#i have other boots that are pushing eight years and still good as new
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I bought fucking combat boots and after a mere two years I find out these bitches are glued
I fucking despise when things fake being higher quality than they are. I don't mean like slapping a slightly misspelled brand name onto an identical non-designer product for purely aesthetic reasons I mean like rivets or thread that are actually glued down rather than punched or stitched. Fake pockets on jeans that are actually just an extra seam. Heavy looking chain that's plastic or very soft flimsy metal rather than anything sturdy. I bought boots which looked like they had a stitched sole 8 months ago and lo and behold the glue holding the sole on is revealing itself by falling apart. You PUT a STITCH IN THERE. YOU HAD THE NEEDLE AND THREAD. AND YOU DIDNT ACTUALLY STITCH DOWN THE FUCKING SOLES. Oh it makes me so mad. Cheap cunts taking the aesthetics of durability or practicality while handing you a product that won't last you the year
#if someone dares to say that two years is pretty good i will bite#i have other boots that are pushing eight years and still good as new#ecco#are the only shoes that last on me#but I'm so fucking scared to buy shoes that cost several hundred#in case they have changed their practices
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Diversion - SCB - 2/?
pairing: officer changbin x femreader (korean native)
genre: angst, crime, s2l, eventual smut
word count: 4.4k
trigger warnings for this chapter only: alcohol (bar setting), a moment between strangers, some suggestive thoughts/dialogue (very mild)
rating: 18+/M
summary: Set a year after the events of Catalyst, officer seo visits Jeju to see old friends and get away from the city. He meets a local and finds out that someone can see everything he's hiding.
a/n: i forgot to mention previously, that the mc is a little older than changbin, catalyst mc, and hyunjin. they're probably 28ish? She's early thirties (hence being called eonnie). this is more the two of them than the overall plot/conflict. hopefully that's still interesting to you the reader. :) apologies for any missed mistakes!
series masterlist ~ ch 1
Chapter Two
You donât hear from Muddy Water until the next day. Thereâs a text inviting you back for a celebratory drink (she swears sheâs perfected the new drinks) and pay for the bases you concocted.Â
Youâve spent most of the day going over inventory, tossing the âtoo old to sellâ tea, on the phone discussing new shipments for the tea varieties you canât get locally. Since starting the shop you have cultivated some good relationships with local farmers of ujeon, matcha, and hongcha teas, but not every person who wanders into your doors wants local. Sometimes, they prefer assam, darjeeling, and others from across the ocean. Itâs not your favorite part of the job; the finagling with farmers and vendors. You enjoy the offering of tea to a customer to smell or taste, to match the flavor and desire of each person who seeks something beyond grocer bagged tea.Â
Yena thinks itâs magic, but itâs just a lot of hard work and observation.Â
You reply that youâll most likely come to the bar. Then you glance at the time. Itâs been quiet today, perfect for all the administrative paperwork, but these months are lean for your business. Tourism brings in the crowds, the foreigners who want something from the beautiful island thatâs easy to put in their suitcase. Youâre sure some of the tea goes to waste, or is steeped at the wrong temperature which will ruin the flavor; but you hope some of it goes to people who enjoy it, savor and need it. Maybe theyâll remember your little shop when they have it months later.Â
Youâre getting sidetracked again.
You push yourself off your chair, stretching and turning off the desk lamp. When you open the back door of your shop, Amadeusâs tail immediately thumps against the grass. You adjust your bag on your shoulder, the jars of chai and tea base, clinking with the movement.Â
âYou could have let me know it was so late,â you chide him as you lock the back door. The front is already closed and shut down for the evening. You shiver against the chill of the fading sun. âMust be nice,â you continue as he heads toward your home, sure you will follow. You will because you left your jacket in the shop and itâs too much trouble to unlock and undo the alarm system. Easier to move briskly home. âNice to have your coat on all the time.â
He glances back, completely unimpressed with your envy.Â
âYou also look majestic 95% of the time with that fur.â
He stops abruptly and glances up.
âThe other 5% is when you roll around in something you shouldnât.â
He sniffs, offended before you both cross the street and slide through an alley shortcut. You wave at the few people out of their homes and businesses at this hour. Eight oâclock should be cleaning up dishes from a good and warm dinner. Perhaps a favorite television show to watch.
You unlock your backdoor to let in Amadeus who dutifully wipes his feet on your welcome rug. You do the same with your boots. He trots to his bowl and finishes up the water before standing expectantly for you to fill the other dish.
âYes, yes, Iâm getting there.â You turn on a few lamps and drop your bag on the wooden chair at the small table you usually eat breakfast at. You wash your hands before rummaging for his leftover food in the refrigerator. It takes a little bit longer than heâd like, but minus a few low whines; heâs patient.Â
Once heâs fed, itâs your turn. Itâs not much, but kimchi and rice with a little sesame oil is enough for you. As you eat, you think about Muddy Water again, inputting pricing in your phone so you donât forget, you also think about the man who showed up yesterday. That your newer friends know and hold in esteem. She hasnât shared much about her life prior to Jeju; just that sheâs from Busan, her family is gone and she wanted to start over on the island. When Hyunjin showed up, it took two seconds of her introducing him for you to understand that perhaps her leaving her home had something to do with him; the matter all mended by his move to be with her.Â
There are bits and pieces shared; they grew up together, complicated feelings that needed to be talked about but werenât. Itâs not that sheâs cagey or even quiet; but she does seem to share only a little about life before Muddy Water.Â
So who is the man who walked in last night? Why would someone show up in November from elsewhere?Â
Maybe youâd ask her tonight. But small towns and villages like to imagine anything about a single woman over the age of thirty who asks about a man. Itâs an unfortunate byproduct of a small community. Especially a community that knows you because you grew up here. Â
Sometimes you questioned your decision to stay where everything was familiar, instead of moving mainland and getting lost in the crowds.Â
Amadeus is curled up on the hearthrug when you gather your bag several minutes later. He raises his head at your movement.
âYou can stay here. I donât need an escort.â
He lays his head back down, eyes closing.Â
âJust a couple hours. If itâs much longer, maybe worry a little? Come find me.â
No response.Â
You sling your bag over your shoulder, lock up and make the short trek back to the bar. Itâs nearly full dark now and you tug your jacket close as the wind picks up.Â
Itâs a very different vibe tonight. The bar is full for the off season, some sporting event on the television, the tables and stools all filled up. You scan for your client or her partner before you seek a space at the bar at the far end. No empty seat, but enough space to set down your bag.Â
âYou can sit here.â
You turn to immediately dismiss the chivalrous (possibly overshadowing the misogyny) and there he is.Â
He gestures to the empty stool heâs vacated, eyes meeting yours.Â
You decide to just nod your thanks and sit. He smiles slightly before waving down a bartender.
âI need to seeââ
He nods. âSheâs coming.â
And there she is in front of you.Â
âEonnie!â She is all grins and delight. âI figured it out. Wait.â She turns to grab some bottles, including the sample jar you gave her yesterday. The ingredient you donât expect is a cookie. You point to it, not speaking because the volume of the place is pretty overwhelming.Â
âJust wait.â She includes everything, shaking dry then with ice. She pours it into a nick & nora glass (you didnât even know she had those at Muddy Water) then as a final touch, grates the cookie over the drink, adding crumbs. âTea & Biscuits,â she announces.Â
You canât help but smile at her enthusiasm. You are surrounded by mostly pints of beer. Thereâs a few tumblers of dark liquor, a few vodka & sodas.Â
No one would order this here.Â
You take a sip, the crumbles adding an interesting texture and flavor to the already spiced tea cocktail.Â
âGood?âÂ
You nod, pushing it toward her. She shakes her head before glancing at the man still standing next to you. You follow her gaze. Heâs nursing a beer, watching you both.Â
âBin, you try it.â
âIâŚâ he glances at you before the drink. âI donât know if Iâd appreciate something like this. Iâm pretty basic with alcohol.â
She pouts at him and he sighs, reaching for the drink. The âput-uponâ expression of his makes you smile without effort. There is a lot of history there.Â
âOh, eonnie, this is Seo Changbin. HeâsâŚheâs from home,â she introduces quickly as he takes a sip. His face makes her laugh. âYou werenât lying about being basic.â
âItâs not bad,â he says reassuringly. âI justâŚthereâs a lot going on.â
You donât say anything, more content to observe.
âYou donât have taste, thatâs all,â she retorts before resetting her instruments. To you: âWe got a a small hotplate for Sweet Nothings.â
He coughs. âWhat?â
She doesnât look at him, mixing the other ingredients for the bourbon drink. âLike the name?â
âYes, actually. Itâs cute. I donât know if itâll be requested much.â
âI already put it on the specials.â She winks at you. âIâve made three.â
Even the locals can surprise you.Â
She sets the mug in front of you as her name is called from farther down the bar. She hurries away, leaving you with him.
You turn slightly toward him. You lift up the drink.Â
âWant to try?â
He shrugs and takes it from you. As he brings it to his lips, your eyes linger there. You hadnât had the best vantage to see him yesterday, and you wouldnât say the lighting in Muddy Water was very illuminating. He is very broad in his shoulders and chest, his face similar. But his mouth is all curves and red; a feminine contrast to the masculine torso.
His eyes close for a second when he tastes the cocktail.Â
âYou like that one.â
His eyes open. âWell, itâs warm.â He sets it back down. âShe didnât have a chance to mentionâŚâ He pauses, thinking as someone hollers from across the bar. You watch as he goes still, alert. The way heâs been standing has also caught your attention. He never has his back to the door. He faces you, or he faces out toward the main part of the building.Â
Always alert.Â
âMention?â you prompt him after a few. The yelling that had made him go still is no longer, but he takes his time letting go of that readiness.Â
When his eyes fall back on you, youâre taking a sip of the warm cocktail. His eyes dart to the rim of the mug then to your shoulder.
Youâd donned a loose thin sweater under your jacket, which has the tendency to slip off your shoulder, baring skin.Â
So simple a thing to have taken his notice. Â
âOh. Right.â He seems to remember, his eyes moving to your face as though heâd been caught. âIâm staying at the hotel down the street, but Iâd like to not pay quite so much as I thinkâŚI think I might be here for awhile.â
âReally? Not much to do in Jejudo in the winter.â
âIâm okay with that.â
Youâre struck again that he looks like he carries a heavy weight on his shoulders, his eyes a bit dull from fatigue.Â
âShe said that since youâve lived here your whole life, youâd know where I might rent a room? Just a bed and a bathroom is fine.â
âNot my whole life.â
Thereâs a slight uplift of his lips at your mild petulance. âForgive me.â
âI lived in Seoul.â
His manner relaxes and he leans against the bar, facing you. âFor how long?â
âTwo years. Of university.â
âUsually university takes a little longer than that.â
You shrug as you continue drinking, savoring the flavors. âI didnât exactly enjoy university.â
He grins. âI didnât either.â He swallows some beer. âSo you came back?â
âThe island suits me.â You study him for a few seconds. âI have a space that you could rent. Small kitchen you could use, a private bathroom.â
His eyes widen. âYou have a space? You in real estate?â
âNo, just some good investments. Surely they told you, I only do tea.â
âThey mentioned it.â He points to your mug. âYou seem to do it well.â
Another shrug. âCome by my shop tomorrow. Iâll show you the room and my teas.â
âNot really a tea drinker.â
âNot yet.â
The quick reply makes him pause in the journey of his glass to his lips. âOh?â
You recognize the banter, the playful and light sparring going on. You delight in it, even if itâs no more than that.Â
âChallenge accepted,â you say.Â
âHmmm.â He takes another sip of his beer, his eyes not leaving you. If you were more reckless, you would let the night, the alcohol, and his little smirk lead you down the path to a hotel room, to hurried whispers and wandering hands.Â
But you arenât as reckless with yourself much anymore.Â
You smile before pulling out the large bottles of the tea bases which was your sole reason for coming here.Â
Eventually she returns to your side of the bar and you transact money for the bottles. Your cocktail is finished and you stand to head home.
âLet me walk you home.â He follows you out the door where itâs easier to hear.Â
âThis isnât the big city of Busan,â you answer. âI do fine.â
âYes, butâŚ.â he trails off when he sees Amadeus bounding up to the front of the bar. âYou have your own bodyguard.â
Amadeus slows at the sight of him, eyes darting to you then to the newcomer. Heâs not threatened, but heâs careful.
To someone who doesnât know your dog, they might believe Amadeus is hostile.
Seo Changbin doesnât move. âI feel like he might eat me.â
You hold in your laugh. âHe hasnât had human for a meal in many years.â You watch the man as he stares at your dog. âNot a dog person?â
âNot not a dog person. Just havenât had a lot of interaction. Didnât have pets growing up.â He raises his hand in offering but Amadeus doesnât move from in between you and Changbin. âCan you tell him Iâm not dangerous?â
âI donât know if even I know that, Mr. Seo.â
Changbinâs eyes dart from Amadeus to you. âThatâs fair.â
There is something endearing about this broad, incredibly fit man being so careful about not upsetting Amadeus.Â
âAmadeus doesnât really understand what I say anyway, just my tone. Heâs more of an action creature.â You rest your hand on Amadeusâs head before moving back toward the man on the stoop of the bar.Â
Thereâs a question in his eyes as you get close, eyes that widen intensely when you touch his cheek with your hand.
âHeâll understand this,â you say softly before pressing your lips to his. Itâs all of a second, but you feel his breath as his lips part in an exhale. You draw back, meeting his eyes. âI think he gets it now.â You see that Amadeus has indeed relaxed his stance, tail wagging.Â
Changbin hasnât looked away from you.
âIâll be at the shop all day tomorrow. Come by anytime. Gânight.â You step down the few steps to the sidewalk and start back toward your home. Amadeus keeps up with you, and you look back once to see that Changbin has slipped his hands into his jean pockets, but hasnât moved from the front of Muddy Water.
Maybe you still are a little reckless.
â
Your assistant, Sheon, is off today, so you stay in the front part of your shop, rearranging a few displays and pondering if you should expand your selection of teapots and other accessories, maybe add in the aesthetic of European tea time as well.Â
The door opens and you know itâs him without looking. His presence, now no longer overwhelmed by so many people and noise in a bar, is strong. Burdened.Â
âWelcome,â you smile at him. Heâs much more casual today; joggers and a hoodie. His hair is messy as though the wind is his only hair product.Â
âI donât think I realized the amount of tea that could fit into one building.â His eyes take in the rows of clear jars, name plates on the wall. You laugh at his incredulity. He turns to you then, an answering smile. âItâs just tea.â
âThat's very rude of you,â you say, walking over with a dust cloth still in hand. âDo you say the same about a winery? Or tavern with twenty taps?â
His lips purse in thought, and your attention drifts for a second.Â
âI mean, probably. It all tastes the same to me.â
You shake your head. âThat might be the saddest thing Iâve heard.â You tilt your head toward the middle of the room where an electric kettle sits. âCome, Iâll fix you something.âÂ
âLook, I donât want to be rude, but I wonât appreciate itââ
You gesture to the stool at the table for him to sit. âI promise not to have too high of expectations, but you donât feel well today and I think I can help.â
He straightens even as he sits. âIâm notâŚâ
âYou have a headache?â you continue, filling and starting the kettle before walking over to your wall of teas. âIn the back, near the top of your neck, right? You sound a little stuffy too.â
âIâŚâ
You come back with a ginger, lavender, and chamomile tea. You start to scoop it into your everyday teapot.Â
âHow did you know?â
You look up at him. âWell, the voice, I can hear the congestion. But the way youâre holding your head today. Youâve rubbed the back of your neck twice since youâve come in.â
He half-grins, a twist of his lips. âYou could be a detective with that level of observation.â
His words make you stop. âThatâs what you do.â You breathe, a piece of the puzzle falling into place.
Those eyes widen yet again. âWhat?â
âI wondered if it was military training. The way you never have your back to an open door.â You point to how heâs moved the stool so heâs angled more toward your front door.Â
âI did my enlistment young.â He runs a hand through his hair. âButâŚâ
âBut it didnât seem like quite the rigidity of high-level military.â You glance at the glass kettle as the water rolls with the heat. âPolice officer.â
He seems more tense with your words. âItâs not something I really advertise.â
You nod. âI can see why. People are different with those in law enforcement.â You meet his gaze. âI wonât shout it from the rooftops.â
The shoulders relax just a touch. âWhy not?â
âIt isnât my place.â You pour the hot water into the teapot, breathing in the sharpness of the ginger and comfort of the lavender. âI imagine that you need a vacation from that job both physically and mentally.â
He shrugs, his focus on you setting the tea cups on the small table, spooning in honey. âItâs been awhile since Iâve taken time off.â
âHence the fact you feel unwell. Your body is probably recouping after working so much. You might feel ill for several days.â You point to his shoulders. âYou hold a lot of tension there.â
âIs this what you do?â he asks, voice a little edgy. âDiagnose people who walk in?â
âOnly the ones who are childhood friends with my friends.âÂ
He takes a deep breath. âSorry.â
âIâm not offended, Mr. Seo. No need for apologies.â
He fiddles with his phone on the table top, a nervous energy. âPlease call me Changbin.â
You pour the tea into the two cups, stirring the honey, and then offer him one. âItâs a consequence of my field. Interacting with so many people, recognizing that tea can be healing if I can sense whatâs wrong.âÂ
âItâs interesting. Youâre a bit like a bartender.â
You laugh at that. âI donât know if theyâd have me at Muddy Water.â
He chuckles before bringing the tea to his mouth, inhaling it.Â
âMuch like wine, the scent is important too.â
He nods before taking a sip. âNot bad.â He takes another drink before setting it down. âProbably better than numbing it all with alcohol.â
âOnce and awhile I think numbing is good. Just not all the time.âÂ
His smile is bright. âOnce a week, doc? Every other day?â
Itâs you who are taken off guard. The smile is in contrast with the tension, the heaviness, and the imposing physique.Â
âHmmm. For you? On vacation, hopefully as little as possible. Maybe just alcohol for the mere enjoyment.â
He laughs. âThatâs how I see food. Not drink usually.â
âOh? You a foodie?â
He shakes his head. âI just like food.â
âIâll have to give you some of my favorite places to eat around here.â You also take a few sips of the tea. It soothes some of your lingering questions about renting to this man. Thereâs a lot you donât know, but you donât think itâs worrying in a way that youâll regret.Â
You might just be blinded by that smile.Â
He takes more of the tea.. âIt really is alright.â He lifts the cup to indicate what heâs talking about. âSo, what else do you see? Childhood trauma? Secret underground ring of D&D sessions?â
He seems most at ease when teasing and joking.Â
âYouâre conflicted.âÂ
âSorry?â
âSomething you struggle with. Something burdens you. Itâs like you carry extra weight on your shoulders.â You shrug. âI suppose most people do, yours just seems to be at the forefront in your mind.âÂ
His mouth is partially open as he stares at you.Â
âFinish your tea and Iâll show you the loft.â You start to clean the teapot of the used leaves. Itâs quiet as you do, him drinking his tea, looking around your shop. You move to fill a small bag of the tea youâve just made before handing it to him. âFor you.â
âI can pay for it.â
âIâm sure you can. But as you are skeptical of tea, take it and drink it the next few days and see if it helps. If it doesnât, well, youâve not spent your money frivolously. If it does, youâll buy some.âÂ
He takes it from you, expression a little wary. âYouâre that confident?â
âIn tea? Yes. In your acquiescence? I donât know how stubborn you might be.âÂ
The smile is crooked. âThanks.â
âCome, the loft is upstairs.â
âWait,â He slides off the stool, finishing up the tea as he does. âItâs here?â
âYes.â You lead him to the back room and through a door to the stairs. He follows, a presence at your back. The spiral staircase turns almost 360 degrees to reach the top floor.Â
âEver slide down the banister?â
You turn to look at him as he reaches the landing.Â
âI havenât. Obviously I missed out.â
That sparkle is muted, but there in his eyes. You like it.Â
âYou did.â
You open the door into the bedroom. Itâs fairly neutral in color and style, something palatable to the general masses as you like to rent it out during the high season. The headboard on the bed is carved by a local artist, depicting Hallasan mountain. The few pictures on the walls also portray local landscape in pencil sketches and watercolors. Hopefully, itâs a calming room.Â
âGenerally, I don't get as much traffic during the winter, but there will be business going on downstairs, possibly when you might want to sleep in, Iâm not sure of your schedule.â
âI wish I could sleep in. I havenât been able to since police university.â He wanders the few feet of space. âWhy donât you live here? Quickest commute ever.â
âI did. In the beginning. But itâs called work-life balance. If i live where i workâŚâ you sigh. âIâm always working.âÂ
He pokes his head into the bathroom.Â
âIf you want a tub, Iâm afraid youâre out of luck. The public baths are nice though.â
He draws back to meet your gaze. âDo I seem like a bath-type person?â
Does he mean to encourage your mind that direction?Â
âI couldnât say.â
âHmm.â He smirks again before sitting on the bed. âItâs nice. Nicer than I hoped.âÂ
âDownstairs is the small kitchen. Itâs primarily for teas and such, but thereâs space in the refrigerator. I really canât imagine Iâll get so busy that Iâll need all the appliances at any time.âÂ
âIâm not much of a cook.â He admits. âMaybe some protein shakes, things like that.â
âThat doesnât really sound vacation-y.â You head back to the stairs. You hear him behind you.Â
âKnow of any good gyms in town?â he asks as you lead him to the kitchen. Itâs all in shades of green and white, summer green even when itâs cold and grey outside.Â
âThere are two. I have no idea what entails a âgoodâ gym.âÂ
He chuckles before opening the fridge. âGuess you donât lift?â
âNot even a little.â
âAre these all teas?â His shock reminds you that it might be time to clear out the mixes that have been there too long.Â
âBases. Experiments. Like what I brought to Muddy Water last night. Sometimes people donât want just tea. They want something sweeter or more exciting, so I figure out other ways to present tea to them.â
He nods and closes the refrigerator door. âIf youâre really okay with it, Iâll take the room.â
âOf course.â You gesture for him to come back to the main part of the store. You pull out a simple rent contract. âIf you want to go over it on your own and bring it with you when you come to move in, thatâs fine.â
His eyes scan over the document. âPretty straight forward.â He looks up at you. âYouâre not trying to con me or anything?â
âI would hardly admit to if I was, Mr. Seo.â
âChangbin, please.â
âChangbin.â You watch as he signs it, his handwriting messy and large. You wonder when heâs well-rested if heâs louder, a bigger presence than he seems at the moment.Â
âCan I move in later today?â
âIâm here until six today.â You open the locked drawer beneath the POS screen. âBut hereâs a key for the back door and your room. That way you donât have to see me at all if you wish.â
âWhy would I wish that?â
Itâs off the cuff, how he responds to that. Instinctual teasing, but his immediate reaction to his own words tells you heâs surprised at himself.
âIâŚâ He straightens up, âThat wasâŚI'm sorry if that offended you at all.â
You canât help it, he looks worried, so you reach out and lay your hand on his. He glances at the contact.Â
âNot offended.â You squeeze his hand and let go. âIâm glad youâre staying here.â
Heâs blushing and it actually twists something in you, making you both parts endeared and also keyed up. It isnât like you to be so interested in such a short acquaintance. You like your life in its quiet simplicity.Â
âI hope you get to relax too.â
The blush fades as he keeps your gaze. You know you arenât wrong. This man has seen things, dark and horrible things, and something is currently preying on him.Â
You hope he might find a confidante in you.Â
You wonder if youâll be able to handle it.Â
--
a/n 2: the drinks again make an appearance. found here and here.
--
(c) yoongihan 2024. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans.Â
#skz smut#changbin smut#stray kids smut#ksmutsociety#straykidsland#changbin x y/n#changbin x reader#stray kids x reader#stray kids x you#stray kids x y/n#changbin x you#changbin fluff#stray kids fluff#skz imagines#stray kids imagines#stray kids fanfic#changbin fanfic#changbin drabbles#kpop smut#kpop imagines#stray kids scenarios#fic: diversion#my writing
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shh don't cry. new supernatural/stucky crossover snippet from yours truly.
Bucky flips to another page in his notebook as he steps up to the next apartment, last one on the ground floor and the last place for him to check. Heâd had nothing but dead ends so far and had little hope for useful information when he knocked on 1G.
âHi, my nameâs Agent Bonham, FBI,â Bucky says without looking up, âwould you ââ
âBucky?â
Bucky now looks up, startled. Heâs suddenly staring right into the face of one shocked Steve Rogers.
âSteve,â Bucky whispers.
âYou â You have a beard,â Steve says quietly. âAnd long hair â⌠Bucky, you look like a hobo in a suit.â
âGee, thanks,â Bucky answers sarcastically, âthatâs real sweet of you to say, Stevie.â
âAnd youâre⌠bigger,â Steve adds, raising an eyebrow.
âAre you saying I got fat?â Bucky asks, narrowing his eyes.
âNo,â Steve answers, raising both eyebrows as his gaze drifts down.
âUh?â Bucky says unsuredly.
âSince when have you been an FBI agent?â Steve asks, looking up again. âAnd why are you calling yourself Bonham?â
âItâs⌠complicated,â Bucky says.Â
âYouâre impersonating an FBI agent, arenât you?â Steve asks.Â
âI couldâve joined the FBI in the last eight years,â Bucky says.
âThen youâd be wearing loafers,â Steve points out with a flick of his eyebrows. âNot your twenty-eight-year-old military steel-toed boots.â
Bucky looks down. He is wearing twenty-eight-year-old boots.
âYou havenât been taking good care of them, either,â Steve quips, âsince I can still see lipstick on the left one in addition to all that duct tape.â
Bucky jerks his left boot up. His jaw drops when he sees the smear of red near the toe. Nobodyâs blown his boots since Steve, which means the color has been there for eight years and five months. How had that managed to cling on for eight years? He thought long-lasting color was just lipstick that dried matte. Had he really let his boots go that badly?
âJust typical,â Steve says.
âWhoa, whatâs that supposed to mean?â Bucky asks.
âYou, lying,â Steve says. âYou havenât changed.â
Bucky grits his jaw and looks around, wanting to say that heâs never lied to Steve unless it was to protect him, but Steve just wonât believe him again.
âListen, Iâm working on a kidnapping case,â Bucky says so his heartbreak wonât escape the bottle heâs jammed it into. âTwo kids were taken from this building. Do you know anything?â
âNo,â Steve says, then goes to shut the door.
âSeriously, anything?â Bucky asks, pushing the door back open. âMaybe you heard odd noises at night, felt like somebody was watching you?â
âNo!â Steve snaps. âGoodbye!â
âDad, whoâs that?â a childâs voice calls.
âItâs nobody, sweetie!â Steve says over his shoulder, but too late, thereâs a little boy walking into the hallway and into Buckyâs line of sight.Â
Buckyâs eyes zero in on the cleft in the boyâs chin, then how his eyes are an icy blue nearly gray, his hair a brown so dark itâs almost black. He feels eeriely like heâs looking into a mirror, just one that took forty or so years off his face. He lifts a finger dumbly, pointing at the boy.
âWhoâs that?â the little boy asks.
âJust a policeman,â Steve says. âHeâs just leaving,â he adds, glaring at Bucky.
The kid shrugs and walks away.
âUh,â Bucky says roughly. âYouâre â Youâre a dad now.â
âWell spotted,â Steve retorts.
âRight,â Bucky mutters through a tight throat, almost leaning to the side to peer deeper into the apartment. âUm. Heâs â Heâs cute.â
âAnd youâre still here,â Steve retorts.
âSo â so â so is â is his other dad around?â Bucky asks, gesturing his pen with his gloved left hand vaguely.
âNo,â Steve drawls as he crosses his arms under his chest, which is bustier than Bucky remembers seeing it. âNo, his other dad is not around, Bucky.â
âRight,â Bucky mutters again, looking rapidly away from Steveâs chest. âHow â how old is he, exactly?â
âSeven,â Steve answers, flicking his eyebrows up.
âWhenâs his birthday?â Bucky asks, starting to panic.
âDecember twentieth, 2001,â Steve says calmly.
âOh, fuck,â Bucky whispers again.Â
Theyâd broken up in April of that year. Between April and December was eight months.
âYou â you had a rebound, right?â Bucky says, not sure what he wants the answer to be.
âDo you really want me to answer that?â Steve dryly.
âStevie?â Bucky says quietly. âIs that my kid?â
#winter soldier#captain america#pre serum steve#stucky#steve rogers#bucky barnes#trans steve rogers#parent trap#exes to lovers#supernatural#spn#there may or may not already be seven full chapters and an epilogue for this#i still have to write 8 9 and 10
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NMTDaily: Q&A (Bea and Heroâs first Q&A video)
- Okay, I took a brief break from my rewatch liveblog, but Iâm back. Letâs do this.
