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emeritusemeritus · 2 months ago

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Hi love! Could I request a Fred Weasley x Sirius Black's daughter? Like low key goth, full of attitude, and overly confident reader, maybe they're in a meeting for the order and she's giving full attitude or something?? I just need more confident/bitchy reader bro T-T I'm tired of all the 'not like other girls' and shy readers like brother I speak my mind. anywho I love you and you're writing your amazing <3

Hello dear Anon! I hope it’s okay that I tweaked this just a little because I’ve been reading OOTP and it’s a crime that this scene wasn’t included because Fred vs Sirius?! I’d initially planned something much different but ended up 4k words deep here 😂 I love writing a fiery reader and would love to do more of this OC. Hope you enjoy! 🖤

Warnings: mentions of injury, Arthur’s attack, general unrest, drinking, brief mention of potential alcohol addiction, sadness and anger. Fred has big emotions. Mentions of Umbitch. Brief nod to the reader potentially being a seer? Secret relationship that gets revealed.

Word count: 4k words (I got sucked in)

The eye of the snake.

"But professor," you protested weakly, actually considering the implications of your actions for once.

"I hardly think now is the time for propriety Miss Black," Professor McGonagall says as she ushers you through the common room and up the stairs towards the boys dormitories, whilst she heads towards the girls to retrieve Ginny. An odd night all around, you thought.

With shaking hands you held your illuminated wand out in front of you as a beacon, though you hardly needed a guide having made this walk so many times before, though never this quickly and without watching out for every creaking floorboard. You reached out for the door handle and slid it open, trying to stay quiet as to not disturb Lee. George was snoring as usual, surprisingly in rhythm with Lee's slight nose whistle which briefly made you ponder how the hell Fred was able to sleep through this crescendo of noise.

You creep towards Fred's bed first, knowing that time was of the essence and gave him a quick shake on his shoulder whilst whispering his name. You felt almost guilty for waking him, seeing him so peaceful in his sleep, knowing that Dumbledore's immediately summoning of yourself and the Weasley children was an ominous and foreboding sign. He looked so handsome, so relaxed and for the briefest of moments you forgot your assignment, wanting nothing more than to just climb in and cuddle up to him, feeling his warmth and softness.

You'd felt it all night, sleep evading you and your eventual dreams disturbed, the sense of something bad occurring pulling at the edge of your mind like a summoning charm. You'd felt the unease, the disquiet all night but couldn't sense anything beyond that, with no details making theirselves known, no visions of what lay ahead beyond the general sense of impending doom.

"Freddie!" You say a little louder, giving him a harder shake, watching as he stirs and eventually opens his eyes, immediately squinting at the light your wand is emitting. "Get up, it's important." You hoped that your blunt tone was enough to drag him out of his slumber and shuffled off towards George's bed where to attempted to wake him too.

"George," you say, giving him a harsh nudge on his shoulder, knowing that he'd be sleeping much deeper than Fred ever did. "George wake up!"

He groans, throwing his arm over his face but you don't pay him any mind, reaching for his dressing gown on the chair beside him and throwing it directly at his face.

"What's happening?" Fred groans, voice deep and thick with sleep.

"Dumbledore's called for us, McGonagall's getting Ginny, somethings happened."

He was out of bed in a flash, recognising your tone of voice enough to know that you were far from joking. George took a bit more corralling but he was quickly roused as you walked out of their dorm, followed closely by both twins who were every inch as disheveled physically as you felt internally. You met Ginny and Professor McGonagall at the top of the stairs and walked quickly and silently behind her, allowing Ginny to walk ahead with her brothers.

"There's been an... incident," McGonagall says, her words carefully considered to give little away of the situation, another ominous sign. "Your father has been injured, though we don't know how serious it is at this time. Professor Dumbledore is doing all he can with Potter's guidance."

"Harry? What's he got to do with this?" Ginny asks quickly, naturally hanging on every word that the professor said. She looked frightened and you could hardly blame her, considering the news. The twins remained uncharacteristically quiet as you walked quickly through the corridors until you were outside the headmasters office.

"Fizzing whizbee."

McGonagall turns to Ginny, casting a glance to the rest of you out of curtesy as the spiralling staircase presents itself at the correct password.

"It appears Mr Potter saw the attack take place."

"We've located your father and he's been taken to St Mungo's Hospital for maladies and Injuries. I'll be sending you all to Sirius' house, it's much more convenient than the Burrow. You'll be meeting your mother there," Dumbledore explains. At the mention of your father, your eyes shoot up to Dumbledore and it suddenly becomes clear why you have been sent for in addition to the Weasley family. Your dad, the safe house, the order of the Phoenix. Arthur must have been injured during Order business.

"How are we going?" Fred asks, his voice sounding as sullen as his face. He sounds unnerved, shaken, and you fight the natural instinct to reach for his hand. "Floo powder?"

