#in some aus i split up the siblings

[hetagrammy]

vibrating vibrating vibrating pjo au

So would Feliciano also be a child of Aphrodite? And what about Molly's brothers?

I think Feliciano would also be a child of Aphrodite, but much more embracing of it.

Mama Brit got around in nationverse so that’s maintained here lmao. There are cases (like Beryl Grace) of people attracting more than one god or the same god multiple times, and I feel like she’d be capable of it. Why? She’s Mama Brit and she does what she wants. I’m also thinking to equate to the whole seeing magical creatures thing she’s one of those mortals who’s able to see through The Mist very well, so she knows a bit of what she’s getting herself into. Alasdair is a child of Athena in my brain because I think it fits his personality well, as well as Scotland’s history of applied learning and engineering (and economics 🤢). Seán and Alwyn are also children of Apollo, because Seán’s her twin and Wales also has a strong musical/oral tradition, plus the Welsh longbow cannot be ignored. Finally, for Arthur the moody sea rat, who could be more fitting than Poseidon?

[methoughtsphantom]

Jason “my family doesn’t know im alive” Todd and Danny “my family doesn’t know I’m dead” Fenton going alongside each of their plans my beloved. like Danny will absolutely go head-to-head with all of Gotham to support his new best friend on all his crime lord endeavors while he drags Jason to also attend collage with him. They are roommates and there never seems to a mention of family from either side. It’s an unspoken understanding they have. They met because Crime alley as a ghost lair thrummed with so much loneliness, it was at first the perfect place for Danny to hide his ecto signature in. But then he saw the dumbass whose lair it was lean his motorcycle just a tad too much when making a sharp turn to an alley, he sweeped the floor through a lifted chain link that passed his body but not his helmet. Yep that’s right the red thing got stuck. Danny who at the moment happened to be watching through his window snorted. Much to his horror because if not a ghost that dude could’ve gotten his head flung off.

Still, the scene was ridiculous.

On a whim he irrationally sees the police closing in on the guy and panicked at the thought of the guy using intangibility to free himself so Danny phased them both through his apartment wall and left the guy sprawled in his couch. Jason didn’t freak out but that’s normal when one’s got a concussion, one the guy immediately denied having as Danny laid out the medical supplies. The idiot proceeded to almost flatten four steps to the door with his stubbornness. He also said “I’m asexual” in the most deadpan voice as Danny dropped him back in the couch.

Danny sighed. Clearly though, he’d done so too early in the night because the guy kept trying to go, kept trying to knock Danny out, kept trying to slash him with knifes Danny didn’t know he had stashed. He’d only disarmed the guy from his guns. The visible ones apparently, cause at one point the guy did take out a gun and shoot until the ammo ran out and then teetered the thing like it was an art prop and hit his moon lamp.

Danny "yeah you aren’t officially my friend until you’ve tried to kill me" fenton my guys.

Anyways both keep having the same argument over if Danny technically kidnapped Jason or not. Danny holds the fact that the police at least didn’t see the guy make the ridicule. Jason argued that happened cause he was sporting a concussion. Danny argued he got that after.

Jason at first thinks the guy's a meta, but no. Danny introduces himself, sheepily now that he recognizes this is who the lair he invaded is from. He bandages him and tries to cook for him. If Danny didn’t have ice powers he most certainly would’ve burned the apartment. Jason then proceeds to kick him out of his own kitchen and make them both enchiladas. It’s the most normal both had in a while with another person and the air seems oddly settled. From then on, Jason constantly invited himself over, under the pretense that this was his territory and therefore he could drop in unannounced. Danny who has actual powers says he only allows this because Jason cooks very well.

Danny stays away from the crime fighting business unless his buddy is in deep shit he can’t get himself out. Also it’s Danny’s turn to cover for his vigilante friend which Sam and Tucker give him so much shit for. (but also advice)

And they were roommates. (omg) Danny effectively derails Jason’s big comeback plans by casually dropping ghost lore every two days. Like,

Jason, talking about how he doesn’t want Bats snooping on his territory:

Danny: Just don’t let them in

Jason: ??

Danny: yeah!! Hasn’t Batman died and got revived??? You can totally kick out death touched people you don’t want entering on your lair.

Jason: …I can?

Danny: Yep dude, your lair’s supposed to feel safe.

Jason: wait does that mean I can kick you out?

Danny: First this is my apartment. Second, im dead, not dead touched. Third, it’s too late to get rid of me. bitch.

Anyways Jason is super excited. You mean to tell him he can actually deny people over to his territory haunt?? (Yes it’s only to people who have died and came back but still!! The sample size is exactly the type of people he doesn’t want to see—!)

Joker my beloathed can’t step foot in Crime Alley.

(Jason’d feel a lot safer if the clown was dead but the possibility of his murderer turning into a ghost and their little loophole not applying on the clown is too scary to contemplate.)

Anyways, Jason loves experimenting with the power. It can go from simply making people shudder and not want to enter crime Alley to straight up not letting them enter like there’s an invisible wall blocking the way.

Jason because he’s hurt that Bruce never even patrols Crime Alley and also because he’s petty put B under the category of “invisible wall” blacklist. His reasoning is that the man doesn’t even attempt to enter Crime Alley. To him it’s surely just a place shadowed in tragedy. (anyways that’s it’s the place he met Jason)

Ironically, Jason totally forgets that Batman does venture into Crime Alley one day in the whole year. The day he met Jason.

Okay. He didn’t forget at first. The first year Jason remembers cause it was only a few months till then but then the next— Jason forgets that today’s the anniversary of the day’s Bruce’s parents died. He forgets to allow B in when he feels a slight tug and dismiss the feeling that prompts Bruce to investigate because he literally can’t enter Crime Alley. He starts the trialsTM, he scouts on the very edge and sees people the whole day enter and get out and cross with no problem but Bruce can’t.

It’s literally just Bruce.

Time to call Constantine, i guess.

[theweirdestroller]

Me: *staring at a wip that I've had open all year, meticulously working on it, editing, and smoothing out the wrinkles* Ah, yes, it should be done soon!

Also Me: I need to rewrite the entire plot of this chapter. It works better this way. I literally cannot leave the plot how it has been these past 11 months. *throws a year's worth of work into the digital void*

I am banging my head on a wall. WHY IS IT LIKE THIS

[astonmartinii]

doing business with family | max verstappen social media au

pairing: max verstappen x fem hadjar reader

brother and boyfriend in the same sport? nothing has ever gone wrong when doing business with family... right?

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

yourusername

liked by alexalbon, pepemarti and 307,377 others

tagged: maxverstappen1 & isackhadjar

yourusername: max will officially become my second favourite f1 driver this weekend

view all comments

user1: watched isack’s f2 radio highlights in preparation for this weekend … yeah they’re defo siblings

user2: i know they’re parents had a HANDFULL with them growing up

user3: lmao just ask george in abu dhabi or lando in austria, y/n knows how to make her point KNOWN

isackhadjar: omg i beat max in something!

yourusername: come on bro have some faith in yourself - you can defo beat max in singapore at least

maxverstappen1: rude?

yourusername: you know i hate singapore in solidarity babe?

isackhadjar: and that’s crazy because she loves the glitter helmets

yourusername: i really do

user4: get you a couple that measures their love by glitter helmets?

user5: y/n is so real for that though, i’d fuck seb’s glitter helmets

yourusername: right well i don’t love them quite THAT much

charles_leclerc: slides £5 across the table isack please take max out, he won’t hate you

isackhadjar: no?

landonorris: WHY NOT

isackhadjar: i want to keep my job and actually score some points

yourusername: you people done harassing my brother?

maxverstappen1: do we have a problem?

isackhadjar: they’re being mean, they’re trying to PEER PRESSURE ME

charles_leclerc: i don’t think i was peer pressuring you

charles_leclerc: it’s bribery, god get it right

maxverstappen1: i think you should watch it

yourusername: say something like that to him again frenchie and your ass is grass

user6: omg romance ❤️‍🔥

redbullracing

liked by yourusername, danielricciardo and 823,081 others

tagged: maxverstappen1, yukitsunoda0511 & liamlawson30

redbullracing: red bull vs rb on pop culture trivia… max and isack were unstoppable - we might have to split them up next time

view all comments

user7: now i wonder where max and isack got their real housewives knowledge from …

user8: this has y/n hadjar written all over it

user9: if i remember rightly y/n was asked by some interviewer in the paddock who she’d like to see as a paddock guest and she said LISA RINNA?

user10: i knew i stanned the right queen

isackhadjar: not our fault that liam and yuki aren’t caught up with all the fresh news

maxverstappen1: we’re bonded cats i don’t think they have the power to separate us

redbullracing: it’s a trivia game…

maxverstappen1: THAT’S MY BABY BROTHER

redbullracing: YOU GUYS AREN’T EVEN MARRIED YET?

yourusername: looks like admin just lost their invite to the wedding…

redbullracing: yOU AREN’T ENGAGED?

yourusername: i guess you’ll never know

user11: no way they just teased their engagement in an argument over media duties?

user12: you’re shocked? this is quintessential them

user13: and they’re adding in their little rabid mini-them? i fear f1 is actually not ready

liamlawson30: so when do we get to do cars trivia? or is it all set up for them to win?

yourusername: just say you’re uncultured…

maxverstappen1: get a new personality trait bro

liamlawson30: omg why are you guys on my neck so hard?

maxverstappen1: funny

liamlawson30: this is so not fair why didn’t you guys defend me like this last season?

yourusername: that’s my flesh and blood dude

isackhadjar: duh!

maxverstappen1: i am so in love with y/n i just do what she says, do let it be known that if isack was not related to y/n he would be just another stray cat to me

isackhadjar: sure i’ll take it!

maxverstappen1

liked by yourusername, isackhadjar and 839,023 others

maxverstappen1: we had the chance to extend our championship lead but with two optimists behind you anything can happen…

view all comments

user21: LMAO THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THIS AND THE LAST POST

user22: isack probably teared up in the stewards room and max crumbled

user23: i mean on his radio as soon as GP said it was isack max was immediately like ‘is he okay?’

isackhadjar: sorry max!

maxverstappen1: no worries buddy, you can pay me back with room service

isackhadjar: so our move marathon is still on?

maxverstappen1: don’t be dumb - obviously!

maxverstappen1: i need my second in command to help defend my snacks from y/n

yourusername: you guys aren’t supposed to have those snacks i’m doing you a favour !!!

isackhadjar: sureeeee

yourusername: i can call your trainers up if you want?

maxverstappen1: NO WE’RE OKAY

user24: esteban ocon is not okay seeing this tomfoolery

user25: yeah yeah yeah it’s all fun and games but that’s legit his baby brother of course he wasn’t going to cuss him out

user26: exactly! he’s been with y/n for like four years? of course he was concerned about isack’s safety than his race

landonorris: i’m not surprised, just disappointed

maxverstappen1: why?

landonorris: I’M YOUR BEST FRIEND AND YOU STILL AIRED ME OUT ONLINE?

maxverstappen1: first of all y/n is my best friend

maxverstappen1: second of all isack is my baby brother

maxverstappen1: third of all you’re annoying

yourusername: heavy on number three

landonorris: i GIVE UP WITH YOU PEOPLE

user27: i love watching max and y/n making people crash out in instagram comments

user28: couples that terrorise together, stay together

georgerussell63: interesting ….

yourusername: you wanna say something

georgerussell63: suddenly not anymore

maxverstappen1: LMAO

yourusername

liked by landonorris, charles_leclerc and 459,034 others

tagged: maxverstappen1, isackhadjar & pepemarti

yourusername: bond a little bit stronger than a lil crash in a formula one race

view all comments

user29: if they don’t get married and live happily ever after i might just sue them

user30: so real

user31: they’re my parents and i can’t go up to four christmasses

redbullracing: that was millions in damage

yourusername: you gonna invoice me for it?

redbullracing: no?

yourusername: then get the fuck out of my comments this is a wholesome post

user32: why is pepe here?

pepemarti: i am just as much part of the hadjar family as max

maxverstappen1: well that’s just factually incorrect

pepemarti: nuh uh

maxverstappen1: ??? i’m marrying in? what are you doing?

pepemarti: i’m mama hadjar and y/n’s favourite so divine intervention

maxverstappen1: @yourusername please dispell this nonsense

yourusername: look at his lil face …

pepemarti: :p

isackhadjar: i’ll be clear i am not marrying pepe

pepemarti: that’s not what you told me the other day :(

user33: can someone make a chart this is all a bit confusing now

user34: i don’t think anything is helping with this chaos

maxverstappen1: i love you forever and ever, even if your brother puts me in the wall <3

yourusername: awww i love you too bubs

maxverstappen1: but i am your favourite though?

yourusername: don’t tell them but yes!

isackhadjar: these are public comments?

pepemarti: i’m legally blind now

fin.

note: a quicky i wrote during the super bowl lol - hope you enjoy xx

[highvern]

Totally Scrooged

Pairing: Lee Seokmin x f!reader

Genre: neighbor!au, idiots to lovers, fluff/angst/smut

warnings:  alcohol consumption, fingering, oral sex (f & m receiving), protected sex, lots of crying, mentions of cheating (not reader or seokmin), theater nerd Seokmin

Length: ~16k

Note: I was hoping to post this way earlier but alas. I got sick back to back over the holidays. ANYWAYS thank u my sweet @gyuswhore for beta reading and talking me down from the edge and @miniseokminnies for all the theater knowledge. And @ugh-yoongi bc words are hard. CHECK OUT the rest of the fics on @camandemstudios and keep an eye for our next project

summary: When your ex decides to propose to his best friend he told you not to worry about only eleven months after your breakup, you decide the holidays aren’t worth it this year. You’re dedicated to ignoring the red and green splashed on every surface, but your neighbor has a way of convincing you maybe the holidays aren’t totally bad.

collab m.list || m.list

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

Shot number four is about the time you realize drinking your sorrows alone in your apartment on a Saturday night is a little bit pathetic. But you unlock your phone out of habit and the same picture of your ex down on one knee in the middle of the street in marathon gear stares back at you and a fifth shot sounds exactly like what you need.

At least the burn of peppermint schnapps is festive.

Ten months. You and Sam split barely ten months and he’s already engaged to Carson. 

After three years of dating, getting Sam to talk about plans further than a month out was like pulling teeth. When he asked you to move in with him you thought there was a very real chance he suffered some head injury that day. Sam and long term commitment didn’t mix. Your entire relationship felt like borrowed time. His engagement proved it was the truth.

In hindsight, you should’ve trusted your gut about Sam’s “platonic” “childhood” “best” “friend.” 

They did everything together. Their families vacationed in Montauk every summer, they alternated who hosted which major holiday despite living next door, there isn’t a single milestone either achieved without the other. Every time you visited his parents house the plethora of photos of your boyfriend and his best friend from cradle to present day seemed to grow exponentially. 

She’s like my sister.

Most people would frown upon dating a sibling after breaking up with their long term girlfriend, who was sick at home with the flu during Christmas, via text but what do you know? You’re the one sitting on your couch in a tiny apartment you can barely afford wallowing in drunk sorrows while they’re out celebrating.

It’s addicting. Scrolling through all the comments on their engagement photos, with a blanket over your head like some fairytale witch. Sam’s friends you tried so hard to bond with flood the comments, gushing about how cute he and Carson are, how happy they are for them. 

Your friends text you how much of a jerk he is, a few call but you ignore them. All you want is to wallow in self pity.

Like the judgemental diva she is, Shinx watches from her tower in the corner, green eyes disdainful. She never liked Sam anyway.

It’d be better if Carson wasn’t objectively likable. Everyone liked her, you included. At least, until your boyfriend dumped you in a three sentence text and she posted a picture of them together on her Instagram not twenty four hours later with the caption “the best things take a while” – color coordinated for the Spencer family photo shoot in front of their lake house.

Assholes.

Even when she isn’t dolled up for pictures, you can’t even pretend she isn’t pretty. Carson looks like she belongs on a Hollywood set, even after running a 5k at the crack of dawn. Perfect messy ponytail, face rosie but not too red. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. 

Shot number seven empties the bottle.

Through the living room wall your neighbor belts the lyrics to Celine Dione’s “All By Myself.”

It was ignorable the first few times he replayed it – a little poetic even given the circumstances – but it’s been nearly twenty minutes and you don’t need to be reminded how alone you are. You rocket off the couch and land against the wall with a thud.

“Keep,” knock. “It.” Knock. “Down.” Knock. Knock. KNOCK.

Mr. Neighbor, because you don’t know his name, sings louder.

In the months you’ve lived in this apartment you’ve met your neighbor exactly twice. When you first moved in only two weeks after your break up because Sam’s name was on the lease - not yours – and this was the only place you could find on such short notice in the middle of winter. You had the unfortunate privilege of riding the elevator with him in complete silence, only the sound of your pathetic cries as you moved soggy box after box. He was at least polite enough to take the stairs afterwards. And last month, during a building-wide fire drill because someone on the second floor fell asleep while making boiled eggs. Neither of you felt very chatty at four in the morning.

You couldn’t care less about splotchy cheeks or if your eyes were bloodshot. In your drunken righteousness, you don’t care that there’s mascara running down your face or the sweatshirt billowing around you has grease stains. Something snapped in you. Gritting your teeth, you rush out to the hall and straight for the neighboring door.

Your knuckles sting with each knock but he doesn’t answer until you escalate to pounding against the metal door like the police.

Mr. Neighbor must hear that because Celine cuts off mid-belt. Seconds later the door flies open.

He’s taller than you remember, your eyes level with a hole in the collar of his sweater. When you drag your gaze away from the dip of his throat the combination of tears and booze make deciphering his face incredibly difficult because he has four of them and they keep moving back and forth in blurry circles. His dark hair sticks up in a million directions. Like he put his finger in an electric socket and then tried to fix the mess himself.

Mr. Neighbor stares at you, expression unreadable. “Can I help you?”

“You know,” you start, teetering on drunk feet as you shove an indignant finger into his chest. “Some of us just want to come home from work and relax! Not listen to their neighbors screaming at the top of their lungs.”

“I didn’t realize it was that loud,” he hiccups. “I’ll turn it down.”

It’s hard to be angry when he looks like a mirror image of you. Wet, red-rimmed eyes and a sniffling nose. There’s booze in the air which could be yours but with the state he’s in it’s doubtful. Who listens to “All by Myself” ten times if they aren’t also sobbing alone in the dark? 

Guilt squeezes your chest. “Sorry, I’m just…rough day.”

Mr. Neighbor doesn’t say anything for a long time, appraising you silently. If you weren’t drunk off your rocker then the fact you aren’t wearing a bra and the old sweater you tossed on does nothing to hide that fact might be embarrassing. Or how you aren’t even wearing shoes, just fuzzy socks with a hole in the ankle. You also smell like a drunk elf who escaped the North Pole.

“It’s okay. Sorry about the music.”

Mouth moving before you know what comes out, you stop him from leaving just yet. “Why are you crying?”

“Stupid shit,” he says. “Why are you crying?”

You want to brush it off. You’re not looking for pity. Sam objectively sucked and your relationship would’ve ended one way or another. While most people preferred not to be humiliated via social media, it showed his true colors and firmly shut the door. But sometimes, it just feels good to cry all the frustration out and wish the worst on people who deserved it. And you really would prefer not to do either of those things with your neighbor you hardly know. 

Especially, when you realize he’s objectively hot even through the blur of tears and intoxication. But alcohol has a way of losing even the tightest lips.

“My ex got engaged.”

His eyes widened in shock before softening in pity. 

“Do you wanna come in?”

You don’t sense any ulterior motive. Mr. Neighbor has the vibe of someone who never met a stranger, one of those people you tell your life story to in the airport when your flights are delayed only to leave and realize the only thing you learned about him was he also hated airline food and thought flying first class on domestic flights was a waste of money.

Maybe whatever “stupid shit” he was crying over can be a distraction from your own baggage. If it can’t, at least the invite to complain to a person completely unexposed to the drama of your love life wasn’t half bad. 

But you don’t know him. His stupid shit could be infinitely worse and then you look like the asshole while he’s crying over his childhood pet passing away back at his parents house while he’s stuck in his apartment because flights during Thanksgiving were ungodly expensive.

Either way, another person to whine about the world with sounded nice.

You say yes, following him inside.

Mr. Neighbor’s apartment is similar to yours; mirrors the layout of your cramped one bedroom except with neutral colors and a lot more decor. The couch divides the living area from the kitchen. Comfy blankets and pillows littered around. Someone actually lives here, unlike your place where the most personalized thing is fridge magnets. You didn’t feel the need to decorate an apartment you didn’t see yourself staying in very long. Even if it’d been almost a year and the lease renewal sat on your countertop, signed and ready to drop off at the leasing office.

He walks into the kitchen, leaving you to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room while he fishes in the cabinet for something. You sink into one of the leather barstools and watch as he pours water from a pitcher in the sink and slides it across the counter.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You drink it all in one go while he waits, sobering up enough to realize how embarrassing this all is. You’re drunk, in your mysterious neighbor's kitchen, crying about your ex-boyfriend. But he was drunk, listening to one of the most depressing songs in history, crying about “stupid shit.” Mutually assured destruction. 

“We only broke up at Christmas last year.”

“And he’s already engaged?”

“To his best friend.”

At that, Mr. Neighbor procures another glass and pours a little bit of whiskey before presenting it to you. “That’s rough.”

This time, you don’t even wince when you swallow.

He stares, waiting for some sort of reply, tipping the bottle into his own cup but not drinking it just yet. Now that he only has one face instead of four, your face heats. Drunk, sad and a little horny because he has really nice hands, and an even better face.

You tug your phone out and push it across the counter as a distraction for you both. Not that he probably needs it, you’re a wreck. “Here look at this picture.”

Mr. Neighbor scrolls through each picture methodically. Zooming in on strangers he doesn’t even know. Mouthing the caption in silent horror. In effort not to stare at his fingers, you focus on everything else in his apartment. 

His fridge is covered in magnets and take out menus, but mixed into the collage are pictures. Photobooth strips in black and white, some large normal photos better suited for a frame. You’re too far away to decipher any of it but curiosity itches you to get a closer look. Postcards from different places, sport theme magnets. Baseball seems to be his favorite.

“He proposed to her at a Turkey Trot?” he says, like the idea is incredibly alien.

“Their families have done it since they were born. Like their moms ran it pregnant and pushed them in strollers until they could keep up.”

“That is….”

You laugh. “Insane.”

“I’m glad you said it,” he chuckles. “Who proposes after running a marathon?”

“I know!” you cry.