- âBut first, tea!â Cute little teacup cheers animation and sound effect!
- Wait, also, this is another moment of Beaâs hypocrisy and the things she has in common with Ben being exposed! Miss No One Needs Tea actually IS a tea-drinker! (And Ben is still watching her videos at this point, I wonder if he noticed thatâŚ)
- Sigh. Content warning: Harry Potter. I continue to be aggressively furious with JKR. Ten years ago I would have never thought HP would become inextricable from a vitriolic hate group, and it breaks my heart every time I think about it. How trans people are suffering at the hands of that woman, most importantly. But also how she took away my ability to enjoy the series that got me through a bleak early adolescent onset of my anxiety disorders, AND sheâs retroactively corrupting my comfort media by association now too. Boo. Hiss. Letâs move on.
- There IS some good character work in this Hogwarts House discussion section though. More foreshadowing of Pedro failing to live up to his brave, heroic image. Meg being a Slytherin. Bea thinking Ben would be a Muggle. It is interesting to think about what could replace this discussion today in terms of media references. I really donât know.
- Hero being uncomfortable when Bea brings up Claudio and her being matching is interesting. I guess they arenât officially official yet. And then she gets revenge by bringing up Benedick, lol. Perfect.
- Bea makes fun of her a bit again about the holidaying in the South of France, not really sure what to make of that.
- Bea catching that question and refusing to be tricked into saying Ben is her friend, and still refusing to watch his channel. Hilarious and plot-important.
- Arch-nemesis, what a strong word! Remember the fanart transforming Kate Beatonâs Nemesis comic to be about Ben having a photo of his nemesis Beatrice above his bed? I loved that, but now I think Beatrice shouldâve been the star of her own version of that, lol.
- I love her making fun of Benâs channel icon, because I still think that icon was a perfect character choice. Exactly the kind of deeply cringe nonsense that Benedick MuchAdo would and should do in a modern AU, I love it. And I love that Beatrice hates it. Perfect.
- âYou have to pick a side, you pick my channel or you pick his!â âYou do know youâre not the only two channels on YouTube?â Lol get her Hero!
- Just hollering again because Ben is definitely gonna watch this video and see Bea talking about their past Iâm!!!!!
- I know what itâs like to be a kid and have a group of kids you only see during summer but who all see each other year-round, and you never feel as close to those people as they are to each other. So I understand why Bea might feel resentful that all her Auckland friends are still friends with Ben year-round, especially after she had such a falling out with him.
- âLike he does with his newest most bestest friend thing, he latched on to me as the other new kid in the groupâ MY HEART.
- Ben was clearly still struggling with being the new kid, and saw someone who related a bit to that and wanted to bond over it! Oh my GOD he is just the embodiment of the Puss-in-Boots-being-a-cute-kitten-with-huge-wet-eyes gif to me and I cannot help being absolutely in love. Protect this lonely baby!!!!!
- HE KNEW SHE WAS LEAVING AT THE END OF SUMMER. He was ripping off the band-aid early by pushing her away. We know he genuinely didnât know his feelings for her were romantic at all at the time, so all Ben knew was Bea was trying to get closer to him right as he was about to lose her, and he was giving them both an out because it already hurt too much to lose her!!!!! (A HUGE parallel to his behavior of pushing her away ahead of losing her to travel in Lovely Little Losers by the way.)
- And poor Beatrice. Sheâs already used to maintaining friendships from eight hours away. She would have just taken for granted that she and Ben were going to stay in touch after she went home to Wellington, like she always did with Hero and Pedro. But she also knew she had a crush on Ben, and as soon as she tries to put herself out there in a messy 14-year-old way and create more situations where theyâre alone together, Ben starts saying friendships die in three days. Because he doesnât believe itâs possible to be friends from eight hours away, so why try? And Bea thinks he doesnât care about her at all and sheâs heartbroken.
- If Ben had only been able to communicate that he was scared because he liked her so much and insecure because heâd never had a friend who actually bothered to stay in touch before. If Bea had been able to listen without having her feelings hurt, and actually communicate her own feelings. If they both werenât terminally fourteen years old about this, they couldâve been friends this entire time.
- Beatrice is SO heartbroken by Benâs rejection that in the past 3 or 4 YEARS since this went down, she never talked to Hero about it before this video. Not once. And she tells Hero everything. Thatâs huge.
- âYou know my life story now.â Thatâs how she phrases it. This friendship breakup is a defining event in Beatriceâs life so far. Itâs the heartbreak of her life. No wonder sheâs so adamant about hating him.
- âTraveling is going to be on the agenda in the next few yearsâ and we already have the setup for Lolilo, not even halfway through NMTD.
- Like really, Lolilo is basically Ben and Bea having the same fight and making the same mistakes as they did when they were fourteen, and yet again finding their way back to each other, finally mature enough to never make the same mistakes a third time.
- Art Curator and Queen of the World. These precious girls.
- Beatrice wants to do something that challenges her and makes her think. She doesnât want easy street. I love that. (Enjoying a challenge, enjoying learning and thinking, another thing that also applies to Ben.)
- Bea and Hero get along because they have the same sense of humor and they grew up together, they have history. Shows what they value in any kind of relationship, platonic or otherwise.
- I love Hero being sad at the idea of a world where she doesnât know Bea, sheâs so sweet. And Bea finding that emotional stuff gross is also perfect.
- âI think you have more in common with Ben that you do with me.â âHero Iâm going to kill you right now.â Perfect.
- Godddddd the pale blue dress Iâm already in pain. Knowing whatâs coming just ughhhhhh
- The beaded necklace! I love these two so much, we love sisterhood (cousinhood, you know what I mean)
- Ohhhhh St Mirandaâs! I just got it, thatâs a The Tempest reference and the magician principal is Prospero, or more likely Prospera a la the movie. I donât think I had seen or read The Tempest yet when I first watched NMTD, so that went over my head. I knew it was a Shakespeare reference but itâs only now that I understand it.
- (About Pedro) âI can be myself around him, we just know each other really wellâ and again Iâm in PAIN augh the foreshadowing
- Do we think Bea really doesnât know that her name means Blessed? Interesting. Love that they worked that detail in.
- Saying goodbye in German? Well Hero is clearly a Sound of Music fan, lol. Well, that or Cabaret, but she strikes me as a Sound of Music girl.
- Reminding the audience that we donât really know her outside of this channel, thanking everyone for their kindness and good questions, backhanding the ones who asked about Ben with âMOST of the questions were really good and not annoying at allâ. Lol, way to model a mostly healthy relationship with your audience, Bea! I mean that genuinely. Boundaries are important. Even though youâre fictional.
- âWhy are you watching us? Weâre not that interesting.â This line will be paralleled somewhat in Bea and Heroâs final video.
- And all their favorite YouTubers in the description box! Mostly OG British YouTubers I havenât thought about in years. That was a blast from the past!
- Thank you comment section for pointing out that Hero chose to include a question sent in by Benedick! She left out his name so Bea wouldnât notice, but heâs the one who asked âhow much of yourself do you put in your videosâ and Bea said it was an interesting question. I love that.
- He wants to know how genuine the things she says in her videos are and he wants advice as a fellow YouTuber at the same time, and she lets him know that sheâs for real. That has to hurt given the things sheâs said about him, but he could also take from this video that he matters to her, or she wouldnât still be so upset about their falling out. Whether he does understand that from this video is another question- probably not. Not yet.
- Someone in the comments, AlashiaTuol, is a genius, pointing out that Bea jokingly telling Hero to pick a side between herself and Ben is a direct parallel to a much more serious âpick a sideâ conversation Ben is going to have. I love that call.
- Another commenter said what Iâm always thinking when I rewatch this series: âIâm so glad this exists!â
đđĽđŚŠ
#nmtd#nmtdaily#beadick#otp: team blessed#violivs nmtdaily liveblog#Bea and Heroâs first Q&A#nmtd and lolilo spoilers in this one to some degree
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Uhhgm sad story sad sad but fairytale dunno that sound good
Once upon a time, there was a young boy who lived alone with his eight brothers. He was not the youngest, but he was the littlest. His siblings were loud and rude, and they would always pick on him. They'd pinch his cheeks and poke the top of his head, and they'd keep him up all night with their rowdy play.
It got to the point where the boy would sleep best during the day. He was constantly hungry, because his brothers would rush for the food, push him out of the way, and then blame him for being too slow. He asked his eldest brother for some food of his own, and his brother yelled and gnashed his teeth, calling the boy ungrateful. When the others were asleep, he would sneak out and find crumbs and morsels. When they were awake, he would hide in the closet or under some loose floorboards.
Then one day, the boy poked his head out from the floorboards to find the house oddly quiet. He saw that the rest of his brothers were gone, all except for his eldest brother. The eldest brother smiled uncharacteristically, and offered the boy a boiled egg and some nuts: a veritable feast compared to the crumbs he usually lived off of!
His eldest brother slapped his shoulder and said "My boy, my boy! You'll need your strength. You see, you're going to visit our grandmother! Take this basket with you! She'll know what to do once I write this little note. There, see? Now be brave, and we'll have a big meal to celebrate when you get back."
So off the boy went, hefting the big basket on his arm. It was heavy, and it sloshed about awkwardly, but he did his best. He couldn't read, only his eldest brother could, but he could follow the map through the woods. The woods were dark and dangerous, but the boy's talent came in handy for avoiding predators on the road, and he eventually found himself at an unfamiliar cozy cabin.
Inside was warm and smelled of delicious meats, and was full of cozy blankets and corners. Its resident was a kindly crone who cackled at the sight of the boy. She read the note attached to the basket and grimaced. Then she roughly grabbed the boy and put her head to his chest and scoffed.
"Your brother lied to you, boy... I'm no Grammy of yours. Do you know what you've brought me?"
She reached into the basket and pulled out a spoiled, blackened, still-beating heart. "Our deal was this: once he brings me eight rotten hearts, the last remaining brother will receive a pile of gold bigger than he is. But yours... Pure, unspoilt... Disgusting! The rotten blackness is where the flavor is! Well, I'll save you until he comes for you. Then we'll see..."
She waggled her finger, and suddenly the whole room was getting bigger! He shrunk and shrunk until his clothes were in a loose pile around him. The crone reached down and grabbed him by the fuzzy scruff at the back of his neck and tossed him into a tiny cage.
Though the cage had a wheel and a bit of old bedding, the boy started to panic and pace being in such a small space. But he found that with his new, tiny paws, it was easy to find and shimmy open the lock. But his old instincts kicked in when he heard the crone's footsteps, and he would immediately find a corner or hole to hide in. He would run around and look for snacks, stuffing them into his cheeks for later. Amazingly, the crumbs he used to survive off of now seemed bigger by comparison: it was easy to gather a feast, a hoard to last for years!
Each time he thought to escape there was some reason to stay in the cottage: the food, the comfy blankets, the many hiding spaces. After many nights, when the crone was sleeping, the door of the cottage creaked open, and in crept his eldest brother hefting an ax. His stomping boots did not wake the crone and he held the ax above her sleeping neck.
The boy did not know what came over him or why. Perhaps he remembered the many times this his brother had yelled at him--or the many times he'd been rudely awakened by their raucous play. He saw read and climbed up his brother's leg until he found flesh and bit down as hard as he could.
The eldest brother cried out and dropped the ax. The crone's eyes shot open, and she cackled and reached into the eldest brother's chest and pulled out his blackened heart, plopping it into the cauldron with the others and licking her lips.
The boy was sad to lose his brothers. Cruel as they were, they had been family. But his memory seemed shorter these days. The treats, and the wheel, and the warmth called him back to the cottage again and again... And he found that the crone was not so cruel, now that she'd had her hearts. She'd even pick him up, and gently scratch his back at times.
As he happily sighed before bed, he was jostled awake by a thud. He looked up to find a huge pile of corn: taller than he was! It took him several trips to bring the veggies back to his hoard using only his cheeks. But when he was done, he felt very rich indeed!
The end
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Hi hi Eve! I hope youâre good! For some reason I canât get the Lions as kids out of my head lately, I bet they were the cutest ever! So I wanted to ask if you could write something with the Lions firsts at hockey when they were little, maybe Leos first time in the goal or Logans first hat trick, Dumo learning to skate, Finns first goal ever or something along those lines? Please and thank you! â¤ď¸
Fic O'Ween Day 12: Trick or Treat! In the wake of the newest Vaincre chapter (which left me screaming, crying, and shaking in my boots), here's our favorite Frenchie's first hat trick <3 Character credit goes to @lumosinlove!
Skates scraped on the ice as the players found their spots. Logan bent, keeping his stick close and ready when the time came. The boy opposite him was shuffling a little to keep his balanceâhe favored his right side. Logan made a mental note to move left while the referee skated over.
âOn three, oui?â he announced. A small chorus of âouaisâ answered, but Logan kept his eyes on the ice between them. His feet were steady. His muscles were starting to get sore from standing still for so long. Maybe that squat competition with Noelle had been a bad idea.
âGo, Lo!â Sydney cheered from the bench. Loganâs neck heated under his pads; didnât she know how embarrassing that was? He was almost eight. He didnât need his sisters yelling for him like he was a baby.
âOne, two, three!â
The puck made a satisfying clack on Loganâs stick when he snatched it out from underneath his opponent and made a break for the goal. It was easy to swerve around their first lineâthat kid was tall, but skinny. He yelped when Loganâs shoulder found his rib, too slow to grab at him before Logan was well out of reach.
His shot sailed in perfectly, because of course it did. A wave of cheers went up from his side of the bleachers. Logan smiled.
--
One night, Logan had been up past his bedtime and heard his dad on the phone in his office. He had stopped to listen and heard words like prodigy and talent and prospect, in a couple years. The pieces werenât hard to connect after that. Whoever was on the other end of the phone liked his skatingâthere had been similar conversations about Noelle two years ago, and now she had scouts at every single game.
Logan wasnât a hundred percent sure what a prodigy was, but it had sounded good when he whispered it in the darkness before scampering upstairs.
It sounded even better in his head when he tapped the puck between the bent legs of a smaller boy and snapped it across the ice to Peter, who passed it just before bouncing off one of the other teamâs enforcers. Logan pulled it back to himself and looped around the back of the goal for an easy tip-in. His lungs burned with the sparky, wonderful feeling being on the ice always brought, the one that made him want to stay there forever.
âDeux!â Noelle hollered, pounding on the glass while their sisters cheered and their mother shook her head with a smile. âUn autre, LoLo! Un autre!â
Coach patted the back of his helmet when Logan swung back to the bench. âYou know what a hat trick is, Tremblay?â
âOuais,â Logan panted around the spout of his waterbottle.
âEver gotten one?â
Logan shook his head, pushing his helmet up when it slipped.
Coach raised a brow, then tilted his head toward the glittering, perfect ice. âWanna try?â
--
It was a little unfair that one more goal was so hard to score. Logan wrinkled his nose when another shot went wideâthey had swapped their goalie out, and the new kid was a whole lot better. He met Loganâs glare with one of his own and settled into a crouch. Loganâs scowl deepened.
Marc slipped him a quick, sharp pass right near the crease and Logan went for it, but the puck bounced off the goalieâs left blocker and was gone in half a second. âMerde,â he hissed. One of the other kids gasped and he ignored them; it wasnât his fault other people didnât have sisters to teach them fun new words. That sounded like their problem to fix.
There wasnât much time left. He had seen it happen on TV a million times, three gorgeous goals and then a rain of hats coming down, but he had also seen the disappointment on playersâ faces when they got so close but still not there. Logan wanted it. He wanted it bad. And that goalie wasnât going to give it to him, prodigy or not.
Sirius Black got a hat trick when he was seven, he reminded himself as he hung back, away from the muddle of players tripping over each other in front of the goal. Sydney had warned him against that: donât play bunchball, LoLo. The puck will go to whoever can catch it when it tries to sneak away.
Their dad liked to keep tabs on all sorts of Quebeçois players for them to watch; Black was a growing favorite, but Logan was pretty sure nobody would ever be better than Dumais. At only 26, he had been skating longer than Logan had been alive, and was already becoming a hockey legend. Logan loved watching him play. It was like seeing a magic show.
Butâbut maybe it wasnât fair to compare himself to Black and Dumais. They were older, after all. Dumais was a professional. And Black was better than everybody at everything, always had been, probably always would be. Logan hopped back onto the bench when the whistle blew, out of breath and overheated.
Coach tapped his shoulder with the edge of his clipboard. âYou okay?â
âMhmm.â Something in his chest hurt when he thought about his earlier goals. They had felt easy. Why was this one so hard?
âNeed a breather?â
Oui. Logan bit the inside of his cheek. âNon, I can keep going.â
âHave some water, kiddo. Iâll put you in for the last shift.â
He made a face at the floor, but didnât protest. Arguing with Coach never ended well. If he wanted a chance at that hat trick, heâd have to keep his mouth shut for just few more minutes. Begging for shifts would get him nowhere fast, and sass would make sure he was benched until he left Juniors.
Stupid goalies.
--
24 seconds remained on the clock when Logan was finally allowed to skate again and he hit the ice running, sliding right up against one of their D-men for a good shove to take the puck. They fought for itâLogan was littler than most of the kids his own age, let alone the ten-year-olds on the verge of aging outâand he dug his elbow into the bigger boyâs side. A yell, a flinch, and the puck was Loganâs.
Marc caught his eye and then his pass, carrying it past two more defensemen before Logan shouted for it again. Fifteen seconds. So close. He was beginning to understand what announcers meant by âpuck-hungryâ players, because he could feel the need in the pit of his stomach.
Ten seconds. Logan reached the blue line and went for it, eyes trained on the sliver of space between the goalieâs glove and the post.
He didnât make it.
The goalieâs gaze locked on his own once the puck was knocked away and Logan saw him grin, smarmy and mean behind his visor. Some furious noise slipped out and he lunged for the rebound. Mine. The goalie braced. Sirius Black liked sneaky, perfect shots. Pascal Dumais was the master of wraparounds.
Logan reeled his stick back and slammed the puck into the net as hard as he could.
âOH MY GOD!â
He could hardly hear the buzzer blare around the shouts of his teammates and his sisterâs shriek still echoing in the rink. He managed to stumble free of the huddle and scrambled toward the bench, launching himself over the side and into his motherâs waiting arms. Distantly, he remembered they were supposed to shake hands with the other team, but Logan was sure he was about to vibrate right out of his skin while his family yelled a million and one perfect things directly into his face.
ââgreat lookââ
ââthatâs three!ââ
ââproud of you, mon cherââ
âItâs a hat trick!â He grabbed the front of his fatherâs coat, giving him a clumsy shake. âPapa, thatâs a hat trick!â
The whole world went dark in the depths of a thick wool sleeve; Logan let himself be hugged so tight he could hardly breathe, feet dangling off the ground, every muscle worn out. âYou did so good,â his father whispered. Logan pushed his face deeper into scratchy fabric and listened to his own heart beat rabbit-fast in his ears. A big hand came up around the back of his head, trembling slightly; he felt a bump on the top of his helmet, like someoneâs chin resting on it. âOh, Lo, weâre so proud of you.â
Logan wanted this feeling forever. The rush and burn, the fight and the sweet, sweet victory. His teeth chattered at the flood. He felt like he could skate forever and ever and ever and never stop again. It was so much and yet he still wanted more.
âI want this,â he said when he could breathe again. His hands were still clenched tight in a coat that smelled like home. His fatherâs dark eyes were so very bright when Logan looked at him. âI want this, papa.â
A slow smile spread over his face and he heard his mother chuckle. âOh, god,â his father laughed, squeezing him once more. âOf course you do. Three out of four. Just our luck.â
Logan couldnât wait to see how far he could go.
#logan tremblay#noelle tremblay#marius tremblay#sydney tremblay#sweater weather#coast to coast#lumosinlove#my fic#fanfic#sirius black#pascal dumais#fic o'ween 2022#noot fest#hat trick#lions firsts#fluff#hockey
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#248
âCâmon in. Have a seat. David? Right? Itâs weird calling you by a real manâs name, after spending a whole weekend calling you âCuntâ and âFagâ and âShit Headâ. Donât be surprised if I slip up and start calling you that again. But you, you keep calling me âBoss.â When I offered you this job last Sunday, it was after one hell of a wild weekend fucking your brains out. Is your cunt still gaping or did it snap back into place?...
âYou look surprised. Well let me tell you something. I love using faggots like you. Fuck, I donât hide that fact at all. I wouldnât have offered you this job unless I knew you could take a pounding from my nine-and-a-half-inch baseball bat of a cock. And while it is not expected of you as part of your job responsibilities around here, I will be slamming into your cunt whenever I want. I saw that look in your eyes when I told you I had an opening here. You were already fantasizing about submitting to your boss. I know you were. Iâve seen it with dozens of fags before. Yeah, I offer jobs to freshly fucked tricks. I have always liked fucking with men, especially on the job site.
âAfter my wife died eight years ago, my 1,200-acre ranch seemed empty. The oil drill on the northside has me swimming in money. But I wanted fag cunt. I need to use it. I created this warehousing business with one thing in mind, satisfying my cock. I looked to have a dozen or so men that could walk up to any one of them and say I need a blowjob, and I would get one on the spot without worry of a sexual harassment charge. Or to walk through the warehouse and see a new employee getting spit roasted. And it all feels normal.
âFrom your test run this past weekend, I know you can swallow me, with difficulty, but still manage. You drank my piss, so I know you have done that before. You spent hours eating my ass. I canât remember the last time my shithole was treated with so much love. Your cunt put up a fight, but by Sunday night, you had one hell of a gape. You even bled a little on that first fuck.
âWanna see?... I took this photo when I told you to push out some of my load. Here, take it. Yeah, I like taking pics of freshly used cunts. I bet you havenât ever seen your hole blown up on a twelve-inch glossy. Look at the detail. You can see specks of your cherry. I know you werenât a virgin, but you were a virgin to me. Thatâs what matters. And this isnât some sort of blackmail thing where we keep this a secret.
âHell, every one of the workers there will know I bred your cunt. You wouldnât have gotten this job without first having my load in your ass. Every one of the guys you will work with in the warehouse has had my load in his cunt. Every single one! All fourteen of them. You are number fifteen. In fact, Mark, the cute puppy you met when you came in has my morningâs load in his ass right now.
âI have known Mark the longest. He and I go back a long way. We designed this place, and heâs the one who helped me set things up so that I wonât get into trouble. Heâs the only one who interacts with the public, if anybody should come by which they never do. I say that because the warehouse is around back. Thatâs where you will be working not up here. Letâs go take a tour of that. But first, Mark would kill me if I donât ask you, you want the job knowing what you know?... Good. I would have been surprised had you said no. We have contingencies set up should an employee not want work in such an environment. But I know how to pick âem. He hee.
âGrab that pic of your leaking cunt and bring it with us. Weâll go out the back. The warehouse is purposely a few hundred feet from the office. Mark suggested that. He really keeps me honest when it comes to all this shit. In the warehouse, clothing is optional. For the most part, no one wears anything. I have asked the two managers to wear a wife beater to differentiate themselves from the others. The real reason is that they are built like brick shithouses, and they look great in a tank. Hector, the manager you will be reporting to wears a black one and Aaron, the other one wears white. Donât know why they do that, but they do. If Iâm going to be in here for a short time, I just haul out my cock and balls only, otherwise Iâm naked from the waist down.
âYou had indicated that you are in temp housing in town. I told you that I have housing on property. Those three buildings back there are it. Hector and Aaron each have one, and the large bunkhouse is for any of the other workers. During your probationary time, you will be living with Hector. If you loved my cock, youâll love his. Heâs more into cock worship. The final thing before we go in is compensation. The job you are hired for really only requires 15 to 20 hours per week, but you will be paid for 40.
âHector and Aaron will make sure you do your share of the actual work. That leaves 20 hours or so to play with the others. It doesnât have to be all sex, but have fun. The hourly rate is three times what the job normally goes for. You will be provided with a room if you want. You get half the work, three times the pay, a place to stay, and all the cock you can handle. The only thing you give up is your privacy. Now, you are not tied here; you can go into town on your own time. But when you are here on property, you will be expected to comply with the rules. Hector will go over all that.
âInside and to the left are the locker room and showers. That locker at the end is yours. Itâs the smallest, but you are the one with the lowest seniority. Go ahead and strip down. Iâll go get⌠never mind here he is. Hector this is Dan,⌠or David or whatever the fuck his name is. Fag, this is Hector, although heâs going to insist you call him âSirâ. Look at those muscles! They make his cock look average sized. But fuck that cock of his is just as fat as mine. Itâs going to be in your ass in a few minutes. We always break in the new employees the same way, a gang bang. No, donât put your boots away. Everyone wears theirs as they work. Thereâs no lock on your locker. Donât worry about itâŚ.
âHector, are the guys ready by the wall? Good. GoodâŚ. Fag, around this corner is the break room. Across from it, see where the guys are standing? Thatâs what we call the wall of cunts. See the pics there? They are the assholes of every man here. Everyone has my load leaking out, except for that one on top. Thatâs my shitter. Hector and Aaronâs are in their own row underneath me. You are going to be very up close with Hectorâs every night. Everyone elseâs is below. I like to think of it as an org chart of leaking cunts. That spot over there is for you to put your pic. Go on. Weâll go around and share names later. I would rather you learn all their cocks first. The pic looks good there.
âMen! The fag here is a piss drinker and an ass eater. Make sure we take advantage of his talents. When I come back, I expect him to be shaved from head to toe, covered in piss, his face reeking of ass sweat, and his cunt loaded up. Over the next week, I want him to taste each of your shitholes. Guys, this is probably the best rimmer I have encountered in a long time. Oh, Hector is ready! Fag, welcome to the company.â
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I don't want to rehash old news, but I need to say this and others need to hear it. I am so tired of people demanding IFs to be more of the same! This and that choices, this and that characters. It is INTERACTIVE FICTION. nowhere does it say that every game is a self-insert (which is an issue on its own). if you're playing a predetermined person who you can guide... It is STILL interactive fiction!! Driving me crazy. and to end it nicely; One of the best IFs ever! Love love love
yeahhh no i totally agree. no shade towards cog here but they have a very basic formula pretty much every one of their very popular games follow and bc cog sort of has this...iron grip on the IF genre due to being so mainstream, like on the app store and on steam, people think this is like.... the end all be all of interactive fiction and people compare Everything to the same three games over and over again.
and itâs not the end all be all at ALL there is SO much more interactive fiction out there. i actually got into IF on itch.io, and in the beginning i only read visual novels because iâm a child and love looking at pretty pictures. i do think the fact that i found IF this way and not through cog has been whatâs influenced my style and the way i approach IF. i didnât start reading cog until last summer, and honestly i prefer most of the wips iâve read over actual published content. thatâs what pushed me to write my own. and it sucks that cog wonât share choicescript bc itâs SUCH a good starting coding language, itâs so accessible and easy to learn.Â
and iâve said before iâm just not interested in writing a flat, blank slate character. thatâs SO boring for me as a writer and i also donât like it as a reader.
i think seeing how your decisions change a character is so much more interesting than just having a generic, over-powered, essentially faceless character. now, i DO know why people enjoy that - we all love a good self-insert from time to time - but i really wish readers would break out of this mold cog has made.
itch.io can be a little overwhelming at first, but honestly it has a really nice tag and filter system (which is critical bc itch.io DOES have a lot of nsfw, though iâve never had any issue w the safe filter on) to find stuff you like. also, if thereâs an author you follow who has work on itch.io chances are they have favorites themselves listed on their profile, or will give out recs if you ask. in fact, iâll list some of my recs right now:
we know the devil - one of the first VNs i bought and read. if you enjoy this one, def check out pillowfightâs other work
lookouts - one of my favorite short pieces.
lake of voices - a lot of people are familiar with Our Life, by GBpatch, but i absolutely love lake of voices. voiced characters, a little bit of angsty romance, death, and horror...mwah
love is strange - a CLASSIC. i played this before i even played life is strange. so imo you donât even need to be that familiar with the original game itâs based on.
ebon light - i watched this game come to life while i followed the authorâs process and saw how much love and time was put into it and i just canât not recommend it. a dark fantasy game w romance and politics
a morticianâs tale - very different. a game about death. iâm a big fan of the order of the good death, and i actually got this game for free at some point, but it made me feel. emotions.
contrition - this one is so good. put on head phones, turn out the lights. great use of sound and music and just really good atmosphere.
cowgirl boots - love love love this one. more of a narrative than IF but itâs short and you should read it anyways. makes me feel warm and fuzzy.
is it that deep, bro? - another one that stuck with me for a while.
what girls do in the dark - this one takes me back to the old school text adventure games, but with a twist. found this one through john wolfeâs HQ residential house game jam and really enjoyed it.
the shadows that run alongside our car - another short conversational story. stuck with me for a while after i played it.
a tale of crowns - a chapter by chapter tale where you are the long awaited crown. really enjoy this one, very refreshing to read fantasy written like this. love the setting and the characters
crosshollow - multiple games, sort of like an anthology, all sharing the same setting. surreal and emotional
heartforge - some of you may already be familiar with heartforge, having started in choicescript then moved to twine. multiple games, all very different, all very good
the eight years revolution - full transparency, iâm friends with this author and we talk frequently. set over a span of eight years, you are starting out as a sheltered and naive royal, a young monarch running from a rebellion...
wayfarer - a fantasy game where you play as a wayfarer, with lots of customization options and a very interesting story
love & friendship - another author i am friends with and talk with often. love the humor in this game and the take on the regency genre.
scout - one of my all time favorites. set in an apocalyptic future, you are a scout from a small community, frequently running missions for supplies and information..
thereâs this girl - whew. a short one, but emotional. this creator has quite a few works on itch.io, though some of them tend to lean towards the heavy, emotional side. recommend though if thatâs something youâre looking for.
emily is away - again, one of the first IF games i played. itâs been years but itâs one that stuck with me. i think itâs worth mentioning simply to show what IF games can be like
birdland - genuinely think this is the first IF game i ever played. i have a soft spot for it because of that, as well as the story itself, which meant a lot to me when i first read it.
whew! i am certain i am forgetting some games and will curse myself later, but this is getting to be a bit long. i really encourage yall to just click around on itch.io in the interactive fiction/visual novel tag and see if you can find something you like. there is SO much out there...