"No." Dumbledore says with a slightly shake of his head, "the Floo Network is being watched. You will be taking a Portkey,"

He indicates to an old kettle lying innocently on his desk, the inanimate object having missed your notice upon entering. "We are waiting for Phineas Nigellus to report back... I want to be sure that the coast is clear before sending you on your way."

His gaze slips to you upon mention of your great-great-great grandfather but you avert your eyes, hardly knowing your place in that moment. Usually you had no trouble expressing your opinion, regardless of the situation, but right now you felt the best thing was to stay quiet and offer a supportive presence.

You thought of your own father, the both of you having spent so long forced apart and of his current predicament, essentially forced under house arrest by the Order. It was safer that way, but your heart still ached for how lonely he would be. You felt conflicted and impossibly guilty at the slight excitement you felt at seeing your dad again in respect of what your boyfriend and the others would be feeling at their own father's fate. Mr Weasley had been a surrogate dad to you whilst your own father was locked away and had been a constant presence in your life, making you feel even guiltier for the hopeful feeling you had about your own dad.

Your eyes suddenly whip around to the flash of a flame from the centre of the office, watching as a golden feather emerges from the combustion, your eyes trailing it downwards as it floats right to the floor.

'"Fawkes's warning," Dumbledore half-explains, eyes flickering between the golden feather and then towards McGonagall.

"Professor Umbridge must know you're out of your beds. Minerva, go and head her off - tell her any story."

Professor McGonagall was gone within seconds, her messy braid whipping behind her as she exits the office in a flash.

"He says he'll be delighted," an all too familiar voice suddenly says in a grumbling, bored voice. Your eyes trail up to the portrait of your ancestor, the Slytherin banner proudly waving behind him, his face as sour as you remember.

"My great-great-grandson has always had an odd taste in house-guests," he adds with a particular distaste before his eyes meet yours for only a moment, recognising instantly who you are. "As does his daughter."

"What a lovely reunion," you snark, fighting back a roll of your eyes as the familiar anger simmers deep in your gut at his choice of words, not even bothering to conceal the archaic values of your ancestors that belong in the past with them.

"You have all used a Portkey before?" asks Dumbledore, waiting for confirmation from you all as you huddle around the old black teapot, each of you nervous for different reasons of what will be waiting for you on the other side.

"Good. On the count of three then... one... two..."

"Back again, the blood-traitor brats. Is it true their father's dying?" You barely had time to register the creaky voice, never mind distinguish his words as you recovered from the nausea of travelling by portkey. Your stomach still felt tingly, the pulling sensation behind your navel and the wind ringing past your ears as you trapsed through space and time was never a comfortable feeling, having ended up in your dad's gloomy kitchen only moments later.

"Mistress Black returns with her blood traitor friends." You're about to curse into the horrible little elf when you hear a second voice shout loudly from the sidelines, rendering you speechless.

'OUT!'

Fred from beside you helps you up, knowing even in his time of need that Portkey travel did not agree with you and gives you a little nudge towards where your dad leans on the doorframe awaiting your arrival.

"Dad!" You scrambled, running off to hug your father who welcomed you with open arms, chuckling heartily as you barged into him with a slam. You felt awful doing this in front of the Weasley children but you'd allow this for yourself now and apologise later. You looked over your dads shoulder through the wild brown ringlets of his hair and saw that a single place had been set at the table, with a single lit candle and the remains of a solitary supper that made your heart clench. He smelt like stale drink, your stomach roiling nervously at the thought. Was that how he was occupying himself?

You suddenly pulled away, knowing that it wasn't the right time for a long, drawn out reunion and stepped back in line, in between Fred and George.

"What's going on?" He asks, turning to look upon the Weasley siblings. "Phineas Nigellus said Arthur's been badly injured —"

"Ask Harry," says Fred, particularly bluntly, no doubt frustrated that he wasn't getting a solid answer. You watch as your dad turns to Harry, pulling him into a warm embrace, trying to get him to open up.

"Yeah, I want to hear this for myself," adds George.

"It was, I had a - a kind of - vision," he stutters, beginning to explain the vision in great detail. Throughout the retelling, you have to stop yourself for reaching out for Fred's hand multiple times, knowing that you can't in front of everyone.

"Is Mum here?" Fred asks, turning to your dad once Harry had explained everything. You watch as George's face fills with dread, apparently having not realised up to now that she wasn't present amongst you.

"She probably doesn't even know what's happened yet," explains your dad. "The important thing was to get you away before Umbridge could interfere. I expect Dumbledores letting Molly know now."

"We've got to go to St Mungo's," says Ginny with a sense of urgency. You watch as she pauses, looking around all of you who are still dressed in your nightwear having been ripped from your beds not an hour before. 'Sirius, can you lend us cloaks or anything? Y/n?"

