#because it was a French guy who brought it to America

[spooky-circuits]

I think the different troll genres would probably have different cultures around deafness but overall be fairly accepted. The different genres also probably had their own sign language because of the separation. Not completely different but enough that it gets confusing for hearing trolls who don’t know that there are regional signs.

[occasionally-poetic]

marauders characters’ ethnicities/religions/languages

just my own HCs so don’t get offended!

jayaram fleamont potter

(tells people to call him j or jamie bc its easier, so everyone assumes his real name is james, and he doesn’t correct them)

indian hindu on his mum’s side (tamil nadu specifically)

effie comes from a rich tamil pureblood family (many pureblood families name their children something greek/latin, thus ‘euphemia’), and teaches jamie hindi, tamil and some greek

his tamil is great and he’s fluent in writing/reading as well as speaking, writing letters to effie from hogwarts in tamil

his hindi is okay, mostly with reading and talking, his writing is pretty limited

his greek is godawful and he’s barely conversational, much to effie’s dismay

(non-practicing) catholic chilean on his dad’s side

monty is (obviously) a potter, and most of his relatives live in chile or south america, but his parents moved to england for hogwarts (didn’t want him going to school on another continent to them)

he’s a practicing hindu with his mum (monty doesn’t really get it because he doesn’t speak a word of hindi so he just smiles and nods)

he speaks english and (chilean) spanish, which he teaches jamie, who speaks/reads/writes it as fluently as his english and tamil

sirius orion black

he is heir of the noble and most ancient house of black so he’s the french-est pureblooded-est guy you’ll ever meet

especially pureblooded because he’s the product of incest (his parents are second cousins) (canon)

the black family are french, owning many estates there, etc., but have lived in england for generations (his great-grandparents migrated and now they only visit france in the summer sometimes)

catholic (receiving NOO criticism here bc this is canon (no its not)) with intense religious trauma and internalised homophobia (not projecting at all whaaaaat)

sort of converts to judaism (ish?) he makes remus explain it all and siri thinks its sooo fascinating so he gets a menorah for the dorm for hanukah and buys a torah to study and remus is so happy

speaks french as his first language, and latin and greek fluently from tutoring, but only started to learn english for hogwarts (is so bad at it in first year omg)

remus yohanan lupin

(I KNOW HIS CANON MIDDLE NAME IS JOHN BUT HE IS SO JEWISH CODED TO ME SO HERE’S THE HEBREW FORM OF JOHN INSTEAD X)

polish-jewish on his dad’s side (lyall was evacuated to wales in ww2, when he was about 10, and hope’s parents looked after him until he graduated hogwarts and started dating hope (they literally adored him and helped raise remus I DONT CARE))

protestant welsh on his mum’s side (didn’t really practice her faith though - just brought them all to church on christmas eve and easter sunday)

interfaith household + being a patrilineal jew (more not fitting in angst for remus guys!)

spoke english and welsh at home, equally fluent (lyall picked up welsh while living with hope’s parents), and hebrew too from his hebrew sunday school

lyall tried (and failed) to teach him polish, as that was his first language, so remus can speak a very basic amount of polish, mostly swearing and children’s lullabies (marlene teaches him more at hogwarts so they can gossip!)

not very orthodox jews, but celebrate jewish holidays and go to the synagogue on sabbath (and he wears a necklace of the star of david that belonged to lyall’s late mother)

pieter daan pettigrew

(anglicised his name for hogwarts because everyone called him p-eye-ter (like actual pie + ‘ter’))

protestant dutch on his mum’s side (but she went to hogwarts!)

protestant english on his dad’s side

parents were ‘born again’ christians so they were very devout (grace before every meal, helping out at church every sunday, bible study every morning, etc)

peter never really believed in any of it, and would often go to jamie’s to avoid having to go

he spoke english with his dad and half-brother, but solely dutch with his mum and his other siblings. he was also taught latin before hogwarts (pureblood things) and absolutely HATED it (he was probably dyslexic and often found himself changing language in the middle of his talking exams)

picked up a fair bit of tamil from jamie and effie (aka his second mum) and absolutely LOVED the potters’ diwali party (literally the highlight of his year)

let me know any other characters i should do!! and if you disagree feel free to leave your HCs in the comments, but please respect that people have different opinions xx

[fatehbaz]

Recent Chicago peice reminded me of the way Chicago north suburbs use military bases to divide and segregate in a manner that similarly matches connects to colonial actions. You always compile interesting stuff thank you.

Thank you for the kindness and support. I'm gonna riff on this a little bit. I'm sorry, I don't mean to distract from what you specifically brought up here.

Yea, we can add federal military base sites to the list of "innovations" Chicago has made in spatial arrangement (like, constructing nasty landscapes), specifically labor segregation (race-based) in service of wealth extraction. (For anyone following along, the article/essay we're discussing explores connections between plantations in US-occupied Philippines and the policing institutions and technologies of Chicago. More specifically, it's about white anxiety in Chicago, the fear and "anticipation" of Black migration from the South during Reconstruction and the Great Migration, and how between 1880-ish and 1910-ish Chicago then became a center of surveillance, records-keeping, body/mind classification systems, and new innovations in monitoring dissent and collecting information. The Adjutant General of the US Army who led Chicago's militarized crackdown on the labor rebellions of the 1877 Great Railroad Strike immediately moved to DC and proposed establishing "the Military Information Division" (MID); eventually founded in 1885, MID started collecting hundreds of thousands of Bertillon-system intelligence cards on dissidents and "criminals" across the US. Meanwhile, the National Association of Chiefs of Police headquartered their central bureau of identification in Chicago in 1896. In the author's telling, these policing beliefs and practices - including intelligence cards, "management sciences," and policing unit organization - were then "exported" by MID to the US-military-occupied Philippines and used to monitor labor and anticolonial dissent. Another Chicago guy, at the same time, developed "personality typing" and psychological evaluations, and then trained Philippines police forces to collect as much information as possible about colonial subjects. The information-gathering in the Philippines constituted what other scholars have called one of the United States' first "information revolutions," with this apparatus of knowledge-collection and surveillance being "capillaries of empire." These connections and arguments are made by Jolen Martinez, in 2024, "Plantation Anticipation: Apprehension in Chicago from Reconstruction America to the Plantocratic Philippines".)

So, Chicago is a funnel, right?

The node. The center of transportation networks. Extracted wealth channeled by the Great Lakes/St. Lawrence River waterway, channeled by the Mississippi River corridor, channeled by the railroads acting as tendrils reaching out into westward into "the frontier". For the United States, Chicago was the gateway to "the West". Over the course of the past two centuries: Furs from trapped mammals in Canadian boreal forest shipped through the Great Lakes to French colonial benefactors. Mined metals from the Iron Ranges shipped through the ports. Timber from Minnesota shipped through the waterway. Cattle from Texas rangeland shipped, after the 1870s, along railroads to centrally meet together at massive Chicago meat processing facilities and industrial-scale slaughterhouses. Corn Belt agricultural produce from the tallgrass prairie ecoregion shipped to Chicago. And people, too. People diminished. People seen as resources. People as labor. People shipped to Chicago to work the processing centers, the railyards, the docks, the restaurant dish-pits. And so Chicago becomes a hub of the Great Railroad Strike of 1877. But Chicago was also a major destination for Black people moving away from the (post-)Reconstruction South. And because Chicago was a hub of labor unions, Black migration, telegraph and communications infrastructure, and significant industrial production, it also becomes a hub of policing.

Have you ever looked through an archive of all the extravagant promotional advertising illustrations for the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition, famously hosted by Chicago?

From the Gilded Age to the Roaring Twenties, Chicago achieves the pinnacle of its spectacular reputation with its image as a glistening modernist metropolis after the construction of the railroad networks. But even before the city itself was formally established, the wetlands where the Chicago River meets Lake Michigan were kinda located in this general region that acts as a sort of bridge for French wealth, being both near the inland terminus of the Great Lakes-St. Lawrence route while simultaneously also sitting near a sort of inland terminus of the Mississippi River route (kinda uniting French Canadian fur trade and Ontario/Quebec settlement with French "Caribbean" plantations and New Orleans).

I think about how suburbanization, and its attendant racial segregation, is especially blatant in something I kinda think of as "the southern Great Lakes industrial corridor and its economically, ecologically, (settler-)culturally similar satellites" (Columbus, Detroit, Grand Rapids, Indianapolis, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, St. Louis, etc.). Some writing on this, which you might enjoy checking out if you haven't yet, is Phil Neel's work, particularly the book Hinterland (2018). Neel's book is largely about suburbs or suburbanization; the environmental construction of Midwestern cities as hubs of industrial extraction and racial segregation; and how these Chicago-esque traditions of designing physical space (whether it's residential, "rural", "urban", whatever) to best isolate/subdue people for extraction are now widespread and typical of US space in general.

It's now a template. As another example, Neel discusses how the "revitalized urban core" of Seattle's utopian "infotech metropolis" of tech companies is actually dependent on the corridor extending southward towards and past Tacoma, "this logistics empire" of "warehouses, food processing facilities, container trucks, rail yards, and industrial parks" while "the poor have been priced out" and "can also be found staffing the airport and the rail yards [...], loading boxes in warehouses [...]." It's why, in recent years, you hear about "workforce housing." Put a warehouse or big box store on the edge of town, then put nearly-inhospitable apartment complexes next-door, and you keep the poor at the periphery. Like a company town. Or kinda like creating a debt colony from which to draw vulnerable laborers. So that the power of such a major city and its economic might does not end at the technical city limit boundary, but extends beyond into the "rural" hinterland. (You can see this when looking up an "urban megaregion map".) And Great Lakes or "Midwest" cities were a sort of pioneer (excuse the term) of these techniques of labor compartmentalization.

Ferguson and St. Louis in 2014. Minneapolis and Louisville in 2020.

So maybe unsurprisingly, urban/neighborhood racial segregation is very ingrained/formalized in the Great Lakes cities. Chicago's Lake Michigan-based sibling Milwaukee is especially notorious (2018 research found Milwaukee had the most extreme Black-white segregation of any US city with a million or more people). Including banking, home-loan denial, insurance practices engineered specifically and efficiently to isolate/segregate/prey upon Black people (all kinds of academic research on on these practices).

Coincidentally, redlining ("other side of the tracks"), especially 1930s-1940s, made use of the region's many railroad tracks as physical barriers and hostile environments. So that the railroad infrastructure not only funneled wealth but also became actual, material obstacles. Weaponized landscape feature.

And part of why I liked Martinez's take on it was that we can see more evidence that Chicago's techniques of organizing space/life did not just establish ways of being in the Midwest, but also established ways of being across the United States. And we can kinda see that this power is not just physical/material.

I think Chicago is interesting, especially in the time period of the research we're talking about (1880-1910), because this Gilded Age, Edwardian era, turn-of-the-century-opulence kinda moment is sort of singularly important for (European) empire-building. British imperial power being exercised in Southeast and South Asia. The Scramble for Africa. French Algeria. European power reaching outwards. But it also corresponds to United States empire-building both domestically and globally. 1889/1890: Wounded Knee and "the closing of the frontier", the West has been won, from sea to shining sea, now the US thinks it owns the continent or whatever. And the US didn't waste any time. Immediately, the US moves on to Cuba, to Hawai'i, to the Philippines, to Panama, etc. And it's like, at first, to target Indigenous people and the Wild West, there are obvious physical/material reasons why Chicago (geographically, as a railroad and telegraph hub, as shipping hub) is like a homebase or an epicenter for westward expansion and domestic empire-building. But Chicago is not geographically a convenient hub of colonization abroad in Central America or the Philippines (it's not close to those locations, the railroads of Chicago don't reach Manila, etc.). And yet, what Martinez's work suggests is that in a very scary way Chicago still actually might've functioned as a hub of empire-building across the globe. Chicago was a place where the United States' imagination fermented. Ideas, imaginaries, beliefs. So that, maybe Chicago became not just a physical node, but an imaginative node, too. Chicago-style authority, police data-collection, and record-keeping inspired surveillance approaches across the United States. The ideologies, the "personality types", the filing cabinets, the "intelligence cards", were adopted elsewhere. What plantation owners and white Southerners believed and practiced in antebellum Louisiana was re-articulated by the specificity of Chicago; Gilded Age Chicago then would influence US domestic surveillance; and the US would then reach out and transport those beliefs and practices to affect the rest of the planet.

[ourshadowstallerthanoursoul]

An audience with... John Paul Jones

(from Uncut, April 2010 - link)

You’re stuck on a deserted island, you have one instrument you can bring. It is: a) piano, b) bass or c) mandolin? (Gary Attersley, Ontario, Canada)

Oh… that’s horrible! I’ll probably get Hugh Manson – the guy who builds all my bass guitars – to build me some monstrous instrument that encapsulated all three! Hugh and his brother Andy Manson once actually designed me a triple-necked guitar with 12-string guitar, six-string guitar and mandolin on it! Andy also designed a triple-necked mandolin. But I guess if it really came down to it on a desert island, it would have to be the piano, because you can do so much on it. You’re a whole band. The bass is not much fun on your own.

John, it’s so good to see you so engaged with today. Any advice for old farts who can’t move on? (Andrew Loog Oldham)

Who are you calling an old fart? I dunno, Andy, you tell me! Ha ha. He’s done a good job of staying up to date. Andrew, of course, gave me the name John Paul Jones. I was John Baldwin, until Andrew saw a poster for the French film version of John Paul Jones. I thought it ’d look great in CinemaScope, as I wanted to do music for films. I imagined it saying “Music By John Paul Jones”, over the whole screen. I never realised then that he was the Horatio Nelson of America!

I know that you’ve been getting heavily into bluegrass lately – who are some of your favourite bluegrass artists of all time? (Ryan Godek, Wilmington, Delaware)

Apart from Bill Monroe, you mean? Oh, there’s loads. I’m friends with the Del McCoury band, I love that style of classic bluegrass. I love Sam Bush’s Newgrass stuff. And of course there’s Nickel Creek, Chris Feely, Mike Marshall. I love it all, really. One thing I like about bluegrass is that you don’t require amplifiers, drums and trucks. You can pull an instrument out of a box and get on with some instant music making. I carry a mandolin around wherever I go. I also like the fact bluegrass musicians play more than one instrument. There’s a tradition of them swapping instruments. In bluegrass bands I swap between double bass, fiddle and banjo.

One Butthole Surfers anecdote, please? (Dave Grohl)

Ha! I was brought in to produce the Butthole Surfers’ 1993 album, Independent Worm Saloon. I guess it was to give it a heavy rock vibe, but it didn’t work like that. They were actually incredibly hard-working in the studio, but I do recall running up a phenomenal bar-bill at the San Rafael studio. And then there was Gibby [Haynes, Butthole Surfers’ frontman] and his… eccentric studio behaviour. Gibby did one vocal take shouting into his guitar. He held it out in front of his face and screamed at it. Ha! He was trying to find out if it picked up through the pick-ups, which it kind of did. And that was pretty good.

How’s the violin coming along? (Sean, Berkshire)

I started about three years ago. With the guitar, or the piano, you can sound OK quite quickly. With the violin, it takes much longer. Once you get past the first six months of scraping, of muttering to yourself, “What is this fucking horrible noise on my shoulder?” you get the odd musical bit, and you think, ‘Oh, this is starting to get good.’ And you continue with it for a while. I’m getting into country fiddle playing, Celtic folk songs, a bit of swing. Basic stuff, but very satisfying.

Why not record a second ‘Automatic For The People’ with REM? (Franz Greul, Austria)

They haven’t asked me! But doing the string arrangements for that album was a great experience, actually. They sent me the demos of their songs, and we went into a studio in Atlanta, with members of the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. They were great songs, something you can really get your teeth into as an arranger. And I’ve been good friends with them ever since.

How did you first meet Josh Homme? And is he still a notorious party monster? (Rob Hirst, Kippax, Leeds)

Well, I think we’ve all calmed down rather a lot. Dave introduced me to Josh at his 40th birthday party. It was a ridiculous themed place where they have jousting with knights. As Dave said, it was like somewhere you’d have your 14th birthday party. Or maybe even your 4th. Anyway, Dave sat Josh and I together for a blind date. Which was reasonably embarrassing for both of us, surrounded by people going “prithee this” and challenging each other to duels. But we survived the trauma and went into the studio the next day, and just started jamming. And I knew immediately it was going to be something special.

If Them Crooked Vultures had Spice Girls-like nicknames what would they be? (Paul Jones, Liverpool)

Dave would be Smiley Vulture. He can’t stop grinning. Josh would be Slinky Vulture. He’s a slinky kinda guy. And I’d be Speedy, I guess. Or Jumpy. So there you go. Smiley, Slinky and Speedy. Or does that sound more like the dwarfs?

I remember you being a pretty funky bass genius back in the day! What memories do you have of those sessions? (Donovan)

The sessions with Don and Mickie Most were great, because we were given a free hand. I usually got leeway, because I was the sort of Motown/Stax specialist, so producers in the mid ’60s would get me in for cover versions of American records, and none of them could write bass parts convincingly enough, so I was London’s answer to James Jamerson, I guess! And I was certainly encouraged to get kinda… funky when I worked with Donovan.

How did it feel to see Jimmy Page and Robert Plant venture off in their own project in the ‘90s without mentioning a word of it to you? (Danny Luscombe, Hull)

Oh yeah, I was pissed off about it. The surprise was in not being told. It’s ancient history now, but it was a bit annoying to find out about it while reading the papers. It came just after Robert and I had been discussing the idea of doing an Unplugged project. Then I’m on tour in Germany with Diamanda Galás, I turn on the TV and see Robert and Jimmy doing it, with someone else playing all my parts! I was pissed off at the time. You would be, woudn’t you? But… it’s all in the past, isn’t it?

Did you listen to much work by Josh Homme or Dave Grohl before you were contacted in relation to joining Them Crooked Vultures, and if so, how did you honestly rate it? (Ralph Ryan, Lisronagh, County Tipperary)

I did like the Foo Fighters and Queens Of The Stone Age, before I’d met either of them. There’s a tendency for people – especially musicians from my generation – to say that there has been this terrible decline in musicianship, that today’s bands haven’t got the chops, blah blah blah. But that’s not true at all. There’s always some people for whom technique on an instrument isn’t necessary. They can get their ideas across without being able to have the chops. But Josh really does have the chops, he just doesn’t feel the need to flash them about all the time. In fact, there were a few riffs he gave me that I had to simplify, because they were bloody difficult to play. I really had to work at it, where he could just flick it off. He is an astonishing musician.

Were you serious when you told Peter Grant that you wanted to jack it in to become choirmaster at Winchester Cathedral? (Brian Fisher, Manchester)

Ha! That was a tongue-in-cheek joke, although I was serious about leaving Led Zeppelin in 1973 unless things changed. But Peter did sort things out pretty quickly. What kind of choirmaster would I have made? A bloody good one! Listen, any way that they’ll pay you for making music is just the best situation in the world. I’d do it for nothing. I don’t care what music it is. I just love it all. The rubbing of notes together. I love it all. I would be very passionate about whatever I decided to do.

What was the worst session you ever did as a jobbing session player? (Adam Burns, Castleford, West Yorkshire)

I generally have fun memories of that time. I’d criss-cross London playing two or three sessions a day, going between Trident and Olympic and Abbey Road and Philips in Marble Arch, you know. You’d be backing Shirley Bassey, Cat Stevens, Lulu, whoever was paying you. The worst experience was a Muzak session. With Muzak sessions, the music was deliberately boring. I distinctly remember one session where I embellished the bass part a little bit, just so that it wasn’t so boring for me to play. They said, “No, you can’t do that. Any interest in the music will distract people’s attention from when they’re meant to be eating.” Or standing in a fucking lift. For fuck’s sake! So I was like, “OK, thanks, bye!”

[rainbow-femme]

So obviously I love just how much LGBTQ+ media exists now, and how much media has LGBTQ+ characters in it, but something Gen Z and later generations will never experience is being so desperate for anything that you end up finding the weirdest gay indie movies imaginable, watching them once at 2 am and then never seeing them again, and being haunted by the half remembered plots because you cannot for the life of you track them down again

So I would like to give you that experience vicariously through two of the ones I watched over a decade ago. If you recognize these please let me know I would love to track them down

The first was about this French gay dude in America who was marrying a lesbian friend to get a green card, and his boyfriend is like

“Hey babe my sibling is coming to town and going to stay with us.”

And the French guy goes “That seems like a bad idea, on account of you telling me that every time they come into town they become super toxic and make you the worst version of yourself and ruin your life.”

And the boyfriend is like “Ok but what are the odds that would happen again.”

The sibling I’m going to use they/them for because in an example of wonderful handling of trans characters, this person continually changes their mind about their gender, which is fine, except they keep managing to get full sex change surgeries every time it happens which is absolutely wild to me because it’s implied they have fully transitioned multiple times. They come into town having had a full MTF transition to the point of both top and bottom surgery and hormones but they’ve decided they’re a man again so they want a place to crash while they have a full FTM transition and I feel like I vividly remember them saying something about finding a doctor who can make them a pair of testicles. Like, specifically testicles was what they brought up, no other bits, this doctor apparently only made and attached artificial testicles and this character decided to start there

So naturally they start isolating the boyfriend from everyone by convincing him that everyone is out to get him and his French boyfriend sucks and is holding him back to the point that the boyfriend I’m pretty sure starts physically abusing the French guy along with other emotional abuse

And the story culminates in the two of them tipping off immigration about the green card marriage and literally get this dude deported, like he is handcuffed and put into a car and taken away, and also probably screwing over the lesbian friend who had agreed to marry him after the boyfriend had asked her to do it to help them

And as the car is driving away the boyfriend looks at the sibling and gives a “Nuh uh, I’m done with you” head shake and starts chasing after the car the French dude is in only to be hit by a different car and presumably killed

And that’s it, that’s the movie

The second is probably my favorite half remembered middle of the night gay movie

It’s about two lesbian friends who seem to be trying out dating each other to see if the relationship would work, and they end up meeting a group of BDSM lesbians who go “Uh, didn’t anyone tell you that lesbians don’t do monogamy anymore? We’re all polyamorous and have BDSM subculture personalities that we live in 24/7, that’s the only way to be a lesbian”

(Side note I don’t think this movie is actually bad about BDSM or polyamory stuff, it’s more about how people just coming out can easily get sucked into doing what they think they should and end up unhappy and over their heads in order to fit what a “real [X] person” looks or acts like. The characters who legitimately enjoy the lifestyle seem to be written in a good way based off my 10+ year old memory of my single viewing)

So the two lesbians decide that one is going to full time be a Daddy personality and the other will be a Little Girl personality, and they can sleep with whoever they want except the Daddy one can’t sleep with a different Little Girl or vice versa because that’s cheating

And this movie was so good because these two had 100% no knowledge of what they were actually supposed to do in BDSM situations and just kept acting like they did and the people in the scenes were like “… Ok, I guess I’ll trust you’re going somewhere with this?” and they never were, they were always just stalling for time

The best example is when the Little Girl one met a butch sub who was a Little Boy, I guess, and she wanted to do a three way with the Little Boy and the Daddy, and again they take things pretty literally so in the scene they’re like “ok you’re my dad and this is my son so that means you’re his grandpa.” And the Daddy one again has no idea what to do when genuinely faced with an experienced sub so she goes “Um, let’s make him sit in a box?” so they get a comically small box and make the sub squat down in it but again they have no idea what to do next and it culminates in the Little Girl saying she’s being drawn between the Daddy one she had been into before all of this and the Little Boy one she just met which pisses off the Daddy one so she leaves, fully confusing the Little Boy sub who thought that was all part of the scene

And then the Daddy one decides if the other is gonna have a new person she will too and she finds a super experienced femme domme and tries to flirt by pretending to be a dog and bringing her something in her mouth and the femme domme is just like “Ok A. I know you’re not actually into this so I’m not going to do anything to you because you wouldn’t like it, but also B. Even if you were I am so far above your experience level you would not be able to take it. So WTF is your problem cut it out.”

