last few days as an engaged couple.

When Valentines’ day rolled around, their routine changed. Ron woke up first, and began preparing a full breakfast in the kitchen. The smell of sizzling bacon woke Hermione up, who later shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee. They sat on the balcony and enjoyed their meal while listening to the crashing waves of the ocean.

“Can you believe this is our last meal as fiances?” asked Ron as he scraped the last of his eggs from his plate.

“Yes, actually. And I can’t wait,” said Hermione before draining the last drop of coffee from her mug.

After breakfast, they scourgified their dishes and didn’t even need to look at one another for confirmation before scurrying to the bathroom, where they met each other like magnets. Ron turned on the shower with one hand, while the other plucked at the buttons on Hermione’s sleep shirt, popping them open one by one. Their clothing landed in a pile on the floor and the pair landed under the steady stream of warm water.

“One more shag as fiances?” asked Ron as he ran his fingers through her hair, her curls elongating under the weight of the water.

“Obviously…”

* * *

Ron and Hermione spent the rest of the day dolling up in their suite to prepare for their private ceremony on the beach. Although his siblings had all followed the tradition of not seeing the bride before the ceremony, Ron much preferred to watch Hermione transform into a bride with his own eyes. Her gown was classic and elegant — a lacy, high-neck halter that accented her simple makeup, a bodice that hugged her curves perfectly, and a train that cascaded to the floor, accentuating her impeccable body. She had tamed her curls so they formed longer waves that framed her face. Honestly, Ron would have married her in a pair of joggers and a t-shirt, but this was beyond his imagination.

Hermione took a few paces back from the mirror and analyzed her appearance. Ron’s heart clenched knowing she was looking for imperfections to fix before the ceremony.

“You look amazing,” he spluttered. “No need to change a thing.”

Hermione smiled. “Thank you. You look pretty great yourself.”

Ron looked back to the mirror and ran his fingers through his ginger hair. He was still his pale, lanky, and freckly self, but his reflection exhibited something else. Staring back at him was a confident man ready to be a husband. For a moment, he reminded himself of his brother Bill. Ron recalled watching Bill in awe as he stood at the front of the aisle at his own wedding, secure in his stance with happy tears streaming down his face, and not a worry in the world. Of course, Ron did have a few worries swimming around in his mind. What if the random officiant they hired didn’t show up? What if the weather turned sour? What if the sun protection spells wore off too soon and he spent the rest of their elopement looking like a perfectly seared lobster? Yet his reflection conveyed none of that. Maybe he was more like Bill than he thought.

Ron reached for his leather bound notebook on the nightstand. He had been working on his vows for a few weeks, trying his best to keep them concise, and figured it was time for one last check.

Hermione,

Is it possible to promise you the entire world? Because I would if I could. But I’ll start with the easy things. First, I promise to love you. That one is easy because I honestly can’t remember a time when I didn’t love you. Even before I understood what love was, I knew I felt differently about you. I laugh at my younger self for not realizing it sometimes. I promise to remind myself how damn lucky I am every day.

I promise to never stop trying to make you laugh, even when you’re mad at me. On that same note, I promise to stay calm during heated moments. It’s no secret that we love bickering with each other, but love will always come first.

I promise to take care of you, even though you might not let me. I want to hear about every tough moment. I want to cry with you when you’re sad, make you soup when you’re sick, and bring you coffee in the morning after sleepless nights.

I also want to enjoy your successes with you. I want to bask in every one of your accomplishments, take you out to dinner just because I love you, and be the reason for those sleepless nights that require an extra cup of coffee in the morning.

I want to grow old with you and tell you you’re beautiful every day, even when you scoff at it. I wish I could give you a glimpse into my mind and see yourself how I see you, but then I’d run the risk of you realizing you’re way too good for me.

I promise to grow with you and constantly work toward being the man you deserve. I will put in 100% of my effort, every single day, because you’re worth it.

And finally, I promise to prioritize our relationship above everything else in this life, never stop reminding you how much I love you, and thank you everyday for choosing to be mine.

Love you more than you’ll ever know,

Ron

He’d pored over his vows too many times, and had come to the conclusion that the right words didn’t exist. But this was close enough.