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5 - Seeing Old Friends
Part 6
Kenobi's Future
Tag list - @tyrionsprincess30 @nanagoswife @lycaonpictusphotography @bigbendyhorns @abaker74 @haideehaids @sassycowboygoatee @jedi-archives
Y/n's POV
Obi-wan lands the ship down on the flat ground near the swamp. I pushed the hatch opened feeling the wind blow my messy braid around. Padme poked her head outside the ship quickly climbing down where I hollered after her. "Padme, Padme. Get back here. We didn't say it was safe!" Swinging my legs over the ramp of the ship I jumped down. My boots get mud thrown on them as I finally managed to catch her. "Mommy, the little guys floating." She pointed her finger upward where I see Yoda hovering off the ground. Some rocks are also floating around him while he had his eyes closed. He was always good at meditation then any other Jedi Master on the council. Obi-wan finally joined us from behind carrying a bag on his shoulder. My hope was that Kiera had found my masters coordinates and came here. Unfortunately I don't feel her presence her in the Force. "Rude to stare it is, Kenobi family." Yoda suddenly broke the silence opening his eyes, lowering himself and the objects around to the ground with a small smile. "Curious as to why you are here, I am. Tell me why, hmm."
"Master Yoda, we need your help. Have you seen or had contact with Kiera recently?" I blurted out throwing my arms away from my sides. Obi-wan regrets not being able to put a tracker on that she took off in enough time. He came home almost in tears and threw it against the wall screaming. So loud that he woke Padme thinking that someone was attaching the house in the middle of the night. "Heard from her I did not. Concerned why are you, Y/n?" My master asked pointing his fingers up towards me. I bend down on a knee with the train of my robe falling behind me. I wish I could be reuniting with him after do many years under happier news. "Kiera, she - she took off on a ship with a stranger - now we have no clue where she is or whether she's been captured by the Empire." I sniffed through tears wiping them away with my sleeve, but more keep coming too quickly for it to do any good. Obi-wan and Padme stepped close to my former master who tapped his fingers on his chin in thought. "Track her through the Force I shall try. Train young Padme in the ways of the Force you should."
My former master was right that Padme needs to learn the Force. Since Kiera has been rebellious lately we hadn't gotten around to teaching her younger sister. Which sounds like a crappy thing since our two girls are the most important thing in the world to Obi and I. A few minutes later Obi-wan is showing Padme how to lift things with her mind if she wasn't too nervous or anything. Giving me the chance to finally speak with my master alone. "I'm worried about her, Master. No matter how old she gets...I'll still see her as an eight year old girl." I sigh heavily pulling my knees to my chest sitting on a log. Yoda tilts his head staring at me, he remembered seeing the girls at a young age. He had told me once that Kiera was powerful or would be like the twins when she grew up. "Troubling thoughts your mind has. Trust in the Force you must, my padawan. In safe hands she is, Y/n." Padme's giggling breaks me from my second to ask what he meant. "Mommy, daddy, Yoda. I found her. I saw my sissy!" She cheers hovering off the ground staring at the three of us grinning ear to ear.
Kiera's POV
Blinking my eyes opened I see a thin brown cloak bag over my head where I can only see light coming through. I hear people talking and moving around. Foosteps approached pulling the bag from over my head off throwing my hair into a mess. "What the crap is wrong with you, Cassian...Was the bag really necessary and the restraints!" I raised my voice immediately glaring up at the strange man. He claimed to be a rebel but my parents told me to not trust anyone around me except for family. He lowers himself to be on his knees, holding the bag in his hands eyeing me. "The general may know you but I don't, sweetheart. So this is going back on when we head to see the council." He pulls me to sit in one of the chairs and I glanced down to my belt seeing my lightsaber is missing. "Where's my lightsaber?" Cassian just shrugged his shoulders turning off some switches on the ship. "What's a lightsaber exactly?" I scoffed at him playing dumb. I literally pulled it out in his face before he knocked me out and brought me onto his ship.
"Seriously I'm not playing games. Where is it, Cassian!" I stomped my boots on the metal floor of the ship, trying to remove the cuffs from around my wrists falling. He spins around in the pilot seat hands on his knees still annoying me. "When I found you I didn't recall you had a weapon, Ms. Kenobi." Bawling my hands into fists I'm close to punching him or at the very least try and use the Force ao he'll stop lieing to my face. "Lisen here, Andor. I'm in no mood so why don't you just-" K2SO stepped onto the ship speaking up about my weapon. "Captain, the weapon was clearly identified as a lightsaber. By Senator Bail Organa before he left to find more recruiters." Whipping my head around to the guy I stand abruptly, glaring at him. "You sick liar!" Cassian gets to his feet opening a compartment holding it out to me, unlocking my cuffs with his other hand. Clipping it onto my belt where it belongs K2SO grabs my arm moving me to walk down the ramp of his ship, where I felt handcuffs returning again. "Unbelievable, I'm not with the Empire you idiots."
The boys walked me through crowds of Rebels. Some ranged from pilots to just regular people who worked on droids. My eyes moved around seeing some people closely staring at me. I bent my head down a little feeling uneasy. I still have no clue who this general they're talking about is. The only name I recognized is Bail Organa, which is Leia's father. But we haven't seen each other since before I turned ten years old. Cassian opened a door and K2SO pushed us inside. Someone raised from their seat at a large round table, all dressed in a white dress. A white hood over their face so I can't make out who it was. "Captain Andor, remove the restraints they're not needed." A woman's voice rang through the room. Cassian stepped up holding my wrist slowly taking the cuffs off. I stick my tongue out at him mumbling where he would hear. "Told ya, Andor." The woman figure walked down some steps, stopping to stand in front of me. "We've been waiting to show you the resistance, Kiera. I just imagined it would have been with your whole family here." Knitting my eyebrows together I asked still blankly confused. "Should I know you, ma'am?" Finally the woman removed her hood where brown hair and a kind smile I'd know anywhere greets me after years apart. "I'd hope you would recognize your own cousin, Kiera." Hanging my mouth opened I nearly giggle like a kid again. "Leia!!"
Comments really appreciated â¤ď¸
#kenobi's future#obi wan kenobi#obi wan kenobi x reader#obi wan x reader#obi wan kenobi x reader fanfiction#ewan mcgregor#kiera kenobi#padme kenobi#leia organa#luke skywalker#cassian andor#han solo#master yoda#star wars yoda#diego luna#harrison ford#alec guinness#raegan revord#olivia holt#star wars a new hope#star wars x reader#star wars#rogue one#sequel#yoda's new padawan#ask box is open for feedback#wattpad fanfiction#comments really appreciated
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Do you have any autistic Scout headcanons? :P
Hell yeah!
Iâve actually thought about this a lot. A lot of people might think that Scout has ADHD, but I think he either has both ADHD and autism or just autism.
This is both because labeling Scout as having just ADHD is kind of a low-hanging fruit, and I also want to explore his symptoms a little more. So, in a word, I do, and thank you for asking about them!
*****************
Scoutâs Spectrum:
So, where exactly does Scout fall on the autism spectrum?
First of all, he probably has both ADHD and autism, but wasnât diagnosed with the latter until much later. This means that some of his symptoms were taken into account, but not all.
The ones that were paid attention to ramped up out of control, and the ones he didnât hear about were stuffed away.
His ADHD symptoms include impulsiveness, need for stimulation, hyperfixations, forgetfulness, and insomnia; his autism symptoms include trouble with social skills, stimming, near inability to remember names and faces, lack of eye contact, hyperfixations again, and sensory processing issues, especially with noise and touch.
He used to have a lot of meltdowns when he was younger, usually about wearing new clothes and the amount of noise his eight brothers generated.
However, he was teased and pushed into masking nearly all the time, and made his whole personality about his ADHD, since that was what everyone accepted.
As he got older, he usually wrote off any autistic tendencies as either his ADHD or just âlittle habitsâ of his.
During his middle school years, he used energy drinks to bounce back from being exhausted every day after school. This would work, except those energy drinks would upset his ADHD, and would make it much harder to focus on even basic conversation.
After a while, he got such bad grades and had such a hard time making friends that Scout just stopped going to school altogether.
Baseball helped his focus, and the quick movement and thinking made a lot of sense to him. He never had to wait very long for the next development, and the instant gratification and community it provided supplemented what he never got at school.
With sports on his side, he rarely ever drank any energy drinks (the coach would never let them on the field), and he drank bucketfuls of water during every meet and game. Those teenage years were probably the healthiest he ever was.
However, with the amount of rumbles he got into with his brothers, and the turf wars that constantly raged in those neighborhoods, it was only a matter of time before his crime caught up with him.
After his first incarceration, he was booted from the team, which led to a downward spiral of unhealthy coping mechanisms - which included fighting someone tooth and nail whenever he could.
Even if he lost the fight, it not only catered to his impulsive nature and impatience, but also gave him roughly the same sense of friendship and camaraderie that baseball had.
One thing led to another, and by the time Mann Co. found him, Scout was a monster in hand to hand (and bat to bat) and had racked up quite the criminal record.
A perfect mercenary, ripe for the picking.
On The Team:
Scout very quickly adopted the âstupid, scrappy Boston boyâ persona.
It was the only thing that made sense, and it kept him from having to try too hard in both the battlefield and socially.
Besides, that meant that he could be as silly, forgetful, and fidgety as he wanted, and no one would bat an eye.
And if he ever needed to take a break from the team, he figured everyone would appreciate the quiet.
The only thing that ever gave him away was him occasionally dissociating right when battle began, especially if the day had been stressful.
It was usually how he calmed down after a fight when he was young, but now he sometimes slid into that state when he was overwhelmed.
However, a yell from one of his teammates would usually snap him out of it.
Medic noticed this pretty early on, and wanted to look more into it, but Scout would keep making excuses not to get a mental examination.
He would blame it on zoning out, being tired, drinking too many Bonks - whatever it took for people to stop asking.
And, eventually, they did.
Even Medic stopped asking after a while - he couldnât get a thing out of Scout.
This âtry so little that when you do try itâs above averageâ charade worked for a long time. In fact, it went on for so long that Scout forgot how much he was actually capable of.
He began to internalize the stupidity, the exacerbation, the many comments on how dumb he was, everything.
The only time he ever gave his all was on the battlefield - moving fast, memorizing strategies, doing complicated footwork, knowing exactly how much force it took to crush someoneâs skull with his bat.
That was one of the only things that he felt good doing, the only thing he could really work on without him being âfound out.â
That and drawing, though he never showed the actual pieces to anyone. It was all stick figures and crooked lines with everyone else.
Sometimes, though, Scout wouldnât be paying attention and heâd let something slip.
One time, Engineer was looking for his screwdriver, and couldnât seem to find it anywhere.
Scout, not looking up from his comic, said, âUnder the couch cushion, hard hat.â
Engineer bent down and reached into the couch, and his hand came back with his red and yellow striped screwdriver.
âWell Iâll be damnedâŚâ
At first Engineer thought Scout had just hid it, but Scout explained, still not paying attention:
âLast time we went out on thâ field, you had it on your belt, like always. But I was walkinâ by your workshop, you were usinâ a quarter to tighten a screw or somethinâ. Your screwdriver had to be somewhere between the battlefield and your workshop. Engie, youâre like freakinâ clockwork. Every day, after a fight, you go to the kitchen, get a water, go to that couch, between the second and third cushion from the left, and sit there. Then ya go back to the fridge to get lunch and a beer, and ya go to your workshop until somebody needs you for somethinâ. Your back loop in your tool belt is looser than all the others, âcause the screwdriver pulls against it when you sit down. The shank was probably in between the two cushions, and when you got up, it fell in. Demo, Pyro, and Heavy all sit on the second or third cushion at some point, so it got shimmied down. And since thatâs the only time you sat down, âcause you woulda heard it if it dropped on the floor, and IâŚuhâŚâ
âIâll be damned,â Engie repeated, and felt the back tool belt loop. It was indeed loose.
Scout finally looked up, and realized what had happened.
âUh, uh - l-lucky guess, huh Engie?â
Engineer squinted behind his goggles. âYeahâŚreal luckyâŚâ
What ensued was Engie trying to get Scout to turn into a B.L.U Spy by chasing him around with his wrench. After a few good hits, though, Engineer saw that it was the teammate he knew and loved.
âButâŚhow didjaâŚ?â
Scout threw his hand up, the other rubbing the back of his head where heâd been hit.
âI toldja Engie! Lucky guess! Jesus!â
Ever since then, Scout chose his words more carefully.
The Breakdown:
But, unfortunately, Scout could not pretend forever.
There was one week where Scoutâs assignment count was so high that, if he wasnât in a fight, he was on a mission.
Usually, Pauling wouldnât trust him with so much, but no one else was available - or willing - to do the jobs.
Even when she was getting concerned about the amount of hours Scout was putting in, he blew it off.
âItâs no sweat, Miss Pauling! Their practically givinâ me the pay day. Those yahoos donât know who theyâre messinâ with.â
Over time, though, Scout had a harder and harder time staying focused and alert.
Heâd sleep through alarms, stare off into space, zone out completely during briefing (not that he didnât already do that), have a hard time hearing people in battle - even through his headset - ignore Spyâs taunts, and even forget to bring his bat onto the field.
Nothing seemed to help - Bonk!, warming up, stretching, cold showers, setting reminders, nothing.
And the team was starting to notice.
At first it was with the regular frustration - maybe Scout was just being lazy.
But as time went on, and his condition grew worse, their scorn turned into worry. They implored Medic to do something, but he had no way of getting through to Scout.
The doctor wasnât above simply sedating him and dragging him into his lab for a check-up. However, he had a feeling that this was more than a physical issue.
The worst came when Scout was doing a routine battle with the B.L.U team on the field.
Everything had started out okay - he even remembered to bring his bad this time - but suddenly, everything was ear-splittingly loud.
He couldnât focus on more than one sound at once, much less communicate the best course of action to his teammates.
He ended up hiding in a dilapidated shed, in a dusty, dark corner, somewhere between zoning out and panicking.
Scoutâs head was in his knees, he was shaking, close to crying, when a sudden splitting of wood roused him.
A B.L.U Soldier had kicked his way into the shed, either having heard Scout or to hide from the other team.
Scout was stunned at first, but something of a blind terror filled him. He picked up his bat, screamed, and started pummeling the surprised Soldier.
At some point, he threw aside his bat and began to swing punch after punch, just like he did in his gang days when he had felt overwhelmed. Still screaming. Still crying.
By the time Scout had dissolved into a rocking, sobbing mess, the Soldier was long dead, with a gigantic pool of blood staining Scoutâs shoes.
No one even knew where Scout was until a few hours later, when Spy heard a faint note of âSexbombâ coming from Scoutâs Walkman.
Scout had crawled into the shedâs framework, between the outer and inner wall, and was playing a specific verse over and over and over again, looking like he was on another plane of existence.
Spy immediately called for Medic, who had to lift Scout out by the underarms through a jagged hole in the side of the building. By then, the fight was over, so they could take him directly to the lab.
Medicâs Evaluation:
âIâm guessing zhis is your first mental breakdown?â
âMentalâŚdoc, I ainât crazy. Wait, youâre not goinâ to put me in a straight jacket, are ya?â
âIf youâre not doing anyzhing later.â
Medic started to laugh, but quickly realized this might not be the time.
âNo, Scout, everyvun has a mental breakdown at least vunce in their lives. Itâs aâŚhow do you sayâŚa vake-up call of sorts. Vhen your body has no other options left.â
âWhaddya mean?â
âFor zhe past few months, you health, both physical and mental, has been deteriorating. You eat less. You talk less. Your attacks are lackluster. You have bags under your eyes. You flinch vhen somevun yells for you. You stare off into space. Your routine, vhich usually has at least some changes, has become stringent, as if you canât possibly expend any more energy into extra activities. You have avoided Demoman on zhe battlefield, even though you usually use him for cover.â
Medic flipped through his notes.
âI have pages and pages of your decline. However, as a scientist, I believe it is caused by zhe same source. And, though I usually respect my patientâs right to privacy vhen it comes to these sorts of matters, I believe youâve been keeping something from me. Something that I should know as your general practitionerâŚyour doctor.â
Scout shrugged, already shutting out the conversation.
Medic sighed.
âMaybe I tried to talk to you about zhis too soon. After all, youâve just had a very sudden and exhausting episode. ButâŚperhapsâŚâ
Medic took a sheet of printer paper from his clipboard and a spare pen from his pocket.
ââŚzhere is an alternative.â
Scout was still unresponsive, but Medic continued.
âZhere is a patient in my vaiting room vis a metal pole through the chest. It vill take me at least an hour to properly remove it, and a few minutes more to heal zhe area. Vhile I do zhat, vhy donât you draw how you feel?â
Medic smiled.
âI know how much it grounds you.â
It wasnât until Medic left that Scout actually picked up the pen, but he began drawing immediately.
For the first time in a while, he wasnât trying to hide his strokes or scratch up the cleaner lines. No more stick figures. No more pretending.
Five minutes later, he was fully engrossed.
Medic started to walk in at one point, but, seeing how relaxed Scout was, decided to give him a few more minutes.
He deserved it.
#tf2#tf2 scout#scout tf2#tf2 headcanons#headcanon requests#tf2 mercs#autism#autistic community#autistic culture#red team#blu team#valve games
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Happiness, Iâm sorry youâve been on hold.
Request:Â Could you do a one shot of Fred Weasley after the war, where he doesnât die and actually falls in love with a muggle. And he tells her about wizards and meets his family? Thank you!
A/N: So this is now the longest thing I have ever written. My aim for this was to make it equal parts angst and equal parts fluff because I think Fred deserves all the fluff. Thank you so much for requesting this! I hope I have done it justice! Please read the warnings before reading this fic should anything trigger - you come first, not fic reading. Also, if anyone can name the TV shows I mention in this, you get a gold star! Title from Volbeat - For Evigt. I hope you all enjoy, I know itâs long!!
Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader
Warnings: mentions of war, depression, insomnia, PTSD, swearing, food, but THERE IS SO MUCH FLUFF - SO MUCH (as well as a bit of steaminess).
Word count: 13.3k
The voices have blurred into a senseless mess; Fred can only just make out the deep timbre of adult males and the high pitched shouts of students. He doesnât need to hear the words to know that spells are being thrown left, right, and centre.
He does his fair share of fighting; hurling jinx after jinx at any Death Eater he comes upon.
The corridor he runs down is moaning and groaning as if ready to collapse, but Fred continues, his breath coming in pants. His eyes run over the bodies of students and teachers; his heart beginning the painful mourning process then and there.
Someone shouts; he doesnât know who.
Something creaks; he doesnât know what.
A brilliant flash of light bounces in front of his eyes, and he feels himself blown away just as the wall beside him starts to collapse.
Whether from shock or from injury, his vision fades to black.
Fred wakes with a start; heart racing, mouth gaping wide in a silent scream, hands gripping the bedsheets in a vice-tight hold.
With his eyes closed, he takes a deep breath before he begins to go through his exercise. An exercise he repeats nightly.
Aloud he says their names like a mantra: âMum, Dad, Bill, Charlie, Percy, George, Ron, Ginny.â
He does this over and over again until his heart rate calms, and his hands can release the bedsheets.
Fred checks the clock; 3am. He nods, sighing. Three hours sleep.
Fred supposes he should be thankful. After all, itâs three hours more than he got the night before.
He leaves his bed, dragging his feet to the kitchen where with a flick of his wand, the kettle begins to boil, and teabag drops itself into his favourite mug â his only mug.
The Second Wizard War had been over for almost a year now, and for the most part, life had returned to normal. Routines were picked back up and time had simply started to move on.
But Fred felt stuck.
He couldnât shake the nightmares; keeping the house up with his screams. He couldnât face opening the shop up despite Georgeâs best attempts at pleading.
He didnât have it in him to laugh.
He felt broken; as if something vital within him snapped in two the day he avoided the winged clutches of death.
Settling on the couch with his now steeping mug of tea, Fred resigns himself to the fact that he wonât be getting anymore sleep tonight.
The TV plays lowly in the background, a rerun of an old British sitcom set in a prison playing. Fred pays it little to no attention; instead, looking around the small flat heâs called home for the last eight months of his life. The walls are sparsely decorated; a few photos hung up but nothing that screams his personality. His cupboards remain filled just enough for one person, as does his fridge. Itâs a flat fit for a hermit; Fred thinks thatâs what heâs become.
He decided to leave home two months after the end of the war. When he started to notice the dark circles underneath his motherâs eyes and realised that he was the cause of them â his nightmares and his screams.
Molly cried when he left; worried sick over how he would look after himself and cope. Fred reassured her and made a promise to send letters twice a week â a promise he has yet to break.
George was understandably angry with his twinâs decision, but he knew that deep down that Fred needed to go to heal so he can laugh in the shop once again.
With a tight hug from his parents and siblings alike, Fred began his new life in muggle society.
A frantic knock at his door has Fred spilling his tea and falling out of his reminiscing. Jumping up from the couch, his hand grabs his wand, ready to defend himself should he need to.
His breath comes in quick pants as a result of the adrenaline and panic coursing through his system. The only people who know where he lives are his family with the added bonus of Harry, Hermione and Lee Jordan; no-one else had his address.
The frantic knocking continues; becoming quicker if it was at all possible. Fred swallows past the lump in his throat as he unlocks his door, wrenching it open in a swift movement, ready to confront whatever was on the other side.
Fred wasnât prepared for it to be you.
You stand in front of his flat with a wild look on your face; equal parts terror and panic. Your hand is still raised in a fist, ready to rain down on the faded red of his door. You only just stop yourself from pounding your fist into his chest.
âCan I help you?â Fred greets.
âIâm so sorry, I know how late it is, but I need your help.â
Fred raises an eyebrow, âWhat with?â
You toe his welcome mat sheepishly, pointing towards your flat next door to his. âThereâs a massive spider in my bathroom and Iâm too scared to kill it myself.â
âYouâre knocking down my door at this time in the morning for a spider?â Fred asks incredulously.
You glare at him, âThis isnât just any spider, okay? Itâs massive; I can practically see its kneecaps!â You huff, placing your hands on your hips, âWill you please help me?â
Fred leans against the doorframe, a smirk gracing his lips, âWhatâs in it for me?â
You purse your lips; eyes glancing between the red-headed man vexing you and the door to your flat where you know the spider is waiting to make a mockery of you. You sigh, deciding the former is the lesser evil than the latter, âIâll buy you breakfast.â
âYouâll buy me breakfast for killing a spider?â
You nod rapidly, âYes, Iâll buy you breakfast, and Iâll even fork out extra for hash browns, just please kill the spider.â
Fred pauses; pretending to think it over in order to annoy you that little bit more. It had been a while since he had taken the time to vex someone; he had to admit he was rather enjoying getting on your nerves.
âWell?â You press, tapping your foot on his welcome mat, âWill you help me or not?â
Fred pushes himself off the doorframe, keeping his wand concealed in his shirt sleeve. He bows at the waist with a cocky smile on his lips, âLead the way, my lady.â
You roll your eyes at the man; not remembering a time when a man had gotten on your nerves to this extent. You lead him into your flat; his eyes wandering over the heavily decorated walls and the over-filled bookshelves. You pause outside the door to your bathroom, biting your lip as you face the red-haired man, âI last saw it in the sink. It could have moved now.â
Fred nods, âDonât worry, Iâll find it. Do you have a boot or something I could use?â
You turn away from him, heading back to the entryway where he saw piles upon piles of shoes. âI donât have a boot,â you start, âbut I do have a pair of trainers.â
âTheyâll work,â Fred reassures, taking them from your hands.
You throw him a thumbs-up before retreating a few paces into your living room. You haul yourself onto the couch, much to Fredâs amusement, as if the spider is going to come running out of the bathroom to exact its revenge on you for throwing your pot of face cream at it before you sprinted out of your flat.
âGood luck,â You state as Fred opens the door to your bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Fred runs his eyes around your bathroom, looking for the eight-legged arachnid thatâs caused this much trouble at this time in the morning. He finds it in no time; still stuck in your sink, unable to make its way up the smooth porcelain sides.
It doesnât take Fred long to dispose of the spider; trapping it with a spell and flinging it out of the window. For extra measure, and to not alert you to his magic, he slams the trainer down on the tiled floor of your bathroom. Fred even goes so far as to scrunch up some tissue in his hand to make it look as if he had gotten the spider.
If he can avoid it, Fred wonât kill another living creature. In the short span of his life, Fred had seen too much death, and he knows he doesnât want to be witness to anymore.
Upon opening the door, Fred finds you stood in the exact same place but with a rolled up magazine in your hand. He wants to laugh at the sight, but he canât dredge up the will to do so. Instead, he holds up the scrunched up tissue and your trainer, declaring, âItâs gone. I got rid of it.â
You jump down from the couch, pottering over to him. The rolled up magazine still in your hand, âItâs in there?â
Fred nods, a little white lie wonât hurt you and he doubts the spider would return. âDo you have somewhere I can put this?â he asks, waving the tissue around.
âOf course, the kitchen is over here.â You lead him to the small kitchenette where he disposes of the empty tissue. You take your trainer off him and Fred claps his hands together as if heâs completed a job well done.
âRight,â He starts, âIf you donât need me for anything elseâŚâ
Your eyes widen as if suddenly aware what time it is and how long youâve kept him, âOf course!â you cry, âI didnât realise the time, youâll want to be getting back to sleep. Thank you for all your helpâŚâ you trail off, realising you donât know his name.
âFred. My name is Fred.â
âFred,â You smile, âIâm (Y/N).â
âIâm glad I could help, (Y/N),â Fred says, making his way to your door, âIâll see you tomorrow for breakfast.â
You frown, âBreakfast?â
âYou owe me? For killing the spider, remember?â
You hold your hand to your forehead, âYes! I remember. How does meeting at half past nine sound? I want to get some sleep before I meet you again.â
âHalf nine it is. Iâll see you then.â Fred says as goodbye, shutting your front door behind him and making his way back to the couch that had been calling his name since he left it.
The TV has moved on now; showing another rerun of an old sitcom â this one about two brothers hustling their way through life in a borough of London. Fred rather likes this show, having gotten hooked his first month in muggle life. He turns the volume up, taking a sip of his now cold tea.
Fred tries to pay attention to scene currently playing; the brotherâs elderly uncle unscrewing the fastenings to a very expensive chandelier theyâve been hired to clean. Little do they know theyâve got their wires crossed and disaster is about to strike.
Fred pays little attention to this, but rather than return to the wallowing he found himself in earlier, he lets himself think of breakfast tomorrow.
His eyes begin to flutter shut; the lack of sleep finally catching up to him. He slumps down onto the couch, reaching for the blanket he keeps draped across the back of it for this very reason, and he throws it across himself. He takes one last look at the television to see that the brothers had been underneath the wrong chandelier their elderly uncle was loosening, and he falls asleep with the thought of breakfast running through his mind.
------------------
Fred is ready too early; he knows he is.
He also thinks heâs overdressed but he doesnât let himself think too much into that issue.
Another nightmare had awoken him an hour after he fell back asleep in front of the TV. Fred wasnât too resigned though; four hours sleep in one night was the most he had gotten in a while. He was going to count this as a win.