And there’s like a BDSM spin the bottle where you kiss or smack or lick the boot of whoever you land on and the Daddy one kisses a different Little Girl which pisses of the original Little Girl so she storms off so the Daddy One fully sleeps with the second one, and then gets in a fight with the original one over how one cheated because she got with the same archetype as the other but the other also cheated because she actually got feelings for someone else

And somehow they resolve everything and the story ends with them turning this into a performance art piece. You don’t see the actual performance art, probably because the writers wanted them to get wild applause but couldn’t think of a performance art piece based on this that would actually earn wild applause so you just see them being applauded while wearing a bunch of ties and jackets and scarves and stuff to I guess symbolize them trying to be things they weren’t

And then you see the butch sub getting whipped or spanked or something by the femme domme to show that everyone got their happily ever after

Heartstopper is great and all but they just don’t make ‘em like that anymore

[worstjourney]

Fr Jeffrey John on Sportsmanship and Competition, Paris Olympics 2024

This sermon was broadcast on Radio 4's Sunday Worship from St George's Anglican Church in Paris on the opening weekend of the 2024 Olympics. I thought it worth saving because it speaks to the ethos of the time period in which the modern Olympic Games were born, and in which Our Guys were brought up.

Baron Pierre de Coubertin is generally acknowledged as the father of the modern Olympic Games. He was born in Paris in 1863, and convened the first International Olympic Congress at the Sorbonne in 1894. He was the energy behind the first games to be held in Paris, in 1900, and then again in Paris on a much larger scale in 1924. So it is wonderfully appropriate that, another a hundred years later, the games are in Paris again.

De Coubertin was an aristocrat, an educationist and an anglophile. He believed strongly in the ancient Greek philosophy of sport as building character and esprit de corps, and thought it was ideally exemplified in English public schools. He was a great friend and admirer of Thomas Arnold, and strove hard, though unsuccessfully, to introduce the same ethos into the French school system.

His real and enduring success was the Olympic games themselves, though clearly it was never going to be easy to achieve the kind of harmonious agreement and international co-operation that the games demand. Inevitably there were problems.

In the London Olympics of 1908, there was a particularly bitter dispute between the British and American delegations, with the Americans complaining that a British jury had unfairly disqualified some of their best athletes. The dispute escalated even to the White House and Downing Street.

In a special service for the Olympics held that year in St Paul’s Cathedral, the sermon was given by an American Bishop, Ethelbert Talbot,  who tried to calm the quarrel by reminding both sides that according to St Paul (in the text that we just heard) winning the game was not the most important thing. Runners may compete to win a prize, says Paul, but the earthly prize is nothing: 

"Do you not know that in a race the runners all compete, but only one receives the prize? They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable one."

So Bishop Talbot concluded:

"If England be beaten on the river, or if America be outdistanced on the racetrack, well, what of it? The Games themselves are better than the race and the prize. St. Paul tells us how insignificant is the prize.  Our true prize is not perishable but imperishable, and though only one may wear the laurel wreath, all may share the equal joy of the contest."

De Coubertin heard the bishop’s sermon and wrote later how deep an impression it had made on him. It made him see more clearly than before that the Olympic aim was not simply a sporting or educational ideal, but a human and religious one; and that overcoming both personal and national ambition in a spirit of genuine co-operation is essential to real flourishing. As he put it:

What matters in the Olympic games is not winning but taking part, because what matters in life is not to triumph but to compete well. We must hold fast to this truth: it is basic to every area of human experience.

That dictum, ‘It is not whether you win or lose but how you play the game’ has become proverbial in French and English, but do we actually believe it?

It is easy to be cynical. Oscar Wilde said it would be truer to say ‘It is not whether you win or lose, but how you lay the blame’. 

We know very well how much corruption, drugs, commercialisation, and the buying and selling of athletes for obscene sums of money have tarnished every kind of sport. 

Some modern athletes have flatly contradicted Coubertin’s grand ideal: ‘Of course winning isn’t everything; winning is the ONLY thing’ said one.

But I think the cynics are wrong.  Even if sport can be abused, ‘abusus non tollit usum’ – abuse doesn’t cancel out proper use. And even if some athletes are obsessed with winning, what inspires is not the gold medal but the extreme dedication and courage it takes for all the competitors to reach their peak of perfection.

The motto of the games isn’t ‘Fastest, Highest, Strongest’, it’s ‘Faster, Higher, Stronger Together’.  In other words, as De Coubertin said, what counts for everyone in every sphere of life, is the determination to do the best you possibly can, against whatever odds. The explosion of enthusiasm for the Paralympic Games in recent years is because somehow, we fell that we are all made braver and nobler in reaching our goals by seeing their bravery and nobility in reaching theirs.  The beauty revealed by the games isn’t just of the body, it’s of the soul.

Whether it is in sport or anything else, if we strive to do the best we can with what we’ve got, in the end we can all hope to say, as St Paul said at the end of his life, ‘I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith’.

[antoine-roquentin]

This series is about something, maybe assassination, identity, and mass politics. The previous part, Part 3, is here.

Almost nobody remembers Ramparts anymore. The 1962-1975 magazine was a mainstay on newsstands with its glossy covers and sensationalism, and yet inside was a type of investigative muckracking journalism more in common with Mother Jones or Counterpunch (both of whom it helped spawn) than the tabloids it stood with. Its story is an effusive narrative with a star-studded cast, featuring early works from virtually everybody well known on the left today as well as people famous for writing in its heyday who have fallen by the wayside. It’s really not a tale that can be told as a one paragraph pitch, because it happens to have a load of complexity. Ramparts reflected an America in transition between an old idea of multiculturalism as a progressive force to put Protestants, Catholics, and Jews onto an equal footing into a new one to negotiate whether black people and other minorities would be integrated into the management of America’s global empire, work together to overthrow it, or be mutilated by an apartheid regime in freefall. It also showcases the role of insurgency, especially symbolism, and counterinsurgency, especially intelligence, in the management of that global empire at home and abroad.

The magazine began the way many failed dreams do: a moralizing Catholic who inherited a small fortune from his parents. Real estate lawyer Edward Michael Keating had been born to a poor woman and grew up in orphanages when he was suddenly adopted by a millionaire who he’d always suspected was his biological father, too ashamed to keep him until he was too ashamed to not. He married Helen English, another millionaire whose parents died young which meant he got their money. Flush with cash and guilt, he decided he would found a left wing Catholic magazine. America was dominated by a conservative bloc of Catholics: the most powerful American Catholic was Cardinal Spellman of New York. He had agitated for an American invasion since the French defeat in 1954 and worked with the CIA to defeat Juan Bosch in the Dominican Republic in 1965. Keating was an idealist. He published Ramparts chock-full of the ramblings of every heterodox Catholic in the country (an early review compared it to a middle school girls’ poetry rag), but also with reports from prominent liberal Catholics like Thomas Merton, a hippie monk who wanted to bring Buddhist practices into the church, and John Howard Griffin, a white guy who painted himself black and toured the south as an undercover journalist. Their advocacy of black civil rights kept them from mainstream American Catholicism, but they found a voice in Keating.

This attracted left wing radicals to a magazine which had a rich donor willing to back any odd idea they’d have, who was more dedicated to exposing America’s hypocrisies than in dealing with his own. Perhaps the most important figure here was Warren Hinckle, a Catholic who got on Keating’s good side by being devil’s advocate in print to prominent Catholic figures and who brought credence by having worked for an actual newspaper, the San Francisco Chronicle. He had done a stint in Oakland and learned how the police treated black people (”the loss of a white life had more news value than the loss of a black life”). Hinckle was a hard drinker who loved thumbing his nose at every piety he could, which made him an antagonist of everything from the national intelligence establishment to good manners. However, he still attended mass weekly, the same as virtually every lapsed Catholic did in those days because the center of virtually all American social life at the time was at places of worship, something definitively not true nowadays.

Hinckle’s tactics at selling magazines were what made him permanent as the  editor. When German playwright Rolf Hochhuth wrote a play criticizing Pope Pius XII’s role in the Holocaust, Keating and Hinckle both thought it was shit privately. However, Hinckle overheard famed muckracking journalist I.F. Stone’s sister Judy on the phone unable to sell an interview with Hochhuth, he convinced Keating to run it alongside a defense of the play. Moreover, Hinckle decided to promote it with a press conference at the Waldorf Astoria in New York. He phoned every newspaper and magazine in the city to promote it including Bedside Nurse, Detergent Age, Professional Barber, and the Jewish Braille Review, offering free danishes and bloody marys. When the press came and Keating began to orate, both were enthralled at the attention they received. Hinckle followed this up with a story purported to name the murderers of 3 civil rights workers in Alabama that never emerged, a story featuring graphic pictures of white police beating black men during Harlem riots, and a picture of swear words under an image of Christ. Merton cautioned the two over the sensationalism, but they continued to publish their work because it sold and got them attention.

It also got them funders. Jessica Mitford, the heir of a British lord who had joined the American Communist Party, was one of many rich left wing ideologues who liked the mag’s bent and could use some of the ad space (her own story is pretty incredible). Others were businessmen for whom the bargain bin rate outweighed the salaciousness. Hinckle’s prowess at negotiations always made it seem like he was doing the investor a favour, despite them having to sign a waiver indicating sound mind after seeing the accounting sheets. Income never came close to outweighing expenses given the predilection for expensive stunts, the need to come up with in-depth investigative journalism, or the sheer amount of expenses Hinckle and others were willing to charge. With creative accounting, however, Ramparts never had to resort to printing on cheap “butcher paper” without colour illustrations like other leftist mags until the end of the 60s.

This marked the shift away from explicit Catholicism to leftism, shifting some control out of Keating’s hands and allowing them to hire white people from other religions. Two key hires at the end of 64 and beginning of 65 were Jews. Dugald Stermer was a graphic designer with no leftist credentials to speak of. He was given control of the entire magazine’s look every month and designed most of the covers himself, and his talent became much of the reason for Ramparts’ continued success. For decades after, magazines like Rolling Stone, Mother Jones, and the Nation based their work on his. The second was Robert Scheer. A New York red diaper baby, his formative years were spent in CCNY arguing with other Jews about left wing economics. Bearded and long-haired before it was cool, his academic career was derailed by a trip to Cuba where he met with Che, killing his job at Princeton and forcing him into the ghettos of left wing journalism. Scheer’s first article with Ramparts was in January 1965, in an issue focused on the Vietnam War. Keating had managed to get the magazine an interview with his old college roommate, a senator from Idaho who had come out against the war named Frank Church (later of the Church Committee). Scheer critiqued the work of prominent Catholic supporter of the war Thomas Dooley with his own experiences, having travelled to Vietnam in 63. His article had come as a result of his girlfriend meeting Hinckle’s wife. Before he could be hired, a sitdown was necessary between Keating and Scheer. It occurred at a restaurant where the waitresses were topless. Keating, ever the moral conscience of Ramparts, did not like the experience, saying “It didn’t seem safe to serve hot food that way“. Scheer rose quickly because he was one of the few people on the staff who had foreign policy knowledge and was willing to fly to the places he discussed to do research. By October, he was “Foreign Editor”, his hands on every Vietnam War piece published. He also had other beats: in 1966, during the Reagan campaign for California governor, he was tasked with getting an in person interview. Scheer fell asleep in a chair in a hotel room waiting for him to show up, and woke to Reagan pulling up his pants, apparently not having noticed Scheer. That month, October 1966, he was “Managing Editor”.

There were other important early hires. WASP Adam Hochschild, later founder of Mother Jones Magazine and author of King Leopold’s Ghosts, was motivated by what he had seen on a stint working for an anti-apartheid publication in South Africa as well as the assassination of Patrice Lumumba. He depicted Ramparts’ offices as a madhouse. Hinckle’s pet monkey, named after the owner of Time Magazine and long-time CIA friend Henry Luce, was allowed to wander the halls freely but tended to travel in the company of its owner. One day, a television crew from a foreign country would be in filming a documentary. The next, a leftist luminary would be in toting drugs or guns, like Malcolm X’s widow Betty Shabazz, who had 12 armed bodyguards with her, or Hinckle’s protege Hunter S. Thompson, who brought a backpack filled with illicit substances that Luce promptly broke into and pilfered from. Hinckle rarely did anything without lunch at a restaurant, where he would consume a dozen scotches without showing any sign of inebriation. One of his favourites was a cop bar he’d found on his old beat, where he’d pick up tips as to what was going on in the city. Often, he’d come up with a new business plan on the fly, only to balk when he realized the cost. Scheer would press him on it, “What’s the matter? Got no guts?” Scheer disliked the cop bar since there wasn’t enough women to hit on.

Reese Erlich later won a Peabody, worked for NPR and Vice, and published books on Iraq, Syria, and Iran in the 2000s. He was part of the Oakland Seven on trial for anti-war protests. Their successful lawyer later defended Huey Newton and Jim Jones. He was hired along with his girlfriend as part-time office assistants. At one point, Hinckle told them to drive him to the airport. He pulled them into a bar despite them being underage. The bartender, knowing Hinckle, immediately set up 15 vodka screwdrivers. Hinckle drank them all and missed his flight. Erlich later had an article where he interviewed a co-defendant. The cover was a picture of Stermer’s child waving a Vietcong flag.

Ralph Gleason, a jazz reviewer at the Chronicle, was poached by Hinckle for music columns. He later met a young man named Jann Wenner at a concert and pulled him in as a rock columnist for the abortive glossy spinoff Sunday Ramparts. Wenner ended up marrying a young copy editor he’d met at the magazine named Jane Schindelheim. When Hinckle published an article on the Haight-Ashbury drug scene calling the hippie movement fascist, Gleason left in protest, and Wenner followed him. Stermer allowed them to take his design for their new magazine, Rolling Stone. Hinckle himself had picked up the term “hippie” from his conversations with his friend, noted San Fran columnist Herb Caen.

Perhaps the biggest hire was Ramparts’ first black writer. Keating’s friend Beverly Axelrod, a lawyer, sent him the writings of a client she had taken on. He’d been in the market for an attorney after a conviction for attempted murder and hoped to pay for one with money from a writing career he wanted to start. His work covered the American prison system, colonialism, and race in a visceral style with an elevated vocabulary that excited its highbrow white promoters. Keating in turn committed himself to getting Eldridge Cleaver, the future information minister of the Black Panther Party, out of prison for October 1966. Cleaver’s first article, behind a June 1966 cover featuring Cesar Chavez, was not actually about the prison system but rather was a critique of James Baldwin, whose own critique of Richard Wright he’d read in prison. Wright, the future founder of the CIA cutout group AMSAC mentioned in the last part, had written a book about a violent black criminal which focused on condemning the society that made him just as much called Native Son. Baldwin attacked the book for its portrayal of a violent criminal as the only thing a black man could become in a sick society like America. Cleaver, clearly seeing himself in the figure, in turn attacked Baldwin for being a homosexual who hated strong men. This masculine streak in Cleaver, who  refused to refer to a woman at the magazine who hadn’t taken her husband’s last name with anything but a derogatory nickname he’d come up with, was probably what attracted Huey Newton to him and made their ultimate fight so much more acrimonious, as well as contributing to Cleaver’s conversion to Reaganism in his later years.

Ramparts was a hit-based magazine and needed a hot new story for every month. July 1965 was an interview with Hugh Hefner. It featured a foldout, but rather than a woman, they had Hefner himself (Keating turned his office into an imitation of Hefner’s after it hit newsstands). November was an attack on Reagan’s new autobiography penned by Mitford, anticipating his decision to run for governor. February 1966 was a special forces officer, Donald Duncan, who’d turned against the war and was attacking the CIA as its secret puppet master. But it was the April cover piece, readable here, that ultimately caused the CIA to assemble almost 400 separate dossiers on anybody who had anything to do with the magazine. A Michigan State University economics professor named Stanley Sheinbaum had been involved with a project to build the South Vietnamese government with secret support from the Agency. In secret, professors and students trained Vietnamese cops in fingerprinting, assisted Finance Ministry officials in accounting, and wrote the constitution from scratch for class credit. Concealed among them were CIA officers employed as MSU faculty engaged in torture and assassination, some of which Sheinbaum witnessed. The staff were sworn to secrecy except for Sheinbaum by clerical oversight, allowing him to tell his story. By April 18, the CIA had sprung into action. Director Raborn ordered an immediate file on the major staff members and a two month followup to identify every investor. This was technically illegal by dint of the 1947 law that created the CIA and banned it from spying on Americans, but the Agency had never actually adhered to that law anyways. It meant that the staff’s phones were under permanent wiretaps and virtually all of them would be audited yearly by the IRS. In July, the FBI followed suit, calling the magazine an agent of the Soviet Union. Both would engage in repressive action against Ramparts under the guise of COINTELPRO and MHCHAOS, illustrated by FBI man William Turner.

Turner was a 10 year Bureau veteran (Catholic, like most) who had become disillusioned after hearing Hoover call MLK “the most notorious liar in the country”. He was picked up by Ramparts, his first piece a critique of the FBI for a lack of convictions in attacks on civil rights campaigners. Turner became Ramparts’ muscle man, adding to stories through information gained from his connections with law enforcement across the country and helping to make lower level government investigations back off. Not long after he was hired, Turner was invited to the first of many parties at the offices. Also attending was Jessica Mitford and her husband, Robert Treuhaft, a lawyer who defended black southerners from the death penalty. Turner was introduced to them and immediately stated that he already knew them from somewhere, but they were sure he didn’t. It took him a few minutes to realize that he’d been listening to wiretaps of them from long before Ramparts even existed. Later, former Beirut Chief of Station Edgar Applewhite testified “I had all sorts of dirty tricks to hurt their circulation and financing. The people running Ramparts were vulnerable to blackmail. We had awful things in mind, some of which we carried off, though Ramparts fell of its own accord. We were not in the least inhibited by the fact that the CIA had no internal security role in the United States.“ His boss at the time, Desmond Fitzgerald, after being briefed on his recommendations said that he had blood on him. Louis Dube, who had experience dealing with drug-smuggling KMT guerillas in Burma, described what they’d done as “heady shit”.

Of course, this was a magazine run by drunken, drug-addled Irish Catholics with a penchant for spending work hours in strip bars and flying across the country holding lavish press conferences with old guard media men. It’s difficult to know where the sabotage ends and the incompetence begins. After Easter weekend 1967, Turner came into the office to find it ransacked with fire extinguisher goo and broken glass everywhere and a typewriter in the toilet. After months of searching, he finally found his culprit, a GOP official who’d committed the burglary for private right wing backers and then given photocopies to the CIA. He phoned up Hinckle, who immediately confessed to being the culprit. He’d trashed the office after a late night drinking session with Gene Marine, later the author of the first book on the Black Panthers. Not so, Turner said: the man he’d found had files from Ramparts’ storage. In fact, the burglar had done what he said, but nobody noticed the mess he’d made for two whole days in the general chaos of the workplace. It was a process repeated across many leftists groups in both macro and micro before and since.

[twdmusicboxmystery]

Daryl Dixon Sneak Peek - Part 1

@wdway:

Guys I have so much to say about the Daryl Dixon preview. I have about a million shots from the preview, and we have an awful lot to talk about. The first that I want to mention and this is not my discovery but it's open my mind to a lot of different things. He did not wash up from the Atlantic Ocean he washed up on shore from the Mediterranean Sea.

What this means to me is when we see him in that lifeboat he is not in the Atlantic Ocean. He is in a smaller body of water, still a very large body of water, but not the Atlantic Ocean. Still a mystery as to how he got from America to wherever he landed originally, it could be the island that we got the the coordinates from in Fear the canary/dog Island or even Spain, somewhere that he would want to get in a boat and head towards France.

And I don't think he's just wondering aimlessly, I think he has a destination in mind. He's looking for the building he ends up at. If you have that in mind as you watch the preview you realize he's looking for clues to whatever that building is that he winds up at.

We see him traveling over large expansive landscapes and then we see him in the midst of buildings, somewhat closed in. When we're shown the words, Pouvoir Desvivanies, he then comes upon the place he had been searching for. It looks like there's some kind of notice taped to the door.

We see him come through the door and this is the end of his 2 minute small mini journey preview.

I did I search of the words, Pouvoir Desvivanies. I simply ask for a translation into English this is what I got.

Pouvoir: meaning power or ability. The second word, Desvivanies was not well received haha. It did not like it. Translating is not my forte. Hopefully you guys will have better luck or a better understanding of how to get these words translated.

When I saw that written on the wall my mind went straight to the coda in TWB.

Of course I just hit the highlights tonight, I hope we can have some long wonderful discussions about this preview.

We know definitely now that this dialogue does not fit these images. So we're still left with Daryl seemingly having a Epiphany about something that's very upsetting to him. Could this be the same building he just ed in the preview?

@galadrieljones:

Real quick I think it says “Pouvoir Des Vivants.”

@wdway:

See that took you what 30 seconds to find and mine took me at least 30 minutes, haha.

@galadrieljones:

Lol I actually stared at it for a while and after seeing your suggestion just reworked what I was maybe since I know “des” is like a French preposition. oh also one of my close friends is from Paris and speaks French if we ever need complex translations lol

@wdway:

I have to say I am quite impressed with your ability to find things so quickly. And it's good to know that you have friends who are fluent in French. I don't know if it will ever be helpful but I have a friend who's husband is Korean, if we ever need that.

@twdmusicboxmystery:

Love all the insights! So cool that he's coming from the Mediterranean Sea. There's something inherently biblical about that. I need to rewatch it as well.

