#Bill has a Reputation and it's not always a good idea to get his attention

[tswwwit]

How would bill feel if dipper reincarnated as an incubus?

Thrilled. Delighted. Tickled pink! Partly because hey! That's a great look for him! Inhuman and demonic and oh-so-cute. Another part because of all the demonic subtypes he could end up as, this one has to be the most ironic, a bit of him thrilled just because it's good to see him again -

And of course, a Big Ol' Chunk of delight for the other obvious reason.

[bornonthesavage]

Eddie wouldn’t say he loves his job. He isn’t sure anyone actually loves working in organized crime, but hey, it pays the bills. And he’s good at it, so that’s a plus. All he has to do is pick up bags, drop them at predetermined destinations, and then collect the money. Easy. That is, until it goes wrong. Because of course it does. Things always go wrong for him.

“Where’s the rest of the money?” Sam asks. He’s Eddie’s boss, a greasy dude with shifty eyes.

Eddie frowns. “What are you talking about? It’s all there.”

“No, it’s not. You’re short five hundred. What, you think you can steal from the Harringtons and I won’t notice?”

Eddie’s eyes go wide as he realizes the situation he’s in. “Whoa, dude, what? No! Why would I steal? I’m not stupid!”

Sam takes a menacing step forward and Eddie tries to move back, but feels his path stopped by a thick chest. Yeah, this isn’t looking good.

“Give the money back now, and maybe I’ll let you go. If you don’t, you’re not going to like what happens next.”

Fear coils in Eddie’s stomach. If he had the money he would give it back out of his own pocket. As it stands, all he’s got is the 15 bucks that he’d planned on using for dinner tonight. He’s completely screwed.

“Sam, please, you have to believe me. I didn’t take anything!”

Sam glowers. “Fine, that’s how you wants it.”

Eddie’s grabbed on both sides by strong hands. He tries to fight but knows it no uses. The hired muscle are twice his size, and while he’d probably be able to outrun them, there’s no getting out of the their grasp.

He’s dragged from the office and thrown roughly in the trunk of a car. This is it, he thinks. This is how he’s going to die. They’re going to take him to some river and throw him in with bricks tied to his feet. He’d heard of this sort of thing happening, sure, but he’d never thought it would happen to him. Because he wasn’t stupid enough to cross the Harringtons. They were the most powerful crime family in the country, and Eddie valued his life, thank you very much. But apparently none of that mattered.

The ride is bumpy and it feels like it takes forever. But maybe that’s just Eddie, to out of his mind with fear to pay much attention. He tries to escape, kicking at the trunk and looking for a release lever. Of course, there’s nothing. When they finally come to a stop, he prepares himself to fight. The trunk opens and he tries to launch himself at the nearest thug, but the angles all wrong. He’s thrown the ground with ease, gravel crunching beneath his body.

“Get up,” one of the goons snarls, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him up.

Eddie looks around, trying to get an idea of his surroundings. He’d thought they’d maybe be out in the middle of the woods or near a body of water, but there’s none of that. Instead, they’re outside a massive mansion.

“What the fuck? Where are we?”

He’s pulled forward. “The big boss is out of the country, so we’re taking you to his son. We’ll let him decide how to handle you.”

Ah, shit. That wasn’t much better. He hadn’t worked for the Harringtons for three years without hearing all the horror stories. Sure, Thomas Harrington was in charge and had a reputation for violence, but Eddie had heard plenty about his son as well. A rich boy with a mean streak, they said. So what would he do to Eddie for apparently stealing from his family? Nothing good, that was for sure.

Eddie barely had any time to look around as he was dragged through the mansion and pulled through a set of double doors into an office, where he was thrown to his knees. Slowly, he brought his eyes up.

The first thing he saw were the pair of shiny black shoes. Nothing at all like his own worn out pair of shit kickers. His eyes travel up over a pair of sinfully long legs and thick thighs, all wrapped up in a pair of dress pants that probably cost more than he made in several months. Beyond that was a red silk shirt, only partially buttoned to reveal one of the nicest chests Eddie had ever seen. He sort of hated himself for thinking that, even now.

Finally, his gaze reached the face of the man himself. Steve Harrington was every bit as gorgeous as people said he was, and maybe a bit more. With a strong nose and defined chin, brown eyes that looked a little bored, and perfectly styled hair. Because of course it wasn’t enough that he’d been born rich and powerful. No, he also had to be unbelievably pretty.

Steve brought a cigarette to his lips and took a drag. “Who’s this?”

“This,” one of the thugs says, kicking Eddie’s foot, “Is just a low level piece of shit who thought he could steal from you, sir. We brought him here to let you decide what to do with him.”

Steve looked back to Eddie. “Is that true? Did you steal from my father?”

“No!” Eddie cried.

“Liar,” one goon snarled. “He was short by $500.”

“I swear, I didn’t take anything! I wouldn’t do that, I’m not a fucking idiot!”

Steve just continued to look at him, though he now seemed a bit curious. “Then where did the money go?”

Eddie shook his head. “I have no idea! Do you really think I’d risk my life over five hundred bucks? If I was going to steal, I’d take a lot more than that, I can promise you.”

To Eddie’s relief, though he wasn’t sure how great that relief should be, Steve laughed. He had a nice laugh, very full and bright. If Steve is amused, Eddie can use that. He’s good at being amusing. If the prince needs a jester, he can be that.

“What’s your name?” Steve asks.

“Eddie.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty four.”

Steve nods and takes another drag from his cigarette. “Right.”

He then reaches into his back pocket, and Eddie withdraws into himself. Is he going to pull a gun and just end him right here? At least that would be quick. But it’s not a gun, just his wallet. Steve flips it open and takes out a few hundred dollar bills, before tossing them at the floor by the goons feet. They flutter down like rich person confetti.

“To cover what’s missing,” he says.

The men glance at each other, as if unsure of what to do, before bending down to collect the money. “Uh, yes sir. We’re sorry to have bothered you. We’ll just get this waste of space out of your sight.”

They go to grab Eddie again and he struggles. He’s pretty sure that once he’s out of this room, his time will be up. But then Steve holds up a hand.

“Oh no, leave him here with me.”

Now the guards looked even more confused, and the sentiment was shared by Eddie. Was Steve some sick sadist, who wanted to torture Eddie here all by himself? But the thugs weren’t going to defy their boss. They gave him a shove, forcing him down to his hands, then retreated out of the office. Once the door was closed, Steve made his way around to the other side of the desk and sat. Eddie sort of thought he should get up off his knees, but he didn’t want to make any sudden movements. Maybe now was the best time to plead his case.

“Please, sir, you have to believe that I didn’t take that money.”

But Steve only shrugs and puts his cigarette out. “I don’t really care if you did. Honestly, it would be kind of funny.”

Eddie just stares at him, sure he heard him wrong. “Um, what?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, kicking his feet up on the desk. “My dads an asshole. I’ve stolen from him hundreds of times, and either he doesn’t care or he doesn’t notice. So really, it makes no difference to me.”

Well, this definitely wasn’t how Eddie had thought this was going to go. He still sort of thinks this is a trap, a ruse to get Eddie to admit that he’d actually taken the money.

“Right. So… I’m not in trouble?”

“Nah.”

“Oh. So, can I go then?”

And now Steve gets this certain look in his eye, one that’s bright and sharp, and Eddie almost feels like a prey animal caught in the mouth of a wolf den. But Steve is still smiling, and it seems genuine.

“You can if you want. Or…”

Eddie waits. He’s really not sure where this is going. What else can he want from him? When Steve doesn’t go on, just continues to stare, Eddie raises his eyebrows. “Or what?”

Steve shifts forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the desk and his chin in his hand. “Now, maybe I’m completely off base with this, so correct me if I’m wrong here. But you were checking me out when you first got here, weren’t you?”

Eddie’s mouth goes dry and his heart jumps in his chest. He hadn’t thought Steve had noticed.

“Please, Mr. Harrington, that wasn’t… I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Call me Steve. I hate when people call me Mr. Harrington. And you didn’t offend me. The opposite, in fact.”

Eddie just stares. This can’t be going where he thinks it’s going. Where he’s hoping it’s going. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Steve says, his smile growing wider. “I know when someone’s interested in me and you,” his eyes roam over Eddie’s body, “Are very interested.”

He’s cocky, that’s for sure. Eddie hates that he likes it. He really, really likes it. To his embarrassment, he even feels himself twitch in his jeans.

“So I guess you have two choices,” Steve continues. “You can get up and leave right now. No one will stop you and you’ll be free to go on your way. Or… You can stay. And we can come to an arrangement of an entirely different sort.”

And Eddie knows he should leave. He should get up and walk out right now. Because Harrington is nothing but trouble. He can see it written in every line of him, from that cocksure grin to those $3000 shoes. But Eddie’s never claimed to be smart. And he’s never been able to turn down a bit of trouble.

He leans back on his heels, titling his head in a way that draws Steve’s eyes to his neck, and grins.

“I’m listening.”

[homeandliving]

Qualities to Look for When Hiring a Landscaper

When looking for a landscaper, you need to look for certain qualities. These qualities include attention to detail, experience, and liability insurance. Other things to look for include a satisfaction guarantee and a customer satisfaction guarantee. Before hiring a landscaper, it is essential to read through their resume carefully.

Attention to detail

Paying attention to detail when hiring a landscaper is essential to ensuring the best results. Even small errors can have devastating results. Even small insignificant mistakes could result in damage that may amount to a million dollars! Listed below are some of the things you should look for in your landscaper. Visit Landscaping Bowmanville to learn more.

Liability insurance

When considering hiring a landscaper, you should ensure they carry liability insurance. This will protect you against losses in case you have a work-related accident. For instance, if a landscaper slips and falls while cleaning a mulch truck, the insurance will cover the doctor's visit and any other medical bills that may arise from an accident. It's also a good idea to look for workers' compensation insurance.

In addition to liability insurance, landscapers should also carry commercial insurance, which covers the cost of any injuries to customers. This insurance is also helpful for businesses that have employees and commercial vehicles. For landscaping businesses, additional coverage is necessary if they provide tree services.

Another important thing to look for when hiring a landscaper is proof of insurance. Liability insurance is required by law for landscaping businesses. Therefore, you should always ask the landscaper to provide you with a certificate of insurance showing that they have liability insurance. You can consult your state's government guidelines if you have questions about whether a landscaper carries liability insurance.

Experience

When hiring a landscaper, it is essential to find out about the experience of the company's employees. Experience can make the difference between getting mediocre results and a high-quality landscape. Make sure they have a current license and worker's compensation insurance. It would help if you also looked into the company's reputation in your area. 

This is a good sign if the company has received many positive reviews.

A landscaper with experience is better equipped to tackle the complexities of your project. While technical skills are essential, a landscaper should also be precise. This includes knowing which plants to place in the shade or sunlight. They should also be able to identify invasive plants and pests. A landscaper who has taken a training course should have a certificate that can be included in his or her resume.

A landscaper with many years of experience will better fit your needs. Whether you need help mowing, planting seeds, or installing sod, experience is essential for your landscape. Experienced landscapers have seen all conditions and problems and can offer you the best solution.

Customer satisfaction guarantee

Customer satisfaction is one of the most important factors when hiring a landscaper. The company you choose should guarantee you're delighted with their work. They should also change your landscape if you're not completely happy. And they should not hide any details from you. You should meet at least three landscapers to understand better what they can do for you.

Getting a written estimate is an essential part of hiring a landscaper. Ensure the company has the proper licenses and certifications to perform your project. A company that's not licensed or insured can't guarantee high quality work. If you have any concerns, ask about their guarantee, and whether they have references, you can call.

[keanureevesisbae]

I was thinking abt sy with a lil idol gf and omg🥺🥺Bye he’d be so supportive🥰he would go to his gf’s shows and maybe even surprise his idol gf at a fansign and bring 20 albums for her to sign😭😭 the big bear definitely owns a bunch of merch and has a “secret” fan acc, He is overall just mushy for his girlie😩🤚(I’m so soft rn pls😭)

YOU JUST MADE ME THE SOFTEST HUMAN BEING ALIVE. OH MY GOSH, THIS IS ADORABLE, I LOVE THIS AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR PUTTING THIS IDEA IN MY MIND!! (side note: i used Jennie's Solo cover for the art and i also went out of my way to make insta edits - yes, i'm that type of person) also, thank you sweet anon for sending me this 💗hope you like it

Captain Syverson x petite!cutesy!fem!reader

Summary: Sy has a reputation: a strong and powerful captain, who is never afraid and will never turn into a pile of mush. However, there is only one woman who is able to turn him into the ultimate fanboy.

Wordcount: 1k

Warnings: none

Sy is more of a country music kinda man. Growing up in Texas, near a bar with a mechanic bull, he was obsessed as a young teen with the idea of just touring through the state with a cowboy hat on his head and a guitar.

It’s just the fact that he can’t sing what stood in the way of a very promising country career.

He joined the military and forgot about the idea all together, but when he came back from his final tour to Iraq, his friends took him on a little welcome home drive through the country. They visited all sorts of bars, listened to all sorts of music there. Sure, all sorts of music had its appeal, but it would never be like country.

The final destination of the little road trip was LA and they went to a bar for new sing and songwriters to perform.

And that’s where he first laid his eyes on you. He remembers you sitting on a bar stool, back straight as a ruler. You were adorable, he thought to himself. Wide eyes as you were watching the stage, clapping your hands along with the beat and squealing when someone sang something particularly well.

And then it was your turn to get on stage. A sweet pink dress, matched with white sneakers and socks with a lace border. Nothing about the song you wrote and sang was something he usually liked. Very happy, up beat and your high voice sang every note perfectly.

Despite not his taste, he adored every second of it.

You seemed shy off stage, with the way you sat by yourself, but on stage that demeanor completely changed.

You were born to be a singer.

When you sat down at your own barstool again, he grabbed his beer and decided to sit next to you, get to know you. Everything about you was different. Petite, long hair and your feet didn’t even touch the floor.

He was supposed to stay in LA for two weeks, but that changed into a month and then two months, because he couldn’t get enough of you. He left Texas (something he never thought he would do) and moved to LA, where he got a job as a constructor. You quit your own job, one you only took to be able to pay for the bills and musical equipments. He loved helping you out, driving you from bar to bar, hoping your dream of becoming an idol would come true.

And one day, it happened.

You got an offer of one of the biggest agencies in the US and after the two of you read the contract multiple times, you signed and were an official idol.

Life changed a lot after that. You were either in the studio, dance practice and back at the studio again, however Sy made sure that you were well hydrated and fed, just like your back up dancers.

The people at the agency loved Sy and they often joked that he was part of the family that was created at the agency.

It all happened fast. Your first single, music video, first appearance at multiple late night shows and finally you reached one million followers on Instagram.

And he was right by your side.

His friends knew about his love for country, but they also knew about his much bigger love for you. They often would catch the big captain sing to the cute, almost bubblegum pop music you produced.

He didn’t care.

Sy had all your merchandise, whether it would fit him or not. He had your albums (all signed of course) and listened to them when you weren’t around. Sometimes he’d travel with you as you were touring, sometimes he stayed behind, especially after the two of you adopted a two year old American Akita.

The world knew you weren’t single, but you always kept Sy out of the spotlight, something he’d greatly appreciated. While you were born to be famous, he was born to live a more anonymous.

But that didn’t stop you from boasting about him on Instagram.

It had been at least three months since you saw him in real life. Your manager and all your back up dancers knew about his plan. Heck, they even helped Sy with planning it. He watches from the back, the line at your meet and greet stand growing smaller and smaller, until everyone has left. You let out a content sigh and want to get up, but your manager says there is a special fan still waiting in the back.

‘Really?’ you ask him. ‘Who is it?’

‘Very special. Super fan.’

That gains your attention, as your eyebrows are raised. ‘Do I know them?’

‘You’ve met them before,’ your manager says.

‘Oh, I do hope I recognize them,’ you say. ‘I don’t want to come across as such a bitch, you know.’

Your manager starts to laugh. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘Close your eyes.’

You place your hands over your eyes and smile in anticipation. Sy quietly walks over to your table and places his newly bought album in front of you. ‘I’d like this signed, please,’ he says.

Within lightening speed you pull your hands from your eyes. ‘Oh my,’ you say, ‘Sy?’ You jump up, your chair falling behind you. You run around the table and wrap your arms around his neck. He lifts you up in his arms and gives you a kiss on your cheek. ‘I missed you! What are you doing here? How is Kal?’

‘Kal is good. He is with your parents.’

‘But what are you doing here?’ you ask.

‘I want my autograph,’ he says with a chuckle.

You press a kiss on his lips. ‘How long are you gonna stay here with me?’

He shrugs. ‘I brought enough clothing for let’s say… a month?’

Your eyes enlarge. ‘That’s the end of my tour! Oh, Sy, you’re staying with me?’ You have tears in your eyes and whisper: ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, little lady.’

[simsadventures]

Gilded: Chapter 1: To Bride or Not to Bride

Mob! Steve x Reader

Summary: Your life is a mess and you need a little help from time to time. But, when somebody proposes a plan to rid you of all your problems all the way to the far future, you’re suddenly not so sure it is worth it. Especially since the plan is proposed to you by the most notorious gangster America has seen since Al Capone: Steve fucking Rogers. 

Warnings: mafia AU, swearing (like, a lot this time), angst, struggles with money, loan-shark, sleazy men, harassing

Word Count: 7969

A/N: It’s finally here! It only took me around 6 months to bring it, and I apologise for the delay, but I hope I will make up for it with introductory this chapter :) Share your thoughts, let me know what you thought and what do you think will happen next :) xx

Series Masterlist __ Masterlist 

“Just, wait a second,” you said, your brows knitting together as you tried to piece together all the information the man in front of you had just given you. He was gorgeous, there was no question about that, but that wasn’t the issue here. There were many gorgeous people in New York, and you didn’t marry any of them. Yet, that was. 

“You want to marry me. But you still haven’t told me why, so?” You asked for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, and the man just smirked again, playing with his cuffs, never answering to your satisfaction. 

“I told you, honey, what I want, I get, and I decided that I wanted you, so, what is going to be? Are you gonna be a good girl for me or am I gonna have to force you, hm?” He smiled sweetly, but even you knew better. Behind that oh-very-sweet smile, there was venom and a ton of it. You rubbed your temples and plopped down on the nice-looking couch, thinking about what he was proposing. 

2 weeks ago

“Coming!” You yelled through the loud music at the guests seated by the table number 5 where a group of guys was seated, hollering at you every two seconds as if you didn’t hear them the first time. You rolled your eyes at your colleague, who just laughed under her breath as you strode towards the clients. You put on your best fake smile as you approached them, and from the whistles, you assumed they appreciated it. 

“Thank God you came, sweets. We thought you were getting tired of us,” the loudest of them laughed, and the group followed his suit, making your clench your jaw even more. Oh, how you hated this type of men, who had nothing better to do than calling a woman pet-names, making her feel uncomfortable just so his friends could have a laugh and a story to tell. 

“What can I get you, gentleman? Another round of the same?” You asked as sweetly as you could, but it was getting harder by the second as they all eyed you like a piece of raw meat, ready to be devoured. 

“I mean, that would be nice, and could you serve us a piece of that sweet ass of course as well? We’d really appreciate it, pretty face,” the loud guy smirked sleazily, and you fought the urge to vomit in your face. One of the guys made the mistake of actually making a move to swat you across your butt, but your reflexes were quicker. 

You took a step back and breathed in, trying to calm your beating heart. This was, however, nothing new in your line of work, and you just learned to ignore it, or, at best, politely turn them down. Because, as you learned very early on, the manager didn’t appreciate if his “girls” were nasty to his customers. He almost made it sound like you were to provide your bodies with the beers, but you told him straightforwardly that that wouldn’t happen, and if his pub was one of these, you wanted to have nothing to do with it. All you were there to do was to work the evening and night shift to get some extra money on top of your regular job, and that was it. He even made a few remarks how he wanted you all to himself, but you politely declined every time and just tried to ignore it altogether.

“This ass is not for sale, I’m sorry, boys. But, the vodka shots are coming right up,” you tried to give them your best wink but didn’t wait long enough to see if they accepted their loss or not. You genuinely didn’t care. 

The night continued in a similar manner, some people being inappropriate and you just ignoring their behaviour, and some people actually nice, even leaving you a few tips which always made you smile. You were beat when it was 11, and your shift ended, and you were thrilled today wasn’t one of those days when you had to stay there till 4 AM. It was then that people got really disgusting and you even had to resolve to hit a guy this one time because otherwise, you were pretty sure he’d manage to rape you. You sighed at the memory as you continued on your way home, just now remembering you left the tips meant for you in your locker.

Sighing you turned around and walked back towards the bar, and when you were in, you noticed three men in black suits talking to your coworker, who looked stunned and scared at the same time. You cocked a brow at her, and she discreetly shook her head, telling you that you shouldn’t come nearer. 