For a while, he remained on the couch, flicking through the channels hoping to find something other than telly shopping. He skipped over the news channels, not needing to hear anything about muggle society that could potentially send him further into his spiral. He ran a hand over his face as he turned off the TV; he had moved away from home to start getting better; to start the healing process yet he felt as if he was only making things worse.
Before he could let himself dwell further on that subject, he hauled himself into the shower. Taking extra time to scrub at his hair and body; making himself look presentable for breakfast with you.
Fred took extra care in picking out his clothes. Once dressed, he did feel overdressed for the occasion, but as he sits on the couch, watching the hands on his analogue clock tick by slowly, heâs more bothered by the fact that heâs ready over an hour early.
He sighs as he watches the second hand make another circuit around the clock; one less minute to go, he thinks wryly to himself.
If his mother could see him now, Molly Weasley would proceed to smack him with a tea-towel before offering her advice on the matter. Thoughts of his mother has Fred overwhelmed with a strong sense of missing her. He misses his mother more than he misses anyone; how she would always have food on the table and tea ready to drink, how she would push back his hair from his forehead so she could kiss him there. She would do that a lot when the nightmares were very bad; she would sit with him on the couch where he had exiled himself after waking George up too many times â she would run her hands through his hair in a comforting manner, kissing his forehead as his eyes would start to droop. Molly would only let herself rest once her beloved son was sleeping somewhat peacefully.
Fred thinks of this memory as he digs around his flat for some spare parchment and a self-inking quill. He had already sent his two letters for the week, but Molly would be delighted to receive a third unexpectedly.
Quill scratches on parchment for some time. Fred inquires after the wellness of his siblings â did Charlie pull his finger out and ask out Evie? How was Ron and Hermione? How was Dad? Would he like any more of the muggle sweets heâs become so fond of?
Fred asks the inane questions before asking about George. Fred knows that George loves him; theyâre twins, theyâre closer than any other sibling would hope to be. George knew Fredâs moods like the back of his hand and he only wants the best for his brother. Which is why Fred struggles with the guilt at leaving George to cope with the joke shop alone. George has reassured him that itâs okay, that he needs to take time and the shop will always be here when heâs ready to come back.
But it still doesnât lessen the guilt that sits in his stomach like a lead balloon.
Black ink covers his hand by the heâs finished his letter; finishing his letter with the news of breakfast with someone he could see being a good friend. That would be enough to quash his motherâs worries that he doesnât leave his flat enough. He seals the envelope with wax, making a mental note to go to a wizarding post office after breakfast so he can send it off in express time to his mother.
Cracking his knuckles â a nasty habit he picked up at Hogwarts â Fred checks the time to see that itâs almost half past nine. He slips on his denim jacket, tucking his letter into an inside pocket, patting it to reassure himself itâs there.
As heâs locking up the door, he sees you exiting your flat. Fred realises that when you arenât dressed in mismatched pyjamas with a terrified look on your face, youâre rather beautiful.
You hurry over to him; your bag bouncing against your hip as you come to a stop in front of him. âGood Morning,â you greet.
âGood Morning. How did you sleep? Any more spiders?â
You direct your gaze to the floor, feeling somewhat sheepish in the light of day, âI know I said it last night, but thank you again. I wouldnât have been able to sleep if you hadnât have got it.â
Fred smiles softly, âI didnât mind. Besides, I get breakfast out of it.â
You perk up, âThat you do! Off we go then.â
You lead him out of the building, continuing on the main road before turning left and then a right. Fred follows you all the way; making small attempts at idle conversation which you gladly take up, chatting to him about anything and everything as you lead him down a side street to where a small cafĂŠ sits.
The bell above the door chimes happily as you enter the building, holding the door open for Fred to duck in first.
You lead him to a table by the window thatâs big enough for two. He pulls out your chair for you, letting you sit first before shrugging off his jacket and hanging it over the back of his chair. Fred may have been a little shit through his childhood and adolescence, but he had listened to his mother when she explained the etiquette for dining with a lady whether it be breakfast, lunch or dinner.
Menus are handed to the both of you by a waitress who looks to be wanting to be anywhere but here right now. Fred sympathises with her a little; remembering the early starts for the shop. They order their food in no time; you ordering a latte and Fred ordering a Yorkshire Tea to go with your Full Englishâs with extra hash browns.
You grin at him from across the table, âThanks for agreeing to this.â
âThanks for offering.â
âDid you get back to sleep okay after I woke you up?â You asks, face lined with worry.
Fred nods, clearing his throat, âI nodded back off, yeah.â
You sigh with relief, âThatâs good, Iâm glad.â
âDid you sleep okay?â
âI slept very well in my spider-free flat, yes.â
You fall silent as your drinks are placed in front of you with a promise that your food would be with you shortly. Fred smiles at the waitress in thanks as she leaves.
He turns his attention back to you, âHow long have you lived in the building? Iâm sure I would have seen you before.â
You wave a hand nonchalantly, âNot very long, I moved in a couple of months ago. How long have you lived there?â
Fred sips at his tea, adding a dash of sugar and milk before answering, âAround eight months now.â
You nod at his answer, taking a drink of your latte. The caffeine was needed; the adrenaline from the spider incident had taken a while to leave your body, leaving you tossing and turning in your bed and providing you more opportunity to think about the red-headed neighbour you had just met.
âIâm going to propose an idea.â
âOh?â
âI say we play twenty-one questions and get to know each other.â
âGet to know each other?â
You blink at him, âYes. Weâre neighbours and weâre having breakfast. What else should we talk about? The weather?â
Fred glances out the window at your words, a slow smile spreading over his face. âWell the weather is particularly lovely for London.â
You hush him, âThatâs not very neighbourly of you.â
âPerhaps Iâm not very neighbourly,â Fred taunts.
You gasp dramatically, âI refuse to believe that. If you werenât neighbourly, you would have shut the door in my face last night.â
Fred raises an eyebrow, âWould you have started to knock again if I did?â
You purse your lips, repressing a smile, âMaybe.â
âThen I simply helped to lessen the noise.â
You scoff, âI donât believe that for a second.â
âYou donât have to.â
You glare at him, âFred, stop being an arsehole and let me get to know you.â
Fred barks out a laugh, covering his mouth at the volume of the noise, âWell, when you put it like that. What do you want to know?â
You beam at him, and Fred canât help but smile back. âHow old are you?â you ask.
âIâm 22.â
âAre you at university?â
Fred shakes his head, âI thought I was supposed to ask the next question.â
You level him with a look, âAnswer this one and then you can ask the next one.â
âAlright, but you canât go jumping in with another question before Iâve asked mine. No, Iâm not at university,â You open your mouth to interrupt but close it when you remember Fredâs words. He smiles at you, âHow old are you?â
âYou canât repeat questions!â
âWhy not?â Fred asks, affronted, âItâs only fair I know your age too!â
âFine,â you mutter, âIâm 22 as well. 23 in a month.â
Fred nods, waiting patiently for your next question. You open your mouth, the words ready on the tip of your tongue but the waitress returns with your breakfast. The very smell of it has Fredâs stomach rumbling; he hadnât a cooked breakfast like this since he left the Burrow. He digs in with renewed vigour; repressing a moan at the taste of the fried bread.
âItâs good, isnât it?â
Fred nods, unable to reply due to the mouthful of food heâs chewing.
You nod in understanding, swallowing your mouthful before saying, âI found this place in my final year of university; I needed somewhere that reminded me of my mumâs breakfasts. Her breakfasts will always be number one, but this comes pretty close.â
Fred pauses with a forkful of scrambled egg halfway to his mouth, âThatâs what I miss most about home â my mum and her cooking.â
âAre you not from London originally?â You asks around a mouthful of bacon.
Fred shakes his head, âDevon originally. A tiny village in the county; itâs more of a hamlet really.â
Your eyes widen; eyebrows flying into your hairline, âDevon? Thatâs a while away. How often do you get to see your family?â
âNot as often as Iâd like.â Fred says, drinking his tea.
For a moment, itâs silent between the two of you. The scraping of cutlery on plates being the only sound. Fred thinks of his family as he eats his breakfast; wondering what their plans are for the day â whether theyâd be gnome hunting or playing quidditch or simply helping Molly with her vegetable garden. His heart hurts as he thinks of them; overcome with the absence of them from his life. It makes him shiver as he reaches for another drink of tea.
Fred breaks the comfortable silence, âWhat about you? Where are you from originally?â
âLancashire originally but I moved to the south when I was young â itâs why my accent is so odd.â
Fred frown; he hadnât noticed anything odd about your accent, thinking the way that you pronounced your vowels was similar to the way young Neville Longbottom does his, but yours are cut shorter.
âTell me,â He starts, âDo you see your family as often as youâd like?â
âYouâre going to repeat my every question, arenât you?â
Fred grins, âMaybe⌠Maybe not. Youâll have to stick around to find out. Now, do you see your family as often as youâd like?â
You shake your head, âNot really. My parents like to travel a lot; a cruise here, a two week holiday there, a road trip across America through the summer. I donât blame them though; they worked hard for the time they have now. I just wish theyâd drop in more.â
âAre you rich?â Fred asks before he can stop himself. He cringes as the words leave his mouth.
You chuckle at the awkward expression on his face, âIâm not. My parents are. Iâm a humble student working towards their masterâs degree. My father created his company in printing greeting cards; he sold it off a few years back for a lot of money and theyâve been enjoying themselves since.â
âYouâre a masterâs student?â Fred asks; his knowledge on muggle degrees somewhat limited to what Hermione had told him.
You nod, scraping up the last forkful of food on your plate. âYeah, Iâm getting my masterâs in Library Science.â
âWhat do you hope to do after that?â
âWork in a library or well, continue to work in a library, I already work at my university one. Iâd love to work in an archives one day though, cataloguing pieces of history.â
Fred nods, enraptured by your words. He didnât realise how much choice there was for muggles and their education. The wizarding world was somewhat limited to how witches and wizards could harness their talents; Fred and George were practically pariahs for choosing to dedicate their lives to pranks and happiness. He had always assumed the muggle world worked in the same way, but here you were, proving him wrong.
Knives and forks are crossed on plates when you ask, âYou arenât a university student, so you must have a job. What do you do for a living, Fred?â
Fred decides a kernel of truth wouldnât do too much harm, âI own a joke shop with my twin brother.â
You laugh, clapping your hands together, âThatâs incredible! Is the shop here in London?â
Fred nods, âIt is. My twin brother is running it for the time being.â
âCan we go see it?â
Fred freezes; he hadnât anticipated this. He glances down at the watch wrapped around his wrist then back up at you, not missing the glint of mischief in your eyes. âPerhaps another time?â he suggest, âI have some errands I need to run today that I canât avoid.â
You lean back in your chair, feeling somewhat sad but you shake it off. âOf course, but Iâll hold you to that Fred. I wonât rest until I see your shop.â
Fred grins, âI have a feeling youâll stick to your word.â
You move to reply but are interrupted by the waitress coming by to collect your plates and ask if you want anything else. She leaves the bill behind when her question is declined. Fred reaches for his wallet, but you stop him by snatching the bill.
âI made you a promise last night. Breakfast for your excellent services.â
Fred rubs a hand across the back of his neck, âI feel bad letting you pay.â
âArenât you a gentleman?â You tease, âNo, I said I would buy you breakfast so Iâm buying you breakfast. You can buy it next time.â
âSo thereâs going to be a next time?â
You shrug, biting your lip. âSure â you might need my services for something. A blocked pipe or a blow fuse.â
Fred stands, pulling on his denim jacket, patting his inside pocket to find that his letter is still there.
You walk back to the main road together; waving goodbye to him as you head towards your university and he to a side street where he can apparate to the nearest wizarding post office. Fred hands his letter over to the clerk, paying a few extra knuts for express delivery.
Fred takes his time walking back to his flat; enjoying the spring day that was blooming around him. He felt lighter as he walked; as if he didnât need to put as much effort into putting one foot in front of the other. He put it down to you and your presence; there was something about you that evoked all sorts of emotions from him. There was something about you that made him want to see you again.
However, he knew by tonight, the familiar fog will have settled over him â dulling the light of everything around him. He knew that he would still struggle to sleep; being lucky enough to get even an hour in before being pulled to consciousness kicking and screaming his way out of the same nightmare.
-----------------
His time over the next month is split three ways. He spends a third of it on his couch; watching old reruns of sitcoms â his new favourite being set in second muggle war and follows the Home Guard; Fred finds himself whistling the theme song more often than heâd like to admit. He uses his time on the couch to write his letters to Molly who was thrilled at the aspect of Fred making a friend; she wrote question after question about wanting to know their star sign to their hair colour. Fred smiles fondly; a smile reserved only for his mother â one that got even bigger when a second owl arrived with a small note with another question. Through all of her excited questioning, Molly forgot one crucial detail â what was their name?
He spends the second third of his time running. Fred had always been sporty; had always had an athletic build that helped him gain his spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team as a Beater with George on the team too. However, there are few places in muggle London where he can play the sport freely, so he gets it into his head to pretend to train for a match. Fred begins to run; every morning and every evening. Two runs a day, seven days a week. The runs on an evening tire out his body so he has more of a chance of falling into bed with the hopeless prayer of a dreamless sleep uttered from his lips. However, the runs on a morning are more frantic as he runs off the excess adrenaline and panic running through his system as a result of the night terror his mind unleashed upon him, dragging him from sleep less than two hours after his eyes closed.
Then Fred spends the final third of his time with you. In your flat or walking around Hyde Park or visiting your university.
Fred finds himself spending more and more time with you; he starts to crave your company. And he feels ridiculous for feeling that way because heâs only known you for over a month and he should be using this time to start the healing process.
But heâs already told his mother about you; and who isnât to say that he canât work on healing from the trauma of the war with you by his side being a warm, comforting presence?
Fred sits on his couch at nearing two in the morning; questioning his entire existence and reasoning for moving to muggle society when he realises that whilst itâs only been just over a month, if he wants to start healing with you by his side, he needs to be entirely honest with you.
He needs to confess.
----------------
Fred inhales a deep breath before knocking on your door. He shuffles from side to side, nerves rioting in his stomach. In less than a minute, youâve wrenched open your door, smiling widely as you take in Fred standing before you.
âFreddie! To what do I owe this pleasure?â
He holds his hands behind his back as he rocks back onto his heels, âDo you want to go on a walk?â
Your eyes run over his face; taking in the dark circles underneath his eyes. He had told you about his insomnia soon after the friendship began; it worried you, but Fred had reassured you that he had it controlled. âAre you having trouble sleeping?â
Fred nods, âThat, and I really need to talk to you.â
âNo problem. Let me just get my shoes on.â
Fred smiles as he watches you toe on the slip on trainers he had come to know as Vans. You told him just last week about your obsession with them; unable to resist buying a new pair each time you passed the shop.
You grab your jacket from the hook, pulling it on as you lock the door behind you, bumping into Fred as you step out into the hallway.
Fred leads you out of the building, turning the usual left that heads in the direction of the park. You struggle to keep up with his long strides; calling out for him to slow down a little so you can at least walk side by side. He smiles at you as you catch up to him; apologising for his speed, he is just anxious.
The walk to the park is walked in silence. Fredâs mind occupied with how heâs going to tell you the most important thing about himself and how youâre going to react when you find out that a lot of your friendship was built on a lie.
The park settles on the horizon too soon and his heart is in his mouth. Fred used to be a confident guy; happily getting involved in scheme after scheme that would bring chaos and laughter to the corridors of Hogwarts, but he had lost that part of him in the battle. He wondered if he would ever be that guy again.
You bump his shoulder, âWeâre at the park, what did you want to talk about?â
Fred settles on a nearby bench; fiddling with his fingers, âI need to tell you something  but Iâm not sure how to say it.â
âThatâs fine. Why donât you tell me why weâre in the park?â
Fred sighs, âItâs so you have the freedom and the choice to leave after I tell you what Iâve been keeping from you.â
Your heart starts to pound in your chest; panic rising slowly in your gut. âWhat have you been keeping from me thatâs so bad that I would need to walk away from you?â
Fred turns in his spot, staring into your eyes, âDo you promise to hear me out and not interrupt?â
âFred, youâre worrying me. Whatâs the matter?â
âDo you promise?â
âYes, I promise! Now whatâs wrong?â
âIâve been lying to you⌠about so much.â
The air is knocked out of you, âIâm going to need more than that, Fred,â you whisper breathlessly.
âDo you remember when we first had breakfast? And I told you about the joke shop I own with my twin?â
âYes⌠so what did you lie about? The joke shop or the twin?â
âNeither. I just lied about why you couldnât see it.â
âWhy?â You ask; your tone incredulous.
âBecause Iâm a wizard, and the joke shop I own with my twin â who is also a wizard â is a magical joke shops selling pranks and potions to witches and wizards attending Hogwarts.â
You stand from the bench, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself, wondering when the TV cameras are going to show up, âThat isnât funny, Fred.â
âIâm not joking, (Y/N). Iâm not lying to you now.â
âHow do I know? Whatâs Hogwarts? Who is your twin? Whatâs the name of your shop? Why arenât you there?â
Fred had prepared himself for the barrage of questions he knew would inevitably fall from your mouth; curiosity being your besetting sin. He hadnât prepared himself for the look of betrayal and hurt that crosses over face as you continue to stare at him. Fred feels his already broken heart break some more at the sight of it.
He runs a hand over his face, â(Y/N), love, please sit down. Iâll tell you everything.â
âEverything?â You question, âI want to know it all.â
Fred crosses over his heart, âI promise. Now please sit down.â
You sit next to him; a few inches away as if the small distance will help to protect the heart that you had already started to give to the broken red-headed man.
You remain silent as Fred sorts out his words; you can see the cogs in his mind working as he figures out how to explain an entire society that you hadnât known existed until less than a minute ago.
Finally he releases a breath and begins.
âWitches and wizards have always been around, but after famous witch hunts such as Salem, Pendle, and Samlesbury, we had to go into hiding to protect our numbers. From the age of eleven, we go to Hogwarts. Hogwarts is a school in the highlands of Scotland dedicated to teaching young witches and wizards the art of magic as well as how to control it. My twin is called George; weâre identical and sometimes, our own mother struggles to tell us apart,â Fred breaks off with a short laugh, thinking of Molly with fondness.
âHeâs my rock, heâs my best friend. We bought the joke shop when we were eighteen â itâs called Weasleyâs Wizard Wheezes and itâs found in Diagon Alley. For your sake, itâs found near Charing Cross Road.â
Fred pauses once again, readying himself to explain his absence from the shop and his presence in your life. âIâm not there because I moved away. In our society, there was a dark wizard who started a war for purposes beyond me. I just know that when I was 21 I was running through the corridors of the school I used to attend fighting for my life and watching people I knew die. I almost died myself when a wall was blown apart; luckily, someone spelled me out of the way. Iâll be forever grateful to them for that.
âAfter the war, I couldnât cope. I was doing more harm than good by being with my family â my insomnia stems from nightmares of the war so I left. I left them and moved here where Iâve started to heal from my experiences and where I met you after you started to bang on my door. I wanted to tell you sooner; my mother told me to in her letters, but I was enjoying my time with you, and I didnât want to ruin what we have. It means a lot to me.â
Fred falls silent with a smile aimed at you. Your mouth hangs open from his words; unsure on whether to take them for the truth they sounded like or to question him to find the holes in his story.
But he looks so vulnerable; the smile is watery, and his eyes are lined with tears. You realise that itâs taken a lot for him to confess this to you, but that it had been weighing on his mind for some time.
You donât say anything immediately. Instead, you draw his head to your shoulder, and he lets out the sob heâs been holding in since he started to talk about his past. You wrap your arms around him tightly; holding him together as he lets himself fall to pieces in your arms. Youâre in public, and this is a scene but the both of you donât care. You hold him to you until his sobs begin to quieten into sniffles.
âIâm sorry,â Fred murmurs, pulling away from you as he wipes his eyes.
âNever apologise for crying.â
He sniffles, âDo you believe me?â
You nod, âI do. I donât think anyone could have made up what you just said. I donât think thereâs enough imagination in the world for it. But thereâs one thing I want to know.â
Fred watches you warily, âWhat is it?â
You grip his hand tightly, âAre you healing, Fred? Are you coping?â
Fredâs shoulders slump as the tension leaves his body; he had tensed at your words, worried at what you might say. He stares into your eyes as he answers, âI am. I was struggling at first, but I think Iâm starting to heal.â
âCan I help? How can I help?â
Fred pats your hand, âContinue doing what youâre doing, itâs enough.â
And it is. Fred finds it easier to breathe in your presence as if the weight of the world is no longer on his shoulders like he were Atlas. Instead, he finds it easier to focus on other things such as plans for the day or listening to you talk about your latest assignment. He doesnât feel his mind drift off as much when heâs around you; which is a good thing, he thinks.
You smile at him, still holding onto his hand, âI can do that.â
You both fall into quiet; eyes now focused on the expanse of the park. Fred watches a young mother push her young son the swings, hearing his delighted laughter, whilst your eyes land on the teenage couple making out underneath a tree; you move your eyes away quickly, focusing instead, on the ducks swimming in the pond.
You break the silence, âFred?â
He hums in answer.
âWould you cast a spell for me?â You ask tentatively, âIf thatâs okay!â
Fred smiles softly; letting go of your hand to reach for the dogwood wand he keeps hidden up his sleeve. With flare he hasnât shown since opening the store, he pulls the wand out. He rolls the wand over his fingers, âWizards can practice magic outside of school from the age of seventeen; I can show you a spell.â
âReally?â You ask, bouncing in your place.
âAre you ready?â
âHold on, let me think for a minute⌠YES.â You shout, stamping your feet in the grass.
Fred grins; his eyes crinkling in the corners from the size of his smile. He checks for witnesses before holding his wand up whispering the incantation âLumosâ. The tip of his wand begins to glow with a pale light which in the falling darkness of the day only helps him see the beauty in your features.
You gasp at the sight of the light emanating from Fredâs wand, resisting the urge to reach out and touch it. âI canât believe it,â you sigh, âAll this time I asked you to change lightbulbs and you could create light with a single word.â
âYouâre not scared or freaked out?â He asks, unable to stop himself. The small voice in the back of his head needed to know whether you were going to leave him.
You shake your head, still watching the pale white light. With a single whisper of âNoxâ, Fred turns out the light and slides his wand back into his sleeve. You turn your attention back to Fred, âIâm not scared or freaked out. Iâm just in awe of you and this entire society thatâs survived in secret. I feel like Iâm privy to a secret organisation.â
âYouâre in awe of me?â Fred asks; those being the only words he focused on in your entire sentence after confirming you werenât scared of him.
âAbsolutely. You can conjure magic, Fred! Actual magic! Itâs incredible,â Your hands frame his face, keeping his eyes on you as you lean close and whisper, âYou are incredible.â
He covers your hands with his; wondering when heâd become so soft. âThank you,â he replies.
You pull away too soon; Fredâs hands dropping to his side, feeling suddenly cold at the loss of contact.
Standing from the bench, you hold your hand out for Fred to take. âCome on, magic man. Itâs time we went home.â
âMagic man?â He asks, amused. He takes your offered hand, pulling himself up from the park bench.
âItâs my new nickname for you, do you like?â
âMagic man⌠magic man,â Fred repeats, testing the name out on his tongue, âI suppose I do.â
âGood, because I donât think Iâll call you anything else.â
The walk back to the flat is quicker than the walk to the park. Fredâs steps lighter now than they were earlier. Chased by the turning on of street lights, you reach your building and lead him into your flat, offering him a warm drink as he takes a seat on your cream coloured couch.
Fred takes the hot mug of tea from you as you sit down next to him. He takes a shy sip, careful not to burn his tongue. Itâs perfect, as it always is. You always know the right amount of sugar and milk to add.
âThank you for telling me that today, I know it wasnât easy for you.â
âIt wasnât, but it got easier when you didnât walk away. I was so worried that you were going to.â
âI donât think Iâd have forgiven myself if I had.â
Teas are drank after that, and Fred whispers goodnight to you before kissing your cheek in a rare moment of tenderness. He lets himself out of your flat, making the short walk back to his where he throws himself on the couch and lets himself wonder when exactly he had started to fall in love with you.
-----------------
Two more months follow, and Fred knows that heâs now arse over tea kettle in love you. From the top of your head to the tips of your toes, that you like to shove under legs when laid on the couch together, so he yelps at their temperature.
Two more months follow, and Fred feels like heâs maybe able to start living his life again, but in small doses. He writes to his mother more whoâs delighted by the tales he tells of you and your growing relationship; he could never keep anything from Molly â her face too trusting and her manner too warm. All Molly is concerned about in her letters is whether Fred is happy, and for the first time in over a year, Fred can reply saying he thinks he could be.
Molly wonât ever tell Fred this, but she cried at that letter, feeling her heart burst with happiness for the son she had always worried about.
Time passes, and Fred spends more and more time with you. Breakfast dates, lunch dates, movie marathons on the couch â he does it all with you. You even go so far as to make him decorate his flat more; pictures of his family now line the walls as well as the picture of him and George on the opening day of Weasleyâs Wizard Wheezes.
Thatâs when he knows he needs to go back to Diagon Alley, and heâs taking you with him.
-----------------
At nine am on the dot, Fred knocks on your door until you open it. You glare at the red-headed man, demanding to know his presence at your door when he only left at four am after binging the entire Godfather trilogy without realising how long the films are.
Fred beams at your state, âGo get dressed, Iâll make you some coffee.â
âWhy?â You ask, puzzled.
âIâm taking you to Diagon Alley and my joke shop.â
You stagger back a couple of steps, âReally? Are you sure? Are you ready?â
Fredâs grin moulds into something softer at your concern. âI am, and I want you to come with me.â
A slow smile breaks across your face, âGive me ten minutes and we can go!â
You rush into your room; pulling open the doors to your wardrobe and raking through to find any sort of clothes youâd wear to visit a magical shop, and possibly meet the twin brother of the man youâd fallen in love with.
Minutes later, you exit your room, pulling a brush through your hair to make yourself look more presentable. Gratefully, you take the cup of coffee from Fredâs hand before rushing into your bathroom to brush your teeth and spritz yourself in your favourite perfume â jasmine, lavender and citrus.
You drain the dregs of your coffee as you leave the bathroom. Dropping the pale pink mug in the sink, you turn to find Fred leaning against your kitchen counter with an amused and entertained look on his face.
âSomeoneâs excited, I see.â He teases.
You pout, âItâs not every day I get to go see magical London, magic man.â
Fred claps his hands, laughing quietly. âCome on then, letâs get you to Diagon Alley.â
--------------
Diagon Alley is nestled behind Charing Cross Road; itâs the largest area of wizarding London and is completely hidden from the muggle world.
Fred has been visiting Diagon Alley for as long as he can remember; flooing there with his mother and Bill, Charlie and Percy to collect their things for the latest school year. As a child, he loved visiting Florean Fortescueâs when the budget permitted it; getting a single scoop cone with rainbow sprinkles.
As he enters the Leaky Cauldron, leading you in by the hand, Fred is a mix of fear and excitement making him act jittery as he approaches the familiar face of Tom, the barman.
âFred Weasley? Is that you?â Tom asks, a large smile on his face, âI havenât seen you in over a year! How have you been?â
âIâve been well, Tom. How have you been?â
âNever better â you know me.â
Fred smiles, nodding. âIâm heading out back, is that okay?â
âAnything for a Weasley. Does this have something to do with the muggle hiding behind your back?â
You reveal yourself from where youâve hidden yourself behind Fred. Keeping a tight hold on his hand, you smile shyly at the barman, âIâm (Y/N). Itâs a pleasure to meet you.â
Tom smiles politely, âItâs a pleasure to meet you too.â Tom turns his attention back to Fred, âYou know what to do.â
Fred parts ways with barman he had grown up knowing, pulling you to the back door which opens into a small courtyard.
âFred, love, itâs a dead end.â
âAre you sure?â Fred asks with a smirk, reaching for his wand. âWant to see some proper magic?â
âAlways, magic man.â
He grins at the use of your nickname for him before tapping his wand on the bricks blocking your way. You cry out as the bricks begin to move; shifting to the side to reveal an entryway to a cobbled street lined with shop after shop all varying in colours.
Letting go of Fredâs hand, you take your first step into the wizarding world; already in love with every aspect of it, just as youâre in love with every aspect of the man making his way to your side.
âWhat do you think?â He asks, breathless at the sight of the place he hasnât seen in a year.
âThis is unlike any other place Iâve seen.â You hold your hand out for Fred to grab, âShow me around?â
âWith pleasure,â Fred replies, wrapping your hand in his, tangling your fingers.
Fred takes you on a tour of the Alley; stopping outside Ollivanderâs and getting out his wand to explain the importance of the place, turning his wand around to show you what he means. He tells you the story of Harry Potter; of what his wand meant, being the twin of the wand that had killed his parents. Your heart breaks for the boy you had never met; had never even heard of until today â you ask after him, how is he now? Fred reassures you; after all, heâs fine, Harryâs dating his younger sister much to Fredâs chagrin.