@wdway:

I swear I cannot help myself. I'm watching the clock because I've got to go in a few minutes for my appointment at 9:00, but I've got a couple of minutes before I leave and I've just want to talk about some things that I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about.

In the very short 20 or so seconds preview we see Daryl in an overturned lifeboat and then coming out of the water onto some type of shore. He has his vest on but other than his basic clothes he doesn't appear to have brought out of the water anything else.

I wonder if it's significant that behind him is a small little sign it's round and I believe it indicates not to leave any trash on the beach. I think that might be a little dark humor on the part of the writer since Daryl is somewhat known as being thought of early on in the TWD series as trash.

That was pretty well it for the for the short preview. When we see him again in the longer preview he is packing his seabag on a different larger boat, in what appears to be some type of Marina. I'm guessing this is a seaport and a possible fishing boat.

What kind of stands out is the fact that he has some things to pack he must have scavenged some items, but the one item that really stands out is he now has some kind of small transmitter or walkie-talkie. But whoever he's talking to had to be cannot be on the other side of the ocean, Daryl would have to know that.

Obviously this does not look like America this does not any kind of signage, street signs, names on building are in a foreign language. He now has a makeshift does poncho on, in looking closely at it it is actually some type of tarp, you can see the grommets that are used when tying a tarp down.

He's sending his message to someone? I took a long time looking at his forehead because at first glance I swear it looks as if it's an "A." I think they did that very purposefully.

If you look at the left bottom of the boat there are numbers. When I first see the number I thought it was 148.

TWD series number 148 was s10e17 Home Sweet Home. When I enlarged to get a better look it could possibly be 6'1 48 but the six looks quite odd I don't know if it truly is a sex or not. And since there is no series number that large I broke the two numbers into a possible 61 and a 48. TWD series number 61 was s5e10 Them. TWD series number 48 was s4e13 Alone. Of course we don't know if that's what these number refers to, but it's interesting to know what episodes these numbers match too.

I had a weird headcannon that I thought I would just throw out to you guys, because what the heck, why not. Of course there's that continual debate about how Daryl gets to Europe, which has never really bothered me. I'm sure the CRM or organizations connected to them have not only helicopters available but would have other things like ships and planes.

I guess my biggest question now is how are they going to explain Carol getting there. And that's what I was thinking about when it occurred to me that they could possibly rework the storyline a little bit to have had Carol be kidnapped with Daryl. That would mean that they were both headed to the same place but got separated. When we see her in s2 it will be a matter of meeting up again. We won't know until we know. It is not a very well thought out theory, but what the heck, I thought I would share it.

@galadrieljones:

Now as for the Daryl trailer. I need more information!!!!! Lol.

Here’s the final shot. I brightened it up considerably. Gets some color.

I feel I could stare at this all day and not see anything at all, despite how cluttered the environment is. I took note of the yellow tarp/sheet/table cloth in the lower lefthand corner.

It doesn't look like the same lab, but it could be. There's no way to know.

@galadrieljones:

It could be the entrance to the building, something like that

@wdway:

Notice the curve in the windows behind him. Similar to where he ed, but if you compare the outside shot to the inside shot we don't see the windows above the door.

Could be a different entrance.

Also the second preview could be from an episode later in the series and not the first like they're leading us to believe.

Okay and my ramble is leading me down another side tunnel. In the sneak preview, Daryl goes on the radio and it sounds like he says, “I wanted HIM to know that I tried. Hell, I’m still trying.” Is he talking about Rick? I would imagine so.

Makes me wonder about your theory, @wdway, that there’s something fishy going on w Daryl’s multiple trips at the end of season 11. It seems like he is distinctly not going out just to search for Rick, but he says if he finds him on his journey, he’ll bring him back. Well I was thinking like, what if he did find him, and Rick sent him overseas to find Beth? “I wanted him to know that I tried. Hell, I’m still trying.” Trying what? Sorry like I said earlier I need more information!! I’m starving lol.

@wdway:

Now I've got to go watch the preview again and try to listen to that sentence of Daryl's. I wish it had subtitles.

@galadrieljones:

I know I kept hitting the cc button during that part because tbh I cannot be sure that’s what he says, but it really sounded like it to me, and YouTube kept just telling me there are no subtitles

@wdway:

I think he might be saying, "I want I hem to know," I want them to know, as in his chosen family back home. I realize that hem is probably wrong but I have no idea how to spell it for a slur of the word them.

@galadrieljones:

I thought it could be “them,” too, but I also heard “him.” Idk!! @twdmusicboxmystery, when you get the chance please tell us what you hear lol

@twdmusicboxmystery:

Lol. I can't tell either. When I first listened to it, I assumed it was "them," meaning the people he left back at Alexandria, but I've listened to it like ten times, and I can't tell. Because of the way Daryl talks, he doesn't enunciate the first letter. I think he literally says, "I want 'em to know…" and that could mean them or him. So…yeah. No idea.

@galadrieljones:

Switching gears back to Marseille. This is very big because all this time we’ve been talking about Paris, and we know that Norman has been filming in Paris because he posts a picture of the Eiffel Tower ever four hours, and yet, now here we are in Marseille, in southern France on the Mediterranean Sea.

When I saw you post about this the first thing I did was read up on whether Marseille is a port city. And, of course, it is. The Marseille-Fos Port is the main port of France. It’s the third biggest Mediterranean port, the 7th biggest in Europe. It also connects to the Rhone via canal, which means goods and people can transport into the port and then deeper into France to cities like Valence and Lyon. This opens things up in weird ways, because it’s really unlikely that he’d come to Marseille from Paris via boat.

Paris is not a coastal city and is not near a port city. He’d have to hike all the way to the coast and get on a boat and then sail down around Spain and Portugal, through the Strait of Gibraltar, all just to get back up to Marseille. Ofc, I guess this is possible. But if this is a sneak peak from the pilot, I kind of doubt it. Seems more likely, he chased a lead out into the Atlantic Ocean. Speculation hour: He caught wind of somebody, something in Paris.

He got on a ship out of the north east somewhere, maybe even the Port of Philadelphia, following the westerly winds toward England. Maybe he stowed away, gets caught, and they chain him to a skiff boat and dumped him overboard somewhere in the north Atlantic. He would float southeast, following the winds, till he gets to about the Canary Islands, at which point he gets on another boat and heads up the coast of Africa, through the Strait of Gibraltar, and finally to Marseille. In the sneak peak, he’s shown walking for a long time, following a river at one point.

Is it possible this montage is meant to illustrate him walking from Marseille to Paris, and that the building he s is in Paris? According to google maps, that’s about a week-long trek on foot. If he’s stopping and camping, maybe 10 days. Daryl has traveled for longer in shorter distances, all on foot. This wouldn’t faze him. So my absolutely batshit but still educated speculation (lol) is that Daryl was headed for Paris, got waylaid, floated south, caught a boat off the Canary Islands (or whereabouts), took it up through the Strait of Gibraltar to Marseille, then hiked back up to Paris from the other direction.

@twdmusicboxmystery:

I actually love this theory! It makes total sense. As we always said, he wouldn't just so happen to end up in France. There has to be a reason. I"m excited to see what it is. But I also think, especially if it has anything to do directly with Rick or Beth, they won't tell us right away. I can totally see them leaving the reason for his trip and his intention to get to Paris a mystery until the end of the first season. Guess we'll have to wait and see!

@galadrieljones:

Idk like is that faulty set of coordinates in Fear meant for us? Because I’m starting to wonder… lol

They knew we’d look that up. I haven’t seen anyone else talking about it. Ofc I don’t follow a lot of twd guys on youtuble like the ones who make theory videos. Ofc most of what those guys talk about is Rick this, Rick that. Idk who else would be paying attention to some random coordinates from Fear. And yet.

Per Rick. We know that Rick is on the Delaware River, no? Or, he was at one point. Is he in France now? Or is he in the CR? I don’t think the CR is in France. If it’s not in Philadelphia, my best bet is on England, based on certain clues surrounding Lt. Colonel Kublek in WB.

@wdway, I liked your theory that possibly Daryl and Carol left together to chase said lead, but they got separated during the hypothetical shipwreck. Maybe they made some sort of pact, that if they got separated, they wouldn’t go looking for each other. They’d keep their eyes on the prize. It seems like something they’d do. This would explain why Carol is in France without too much weird logistical gymnastics.

Anyway, it’s implied that Rick is stateside. I really want to think that Daryl is chasing something ELSE, not even necessarily Beth, but something else, if only because Daryl has already spent six years chasing Rick.

Can they really cycle us back to that point after the search nearly drove him insane and made him fall in love with a psycho lady in the woods? I want to think he’s chasing a lead that Rick gave him, or Michonne, or maybe even somebody totall different. Maybe somebody gets in touch with him somehow, gives him coordinates, or instructions about getting on a boat and going to Paris. Maybe it’s Beth, idk. Maybe it’s connected to Beth. But like I really hope it’s not just him going on another search for Rick, because that’s really old news by now.

He says in the radio, “I went out looking for something.” Not someone. This may be a stretch but I could see him referring to his search for Beth or information related to Beth as “something,” because he’d have a really hard time formulating the idea that he might actually be looking for someONE. Whereas with Rick, he never gave up on him being alive. I want to say he’d have said, “someone” in that case.

Ofc it doesn’t matter because regardless of the fact that he like very clearly implies to Judith that he is not specifically going out looking for Rick in 11.24, 99% of the GA is just like, “Oh he goes out looking for Rick and then he gets stuck in France uwu.”

Also, it’s just occurred to me that if this is Daryl and Carol leaving together to go searching for someone/something in hostile territory, that’s two spin-offs that seem to mirror Consumed. Further, Ann, if your theory is right, how does that inform Diverged? In Diverged, Daryl heads off alone, and his bike breaks down. He hears wolves, fights a bunch of military walkers searching for an important knife or tool. Then he gets back on his bike and heads home. Meanwhile, Carol is busy trying to be helpful but everyone seems to have everything they need and she’s just kind of a nuisance. She ends up chasing a rat in the walls of Daryl’s apartment with Dog.

They start off together, and it’s right after they’ve had that major fight in Find Me and they’re not seeing eye to eye. They separate. Daryl gives her the knife, which belonged to LEAH. She uses it in a myriad of inessential ways, while Daryl has to chase down a bunch of walkers in uniform because he needs it for one specific task.

Carol is in Daryl’s home, rifling through his stuff, “It smells like Daryl,” etc. She’s in his psyche and in there is this rat that’s running around and ruining everything. Dog destroys the kitchen because of the rat in the walls. Daryl meanwhile is busy with some sort of immediate task at hand that keeps him nice and distracted and yet that wolf howls in the distance just to remind him it’s there.

@twdmusicboxmystery:

It will definitely be interesting to see how the Diverged foreshadowings play out. Because of the way Daryl is limping when he gets off the boat (not in this sneak peek, but the other, shorter clip they showed which unfortunately I did not record) I'm positive that what happens here is exactly what was foreshadowed in DIverged.

So, as you've both pointed out, there's the wolf cry, he runs into the soldier walkers (CRM) and the stars above him. Carol was back at home doing the rat thing, but she also had Dog with her. Which could also be indicative of Beth. So, it's really hard to say definitively what might happen.

@galadrieljones:

Sorry I’m going through mulitple iterations of the plot. That last one sounds a lot like Carol trying to find the source of Daryl’s woes (Beth), which Daryl has clearly been avoiding and ignoring for a long time. Meanwhile, Daryl is simply occupied with his current goal or mission, continuing on, repressed.

@twdmusicboxmystery:

Wow! I’m really loving this discussion! Just got all caught up. The idea that DC is just one big replay of Consumed (sort of) is really striking a cord for me. I loved everything you’ve said, and it’s got me thinking in a bunch of directions. It makes me wonder how this will turn out where Hershel is concerned. As you said, it’s the opposite of Consumed in details—dark, wet vs dry, etc—so does that mean they WON’T find Hershel, because they actually did find Beth? Or will they find him, and he’ll remain alive and make it out in the audience’s minds, where Beth didn’t? I don’t know.

But that smoking building is really intriguing when seen through the lens of Carol following various columns of smoke. And I’ll have to think about this more because this is something they made a point about clear back in S4. Not only did Carol follow it to Tyreese and the girls (which suggests following the smoke leads to finding the people you’re looking for) but they did that whole thing where Mica taught Carol that black smoke meant it was still burning and white/gray smoke meant the fire was out.

And of course Daryl and Beth set that fire in S4, so Bethyl is ground zero for the pillar of smoke. Does that mean Maggie will literally find Beth in the smoking building? Or is Hershel just a stand-in/proxy for her?

I also loved the insight that the cockroaches were like the ants on the cookie, representing walkers that will swarm them in the city. I hadn’t thought of that, though I should have. I had to laugh at how Negan was just like, “Nope.” And they both noped right outta there. 😂

(Not that I wouldn’t have done the same. ;D)

Anyway, great details about the Daryl clip as well. Great catch on the windows. I totally agree that this might not even be a chronological set of scenes. These may be taken from different parts and patched together. Nothing says a sneak peek has to be chronological. The other option is that they used different buildings for the interior and exterior shots, and they just don’t line up super well. Guess we’ll have to wait and see.

Really great finds and insights, though. Loving it!

[spideyanakin]

This might be a long shot but after I finish my 10 things about you series, would you guys be on to read a new Eddie Munson series (sort of dystopia au) based on a french musical called Starmania (Brought to America under the name Typhon in the 80's LMAO-but was a big flop because Tim Rice did an awful translating job).

The plot would basically be; Eddie is this famous gang/terrorist leader and the reader is a TV superstar princess kind of vibes who has her own talk show which is THE talk show of the world, and one day she gets an interview with Eddie bc Eddie is like the talk of the city and they fall in love and she joins his gang and they fight together against this fascist billionaire who is about to become president (would be Vecna or Dr. Brenner) and I could sort of mix the upside down into it.

Thoughts??

[abeastfrombelow]

The angel lore was just like that…unfortunately

Anon I'm not sure if you thought my post was about actual biblical angels (it's not, unfortunately) but either way I'm going to use ur message as a sort of a jumping off point for me to talk a bit about my personal history behind that post (for context: it's just beneath this one on my blog and is about a guy being a wreck without his wife)

Nothing is gonna be explicit here, but I'll put the trauma related stuff below the cut.

When I am name dropping angels, I usually mean certain men from my past. All of them took on the persona of priests, and this certain group of men took on the names of biblical angels. They are distinct to me because they lived near me and often visited me at home, sort of separating them from the larger but more distant group. Their names, as I best can recall them, were Metatron, Gabriel, Raphael, Sandalphon (we called him Sandy), Uriel (we called him Matthew), and Azriel (most of us call him Scary Eyes though).

For the purposes of this post, I'll describe two of them to you.

Metatron is a large Sicilian man. He most likely had bipolar disorder, and he self medicated with alcohol and drugs, particularly cocaine. He came to America at a young age, and was brought up in a highly traditional Catholic family with strict gender roles and strict expectations.

Gabriel is a waifish pale man who probably has French heritage of some sort (considering his rampant case of Francophilia) but I'm not sure. He was most likely transgender, but was never supported enough to realize this. He's got a rampant eating disorder and a lot of emotional issues.

Given ideal circumstances, neither of these men would've abused me. Gabriel would've transitioned, and been Metatron's wife, and they'd both be happy. Sadly, life is rarely ideal, and both of these men were rampant pedophiles who treated me like the glue that kept their relationship together.

And let me tell you now, their relationship was STRANGE. Hopefully I'll talk more about them someday, but this post is long enough already.

[i-am-a-freg]

are you down to explain how the french revolution started? and maybe where the whole cake eating thing came from?

INDEED THANK YOU ANON(and I am SO SORRY I am horrid at checking my ask box, please forgive me and I love you)

Soooooooooo. This will be a little wacky and not entirely clear because I’ve forgotten some people’s names so forgive me lol.

It all started maybe a century or two before the French Revolution happened, when Jesus appeared to this little French girl(Margaret Mary alacoque i think?? If I’m wrong I’m so sorry don’t quote me on that) and the gist of what he says is this: I want to shower blessings on France and the king, tell him to put my Sacred Heart on his standard(or like his coat of arms or whatever I don’t know names of things) and to dedicate France to my Sacred Heart. So bestie goes to the king who is like. Nah.(side note wth bro. God comes down and you’re like nah??? The heck is wrong with this king)

anyway so that was (probably) Louie the somethingerother probably because they were extremely creative with their names. Fast forward to the American revolution. Now, all these dudes are aight. We love them for fighting for the freedom of our country yada yada but there’s a problem. They kinda suck. Like half the founding fathers are freemasons(which is a whole other kettle of fish), and by half I mean more like all of them. Except John Carrol. Or maybe it was Charles Carrol Idr. They were cousins tho one of them was the first archbishop of America and the other was the only catholic dude to sign the declaration yknow fun times.

Anyway im getting distracted. So then we’ve got mr Lafayette from France, who went to France to get supplies for our dear revolutionaries and brought them back, from our dear French king. Idr which one it was but the point is he got aid from the French king to win this revolution against the British. Lafayette goes back to France at some point after the war, and this guy fans the flames of the communist revolution in France(it’s literally always communists starting bloody revolutions I swear). Like, against the guys who just helped him in america. Talk about a backstabber. Now I’m a little hazy on the details and I’m not sure entirely how the revolution was begun because your girl has forgotten(sorry), but I DO know that Lafayette was instrumental in it so screw him.

And dearest anon, onto the famous “let them eat cake”. Before we go onto that let’s talk about the lovely girl who was supposed to have said this. Marie Antoinette was married off to this French kid when she was like 14 or 15, she was a catholic and the lavish immorality of the French court was something she obviously didn’t approve of. But she figures that this stuff is her responsibility to deal with and (in some ways) take part in, especially since bestie has got like the entirety of the French court pressuring her.

Anyway TLDR she’s a lovely little girl thrown into this cesspool of French aristocracy and feels like she needs to fit in.

Then over in America at some point, we have frickin Benjamin Franklin, who most likely did not have a high opinion of Catholics, French people, and definitely not royalty. the rumor of Marie Antoinette saying “let them eat cake” came from that bastard(pardon my French). And so now everyone thinks that Marie Antoinette was just a disgusting hussy who didn’t care about anything but herself and how much she could take from the poor peasants of France.

I’m not gonna pretend that the French court wasnt really gross and SOMEthing needed to change, but the revolution murdered everyone from tiny children to their beautiful innocent queen, while American founding fathers mocked or ignored them. Or in Alexander Hamilton’s case, though we should help the revolutionaries. Anyway I could say a lot more about that but I’ve already talked too much lol, so thanks for the ask!!!

[sweet-honey-tears]

Call Me Sammy

Sammy x GN! Reader

This is little thing in my OC Sammy. Set more so in college or late high school(depending on your preference) and in a separate universe where there wasn’t a war. I hope you guys enjoy, I know it’s different from my usual stuff.🤍 fluff and angst

Warning: Swearing, some dark themes if you squint, topic of bullying brought up, topic of past trauma brought up

When Sammy first ask you out, you turned him down. Like most people you thought he was with that other girl, Lorraine. Another shallow Baseball player who you wanted quick flings. But he ends up explaining to you they’re not together and even calls Lorraine to confirm it when he sees your doubts.

“Sammy what’s-“

“Are we dating?”

There was a moment of silence. The a very confused “What”

“Are we dating- like are you my girlfriend?”

“No… why-what- we both agreed that was NO. Plus Maxy would beat your-“

“Thanks bye Lorri!”

Sammy's very much into PDA. He will squeeze you, hold you, kiss the apples of your cheeks.

On dates, he’ll always have to be touching you. Hands, shoulders, lips

Barring his face into your neck while he hugs you. Making you sway with him as he mutters jokes into your collarbones. His fluffy black hair tickles your face.

He’ll sometimes hum into your neck or shoulder. Liking the way he can feel the vibrations on your skin. You relax from the low rumbles, your back pressed to his toned chest. He’ll only stop his humming if one of two things happens. You fall asleep or he wants something. In the latter's case: he's lightly grabbing your chin before turning your head up to him. Stealing a kiss.

And contrary to the rumors about the flirty baseball player- sex is not his goal in relationships. Bro could give less care about that base. He just wants to love you.

His mom always said there would be someone out there- and he’s pretty sure his mom meant you.

Sammy was born and partially raised in France. It wasn’t till late middle school he came to America. His French accent is lighter due to this fact. Because of how young he was when he came over too, he knows both English and French fluently. Not the best writer when it comes to French though, so expect most cards and text to be in English rather than French.

He took French in high school for the purpose of just learning how to write better.

He can and will speak French to you if you wish. Or if he wants to fuck with you.

But keep in mind Sammy also is a Western American. He finds the terms of endearment from his town both sweet and hilarious. So he calls you Sugar. He’s also called you:

Sugar Plum,

Sweetness,

Lovely,

Angle,

SugarLip-,

And yes, during one drunken night, he did call you sugar tits by accident. He’s very affectionate when drunk but also incredibly woozy.

He will let you paint his nails.

You can get matching earrings with him

And he addicted to the feeling of your nails going through his hair. He’ll just lay on top of you until you do it. Huffing if you stop.

Sammy does baseball and he's good. Like really good. His back and arms are toned, so when he swings, even through the uniform, you can see the muscle in his shoulders.

He’ll look for you in the stands when on the field. Giving you this goofy smile when he spots you.

He’s texting you in the dugout.

Sammy smokes, well not smokes, chews on the back of the cigarette(and lollipop sticks, toothpicksand flips his dad's old metal lighter. As if debating with himself about the weather or not to light it. Even though he never will. He’s just copying his dad, going off the few memories he has of him before he passed.

But if he sees you smoking, vaping, or whatever else. He will take it from your mouth and step on it.

“It hurts your pretty lungs, Love.”

Sammy has a knack for science, math, and art. He can name the chemicals used for explosives, acids, and the process and compressions needed.

He’s also shockingly good at carving, sketching scenery into scraps of metal or wood he finds

He made you a small wooden statue once. Carved it himself while in the dugout.

He has some scars on his finger from the pocket knife going through the wood. In some instances, he’s nipped off a good portion of flesh. To your absolute horror.

Will make corny jokes about the chemistry of your relationship.

He’ll crack one while he gives you the signature smile, baby blue eyes glowing in adoration from behind his black curly hair.

Trigger

Right away

One of the main things to trigger Sammy is if you’re rude to Lorraine. Yes, she is a year older than him but she’s the baby of the friend group. And yes, Sammy and Lorraine do hang onto each other a bit. And she’ll call him crying since can't/won't call her brother. The two rely on each other for emotional support.

If you bring up your concerns to him he’ll understand. He’ll be a bit shocked but understand to an extent. Before you, everyone thought he and Lorraine dated So he understands your concern.