This time, you really frowned and looked around, but the rest of the pub looked exactly the way you left it, even with the assholes by the fifth table. But you listened to her and took a step back to one of the dark corners, watching what was going on by the bar. It didn’t take long, definitely not longer than 5 minutes before the men turned around and left the building. 

Your coworker looked positively alarmed by now, and you almost ran to her to ask what the fuck did just happen. 

“I have no idea, Y/N. I noticed them by table 10 like an hour ago, but I didn’t pay them any attention because that was Christy’s sector tonight and I had the veranda. And when you left they just came here asking about you,” she breathed out, and it was your turn to look alarmed. 

“The fuck? Why would they ask about me when it was Christy who took care of them?” You screeched, your brain not really comprehending the situation. 

“I have no fucking idea, Y/N. But, like, they asked your name and stuff, and like, if you were a regular waitress here or what. I didn’t want to tell them anything, I swear, but they didn’t take no for an answer. So I just told them your first name, I wouldn’t budge on your last, I promise, and told them that you sometimes worked here but that I didn’t know when was your next shift,” she finished, a little scared of your reaction now, but from the look of those guys, you knew they were bad news and that Anja did the best she could.

“Nah, it’s ok, An. I would do the same. I’m really grateful that you didn’t give them my last name, though, that was really thoughtful of you,” you smiled at her, and it obviously put her at ease as she hugged and hurried back to the veranda, where you both saw a few guests waving that they needed a refill. 

The hell did just happen, and why would three mysterious men ask about you? 

It couldn’t be that they found out, right? No… you made sure all the traces were hidden, forever, so, that wasn’t an option. 

No, you told yourself, there must be another reason for them to ask about you. But you didn’t want to find out. It was a one-time thing, these men were just confused, or one of them liked you or something like that, and you would never see them again. This actually calmed you down enough to start functioning again, and you remembered that you came for something specific, took the money and went straight home. 

“This can’t be happening,” you muttered as you looked over your bills. There was so much to pay and so little money on your account that you actually started to sweat. You worked two jobs and still wasn’t able to afford to live a life where you didn’t have to worry about money. What was more, with the high taxes, your rent, subway card and food you went into red numbers, and that was something you definitely didn’t want. Nobody told you that as an Arts Major, you could still be struggling to stay alive in the city of New York. 

You went over the bills again even though you knew your math was correct and that you didn’t have enough to pay your landlord this month. 

Fuck, you muttered again and considered your options. You could ask your friends, but you didn’t want to bother them since you knew they were struggling as much as you were. You shared your apartment with two of your best friends who you considered a family by now, Caroline and Aidan. And while you knew they would do anything to help you, neither of their jobs paid enough to be able to help you as much as you needed this month. 

Your other option was asking your landlord to give you some more time before more money arrived, but just imagining the conversation gave you goosebumps because you could picture the kind of service he’d want from you, and you’d literally rather go and beg on the street than to sleep with that middle-aged pig. 

So, as you summarised it, the only option remained the loan shark. Tony was actually a nice guy, once you got to know him, and he was nice to you because you always paid precisely what he told you to when he told you to, and never asked too many questions or begged for more time. You were smarter than that, and, besides, you’ve seen too many movies with loan sharks to know what could happen to you. 

The first time you went to him was probably 2 years ago, straight from university when you still thought you could make it big in New York. Well, safe to say that you didn’t make it, and while you remained hopeful, you had bigger problems than becoming a renown painter, like not starving to death and other fun stuff like that. 

You were awfully scared to go to Tony, he had a reputation of being kind of an ass, but people also said that, compared to the other guys in the business, he actually had the fairest demands, and as you had no other choice, you just went to him. And because life was a bitch, you ended up going there on more occasions. Tony was kind enough always to lend even small amounts of money because you really didn’t need 100K. No, you always need like 1 or 2 thousand, and while the other loan sharks turned people like you down, Tony didn’t, and he never wanted more than like 400$ as a return, which seemed quite fair as the other guys always wanted 100% or more. 

Well, Tony, it was, as you sighed looking around your room, thinking how you even got where you were. But there was no time to waste pitying yourself, and so you shot Tony a quick message, as you always did, and to no surprise, he was very quick to respond that you should come by later that afternoon. 

You were just getting ready when Aidan burst through your door. He stopped mid-step, looking at you confusedly because you didn’t tell him you were going somewhere. 

“Got a date or what? You never go out on Saturday afternoon, not if you can help it,” he said sceptically, looking around the room as his eyes landed on the fumbled papers on your table, and the look of realisation hit him. 

“You going to Tony again? Y/N, we told you, we can help you, babe! Let us help just this once, please?” He pleaded with you even though he knew it was useless. 

“C’mon, babe, you know you and Caroline are not making much either, and you’re both glad to get by another month. Tony is like an old friend by now, really. I don’t mind it that much, and it’s definitely a better option than burying you two with me under this pile of shit,” you huffed as you finished applying mascara, but you didn’t even check yourself in the mirror, really not caring that much how you looked. You went to Manhattan just to meet Tony and would go straight back, quick mission, in and out. 

“You need to find a better job, Y/N,” Aidan smirked at you, and you just laughed because you both knew it was pretty much impossible, especially since you loved your day job with the only issue that it paid like shit. 

“You know this is my chance to be close to art and I really want it. I mean, it could happen that they promote me from being a receptionist to like, I dunno, being a secretary to one of the curators of the gallery, right?” 

He just huffed and kissed the top of your head, striding towards the door. It was only then that you noticed he was dressed to go out as well. 

“And where are you going, mister?” You asked with a mother-like tone, and he just laughed, turning around as if he was caught in the act. 

“So, you remember John?” He asked, sitting on your bed, and you actually laughed out loud at him. 

“Which one? I mean, there has been so many Johns and Peters that I swear to God I’m starting to think there are only men called John and Peter in the whole fucking New York. So, more info, babe, please,” you scooted to him and listened to which John it actually was he was meeting and was pretty excited about this. This was John the Ballet dancer, and he looked really nice, so far. 

John the Fake Mobster was a lying bastard, John the Hairdresser wanted Aidan for just that one thing but would never admit it, and then you didn’t even have John-the for the guys because they were all just idiots who didn’t see your best friend for what he was: an amazing, although a little extra person with a very good heart, great sense of humour and amazing hair. 

“Alright, well, you know the drill. Keep your phone on data so we can use Find your Friend if needed, keep your eyes open for anything sketchy going on, but, most importantly, enjoy yourself, babe. I’ll see you tonight,” you hugged him tightly and walked out of the apartment and into the busy streets. 

If it were all up to you, you’d live in a secluded place, somewhere in the north probably, like outside Seattle, where you’d have a lovely little house, maybe by a river or by the ocean or something, where you’d have enough inspiration for your art and where you wouldn’t be annoyed by the little things, like the car horns blaring all the way to the night, people shouting underneath your bedroom’s window, and little things like that. 

But life was not a factory for fulfilled wishes, and you had to endure another day trying to make it in New York. You thought about all of this as you walked down the street to where you knew you could find Tony. You weren’t happy that you had to go to him, again, but you also knew that you didn’t need to worry anymore. You would have the money for your landlord by the end of the week, and when the gallery paid you, you would pay Tony back. Again. 

“If it isn’t my favourite girl!” You heard a familiar voice hollering from the shop, and you laughed lightly as you walked into the pawnshop Tony had set up in the lower Manhattan. 

“Hello to you too, Tony. Today a yellow day, or what?” You greeted him as you looked at his outfit, which was just a canary yellow tracksuit and a matching hat. He looked like a character from a bad movie, but you knew better than to say anything like that. 

“Yellow is very classy and trendy, thank you very much! Yesterday I wore this really nice green velvet tracksuit, and you should have seen some ladies walking by, they almost ate me with their eyes! I swear!” He added as he saw you stifling a laugh, but you just nodded in fake understanding, and both of you shared a relaxed laugh. 

“So, what can I do for you today, sweetheart?” He drawled, and you shuffled on the spot, always feeling slightly uncomfortable when it came to this part. 

“I need a thousand this week. Ton. I’ve been working my ass off, but the bills keep building up, and every time I think I’m out of it and I can live normally, there is always something holding me back,” you sighed, scratching your arms which was a nervous habit of yours that Tony grew quite fond of. 

He was almost sorry for saying the next thing, but this was way above his pay grade, and while he really did take some liking to you, and he would always give you enough time to pay him off, he knew who he couldn’t piss off. 

“Listen, Y/N, I have a proposal for you,” Tony started, and you frowned, not really knowing where this was going, but from the look on Tony’s face, you could tell it was nothing good. 

“There is somebody who would like to get to know you, and he has a proposal for you that he believes you can’t refuse. I don’t know any specifics, I just know he is willing to pay you a lot of money, and I’m talking thousands and thousands, Y/N. He said that nothing sexual would be involved because I told him that if he was looking for a one night stand, you weren’t his girl, but he assured me that this wasn’t it. He would like to meet with you and tell you all the details if you let him. And before you say no, Y/N, think about it. All you gotta do now is to meet him and listen to him, and he is one of those guys who don’t take no for an answer,” Tony finished, and while you saw it pained him to give you the message, you were too stunned to care. 

“What the hell are you talking about, Tony? Is this some kind of a sick joke? Like, did this guy tell you he wanted to talk to me specifically or just a girl desperate enough to come here?” You blurted, still not getting what he was about. 

“He asked for you, sweetie. I don’t know how, but he knew you’d come and told me when you did to give you the message and give you his address. Which is here,” he said, handing you a piece of paper with an address and a date with the time written on it, “and he told me that if you came and agreed to his plan, you wouldn’t have to worry about money this week or any other week. It could be your chance, Y/N. Look, the guy is extremely powerful, so, please, just go and meet him, and you’ll see, ok?” He was scared, and it made you scoff out loud. 

Great, so a loan shark was giving you a message to meet some mysterious, powerful asshole who wouldn’t take no for an answer and who probably stalked you as he knew you would be coming to Tony sooner or later. Just great, really. 

“It seems I don’t really have a choice, do I? Sheesh, Tony, at least tell me who this guy is and like how scared I should be. You gotta give me something because I can’t just go to some random house and be totally ok with it. Nobody can’t expect me to do so,” you pointed out, and Tony nodded in understanding. 

“Totally, yeah. I even asked if I should come with you, but I was told you should be alone. You should be alert, let’s put it that way. If I were you, I’d really think before I speak, because this guy doesn’t take anything lightly. And I think it would be best if you didn’t know his name, Y/N. Just… he doesn’t want to hurt you, all he wants to do is speak to you, so please, just do it,” Tony finished just as some customer came into the shop. 

You waited patiently because the conversation was far from over, but you knew better than to start shit in front of some stranger. Tony was evidently scared shitless of the guy, and it only fuelled your already growing anxiety. Tony was determined not to share too much information with you, but you didn’t understand why. Why could you not at least know the guy’s name? Who could it be? 

Your brain took a detour to a few nights ago back at the pub where you saw the men asking about you, and a cold sweat broke on your skin. It must have been connected, there was no doubt in your mind about that, and it filled you with so much dread you actually had to catch your right hand with your left to stop yourself from shaking violently. 

The doorbell rang signalling the customer left, and your eyes gazed at Tony, who was already staring at you apologetically. 

“And what about the money, Tony? It’s Saturday, and I need to pay my rent by Friday next week. Nice of the guy, whoever the fuck he is, that he wants to see me, but he won’t if I’m on a fucking street next weekend,” you seethed, and Tony was quick to walk around the counter behind which he was standing this whole time and walked closer to you. 

“He wants to see you on Wednesday, Y/N, and he specifically told me not to lend you any money, that he would take care of it. Whatever the fuck it means.”

“The fuck? I don’t even know his fucking name, and he will stop me from getting money to survive? What the actual hell, Tony? You can’t be serious right now,” you cried out in utter desperation because none of this was supposed to happen. You were supposed to come, chat a little with the goatee man, get the money and walk back home, where you’d watch some stupid TV show and drink shitty wine. 

But no, of all the people living in New York this shit must be happening to you. As you didn’t have enough on your fucking plate as was, some mysterious fucker had to be interested in you for whatever reason, and he wouldn’t let you live without talking to him first. 

“Can’t you just call him and tell him that I want to have nothing to do with him?” You asked when you felt calm enough to talk again. You didn’t even know whether you were scared or desperate or angry, but at best, you were feeling a mix of all these and some more, that was for sure. 

“No can do, sweetie, but I promise it will be alright, ok? You’re a strong one, I know that and whatever he wants from you, you can either give or can talk to him,” Tony smiled sweetly, and while you knew he was full of bullshit you let it slide because you just didn’t have it in you to fight with him when he was clearly just the messenger. Whoever wanted to speak to you, however, he would hear it from you because where were we that a guy just asks for a girl and the whole of New York delivers her to him on a silver platter?

Wednesday 

“You gotta be kidding me, Y/N. Are you seriously considering going there? For all you know it might be some elaborate trap and somebody’s gonna jump you and kill you in some dark alley,” Caroline screeched at you as she saw you getting ready after you came home from work. 

You had to ask for a night off from the pub since mister nobody wanted to meet you on your night of work. But you knew you couldn’t say no. Whoever it was, Tony was afraid of him, and Tony was a tough guy. And not that you wouldn’t be brave, but your bravery was mostly concentrated on being able to throw a spider out of the apartment or walk the corridor with the lights out, not really crossing some powerful guy who could do God-knows-what to you if you didn’t come. 

“C’mon, guys. You know I gotta do it. And I honestly think if they wanted to kill me, they would have already done it,” you muttered, trying to pick something to wear, that wasn’t too revealing, but you also didn’t want to go wherever you were going in a pair of baggy sweatpants you were currently rocking. 

“But like, what if they want to make a personal slave out of you, huh? Like, cuff you to a ceiling and serve them with your body, like a personal kind of slave, you know what I mean? You were not made to be strapped to a ceiling, babe,” Aidan panicked, and you actually had to laugh. 

“Your imagination never ceases to astonish me, Aid. Or are you speaking from personal experience?” You smirked as both you and Caroline laughed out loud at Aidan’s expression of utter disgust. 

“You two are disgusting, and I hate you, but that doesn’t change the fact you still don’t know where the fuck you’re going,” Aidan countered and you rolled your eyes at him. 

“I’ll keep my data on so you can see me this whole time, and if I don’t call you by 9 PM you can send the cops there, deal?” 

They both nodded in agreement, knowing this was the best they were getting. You were glad you had them in your life and that you had people caring enough to try and stop you from doing something stupid, but something in your told you that your life would be even worse if you didn’t go. At least this way you’d know the whole story, and you would be able to make an educated decision based on all the variables. 

“A’ight, but if anything sketchy happens, you run, ok? We can figure out the money, but we can’t figure out shit if you’re not here with us,” Caroline reminded you, and you nodded solemnly. 

God, you just hoped you weren’t making a mistake by listening to Tony. He even shot you a message in the afternoon, reminding you to go there because if you didn’t, it could end up badly for both of you. And it was actually one of the decisive arguments in the whole thing, surprisingly. You didn’t want anything happening to Tony, especially not because of you and your decisions, and so you just told yourself to suck it and prepared for the evening. 

You really couldn’t afford the cab, so you had to leave super early to be at the given address at precisely 7 PM. You also grabbed the book you were currently reading, Kim Stanley Robinson’s New York 2140, so that the ride to Manhattan wouldn’t be as dull and dreadful. You could think of the utopian future he depicts rather than thinking of your journey to the lion’s den, and that was the most promising image you created in your head about the place where you were headed. 

Not that you didn’t try to find the place on Google maps, but all the buildings on the address looked the same, and, actually, quite nice, so you had no idea what you were getting yourself into. 

Meanwhile, Tony texted you again since you didn’t reply to his previous text, and this time you took the time to craft a message telling him that yes, you were indeed headed to the manor and he didn’t need to worry about his own neck because you wouldn’t let others be hurt because of your incompetence or your cowardice. 

You knew you were getting off on Chambers St station and you actually took the time to think how many people living in Tribeca had to take the subway. The answer was, very obviously, zero, as the majority of the people in the subway were either passing or were clothed in a way you knew they worked in either one of the restaurants there or as a help. And you felt like one of them, because you too didn’t live in the wealthiest village in New York, and you too were going there mainly for business. Well, at least you hope you did. 

Checking every house number when you got to the street you were supposed to meet the mysterious guy at, you tried to find where exactly was the bat cave, and when you saw the number 112, you knew you found it. 

Your breath came in ragged huffs as you tried to gather the last remnants of your bravery as you walked up the stairs and buzzed on the door. Your head was spinning lightly, and you actually had to lean against the wall beside you to regain your composure. 

The door soon revealed a massive man dressed in a black turtleneck and a pair of black jeans, and you were actually quite surprised not to see him with sunglasses and an earpiece. If the situation weren’t so tense, you’d probably joke about it, but as it was, you just followed his lead as he beckoned you inside. 

“Miss Y/L/N, I presume? I need to see your phone and your belongings, ma’am,” he stated, and you raised a brow at him. 

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a standard procedure, ma’am. Everybody here to see the boss needs to be checked, just in case,” he stated, leaving no room for discussion, and while you sighed exasperatedly, you still handed him your bag and made a point by fishing out the phone and shoving it in his outstretched hand. He took a quick look through your belongings, pushing it against what you assumed was some kind of a metal detector before he pulled out another device. This looked like a big phone, and he scanned your bag once again. 

“What is that?” You asked, unable to stop your curiosity. 

“Checking if you’re not bugged,” he answered matter-of-factly as he continued before he put the device down, clearly not finding anything. Where would you even get a bug, and why would you do it? You rolled your eyes inwardly but kept a straight face in front of the man, just in case he was watching. Which he was, as you found out by him waving in front of your face and showing you to follow him. 

You braced yourself for whatever was awaiting upstairs and obediently walked behind him. 

As you walked through the house, you got the impression that whoever lived there was wealthy, but that kind that didn’t really put on a flashy show. There were no chandeliers, no heavy curtains and stuff you pretty much imagined this place would look like and that image had nothing to do with the Beast and the Beauty dance room, nothing at all. 

But this was… modest. Everything was very contemporary, some prominent brick here and there with mostly grey floors and the furniture was most definitely customary but, again, it was plain yet luxurious. You assumed that’s how the really rich people lived. They knew they had the money, and the people around them knew it as well, so there was no need for diamond stairs and a golden toilet. 

A few names surged from memory as you heard your coworkers discuss the wealthy New Yorkers, but you didn’t want to assume anything before you actually saw the person, so you just walked by the halls before the man stopped in front one of the rooms and quietly knocked. 

It was not surprising when another man dressed exactly like the guy leading you appeared from the room and took a quick look at you before he said something to whoever was behind him. When the affirmative came that you could indeed go in there, they shoved the door open and what you assumed was a living room appeared in front of you. It corresponded with the whole house, but your attention was caught by one specific thing. Your brain had its own world, and when you saw one of Tunji Adeniyi-Jones’s paintings from his last year’s exhibit, you almost fainted. He was your favourite contemporary artist. And seeing his work outside of the gallery was practically an otherworldly feeling. You gaped at the beautiful play of colours, and your heart swooned at the perfection of the brush strokes. 

“Ehm,” you heard somebody cough beside you, and it startled you so much you actually jumped to the side, your hand flying to your chest in a feeble attempt to will your heart to stay calm. 

You took the intruder in and found out that unlike every other man in the room (and there were a few, as you noticed) this guy wasn’t wearing all-black attire. He was in a comfortable-looking creme sweater and a pair of dark blue jeans, everything fitting him as if the clothes were sawn to his body. 

Which, as far as you could tell, was the body of a Greek God. 

“See something you like, honey?” The man interrupted thoughts, and it just crossed your mind that he was really rude, not letting you breathe even for a second before he had to make his presence known. 

“Yes, actually. I’m quite a big fan of the artist whose painting you have there, so I admired that. And you are?” You trailed at the end, signalling that while he was very handsome, you had no idea who he was and why it was that you needed to come to him this evening. 

“Straight to business, huh? I like that. I’m quite surprised Tony didn’t tell you who I was. Was he scared you wouldn’t have come if you knew?” He didn’t wait for your answer, however. “Well, honey, I’m Steve Rogers, and I am very pleased to meet you,” he smirked at your stomach dropped. 

Steve Rogers? That Steve Rogers? It wasn’t possible. 

“You gotta be kidding me,” you muttered as you scratched your arms nervously. 

“Oh no, on the contrary. I’m all too real, Miss Y/L/N, and from the looks of it, I’m glad Tony didn’t tell you, you look like you might faint. Are you feeling alright?” He asked like the smug asshole he was, and you just turned away from him, taking a deep breath before you finally turned back around to face him with a pokerface. 

“I’m alright, thank you. So now, can I know what it is you want from me so much you stalked me and made me come here, pretty much by force?” 

He scoffed but showed you to follow him to the sofa. When you didn’t budge, he simply took you by your elbow and pretty much shoved you down to the plump sofa. 