* * *

With their wedding license tucked under his arm and his vows in his trouser pocket, Ron and Hermione left their villa and made their way down to the scenic overlook where their officiant was waiting for them. He was a tall, blonde, bearded man that neither Ron nor Hermione had ever seen or met before, and that was exactly how they wanted it.

“You must be Ron and Hermione,” he asked politely as he extended an arm to shake their hands.

“That’s us,” responded Ron with a firm handshake.

“My name is Dave, and I’m here to perform your wedding.” Dave wore a light blue suit atop a white shirt with a matching blue bowtie. His hair was medium length and slightly windblown and shaggy, reminding Ron of a golden retriever that had taken a nap in front of a fan. If Dave hadn’t been wearing a suit, Ron would have thought he’d emerged from the ocean. A surfboard would have looked more at home tucked under his arm than the binder of notes on how to perform a wedding ceremony.

Ron glanced at a beaming Hermione, appearing unbothered by any of this. “We’re ready.”

“Great! Is this a good place?”

Ron looked around him. From their place on the rocky cliffside, they could see miles of ocean. Tiny bumps of land lined the horizon, making it look like a child had painted it with a shaky hand. Were those reef islands? Or maybe New Zealand? Was it even possible to see that far ahead? Honestly, Ron loved being able to look out onto the horizon and see something, yet not know what it was.

“This is perfect,” he said.

“Then let’s get to it. We’ll start with your vows. I understand you’ve written your own?”

“Yes,” said Hermione, as she pulled a tiny notebook from behind the fabric of her bodice.

Ron smiled at her unexpected hiding place. “Instead of reciting them, we’d like to give them to each other to read, if that’s okay.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” said Dave.

Ron and Hermione exchanged notebooks. With a trembling hand, Ron opened Hermione’s up to the first page, where her tiny but impeccable handwriting caught his attention.

Ron,

I don’t think that I can capture how I feel about you in a short letter, and luckily I have the rest of my life to continue showing you. But to start, I promise to remember how lucky I am to have found someone like you. There is no one who challenges me more. You make me a kinder, more loving, and more patient person, and I promise to continue embracing that challenge everyday. I promise to help you to be the best version of yourself, even if it means nagging you to pick your clothes up off the bedroom floor, or put the dishes away. I vow to stand by you when our plans change or fail, and keep solving the riddle of life with you. I will always be on your team - not just for the good - the date nights, the adventures, vacations, promotions, and milestones, but for everything else too - the fights, the disappointments, and setbacks. There’s no one I’d rather have in my corner when things go wrong, and there’s no one I’d rather celebrate with when they go right. And I promise to be that same support for you. Let’s embrace life hand in hand, no matter what it throws at us. We’ve already accomplished so much, and it’s hard to believe it’s just beginning. Together, we can do anything.

I promise to love you forever. This is the easiest promise to make. I love you so much, and it grows every day. I would tell you there’s no way I could possibly love you more, but I know I will tomorrow, and I cannot wait.

Yours forever,

Hermione

His eyes stung with tears, and he looked up to see Hermione’s watering just as much after reading his. “I love you,” she mouthed to him.

“I love you too.”

The pair looked at Dave, cueing him to continue. He cleared his throat. “Do you Hermione, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to live together in matrimony, to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?

Hermione beamed. “I do.”

“Do you Ron, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to live together in matrimony, to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, in sorrow and in joy, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall—”

“I do,” said Ron, unable to wait until he finished.

Dave smiled and seemed to relax a bit. “I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss your bride.”

Ron and Hermione came together fast, his arms wrapping around her waist. Their lips met and as if they had choreographed their first kiss as a married couple, he lifted her off his feet. Memories of their first kiss in the room of requirement all those years ago flooded his mind, and it almost felt like they were their teenage selves wondering what the future held for them.

When they eventually broke apart, Hermione’s hair remained ruffled from the wind, her face flushed, and she smiled. “We’re married.”

“Yes we are.”

* * *

Later that afternoon, when they had completed all wedding-related duties, signed marriage licenses, and taken photographs, Ron and Hermione found themselves alone, for the first time as husband and wife.

Their villa looked exactly the same as it had when they left that morning, yet everything felt different. The kitchen was still cluttered from their cooking adventures, their bed was unmade, and clothes spewed out from their suitcases onto the floor. If they had been in their flat back home, Hermione would have fixated on the messes until they were gone, but today, she didn’t seem to care at all.