He takes you into Florean Fortescueâs, buying you ice cream for breakfast as any adult should have. Your eyes widen at the taste of the Butterbeer ice cream; butterscotch and buttercream icing bursting on your tongue. Fred smiles at your expression, licking his way through his own ice cream â strawberries and cream for nostalgiaâs sake.
Sitting down at a small table, you tap your ice creams to each other in a toast. âWhere are we going next?â You ask, catching a drip of the melting ice cream with your tongue â not missing the way Fredâs eyes track the movement.
âI thought we could visit my shop.â
âYour shop?â You ask in disbelief, âAre you sure?â
Fred nods, catching a drip on his own ice cream. He doesnât miss the way your eyes also track the movement of his mouth. âYes, Iâm sure.â He looks away, ashamed, âIâve left George alone too long.â
You reach for his hand across the table, âIâm sure he understands, Fred.â
âI know he does, but it doesnât stop the guilt.â
You rub your thumb across the back of his hand in a comforting motion, âAre you sure youâre okay to go? We can always come back another day.â
âYouâd come back with me?â
You grin, âOf course, this is the best ice cream Iâve ever had. Iâm here for you, magic man â who else is going to kill the spiders in my bathroom?â
Fred relaxes, âYouâre the best, you know that right?â
You take another lick of your ice cream, âI do know that. Do you want to stay and see your brother, or do you want to go? Iâm happy with either, but youâre going to have to give me time to get more ice cream.â
Fred laughs at your words, âIt is good ice cream,â he takes a lick of his, âNo, letâs go. I need to see him; I need to apologise.â
âAlright then. Weâll finish here and then weâll go to Weasleyâs Wizard Wheezes⌠at last.â
He nods, remaining silent. The ice creams are finished in silence; questioning looks sent to each other across the table. Your feelings for Fred often overwhelmed you with their strength; never imagining that knocking on his door in the early hours of the morning could ever lead to something like this. In the short time you had known the man, you had fallen head over heels for him and also had your entire worldview altered by finding out about the existence of magic.
Heâd quite literally turned your world upside down, and the only thing that ran through your mind through it all was: I hope he feels the same.
Soon though, faces are wiped on napkins and hands are back to hold each otherâs as Fred leads you from the ice cream parlour to where the orange top hat stands out against the darkly coloured shops.
In a last minute attempt to delay the inevitable, Fred pulls you over to the pet shop. You coo over the animals; pointing to the Puffskein with questions burning on your tongue. Fred answers them all happily, delighted to delay walking into the shop and brother heâs neglected for so long.
After a few more minutes, you step away from the shop window citing the temptation being too great and you may end up smuggling the Puffskeins to the muggle world.
âThat was a fantastic distraction, magic man.â
âWasnât it?â He admits, blushing at having been caught out but not wanting to lie to you, âIt worked like a treat.â
You chuckle, âIt really did. They remind me of clouds do the Puffskeins; neon, furry clouds.â
Fred snorts, âAn excellent description.â
The joke shop now looms in front of the two of you; the bright orange and purple of the paintwork almost luminous in the morning light. Fred stops in the middle of the pavement; feet stuck to the floor, unable to carry him forward. Heâs avoided this for so long, but he finally feels ready to insert himself back into the life of pranks, jokes, and happiness.
Your grip on his hand tightens, âIâm here, magic man. Iâm not going anywhere.â
His nod is the only sign you get to know that heâs heard your words.
Taking a deep breath, Fred begins to put one foot in front of the other; a hand outstretched for the door handle to the shop, giving it a light push. The bell above the door rings, signalling his entrance into the shop but also his entrance into his old life.
The shop is quiet; it being still too early in the day to get masses and masses of shoppers. Their busy season is the three weeks in August before terms starts where students come to buy their school books but to also stock up on items of mischief.
A near identical man to Fred stands up straighter from his position behind the counter. He starts to open his mouth, to welcome the new customers to the shop but when he looks up, the words never leave his mouth.
He simply freezes in place.
His eyes flicker between the two of you quickly, before running over the man stood next to you. Looking for what, you donât know.
In between one blink of an eye and the next, heâs thrown himself across the counter, sprinting to where Fred stands in the entryway.
No words are spoken; he just holds Fredâs face in his hands before pulling him in for a hug thatâs been long overdue.
You step away from their reunion, letting your eyes roam over the shop. They need this moment alone; you donât need to invade by watching them. You wander a little; fingers running over displays. You frown when you see you an area lit up in pink titled âLove Potionâ.
You pick up one of the little bottles shaped like a heart; the bright pink liquid inside jostling as you examine it.
âCareful,â A voice sounds behind you, âItâs a powerful potion.â
Turning you find Fredâs twin, George watching you with inquisitive eyes. âWhat does it do?â You ask, fiddling with the stopper.
âIt mimics the effects of love and obsession. If you smell it, you smell the person you love.â
You raise an eyebrow, âTruly?â
George nods, âTruly. We sell crates full of the stuff nearing Valentineâs Day.â
Releasing the stopper from the neck of the bottle, you take a delicate sniff. Peonies, rain, and Yorkshire tea come filtering through. The very smells youâve become to associate with the man who had never really been your neighbour but has always been something more.
Replacing the stopper, you drop the potion into Georgeâs waiting hand. He pockets it before turning back to face his twin.
âWhat did you smell?â Fred asks as you settle back next to him.
You shrug, âNothing I didnât already know.â
George grins at the two of you, âIs this the famous (Y/N) from your letters to mum?â
You nudge Fred with your elbow, beaming, âYou write to your mum about me, magic man?â
âHold on â magic man?â George asks, eyes glancing at both Fred and you.
You nod, âItâs my nickname for him.â
George chuckles, âItâs brilliant. I may have to use it myself.â
Fred blushes at his brotherâs use of your nickname for him. He doesnât say it, but it doesnât sound right coming from anyone elseâs mouth but yours.
âAnyway, itâs nice to meet you, (Y/N). Mum already loves you. Iâm George.â George introduces, holding a hand out to you.
You shake his hand twice before dropping it, âItâs very nice to meet you too, George. Fred has told me so much.â
âHe has?â
You nod, âHeâs told me all about the pranks you played at Hogwarts and why you set up this shop â which I think is wonderful by the way â I feel like I already know you.â
George shifts his gaze to his twin, âI donât know why but I didnât think youâd talk about me.â
Fred gapes, âOf course I talk about you. Youâre my twin brother, youâre practically half of me.â
George shrugs, âYou only send letters to mum⌠I just assumed.â
Fred steps forward, placing his hands on Georgeâs shoulders, âMum made me promise to write, I couldnât break that. I wanted to write to you so much, George, but the guilt I felt as just leaving you and the shop was too much and then more time passed. Iâve been an awful brother; can you forgive me?â
George laughs, tears falling freely down his face. âThereâs nothing to forgive now that I know why.â
Fred hauls George into a hug; neither afraid to show their emotions through this reunion. Fred had been so worried before this; thinking his brother might turn him away at the door, but now holding him in his arms, heâs just happy to have his twin by his side once more.
They pull away with a sob; George clapping Fred on the back. âWill you be returning to work, Freddie?â
Fredâs eyes land on you; where youâve stood silently through the whole exchange, just happy to see the two brothers reunite. His eyes search your face for something, and he finds it in your smile. âYeah, George. I think I might do.â
George glances between you and Fred as if seeing the connection there. He keeps his mouth shut but smiles at the fact that his twin has found someone to share his life with.
You spend a couple more hours in the shop; pottering freely as Fred and George discuss the state of the business and when Fred would like to start work again. Pride runs through your veins as you listen to them from the upper floor; Fred has achieved so much in such a short space of time and you couldnât be more prouder of him.
You also couldnât be more in love with him. He handles himself with such grace; standing taller, smiling more. The more time you spent with him, the more you could feel yourself falling for him. Nights alone in your flat had you thinking of what it would be like to be laid in bed next to him â would he cuddle? Would he let you lay your head on his chest? Or would he prefer to spoon? You had spent so many nights thinking of these questions, trying to think of answers.
â(Y/N)?â Fred calls from the lower floor, âAre you ready to go?â
âAlready?â You ask, descending the staircase.
Fred nods, âIâll come back tomorrow and talk more to George about what I need to do. Itâs time we got some lunch, however.â
Your stomach grumbles at his words, âYouâve got great timing it seems, magic man.â
He shakes his head, laughing softly, âNo. I just know you too well.â
You smile at him before turning to George to say goodbye. George smiles at you, saying, âIâm sure weâll be seeing each other very soon,â with a wink at Fred.
The tips of Fredâs ears burn red as he claps his twin on the shoulder, promising heâll call in tomorrow. âTell mum youâve seen me, will you? I know she worries,â Fred calls on his way out.
âAlready on it!â are Georgeâs final words before the door closes.
----------------------
Sitting at a corner table in The Leaky Cauldron, Fred continues to ride on the high from seeing his twin brother after a year apart. Heâs positively ravenous; the nerves before having dampened his appetite. He takes it upon himself to order for the both you; checking that you donât mind. You wave him away, stating that you wouldnât even know where to begin with ordering.
Tom hands Fred your drinks after ordering, letting him know itâd be around ten minutes before food was with you. Fred thanks the barman, picking up the drinks to return you.
âIâm really proud of you, Fred.â You state, taking a sip of the sweet Butterbeer.
âYou are?â He asks bashfully.
âI am. It took a lot of bravery to do what you did today.â
Fred blushes, but doesnât drop his eyes from yours. âI think Iâm going to be brave one last time.â
âYou are?â
âYes,â He states, reaching for your hand, âIâve only known you for less than six months but in that time youâve helped me find who I was before the war. Youâve helped me find the laughter that was missing. What Iâm trying to say is, is that Iâve fallen in love with you, (Y/N).â
âOh, Fred,â You sniffle, âI love you too.â
âYou do?â
You nod, âI really do. I love every last bit of you.
Fred sags in his chair; holding onto your hand tighter, âI was so worried you wouldnât love me back.â
âNo chance of that, magic man.â
The smile that breaks across his face is simply breathtaking, and you thank your lucky stars that the man youâve fallen in love with, loves you back, just as much.
Tom fetches your food over then, settling two plates onto table. It smells divine and without letting go of Fredâs hand, you pick up your fork and dig in.
The meal is eaten in silence; happy looks and secret smiles exchanged over the steaming plates of food. Fredâs thumb rubs over the back of your hand; the motion now having another meaning alongside âIâm hereâ. Elation bubbles within you, flooding your veins. The love you feel for this man is entirely encompassing, filling your very pores, combining with your genetic makeup.
For as delicious as the meal is, the both of you barely taste it. Plates are empty in no time, and Fred leaves Tom a tip on the table. He pulls you up with him, dragging you to the door and back to muggle London.
It feels like a fever dream; stepping back into the reality youâve known all your life until you met the red-headed man stood next to you.
Fred tugs you into him; his arm wrapping around your waist. He drops your hand in favour of caressing your cheek. His brown eyes sparkle with love and joy as he dips his head, pausing just before he touches his lips to yours, waiting for permission. You grant him in the form of pushing your mouth to his.
Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him in close, feeling all of him pressed against all you. He tastes of the butterscotch from the dregs of his Butterbeer and you hum against his mouth â itâs intoxicating. Heâs intoxicating; you could lose yourself entirely in him and you wouldnât mind a bit. Your hand runs through his hair, tugging lightly. Your toes curl at the sound of the low moan from the back of his throat.
From the outside, this looks like a simple passionate embrace between a young couple. They donât know how long this kiss has been in the making; how many time youâve wondered exactly what Fred would taste like, and now you have that knowledge, itâs not something youâll be parting with soon.
Eventually, you pull away from him, coming back to the surface for breath but Fred doesnât let you go. He holds onto you tightly, pressing kiss after kiss to your face making you giggle at his affectionate side.
He lets you go for a single instant to pull you into the side street beside The Leaky Cauldron. He wraps you tightly into his side, savouring the feel of you lined next to him.
âThis is going to make you dizzy,â is his only warning before he apparates back to your flat.
----------------
Though confessions have been uttered, Fred takes his time to learn your body.
Kissing you slowly; peeling your clothes off your body with the air of someone who has all the time in the world â and he does. He takes his time to memorise every inch of your body; every dip, every curve, every freckle. He commits it all to memory though the both of you know that youâll be doing this for a very long time. He whispers words of worship into your skin; your body was a cathedral and he was going to worship at your feet.
You take your time with him; running your hand through the hair on his chest before trailing it lower, watching how the muscles in his toned stomach jump at your touch. A simple touch, and it drives him wild.
He draws you in for a kiss; flipping the both of you so youâre underneath him. He braces himself above and you spend the rest of the night, and most of the morning, learning the noises that can be evoked from a kiss in the right place.
-----------------
It surprised Fred that it takes his mother almost a month to send him a letter demanding that she finally get to meet the person who had stolen her sonâs heart.
Fred reads the letter beside you at the breakfast table; chuckling at his motherâs words over his morning cup of tea. He hands you the letter once heâs finished reading, watching your face for every emotion as well as letting his gaze drop to the small purple bruises at the base of your neck, laid there by his mouth.
You hold a hand up to your mouth, repressing the smile. âYour mother wants to meet me?â
Fred nods, âShe has for a while, but I didnât want to scare you away.â
âThereâs no chance of that now, magic man, especially after last night.â
Fred blushes but beams, satisfied. âWould you like to meet them?â
You pause, tilting your head to one side as you think of how to phrase your next few sentences, âI donât want to presume anything, but Iâd like to think Iâm going to be in your life for a long while. I think the earlier I meet your family, the better.â
Fred takes your hand in his, dropping a kiss to the top of it. âYou arenât presuming anything; I want you in my life for an eternity and more. But are you sure you want to meet them? Iâm from a very large family, and if I know them, itâll be partners as well.â
You lean over to press a kiss to his cheek then to peck his lips quickly, âI love the worry, but itâs okay. I want to meet them, and I want to see pictures of my magic man as a baby.â
Fred groans; heâs forgotten about the baby pictures but from the look on your face, he know heâs fighting a losing battle. He kisses you quick, âIâll send an owl to my mum now, letting her know weâll come tomorrow, how does that sound?â
You hum happily, âThat sounds like just enough time for me to find an outfit good enough.â
-----------------
Molly Weasley opened Fredâs letter with a shriek; rushing to reply before getting started on calling the family together. She sends her Patronus to Charlie in Romania; threatening death should he not return home for this occasion. Charlie replies within two hours by showing up on the doorstep with his girlfriend, Evie in tow.
The whole family under one roof again would be something of an event; and one Molly would not waste by having petty squabbles and nasty reminders. She lines her family up in the living room; boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands and wives and proceeds to lecture about what this means. Sheâs grateful it being a Friday evening so she can lecture the whole family without absentees claiming work as the excuse.
Halfway through her lecture to her family, Arthur places a soft hand on her shoulder, âMolly, dear, weâre going to be on our best behaviour.â
She whimpers, âI havenât seen my son is so long, Arthur.â
He wraps an arm around his wifeâs shoulder, knowing the toll Fredâs absence took on her. He had been the unexpected twin; but they didnât love him any less for it. On the contrary, Molly loved him more for the fear of his siblings making him feel unwanted.
âI know, dear. But we all promise to be on our bestest behaviour, donât we gang?â
Confirmation rings out across all six of their children and their partners. Molly levels them all with a look, âFred is bringing his muggle girlfriend with him, and George has told me itâs serious. We arenât going to have a problem with that are we?â
âDefinitely not,â George calls out to the agreement of his siblings and siblings-in-law, â(Y/N) is a sweetheart; youâll see the moment they both arrive.â
Molly dismisses her family; dispersing them to different rooms with different jobs to make the house presentable for Fred and (Y/N)âs visit tomorrow.
-------------------
Tomorrow arrives quickly, and before you know it, the sun is shining through your window and the birds have begun their morning song. Fredâs arm hangs over your waist in a dead weight; you shift him gently as you make your way out of your bed and into the bathroom to begin your day.
By the time Fred wakes, youâre dressed and are brushing through your hair. With a lazy grin, he watches you get ready for the day. Heâs in utter awe of how he met someone like you, but then you meet his eyes in the mirror and that awe transforms into something warmer.
He drags himself out of the warm bed desperate to feel you under his hands. He places his hands on your shoulder, dropping a soft kiss to the top of your head.
âGood Morning,â He whispers, his voice still raspy with sleep, âYou look beautiful.â
You hum, âGood Morning sleepy head. The kettle boiled a few minutes ago and thereâs a teabag waiting in your favourite pot.â
âYouâre a dream,â Fred calls out, pottering into the kitchen.
âAnd youâre a flatterer, magic man,â You call back; grinning when you hear his laughter.
Time flies by in a rush of breakfast, clothes, and kisses and before you know it, itâs time to apparate all the way to Devon.
âAre you ready?â Fred asks; your hand tight in his. You donât miss the double meaning to his words.
âTake me to Devon, magic man,â is all you reply before your flat turns into a whirlpool of blended colours and youâre spat back out on the outskirts of green, green farmland.
Not letting go of your hand, Fred leads you in the direction of his childhood home. Air he hasnât smelt in over a year wash over him, bringing with it a tidal wave of memories. Nostalgia settles within him as he glances down at you to gauge your reaction to his home.
The Burrow stands proudly in the valley between two hills. You gasp at the sheer height of it, âThis is where you grew up?â
Fred nods, eyes on you, âIt is. I lived here until I moved to London.â
âItâs incredible,â You whisper, taking a step forward, and then another, and then another until you break through the long grass into a clearing. A garage is situated to the left of the large house, and you can just make out the canes for a vegetable garden. You nod as if understanding every motive for the placement of everything; if you were to live somewhere like here, youâd too grow your own food.
Fred draws your attention back to him by speaking, âThrough there is where we practice Quidditch; the game I told you about from Hogwarts?â He continues when he sees you nod, âThen behind there is a pond that a family of frogs live in. To the right of us is mumâs garden, itâs her pride and hoy â she excels at household charms, but sheâs a wonder in the garden too.â
âFred, this place is incredible. I already love it and I havenât even met your family.â
Fred smiles, âYou wonât need to wait very long; hereâs George.â
You turn from the sight of the growing vegetables to see George making his way over to you. âFred! (Y/N)! How are you?â he calls out.
Fred waves at his twin, leading you to him. âWeâre good, Georgie. How is everyone?â
George beams at his twin and then you, âTheyâre beside themselves with excitement. Mum screeched when she got your letter; gave us a lecture on decorum and everything.â
Fred laughs; his heart swelling with love and fondness for the woman who had raised him with such love and care.
âWhat do you say, (Y/N)?â George starts, âReady to meet the Weasley clan?â
You grin at George and then at Fred; utterly besotted by this man, âLead the way.â
George claps his hands before turning his back on you, heading towards the open door. You follow him at a faster pace than the one you had done when walking up to the house. Eagerness settling in your stomach as you keep your eyes on the open door.
Fred keeps pace with you easily; both nerves and excitement coursing through his veins.
He hears his mother before he sees her, âFred! My darling,â she cries, tackling him into a hug so tight Fred thinks his ribs might break. You pause next to him; Fredâs arm angled awkwardly as he hugs his mum with one arm â you move to let go of his hand so he can hug his mother properly, but his hold on you tightens.
âHi Mum, Iâve missed you,â Fred says at the sound of her cries, âIâm home mum, and Iâm starving so letâs get something to eat, shall we? Iâve missed your cooking too much.â
Molly wipes her eyes, running them over her son, âI think you have. Youâre looking far too thin, darling,â Her eyes land on you; they widen for a second before sheâs tackling you in a hug. She whispers, âThank youâ in your ear before saying much louder, âIâm so glad I finally get to meet you, dear. Iâve read so much about you I feel I know you already but itâs never the same thing.â
You return her hug with just as much vigour, âThank you for having me, I love your home.â
Molly pulls away, âYouâre lovely; youâre perfect for Fred, I know it. Come on in, itâs time we ate, and you can meet the rest of the family.â
Your stomach ties itself in knots as you follow Fred into his childhood home. Voices starts to shout upon the sight of Fred entering the home; he grins at them all, greeting them by name, passing out kiss after kiss on the cheek as well as hugs to his brothers.
Then itâs all silent as the crowd turns to you. Fredâs hand drops your and his arm wraps around your waist, âEveryone this is (Y/N). Please be nice, Iâm rather fond as youâve probably heard from mum and George.â
Everyone greets you as if youâve been part of the family for years; kisses on cheeks and tight hugs as everyone introduces themselves. A dream of your since you were child was to have  a large family, and now with Fred, it seems as if that dream would finally be possible.
His arm rests on the back of your chair as the family take their seats at the table. The food is served with loudness and love; Molly taking extra care with her cooking to make sure itâs perfect for you. From your first bite, you understand what Fred was on about all those months ago. After eating Mollyâs food, you would be ruined for anyone elseâs.
Itâs wonderful; they take you in with open arms, ignoring the fact that youâre a muggle because to them, it doesnât matter. They arenât bothered whether you have magic or not, just that you love Fred and make him happy.
------------------
After the meal, Fred watches you interact with his family; explaining to his father the purpose of your degrees and your plans for the future as Arthur sits there entirely enraptured. He watches you asking Charlie question after question about Dragons with Charlie only being too happy to answer â his girlfriend Evie chiming in every now and then with her own knowledge on the subject matter.
He watches you talk animatedly; eyed wide and hands gesturing wildly, fitting in with his family better than he could have dreamed of.
Sighing happily, Fred realises three things:
One â his family would always be there for him, no matter the issue. Theyâre there to help, to never hinder.
Two â heâs still healing. It will be a long time before heâs recovered from the war, and heâs accepted that.
And three â heâs moving forward with all that in tow because heâs found the love of his life and heâs finally ready to start living it.
*********
General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queenâ @obsessedwithrandomthingsâ @harrypotter289â @dreamer821â @kalimagikâ @heloisedaphnebrightmoreâ @nebulablakemurphyâ @the-hufflefluffwriterâ @figlia--della--lunaâ @bforbroadwayâ @idont-knowrnâ @summer-writesâ @big-galaxy-chaosâ @black-lake-confessionsâ @annasofiaearlobeâÂ
Fred Weasley taglist: @susceptible-but-siriusexual
#fred weasley x reader#fred weasley#fred weasley fanfiction#fred weasley fanfic#fred weasley imagine#fred weasley one shot#fred weasley x you#fred weasley x y/n#fred weasley fluff#fred fluff#fred weasley angst#fred angst#harry potter fanfiction#harry potter fanfic#harry potter x reader#the lightning era#hp fanfic#hp fanfiction#harry potter imagines#my writing#angst#fluff#slow burn romance#slow burn romance au#cute#romance#post hogwarts#fred weasley x fem!reader#the weasley twins#fred weasley reader insert
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Rafe Adler x F!Reader- No Ordinary Love
(All Fluff)
The clock in the living room continued ticking, feeling like hours had gone by instead of minutes. Rafe was late coming home, instead of working at home like he had always done, he had been continuing his research for Averyâs treasure, the last few nights you had slept alone, either he hadnât come home or he passed out from sleep deprivation. You had a few small arguments the mornings after, which normally resulted in shouting at each other, or you both feeling hurt and abandoned by one another, even if you didnât admit it. He would leave at eight in the morning to go back to working, you spent the days by yourself, well, not always, the maid would be here every day to clean but she would take the time to talk to you and make you feel less lonely and disappointed.
Horrible things were said that night, hurtful things thrown back and forth, he slept in a spare bedroom, you didnât sleep at all. You missed him, you missed everything about him, the smell of his expensive cologne, his minty breath, the smile he would greet you with when heâd come through the door or when heâd wake up knowing you were beside him. Even the little things, how his touch gave you that tingly butterfly feeling, the way heâd say âI love youâ, or how he knew your favourite drink, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic. And you loved hearing him talk about his work, but, you do wish he would take a break from looking for this treasure and spend time with you, it was taking up too much of his time but he insisted he was fine.
The maid was off duty tonight, you realised she needed some time off and honestly, you just wanted to be left alone, you were feeling too depressed to see anybody, checking your phone constantly for texts and missed calls from him, but there was nothing. Instead you scrolled through your photos, looking at pictures of the two of you, one of them was at a party event, you, in a very elegant dress and him in an expensive suit with his slicked back hair, his arm was around your waist and he was whispering something into your ear. You smiled remembering the good times. Exhaling, you got up from your shared bed and changed into one of his sweatshirts, grabbing a classic horror novel and left the room, closing the door behind you.
Before making your way into the large living room you stopped and made a detour to the kitchen, the white marble island top in the centre of the room, a single small crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, it was already dark outside and quite late, you expected him to come home by now considering it was past midnight. You set your book down on the counter and pulled open the fridge door, it was stacked with food, some drinks, beer, and other goodies. You grabbed some leftover takeout food and a bottle of water, taking a plate and finally setting yourself down on the velvet black couch. You pulled Rafeâs blanket over you, covering your legs from the cold.
You were halfway through your book already and you took your mind off of Rafe for the past hour, until you heard his car come up the driveway, hearing the large gates close. Normally he would have a chauffeur, but, it was him in the drivers seat. The headlights blinding you as it hit the windows. You pushed the book off of your lap and sat up, waiting for him to enter through the door. The lock clicked, the door slowly creaked open and there he was.
His hair had fallen in front of his eyes, he looked exhausted and stressed, instead of getting angry with him, your heart sank, you felt sympathy for him. He slid off his black jacket and it dropped onto the floor. Kicking off his black, Timberland boots and pushing them to the edge of the stairs. You just watched him, he didnât register your presence until he heard you cough a little.
âYouâre up late.â He said quietly. He walked his way over and sat on the couch beside you. The smell of his cologne made your heart flutter. Even years later in this relationship, he still made you feel like it was the first time you fell in love with him. His body was warm, his forearm grazed across yours, his skin was soft, his touch was gentle. People see him as cold but you knew him better than anybody.
âI couldnât sleep.â You said in the same tone as him. You wanted to hold him, but you two had barely said a word to each other since the fight. You looked down at his hands, and then his watch, just admiring how he looked.
You reached up and moved the stray hairs from his eyes, stroking his cheek. You smiled a small smile. Rafe needed the love more than you did right now, you wanted to take care of him this time. He deserved at least, that. You held his hand in yours and locked your fingers with his. You stood up from the couch, not letting go of him. He stood up along with you, and you led him upstairs to your shared bedroom on the second floor, not for sex, but just for the comfort he desperately needed from you. No words needed to be said, he wouldnât admit he was sorry but you knew he was.
You let go of his hand and entered the dark room, you kept the lights off and laid on the bed, laying on your left side. He sluggishly walked over and slumped on the bed, his eyes closed, watching his chest rise and lower at his breathing. He stretched his arm out and rested it across your body, gently pulling at your waist for you to move closer. âCâmere.â He mumbled. You shuffled over to him and wrapped your arms around him, holding him close to your body, his head resting under your neck.
You waited ten minutes before asking him about the treasure hunting. His breathing was content and calm. âSo, did you uh,- did you find anything new about Averyâs treasure?â You whispered, stroking his back with your hand. He sighed, annoyed but not because of you. He felt disappointed in himself, he felt as though it was his fault he wasnât getting anywhere.
âNo,â He said firmly. âJust more goddamn dead ends.â You pulled the covers over the both of you, listening to him.
âYouâll find it, I know you will, Rafe.â His heart had a warm feeling with those words that you spoke. Your encouragement and belief in him, was enough for him to keep going. You were his lucky charm. He pressed a light kiss to your skin, it was his way of thanking you without actually saying the words.
Another hour went by, and neither of you were asleep. It was three in the morning, a few cars drove by the mansion, watching headlights sprint across the glass windows, some birds were chirping already, and the moonlight was shining into the room. You two spoke all night long about his findings, his searches and the future plan for his success.
Rafe stretched and sat up, scratching his head, and slid off his black shirt and jeans and left them on the bedroom floor before sliding back into the bed. He got into a comfortable position and faced you, admiring your features, his blue-green eyes showing love and kindness even when his face didnât show it. He loved you, more than anything, possibly more than this treasure, but, you were sure it wasnât an ordinary relationship being with him. It was difficult, things would go wrong but most of the time it went right, and you both made it work, sticking together as a team, through thick and thin. He moved some hair from your face, his fingertips brushing past your cheeks.
âWhat are you doing?â You whispered again and looked at him, a smile brought to your face, when you saw a smile appear on his own. You were buried in the covers but he brought you towards him. The smell of blood orange and sandalwood was a scent you had always remembered whenever he was around. He felt like home, like the safest place in the world was with him.