“Force, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I simply asked you to come visit me, is it so wrong? But yes, you are right, we should talk about why I invited you here. You see, Y/N, I’m in need of a wife, and after long calculations, I came to the conclusion you would be perfect for the job,” he said straightforwardly, and it was now that you felt like you’d faint. 

“Marry me? Are you fucking insane?” You couldn’t hold it in any longer. Form the pissed off expression on his face, you could see it was not the right move, but he couldn’t expect any other reaction, really. 

“Easy, honey or I might have to use the said force to shut that smart mouth of yours,” Steve mumbled dangerously, and you swallowed harshly. 

“Right, you’re a notorious mobster, and I’m literally nobody, and if you killed me, nobody would miss me. Good, now that’s out of the table, why do you want to marry me? And what does it mean you are in need of a wife? I mean… you are notorious for dating a different girl every week, can’t you just marry one of them if you’re in such a great hurry?” 

“No, honey, I can’t. All you need to know right now is my proposal. So, here it is. You will marry me, we will stay married for a year and then get a divorce. You will have everything every girl ever wanted: loads of clothes, all the time in the world to do whatever the fuck you want, you won’t have to work, and I will pay for everything and more. You will live here so you won’t have to worry about your rent money, and I will also pay your student loan, on top of which you will be paid 20.000$ every month for playing your role. And when the year is over, you will walk away rich, without any debts slowing you down and you will be able to do anything you want. How does that sound?” 

“It sounds like it’s not a proposal but a directive,” you smiled sweetly and stood up, pacing the room and scratching your hands like crazy. This was not happening, no, no, no!

You needed the money, you really did, and getting rid of the debt from your student loan that would have been sweet too, but at what price? On the other hand, you thought, how bad could it be to just be somebody’s wife for a year? He did make it sound pretty easy. 

“What would be expected of me?” 

“Well, you would go with me to every event and pretty much listen to everything I say,” he shrugged as if it was the most natural thing to say to another human being. 

“Like, you’d ask me to spread my legs for you here, and I would do it?” You asked, suddenly very angry that the man just assumed what kind of a person you were. You were desperate, but not that desperate. 

“Oh, no, honey. That is one of the reasons why I chose you: I’m not attracted to you, so no, I wouldn’t ask you for any sexual favours. We could even put that to our contract if you’d feel better, but, really, you have nothing to worry from me,” he again said with ease, and you didn’t know if you were glad he just told you this or really pissed and ashamed.

Not that you thought you were some kind of a beauty, far from it, but he also didn’t have to be so upfront about it. And now you understood it even less why the hell he chose you.

“Just, wait a second,” you said, your brows knitting together as you tried to piece together all the information the man in front of you had just given you. He was gorgeous, there was no question about that, but that wasn’t the issue here. There were many gorgeous people in New York, and you didn’t marry any of them. Yet, that was. 

“You want to marry me. But you still haven’t told me why, so?” You asked for like the hundredth time that evening, and the man just smirked again, playing with his cuffs, never answering to your satisfaction. 

“Honey, what I want, I get, and I decided that I wanted you, so, what is going to be? Are you gonna be a good girl for me or am I gonna have to force you, hm?” He smiled sweetly, but even you knew better. Behind that oh-very-sweet smile, there was venom and a ton of it. You rubbed your temples and plopped down on the nice-looking couch, thinking about what he was proposing.

“Then why choosing me if you don’t find me attractive? Not that it’s an issue, I’m just really trying to understand the situation here,” you said, totally ignoring the threat in his voice as you needed some much valuable answers. 

“Right, well, first of all, as I already mentioned, what I want, I get, honey, and you should always remember that. Secondly, it was your ability to keep a straight face, even though I can see the ability is not endless. I need somebody who will be sickly sweet to both my friends and enemies alike, who won’t mind a few sleazy comments from the old fuckers, and who will look like an obedient wife. I need somebody who will blend in and who will look trustworthy, and not like she was to stay only for a week. And when I saw you in that pub where you used to work, I could see you had what it took to be in this life, even if only for a year,” he finished, and you were glad you were right at least about the guy, Steve, also sending the people to sniff around your workplace. But then it hit you. 

“Where I used to work? I still work there,” you said dumbfounded, and Steve chuckled humorously. 

“Oh no, you don’t. You see, I need my wife free all the time and I need her here with me. Look, Y/N, this is getting tiring, and I really need an answer now. What is it gonna be, huh?”

“Like I even have a choice. You just said you would use force if I said no, so, what am I supposed to say, huh? I don’t want to get married, but I don’t have any money and your snoopy ass is getting in the way of my life, and you ended one of my jobs, and before you say you terminated my contract in the gallery, please think about it again. That job is very important to me, it has always been my dream to be in a gallery surrounded by beautiful art, and, by chance, having my art there as well. 

I don’t know Steve, your offer is very generous, it really is, but I don’t think I’m the right one,” you sighed finally and looked around the room, ignoring the boring looks from Steve. Then you saw the clock and you almost panicked, it was two minutes before 9. 

“Oh my God, I need to call my friends, or they’re gonna call the cops,” you said quickly already dialling Caroline’s number. You told her you were fine and that no, you weren’t a personal slave yet, but that you’d tell them everything when you got home. When the call ended, the venom was back in Steve’s eyes. 

“If you think you can talk to people about anything I have just said, you are terribly wrong, doll,” he seethed, and you were taken aback, but you didn’t want him to think he intimidated you.

“Well, if you think I’m not gonna tell my family about this, then it’s you who is terribly wrong, Steve. We tell each other everything, and if I considered this proposal of yours, it would mean Aidan and Caroline would know about this, at least that I’m marrying you for more than my undying love for you,” you spat back, and Steve saw the determination in your eyes. He knew he had to compromise with you, even if only a little bit. 

He already found out everything about you, he knew your whole life, your past, everything his people could find on the internet. And what he got from the search was that you and the people you lived with were extremely close. He considered getting rid of them but realised it would only push you away from what he needed from you. And he needed a wife ASAP. 

The mafia was still very conservative, and as he was the only boss without a constant woman by his side, he was sometimes excluded from important meetings that happened on “family retreats.” And he needed all the info there was if he wanted to be the best of the best. Or, the worst of the worst, if we were being literal. 

“Fine, but they will need to sign a contract saying that they will keep their mouths shut,” Steve smiled back, and you nodded, your head already spinning. 

Were you really considering it? But was there any other option? You needed the money, and it would’ve be great if you didn’t have to care about your student loan for the rest of your life. You would see the world, just like you wanted, you would have time for your art, and you would be free after only a year. That didn’t sound that bad. Sure, you’d be affiliated with a known mafia boss, but that was nothing you couldn’t handle. But there was still a question Steve didn’t answer. 

“What about my job at the gallery? If you made them fire me and I’m gonna find out tomorrow, I can’t even begin to consider this. I want that job, I want to work at that gallery, Steve.” 

“Fucking hell, I could buy you the gallery if you agreed!” He shouted, exasperated that it was taking so long. He really didn’t get it. He was proposing a life in luxury, and he knew that the majority of women in New York would be more than happy to be seen by his side. But you? You had to be difficult and even demand stuff. Fucking hell…

“But whatever, you wanna work there, fine. Whatever, I don’t give a fuck. Do we have a deal or not? I have better things to do with my evening than just bargain with you, honey,” he accentuated the pet name that you already hated.

Well, this wasn’t how you imagined your proposal to go. Not that you were too keen on the whole idea of a marriage, but still, a girl could dream. Yet, here you were, actually considering getting tied up with a mobster for a year just because he offered you enough money and a life that you felt like could be interesting, if only for a year and with a man who blatantly told you he wasn’t interested in you in that way. This was the only reason you didn’t feel as dirty as you expected because you knew he would never touch you and never want you to do something sexual against your will. 

You were used to lying through your teeth ever since you were little, your parents made sure you knew how important it was to keep your secret, and dangerous life wasn’t something you only heard of on TV. All this made the decision slightly easier, as you finally made up your mind. 

“Fine, but we still have a lot to talk about, Mr Rogers,” you set your jaw and outstretched your hand to shake on it with him. 

“Whatever, Mrs Rogers. Consider your rent paid and I’ll see you on Friday when we discuss our matter in greater detail. Now, if you excuse me,” he kissed the top of your hand and walked away. 

Well, this would be fun, you told yourself as you watched the man you would soon call your husband walk away from you, and contemplated whether you made the right choice. But your life wasn’t great as was, as much as you tried to fill it with laughter and happiness, and, in a sense, Steve offered you an out, even if only for a little bit. 

Here was to nothing, you hollered at yourself in your mind and followed one of the turtleneck-guys out of the manor and into the chilly air of evening New York.

/ Next Chapter >

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[maxwell-grant]

If someone were trying to make a new character inspired by pulp heroes, but the new character had to be a teenager, what existing pulps heroes should they look to for inspiration?

I'm not exactly in touch with the yoof so I could be off the mark here, but let's talk about teenager characters for a bit.

Now, I could just tell you to look for characters that appeal to you and use them as a baseline and that's probably the best advice here, but if you want the essay and history lesson: American pulp fiction didn't used to market much to teenagers. Teenagers as a consuming market haven't always been the all-encompassing force they are considered today, and the pulps were largely marketed either towards young boys, or for working class men, mostly the latter. This is part of why teenagers tend to show up in these stories largely as sidekicks, which was something carried over to comic superheroes, and part of why Spider-Man was such a breakout hit, because he was a teenage superhero who was not a sidekick.

The biggest pre-1950s traditional pulp hero I can of who was a teenager would be Jack Harkaway, an 1871 penny dreadful adventurer who would go on to be published overseas, one of those characters who was big enough in his day to inspire imitators a plenty but didn't quite make it past a specific time period. Comic strips had plenty of kid or teenage protagonists who are a bit closer to pulp heroes, like Tintin or Terry Lee, one in particular I'm highlighting above is Ledger Syndicate's Connie Kurridge, arguably the first female adventure hero of American comics. Overseas you can find a couple of prominent examples of teenage adventurers published in what we call the pulp era, the biggest and most influential of which being The Famous Five, but as I stated in answering whether Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys were pulp heroes, these were not published in pulp magazines, instead their direct opposites in glossy and reputable paperbacks.

There are other examples of pulp heroes who were teenagers and not sidekicks, but nearly all of them are very obscure and you will probably not find much material for them. And the thing is, these characters were not made for teenagers. They were made, for the most part, by grown-ups, and for grown-ups, and I can't say any of them ever really grabbed a teenage audience. Usually, it's the 60s as an era that really starts to pander to and include teenagers at the forefront of storytelling, so a good start for you might be to look at what was going on in the 60s-onwards worldwide in the realms of pulp and pulp-inspired works, which probably means you're going to have to look outside of the US.

Another word of advice would be to look up characters that are beloved by teenagers. I don't think "teenager" is a great baseline trait to start building a character, but if that's the number one priority to you, then ideally you should look for a good baseline of what appeals to that demographic, what appealed to you at that age and why. You're probably going to wind up with a lot of anime anti-heroes in your research though, because teenagers are deeply miserable creatures and few things appeal more to them than characters who are miserable but they act cool and badass and edgy about it. Teenagers are forced to live with the miserable reality of being teenagers with little to no upsides, so I think teenage characters could benefit more from being based on the kinds of characters teenagers would ideally want to read about.

So, "cool, badass and tortured character super popular with angsty teenagers", "rooted in and subverting older storytelling traditions for a fresh new audience", and "60s pulp hero". I think Elric is probably as good of a place as any for you to start.

Elric wasn't just popular, he wasn't even just popular with teenagers (boys and girls alike, which is also quite the feat), he was "cool". He was avant-garde, he was the hip new thing on the block. He wasn't Conan or Bond or Batman, and you'd hardly mistake him for a hero. He got the rock albums and fans tattooing him. He was penned by the guy who was openly called the "anti-Tolkien". Elric was Loki before Loki, the edgy anti-hero before them all. The emaciated warrior with white hair and black clothes and a demonic sword who suffered in a cool way, cool in his uncoolness. When I think of pulp heroes who achieved a substantial popularity among teenage audiences, Elric is definitely the first that comes to mind.

Another good example might be Captain Harlock, easily one of the premier Pulp Heroes among manga and anime due to how heavily Leiji Matsumoto incorporates pulp space opera into everything he does. Not only directly influenced by it, Matsumoto even has actual pulp credentials as an illustrator for C.L Moore's Shambleau, Northwest Smith and Jirel of Joiry. The space pirate, while not created in manga and anime, is one of Japan's premier pulp hero archetypes, and Harlock's as good of a baseline to work with as any.

The most popular pulp-inspired works nowadays among teenage or younger audiences are definitely the ones derived from pulp horror, several creators have been getting a lot of mileage these past decades out of plundering and remixing stuff from it. The big ones are Lovecraft and related works like The King in Yellow, but because they soak up all the attention, it also means that people are sleeping on authors like John W. Campbell, William Hope Hogdson, Clark Ashton Smith and Karl Edward Wagner, Nictzin Dyalhis and Olaf Stapledon, and many, many more, which gives you a lot of narrative real estate to work with should you take this direction.

Additionally, one thing that you could consider is that, for a very large portion of the history of pulp fiction, a significant amount of the most popular stories and characters were those that were based on celebrities and real life figures. The biggest of dime novel protagonists was Buffalo Bill, and following him was Nick Carter, a literary equivalent to Eugen Sandow (the Schwarzenegger of his day). Thomas Edison inspired an entire subgenre of dime novel fiction, even Jack the Ripper was a pulp protagonist in Dutch magazines, because sometimes the term "pulp hero" doesn't take the "hero" part much into account.

The precedent for celebrity stories is older than pulp fiction itself, but it was in the dime novels and novelettes and pulps that the idea really found it's footing. The Shadow's exploits took a lot from Gibson's own experiences with Houdini (who himself starred in fictional stories, one famously penned by Lovecraft). Doc Savage was visually modeled after Clark Gable and supposedly inspired on Richard Henry Savage. Eddy Polo, Charlie Chaplin and Tom Mix were the protagonists of several pulps and comic strips across the world, as well as Al Capone (who starred in pulp magazines in Germany and Spain), who fought Nick Carter in a Brazilian story guest-starring Fu Manchu (reportedly based on real figures Sax Rohmer claimed to have met) and Fantomas. Today obviously there are much greater restrictions at play concerning celebrity images, but if dime/pulp magazines were around today, we would have quite possibly seen figures like Keanu Reeves, Tilda Swinton and Lil Nas X either star in their own magazines or be used as models for rising protagonists.

So I guess one other way you could go on about creating a pulp hero, who's either a teenager or appeals to teenagers, would be the route of taking a look at some celebrities that either are, or appeal to those demographics, because if pulp magazines had stayed around unchanged past the 60s and 80s and whatnot you definitely would have seen the likes of David Bowie, Will Smith and Dwayne Johnson get their own magazines. I don't know much about what celebrities are popular with teenagers these days and I'm not about to start caring now, but you could take a look at some icons you like, or liked when you were younger, and think about what made them appealing to think about as characters, and how you could apply that to something closer to a pulp story.

A word of advice would also be that, if you want to make a character inspired by pulp heroes, if you want to create a convincing modern pulp hero, you might want to look less at the pulp heroes themselves and instead those that they were inspired by or working to defy and stand out when compared to. You take the building blocks and rearrange them in a different way. If you have a specific character you want to design yours in reference to, you can send me an ask or a DM about them and I'll dig into my files to give you a few pointers, and what kind of history or cultural predecessors they have that you could take a look at to make something more genuine.

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

Can you write another "enemies" to friends bit for Bill and Alec? I love this AU.

Okay, I can write up another bit of their pre-friendship, haha.

On with the fic!

--

It has been a week since the American arrived in town and, frankly, Hardy was sick of hearing about him.

This Masters person was the new gossip of the office, so if Hardy left his door open, he'd hear the staff yammering on and on about this weird American and some scandal he was involved in. Well, frankly, Hardy didn't give a rat's ass about whatever this man did in the states, he had a case to work on.

Two attack in one month, that was bad, and it could get worse. They should be focused on catching this attacker, but no, no, he can hear a few of the officers talking about Masters again.

With a growl, Hardy got up, threw on his suit jacket, and made his way over to Miller. "I'm going to get coffee, do you want something?"

At this point, she knew that while he would be getting drinks, this was his excuse to leave before he shouted at their co-workers. So, Miller, ever the amazing friend (not that he'd tell her that to her face, she didn't need to lord that over him), smiled and said she'd take the usual.

He had no idea what he'd do without her.

So, he found himself outside, trying to calm himself down. It was a lot quieter outside today than it was in the office, and for that, he was thankful. He made it to the cafe near the station, the one with the staff that knew better than to pester and who were very polite, and stepped inside.

Only for him to see the American inside, looking completely and utterly bothered and distraught, and a wee bit furious. He was sitting at a table, glaring at the newspaper sitting on the table in front of him, and seemed to be trying to ignore any of the stares from the other customers in the shop.

Hardy raised an eyebrow before going up to the counter, placing his and Miller's order, then decided to investigate because he was sure that Masters' anger had to do with whatever Olly decided to write. And yes, it appeared that was the case, judging from the headline of DISGRACED SEX DOCTOR IN BROADCHUCH? taking up a good chunk of the page.

"Go away, detective." Masters practically snarled, hazel eyes glaring up at Hardy as he looked at the paper.

Hardy decided to ignore him as he grabbed the newspaper and looked over the front page, yep, Olly's work. Stupid boy, he needed to bring this up with Miller. Hardy hadn't really been paying much attention to the gossip in the office and in town, as soon as he heard Masters' name, he tuned out.

He had been made aware that the man had done something stupid, but Hardy just assumed that it was something he did in a hospital, malpractice or something, not an affair. Well, he wasn't going to get much sympathy from Hardy on that one, an affair was his own doing and he had no one to blame but himself for that one.

However, it was always horrible to have something like that slapped on the front page of the local paper, especially in a town where the most exciting thing to happen was when the tide came in.

He quickly read over what was written on the front page, then scoffed, setting it back down. "Olly's got an imaginative way of writing the 'facts', I'm sure. Look, better it get out of the way before they find out later. Give it a week, then you'll be forgotten about. You're new, they like that."

Masters continued to glare at him. "And how would you know that?"

"Trust me, you're not the only one to have his name smeared by the press." Hardy ticked, crossing his arms, before hearing his name from the counter. "Look up 'worst cop in Britain', then you'll see what I mean."

He turned and walked away, leaving a puzzled Masters behind.

--

Hardy wanted to kick himself, why had he even told the man to look up that embarrassing and demeaning article? Well, it was still shit, but in a sense, sort of on the same grounds of having your private life and reputation dragged through the mud by some egotistical jackass who wanted attention.

He was home now, and his laptop was in front of him. He had the internet up and was looking through articles and information on this William Masters, a highly regarded doctor who had made great strides in sex research.

He looked over articles, seeing that the man had accomplished a lot over the years, up until his affair with his research partner was found out. Ouch, that... yeah, that could very much be a stain on your reputation, and it was out in the open, couldn't be covered up and hidden.

Not like...

Hardy shook his head and continued to look over things, before seeing a photo of the doctor, from years back. He looked... very different, less weary and broken, hardened by his problems. He looked, well, he looked happy.

Smiling at the photographer as he sat in his office, dressed in a lab coat with glasses on his clean-shaven face, his hair shorter and styled. There was even a bow tie around his neck, looking all the world like a doctor you'd see on TV.

But he looked so different from the man that Hardy had only encountered three times now. It was almost surreal, then again, the same could be said about anyone from his old life seeing him now compared to how he was before Sandbrook.

He didn't know why, but he saved the photo of Masters to his computer, then moved on to another article.

--

I'm not sure what their second meeting was, but it involved name exchanges, so Hardy and Bill are aware of each other's names.

I think it was just Bill trying to apologize for the other day, and Hardy not being in the mood to hear it.

[mmvalentine]

The Pianist pt 8 | Jurdan

Modern AU. Part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 9

Jude got home in the early hours of the morning and fell straight into bed.

It had been a whirlwind trip of meet and greets, recording demos, being passed from arm to arm and singing until her throat hurt. Bryern had paid for her accommodation, but the flights were more than she had expected, and she ended up having to buy new clothes while she was there. Especially since she was supposed to meet important people and look the part. Jude just hoped it had all been worth it.

Bryern had gotten her to sing for a number of producers, and they were so positive about her that Bryern made her his official project and dragged her around LA introducing her to everyone he knew. She barely slept, he told her not to eat while they were networking, and the alcohol they kept shoving into her hands made her head spin.

Of course, she had not anticipated being away for so long and had to make profuse apologies to all her workplaces. Java Island stood by their 'making of a celebrity' plan, but both the pub and the diner let her go. Jude had no idea how she was going to keep her apartment, but there was no point backing out now.

The truth was, Jude didn't mind this. Didn't mind any of it, not the sleepless nights or the being 'on' all the time or the being fawned over by strangers. In some ways it was tiring but in other ways it was exhilarating, and the more Jude tasted this life the hungrier she was for it. And although she knew she couldn't run on adrenaline forever, she thought she could very well do this life, if only she was let in.