You tip the bottle of whiskey into your once again empty mug. There will be hell to pay in the morning but you need something to do to distract from the way your heart pinches at the sound of his laugh. The sad drunk stage is tapering into the horny drunk stage and you really don’t need to ask your nameless neighbor if he wants to make out on his couch. Although, it looks leagues comfier than the second hand lump sitting a wall over. Drinking any more will only make it worse but you need something to do with your hands that doesn’t involve touching him, or thinking about touching him.

He circles the counter and takes the barstool next to yours. Close enough you can feel the heat from his body, the smell of soap and citrus faintly tickling your nose. You want to dive into his shirt and breathe it in until you fall asleep. 

Mr. Neighbor is just a decently attractive man that has been overly generous with his time and not been a creep. That is the only reason why your brain is latching onto him right now; you know it. In a few hours, when your head hangs limp over the toilet bowl, you’ll regret this entire interaction and even more if you make it weird.

You balk, rushing away from the thought and looking for a distraction. “I’m not like…pining over him, if that's what you’re wondering. It just sucks seeing your ex who was staunchly against any long term commitment make it clear he was only against long term commitment with you.”

Mr. Neighbor seems to believe you. So many of your friends thought you harbored feelings for Sam this long after the break up but the truth is, you almost expected things to end. Not on Christmas with nothing but a text message, but it always felt like you and Sam had one foot out of the relationship. The end brought certainty and for that you almost felt relieved.

“If it’s any help, I don’t think it was a ‘you’ problem.”

For a second, you want to believe he actually believes that. He’s not just saying it because he’s being nice and letting you cry in his kitchen and drink his booze. Everything about Mr. Neighbor screams PERPETUALLY NICE. Like he saves kittens from trees and walks old ladies across the street in his spare time.

“You don’t even know me.”

“No, but he’s the one that kept you around while waiting for someone else. Sounds like an asshole to me,” he says.

“He is an asshole,” you whisper like a secret. Mr. Neighbor smiles back and you remember you don’t know his name.

He tells you without a shred of judgment.

“Seokmin.”

“I’m YN.”

“I know,” he blurts. His ears tinge pink just before his cheeks. “You had a friend come over one time, she yelled it pretty loud.”

Lydia only had two settings when talking: loud, and louder. Seokmin probably knew a lot more than just your name but was too polite to mention those sordid details.

“So, Seokmin. My drama aside, why were you crying? Or do you listen to depressing music to pregame a wild night out?”

Seokmin nods at your offer to top off his cup and chugs half of it with a wince.

“It feels kinda dumb now but I volunteer at the city theater downtown.”

That explains the framed playbills and theater tickets splashed across the living room walls. A story of all the productions he probably attended or participated in. You only recognized a few of the names. Perpetually Nice, indeed.

“Did one of them dump pig's blood on you while on stage?”

“No, nothing like that.” His mouth unzips into an amused grin. It looks much more fitting than the tears from earlier. “The director won a month-long European cruise and now I’m in charge of the winter production.”

What do people even do on a boat for that long?

“And I’m assuming you don’t want to be the director.”

“I did!” he groans. “But everyone is already emailing me and calling me, trying to bribe me into giving them bigger parts. Have you ever dealt with theater parents?”

Shaking your head, Seokmin grabs your hand with wide, terrified eyes. “They’re like dance moms on crack. I can’t handle it. Not to mention - surprise! - there’s no money for it and I have to do all the fundraising myself.”

Instead of responding, you fill each cup with another generous shot, clink glasses, and swallow them in tandem. The burn is long gone. Now, you feel like you're standing in the ocean, bobbing at the mercy of the waves as he keeps talking about the theater. How someone held him hostage after a meeting for an extra thirty minutes trying to convince him they didn’t need to audition. Someone else proposed an original production of Dracula as a break from the holiday slush every other theater planned. It glides right over your head, until he forces a glass of water into your grip.

“Sorry about my music,” he says.

“Sorry for being a bitch.”

“It’s okay. I get it.”

“Your ex also broke up with you for their childhood best friend?”

“No. The last one broke up with me for her dog walker.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, well he’s bald now.” He shrugs and takes another swig. Water not whiskey by the lack of grimace. “She’s also trying to audition.”

At least you have the privilege of watching your ex’s new courtship through the filter of social media. Seokmin is watching it play out a few feet away from him with a constant reminder that his ex-girlfriend was onto seemingly better things with a man who picked up dog shit for a living. Small mercies.

“How long have you two…” you trail off.

“Three months.”

His tone makes it clear there is nothing else he wishes to share on the matter. You get it. Three months after Sam you weren’t ready to talk about it, still kept all the shared memories you two had together in one of the boxes shoved deep in the hall closet. It wasn’t until nearly eight months passed that you finally donated what you could of the gifts he bought you and threw the other half away. Now, you can laugh at the way you sobbed over the ugly monogrammed dish towels from your shared apartment. When his mom gifted them for your birthday, the first thought you had was to burn them. 

“So what’s your play?”

Seokmin looks grateful for the swift change in topic. “A Christmas Carol.”

“Never seen it.”

“What?” he gasps. “It’s a classic!”

Below the counter, his knee presses firmly against your thigh. Seokmin doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because it stays there. Warm and grounded and all too tempting but you don’t move away either. A trickle of embarrassment heats your body when you realize you’re wearing the pajama pants Lydia got you for Secret Santa last year. The ones with cartoon gingerbread people fucking in small print all over them. If Seokmin looked down he’d see them in flagrante.

It didn’t mean anything but it felt nice. No way he saw your frumpy clothes and puffy face, crying over your ex and thought I want a piece of that. Typically, drinking only had two paths. On a normal night, you’d go from pleasantly buzzed to “wooo girl drunk,” as Lydia put it, then horny drunk shortly before falling asleep. Tonight, crying drunk meant no woo-ing and definitely no inappropriate thoughts. But Seokmin is the first real man to stoke a tiny ember of interest in months. 

It’d be messy. Not the act itself. Maybe. You’re tipsy and he doesn’t look any better but a sloppy makeout wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. However, making out with your neighbor and then dealing with the fall out of such a clumsy entanglement probably wasn’t worth whatever his hands were capable of.

So you snuff it out.

You shrug. “Not really a big Christmas person.”

“I would invite you to come see it but at this rate I doubt we’ll even have a show to begin with.”

You discover that given the chance, Seokmin talks a lot. Shares his entire life story about moving to the city with a group of friends from college, most of them living with their partners. How he found the theater while on lunch break from his job that he didn’t hate but didn’t like. Started volunteering. Met Martha, now ex-girlfriend, there. 

He also asks question after question about you, and somehow it doesn’t feel like he’s prying even though he hardly shares about himself. Probably because you’ve reached sleepy drunk and your eyes drop shut, responding while half asleep. You tell him everything. It’s not like you can embarrass yourself any further. But Seokmin doesn't make you feel the slightest bit of shame.

How you met Sam at a friend’s wedding and Carson was his plus one. How Carson’s boyfriends never seemed to meet Sam’s standards. How she was a little too friendly towards you but Sam swore Carson liked everyone. And from your experience, everyone liked her. Then, last Christmas, you stayed at home with the flu while the annual Phan/Spencer celebration took place and woke up to a nice heartfelt text message.

“That’s so fucked up.”

“Yeah, well what’s even more fucked up is his mom posting a picture of her with Carson captioned ‘the daughter I always wanted.’” you huff. “That really sucked.”

Seokmin doesn’t say anything. Not that he can. How do you comfort a stranger about a shitty relationship with even more beneath the surface? 

Instead, you both sit in comfortable silence, locked in separate trains of thought. It isn’t until he messes with his phone and Celine Dion materializes into the room once again that you realize how weird it is to be sitting there, sharing woes with a complete stranger.

“Well, I’m just gonna…” you start, sliding off the bar stool.

“Yeah…”

You don’t look back, making a beeline for the door. “Have a goodnight! I hope you aren’t eaten by steroid fueled theater nerds.”

You’re in the hallway, lock latched firmly behind, before he can respond.

You don’t see Seokmin for another week. Not like you saw him much before but now you have a name to the face, along with hobbies and a personality. And his hands. Which don’t seem to leave your memory despite the desperate effort you put into doing so.

Even if you don’t see him though, you hear him on the other side of your living room wall shuffling around when you get home from work. 

He keeps his sad playlist to a minimum, and his singing about the same, flat rumbles through the shared wall you can easily ignore. Sometimes you don’t. Occasionally, you’ll pause whatever Netflix dating show poisoning your brain and listen, eyes closed as your mind wanders.

You hear him humming as he passes your door on the way out to work in the morning while you sip coffee and answer emails from your kitchen counter. Sometimes it's showtunes you don’t recognize, others it's Christmas carols. Seokmin has a lovely voice you realize, now free from irritation. It’s weird you never noticed before.

Apparently, Lydia noticed him long before you did.

You finish telling her about the entire debacle with Sam and Carson. Lydia doesn’t believe in social media of any kind so all of her life updates come over Bananagrams and face masks during your semi-weekly Thursday girl’s night at her apartment.

“You just hang out with your hot neighbor drunk and don’t make a move?” she tsks.

“How do you know my neighbor is hot?”

“Unlike you, I pay attention to my surroundings.” 

Part of the reason she deleted all her social media was because she wanted to be more ‘in the moment.’ This proves that maybe it actually worked. 

Grabbing more letter tiles, you brush off the taunt. “Well, unlike you, I can keep it in my pants.”

“How long has it been since you let someone under the hood?”

“Not that long,” you grumble.

“Really?” Lydia rolls her eyes at the next word you spell, S-A-D. 

“Shut up. It was the only one I could find.” You take another sip of hot cider. The hangover from last week's bender still haunts you. “Horny isn’t spelled with an ‘I’ or an ‘E’.”

“It’s been so long I thought you’d forget how it's spelled.”

A few hours and a couple of episodes of Temptation Island later, you're back home. The chilly air creeps into the mailroom, numb fingers struggling to unlock your mailbox. Bill. bill, catalogue, not yours, bill…

As the elevator carries you up to your floor, you find the last letter. A gold wax seal, velvety envelope. No. No, no, no, no, no.

But it is real and it’s exactly what you’re afraid for it to be when you rip it open right there in the hallway. The picture of Carson and Sam staring deep into each other’s eyes, love-soaked down to the finest details. His hand on her knee, both oblivious to the camera and not in the faux staged way of so many wedding announcements. 

Michael and Dena Spencer along with 

Jason and Zoya Phan 

Invite you to celebrate the marriage of their children,

Samuel Spencer and Carson Phan

You fling the card away like a venomous snake. 

What the hell is wrong with them? Is it not enough you were the collateral damage in their whirlwind romance? Now they go and rub it in your face how happy they are together. You were the last obstacle to make them realize they couldn’t live without each other, the catalyst for their happiness. And now you have a tangible reminder of the fact.

Thankfully, the hallway is empty so no one witnesses your mental breakdown. A silent stand off with a glossy wedding announcement. You’re tempted to leave it there, let Sam and Carson get trodded on until they’re nothing but limp confetti. 

But you can’t. You snatch the announcement from the floor and bolt to your door, key scraping the lock again and again. You just need to get inside. Get inside and then you can go DEFCON 1, shred the entire letter and do something else rash like give yourself bangs you’ll regret in the morning.

The key still won’t find home in the lock and you’re on the verge of giving up when you realize Seokmin is singing along to some record just a few feet away.

You don’t know him well enough to go banging on his door. One drunken bitch session did not a friend make. Even if the drunk bitch session involved recounting life stories and embarrassing childhood moments. Or pajamas with gingerbread people fucking which he definitely noticed.

But you can’t be left alone with this bomb.

Seokmin is standing before you barely a second after knocking, eyebrows scrunched together. You shove the invite into his chest and wait.

“How does he have your address?” he asks.

You shrug. “I made him mail most of my stuff.”

“Why?” Seokmin turns back into his apartment, the door open in invitation as he falls onto the couch.

“Because he cheated on me. The least I could get was him paying three hundred bucks in shipping.”

“You are a very scary woman.”

You follow. This time, you notice more details. His record player is tucked in the corner, crates of vinyl stacked next to it. The candle burning on the coffee table fills the room with the scent of teak and orange. You recognize it as the same one Lydia got you for your birthday; ‘the boyfriend scent’ as she called it. Of course, he’d have it.

“Thank you.”

Now that you’re here, you’re not sure what to do. Seokmin keeps looking at the invite like some puzzle. Like some underlying explanation is written in invisible ink. There isn’t one. The reason for the invite is clear: your feelings don’t matter and they never did. 

“I can’t believe they sent you a wedding invite. That’s so fucked up.”

“I’m probably gonna see all the pictures on Instagram soon anyway. At least, this ripped the band aid off. It just sucks they get to rub it in my face.”

“You still follow them, do they follow you?”

They do. Carson and Sam both follow you but you haven’t posted a single picture since the break up so it’s not like they’re reminded of your presence. Not the same way they remind you. There hasn’t been much worth posting either. You go to work, come home, shower, sleep, repeat. The occasional weekend at the farmers market or trip to the bookstore breaks up the monotony don’t inspire you to post. 

“Why?” you ask.

“You want something to rub in their faces.”

“And what exactly would that be?”

“Is there anything he hated doing while you guys dated?”

You laugh at the irony of the one thing Sam hated more than anything else. “He hated being posted on social media.”

“I have an idea.”

“Does it involve more Celine Dion and whiskey?”

“No,” he smiles. “It’s called a ‘soft launch'. One of the high schoolers explained it to me today.”

“Why are you talking to highschoolers about relationships? Actually, nevermind.” You snatch the invite away from his hands and flip it face down onto the couch. “And what is the point of me soft launching a nonexistent relationship?”

“He sent you a wedding invitation.”

“Okay?”

“So he’s either insane or isn’t completely over you. This is a way to show him you don’t care.”

“He broke up with me on Christmas while I was dying of the stomach flu. I don’t think he cares.”

Seokmin rises from the couch and heads towards the kitchen. “Do you want some wine?”

“Just water.”

He’s wearing the same costume as last week, sweatpants and a sweater. But his hair is a little wet and falls over his glasses. The look, the boyfriend candle, everything Lydia suggested… You should go home before making an idiot of yourself.

Seokmin returns with two glasses, places them both on the coffee table before tossing you a blanket. How can you leave now? It’d be rude. Besides, you want to find out where his offer is going.

“As I was saying: soft launch.”

“I still don’t understand where this is going.”

“You post it on your story, he sees, feels like a huge idiot, and then—”

“And then what? I don’t want him back.” But the thought of making Sam squirm is a validating one. Let him see you the way he’s forced you to see him. Happily moved on with someone else. Even if it isn’t real. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

It’s an easy photo. In theory. Nothing too suggestive, nothing that shows his face. But should you be touching? How much touching is appropriate for a man you’ve talked to twice? Seokmin doesn’t seem to know either. He searches the internet for inspo, some far too intimate for you to dream of. Sitting on his lap? Absolutely not. Having him hold you around the waist? No way. None of it would be believable.

“Okay, what about this one?” he asks after twenty minutes of scrolling.

On the surface, it’s nothing bad. The picture is relatively innocent with Person A’s legs draped over Person B’s lap, hand placed on Person A’s shin. Nothing crazy. At this point, you just want it over with.

“Fine.”

You wore semi-decent sweatpants this time so you don’t worry about that. It’s the entire premise of touching Seokmin so casually and having him touch you in return. But you take it in stride as you both maneuver and twist until you're a perfect copy of the already existing image.

Opening the camera on your phone, you snap a pic and hand it to Seokmin for approval.

“Eh…”

“‘Eh’? What does ‘eh’ mean?”

Apparently, ‘eh’ means Seokmin is wrapping his entire hand around your knee, the other hand on your ankle, and pulling you closer until your butt rests flush against the outside of his thigh. And then he doesn’t move either hand while waiting for you to snap a new picture. It feels like a thousand  pounds.

When you’re done, he leans over to assess the photo and you’re stuck with the image of him hovering over you. The picture goes up on your story, embellished with a heart emoji and Seokmin leaves your space but only barely.

“Should I RSVP too?” you joke. It’s weak, your voice thin because you don’t know if he can tell your sweating. 

He leaves even more space between you at that, scratching the back of his neck. “Ugh—”

“I wouldn’t actually go but I like the idea of them wasting money.”

“You know what? Do it. Did they give you a plus one?”

You jolt at the idea of Seokmin filling in the role. Focus. 

Their wedding site is filled with Pinterest inspiration level engagement photos. You ignore the fact it’s at the park Sam took you to for your first date. You don’t own Emerald Park, or the fountain in the background of their pictures where you and Sam first kissed, and you certainly didn’t own the botanical gardens frozen around them as they walked hand in hand. Hundreds of other couples, you and Sam included, visited Emerald Park all the time. It just feels tacky they would do a full photoshoot where half a dozen of your relationship landmarks lay. But Carson probably owned those spots well before you came into the picture.

Once you hit ‘Yes’ on the RVSP, including your fake plus one, things peter out into awkward silence. You’re still draped over Seokmin’s lap, his hands absentmindedly running up your shin, smoothing the wrinkles in your pants.

Who gets turned on from having their shin fondled?

“How is your play going?” you ask.

“Not horrible.”

“But?”

“Our sets are old, we don’t have costumes and we open in three weeks.” 

Seokmin seems to be in the acceptance stage of his grief. At least he isn’t wailing any more Now That’s What I Call Depressing music.

“So it’s not too late for that space idea then?”

He cracks up at that and you feel glowy from the sound of his laugh, the way his chest shakes. He squeezes your ankle. You preen. He still has his hand on your knee, thumb burning uneven circles through the thick fabric.

“I don’t know if anyone wants to see Scrooge in a space suit.”

“Who?”

Seokmin takes the question as a personal affront and decides you can’t leave his apartment without watching at least one version of A Christmas Carol. 

You try not to read into things but there aren’t many explanations available. The TV plays the animated version with Jim Carry starring in almost every role which is apparently second only to the muppets version.. Seokmin popped popcorn. And when he came back to the couch, he pulled your legs back over his lap like it was normal. You’re rusty on dating but the amount of times your hand brushes his in the popcorn bowl is starting to border on ridiculous.

Instead of focusing on how this feels a lot like a date, you focus on the movie. Or try to. It helps that Seokmin remains unaware of your inner turmoil, he’s too busy gauging whether you hate or love the movie and looking for your reaction every time one of the ghosts appears. 

The angle isn’t conducive to watching the movie either. You can’t turn without straining your neck, unless you pull away from his hold which you don’t want to do at all. And Seokmin is so focused on your reactions that he isn’t catching much of the film either.

He clearly loves it, and wants you to love it too. So you act extra interested but it’s not difficult because clearly he sees something spectacular happening on screen and it makes you eager to see it too. Even if only to distract from his thumb slipping beneath your sock and circling the knob of your ankle.

The movie fades to black, Scrooge is redeemed and your neighbor is watching you with bated breath.

“So…”

You smile at his eagerness. “It was good.”

“Isn’t it? It’s a classic.”

Something about his sheer enthusiasm tugs at your heart strings. 

“I’ll help you.”

Everything in your body screeches WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Seokmin must think the same thing, face slack in disbelief. Too late, you’ve already committed. 

“My company is always throwing money at stuff during the holidays,” you rush, face heating. “Maybe they could sponsor you guys to help with the sets or something.”

He keeps staring and you keep talking because you’re not sure if this crosses some invisible line. Unlike the touching, or the picture, or the ugly crying last week. Slowly, amazement rooted on his face.  Even in your rumpled clothes, he looks at you like you’ve dropped nothing short of a miracle in his lap.

In a flurry of motion, Seokmin drags you into a hug, arms tight around your back, crushing you into his chest. The baggy sweaters you’d seen him in all of once hid firm ridges of muscle. You try not to indulge but your hands are wedged tightly between your bodies, and you’re practically sitting in his lap at this point. 

And as fast as it happened, he lets you go and nearly flings himself off the opposite end of the couch. 

“Sorry! I just—” His head cocked to the side. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel obligated—”

“I love taking money from people who don’t need it. It’s one of the few joys in my life actually,” you say. “And if they don’t sign a check, we can always try armed robbery. Do you own a ski mask?”

He pretends to think before smiling. “Funnily enough, I don’t. But something tells me you do.”

“A woman never reveals her secrets.”

The next few days pass uneventfully. You hear Seokmin come home later and later, pointedly aware that you’re aware of his coming and going. Occasionally, when it’s still early, he knocks an odd rhythm on the wall separating your living rooms and you learn it's a summons. He wants to watch a movie, or share dinner because he made too much, or hear something about your day that didn’t involve a six year old attempting an accent for their character and sounding like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. 

Even when you give him your number, he still knocks. Everytime you fight the urge to squeal like you’re back in high school.

The show is going as well as it can. People have their parts (with minimal complaining). Most of the costumes are free of mold (he sent you pictures wearing half the wardrobe). And Seokmin is maintaining his sanity. Barely.

In the rush of it all, you made a promise not to fuck where you eat. One messy break up requiring a move was enough for a lifetime. While Lydia took every update as another sign he was into you, the risk was too much. What if you misread everything? What if Seokmin wasn’t completely over his ex-girlfriend? She hadn’t come up again since that first night but that didn’t mean anything. At that stage of your break-up you hardly talked about Sam. Maybe Seokmin was still pining for her and you were just there. Or vice versa. He could see you were having a difficult time with the engagement and offered a shoulder to cry on.

Even worse, what if you did sleep with him and it was bad. So bad you could never look him in the eye again. Or he could have a weird dick. Or cry after sex. What if he secretly had a piss kink and that was the real reason Marta broke up with him? The lack of red flags only point to some flaw below the surface you hadn’t learned about yet.

Lydia thought it was ridiculous.

“I will bet my first edition Hobbit that his dick is completely normal,” she huffs through the speaker, the sound of her stationary bike echoing in the background.

Your Friday nights are usually spent curled up on the couch with wine and a movie but you couldn’t wait to give Seokmin the envelope containing a metaphorical golden ticket. The downtown streets are crowded near the theater where the entire cast and crew are spending the evening polishing up the existing set pieces but you brave it, if only to see the look on his face at the number of zeroes on the check.

“You just want me to sleep with him.”

“Is it so wrong I want my best friend to sleep with a nice, attractive man? Do you know how rare those are in this city?”

Your eyes roll. “He is my neighbor.”

“Your hot neighbor. Who has a normal dick and listens to Celine Dion when he’s sad.”

Something stopped you from telling her about the picture, and how Seokmin stayed cuddled up to you the rest of the night. Probably because you know she’d add it to the mounting pile of reasons to ruin whatever tentative friendship built between you. 

You find a parking spot and bid Lydia goodbye.