"Hang on, you can't go tearing off to St Mungo's!" Your dad says suddenly, eyes ablaze as if he's personally affronted by the suggestion. Your mouth opens immediately to protest but Fred manages to find the words first, his face stern.

"Course we can go to St Mungo's if we want, he's our dad!'" You can see how physically tense he's gotten, not taking very well to being told no by someone he didn't see as an authoritative figure, even if it was his girlfriend's dad.

"And how are you going to explain how you knew Arthur was attacked before the hospital even let his wife know?"

"What does that matter?" Adds George hotly, clearly thinking along the same lines as Fred, outraged at your dad's block.

"It matters because we don't want to draw attention to the fact that Harry is having visions of things that are happening hundreds of miles away!" Your dad replies angrily. "Have you any idea what the Ministry would make of that information?"

You reach out suddenly for Fred's hand, trying to ground him. The physical contact seems to pull him back to earth, preventing him from saying something he'd inevitably regret... or maybe not knowing Fred.

Ginny instead tries to offer alternatives in a much more grounded way, "Somebody else could have told us... we could have heard it somewhere other than Harry."

"Like who?" Your dad says impatiently with a sigh. "Listen, your dad's been hurt while on duty for the Order and the circumstances are fishy enough without his children knowing about it seconds after it happened, you could seriously damage the Order's-"

"We don't care about the dumb Order!'" Fred shouts, breaking away from your grip, as if it was holding him back. You're suddenly acutely aware that you are stuck in this awkward position, trapped between your dad and your secret boyfriend, hardly able to say anything to diffuse the situation. Your mouth physically hurts as you bite the inside of your cheek, finding it near impossible to keep out of it.

"It's our dad dying we're talking about!" George yells, mere seconds later.

"Your father knew what he was getting into and he won't thank you for messing things up for the Order!" Your dad replies with as much force as he was receiving, "This is how it is - this is why you're not in the Order - you don't understand - there are things worth dying for!'

You're a second away from physically pulling Fred away, knowing that whatever the next words would be that came out of his mouth, they'd be harsh and venom-filled.

"Easy for you to say, stuck here!' bellows Fred. "I don't see you risking your neck!"

You watch in horror as your dad pales, the look in his eyes darkening and you know in that moment that he'd quite like to hit Fred, something you would not be allowing. You'd been quiet too long, allowed them both to get out their frustrations but you'd had enough of that. You wouldn't choose sides, wouldn't force either of them to comply or get along but for your sake you hoped they could at least be cordial. You'd take the brunt of their frustrations if you had to, just to diffuse the situation.

"Right that's enough," you say, finding the words escaping you before you could really think about what you're saying. "Dad get the kettle on," you say with a nod of your head, a small and very false smile playing on your lips. You turn to the twins, names Fred who looks positively mutinous, trying a much softer approach on them. You know if you reach for Fred right now he'll reject you and you couldn't deal with that so you fold your arms over your chest, looking up towards the towering twins.

"We need to wait for your mum, we'll all set up in the lounge to wait or Gin you can have my bedroom if you want," you offer, casting a glance at the youngest Weasley who looks sullen, shaking her head slightly, as you expected. "Just wait to hear from your mum and then we'll work out our next move okay?"

Fred doesn't relent as easy as George who nods after a few moments in understanding. Instead, Fred is still shooting daggers at your dad over your shoulder and you sigh, knowing he's stubborn as a mule. A few tense moments pass and you watch as his eyes suddenly flicker to yours and soften considerably before he nods in agreement.

"No milk," your dad says suddenly from behind, a look on his face somewhere between disgust and shame.

"Right, butterbeer it is then," you say, trying to redeem the situation, "it's in my bedroom." You shoot a look to your dad, knowing you can't do magic here and you were hardly ready to leave Fred and your dad alone again.

"Accio Butterbeer!" Your dad says, taking the lead. Immediately the bottles of butterbeer float across the room and your dad placed them into the table as you reach and distribute the drinks.

You all take your seats in the lounge surrounding the fire that had dwindled slightly since your arrival but with a single flick of his wand, your dad refreshes it.

Ginny takes the old armchair closest to the fire and curls herself up within it.

Harry and Ron take the two seater, the most uncomfortable seat you'd ever had the displeasure of experiencing and you watch with a barely concealed grin as Ron's face immediately conveys his regret as he takes a seat upon the torture device. You reach for a cushion and throw it towards him; hitting him square in the face but for once he doesn't care but instead smiles thankfully for the cushion, not that it would do much. George throws himself down into the sofa closest to Ginny's chair and Fred follows not far behind. You stay standing, feeling suddenly uncomfortable at intruding and begin to back away from the room until the fire suddenly crackles dangerously. There's a burst of light and you frown, hearing the round of gasps as a scroll of parchment flies out, accompanied by a familiar feather.