So the weeks went by, and by the time she went home she had agreed for Bryern to officially be her agent, recorded five songs, and had three producers in negotiation with Bryern about a possible record deal down the track. He was optimistic, and she was exhausted.

Jude woke in her own bed hours later, and although the last few weeks were exciting, it was very good to be home and back to real life. Now she just had to pick up the pieces and hope the adventure had not cost her too much.

Jude groaned, dragged herself into the shower, and then took stock of the damage.

She was a week in rental arrears.

She had lost two of three jobs.

She now owed Cardan a grand total of $1, 436.

Jude flicked through the stack of letters by the door, adding her latest power bill to the growing tally of expenses.

And there in the pile was a card that had her name in curling cursive.

Jude Duarte, you are cordially invited to the fall showcase for the Juilliard school of music.

Jude stared at the invitation for some time, before realising that the date was today and the start time was in twenty minutes.

She threw on the black dress that was hanging over a chair nearby, bundled her hair up with a clip, and shoved her feet into a pair of shoes she had bought in LA. After everything Cardan had done for her, there was no way she could miss his showcase.

It took Jude an agonisingly long time to find the right hall, and by the time she got there the concert had already started. Jude slipped in the back of what was a small but plush theatre, with red seats and wood paneling that she supposed was good for acoustics.

There were twenty-odd musicians that all seemed to be more and more Nicasias and Lockes, and although they were all beautiful and talented, Jude itched to fast-foward the night until Cardan played.

Cardan. How odd that the first time she was seeing him after three weeks, he wouldn't even know she was there.

An hour and a half later, he was being announced. The darling of his cohort, Cardan was the closing act, and the man in the suit was telling the audience this was something Cardan had written himself. Jude shuffled in her seat, and leaned forward in rapt anticipation as he sat down at the piano stool and moved his neck as if getting comfortable. In her peripheral vision, Jude noticed others in the same posture as her.

It was not so much that Jude had forgotten Cardan's reputation. It was more that she had been so bent on hating him for so long that his being 'talented' just added to her irritation. He always seemed to get special treatment because of it and there was nothing she despised more.

Then she had been focusing on her own musical career, and was just now thinking that she couldn't even remember what his playing sounded like. Wasn't sure if she had ever actually just listened to him, or heard something he had written himself.

And then Cardan started to play.

Jude wasn't sure what she was expecting. Something technical, something impressively fast and vaguely furious. Something like the racket that kept her up all hours of the night.

But that wasn't what Cardan had written.

Cardan played soft, and languid, and sweet. She found herself leaning her chin on her hands against the back of the seat in front of her, and wondering if this is what Cardan's soul really looked like or if this was just some kind of clever trick he knew.

The audience was so silent, and design of the hall was so well made that the piano may as well have been right by Jude's side. She wondered where this song had come from, and how she had never, never heard anything like this coming from the upstairs apartment.

And then the sound changed and it was somehow familiar, like the had known this song her whole life.

Jude sat up, and her eyes went wide in the dark concert hall.

She did know this song. This was her mother's lullaby.

///////

Cardan had been allocated two invitations like everyone else. His parents had already announced they were coming so he sent one off to them because he knew they would manage to get their names on the list regardless. And then he turned the other one around in his hands for a good fifteen minutes before sliding it under Jude's door along with the handful of other white envelopes.

Jude had been gone for weeks and he didn't expect her to be back in time. Didn't expect she would come even if she was back- but then again, who else was he going to give it to?

Cardan had always planned to play his own composition on the night, although writing it was harder than expected due to the hasty return of his insomnia. In the end, what else could he write but Jude's song? The memory of it taunted him day and night, crystal clear in his head but out of reach for his ears.

So he played it, over and over trying to recreate the effect that Jude's voice had on him. And while it didn't help him sleep, it did morph over time into the only song he could manage while so sleep-deprived he was seeing things.

Which brought him to today. In the concert hall, with his parents and teachers in the front row, and the people who used to be his friends sitting somewhere to the lift and sniggering to themselves. Cardan didn't care. He just played, and to him it sounded like Jude, Jude, Jude, Jude, Jude.

This was not what had been expected of him today, and he knew that. It was not the usual style of his compositions, not what usually got him such high praise from the heads of department. But Cardan quite liked this song.

When he finished, the audience was silent. Then he stood and bowed, and realised that people were crying, and only then did they start to applaud, and even stand to their feet. Cardan grimaced, never being fully comfortable with this sort of thing, and nodded again before making his way off stage. The Head of Music was back on stage and speaking about... something, Cardan wasn't really paying attention, and he could see Nicasia and the others waving to him like they might try to talk to him. And then there were his parents, whispering to each other while watching the speech.

But Cardan didn't want to see any of them. Really just wanted to slip out of the hall before they had a chance to catch him, before faculty members or student journalists or anyone else cornered him and made him talk. So he snuck through the curtains, through a side door and up the side of the hall in the deep shadows while the Head of Music droned on. All the way to the back of the hall, because even though he had not looked out into the audience for long, he had stood there long enough to make out the important faces.

And the hall was small enough that he could see who was sitting in the back row.

It was small enough that he could see Jude.

****

As you can see I have no idea how anything actually works at Juilliard, I just started using it for the prestige of the name and then derailed into my own universe sorry if anyone actually has been there and knows how bullshit this all is 😂

JURDAN MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @asteria-of-mars @swankii-art-teacher @loosingdreams @feysand-loml @cityofbookish @story-scribbler @thebonecarver @realbookloverproblems

[selfwriting-sugarquills]

70 Fred Weasley headcanons in celebration of 700 followers:

(plus an extra one, for the heck of it lmao) 

You guys, thank you so much for 700 followers! I appreciate every single one of you and writing for the twins has been such a blast so far, much to the thanks of all of you <3 

Find the 70 George Headcanons: Here

Fred has always been really good at sleight of hand stuff, as a kid, he could do card tricks with ease, steal baked goods from his mother’s kitchen and later on since his allowance wasn’t exactly anything to brag about, he’d steal sweets from honeydukes' on Hogsmeade trips, with the help of George, he’s not proud of it but in his defence, he was a stupid teenage boy at the time. 

Fred is incredibly competitive and will hold onto anything you challenge him to for way longer than you might think. He’s definitely the type to “race you” anytime you’re headed to herbology, care against magical creatures or Hogsmeade together.

As the man himself said in the deathly hallows, Fred doesn’t like the idea of a big grandiose wedding ceremony, he’d prefer something more low-key and simple, where the focus is more on having fun and celebrating instead of neat seating plans and meticulously chosen decorations. Some flowers and booze will do, he’ll provide the fireworks - In essence, he only needs his S/O and the rest he couldn’t care less about. 

George may be better at cooking, but Fred makes a damn good pancake and he will forever pride himself on that. 

Fred is the more jealous, overprotective twin. He’s aware of this and tries his best not to let it go to his head but he can’t help it. 

Fred snores, I’m pretty sure it’s canon that both twins snore, but Fred is louder and, as mentioned in my last headcanon post, a very heavy sleeper meaning it’s more difficult to get him to wake up so he can stop, your best shot is trying (and probably failing) to turn him over. 

Fred is also a very restless sleeper, he’ll toss and turn, and occasionally dream about quidditch. I’m saying you might want to be aware that he might confuse you for a bludger in his sleep, don’t worry though, he’ll always apologise profusely and make it up to you with a lot of kisses (and maybe a bit more than that, if you’re keen ;)) 

Fred has an extensive caffeine addiction, which is unfortunate cause he’s quite hyper already but he can’t function properly until he gets his coffee in the morning, and then again in between lessons/at lunch and then again late in the afternoon. Sometimes, if he needed to write an essay that was due, he’d drink coffee at like nine pm. He knows he won’t be able to sleep because of it, please, Y/n, he’s accepted his fate. 

I personally always imagined the twins as having ADHD, idk why it just fits their characters. Fred is for sure the more outwardly fidgety and intrusive, this gets less and less with age, as it does for a lot of ADHD people, his inability to focus remains the same though. 

Fred loves being outside, he’s the first of the Weasley siblings to suggest a game of quidditch or just going outside for walks, hide and seek in the woods near their house. He absolutely loves taking his dates on walks in parks or at the beach and when he has kids he plays with them in their yard, building snowmen etc. 

Fred probably suggests at some point that the whole family should go camping, and he’s actually really fun to camp with. He’ll tell the best scary stories by the campfire. 

In regards to children, Fred wants a lot of kids. Like at least three but would be willing to have more if his s/o wants to. He just really likes the dynamic of a large family since that’s what he’s used to. 

Fred’s favourite flavour of sweets is anything sour, the sourer the better, because of this he can handle it really well and he loves handing people some of his ridiculously sour candy and watching them squirm. 

He also really likes spicy food, he’s a bit of a daredevil so don’t challenge him to eat anything because he will eat a whole chilli and nearly die. 

 You know he’d be really casual about it too, lol, like sweating and crying but just leaning on the counter like “*pant* what? hot? no not at all *deeeeep breath* I can ha-aw-rdly taste it!” 

One thing about Fred is that he’s oddly squeamish, like seeing his brother’s ear blown off isn’t so bad (if you don’t take into account the emotional trauma that is), but a needle for a blood sample or a vaccine? oooh, he’s gonna need a big juice box and a cookie and his s/o’s hand to hold if he’s gonna make it through. He also has a thing about leeches. One time at Hogwarts they were mentioned in a lesson and he thought he was going to faint the entire time. 

Fred’s broken five bones over the years, four are from quidditch: his left arm and two ribs, and then the other arm from trying to do an elaborate stunt on the stairs in the burrow and falling down two flights. 

Fred loves to sing karaoke (because I cannot get that damn clip of James singing karaoke out of my head) though he particularly enjoys doing a very poor job on purpose. 

Fred is such a good liar that on several occasions he’s given presentations in school and gotten good marks for them despite having bullshat his way through the entire thing. 

Like seriously, he’s that guy in the group project who only looks at the slides like five minutes before the presentation and then just turns on a full charming newscaster voice on the professor to the point of them being genuinely convinced (albeit a little confused) that what Fred’s saying is true. 

This is also why Fred loves playing card games like poker: he’s really good at bluffing. 

Speaking of poker-face, he’s really quite good at teasing in public (if you’re into that sort of thing *wink*) because no matter the dirty deeds he might get up to under a table, his face remains as regular as always (safe for a little smirk to his lover every now and then) 

Fred always wanted to learn an instrument, he thought it’d make him cooler when he was a teenager, as an adult, he just really wants to recreate that clip of the trombone-playing dad with the sunglasses, or maybe serenade some cows with jazz or something. 

Fred was never a big fan of the uniform thing, so he always tried to make it his own, whether that be tying the tie differently, or having his sleeves rolled up; it’s not much but you gotta take what you can get when you’re literally dressed the same as everyone else. 

Fred might make fun of his dad’s interest in muggle things but secretly he loves it too. He has spent a lot of hours in the shed with Arthur, assuring everyone that it was just to have some quality time with his dad but he would still pay close attention when Arthur explained things to him. 

Fred had a whole business of selling candy from Honeydukes’ and joke products from Zonko’s to second and first years before he and George started dabbling with their own products, he could get you a butterbeer too but it’ll cost you an extra three galleons. 

Fred really likes glitter, George has a thing for lace, anything that glitters on his s/o makes Fred weak. If you want to get your way just put on some glittery eyeshadow or lipgloss and watch him spin. 

Since he loves things that glitter and gleam he loves buying his s/o jewellery, he loves seeing them wearing them as little tokens of their relationship. 

Did someone say slight possession kink? oops not me

Fred is incredible with numbers, this is pretty much canon and has been explored but I’m just amazed at this boy’s wit AND intellect. I have a slight headcanon that if he ever goes on a proper first date with someone where a bill is involved, he impresses his date by calculating the tip after just a glance.

Even if Fred has a longstanding reputation of not caring about school, when he has kids he does want to help them with any coursework over the summer and Christmas breaks, he’ll even study up on his old books just to be able to help out in any classes he didn’t take/didn’t pay attention in. 

Fred would, in general, be an amazing father. He’s goofy and playful most of the time, though he’s serious and incredibly caring whenever his kids are in a bad mood or have problems. He knows that he’s not the most outwardly emotional of the twins but he makes sure his kids know they can always talk to him about anything. 

Fred is incredibly messy. His room is usually a cry for help and he only cleans it when it gets to the point where it distracts him from focusing on work. 

No worries though, his S/O doesn’t have to do all the housework for him, he’ll do it. He just needs to be reminded that he needs to every once in a while. 

Fred has a really bad temper, he doesn’t know where he gets it from but he tends to get angry easier than George, though Fred is better at letting it out so it doesn’t continue to bother him. 

His bad temper does mean that he used to brawl more with siblings as a kid, and it wasn’t unusual to see him with scrapes and bruises as a kid, much to Molly’s dismay. Fred didn’t mind though, he thought it made him look tough. 

Fred is more likely to get caught sneaking around because of his brash nature, he tends to forget just how quiet you have to be to avoid Mrs Norris in the corridors. 

Fred is certainly not an early bird but his favourite time of day is, in fact, the morning when the sun’s coming up. He only knows this because of Wood’s ridiculously early quidditch practices but there’s something about the way the world looks when it’s bathed in soft golden light that just hits different to Fred. 

Fred is a great team player, as much as he seems like he’s more selfish than George, if it’s regarding a team activity (like quidditch or a battle of sorts) he’ll completely lose all focus on himself and only try to ensure other’s safety and victory. This is also why he plays as a beater, he’s not afraid of getting hit at all when he’s focused on getting the bludgers away from his teammates. 

So if his s/o ever needs it, he’ll be there to help with anything: Needs to take a day off from work to take care of his sick s/o? no problem. Needs to stay up with his small child because his s/o is exhausted and needs rest? On it. Something as small as carrying groceries or books, making a cup of tea when the other is busy or doing the dishes is all on the list of things that Fred will happily do for his s/o, and often without having to be asked, he’ll just do it. 

Fred’s boggart is seeing his family members and/or his s/o hurt beyond what he can save. Essentially his worst fear is being helpless when he needs it most. 

One of those times was when George lost his ear. The first night when George was lying practically unconscious on the couch with blood everywhere was the worst night of Fred’s life, he truly felt so anxious and helpless and angry that he vomited and ended up passing out next to the couch after staying up till sunrise watching his brother like a hawk. 

He didn’t just sleepwalk when he was younger, he also often experienced nightmares, it’s only George, Molly and Arthur who remembers anything about this. 

They got less and less the older he got and he assumed that he’d never be bothered by them again until after the second wizarding war and the battle of Hogwarts. 

I don’t like to headcanon that he dies cause he didn’t and that’s final lol. I do, however, headcanon that Fred still gets hurt, since everyone in the explosion beside him seemed to sustain minor injuries, I just think that to even out with George losing his ear, he hurts his leg and needs a lot of retraining/a walking stick. I think that’d be a more fair/unfair ending for Fred who’s always full of energy having to have to adjust to living slowly for a little while (not permanently, I couldn’t do that to my boy). 

The boy has anxiety sometimes, ok. (just let me project for a second)

He didn’t know how much tension he usually holds in his body until he drank alcohol for the first time and felt his entire body loosen up and was like “huh this is new.” 

He doesn’t use alcohol to deal with it though, he prefers just talking to George about whenever he feels is stressing him out and that helps. A massage from his s/o to loosen him up doesn’t hurt either. 

Fred prefers to talk to his dad about his problems more than he prefers to talk to Molly, generally. 

His favourite body parts on his s/o: Shoulders, hips, hands. 

He loves to kiss, just in general, but he also loves kissing his s/o’s nose, forehead, neck, shoulder, etc. as little gestures of affection. 

He def. has a bit of a size kink, he loves being taller than his s/o. 

If Fred could have any pet he wanted, he’d probably want a dog, the bigger the better. He doesn’t think he has the time for a pet though. 

It was his idea to start breeding pygmy puffs, it’s the closest he’ll get to having a pet. 

I don’t know why but I feel like when Fred and his s/o are expecting and his s/o goes into labour he just panics. loses it, drops the binkie as we say in Denmark: Freaks the fuck out, if you will. He’s definitely the pacing and wringing his hands together type, though he probably tries his best to keep himself composed and chill during the whole thing whilst simultaneously hyperventilating. 

Fred doesn’t cry often but he sure as hell wept with pride when he held all his kids for the first time. 

Despite the notion that the twins often slip in a joke version of a sweet treat or something similar amongst the snacks at parties, Fred is strongly against tampering with drinks. He knows the connotations it holds and he doesn’t want anyone to be afraid they’d put something in it. If he wants you to test out their truth serum or a love potion, he’ll just ask you flat out and if you don’t want to, he’s not going to continue asking. 

Most of the detentions Fred has gotten from Snape come from times he’s spoken back to him when Snape’s been giving another student a rough time. He doesn’t regret it one bit. 

 If you ask Fred what his proudest accomplishment is, he’ll probably say that it’s having had enough restraint to not punch Umbridge in the face every time he saw her. 

On the note of Umbridge. It wasn’t her detentions with him that got his blood boiling, it was when she punished little kids (a la Nigel) for doing practically nothing, he understands that to an extent and by comparison, setting off a bunch of fireworks inside a building would harbour a harsher punishment, but making twelve-year-olds bleed for running in the halls or playing music or just doing things that twelve-year-olds will inevitably do, is something Fred doesn’t understand. That year pretty much any kid younger than him, or anyone who was too afraid to stand up for themselves, became Fred and George’s little siblings, and they’re very protective older brothers. Umbridge can vouch for that. 

He struggles with a lot of insecurity in his relationships, he always puts on a front of being extra funny and outgoing when he’s in a new relationship because he’s secretly afraid that the way he is isn’t good enough and that eventually, his s/o will see through him and leave because they don’t like the softer, more serious side of him. 

Fred is the godfather of all of George’s kids but is also the godparent of Hugo, Lily and Lucy. 

Fred loves business meetings, he sees them as a good challenge to practice his smooth talk. 

Fred spent his first salary from the shop on the most expensive bottle of champagne he could find and a new suit. 

Fred tried to get into whiskey, feeling like it’d make him a cool business owner type of man, so, with his second salary, he went out and bought a fancy-schmancy bottle of whiskey and the whole getup with a bottle and some cool glasses, and then invited Lee over to try it with him and George. 

They did not like it. Fred thought it tasted like what he imagined gasoline tastes like so they mostly used it as decorations, not having the heart to mix it with something. 

Fred doesn’t necessarily like PDA, it depends on what you mean. He likes being secretive. Pulling his s/o into an empty classroom, nook, hallway, secret pathway etc where anyone could wander in at any time and snogging her senseless is one of his favourite things to do. 

Fred knows how good he looks in his quidditch uniform and will absolutely use it against his s/o. (they’re gonna get spicy from here on so read with caution if you're in public)

Fred prefers giving more than receiving oral. 

He has a lot of energy, did you not think that would rub off (no pun intended) on his sex drive? He can go pretty much any time and place, and typically last at least two rounds. 

Also, his favourite position is having you on top. Okay, I'm gonna stop now. 

[maybankiara]

NOW WE’RE SINKING

pairing: JJ Maybank x Female Pogue!Reader

summary: You and JJ have liked each other for ages, but neither of you want to admit it. It’s come to the point where you’ve had enough, and you know what could be the last straw - flirting with Rafe Cameron while JJ watches. This time, it might just lead to the conclusion you’ve been wanting.

word count: 2.9k

warnings: underage drinking, mild cursing

additional: angst with the slightest hint of smut; jealous!jj, possessive!jj.

written for a request

requests are open

As per usual, the Pogues throw one hell of a party, and already having had a drink or two, you are having the time of your life.

  Next to you is Kiara, chatting to a girl she knows from high school. Both you and the other only female Pogue are wearing jean shorts and a bikini top, the choice that you matched right before going to the beach.

  Since Kiara is busy, you walk over to where the boys are. Pope spots you first and he waves at you, offering you a drink straight from the keg.

  You accept the drink with a smile. ‘What’s up, Pope?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much, just trying to get as far away from John B and Sarah as possible.’

  ‘They at it again?’

  Pope nods and you see the tiredness on his face. You chuckle and lean to look past him, right where John B and Sarah are eating each other’s faces not twenty feet from you guys.

  Poor Pope, you think.

  ‘Hey, at least we’ve got the keg.’

  He grins and you click your cups, with Pope declaring it for John B and Sarah, but also JJ, who is ‘trying to mack on some Touron,’ as it turns out.

  And true to his word, Pope nudges you slightly to the left. Far from you, too far to notice he’s being looked at, JJ is chatting with some random girl, throwing his head back in laughter. You take a big gulp of the beer in your hand, shaking your head.

  ‘Disgusting,’ you say.

  ‘Yeah,’ Pope agrees, ‘he needs to chill out. It’s like what, fifth girl in the past month?’