The building lobby, with sleek marble archways and a dusty chandelier the size of your living room, is empty sans a lone security guard scrolling on his phone. He doesn’t try to stop you as you stroll right past and into the auditorium. You don’t want to be a creep that watches from the dark but the sight of your neighbor stops you in your tracks. To hear about his work was one thing, however, seeing him in his element is another. 

He’s got paint all over his shirt and jeans and his hair is a mess from running his hands through it but he addresses the entire cast with confidence. Answers their questions, points the crew in the right direction, scans his binder next to someone with a headset who must be important. 

Everyone is caught up in their work so they don’t notice as you approach from the aisles, footsteps muffled by the carpeted floors. You’ve never been here before but the history of the building isn’t lost on you. The walls and ceiling stretch high above, intricate moldings weaving up to frame large murals of greek-style motifs. The cushioned seats had seen better days. Red velvet crushed flat, ripped seams and stained with time. But it has a charm to it.

It was easy to imagine Seokmin finding home in this place. Losing himself on stage, spending hours and hours hidden away with a script.

He finally notices your presence when you approach one of the side stage staircases.

“And what do I owe the honor?” he asks, lips unzipping into a grin you can’t help but return.

You wave the white envelope in response, bowing comically low. “I come bearing a gift.”

“Is that—“

You nod solemnly, forcing it into his hands. “Open it!”

Seokmin stares at the envelope the same way he stared at you the night you offered to help him out. A small miracle in the palm of his hand. Your boss signed the check without question. It was a good look to sponsor local events, great publicity and a tax write off. The second you mentioned there were children in the cast and it was volunteer only he doubled the donation.

Seokmin opens the envelope, pausing to read. His eyes bulge. “Two grand? Are you serious?”

“Yep. All it took was the promise of two pages in the back of the program. So if you could get that message passed along.”

He hasn’t looked away from the check as a flush rises up his neck. “I’ll get their logo tattooed on my forehead if they want.”

“Tried that…” you joke. “They went up to two thousand with the promise you wouldn’t..”

“This is…” 

You’re swept into a hug tight enough to pop something in your back. Too tight, with your arms wedged between your chests like the first time but you don’t mind. Seokmin is warm

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he chants, spinning you around.

You soak in the contact for as long as you can. Seokmin gives great hugs, better than great. You didn’t realize you craved the firm comfort of his arms until you had it once again and now that you do, you don’t want him to stop.

You notice someone watching over Seokmin’s shoulder. She’s pretty. Dark curly hair, button nose, big doll eyes boiling with indignation. 

“Is that her?” you whisper into his neck.

“Her who?”

“Mrs. Bald dog walker.”

Seokmin loosens his grip just enough to look.  “Yeah. Why?”

You bury your face back into the crook of his and give him a squeeze. Seokmin returns it instinctively, arms slug across the small of your waist like a puzzle piece. 

“Marta isn’t the jealous type,” he whispers.

“Huh, that’s weird.” Your lips purse. “Because she just stormed off.”

Seokmin whips around to look at the now vacant spot where his ex-girlfriend once stood.

“Consider it as my thank you for the soft launch.”

“Did that actually work?” he asks.

You can’t admit you forgot to check if either Carson or Sam looked at your post. Coincidentally enough, you were too wrapped up in thoughts of the man before you to remember the entire reason he touched you so casually that night was for petty revenge and not because he actually wanted to.

“Who cares?” you bluff. “Anyway, I was thinking of another fundraiser. Maybe it can give you guys some money for some updated set pieces.”

They could definitely use it. One of the stagehands staples fabric across a hole in the couch so wide you’d bet money the next person who sits on it would sink straight through to the ground, another slathers a thick layer of white paint on a dry rotted board. What good are new costumes without good props?

“If you keep helping us out, they’re gonna have to change the name of the building.” Seokmin smiles down at you. His hand is still at the small of your back but even through the many layers protecting you from the chill you can feel the heat of his touch.

“I’ve always wanted a theater named after me. Like a Rockefeller or something.”

“So what is this idea?”

You gaze at him expectantly. “How many of your friends are single?”

It took little convincing for your plan. Seokmin turns out to be a bartender and his boss agrees to host it (pending a small cut of the proceeds), and several of his friends volunteer to help a good cause.

You’ve never been to this bar either but it somehow fits him too. Not a complete dive but cozy and well weathered. Multicolored string lights hang from the rafters so thick you can’t even see the ceiling, and posters, neon signs, and other decor obscure the walls. A low platform in one corner clearly meant for live entertainment becomes the auctioneer block with a banner strewn above reading THEATER FUNDRAISER in painted bubble letters.

Most of the people in the crowd are involved in the theater one way or another. Volunteers, cast and crew, a few parents coming for the drink specials and a show. A few outsiders mix in with the batch; regulars, people who saw the chalkboard sign on the street and got curious. Seokmin’s friends linger around the pool table in the corner, nervously shuffling around.

You’re on your way over to finalize the order when Seokmin and Lydia intercept you. 

“Small problem,” he says.

“What?” 

Lydia sighs. “Mingyu has a girlfriend.”

“Since when?” you ask.

“Apparently fifteen minutes ago.”

“Oh,” you say. “Good for him.”

“Except we’re a man down.”

“I’ll do it,” Seokmin interjects.

Your gut curls. The idea of someone, not you, going on a date with him leaves a sour note in your mouth. But you’re not in a position to say anything. 

But it doesn’t stop you.

“You can’t!” you blurt.

“Why not?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.

Lydia looks down right maniacal at your outburst. No way are you going to admit whatever feelings you have for Seokmin right now. 

“Who is gonna be the host if you’re busy?”

“I’ll do it,” Lydia says. There’s a dare in her gaze. She can smell bullshit a mile away. “Unless there’s some other reason Seokmin needs to host.”

She bats her eyelashes with all the innocence of the devil.

“Fine,” you nod.

Lydia snags the mic from Seokmin and bolts for the stage. “Alright, settle in! Tonight we’re raising money for a good cause. So let’s get this show on the road, and remember—no refunds, no takesies backsies, and no funny business! We take Venmo or cash. No checks! Now, first up, we have Seungcheol!”

Seungcheol steps up to the stage, body lax as the crowd eyes him up and down. He was the first person to volunteer when you explained your idea – spawned from many sorority fundraisers in college – to Seokmin. The others followed suit shortly after, giving you six men in total willing to go on a date (no funny business) in the name of supporting the arts.

“Twenty dollars!” a woman in a dark jacket calls.

“At least let me tell you about him before going at him like a piece of meat!” Lydia jokes.

Someone else interjects. “Forty dollars!”

Lydia ignores her. “He enjoys camping, sports, and long walks on the beach,” she reads off the notecard. “And he can fix your car courtesy of Choi Mechanics.”

“Seventy five.”

People keep increasing their bids, Seungcheol clearly enjoying the attention as he jokes and winks towards the more eager ones. He’s preening while you and Seokmin watch in giddy amusement by the pool table, faces hidden in your drinks.

“Two hundred dollars!” someone near the back calls.

“Two fifty!”

“That’s Seungcheol’s girlfriend,” Seokmin whispers from your side.

You try to get a better look but Seungcheol’s girlfriend remains hidden at a table behind several others. 

“Then why is he doing this?”

Seungkwan comes up beside you. “Because they’re exhibitionists.”

“Sold!” Seungcheol yells.

“I’m the one with the gavel,” Lydia objects. She pounds the gavel to emphasize her power. “Sold for two hundred and fifty dollars!”

Seungcheol drops a wad of cash from his own wallet into the bucket at the front of the stage and disappears into the corner of the room where his girlfriend waits. You make a mental note to avoid that side of the bar for the rest of the night, just in case.

The other guys go easy, thriving on the momentum of Seungcheol. Soonyoung gets a date with a woman old enough to be your mother but he looks positively thrilled. Even Mingyu stops by to drop a couple bucks into your hand as an apology. Then it’s Seokmin’s turn.

“He can cook, he’s good with kids, and he makes a mean mojito,” Lydia announces. “Give it up for our favorite bartender, Seokmin!”

The crowd has mellowed out but remains enthusiastic, regulars and theater people alike clapping as he comes forward. Even his boss behind the bar rings a large bell mounted on the wall reserved for good tippers. Someone wolf whistles and Seokmin goes red.

“Let’s start the bidding at thirty bucks,” Lydia says.

“Fifty!” someone calls.

By some feat of the universe, Seokmin transforms into a maroon faced mess.

You look around the bar and spot her at a table close to the edge of the stage. That ugly gut punch from earlier rears its head again at the gleam in her eyes, like she can’t wait to sink her teeth into Seokmin the first chance she gets. You don’t want Seokmin going on a date with her. You don’t want him going on a date with anyone.

Your mouth is open before you realize. “A hundred.”

Seokmin, Lydia, and just about everyone else in the bar whip their head in your direction. You refuse to look at any of them, staring down your competition as she raises her hand to counter.

“One fifty.”

“Two hundred.”

“Three fifty,” she says, smirking at you.

Lydia levels you with expectant looks. Seokmin watches you like you’re a wild animal, unsure of your next move. You’re in too deep now. 

“Four hundred dollars.”

Your competition opens her mouth to rebut; however, Lydia is already swinging the gavel, “Sold! To the beautiful woman in the ugly sweater. Come get your man!”

Seokmin catches your arm before you can open your purse. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s for a good cause. Besides, think of it as a thank you for saving me from spending all my money on take out.”

He stares at you for a second too long, frozen in his own disbelief. You’re lying and you both know it but to admit that him going on a date with someone else, even for a good cause, made you jealous ventures over a line you’re not ready to cross just yet.

“Alright, that was our last man of the night,” Lydia announces into the mic. “Which means we’ve raised a whopping two thousand six hundred dollars for our local theater.”

Everyone cheers once again. The atmosphere is light but the bubble surrounding you and Seokmin is anything but. 

He raises an eyebrow skeptically as you shove bills into the collection bucket, pointedly looking anywhere but him lest your face match the red of his own. It doesn’t matter though. You can feel the heat on your cheeks, the sweat at your hairline. Four hundred dollars to go out with a guy. 

At least it’s for a good cause.

Seungkwan saves you from whatever questions Seokmin has, pushing his friend back to work behind the bar before cornering you into conversation.

“You,” Seungkwan says.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. I’m having a pre-game at my house tomorrow night. You’re invited.”

“Oh,” you blink. “I’m not really a partier.”

“It’ll be a small thing. Most of the guys here and my roommate. We’re going to Jane’s after.”

“I’ve never been there before.”

Seungkwan stomps indignantly. “You’ve never been to Jane’s? Jane’s is a neighborhood institution.”

“I guess I never got around to exploring much,” you shrug.

“Why not?”

A creature of habit such as yourself, you rarely went to new places. You liked the places you already knew, the ones you didn’t have to guess if you liked. Besides, you hadn’t felt like going out much in the past few months, something always coming up including reasons, such as: you liked your apartment with cheaper drinks, less cigarette smoke, and no strange men trying to mansplain American Psycho.

Lydia appears at your side, new drink in hand. “Did someone say party?”

“It starts at eight thirty, but don’t come until nine. Seok will give you the address.”

Seungkwan disappears into the crowd, leaving you and Lydia hovering at the edge of the stage all alone. If there was one person besides Seokmin you didn’t want to be left alone with, it was her. But it’s too late to escape.

In the face of total mortification, you try to put on a brave face.

“Four hundred? Really?” Lydia asks.

“Shut up,” you mumble into the cup of melted ice.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“I’ve met your friends before,” you snort.

Seokmin rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, but they can be a lot and that’s coming from me.”

You refused to let the car ride on the way over be awkward, plowing through whatever cobwebs lingered between you two. Luckily, Seokmin went along, recalling horror stories from Seungkwan’s yearly holiday pre-game. There was the year Soonyoung attempted making hot cider and gave everyone food poisoning. The year after where Mingyu ended up breaking the bathroom doorknob resulting in the fire department coming out to free him because he got stuck trying to crawl out the window above the shower. And most recently, Jeonghan – who you haven’t met yet – hid under the couch for the sole purpose of grabbing people’s ankles as they walked by; except he fell asleep and Seungkwan found him the next morning while cleaning.

Nothing you couldn’t handle.

“Well, if it's too much I’ll send you some code to leave.”

“What should I be looking for exactly?” he asks, lips quirked.

“I’ll start making ghost noises.”

Seokmin snorts when you start demonstrating. “But that happens so frequently. How about morse code?”

“How about I scream at the top of my lungs?” you grin.

“Works for me.”

Seokmin knocks against the dark wood door leading to Seungkwan’s apartment.

“COME IN!” Seungkwan belts, flinging the door open wide. “For me?”

You hand over the bottle of wine with flourish. Heaven forbid you show up anywhere empty handed, a habit hammered in by your mother. “For you.”

Seungkwan pulls you inside. “I like you more and more. Come on, everyone else is already here.”

The doorway leads straight into the crowded living room. You recognize Seungcheol, a woman his same height tucked into his side as they chat with Lydia on the couch. Coincidentally, she lives two floors above Seungkwan and Vernon and was thrilled to discover mailroom guy had a name and good taste in music.

You quickly scan beneath the couch for any full grown men and are mildly disappointed to find none.

Seokmin gets caught up in ‘hellos’ while you pad down the hallway after Seungkwan; into the kitchen where Mingyu stirs something on the stove.  Cocoa and vanilla flood your nose, the warmth of the kitchen driving away the lingering chill from outside. Seungkwan puts the wine on the counter before pulling mugs out of the cabinets. 

“What’s this?” you ask.

“Spiked hot chocolate,” Mingyu says. He adds a splash of peppermint schnapps to the pot and starts stirring again before pouring two mugs: one for you and one for Seokmin. “There’s whipped cream over there.”

You’re shaking the can of whipped cream when an arm reaches over your shoulder and pulls it out of your grip.

“Just say when,” Seokmin says.

He piles a comical mountain of whipped cream into your mug, and then a matching one on his own. There are sprinkles as well as chocolate shavings and you both artfully decorate your drinks with handfuls of each.

“I think we have more whipped cream than hot chocolate,” you say.

“There’s no such thing as too much whipped cream.” 

You both take a long sip and when he’s done you choke. He’s got whipped cream on his nose, his lips, and his cheeks. 

“What?” Seokmin asks.

“You’ve got,” you laugh. “Let me help.”

He stands perfectly still as you wipe his face with a paper towel. You’ve been this close to Seokmin before but with amusement instead of nerves clouding your system, you notice details you hadn’t before. The mole of his cheek. Two. One a little more pronounced than the other. Cute.

“Alright, all done,” you announce, finally noticing the way he stares down at you softly. So much for not having any nerves. “C’mon, I wanna see if Jeonghan is hiding under the couch before we leave.”

You lead him out of the kitchen, looking for anyway to cut the tension—

“KISS!” Lydia demands. 

You scan the room for who she’s screaming at in an apartment full of strangers only to find her finger pointed straight above your head.

Mistletoe.

Mingyu barrels out of the kitchen to join in on the chaos.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” they all chant. Soonyoung cups his hands around his mouth and belts it loud enough your heart lurches. 

“We don’t have to,” Seokmin whispers, cheeks and ears bright red.

“It’s fine.”

You plan for a quick peck on the cheek but Seokmin goes for his left while you go for your left and you’re not kissing but something dangerously close to it. The sticky residue of sugar and chocolate registers against your lips, a little bit of stubble missed when he shaved this morning. Barely a second of contact, just the edge of his mouth against yours but the world spins backwards and you nearly fall over. 

As fast as it happens, you both draw back, staunchly avoiding eye contact but staying pressed close.

Seokmin wraps an arm around your waist, steadying you against his check. “You okay?”

His breath skims over your lips. The temptation to roll on to your toes and kiss him for real sends your heart racing. Your chin lifts. Seokmin looks at your mouth. And…

“Who's ready to party?” Chan calls, breaking the atmosphere. 

The walk to Jane’s is nothing short of hell. Snow falls in thin sheets, frigid air sneaking past the lining of your coat and straight into your bones. In the middle of the pack you aren’t as exposed thanks to Seokmin to your right, Lydia on the other side, and a gaggle of the others walking in front. 

Your hand keeps accidentally brushing Seokmin’s, sending a rush of pins and needles up your arm each time. You both pretend to ignore it.

The barren street outside the bar doesn’t hint at what waits within except for the dull hum of life sneaking past the door. It feels like half the city is packed inside, forcing everyone to slither past each other because there is simply no room. 

Seungkwan wasn’t lying when he said it was a neighborhood institution. A stage is set up at the far wall, drunks belting their hearts out. Your group fans out to the bar, snagging drinks before taking the pilgrimage to a small table near the stage. Seokmin keeps you close the entire time. Guiding you to a seat, insisting on standing right behind the chair and talking to his friends over your shoulder.

You sag in your seat, content to soak in everyone else's conversations. The edge of your mouth still burns from the contact of the kiss, the same sensation everywhere Seokmin touches. You crave more. Like a sunflower searching for the sun. You lean against the back of the chair for a chance to feel his chest against your back. He doesn’t shy away when you do either. You can’t see his face but Lydia sits across the table watching with a pleased smirk. 

“A toast,” Seokmin starts as the song fades and the next group to the stage. Someone wrangled a tray of red and green shots to the table and Seungkwan passes them around. “To Y/N. We wouldn’t have a show without her.”

“Yes, you would,” you correct.

“But we wouldn’t have new costumes,” says Seungkwan. “Do you know how old the costumes we were gonna wear are?”

“And we have new sets. We haven’t bought a new set piece in like fifty years,” Chan interjects. 

Soonyoung speaks up next. “And I got a date!”

Seokmin slings an arm over your shoulder, squeezing you into his side. “You’re a miracle worker.”

Cheeks hot, you hide your smile at the bottom of the shot glass.

Focus shifts as Soonyoung, Seokmin, and Seungkwan take the stage for “No Scrubs” the entire bar signs along to. They’re born performers. Soaking in every minute of attention, riling the crowd up until your ears go numb.

You try not to think of the almost kiss but it’s hopeless. Two drinks down and the only thing on your mind is the eclectic feeling on his mouth on your skin. 

You’re so deep in your thoughts, you don’t notice Seokmin has come back to the table with a new drink for you until he’s nudging your shoulder with his.

“How do you like it?”

“Way better than the depression playlist,” you joke.

“Celine Dion is a classic.”

“Yeah, but after the first five times she loses her edge.”

Seokmin shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Blasphemy.”

Vernon and Seungkwan are singing Crazy in Love. Or, Seungkwan is singing and Vernon is head banging to the beat. Just watching makes your neck hurt.

Someone bumps into you from behind, sending you reeling straight into Seokmin’s chest.

“Woah, you okay?”

You nod into his chest but don’t let go. 

The shots earlier were a mistake. Seokmin looks good under the neon lights of the bar, better with the swirly haze of alcohol. You want to kiss him so bad it’s embarrassing.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks, voice husky.

When you look up at him, something dances across his face. There and gone before you can figure out what it is. Home sounds like a great idea. Better to lock yourself in your apartment where your mind can run wild before you do something stupid – like drag Seokmin into a corner to make out – in front of all your new friends.

You step out of his grip. “I can get home on my own. You don’t have to come with me.”

“I’m good to go. Promise.”

Not willing to brave a thirty minute walk home in the snow, Seokmin orders an Uber while you say goodbye.

Once outside, Seokmin wraps his arm back around you. Away from prying eyes, you let yourself indulge with the excuse of sharing body heat. Friends share body heat all the time. There is nothing wrong with a platonic penguin huddle.

Too soon, he pulls away as a car pulls up to the curb. “This is us.”

Seokmin makes conversation with the driver while you stare out the window as the city whips by. He’s just being nice, treating you the same way he would all his friends. Touching and almost kissing aside, Seokmin is your friend and you don’t want to jeopardize it with complications.

“YN?”

“Huh?’

“We’re home.”

You stumble through the cold, Seokmin hot on your heels through the lobby and into the elevator. It’s a fragile type of silence between you. 

“I’ll see you later?”

“Night,” Seokmin says.

“Goodnight, Seok,” you murmur back, pushing open your door.

“Fuck,” he curses. “I left my keys at Kwan’s.”

“Should we call them?”

You invite Seokmin into your apartment while he tries to get ahold of his friends. Shinx offers timid emotional support by curling up in his lap, purring loudly as scratches under her chin. Now you’re jealous of a cat. 

How dmbarrassing.

Calling proves futile. Seungkwan’s phone goes straight to voicemail and Vernon doesn’t answer either. He tries texting them with the same results.

“You can sleep on the couch,” you offer.

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna impose.”

“I won’t be able to sleep knowing you’re sitting in the hall all night,” you say. “Let me get you a blanket.”

In your room, you quickly change out of your bar clothes and into pajamas. It takes some time to dig out a pair of sweats and a tshirt that’ll fit Seokmin but you eventually find something for him. Snagging a pillow from your bed and an extra blanket from the linen closet. you head into the living room.

You force the clothes into his chest. “Here. Get changed and I’ll make your bed.”

A dark look glazes his face and for a second you think he might kiss you. Or you hope he’s thinking about it half as much as you are. But the moment passes. He locks himself in your room while you busy making the lumpy, itchy couch somewhat comfortable for him. 

“Wanna watch a movie?”

You settle on Krampus. Neither of you have seen it but even after tonight you doubt you’d be able to recall a single detail. Seokmin pulls your legs over his lap like second nature, covering you both in the blanket, his hands resting on your shin. Choosing shorts over pants was a mistake. The heat of his thigh against the back of yours makes you squirm. The calluses on his palms scratch an itch leading straight between your legs as he rubs up and down absentmindedly, never trailing higher than your knee.

You’re shaking. His hand squeezes and you nearly heave.

“Cold?” 

No.

But you nod anyway. 

Seokmin pulls another blanket off the back of the couch, carefully layering it over the first, tucking you in tight before putting his arms back over your legs.

“You know, you’re a really good guy, Seok.”

“Thanks.”

It’s shameful. How bad you want to kiss him, for him to kiss you. 

“I mean it.”

“I don’t know if it's true though.”

Instead of asking what he means, you lean closer. Then Seokmin does too. You’re too busy staring at his mouth to notice him doing the same. All your thoughts hone in on if he was as good a kisser as you imagined. And if you kissed him right now, would he kiss you back? If you touched him, would he touch you too?

Someone moves first. It doesn’t matter who because his nose nudges against yours, then you're swallowing his sigh, and you both practically melt at the relief. 

It’s better than anything you could have cooked up in your head. His lips are soft, the rough pads of his fingers gentle as he tips your chin. You like it. You like him. 

Your lips catch on his bottom lip by accident but it's the first domino to topple into a chain reaction. Seokmin’s lips part, your hands bury in his hair. His thumb hones in on the strip of skin between your top and your shorts. You maneuver into his lap, fingers cataloguing the expanse of his shoulders, his neck. Back into his hair. Close as you are, it isn’t close enough. You arch into him, dragging your lips across the line of his throat when his head falls back.