He said nothing and instead leaned in and kissed your lips. It was tender, loving and soft. He loved you, for a very long time, in his mind, he promised to love you forever, and that was something he intended to keep. You were, and always will be, his girl.
#rafe adler#rafe x reader#rafe adler x reader#uncharted#uncharted 4#imagines#imagine#fanfiction#fanfic#x reader#uncharted x reader#a thiefs end#uncharted a thiefs end#uncharted 4: a thief's end
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The Rules of Engagement (1/5)
part one of the The Better Love SeriesÂ
pairing: Javier PeĂąa x fem reader
summary: (slow-burn, sexual tension, angst, a little bit of h/c in later chapters) Heâs a DEA agent. You work for Centra Spike. PeĂąaâs not your boss, exactly, but youâve been fwb long enough that certain people are starting to think of you as An Item, and that just wonât do.Â
words: 6.3kÂ
warnings: 18+ - drugs, violence, language, alcohol, eventual smut.Â
a/n: at the end. @tiffdawgâ, I finally did it.
part one | part two | part three | part four | part five
MASTERLIST
Your alarm buzzes, and you roll over groggily.Â
0615.
Goddamn. You flop a pillow over your head, blocking out the early morning sun, and wonder if three hours of sleep is any better than no sleep at all.Â
Somehow, you kind of doubt it.Â
The alarm blares again, a failsafe youâd been wise enough to set up after round two had led you to the shower. You gather your still-damp hair, wincing at how gross that feels, and elbow PeĂąa in the shoulder.Â
âMorning, sunshine!â You toss your soggy pillow onto his face.Â
He grunts pathetically, cracks an eye just enough to send you a sliver of resentment, and lifts a middle finger vaguely in your direction.Â
Youâre completely unsympathetic. âNot my fault this time, PeĂąa.âÂ
He curses you in Spanish as you flick on the lights on your way to the kitchen. Coffee is your first order of business.Â
Youâre not sure exactly when Agent PeĂąa became a fixture in your apartment. Oh, you can nail down the general timeline pretty well - a night out with the Search Bloc boys had ended with PeĂąa coming to your place, and things had unfolded naturally from there. The sex was good. Very good. Youâve always had a high drive, and PeĂąa is a man who can deliver. Youâre pretty creative, and heâs fairly open minded, and neither of you seem to care to make things complicated with Labels and Conversations. Somewhere down the line, wild nights out evolved into even wilder nights in, and then, before you knew it, youâd let PeĂąa borrow your spare key when heâd left his wallet on your coffee table.Â
That had been at least two months ago. The sex is still good, and PeĂąa is still leaving his shit everywhere, so neither of you bothered to say anything about it.Â
It works. Thatâs all that matters.
Youâve just sat down with your drink in your hands as the doorbell buzzes. âWhat the fuck?â You glance at the kitchen clock. Itâs not even 0630.
The doorbell buzzes again.Â
You eyeball the gun that PeĂąa has left lying on the kitchen counter. Nobody should be looking for you this early in the morning.Â
âHey!â Somebody is knocking now, and shouting, and ugh, you recognize that voice. You leave the gun where it is - somewhat reluctantly - and slam open the door with a ferocity that sends Steve Murphy stumbling into your kitchen.Â
âGood morning,â you say serenely.Â
âGood morning to you, too, Ears,â Murphy grimaces up at you.Â
âThatâs not my name,â you remind him for the thousandth time. Not that it will make any difference. Ever since youâd made the mistake of introducing yourself as Centra Spikeâs new liaison by saying, âIâll be your ears,â the Search Bloc boys had leapt at the opportunity to tease. Youâre pretty sure most of them donât realize that you have any other name.Â
Somehow, it irks you more coming from Murphy.Â
âWhat are you doing here?â you ask as politely as your temper allows. Murphy has never been your favorite person, and your caffeine definitely hasnât kicked in yet.
Murphy rights himself, fixing you with a glare that doesnât threaten in the slightest. âIâm looking for Javi,â he says. He has the audacity to glance around your tiny living space, as if heâd come with a search warrant.
You fold your arms across your chest, suddenly aware of your too-thin nightshirt, and lift a brow in Murphyâs direction. âAnd what makes you think heâd be here?â
Murphy pins you with an âI see right through your bullshitâ expression. âCall it a hunch.âÂ
Right on cue, footsteps clatter down the kitchen stairs. Murphy smirks. You donât bother to hide a sigh.Â
Fuck.Â
âWhat are you doing here?â PeĂąa echoes you unconsciously. You try not to cringe at the smug glance Murphy throws your way.
 Instead, you turn to glare at Javi, and oh god.Â
His shirt is buttoned all wrong, hanging lopsided and displaying half his chest, if heâd just given up at the top.Â
Subtle.
Murphy apparently doesnât have the stones to address it, because he waves a manilla folder in front of PeĂąaâs face. âSpecial delivery,â he says, dropping the file on your coffee table with a smack.Â
PeĂąa dives for it, brow furrowed. Whatever he sees must be good, because he snaps his head up to stare at Murphy. âWhere did you get these?â he asks, thumbing through the pages.
âMy contact in MedellĂn.â Steve rests his hands on his belt ever so casually, as if daring PeĂąa to question him.Â
PeĂąa does. âSince when do you have a contact in MedellĂn?âÂ
You wonder the same. Partners are usually aware of each otherâs informants, unless itâs that kind of contact. Isnât Murphy married?
âNot important.â Murphy shuts him down quickly.Â
âVerdugo,â PeĂąa breathes.
You shoot a questioning glance at Murphy. In the three months youâve been in Colombia, your Spanish is rapidly improving, but Murphy has been here longer, and some things are still beyond you. âButcher,â he translates with a grimace. âOr executioner. One of Escobarâs top sicarios.â
You wrinkle your nose. âLovely.â
PeĂąa glances up, surprised to hear you speak, as if heâd forgotten that heâs standing in your living room.
Murphy doesnât acknowledge you. âHeâs in MedellĂn, Javi.â He stretches, then makes for your front door. âIâm gonna turn in for a bit. Late night.âÂ
PeĂąa grunts, settling on your sofa with the file as Murphy sees himself out.Â
You sidle up behind him, curious. He knows youâre there - your hair is falling over his shoulder and youâre doing nothing to stifle your breathing, but PeĂąaâs only acknowledgement of your presence is to shift his body ever so slightly to the left, unspokenly granting you access to the file.
You bite your lip, pleased and a little unnerved at the implication. You suppose that PeĂąa wouldnât be PeĂąa unless heâs breaking the rules. He certainly has a reputation for it.
It hits a little differently, though, knowing that heâs committing a felony just to satisfy your curiosity. And on your fucking sofa, too.
You shake the butterflies away. PeĂąa is flipping through a series of grainy photos, each showcasing the same guy. Somebody, Murphy probably, has circled his face in red ink, and there are further notes in the margins, written hastily. Landmarks, you guess. PeĂąa is reading too fast for you to decipher much, but you spot a map of what you assume is MedellĂn in the shuffle. It is similarly annotated with scrawling red ink.
PeĂąa flips through the file once, and then again, slower.Â
You brace yourself on on your forearms, glancing at the clock. You arenât expected at the embassy until eight - you can afford to be patient.Â
Whatever this is, itâs big.
Deciding youâve gleaned all you can from the file, you turn your attention to PeĂąa. Heâs leaned forward on your sofa, arms on thighs, lost in thought. Every muscle is tensed, as if he could spring up at any moment, his gaze is narrowed, his brow furrowed in a way that tempts you to lick it.Â
The thought startles you. You arenât a goddamn animal.
Are you? Your mind drifts to Murphy, smirking with his arms folded in your kitchen like he could see through your nightshirt, right into your fucking brain.Â
A stone sinks in your chest. Landing this position with Centra Spike had been your first big break in a lifetime of frustrations. Youâd joined the army fresh out of school, angling to be an analyst with the special forces. The good olâ U. S. of A. had gladly foot the bill for your education in exchange for you signing your life away, and youâd chugged through a mind-numbingly boring double major of mathematics and computer science, all on the sage advice of your recruiter.Â
The reality of active duty was a kick in the fucking teeth. The brass had taken one look at you - a wide-eyed, idealistic woman with a big hair and bigger goals - and promptly slapped you with a desk job. Youâd spent three more years rotting away in a forgotten back corner of an office building in Kuwait, filing reports and delivering messages. Occasionally, theyâd throw you a bone and hand you a code to rewrite. Your commanding officer got all the credit, and you were just a glorified secretary.
By the time your contract was up, youâd been sidelined, interrupted, passed-over, underestimated, scoffed, and just flat-out ignored enough to be thoroughly fed up with military life. The glass ceiling in the U.S. Army is raised just high enough to suffocate its victims slowly, and you were sick sick of being stifled.Â
Being recruited by the CIA for analyst work in the hunt for Pablo Escobar had been pure, dumb luck. Right now, you might just be a liaison, but this is your shot. Your last one, probably, and youâre not willing to give it up just to get laid.
Not even for the best lay of your life.
PeĂąa slaps the file shut with gentle smack, startling you from your thoughts. He reaches for his boots, moving with a single-minded determination that youâd find sexy if it werenât so damned inconvenient.
âPeĂąa.â
He doesnât react, just gathers his badge and keys from the end table as if you arenât even there.
âPeĂąa.â You say it louder this time.
âHmm?âÂ
âJavi!â You call his name without even realizing it, and it works. His head snaps up, eyes wide, staring at you as if heâs just now seen you for the first time.
You have his undivided attention now.Â
âYeah?�� He blinks, all wide brown eyes, and fuck it all, you can feel yourself flushing under his gaze.Â
You swallow hard, push past the strange flutter in your chest. âWeâre getting too predicable.âÂ
His brow furrows. âCome again?â
You decide to take the high road, but you canât stop your lips twitching at the obvious joke that heâs left himself open for. Heâs quick to follow your though process, though - his eyes sparkle with laugher, daring you to call him on his blunder.Â
Shit.
You press on. âThis,â you start, grimacing. Heâs still looking at you, and his expression is warm. Flirtatious. âWhat weâre doingâŚâ Goddamn, your face is aflame. âI mean, weâre not exactly subtle.â
He draws back, expression shuttering instantly. âDonât worry about Murphy,â he says firmly. âHeâll keep his mouth shut.â
The âif he knows whatâs good for himâ is clearly implied.
âItâs not just Murphy,â you press. You canât exactly put into words what it is that you're trying to make PeĂąa understand, you just know it's important that he does.
âWhat are you suggesting?â Heâs standing now, still holding the file against his chest, as if to defend himself with it.Â
You shake your head. âI think,â you say slowly, trying hard not to catch his eye, âthat we need to cool it.â
Silence. You can feel his raised eyebrow.
You step forward. Youâre focusing hard on finding the right words without revealing too much, but your hands are desperate for something to do. âWe need to stop fucking around.â
There, you said it.
âOh?â Thereâs something amused in his tone, but you shrug it off, still refusing to look at him.
âYeah,â you answer hotly. âIsnât this fraternization? Shouldnât we be worried about our careers, or some shit? We both have a lot to lose here.â You glance up, emboldened by your speech. âDo you want to catch Escobar or not?â
Heâs looking down at you, not taking you the least bit seriously, expression damn near indulgent.Â
Indignation sets a fire in your chest.
âYou think you can just quit me, cold turkey,â he asks in a voice as smooth as silk.
Goddammit, heâs mocking you.
âAbsolutely.â You look him firmly in the eye, former awkwardness forgotten, more determined than youâve ever been.Â
He huffs directly in your face. âYou wonât last a week, Ears.â He cups your cheek in his hand, skimming your jawline with his thumb. âI know you, remember.â
Oh, the bastard. âYou think you can go longer?â You counter, stepping into his chest. Youâre pissed now. PeĂąa is a well-known man whore, and you know, know, that you are exactly his type.
He laughs now, openly and genuinely amused. âLonger than you,â he says, glancing down at where your hands are absently fiddling with the buttons of his shirt.Â
Oh, fuck.Â
âIâm fixing you, you absolute asshole,â you hiss, beyond grateful that youâve yet to undo his last cockeyed button. âUnless you want to show up at the office all freshly fucked and lopsided.â You hold up the hem of his shirt, clearly displaying his mismatched edges.
âOh.â At least he has the grace to look abashed.Â
âYeah,â you swallow dryly, suddenly aware of how close he his, smelling of coffee and cigarettes, sex and the scent of your own bedsheets.Â
Goddamn, you want him already.Â
You push it all away, patting him condescendingly on the chest. Two can play this game. âJust looking out for your career, Agent PeĂąa.â
He sighs somewhat theatrically, but you can see the conflict warring in him.Â
âWell, then, Ears,â he says after a long moment. He rebuttons his shirt properly this time, fingers working quickly. âGuess Iâll see you around.âÂ
You meet his gaze evenly. âGuess so.â
The door shuts behind him, and you sink to the sofa. Itâs still warm from where heâd been sitting.
Oh fuck, what have you done?
â
Youâre not watching, youâre not, but you canât help but notice when PeĂąa comes swaggering into the office at ten am, wearing those sunglasses and those fucking too-tight, dark wash jeans, chugging a cup of coffee like he knows that his exposed neck is a weapon.Â
You make eye contact through the glass, just for a moment, and he winks at you.
You smirk back, a plan forming in your mind.
This means war.Â
â
You retaliate by letting your hair curl wild over your shoulders and squeezing yourself into a leather skirt that is just barely work appropriate. The Search Bloc boys bombard you with whistles and winks and catcalls all day.Â
Itâs worth it, though, to see Agent PeĂąaâs eyes go wide and blinking, to watch him swallow so hard.Â
âFucking tease,â Murphy hisses as you glide past his desk.Â
You flip him off in response.Â
â
Your apartment feels strangely empty.Â
Itâs Saturday afternoon. Search Bloc is investigating a tip in MedellĂn, and Centra Spike doesnât need you in today. You briefly consider going out, but that would involve changing out of your sweats, and besides, aside from the Search Bloc guys, you really donât have many friends in Colombia.Â
You sit down on your sofa, drawing the coffee table toward you, and deal yourself a hand of solitaire. The cards had belonged to your dad before he passed them down to you, and they are comfortable in your hand, worn soft with age. Thereâs a trick to shuffling a deck this old, and something comfortable in the practice.Â
The hand you deal is a losing hand.Â
Frustrated, you stomp down the stairs to the little pharmacy below your flat. âHola, Emilio!â you wave to the older man working the counter. Emilio doesnât speak much English, and your Spanish is improving slower than youâd like, but you mostly manage to communicate just fine.Â
You make your way to the little display of liquor bottles and ponder it for a minute. Thereâs nothing remotely recognizable on the shelves, but youâre not exactly committed to buying anything, anyway.Â
Thereâs nothing more pathetic than drinking alone.Â
 A presence at your shoulder makes you jump. Itâs just Emilio. He smiles at you, and reaches for a bottle of clear liquor whose packaging reminds you a little too much of antiseptic hand spray for comfort. He presses it into your hands. âGuaro.â
âThis is what I need, then?â you ask him. âEste? Itâs good?â
âGuaro.â Heâs nodding and grinning, rattling something in rapid-fire Spanish that youâre far too slow to translate. The enthusiasm behind it is hard to miss, though.
âHe says itâs good and strong. Respect it, and it will respect you.â Emiloâs daughter winks up at you. Sheâs bent over, stocking shelves, and youâd missed her, distracted as youâd been by your conversation with Emilio.
You smile gratefully. Ana must be home from university this weekend. Youâve only met once or twice, but sheâs kind, and doesnât mind translating for you. You think you might have been friends, if she was around more.
âGracias,â you tell her, and mean it. âAguardiente,â you sound out slowly, frowning down at the bottle. âSugar water?â
âSomething like that.â Ana rises, leaving the box of chicharrones on the floor. âYouâll find that most of the locals just call it guaro. Itâs a staple in Colombia. Hard to find anywhere else, and even transporting it between cities is dangerous.â She rolls her eyes and shrugs, as if to say, âwhatâs new?âÂ
âBut itâs just liquor, right?âÂ
âYeah, I think so. Alcohol, sugar, aniseâŚâ She shrugs, and laughs. âSimple, but thereâs something magic about it. You donât want to go too hard with this. Sit down and have a small glass with a lime. Slower is better.âÂ
You frown. Anise. It jogs something in your memory, some long-forgotten factâŚ
âTrust me.â Ana is at your elbow now, pinning you with an earnest stare. âIt hits hard, and fast. Papa wasnât lying.â
You laugh. âIs that the college experience speaking?â
âOh, yes. Seguro.âÂ
Ana follows you as you take the bottle of guaro to the register. âAnd how are your classes going?â you ask as Emilio rings you up.Â
Ana grimaces, shaking her head as she cuts her gaze to Emilio. âItâs good to have a little break,â she admits.Â
You sympathize with that. You hadnât cared too much for the tedium of higher education either. Emilio hands you a little paper bag, and you wave goodbye to him with a smile. âIâll have to catch you when youâve got a free weekend,â you tell Ana as you head toward the stairs that lead to your flat. You hold up the liquor suggestively. âYou can teach me all about how to respect this guaro.â
Ana laughs. âWhat are you doing this evening? We close up at eight.â
Your face breaks into a grin. Itâs hard making friends in Colombia just with the language barrier alone, never mind that your work with Centra Spike forces you to keep so many secrets. Without PeĂąa around, life here is lonely. But Ana seems innocent enough, and itâs just a drink. âPerfect! Iâll be here.â
You walk up the steps feeling much lighter than when you descended them.
â
Ana doesnât stay long. She looks around your apartment, carefully assessing, then nodding as if satisfied.Â
You let it go.
She teaches you to tap the bottom of the bottle to expel the liquor, almost as if youâre pouring ketchup from a glass container. Looking at the contents, they donât seem particularly viscous. When you ask her why this is necessary, Ana shrugs. âItâs a mystery,â she tells you, and you write it off as one of the eccentricities of Colombian culture, paying rapt attention as Ana begins explaining one of only three acceptable ways to serve the guaro. Â
â
âIâve got something for you,â you announce brightly, slapping both hands firmly on Javier PeĂąaâs desk and leaning in just a hair too close to be strictly professional.Â
âOh?â His face breaks into a slow smirk, and he tilts back in his swivel chair, stretching just enough to give you a good view of those too-tight jeans as he hooks his fingers behind his head. âAnd whatâs that?â
Smug fucking bastard knows exactly what heâs doing. You cool your jets and wink at him, teasing a manilla file for him to see. âWe thought you might like this.â
âWe?â
âOkay, fine, Jacoby caught some chatter, but I vetted it,â you press on, refusing to let him derail you. This is huge. âItâs Verdugo.â
PeĂąa glances up at you, suddenly intense. âYou sure?â
âWell, itâs not him personally,â you admit. âAt least, not his voice. But,â You slam the transcript down on his desk. âWe caught an entire conversation verifying his presence at a safehouse in MedellĂn.â You pause for full dramatic effect before going in for the kill. âA specific safehouse in MedellĂn.â
Javi reverts to Agent PeĂąa instantly, all flirting forgotten as he leans forward on his elbows. âShow me.â
You bend over, noticing absently that your hair is once again falling into his face as you tap your finger over the address. PeĂąa settles in to read the full report as you watch, his eyes darting back and forth over the pages at a rate that is truly impressive. When he glances back up at you, the ferocity of his gaze is startling.Â
âTheyâre getting ready to make a move.â Thereâs something like a spark of hope in his eyes, tiny, but growing stronger as he processes the information youâve given him.
âYeah,â you say, throat suddenly dry. Heâs looking at you with earnest gratitude, and it tugs at something deep in your chest.
âThis is big,â he breathes, and just like that, heâs on his feet, gathering the file, punching a number into his desktop telephone.Â
âThis is PeĂąa,â he says as the call connects. âWeâve got something.â
â
Itâs dark when you finally get home. Claudia Messina, head of DEA operations in Colombia, had cornered you in her office for hours, going over and over the information youâd vetted. You brain is absolutely fried, the victory of the discovery stifled by having to defend your work again and again.Â
You just need a drink.Â
âAbout time!â a voice startles you as you turn to shut the door behind you. You jump, barely suppressing a shriek, and whirl around.Â
Goddamn Javier PeĂąa with his goddamned spare key.
Heâs smirking at you from your sofa, cigarette dangling from his fingers. Any other day, youâd have noticed his presence instantly just from the smell.Â
âWhat the fuck?â Your voice is more of a whine than youâd like, but dammit, youâre tired, and dammit, heâs gotten one over on you.Â
He knows it, too, the smug bastard. âExpecting somebody else?â he asks, sauntering toward you with a devastating smile that manages to be both possessive and suggestive all at once.Â
âNo,â you answer somewhat grumpily. âI wasnât expecting anybody.â
Given your sulky attitude, youâre surprised to see that his smile brightens a bit. You frown at him, still confused as to why the fuck he is here, and he bustles into the kitchen, clinking around, pouring you a drink.Â
You sigh and relax onto the sofa. At least youâll have that.
He comes back, a tumbler of clear liquor in each hand. Ah, so heâs found your guaro. You suspect that heâs helped himself to at least one measure already. He hands you a glass, and you take it gratefully, sniffing at the contents.Â
Heâs drinking it neat, apparently.
âSo!â he says, settling beside you on the sofa, close enough that your thighs touch. He pins you with an intense stare. You raise a brow in response, intrigued and a little confused.Â
He smiles. âYour tip from this morning was a gold mine, Ears.â He eases back, propping his feet on your coffee table in a way that you should probably reprimand him for. He sips, sighs, leans in to bump your shoulder playfully, then settles with his hands at his waist, long fingers fiddling with the glass heâs cradling. âMartinez wants us to go for Verdugo tomorrow,â he tells you, suddenly serious. âBased on your information.âÂ
âReally?â You can hardly believe it. Most of what you do is verify things that others have found, or carry files from Centra Spike to Search Bloc. Same old, same old. Even though youâve trained for this for years, youâve never been integral in interpreting and locating a conversation before, especially not for a target as high level as Verdugo.Â
Javi twists to smile up at you, a real smile. âReally,â he says, pointing a finger in your direction. He watches you fight back a grin. âGo on, be smug. This is big.â
âWow,â you mouth, somewhat awed that youâve contributed anything, let alone this, to the hunt for Pablo Escobar.Â
The reaction isnât lost on Javi. He sits up, wraps his arms around your shoulders and squeezes gently. âPretty much. You gave us enough information that we feel confident about initiating a sting in MedellĂn.â He reaches up with both hands, catching your face at the edge of your jaw and drawing you close. âWe couldnât have done it without you, Ears.â
Ears. Yours are burning at the heat of his touch. Youâre acutely aware of his palms cupping your cheeks. His eyes are dark, too dark, and open, looking at you as if youâve single handled handed Escobar to the DEA on a golden platter.Â
You suppress a shudder, leaning in to him as he pulls you in for a hug. Christ, his body feels so good as it cradles yours, arms snaking around your back, stubble gritting awkwardly into your cheek, the scent of smoke and liquor clouding you -
You wonder, abruptly, how much heâs had to drink.
âPeĂąa,â you say swiftly, pulling away from him to stand. The way heâs looking at you right now, giddy and awestruck and openly hungry, well, itâs not going to last. You know it wonât. It canât.Â
His face falls, as if heâs confused at your sudden rejection.Â
You shake your head. PeĂąa is just drunk. You guys arenât like this. You donât hug and share and hold each other. It was only ever sex, and itâs not even that anymore.Â
Youâre overwhelmed, suddenly and without warning, at how desperately you want him.Â
Not just the sex, though honestly, you have missed that. No, what you want is -Â
You shove that thought down, locking it away so deeply that it will never see the light of day.Â
You cannot have feelings for Javier PeĂąa.Â
âEars?â he questions, tilting his head just so, managing to look more sober than he has all evening.Â
âI just need another drink,â you say as you sidestep him, making your way to the kitchen. You watch him from the corner of your eyes as his gaze follows you. He seems to take your deference at face value - heâs lighter than youâve seen him in weeks, excited, almost chipper, if you can believe it. The meeting with Martinez must have gone very well. You snort, contrasting his meeting to yours with Messina. The dissonance is enough to wonder, offhandedly, if some not-so-subtle sexism is at play.Â
You shake off that thought. Itâs not helpful, just depressing, especially here in Colombia. Instead, you turn to look at Javi.Â
Heâs still flopped on your sofa, his original drink in his hand, hunched over the stack of playing cards that youâd left out last night.Â
Your dad had taught you to play solitaire from a young age. Thereâs a variation for two players, a game which one will inevitably win, but the real challenge is for the single player, in which triumph relies equally on skill and luck. Last night, after Ana had left, youâd played a long, brutal game, ultimately finding yourself blocked, helpless to do anything but shuffle the deck over, and over, and over again.Â
Losing two games in a row is just shameful, and youâd left the cards on the table, eager to look at them again with fresh eyes.Â
Javi eyeballs the game with a furrowed brow. Youâd managed to make it quite far. Had the cards fallen in any different order, youâd have won easily. Carefully, Javi flicks over one card from the stack, frowns, then another. This one is a red queen, and he plays it eagerly, shuffling the black jack to its new position and opening up another space.Â
âHey!â you protest. He glances up at you, bemused, and you shove a newly made drink into his hand as you settle beside him.Â
âYou missed that move,â he explains, pointing exaggeratedly with the pinky finger that holds the tumbler.Â
You roll your eyes. âI play draw three,â you correct him. You reshuffle the cards to their original places, this time drawing three from the deck: a five of spades on top, Javiâs red queen in the middle, and the ace of spades below both. The top card, the five of spades, has no place to be played, so you flip all three cards into the discard pile and draw three more from the deck.Â
Javi frowns. âSeems like youâre making it a lot harder than it has to be.â
You sigh. Men. âSingle draw solitaire is for kids,â you counter with a vicious smile. âJust for them to learn to play the game. Real players draw three.â
He huffs, âOh, really?â heâs smirking up at you, eyes sparkling in amusement. âAre you the kind of woman who likes a challenge, Ears?â
Heâs just dying to prove you wrong.Â
âIâm the kind of woman who refuses to cut corners just so I can win a dumb card game.â you inform him sagely. Â
âHmmm,â he says, staring contemplatively at the cards. You let him shuffle through the deck twice, each time verifying what you already know - the game, played as it is, is unbeatable.Â
âSeems a little silly to me,â he teases, bopping you on the nose. âLetting your ego get in the way of winning.â
Of course Javier PeĂąa would see it that way. You kick back, letting your feet settle at the edge of the coffee table. âGo on then,â you tell him, siping at your drink. âSwoop in and save my game with your kiddie version, you fucking hero.â
He laughs overtly at that, eyes sparkling, and something clenches hard in your chest. You donât think youâve ever seen him so open, laughing and flirting and playing stupid games after a long day at work.Â
Itâs nice.
You settle in to watch him work his magic. Heâs making plays at an alarming rate - it seems like no time at all before the deck is empty.Â
You glance at the clock, biting back a sigh. Less than five minutes.Â
Heâs smirking up at you, all mussed and smug, eyes alight with warmth, and suddenly, something swoops dangerously in your belly.
That hair, those eyes, his laugh. Warm skin in the dim glow of the lamplight, his body sprawled over your sofa, just begging to be teased.Â
You wonder again why heâs here. Youâve made it clear that thereâs no more sex, soâŚ
Oh, god.Â
Glancing back down at him, tousled hair and crooked smile, ridiculous mustache, plopped indelicately on your sofa, you suddenly realize.Â
Javier PeĂąa had sought you out for your company. For no other reason than that heâd had a good day, and wanted to share it with you.Â
And oh, oh god.
Youâre still so caught up in the sex and your fucking feelings that you canât divorce that from your friendship, which is obviously important to him. Heâs not out celebrating with Murphy - heâs here, in your apartment, with no expectation other than to kick your ass by cheating at childrenâs card games.Â
The realization takes the breath from your lungs.Â
Youâre the problem here. Just like with the fucking card game, youâre the one making it complicated.Â
Javi needs a friend.Â
Javi needs a friend, and heâd sought you out so that you can just chill together, and all you can think as he shuffles those damned cards is how the callouses of his fingers would catch deliciously against your clit as he dips them inside you.Â
And, andâŚ
You cut off that dark thought. You are not going there.
Jesus Christ, what kind of friend are you?
âWell, this calls for a celebration,â you say. Itâs a beat too late and obviously hollow, but Javi doesnât seem to notice, and youâve managed to keep the tremor out of your voice, so thatâs a win. You rise, making for the kitchen, desperate to do something with your hands. You find yourself pouring Javi yet another drink - is this his third? Or fourth? You arenât sure - and making yourself a second, much lighter version.Â
The last thing you want is to do something stupid.