  ‘Seventh,’ you reply immediately.

  You curse your tongue right after, because none of the other Pogues are paying that much attention to JJ’s antics, and you shouldn’t either. Thankfully, Pope doesn’t catch that, instead just shaking his head in disapproval.

  You’re about to say something else—seeing JJ with other girls always gets you riled up—when you spot a familiar face approaching the bonfire, few groups of people away from where you’re standing. The keg is right in front of Pope and you know the boys are going to come here, and quickly, the idea forms in your mind.

  Of course, it’s a drunken idea, but it’s enough to get your gears going.

  ‘Ugh, the Kooks,’ says Pope.

  ‘It’s all right. You can go to Kiara, I’ll handle them.’

  Pope nods, but his eyebrows furrow and he hesitates before leaving. ‘You sure?’

  ‘It’s just Rafe and the boys,’ you say. ‘All talk, no action.’

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘I promise.’

  You’re alone at last, knowing within minutes, you’d be serving beer to the poshest of the Kooks. They’re taking their time getting to you, chatting to people on the way—they’re probably drunk enough already—and your eyes flicker to where JJ is.

  He’s still sitting there, talking to the same girl, only now one of his arms is slung over her shoulders. You feel rage bubbling inside you – this is JJ, who is an extremely touchy and flirtatious person, even when he’s not necessarily intending to be. You know exactly what’s going through the girl’s head.

  JJ Maybank is hot in a way that very few boys are. His demeanour screams adventure, breaking the rules, but it also screams kindness paired with a good time. Sure, you might be just one of the girls who fell for that, but he’s your best friend.

  Plus, you know he has a thing for you, just as much as you have a thing for him. You see it when he looks at you, and you see his gaze linger on your body when you ask if the dress looks good on you, and you see him pay attention to what you look like in the swimming suit.

  But he’s playing coy, and so are you. You don’t really know when this whole charade started – you’ve liked him for a long time now, but it’s difficult to say when things started getting heated between you two.

  Now, seeing him laughing at whatever the girl is saying, remembering all the times you’d be in her position, away from all the Pogues, and neither of you would do anything—

  ‘Hey, Miss Pogue.’

  In front of you, there’s Rafe with Topper and Kelce. He’s dressed in his prep clothing, as they all are, and the smirk on his face tells you he’s most definitely not sober.

  ‘Sup, Cameron?’

  Rafe hands you a few bills. ‘Three.’

  Your eyes glance to JJ, just for a second, and you catch him looking – Good, you think.

  You fill up three cups with beer from the keg and hand them to the boys. It’s supposed to be nothing more than that, except your hand lingers a little when you’re handing Rafe his cup, and your fingers touch.

  It’s nothing really noticeable, not to anyone else, but Rafe’s eyes find yours, almost questioning. All you do is smile and look away, before glancing back at him and finding him still fixed on you.

  Your smile grows wider.

  ‘You coming, Rafe?’ Kelce asks.

  Rafe doesn’t look away from you, hesitating. Then he turns to Kelce and says, ‘I’ll be with you in a sec.’

  Topper and Kelce leave and Rafe comes closer to you. There’s no one wanting a beer at the moment and you’re thankful for that, because that means you won’t need to take your attention away from Rafe.

  ‘Hey,’ he says.

  ‘Hey.’

  He grins, the classic Rafe Cameron smile that you’re sure has gotten him laid more than enough times. ‘You know, I thought all Pogues look like they came from dirt, but…damn.’

  You giggle, feeling the heat of JJ’s gaze on you, even if the only thing you want to do is slap Rafe’s face.

  Or not; not really.

  Here’s the thing with Rafe: he’s a challenge. It’s well known that Rafe has a very specific type of girls he likes, and how he likes them, and a lot of the girls can only dream of being with him. Deep down, you’ve always wondered if you’d be someone he’d consider.

  There were times when you thought, if Rafe was interested in you, you might actually be interested in him, too. But now you’re talking and he’s somehow even more annoying and pretentious, unaware of how much of a dick he’s being, and all you can think about is JJ and his arm around that girl.

  You glance over, at him, as Rafe is telling you something. He’s sitting with the girl and he’s laughing, and he’s not looking at you anymore, but you know he cares.

  The fact that he isn’t looking is saying more than him looking would.

  Fine, you think, so be it.

  Contrary to your expectations, you spend quite some time with Rafe. He’s a chatty person, but only when it comes to things that are about him, and you listen while half being literally anywhere else. But you like the idea that someone with Rafe’s reputation thinks he can get into your panties, and you like that you’re probably pissing off JJ in the worst way possible.

  It might be the alcohol in you, maybe the challenge and the newfound courage (and a little bit of being pissed of with the fact that JJ is still with that girl), but you put your hand on Rafe’s arm as you laugh along to whatever he said.

  He looks at you with yet another smirk on your face, and you can tell he’s going to go in for a kiss, soon.

  You glance at where JJ is sitting, and you see him, alone at last.

  Come on already, you think. I know you’re jealous.

  JJ is aware of the game both of you are playing just as much as you are, you are certain of that. He’s taken it further by actually getting with girls, but there’s a difference between JJ sleeping with tourists who none of you are going to see ever again, and you flirting with the Kook Prince right in front of everybody.

  Not to mention that JJ and Rafe are sworn enemies, for what it’s worth.

  Now, JJ is seething. He’s staring at you and Rafe and you don’t need to see him up close to know that his body is tense, his jaw clenched, and his fingers forming fists.

  That’s hot.

  You compare it in your head – Rafe has been trying to seduce you for the past twenty minutes, unsuccessfully, and all it took was one glance at JJ being pissed off at you spending time with Rafe to get you to feel something.

  ‘How come you’re at a Pogue party?’ you ask Rafe.

  He grins, putting an arm around your shoulder. ‘Heard there’s pretty girls on this side of the island.’

  You laugh. ‘Hm, I can’t say you’ve heard wrong.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Maybe.’ You look into his eyes, as his lips, then you look at JJ – but he’s not there. ‘Hey, I forgot my friends asked me to check up on them. I’ll be right back.’

  Rafe doesn’t protest and you know it’s because he doesn’t believe anyone would really turn him down. He’s got a reputation and it’s quite a nice one – too bad for him, you don’t care about. There’s only one person whose reputation you care about, and you have no clue where he is.

  Moments after leaving your chat partner, you catch Pope chatting to Kiara. You walk up to them, a drink in your hand.

  ‘Have either of you seen JJ?’

  Kiara shakes her head. ‘Why are you with Rafe?’

  You turn to answer, but Pope does it for you. ‘She’s trying to get JJ jealous.’

  ‘No, that’s not–’

  ‘Look,’ Pope says, ‘just get it over with. I’m tired of you two doing whatever it takes to get the other jealous. Just… I don’t know, bang it out, or whatever.’

  You swallow the gulp in your throat – what the fuck do I do? – as both Pope and Kiara start to laugh. They reassure you it’s not a big deal, they’ve all known for ages, and the only annoying thing is that you’re both actually sticking to the no-Pogue-on-Pogue-macking rule and in turn making the sexual tension between you two unbearable.

  ‘Rules are meant to be broken,’ Kiara tells you. ‘We weren’t supposed to be involved with the Kooks, and look at John B.’

  That’s exactly what you do, and regret it instantly. He’s still making out with Sarah, not exactly in front of everybody, but clearly in everybody’s line of sight. Sometimes you think they’re doing it because of Topper; sometimes you just envy them with how open they can be about their feelings.

  ‘Y/N,’ Pope says, ‘go find JJ.’

  And that’s exactly what you do.

  It’s not the easiest thing to decide to leave Rafe to his own dealings, knowing he’ll probably have a vendetta against you too, now, but you also know there’s a high chance he will just get with some other girl and forget about you in the morning.

  Instead, you focus your attention in finding the boy you actually like, even if the alcohol in your veins is making it a little difficult.

  You stumble a bit, but not enough for others to notice. Going through the crowd is quite annoying and you’re beginning to feel bitter when you realise JJ isn’t where he was sitting earlier. You’ve got no clue where he is.

  You should go look for him, and a part of you wishes you’d do that, but you’re just tired. It’s been months of you and him playing the stupid game, pretending neither of you cares about the other, when everyone around you can tell that’s as far from the truth as it can get.

  Why are you even doing it? You realise you can’t remember, and it only makes you huff.

  ‘Rafe Cameron? Seriously?’

  You didn’t even notice JJ sit down next to you, but he’s here now. You look at him and see that he’s annoyed with the situation, but so are you.

  ‘What, are you about to tell me who I am and who I’m not allowed to talk to?’

  ‘Rafe’s a dickhead, Y/N,’ JJ tells you. He looks away, huffing. ‘You should know better than that.’

  You roll your eyes. Usually, you’re quite okay at tolerating the tension between you two, but not tonight.

  Tonight, you’re absolutely failing.

  ‘God, JJ, get a grip,’ you say. ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘You’re tired.’

  ‘Yes, I’m tired.’

  You look at him and you finally take him in – he’s wearing a button-up shirt that’s completely unbuttoned, and the wind is giving you an even clearer view of his torso. His blonde hair is all spiked up and you try to get the imagine of that Touron girl running her fingers through it out of your head, but you can’t.

  You look at JJ, and all you can think of is him being with someone else.

  How does it end?

  ‘Please don’t tell me you made out with her,’ you say.

  He chuckles, but he doesn’t smile. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘What’s wrong with me talking to Rafe?’

  Neither of you say anything, and a part of you wonders if you’ve crossed the line, but mostly, you’re beyond giving a fuck. You want to turn around to JJ, to tell him that you’ve had enough, that this—whatever it between you two—can’t go on, but you don’t.

  You just sigh, and lean into him.

  He’s taken aback, you can tell, but he wraps his arms around you almost instantly. They’re warm around you, and you next your head in the crook of his neck, and as soon as he rests his chin on the top of your head, you know this is where home is.

  So you say, ‘I’m sorry.’

  JJ rubs your shoulders, soothingly. ‘Me, too.’

  You look at the bonfire, at all the people, at Rafe talking to someone else, at the rest of the Pogues pretending not to look at the two of you, and you close your eyes.

  ‘I’m just tired of this,’ you tell him, quietly.

  ‘Do you want to go back to the Chateau, to talk?’

  ‘That’d be nice.’

  And that’s exactly what you do. JJ gives you one last squeeze before letting go of you, but not completely – his hand lingers on yours, and you take him. Screw the rules, holding someone’s hand isn’t that big of a deal.

  The two of you walk to the Chateau and it’s quiet in front of the marsh. He wants to go inside, but you make him stay outside, in the open space. The hammocks have always been big enough for two, but now that you’re sitting next to one another, looking out to the dark ocean, it seems all too small.

  It’s JJ, and he’s not going to say anything, so you grow a pair and go first. ‘I knew you wouldn’t like me talking to Rafe.’

  ‘Is that why you talked to him?’

  You nod, not looking at him, even if you can already tell by his voice that he knows the answer.

  His arm is around your shoulder, the way it was with the Touron girl, but it doesn’t feel the same. It never feels the same when he’s with you – it’s as if he’s not just resting his arm, but pulling you closer, into him, and you let him.

  He plays with your hair, twirling it around his finger. You lean against his shoulder, again.

  ‘I’m tired, JJ. I don’t want to pretend anymore,’ you confess. ‘Everyone knows, anyway.’

  JJ doesn’t say anything so you move away from him, just enough to be able to look at him. His face is turned away from you, but you see him biting his lip, and his fingers are still drawing circles on your shoulders.

  ‘JJ,’ you say.

  He looks at you. You see the hunger in his eyes, the jealousy, the despair – all the same feelings that are brewing within you.

  You lean closer to him, glancing at his lips. ‘How about you kiss me already?’

  He does, and it’s chaste at first, nothing like you imagine. His lips are soft against yours and moving slowly, cautiously, until you open your mouth and deepen the kiss. His hands are on your waist and your are in his hair and he’s pushing you down on the hammock, climbing on top of you, and you’re experiencing every since feeling in the world.

  Hunger, most of all, and anger at not having done this before. His hands are travelling across your body and you’re tugging at his hair, and the kiss is better than anything you could’ve imagined – this is years of pent up emotions on both ends.

  In the end, you’re both panting, out of breath, and he rests his forehead against yours.

  He chuckles, and you begin laughing, too.

  ‘Can’t believe I spent years trying to keep myself from doing this,’ JJ whispers, giving you a chaste kiss. ‘What a fool I was.’

  ‘You and me both, babe.’

  He kisses you again, and it’s not long before you’re finally catching up on years’ worth of repressing your emotions, making each other jealous – and you can’t believe what it took to get here was flirting with Rafe fucking Cameron.

  Well, he might not be a total waste of space after all.

[slyttherins]

Supernova | Bill Weasley x Nova Lestrange

Summary: Bill Weasley gets his first kiss

Pairing: Bill Weasley x OC Nova Lestrange (Bellatrix's daughter)

Word count: 1250

Square filled: First kiss

-

When Bill was starting his second year at Hogwarts, his eyes fell on a girl with dark, curly hair. She must've been a First Year since her robes had no house logo on them.

Nova Lestrange, McGonagall had called her. Bill had heard that name before - Lestrange. It had been in the newspaper a year ago.

During the sorting ceremony, the redhead watched her go and sit under the sorting hat, secretly praying she'd be in Gryffindor.

She got Slytherin.

Three years passed and, despite Nova's reputation, Bill couldn't tear his eyes from her. She fascinated him. She was strong headed and confident, didn't take shit from anyone and never hesitated to hex someone who spoke wrong about her or her family. Maybe it was why people were intimidated by her?

She definitely wasn't the type of girl his mother would want him to bring home for the holidays, but that didn't stop the Weasley boy from longing after her.

Nova's mad laugh echoed in the hallway as Bill and her ran away, escaping from Filch.

The two had set an alarm and emerged from their respective common rooms well after curfew to meet in a hallway, planning to sneak out to the astronomy tower to watch the meteor shower. Professor Sinistra had mentioned it in class earlier this week and Nova really wanted to see it. According to the professor, the best time to see it was between moonset and dawn, which was why they were up at this hour.

''I can't believe you jinxed Filch with a jelly-legs curse,'' Bill laughed, the image of the caretaker stumbling because of the curse forever engraved in his mind.

Nova would undoubtedly get in trouble for jinxing a staff member, but she couldn't care less.

''Get used to it, Weasley. Crazy runs in my blood.''

Once they made it to the top of the astronomy tower, Bill pushed open the squeaky door. A few blankets and cushions were set up on the ground, neatly and previously placed by Nova, to keep them warm and comfortable for the spectacle.

''Do you think it has started already?'' she asked, sitting down on the blanket. It was spring, but the nights were still cold.

They were both still in their pajamas, looking like polar opposites next to each other; Nova in a Slytherin night-robe over a silk two piece and Bill in striped bottoms and a Molly-made sweater.

Bill shook his head and joined her, grabbing another blanket to cover their legs. ''It shouldn't have. According to Professor Sinistra, we should see the first shooting star around two-thirty.''

A brisk of wind blew through the astronomy tower and, without thinking, Bill reached out to tuck a piece of hair away from Nova's face.

She turned her attention to him, frowning. ''What is it? Is there something in my hair?'' She ran a hand through her dark curls, attempting to get whatever was on it out.

Bill shook his head. ''No.''

He looked down at his hands quickly and then back to her. A full head of dark messy curls framed her face, a stark contrast with her milky skin. Her dark eyes were surrounded by long lashes. She was the painted picture of her mother - only, her features were softer. Her nose was different too, more upturned.

A fragment of meteor came through the starry sky at lightning speed and Nova's eyes brightened in amazement. ''Did you catch that?''

Nova's voice broke him out of his staring.

''Eh, no...'' Bill replied sheepishly.

Nova pulled her eyebrows. ''It flew right before us. How can you have missed it?'' she asked. ''Need glasses, Weasley?'' Before Bill could say anything, she tapped his leg to get his attention. ''There's another one coming. Look!''

This time, he did catch it. A small ball of bright, white light flew across the sky, so fast it trailed light behind it. A smile broke across the redhead's lips.

''Wow. This is so much better that during Astronomy lessons.'' Bill wasn't an astronomy nerd, but he couldn't deny how cool shooting stars were despite being a small fragment of a big rock.

''That's because they are simulations,'' Nova explained. ''I don't think Professor Sinistra has the patience to spend a night with a whole class to teach astronomy. Can you imagine?''

''Next time, we should watch it by the Black Lake.''

''Ohh, good idea!''

''How will we sneak out of the castle though? The doors are locked at night.''

''I guess we'll have to stay out all night.''

''We could hide in the forbidden forest? It isn't as scary as people make it. I've been a thousand times with my brother Charlie. There centaurs and acromantulas and trolls, but they won't bother you if you don't cause trouble.''

The forest was strictly off limits to students - except for detentions or Care of Magical Creatures lessons -, but that didn't stop the Weasley boys to venture in. In third year, Charlie tried to sneak in a bowtruckle in his dorm, but McGonagall caught the green creature peeking from his robe's pocket and gave him detention.

''I'll hold your hand if you're scared,'' Bill teased and Nova shoved him.

Like most, Nova had first struck him as the good kid with good grades, the type who never disobeyed or broke rules. After all, he was top mark in a lot of classes. Turned out Bill was not the person she had taken him to be. The elder of the Weasley clan loved adventures, danger and...mischief.

Time flew by as more shooting stars crossed the sky. It was now almost time to part ways and go back to their dorm, but Bill didn't want this moment to end. He had plans for tonight, other than watching the meteor shower. One plan.

Kissing Nova.

He had tried to kiss her on many occasions before, but always got cold feet - for a Gryffindor, he wasn’t courageous in the girl department. Or, something would come up and interrupt.

The last time, they had been in the courtyard when a bludger went over their head at full speed, coming from the quidditch pitch where Gryffindor were having a practice. After practice, Charlie had apologized on their team's behalf for ruining the moment, but Bill was still mad at his brother for that - even though he wasn't the one who swung the bludger.

Bill's eyes shifted from Nova to the sky, telling himself that he'll take his chance and make a move when the next shooting star would pass, but he realized that the setting was a bit too romantic for his liking. Having his first kiss under the stars, who was he? The main character from those muggle movies?

But, again, Nova had been the one to come up with the idea of watching the meteor shower, not him.

''Nova?'' His voice was soft, but still echoed through the astronomy tower.

The raven haired girl turned in Bill’s direction. Her cheeks were rosey from the night air and Bill could feel his heart beat fast in his chest. She was so close, yet too far.

Using all the courage he had, Bill cupped her face with one of his hands and leaned in, his lips hovering over Nova's, but stopped before they could kiss, getting cold feet.

''Are you gonna kiss me, Weasley, or do I have to do it myself?'' Nova spoke between them.

Bill laughed softly, embarrassed, and did as told.

[rantingwriter]

New Neighbor (Kasamatsu Yukio x fem. reader)

Trigger warnings: angst if you squint, mention of traumatic past nothing graphic though.

It had been a long and arduous journey of loading the moving truck, driving said moving truck for 3 days, sleeping in questionable hotels, and unloading the same truck into your new apartment on the 3rd floor with a busted elevator. As the clock chimes 10 you finally finished. You are exhausted, but it was worth it. A fresh start, an opportunity to start over and move on from the grief you experienced in your home town.

You decide to take a break outside in the gazebo before starting the next step of the process: settling into your new space. 

As you take in the warm, summer, night air, a young man approaches the complex with bags of groceries. “Hello.” The ravenette nearly throws his bags out of surprise. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” 

He stares at you looking like a deer in headlights, “Huh-hi.” There is a long and awkward stretch of silence.

“My names [y/n] and you are?” 

“Kas...Kasamatsu…” He appears to be sweating profusely at the mere sight of you. 

“Nice to meet you,” you try to smile and show you mean no harm, but it doesn’t seem to do anything other than scare him off. 

“Nice to uh...Bye.” He hurries into the building and you are left with an odd feeling in your stomach. 

You sigh and give the guy enough time to retreat into his home before rising up from your spot on the bench to start unpacking. Gotta at least fix up your bed for the night. 

You reach your door and feel a pair of eyes watching you. You glance over your shoulder, “someone there?” 

No response.

“I’ve got mace and I will use it.” You reached for your pocket, you were bluffing, but you hoped it would scare them off. 

Still no response.

You shudder lightly as you rip your door open, as soon as you cross the threshold you shut the thick hunk of wood and lock it up. A sigh of relief follows as you look at all the boxes that contain your entire life. You lean against the door and yawn, “it’s only the first day, give it time [y/n], things will be better.” 

You take the next few days to unpack and get settled in the apartment before you start your new job at a recording studio. Nothing super glamorous, mostly assisting wherever you are needed, it pays the bills at least. You enter the simple looking building and go to orientation. They get you set up with a badge, establish your schedule, and provide you a map of the building. Once you are familiarized with everything, they send you up to aid one of the producers that is working with an up and coming artist. You heard the guys' music by chance on your spotify, but they never showed a picture on any of the albums. It made you curious. Who is this mystery man? 