"Fawkes!" Your dad says, quickly marching into the room at the sudden disturbance, snatching up the parchment and pulling it close to his face. "That's not Dumbledore's writing - it must be a message from your mother - here."

He thrusts the letter into George's hand, who had jumped up anxiously at the sudden intrusion. George then ripped it open and read aloud for everyone to hear.

"Dad is still alive. I am setting out for St Mungo's now. Stay where you are. I will send news as soon as I can. Mum."

There's a dead silence that follows Molly's communication, each of you thinking the same thing.

"Still alive..." George says slowly. "But that makes it sound..."

Fred pulls the parchment out of George's hands and read it for himself, then looks up at Harry for a moment, before he looks back to the parchment.

"You should all go to bed and deal with it properly in the morning," your dad suggests and before you can deal with the inevitable onslaught from the Weasley kids, you pull your dad away back into the kitchen, feeling the hot stare of Fred burning a hole in your back.

"They're worried about their dad," you say, keeping your voice down so that they wouldn't hear you. "We'll just hole up in the lounge for the night."

"Y/n," your dad sighs but for some reason his attempt to disagree with you seems to anger you instantly.

"What would you do? Just go to bed and pretend nothings wrong?"

"Well I didn't care very much for my father," your dad begins to snark, forcing you to roll your eyes.

"Right, so maybe just pretend you can imagine what they're going through and just accept that they're hurting and need each other right now."

Your dad's eyes widen a little at your outburst but you don't back down, "you don't have to host us, go to bed if that's what you're concerned about, or back to your drink."

"Y/n Black!" Your father shouts but you don't flinch, knowing that you'd simply touched a nerve.

"I care about every single one of them in there, is it not just enough that I want them not to hurt? I care about Arthur too! Can you simply not understand that some people might actually be horrified at the thought of their father dying?"

His eye twitches at your words and you can tell he's considering the possible hidden meanings behind your words.

"Perhaps you care a little more for one of them," he snarks, unable to hold himself back. You see red immediately, only to be fuelled by your dad's following words. "Seems that you've absorbed his anger."

"He's not angry he's terrified!" You can't help it, the volume of your voice raising to match his. "Anyone would be in their situation! I'm sorry we're such a burden to you but the second we hear from Molly we'll be at St Mungo's out of your way."

"I didn't mean."

"No you never do," you say, averting your eyes and turning your body to walk back to the lounge.

"Y/n," your dad says, his tone suddenly back to normal if not sounding a little bit regretful. You sigh, tired and on edge, wanting nothing more than to just sit with your boyfriend and friends.

"You're a good friend to them," he says, trying to find words for the situation. Your nod slowly, the anger fading now as exhaustion washes over you.

"They're all I've had for a long time," you say, trying to avoid the sensitive topic of his imprisonment. "You're right about caring for them, and Fred above most. You're just seeing him on a bad night," you pause. "You know him and George stole the Marauders map from Filch's office in our first year?”

You watch as your dad's eyes light up in surprise, apparently never having been told this particular story.

"If you gave him a chance, on any normal day, I'm certain you'd love him."

"Do you?" Your dad asks gently, big brown eyes imploring your own. You frown, casting a look to the closed door that stood between you and the lounge, as if you'd see Fred through it.

You nod, getting more assured with every gentle movement of your head.

"I should get back," you say quietly, immediately feeling regret at the raised voices, not having expected your reunion to go like this.

When you step into the lounge, it's obvious that they had heard everything, though they all attempt to divert their eyes and look away to avoid making it too obvious but fail miserably. Fred's hand beckons you over and he pulls you into his lap, your head immediately resting on his shoulder, ignoring the shocked looks from Ron at the outward affection.

"Don't say anything," you whisper, looking at the flames of the fire instead of his face.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Fred says gently, making you look towards his face, seeing his tired eyes and the tiny hint of a smile upon his face.

"You're comfy," you say, pressing your head into the curve of his shoulder and you can feel the movement of his little chuckle. Arthur stays at the forefront of your mind and you're certain that there's not a moment he's forgotten amongst his children as you look at them throughout the night.

At some point Fred falls asleep, his breathing evening out as his head lolls onto your shoulder with the new position. His hand is entwined with yours, acting like an anchor so he wouldn't float away with his spiralling thoughts, your legs resting over his much longer ones. George is asleep the other side of Fred, emitting quiet snores and jerking every now and then. Ginny doesn't sleep, you can see the reflection of the flames in her eyes as she stares blankly into nothing and you're unable to tell if Ron is asleep due to his head being in his hands, slumped over. You settle down, snuggling into Fred as the tiredness overtakes you and you hope that when you wake there will be better news.