Sammy will talk to Lorraine, and that’s when stuff changes. They both break away slightly, still friendly but just a bit more space. There are also fewer calls. Yes, sometimes they’ll happen, but you now understand why. With Lorraine's permission, Sammy tells you about her and why they are such close friends. He explains her time when transferring schools, and how her complete Heterochromia eyes caused her to get the brunt of bullying. Her mediocre English not helping either. Then there was the part about her being clairvoyant. That was a whole different story.

But, after everything’s said and done, you feel more comfortable with their relationship and your own.

A year into dating Sammy, you get invited to the training sessions the two have for self-defense. Lorraine standing next to Sammy in a tank top, and on just her arms you see faded bruises, welts, and small crossing scars.

You watch them train, and that’s the nail in the coffin. The way they act. The distance and the clear wall they have set between. Their pretty much siblings at this point- or true friends…

Later, when back at school, Lorraine smiles at you in the halls now. And if you are with Sammy, arm in arm, she’ll quietly pass with a smile and slight nod towards you.

Wrong Way

If you go behind his back, rip into the already somewhat fragile girl. The dude is pissed.

Sammy doesn’t know right away what happened. Acting like your cheerful boyfriend -like usual. But slowly you see him start to unravel. How he looks more concerned and tensed. Glancing at his phone to ensure he didn’t miss a message.

After two weeks, it all crumbles.

He knows something happened with you and Lorraine.

Sammy may act stupid in class sometimes, but he’s not.

He’s scarcely in tune.

It was after a baseball came. The two of you walk to your car. A toothpick in his mouth, checking on the end.

“Wanna tell me about Loraine Sugar?”“W-what?”

He’s talked to you about her before. How she’s more so a sister than potential…well anything.

“Maybe I didn’t make this clear.” He says, ice blue staring down at you. “ She is my fucking sister.” Sister is not the best way to really describe it, but it’s straight to the point. He spits out the toothpick. More worried at the thought of breaking it in his mouth and getting a splinter than what you have to say.

“But she isn’t actually-“

He swiftly turns around to look at you“No, but I’m not gonna bang her!”

And that’s the sour end.

[izzysarchivedblogs]

Captain America would have his arms crossed, and Clint knew he would be crossed right back. A perfect mirror of him excepting he's grinning to Steve's frowning. ❝ Boy Scout would chew you out a new one, because it was your idea. ❞ Although, Clint was the more active participant and Steve loved to remind Clint of where he came from and all he stood for. Enjoyed prodding at him anytime he let this side of him out and it brought trouble.

No way he got got off scotch free, but back in the old days, Clint made it his goal to get under Steve's skin just because he could.

❝ It's all apart of the hustle, baby. One mistake and you're getting cops on ya or getting beat in the parking. Crisholm pushing you harder the next day or else you're losing your shot. ❞ There's a slight way that Clint's speech changes, back to how he sounded when he first joined the Avengers with a drawl to match. The carnie voice, every one had them. Some put on god-awful french accents and others like Clint were just accentuated drawls of their own natural voice.

It help that Clint made it his act to be dumb that he had friends believing it. Unless those guys had recognized them, there was no way of them winning against a marksmen who doesn't miss.

❝ Only when you're fussing like a mother hen. ❞ It's the politest way he's saying that Tony can back off. Clint's handling himself just fine, sure some of this may be an act but it's better to play the act. See he didn't get shitface wasted. At last, he couldn't because Tony was monitoring that, and okay, Clint had wanted the fight for a new bruise. ❝ And the stick's out too. ❞ Tony seems calmer.

Now hoping that whatever he just said didn't kill the move, than the thrill seeker that Clint could be was piqued interest with Tony wanting to go for round four. ❝ Now would would Steve say to that. ❞

He had been planning to take out all the energy and his buzz in the gym until he wanted to pass out, but messing around would work just as well.

Okay, so using sex was part of his addictive problems and spiral.

Tony laughed at the mention of Steve. "Oh man, we would be in for such a lecture. I don't think they recognized us. They'd have to have been idiots if they did and decided to try to fight us. I mean - Thanos they are not."

He looked over at Clint as they walked, the smile on his face felt like it was glued on. This whole thing was worth it just to be able to relax and have fun with him.

"It was good to see it in person. From this side," Tony said, nudging him again. "The way you were acting like you couldn't hit a triple twenty - I nearly bought it. You have no tells."

God, they were going to fuck again. Tony wasn't going to complain about that at all. In fact, it might be nice to see what it's like coming off this kind of high. They would have to stop at some point though. Wouldn't they?

He glanced sideways at Clint with a smirk. "I don't know, Cupid. Maybe you'll be the one that get's sick of me. I do have phenomenal stamina and I am extremely grating."

Well - curbing linking adrenaline to sex would have to wait until later he supposed. They line had already been crossed, they might as well kick some dirt on it. "I mean, we could keep living dangerously if you wanted to."

Tony could see the headline now. Avengers caught in lewd act in public. Well, at least the time in jail would mean the whole mom thing went on the back burner.

[bruciemilf]

,,,, russian bruce wayne

Russian Bruce Wayne

RUSSIAN BRUCE WAYNE -

Listen. Listen. Not fully compacted into something coherent, but I'll do my best, because this idea has been haunting me, -

SO he's russian on his mother's side!! Martha Wayne immigrated in America when she was a teenager, nothing to her name but hope in her chest and her mother's pearl necklace in her pocket

She always got ugly looks for speaking in her native language and her accent. Slowly, it melted into something perfectly English, but she still spoke Russian at home and especially to Bruce

Little Bruce loved Baba Yaga as a kid and dressed like her for Halloween every single year; Nobody really understood it, but a glare from Alfred was enough to fill a bag full of candy

Martha and Bruce would talk shit in front of Thomas' faux philanthropist friends, but they were on wildly different spectrums

Martha, whispering: You see that man, Brucie? He sold his soul to greed. He's a worm of a human and his morals are rotten. That's why his eyes are dead

Bruce: haha, he's balding at 25

Martha, Alfred, and Bruce cooking beef stroganoff, syriniki, borscht, and Bruce's absolute favorite- pirozhki.

Martha also played the piano and LOVED Swan Lake so, so much. It was the one song that calmed Bruce during night terrors.

When he reaches eight, it all stops.

He eventually reconnects with his Russian roots in his 20s, when he's in college and his literature teacher shares a DISRESPECTFULLY incorrect opinion about one of Dostoevsky's works.

His teacher scoffed, " Well. Didn't know we had a Russian citizen here. "

" Not a citizen, but I AM a Russian descendent. My mother was an immigrant. That's kind of how America was formed. It's a pretty significant thing that happened."

Imagine you're a Gotham criminal and Batman starts muttering things about you in Russian. Somehow that's even more intimidating than anything he does.

" I can't believe they're more afraid of someone who doesn't speak English than a guy who beats up people dressed as a bat."

Alfred hums, sloooowly pulling away the vodka cereal Bruce made. " I can't imagine why. You're the poster child for mental health, sir."

" Not funny, papachka"

" For you."

When Dick is brought into the nest, Bruce struggles a bit with showing his affections; He only has money to offer, but Dick is happily uninterested in that, and seeks Bruce out instead.

BRUCE ABSOLUTELY SPENDS AN ENTIRE NIGHT TRYING TO PERFECT HIS MOTHER'S BAKLAVA FOR DICK!!

yes he's supposed to be on patrol. No, he doesn't care, Jim. It's all worth it when Dick takes a single bite and he has stars in his eyes and vines his little but strong arms around him, " this is PERFECT! Thank you so much, dad"

Air freezes in his blood, " ... Of course, ptichka."

He absolutely uses russian proverbs all the time (mostly when his children need to be reprimanded and reminded that making jokes is illegal when they're on duty)

JASON AND BRUCE FIGHTING OVER TRANSLATIONS AND CONTEXT IN ENGLISH ADAPTATIONS OF SLAVIC LITERATURE!

" PAPI, THAT'S NOT WHAT THEY MEANT TO SAY!"

" MISKHA I'M SO GRATEFUL YOUR GRANDMA ISN'T HERE, BECAUSE SHE'D DIE AGAIN IF SHE HEARD YOU SAY THAT!"

Damian 100000% prides himself on knowing russian and communicating with Bruce the smoothest.

It becomes a competition soon enough. Bruce is SO tired but the way they butcher words is funny, so he just pretends they're right.

The League finds out when Bruce snaps and calls Hal Cyka in a low, angry mutter while stomping away from his stupidity. " ... Bless you? What did he call me?"

Diana, struggling so hard not to laugh. " He said you were a genius."

" Huh. Had no idea he was French."

Meanwhile Clark is losing HIS shit because wow, Bruce's russian might be the hottest thing he ever heard. Please, this dork would absolutely try to learn Russian and talk to Bruce more.

He's absolutely horrible with it but Bruce is just very excited. He definetly chuckles (which. Wow. Clark couldn't even make him GRIN 3 weeks ago) " You just asked me if I sleep with my dentist."

" ...Oh. I...Was trying to ask you for drinks. You can kill me right now. Please?"

" Maybe another time, solnyshko. Take me for a drink first."

Clark inhales. " oKaY thank yoU."

[zaceouiswriting]

Unexpected savior

Characters: Isaac Lahey x male reader, mentioned Brett Talbot x male reader

Universe: Teen Wolf

Warnings: A bit sad, with a happy ending

Just another beautiful day, walking through a country, you had never visited before. Eat french cuisines, do normal tourist stuff, and even visit vineyards. Living in one of the most luxurious hotels, you had ever seen.

But on that day, you wanted to relax a bit. Seating yourself at a table in a small cafe, waiting for the brown warm gold, brought to you. Together with a small cake, you had ordered.

Life was good, even though your heart ached, hurting after everything that had happened, back in your hometown. A place, you never wanted to go back to. Not only of the hurt you had to go through but also because nothing was there left that, could hold you.

You were playing with the thought to stay in France or Europe, to go to university there. With your grades, it should be fairly easy to switch, but even though you loved the country and its beauty, you could not really get yourself to it yet.

Even though you had flirted with countless guys, in English, French, and even Spanish. Most were quite happily surprised, that you were able to speak all three languages completely fluently.

None of them became more than a hookup. Yes, they were genuinely awesome at that, but they lacked the personality you searched for. 

Originally you had a date in this cafe, but the guy you wanted to meet, dropped out just five minutes before he should’ve been there. Of course, you were bumped out but couldn't do anything about it.

So you sat there alone, drinking your coffee and eating your cake. Until A shadow, blocked out the slightly warm summer sun from you. As you looked up, an athletic, tall guy stood there, an award-winning smile plastered over his face.

„Is this seat free?“, he asked you in perfect English. You could only nod silently, at the handsome stranger. You already melted away thanks to his curly dirty-blond hair and the sky blue eyes that were softly looking at yours.

A typical heartthrob, you would've even thought that he was a born French man, with the confident way he carried himself.

But as he sat down and you two talked a while you learned that he, just like you were born and raised in America. But now lives in France, working for a weapon builder.

You never would have thought he would leave your home country, just to deal with weapons in another one, but who were you to judge? Maybe he had his reasons.

„What does a handsome man like you, here? All alone?“, he asked at some point, a pleasant smile, following his words.

At first, you were hesitant to tell him, but as you thought about it, you told yourself „Fuckt it“, and told him everything.

How you fell in love with this awesome guy at your school. A lacrosse player, maybe the best young player you had ever seen, tall, athletic, slightly going into muscular territory. How his smile melts you every time and his lips could carry you to cloud nine.

You did not even notice how salty, warm tears rolled down your cheeks, until the handsome stranger wiped them away, with a napkin.

„You love him a lot, didn’t you?“ His voice saddened, that you weren’t over your ex-boyfriend yet. He came to you, because he found you attractive, hoping you were single. But that you could be hanging onto someone else, he hadn’t thought about that.

Simply nodding, you tried to dry off your face. Before facing the guy again, „I loved him and I ever will. Not having the chance to say goodbye, will haunt me forever.“

It was then that Isaac realized that something was off. His saddled eyes, shot up instantly, as he hurt your heart beating, and the sadness he had felt once, wash over you. „I’m so sorry, I did not know. How did it happen?“

„A car accident said the police. But when I needed to get in to tell them that it in fact was Brett, my boyfriend, I could see that someone wanted him dead. Not only him but his little sister as well. The car tracks were inconsistent and to identify them was a challenge as well.“

Your sadness vanished and got switched out with pure anger. And Isaac just listened to you. Knew exactly what had happened. Especially after hearing this name. You most likely did not know your ex-boyfriend's secret. But he did, thanks to Scott he sometimes still had contact with.

„Brett actually left me everything he had. I don’t know why, but in this case, his little sister would die too, I would inherit everything. I learned about that, two weeks ago. Since then I fled my hometown and came here.“

Not knowing why, but it felt just right, to tell the stranger your entire life story and he did the same after that. Telling you about the girlfriend he had lost, after someone stabbed her and took the knife out. Before an ambulance could come, she bled out right in front of him.

Maybe it was fat or just pure luck, but two broken souls found each other that day, under the warm summer sun, with the smell of fresh coffee.

Some would say, that they never said a word after that to each other. But the reality was that they got married five years later. Having five beautiful children and you were still blissfully unaware of the supernatural. That would be the only thing, that could rock your perfect world, or maybe not?

[Masterlist]

[sunsents]

Content 2/2 - F.W (M)

Empty Chapter II

IT'S. OVER. Holy shit, this took way longer than I expected it to be. Yes, it’s 20k mf words and what abt it. Don’t look at me like that. I warned ya’ll 🙄. Now, I definitely made up some words while writing this. Like a shelved corridor, the heck is a shelved corridor?!?! Please tell me it makes sense…please for the sake of my sanity. The smut is kinda tame so I’ll whip out the chains on the next one.

CROSS POSTED TO WATTPAD HERE

Summary —> Years later you find yourself face to face with the person that caused your ruin - yet this time, somethings different.

Pairing: fredweasley x fem!reader

Word count: 20k... honestly I completely get it if ya'll wanna sit this one out

Warnings: *deep breath* a poor attempt at humor / gingers / pining idiots / normal idiots / excessive cursing / fred weasley in slacks / alcohol consuming / very little angst (its mostly just overthinking) to fluff / minor character death / smut / oral, (fem) / fingering / cum play / sexual mf intercourse mfs / protected sex (dont be silly protect your willy) / dirty talk / sappy stuff

Rating: 18+

DON’T REPOST MY WORK

tagged: @opalsheart @ronsbadidea @uselessmoonlight @boxofbadaddiction @lovenonymously @sergeantkilowog @rudypankowisdaddy, @nobutfredweasleytho some names didn’t come up when I tried, so what do we get from this? I can't properly use Tumblr <3

Five Years Later, 2003

"____, will you just calm down." Aleyna lets go of the book box full of bathroom supplies and they clink together, to which you wince because these are your stuff and you’re in a far too dangerous position to lose more money.

"How can I calm down?!" you exclaim dramatically, tossing your wand on the nylon wrapped couch. "It's all Stacey's fault."

Aleyna quirks a brow, "Whose Stacey?"

"That one chick from Magical Catastrophes who always has lipstick on her teeth."

"I don't think her name is Stacey though."

You send Aleyna a look that screams, stop being reasonable at a time like this. No, this was when you overpaid your TV cable to air The Twilight Zone and drank cheap wine while cursing out your boss who cared about your well being. Hermione had become The Minister of Magic, and of course you were proud of her. Though, this didn't mean she could let you have time off work whenever something insignificant happened.

"Probably not," you mutter, opening your fridge and coming face to face with the painful truth that it’s empty, and you’re hungry. Your hand unintentionally flies to graze over your scar as you survey your options, a small pack of ketchup and left over chips. "Suits her though, feels good to say 'Goddamnit Stacey' when something goes wrong in my life."

Stacey deserves it because Stacey doesn’t refill the staplers on purpose.

Aleyna snorts, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "What did Stacey ever do to you?" Then she wheels across your new apartment to retrieve more boxes from outside.

You’re grateful for the support of all your friends, but the pitying looks they give you whenever someone mentions the words house and fire is enough to fuel into your secret want of setting their houses on fire. It was an accident, you were just trying to make the delicious recipe Molly had sent you, ignoring the small fact that you didn't know how to properly use an oven. The savings you lost from your bleeding bank account were not worth pasta with tomato sauce on it.

Though, your new apartment is big, bigger than your first because after making a name for yourself as an Auror money came easily. Wide walls for a projector TV, long tail shaped couch standing firm on varnished wood floorings, and two bedrooms that have their own - kind of unnecessary - bathrooms. Not to mention the giant kitchen with an island, only rich people had islands, where you could make plenty of Italian recipes and not worry about burning the house down because Aleyna fool-proofed it for you.

The flat was at the top floor of the new bar she just built, and she was kind enough to let you start renting the place. The residents of Diagon Alley had been fighting for this apartment for months, and you were proud to have snagged it before anyone could even offer.

Gripping the last two boxes, Aleyna pushes the front door with her foot and navigates herself backwards through the other dozen boxes you had just tossed on the floor. "These are the last two, are you sure you don't need anymore help?" she offers.

You shake your head, "I can just use magic, not in the mood for pursuing the muggle lifestyle right now."

Aleyna frowns, this reaches her eyes though. "That bad huh."

Simply nodding, you don’t bother getting into an in depth rant about how a simple fire didn't mean you had trauma, and that you didn't need to stop working for a few weeks. Not that being an Auror was hard, your work days have been quite uneventful if you didn't count a few "Revalutioners" sticking a muggle's head in a toilet.

"I know what will cheer you up," Aleyna chimes, already clad in her pea coat and sneakers. "Dinner, and it's on me."

You couldn't possibly say no to free dinner, also making food for yourself was probably not a good idea right now. Stay clear of ovens, you reminded yourself.

After getting snug in your coat and fluffing your hair, you fall on step next to Aleyna as the two of you chat.

The London cold is brutal, shivering whomever until their noses turn red and making their hands feel itchy when sudden warmth overtook. You’re used to it, as is anyone in Diagon Alley. People are crowding the stores, chatting loudly and waving their wands around at stores to reserve whatever crappy gifts they were going to buy for their family's.

You hate the holidays, refusing to go back to America and visit your own family. Your mother couldn't cook, nor could your father. Though, that didn't stop her from insisting every year and giving you, your father and the Burke's food poisoning.

After three years of sitting through awkward family dinners where everyone ignored the fact that you were almost Head of Aurors, and focused on Eva's collapsing career of Healer only to praise her, you had about enough and stopped attending. It had been two years since then, they didn't bother to write. Your dad occasionally sent you money in a horrible christmas card with an even more horrible pun written in red glittery letters that also sang Run Run Rudolph.

"Ugh, everyone's crowding the joke shop aga- oh." Aleyna pauses. "I'm sorry."

She knows about your past with Fred Weasley, considering whenever you rant about work it ends up with you cursing him and Eva out. He had such a blame-able face, just like Stacey from Magical Catastrophes.

You give Aleyna a look. "You act like I'm not a grown woman who can't get over something that happened eight years ago." you say, shaking off the small snow particles that begin to lightly fall. "You should be like this with, I don't know...my relationship with Theo! We broke up last year, why aren't you fragile with him, hmmm?"

Aleyna claps your back in a friendly manner all the same. "I know I know, but come on. This is childhood trauma we're talking about."

"Now that I think about it, seeing Eva's coochie was traumatic." you grin, and Aleyna's jaw gape even if she heard the story hundreds of times before. Not that Eva's...modesty was bad per say, just not a pleasant sight seeing as you guys grew up together.

Other than that fact, you hadn't talked, even seen Fred after the war ended. Sure, you occasionally stole glances at their very successful joke shop, but there was no point in dwelling and trying to fix an already withered away friendship.

You had fixed your relationship with Ron and Harry, having had no choice since the three of you worked together. "You were right ____, we were assholes. You don't need to apologize." they had told you, and that was that. The two families and well, you did weekly dinners and enduring the two men for Ginny and Hermione got easier as days passed, finally ending up in a good friendship like old times. It was casual between you, easy when no one mentioned how abruptly your friendship ended. No one dared to either.

Also, Harry was your boss and him remembering that you called him a drama queen wouldn’t do you any good in your career.

People bump at your sides as the two of you squeeze your way towards Sacree Fleur. The end of Voldemort brought a new, reformative era in the Wizarding World. Diagon Alley expanded, new buildings were built and culture grew. You were happy to see that Ollivendar's Wand shop renewed, along with other crumbling buildings that needed desperate attention.

Bandits lessened, and the utter arrogance some parents had by not sending their children to get magical education faded, partly because there was nothing to fear, and partly because more job opportunities arose, like said, money came easily.

Fleur Weasley, your good friend and someone who had done the impossible and won over a Weasley brother - though she was gorgeous and possibly the sweetest person you've ever met, so really they were perfect for each other - had decided on a whim to open a french restaurant. Bill couldn't say no to his wife, the rough man you had met years prior was softened with age and the struggle of raising children.

Good wine, deliciously soft steak that melts in your mouth and warm atmosphere that makes five o-clock feel like midnight. It’s by far your favorite restaurant and you'd much rather spend your Christmas Eve curled up next to a warm candlelit dinner on a terrace.

"Bonjour!" an obscenely attractive woman, Fleur greets the two of you when the revolving glass doors are pushed, and you break out in a wide smile seeing your friend at the door. "____, Aleyna! Come here, give me a big hug!"

"Fleur! What are you doing here?"

With dopey smiles, the three of you embrace.The door closes on it's own, and you shiver unintentionally, just now realizing how cold it is. Usually the big marble fireplace keeps Sacree Fleur warm, but even that seemed not enough and the restaurant is adorned with small muggle heaters, floating up above the ceiling and adding to the red light of the candles.

"You'll see. Came at a most amazing time too, silly girl always knowing when to show. Saw all the juicy drama when you were younger..." Fleur continues to joke lightheartedly, pulling away and leading the two of you through occupied tables as she faux scolds. People are content, it feels warm and almost soft. Conversation seems to flow easily and the unease you feel for the Holiday melts. Almost.

You blech whenever someone brings up the line ‘love is in the air’. It never made sense to you, because love was simply a fairy tale that would wither away with time. Also, how could love simply float? Of course, unless you count Amortentia fumes - which yours always smelled like sweat and crushed hopes. So frankly, you prefer expensive Dior perfume in the air rather than love.

Though now you find yourself doubting whatever you engraved in that well protected head of yours, love is truly in the air at Sacree Fleur. All kinds of love, mothers lovingly wiping food off their children's mouths, happy newlyweds clinking their wine glasses together with nothing but adoration in their eyes, friends enjoying sharing a simple dinner far more than should be done.