“I love you in a suit.” She eyed him up and down, and Ron’s cheeks tingled with heat. Funny how she could still have that effect on him after all this time.

“I love you in that dress.”

Hermione glanced down at her gown with a wistful smile. “Too bad, because I don’t think I’ll ever wear it again.”

“And I hope there’s never an occasion to.”

Ron took a step closer to her and looped his fingers underneath her shoulder strap.

“Want to help me take it off?”

“Absolutely, I do.”

Ron wanted to savor the moment of taking off her dress, slowly tug the zipper down, flick her straps off her shoulders, and watch her perfect body emerge from the lace in awe, but he was not exactly known for his patience. It didn’t take much time before Hermione’s dress crumpled into a pile around her ankles. By the way Ron’s suit landed on the floor just as quickly, it seemed Hermione had thrown patience out the window too.

Ron stepped back to take her in. Her windswept curls had lost their structure over the course of the afternoon, but the way they dangled in front of her breasts drove him mad. Her body was spotted with new tan lines and freckles, and Ron couldn’t wait to run his hands over every single one. Looking at her hands, he could almost feel the way her perfectly painted nails would dig into his skin between the sheets. Although beautiful, her long legs looked lonely without him in between them. She was spectacular, as always.

“Is it okay to say I love you even more without the dress?”

She smiled, and Ron basked in the way her eyes scanned his body. “Of course it is. I much prefer your suit on the floor.”

“I can’t believe you’re my wife.” The word still felt new coming from his lips, but he definitely could get used to it.

“I can.”

Ron closed the space between them, wrapped his arms around her waist, and she instinctively hopped up, her legs embracing him. He held her tight and waddled toward the bedroom, not caring that he nearly knocked over a lamp on the way. None of that mattered. Hermione pressed her lips to his and gripped his hair between her fingers. He loved it when she did that, it always made him want her even more. Without breaking their kiss, they collapsed onto the bed, limbs intertwined, faces flushed, ready to begin the rest of their lives together.

* * *

Present Day

Ron couldn’t let himself get distracted by memories of the perfect day — he had guests to attend to. At the moment, his siblings were already crowding him and Hermione to congratulate them.

“Fantastic wedding,” said Charlie as he plopped himself down into a chair next to Ron. “I’m glad you didn’t elope.”

“Same,” said George, who had pulled up beside Charlie. “Because this steak is amazing.”

“Your wedding is perfect,” echoed Ginny from her spot beside Hermione.

Ron gave Hermione’s hand a squeeze. Although she didn’t know it, Ginny was right, their wedding was absolutely perfect.

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acoldfrenchfry · 4 months

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I'm sure plenty of people have noticed The Magnus Institute burned to the ground in 1999 in TMAGP, but at the same time Jon and Martin voice the computers??

Idk if it's wild, but would if when Jon said "One way or another. Together." they somehow created a world in which they never started working at the institute, and the only way that was possible is if the institute shut down for good?

I have no idea what that correlates to with their voices being trapped in the computer, but I feel it in my bones that the Magnus Institute being burned is no coincidence and how the text to speech conveniently started only a year ago.

#tma #tmagp #tmagp spoilers #the magnus protocol #perhaps the only way for them to be alive together was creating an AU

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that-gay-guy-from-hell · 5 months

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No One Else Can Have You: Nero x Male Reader

MINORS DNI; THIS IS FOR ADULTS ONLY

SERIOUSLY, GO AWAY!

SUMMARY: Jealousy is rather familiar to Nero. The burning glare he gives to anyone whom Nero deems is being “much too friendly with you” is that of a seething devil. However, upon seeing you with someone that he cannot treat with such malice, the white-haired man takes a much different approach to proving how far he’ll go for you.