You knock on the door and wait for the muffled “come in,” before opening the door. “Welcome! Go grab us some coffees from the lounge, we are going to be swamped for the next 8 hours.” 

You nod and hurry towards the spoken destination, would’ve been nice to hear a please, but oh well. As you navigate the labyrinth like hallways, utilizing your map as best you can. You realize very quickly that you have no idea where the hell you are. 

“Shit...Where am I?” You look around for any form of landmark in the surprisingly barren halls, when a familiar face catches your attention. “Kasamatsu?” The man freezes up instantly, the guy he was speaking with peering around the corner to see why. “Sorry, just...trying to figure out where the lounge is.” You were starting to feel flustered yourself, why did he react like that when you spoke? Does he know you? You hope not.

“Oh, you must be the new girl. Just follow this hallway and it’ll take you straight to the lounge.” The other guy points the way for you.

You nod and mutter a quick thank you before hurrying to finish your first task. You were warned the producer is a diva and you did not want your first day to start with a tantrum. The lounge turns out to be a little café that the studio owns, would’ve been nice to know. 

You wait for about 15 minutes to reach the counter, only to be informed you could’ve just come straight to the front and picked up the order that had been called in ahead of time. The order is huge and in reality requires at least two people to carry it all, but it’s just you and your shaky balance skills. Thankfully most anyone who saw you immediately made room for you to shuffle by on your way back to the room. 

It looks like you are in the clear as you approach the door, but sadly luck was not on your side as the entrance swings open. Effectively knocking you over, along with the large order of (now lukewarm) coffee. You are drenched from head to toe and the one who knocked into you was in no better shape. The producer steps out and shrieks, “What the hell are you doing?! Are you trying to sabotage Kassy?!?” 

“Kassy?” You are both appalled by his lack of concern for you and confused as you make eye contact with ‘Kassy’. Once again, the timid man from the apartments is staring at you. He looks less scared this time at least. 

“Ugh, I can’t work with someone like you!” The producer is livid and you brace for the worst when Kasamatsu finally speaks up. 

“It was my fault, I didn’t see her out here and hit her with the door.” 

This defuses the over the top man and he breathes in deeply. “I see, fine, you can stay, but you really should take better care of your appearance, we have a reputation to uphold.” Your features scrunch up in disgust as you watch the man walk away.

A hand reaches out to you and you follow it up to find Kasamatsu on the end of it. “Thanks…” you accept the gesture and he helps you up off the floor. He still looks incredibly stiff, but less like he is going to pass out at any given moment. 

“Sorry about...the door, I always forget to check the little window first.” He gestures to the viewing window he is referring to and using it as an opportunity to avoid eye contact. 

“It’s okay…” you look down at yourself and sigh at the state of your clothes. 

“There’s a shower here...and if you are fine with fan merchandise...I can get you some fresh clothes.” His frequent pauses make you wonder how he is able to work in this industry. 

“Yeah, I’m okay with merch, anything is better than smelling like latte’s all day.” You try to lighten the mood, but it just falls flat. 

“I’ll show you the way.” He briskly walks towards the locker rooms and you take your time washing up. You leave the shower to find clean clothes left out for you and a bag for your soiled garments. You smile a tiny bit, the guy seems really nice. 

After a long first day you are finally able to go home and crash. On your way up the stairs you bump into Kasamatsu one last time. He doesn’t jump this time and actually waves sheepishly. You return the gesture and reach your door before you realize he lives right across from you. “Hey,” you catch him before he enters his apartment. You are about to confront him about the weird behavior and clear the air, but a flash of a similar situation in your mind stops you. Instead you say, “Thanks for the clothes, will I need to return them after I wash them?” 

He shakes his head no, “you can keep them…” he looks like he wants to say something else, when a long minute has passed you nod your head and prepare to turn in for the night. “Welcome to the building!” He says it so fast you almost miss it entirely. 

He is bright red and standing at attention when you face him again. You can’t stop the small bubble of laughter at the sight. “Thank you, have a good night, Kassy.” You snicker as his face deadpans at the nickname his producer gave him. “See you tomorrow.” You enter your apartment before he can say anything else. 

His cheeks feel warm and his eyes are still trained on the door to your apartment. He really wanted to talk to you more, but his own fear kept him from doing so. Perhaps you would be the key to getting over the fear that has been plaguing him since he was young, but would he be prepared to handle the baggage that tagged along with you when you left your hometown?

[kerwritesthings]

Orange Blossom At The Bottom Of A Shot Glass

Summary: Salty is followed by sour, which should always be followed by sweet. 

Word Count: almost 3.7k

Warning: little cursing, little sexual tension, a bunch of sweet and fluff

Author Notes: ::taps on mic:: Soooo it’s been a GOOD while. The muse has been a little bit of a fickle bitch. Or a lot of one, actually. Also didn’t help that the last piece I wrote totally went a hard boom splat - gee thanks tall idiot Canadian one for that :P

HOWEVER, the muse decided to let go with some of the hockey boys and me play with some words for J’s Winter Writing Challenge. I’m just one day off deadline, though I still want to fill the other 1-2 I was thinking of. Thank you J for pulling this all together, you’re a peach. 

This one, is the first attempt at writing Tyler, so please be kind to a girl. It was fun to play in this little part of my hockeysphere/hockeyblr. 

I’m also maybe possibly most likely making this into a verse/series. Cause y’all should know that’s how I roll. 

The prompt from the challenge was:  “Take another step and I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“From the cute one in the three piece purple suit at the end of the bar, said to get you another of whatever you’re drinking,” Misty says, sliding the half-sugar rimmed martini glass across the copper bar top. “Wouldn’t even entertain doing this if I didn’t know most of them.”

“Thanks Mis,” you smile, pushing your empty glass towards her.

You peek down slyly towards the right. A gaggle of tall, well dressed men circle the far end. You think some look familiar. Then you see who Misty meant when he turns towards the front of the bar and towards where you’re sitting. You know straightaway who he is, know the reputation, the rumblings. It’s hard not to, as big as Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex is, it’s not at the same time. It also helps that you’ve been a hockey fan since birth, paying attention to the boys in green since you moved to Dallas a handful of years ago.

“Misty are you fucking kidding me?” you snap when she wanders back towards you.

“Nope,” she grins like the cat who got the canary. “You should go over and say thank you. Promise you, you may think you know, but he’s a good guy. The lot of them are.”

You shake your head no, downing half your drink in one sip before wiping your finger against the glass to lick at some of the sanding sugar. Misty’s blood orange martinis are your favorite, and a weakness you cannot kick when she’s got the good stuff in stock.

“Give me a blank tabcard and a pen,” you ask. “How many of them are down there? Do a round of shots on my bill, but lemme think of what to send while I write this.”

Misty places one of her pens, a card and your Visa to the right of your cocktail. You carefully fold the card in half, tearing it in two. On one half you cleanly script out your name and cell number while on the second half, you write a cheeky little note:

If you can figure out what the shot is, Misty has something for you. Thanks for the martini, the second always hits better especially when you lick the sugar rim.

“Mis, do you know how to make a reckless slut?” you snicker, capping the pen.

“Red-headed slut, but with whiskey instead of Jaeger yeah?” she questions, looking underneath the bar for a bigger, clean cocktail shaker.

“Honey whiskey if you’ve got it,” you respond, polishing off the rest of your martini before gathering your things. “Then it’s just a touch lighter on the peach. If he can guess it right, then you give him the second half of the note.”

“You got it, I’ll see you,” she waves, off to the middle of the bar to find more ingredients.

You carefully glance down towards the opposite end, noticing the boys all wrapped up so you carefully slip out to make your exit, smiling and shaking your head.

“I’m absolutely insane,” you say out loud to yourself as you head towards your car.

“Segs, my girl left this for you and a round on her for the rest of the motley crew,” Misty explains, slipping him the first card before handing out the shot glasses.

“What she say?” Jamie nudges.

“Other than I missed her licking the rim of her glass?” he chides. “I need to guess what this is and then Misty has something for me, supposedly.”

“I do,” Misty replies, handing the rest of the shots out. “She picked a bit of a good one to leave for you too. Cheers boys, bellow if you need anything.”

He lifts the glass, sniffing it at first, not having any clue.

“J, Rads you guys have any idea?” Tyler asks, they both shake their head.

“Bottoms up,” Jamie adds before they all tip the shots back.

“Anybody?” Tyler pushes again, glasses clicking on the copper.

“I know,” a voice chimes in from the back, dropping the empty shot glass onto the bar.

“Come on then Dicky,” Tyler urges.

He looks at Tyler, trying to hold back a laugh but it doesn’t work.

“It’s a reckless slut,” he manages out between his laughter. “It’s something else dark in place of Jägermeister. Slightly fitting, eh?”

The group busts out in hoops, hollers and their own peals of laughter while Tyler shoves at the one closest to him, this time it’s Alex.

“Whiskey, honey whiskey actually, so nice one there Jason. Winner gets this,” Misty trills happily, wiggling a card in front of the group.

“Hey, wait a second,” Tyler snaps, trying to lean over to snatch the card from the bartender.

“That’s the rules she set,” she says, flicking the card over to his teammate. “Take it up with him, he got it right.”

“What’s it worth?” Jason grins, fist bumping with Misty before turning more towards Tyler.

“Not whatever you’re scheming in that brain of yours,” he takes a pull off his beer.

“I was just gonna say take care of dinner tonight, but if it’s not worth that,” Jason trails off.

“Damnit Dicky,” he sighs, hand flexing around the bottle.

“Let’s go boys, they’re ready for us,” Joe interjects from the outskirts of the group, nodding to the back dining room. “And we like it here so no bloodshed, ok?”

You’re just about to slip the key into your front door lock when your phone buzzes in quick repeated blips. You juggle everything in, snag a bottle of water from the fridge before plopping down on the couch to see what has your phone trilling.

So, Tyler didn’t win the challenge, I did and Misty followed the rules passing it to the winner! Hi, I’m Jason.

::selfie of Jason with the boys scattered about behind him at the bar::

I’m refusing for a bit to give him your number. Want to spare and maybe prepare you before I do. Plus, it’s fun to watch him squirm for a bit when it comes to shit like this.

The reckless slut shot was a nice touch, so I’m hopeful in assuming when you spotted us, him really, you kind of knew who was all down at that end of the bar. Probably have heard some things about his adventures and antics, cause who hasn’t.

I can tell you most of it is blown out of proportion, don’t get me wrong he has his fun, but he’s not an asshole.

Maybe we can all do lunch after practice? I’m happy to play buffer if you don’t want to deal with him solo. We’ll go somewhere solid and make him pick it up :)

You cannot help but smile when flipping through the messages, making sure to save both Jason’s number and ridiculous selfie to your contacts list. You fire off a quick thanks text to Misty before you settle in to figure out the best reply to Jason.

You’re a good teammate and a better friend. I would also make him squirm for a bit too, little shit deserves a bit of discomfort.

I appreciate that, Jason – thank you. I know better than to judge a book by its cover, but it’s hard when the Cliffs Notes versions are face up all over the place. Plus, a lady can never be too careful.

Want to try lunch next week, the three of us? I can’t remember what your upcoming game sitch is like, sorry. Maybe PS214? Something good that’s not too fussy, but chill. Plus, they should have enough options for whatever your nutritionist wants you boys to try to stick to or options to totally cheat out on.

I’ve got some flex in my schedule for lunches, my later afternoons get to be what’s stickier.

You know they were having a team dinner, so you don’t expect a response right away, so you pull yourself together to wash up and get to bed. You wake up to a flurry of more texts the next morning, plans for lunch Monday their practice and a video clip of the two of them, which was utterly ridiculous and adorable at the same time. It eased your tensions just a touch, but lunch would be the kicker.

“There’s my favorite foodie,” Phil the manager says, hugging you immediately. “I was so happy to see your name on the reservations. Is this a work thing or a pleasure thing?”

“Little of both, I’ve got two possibly three of Dallas’ favorite hockey team joining me which is why I asked about the back-corner alcove,” you explain. “But I also want to taste some of the new things you’ve been floating both at the bar and on the menu. Nothing formal yet, but I’m thinking of trying to pull together something around new happy hour approaches.”

“I think one of your lunch companions just walked in,” Phil responds, as you catch someone walking towards the two of you from the corner of your eye. “I know him and his wife, they’ve been in a few times. Hey Jason, nice to see you.”

“Hey Phil, wasn’t sure if you’d be here, good to see you. You’ve met one half of my lunch date already?” he shakes Phil’s hand before reaching for yours.

“She and I run in the same circles, mutual friends, some projects that have crossed paths,” Phil adds. “We’re waiting on one more, yes?”

His phone trills, “It’s Segs, he’s parking now and apologized for being late. He had to let the pups out because his dog sitter couldn’t get there early today.”

“I was early, force of habit, so no worries,” you reply. “He’s going to be pretty much on time in the grand scheme. Plus, I got some actual work done talking to Phil before you got here, so it’s all good.”

“Jason, you best not be trying to steal her from me already,” Tyler claps his shoulder before setting his eyes on you. “You’ve got someone waiting for you at home.”

You can’t help but half roll your eyes and half chuckle, “Nice to officially meet you, Tyler.”

He reaches out, his hand easily dwarfs yours, “You too, Clementine.”

“If you are all ready, we’ve got the table you asked for set,” Phil nods to the right, into the dining room.

“You were mentioning your work when I came in?” Tyler questions as you all sit down.

“I guess you could say I’m a lifestyle writer, mostly food and drink but I’ve dabbled in some travel,” you say. “I started out with my own blog back when I was in college trying to figure out what I wanted to do with life and it kind of got a following from there. I refuse to say influencer, cause no I’m not. Not my schtick. Actual writing pays the bills, not sponsored Instagram or blog posts. I refused to let my baby No Fork become something tainted like that, I think why it became so successful.”

“Wait, wait. You’re A Girl With No Fork? Seriously, my wife is obsessed with your insta page and the blog,” Jason exclaims. “She’s going to lose her ish that I’m having lunch with you.”

“Still blogging but keeping that a little more separate now a days. There’s more bylines with Infatuation, Food and Wine, a good deal with some the local papers. I may have a piece end up with Bon Appetite if this pitch I’m working on comes to fruition,” you explain, taking a sip of what Phil just placed in front of you. “Trying to keep a little of that anonymity left to keep Fork as respected as it is. Your wife and I need to brunch at some point then.”

Phil comes by to ask about any allergies or dietary restrictions, the rest is up to him and the chef, and you know you’re all in good hands.

“So, a pretty girl with a unique name,” Tyler leads. “Feels like there’s probably a good story there.”

“I was a surprisingly early baby, literally my Mom went into labor at 35 weeks and in an orange grove. That was her craving when she was pregnant with me, a ton of citrus. Hence the name,” you smile. “It’s rare I hear anyone other than her use my full name anymore. Even my pen name for my byline on pieces uses my initials. Friends mostly call me C or Em.”

“No Emmy?” Tyler questions.

You shake your head, cheeks flushing. You’ve never allowed that by anyone; not that anyone has ever tried that out for size. It always felt to too special to you, wanting to hold on to that for the right person.

“Let me see these puppies that made you late,” you divert.

“Once you get him started on the three stooges, you cannot go back,” Jason rolls his eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you smile, making grabby hands for his phone. “Come on I know you’ve got a ton of photos and videos on there.”

“They’re definitely a handful, and not so much puppies anymore. Though Gerry would fight me on that, he’s the baby,” Tyler grins wide before pulling up a video of three dogs running around like crazy in what looks to be his backyard pool.

Lunch was more of the same, good food, good conversation and a bunch of joking around. Smart play by Jason to recommend it this way, he’s as much of a sweetheart as his texts made him out to be and helps ease some of the worries you had about Tyler. And Tyler, you found yourself gravitating to him a lot more than you thought you would. You all didn’t realize it until the shift change was happening how long you actually spent in the back booth. As you’re saying goodbye, hugs are passed around between the group of you this time.

“We’re keeping you around by the way,” Tyler whispers in your ear. “Welcome to the crew.”

You fall into a quirky but easy friendship with Tyler and Jason after that, eventually Jamie too once the boys drag him to one of your tasting outings. It evolves quickly from random texting to grabbing meals and drinks, hanging out after games, even meeting Tyler at the dog park to finally meet his trio of crazy pups during one of your crazy timed breaks in your schedule that matched up before he needed to get into his pre-game routine.

Gerry is running amok hopping around with a German Sheppard while Cash just wants Tyler to throw a stick for him to fetch repeatedly. Marshall, however, has taken residence with his head in your lap.

“I know your younger brothers are insane,” you coo, rubbing the chocolate lab’s ear as he nuzzles into your thigh. “I’m sorry I have to leave you with them in a few.”

“So soon?” Tyler asks, tossing Cash’s favorite stick a little father. “You like just got here. He also just doesn’t cuddle like that with anyone. Feel special, so you shouldn’t leave him either.”

“Only a quick break today. Deadlines looming and a bourbon tasting that need to get done if I’m meeting you guys later after the game,” you explain, fingers digging into Marshall’s fur again.

“At some point you do need to come to a game,” he sasses as Cash comes barreling into his legs, Gerry not far behind. “I know you’re a hockey fan, you can’t hide that Em.”

“Perhaps maybe,” you tease, rolling your eyes sticking your tongue out at him. “Ok Marsh, I’m sorry buddy but I gotta go.”

Marshall just slides his head further into your lap, while now Cash head butts your free hand as Gerry crashes into your legs.

“I’m so sorry boys, we’ll have another playdate soon I promise,” you call to them as you pet all their heads.

“Where’s my goodbye pets and love?” he cheekily leans his head towards you.

“Oh Ty,” rolling your eyes as you get up.

You lean in as you were going to kiss his cheek, but you just tweak his nose and flip his snapback off, “See you tonight superstar.”

Misty is thankfully behind the bar again tonight at Oak and Cork, except this time you’re in the middle of the crazy group instead of the far end of the bar.

“You hitting that yet?” Alex grins wiggling his eyebrows and nodding to where you’re leaning against the bar talking to Misty while she makes your drink.

Tyler shoves his teammate, “Dude.”

“First off, don’t be crass. Em is in the damn room. And that’s a no by the way,” Jason rolls his eyes at Alex after handing off glasses to the two of them. “He most definitely wants to; I think that she does too. They just won’t actually talk about it.”

“She sent you reckless slut shots, I think you can talk to her about fucking,” Alex replies, taking a pull from his drink.

“Emmy. She’s not just some random girl to dick and dump, Rads. Fucks sake,” he sighs, hand threading through his hair as he looks over in your direction where you’re talking with Jamie, Joe and his wife.

“Emmy, eh? That speaks volumes. Just ask her already,” Jason interjects. “We’re all tired of your crank ass. I’m going to find my better half.”

“He’s right,” Alex taps his glass against Tyler’s. “Go to her. Ask her. Kiss her. Less cranky, more goals, more fucking.”

Tyler shakes his head, downing the rest of his drink in one go. He snags a bottle of beer from one of the buckets left out on the bar for the group before he looks for somewhere to take a breather. You catch him stalking off to the patio, amber glass clenched in his hand with his brows knitted together.

“He ok?” you ask Jamie, pointing towards the door where Tyler’s walking through.

“That’s not a good Tyler face,” he sighs. “I should…”

“No, stay. I’ll go check,” you interrupt, polishing off your martini to head outside.

“Hard to have congratulatory drinks when the first star of the game is hiding out on the patio,” you call out.

He shrugs, not turning around at first but you can see the tension across his shoulders even through his dress shirt. You take a couple steps out towards him.

“Hey, come on. Can’t be that bad. Right? Nothing’s wrong with the pups? Your family?” you tread carefully not knowing what could have happened between the dog park and that moment.

He turns around slowly, not looking up at first.

“Tyler, what’s going on?” your concern lacing through your voice clearly.

“I still think about that night here, you know?” he starts, placing his bottle on the railing next to him before leaning back against it. “I was intrigued, girl at a bar alone on a Friday night. Gorgeous one at that. She kind of saw right through me but dished it back unexpectedly and pretty well. Then, then that damn chaperoned lunch. Kind of just rolled from there.”

“Ty, what are you saying?” you need to make sure where he’s going with this.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, it’s exhilarating and unnerving,” he fights out, coming off the railing. “I still think about kissing you, wanting that, all the damn time.”

“Tyler,” you begin, trying to move closer.

“Take another step and I can’t be held responsible for my actions,” Tyler fights out, hands flexing at his side but looking you straight in the eye.

You can see the clench of his jaw clearly from there, the fire he’s holding back in his eyes. Your breath catches, your heart skips and your stomach flips.

“What if I’m ok with that?” you whisper, slipping an inch closer.

“I need you to be sure, Clementine,” he looks at you carefully, pupils flicking wider.

“Clementine? Really Tyler?” you try to tease to lighten the thick air around the two of you.

“Emmy,” he exhales deeply. “Don’t. Please, not tonight. Not now.”