"My family, they're upstairs having dinner. The kids like the ice cream here, Mr Fortescue provides it well."

"Family? Ginny and Hermione are here?" you ask, lazily climbing the steps to the second floor to reveal the more, private part of the restaurant. Now, instead of wooden chairs with red cushions attached at the middle, there stand long booths with comfortable blankets and pillows with empty, eerily clean tables - except one.

The long table near the terrace is much livelier today, people sitting there whom you consider your own family. The three post luster that hangs low from the ceiling is turned on - it’s the first time you’ve seen the glamorous glass orbs in action. Its light ricochets off of several bright orange heads, simply calling it a lamp does no justice. The hue is yellow, low and it reminds you of the Christmas Eve fantasy you planned.

Said orange heads turn at the noise of delight you let out. "Oh Fleur! This is gorge- oof-"

"Auntie ____!"

A pool of orange locks squish into your stomach, snug in the soft fabric of your coat and you let out a chuckle. You can’t help it, even if you would never admit, he’s your favorite by a small number that-

"Well well, if it isn't Teddy Lupin."

The small boy chuckles, hair matching your black coat like a chameleon sticking itself on a flower and absorbing the color of the petals. You ruffle Ted's hair as the orange fades, he’s delighted to see you, and so are you yet your attention is quickly cut off by several disembodied voices thrown your way.

Bill Weasley is standing up, wine glass on one hand while grinning wide. “Look who my dear wife brought in!” his tidy yet visible scar stretches when his face brightens, you remembered again that day, just how much love you have around you.

“Hey everyone, hope we’re not interrupting.” you apologize, wincing but Bill quickly shakes his head and pushes his chair back.

You waddle your way towards the marble table, Teddy following suit with his face still smushed in your coat. He grips you tighter and you have to peel his small little limbs off your legs.

Aleyna scoffs, arms crossing together as she surveys Ted. “The blatant favoritism!”

Teddy rushes on his little legs to jump in Aleyna’s arms, and only then are you able to acknowledge the other - a little less important - people in the room.

“Happy holidays!” echoes around your head as several people embrace you all at once, and you have to simply stand and awkwardly loop your arm around whoever you can get a hold of.

Once the formalities are over, Ginny throws her arm around your shoulder. The red tresses of her dress hike up her leg from her slightly bigger stomach, and you can see the small broom tattoo on her thigh that she loves to display like a trophy. “You should’ve told us you were coming! We would have saved you a seat.”

A round of yes’s resonate around the room, and you take a quick moment to scan who’s afternoon dinner you’ve just interrupted. Hermione, hand resting on her very pregnant belly, is smiling warmly at you, and Ron quickly shoots up from his seat and wipes his mouth to catch up to his wife. Harry follows in his friend's wake, his hair has a white streak at the front and you furrow your brows.

“Age catching up with you Potter?” you grin, rubbing Ginny’s back fondly before she separates from you and greets Aleyna. “Or is it the pregnancy?”

Harry scoffs, pulling you in his embrace for a quick friendly second. “Always the charmer ____. I’ll have you know I’m handling it wonderfully, right Gin’?”

Ginny pauses, “Erm, yeah…”

Harry’s face feigns faux disbelief, and it quickly melts as you bombard the man with questions about how Ginny’s first trimester is going. You mentally take note of asking Ron about Hermione’s as well, your two best friends are fucking pregnant. It’s almost too happy, and slowly the anxiety creeping up from your spine wraps around your throat, ready to suffocate you whenever.

It was always like this, the past ready to make it’s deathly move, because nothing is perfect. Happiness doesn’t come this easily.

And you’re right, because not only a minute after the warm embraces of your friends comes the voice of the person you’ve been dreading to see.

“____?”

And then, you’re suffocating.

He’s a man. Of that you’re sure, because now his muscles stretch well over his broad shoulders, maroon satin shirt loose on his frame, tight around his biceps - properly sculpted of course - portraying defined collarbones.

His eyes are somewhat duller, though the same glimmer of loveable mischief he always had is evident. It will never go away, even after all these years, yet it’s tamer. That mischief caused him quite the trouble back in school, and now it seems he knows when to act, when to speak and when to stay silent.

His silhouette catches you off guard, his features are sharper, much sharper than how much Harry has matured. His biceps bulge obscenely when he rests his - also generously sized you might add - hand on the table, and the table suddenly doesn’t seem that long.

His forearms, on display with his sleeves rolled up, glistens under the soft lighting of the balcony. Your eyes fall on his bracelet adorned right wrist, one of which in particular catching your attention.

He’s still wearing the bracelet you gave him.

His face, always glowing, wears a large expression displaying his set of perfect teeth. He’s awestruck, you think.

You watch him push his large body out of the small chair, and wow chest, is your only thought. Then further down and...god damn thighs. Burly thighs - probably very comfortable too - squeezed in black tight fit jeans, however he managed that you don’t know but it was nice to imagine.

He’s leaned back, casual as he strolls towards you in two large steps, his long sculpted legs never disappointing.

Fred Weasley is genetically designed to ruin you and your insides with just one look, and you’re ashamed to have realized it all too late because when he speaks again you swear you saw stars.

“Wow - you,” he breaths, walking towards you with slow, unsure steps. “Grew!”

You raise a brow, Aleyna snorts. Grew? His steps should be unsure, because you want him to take them back, sit his fine fit ass back on that chair and pretend he never saw you.

Because this wasn’t your plan for tonight, seeing him wasn’t in your checklist. You woke up today, thinking nothing but coffee and a stressful moving day ahead. Not of the boy - the man you’ve been in love with since childhood, the man you blamed for your problems as an excuse to hide the heart squeezing pain of loneliness, the man you hadn’t seen in so many years you forgot what his voice sounded like.

You could have never guessed, and now you want to go back. Somehow rewind the clock to this morning when you were safe of your tucked away feelings trying to bulge, safe in your own little circle. All your efforts of leaving your house just a little early so you wouldn’t run into Fred seems stupid now. Your strategy ran smoothly for five years, it could’ve ran for more.

You would have continued avoiding him like your life depended on it, and his stupid joke shop, and the way he stupidly looked at you everytime he saw you. You’re reminded again, because no matter how older he looks he’s still Fred, and he still looks at you the same.

“I mean - beautifully! Shit I - fuck.” he groans, and George claps his brother on the back with a chuckle. Wherever he came from, because you were so entranced by Fred that you didn’t see George standing tall next to his family.

“____.” George stops before you, hands in his pockets. it happens too quickly that you’re forced out of your panicked state.

You raise a brow, and only then - Fred’s out of view with George’s figure towering over you - are you able to find your voice. “George.”

He pulls you in his tight embrace, “How come you never visited!” he scolds, chest stretching back to bring you with. “You’d think she’d bloody say hello once in a while! Maybe drop by our shop after 5 years, you quack!”

“George - can’t,” you heave and your legs wobble when he sets you on the ground again. You clear your throat, grinning widely at your...friend?

It would be fair to call him an acquaintance, right? You don’t know where you stand with the twins but you have love for them. This is clear from the way you can’t stop smiling like a sappy idiot - or perhaps it’s because of how contagious George’s smile is. You thought they hated you, but the youngest looks anything but displeased. He gives you a squeeze again before throwing an arm around your shoulder.

“I thought - I dunno. I thought you guys didn’t wanna see me.”

George scoffs, “Because you told us off that one time in seventh year?” he laughs, arms folding and displaying a set of bulging biceps much like Fred’s. “Yeah mate, you’re not that intimi-“

“George Weasley, finish that sentence I dare you!”

His eyes grow wide. “Sorry Ma’am.”

Someone clears their throat.

It’s Frederick Weasley, probably here to beat you to death.

“Hey Fred.” you greet, mouth dry. Get a grip, you scold yourself.

Fred opens his arms, “Well well,” he laughs, pulling you into a hug with a polite smile. His cheeks tint red when you shuffle closer, you would have missed this but you’re a creep, and you can’t stop staring at the beautiful man before you. He displays his beautifully indented smile lines, as if he was saying look at me! I’m perfect and sexy, I also broke your heart that one time, too bad I had no idea!

And it’s true, Fred never knew about your feelings. You kept them well hidden and they ate away at your organs from the inside, there was no reason to blame him. The realization is probably what compels you to accept him with open arms and wrap them around his neck.

You feel him shiver, dismissing it quickly because of the cold.

He smells good. Way too good that you melt in his arms and let him engulf you in his dangerous warmth. Manly, musky cologne, mixing with hints of cigar smoke that lingers on only certain areas of his shirt. You recognize the scotch in his breath when he whispers how much he had missed you, and his nape still has that cinnamon deliciousness he would parade whenever he came out of the shower, you fought the urge to shiver yourself, and it’s not because of the cold either.

It’s dizzying, and before you can start a detailed essay about how good his muscles feel, firm and digging into all the right places, he pulls away.

The past hits you like a ton of fucking bricks and crumbles down the firm foundations of the walls you have been building for eight years. You feel guilty, have you learned nothing? The loud pounding of your heart is a warning, yelling at you to stop getting swept away. Yet you can’t control it, just like how you can never control your feelings.

“I missed you guys too.” you breath shakily, you have to make sure to keep your distance. For your own good, you tell yourself.

Teddy pulls away your attention, and you silently add buy Teddy an expensively dumb toy to your checklist.

He sticks to your leg and is adamant on staying there. “I grew taller.” he says, looking at you between his eyelashes. “He says I didn’t, but I know I did!”

You chuckle, ignoring how Fred looks at the boy with such a warm expression, ignoring the way your heart nearly catapults out your chest.

“Well, stand straight soldier!” you demand.

Ted immediately lets go of your leg and straightens, hand going to his forehead to salute you. A giggle escapes him when you bend on your knees and act like you have a measuring stick on your hand. “Oh yes yes, seven feet tall and growing.” voice mock deep, you nod sternly.

“By this rate - I’ll pass you! Hah!” Teddy stomps his little foot on the stone floor, little sneakers barely making a sound.

You stand up again and fold your arms, “Well, I grow too you know! You can never pass me.” smirking slyly, you egg him on to see how much he’ll endure before he demands a ride on your shoulders - because that’s how giants saw the earth he told you. You doubt giants compare to a twenty four year old woman with attachment issues

Ted stands on his toes, struggling to tug on your shirt and bring you down. “No, I don’t like this game anymore…”

“Alright alright.” and with that you pick him up and prop the little boy on your shoulders.

Ted happily kicks his feet on your chest and you groan. He’s supposed to be five, not a midget wrestler. “Easy buddy boy.”

“You’re amazing with him, little twerp barely lets me tie his shoes.”

Fred’s voice startles you, only now do you realize that he had been watching you and Teddy. Speaking of, Ted’s busying himself with your hair, small hands pulling and twisting locks and mumbling incoherently.

Ear tips slowly catching fire, you chuckle. “Buy him a broom at four and see how he handles it.”

Fred shakes his head, tongue poking at the side of his cheek and you remind yourself to breathe. “You spoil him then? They say the way to a five year old's heart is money.”

“Damn, I’ll drink to that.”

Nuff words said, everyone soon sits on their designated chairs, and you pull one from another table, being the uninvited one.

Aleyna isn’t slick, you knew she had something up her sleeve the moment she had offered to pay for dinner. Though, this is your fault. You let her without calculating whatever end result was waiting to catch you off guard and ruin your entire life plan to avoid Fred Weasley.

Being the snake she is, snake Aleyna enticed you with nice food, dragged you to Sacree Fleur and did her little snake magic.

Awkwardly angled next to your best friend, you chat with Harry and Hermione while they tell you what you missed from work. (Not that you missed much, actually nothing different seems to have happened other than boring paperwork and Mrs Newersman’s new hairdo.)

Swirling your wine in one hand, the reflection of Fred from the rim of the glass keeps distracting you.

He’s changed, not personality wise though there were tweaks. Nor looks, he’s an adult now and his boyish charm is gone, but it isn’t quite that.

You can’t put a finger on it either, and you watch him laugh, carefree with his sister.

He looks relaxed, or maybe it’s merely the wine. Is it - no, couldn’t be. He looks happy. Genuine happiness and adoration for whomever. Love in his eyes as he looks at - Ah. He’s looking at you.

You jerk your head away and tip your wine glass back to gulp down liquid courage - because you need it tonight.  This is bad, you tell yourself, kick you on the shin and punch to your gut bad. This can’t keep up or else you’re going to end up right back in that hollow pit of empty hope and gooey saturday lasagna.

“So, any plans for Christmas Eve ____?”

Ron’s timbre voice thankfully grips your arms and pulls you away from said hollow pit.

“Uhh what?” you cough awkwardly, setting your now empty wine glass down.

“Christmas Eve, what are you doing? Going back home?” Ron asks, raising a brow.

You can lie but something compels you not to, maybe it’s how warmly they always welcome you, how they’re welcoming you now with open arms and nice food.

You shake your head, answering honestly; “No actually, I’ll just celebrate with Jambo and Christmas movies.”

And that’s exactly how you’ve been spending your Christmas Eve these past few lonesome years. It wasn’t that lonely, you had Aleyna and people loved her bar, you’d drop by and count down with people you didn’t know, at least you got to kiss a random stranger.

“Jambo? He’s still alive?” Hermione chuckles.

“No no, this is Jambo Fitzwilliam the Second, who is also a cat but don’t you dare tell him that!” smiling, you joke lightheartedly to conceal the harsh news.

Your hand reaches to trace around your scar as you speak.You know their eyes follow, and you know they stare at it when you’re not looking. Teddy asked you one day, even after Ginny’s scolding but you happily told him your heroic story and how Bellatrix smelled like piss and rum.

Sighing, you set your hand on your lap.

Jambo had unfortunately passed away because apparently dogs couldn’t live two hundred years, which you were disappointed because clearly Dumbledore could. You had already grieved and mourned, it left you with the happiest memories of your precious dog and you were grateful.

“Poor kitty doesn’t know he’s adopted?” George frowns, banging his fist on the table.

You roll your eyes, “I’m sure he’s caught on by now, he’s three.”

“So, you’re spending Christmas Eve alone?” Fred asks, too suddenly and you flinch. He probably sees this, his effect on you.

You nod, and your friends gasp. Surely it wasn’t that big of a deal, or maybe it’s because of how normal it felt for you to be alone.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Ginny says, hand shooting out to rub your arm.

“I’ve been trying to get her out for ages-“

“Aleyna, don’t.” you nudge her arm.

“No Aleyna, do!” Ginny protests. “You’re spending it with us and that’s that.”

“Wha-“

George throws up his finger to shush you, “No objections!” he declares fiercely. “We’re having a party at our flat and you both are coming!”

“Oh! Unless you and Blaise have any other plans.” Hermione’s quick to ask, she isn’t being slick though.

Aleyna chuckles, “We had dinner reservations but we can make it.”

Hermione grins, and you watch Aleyna pretend that she didn’t notice her friend ready to snoop in her relationship with an amused smile. Not that it matters - she and Blaise have that kind of love you hoped for as a young girl. There was truly no two other people so perfect for each other.

“How’s Blaise doing by the way?”

Aleyna takes a sip from her almost empty glass and tuts on the bitter after taste. “Amazing, actually. He just got promoted…”

Almost empty glasses are soon emptied bottles, and two steaks turn into a large brownie for the middle. You know that it’s a good meal, because as you stand outside in the midnight cold, arm around Aleyna, your legs wobble and your stomach aches from all the deliciousness you’ve consumed. More like inhaled, you only realized how hungry you were until the second steak arrived.

“Thank you so much you guys!” you wave your arm, overly theatrical, forgetting about what a day you’ve had.

Though, the thoughts catch up as you lay awake in bed.

It had gone by too quickly, and your heart is still beating louder than any chirping of the bugs outside. Your bedroom lacks furnishing, it only adds to your wild imagination. Your mind paints pictures on the blank walls as your eyes dart around, Fred didn’t look in your direction once that night.

Or maybe he did, only you didn’t see.

It’s strange, whenever you turned your gaze his way, he seemed to be busying himself with whatever, whether it be his fork or napkin. How interesting can a damn napkin be? Hopefully not any lesser than you.

And are you just going to ignore that goddamned bracelet? The one you carefully sculpted with beads in such a way that you were sure Fred would suspect at least a drop of your raging crush. He’s still wearing it, that piece of string and glass - the symbol of your love and effort - survived through a war.

Are you reading into things? Surely not, he greeted you as anyone else would. Or maybe he remembered - you don’t dare think of that night.

How can they act so normally, so brazen after everything? It’s been almost six years since you saw them, have they got nothing to say to you? Maybe an apology?

Frustrated, you turn to your side and force your eyes shut.

————————

When night bleeds into morning, every cat has a tendency to quip over to their owners on their cushioned paws - which makes no noise but simple claw scratchings on the floor.

Jambo’s no different.

So, you’d imagine the poor creature's shock when he finds your bedroom empty. If he’d bothered to check, you’re seated on your island stool, pen and parchment in hand and mug of hot coffee (instant given the circumstance) in the other.

You hung your new curtains this morning, and were making use of them by shutting them halfway on the hooks while your window stood half open. You watch the snow flurry outside and gulp. If this week was to go horribly wrong... at least you have nice curtains waiting for you at your ritzy new apartment.

Jambo wraps his tail around your dangling ankle like he always does and you barely hum in acknowledgement. He’s purring, and it brings you comfort even if it’s for a small moment. But your question still remains unanswered, What would a five year old boy want for christmas?

It had been exactly two days since Ginny invited you to spend Christmas Eve together, and you busied yourself with buying them gifts - a tradition you hated because 1. coming up with gift ideas is infuriatingly hard. It’s way too time consuming, nit picking every single personality and deciding what they’ll like and what they’ll pretend to like. Pretend like they’re going to use it, and then never touch it until that one very specific occasion.

Maybe it’s excessive, but you actually like these people. They somehow give you - a sad, lonely sewer rat that’d been a neglected child - joy.

And 2. you feel like those people you make fun of every Christmas. Though, somewhere deep in your heart, you know you enjoy being those people. You would never admit it though.

What? You actually relish in the idea that you belong to a group, and that said group causes you to carry out cliche holiday traditions?

Absolute blasphemy.

Finally deciding, you leave your apartment in warm but cher clothing. It isn’t as crowded this morning - or maybe it’s because it’s seven forty in the crack of fucking dawn. Though, with the amount of caffeine you’ve consumed, it feels like ten.

Would they even be open, you ask yourself, jogging quickly about the streets on your heels to avoid the cold. It’s Christmas, they have to be.

Of course your logic sucks.

Shivering, you round the corner tea shop and fasten your pace. Ass freezing, lip tucked in between your teeth, you realize you have underestimated the morning London cold.

Soon, thankfully, the giant head of George(?) you assume, comes into view. The animatronic is motionless, big porcelain eyes closed and displaying sinister gaping holes. You shiver, and not because of the cold either.

Keeping your eyes low on your feet, you push the glass doors of the shop open. You don’t bother to check the inside from the generous glass displays, it’s way too cold and you don’t want to spend any more time outside with the giant George doll.

A bell rings, a little jingle up above that puts a smile on your face. Jambo’s collar jingled like that whenever he got excited, whether it be a pesky squirrel ready to bum off your house food, or maybe a friendly one showing its face to piss off the house dog.

You sigh, and only then notice the delicious scent of fresh coffee roast. Invading through your nostrils and turning you into a drunkard, and you can’t help but gravitate towards-

Woah, you’ve had your coffee today.

“Who's here so early, couldn’t a man enjoy breakfa-”

You smile apologetically, it’s only natural that Fred just woke up. He isn’t a morning person, after years of knowing him you found out one way or another. In your case, he was mean to you and that’s when it clicked. Fred doesn’t like the early hours of morning, where his hair isn’t as tame and his lips feel like they’re about to pop. You find it charming.

“____?”, the man of the hour comes into view, standing at the top of the spiral staircase. The first step is a rung, rolling on the hinges of the wall's edges. The staircase rattles when Fred steps down, and you quickly jump forward in panic.

Mug in one hand, his fingers rake through his mussed morning hair then settles on the checkout counter. “Morning,” He smiles, and those dang smile lines greets you, as if they’re mocking you again.

“Morning, I know it’s early and-”

“It’s okay, have you had breakfast yet?”

Taken aback, you nod. Disappointment flashes through his face, and before you can analyze he straightens. Taking a sip of his coffee and humming, he fixes his pyjama bottoms. Red and checkered, loosely hanging from his hip and giving you a teasing view of his lower abdomen. “Can I get you anything?” he asks again, adamant on offering you something.

You shake your head no and you watch his face fall. Merlin, you would have come starving if it meant having breakfast with him. The view before you is enough to fulfill your darkest fantasies, and this is enough. Because you know that this is all you could get. His friendship.

But is it though? Is it truly enough? Will it ever be enough?

The questions that linger around your head have an answer that you wouldn’t dare set free. Everything you’re doing right now is wrong, how you’re standing in front of him, letting his delicious scent compel you further into him.

He smells almost alluring - he always does - less piquant than yesterday. Probably the after taste of neglecting a shower, yet his natural fragrance is just as charming. You remember those mornings at the Burrow when Fred stumbled down the stairs, sun early and bright, woken up just like himself. He smelled ama-

Woah, down girl.

Fred clears his throat, and only then do you realize how long it has been since you spoke.

“I need to buy something.” you blurt. Fuck, this couldn't get more embarrassing. “For Ted, his gift.” You finish lamely.

“Ah,” Fred chuckles, giving you a quick lookover. You flush. “You have come to the right place.”

It’s true, the shop is truly...something. A gateway to heaven for anyone twelve or younger. Fascinated, you take your time to linger your eyes on every little nook and cranny that catches your eye.

The shop feels much tamer without the telltale rowdy crowd, it’s almost comforting. You can really see a piece of each twin on each display, Fred’s being the Deflagration Deluxe. ‘A deluxe selection of Weasleys’ Wild-Fire Whiz-Bangs’ read on the big cardboard. You chuckle, he always had a bag full of them that he carried around religiously.

“Those!” he exclaims, scurrying over to the display, “New and improved by yours truly.”

You chuckle, and Fred breaks out into a smile. “Here, I’ll show you around.” he mutters, before you can utter a protest, he takes your hand in his and drags you to a shelved corridor. “This is his favorite section, explosives and quidditch.”

You smile as you scan the heaps of colorful products lining the walls, all engraved with the shop's signature logo. Fingers coming out to touch a few, you subconsciencly swing your encased hands together. “These are real neat.”

Fred smirks, though his palms feel hotter than usual, “Not so much when he’s blowing up the bloody flat.”

You chuckle softly, eyes fluttering to imagine little Ted shaking up a pair of fireworks, unknowingly setting them off and resulting in a giant black mark on the ceiling. Because only that explains the small black stains on the walls of the shop.