BEGINNING NOTES: Power Bottom Jealous Pre-4 Nero x Submissive Top Male Reader The reader is in (The) Order’s choir alongside Kyrie Nero has his devil bringer Close to just mindless smut Nipple play; Nero receiving Semi-aggressive foreplay--skipped oral aspect of foreplay (sorry lmao) ⚡❄️⚡ ➟Not sure if it’s talked about (or seen) in DMC 4 but I imagine (The) Order to have a living space akin to a boarding school mixed with a monastery--but with swords! (Haven’t played 4 yet and I’ve only skimmed the cutscenes because for some reason it’s like hard for me to get through idk why) ➟Kyrie is a bit handsy with the reader; she knows about the two of you and is doing it to tease Nero (Kyrie seems innocent and oblivious but she’s very aware; opposite Nero who seems like he isn’t and is). ➟I do tone down how “edgy” Nero is compared to how he is in 4. Hopefully, he’s not too OOC. ➟For anyone who has a hard time remembering: Nero’s devil bringer is his RIGHT arm (I kept having to re-look at him to remember which side lol). ➟This is very VERY shortly before DMC 4; like I’m talking a month or two. Yes, before someone decides to throw a fit, I h/c Nero to be around the age of 19 when DMC 4 takes place--born 22nd September 1999. He is NOT underage.

===

Winter had just hit Fortuna and there was a light layer of snow on the ground, steadily growing from the continuous flurries. Amidst the sea of white, two people could be seen walking side-by-side. Kyrie and you were returning after chamber choir rehearsal, mindlessly chatting about the newest material you’d been given.

The ginger smiled, grabbing your forearm gently, “Come on, please?”

You rolled your eyes, “No way,” a small laugh left your frozen lips, “I’m not duet partner material.”

Her smile widened and she rolled her eyes slightly, hand sliding down to yours, “Oh please, I wouldn’t have anyone else.”

“I’m flattered, really,” your gaze flicked down to your intertwined hands, a small confused furrow adorning your brow, “but there’s a lot of other members who would go better with you.”

“Maybe, but I don’t want to work with them; I want to be with you.”

The two of you stopped outside of a hall’s entrance, still holding hands, “I…” you gave a flat smile and shook your head, sighing in defeat, “I’ll look at the piece, alright?” Her eyes held an excited glint as she grabbed your other hand, pulling the pair up with an enthused stranglehold, “Don’t take this as me agreeing; I just want to see what it is first.”

Before she could respond, the door swung open, revealing two familiar faces; Credo and Nero. She addressed them both, talking with her brother, while her hold on your hands only tightened. As the conversation drew on, you weren’t listening, being too busy debating if your fingers were dislocated or not.

“Is he alright?” Credo raised a brow, staring at you.

Kyrie’s attention returned to you and, upon seeing how your fingers were losing circulation, she let go of your hands.

Immediately you shook your fingers and pursed your lips, holding back some painful exclamations--knowing that Credo would string you up by your earlobes and beat you like a piñata. Once more, you didn’t really pay much attention to the conversation but, when you looked back at everyone, Kyrie had entered the hall and was walking alongside her older brother, waving goodbye.

Leaving you and Nero alone.

The young man moved his jaw in thought before using his human hand to grab one of yours, quickly re-cutting the feeling to your appendages. Although you weren’t sure what was going on, you could tell Nero was mad--no, he was pissed. He was practically dragging you behind him, not saying a word. You tried to keep up with his pace but were unable to and kept falling behind.

“Nero, what-!” While attempting to catch up, you slipped on some of the newly formed ice and fell.

The white-haired man’s shoulder and arm were jerked downwards with you, which helped break your fall. However, you still hit the ground while Nero remained on his feet, just off balance. Wincing quietly, you stood up and he grabbed you around the waist, still not talking. He hoisted you into his arms and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, confused as to what was going on.

Given, you did have a slight clue from past experiences.

The moment Nero stepped into his room, he threw you onto the bed, locked the door, and began to strip. You mimicked his actions, tossing your clothes into a pile on the other side of the room, until you were in your underwear--matching Nero’s look.

Admittedly, you still got an overwhelming nervousness when you saw his exposed skin. It was as beautiful as it was arousing. To see how flushed his pale skin became from the cold outdoors, the tasteful amounts of silvery body hair that led down to-

Abruptly, Nero shoved you backward onto the mattress and straddled your middle. Typically, he tends to have a fun amount of force to his actions but today was different. Each one of Nero’s actions so far had been nearly contentious, giving you cause for concern. Perhaps he had a rough day with Credo and the others? Before you could question things too much, a desperate set of chapped lips met yours.

The white-haired young man pushed himself against you, his calves compressing your sides tight enough to leave bruises. His hands gripped the sides of your neck, forefinger, and thumb lining the hinge of your jaw on each side. Your hands grasped his thighs harshly, groping the muscles with fingertips just underneath the ends of his boxer briefs.