You don't see or hear your dad step into the room an hour later, pausing as he looks upon his daughter cuddling up to who he assumes is her boyfriend. Instead of being angry or protective as he expected to feel, he feels a sense of calm as seeing her look peaceful in her sleep. He may not have had the best interaction with the Weasley boy but he knows Arthur and Molly, they seemed incapable of raising a bad one

#emeritusemeritus #emeritusemerituswrites #harry potter #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley masterlist #requests #requests completed #Sirius black daughter #Sirius black

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inkk-tv · 10 days ago

Text

[ ꜰᴏᴏᴛʙᴀʟʟ ᴘᴜʙ ɢᴏʟꜰ : ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ ]

Chris plants his forehead on the table, taking a deep breath as he watches the astro turf. He’s well gone, but Lucy and Arthur, who is now just drawing shapes on the inside of her forearm, aren’t much better off. “You two are going to bankrupt me.”

“We’ll put the fund towards a muzzle.” Lucy says off handedly, swiping the marker, and Arthur’s hand to draw a three-by-three grid on his skin.

in which: Chris attempts to not have another life crisis during a pub golf video and is failing miserably.

3.7k words [ part one ] [ masterlist ] [ part three, coming soon... ]

[oc x arthurtv x chrismd]

[warnings: Excessive drinking, sexual innuendos and light sexual content]

Chris is torn.

Logically, he knows football pub golf is a content gold mine. It could easily be one of the best videos of the year, especially with the team line ups. On the other hand, the last time Chris filmed a pub golf for Chip's channel some eight months ago, it ended with him so fucked he'd uprooted his entire life twenty four hours later.

Mid to late twenties was not a good time to have a sexuality crisis - and Chris speaks from experience. Why it took 11 drinks and joking that he'd shag his best mate for space hopper-ing over a bollard to realise he genuinely wanted to snog him silly, Chris isn't sure.

In retrospect, he'd probably fancied Arthur way back in sixth form, sitting with him in every class, dragging the poor bloke to join his football team. The biting should have been a hint. 'Cuteness aggression', as a session of hungover googling informed him, is horribly common. Chris was so torn up about it all that he talks it over with Shannon the night after, when he's not sure if the urge to vomit is from nerves, guilt or the hangover.

He tries to tell her that it doesn't have to change things, that he still loves her. But she still calls it off.

He can't really be mad at her for that, so it's amicable. The two of them weren't built to last much longer anyway; if marriage was in the cards, Shannon wouldn't get snippy anytime her mother brought it up and Chris wouldn't feel nauseous every time he saw an advert for rings. If they were destined for 'forever', talk of marriage wouldn't sound like an expiration date.

Chris spends a couple of months sorting out all his shit and takes a long hard look at his own feelings.

Everyone is sort of weird about the break-up. For a while they all sort of act like it's temporary. Once he puts out a statement though, his friends take that as confirmation that it's actually over. Arthur -Hill not TV- and George take him out drinking a few times as self declared experts in heartbreak and the single life. Their ventures have the three of them planning to move in together when their leases expire in October. Harry corrals him onto a few dating apps and Chris humours him because how is he supposed to tell the guy that women are the last thing on his mind and that he's head over heels (and possibly in love with) one of their mates, who is noticeably a bloke.

At least this time the pub golf is for his channel, so if there's another earth-shattering life crisis, he can edit it out at the least. Save himself the embarrassment of seeing the clip every few weeks on TikTok. Luckily, Chris is not the kind of man who loses all impulse control when faced with a couple of pints.

He is admittedly two shots up already and they've only just settled at hole four. If anything's going to set their team back, it's this. Chris knows the moment he sees Jamie, his production assistant, walk out with a tray of wine-glasses all of which were bordering on over-filled with rosé.

"Oh god," Lucy groans, her head pitching forwards to thud onto the table. Jamie just smiles as he places the three glasses around the halo of blonde hair. Her next complaint comes out muffled. "Why wine? I can't do wine."

"Come on, Luce." Chris grabs her shoulders to drag her back up straight, shaking them a few times for good measure. "Where's all that team spirit gone?"

"Come on En-ga-land, Score some fucking goals." She quotes, putting on the thick northern accent for it.

Seeing as Chris is a little too far gone to keep explaining the rules at each pub without hurling insults at his friends, Jamie's the one who does it this round, citing that each drink must be fed by a teammate.

"I got a great trick for this one," There's a bit of a slur to Arthur's words, but that could just be him and not the alcohol. Then again, he did do a shot when they got to the pub ‘for fun’ which will most definitely bite them in the arse. "We hold hands and squeeze depending on ho-"

Arthur hiccups halfway through his sentence and it's enough to get a snort out of Chris and devolve Lucy into giggles as he continues. " -how, how much you want."

Chris goes first, and Arthur’s hand is warm in his own as he pours the wine into his mouth.