His hands are everywhere. The small of your waist, the base of your spine, lifting your shirt until it’s tossed to the floor and your topless in his lap, shaking with anticipation.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. His eyes lock on your nipples, tight from just a few light touches.

Seokmin pulls you back down, kissing you slow and heavy while his hands touch you with gentle reverence. 

Clothes come off. The borrowed sweater he’s wearing reveals so much skin you don’t know where to start. But Seokmin doesn’t let you linger too long because he’s taking off your bottoms until you’re completely naked. Seokmin eases his body over yours, heavy between your thighs. 

A particularly harsh pass of his hips pulls a wire down your spine, back arching painfully, moaning at the ceiling. 

“Ha,” you waver under his teeth, his tongue worshiping your chest, leaving broad strokes you imagine will feel amazing on other parts of your body. Head tipped back, you display yourself openly for him to touch and tease.

“Take your pants off,” you beg.

“I don’t have a condom.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay,” he says, mouthing against the sensitive spot below your jaw. His smile is clear. “We don’t have to do anything.”

You make a sound between a whine and a grunt. You want to have sex with him. Right here, on your shitty couch. But you aren’t willing to take the risk, no matter how badly you want it. Even if he does have a weird dick which you doubt based on the feeling of it against your naked cunt.

“You think my dick is weird?” he asks, half shocked and half amused.

“No! I—” you scramble. “I don’t think your dick is weird.”

“But you’ve thought about my dick?”

“I’m not supposed to.”

Seokmin grins, clearly amused. “Why not?”

“Because you’re my neighbor.”

“Oh.” He rushes to rise off you, kneeling between your spread legs. “If you don’t want to, it’s okay.”

“I do want to. That's the problem,” you whine.

He hums in acknowledgment, body shaking with barely suppressed giggles. 

You thrash. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not, I've just…never had someone be so eager.”

He kisses you like he’s the eager one, tongue tracing your bottom lip until you welcome him in with a lewd suck. It only lasts for a second before he’s back down your chest and then kneeling in front of the couch, nuzzling the meat of your thigh while his fingers stroke against your wetness timidly.

“Is this okay?”

“Yep!” you choke. “Great.”

Your legs verge on numbness from being bent in half for so long but Seokmin keeps finding those spots that make it worth it. You need something to hold onto; his hair, the cushions, your own breasts. Seokmin seems to love that the most. Grunting into your pussy as he watches with reverence as you play with yourself.

“Taste so good,” he rasps. “You’re so hot.”

Fingers thrusting, Seokmin strings you out. When he crooks the digits buried deep inside you, your back breaks in half. The hand pinning your waist down holds tights, the lean muscles flexing in your view. 

“J-just like that,” you hiccup. 

He never falters. Seokmin does exactly as you ask until you curl and come wet and hot on his face with a cry. It’s not until you push him off that he stops completely, rubbing the mess of his fingers on his pants and crowding you back into the couch cushion to taste yourself off his tongue. 

You moan against his mouth. “Wanna taste you.”

“I’m good.”

“I want to,” you beg.

“No like—”

You paw at his crotch only for the enticing hardness to be absent. He’s soft. Confusion furrows your brows for a brief second until the rosy tint to his cheeks registers. 

Seokmin hides in the crook of your neck, sigh ruffling your hair as he gets cozy in the warm space and allows his nose to trace the curve of your shoulder. “It usually doesn’t happen like that. I don’t—”

“That's so hot,” you mumble. The heat of his body combined with an orgasm and the last bit of your blood lulls you closer to sleep with every second.  

Seokmin tugs your shirt back over your head before pulling you close, his bare chest against your back, legs tangled beneath a quilt. Pure content tickles across your senses, followed by the warm drag of sleep.

Seokmin is gone by the time you wake up.

Shuffling from the couch into the bedroom, you accept he probably left early to get his keys from Seungkwan and didn’t want to wake you. Your head pounds in time with your pulse, stomach turning at the thought of getting off the couch. Thank God he didn’t try to wake you. There’s nothing less attractive than wanting to lay on the floor and wait for the sweet release of death.

The second time you wake up is to the sound of Shinx shredding a scrap of paper at the foot of your bed.

“You bastard,” you groan.

A set of large eyes stares back at you for a moment, before she meows and gets back to work on her kill. You nudge her off the edge of the bed with your foot. She bolts for the living room while you hide back into the pillows until it’s dark outside once again.

When you start feeling human enough to shower and eat, you check your phone. A text from Lydia and a few other notifications greet you but none from Seokmin. Not a call, or a text, or anything. Complete radio silence.

You hear him come home, the shuffle of his feet down the hallway and the slam of his front door. But there's no singing; not even so much as a hum. No knocking on the shared wall. You can’t hear a single thing from his side even when – embarrassingly – you press your ear against the wall like an eavesdropper. 

It’s like that for days.

Seokmin leaves his apartment after you get home. Or when you come back from work you hear him rush to turn down his music like he wants you to believe he’s out. He’s avoiding you. And you don’t know why.

You’ve thought about trying to catch him in the act; waiting by the door and popping out to ask him what his problem is. But you’re not sure if you want the answer to that question. He probably regrets kissing you. He definitely regrets kissing you if he's acting like this. But you don’t want to rush to conclusions either. The show opens Friday night and being director requires all hands on deck. Seokmin probably doesn’t even have time to brush his teeth let alone think about whatever it is between you too. Add the fact the actor for Scrooge broke his leg just before the auction and the only person comfortable enough with the role is also directing, he’s under a lot of pressure.

But none of the reassuring thoughts get you to leave the house the night of the show.

It wasn’t as if you had to be there. You helped fundraise but you weren’t cast or crew so your attendance was optional, even if there were two tickets waiting for you at willcall. Missed calls and texts rack up on your phone screen. Lydia, Seungkwan, Chan… But none from Seokmin. You should have turned your phone off to avoid the fall out from ditching. 

Instead, you accidentally pick up Lydia’s call. 

“Where are you?” Lydia screeches through the speaker. “The show's about to start.”

“I’m…I��m sick.”

You even fake cough but Lydia doesn’t buy it for a second.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“Get your ass down here or I swear to god I’ll drag you by your hair.”

“Why would I go? He hasn’t talked to me all week?”

“So? Who cares!” she huffs, “You worked really hard to make sure this all got done. They wouldn’t have costumes or a set without everything you did. Forget Seokmin, come see it for yourself.”

“I—”

“Listen. Whatever happened between you two happened. But don’t let that chase you away from this. We can plot revenge tomorrow but tonight you should celebrate how hard you worked to make this happen.”

“Alright.”

You race to dress somewhat appropriately. Sweater, leggings, and a nice coat are all you can manage if you want to make it before intermission ends. It’s a miracle you’re not pulled over for speeding or running through yellow lights at the last minute but you get downtown in record time.

The street outside the theater is quiet, fog rising from the damp pavement. Through the glass doors into the theater, people mill about. You missed the first half of the show but there’s still time.

Lydia waits on the steps, exhaling a foggy breath when she finds you.  “Thank god.”

“How's it so far?”

“Good. I can’t believe I’ve never come to one of these before.” She types furiously on her phone before locking it and tossing it back into her purse. “The costumes look so good.”

The theater is packed to the brim, the lobby practically bursting at the seams as people chat through intermission. The costumes look better than good and so do the sets. Seokmin plays a more than convincing Scrooge, even better than the ones you’ve seen in the million movie versions of the play you’ve watched together. There’s no way he can see you with the bright stage lights but more than once it feels like he’s staring right where you sit, looking for someone. Looking for you.

Your eyes remain glued to the stage, unable to blink just in case you miss a second. It's dizzying watching him perform, as if you're staring up at the sky for too long and starting to feel unmoored; like you can't look away, can't accept that something so captivating exists.

After another hour, the lights go up, the cast take their bows. Without warning, you’re blinking into a harsh spotlight.

“Stand up,” Lydia whispers, prodding your side.

“What the hell is going on?”

“This production wouldn’t have been possible without Y/N. We’re so thankful for someone like her.”

You smile awkwardly and wait for the clapping to die down as the spotlight moves back to the stage. The second it's over, you’re up the aisle and into the lobby.

Straight into Seungkwan, who is subtly guarding the door like he knew you’d run at the first chance.

“You’re coming to the after party, right?” he asks.

Other people start filtering in from the auditorium. Maybe, you can lose him in the chaos and go home. 

“Of course she is,” Lydia interjects. Her arm weaves through yours, a firm threat that she’ll drag you if she has to.

The after party is for cast and crew of legal drinking age at Jane’s. Lydia and Seungkwan ride with you, another silent threat looming in the air.  They chat the entire way, undeterred by your silence. It's nice having friends that care but all you want is to hide under a blanket on your couch and spend the rest of the night crying while Shinx watches you with unveiled disgust.

Outside the bar, you promise one drink, claiming that you really are sick and want to go home. Which might be true. You’re off kilter, head spinning, stomach twisted into untangleable knots. But that might be because you can hear Seokmin’s laugh as you enter and your muscles twitch to dive beneath a table until he leaves.

You manage to find a stool in the corner. Even in an attempt to remain unseen more than half the bar stops by to thank you; crew members you haven’t met or cast you’ve seen in passing. Lydia stays by your side throughout, a steady presence as you lose yourself in the party. You can almost forget who is floating around the outskirts of the bar like a ghost. 

“Vernon sent me to ask if you want to play pool,” Seungkwan says to Lydia.

She sends you a sideways glance. Not asking for permission but like you’re a kid she can’t leave alone.

“Go,” you say, brushing her away. “I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t leave without telling me.”

“I’m leaving right now,” you tell her.

“Fine,” she sighs. Then she pulls you into a hug. Lydia isn’t a hugger, in the years you’ve known her you can count on your fingers the number of times it’s happened. “But you should clear the air before you go.”

“I live next to him. There are plenty of opportunities.”

She gives you an extra squeeze, fully aware you’ll continue pretending he doesn’t exist until everything smooths over and you and Seokmin are back to neighbors who tolerate each other's existence in fragile silence.

Which would work if the second you turn around to leave you don’t run straight into him.

He rubs the side of his head. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you say. “Can we talk?”

He nods before turning to leave the bar, not waiting to see if you follow but you do. 

The party inside the bar echoes out onto the snowy street. It seems no one else is crazy enough to have an overdue conversation in a snowstorm, but better here than anywhere else. At least after Seokmin lets you down, you can run back to your apartment and pretend he doesn’t exist anymore.

Seokmin stands a few paces away, barely illuminated in neon signs and string lights strewn across the street. You aren’t drunk, not even tipsy. Alcohol would make this conversation worse but it’d take the edge off your nerves and dull a little bit of the cold.

You shove both hands in your pockets, unsure what to say now that you have him all alone.

“The play was good.”

“Thanks. Next time you’ll have to see the first act.”

It comes out like a joke but you can feel the vitriol like a bucket of ice water. Ouch.

“I—”

“If you’re not over your ex it’s okay,” he winces. “We can stay friends.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Sam. You still have feelings for him. It’s fine if you do, I get it. I’m not mad or anything I just thought…”

“I am over Sam.”

“Well, congrats on getting over him I guess,” Seokmin shrugs but his grin is forced. “Is that all you wanted to talk about?”

“Are you serious?” you scoff, venom stinging the tip of your tongue. 

His face glazes with annoyance. “What else is there?”

“Why did you leave?”

“I had work.”

You want to smack to frown off his face. 

“But you didn’t text me or leave a note. I woke up and you were gone and then didn’t hear anything from you.”

“I did leave a note. You iced me out,” he argues.

“Where? Because from where I’m standing you left as soon as you could and then ignored me like it never happened.”

“My phone died so I left a note on the counter. And you never texted me or anything so I thought you were trying to let me down easy.”

He left you a note. The shredded paper on your bed…

“Oh my god,” you gasp, ire evaporating. “Shinx.”

“Your cat?”

Laughter bubbles out of your throat, so thick you choke on your next words. “I think she ate your note.”

The realization hangs in the air, Seokmin froze as your words sink in. He stares at you for a moment, still recovering from the absurdity of it all, before he finally exhales a long breath.

“I thought she liked me,” he whines, face lit up with the beginning of a smile. 

“Shinx is loyal to no one.”

His body meets yours, like cards precariously leaned against one another to prevent a topple as you both shake with laughter. The cold of the street disappears in the warmth of his touch. 

“You’re not that kind of guy. I know that. I shouldn’t have—”

“I could’ve texted you after I went to Kwan’s,” he interjects. 

“I could’ve called you.”

Seokmin’s gaze roams across your face. “How about we start over?”

“I’d like that,” you smile, closing the scant amount of space left between your bodies. 

“Me too.”

Your lips brush against his, the faintest contact sending a storm of butterflies through your stomach. You’re both smiling too much for it to count as a real kiss but neither of you seem to care. His hand slips around the back of your neck, holding you closer just for a moment longer.

Seokmin convinces you to stay at the bar for a few more hours. He holds your hand, keeps you under his arm, looks at you after each joke to make sure you’re laughing too. Seokmin is nothing like Sam. You’ve known that all along but the fear lingered and you refused to acknowledge it. He’s someone you actually could fall for if you let yourself. 

He might hurt you but the potential for something great outweighs the bad in spades.

As the night drags on, you end up closer; sitting on his laps, his hands protectively wrapped around your waist. His chin hooks over your shoulder and you lean back against him. The slow burn between you roars to a boil when you trace mindless shapes against his palm, Seokmin’s breath shaky in his chest.

“Ready to go home?” he whispers huskily. His breath rushes down your neck, goosebumps bloom in its wake. 

You shift closer – the seam of your jeans only further worsening your arousal – and nod.

Once outside, you’re tangled in each other once again, limbs indecipherable. The sudden chill of midnight air has you turning back into his chest, the arm previously on your back curling low on your waist. Seokmin orders an Uber and immediately focuses back on you the second he can. You catch a text on his screen before he can lock his phone. Seokmin holds you the same as before but it’s different this time. You’re both waiting for the damn to break and the flood to wash away whatever tension lingers between you. 

[10:56PM] Mr. Boo: do not fuck this up

[10:56PM] Mr. Boo: lydia said she would kill you and i think she’s serious

The cab ride home is a blur. You’re focused on not scandalizing the drive while Seokmin keeps a hand firmly on your knee, perfectly proper if it wasn’t for the grit in his jaw when you return the touch just high enough for your pinky to graze his zipper. 

The second the car stops, you throw the door open and pull Seokmin out and inside the lobby, straight to the elevator where he grabs your waist and uses the leverage to kiss you with so much heat you sweat.

He tries pressing you into the wall but you beat him to the punch, crowding him into the corner, front flush with him from head to toe. Seokmin groans, pushing back as you grind over his thigh. One of you pushes the button to your floor.

When the doors open, he gains the upper hand. Tugging you down the hall, he bypasses your door and goes straight for his own. He fumbles with the keys from the way you suck at his pulse but after a few tries he succeeds, pulling you inside and pressing you into the wall of the hallway.

“I like you,” he admits, rushing to unzip your coat and stuff his freezing hands inside, curling them against your waist. “This isn’t just sex.”

You nod dumbly. “I know. I like you, too.”

“And we should – hmmm – go on a date sometime.”

“Okay,” you rasp. 

His thigh slots back between yours. All those memories of his mouth and fingers rush to the forefront, teasing you with the fantasy of Seokmin on his knees right here, eating you out next to his front door. 

He presses hard against your core, fingers tracing the seam of your pants. Your hands reach beneath his shirt; pulling, squeezing. Nails digging into his tense stomach with each bump against your covered clit.

“Seokmin,” you whimper.

You're pulled off the wall. A trail of clothing is left in your wake to his room. Hats, coats, sweaters, undershirts. Seokmin manages to keep his pants on but allows you to unbutton them for a weak handjob over his briefs.

“God,” he exhales close to your ear.

In all the nights you two have hung out you’ve never been in his room. You try to take in as many details as possible but Seokmin dedicates himself to driving you insane with his lips on your neck, gently nipping and sucking until you shiver.

If you had any foresight this was going to happen then you would have at least picked matching underwear. But he seems thrilled as he crowds you into the bed. 

His mouth replaces his hand, lapping at your nipple, completely disregarding the fabric of your bra, before sucking it into his mouth. The hand that was on your chest dips beneath your panties. Fingertips circle your clit, gliding through the wet mess, dipping shallowly inside you.

Your hips rut into the touch. You want more. Need more. And you know Seokmin can give you what you need.

You guide his mouth to your neglected nipple, pushing the cup out of the way and arching as he gives it the same attention. “Please.”

“I got you,” he promises.

Seokmin melts down between your legs, kneeling at the side of the bed; one on his shoulder, the other pressed up your chest. Your hands bury in his hair as he licks a long strip up your core. Each pathetic sound fleeing your lips is rewarded with a deeper curl of his fingers, a harsher lap of his tongue. He leaves wet kisses on your thighs, spreading the mess of arousal and spit before diving back.

You squeeze tight on his fingers. “O-oh, oh fuck.”

Your hips stutter into his mouth. It washes over you, muscles clenched so hard it hurts. The way your heels dig into his back must hurt too but you don’t care. Neither does Seokmin. He doesn’t stop as you claw at him, following that inferno scorching through every tissue, begging him to keep going until you wilt into the sheets.

The ceiling comes slowly into focus, dots floating across your vision. You’re sweating despite the chill hanging in the air. Thankfully, Seokmin blankets you in his heat as he kisses across your hips, then your sternum, then buries his face into your neck. Your shivers have nothing to do with the cold.

“Wow,” you pant. 

Seokmin’s face cracks into a tired grin. Fatigue ghosts over the room but you're not done yet. The weight of his cock between your legs demands attention, and you’re all too eager to touch him.

He doesn’t object when you push him onto his back, or to the trail of soft kisses down his front, allowing you to mark up the smooth expanse of his chest and belly how you see fit. You savor the warmth of his body with each touch. Allow your fingers to gently wash away each press of your lips and warm him up for what's to come.

You suck the head of his cock through the fabric, teasing him with your tongue until the taste of pre-cum floods your mouth. 

He sinks into the bed. A hand finds its way into your hair, unsure if he wants to pull you off or sink deeper into the heat of your mouth, even if it is just a tease. You tug his underwear out of the way and continue torturing him. Thrilled by the way his stomach tense with each desperate whine from the way your tongue traces every ridge.

He gently guides you back and forth, taking the strain off your neck as you take more and more before he pulls you off. “Wait, shit.”

“What–”

“I was gonna come,” Seokmin explains, pulling you up his chest to drop placating kisses against your chin.

“That’s okay,” you smile. “I want you to.”

“But I want to fuck you.”

“Next time?”

“Fuck yes, next time,” he pants as he rolls you on to your back.

He keeps his mouth on yours, tongue sliding hotly against your own while blindly searching for a condom in the bedside table. 

Your hips angle and so do his, a little wiggle and then he’s inside you and it ruins your life. Just the first inch seals your eyes shut, vision filled with stars. You can feel everything; full in a way you’ve never felt before.

Seokmin draws back timidly, allowing you both to watch the way your body takes him so easily.

Somehow he manages to rock deeper, stretch you at just the right angle. Surges right into that spot that curls your chest tight with rough fluidity. The muscles in your thighs are at war with whether to spread wider or squeeze around his waist.

“I wanna ride you.”

There are so many things you want to do with him. To him. But you start with this, taking command of his lap, sinking back on his dick with another tight stretch; glowing as Seokmin watches slack-jawed.

“God, you’re perfect,” he praises.

You fuck yourself on him, knees digging into the mattress as you grind back and forth and all Seokmin can do is watch. A loose grip on your hips as his face glazes over. Your thighs cramp but the way he looks against the pillows, hazy around the edges, hair flat at one side and wild on the other, encourages you to finish what you started.

“Touch me,” you beg.

His neck goes red, ears too, when his hand wedges back between your thighs. “Wanna see you come again. Fuck, you’re so pretty when you come for me.”

Your hips cant wildly, stuttering under his free flowing praise. Too full, too much. You nearly scramble off his lap to snatch at your sanity drifting away.

He kisses you gently, sweet praise ghosting over your lips. “That’s it. Just like that.”

You’re not even moving. Seokmin works your clit raw, fucks up into you with limited motion as you choke on another orgasm that leaves you wet at the eyes and the room spinning. 

“U-ugh. Fuck,” you shiver, collapsing into his chest.

“Can,” he chokes. “Can I—”

An imperceivable dip of your chin and Seokmin rolls you back over and flattens your thighs open; hard rushes of his hips, stomach taunt.

“Come for me. Want you to come inside me,” you sigh. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he chants as he shakes beneath your hands before slumping over.

You rebound faster than Seokmin; he’s almost snoring against your chest as you rake a hand through the tangled mess of his hair, melting under the weight on your lips against his hairline.

“You’re pretty when you come, too,” you tease. 

He swats your hand away, rising off you to dispose of the condom in the bathroom before rushing back into bed to clean you with a washcloth. When he’s done, he throws it into some forgotten corner of the room where the rest of your clothes hide and dives under the covers with you in tow. 

Your limbs lace with his, all nude skin on skin. 

“I would like to take you out for real sometime,” Seokmin whispers.

“Good thing I have a four hundred dollar date to cash in on.”

“You know,” he smiles into your cheek. “You could have asked me for free.”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?”

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[willowedspirits]

Hollow Knight Linked Universe AU! I've finally finished it!

If you don't know much about Hollow Knight, a lot of the technicalities might not make sense, and I would encourage you to look into the game. Or you could just enjoy the chain as bugs and see them off on their buggy adventures!

I've made this AU trying to keep as close as I can to Hollow Knight's story, but some creative liberties were of course taken.

My main idea is that the infection is the equivalent to Dark Link's (who does exist in this) infected monsters and it's up to them to try and slow/stop the infection. My first thought was to have the infection start to spread outside of Hallownest, and the chain needs to go and stop it, but I'm still going back and forth on it.

I'm still open to changing concepts if I find something that works better, but after literal months of working on this on and off I'm happy with how this has turned out!

Rambling about character details below!

Small note: I've set this AU at roughly the start of the infection, when Radiance was starting to take over Hallownest.

Time

Is not from Hallownest. He traveled to Hallownest from a distant land, where he met Malon and settled down with her.

He encountered Radiance upon entering Hallownest, but was protected by a god that had already laid claim to him, Fierce Deity, who protects him from the Radiance's infection.

He and Malon live in the Howling Cliffs.

His wing and antenna injury are from Radiance when she tried to infect him.