You nod once he opens his eyes, stepping closer.

“Use your words, Emmy,” he murmurs, one hand grasping your hip while the other comes to cup your cheek, thumb trailing across your skin. “I need to hear you say it, babygirl.”

You’re distracted for a moment, having him that close. His words swirl around your head, your senses are slightly overwhelmed by him. His cologne lingers in your nose and makes your eyes flutter.

“You don’t need to placate me though, I’m a big boy,” he says softly. “Friends is better than nothing.”

“I wouldn’t,” you jump in carefully. “It’s why I waited, why I’m saying yes now to you Ty.”

Tyler pulls you forward and claims your mouth. His tongue wicked, swiping at yours. Your hands slip up behind his neck with fingers tangling in his hair at the nape. You lose sense of time, all you can do is sink further into the kiss, and into him, until you’re out of breath.

“You taste like those damn orange martinis you love. I like it,” he sighs, knuckle trailing against your cheek. “I’ve never felt possessive, but fuck. The thought of anyone else sipping your sugar after that makes me see red, Emmy.”

“Is that the ass backwards Tyler way of asking me out?” you tease, popping up on your toes to nip at his bottom lip.

He surges forward and knocks the breath out of you with another bruising kiss.

“Come to my game tomorrow, wear my jersey. Let me show you off properly, let me take you home after, breakfast with the dogs on the patio in the morning,” he asks, this time his thumb tracing over your bottom lip. “And the game after that and the next one after that, the next weeks and months ahead. Let me show you that I’m not that reckless slut you may think I am. You make me not want to be.”

You smile, nodding and pressing a kiss to the pad of his thumb.

[litafficionado]

Four Questions with Garielle Lutz:

I’m extremely beholden to Garielle who took the time to respond to my silly, garbled, childish, intrusive questions. You can purchase her latest book Worsted here and here, among many other sites.  --------- Q.  You've attributed the resuscitation of your literary career in quite considerable measure to your teacher and editor Gordon Lish. It seems like you guys are particularly close, even as you seem to have largely confined yourself to Pittsburgh(mostly driven by your erstwhile teaching career but also by your liking the city over time). How does it feel to hear someone like Gordon speak so highly of you, “I think there’s more truth in one sentence of my student [Lutz] than in all of [Philip] Roth. Lutz gives [herself] away. “The speaking subject gives herself away,” says Julia Kristeva. I thoroughly believe that. What you see in Lutz, [her] lavish gift, is [her] refusal to relax [her] determination to uncover and uncover. It is, by my lights, quite wonderful, quite terrific.[…]Lutz is entirely the real thing?” Does one feel vindicated? How do you navigate the waters of self-effacement and self-indulgence as a writer and as a person? A.  I haven’t had a literary career before or after studying with Gordon Lish.  I don’t think one finds one’s way to him in hopes of launching a career.  Anyone with vulgar ambition along those lines would have been shown the door pretty quick.  I would never presume to be close to Gordon or to feel that I am part of his life other than in my role as a student. He dwells in another realm entirely. I attended his classes and tried to grasp, to the best of my abilities, the things he was saying about how to get from one word to the next.  He also talked about how to free a word from the constricting range of its permissible behaviors, how to drain it of every sepsis of received meaning, until there is nothing left of the word but the skeleton of its former self, just the lank, gawky letters sticking out this way and that, and then how to fill the thing up again, to the point of overspilling, but this time with something that would never have been allowed to belong in there before, and then see whether the word, now close to bursting, can hold up and maybe have a new kind of say.  I’m always surprised and relieved whenever Gordon says anything approving about anything I write.  I think that for a lot of his students, his opinion is the only one that counts.  

Q.  You've said, "A typical day goes like this: noon, afternoon, evening, night, additional night, even more night, furtherest night, then bedtime, though I don’t have a bed or furniture of any kind.” Have you always been a lychnobite, sensing the overwhelming superabundance of life after the sunset or is it a relatively recent development facilitated by your retirement from teaching? Do you consider yourself in any way to be a minimalist? Does your room bear any resemblance with a sparsely lit opium den where all exchanges happen at the floor level?

A.  I think the pandemic has had a lot to do with it.  Lately I’ve been up until five, sometimes six.  But I’ve always found mornings the harshest and ugliest part of the day (maybe it’s just because of the place where I live, but I never open the blinds anyway).  There can be something awfully scolding about a sunrise the older you get  Evening seems to extend every form of leniency, and in the dead of night, expectations go way down, which is where they maybe ought to stay.  I do spend all of my time on the floor, but my apartment doesn’t bear any resemblance to an opium den.  It’s more like a crawlspace or the back of a  dollar-store stockroom.    

Q. Even with your reputation of being a page-hugger than a typical page-turner, how do you decide which books to read apart from your line of work? Do you try to keep it largely in the familiar territory, like exploring the oeuvre of a time-tested writer? How does one unshackle oneself from this constant niggling that one ought to read so many books? Here's Ben Marcus: “When I was in graduate school, there was this sort of cautionary adage going around by the poet Francis Ponge that we can only write what we’ve already read and one way to hear that is you’re just sort of doomed to kind of regurgitate everything you’ve read and so if you’re just reading all the popular books, the books everyone else is reading, in some sense you’re maybe unwittingly confining yourself to a particular literary practice that’s gonna look pretty familiar. I remember at the time thinking, okay well if that’s true, if I’m just fated to that, then I’m gonna read things that no one else is reading. I loved to just go to the library and pretty randomly grab books, because I think for a little while, and I’m kinda glad this passed, but I really just had this feeling that a writer just consumes language and just sort of spits it out. So it didn’t matter. Like it didn’t have to be a great novel for it to be worth-reading. And I still read very little fiction in the end compared to non-fiction, essays, works of philosophy, science. And the other sort of dirty secret is: I don’t finish a lot of books. I just don’t care enough. I only finish a book if I have to or if I really want to. And, often, I’ll stop reading a book three pages from the end. I think that as writers, we probably feel a lot of pressure about what kind of a reader to be, what kind of a writer to be in, and we feel this shame, like “I haven’t read DH Lawrence, I’m such an asshole.” You begin to feel like you’ve these deficiencies and you gotta make them up and you never will and a lot of it is just kinda tyrannical. Of course, obviously, we must be naturally motivated to read and read and read and read but I guess I just started to notice that…I got a lot of my ideas by just reading…e.g. a gardening book…like the weird way a sentence was structured.” Then there's Moyra Davey: “Woolf famously said of reading: “The only advice … is to take no advice, … follow your instincts, … use your reason.” A similar thought was voiced by her elder contemporary Oscar Wilde, who did not believe in recommending books, only in de-recommending them. Later, Jorge Luis Borges echoed the same sentiment by discouraging “systematic bibliographies” in favor of “adulterous” reading. More recently, Gregg Bordowitz has promoted “promiscuous” reading in which you impulsively allow an “imposter” book to overrule any reading trajectory you might have set for yourself, simply because, for instance, a friend tells you in conversation that he is reading it and is excited by it. This evokes for me that most potent kind of reading — reading as flirtation with or eavesdropping on someone you love or desire, someone who figures in your fantasy life.”“What to read?” is a recurring dilemma in my life. The question always conjures up an image: a woman at home, half-dressed, moving restlessly from room to room, picking up a book, reading a page or two and no sooner feeling her mind drift, telling herself, “You should be reading something else, you should be doing something else.” The image also has a mise-en-scène: overstuffed, disorderly shelves of dusty and yellowing books, many of them unread; books in piles around the bed or faced down on a table; work prints of photographs, also with a faint covering of dust, taped to the walls of the studio; a pile of bills; a sink full of dishes. She is trying to concentrate on the page in front of her but a distracting blip in her head travels from one desultory scene to the next, each one competing for her attention. It is not just a question of which book will absorb her, for there are plenty that will do that, but rather, which book, in a nearly cosmic sense, will choose her, redeem her. Often what is at stake, should she want to spell it out, is the idea that something is missing, as in: what is the crucial bit of urgently needed knowledge that will save her, at least for this day? She has the idea that if she can simply plug into the right book then all will be calm, still, and right with the world. […] Must reading be tied to productivity to be truly satisfying […] Or is it the opposite, that it can only really gratify if it is a total escape? What is it that gives us a sense of sustenance and completion? Are we on some level always striving to attain that blissful state of un-agendaed reading remembered from childhood? What does it mean to spend a good part of one’s life absorbed in books? Given that our time is limited, the problem of reading becomes one of exclusion. Why pick one book over the hundreds, perhaps thousands on our bookshelves, the further millions in libraries and stores? For in settling on any book we are implicitly saying no to countless others. This conflict is aptly conjured up by essayist Lynne Sharon Schwartz as she reflects on “the many books (the many acts) I cannot in all decency leave unread (undone) — or can I?”” What way out do you suggest? Do you deem it worthwhile to eschew any shred of obligation and be propelled in any direction naturally? Like you said you found grammar books and lexicons more engaging and enjoyable than the novels.

A.  I seem to remember that in some magazine or another, James Wolcott once said “Read at whim.”  That has always sounded like the best advice.  And I assume it means to feel free to ditch any book that disappoints.  Like Ben Marcus, I’ve had experiences of abandoning a book just a few pages from the end, but I often don’t make it that far in most things anymore.  I came from a long line of nonreaders, so I’ve never felt any guilt about passing up books or writers that so many people seem to talk about a lot, and I don’t expect other people to like what I like. Some books I’ll start about halfway in and then see whether I might want to work my way back to the beginning.  Others I’ll start at the very end and inch my way toward the front, one sentence at a time, and see how far I can go that way.  I seem to remember that in The Pleasure of the Text, Roland Barthes recommends “cruising” a text, and maybe something like that is what I’m doing at least some of the time, if I understand what he means.  And every now and then I’ll read  a book straightforwardly for an hour and afterward wonder whether the time might have been better spent staring off into space. Too many books these days seem ungiving.  It’s the ungivingness that disappoints the most.  A lot of contemporary fiction has the gleam and sparkle of a trend feature in a glossy magazine, and I can appreciate the craft and the savvy that go into something like that, but I am drawn more toward stories and books that demand being read slowly and closely, pulse by pulse, the kind of fiction where everything--what little might be left of an entire blighted life--can pivot on the peal of a single syllable. Q.  I'd like to ask you so many questions. But let this be the last one for matters of convenience. Also, in a capitalistic world, one's enshrouded with guilt for taking one's time without being remunerative in any way. Among the books and films that you recently encountered, which ones do you think deserve rereads/rewatches? A.  I used to feel like the woman you’ve described so movingly above, someone who questions her choice of books almost to the brink of despair.  At my age, though, I no longer have a program for reading, a syllabus or a checklist, and I’m okay with knowing there’s a lot I’ll never get around to.  I’m happy being a rereader of a few inexhaustible books and chancing upon occasional fresh treasure.  The one book that has shaken me the most in the longest time is Anna DeForest’s  A History of Present Illness, which will be out next August.  It’s a blisteringly truthful novel written with moral grace and unsettling brilliance and an awing mastery of language.  A couple of recent books I have read in manuscript, books that totally knocked me out with their originality and uncanny command of the word, are Greg Gerke’s In the Suavity of the Rock (a novel) and David Nutt’s Summertime in the Emergency Room (a short-story collection).  I haven’t watched many movies in the past few months, and the ones I watched aren’t ones I’ll probably be rewatching anytime soon.  

[harrysweasleys]

Legacy

Summary: Slytherin Reader is married to Fred and the two have a daughter. When she goes off to Hogwarts and gets sorted into Slytherin, it’s a tough pill for Fred to swallow. 

Warnings: angst, language

Word Count: 3.6k

A/N: So I really enjoyed writing this one. It starts off a little slow but it picks up, I promise!! I’m just soft for dad Fred. he deserved better. 

-

The pairing of Fred Weasley and Y/N Y/L/N was unlikely to say the least. The two, who had been in the same year, didn’t find themselves in each others’ company during their time at Hogwarts. But, Y/N, who was loyal to the school, had saved him from a terrible fate during the Battle of Hogwarts, and the two found their way together after that. 

She had known of the Gryffindor prankster, he was not exactly subtle in their years together at Hogwarts. On multiple occasions, the tall ginger twin had set of Dungbombs and Fireworks in their classrooms. Y/N never admitted it, but she always found the twins’ pranks quite amusing. She would silently laugh behind her hand as McGonagall or Flitwick, or sometimes even Snape would glare at them and remove points from Gryffindor. But, that never dampened the spirits of the brothers, who always found a way to keep people on their toes. 

Y/N, on the other hand, tried not to bring too much attention to herself in her time at the school. She was placed in Slytherin, much to her parents’ utter thrill, and kept her circle of friends small. She only really had two friends — a dark-haired boy named Stellan and a blonde girl named Alice. The two had been her go-to companions practically the whole time she was there. They had been some of the only non-pureblood-fanatics she had met. Sure, she prided herself in being a pureblood with well-respected parents, but found no understanding in why some people in her house — particularly Draco Malfoy — found pleasure in bringing down those who weren’t. 

After graduating, Y/N took time off and debated coming back to Hogwarts as a professor — the late Professor Snape always told her she had a talent for Potions — but with the looming threat of the Dark Lord’s return, she decided to stay on the down-low and get a job in Diagon Alley at Quality Quidditch Supplies. 

She spent five years being a Chaser on the Slytherin Quidditch team, she really did love the sport. She also found herself wandering into Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes during her breaks, admiring the new products on the shelf and having a laugh at those who tried some of their infamous sweets. How the twins managed to keep people smiling in such a dark time, she had no idea. 

When the Battle of Hogwarts came to be, Y/N found herself on the frontline, ready to defend the school that her heart belonged to. Which is how she found Fred, cornered in by a Death Eater, who looked ready to kill. She had sent him a curse — ‘levicorpus!’ — and Fred knew right there in that moment that she was the one. 

The two found each other one day in Diagon Alley, and they were both done for. Falling in love didn’t come hard for these two. Five years later, they were married, and two years after that, their first child — a daughter — was born. 

Ariella Weasley took after her father. She had long, curly ginger hair and freckles scattered across her pale cheeks. The older she got, the more she resembled him. She also did take after her mother, though, because she had Fred wrapped around her little finger. She also had her mother’s pale Y/E/C eyes and her honest smile.

“I’d die for the two of you, y’know?” Fred mumbled to Y/N one night as the two put their baby girl to sleep. Y/N knew, she’d die for the both of them too. They were her entire world.

As Ariella grew older, she started to have fun pranking her cousins with her dad. The two were like partners in crime, and Y/N felt like the luckiest woman alive to be surrounded by two of the liveliest people in the universe.

When Ariella was 11, her Hogwarts letter came in the mail. 

“Now, Ari, you’ve got a reputation to live up to. A legacy if you will,” Fred told her, sitting her on the couch, “Uncle Georgie and I really left our mark on Hogwarts, yeah? So keep in mind that you’ve got to live up to it.”

Arielle looked to her mum, eyes wide.

“He’s kidding, love,” Y/N rubbed her back soothingly, “Your dad had a reputation of getting into trouble. If you chose not to go down that same path, you won’t hear me complaining.”

Fred rolled his eyes at his wife, “You know that I made sure things were never boring. Life is supposed to be fun!”

“Fun, yes,” Y/N chuckled, “But education is also important, especially for a young witch. Your dad caused many distractions.” Ariella looked between her two parents and shot them both a toothy grin.

“Trouble and learning go well together!”

Y/N shook her head, a smile on her face as well. 

Fred grinned at the two of them, “That’s my girl! When you get sorted into Gryffindor, tell McGonagall I say hi.”

“If she gets sorted into Gryffindor,” Y/N reminded him, “Any house is fine, darling. They’ve all got their strengths.”

Fred was proud of his time in the scarlet and gold house, and he made sure people knew. Everyone in the Weasley family had been placed there and they had each been treated with respect every time they stepped foot back in the school. Ginny, Ron, Fred and George had been on the Quidditch team, Bill and Percy had been Head Boy — there was no shortage of love for the Gryffindor house in the Weasley family. 

“But what if she gets placed in Slytherin?” Fred grimaced, “Goodness.”

Y/N thought he was joking, so she shrugged him off and faced her daughter, “I was a Slytherin, and I think I turned out fine.”

“You did, not everyone did. I mean, most Death Eaters came out of there,” Fred pressed on, arms crossed. Ariella looked between her parents, trying to figure out what she’d do if she wasn’t in Gryffindor. 

“There are no more Death Eaters, Freddie,” Y/N was a little more stern, “Besides, I knew loads of people in Slytherin who didn’t end up working for the Dark Lord. You just gotta pick your battles.”

Fred dropped the subject and continued telling his daughter about all the things she has to look forward to in her upcoming years. 

---

The day Y/N and Fred dropped her off at Platform Nine and Three Quarters was sad day indeed. Y/N shed a few tears, and Fred felt his heart crack slightly as he watched the red steam engine barrel out of sight. 

The two made their way back, stopping by to have tea in London before taking their sweet time coming home, and when they got through the front doors a little after sunset, Fred threw his body down on the couch and dragged Y/N down with him. He wrapped her up in his arms and nuzzled his head into her neck. 

“What are we gonna do with all this alone time, huh?” he smirked against her neck, placing a light kiss before abruptly pulling away, “Pillow fight!” 

He caught her completely off guard and smacked a couch pillow across her face. She held back a gasp, grabbing the one behind her and smacking him right back. 

The two battled it out until they were red in the face and panting, both slightly sore from toppling over furniture to avoid getting hit in the face. 

“What should we do for dinner, love?” Fred wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing the side of her cheek, “First dinner without Ariella in a long time.”

“I know,” Y/N replied, the hollow feeling in her chest growing as she missed her daughter, “It’s weird. But I know she’s off to go have the best seven years of her life.”

“Yeah,” Fred responded, “Maybe she can even bring home the House Cup!”

“Maybe she can,” Y/N twirled around, placing a light kiss to her husband’s lips and trailing off into the kitchen.

---

The next morning, Y/N and Fred Weasley were awoken by a large owl knocking at their window, a letter attached to its scrawny leg. 

“Oh, it’s from Hogwarts,” Y/N grinned as she opened the window, plucking the letter off of the owl, tipping it with a quick snack, and letting it fly back to where it came from. 

She opened the letter and read it aloud;

‘Dear Mr. and Mrs. Weasley,

We are thrilled to inform you that as of last night at 7:03pm, your daughter Ariella Weasley has been sorted into Slytherin House. Headmistress McGonagall would like to send her well-wishes and hopes this letter finds you well. 

Forms will be going out next month to students who wish to come home for the Christmas and New Year holidays.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry’

Y/N placed the letter down with a smile, her heart thumping loudly, “Hey, she takes after her mother after all! She’s in Slytherin!”

“What?” Fred muttered, his face paler than usual. His hands gripped the bedsheets, “She’s in Slytherin?”

Y/N clutched the letter in her hand and made her way over to the bed, sitting next to him with a smile on her face, oblivious to his lack of enthusiasm.

“That’s great, I’m happy for her. I wonder if I should tell her about the secret passageway next to the fireplace—”

“She’s in Slytherin? Why?” Fred placed his head in his hands as if searching his brain for the answer. Y/N dropped the letter and held onto his wrists, forcing him to look up at her.

“What’s the issue? Why are you so upset she’s in Slytherin?” she tried to hide the hurt in her voice at how lowly he thought of her house. Yes, Slytherin had a reputation, but that was in the past. Y/N had a lot of emerald pride. 

“Because — Slytherin, Y/N,” he shook his head, “I mean, come on. Voldemort was Slytherin, Malfoy, Snape, Crabbe and Goyle—”

“So was I,” she crossed her arms, raising an eyebrow, “First off, Voldemort was fifty years before us. Snape’s dead, may he rest in peace, so are Crabbe and Goyle. They made mistakes and paid for them. Not everyone in the house ended up being awful. Every house in Hogwarts has had their share of... troubled wizards. Slytherin happens to have had more, sure, but that’s not the house’s fault. It’s the wizard’s fault.”

Fred didn’t seem calmed by her words, not bothering to hide his distaste for Salazar Slytherin’s house. 

“But they’re wicked. They’d cheat at Quidditch, they’d taunt first years, they’d always think they were better than everyone else.”

Y/N didn’t stop glaring at him, “Fred, you can’t be serious. I was a Slytherin and I saved your ass. Alice was Slytherin and she’s now an Auror, Stellan owns a store in Diagon Alley — which may I remind you, you do too.”

“That’s different,” he muttered, turning to face away from her and getting out of bed, “You were good. You’ve always been good. You should have been in Ravenclaw or something.”

“What?” she got up as well, forgetting about the letter on the bed, “What is your problem? Just suck it up and accept the fact that two of the women in your life are Slytherins.”

Without another word, she stormed out of the room and down the stairs, anger fuming from her ears. She knew Fred still held distaste for her house, but she thought that after all these years, he’d be way over it. 