Although, when it’s Arthur’s turn and Lucy grabs the wine glass off the table, she frowns. “You’re too tall for this.”

There's not that much of a gap between them with her heels factored in but it's enough that to get her arm up and angle the glass right, it would certainly be uncomfortable for Lucy.

“Come on, tip toes surely.” Arthur says, but she’s already got a hand on his shoulder.

“On your knees, Television.” She says it so calmly, pressing lightly on his shoulder- not enough to push Arthur down, Chris knows he’s stronger than he looks, but he goes anyway.

Something that’s horribly aroused stirs in Chris’s stomach, watching Arthur drop to his knees in front of Lucy, mouth open as she leans down just slightly to press the glass against his lips. He grips her wrist instead of her hand and swallows every mouthful of pretty pink rosé so eagerly that there’s evidence of it left on her skin, little crescent indented where his nails had dug in.

It’s awfully sobering to realise that Chris might actually have to fight a semi while filming.

There’s been jokes about it, in the past few years as his content has matured along with his audience and those sorts of comments were left in the final cut. But Christ, watching Arthur lick his lips clean of wine, not even moving to stand until Lucy pulls him to his feet by the hand, that’s enough to make anyone sexually attracted to men a little off kilter.

He’s never really had the ‘awkward boners’ at least not since his teenage years. Chris is pretty sure it’s something to do with the messy ball of crossed wires that is his sexuality, the fact he never really gets a hard on for someone he’s not head over heels for but he’s not really put much time into untangling that.

Although, he might need to do that soon.

Something about the way Arthur looks at her, as if from the moment she put her hand on him, she was everything- the centre of his universe.

Not that Chris can really blame him. Lucy’s always been captivating like that. He’s not a moron, Lucy’s attractive, objectively. She’s cute, green eyes, light tan to her skin that’s more from sunshine than genetics, and blonde hair that's half pulled back with a white ribbon, a couple strands falling in front of her face. Round cheeks that push up towards her eyes when she smiles, a little tip up to the end of her nose. She’s got the kind of features that would make Chris pause on those stupid dating apps he only swipes though when Harry’s looking over his shoulder.

Arthur yields so easily for her, blinking at her with those brown eyes and chewing his bottom lip a little, hands still messily entwined together as Harry makes a poor sex joke.

It’s an orbit that Chris has watched many men tumble into before, the gravitational pull of Lucy Bell. There’s something about the way she carries herself, a confidence that makes eyes drawn to her. On night outs, there’s mixed reactions. George and Arthur Hill love it, girls are more than happy to chat and linger at their table, eased in the risk of approaching a bunch of men in a club by the presence of a woman like Lucy.

He thinks about all the dickheads he��s seen try and fail to make a pass on her, as Chris picks up the final glass of rosé.

Lucy has, and will continue to, drink Chris under the table, but she is under or just about five foot six. And There's only so many miracles a liver that size can facilitate. Maybe she’s a little further finished than he thought, because when he holds the wine glass up to her, and clasps their palms together, she just isn’t taking it like she was earlier.

“Come on Luce, down in one.” He murmurs, “You got it.”

A little dribble of it runs down her chin and into the curve of her throat, but no one calls her on it and Lucy is left gagging on the taste of rosé that she’d downed. She’s squeezing his hands tight as she recoils and pulls a face. Chris rubs her back and gives it a couple of pats as she leans into his side. “I hate rosé.”

Arthur reappears with three glasses of water, precariously balanced in his hands and he deposits one in front of each of them. It’s the best drink Chris has been given all day and he can’t help the words that slip out. “Oh my god I love you.”

No one blinks at it though, not Arthur, not Chris. He’s said it before, there’s no reason for anyone to think it means anything more than it used to.

Lucy doesn’t bat an eye, just gives Arthur this awfully soft look before guzzling down half the glass in one go. Until Stephen drops a balled up napkin on the floor and kicks it between her feet, nutmegging her.

Honestly, Chris had sort of forgotten about writing that rule into the video and he sort of feels bad now. Lucy’s probably going to be the only victim of it for the afternoon, because everyone else is far enough gone that they’re a little fuzzy on the rules too.

She and Stephen do shots of baby guinness together (because apparently he just wanted to?) and Chris has to stare into his water glass, tracing patterns on the condensation with his thumb so he doesn’t stare at Arthur and imagine him at the foot of his bed, on his knees for Chris. Complacent and content.

Chris kind of wants to curl in on himself.

Beside him, Arthur’s hand slips down from Chris’ shoulder and along his back, stepping around both him and Lucy, hand slipping to her waist and along the curve of it as he ducks back inside the pub.

There’s jeers from the German team and Cal follows Arthur inside to make sure he’s not chundering in the bathroom.

“Chris, I’m not gonna lie,” Lucy leans into whisper, “I don’t think I’ll be standing by the end of this video.”