He is not able to fly because of the injury, and now fights with a heavy nail.

His wings used to be green, but after encountering the Fierce Deity, they slowly started to change in color until they were blue.

I'm not sure if I would do anything with the eyes on his wings, I was trying to make a connection to Majora in that, but I'm still debating whether to add it.

Twilight

Is a part of the Traitor Mantis tribe that lives in the Queen's Garden.

He met a Sibling (Midna) that escaped from the Abyss. They gave him the ability to harness Void.

Still working on the detail for how exactly they give him this ability, but my rough idea is that perhaps both of them were attacked by and infected villager, and they saved him by giving up their Void essence.

He's grown up wanting to be infected by the Radiance. He was taught the Radiance was a god that gave bugs great strength, but after seeing what the infection really does, he starts to have second thoughts.

The cloak he is wearing is new. The one he wore before was damaged. I'm still debating on when exactly he gets it, but I think it's something he makes after he leaves the traitor village.

Warriors

He is the head knight of the Hive and oversees whoever enters their territory.

His scarf is a gift from the princess of the Hive given to him when he leaves to join the group.

Since he is a bee, he is connected to the Hive via the hivemind. He uses this to check in on his home whenever he can.

This also makes it very dangerous if he gets infected, since it would quickly spread to the other bee's.

I kept his nail the same as Hive Knight's, but it's open to change.

Four

(I'm still very iffy on Four's story concept, but here's what I have so far)

Lives in Green Path.

He has a passion for weapon smithing, and planned on moving to the capital of Hallownest (City of Tears).

But he accidently stumbled on a weak Unn, and agreed to help protect her while she recovered.

When she did recover, she blessed him with a power that allows him to split into 4 parts of himself using his SOUL.

He can split while in the physical world, but will always be split while in the Dream realm. This also makes it difficult for Radiance to infect him.

Wind

Lives in the Kingdom's Edge and works as a guide across the acid lakes. Most of the travelers are those who are seeking to fight in the Colosseum of Fools.

This is how he found the Colosseum, and regularly attends (but not participate in) some of the fights, which is how he meets Tetra.

He is just learning to fly, but is picking it up really fast.

I wanted to keep the lobster apart of his design... But there are no lobsters in Hollow Knight... Then I remembered this was an AU and I can do what I want with it. So lets just pretend that Lobsters are seen as these awesome ancient beings that he wishes to see one day.

Wild

He was a guardian of the Beast's Den before he became infected, leaving the Den to reside somewhere in Deep Nest.

He is cured by the Dream Nail when the group meets him, and the last to join.

His shell is cracked and damaged because of the infection. The cracks have healed over time, but will never go away.

He has trouble with his memory due to being infected for so long before being cured. He is slowly regaining his memory, but there are still a lot of pieces missing.

His infection spread through to his arm, but is hidden under his cloak.

He uses his nails almost as throwing needles.

Legend

Is a shop owner in Hallownest's capital. He sells all kinds of items from all across Hallownest, small things he's found that could be valuable.

He's managed to make his way into the upper class of the capital due to his shop. His cloak is a modified version of the upper-class wardrobe. He dyed and added the hood himself.

Has a great sense of exploration, and has been all over Hallownest, but still has some places he needs to check off.

His jewelry are all gifts from Ravio.

My original concept for his design was to give him 4 arms. I was thinking of the Collector when designing him, and thought it fit. But after working on finalizing the design, I wasn't sure if I wanted to keep it. I still love the concept though.

Hyrule

(Again, I don't have a clear story concept for him but I have some notes)

Lives in the Ancient Basin.

Has learned how to use SOUL, and is in hiding from the residents of the Soul Sanctum because of it.

He has access to spells and is able to heal himself using SOUL.

I originally gave him a cloak, but couldn't decide if he looked better with or without it. So he does have it, but only sometimes.

Sky

Is the wielder of the Dream Nail, which can be used to cure infected bugs by purging the Radiance from their dream's.

Has wanted to learn to fight with a nail since he was little, and would practice his skills.

He learned about the Dream Nail after some of the moth tribe became infected. He left shortly after he learned this infection was spreading through Hallownest, with the goal of stopping it.

He isn't the only one that can use the Dream Nail, but is the one dubbed the "owner" of it.

And that's what I've got!

I didn't go much into Dark Link here, but would be happy to show some concepts I have for him as well if anybody is curious. I'm making him almost like a living version of the Radiance's infection, and is able to spread it from bug to bug without needing to access their dreams. This is mainly why I'm torn on having them leave Hallownest. If Dark Link could spread the infection to farther lands, or to keep him inside Hallownest and just spread it faster there.

I thought that using the Dream Nail was a good equivalent to the Master Sword here, so I just mashed them together, and a lot of the motivations for the chain trying to stop the infection is "I'm seeing this awful thing happen to these bugs that I don't want to see happen to others," with some small variations here and there.

I've been working on this for so long, I just want to share by bug boys. I would love to gush and ramble about them some more. I have stuff I want to do with this AU.

[sundrop-writes]

I'm Not Angry (Anymore)

George Weasley x Slytherin!Fem!Reader

I'm not bitter anymore - I'm syrupy sweet.

I'll rot your teeth down to their core... if I'm really happy.

It depends on the day, if I wake up in a giddy haze.

Well I'm not angry... I'm not (totally) angry...

I'm not all that angry anymore.

Part Two: Epoximise

Summary:

You and George Weasley are definitely not friends. 

Especially not after he handcuffed himself to you to prove some weird point, as part of another one of his obnoxious pranks - it only made you remember why you weren't friends with him. Now you're stuck like this for the foreseeable future - tied to him because of a stupid stunt.

And it's not your fault when your annoyance and hatred are slowly chipped away as the night slowly feels more like a date. He shouldn't be doing this to you. He shouldn't be acting this nice, cooking this well, smelling so nice, looking so handsome -

The two of you definitely aren't friends. (But you're terrified that you might be something else after this.)

George Weasley x Slytherin!Fem!Reader. Enemies to Lovers. Smut with Heavy Plot. Set Post War.

Word Count: 37,100

Harry Potter Masterlist | AO3 Link | Series Masterlist

Full list of warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: this one has a lot of the same warnings as the first part, because it carries over a lot of the same themes and just deepens them; also if you haven’t read the first part, please do because this is a oneshot that has been split in half and this will not make sense if you don’t read the other part first; the reader character goes by she/her pronouns and has a vagina (though as with most of my fics, most of the pronouns used throughout are you/yours); this fic does use Y/N and L/N (as in Last Name); there are no descriptions of the reader’s race, weight, hair colour, eye colour, or general looks other than a few statements about George being taller than the reader (and even then, it does not say how much taller he is than her and it does not state that she is ‘tiny’ or petite) - this is based off the idea that Oliver Phelps is 6 foot 2 and most people would be shorter than that by comparison; there is descriptions of the reader wearing very hyper feminine clothing, including skirts, dresses, and high heels (and it is stated that she wears high heels on a regular basis), and it's stated that she regularly wears makeup, it’s also mentioned that she is slightly self conscious without makeup - not because she thinks she’s ugly without it, but because she is so used to wearing it and feels ‘naked’ without it (also plays into the theme of appearance vs natural real self); the reader is a Slytherin, and this fic explores the ‘evil Slytherin’ trope; the reader is the same age as George, so in this fic, they would be 23/24; the reader is a Pureblood and comes from a family that upholds typical Pureblood values - while she used to believe in those things (or was taught to) she broke away from her family and is not a Pureblood supremacist; the reader has a father and other unnamed family members who are Death Eaters; this is a ‘Fred Lives AU’ (I can’t put George through all that); this might be slightly OOC Fred - but I do think this is genuinely how Fred would react if one of his siblings had a crush on a Slytherin (the Weasleys can be petty); general themes of trauma and PTSD (because both the reader and George fought in and experienced a war); the reader has trauma because she comes from an emotionally abusive and neglectful household (though there are no mentions of her ever being physically abused at home); alcohol and drinking - in this part, George and the reader have a few casual drinks with dinner, but neither of them are inebriated or drunk and neither of them lack the ability to consent to sex; again, passing mentions of vomit and blood due to the fact that Fred and George sell gross products, but it does not happen in the fic; again, this has the basis of them being ‘accidentally’ chained together with a pair of handcuffs due to a prank gone wrong, so this could be considered forcible confinement; George calls the reader ‘love’; mention(s) of the reader being raised by House Elves; mentions of the reader having poor eating habits (not a full blown eating disorder, but just poor habits in general); mentions of the reader having sex with random unnamed Slytherin characters (sometimes while under the influence of alcohol - though it does not state that she was ever too drunk to consent); (technically) non-consensual staring at someone’s naked body (mostly from George toward the reader, but technically from both of them) (but it’s murky dubcon and they’re both attracted to each other and trying to navigate this radical shift in their relationship); a flashback to The Battle of Hogwarts which includes - mentions of death, danger, the reader is hit with the Cruciatus Curse, the reader’s life is threatened; a separate flashback has slight themes of sexual assault - the reader is a not a date with an unpleasant random guy and he verbally harrasses her and tries to grope her, but she defends herself. 

This part does have smut, so the specific warnings for the smut are: George calls the reader ‘pretty girl’, ‘love’, ‘sweetheart’, ‘good girl’, ‘nasty little bitch’, and ‘missy’ (in a condescending way); there is some dom/sub undertones - George is more dominant and the reader is more submissive, though at first the reader is more of a brat before she submits to George; strength kink - the reader likes George’s muscles and strength; marking kink - George leaves love bites on the reader; teasing - from George toward the reader; tit sucking/tit play (reader receiving); fingering (reader receiving); ‘Sir’ kink - George likes being called Sir (doesn’t play into the fic too heavily, but it’s there); some size kink - George has a giant dick and the reader is definitely turned on by it; finger sucking; unprotected penis in vagina sex (or, as I have said with other Harry Potter fics, you can pretend it’s protected - you can pretend that the characters took some kind of contraceptive potion or used a spell that’s not mentioned here, but no condom is mentioned or used in the fic); praise kink - the reader likes it when George praises her; mentions of anal sex - it is used as a ‘threat’ toward the reader but it does not happen in the fic (and the reader likes the idea, so it’s not much of a threat); overstimulation - towards the reader (not to a severe degree); creampie kink - they are both turned on by the idea of him cumming inside of her, but it’s not breeding kink because there is no specific mentions of breeding or pregnancy; oral sex - reader recieving; lots of dirty talk; and I think that’s it for the smut.

A/N: I am so glad that this is finally done omg. I do apologize that this took so long, but this was a lot to edit, and my illness has been flaring up a lot lately, so I am just proud of myself for getting it done. I really hope that his was worth the wait for you guys. Also, one of these scenes is a flashback to the Yule Ball, and I could not resist putting a reference to the reader's dress - aka the dress I had in mind for her when I was writing this. I have put a link to the Pinterest post where it's relevant, so you can click on it and take a look while reading and then come back, and I have put a picture of the dress at the very end of this fic if you would rather scroll to the end, take a look, and then read the fic. The model wearing the dress is thin, but in my mind that does not mean that the character depicted in this fic is thin or that a fat person wouldn't look good wearing that dress. It's just the photo reference that was available. Anyway - I really hope that you enjoy reading this fic!!

...

Two or three days. 

Two or three days. 

The longer you sat with the information, the more of a headache you developed because of it. 

You had collapsed into a large, plush armchair in the small sitting room of the flat, trying to ignore the horrifying situation that you found yourself in. 

Two or three days. 

With your neck leaned against the back of the chair, you closed your eyes, trying not to let the stress cause you a terrible headache - which seemed inevitable with the situation that you were in. Especially with the cool metal still gnawing at your wrist, ever-presently reminding you that you had an entire man directly attached to you that you could not run away from. 

Anxiety, stress, and dread all battled inside of you, turning into a deadly kind of numbness that forced you to appear calm. 

George knelt down in front of the chair, forced to maintain that closeness between the two of you - quite literally unable to give you some space in order to calm down, even though he knew that was what you needed. When he put his free hand on your knee, seemingly to comfort you, you didn’t even have the energy to get angry about it. The usual defensive disgust about him being in your personal space was nowhere to be found. 

And you would deny that it was because some small part of you liked the warmth of the touch - his hands so impossibly hot, even though the lace of your tights. 

You simply didn’t have the energy to yell at him. It was almost as though your mind and body was shutting down, preparing to conserve energy for the next exhausting hours that you would have to spend tied to him. 

“Come on, love, it won’t be that bad.” He said, his voice soft and soothing as though he was trying to calm a wild animal, trying to mitigate the situation. “I promise I’ll make it up to you. I can bring you over to my place and cook you a nice dinner. You want a nice steak, don’t you? Yes, that sounds nice. Trust me, you’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.” 

You let out a harsh breath, and finally opened your eyes to give him another deadly glare. 

“I want your head on a platter.” You told him, your voice eerily steady and calm. 

“Well, I’m afraid that wouldn’t be terribly tasty.” He replied, a small grin breaking back onto his lips. 

Of course he was still making jokes. It was something that made you want to swing a knee up into his chin just to prove a point. But you had agreed not to get violent. 

“But I do have some choice cuts sitting in my refrigerator, and I’ll do ‘em up real nice for you. So you could waste the whole evening glaring at me, or we could try to make the best of it.” 

Strangely, you knew that he was right. Which, for a moment, only made you more angry with him. But you also knew that he would have to spend the rest of the time ‘making it up’ to you (and likely a lot more time after the cuffs came off) - so you might be able to get a neck rub out of it if you played your cards right. His sense of nobility could turn him into an indentured servant to you. For a little while, at least. 

“I want wine.” You told him. “And I want you to be quiet so I can have some peace.” 

“All I have at my place is bourbon. But it’s top shelf,” He replied, giving you a hopeful smile. 

“I have wine in the fridge.” You told him, standing up from the chair. 

When he stood up too, it instantly put the two of you close together, your bodies brushing chest to chest. There was a single, terrible moment where he looked down at you, his eyes reeking of fondness as he craned his neck to make eye contact. 

It caused a shiver down your spine. You swore his stupid smirk grew wider when he noticed it. 

You hated it. 

“And I - I have to get my things.” You stuttered out, desperate to change the subject as you broke out of the awkwardly close position and began dragging him toward the kitchen. 

You walked over to the refrigerator and grabbed the large bottle of wine that you had there. 

George resisted making a comment about how the bottle of wine was all you had in there. 

You didn’t consider being embarrassed about how pathetically bare your refrigerator was - not knowing that was a drastic shift from how the kitchen had looked when Fred and George had been living in the small flat. You had never been taught how to cook because you had spent most of your life being served by your family’s House Elves, unintentionally rendered helpless by having them do everything for you. Now that you lived alone, you bought prepared foods or sometimes, on a particularly bad day, you drank your dinner in wine or tea before falling asleep, not caring to truly take care of yourself. 

“It’s not like I can just pop back over here after your apology dinner is finished.” You added on harshly, thinking about how you would have to bring enough things to stay at his place overnight and pray that the cursebreaker would arrive early. “Which, by the way, we’re not Apparating like this. So your Floo better be open.” 

Your mind flickered to the terrible consequences that could occur if you and George potentially got mixed up. You had no clue what kind of magic was causing the handcuffs to be so strongly held together, and you didn’t want to find out if it would cause the two of you to mend into some horrible amalgamation if you tried to Apparate while cuffed like this. It was a horrifying thought. One much more horrifying than spending the night alone with George. 

“Okay, fine.” George nodded, trying his best to be agreeable toward you because he had been the one to get you into this mess. “And the Floo is open, it’s all fine.” 

You shoved the bottle of wine into his arms and guided him along into your bedroom - again, feeling a slight twinge of embarrassment at the mess that you had left behind that morning. You had absolutely no idea that someone, especially not George Weasley, would be seeing it later in the day. You waited for him to say something mocking about it, and strangely - it didn’t come. 

You kicked some dirty laundry under the bed and grabbed a bag, starting to gather everything you would need for an overnight stay. Inside, you were dreading the idea that you would have to sleep beside George. You tried not to think about that too much for now. 

He looked on silently while you moved, finding intense personal interest in the way you kept your belongings. He thought for certain that someone like you would have been an intense neat freak, not so messy and disorganized. But part of him thought that it was oddly adorable. He found it comforting that - as uptight as you were - at least one part of your life was messy. There was one area of your life where you allowed yourself to let go and be human. 

You grabbed some pajamas and some clothes for the next day, shoving them into your bag without much thought. And then you opened your top drawer to get some underwear, and you noticed George’s eyes instantly glued to the mess of unfolded lace and sheer fabrics. He began staring with intense, wide-eyed enrapturement, clearly unashamed that he being so blatantly nosy about your collection of intimates. 

It made you suddenly self conscious about which ones you were going to choose to put into your bag. With his eyes carefully on you, whatever you picked up, he would then obviously know that you would be wearing them the next day. And with the look on his face, with his likely perverted mind, he would be picturing you in them. Even if he didn’t necessarily find you attractive. 

“Stop looking at my underwear!” You scolded him sharply. 

Feeling intensely caught, his head snapped upward, craning his neck toward the ceiling to avoid further accusation. 

“Sorry.” He mumbled quietly. “Can’t help it.” 

You didn’t bother to argue, and only let out a sigh in reply to his pathetic defense. 

You continued to rifle through the drawer, now incredibly self conscious of your choice. Aside from the few pairs that you wore during your period (which were in the hamper from the week previous) you didn’t have many pairs that were modest or unsexy. You liked wearing pretty, lacy, sexy things for yourself. Wearing them made you feel good. 

So you grabbed a few different ones off the top and vowed to decide later, continuing to hate the predicament that you were in. 

Then you dragged George to the bathroom, and you grabbed your toothbrush and toothpaste and started shoving your messy, scattered make-up products into your make-up bag to bring those along (again, something that you wore for yourself). You were desperately trying not to forget anything important, because you didn’t want to drag George all the way back here if you did forget something. 

Meanwhile, George took on a particular fascination with the fancy glass bottle that you had sitting on the edge of the sink. Clearly, it was the perfume that you wore regularly (as it was only half full, mostly used up at this point), the one that drove him mad every single time he smelled it on you. 

He made a mental note of which one it was so that he could buy one later (definitely not for the purposes of spraying it on his pillow to drive forth the pathetic delusion that you slept in his bed on a regular basis). And then he used his cuffed hand to reach out and grab the bottle, lifting it to his nose for a sniff. 

You were occupied, rooting around in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror to see if there would be anything else that you would need, temporarily too distracted to notice what he was doing. When you heard him inhaling deeply beside you, you glanced over and found him with your perfume bottle practically shoved up his nose, and you found that strange twinge rattling through your stomach once again. 

It made you annoyed and defensive. 

“Give me that.” You whined, not waiting for him to follow the instruction before you reached up and snatched it from him. 

“It’s nice.” He complimented, giving you a smile. “Do I sense a hint of rose?” 

‘You can sense a hint of my foot up your arse.’ 

“Let’s just go.” You sighed. 

… 

You never liked traveling by Floo. 

It was a harsh, hot pull that left you filthy and covered in ash, and it usually ruined whatever nice clothes you had picked out for the day. You avoided using the Floo whenever you could. The minute you turned seventeen and got your Apparition license, you stopped Flooing unless it was absolutely necessary - and it being entirely necessary in this case just ruined your day a little bit further. 

Still being chained to another person when you came out on the other side only highlighted your sour mood - sputtering and coughing as the thick smoke and ash bloomed up around you, drifting up into your nose and causing a terrible irritating reaction that only reminded you why you hated this method of travel so much. 

“You’re supposed to close your mouth, you know.” George commented quietly beside you, clearly unable to resist the urge to make another joke as you struggled to regain your breath. 

“Wh-what did I - I say about you b-being quiet?” You reminded him between gasps, shooting him another glare. 

He rolled his eyes and escorted you from the tall mouth of the fireplace further into his home, taking your bag out of your hands and tossing it into a nearby chair as he began shedding his jacket (that he had wrestled back on with one arm earlier). 

It was then that a truly bizarre realization hit you - you had never been inside Fred and George’s house before. 

You knew that they used to share the small, cramped flat above the shop as their living space before they moved out and upgraded. Something that had happened just a few short weeks before you had moved into the flat, which was why it had been fully furnished and still had some of their homewares and nicknacks in it. But it never really occurred to you to think about where they had moved to. 

Truthfully, up until now, you never thought much about their lives outside of the shop. You knew that most of their lives were the shop. They spend pretty much every waking moment at the shop. Aside from their weekly Sunday dinners with their family, and before Fred had started dating Angelina a few months prior, they had devoted most of their lives to being at the shop. 

They spent all their time making products for the shop, doing business deals for the shop, cleaning and restocking, working, dealing with customers. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was everything to them, and it never occurred to you to think about what they might have outside of that. 

And you realized in those moments that if you had been forced to picture a place where George Weasley lived, this most certainly would not have been it. 

This place was shockingly… nice. It was beautiful, warm, and well decorated. It didn’t remind you of the twins’ gaudy taste in clothing or the packaging they chose for their products at all. 

The fireplace put the two of you out into what appeared to be the main sitting room. The walls were paneled in warm wood tones, some kind of natural dark oak that immediately made the place feel intensely warm and cozy. There was a large patterned rug in the middle of the room, upon which sat a nice dark stained wooden coffee table. It was lined by a very large, comfortable looking couch and two oversized, plush armchairs, with a few smaller side tables between them. 

You were intensely impressed to see books on a shelf that was inlaid into the wall - not just a few, but a very intense, sprawling collection. And a record player in the corner, sitting on a small stand that held a select collection of vinyls in their sleeves. This was sitting beside a bronzed cart that held some of that ‘top shelf’ liquor that George had been talking about. 

They must have entertained here - during the few evenings a year when they weren’t in their office at the shop, hunched over some new invention, trying to get it right. It looked like a lovely, cozy place to hang out. (Not that you would ever be invited back here after you were detached from George’s arm.) 

“Oh, dammit.” George’s frustrated grunting from beside you pulled you out of your thoughts, and you turned to him to see him still struggling with his coat. 

It was as though he had just realized that he wouldn’t be able to get it off cleanly because - again, the two of you were attached at the wrist. It was almost like he had created a glaring problem when he had chained you two together for a quick laugh. He was running so fast that foresight would never catch up with him. 

“Problem?” You asked, giving him a sarcastic smirk. 

“Come on.” 

He said stiffly, quickly dragging you into another room, forcing you to practically trip over yourself in order to follow him (not even giving you time to shed your heels - your feet hurting after the agonizingly long day that you’d had). You ended up down a short hallway in what appeared to be the kitchen. It was another small, cozy room with floral wallpaper and slightly outdated pastel coloured appliances. But you didn’t have time to admire the decor here before he was moving frantically. 