Javi meets you at the kitchen bar, and you slide the tumbler across to him. He eyeballs it speculatively, raising it and tilting it to view the contents in the dim kitchen light.Â
âGoddamn, Ears.â He snorts. âAre you trying to poison me?âÂ
The denial falls from your tongue as he tilts back his glass from earlier, his second, - or third? - the one that youâd made. He swallows, pushing the empty glass back into you hand, and stands, catching himself on the edge of the table as if heâd moved too fast.
âAlright?â you ask.
He takes a deep breath, then straightens, slowly letting go of the countertop. âFine,â he says, cocking a brow at you. âBut what is that stuff?â
You laugh. âEmilio, you know, from downstairs, he found it for me. Says itâs a Colombian staple, and I canât leave without having a bottle at least once.â
Javi blinks one too many times, then giggles. Despite your best effort, you snort at the sound. "Well then,â he raises his full tumblr to your half full one, and they clink awkwardly. âTo local rotgut and poor life choices,â he toasts, as solemnly as he as able.
âSalud!â you counter, managing to sound a just a hair more sober. Javi is swaying as he stands, and suddenly, youâre concerned. âWhen did you last eat?â
He glances at you, tilting his head as if your question makes no goddamn sense, and you sigh heavily. Idiot man.
âOkay, hold off on that one,â you warn him - he looks as if heâs about to toss it back, too. âLet me at least make you some eggs first.â
âEggs?âÂ
Youâre already bustling around your tiny kitchen, pulling a pan from below the stove. âYeah, moron,â you tell him, unable to stop the grin that catches your lips. âEggs and salsa. Best food for staving off a hangover that Iâve found so far.â
Javi throws back the rest of his drink anyway, then comes to press his body to your side. âIs that a fact?â
âItâs a fucking science,â you counter, unable to resist slamming your hips into his to nudge him out of the way as you reach into the fridge for the butter.Â
He wraps his arms around your shoulders, sinking his face into the crook of your neck. âHow can I be of assistance?â he purrs into your ear, and suddenly, itâs very, very hard to concentrate on cooking.Â
âSit. Down.â You hiss, slapping his butt with a dishtowel. He yowls more than strictly necessary, the drama queen; youâre an excellent towel-popper, but it shouldnât hurt that much.Â
Still, you rub his ass in compensation, matching his lecherous grin when he fixes it on you. âHave a seat,â you tell him again, kicking a barstool vaguely in his direction. âAnd watch the magic.â
â
Javi cleans his plate enthusiastically. âSo whatâs the secret?â he asks, mouth full, still staring up at you like your shitty scrambled eggs are the best meal heâs ever eaten.
You snort. âNo secret, PeĂąa.â You hold up your stick of butter, much lighter than itâd been before, and toss it back into the fridge. âYou literally just watched me cook them.â
He grins loopily.
You shake your head, biting back your own smile. How could a man as competent and independent as Javier PeĂąa forget to do something as basic as eat?Â
Well, it hardly matters. Even with the food youâve made, heâs going to have a massive hangover in the morning. Ana had cautioned you several times to go easy on the guaro, and you trust her judgement. Emilioâs shit, in particular, is cheap, potent, and deadly.Â
Well, heâll pay for it tomorrow. You shake you head, watching him bumble around the kitchen and drop his dirty plate in the sink. Javi stands at your side, warm and solid as you draw just enough water to let the dishes soak.Â
He reaches for your dish soap, and you stop him with a hand on his arm. Javi glances down at you, still a little drunkenly, but his eyes are warm, his lips parted just slightly, and you pull away from him as if burned.
âIâll get them in the morning,â you manage hoarsely.
He shrugs, brushes your shoulder with his hand as he bumbles away, and you take a moment to lean against the sink and calm your racing heart.Â
God, what is with you lately?
Javi has already crashed on your sofa, shoes kicked off, legs sprawled, grinning lazily in your direction.Â
You manage not to oogle at him, but itâs a near thing.
Instead, you flop down on his opposite side, allowing your legs to tangle in the middle.
He makes a big show of yawning, tilting his wrist up to glance at his watch. You crane your neck to look at the kitchen clock. Itâs only 10:33, but youâre both feeling a little lit - Javi more than you, thankfully - and you both have a big day tomorrow.Â
You sigh, reaching down to collect the empty glasses and discarded playing cards, slipping Javiâs keys in your back pocket while heâs not looking.
He scoffs.
Oh. You whirl, realizing heâd been watching you all along.Â
âSo, am I staying over, Ears?â He grins up at you, a little tired, but still in an excellent mood.Â
âYou are definitely staying over, PeĂąa,â you tell him firmly, trying not to laugh at the wounded puppy expression on his face as he reacts to your tone. His eyes have gone so wide, pout so pathetic that you canât help but grin, even as you toss a throw pillow haphazardly over his lap.Â
That seems to get a rise out of him. He sits up, frowning at the pillow. âIâm on the sofa?â he whines.Â
âYup!â you say happily, enjoying the power dynamic for what it is. Putting Javier PeĂąa in your bed tonight would lead straight toâŚ
Well, youâre both drunk, and even if you werenât, youâre not willing to give up on your bet. Not with the nasty realization that youâd had tonight, for sure.Â
Javi must follow your thoughts, because he sobers instantly. âOkay,â he says softly, settling back down and cramming the pillow beneath his shoulder.
Youâre kind enough to tuck him in, which really just consists of dragging your comforter from you bed and draping it over his ass and shoulders. His boots are lying haphazardly on the floor - you decide to leave them for him to trip over in the morning - and you donât bother to cover his feet, knowing that he sleeps with his socks outside of the blanket, the weirdo.
Just as you turn away, a single brown eye catches your gaze. Heâd been watching you again.
The thought sends a tremor down your spine. âNeed anything else?â you ask clinically, trying to ignore the urge to either kiss him, or scream.Â
He huffs contentedly, rocking against the cushions like an animal sinking into a burrow. His eyes drift closed, and you canât help but just notice how dark his lashes are against his cheek. âCanât think of anything,â he murmurs, and you breathe a sigh of relief.Â
âOkay. Good night,â you tell him, squeezing his shoulder as you pass by to turn out the lights.
âNight, babe.â
You choke. Well, maybe he wonât remember.Â
Fat chance. Heâs drunk, but heâs not wasted. You decide to raise him, because any other response from you will be awkward, forever.
âGood night, honey,â you answer sweetly as you flick off the light.Â
In the darkness, you hear him snort.
â
authorâs notes/confessions:Â
I have never written Javier PeĂąa. I have never written in second person. I have never written decent smut. I speak no Spanish. Advice and criticisms, if delivered kindly, are very welcome.Â
Yeah, I realize that I wrote Javi a little lighter/goofier here than heâs probably typically depicted. Hang tight, guys. Heâs not taking this seriously yet, but he will be. Just wait.Â
Guaro/Aguardiente a legit Colombian liquor, and I tried to depict it as accurately as possible for never having tried it. The anise thought that reader has is a reference to absinthe, which is a trip if youâve ever managed to acquire the real deal (something thatâs kind of difficult if you live in the States, unfortunately). Also, Iâm unsure if you can just walk into a pharmacy and buy liquor in Colombia, but hey, just go with it.Â
This started as a conversation with Tiff and turned into... well, this. I am so, so sorry. Expect about 20k and three chapters. Probably.Â
Not betaâd. you get what you get, my friends.Â
At the risk of sounding pathetic, your feedback absolutely inspires me to write faster. I donât make the rules, guys. I just write.
This installment is (mostly) complete, but Iâd love to hear what you like and what you donât, and what you want to see next. My inbox is open. I welcome messages. I want to make friends. Â
Love you guys big, and happy holidays to those of you who are celebrating!
#Javier Peùa#narcos#javi x reader#Javier Peùa x reader#pedro pascal#javier pena#javier pena x reader#javi x you#narcos fic#smut#narcos fanfiction#pedro fandom#pedro fanfiction#Javier Peùa x you#Javier Peùa imagine#narcos netflix
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do you write AUs?
because i wish you'd write a fic with magic đ either with both or only one of them having magic â¤ď¸
Oh, dear sweet anon. You'd never guess it from what I've been posting, but AUs are my bread and butter, and fantasy my genre of choice. I just don't do as much of it because I care more about getting it right, and it's so much harder to convey in short glimpses.
So thank you for this, and here goes nothing! Might not be the type of magic you were thinking, but itâs where my brain ended up.
Milkovich Magic
When he's just a little boy, Mickey Milkovich is the chattiest kid on the street. He stands out front of their rundown house and waves at people passing by, tells them stories, wishes for them good things. His father hates it, but his mother thinks it's lovely. She sits next to Mickey in a broken lawn chair, taking turns smiling at her son and at the strangers and neighbors passing by, waving Terry away when he comes too close to interfering.
But she never says a word herself, unless it's to Mickey.
Until one day, when Mickey sees a family walking down the street, and waves frantically at two boys around his age, one with fuzzy brown curls, one with bright red locks. The bright boy turns toward him and smiles, and Mickey feels something shift inside himself.
"Momma," he calls back toward the house. "Did you see?"
"See what, Mikhailo?" she responds, voice oddly cautious in a way that Mickey has long since become accustomed to.
"That boy," he tells her, feeling light and happy. "He's going to be my friend."
The air shifts as the words leave his mouth, seeming to swirl around him. He shivers as it strokes against his skin, leaving a line of goosebumps in its wake, and takes a shaky breath, thinking of the boy's shy smile.
"Mikhailo, no!" his mother cries, stumbling from her seat to fall on her knees at his feet, clutching his arms with claw-like fingers. He snaps out of his thoughts and stares down at her, terrified, as the feeling leaves him.
His terror grows when his father slams open the front door and yells, "What did the boy do now?"
His mother's eyes are wide and scared on his face, but her voice is calm and firm when she answers.
"Mikhailo has done nothing," she states simply, and his skin begins to tingle again. "You noticed nothing," she adds, and Mickey watches as his father shakes his head and wanders back inside without so much as a backwards glance. Then the air is still again.
"Come, Mikhailo," his mother says next, "that's enough for today." And he follows her up the broken steps and into their home, mind whirring, trying to make sense of what happened.
âWords have power, little one,â his mother whispers to him later that night, as they sip hot chocolate in the kitchen after Terry goes to bed. The air smells of milk and burned sugar and his motherâs perfume, and her voice wraps around him like a hug, pressing her words into his skin.
âWe have to be careful,â she speaks quietly. Her hand is still warm with the heat from her mug when she brushes his hair from his face, lets her palm rest on his cheek. âWhen the things you say become the truth, you have to choose your words wisely.â
âLike when I say youâre pretty?â Mickey asks with childish innocence, and his mother laughs, a soft tinkling sound like windchimes in the rain.
âNot quite,â she tells him with a gentle smile. âIt takes intent, too.â
âIntent,â he repeats dutifully, then asks, âwhatâs that?â
His motherâs voice drops even further, serious and firm. âItâs the desire to make change, Mikhailo,â she says, âand itâs dangerous. You never know what path that change might take.â She sounds sad, like she does whenever his father comes home, loud and stumbling when he shoves through the door in the middle of the night. Mickey doesnât like it.
And he doesnât understand, either. Heâs too young. Too new to the world to see how change could be a bad thing. So he agrees, like a good son does, and doesnât argue when his mother presses a kiss to his head and sends him off to sleep in a haze of lavender and chocolate.
A few months later, when he hears his father yelling from the next room, hears the crash as his mother hits the floor for the third time that week, he dares to speak aloud the words struggling to escape his heart, despite her warnings.
âMama is safe,â he whispers to himself in the darkness of the room he shares with his baby sister, whoâs curled up against his side, face still wet with the tears that sent her into sleep. âNo one can hurt her anymore.â
He knows he got it right when he can feel the wish leave him, a heavy weight lifting from his chest as his desires take form. He can feel the air, heavy with intent, as it brushes over his skin, as it moves like a summer breeze through the open window above his head, bypassing the locked bedroom door. Heâs suddenly more tired than he thinks heâs ever been when itâs gone, and he falls into the most peaceful sleep heâs had in years, comforted by the knowledge that he had put change into the world.
The next morning, he wakes to his sister sobbing and pushing loose fists into his chest as she tells him that their mother is dead.
After that, he stops talking so much.
---
When Mickey is eight years old, he's the quietest boy in class. He gets a reputation as a troublemaker, refusing to answer questions or make friends, no matter the effort that others put in.
Eventually, they stop trying, and he's glad.
Until a new boy shows up, and almost ruins everything.
His name is Ian Gallagher, and the first thing Mickey notices as he walks into the room for the very first time, a worn backpack hanging from his skinny shoulder, is his hair.
It's bright red.
And Mickey remembers the day he learned what he was, the day he started down the path that killed his mother, the day that he declared to the world that the redheaded boy would be his and the world started to listen.
He wanted nothing to do with him.
So of course, Gallagher sat right behind him, and tapped on his shoulder, and asked him for a pencil. And try as he might, Mickey could not muster the intent to make him leave.
It probably wouldn't have mattered if he did, he thought. The damage had been done years ago.
But he does manage to speak. And he hears his own voice for the first time in ages outside the confines of the bedroom he still shares with Mandy. It's rough with disuse, lending an edge to his words that never used to be there.
"Ask me again, I'll stab you with it," he threatens, then stops, eyes blown wide and fearful by his own statement. But the rush of air never comes, nor that strange tingle, and all he can feel is the tickle of sweat sliding down the back of his neck.
He's so relieved he could cry.
"Are you ok?" the Gallagher boy asks, and Mickey tries to snarl, to make him back away.
"Shut up," he orders. And then he spins back around in his seat to hide his grin.
Because he can talk, after all, without causing terrible things. The trick, he knows now, is just not to mean it.
---
When Mickey is fifteen, he's loud and brash. He throws words around like they're meaningless, because to him, they are.
They have to be.
And it's working out fine, really. As long as he swallows down his feelings, keeps them locked up tight in his chest, it doesn't matter what words leave his lips.
Until, one day after school, he finally loses control.
And of course, it's because of Ian fucking Gallagher.
Because Ian keeps trying to be Mickey's friend, and Mickey knows it isn't real. He knows what he did. So when Ian joins his little league team in 4th grade, Mickey gets himself thrown out. And when Ian tries to partner with him for the 6th grade science fair, Mickey gets himself suspended instead. Every year is a new attempt, and every year, Mickey manages to shut it down.
He's ready to do it again on the first day of their sophomore year, when Ian calls his name outside the old brick school building.
"Hey, Mickey!" he tries, waving gangly arms to catch his attention. "Mickey, over here!"
Mickey studiously ignores him, like always, until he hears the smack of books hitting the ground.
"Whatcha callin' him for, eh?" comes a voice Mickey recognizes as one of his cousins. There's another rough sound, and a curse as Ian himself is pushed to the ground. Mickey's cousin laughs.
"What a pussy," he snickers. When Mickey turns around, his cousin waves him over with a wicked grin. "Ey, Mick, you know this guy?" he asks, not waiting for an answer before he nudges Ian in the side with a dirty boot. "He keeps callin' for ya, think he's got a crush or somethin'."
Ian's face is red, and his jaw is clenched, but he looks away when Mickey catches his eyes. He looks embarrassed, and maybe sad, and before Mickey knows what he's doing, he speaks from the place he always keeps under lock and key.
"You're gonna leave him alone," he rumbles, a breeze picking up behind him. "You're never gonna touch him again." A few leaves flutter at his feet as his intention builds. His cousin doesn't notice, but Ian does, and Mickey finds himself staring into emerald green eyes as he says, "You noticed nothing," just like his mother did all those years ago, and lets the words go.
His cousin blinks at him, suddenly lost, then down at Ian. "The fuck are you doing down there man?" he asks, and almost offers a hand before awkwardly pulling it back. "Eh, whatever," he mutters, and stumbles off to join the line for the bus.
"What was that?" Ian asks breathlessly, and Mickey shrugs, thumbing his nose. Inside, he's horrified by his slip, but all he says is, "nothing."
And scared or not of how it felt, that rush of cool air tingling against his skin as he spoke, he can't deny it felt good.
It feels even better when Ian smiles.
---
When Mickey is seventeen, he has a friend, and he thinks he might have to stop talking again.
Ian is around all the time, now. They sit together at school, and hang out at the Gallagher house on weekends. They go to movies, and baseball games, and tell each other everything.
Well, almost everything.
And deep down, Mickey knows what this is. He told the world that Ian would be his friend, and so he is. It's nothing more than that.
But when Ian starts talking about the guy he's seeing, starts blowing Mickey off to spend time with him instead, it still makes Mickey's heart hurt.
Somewhere along the line, between avoiding Ian and letting his life revolve around him, Mickey had started wanting more.
It's in those moments, sitting on the sofa with their thighs pressed together, the strawberry scent of Ian's shampoo lingering in the air around them as he waxes poetic about the restaurant his boyfriend took him to, when Mickey fights himself the most.
It would be so easy, he knows. So easy to open his mouth and let the words out. Ian, he could say, you love me. You want me. Leave him, Ian. Be with me instead.
He doesn't. He wouldn't. But he could, and knowing that kills him.
Instead, he starts pulling back. Cancels plans before Ian can. It hurts, but he does it, because Ian deserves to be free from the wish Mickey made when he was a child.
Ian notices, of course he does. He ignores it, mostly, until the night Mickey opens the door to find him standing there, sweaty and scowling.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks Mickey immediately. "Why are you shutting me out?"
Mickey swallows. "Don't know what you're talkin about," he lies, wishing desperately that it were true. He feels a zing of power go through him, but there's no escape for it; his words don't work on himself.
"Bullshit," Ian accuses, stepping over the threshold to bring them chest to chest. "Just tell me, Mick," he urges. "You know you can tell me anything."
"I can't," Mickey offers breathlessly. "I really can't, Ian."
It doesn't deter him; if anything, it makes him angrier. "What's gonna happen if you do, huh?" he challenges, shoving Mickey back until he hits the wall.
And Mickey can't take it anymore.
"I don't know!" he shouts, tearing at his hair. "I don't fucking know, Ian, ok? I've been trying not to say it for so long, I don't know what will happen if I do!"
It takes the wind out of Ian's sails; he visibly deflates. His eyes turn soft, instead of angry, and there's a quiver in his voice when he asks again. "Tell me what, Mickey?" he whispers.
Mickey won't say the words. Instead, he surges toward Ian and presses their mouths together in a rough, clumsy kiss.
It lasts only a moment before Ian pulls away, and Mickey tries not to die inside. Forces himself not to fix it. But a second later, there's a beaming grin on Ian's bruised lips, and he's saying, "is that all it was?" and leaning in again.
---
When Mickey is nineteen, he has a boyfriend, and he says what's in his heart.
Theyâre alone in the Gallagher house, a rare enough occurrence already, and theyâre tangled together in Ianâs tiny single bed. âIan,â he whispers when they part for breath. âIan,â he moans as that mouth trails down his neck and behind his ear, pressing kisses in its wake.  âIan,â he cries out as he clenches fingers in bright red hair, holding on for dear life as they rock together.
âFuck, I love you Mick,â Ian murmurs against his heated skin, and Mickey stops still.
It takes a minute for Ian to catch on, another for him to pull back, eyes questioning and nervous.  âIs that okay?â he asks in a hushed voice.
Mickey licks his lips, and tries the words out himself, like a dare.  âYou love me,â he whispers, eyes locked on Ianâs own. Â
Nothing happens.
Thereâs no shift in the air around them, no new goosebumps beyond the ones Ian caused himself. Thereâs no weight in Mickeyâs chest trying to get out.
Thereâs just Ian.
Ian, with his copper hair shining in the light from the window. Ian, surrounding him in the scent of strawberrie shampoo and sweat and cheap cologne from the corner store that he only wore when they were together. Ian, who was watching hi, waiting, biting his red bottom lip and trying not to move.
Mickey laughs, and pulls him closer, kissing him again, feeling Ian smile with relief against his lips.  âYou fucking love me,â he repeats, just because he can. The words canât change something thatâs already true.  âI fucking love you too,â Mickey says. Â
And he does.
#daily speedwrite#<-still calling it tgat even though it took forever#because if it wasn't I'd completely redo it before sharing#gallavich#fanfic#mickey milkovich#ian gallagher#fantasy au#fic request#i just got home I'm so tiredđ#I hope it's vaguely coherent#tw:domestic abuse
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can you dig it? (m) [kim doyoung & kim jungwoo]
summary: post concert highs can be a real bummer, and tonight, after a particularly intense performance, your boyfriends help you come down.
pairing: kim doyoung x kim jungwoo x fem!reader
genre: poly!au, 70s!au, band!au, smut, fluff
warnings: drug usage (weed specifically), mentions of other substances (lsd and cocaine), shotgunning, established poly relationship, soft dom jungwoo, mentioned switch jungwoo, hard dom doyoung, sub reader, high sex, sex on a water bed!!, unprotected sex, spit kink, they're all so sweaty help, mxm, degradation kink, praise kink, orgasm denial, overstimulation, minor possessiveness
song recs: donât stop - fleetwood mac // unlock it (feat. kim petras & jay park) - charli xcx // love her madly - the doors // ziggy stardust - david bowie // rhiannon - fleetwood mac // eclipse - kim lip (loona) // flick of the wrist - queen
word count: 5.4k
a/n: this is for my best friend, who i love with all my heart,bc last month we were talking abt the dowoo photoshoot and she said smth about high sex with dowoo. happy birthday queen <3 thank u for listening to me complain abt writing all the time :â)
masterlist
Friday, July 22rd, 1977
The concert hall smelled like cocaine and sweat, you noted to yourself as the three of you joined hands to bow. Cheers from the crowd bounced off of the walls as you bid them your final goodbye, wishing them a good night and telling them to drive safe. Still, their chanting persisted. "Seoul Motel! Seoul Motel! Seoul Motel!"Â
You wondered vaguely if this was what it was like to be a young god.
The curtain lowered, and the three of you were ushered offstage, to take some pictures and then head back to the hotel, to try and get some rest before you were off to Philadelphia, some five or so hours from where you were now: Boston.Â
Truthfully, everything passed in a blur. It was almost always like this after these concerts. The thrill and euphoria of performing made it difficult to focus on things. That might have also been because Jungwoo had passed you a joint before the concert. You couldn't be completely sure.
Your tambourine and guitar seemingly disappeared, but you knew it would show up tomorrow for soundcheck when you got to the Philadelphia venue, right along with Jungwoo's bass guitar and Doyoung's drum kit.
What you did know was that here, in the car back to the hotel that your manager was driving, lecturing you and Jungwoo about the importance of being sober when talking to reporters, Doyoung had a hand on your thigh, and that was all you could focus on.Â
Doyoung was high too. You knew this because ten minutes before you were needed on stage he pulled you forward by the hips and told you to take a few hits from the hand rolled joint and blow the smoke into his mouth. Of course, he wasn't as high as you and Jungwoo were, and he knew how to hide it better. But if you were to get close enough you'd notice the redness rimming his eyes, the dilation of his pupils.
The three of you were something, that was for sure. You had been, probably ever since Jungwoo joined the band, some eight years ago, in the fall of '69. You only really defined what you were once you got your first big hit thanks to some disc jockey in LA playing a song you had written, Calabasas, on the radio back in '73.Â
The song had blown up, and suddenly the three of you were whisked into a whirlwind of celebrities, drugs, paparazzi and producers who thought the three of you were born yesterday. Yes, you were college kids that ran on booze and weed, but you werenât complete morons. That was when the three of you sat down to properly discuss boundaries, what slid and what didnât.
You and your boys decided that night that werenât down with the idea of everyone knowing. Too many prying eyes. The public didnât really know, because the press would have a damn field day.Â
Other than that, it was a pretty open secret. In the industry, who was going around with who didnât really matterâa lot of them were too off their face to even care. You realized that a few years back when David Bowie walked in on you watching Jungwoo and Doyoung get it on in a bathroom at some afterparty in New York City, and closed the door muttering something about how strong the edibles were.
 So, what your manager said fell on deaf ears. Too much weed, too much adrenaline, too much energy for someone who needed to head back onto the road in a few hours.
 When you finally got back to the hotel, Jungwoo grabbed your hand in the elevator on the way up to your rooms, which were right next to each other. "You said that your bed was really big⌠can we come up?"
You nodded, leaning against his arm. Doyoung hummed affectionately at the sight, noting how tired you both were.Â
"You two are about five seconds from passing out," Doyoung mumbled, and you waved your hand in denial.Â
"Are not," you protested like a child.
"Y/N, don't be a chump. I'm pretty sure if Woo weren't next to you, you'd have fallen over."
You didn't have the energy to counter, and as the elevator slid open, you were the first one to march out, ready to just take a cold shower and die for the next few hours.Â
Realistically, you knew that wasn't what would happen. What would happen was that you would shower, get into bed and then toss and turn for another hour or so. Only then would the adrenaline truly wear off. The weed didn't help, making you feel sleepy.Â
You unlocked the door, and Doyoung and Jungwoo gawked at the sightâand sizeâof your bed. It could probably fit all three of you easily.Â
Since only one room would spark rumors, the manager usually booked two: one for Doyoung and Jungwoo and one for you. Your room always went unused. Usually, you would have to push Doyoung's and Jungwoo's beds together to make enough room, leaving an awkward and uncomfortable dip for the person in the middle. Whoever got the middle was handed the terrible double edged sword: cuddles galore, but a sore back in the morning.Â
Immediately Jungwoo jumped onto the bed, gasping and immediately laughed gleefully as the bed sloshed underneath him.Â
"A water bed!?" He exclaimed, splaying out his limbs. "Oh, far out. You really lucked out, dollface."Â
He kicked off his shoes and curled up in the middle, eyes fluttering shut. You followed, sitting at the side as you peeled off your white leather go-go boots. Throwing yourself down next to him, you sighed at the sensation of waves beneath you, and nodded. "Oh, this is ace," You murmured, "Feels great."
Peeling one eye open as Jungwoo wrapped his arm around you, your gaze landed on Doyoung, who was still leaning against the wall. You beckoned him over with a hand. "C'mere, princey."Â
He made sure that the air conditioner was working before sitting down on the other side of Jungwoo, for which you were grateful. The still drying sweat on the back of your neck and on your chest started to cool instantly. You and Jungwoo giggled as Doyoungâs weight sent waves rippling beneath you.
"So, are you guys gonna sleep or what?" Doyoung asked, kicking his shoes off as well and peeling off his denim jacket. His eyes were still wide open and he didn't look tired at all. "I'm probably staying up a little later, I have some ideas for some lyrics I want to get downâ"
"I would love to sleep. But I can't," Jungwoo declared before glancing knowingly at the both of you, "and neither can either of you."Â
You hummed in agreement. "Hmm, you're not wrong. Too much energy left."
You turned to bury your face into his chest. His forest green short-sleeved button up was only buttoned up halfway, easily revealing his collarbones. He smelled like pot, sweat, and designer cologne. His chest rumbled as he continued to speak.Â
"What about you, bunny boy? You can't tell me you don't still feel it."
"The weed or the concert jitters?" Doyoung's voice was raspy, cautious. He had a feeling he knew where this conversation was going. Once you and Jungwoo ganged up on him, it wouldn't take long to wear him down.
"Both," You and Jungwoo said in unison. You laughed at the sound. Doyoung chuckled as well, and you cracked your eyes open, despite how cozy you felt with Jungwoo stroking the skin of your nape.
"Well, the jitters are still there. That's why I'm staying up. As for the weed⌠well, yeah. I still feel it."
Jungwoo sighed. "How's the weed hitting you, though?"
"Honestly?" Doyoung's eyes met yours, and you felt something simmer in your chest. He huffed, deciding to take a bite of the apple, and leaned towards the both of you.Â
"The weed, plus watching you two perform⌠Safe to say I'm pretty fuckin' horny right now."
You bit your lip, giving him a sleepy grin. "Oh, Woo, we turned him on." The teasing tone wasn't missed despite the sleepiness in your tone.Â
"And what about it?" Doyoung asked, leaning back on his hands. "You can't say that watching Jungwoo do the thing doesn't get you going."
"I have a thing?"Â
"We all have a thing, Woo. Princey's over there is at the end of Mr. Jones' Motorcycle. You know, when he finishes the solo? He always throws his head back, because there's sweat and hair in his eyes. You can see his neck and shit..."
Jungwoo blinked. "Shit, that is his thing⌠What's mine?"
You raised an eyebrow at Doyoung. "His is the thing where he gets so into it that he throws his head back and plays, and still manages to get every bass note right, right?"Â
Doyoung nodded with a satisfied hum. "Gets you going, right?"
You brought a hand up to Jungwoo's chest, slowly sliding it down his stomach. Your voice lowered to a raspy murmur, and Jungwoo's hand tightened around your waist. "Damn right it does."Â
"And plus, you both have told me that watching me put together the drum kit is hot."