He slipped his tongue into your mouth. Slowly, his thumbs rubbed your cheeks and Nero took his time exploring. It was his first time doing something more than pecks and soft-biting lips, and it excited him. A small moan left your mouth at the feeling, in turn, Nero’s legs constricted further around you.

While exchanging wet French kisses, the white-haired man slid his hips back, his ass straddling your growing erection. Your hands slid to his back, running your hands along his shoulder blades. His hands drifted as well, one going up to the top of your head and the other to your side. Breaking off the heated exchange left both of you breathing heavily and with a hot overwhelming lust.

Using the hand upon your head, he tilted you so he could have access to the crook of your shoulder and, without warning, bit down.

Hard.

You arched against him, nails cutting into his skin, and let out a loud exclamation of a moan.

Against the new loving mark, he grumbled through gritted teeth, “Shut it.”

Even though it sounded rude, you knew he was right. If the two of you got caught, who knows what would happen? Not only is it against the rules to have any sort of intercourse before marriage, but it is also taboo for men to share such delights. Plus, it was a sort of game between you two; who would break first and allow themselves to get loud--nine times out of ten it was Nero.

Attempting to silence yourself, you bit your lip as Nero went back to working an even darker mark into your soft flesh. You worked your hands down his middle then back up, feeling him up slowly and meticulously. Despite seeing him nude many times, in both sexual and non-sexual ways, you still got an intense nervous sexual joy out of groping his body. Whether it was the heat, idea, or the actual texture, you weren’t sure; all you knew was that you wanted to touch him more.

Once your hands were on his chest, you squeezed his pecs before pinching at his nipples.

“Fuck,” a grunt left his lips as he released his bite.

Nero leaned up, allowing you more access to his chest, which you happily took advantage of. After a minute of debate--while you continued to futz with his tits--you leaned forwards, joining him in a seated position. Cautiously, you placed several kisses on his shoulders and collarbones. Your hands rested at the small of his back and you titled him away from you. Then, with the same vigor and force as he had against you, you bit down on his chest.

A stifled loud whine came from Nero’s nose as he used his devil bringer to cover his mouth, holding onto your back with his other hand. Encouraged by his noises, you bit down on a nipple and tugged slightly. Through his fingers, you heard him let out a muffled--but still loud, “Goddamnit,” he stared at the ceiling as he arched himself into you.

It felt good-- really good. Nero hadn’t ever touched his chest while getting off before and he was starting to regret it. Feeling you let go, he adjusted himself so you had the other side in front of you. You raised a brow at him looking at him from the tops of your eyes.

“Again--harder,” Nero’s face was bright red as he did his best to play confident, despite feeling weird for asking.

However, a sly smile from you and your compliance quickly washed those thoughts away. Nero placed his devil bringer against your back as well, holding you close to him. Against your gut, you could feel his cock twitching at your motions. With each tug and bite, each time you switched sides or bit down on his muscle instead; you felt him grind against you.

Nero wanted you.

You wanted Nero.

It was as simple as that.

Letting go for the final time, you coaxed him down into a kiss. It was intense, purposeful; Nero wanted to get across exactly what he intended to do with you. You bit at his lips lightly sucking and pulling on his bottom lip, making him let out a shaky breathy moan.

Nero leaned forward and whispered in your ear, “I need you,” he ran his tongue along the shell of your ear, “Right now,” with a loving forcefulness, he grabbed the lobe of your ear with a canine and pulled--puncturing your flesh slightly.

“You sure-”

He cut you off with a kiss, hands grasping and kneading your sides.

Quietly, you mumbled against his lips, hand wandering all over his lower back, “Lube?”

“Yeah,” Nero got up and walked over to a corner of his room, pulling up the floorboard that covered his hidden stash of “contraband” items.

When he went to turn around, however, he was pinned against you; his back to your front. Placing kisses against the nape of his neck, you ran your hands down his stomach and his happy trail. Teasingly, you ran your fingers around everywhere beside his cock. You found his squirming to be amusing while it only frustrated the pent-up man.

The way your dick was placed against his ass, the light ghosting of your touch, hot exhales against the small love bites you were making; it all combined into a mixed drink that was making his head all fuzzy.

And Nero hates feeling fuzzy.