He immediately brought you over to the counter against the wall and tore open one of the drawers, took out a large pair of scissors and slammed them onto the counter. 

“Cut it off me.” George demanded. “As much as I love this damn coat, I can’t be draggin’ the thing around all night.” 

“You’re serious?” You gaped at him. 

You were shocked that he trusted you enough to hand you a pair of scissors and ask you to start cutting. Especially after all the threats you had made earlier. Not that you would actually hurt him - but you were surprised that the underlying trust was there from him. 

It was a very nice looking, expensive coat, but you had done some damage to it earlier with your reckless spell casting, trying to get the two of you out of the handcuffs. So perhaps it was a lost cause. 

“Yeah.” He said. “This whole thing is my stupid fault, so I guess I have to pay for it, right?” 

That made the whole thing even more strange. He seemed far more upset about the fate of his coat than the potential of you hurting him with the scissors - that part didn’t even seem to be in his mind. And something inside of you told you that it was important to rise to the silent trust he put in you. The same kind of trust he put in you when he left you alone to take care of the shop, even for short periods of time, or when he trusted you to make beautiful displays of products that you claimed not to care about. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realized that he was the first person in your life that had ever trusted you like this. Your father always assumed that you would ruin the family name somehow, always telling you that you were never good enough in his eyes. And he turned out to be right, just not for the reasons he had first assumed. All of your classmates only viewed you as a terrible, evil, Pureblood Slytherin, and even when you ended up on the right side of The War, people like Fred still saw you as someone with cruel intentions. 

George was the only person who never seemed afraid of you without you having to beg for him to believe you. Without you even having to ask. 

You picked up the scissors and pulled your joined arms closer as gently as you could, slipping the open mouth of the blades into his sleeve. You were curious as to why he seemed so upset about this particular jacket being maimed when you had seen him in so many other ones that were equally as nice, or even nicer. 

“I’m sure you’ll be able to have it mended.” You said, an attempt to be comforting that felt strangely foreign to you, making that hesitant first cut - a slicing of fabric that left a wounded look on his face while he watched. “Besides, you have others, don’t you? It’s not like you’ll be running around naked.” 

You knew that he was truly hurt when he didn’t take the opportunity to make a joke about you picturing him naked. 

“This jacket was one of the first things I bought with my money from the shop.” He explained, his voice quiet. He used his free hand to pull the sleeve back up to his shoulder, unrumpling the fabric so that it would be easier for you to cut him out of it. 

Oh - there was a sentimental attachment. 

“I was walking by Madam Mulkins with a big box of supplies in my arms and it caught my eye - she had it displayed on a mannequin in the window. And originally, I thought it would be a waste of money. I thought I didn’t need something so dressy. But Fred went on this whole rant about how we needed to start ‘dressing smarter’ so that people would take us seriously and wouldn’t just view us as a couple of kids.” 

You finally wrestled through the thick collar with the scissors, freeing his arm from the very nice jacket, truly destroying it in the process. He let it drop to the floor, looking down mournfully at the now ruined pile of fabric before he finished his story. 

“Before that, it was all hand-me-downs. Everything had been stretched out by Charlie or stained by Bill. And I didn’t really mind it. I never thought about my clothes too much. But nothing I had ever worn before, aside from a few Christmas jumpers that Mum had knit - had ever actually been my own. Nothing had been bought just for me.” George continued. 

There was something in his voice - you couldn’t quite place it, but it made your insides quake. It wasn’t jealousy, or even regret. It was a deep kind of sadness that you didn’t know for yourself. You had been so lonely your whole life, you had never considered what living in the shadow of three older brothers would be like. Especially when having a twin that people constantly compared you to. 

“And yeah, since then, Fred and I have bought a whole wardrobe full of smart clothes, and I dress nicely all the time, and I do look like a proper businessman - and it’s probably stupid-” 

“It’s not.” You felt the need to butt in, for once in all the time you had known George truly believing that he wasn’t being stupid. “It’s one of the first things that you earned for yourself, and you value it. And I just destroyed it.” 

You let out a heavy sigh as a wave of guilt engulfed you, creating a terrible ache through your chest. 

You silently vowed that you would use some of the money you had saved up from working at the shop in order to have the jacket mended for him. The second that you were separated from the cuffs, you would steal away the ruined fabric and bring it back to Madam Mulkins to be fixed up. You would have to dread explaining to her how it had gotten sliced up, and singed, and likely have to make up some lie about an accident at the shop - a pair of rogue Chattering Teeth or something. 

“Come off it.” George sighed, taking the scissors from you and shoving them back into the drawer before he slammed it shut. “I asked you too. And like you said, I’m the idiot who got us into this.” He added on, motioning toward the handcuffs. 

He did have a point. 

He took his wand out of his pocket and used it to vanish the ruined fabric away. Well, that plan was now dead in the water - perhaps you could commission Madam Mulkin to make him a new one in the exact likeness of his old jacket… well you mulled that over, George moved toward the fridge. 

“Now - dinner?” 

Your stomach did pang with hunger, finally reminding you that you had eaten very little that day and a good meal sounded like a fantastic idea. Again, you hated that George was right, but you couldn’t deny it. However, your feet were still aching from wearing your heels for so long and you wanted to take them off - but something about walking around in George’s kitchen in just your stockings felt slightly inappropriate. 

Perhaps it was the way you had been raised - the constant hammering on you to never let your posture slip, to never be too casual around others, never too friendly. Never show weakness, because it would be a huge crack in your precious reputation. But even as your feet began screaming with pain, you hesitated to take off your shoes. 

“Can you pass me a knife?” George asked, motioning toward one of the kitchen drawers. 

When he noticed the deep discomfort on your face, he frowned. 

“Look, I know I said that I would cook dinner, and I will take the lead here, but we’re still bloody attached, so I am gonna need a wee bit of your help.” He griped. 

“It’s not that.” You sighed, opening the drawer that had held the scissors and grabbing a large knife, handing it to him. 

He used it to cut open the packaging that held the steaks - two very large, nice looking ones, before he looked back at you with an intensely puzzled expression. 

“It’s - ugh.” You growled quietly under your breath and gestured toward your feet. “My feet are hurting, but - I don’t make it a habit of taking off my shoes in other people’s homes. I don’t behave like some slob, it’s not the way I was raised-” 

George let out a bright laugh, grabbing a pan from a different cupboard and putting it on the stove before he lit the flame. 

“I thought you were breaking away from the ways that raised you?” He posed, reaching around you for a bottle of olive oil, reminding you just how close the two of you were forced to be. 

You tried to ignore the smell of his cologne mixing with the musk of fire coming off the stove, and how intoxicating it was. 

“Well, there’s a difference between being grossly prejudiced and lacking basic manners.” You replied. “Fred and Ron haven’t quite figured that out yet-” 

“Fred and Ron missed the boat on manners because they were too busy fighting Percy for IQ points, not because of how they were raised.” George bit back. “I happened to come out with the perfect combination of manners, stunningly good looks, smarts, and cooking skills.” 

He announced, smirking at you in that terribly smackable way as he grabbed a pair of tongs off a small hook on the wall and used them to lay the steaks in the pan, causing a sharp sizzle. A mouth-watering smell began to drift through the air. 

“Then I guess your brothers got all the common sense.” You said, jingling the chain of the handcuffs as a reminder. 

George rolled his eyes at this. 

“Well, as someone who understands manners and hospitality, I am officially inviting you to make yourself at home.” He told you, his voice sounding firm and for once - serious. “And that means making yourself comfortable by taking off your shoes, if it pleases you to do so.” 

Your insides were shaken by that word - hospitality. 

You then radically realized that he didn’t lack manners, he simply knew them in a much different way than you did. It was once again, the simple fact that the two of you had been raised so differently, and it meant that his idea of manners was very different from yours. 

His mother had likely raised him to believe that being polite to guests meant making them feel comfortable in your home - inviting them to relax and drink and have fun. And your father had always raised you to believe that being mannerly meant being as stiff and uptight as possible, putting up a front of absolute perfection in front of anybody who was watching you. Having guests in your home meant showing others that you were more sophisticated than them by never letting your perfect facade crack - never letting your guard down, not even for a second. 

You had been taught that daring to relax in another person’s home was an utterly terrible crime that you should never even think to do. And George believed that he was a bad host if you didn’t feel relaxed in his home. 

You finally gave in, stepping out of your heels and kicking them back behind you, causing them to end up underneath the small two-person dining table that they had in the kitchen. (You didn’t know that they had a larger, much nicer dining table in a dedicated dining room down the hall that was specifically meant for guests). When you looked over at George after he had turned the steaks, he was grinning at you in that terrible way like he knew something that you didn’t. 

“What?” You demanded sharply. 

“I never realized how tiny you are.” He chuckled, putting down his tongs and reaching over to pat you on the head - a move that immediately reignited your dulled out fury into a full blown fire. 

“Don’t touch me,” You snarled dully, batting his arm away, causing a condescending laugh to come from his lips. 

“Okay.” He replied. “But you are adorable.” 

George was a towering tree of a person, and there were very few people who actually measured up to him in height. Other than Fred, of course. 

So even in your heels, you still often had to crane your neck to make eye contact with him and you always felt short compared to him - anybody would. But you did have to agree with his observation of the fact that without your usual shoes on, it truly emphasized the height difference between the two of you. 

You didn’t exactly like it, though. You didn’t like feeling small compared to him. You didn’t like being reminded that he was tall and broad and muscled and he was now forced to be close to you. You didn’t like the fact that he was such a huge muscled man who towered over you. 

“I am not-” You huffed out, cutting yourself off as you realized that it was useless to argue the point. “I need a glass of wine.” 

George summoned the bottle of wine that he had previously abandoned in the sitting room, and you hated the mischievous glint in his eyes as he poured you a glass. 

… 

Cooking dinner while chained together turned out to be quite an adventure. 

George was very good at helping you clear hurdles that you didn’t even know existed, because you soon realized that it was the most cooking you had ever done in your life. And if George picked up on your inexperience, thankfully, he didn’t say it aloud or take the opportunity to mock you for it. 

He just continued to guide you along gently, telling you how to cut things - making small jokes about the crude nature of your knife cuts with your non-dominant hand while your good hand was chained to his. Telling you where he wanted things put and even helping you identify a few herbs and other ingredients that were entirely alien to you. 

You were surprised that he knew so much about food - you thought that with the way his mother was, he would have simply survived off being babied by her. But you guessed that it was more the opposite. She forced her boys to learn how to feed themselves; she wanted them to be self-sufficient and they actually picked up a lot of useful skills that you (regretfully) had never been taught with the way you were raised. 

It wasn’t long before the two of you were sitting down to a rather nice dinner of perfectly cooked, medium rare filets, miniature golden potatoes pan fried with butter and herbs and bacon lardons, and steamed green beans. He poured himself a glass of wine, then another glass for you. You had finished your first glass during the cooking process, taking a sip every time he accidentally tugged on the handcuffs, trying to remind yourself not to snap on him in frustration. 

A strange layer of intimacy crept in when he had to put his plate close to yours and had to move the other chair from the direct opposite side of the table to be much closer to yours so that his arm wouldn’t be awkwardly outstretched while he ate. You were now huddled very close together, shoulder to shoulder over the warm, delicious food. 

After you ate a few of your green beans, you were faced with trying to cut your steak with your awkward hand, and found yourself holding the fork limply with your non-dominant hand, trying to pin the meat down while tugging the knife against George’s dead weight with your cuffed hand. This led to him heaving out a dramatic sigh and then reaching over to take the steak knife from you - you watched, slightly shocked as he cut off a piece with his firm, free hand and then stabbed it with your fork and offered it up to your mouth. 

“You don’t have to feed me.” You hissed at him quietly. 

“I know that I don’t have to,” He replied with a grin. “But it’s fun.” 

You rolled your eyes sharply, eyeing the meat with hesitation. 

“And I don’t want to wait until tomorrow morning for you to finish your supper. You do deserve to taste this while it’s hot.” He added on. 

You did have to acquiesce to that point. And for some stupid reason, rather than simply taking the fork in your own hand - you indulged him. 

You leaned forward and grabbed the bite of meat off the fork, and any thoughts about how ridiculous the whole situation was melted away as soon as you were met with the amazing taste. He had done a wonderful job cooking it, and it was some of the best food you had eaten in a long time. You couldn’t conceal the moan of enjoyment that you let out, and he couldn’t contain his utterly satisfied smirk at your reaction. 

“Good?” He posed, so utterly self satisfied, already knowing the answer. 

“It’s fantastic, you ass.” You replied after you had chewed and swallowed (unable to shirk those ingrained manners) - sadly, unable to deny him the compliment. 

He continued grinning at you, and you couldn’t help but to add: 

“But you know this means that I’m going to be bothering you to cook for me all the time now.” You told him, hoping that this would deter him a bit and finally dampen his impossibly large ego. 

But he kept on grinning that stupid grin as he went about cutting up the rest of your steak for you to fork it and pick it up yourself, knowing that he wouldn’t get away with cutting it up to feed it to you piece by piece. 

“So that means that I’d have you over here all the time for meals?” He gasped in a cartoonishly sarcastic way. “How absolutely dreadful.” 

Though you knew he had emphasized the sarcasm in his words for a reason, you couldn’t think of any reason why he would actually want to have you in his home more often. He didn’t actually like you and it wasn’t truly necessary. Very strange. 

When you were finishing up your main meal, George surprised you by summoning something down from the top of the refrigerator - a small box that landed in the middle of the table. When he opened it, it presented some very luxurious looking chocolate truffles. 

“Peanut butter fudge is your favourite, right?” He said quietly, selecting a particular one out of the box and placing it down beside your nearly empty plate. 

You took a sip of your wine as you eyed it heavily, knowing that he would have to be absolutely mad to give you one of his ‘dosed’ prank sweets while the two of you were forcibly attached. If you started vomiting profusely or bleeding from the nose rapidly with no way to stop it, then he would have to deal with the consequences. Naturally, he saw the look of pure apprehension on your face, and he knew just the right words to play it off. 

“You need to have something sweet after a good meal, right?” He posed, giving you a sweet, genuine smile. 

Your stomach twisted harshly - unsure how to react to something so absolutely thoughtful. He had remembered something so small that you had told him all those years ago. A fond memory of your mother giving you chocolates after a meal because she believed that it was a good practice. 

You reached out and picked up the bonbon then, trying hard to disguise the shaking of your hand, overwhelmed with emotion, as you guided it up to your mouth. 

“Are you a stalker or do you just have a really good memory?” You asked before you bit into the sweet chocolate, resisting the urge to let out another moan of enjoyment at the perfect combination of chocolate and peanut butter. 

“Bit of both.” George shrugged, giving you a cheeky smirk as he selected one for himself. 

…

After dinner, when you were a bit more than comfortably full (unable to resist finishing your plate even as your stomach began to protest) - George posed that you retire into the sitting room for a while. 

Obviously, he was trying to delay the inevitable, the fact that the two of you would have to sleep in the same bed together for the night. 

You took your still mostly full glass of wine in your hand to bring with you and he finished his off with a long-necked gulp, leaving the empty glass on the table. And then he piled your plates and forks together and shoved them into the sink, mumbling something about washing them later (you were silently thankful that he didn’t insist that the two of you attempt joint dishwashing together). 

Then, the two of you walked back to the sitting room, and he used a flick of his wand to scoot the two large armchairs much closer together, causing a loud scraping across the floor. The rug wrinkled up underneath the feet of one of the chairs - something he also fixed with another simple flourish. It felt surprisingly intimate as the two of you sat in the pair of chairs side by side and George used his wand to light a fire in the fireplace, knowing that nobody else would be coming to pay a visit anytime soon. 

Your body melted into the comfortable plushness of the chair when you sat down. Until then, you hadn’t realized how much the stress of the day had truly affected you, making your muscles tight and achy. You found yourself staring at George as he began flicking his wand in the direction of the drink cart, concentrating on pouring himself a glass of the bourbon that he preferred. 

For the first time in all the years you had known time, you truly took in how handsome he was. 

Sure, you had never been obtuse to the fact that the twins were intensely good looking. (Even if most of Fred’s good looks were erased by how much of an ass he could be towards you.) Fred was dating the woman who had been declared Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Upcoming Quidditch Star for a reason. On top of his looks, he could be charming toward her. He knew how to act sweet when he wanted something out of it. 

You had seen plenty of women come into the shop just to flirt with George, buying products that were meant for children that they clearly had no interest in just for an excuse to linger around the cash register and twirl their hair while they made ‘fuck me’ eyes at him. And at times, he had flirted back and even gone on dates with a few of them. You could only assume that it never culminated in a follow up date or a relationship due to his rampant immaturity and not because of his cooking skills, for sure. 

But even you had to admit - he was very handsome. 

You were deeply reminded of that while looking at his striking side profile in the warm light of the fire. His ginger hair that practically seemed to glow, his pale skin with a few stray freckles, his large nose that suited him so well, along with his round cheeks, so well made for laughter and smiling, and his strong jaw. You had always been too busy being annoyed with him, or fleeing from that annoyance, to actually notice his looks before. When he was calm and not actively aggravating you - it was much easier to acknowledge the fact that he was handsome. 

When George finally took his drink in hand, putting his wand down onto the small end table that had ended up between the two of you, he glanced over at you and caught you staring. He curled a sharp brow in your direction as he raised the glass to his lips to take a sip. Surprisingly, didn’t say anything, but you could feel the mockery coming off him from his expression alone. 

Instinctively, you whipped your head in the opposite direction to avoid his gaze. Your eyes raked over the books that the twins had on their shelves, scanning the titles to avoid any conversation about what had just happened. 

“Some music?” He posed after he had swallowed a sip of his drink, sounding all too smug. 

You hated that you could perfectly picture his expression in your mind even though you couldn’t see it. 

“Yeah, whatever.” You huffed in return. 

George let out a hum of confirmation and you heard some shuffling as he chose a record with some well practiced wandless magic, which you tried not to be impressed by. 

Your eyes continued scanning the books, and you found yourself more and more surprised by the collection that the twins kept. Some of them were in depth books about potion making and the history of certain potion ingredients - no doubt used as research for their inventions at the shop. Some of them were surprisingly mature novels - romance novels, dark gothic horror novels. 

There were even well-researched historical pieces; books you had read that Hermione had recommended to you after The War, ones she had gifted to you, obviously hoping to expand your mind beyond your father’s teachings about what the magical world truly had to offer. At the time you had indulged her, though you had spent a fair amount of time in the library at Hogwarts doing your own search as well. If the twins had actually read all these books, then you were more than impressed. 

You found yourself even more impressed then the peaceful hum of what you quickly recognized as Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 came pouring out of the surprisingly smooth speaker of George’s record player. It was one of your favourite musical pieces by one of your favourite magical artists. 

You had only recently discovered, due to Hermione, that it was also famous in the Muggle World. Apparently back when Bach’s music first became popular, there wasn’t as much rigid structure and laws about the division of the two worlds and it was much more of a choice for Pureblood communities to live in isolation, cut off completely from Muggles and their society. So often, mundane magical happenings often became myth among Muggles, and wizards with great non-magic talents often became famous in the Muggle world too. 

“You listen to Bach?” You gasped quietly, turning to George with a questioning brow. 

“Yes.” He replied with a grin, taking a sip of his drink. “Even though I only have one good ear to listen with, I’d like to think that I have some taste.” 

“I’m just - I’m surprised that someone like you is so… cultured.” You replied, breezing right past his joke. 

He neglected to bring up the fact that he had only bought the album - a recording of Bach’s most famous pieces played by a famous cellist witch who had graduated from Beauxbatons - because he had heard you talking about it. 

He had overheard you ranting to Hermione about how Bach was by far your favourite famous composer. You found Mozart to be too ‘urgent and brutish’, while Bach was ‘melodic and evocative’. Ever since then, George wanted to listen to it because it was something that you liked. And he found that he ended up liking it very much himself, even though he had listened to mostly Wizard Wrock before, and the Muggle pop music that Harry and Hermione had introduced him to. 

“You tend to notice surprising things about a man when you spend less time trying to violently lop his head off,” George told you, smirking. 

“Maybe I could notice more of those things if you spent less time making me want to lop your head off.” You didn’t want to yet again point out the fact that the two of you were literally chained together, but you had a feeling that he got your point. 

You also didn’t want to admit the fact that this was shaping up into a rather lovely evening. Between the dinner, the drinks, and the music - this was better than most dates you had been on. And it was getting easier and easier to ignore the prison-like attachment around your wrist (aside from the soreness of the metal still lingering there, and the dull ache in your shoulder from the initial jostling around). The whole thing was beginning to feel strangely like an evening you had chosen to participate in - one of the nicest evenings you’d had in a long time. 

You felt an itch grow under your skin as a warm feeling grew in the pit of your stomach - one fuelled by George looking at you with fondness, feeling more strangely intentional and romantic while the soothing music swelled in the air. You became desperate to ignore it, so you turned back to the bookshelf and looked for something to distract you. Perhaps you could pick something to read for a while before… going to bed. You still tried to avoid the idea in your mind; the fact that you would later be sharing a bed with George. 

Your eyes landed on the spine of a certain book and you immediately became thrilled. 

“No way! You have Ruined Pride?” You bursted out excitedly, using a simple bit of wandless magic to summon the book off the shelf and a few feet toward you, catching it in your free hand and getting a closer look to ensure that - yes, you hadn’t been mistaken when you read the title. 

It was one of your favourite novels ever. One that you almost always had in your hands during your time at Hogwarts due to how many times you had re-read it over and over again. 

It was a story set back in the 18th century, about a group of Pureblood sisters who were all of marrying age and needed to be settled into marriage contracts by their strict, old-fashioned Pureblood parents. However, one night at a Courting Ball, the main character meets and dances with a tall, free-spirited, jokester of a man and instantly falls in love with him. Only to be utterly devastated when she finds out that he’s a Half-Blood - one of his parents being a Muggle - and therefore, her parents would never accept him as a match for her. 

After trying to deny her feelings for him, through many secret meetings together, creating a hot, intense love affair, the two of them decide that being together is more important than anyone else’s opinions of them. More important than the traditions of her family. And eventually, by the end of the book, they elope against her parents’ wishes. 

You would forever deny that you had read it so many times as a kind of private wish fulfillment fantasy. And you would also heavily deny that you had imagined the male love interest with hazel eyes and red hair, despite him being described multiple times as being blue-eyed and brunet. 

“Again, you sound so surprised.” George chuckled quietly from beside you. “Can a handsome, smart, funny man who cooks not also be cultured? Am I not allowed to have depth? Am I just a pretty face to you?” 