“See anything you like?” Fred offers, almost in a whisper.

“No I,” you turn back to him, and something flashes between the two of you. “I’m still…looking.”

The air feels tense, warm, affecting your body. Your breath catches in your throat, Fred’s eyes bore into yours with such intensity that you don’t know what to do. Even your breathing feels on edge.

He moves closer to you and your heart flutters. His exhales hit your ear, only a breadth away from your neck and you flinch. Chills lift up the hair on your arms, “No...erm.” you mutter.

“Alright.” he says softly.

His eyes are hooded, displaying a perfectly long set of eyelashes.

How, is the question. They’re long and thick, and you’re jealous. Yes, you might have ruined yours with your curler but still, if you were born with eyelashes like that you wouldn’t even need a blasted curler.

“What are you thinking ‘bout.” he whispers, long digit lifting to stroke your cheek. So soft that you barely feel it, before he trails it up your cheekbones, to the panes of your face.

The same alarms blast in your ears, and you can’t ignore them this time. It isn’t that you don’t like this, on the contrary you’re ready to jump him.

“Eva!”

Fred takes a step back, face falling. “What?”

You shake off whatever just happened seconds ago and focus on reality. “Gosh, I forgot to ask.” you exclaim, over excited but at what cost. “How is she doing? Is she up there in the flat?”

Fred winces. “Actually-”

“I’m guessing you guys moved in together, after all those years you know. Don’t tell me you guys got marr-”

“____!” he takes a deep breath, “We broke up a few years ago.”

You freeze. “What?”

They broke up? “Why, oh Fred-”

Fred shushes you with a finger. Embarrassed, warmth spreads through you like a tidal wave. “I fell out of love, but it felt nice to have someone around, you know?”

You don’t say anything, yes you know but his loneliness and yours is much too different.

Growing up, Fred had the support of his family, he always had someone there. You knew it was bad to dismiss him like this, but the aching in your heart wasn’t going to allow him to speak like that. He always had someone affirming that it would be okay, someone to pat his back whenever he scored a goal through a hoop, whenever he got a good grade or did a cool trick with his broom. He still had them, even if he was at his worst. He had endless support. You didn’t.

It wasn’t easy after the war, living alone with nothing but the collar of Jambo gripped tightly in your hands. He had died shortly after Voldemort fell, and you had to hang onto the last piece he left until your agony died down. That was your only support.

Ginny, Hermione and Aleyna were there of course, but everyone's way of coping is different, and they didn’t understand yours nor each other’s. It’s worse to try and forget, run away from that fear because it would always catch up with you, and you found that the best way is to sit and feel.

But that doesn't mean your friends weren’t any less supportive. The after effects of the war were way more harsh on you than you let on, you were stuck on autopilot - a painful loop that made your life feel worthless. Work, money, survival - the three main aspects occupying your mind at all times. You didn’t have the love and attention to give to friends or a relationship (maybe that’s why it never worked out) but soon, Ginny and Hermione had reached out to you.

It was a simple letter delivered by their family owl Nebula - a descendant of poor old Errol. You remember tears pooling in your eyes when they told you how much they missed you, they gave meaning to your life. It was no longer the painful loop, they invited you over for dinner, visited every other day after hooking up your house Floo Network, you were always a welcomed guest in their homes.

They made you realize that friendship didn’t need much energy nor hard effort, just being there for each other was enough. Love for someone came naturally, and you didn’t need to extract some of your own self-love to give to others. They were two different things.

Skimming past that, you watch Fred show you three different options of Make Your Own Fireworks kits. You smile solemnly, accept a random one and quietly follow him to the checkup counter.

“So.” he starts, wrapping the product with the paper design you picked. “How about you, anyone special?”

Drumming your fingers on the counter, you shrug. “I dated Theo Nott for a year, I knew nothing would come out of it but like you said, nice to have someone.”

He raises an eyebrow, “Nott? Really?” he frowns. “Can’t believe that tosser managed to-”

You snort, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Shrugging, Fred hands you the package. “Nothing, it’s just that -” he pauses and his eyes look at you like you should know what he’s talking about. As if the two of you have some sort of telepathic connection, Fred was always like this.

He would look at you like you understood a word you said, even though he’s been silent for the past minute or so. He always struggled to express himself, and you’re sad to see that this habit followed him into adulthood.

Nonetheless, you smile. “Just that what?”

“Nevermind,” he sighs. “That’ll be twenty five galleons.”

“Twenty what?” Your eyes widen. “You heartless man!”

Fred gapes at you, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Twenty five, to your oldest pal? Twenty and a stick of gum.”

Fred pretends to think. “How about you keep the gum and give me twenty four.”

“Twenty two.” you narrow your eyes, leaning forward on the counter. “Oh come on, it’s Christmas!”

Fred scoffs,“I am giving you the holiday discount!”

Grumbling, you reluctantly stick your hand in your purse and take out your wallet. “I won’t forget this. You’re in my book.”

Fred gasped dramatically, “Not the book!” he exclaims, “Twenty two then, please for the love of merlin not the book.”

You lift your chin, head tilting to the side to survey him mockingly. “Twenty two it is, you won’t get away so easily next time.”

The two of you giggling, you pay him the money and leave a few sickles. “For the great service.” you say, him pretend-blushing at your words and tucking a strand of his shoulder length hair behind his ear.

He speaks after some time, the laughter has died down and left it’s comforting after taste. “I missed you ____, why didn’t you visit?”

That turns the after taste into pure panic.

How can he ask that when the answer is so obvious. Fred’s still cruel it seems, he doesn’t bat an eyelash as he speaks. He knows the reason.

“Oh you know,” you start after some time, “Work and stuff.” you lie, and fight the urge to cringe at your words.

Though Fred doesn’t buy it, he doesn’t push it either. He simply nods, looking down at the checkout counter. You’re glad he’s avoiding your gaze, because it makes your departure much easier. “See you at the party Fred, thanks for the...uh. Yeah.” you awkwardly lift your bag up and give him a wave before pushing yourself outside. You can finally breathe.

——————

You look good.

Or, at least you think you do.

Blaise was arriving in exactly seven minutes and you barely just put on your dress. You’re sure of this because Blaise is always on time, he even has an unnecessarily expensive watch on his right hand that he obsessively likes to check. At least Aleyna’s into it, frantically trying to strap her heels, she’s wriggling herself towards the front door to somehow track her lover. You don’t know how love works, maybe they can smell each other from a mile away or something.

Shaking your head, you fluff your hair and wipe a hand across your under eye after wetting it with your tongue. You think Aleyna calls for you, you’re not sure because you’re too occupied trying to decide if you’re going to wear lipstick.

“Hey,” you walk out of your bathroom door and scurry towards her, “should I?”

Aleyna raises a brow. You scoff, “Stop doing that, you know I can’t raise mine individually.”

“Sounds like a you problem.”

“I’m about to make it your problem too if you don’t help me.”

As reflex, you roll your eyes. You only do this because you know it reminds Aleyna of that one chick from Blaise’s workplace - she knows no boundaries, apparently. It’s a shitty move, but it’s a shitty world.

Aleyna carefully inspects the two products you hold tightly between your hands. A simple shimmery gloss and a nude, almost dark red lipstick you stole - borrowed - from her. “Depends, who are you smooching?”

Throwing her an incredulous look, you hold out the two products on your palms. “I’m not smooching anyone.”

Unless of course Fred Weasley asks, if he does you would pull out makeup wipes from thin air and jump into his arms with naked lips ready to be kissed. Though, that’s only a fantasy and Fred is emotionally unavailable...scratch that, you are.

You’re not sure how tonight is going to end, and you can’t help but be aware of that looming clump of anxiety, clutching on your chest and refusing to let go until you're assured that it’s going to be fine.

“The gloss, just in case.” Aleyna stops your train of thought before it trashes off its tracks and crashes somewhere in Fred McDreamy land.

You nod, making no further inquiries and getting yourself ready as best as you can. Fixing your bodice and giving your scar a quick look, you finally hear the doorbell ring after a few long minutes, followed by Blaise’s deep voice greeting his girlfriend. You give the couple a few seconds to smooch - if you will, before walking back to the living room.

Blaise grins when he sees you, he’s wearing a sleek black suit with its first two collar buttons undone - you expect no less class from him.

“Happy Christmas!” you chime, pulling him into a hug and squeezing him tight just enough so you can whisper in his ear. “I hope you picked out the second ring, Zabini.”

Blaise swallows thickly before laughing, you know this because you physically feel him start to sweat. “I swear I did, don’t worry I have a plan.” he winks after letting go.

“I knew you were going to say that,” he loops an arm around Aleyna’s waist and pulls her by his side. “Only the best for my girl.”

Aleyna gives you both questioning looks.

You quickly clear your throat, “Anyways, let’s go before the serenading and the rose petals start.”

The three of you finally leave, the walk down your apartment building feels way too short, and the moment you exit you’re hit with the wonderfully chilly Christmas air.

For a moment, you forget where you’re going.

Lights are hung up everywhere, across shops, tangled through trees and some floating in the air. You can’t see the night sky, Diagon Alley has one of its own, adorned with radiant moons and luminous stars just bright enough for people to navigate themselves through crowds with zero accidents. It feels breathtakingly overwhelming.

Glass ornaments are charmed to fly across, a special show prepared by Madame Mulkin, and Mr. Eyelop tuned in by letting out a few snow owls rest around random trees to add to the warm atmosphere. There’s flavour wafting around the air, you inhale again to identify it better.

Speeding your way through - it hits you, gingerbread and chocolate.

You clutch your bag towards your chest, suddenly you feel disgustingly sappy. Though, you are in public so you decide to shake off that small warmth threatening your heart and continue walking towards Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

The walk towards the shop feels too short again, you almost check your watch to see if Hermione’s playing with the time turner again.

You almost turn on your heel, dump the bundle of presents you’ve bought on their front door and leave. You can, in theory, you’ve separated from Aleyna and Blaise midway through and you can just run and never look back.

Tough luck, when you walk through the generously decorated shop and up the stairs, you’re disappointed to see their flat door wide open.

You stare at it, it feels too inviting. Frank Sinatra blares through the walls, you can smell hints of incense, trailing through your nose and tickling you, causing you to sneeze. You were always sensitive towards smells, and it never bothered you until now.

“Bless you!” George Weasley appears, rounding a corridor and greeting you with open arms into his neat dress shirt. He hugs you like you’re family, and if you weren’t holding a sack like Santa Clause with his your jolly ass hanging on by the mere piece of fabric of your dress you would have hugged back.

“Thanks, Happy Christmas George.” you smile when he takes the sack from your hands and weighs it with raised brows.

“You didn’t have to buy anything ____!” he pats your shoulder, hand trailing to your lower back to navigate you inside. “We are the gift givers, you’re our guest.”

You chuckle, walking through the long entrance corridor, “Of course I’m getting gifts you quack.”

George scoffs, “Using my words against me now are we?”

When you gaze up at the famous joke shop as a little civilian in the streets of Diagon Alley, you don’t expect to catch the sight of a flat this large. You knew it was sizable since two grown men somehow fit and live there, but you underestimated just how successful Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was.

The floors are wood, clean with even several shoes stepping around, chattering with wine glasses in their wobbly hands. A bulletin board hangs next to a quidditch rack filled with different kinds of equipment - old and new.

Too entranced by the cozy interior, you don’t bother stealing glances at the bulletin board. The kitchen and living room are connected, yet they still somehow feel like completely different rooms. The den is lit up by a brick fireplace, lightly crackling and making the atmosphere all the more comfortable. The soft fur (faux you hoped, though Mr Weasley did have a muggle hunting rifle phase which you thoroughly discouraged) carpet tickles your ankles and you have to hold onto George’s arm for support

“Bevvy?” he offers you, holding out a pint beer glass and you shake your head, admiring the apartment further.

Most couches are leather yet they still look comfortable, the kitchen is big but not obnoxiously so, you can hear the clinking of a foosball table - commotion makes sense in their apartment - the wide living space narrows through a corridor, leading to what you assume must be bedrooms.

You’re glad Fred and Eva broke up, because you decide then and there that you’re going to visit the twins everyday despite your history, just to step into this apartment again.

“____!”

Angelina’s sweet voice causes your unease to vanish in an instant and you crush her in a tight hug.

“Merry Christmas!” you smile, looping an arm around her shoulder and letting her guide you through the flat. “You changed your hair!”

Angelina nudges you with her hip, “Thank merlin you noticed, George is clueless.”

“Oh? George? You never told me - Hey Cho!”

You’re cut off by several familiar faces greeting you and telling you to make yourself comfortable. And you do, right next to Hermione and Ginny, two pregnant and fierce women that keep bickering with their husbands because of their weird cravings.

“I’m with you on this one Gin’!” you snort, eyeing Harry. You have a wine glass in one hand and the power you hold makes you feel too confident. “If the woman wants sausages marinated with toothpaste, she’s getting sausages marinated with toothpaste!”

Harry grumbles, “Will you please stop fueling this!” he protests, downing his drink and banging this on the table. “Look sweetheart, you wanted onions and mustard just a second ago so I got you ‘em, what made you change your mind?”

Ginny bangs her fist on the coffee table, in addition to Harry’s outburst. It seemed everyone was banging stuff on tables, so you do too.

“You think I know? Sod off or get me my toothpaste!” Ginny yells, banging another fist after you.

Harry kneels down next to the foot of the couch and holds his wife’s hand, gently massaging her knuckles. “We can’t get you toothpaste,” he says calmly.

“Why!” says Ginny, banging another fist.

“I think you know why,” says Harry.

“Stop damaging my property.” says George, materializing out of thin air.

You feel bad for Harry, you truly do but it only lasts for a second because this is even more entertaining than watching Aunt Muriel try to play foosball while shouting ‘Come at me you haired back marys!’

You’re enjoying yourself, the buzz, the warmth, the scent of fire. It’s comfortable and not at all like a party. It’s as if you’re visiting your friends for thanksgiving, homely and welcoming.

Though, the first crack forms when you see Fred, eyeing you from the small bar of their kitchen.

Dressed in navy slacks and a red, turtleneck sweater, he leans against the counter with a glass of Firewhiskey clutched on his big hand. He swirls it as his lips twitch, keeping his gaze set on you. His hair falls on his eyes, mostly pushed back but how strong hair gel can really be?

He looks good, way too good for a party. But it’s not the outfit, it's his entire presence. The way he holds himself, acts, speaks - shit, it’s attractive. He can do anything and he’ll always have that charismatic charm, it makes you feel envious, not to mention incredibly horny.

It’s Christmas, it’s a sacred holiday. You can’t let Fred sexy Weasley get to you, no matter how unapproachable and out of your league he looks.

You’re the bigger person - apparently - and you decide to greet him first.

You don’t know what compels you to do this, but it must be quite a strong force because you feel yourself start to quiver when you abandon your place on the couch. It’s so strong that your wobbly legs carry you while you push through tipsy friends and hold you up all the way to the kitchen area.

“Merry Christmas.” you croak, pulling him in a quick hug which he returns happily.

“Merry Christmas yourself.”  he smiles, gaze drifting lower to your dress only for a second before he swallows.

His signature cologne that you’ve engraved deep in your head this past week bursts out again. You smile softly, relishing in him.

“You look,” he seems to be giving much more thought on whatever he’s about to say, he settles on; “Beautiful, you’re, uh - the dress.” he finishes lamely.

“Oh,” your face falls. The dress is beautiful, not you. Of course. “Thank you, I would say you don’t look too bad yourself but that would be a lie.”

Fred raises a brow, putting his wine glass on the bar with a clink before slowly turning on his heel. “Aw, cheers love.” he says casually, “Wore it for you,”

You raise both your brows, “Is that so?” you fight a grin.

“This little number is my lucky charm.” he smirks, pulling on his shirt. “Made women fall at my feet back in the day, maybe you will too.” he finishes, more bashfully than before. His cheeks are tinted pink and, now, for the first time, you feel clueless.

Your heart stutters when you speak, “Trying to butter me up Frederick?” you say shly, nudging the tip of his shoe with yours.

Fred winks. “And what if I am?” he suddenly straightens, arms folding together. His head bows as he continues with a smile, “I’m joking, got this a week ago for the party.”

You fight the urge to smile, “Ah, so not the chick magnet.”

“Well,” Fred laughs, “It’s still very wolfish.”

“Whatever you say, big ole pussy cat.” you pat him on the shoulder.

Fred scoffs good naturally, “Ah, you hurt my pride ____.”

When you don’t say anything, his gaze falls on you. He takes the time to look at you, really take you in and it makes your efforts feel appreciated for once. He takes a deep breath, head careening left for a moment.

“It’s not just the dress.” he rubs the back of his neck, eyes falling on your scar. “You really are beautiful.”

Your hand immediately flies to your brow, tracing a finger down the gash. It’s not as noticeable anymore and your hair grew back - thankfully - but the knowledge that it’s still there, parading itself to everyone makes you feel much more self conscious than you should.

Fred’s hand closes over yours and you freeze. “You might not think so, but not only is your scar a wicked bedtime story, it’s very attractive.”

Your ears feel hot, “You think I’m attractive?”

It’s a nice compliment - especially when it comes from a man like Fred.

“Do I think you’re,” he gasps, giving you an incredulous look. “Of course you’re - ! I mean you can’t be asking me that - are you, gah!”

A chuckle bubbles from your throat. It’s quite amusing watching Fred Weasley struggling to speak, clearly embarrassed. The knowledge that you made him this way, you were sleeping like a baby tonight that’s for sure.

“Look, ____. I actually wanted to tell you something really important.” he fidgets with his cuffs.

You furrow your brows, “Of course, what is it?”

“I used to, well I think I still do because it never truly went away but - okay, this is harder than I thought.”

You chuckle nervously. “Fred, you’re freaking me out here.”

You hear him mutter something along the likes of what’s wrong with me, until he speaks again.

“What I meant to say was, I wan-“

“Oh my god, ____, Fred!”

When you left your apartment a few days ago, your mind didn’t calculate the outcomes of meeting Fred Weasley.

The impact is so strong that it causes your past to - not flash, because this is painful - slowly start playing before your eyes, like a play you have to sit through because the seats were expensive, and the star of the show, the star of your own life is standing right in front of you.

She’s wearing a gorgeous, gold cocktail dress. The costume design is delicate, it’s the type of dress you flutter your fingers in (the fabric is ticklish and soft, you just had to touch it) before moving onto the next. The rack is full of other suitable options, because you know you can never wear a dress like that.

But Eva can. She was always gorgeous, you couldn’t compare.

Fred’s eyes are wide, the way he’s tugging on your dress makes worry wash over you. “Eva? Erm - who invited you?” His words sound more bitter than he intends them to, or at least you think so.

“Oh, is that how you treat guests around here?” she fucking giggles, playfully slapping his shoulder.

You can’t tell if she’s purposely ignoring you - you’re standing right there - or just forgot your existence after seeing Fred in those pants because sweet merciful heavens.

Fred shifts uncomfortably, “Right sorry well, Merry Christmas!” he’s back to normal, addressing her as he addresses anyone else you can’t help but smirk.

Of course, you immediately jump on this opportunity. Eva may have ruined most of your childhood, she may currently look gorgeous - mockingly so, but you’re not kids anymore. No matter how insignificant you feel, you still have your pride to protect.

“Merry Christmas,” you add, jumping forward. “How long has it been?”

Eva’s expression turns sour, though she conceals it quickly. “____! Oh I love your dress.”

She doesn’t wish you a merry christmas.

“Happy holidays Freddie! Where can a girl get a drink around here?” she squeaks? You’re not sure, her voice is too sweet and you don’t know how to act.

Fred grins, “Right there,” he points to a corner far away from the kitchen. “Lee’s in charge of drinks, I’m sure he can hook you up with something.”

Eva ponders, pausing for a beat. She’s expectantly staring at Fred, though when he shows no intention of accompanying her she gives you a menacing look and leaves.

You didn’t expect a big reunion because you saw Eva a few months ago at the hospital, you had sprained an ankle while training with Ron, and she tried to heal you before the Head Healer cut in and told her to take a walk.

Fred’s weight relaxes as soon as Eva’s out of view, it doesn’t take much to know something happened between the two - it wasn’t a harmless breakup like Fred had told you. You don’t push it though, if he wants to tell you he will.

“Well that was,” you say, and he hums in response, swirling his drink in one hand. You watch the gold hue with him for a moment. “Interesting.”

He snorts, “She drops by every Friday to give me green apples. I hate green apples.”

“How long did you guys date?” you can’t help the words that tumble out of your lips.

He stares at you for a moment, you swear his lip almost twitch in a smile before he clears his throat. “Three years, I thought I loved her for a year.”

“Well what changed your mind?”

Fred looks at you like you just asked the dumbest question a joke shop owner could hear. “You, daft idiot, you did.”

“Wha-” you stammer. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Fred groans. “I need a drink.” and with that, he leaves towards where Eva previously walked on her precious Chanel heels. Leaves you alone.

It wasn’t like you called the man's family a disgrace and cursed his entire bloodline. Confused, you decide that maybe you need a drink as well to survive this night.

Everyone you had talked to so far ended with a disagreement, except George because he probably felt bad for you and your huge red gift sack. Embarrassment fills your cheeks as you walk towards the beverage table, you shouldn’t have come tonight.

The cherry on top gets dropped on the shit sundae when Eva Burke bumps into your shoulder and causes you to spill your drink.

“Oops! Babe I’m so sorry,” She pulls a red cloth from the glass table filled with different types of intoxications and rubs it on the fabric of your dress, further ruining it.

Embarrassment turns into frustration, this turns into pure anger. You see red.

You snatch the cloth from her hands and lightly push her forward, Eva dramatically - and very theatrically - falls on the ground with a yelp.

“Oh get up!” you hiss, throwing the cloth on the ground.

Eva scrambles to her feet, holding her right ankle with dainty, perfectly manicured hands. “Oh, now we’re turning to violence are we? Some things never change.”

You let out a frustrated grumble, stumping your heel on the ground. “I really don’t have time for this Eva.”

“We’re just talking babe, I don’t understand why you’re so upset over this.”

“I’m not upset, I’m tired.” you sigh.

Suddenly with her magically healed ankle she trudges forward. “Is it the dress?” she pouts, bending down to eye the splotch on your chest. “I can pay for it, say...two sickles?”

Your eyes narrow, “How about this, you show me how your career is going and I’ll decide if you can afford a wash.”

Eva barks out a laugh, “How about this, I’ll show you a family picture album.”

Gasping, you hold back the urge to slap her. You never expected Eva to stoop this low, and you know you shouldn’t be upset over it but it hurts. It hurts how easily she can use your family against you with no remorse.