She stormed into the kitchen, making herself a cup of tea and grabbing the copy of the Daily Prophet that had been delivered at their doorstep that morning, sitting down at the table and sipping her tea. She looked over the announcements from the Ministry, seeing a few familiar names, and didn’t bother looking up from the newspaper when she noticed Fred begrudgingly walking down the stairs, his feet dragging across the floor as he sat across from her at the dining table. 

“Love, I’m sorry,” he mumbled, trying to look at her over the newspaper, “I shouldn’t have said what I did, I was just shocked, I guess.”

“Shocked? Is that what you call shock? Sounds like a grudge, if you ask me,” she replied cooly, still not looking at him. 

He sighed, “I overreacted, I know. I don’t know why, I just can’t help but think of them the same way that I did when I was in school.”

“Freddie, you can’t do that,” she finally lowered the paper and placed it aside, “Firstly, it hurts me. Secondly, it’ll hurt Ari as well if you start dissing Slytherin. She was really nervous, she doesn’t want to disappoint you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he reached across the table and held her hands gently, “And I don’t want Ari to think I’m disappointed in her. I just — I’ll get over it, I promise.”

---

Over the next few months, Ariella wrote to the two of them, expressing how excited she was to be making friends. She also ranted on for two pages about her love for Transfigurations and Herbology. Her Professor, Neville Longbottom, had been a friend of Fred’s when he was at school. 

Fred had grown more used to the fact that his daughter was a Slytherin, and the conversations involving her house were usually pretty short between him and Y/N. 

As the Christmas holidays rolled around, Fred and Y/N had decorated the house in preparation to finally have their daughter home. Although they never really lost contact, it had been a long few months for her parents.

“The train’s arriving at two o’clock, Fred! You need to get going!” Y/N whisked him out the door, placing a quick kiss on his lips before returning to the kitchen and continuing the cookies she had been making. It was rare she did them the muggle way, but she had time to spare and thought baking would be fun. 

Within the hour, Fred and Ariella arrived through the door, both grinning and red-nosed. Y/N rushed over to her daughter, scooping her up in her arms and squeezing her. 

“Mum, ouch,” Ariella giggled, “At least let me take my shoes off.”

Y/N placed her daughter down and started removing her apron, rushing into the kitchen to place the fresh batch of cookies in front of them both. Fred grinned, shoving three of them in his mouth and smiling at Y/N, crumbs falling all over the table.

Ariella grabbed her trunk that Fred brought in and excused herself, rushing upstairs to her room to put it away.

“These are good, they taste like Christmas,” Fred spoke through another mouthful of cookie.

“Fred, don’t eat them all,” Y/N chuckled, moving the plate out of his reach with a smirk, “I haven’t got all holiday to keep making more.”

He sagged his shoulders and sighed dramatically, “Fiiiine.” He walked around the table, pressed a kiss to Y/N’s forehead, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Ariella came tumbling down the stairs in a mess of green.

“You good?” Y/N asked her daughter, holding back a laugh as Ariella stood up, brushing herself off as if no one noticed her fall.

“Yep, totally,” she walked it off, placing a mess of fabric down on the table, “Anyways, I wanted to show you guys my stuff! Here’s my Slytherin scarf, I usually only wear it to Quidditch games — oh, we beat Hufflepuff real good — and here’s my tie. Getting used to it was weird but I quite like it now. And here’s my sweater that a girl in my house gave to me as a Christmas gift.”

She lifted up the bulky green sweater, showing off the giant Slytherin house crest on the front, “It’ll be my new go-to during matches in the springtime. Slughorn — he’s head of my house — says I’ve got unmatched Slytherin pride! He also says hi, mum.”

Y/N smiled, placing her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, “This is all lovely, darling. I’m glad you’re so proud of your house. And tell Professor Slughorn I say hi back.”

Ariella grinned, picking up the scarf and wrapping it around her neck, tossing her ginger hair over her shoulder and posing, “Doesn’t green just suit me?”

“Of course —”

“We get it, you like Slytherin,” Fred snapped from next to the fridge. He was leaning against it, arms crossed as he watched his daughter flaunt her Slytherin clothing items, a proud grin on her face. 

“Fred...” Y/N dropped her head, taking her hand off of her daughter’s shoulder, “Come on, we’ve been over this.”

“Over what?” Ariella piped up, slowly removing her scarf as if she was offending him, “Dad... were you... ashamed that I was placed in Slytherin?”

Fred sighed, avoiding eye contact with her and looking out the window at the slow snowfall. Ariella seemed to take this as a yes, and she dropped the scarf on the table with a defeated sigh. 

“Ari, honey, it’s not —”

“It’s fine, I get it,” she scoffed, taking off upstairs with loud footsteps. Y/N flinched as the door slammed shut loudly, rattling the walls of the house. She picked up the scarf on the table, remembering how proud she was when she brought all of her stuff home to show her parents for the first time as well.

“Fred, you need to let this go,” Y/N said softly, not taking her eyes off of the scarf, “You can’t keep denying that she’s not in Gryffindor. I get it, every Weasley has been in that house, but she’s not just a Weasley. She’s a part of me too, and she’s taken after you in every other aspect — her hair, her attitude, her freckles, her laugh — why can’t you accept the fact that for once, she’s taken after me for something?” 

Fred seemed to ponder her words. He had never thought about it that way. People always told him about how much she resembled him in every aspect, but it wasn’t often that people said that to Y/N. And now, she watched with pride as her daughter was placed in her old house. It was almost like she could finally see herself in her. 

“You’re right,” Fred mumbled, “You’re completely right. Merlin’s beard, I’ve been an idiot.” He wrapped his arms around his wife and pulled her into him, hugging her as if his action was louder than his words. 

“You have to go tell her that, she’s the one who thinks you’re ashamed.”

Fred pulled away and sighed, running his hand down his face and nodding, “You’re... you’re right. I need to go talk to her. She needs to know that I am proud of her. I always will be. And... that her mum was the most badass Slytherin ever. She’ll take after you there.”

Y/N giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “Go tell her that, Freddie.”

“Can you come with me?” his voice was barely above a whisper and Y/N nearly swooned at how desperate he was. Ariella was, no doubt, a daddy’s girl, so having her dad come around and reassure her would mean the world her.

“Of course, love,” Y/N placed a kiss on his cheek and the two of them walked upstairs. She knocked slowly on her door and once a quite ‘come in’ was heard, she opened it and looked down at her daughter. Ariella was sitting on her bed, reading ‘Hogwarts: A History.’

When she saw her parents walk in, both looking apologetic, she placed the book down and sat crosslegged, turning to face them.

“Your dad has something he wants to say,” Y/N nudged Fred forwards. He gave her a grateful nod and walked over to the bed, sitting down on the edge and placing his hands in his lap.

“I’m sorry if you thought I was ashamed,” he started, “I was shocked when we got the letter saying you were in Slytherin, I won’t deny it. When I was at school, the Slytherin students were always cunning, mean, rushing around the halls looking for any reason to torment the people they saw. They cheated, they lied, and eventually, a lot of them ended up working for the Dark Lord. I guess that now, twenty years after my time, I’m still thinking about that side of Slytherin. But then, after I left school, I met your mum. And she changed my opinion completely.”

Y/N sat there in awe, listening to what he had to say.

“She was caring, smart, loyal, funny — everything I wouldn’t expect from a Slytherin. I guess what I’m trying to say is that even though you take after me in every aspect of your physical appearance, I’m glad that your heart is like your mother’s. I’m proud of you.”

Ariella was close to tears, and so was Y/N. She watcher her daughter flail her arms around her dad’s neck and hug him like her life depended on it. Y/N sat by the door, her hand over her heart, and a loving smile on her lips.

She watched the smile spread across Fred’s face as he hugged his daughter back, relieved she wasn’t mad at him. 

--

Later that evening, after Ariella had gone to sleep, Y/N and Fred sat on the couch, wrapped in blankets and watching the fire crackle in the fireplace. Her head was leaning against his shoulder, and his head leaning against hers. His hand was on her thigh, rubbing slow circles. 

“I love you,” he muttered quietly, “I’m so sorry for everything. I’ve really been an idiot.”

“You have, but it’s fine,” she giggled, leaning up to face him, “I still love you.”

And she really did, with all her heart. 

Who knew these two were so perfect for each other?

[mrs-theirin]

understanding.

so uh this originally started as “hating rebecca hours”, then it was loving nate hours, and then suddenly at the last second it became.......mutually respecting adam hours??? so here we are. @magebastard this one’s for you <3

calliope langford x nate sewell / calliope & adam du mortain, 2585 words. mommy issues paired with getting to know your stuffy leader better (also on ao3 <3)

The apartment is quiet. 

Mind-numbingly quiet, actually.

“Stay home and enjoy yourself,” Tina had said, practically pushing Calliope out the door, a wide smile plastered on her face that said if you don’t go home right now I will end you. Even Verda came out from the lab to say goodbye, his gentle eyes hardened in a way that let her know there was no fighting him. 

She needs something to do. The apartment just isn’t the same without Farah’s laughter, Adam’s groans of distaste, the irritating clouds of Morgan’s smoke—which still lingers on everything she owns. Honestly, she’s going to take Morgan’s cigarettes and shove them somewhere unpleasant—and Nate’s warm, calming presence. She debates sending him a text, maybe asking him for coffee, but the idea leaves as quickly as it came. 

He’s probably busy. She’s sure he has more important things to do than—

Im bad at this texting thing. Coffee

Calliope laughs. Before she can respond, another text from Nate comes in.

That was supposed to be a question. I cant find the apostrophe or question mark. I would like to have coffee with you. 

Another text, separate from the last.

Now, if you can. I heard you were sent home from work and I know how much you like the pastries there.

Her heart races at the thought of Nate frantically typing away at his phone, confused but determined to send her a text. She must admit, it’s a hilarious image, and she laughs as she sends her response.

relax and look for the “123” on the left of the keyboard. you’ll find all your punctuation needs there. and yes, i’d love to go get coffee. meet me there?

Ah! Found it. Thank you. And no, I’m outside your apartment. 

Calliope straightens, deigning to push aside the curtain and peek out at the sidewalk. Sure enough, Nate stands awkwardly outside, staring down at his phone. His gaze flickers up as her hand makes the curtain dance, and he waves politely. She waves back. She mouths “be right there” and pulls away, cursing herself for looking outside in the first place. Did he just run here? Was he just outside her apartment when he sent the original text? Did he just assume she would say yes? 

She rushes to her bedroom, ripping the nicest—and hopefully subtle—thing she owns out of her closet and throws it on, stopping in front of the mirror to undo the messy bun she has her bright orange hair in and tussle it into something appropriate. She glances at the panicked look in her eyes, and tries to calm down. What is she freaking out for? It’s just Nate. 

I would fight through any form of technology if I knew you were on the other end.

Nate, who can make her face flush with just a few words. Nate, who towers over her, his warm brown eyes staring into her soul. Nate, who is patiently standing outside waiting to take her to coffee. She tries not to hold out too much hope that it’s a date.

“Hey!” she says when she finally makes it outside, unconsciously taking too large of a step and standing uncomfortably close to him, which she quickly rectifies by inching backwards. They both laugh nervously. “Did you—”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Nate rushes out, his face flushing. “It’s a beautiful day out.”

She accepts the obvious lie with a face full of heat. “Let’s go then.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She loves the way he laughs. 

At Haley’s, he relaxes; his shoulders slouching, his gaze softening. He is no longer scanning every person on the street, trying to gauge if they’re a threat. He is talking and he is joking and he is smiling and he is laughing. And every time he throws his head back to laugh at some stupid sarcastic joke she makes, she melts. 

He sighs dreamily, then faces her with soft, kind eyes. “I really missed you, Calliope.”

Her heart thumps in her chest. “I missed you too. You could’ve called, you know.”

His smile fades. “I wasn’t allowed to. The Agency thought it was better if we just...left you alone for a while.”

“So I could recover?”

Nate turns away, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. That’s it.”

Before she can ask him to elaborate, she hears a familiar clack of heels behind her. Her body tenses. “Calliope,” her mother’s voice says, clear and professional, though surprised. She wasn’t expecting her daughter to be here. 

Calliope doesn’t even turn. Her hand clenches around her coffee and she clears her throat. “Rebecca.”

Something in her dies when she sees Rebecca take the seat next to her. It is crushed to ash as she turns to Nate, who is smiling kindly at Rebecca, ordering another pastry for her, inviting her to stay longer than Calliope prefers. Her mother hums gently. “Coffee date?” she asks, though there is something else in her voice. Something resentful. Something...cautious.

“And what if it was?” Calliope mumbles into her coffee, as Nate replies, “Oh no, just catching up.”

“You should be careful about how much time you spend in the open, Agent Sewell,” Rebecca offers, and it’s obvious why she’s saying it. Calliope begins to shake, as she always does around her mother, and washes her resentment down with her coffee. The warm liquid contrasts the coldness of her bitterness. 

It wasn’t always this way with Rebecca; there was a time where they laughed and smiled and shot each other with water guns. But eventually laughter dies out, smiles fade away, and water guns change to Glock 22s. Love changes to resentment. Dads die. 

She understands why secrets were kept. She hates that Rebecca doesn’t understand why she would be upset by the secrets that were kept. The way Rebecca’s eye twitches when Nate leans into Calliope is sign enough on its own. Can’t even be happy with the circumstances she has, apparently. 

“Of course,” Nate says, professional as always. “Understood.”

“Let the man...or, vamp, live,” Calliope retorts. “We’re just having coffee.”

Rebecca presses her lips together tightly. “Calliope. Do I need to remind you why you’ve been wearing turtlenecks for months?”

She chokes on her coffee, slamming the cup down on the counter, the paper crunching in her hand. Typical of her mother to remind her of trauma, trauma that deeply affects her, as if it’s just a statement she can throw out at any given moment, like a quick anecdote or conversation starter. How can one look at their daughter having her neck torn out by a killer vampire and think, “This will be good for future scoldings”? And her scoldings, well, of course they aren’t scoldings, they’re concerns. Worries from a concerned mother. A mother who was so concerned about her daughter that she left for years with no contact, leaving the local librarians to raise Calliope. 

Calliope tenses as she feels a hand on her shoulder, but deflates when she realizes what side the hand is on. Nate squeezes her shoulder affectionately, and she cannot thank him enough for being a rock. If Rebecca is the storm—cold, predictable, unrelenting—then Nate is the hearth; warm, welcoming, reassuring. He smiles softly at her. 

“Of course you don’t,” she finally speaks, subconsciously scratching at the scars. “But considering I’ll be working with the Agency again soon, getting coffee won’t matter much, will it? Or are you trying to say that I can only put myself at risk if I’m not having fun?”

Rebecca’s eyebrow twitches as she sighs. “I’m only trying to look out for you—”

“No, you aren’t.” Her voice is stern, but quiet. Don’t want to draw too much attention. That’s the way it’s always been, right?. “You’re looking out for yourself and your reputation as a ‘good mother’, but it’s all crap anyway. If you wanted to preserve that, you wouldn’t be begging me every 5 seconds to tell you you’re doing a good job.” 

“Calliope,” Nate gently warns, and she slowly shrugs his hand off of her shoulder. Now is not the time for another one of those sad, soulful looks he gives her when she argues with Rebecca. She doesn’t have the effort. 

Rebecca’s lips are thinned again, in that disappointed scowl Calliope’s seen so much of since this whole Agency business started. “Sweetheart,” she starts, and Calliope is already cringing away, already preparing herself for whatever pandering crap Rebecca is about to spew. “I want you to be safe.”

“But not happy, clearly.”

“Calliope Langford.” Rebecca’s voice is harsh, but it only manages to enrage Calliope more. Her mother isn’t stern often, usually grabbing for the ‘soft and meek’ route, but on the occasion she does show annoyance, it’s never a pleasant feeling. Not because it upsets Calliope, but because she knows it’s a ruse. If she holds out, her mother will give in, because they both know she can’t stand being the bad guy (despite making herself the bad guy in every single conversation they have). “This is dangerous business. I don’t want to see you hurt. I do love you, whether you believe me or not.”

Calliope stands abruptly, slapping a $20 bill on the counter. “Why don’t you concern yourself less with whether I believe you, and more with whether you believe yourself. Come on, Nate.”

She starts to walk away, but hesitates when Nate doesn’t immediately follow, out of his seat but hunched over, like a kicked, obedient puppy. A twinge of betrayal tugs at Calliope’s chest, but she waves it off, instead holding up her hand, exasperated. She leaves without another word. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The phone rings.

Once. 

Twice. 

Three times. 

Calliope sighs in exasperation, about to hit the red ‘end call’ button, when the phone finally clicks, a stern, professional voice coming through as clear as day: “Special Agent Adam du Mortain. Is this something important?”

She rolls her eyes, unable to keep the smile off of her face. “It’s just me, Adam. You don’t have to answer the phone like that.”

“Is this something important,” he repeats, though this time it’s less of a question. 

She gives in. “I was wondering if you wanted to spar. You said you were...less than impressed with my combat skills, so why don’t you teach me?”

The line is silent for a moment, before Adam lets out a small huff. “Where?” 

She blinks. She hadn’t thought of that. “...Here?” she offers, uncertain.

He sighs heavily. “Open the door.” 

The call ends and she is rooted in place for a moment before she springs up from her couch, opening the door and peeking out. Adam is standing on her stairs, looming over her, and he raises a single eyebrow, making the action of entering her apartment. She steps aside and watches him analyze the living room. “Move the table,” he says.

“You’re the one with the super strength,” she jokes, closing the door behind her. “Can’t you do it?”

He glares at her. “Are you serious about training with me?”

She straightens under his gaze, nodding sharply. “Yes,” she responds, though it comes out like a nervous question.

“Then move the table. And slide the couch away too. We need plenty of room.”

She salutes him, tying her hair back into a high ponytail. “Can do!”

He groans. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Why didn’t you call one of the others?” Adam asks, crossing his arms and staring down at the panting, sweating Calliope, who is holding onto her knees for dear life.

“Oh, you know—” she says between heavy breaths. “You’re starting to grow on me.”

“Your form is poor.”

“Oh, I know!” she wheezes. “You actually told me that, a bunch of times, like two seconds ago.”

If she didn’t know any better, she can swear she sees a ghost of a smile threatening to appear on Adam’s lips, then it’s gone as quickly as it came. He regards her with complete and utter disappointment. “They would’ve been nicer.”

“Ah, but nice isn’t what I need. I need to learn how to fight.”

This time Adam does actually smile, though it’s still not quite a full smile, more like pride over seeing a lesson learned. He cocks his head to the side. “It could also be that you’re fighting with Nate.”

She hesitates for a moment before scoffing. “I’m not fighting with Nate. Fighting would require words, of which there were none.”

Her two seconds of hesitation were enough for Adam, because he nods his head sharply, and scowls. “Figure it out. I don’t want you two at odds next time we’re all together.”

“Why?” Calliope drags the table back to its original spot, collapsing on the couch with a heave. “I thought I was a distraction.”

He joins her on the couch, his posture as formal as ever, the distance an obvious sign of something. “You are a distraction. But you’re more of a distraction when Nate is running through his mind trying to make up a list of ways he can make it up to you.”

“Make what up to me?”

“You’d have to tell me that.”

The two stare at each other before Calliope sighs, smiling. “Thank you for coming over. You didn’t have to.”

“I don’t have to do anything I don’t wish to,” he simply says, and she rolls her eyes.

“Loosen up a little sometime, huh? I think it would do you good.”

“Then you and I will have to have differing opinions.”

A knock sounds at the door, and Calliope starts to stand, but Adam takes the lead instead, gesturing for her to stay put. She doesn’t put up a fight, after all, her body is aching and all she really wants is a nap right now, maybe a 3 day slumber. When the door opens, she strains her ears to hear the soft mumbles of whoever is at the door. Adam’s voice is strong, and overshadows the meeker, much quieter voice of the person—no, woman, that’s a woman’s voice—standing at the door. A few more minutes pass until Calliope finally hears Adam say, “I think you should leave,” and shuts the door. When he returns, she gives him a curious smile. 

“Who was that?” she asks, and he shakes his head. 

“No one important. It’s late, I should leave. Goodnight, Detective Langford.”

She stops him before he can zip out. “Adam, honestly. You can call me Calliope. I promise you won’t implode.”

He hesitates, gears in his head clearly turning, then gives in, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “Goodnight, Calliope. You did well.”

“You’re lying to me!” she calls after him, and he says nothing as the door shuts behind him. She lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. Well, at least one good thing happened today. 

She heads to the light switch, peeking out of the window just for a second to try to catch a glimpse of the woman Adam had sent away. Her heart drops into her feet as she sees the car she knows too well. Rebecca sits in her car, taking a deep breath, and eventually starts it up and drives away, shaking her head. Calliope is frozen at the window. 

It was Rebecca at the door. Rebecca, who Adam...turned away? Told to leave?

She takes a moment to suck in a deep breath, letting out a loud sigh. Huh, she thinks, turning off the light and heading to her shower, eager to wash off the grime and sweat of training. Maybe he’s not so bad after all.