He whined these last words in an exaggerated way and you knew that he was joking, but you were forced to actually take his words seriously for a moment. You were forced to consider that previously you hadn’t thought of him as having depth. You had just thought of him as a prankster, someone always trying to get a laugh out of others without much more to it. 

“You’re so humble, too.” You hissed quietly, hating that he was right once again. “Because of course, the man who put a rubber snake in a pastry box and stood by waiting to watch me open it is definitely someone I would consider to have depth.” 

George rolled his eyes at this. He wanted to argue that it had been a funny prank, but he knew that he was already on thin ice with you. 

“Well I suppose I have stolen a great bit of my depth from you.” He told you. 

“What do you mean?” You asked, definitely confused now. 

“I only bought the album because I heard you talking about Bach.” He explained, motioning toward the record player. “And I only picked up the book because I remembered seeing you with it at one point or another. I was curious what could possibly capture your attention so much,” 

You felt utterly betrayed when a deep flush crept up over your cheeks. No - George couldn’t have possibly meant it in any way that was affectionate. He just wanted to know what went through your mind in the way that somebody would study a heinous bug or a strange kind of animal. Yes, that was it. 

“Well, what did you think of it?” You had to ask, motioning toward the book. 

“The ending was a bit contrived.” He answered. “A Pureblood girl marrying someone of such a low station? Impossible.” He scoffed, a sarcastic edge overtaking his voice once again. 

Again, you felt slightly puzzled by his use of sarcasm. You knew that he wasn’t actually bemused by the book’s themes and you weren’t sure why he spoke of it like that. So instead of further prodding at his words, you cracked open the book and started reading, signalling the end of the conversation. George summoned something off the shelf, opening it in his lap and beginning to quietly read for himself. 

Though at points you did get sucked into the plot of the novel that you had read so many times before, it was difficult to forget exactly where you were and exactly who you were with - especially during moments when you forgot that you were chained to George by the wrist and moved to turn a page with the wrong hand, tugging on him harshly by mistake and mumbling out an apology when you roughly jerked his arm. 

It was difficult not to enjoy the domestic atmosphere, even just due to the fact that it was relaxing. The niceties of it all. The fire crackling down over time, the low hum of the music, the simple comfort of having him in the chair next to yours as you sat in each other’s company without the need to speak; George offering to refill your wine when you finished off the glass. Which you declined and instead asked for a tea, causing him to summon the kettle and tea bags from the other room. He made your tea exactly how you liked without you having to ask just due to so many days spent at the shop together. 

If not for the forcible attachment literally holding the two of you together, you would have called it an overall pleasant evening. And something deep inside of you panged with yearning as you thought about the fact that once the professional cursebreaker freed the two of you from these insufferable handcuffs, you wouldn’t have an excuse to spend anymore time together like this. 

(And you would never, ever admit to the fact that George had been right about this whole thing after all. Never.) 

After an hour - possibly more, you hadn’t exactly been counting, but George had exchanged the record for something else harmonic and classical that you didn’t know off by heart. When you had just reached the lovers’ first kiss in the book, you let out a harsh yawn that you had been trying to contain for a while. You were exceedingly tired, but you didn’t want to admit it. 

“Time for bed?” George posed, closing his book and gently levitating it to the coffee table that sat in the middle of the room. 

“Fine.” You mumbled out, closing your book in surrender and putting it down beside your empty tea cup and wine glass on the table between the chairs. “Let’s get this over with.” 

You were used to having your own space in a bed, and you were not looking forward to attempting to get comfortable for sleep while literally being chained to him. Not looking forward to having to fight him for space in a bed and having him unconsciously tugging on your arm in his sleep. You knew that it would not make for a good night’s rest. 

“I see fatigue is a charming mood on you,” He griped sarcastically, clearly tired himself and letting it affect his mood outwardly. 

“Well you wouldn’t have to deal with my charming moods if not for your short-sighted bouts of idiocy!” You chirped, shaking the handcuffs again, only making your wrist more sore, causing dramatic emphasis - you stood from the chair to tower over him as he was still sitting down, screaming down at him to truly drive home your point. 

He didn’t say anything, only stood up without a word, silently reminding you that you were the lesser stature, and overall, he was not intimidated by you. 

Then he grabbed your bag from beside the fireplace and began walking down the hall, forcing you to trail behind him - past the kitchen, farther than he had taken you earlier, toward what you could only assume to be his bedroom. You passed a room along the way, and you took a glance inside to find that it was the bathroom. You shuddered thinking about the fact that it would likely be an issue that would come up if you and George were stuck together for two whole days. You would have to force him to wear a blindfold. 

There was three rooms at the end of the end of the hall, one with an open door that led to what appeared to be the twins’ office. With a large desk in the middle and shelves lined with all kinds of half-formed, brightly coloured objects, parchment with sketches of designs on them, some things in glass cases that you had to assume were being trapped because they were extremely dangerous (you didn’t know that they were trophies - treasured prototypes that were hallmarks of the WWW brand). The rooms across from each other were both closed doors, both with shiny brass lettering on the front - one with FW and the other with GW. 

George went up to his room, and as he unlocked the door with a mumbled spell, you pointed at the letters and let out a small laugh. 

“So you don’t get lost?” You asked, your natural sarcasm apparent in your tone. 

“No, so the dozens of hookers that we have over don’t get us mixed up.” George replied, clearly sarcastic as well. “We have to do something with the money from the shop, don’t we?” 

It was an easy joke, but you hated the sharp feeling that went through you when you wondered if he had other women here before. You hated that you so easily labeled it as jealousy, rather than annoyance. You hated even more that you knew you had absolutely no good reason to be jealous. You had no claim on George. If he wanted to start telling you about all his sexual exploits with other women just to piss you off - you couldn’t call it cheating, you couldn’t call it unfair. 

He wasn’t yours. 

As you had driven home time and time again - he wasn’t even your friend. 

He was your boss. 

Nothing more. 

George opened the bedroom door to reveal another very nice room in the beautiful, cozy home. 

It came as an intense shock to you that he had dark green wallpaper - the green that he claimed to hate so much because it represented his long rivaled Slytherin. But oddly enough, it seemed to suit him here. Green walls didn’t seem so ridiculously out of place for George Weasley’s bedroom. 

Likely because the wallpaper was paired beautifully with the dark wood, antique-looking furniture, and other homey touches. Furniture that consisted of a tall, ornate wardrobe across from the bedroom door in the far corner of the room - it was open with some of the clothes messily spilling out, showing off a mirror that was attached inside one of the doors. 

There was also a small desk under the window, which currently had the curtains wide open, showing the inky sky, reminding you just how late it was. And lastly, there was a large queen bed in the middle of the room, which was messy and unmade - at least there were signs that he actually lived like a real person too, and he definitely hadn’t been expecting any guests. 

It was nice to know that he likely hadn’t been judging you for your mess while you had been packing your things. 

“So, uh, I’ll get some blankets and whatnot and make myself comfortable here.” George said, gesturing to a spot on the floor between the bed and the wardrobe. “You can have the bed to yourself. I know I’ve already inconvenienced you massively enough with this whole stunt, so-” 

You cut him off with a rattling sigh. 

Of course he was planning on doing the whole noble Gryffindor thing by giving up his bed for you. 

But honestly, you could think of nothing more annoying than sleeping with your arm trailing off the bed all night to reach him on the floor - it would leave you dangling on the edge, trying to get comfortable. You might as well force him to sleep in the bed with a pillow shoved between the two of you as a purposeful barrier. Screw him and his nobility. 

“Really?” You hissed at him, too tired to care how truly sour your tone was. “The bed is plenty big enough for the both of us. So there’s no sense in you pulling my arm out of the socket trying to put some distance between us just because you want to feel like you’re doing the right thing in giving your bed up for a lady. Trust me, I’m not some withering flower who’s terrified to sleep in the same bed as a man. It’s not like you’re stealing my innocence, George.” 

You ploughed right through the words without even thinking about the implications behind what you were saying. After it left your mouth, you hated that it caused you to think back on why you weren’t exactly ‘innocent’. 

Your mind going back to parties in the Slytherin common room, times when they had been celebrating (rare) Slytherin Quidditch victories that had only been won because the best Gryffindor players had been benched or banned. Parties that were wild - the few times when you actually allowed yourself to ‘let loose’. Times when you had been ripe with drink and flirting with someone good looking who had absolutely no other appealing traits - someone who fucked you hard and fast and completely ignored you the next day. 

It was something that happened more than once, and left you ripe with worry that the rumors would get back to your father. That is, until you grew to hate him too much to actually care, and then you cared too much about The War to even look at boys anymore. 

You had never dated anyone seriously outside of those hook-ups. You had always turned out guys who had asked you out (even if you knew their endgame was likely wanting sex) because you knew that your father would hate them and try to get them hurt. And you never wanted to get too attached to anyone because for a while, you had resigned yourself to the fate of ending up in a Marriage Contract. And you didn’t want to be the idiot - someone like the main character in Ruined Pride - who fell in love with someone that her parents would never actually agree to marry her off to. 

So you always ended up fulfilling your purely sexual desires after you had enough alcohol in your system to forget about all that for a while. You never had a serious boyfriend. You had never even gone on a real, romantic date before. 

In fact, this night with George was likely the closest you had ever come to having a man ‘romance you’ - and it had been by force. (You knew how genuinely pathetic it was.) 

“Oh trust me, I’m not worried about your innocence.” George bit back bitterly, seemingly deeply annoyed by your ranting. “And I’m entirely thrilled to share a bed with you.” He mumbled under his breath, reeking of sarcasm. 

It then occurred to you how much he must have been hating the experience too. That he had given up his night to cook for you, catering to you trying to comfort you, and it was just awful - being tied to someone who bitched and moaned in return. He likely wasn’t excited to be tied to you all night when he was used to having the comfort of his bed all to himself. 

“Let’s just get ready for bed.” You huffed. 

“Fine.” He returned, his voice just as sour. 

Your stomach churned when he immediately reached for his tie, beginning to undress. 

Right - getting ready for bed would involve getting undressed in front of him. 

Because possibly the only thing more annoying than sleeping with your arm being yanked off the bed would be sleeping in the nice lacy blouse and button up skirt you had worn for most of the day (which, the waistband was quite snug on you now after the nice dinner you had enjoyed, and that would be even more uncomfortable to sleep in). The only thing you were thankful for was that the neckline of your blouse, the shoulders, and the end of the sleeves were all connected with small, dainty buttons - which was a decorative feature of the design, but it also meant that you didn’t have to cut the clothing off your body. And you were wearing a bra with removable straps. 

It was the only part of your day that seemed to fall under the category of luck. 

You turned yourself so that you were standing back to back with George, hoping that he would get the hint and not look at you. You weren’t looking at him while he undressed. 

You unbuttoned your skirt and let it fall, and then wrestled off your stockings with the use of only one hand, leaving you with the relatively easy task of taking off your blouse and bra. You only had to undo the buttons on one side before simply sliding off the sleeve from your free hand, so it wasn’t that difficult. After your bra fell to the ground, you reached for your bag - which George had dropped on the bed when he came into the room. 

When you turned to grab it, you caught his eye in the mirror. 

He was staring at your mostly naked body utterly shamelessly, making no effort to hide where his eyes were looking. He was frozen there, with his shirt unbuttoned, tie gone, pants missing, his black underwear sinfully tight on his body and revealing firm, toned thighs that you never could have imagined on him, looking so entirely delicious… 

When your eyes flickered back up to his face, he held a slight redness of a blush, but he did nothing to hide the fact that he was wantonly staring at you in the mirror, his eyes fixated on your naked breasts. 

“Hey!” You screamed, instinctively forced to be offended, even though you felt a terrible, undeniable heat creeping up within you. One that, you hated to admit, matched the look in his eyes. You used your free arm to cover your breasts, desperately trying to make yourself modest, though you knew that you were covering little surface area and only squishing the flesh together in an almost pornographic way. “Stop staring at me!” 

“Merlin - I’m only human!” George argued, slapping his free hand over his eyes. “It’s not like you’re ugly. I couldn’t have chained myself to an ugly woman for fun.” He mumbled the last bit quietly under his breath, and you were unsure if he was making jokes to try and defuse the tension or if you weren’t even meant to hear it. 

You found yourself almost regretful that he did follow your instructions. One small part of your brain itching for his eyes back on you, now withering without the intensity of his attention on you. 

You tried your best to shake off that strange heat that had spread through you as you got out your change of clothes. You put on a fresh pair of panties (feeling even more self conscious about the lacy, see-through ones you had brought with you) and slipped on your comfortable cotton sleep shorts. And then you let out a groan as you realized that you would have to take off your sleep shorts because you wouldn’t be able to get your shirt on over your head. 

At least you had thought to bring a camisole instead of a tee shirt, so it wouldn’t have to be cut up and shredded in order for you to put it on. You stepped into the camisole and clumsily pulled it up over your hips, the entire time with George humming to himself and dramatically guarding his eyes, making a point to demonstrate that he was not watching. 

You pulled the fabric up over your chest, only able to pull one of the straps on and having to leave the other hanging dumbly (ultimately deciding on tucking it into the side) before you put your shorts back on then gathered your discarded clothes to shove into your bag. 

“I’m done now.” You said pointedly. “Can you put some pants on?” 

It was only then that you realized George was still standing there in his underwear - his distractingly tight underwear that showed off the outline of his surprisingly large bulge - shit, you had to keep yourself from being a hypocrite by staring too. 

“Well I don’t see how I’m supposed to find my pants with my eyes closed.” George said, faking dumbness, still covering his eyes. 

“You can look now.” You ground out, growing impatient. 

“Oh.” 

He uncovered his eyes, and his gaze immediately went to your covered breasts, as though checking that they were still there. You resisted the urge to smack him. When his eyes finally made it back up to your face, you glared at him with hell in your eyes and a tightly locked jaw, and you hated the filthy knowing that now filled his mischievous eyes. 

“Get dressed!” You barked, urging him into action. 

He picked up a pair of cotton pajama pants that he had shed that morning - in such a rush to follow your orders that at first he stepped into them and pulled them on backwards, having to shove them off and right them before pulling them on again, awkwardly jostling your arm so that he could use both of his hands to tie them at the front. 

Then, he nosed out a tight sigh. 

“You’re gonna have to cut this shirt off me.” He said, and with a snap of his fingers, the scissors from the kitchen came zooming into the room, nearly stabbing you in the eye if not for your quick effort to dodge them. You glared at him harshly as he caught them in his free hand. 

“What are you going to put on to sleep in?” You asked, wondering how he was going to comfortably get a tee shirt on, knowing it would be stupid and impractical for him to go around with one arm hanging out of it. 

“I was planning on sleeping shirtless, as I usually do.” He said, handing you the scissors. “If that’s alright with Her Royal Highness.” These words were ripe with sarcasm, and you tightened your grip around the scissors as you resisted the urge to stab him with them. 

But you couldn’t find any good reason to protest against this. 

It was his home, his bed. Even if it had been his stupid idea that had landed the two of you in this mess, he deserved to sleep comfortably (as comfortably as possible while the two of you were chained together) just as much as you did. 

So you raised the scissors to his shirt sleeve and began cutting. There was no pitiful mourning over this silky shirt, seemingly one of dozens that he had according to the messy contents of the wardrobe. It was only moments before you had the fabric fully severed on your side and he was able to completely ditch it off his free arm. 

It was only now that you realized you had never seen him shirtless before. And you hated that the sight of his shirtless torso was immediately distracting to you. 

You knew based on logic alone that he was muscled. 

You had seen him play Quidditch during your years at Hogwarts. And though you didn’t know much about the sport, you knew that every position was known for having a certain type of ‘build’. Seekers were slim and light, to zip around the field faster. Chasers were usually also slimmer, with strong arms for throwing the Quaffle. Keepers were broad and muscled, using the bulk of their body to help deflect shots - and they were usually heavier with muscle because they didn’t need to be fast or do as much broom work. 

And Beaters were known for being strong - incredibly muscled, with strong arms and strong, thick thighs. They needed a lot of strength to swing their bats to even kick off the weight of a Bludger, let alone get it flying across the field. And they needed strong thighs to stay on their broom, because most of their flying was done with their legs, due to the intense amount of arm work that was involved in being a Beater. 

(Was this something you had taken an interest in just because George was a Quidditch player? Definitely not.) 

And though it had been a long time since George had played for the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, you knew from the conversations that he and Fred had on Monday mornings about their Sundays spent with the entire Weasley brood, they continued to play casually with their family. (‘Casual’ of course, was a relative term. From the way they talked about it, it could get just as competitive as the Hogwarts games did - if not more competitive on occasion.) 

On top of that, George often impressed you with how many boxes he could lift, and how large and heavy those boxes were. Even though he had magic at his disposal, it seemed like he was determined not to get lazy while running the shop. (That, and he had warned you that many of the WWW products didn’t fare well with magical transportation, so they had to be lifted manually - which was a lesson you had learned the hard way on your own. More than once.) 

You knew that he was strong - but seeing his bare, broad, muscled body in front of your eyes was certainly something else. Seeing proof of it in front of your eyes began to rewire your brain. 

Seeing his pale skin covered in freckles, clearly from being shirtless in the sun a fair amount of times; perfect skin stretched across the most firm man you had ever seen - not someone who was unrealistically chiseled like a man out of Wonder Witch, but someone who was deliciously strong and so real. Someone with thick arms, a broad, puffed chest, and a smooth stomach with a bit of tummy that signified he ate his own cooking enough to know what he was doing. And your eyes became glued to a trail of fiery hair leading from his belly button and into his low riding bottoms before George snatched the scissors from you, pulling you out of your haze. 

“What - it’s your turn to stare now, is it? Getting me back, are you, love?” He said, his voice turning into a rumbling low whisper that ignited every nerve in your body in a terrible way. 

Your tongue went numb in your mouth and for once in his presence, you were utterly speechless. 

You simply stared up at him, getting locked into the cocky, smug gaze of his hazel eyes. You were partially tempted to slap him because of how insane the rising heat was driving you, and partially tempted to stay completely still just to see what he would do next. 

You wanted to scream when he cleared his throat and took a small step away from you - that stupid Gryffindor nobility acting up once again. 

“You need to use the toilet before bed? Brush your teeth and whatnot?” He posed gently, his eyes now glued to the floor, refusing to look at you. 

“Yes.” You replied quietly. “And you better brush yours. I’m not sleeping next to Mr. Bourbon Breath all night.” That bit of sourness flared up again, seeking some normality against this ocean of unfamiliar territory that you were fighting through. 

George smiled and let out a small, nasally laugh at your comment. 

Again, you felt a strange pang of domesticity as you stood beside George in the bathroom. A calm, eerie kind of familiarity while brushing your teeth together. He waited in silence for you to remove your makeup, wash your face and apply a bit of moisturizer. 

You felt oddly naked, probably more so than when he had been blatantly staring at your breasts, as this was the first time he had ever seen you without makeup in the entirety of knowing you. And when his eyes traced over your face in the mirror, you tried to decipher any judgement or disgust in his expression before deciding with a sudden burst of bitterness that you didn’t care if he liked your bare face or not. 

(Even though, deep down, you cared quite a lot what he thought of you.) 

“You don’t need it, you know.” He said, gesturing to the open make-up bag you had propped open on the side of his sink - the one you had taken your toothbrush out of. “All the - the extra stuff. You’re really quite… pretty without it.” 

You hated how painful it seemed for him to give you a genuine compliment, one not disguised as a joke, and - feeling that prickly defensiveness rising up within you again, you quickly fired back. 

“I know that.” You hissed at him, rolling your eyes. “I like it. I know that I don’t need it. I know I’m gorgeous.” 

“Good god, sometimes you’re so-” George cut himself off, holding back whatever horrid words he had lined up to describe you. “You can’t just take an earnest compliment, can you?” 

You were forced into a terrible silence. 

No, you couldn’t. For you, accepting a genuine compliment was infinitely harder than having an insult hurled at you. 

Perhaps that was what made you feel more naked than going the night without your make-up - having George’s eyes on you and knowing that he saw you for who you truly were. The rawness. Being forced to go without a shield. Not being able to run away from the one pair of honest eyes that stared you down and saw all the things about you that you feared admitting most. 

You couldn’t even muster a ‘shut up’ in return. You shrunk into yourself like a kicked dog, and, pitying you, George didn’t prod at the topic any further. 

The two of you finally moved back to the bedroom to go to bed. 

There was an awkward moment where you had to wait for him to climb into the bed on his knees and he nearly stumbled and fell on his face. But then you were able to sit down and slide your way in, and finally, you were able to collapse into a lying position, flat on your back, where you would remain for the rest of the night. You let out a sigh of relief as George raised his wand to turn off the lights. 

“Nox.” He mumbled quietly, causing the main light in the bedroom to go out, as well as the one in the hallway, shuddering the two of you in complete darkness. 

Strangely, it was something that, rather than making you feel anonymous and comfortable, suddenly made you hyper-aware of just how truly intimate the situation was. You were suddenly entirely conscious of George’s quiet breathing as he closed his eyes and settled into a relaxed position. Suddenly, you felt every inch of his body against yours. 

You had naturally sunken into a dip in the middle of the mattress; either one that was worn in from where he slept directly in the middle or a spot that was pressed down heavier due to the weight of his body, bringing you closer to him by some fucked up fate. This caused your arm to press into the warm, thick strength of his muscles all the way down to where you were joined by the still ever-present cuffs, causing your leg to melt into the warmth of his thigh - skin that was so damn hot, even through the cotton of his pajama pants. 

You couldn’t stand to spend the night like this. Even as his breathing became calm and rhythmic beside your head, signalling that he was beginning to fall asleep, and you knew that it would be rude to move so abruptly - you couldn’t stay still. You couldn’t resign yourself to an entire night laying there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about George and his stupid hot skin. 

You roughly scooted away from him, and grabbed one of the pillows beneath your head with your free hand, moving it down to roughly shove it between your two bodies lengthwise. This created a very clear divider between the two of you from hips to shoulders - forcing you to put your cuffed wrists on top of the pillow with as much distance that the small chain would allow without painful dragging on your skin. The sudden movements caused George to let out some groans of complaint, and he blinked open his sleepy eyes to glare at you through the dark. 

“I thought we were going to sleep.” He mumbled, his voice strained with clear anger toward you. 

You knew that you had done a lot to make someone like him angered, and you did feel a pang of guilt for it. 

“I am.” You huffed in return. “I just - I need some space.” 

“Oh, of course. Because sharing a bed with me is such a chore.” He griped, though he did scoot his body an inch over, trying his best to give you that requested space without yanking on your arm. 