Beyond pissed, insulted and done with tonight, you pull out your wand and get ready to apparate. This time it’s not to run away, nor do you feel like a coward. You feel tired, using your palms to press into your temple and relieve your throbbing headache.

Eva grips your wand and tries to pull you forward with failed force. “Let’s get this straight, Fred’s not interested in you.”

“And you think he’s interested in you?” you laugh, “You broke up remember?

Eva flings her long hair back, “And I’m gonna get him back. No one breaks up with me.”

“So, you're still a narcissistic bitch.” you smile.

“And you’re still pathetically clinging onto whatever I touch.” She takes a step forward, and it hits you then and there that you aren’t going home sooner or later. “Wanna know why we broke up?”

You hold your breath, her perfume is too sweet and you can’t process her words.

“He caught me cheating.” she smirks. “And he still begged me to stay, after all that.”

Your nostrils flare, and you’re about ready to punch her. You’ve never seen someone so prideful, so proud to have done something so obaminable. But it doesn’t surprise you, you pity her.

“Some loser from the bank.” she mockingly wipes a nonexistent tear with her jeweled wrist. “See, that’s the difference between me and you ____. “

You almost scream bloody murder. “Oh do enlighten me.” Your voice is weirdly high pitched but you don’t seem to care.

“He begged me, not you. He’ll never want you. You’ll always end up with the leftovers ____, accept that.” she hisses, taking another step forward.

You don’t know what you’ve done to the woman standing before you with nothing but red fire in her eyes, she looks ready to pull out your hair follicle by follicle, yet it makes you smirk. With a shit eating grin on your face, it hits you. “I knew it.” you laugh.

Eva stutters, “What?”

“Why you’re actually delusional to think he’s taking you back.”

“Oh but he will.” she protests, stomping her heel.

“No, he won’t.”

When you see Eva stay quiet, you continue. ”You grew up spoiled rotten, your parents love you, hell my parents love you, you always had the most friends and always got your way.”

She smirks, you’re tempted not to continue but years of pent up anger is ready to burst through your chest. “Yeah, jealous are we?” Eve mocks, and you quiver as you speak. Stating the obvious doesn’t hurt you anymore.

“No, because you grew up thinking everyone will love you, no matter how wrong you are, or what horrible things you do, you’ll always think that people won’t stop being by your side.” you shake your head, tutting. “But you’re wrong. I guess that’s what too much love does to you - you think a simple sorry will fix what you did? Because no, it won’t.”

“Oh stop it, Fred wants me back, it’s painfully obvious.” Eva speaks, but she doesn’t sound sure at all.

“I’ll make it clear for you.” you smile. “Fred won’t take you back for cheating, you won’t get a second chance in your career, and you sure as hell won’t be getting an apology from me.”

By now, you don’t care who's listening, because they are. Oh, they’re eating this kitty fight up like free dessert Monday at Fleur’s. Your childhood friends are watching you with intense, widened eyes. And somehow, in a cruel, wicked way, you feel satisfaction. The harsh words slipping out of your lips like nectar, in comparison to the way they slap Eva across the face fills you with nothing but disgusting satisfaction.

Sure, it’s immature and yes, you could’ve worded everything much better to be even more impactful, but the way her eyes are bloodshot and vengenceful, it’s enough for you.

Eva grits her teeth, and you know she doesn’t have much to say. “I don’t need an apology from you, ____.” she speaks, and her next words cause you to freeze, because no matter what wrong doing, she’s still right. ”You’re right, I might not be forgiven, but in the end I will always be better than you. People will always favour me more and you can never change that.”

You try to lunge forward, teeth gritter. With harsh impact, you topple backwards. Strong arms are wrapped around your chest, holding you back from gouging Eva’s eyes out with the toothpick from the martini glasses.

“Nice weather we’re having,” Fred says, a deep rumble coming from his chest and against your back. You fight the urge to shiver, though you’re way too angry to be thinking of how good he smells. “Why don’t we sober up sweetheart.” he asks you, whispering.

“No!” you shriek, struggling to move forward. “This isn’t over until I break her nose!”

Eva laughs, “Oh come at me, babe! Let’s see what a traumatized neglected child can do, yeah?” her eyes flash.

A deep, growling of distress leaves you. “Oh let me go! Let’s see what a filthy adulter can do!”

“I didn’t mean to cheat you know!”

You groan, “Heaven’s above let me go Fred.”

Eva takes two steps forward before Lee grasps her arms. “But these things happen for a reason!” her shrill voice causes you to wince.

“Yeah, you!” you cry.

Eva shrieks, lunging forward in an attempt to reach you again, and at that moment Fred seems to have about enough.

“Alright, that’s it.” His stern voice causes you to flinch, muscular arms still holding you close to his chest, he yanks you backwards and starts walking towards the corridor. “That’s enough with the both of you, Lee take Eva outside, get her some fresh air.”

——————

Fred has the decency to take you to his bedroom rather than toss you outside like he had done with Eva.

If the situation was any different, you’d be over the moon right now. Alone? With Fred Weasley? In his big bedded, fireplace occupying, additional bathroom having bedroom?

Said situation did not have you sitting on a leather rocking chair, big mug of coffee in hand while Fred lectures you like a parent. Actually, you wouldn’t know.

You’ve been quiet for the past fifteen minutes, too scared to say anything and anger him further. You knew how much this party meant to him, and you had ruined it with your childish, pent up jealousy. It wasn’t just you per say, but you had let Eva get to you.

“Can’t the two of you act your age for one fucking second,” he groans, hand propped against the brick fireplace. “I know how infuriating she is, but you-” inhaling sharply, he strides towards you. “Say something will you?”

“Why didn’t you tell me she cheated?”

Fred’s expression softens. “What?”

You gulp, you shouldn’t have brought it up when he was agitated, but you can’t listen to him while the words echo around your head. You feel awful, insensitive, anything else to call yourself that makes you feel better towards your lack of judgement. “She cheated, you didn’t tell me. Why?”

Fred pauses, after what feels like a seconds he bends down on his knees in front of you while you watch him, engrossed.

“Been waiting for you to bring it up.” he chuckles, his smile disappearing in an instant. His ginger locks hang in front of you and you realize that his shampoo, like the rest of him, smells amazing. You fight the intense urge to card your fingers through.

“Merlin, I just,” he meets your eyes. “I felt ashamed.”

Suddenly standing up, your hands flail. “Why?”

Fred stands up as well. His stance alarms you, arms wrapped around himself, brows furrowed and defensive. “Not ashamed because of you, because of myself.”

You take a step forward when Fred indicates that he’s going to continue. “I thought you were going to judge me. Bloody coward, can’t even break up with his cheating girlfriend.”

You scoff, “Fred, I’ve known you since I was eleven. Sure we had some tough times but do you really think that low of me?”

Now he scoffs, it’s nothing short of mockery. “Tough times my arse. You avoided us like the plague, ____.”

“I had my reasons,” you raise your voice, wincing slightly and it only fuels Fred’s anger.

“Proper liar you are, you didn’t even write, or even just explain why you suddenly walked out.”

You don’t feel ashamed for what you did, it was for your own good. Though, Fred’s right. You never gave a proper reason other than those childish insults at Hog’s Head. But now, with your head banging, you can’t think logically.

“Again.” you grit your teeth, words spilling between like venom. “I had my reasons.”

Fred quickly stalks towards you, enough so you can reach a hand, grab his jaw and smash your lips against his. But you don’t. “Excuse me for not giving a rat's arse about your reasons, do you know how worried I was!”

His words pull a small gasp from your lips, you refuse to believe him. “If you were so worried, you could’ve spoken to me all those years. How about that summer huh? I stayed over.”

“But I did speak to you!” Fred shouts, and your fists clench. “You were a bitch to me, remember?”

Your groan is filled with contempt. “You take that back!” your fist lifts to smack him on the chest, and you curse his overwhelmingly hard and attractive biceps. Shit, you really shouldn’t be feeling like this during a fight.

“You wanna know why I did all that?” you cry out, tears ready to strain your cheeks but you won’t forgive yourself if you cried in front of him.

“Oh do tell?” he seethes, grasping your fist in a quick motion and holding it beside him before you can smack his chest again. “Merlin woman keep your-”

“Because I was in love with you, you dickwad!”

Fred freezes - second time that night.

Your heartbeat pounds against your chest, you feel vulnerable. Oh so vulnerable and stupid, you shouldn’t have said it.

Fuck fuck fuck.

You should have just kept your stupid mouth shut, dragged your stupid ass back home and took a stupid shower.

But it was too late.

Fred takes a slow step back, continued by several until he’s on the other side of the room with his arms propped against a wall, head hanging low. He’s breathing heavily, you’re finally crying.

“So you aren’t going to say anything?” you yell, stomping your heel on the ground. “Do you know how hard it was for me to watch you and Eva all those years, you wouldn’t even look at me.” you choke on your sobs, remembering everything. The painful memories, the emotions hit you like the Ford Angelia with Ron behind the wheels.

“The Yule Ball, I saw you two together. It hurt so much and I cou- umpfh”

You almost swallow your tongue.

Soft lips, those are the only words writing out in your mind. Fireworks erupting around the letters and causing shivers to run around your entire being. Taken aback, you can’t move until your mind processes that Fred Weasley is kissing you.

Fred groans, opening your mouth with his and grazing his tongue against your bottom lip. It’s so gentle that you doubt you feel it, until his hand grips the back of your head and presses you against him harder. Now you can taste the wet, warm feel of his tongue against yours, the certain flicks of the tip gracing your own.

He pulls back only slightly, panting against your lips and causing your breaths to intermingle intimately. “The Yule Ball,” he starts, going back in for another, hurried kiss.

“She told me, you - closer.” He yanks you in by your waist with his other hand, palm gripping your ass and kneading it with vigour.

“Told me she saw you with someone else,” he pulls you closer when your hands wrap around his shoulders. “It broke me ____.”

“Fred,” you sigh, gripping on his sweater tighter.

“That’s Freddie for you, love.”

Heat curls in your lower belly. His lips are on yours again, begging you for something you didn’t quite know yet. “Freddie,” you chant.

“That’s right.” he chuckles lowly, his rumbling voice against your chest.

You merely shiver, latch onto the tufts on his neck and anchor him lower to your lips until your lungs are overwhelmed with nothing but slow, languid kisses. Fred kissed really good - oh who were you kidding, he was the best kiss you’ve ever had. It’s addictively so, and you chase his lips when he pulls away.

“I,” he breaths, whispering. “I was so devastated by what Eva told me,” he hugs you tighter. “I loved - still love you so much, I didn’t know how to cope.”

“You love me?” Now, there’s more tears. You aren’t sure if they’re of pure joy, frustration or the ache between your legs. “For how long?”

“Since third year,” he murmurs against your cheek, breathing in your scent and shakily exhaling. “I still wear the bracelet, never took it off.”

“I saw,” you nuzzle your head in his chest, your heart feels like it’s about to burst. “It made me so happy, I thought you would have lost it by now or something.”

“Oh Flower, there you are hurting my pride again.”

The nickname knocks all the breath out of your lungs. You only hug him tighter, not daring to mention that throughout these years you flinched whenever someone said flower, or how you simply refused to visit any flower shop. Yes, it did cause problems during holidays and of course, funerals but at least your Disney gift cards contained sentiment.

“I wasn’t with anyone during the Yule Ball.” you mutter.

“I know.”

“Then why didn’t you come back?”

Fred shivers. “I didn’t know back then, Merlin if I had…”

“You’re an idiot.” you chuckle, hurriedly wiping away the drying tears from your cheeks.

“That’s right,” Fred rasps, pulling your face towards his. “I’m a stupid, stupid prat.”

That was, if the loud countdown roaring outside Fred’s bedroom door didn’t ruin the most pleasurable lips you were going to taste - yet again.

Your eyes widen, Fred whines and pulls you back into his arms but you’re already rushing to the closed door. “We’re missing the count down!”

“Oh come one,” Fred steps behind you, hand over yours to grip the knob. You struggle under his hold and try to turn it. “I’ll make you count, hop on the bed, love.”

You have to gulp down nothing but air to keep yourself at bay. God, yes, you would have shouted, stripped naked and let him have his way with you.

But you can’t, not with your friends right outside the door, slightly tipsy and merrily counting down from ten. Speaking of, they’re nearing seven - you have exactly seven seconds to push Fred off and throw yourself outside.

Six seconds until you turn the knob and ignore Fred’s protests, five until Harry and Ginny throw their arms around your shoulders, four until George decides not the comment on you and Fred’s flushed appearance, three until Fred does, two until you’re suddenly pulled forward - one, Fred’s kissing you in front of his friends and family.

Fuck.

It was that one, long second that Ron lets the confetti burst in utter silence while everyone stares at you. It’s a quick yet passionate peck - enough for couples to abandon their new year's kiss and focus solely on yours.

“Finally!” George yells.

Ginny cheers after his brother, “Took you ten bloody years!”

Last of the Weasleys, Ron, gapes. “When did that become a thing?” he mutters, completely oblivious but still happy nonetheless.

If Hermione and Ginny hadn’t swept you away, you would have spent your night glued to Fred’s side, demanding to show him off after all those years of pining.

Your two friends keep asking questions - not overly detailed considering Fred’s Ginny’s older brother. Your lips hurt from smiling by the end of your overly exaggerated story,

The end of the night brings tranquility over the apartment, after presents are ripped open and everyone says their goodbyes, you’re left alone the twins, helping them clean the flat with quick flicks of your wand.

Your watch reads one thirty, you need to leave soon. Aleyna and Blaise hadn’t shown, which only means the proposal was a success. You want to go home and congratulate them, but also spend some time with Fred.

Fred himself is busy wiping pint glasses and lining them neatly in empty cupboards. The both of you keep stealing glances at each other, and it would have been more romantic if George would stop scoffing whenever Fred bashfully smiled in your direction.

“____.”

You hum in acknowledgment, watching Fred’s back shuffle as he washes the dishes.

“Thanks for giving a hand, you didn’t have to.” George smiles kindly, hands tucked in his pockets.

You smile back, “Oh it’s alright.”

“I just wanted to apologize.” he looks down, it isn’t the dorky shyness George casually sports at times, he looks sorrowful.

“For what?” you ask, lips lowering into a frown to match his.

“For being a git all those years back. I was young and a shit head. I’m sorry.” he sighs, leaning his shoulder on the wall.

You chuckle, just the familiar voice of George resurfaces pleasant memories you wished you never forgot. “It’s alright, I’m over it.”

“Really?” he raises a brow. “Because I wouldn’t forgive myself personally. Go on, give me a smack or something.”

“I’m not smacking you George.” you say, you make sure your tone sounds playful to put his mind at ease. “We all had our issues, I probably should have talked to you guys instead of just storming off. Partly my fault.”

George smiles, “It wasn’t your fault, but I’m glad you can forgive me.” He squeezes your shoulder in a way to reassure you, while it feels like he needs it more. You nod fondly.

“And about Eva, we didn’t really like her, y’know. She told us that you needed space, and that we should leave you alone. Just now realizing how rubbish it sounds.”

“Took you long enough.”

He chuckles again, much more genuine like you prefer and pushes himself off the wall. “I better get some sleep,” he glances at Fred, “leave you two alone. And ____, please don’t distance yourself.”

“I won’t.”

Your lie slips so easily.

It’s the welcoming silence that accepts your doubts with open arms - everything was happening overwhelmingly quick, or was it just your fear of being left alone again?

You smile at George when he retires to his room, it’s more of a constipated grimace but George seems to have bought it.

You take this time to finally think, let your protective walls analyse what the fuck happaned in the last five hours because it was too good to be true. Fred couldn’t simply love you that easily, after everything he did. It didn’t explain why he started dating Eva without consulting you first, or how he was with her that night after the Yule Ball. If he loved you this much, why would he bury himself between her legs, abandon you in the hollow halls of Hogwarts? Why would he believe her so easily?

“____.”

Even his voice sounds distant. You can’t tell if it’s him speaking or your past.

“____, darling.”

Nope, that’s definitely Fred. His frustratingly sexy cologne is mocking you like every other amazing aspect this man has.

“Huh?” you snap out of your thoughts. “Oh, yes hello.”

Fred tilts his head to the side, expression softening the moment you speak. “You okay? Something on your mind?”

You tentatively shake your head. Fred sighs and reaches out to stroke your head - you close your eyes but the feeling of his calloused hands never show.

Eyes fluttering open, you realize your fears are coming true. He’s going to tell you that he changed his mind, that he doesn't love you and this is all a big mistake.

“Sorry,” he breathes, cheeks alight. You hold in your breath, ready to face the truth.

Fred’s silent; he’s doing that thing again. The thing where he somehow magically thinks he can communicate with you without saying anything.

“Fred,” you sigh, and his face drops. “Why did you date Eva if you loved me so much?”

There, you asked it. Because if you hadn’t, it would haunt you for the rest of your days, crawl around your heart like an infectious disease. You have enough of those, you don’t want another.

Fred breathing sputters, he looks at you like you know the answer. “Because…it was the closest thing to you I could have. I know it sounds awful-“

“Yes it does, and stupid!”

“I know!” he exclaims. “I didn’t know how to cope, she gave me the affection I longed to get from you.”

Your eyes start to swell, the sentence should make you remotely happy but it doesn’t. “Why did you stay with her for so long?”

“Look.” Fred cups your face, breathing heavily. “Yes, at first it was because I was petty. I thought you were with someone else that bloody night, I was heartbroken and needed a distraction. She was the closest thing.”

“That doesn’t explain the rest-“

“Let me finish!” He sounds earnest, adamant on wiping all your doubts and replacing them with nothing but his love. If only it was that easy.

“I can’t do this tonight Fred-“

“Please just call me Freddie.” he whimpers, kissing your cheek harshly. He stands there, face close to yours like if he let go you would leave.

I“I’m tired, I have a headache and my feet hurt.” you’re crying, again. Nothing out of the ordinary considering you’ve been doing it damn well for the last eight years.

“Stay over the night, it’s late. I’ll make you some chamomile, you always loved chamomile. Please.” Fred begs, lips against your cheek and you can feel the wetness of his own tears. His forehead presses against your temple. “Don’t leave me again.”

Your heart aches, it’s the most painful kind of hurt you’ve been dreading to feel again after all these years. This was worse than the neglect of your parents, the pain that night in the Burrow caused, watching Fred introduce Eva to his mother. This was why you’ve been avoiding him.

Because this time you know what to do, you know what’s for the best and it takes all of the protection you’ve built for yourself to push Fred off. Now, there’s none. Now, you’re standing before him, vulnerable and all your emotions on display.

“Goodnight Fred, merry christmas.”

This time, the door you walk out of feels much smaller and suffocating.

————

It’s ironic how the weather matches your mood for six days.

Saturday; clear skies with a blizzard hidden beneath the clouds. Aleyna’s engagement celebration. Show up with puffy eyes enough to make you blind, sit through nice dinner without crying, eventually start crying when she shows you the ring, act like you’re crying because you’re happy, get snot all over Aleyna’s ring, walk home while the storm finally presents itself and tells you that you’re a miserable piece of shit.

Sunday; small flurry. Spend your day weeping quietly and eating leftover takeout while browsing through your tv cable. Eventually watch a romantic movie, weep more.

Monday; cloudy, soft breeze. Cry more, hug your slightly overweight cat and get dragged outside by Aleyna because she figures out that you didn’t sob in front of an entire restaurant because your best friend was getting married. Sit at her bar, drink beer and stuff your face with cornish pasties while you tell her what happened, until you eventually pass out.

Tuesday; cloudy and dark. Spend your day thinking if you’ll ever be loved again. Regretful, pained, hungover and miserably under caffeinated.

Wednesday; crazy fucking blizzard that catches you so off guard you forget you ruined you chances with Fred Weasley for a moment. Aleyna tells you how stupid you are, you realize how stupid you are, then find out Aleyna is more of a snake than she lets on because she lets you eat a whole pack of doughnuts and that amazing Shepherd’s Pie her mom makes.

Thursday; clear skies. Not a cloud in sight. Your head is unusually clear, maybe too clear because you forget to feed Jambo and take out the trash. You think about running back to the joke shop, tell Fred you love him and that you don’t give a shit about the past anymore. But you don’t.

And now it’s Friday. You’re sitting on your bed, Aleyna in your closet, flinging clothes at you for you to try on because she insists you go out. It’s been a week since you walked out on Fred, again, and perhaps made the biggest mistake of your life.

“Stop wasting away your pathetic life here and do it outside!” she yells, voice getting closer when she comes into view.

“Aleyna, I’m really not in the mood.” you dismiss, laying back on your bed. “I just, should I go to him?”

Aleyna groans, pained. “Merlin forbid, this is the millionth time you ask me. I tell you yes, you don’t do it.”

“What if he says it’s too late, and it is! I don’t deserve-“

“Shut up. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. What matters is that you need to at least try.”

You need to at least try. Aleyna’s voice echoes around your head after she leaves and you're back to your routine. Get up, brush your hair because the tangles bother you more than you let on, (and sometimes your teeth, if you feel like it.) then stay in your pyjamas all day while lazing around your apartment. You’ve started making coffee for yourself again, which is a small step but still encouraging. Plopping down on your couch, you sigh. Jambo follows, leaving fur floating around the air in his wake.

Love To Love You Baby by Donna Summers plays softly in the background, your magic radio is mocking you yet again on how single and sad you are. Especially after how long it has been since you’ve had sex. It’s painful, but you can’t help but think of Fred whenever you try to at least relieve some stress. Of course, this ends with you curled in a corner and crying, it’s frustrating how much he turns you on, and now knowing you can never have him-

Jambo’s loud meow reminds you that you haven’t brushed him today and you slowly get up, striding to the kitchen. You try to relax your mind but your chest feels even tighter with your effort. Your house is an organized mess, you didn’t bother cleaning up throughout the stages of your grief.

You should talk to him. You should go outside, get fresh air, make out a game plan and at least talk to him. Fred’s kind, the funniest, most lovingly stubborn man you’ve ever met. He doesn’t deserve what you’re putting him through. You don’t want to leave things so bittersweet again, you want to keep seeing George, even Fred if time allows.

The pain of your past doesn’t allow you to follow your desires. You hate yourself for it and it’s only a matter of time before you break and go back to your old, quiet self. It’s as if the past got your wrists on lock, holding you back whenever you try to sprint free and love again. You thought Fred would have unlocked the chains and swept you away, but that was before you decided that he shouldn’t.

Gripping the fur comb on your left hand, Jambo watches you walk over to him with big eyes. He looks triumphant, lying on his chubby stomach and readying himself for the brush of his three year life.

Knock Knock

Perhaps this is why Jambo hates Aleyna. You chuckle. “Sorry Bo, give me a minute. She probably forgot her coat again.”