Being the way that he is, he was easily able to overpower your grasp and pivoted to face you. Using his devil bringer, he slowly prompted you to back up to the bed and he picked you up, tossing you again. Then he grabbed your underwear, yanking them off--removing his right after.

Once again, you found yourself pinned underneath Nero. Although he was staring down at you with piercing sea-green eyes, you couldn’t help but look at his dick which was proudly on display. Pre-cum was dribbling down his shaft and was dripping onto yours, which wasn’t fairing much better. With a slight raise to his brows, he smirked and opened the bottle, lubing two fingers.

“Two right away?” Your hands wandered to his thighs, thumbing over them softly.

“Yeah, jackass,” Nero grunted, hunching forward with a slight shiver, “I said what I meant.”

After squirting some lube into your hand, you leisurely moved to his dick, “And what would that be, sugar?” A smirk tugged at your lips at his reaction to the feeling of you frotting your cocks together, “What? Cat got your tongue?”

Through breathy heavy exhales, he growled lightly, “Fuck- you-!”

Smile widening, you ran a thumb between his tip and yours, “If that’s what you want-”

“Shut-- up.”

Staring him in the eyes, you brought your thumb to your lips and stuck it in your mouth cleaning it before humming in thought, “Mmn,” you reached up and tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear, “I love when you get all feisty,” with a hand on his neck, you met halfway to share a heated sloppy kiss.

Grabbing the lube again, Nero slicked his finger again, adding a third, then, he tossed the bottle in a random direction, leaving it to deal with later.

His original plan was to have you stretch him as he sucked you off, however, he decided against it at the last minute. Although he would never admit it, he was beyond nervous. This wasn’t his first time playing with his ass, sure; but, it was his first time going this far with you. As he fingered himself, he found his mind wandering in a panic.

What if he messes things up?

What if you don’t like how he feels?

What if--

“Nero?” You put a hand under his chin, a concerned furrow on your brow, “You sure you want to do this? If you aren’t ready-”

“No!” He snapped, quickly adding, “I can do this,” then, for the first time since entering his room, he spoke in a softer tone, “I want to try with you,” he removed his fingers and looked down for a moment, embarrassed, “please.”

Giving him a nod, you kissed the corner of his mouth, “I’ll take your lead.”

“Damn right, you will.”

You laughed at his return to a cocky attitude.

Watching intently, you watched him sit up on his knees, attempting to position himself correctly. Helping him by positioning yourself manually, you nodded at him, telling him he could sit back down.

A loud noise somewhere between a gasp, moan, shout, and grunt left his lips. His hands balled up into fists, nails picturing his palms. Tip inside and his mind much too worried, he tensed up at the foreign object.

“Nero,” you hissed, “You need to relax, otherwise this won’t--” you grimaced slightly, “won’t work.”

After a moment, you vetoed him and picked Nero up off of your hips.

“No-” He frowned and glared, “I can do this.”

“Nero-”

“No, don’t “Nero” me,” he was angry at, what he thought was, you calling him weak. Being the cocky assertive man he is, Nero spread his ass and re-penetrated his hole.

A small groan left your lips, however, that quickly turned louder as you watched Nero sink rapidly onto your cock.

Thunderous whiny moans left Nero’s lips as he stared upwards, feeling how your dick was stretching him. It was much different than the small toys he had hidden away. The heat of your body was enough in and of itself to make Nero’s body quiver.

Bit by bit, he fully relaxed. Admittedly, he could’ve cum just from this act alone but he wanted to do some actual fucking first before releasing. His eyes met with yours and, in response, you thrust your hips upward slightly.

“Ngh- What,” he leaned forwards, bracing himself with his hands on your chest, “Fuck...”

Taking that as an okay, you repeated the action, gripping each side of his hips. A moan left your lips as you felt his body giving way to you, allowing you to see a little bit of his submissive side for the first time. Low groans left his lips between uneven breaths at each one of your upward movements. Wanting to up the ante, you picked his hips up and pulled them down to meet your upward motions.

“What are you-- try-- trying to--”

His thoughts were a mess. He wanted to act tough, to resist how good you were making him feel, and to act as if he weren’t impressed but he couldn’t. With each thrust and slight increase of force, it only made him melt further.

The white-haired man leaned back, arching his upper body outwards, and slammed his hips down into yours, “Fuck.”

“Nero, that--” You groaned and matched his fervor, “keep doing that.”