She looks utterly gone. Her eyes are wide, and there’s a little sheen to the column of her neck, maybe from the wine she’d dribbled or the haste to skull the water she was handed. This close, he can see the lines of her makeup, where the eyeliner is a little shaky right at her lash line and the few eyelashes that are clumpy with mascara.

It’s the drunkest he’s seen her in a while, and she’s probably only one drink off of ‘cartwheel Lucy’- the stage of intoxication where she feels the urge to display her impressive coordination that she, annoyingly, never loses no matter how much alcohol she’s ingested.

Chris tips his head forwards and bites her deltoid. Teeth sinking softly into the fabric of her jersey until he can just feel the solidness of her shoulder underneath. Lucy startels, a little, whines then swats at Chris until he retreats half a step.

She looks at the bite mark on her pristine England Jersey, wiping at Chris’ spit as she scoffs and scrunches her nose up a little. "I’m going to catch diseases off you at this rate.”

There’s about half a second where he considers making an STD joke, but there’s a camera sitting on them and it feels a little disrespectful to suggest something like that.

Lucy frowns down at the black line on the inside of her wrist. “Where’s Arthur, I need a tally mark.”

And the man of the hour is dragged from the Pub’s entrance, clinging to Cal, looking significantly more gone than he had five minutes ago. The wine must have been hitting hard.

Supposedly, there was no puke, but for the antics Arthur received a red card, putting the English team even further down the hole they’re stuck in. It doesn’t help that the other team all get their drinks down in one.

Not that Chris was really paying attention, he was too busy watching Arthur poke at Cal, enjoying pressing his buttons.

“How many holes do we have left?” He asks once he’s settled back into his stool.

Chris snorts. “Me after five drinks on a saturday night, am I right?”

Arthur holds his hand up for a high five, but Chris has his arms crossed and his brain is working a little slow to catch it before the palm is descending into a playful smack on his face. He grabs Arthur's hand with both of his and licks a fat stripe up his palm, tongue feeling the roughness of calluses from the gym and the faint taste of beer.

The reaction is immediate. “Noooo!”

Arthur recoils and wipes his hand of spit on Chris’ jersey.

Lord, Chris must be so much further gone than he thought, because he just devolves into giggles, even after fully licking his best mate’s hand. It’s only when Jess, his production manager, starts herding them down the footpath to the next pub that Chris finally gets a handle on his giggles.

Somehow, when they make it to Pub number five, everyone- including his own employees- goads Chris into climbing the tree opposite it. Which earns them two points deducted, so they’ve almost worked off the red card from Arthur’s endeavours with a toilet bowl at the second pub.

The Vodka Oranges are, mercifully, only one standard drink. Although, Lucy’s still looking a little queasy at the prospect of downing it. “I hope this doesn’t have pulp.”

Arthur frowns and holds his drink up in the light to get a better look. “I don’t think so.”

“If there’s pulp I might actually throw up. I can’t do the texture.”

“Can’t say I’m a big fan either.” The downwards tilt of Arthur’s lips is painfully cute and Chris kind of wants to lean over and bite at him, but he’s not supposed to be doing that today. Instead he huddles them closer together, like was in the plan for pub five and they have their half-time strategy meeting.

“If either of you puke, I swear to god I will never forgive you.” Chris says, focusing very hard on not slurring his words. “We can’t lose to Stephen Tries. He already carries this channel enough.”

“Come on- I’ve done plenty.” Arthur complains. “I got Harry three shots deeper.”

Admittedly, an impressive feat, but it’s still about thirty less shots than Harry WroeToShaw needs to start feeling the effects of Alcohol and far from enough to recover from all the penalty points he’s been earning. Chris tuts “Only one of us has climbed a tree so I really think that you guys need to step up to the plate at this point.”

The pair just stare at him, and for a moment, Chris sort of loses the plot in Arthur’s eyes. “You’ve got very nice eyes.”

They are. A nice dark brown that sort of looks like pots of honey, mesmerising while Chris blinks into them, with a sort of depth that makes it impossibly easy to sink into them. He’s better at it now, remembering to look away, but the alcohol’s got him a little slower to catch it.

“Christ, they are nice eyes.” Lucy agrees leaning in to get a better look at Arthur, who’s blushing a little from the attention, then towards Chris. “You’ve got good eyes too.”

Arthur nods eagerly. “He does have lovely eyes.”

“Lucy, your eyes are great.” Chris pivots, hoping to save his brain from malfunctioning, onto Lucy, planting a hand on her shoulder to lean in close and study her eyes.

They’re more green than blue, wide as she processes how close he’s gotten to her. He’s heard people say the grass is greener on the other side, but looking at Lucy’s eyes, it might just be true. It’s almost like staring at the overgrown grass of his childhood football pitch, some streaks a little darker than others, and the underlying feeling that there’s something to be found there, if one cared to look a little deeper than surface level.