You put down the comb and rush over to the door. Not bothering to check through the peephole, you fling the door open while laughing. “Forgot your condoms or some-“

By the look Fred gives you, you’d think he hits it raw.

“Fred.” you whisper, frozen with your hand gripped on the handle.

He looks haggard, eye bags under his eyes with slightly damp hair sticking out obscenely from the sides. It looks longer, or perhaps it's the way he quickly runs a hand through it and smooths it back. You probably look no different, yet Fred still looks unfairly handsome, eyes dripping with honey and curved bottom lip tucked between his teeth.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you take in his appearance. He’s wearing a simple black pullover with a pea coat messily tucking in the material of his hoodie. You can see the after effects of the snow outside visible on his grey sweatpants, you can’t tell if he came to your house straight after working out for…however long he works out to have thighs like that.

“Can I-“ he gives you a look over and you blush. There’s a hundred different things you want to say, and you merely stay quiet and look at him with hopeful eyes. Coward. “Can I come in?”

You step aside wordlessly. He takes one, big step and he’s inside. Cursing his giant legs, you close the door behind him.

“Wow,” he clears his throat, looking around your apartment. “Nice place.”

“Thank you.”

Fred’s hand twitches when he hears your voice, as if he hadn’t heard it since he was a child. As if he was hearing it for the first time.

As soon as he steps in, his cologne engulfs the air around him - as if he’s marking himself in your house and leaving his delicious after taste. You would tell him he smells amazing but the air between you is too tense to say anything but;

“Fred I-“

“I wanted to-“

Fred breaks out into a smile, and you follow. It looks like a grimace, a hopeful one though. “I wanted to apologize.”

Your heart swells. You know it shouldn’t, because you don’t deserve an apology but the fact that he thought of you makes you feel like you have another chance. Of course you do, the poor man walked over to your house in the middle of a snowstorm. There’s got to be something there, right?

“Fred,-“

“No, let me finish this time.”

You stay silent.

“Been trying to think of the right ruddy words to say this past week but fuck that.” he growls, shrugging off his coat when you offer. “I’m not waiting any bloody longer.”

“I admit that at some point,” he starts, taking a deep breath. “I had feelings for Eva. That’s why I didn’t break up with her. It was well after three months of us dating and I thought I moved on.” you usher him to sit down, quickly following behind. Your legs feel wobbly as he continues.

“That’s why I didn’t break up with her, and I won’t deny that what I had with her was nice, but it wasn’t you. No one ever compared to you ____. I was fine until you decided to stop being our friend.”

“I didn’t decide that, It was something I had to do.” you defend fiercely, sitting next to him on the bar stool of your kitchen island. Damn rich apartments.

“I know that now, but at that time I thought you hated me. I clung onto Eva because I thought - seeing as she was your childhood friend - we’d be friends again.”

You scoff. “Look how that turned out.”

Fred raises a brow.

“Sorry, continue.”

“I started getting over it until that summer happened. It killed me to see you again, that’s when I realized I could never stop loving you. I blamed myself for everything, for fucking up all my chances even though I-“

You put a hand on his shoulder, “Freddie, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Fred pauses, squeezes your hand and gives you a wide, hopeful smile that punches you right in the heart. His head dips down to rest on your shoulder and he sighs. “You called me Freddie.”

“I did.” you smile.

“I wanted to talk to you, but you kept avoiding me. With the war and everything I just couldn’t, especially after that near death thing.”

“Near what?” You gasp.

Fred chuckles, as if it was no big deal. It makes your chest ache. “I got trapped under a wall, Georgie saved me. Owe him my bloody life. Took me sometime to get over it though, those were the times I needed someone the most.” he takes a deep breath before continuing.

“It was around those times that I found out Eva cheated on me. She was acting dodgy the past few months, and I feel awful for feeling relieved when we broke up.”

“But, that’s not your fault.” you sigh, hand caressing his back gently. He relaxes at your touch and a smile tugs at your lip at this. “You don’t owe Eva a damn thing. It’s okay to feel like that, because I do.”

Fred laughs, a small melodic sound that brings you pride that you pulled it out of him. “Oh, is that how it works now?”

“Yep, I said so.” you give him a toothy grin, and he chuckles, further causing your ruin.

But you can’t let things get too comfortable, not before you’re completely honest with him. Here he is, vulnerable and open, telling you his entire life story and you sure as hell are going to do the same - minus some embarrassing parts.

“Do you,” you clear your throat, awkwardly shuffling on your stool. The seat is uncomfortable and it makes everything all the more frustrating. “Do you want to know what I was thinking before you showed up?”

Fred pauses, gaze lingering over your face attentively. Breath catching, you let him look at you. Directly, fully look at you. He flushes, quickly hidden away by his hand when he nods his head slowly and leans on his palm.

“I was thinking of you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I was thinking if I should just go to you myself.”

Fred takes a quick breath. Shuddering because of the cold, surely, his tone is soft and barely above a whisper. “Why didn’t you?”

“I was scared you’d reject me. I was going to apologize to you, get on my knees and beg for forgiveness until you gave me a second chance.”

“Oh.”

You let him grasp your chin and turn your face towards his, he lovingly strokes your cheek, long finger somehow reaching easily. “I’m sorry Freddie, I love you.”

“I’ve waited to hear those words for so long.” his chest heaves when he responds.

“Well, how much of a let down is it?” you smile, nuzzling your hand in his palm.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, then to your cheek. “Let down?” he tells you, as if he heard the most obscene thing. “It’s so much better than I could have imagined, and I’m sorry too. I hate myself for letting you go through so much pain on your own. If I wasn’t such a clueless git I could’ve done this much earlier.”

“Do what?”

Fred kisses you. It’s not urgent, nor wanton, it’s soft and tender that still leaves you breathless. He leans his forehead against yours, and you ruin the kiss by smiling but he couldn’t care less. Opening your mouth, you let him flick your tongues together until it’s a sloppy, needy mess.

He groans, and that’s when you know the kiss progressed much too far to stop now. The needy ache between your legs pushes you to hover yourself over him, and his strong arms grasp you by the waist. His lips aren’t a perfect fit, it makes the kiss all the more pleasurable and it’s until he’s slowly walking towards your bedroom with your legs tucked around his hips that you break away.

“Fred,” you sigh when he sets you down against a wall. “I want you.”

He frowns, “It’s Freddie, how many times-“ he gathers your knee in one hand and pushes his crotch against your center with a grunt. “Do I have to tell you?”

You barely respond, clawing at his back. The curve of his thick cock gradually growing, his thighs encasing around your legs feels too damn good and you don’t know how long until you’re fully at his mercy. Fred roughly rolls his hips, a deep grumble leaving him and the stimulation is enough to make you whine. “Again,” you rock your pervis.

“Oh yeah?” he smirks, humping you harder. “You like this? How much? Let me feel.”

You rut against him desperately, trying to get off on the friction Fred barely decides to provide.

True to his word, Fred kisses you again with a groan, this time sparing you no tenderness and sucking on your bottom lip until it throbs. His hips continue to rut all the while his free hand slithers down your clavicle, down the sides of your waist - he makes sure to spread his palm wide to feel you everywhere - until he teasingly snaps the band of your pyjama bottoms. You yelp, relishing in his moans.

“If you like it so much- well shit.” his eyes flutter shut the moment he feels your slick from your underwear. “My love, you’re so wet that I bet I can taste you through your panties.”

If you weren’t wearing your yellow duck polka dot panties this would have been more sexier, and it takes Fred talking about eating you out to realize - oh my god, you’re wearing your duck panties.

“Fred, don-“

Fred has already pushed your bottoms down, revealing the abomination and further causing your face to feel hotter.

“Oh?” he smirks. “Sexy lingerie, all for me?”

You groan, hiding your face in his shoulder while he laughs at you. You feel his chest bob, and you can’t help but giggle alongside him.

“Now, strip.” he commands, and all the humor in the situation vanishes in an instant.

He lets go of your knee and you easily slip out of your bottoms, then slowly said polka dot panties. He grips your thighs, hoisting you up on his hips again and before you know it, he’s stumbling into your room.

His hand is cupping the back of your head, somehow gone there the moments he walked. You wouldn’t know, it’s hard to concentrate on anything else when the heat of his cock between your thighs feels like that.

Fred deposits you on the messily scattered forest you call your bed, and the smell of linen mixed with his cologne is enough for you to grind your hips on nothing.

Fred tuts, pushing a palm flat on your hip. He trails his hand between your legs and palms your pussy, bare. “Babe, you’re dripping. Since how long?”

You whine, “Since the moment you walked through - ah, my door.”

Fred’s eyes glaze over with nothing but dangerous greed. Dipping his knee on the mattress, he manhandles you into submission. “You think you can just get away with saying shit like that?” he groans, eyes fixating on wherever it lands on your body. It’s like he’s trying to take it all in, overwhelmed yet still wanton.

He shuffles to sit against your headboard and pats his large thigh, you waste no time crawling towards him. He quickly grabs your waist before you can approach him. Pulling you against him with your knees propped between his thighs, he’s face to face with your pussy and drooling.

“Such a sweet, pretty cunt.” he breathes, gently kissing your clit. You cry out, knees buckling but Fred’s large palms are flat on your ass and adamant on keeping you up and against his lips. Your center throbs, this is all you have ever wanted - the both of you have ever wanted and Fred has the audacity to tease.

“I know, I know.” He gently sushes. “I need to,” his head leans on your abdomen, desperate. “Need to get you ready for my cock.”

You barely nod, Fred seems to be in battle with himself. You don’t know which side wins, until he starts to suckle your clit with continuous, obscene kissing noises. You grip his shoulder, body bending in half. It feels so good, too good that you can’t hold straight. “Please - Fred,”

Gasping, your pelvis rocks forward. He keeps you still with his muscles digging in your hips, ass, back - everywhere he’s desperately roaming and memorizing.

His tongue finally darts forward - you knew that goddam tongue would be what did it - you nearly collapse, melting forward. It’s wet and warm and god - almost what you imagine his dick might feel like if it ever prods at your entrance.

He’s licking with bold, textured strokes. Your thighs are quivering, it’s the sudden brush of pleasure that meets your cunt every other second that causes this.

“Shit,” Fred pulls back, one hand holding your thighs wider. His thumb circles around your entrance and you cry out in pleasure. “My balls feel so fucking tight ____. If I keep this up, I might just come before I can put my dick in you.”

“Then - ahh Freddie!”

“Don’t get mouthy with me.” he smirks, sliding a finger inside. “I knew what you were gonna say before you opened that sweet mouth of yours.”

He fucks you like this, wet squelching noise mixing with your pants and moans. Working you open, Fred curls a finger inside and your thighs finally give out. “Merlin, you’re gonna get it,” he gives you a sweet kiss on the stomach. “I’m just as desperate to fuck you. Look,”

You do look, very gladly at that. He adds a second finger the moment your eyes fall on the wet patch of his bottoms. He’s rutting against nothing, all the while scissoring his fingers inside you - and from the look he gives you, you know he’s imagining what it's like to be inside you.

“Fred!” you gasp, rocking faster until your legs start to jerk and twitch. You don’t want to come yet, want to savor the way Fred’s fucking you with nothing but two fingers and it’s better than any sex you’ve had.

Your arousal pools between his fingers, dripping down his bracelet adorned wrist, all the way down to his veiny forearms. It’s a sight for sore eyes, Fred watches in a trance, gaze half lidded. You can see his cock twitch in his pants and he moans, “Fucking hell babe, look at the mess you’ve made.”

His thumb presses against your center with his two other fingers working, and he roughly drags it over to your clit to press. He’s licking again, slurping noises mixing with the pats of his tongue quickly dragging across your pussy.

That does it. Whining, and with quick breaths you hurtle towards such an intense orgasm that you swear you see Santa himself and his jingle fucking bells. It’s sudden and weakening, you barely register. Fred’s there all the while, desperately licking every drop of his hard work until there’s nothing. He groans and moans, like he’s having his thanksgiving now.

He’s not like a starved man, or any other cliche line you can think of. No, it’s like he has made a deal with the devil and is captured by the dark vitality of greed. He can’t stop, and merlin, do you not want him to.

“That was,” you breathe, taking a seat on his thigh when he allows.“That was the best orgasm I’ve had.”

“And that was the most gorgeous sight I have ever seen.” Fred smiles, it slowly turns into a smirk. The cocky bastard is way too proud of himself. He should be though, it’s been a while since you’ve had sex - if it always felt like this you would have never stopped.

But you know it never feels this good. No, it’s because of Fred. It’s him, and how much you love him, and how attractive he is - how skilled, amazing, passionate of a man he is. He’s perfect and way out of your league but you don’t care because he’s finally yours.

Said man is breaking out in a sappy grin, kissing your lips sweetly to whisper against them. “Get used to it.” He kisses you again. “I’m going to make you come again, and again, and again until you can’t walk.” he’s lowering you down onto your back, hands caressing your thighs.

“Really?”

“Especially now that I know how sweet and tight you are,“ Fred runs a finger through your pussy and you whimper. “How amazing you smell,” he dips down to lazily suck a hickey on your collarbone. “How soft your skin is,” his hands are lifting your waist up to unhook your bra. “How much I’m in love with you.”

Your gaze softens, and you let him undress you, bra after shirt until you’re left bare beneath. He shivers, his eyes are darting everywhere, to the curve of your hips, up your stomach - and finally, the slope of your breasts. He sucks in a breath. “You,” he rasps. “You had this bikini, that summer.”

“Wha- which one?”

“The white one.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh.”

“We all loved that bikini, especially the days when the lake was particularly cold. Your nipples would be crystal fucking clear.”

You should feel embarrassed, fuck you really should but you knew what you were doing when you bought that bikini. That doesn’t stop you from acting clueless though, “Fred you big oa - oh!”

Fred dips to suck on your nipples, mouth wide open and hungry. “From that day onward, I fucking knew your tits were amazing.” he groans, gazing at them for a moment. “ Shit, was I right.”

You feel his clothed cock rub against you as he speaks - and it finally becomes a problem.

“A-ah, Fred. Clothes,” you barely gesture, though Fred understands you quickly. Sitting back on his heels, he swiftly removes his hoodie overhead.

Of course he isn’t wearing anything underneath.

Of course he has abs.

You curse under your breath - Fred’s chest is well defined, as you expected it to be. Well toned pecs, pert nipples hard and on display, golden skin stretching over his abdomen and six pairs of muscles you’d like to mark. He’s lean yet buff, corded well with muscle and now you know where those enthusiastic years of Quidditch have gone into

You reach for his arm, Fred quickly obliges and lets you guide his palm flat on your body. You breathe heavily - you love how you're he’s feeling you up like this. His hand lands on your breast, and he gives it a rough squeeze before rolling off the bed to get out of his bottoms.

“Are you trying to kill me, doing that? Huh?” he rasps, stumbling slightly. He swings his socks somewhere and gets back on the bed. “Is that what you want?”

When you don’t respond, he chuckles. Slowly, he pushes down his boxer briefs. It’s teasing, this motion. But then again, everything about Fred Weasley is.

His cock slaps against his abdomen - that’s how big it is. You feel yourself salivate, pupils expanding at the thought of such a thick, attractive cock inside you. You almost jump forward and sit on it but when you see the angry red color of his cock, the twitching of his head and the pre-cum that drips, it becomes clear how much he has been holding back.

Fred grips his cock and the head gushes slightly, you feel your cunt flutter. “Come here.”

You let him grip your body and settle you on his lap, entrance inches away from the head of his cock. You’re making eye contact, it’s almost intimidating how intense his gaze is. On your heat, breasts and fucked out face. “Merlin, I’ve been dreaming about this for fucking years. Let me,” he breathes. “I should just take a picture and stare at it all day.”

“Why take a picture when you have the real thing.” you smirk slightly.

Fred groans, “Ohh, you’re such a good girl.”

You smile, “Freddie, please get a condom. Flattery won’t get you that far.”

“Damn it.” he smiles jokingly, reaching for your night stand.

“Wait, shit.” you get off his lap and down your bed, legs wobbling a bit as you stride towards your dresser with hurried steps. Fred whines when you leave but you pay him no mind. “Been a while, here.”

Grabbing the pack, you stumble back on the bed and sit on your knees.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Fred nods his head. “Put it on, baby.”

You rip the packet open and slowly roll it on him, his cock is already wet and glistening enough for it to be quick. Your center pulses with want as you do this.

Fred pushes you down and crawls on top, centering his cock with your entrance. “No more,” he grunts. “Gotta have you now.”

Gasping, you feel him rub against you. He continues to tease, until the tip of his cock finally pushes past.

You cry out and glance down at where his cock bulges, it’s a type of pain you’d love to feel everyday. “A-ah Fred!”

“I know baby,” he whines, pushing further in with a quick thrust. He strokes slowly to work you open. You cry out, arousal gushing out.

“Such a sweet pussy, taking all my cock so well.” he kisses your jaw, feathering his lips around your throat and lazily sucking. “Feel so good.”

It’s true, it feels so fucking good that you can’t hold in your moans anymore. Not that you were trying to, but the desire to chant his name becomes reality when he rolls his hips against your center. He’s so close to bottoming out and the woozy cloud floating in your head grows. “Oh my god, don’t want you to stop.”

The stretch feels so good that you can’t help but clench around him, pain jerking your hips up.

Fred's balls deep in, his chest heaves and his eyes squeeze shut for a moment. He pauses, letting the two of you adjust to the euphoric feeling of his cock inside. ”Why the fuck would I wan’t to stop?” Your insides are throbbing, and you find yourself arching your back every time he gives you a sweet kiss on your chest. “Why would I ever stop. Shit, baby, I love you.”

“I love you too - oh!”

Fred withdraws, then slams into you with such vigour that you scream. Another shameful flow of your juices gush out as pleasure rips through you. He continues this, another harsh thrust into your cunt that makes you arch in pleasure. “Freddie!”

“Just like that.” he grunts, rolling his hips. “Love when you call me that.”

His hand hooks your leg around his waist, and he speeds up his motion, soothing the needy ache you feel.

lt’s dizzying, how good he can make you feel. Like you’re the center of the universe and all that matters is Fred fucking you open with sweet, yet untetheredly rough thrusts. It’s scary how lost you can get in him, and it becomes haunted when he captures your lips in a kiss and lifts your leg up on his shoulder.

“You’re so tight, oh fucking hell. Look at you, my goodness you’re absolutely perfect.” he murmurs against your lips, muting your moans.

“Fred! Oh god - ah!”

Your cries egg him on, he’s ruthless with the way his fingers dig in your ass to slam into you faster. The angle, his thick cock, how he’s biting down on your lower lip, you can barely take in. You feel helplessly at his mercy, and soon he’s fucking you too hard to keep kissing. “Easy, baby,” he coos when you squirm underneath him. “I’ve got you - my sweet little flower. Feel good?”

The question itself is clearly hysterical, your pleasure is etched on to your face and your thighs quiver underneath him. His mouth hangs open, eyes droopy, yet he still wears that infuriatingly attractive smirk. “Yes! Feel so good - ah you cocky bastar - umpfh!”

He drapes your other leg over his shoulder, your breasts bounce as his thrust turns more languid. Your back arches, mouth hanging open. “Oh my god - Fred!”

It feels so fucking good like this, so deep and good and - fuck, everything else other than him becomes a distant memory.

“Ahh - shit baby. Doing so good,” he grunts, his moans turn more high pitched when you meet his thrusts halfways. “Drown me baby, my flower takes me so well,”

Fred’s hand curls around the mattress as his other grips your thigh. He slams into you, stretching you out so good that your orgasm builds rapidly within. With your legs draped over his shoulder, he bends forward further until he’s sucking in your chest and leaving red marks. “OH - Freddie,” you whine, clawing at his back.

“That’s it my love,” he croons, head thrown back yet still adamant on watching you. His hands tangle in your hair, carding through and gripping them hard. “Come on my cock - make a mess of your sheets. Doing so well for me, wanna feel you clench around me.”

His face contorts in pleasure when your cunt does clench, hair draping over his eyes to cover his glazed, blown out pupils. Fred reaches between your legs to sweetly thumb your clit, squeezing it between two fingers and it’s the final straw until you break.

You arch in pleasure, shuddering violently underneath him. Fred’s letting you ride it out, finally gasping and his hands clench around your thigh and the mattress. Your hand finds his, interlacing your fingers together as you messily grind your hips and finally come down. Ropes of hot cum fill the condom around your sensitive walls. You tighten, aching a little from the warmth that you can’t feel directly from the plastic barrier.

Fred collapses on top with panting breaths. His head rests in the crook of your neck, arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

“Well shit.”

“Yeah.” you chuckle breathily. The post orgasm clarity makes you realize; fuck, I love this man way more than I let on. You suddenly feel the need to show him, and yet you settle for tenderly brushing his hair back when he lifts his head.

Fred smiles, grin lazy and sappy. After pecking your lips, he slowly pulls out. You whine from the sudden coldness when he rolls out of your arms, then he grins at your noise of distress.

“Hold on love, be right back.” Fred pulls off his condom, ties the top and tosses it to the trash before collapsing next to you - way more dramatically. His arm drapes over you, pulling you to his chest and pressing a kiss on your forehead. “I love you.”

You sigh, content. “Love you too,” you smirk. “Would love you more if you cleaned me up.”

Fred’s eyes flash dangerously. “Oh?”

“Not like that you idiot!” you smile, gently slapping his chest. “Swish your wand or something, I don’t wanna get up.”

“Hm,” he taps his chin. “Give me a tour of your apartment and I’ll think about it.”

You sigh, propping yourself on your arms. Fred whines and tries to pull you back in but you don’t relent. “Alright alright.”

Rolling off the bed, you rush to the bathroom, ignoring the pulsing soreness in your core. “Wha - come back! What about my tour?” Fred yells after you.

You laugh at his eagerness. “You’re not getting it!”

After cleaning yourself up, you practically hurl yourself in his arms. Fred catches you with something between a grunt and a chuckle, leaning against the headboard and letting you rest your head on his chest. Your eyes lull around, begging to give into your exhaustion. “Close your eyes, flower,” he whispers sweetly, gently running his hands across your hair and massaging your scalp.

The snowstorm outside has gotten intense, the wind howls against your sealed windows yet the world feels much brighter from this morning. It’s hard to focus on anything besides the way your heart flutters, and the feel of Fred beneath you. Snuggling closer, his fingers gently trace around your shoulders.

“Freddie?” you murmur, cheek pressed against his chest.

He hums in response.

“You’re staying over, right?”

Fred peers down at you, his brows are etched together and the concern on his face nearly makes you sob. “Do…do you not want me to?” he answers shakily.

You let out a breath. “Of course I want you to!”

“Good.” he smiles, letting out a bigger breath than you. For a moment, you think you broke the man. “Because you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon.”