“Tch, sure,” he meant to sound rude but just came off as compliant.

With each slap of your skin against his, Nero felt an odd fiery feeling bubble inside him. It wasn’t the same feeling as when he was close--this was something new entirely. He felt like he wanted to crawl out of his skin with how good he felt.

As his speed surpassed yours, he looked down at you and stopped which caused you to meet his gaze, “Sit up.”

Doing as he asked, you found yourself face to face with his chest again. Although he didn’t ask, you bit down on his nipple as you returned to slamming against him. He wrapped himself around you, arms cradling your head into him. As he bounced against you, he felt his cock rub against your gut which caused him to speed up even further.

However, you weren’t one to be outdone. Without warning, you released your bite and stood up.

“Shit, what are you-! Ah~!” Nero wrapped his legs around your hips.

You moved to the nearest wall--which happened to be right by the door to his room--and slammed his back against it.

“I…” With a breathy huff, you nuzzled your face into his neck, staying there, “I am…”

“Fuckin’,” Nero wasn’t fairing any better, “Cum inside me.”

“Huh-! Ner-”

“Did- I- stutter?” He leaned forward and bit down on the shoulder before him.

Not wanting to waste any time, you sped up and hit your top speed. With a few more uneven jabs, you spilled yourself inside him.

“Nero~!” You hissed at the feeling of his ass tightening and the warm feeling of his cum spraying against your stomach.

“Shit yeah,” he leaned back and let out a bellowing moan, “Fuck that’s good.”

Carefully, you made your way back to the bed and laid him down, removing yourself. A shiver ran up Nero’s spine at the feeling, his body unsure of how to react. You grabbed a nearby towel from the floor--hopefully, it wasn’t too dirty--and wiped Nero off, then yourself.

“Hey,” Nero propped himself up on his elbows, “I…” he stopped, biting his tongue, “Nevermind.”

Sweetly, you leaned over to his forehead and placed a kiss, “I love you, Nero,” you smiled, pulling back to see his semi-flustered wide-eyed stare, “Is that what this was all about? Wanting to hear me say that?”

“I…” he pursed his lips and nodded shamefully, “Seeing you and…” he shook his head, “Just bothered me.”

You swept his hair out of his eyes, cupping his face between your hands, staring him dead on, “I love you, so very much. My sweet cranky edge lord.”

“Pfft,” he turned to one of your hands, closing his eyes for a moment, then spoke softly, “I love you, too; dickhead.”

“Mn, ‘dickhead’, huh?”

“I’m sorry,” his tone returned to normal, “do you prefer ‘asshole’?”

With a click of your tongue, you shook your head, leaning back with hands on your hips, “Well if you’re gonna be like that then I am not going to invite you to take a bath together.”

A small light lit up in his head at your words, “Oh? As if I’d let you do that without me.”

“What?” You raised your brows in a mixture of disbelief and sarcasm, “You’re already hankering for another round?”

His eyes slowly went down and back up your body, “Yeah, but,” he stood up and yanked you close, whispering in your ear, “Why don’t you let me show you what I can do,” he nipped at your neck, “I want to fuckin’ tear you apart.”

===

ENDING NOTES: The Nero brain rot has been super SUPER bad and I'm not sure why lmao Couldn’t call him a “hunter” in this since he’s not a part of the DMC crew and couldn’t call him “(the) teal devil” because he hasn’t triggered before, so sorry if things get a bit repetitive. Yes, the paragraph that ends with “He felt like he wanted to crawl out of his skin with how good he felt.” has to do with him having the urge to trigger--even though he doesn’t know he can do that yet. ❄️⚡❄️ First time writing a top reader and bottom character; hopefully it’s not too bad. Ngl power bottom Nero has been eating at my mind for a while now and I’m not sure why. It might be TMI but I am not a top (or a switch) myself so writing the reader as a top is weird lmao (which is also why the reader is submissive, can’t change everything in one fic; can I? lmfao) The point is: that this isn't going to be something that becomes like commonplace (unless a request asks for it--which are still closed as of posting this chapter) and is just something I did for fun lol

If you like this please consider checking this on my AO3. There are extra chapters and my H/Cs over there, so please consider checking them out! Comments, Likes/Kudos, and shares are always appreciated! Thanks so much for reading!! :)))

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