"'Cause it is!" Again you laughed as Jungwoo said the same thing you did.Â
"Jungwoo." Doyoung's voice sounded thicker. "You can't tell me that Y/N isn't an absolute vixen on stage."Â
"You're right," The younger man answered, voice gruff. His hand slid down, gripping your butt and giving it a light squeeze, before directing his words at you. "Oh! Y/N, your thing is whenâyou know how every time you play the transition from Calabasas to Saturnâs Rings you sway your hips and flip your hair back and forth? Sometimes youâll look at me or at Doyoung while you do, and you looked at me tonight. You're a little tease up there, dollface."
Your breath hitched at their words. âOh, yeah?â You goaded, cuddling further into Jungwooâs chest. You let a coy smile grace your face as your eyes fluttered shut. âWhat do you want me to do about it?â
âDonât be a brat,â Doyoung growled.
âNo, Doie,â Jungwoo hummed. He suddenly sounded a lot more awake. â...What would you have her do about it?â
Your eyes fluttered open, swallowing despite the sudden dryness in your throat. Doyoung's pupils were still blown wide, but you were pretty sure it wasn't because of the weed. He licked his lips. "Princess, get on your knees."Â
Jungwoo prompted you up, pulling you up to stand at the side of the bed. Doyoung circled around the bed, before standing next to Jungwoo. Your gaze fluttered between your two boyfriends, one looking stern, the other looking like he was having the time of his life.Â
Quietly, you lowered yourself to kneel on the plush carpet, fingers gripping the silver fabric of your dress' skirt to hike it up, so that you wouldn't kneel on it. Your hands itched to reach for them but you knew you needed to ask for permission. "Can I touch you?"Â
Doyoung smiled, reaching for his belt. "There's our good girl," He said. Your mouth was already watering embarrassingly as you helped him undo his belt, pulling him out of his boxers. He was already half hard, and as you lifted your hand to spit in it, someone grabbed you gently by the rest. Jungwoo leaned over, turning your hand to reveal your palm to him. His eyes seemed to burn into yours as he let his spit fall into the palm of your hand. You felt your legs close, thighs trying to rub together at the sight.Â
"Go on," Jungwoo murmured, using a hand on your jaw to move your head. Your eyes fell on Doyoung's cock again, slowly getting harder and harder. Your hand wrapped around it, stroking slowly as you met his smoldering gaze. You stroked him until he was rock hard in your grip, and his breathing turned heavy. Again, you swallowed, and Doyoung noticed this time.Â
âWhat is it, princess? You want it in your mouth?â
âYes, please,â You whispered, eyes wide. He chuckled breathily, head tipping back as you ran your thumb over the slit. His eyes met Jungwooâs, who was palming himself through his pants. Â
âWhat do you think, baby?â He asked him.
âDonât be mean, Doyoung,â Jungwoo said softly. âLook at her, sheâs desperate. Isnât that right, Y/N?â
You whined, nodding. The pair chuckled. Jungwoo grinned at the state you were already in. âGo ahead, dollface. Give it a kiss.â
Before Doyoung could say anything else, you took his dick into your mouth, and let out a soft moan at how heavy he felt, hot and pulsing. He let out a guttural groan of your name, a hand burying itself in your hair. His other hand gripped Jungwooâs shirt, pulling him forward to meet in a tongue-filled kiss.Â
Slowly, Doyoungâs hips started rocking back and forth, grinding into your mouth. Your hands stroked what you couldnât fit, as well as his balls. Your eyes fluttered shut, trying to relax so as to not gag on his length. But when he sped up, it became too much to avoid.Â
A tap on your shoulder, and Doyoung let you off of his cock. You turned your head to look up at a very flushed Jungwoo, who had pulled his dick out of his pants as well. The words, âMe too?â tumbled out of his swollen lips. And with that gentle, breathy tone, who were you to disobey?
You wrapped your lips around Jungwoo, who hissed at the sudden heat of your mouth. From there, something primal inside of you took control, wanting nothing more than to pleaseâyou took turns sucking them off and stroking them, the muffled sounds of their moaning spurring you on.
It was always like thisâduring sex, Doyoung was the meaner one, manhandling you and throwing degrading words in your face that made your stomach curl in sick pleasure. He was the one who could put you in your place when you became too bratty to handle. Jungwoo was gentler, but he was all too content to watch Doyoung toss you around. He would always swoop in after Doyoung took you apart, and piece you back together. Heâd tell you how good you were, how good you made the both of them feel, and while he definitely didnât treat you like fragile porcelain, he definitely didnât leave as many bruises as Doyoung did.Â
And then, when they were both done, theyâd shower you in kisses, and whisper in your ear how grateful they were to love you, and say some philosophical thing about eternal love and the cosmos that youâd always be too fucked out to comprehend, but that made your heart do a backflip regardless.Â
âShit,â Jungwoo groaned, pulling away from Doyoungâs lips. âY/N, Iâm gonna cum.âÂ
You pulled off of Doyoung to look up at Jungwoo. âIn myâin my mouth, please, Woo.â
He nodded, licking his lips as his hands fisted themselves in your hair, gripping but not pulling as he allowed you to touch him the way you wanted. His hands gathered the loose strands into a makeshift ponytail, using it to guide your mouth up and down his hot cock. His hips bucked into your willing mouth, the sound of his hissing and his moaning getting louder and louder, untilâŚÂ
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, Y/N⌠Y/N!" He groaned, as he came into your mouth. His head tipped back, which gave Doyoung access to his neck, pressing sloppy kisses to the skin. This sight was worth the bitter taste that coated your tongue: one of your lovers in ecstasy while the other anchored him to the ground.Â
He left his dick in your mouth for a moment, before pulling out with a shaky breath. Doyoung pulled away, letting him breathe. As Jungwoo caught his breath, Doyoung pulled you up, and he sat on the bed, bringing you down with him to straddle his lap.Â
You turned your head to face Jungwoo, who smiled at you, coming closer to the both of you. One of his hands patted the top of your head. "That was wicked," He said.Â
Doyoung smiled softly, and gripped your chin to get you to face him. His sweet grin didn't disappear as his grip forced your mouth open. He groaned at the sight of your tongue coated in Jungwoo's semen.Â
"Gorgeous," He mumbled, eyes trained on your lips as it began to spill out.Â
"Kiss her," Jungwoo told him, "You know you want to."
So he did, his tongue almost immediately slipping past your lips to get a taste of Jungwoo for himself, swallowing it down greedily. Your hands came up to unbutton his black dress shirt, and his hands pushed up the skirt of your dress to get you to rock your hips against his. You gasped against his mouth at the feeling of only your soaked panties separating him and you, before pushing the shirt off of him.Â
He moved to lie you down on the bed. As he pulled away from you, you caught his tongue slipping out to lick at a dribble of Jungwoo's cum on his lips. To make matters even worse, the bed was rolling beneath you, making your head spin.Â
Jungwoo pulled his shirt off before he sat down behind you. Meanwhile, Doyoung moved down your body, parting your legs. He prompted you to sit up, resting your back against his chest. He pressed a kiss to your earlobe as Doyoung peeled your underwear off of you, biting his lip at the sight of your drooling pussy.Â
"You're absolutely drenched, princess. And all from sucking our cocks, huh?"
You nodded, eyes fluttering shut as Jungwoo's lips began kissing along your jaw. When you didn't say anything, Jungwoo pinched your sides gently. "Use your words, doll," He whispered. From behind you, his eyes met Doyoung's. "You're gonna keep being our good little girl, right?"
"Y-yes, Jungwoo." Your hand lifted itself to press against his cheek, a silent plea for more kisses. He smiled against your skin.Â
"Atta girl," He praised, "On your best behavior for us tonight, huh?"Â
"The little slut's just being good because she wants to get fucked, Woo. Don't get it twisted."Â
"Please, Doie," You pleaded at the mention of being fucked, "Need it."
The older man chuckled lowly, pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit.Â
"Told you."
His tongue pressed itself against your hole, and you immediately cried out. You would have immediately started grinding against Doyoung's face if it weren't for Jungwoo's hands on your hips, holding you down and keeping it still.Â
"I don't think you wanna do that," He murmured. His hands travelled underneath your skirt, gripping the silvery blue gossamer as he tried to lift it up. You did your best to keep your squirming at a minimum as you tried to help him get you out of it. Finally, the bell sleeves were pulled off, and you were left naked as the day you were born.
Jungwooâs hands moved to your breasts, playing with them as he watched you whimper at the sensation of Doyoungâs mouth working at your folds. When he slipped his tongue inside, you keened, head falling against Jungwooâs shoulder.Â
âYouâre so pretty like this,â He whispered.Â
Your chest heaved, squirming up and down as he began to tug and pinch your nipples, calloused fingertips making you cry out.
Doyoungâs free hand gripped your thigh, and his fingers on the other hand slipped inside when he pulled his tongue out. Immediately, he plunged in two fingers, curling his fingers as he attempted to search for that one special spot.
"Ngh, Doie, faster, pleasepleaseplease." Your legs were trembling slightly now.Â
"So fucking slutty," Doyoung mumbled, chuckling wickedly, "And all I had to do was stick my fingers inside."Â
He complied with no protest, and the sensation of Doyoung stroking your walls and Jungwoo continuously pawing at your breasts caused a string of moans to come pouring out of your mouth. Jungwoo had been sucking a bruise into your clavicle, but leaned up to press his lips against yours.Â
"Don't want anyone hearing what's meant for Doie and I," He said, lips brushing yours.Â
The idea made you even needier, the double entendre making your head spin. Jungwoo didn't want anyone to hear you because if they did, rumors would spread. And on top of that? He didn't want anyone to hear. You were theirs. They were yours. This was a sacred ritual between bodies meant to be witnessed by only the three of you.
Your head felt like you were floating, even though your limbs felt like they were sinking into the watery mattress. A coil began to tighten in your stomach, and your soft whines, muffled by Jungwoo's plush lips, increased in pitch.Â
They both knew what this meant, because a second later, Doyoung removed his fingers from your core, and Jungwoo pulled away, his hands moving from your breasts to rest on Doyoung's atop your hips. You were left reeling and breathing heavily, that familiar sensation floating away.
When you looked down at Doyoung, you swallowed at the sight of his lips, chin and fingers, all glistening with your wetness.
He lifted himself up off the mattress, and proceeded to sandwich your chest in between his own chest and Jungwooâs back. He gripped his dick, rubbing it against your folds, which were now even more soaked than before.
"Tell me how much you want it, princess." He pressed his forehead against yours, hissing when the tip caught your clit. You let out a desperate whine, clinging to his broad shoulders.Â
"DoâDoyoung, please fuck me," You begged, reeling at the sensation. He was so close, all he had to do was slide in. But he refused.
"Not good enough," He insisted.
"Doyoung, don't be mean," Jungwoo said, but he seemed to be more amused by your desperation than anything.
"No, I wanna hear how much she needs us."
You closed your eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to gather your words. Jungwoo's hands stroked your sides, trying to calm you down. "You doing alright, doll? You wanna take a breather?"
"We can always stop." Doyoung's voice had turned stable, secure, safe. He started pulling away, until you grabbed him by the forearm and shook your head. You opened your eyes, seeing concern in his eyes
âNo,â You mumbled, âJusâ want some water. Think thereâs some in the minibar. âM really hot.â
Doyoung nodded, getting up and striding over to the small refrigerator on the other side of the room. He pulled out a water bottle, and popped open the cap before passing it to you. Jungwoo had taken to fanning your face lightly with his hand. You took several long swigs of water, before setting it on the nightstand.
âIâm fine,â You promised. âCan we please keep going? I can take it.â
Doyoung pressed a kiss to your temple. âAre you absolutely sure?â
âYeah,â You said with a nod.Â
âDoyoung,â Jungwoo murmured, âBe careful.â
âI know, baby." He lowered his eyes to study your face. "I wonât go that hard on you, Y/N.â
You nodded, even though deep down you wanted to protest. You knew that this was probably the best route to take. You could already feel the highâfrom the weed and the concertâwearing off. You knew that if Doyoung were too rough youâd probably crash on the way down instead of float.
So, Jungwoo brushed some stray hair out of your sweaty face, and Doyoung grabbed your legs gently, wrapping them around his hips. Slowly, Doyoung eased in, and you sighed in satisfaction of finally being filled. He bit into your shoulder, taking deep heaving breaths as he let you get used to the sensation. Jungwoo took turns pressing kisses to the top of your head and the top of Doyoungâs head.Â
âI love you both so much,â He whispered, âIâm so grateful the universe brought us together.âÂ
Doyoung looked up at him, pressing a kiss to his lips. âMy baby,â He murmured against Jungwooâs lips. He then turned to you and did the same, âMy princess.â
You smiled at their words, but the need in your core was becoming unbearable. "Doie, Woo, I love you both so much," You murmured, "But Doyoung, if you don't move I'll pin you down and do it myself."
"And you were doing so well," Doyoung groaned with a laugh, before beginning to thrust his hips. It was a slow, torturous glide, and the way it caused the bed to rock left you dizzy in the best possible way. Doyoung was panting into your ear like some sort of beast, and you were whining softly with every cant of his hips.
"You must feel so good right now, huh, doll?"Â
"Jungâwoo," You moaned, clawing at his bicep.
"I know, dolly, I know." He sounded sympathetic enough, but the way he was grinding his dick against your ass suggested otherwise. "Bunny boy is just so good with those hips of his, hm?"
"H-he is!" You cried, "Feel so full, ah, Doyoung!"Â
Doyoung's eyes met yours, and his hips picked up their pace, until your eyes rolled up into your head. Your head thrashed side to side, leaning against Jungwoo's shoulder. His mouth lowered once again to kiss at your neck, and your hand wrapped itself against his nape, while the other gripped Doyoung's shoulders.
Jungwoo's hands slithered down to where you and Doyoung were connected, and started rubbing at your clit. You shrieked, chest arching. Doyoung hissed. "Shit, do that again," He bit out, "Fuck, princess you just got so tight."
"D-Doie, harder!"Â
Doyoung looked up at Jungwoo, the two having an unspoken conversation. A second later, Jungwoo gave a cautious nod. Doyoung smiled, before he adjusted his legs. ThenâŚ
Then. He began pounding into you at a breakneck pace. Your legs tightened around him, wanting him even deeper than before.Â
"You love this, don't you? Our pretty little slut." His voice was tighter now, panting with exertion. You nodded.Â
"Yes, yes! I'm your slut!"Â
Doyoung grinned, before locking lips with you. His tongue dipped into your mouth, before letting you do the same to him. You could tell he was starting to feel somethingâhe always kissed you or Jungwoo as a way of telling you he wouldn't last much longer.Â
Truthfully, you could feel it coming tooâyour body felt like it was on fire, and your hips couldn't stop squirming. Whether it was towards Jungwoo's calloused fingers on your clit, Doyoung's cock, or away from both, you couldn't tell. Your moans were getting shriller too.
You clenched down on his length again, and he grit his teeth, grunting as his pace turned sloppy.
"C-c'mon, princey," You pleaded, "Give it to me, give itâŚ"
"Shit, yesâŚ" His head lolled onto your shoulder. "Gonna stuff you so full, princess, you'll be drippingâ"
"Please! Oh, pleaseâ"
The two of you fell apart almost at the same time, your orgasm triggering Doyoung's a second later. Your mouth fell open, legs trembling and heart pounding as waves crashed over and under you.
When you came down, Doyoung rolled off of you, turning onto his side to watch you and Jungwoo. Jungwoo, who ceased the movements of his hands and slowly laid you down. Your head landed against the pillows, and you let your eyes shut as you caught your breath.Â
"Can I take care of you one last time, doll?" You heard Jungwoo say. Your eyes opened blearily, and you reached a hand out towards him, legs parting of their own accord.
Both of your lovers groaned at the sight of your pussy, Doyoung's cum brimming from your folds.Â
"Absolute perfection," Jungwoo murmured, crawling between your legs. He gripped his dick with one hand, the other swiping through your folds, and you immediately whined at the sensitivity there, teetering the fine line between pleasure and pain.
"Please," You whimpered, "Woo, I want it."
"You're insatiable." He sounded so affectionate, so in love. You watched as his eyes studied his index and middle fingers, covered in a mix of Doyoung's cum and yours, before dipping them into his mouth to lick them clean. You sighed, a dopey smile gracing your features. He lowered himself down to brush noses with you, dark eyes blown wide, wide awake despite the dark circles underneath.
"Guess I'll just have to do something about that."
He slid in as if he was coming home, immediately setting a solid pace that had you seeing stars, arms wrapping around his shoulders to lock hands at his nape. The sensitivity left you pliant in his arms, and Jungwoo didn't hesitate in cradling you in his arms.
"So good for us, Y/N. Always Doie and I's sweet girl."Â
You nodded, tears brimming at your eyes at the heaviness in your chest, the pulsing in your core. His hair was falling into his eyes, and you lifted your hands to his face, doing your best to brush it away. Your hands cupped his cheeks, heavy eyes burning into his. Your hips were rutting against his desperately now, wanting nothing more than to feel that high with him.
Jungwoo pressed a brief kiss to your neck, feeling something simmer in his gut embarrassingly fast.Â
Doyoung placed his head next to yours, gently lifting Jungwoo's head to kiss him, hand brushing the other man's ass. When he pulled away, he kissed you as well, and Jungwoo's mouth pressed itself to one of your nipples. You keened against Doyoung's mouth, hips losing all semblance of grace.
Here, you were needy, animalistic, running on instincts, and your boys were drinking it up like water from a desert oasis.Â
Doyoung pulled away, a thin trail of spit connecting his lips to yours. His hands cradled your head.
"Can you feel it yet, princess?"
Your eyebrows furrowed, silent moans falling from your lips. "Ah, yeah, Doie⌠s-so closeâŚ"
"Me too," Jungwoo groaned between your breasts, "So wet, Y/NâŚ"
"That's from all the cum she's filled with, right, princess?"
You nodded. "Mmângh! Stuffed me so good, Doie."Â
"Yeah? You gonna let Jungwoo fill you up even more? Gonna keep it all inside, right?"
Your stomach did a backflip, and you felt your toes curl. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, I want itâ"
"I'll give it to you, doll," Jungwoo growled, "It's allâfuckâall yours. S-same way this is all for us, right?"
Those words were what caused you to finally fall over the edge. Your high was so intense that you could have sworn that your ears poppedâclawing at Jungwooâs shoulders, your eyes squeezed shut. Only one side ended up scratched, since you always kept your right hand nails short to properly play guitar. You sobbed against Doyoungâs lips, and he eagerly swallowed up your cries, shushing you gently as you came back down.
You didn't feel Jungwoo come inside, but you felt it immediately afterwardsâthe satisfying stickiness, the warmth in your stomach.Â
You looked at Jungwoo, pressing a soft kiss to his sweaty forehead before prompting him to move off. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you towards him as his little spoon, peppering kisses to your cheek and whispering how good you were. The two of you looked at Doyoung. You reached out, making grabby hands at him. His eyes were drooping, and he was blinking blearily as if he were trying to fight off sleep.
Still, he got up and pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, as well as his lighter. As he sat back down on the bed, the waves sent you and Jungwoo further and further into the recesses of slumber. As consciousness left you, you caught Doyoung looking down at the two of you as if you were the most precious beings he'd ever encountered. His tone was low and grumbly, but there was a glint of smug satisfaction in his eye.
"I hope you two are happy. I can't remember those goddamn lyrics anymore."Â
#kwritersworldnet#nct smut#doyoung x reader#jungwoo x reader#doyoung smut#jungwoo smut#kpop smut#kpop au#nct scenarios#nct 127 smut#nct 127 x reader#nct x reader#nct fluff#my writing
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Date Night ⢠The Marauders
(Gif not mine)
Request: Maybe like a poly!marauders x (she/her) reader where they just spend a day together :) like you can write smut If youâd like, but yea maybe they can go out to eat id like to see a dynamic in a poly relationship w them. Thank you!! Love your writing <3 â anon
Summary: Date nights are rare, but tonight, you go out for ice cream with your partners
Warnings: Food and eating!! The entire fic is about eating, so please stay safe! If you have a peanut allergy no you donât. Also, if youâre lactose intolerant like me, uhhhh pretend thereâs a potion for that I guess, kinda implied first Wizarding war, smallest hint of steaminess
Word Count: 1.6k
A.N: Remus=Ross, James=Chandler, Sirius=Joey, right? This took me like weeks to finish...but overall I kinda like it. Let me know what you think, and love you all â¤ď¸
****
The four of you very rarely had free time.
Between missions and meetings, you and your partners almost never had time off, and even when you did, one of you would still be busy. One of you would still be undercover or stuck debriefing the latest mission with Mad-Eye for hours.
So itâs weird to find yourself situated on the couch, Siriusâ head resting on your lap and Remus on the other end, stuck with his feet. James shuffles around in the kitchen behind you, stuck with dish duty after almost setting your flat on fire.
Sirius snuggles deeper into your thigh, evidently still exhausted from the previous dayâs mission he was tasked with.
The flat is mostly quiet, the only sounds coming from Remus turning the pages of his novel and the ceramic plates clashing together as they get put away. The sun slowly sets outside, basking your living room in glowing orange in light.
You run your fingers through the mess of dark curls splayed out on your lap, always lustrous and soft to the touch. He hums deeply in approval.
A sharp clap from behind jolts you out of your peaceful thoughts.
You crane your neck to watch as James throws on his denim jacket.
âI believe that we,â He starts, eyeing the three of you. âdeserve a date night.â
Instantly, a smile grows across your face. The last time the four of you had a proper date night, it was 1979 and Queen had just released a new song, which meant that Sirius needed to celebrate with all of you at the pub getting absolutely pissed.
Since you all joined the Order, all your free time has been sucked down the drain.
So thatâs why the mere suggestion of the normally elusive date night makes you feel all giddy inside. You wouldâve gotten up from your comfortable position to throw your coat on if it wasnât for Sirius practically securing you to the cushions.
âBut James...â He groans.
âOh câmon, Pads, we havenât been on a proper date sinceââ
âLast year.â Remus interjects, shutting his book before placing it onto the coffee table. âBut then again, you were too drunk for it to actually be considered a date.â
âDonât blame me, blame Freddie and his Merlin given voice.â Sirius muses, still laying on your thigh. His fingers dance around your kneecap.
Remus slowly eases himself off the couch, joining James by the front door.
âFine.â You hear James shrug. âWeâll just leave you here to suffer while Remus, (Y/n), and I go out to Floreanâs.â
This seems to grab his attention, because he perks up just enough for you to slide out of his grasp.
You end up at Remusâs side, clinging to his grey jumper as you excitedly pull on your shoes.
âIce cream?â Sirius asks, pushing his hair behind his ears. âWithout me?â
âIt doesnât have to be without you, Sirius.â You retort, sandwiched between James and Remus. âIf you get your arse over here, we wonât have to leave you.â
âAlright, youâve convinced me.â Sirius huffs, hands raised in mock surrender, dragging himself over to the front door.
He waves his wand, boots zipping out of the closet and slipping onto his feet, his dark leather jacket covering his white shirt on its own.
âWhat, are simple tasks too hard for you now?â Remus teases, lightly bumping his shoulder into Siriusâ.
âWeâve got magic for a reason, Moons.â The shorter of the two rolls his eyes. âMight as well use it.â
Remus opens his mouth to retort but James swiftly interrupts their bickering.
âI swear to Godric Gryffindor himself, (Y/n) and I will leave both you gits here.â
Thereâs grumbling from the two of them, but it becomes garbled once James throws an arm around you and Apparates you to Diagon Alley.
Your brain feels like itâs spinning in your skull and your stomach tugs familiarly at your naval. Sure youâve Apparated many many times before, but itâs simply not fun no matter what.
As per usual, Diagon Alley is loud. Children and drunkards laugh, spells and fireworks whizz passed your ears, people in heels trot across the cobblestone path.
Itâs places like Diagon Alley that remind you why you love magic so much.
Jamesâ arm is still heavy on your shoulders as you watch people in cloaks and tall hats rush by you.
Thereâs a startling crack behind you and you and James turn around to see your other partners. Sirius might have a few new purple bruises littered across his collar bones and Remus might have a smug look plastered across his face, but no one says anything. Remus throws the two of you a silent wink as Sirius hangs off of him.
âGonna hold my hand, Moony?â James questions, his arm outstretched.
Remus eagerly takes it, fingers interlocking.
So the four of you are connected as you stroll down the street. Your face is buried into Jamesâ denim jacket, the faint smell of grass stains and broom oil an already welcomed scent. In the middle, James and Remus have their shoulders rubbing together as they walk, Jamesâ thumb most likely tracing figure eights between his knuckles like he always does. Lastly, it seems like Sirius had changed his position enough to stick a hand in Remusâ back pocket.
The sun continues to dip lower below the horizon, resulting in candles and lanterns being lit in every dark corner. Children are ushered inside homes and adults start to flock towards the pubs.
With the looming threat of dark and dangerous wizards, people arenât taking their chances, safety in numbers and safety indoors being popular within the village.
Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlor is lit up in a rainbow of colors as always, and the sweet scent of ice cream drifts through the air. People sit in crowds outside the shop, enjoying their treats on the sidewalk or some even spread out on the street.
âSo whatâre you going for today, Jamie?â You ask as your little group enters the shop.
A little bell sounds from above you, barely heard over the boisterous laughter and rowdy conversations that surround you.
Unlike you, Sirius, and Remus, James doesnât have a signature flavor. He had to have a different kind every visit. So while Remus had already ordered his strawberries and cream in a waffle cone and Sirius is eyeing his peanut butter ice cream, James is still perusing his options like a little kid.
Your own ice cream starts to melt a bit while youâre waiting.
James squints his eyes at the names, despite his glasses already resting on the bridge of his nose.
âYou havenât done toffee apple in a bit, Prongs.â Sirius points, his finger making contact with the cool glass barrier.
âYouâre right.â James hums. âThanks.â He presses a quick kiss to Siriusâ stubbled cheek before ordering his ice cream.
Thereâs a small open table across the way, lit up by a few lanterns, which the four of you claim.
Thereâs a very slight breeze that makes you cuddle up to Remusâ soft jumper.
Desperate to talk about something other than the current state of affairs, James gets caught up talking the Wimbourne Wasps and their new Beater, Ludovic Bagman.
You watch Sirius, tongue poking ever so slightly out of the corner of his mouth, try to sneak a scoop of Jamesâ ice cream while heâs distracted.
Attempting to hide your amusement, you bring a hand up to cover your mouth, feigning interest in the Quidditch talk.
You watch the spoon make an indent and itâs halfway to Siriusâ mouth beforeâ
âOi!â
The silver spoon freezes abruptly, and grey eyes widen significantly.
âIs that why you suggested toffee apple? So you could nick some of my bloody ice cream?â James gasps dramatically, mouth agape in shock.
âWhereâre your manners, James?â Sirius retorts, licking his spoon. âSharing is caring.â
His hazel eyes narrow. âI donât know, Black, that looked more like thievery to me.â
âWell letâs take it to our very own Wizengamot, then.â Sirius loudly gestures to you and Remus.
âWell Iâm sure that for a wee bit of ice cream, (Y/n) and I, as key witnesses to the whole event, can clear the air.â Remus smirks, biting into his cone.
Sirius swiftly pushes the rest of his ice cream across the table, not even trying to be discrete about his offering. You and Remus start to dig in.
âBribery!â James shouts, throwing his arms up in the air in exasperation. âThis trial is a load of bullshit!â
âSorry James, canât hear you over how good this is.â Remus remarks with his mouth full.
You lick your spoon, watching the theatrics.
âThat doesnât even make sense!â James straightens his glasses and runs a hand through his hair in playful frustration.
âAw, Jamie...you want some of mine?â You pout, offering some of your own frozen dessert.
âAt least someone at this table loves me.â James grumbles, sticking a spoon into your bowl.
Sirius sticks his tongue out.
âHey, I never said Sirius was cleared of all charges.â Remus raises a scarred brow.
âWhat?â Sirius snaps. âBut I bribed you!â
You snicker at his balled up fists.
âSo you admit to the bribery, you might as well admit to the thievery while youâre at it.â He finishes the bowl, licking the last of it from his spoon.
âOh how the tables have turned.â James smugly points out.
Sirius childishly pouts, opting to pick at his black painted fingernails.
âWe should have date nights more often.â James chuckles, clinking your spoons together.
â˘
All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20 @amourtentiaa @cherie-draco @mullthingsoverinthehotwater
#the marauders x reader#the marauders#james potter x reader#sirius black x reader#remus lupin x reader#the marauders fanfiction#James potter fluff#sirius black fluff#remus lupin fluff#james potter imagine#sirius black imagine#remus lupin imagine#tw food#tw food mention
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