“Oh, they are.” Arthur agrees, squinting a little as he peers at her.

All three of them have completely lost the whole ‘strategy meeting’ plot that was supposed to be their halftime regroup and by the time Chris untangles himself from their eyes, it’s time to down the vodka oranges that have been sweating condensation down their wrists.

Cal corrals both teams into a cheers and miraculously, everyone manages to get it down in one.

Thankfully, they’d figured people would be a bit gone by pub five, so a nice lengthy walk proceeds pub six.

Chris just about hangs off Arthur the whole time, who at first is a little distracted by texting George Clarkey in an attempt to convey how ‘sober’ he is, but eventually slings his arm over Chris’ shoulder and lets him stay there. He tries to not stir things, lest he be shoved away, instead basking in the bloody amazing smell of Arthur cologne as it mixes with his deodorant. Chris couldn’t name what either of them smell like, but it’s a scent that’s so uniquely Arthur he wouldn’t be able to associate it with anything else.

“George says he’s gonna come pick me up from the last pub.” He declares, shoving his phone into Chris’ face. It’s a little too close to read, but he squints and tries anyway. Arthur only gives him a few seconds before pulling the screen back and pocketing it.

At one point in their walk, Chris bites at his wrist where it hangs next to his face but it’s not enough to chase him off.

“Next pub golf, it’s twenty quid per bite.” Arthur grimaces, whipping the back of his hand of spit down the front of Chris’ jersey. “Lucy had the right idea.”

“I think you owe her a tally mark. Maybe.” Chris frowns, trying to recall if they’d added the last nip.

“Luce!” He calls. “Did we add the last tally? From Pub four with the rosé?”

She’s about ten meters ahead, tangled up with Stephen as he tries to wrangle her into some kind of hug or headlock, it’s a little unclear which. For a moment the pair of them freeze, and Lucy does that little frown and nose scrunch she does whenever she thinks particularly hard on something. “No!”

Then she kicks Stephen’s sneaker and he bowles over, caught off guard.

“Yellow card! Yellow card!” Arthur shouts, pointing so obnoxiously that Chris almost wants to tell him it’s rude. “Ref, that’s diving!”

Cal dishes out a Yellow card and Stephen goes back to trying to deck Lucy, via bowling her knees out from under her. But by the time they make it to pub six, he’s managed to weasel a piggy back out of her and the two of them pause by the gate to point out where ‘live music: ChrisMD Diss-Track cover band’ is written in neat print of the blackboard.

The two of them are gone, and it’s probably lucky that Lucy isn’t the kind of drunk that gets clumsy, otherwise the two of them would never have managed to make it through the beer garden benches without knocking into one. Arthur isn’t as lucky, knocking his shin against one on his way over to the tables his production team has claimed.

“Ow.” He whines as Chris gets his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, shaking him until they’re at the seats and he’s shoving him off in fake annoyance. “Get off you leach.”

He digs the pen out of his shorts pocket, and bites the cap off, keeping it wedged between his teeth as he calls out to Lucy. Her name comes out muffled around the cap but she deposits Stephen and collapses next to Arthur, who grabs her wrist. There’s an awful lot of concentration on his face for something as simple as drawing a line.

“We’ll put the fund towards a muzzle.” Lucy says off handedly, swiping the marker, and Arthur’s hand to draw a three-by-three grid on his skin.

They fall into their own little bubble as they start up a series of naughts and crosses games. Chris has to kick them under the table to gain their attention when Cal starts explaining the pub-quiz rules. The aim was to guess the cocktail themed pun based on the footballer’s name.

Chris wasn’t expecting greatness to begin with. He knows his footballers, but Arthur and Lucy don’t really know them by name and face- unless they play for the teams they support. There’s a much higher chance of a Man United player showing up than a Brighton player, so Lucy might be completely out of her depth.

They manage to break even only because the German team are shouting out the footballer’s names and failing to relate it back to a cocktail, so the three of them can steal the point out from under them By the end of it, they’re left with a martini, a strawberry daiquiri and a rum punch.

Chris gets the easy way out and is handed the martini, Lucy recoils once she finishes her rum punch, a shiver racking her spine and Arthur struggles to drink his daiquiri that is filled with ice, though a piss-weak paper straw.

But it’s down in one for all of them, even the other team.

As he hauls himself to his feet, the gin hits him like a truck. Enough that he stumbles half a step back. Chris knows, as he catches the worried look his production team are giving him, that his hope of ending the afternoon without puking, was a lost cause.

[ part one ] [ masterlist ] [ part three, coming soon... ]

ink note: part two! poor christopher's got it bad. this is our last chris chapter for a while, so pray for the poor lad.

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