You couldn’t help but to think about the fact that sharing a bed with him after finding out that he was so irritably attractive was the part that made it a chore. Not the fact that it was him, not the sharing - you just hated this night. You hated the confusion. You wanted to go back to the shop. You wanted to go back to him winking at you and you pretending to be disgusted by it. You wanted to go back to morning pastries and him stealing boxes from your arms, telling you that ‘ladies’ shouldn’t ‘bother with such exerting tasks’. 

You just hated feeling so uncertain. You hated standing on the precipice and being terrified to fall into an endless nothing that you knew absolutely nothing about. 

You hated that if you surrendered yourself to him - you would have so fucking much to lose. And he wouldn’t. 

“You know, if I knew some spell that would break you out of the stupid handcuffs, I would have set you free and sent you home hours ago.” He said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I know-” 

“Because being attached to me is no picnic either, I know.” You finished the sentence for him, knowing exactly where he was going with it. “Trust me, as soon as this is over, we can go back to exactly how we were before - not spending any unnecessary time together, not liking each other and just trying our best to be polite.” 

That was just how you wanted it. You wanted things to go back to the way they were before. 

Unfortunately, those were the words that unintentionally triggered George into snapping. 

“Stop that! Stop saying that!” He shouted for the first time, his voice bellowing across the room at a level that almost frightened you. 

He bolted upright into a sitting position in order to look at you, giving you a harsh, angry frown that truly didn’t suit his face. You felt the sting of his interrogating gaze as he propped himself on one elbow, leaning on the pillow between the two of you to hurl more harsh words at you. 

“Stop saying that we don’t like each other! You can’t speak for me! No matter how much you dislike me, you can’t dictate how I feel about you! So just - stop it! Stop telling me how I’m supposed to feel! Stop saying that I don’t like you. Because it’s not true.” 

After a moment of staring you down, and observing the emotions that flashed across your face as you struggled to take in his words - shock, upset, but mostly pure confusion - he let out a harsh huff of minty breath in your direction and then collapsed back onto his pillow. 

“For fuck’s sake.” He muttered harshly under his breath. 

“But - but you don’t like me…” Was all you managed to get out, your mind stubbornly unable to take his words as the truth. 

The two of you had been enemies since your school days. Constantly at each other’s throat as a Gryffindor and a Slytherin should be. You were constantly on the receiving end of his pranks, constantly being jabbed with harsh words by the people around him. 

That’s when it hit you, harsh like a stunning spell that you never saw coming. 

That was exactly it: it was always the people around him. 

Fred was the one who called you harsh names while George slipped in seemingly ironic compliments toward you. George was the one who tried to stick up for you among a group of people who hated you - he was the one who advocated for you when the others accused you of having nefarious intentions. George was the one who had hired you at the shop and given you a place to live when you had no money and no place else to go. 

George had never done anything that ever implied he didn’t like you. It was always the opposite. 

“Are you seriously that thick?” George griped in return, his voice cracking with the unhinged exhaustion of his emotions. It was clear that he was truly, utterly frustrated with you. Because you remained silent, seemingly open to actually listening, he continued. “I do like you! I like you as a person, and as a friend. I’ve been trying to be your friend for years! For fuck’s sake - I thought we were friends. I thought you bloody fucking knew that.” 

“I’ve never had any friends before, I don’t know what it’s like!” You yelled in return. “I thought you knew that.” You mumbled the last part quietly, knowing how utterly pathetic it sounded when spoken aloud. 

That’s when it truly hit George - all this time, you had no clue that his kindness was supposed to be friendship. You didn’t know what friendship was like because you never had any friends before. 

You told him that you regarded your fellow Slytherins as classmates, some of them nothing more than polite acquaintances, and he knew that you spent most of your time at Hogwarts in isolation, studying. The only person that you kept in contact with as much as him was Hermione, but he knew that the two of you were polite on the basis of friendly co-operation (a pillar of Hermione’s life after The War) - the two of you weren’t particularly bonded or close. 

“What did you think all this was if you wouldn’t call it a friendship?” George asked, gesturing between the two of you, now entirely curious to hear your view of things. 

You let out a harsh sigh, hating that you were forced to put it into words. A horrible swell of embarrassment passed over you as you began to speak the words. 

“I guess…” You raked your brain for words, wondering how you would put it beyond a boss-employee relationship, wondering what you would label the strange kindness that had gotten you the job in the first place. “I guess I thought that you were just being nice to me. That you were being polite to me out of obligation, or something.” 

Even though you couldn’t see - with the two of you laying on your backs, facing the ceiling - George sharply rolled his eyes, and used his free hand to press fingers into his forehead, absolutely ripe with stress. Though he was glad to hear the words out of your mouth now, because a lot of things were radically rocketing into clarity now. 

“What obligation?” He prodded in return, not giving you a chance to answer before he continued. “Y/N, I’m not even nice to my brothers, and they’re my family. They’re people that I love dearly, and sometimes I am downright rude to them - which sounds horrible, I know, but it’s how siblings show their love.” 

This gave you a passing thought about how you were glad that you didn’t have any siblings, even if you had dreamt of having sisters plenty of times after reading Ruined Pride. 

“But for the record, I am nice to you because it’s a choice.” George continued on. “I do it because I am trying to make an effort. For fuck’s sake - I bring you pastries in the morning, and I make you cups of tea, and I go out of my way to help you lift heavy boxes, and I bring you leftovers from Mum’s Sunday suppers - do you honestly think that I would do all of that just to be polite?” 

You hated how utterly stupid you were going to sound now that all of this was coming to light. But you had to be honest with him. 

“Yes!” You stressed, thinking that it was the obvious answer. “I thought - I thought that it was just how you were raised. I thought you were like that with everyone.” 

“Then why isn’t Fred the same way with you? We were raised the same way, weren’t we?” George asked, posing the ultimate conundrum. 

From what you had seen, Fred was fairly polite to everyone else in his life. Everyone but you. There was only one answer you could come up with, and it forced you to admit that you had been wrong the whole time. Stupid and ignorant and just plain wrong. 

“Because Fred doesn’t like me.” You sighed, sounding truly defeated. “He hates me.” 

The fact of your terrible wrongness had barely soaked in before something else came skyrocketing to the front of your mind. 

“Is that why you did this?!” You asked, yanking on the cuffs to drive home exactly what you meant, unintentionally sending another pain shooting through your wrist. “Is this some stupid attempt to get me to realize that I’ve been an idiot this whole time and I just don’t know how to make friends?” 

“No,” George sighed, shaking his head. “No, that’s not it.” 

“Then what is it?” You asked. “Because I would really like to know the thought process behind it.” 

You resisted the urge to add on ‘if there was one’, not wanting to shut down the conversation with a poorly timed snide remark. 

“Honestly, after you insisted that we weren’t friends, I got more than a little offended.” George admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed to say it out loud. “I thought that you were being bitchy and contrary just for the sake of it. And I wanted to get back at you for it.” 

“So this is your twisted version of revenge?!” You squealed, more than upset that you were forced to be stuck like this just because he thought you were being ‘bitchy’. (If anything, he should be used to your bitchiness by now.) 

“No!” George huffed, getting upsetting that you were misunderstanding his words. “It’s not like that! It’s - ugh. I wanted the pranks to be fun. I wanted you to be forced to admit that you were having fun. I wanted you to admit that you are my friend and that you do like being around me. You never smile, and - I wanted you to crack a goddamn smile for once in your life.” 

Oh. 

His version of ‘getting back at you’ for being bitchy was literally trying to force laughter out of you. He was trying to force the bitch out of you and turn you into someone joyful. It made sense for someone who owned a joke shop. 

There was just one glaring flaw with his plan. You had never found his pranks funny in the past. 

“And you thought the best way to do that would be to annoy the hell out of me?” You posed, your voice dull in pointing out the obvious. 

“I thought that I might finally make you smile.” He explained. “That’s typically what harmless pranks are for - lifting the muscles of one’s cheeks in an upward direction, bringing a feeling of joy.” 

You wanted to remind him that you had never found any of his and Fred’s past pranks funny, but part of you wanted to commend him for trying, at the very least. You were very new to the whole ‘friend’ thing, so you didn’t want to bring him down when he already seemed to be in a foul mood because his pranks had already failed so much. Especially with the last one leaving the two of you locked together so disastrously. 

George let out another harsh sigh, and his next words, especially being delivered with such a heavy, downtrodden tone, surprised you. 

“Is it such a terrible shame that I want you to like me?” 

The yearning in his voice caused a crack over the words, and your insides quaked as what he said truly washed over you. 

He just wanted you to like him. He didn’t just want polite distance, he didn’t just want you to tolerate him - he wanted you to like him. You couldn’t blame him for that. 

But you had been doing your best to mess it up - to put some strange distance between the two of you since you had started working at the shop. Even before that. 

“George-” You rasped out, surprised to find tears straining your throat. 

But he cut you off before you could even begin to come up with the proper words to respond. 

“Is it such a shame that I want us to be friends?” He griped, putting intense stress on the words before he paused and took a breath, his lungs grating across the silence of the room. His next words came out much quieter and gentler. “The handcuff thing was supposed to be a joke. I didn’t intend for you to be stuck with me, especially not since it’s so horrible for you.” 

This struck your insides like a brick being thrown through a plate glass window. 

“It’s not.” You said quietly, hating how pathetic and weepy your voice sounded. 

“You don’t have to lie.” George quickly combated. Before you could argue, he continued. “I am sorry for all this, but I just wanted us to get along. Especially after all we’ve been through. But you’re right - after this night, we can go right back to the way things were before.” 

Something in his words caught your attention and had you skyrocketing to sit upright, staring him down with a glare. 

“What do you mean: ‘after all we’ve been through together’?” You hissed at him, confused and angry. “There is no ‘we’. I’ve been through a lot, I’ve been through hell having to put up with my father, I-” 

George glared back, just as feral. 

“Do you think I haven’t had problems? Do you think everything’s been peachy keen for me my whole bloody life?” He scoffed in return. “I almost had my bloody head blown off in a battle and then I fought in a war. And I saved your life, didn’t I?” 

This statement sent your mind rocketing back to a night that you swore to yourself you would forget. 

… 

Chaos. 

That was the only word to describe the castle as Voldemort’s army descended upon it. 

Every magical barrier of protection had been broken down, leaving everyone inside utterly vulnerable to a horde of Death Eaters and other horrible dark creatures as they flooded the grounds, determined to attack anyone they saw. Creatures who had no care for weather innocent people lived or not - a lot of whom would have found joy in the pain and torture of others. 

You were trying your best to help those you could, evacuating the youngest students out through the Hogsmeade exits that George had shown you, hurling spells at any passing Death Eater that you saw. But it wasn’t long until you were cornered in an old disused classroom by the one person you least wanted to see: your father. It had been years since you had been face to face with him, and it didn’t take him long to make his intentions clear. 

He began hurling spells at you, and you were quick to defend yourself. The two of you engaged in a heated battle, firing off curses - it was clear that he didn’t want to kill you, at least not right away. He wanted to truly confront you first. 

“Useless, terrible little brat!” He screamed, firing another curse that you blocked, thankful for the time that Harry had focused on protection spells in DA. “You always were your mother’s daughter! Defiant, disobedient, stubborn bitch!” 

You fired a stinging jinx at him, hating that he brought your mother into this. You had very few memories of her - but what you did remember of her was a kind, loving woman. You hated those memories being desecrated on principle. He dodged the jinx and fired another spell at you - again, one that you blocked thanks to your practice. 

“I’m thankful to take after her if it means I’m nothing like you!” You shouted in return. “You haggard old bastard! You’re stupid if you honestly thought that I would follow you into this madness-” 

“And you think you’re smart to throw away generations of tradition for what? Your own self righteous cause? For the love of a blood-traitor?!” He bellowed in return. “You would rather be a whore to a kneeling povel than the cherished daughter of an empire?!” 

His last words confused you slightly, but you didn’t dwell on why he said it. Nothing he did or said made much sense to you anymore. 

“Kneeling?!” You scoffed in return. “Says the man who lick’s The Dark Lord’s bullocks for a living!” 

For these harsh words, he fired a blasting curse past your head that you managed to dodge just in time. A large chunk of stone exploded behind you, and you managed to keep a steely expression even when you felt chunks of the debris hitting your back. 

“I do this because it’s right!” You shouted, ultimately answering his question. “I don’t care which side is more powerful - I know which side is more just!” 

You raised your wand to hit him with another spell - but ruefully, he was quicker on the draw this time, and he managed to disarm you. Your wand was flung from your hand, landing across the room before you could blink. Before you could rush to pick it up, he then did the unthinkable. 

“Crucio!” 

The spell caused a red flicker through the dimness of the room, and you cried out in pain as your muscles were stabbed with sharp agony, every single part of your body instantly crippled by the most terrible pain you had ever experienced in your life. In a moment, you fell to the ground, the pain ebbing away dully and leaving your whole body aching. When you opened your eyes - now blurred with tears - your father was standing over you. 

“You will lose in the end.” He said, his voice quieter, more determined. “And you will join your mother in death to maintain my honor.” 

You spotted your wand on the other side of the room, and when you made a move toward it, he pointed his wand toward you again. 

“Crucio!” 

More terrible pain shocked your body - knives pushing into your spine, lightning breaking through your skull. You were barely able to handle it, flailing against the dusty stone floor. You heard screams bouncing off the walls before you realized it was the sound of your own pained voice. 

But another voice entered the room - even with blood thumping so harshly through your ears, you easily recognized who it was. 

“Stupefy!” 

A body flew across the room and knocked over an old, empty shelf, smashing it to pieces - and when you peeled open your eyes, you received the small joy of seeing your father’s unconscious body on the floor among that debris. Then, your aching body was being pulled into a pair of strong, warm arms, and you were greeted with the familiar but utterly terrified face of George Weasley. 

“Y/N?” He said, his voice throttled by years. “Y/N, are you alright?” 

“I’m fine now.” You admitted quietly, no sarcasm on your lips for once. 

He let out a sob of relief - having seen you on the floor so limp and believed that you were dead - and pulled you tight into his chest, holding you tight in a hug. 

Any protests you might have had about the hug died off in your throat as your own emotions took over, causing you to squeeze him back, hanging onto him as an anchor of safety. Almost immediately, your own tears overwhelmed you, and you cried into his chest where you would easily be able to hide it. 

It was a brief moment in a horrible night, but came to your rescue once again, making you feel safe against the horrors of the world. 

… 

“I wouldn’t have let you save my life if I knew you were just going to hold it against me.” You huffed, moving back down to lay against your pillow, staring up at the ceiling as a harsh, angry tear leaked from your eye. The anger wasn’t directed at George, but entirely at your father as you remembered what had happened on that night. 

George bit his tongue to keep from calling you a name, wanting to call you stubborn among other things at your refusal to simply admit that he was right. He also wanted to call you many harsh things at your lack of a ‘thank you’ for his actions. 

After another prolonged silence, you were the next one to speak. 

“Do you know why I took the job?” You posed, sounding terribly nervous. 

“Because it looks stunningly fantastic on any resume?” George replied, utterly clueless, genuinely unsure what you meant and only able to fill the space with a joke. 

You were tempted to back down, then - tempted to tell him to ‘shut up’ and then roll over in order to go to sleep. But strangely, the events of the entire night had peeled you raw like a rotten apple, and you found yourself finally ready to be vulnerable with him. 

So you took a breath, and moved forward with honesty. 

“My father took everything from me.” You told him. “When you found me in that bar, I was getting blind drunk to ignore the fact that I had walked into Gringotts that day, looking to take money out of the account my mother had left me so that I could go on a trip far away from everyone and everything for a while, hoping to forget… and I found out that my father took everything.” 

Your words hit George like a train. You sounded so utterly broken, so sad. It was the first time that he had truly heard your voice so dull and lifeless, rather than fiery and passionate - even if that passion had been fueled by anger. 

He thought about how even if he was raised in a family that didn’t have much money, they always shared everything. If one of his brothers came to him asking to borrow money right now, he wouldn’t hesitate to open his pockets. And your father had been so greedy as to take everything so that you couldn’t have a single Sickle to your name. 

“He needed the money to aid in his escape, yes. But I also think he cleared out the vaults just so that I wouldn’t have anything at all.” You explained. “He didn’t want me to have any of the family money because he no longer considers me to be family.” 

You huffed, anger mixing in with your sadness now. 

“He thinks that I shouldn’t get any of his money or my mother’s money because I betrayed everything they believe in. It wasn’t enough for him to want me dead. When he couldn’t have that, he had to screw me over for the rest of my life… just to have some kind of sick satisfaction.” 

In a moment, George’s hatred toward the man who had tried to kill you easily doubled. 

He began thinking about the fact that if you were his - if the two of you were dating or even if you married, he would absolutely spoil you. You would never want for anything - if you even so much as hinted at desiring something, he would get it for you. You would never have to work another day in your life - not unless you wanted to, of course. Naturally, he would miss having you around the shop. 

But he would absolutely love coming home to you relaxed and pampered and giddy because of all the things he could buy you. He knew that money didn’t automatically equate to happiness, but he thought about how happy he could make you with expensive books and wine and records and fancy new clothes. 

He thought about the fact that he could take so much stress off you and truly give you the life that you deserved. A life that your bastard of a father never wanted for you and never would have given you anyway. George couldn’t stop thinking about wrapping you in his care and protection for the rest of his life and never letting you go again. 

Selfishly, he thought about keeping you chained to him for the rest of his life just because he could. 

Distantly, George thought about something that Bill had said about wedding rings and how Fleur was ‘stuck with him forever’ - and while his mind dwelled on that, you spoke again, your mind seemingly in a very different place. 

“You know, it’s really awful to constantly be seen as ‘the evil Slytherin’.” You sighed. “Even now, even all these years later, I can’t get out of my father’s shadow. Even now when I go places, people still give me dirty looks, like I’m up to something despicable and secretly planning to kill them. I’ve always just wanted to be my own person and make my own choices. Even if they end up being the wrong ones.” 

George had never thought about that. Perhaps it was because he looked at you with such fondness and he could never understand how anybody saw you differently. 

“People have never seen me as my own person either,” He replied, speaking honestly. 

“I guess it must be difficult in its own way to have a twin.” You said. “People never see you as an individual. They just see you two as two halves of one person, right?” 

“It’s not just that.” George clarified. “Being one of six brothers with red hair - it’s difficult to stand apart. Now people mostly just see me as the one with the manky ear.” 

You huffed out a laugh at this, and George grew confused. At first, he thought you were laughing at him, mocking the hilarity of his mangled appearance. But then you spoke up and he grew even more confused - and more intrigued. 

“I don’t think so.” You said. “You and Fred couldn’t be more different. And it’s always been like that. It was like that long before your injury.” 

“Is that so?” He prodded curiously. 

“Yes.” You answered. “You have that bump on the top of your nose from the Quidditch game in third year.” You began to explain - you actually sat up on your elbow to look at him and gestured to his nose, causing George to immediately reach up and start feeling his own nose, analysing your words. “So I could tell the two of you apart for years. And aside from looks, there’s still loads of differences.” 

“Like what?” George demanded, far too curious to know what you meant now. 

Strangely, you decided to humour him.  

“You’re much more gentle. And you’re easier to talk to. Your laugh is nicer - you don’t do that thing where you throw your head back like a gremlin and Fred does. You’re more charming. You actually know when to be quiet during a conversation. You-” 

You cut yourself off abruptly when you noticed George staring at you with a smug grin. He was enjoying your words far too much. Your stomach tangled with harsh embarrassment when you realized that everything you were saying could be interpreted as complimentary. 

“So you do like me?” He said, entirely too happy. 

You felt that twist in your stomach again, and you were eager to escape it. If you hadn’t literally been attached to him at the wrist, you would have run away - you would have Disapparated in a second. But that was the problem of the whole night, now wasn’t it?  

“Goodnight, George.” You huffed, laying back down and turning - as much as you could - forcefully closing your eyes to ignore him even though you could still feel his eyes on you. 

“Goodnight, Y/N.” He said, still sounding far too pleased with himself. 

You ended up laying there for a while with a mixture of sickening nausea in your stomach and something that you hated to call affection bubbling in your chest, all adding up to a terrible anxiety that made it intensely difficult to fall asleep. 

… 

You were disoriented when you woke up and blinked into the darkness. 

You had that strange feeling that you were sleeping in a bed that wasn’t your own - the same feeling you always got during the first few nights back at Hogwarts at the beginning of a school year, and the first few days back at ‘home’ after returning at the end of the year. The same feeling you had gotten when you had first been settling into the apartment above the shop. But that feeling easily fell into the background as you felt a persistent nagging in your bladder. 

With your eyes barely open, still feeling incredibly tired, you moved to crawl out of bed, and just after your feet hit the floor, you were rocketed out of that gentle sleepiness as you were literally yanked back to reality. You felt a sharp pain around your wrist and you were stopped by a dead weight anchoring you to the bed - one that was so stunningly heavy, it caused you to stumble backwards and fall into the bed. You nearly fell on top of George, where he was still sleeping soundly, lightly snoring with his mouth slightly parted. 

It took you a tired moment to remember that the dead weight was George. You couldn’t just get up and leave freely because you were still bound to him by the wrist. 

You were immediately enraged. 

Any calmness or friendliness you had felt towards him, any nice feelings that had built up through the night immediately flew out the window as you were harshly reminded for the entire reason for this sleepover - the fucking metal cuffs that held the two of you together. The fact that he was now holding you prisoner because of some stupid prank. Your rage boiled over as you remembered that this could end up going on for days. 

“Hey!” 

You shouted at the top of your lungs, entirely uncaring about waking him up. 

One, because your sleep had been disturbed, so he didn’t deserve to sleep peacefully while you were awake. And two, because of his stupid stunt, you couldn’t sneak away to the bathroom by yourself. You needed him conscious and mobile in order to do anything, and it was his own damn fault. He didn’t even stir, and that only annoyed you further. 

Unbeknownst to you, he was entirely used to loud noises trying to disturb his sleep, and well used to sleeping through them due to the household he’d grown up in. 

“Hey!” 

You drew out the word more this time, absolutely annoyed as you became more and more alert. The feeling in your bladder wasn’t even as nagging anymore as your anger and annoyance grew more persistent. 

You shoved him in the chest, and when he barely moved, you let out a sharp growl and then moved to climb on top of him. You weren’t even thinking about the possible implications of being so close to him - only thinking about invading his personal space more so that your voice would be louder to him. 

“George! You big dumb oaf!” You screamed right in his face, delivering a harsh smack to his bare chest that resonated loudly as it was bare skin on skin. This finally jolted him from his sleep, and he awoke with a snort. He began blinking blarily at you, clearly not in a rush to fully wake up - not even with you urgently hanging above him. “I have to use the toilet - and since you chained us together, I’m making it your problem!” 

You let out a quiet gasp when he placed his hands on your hips - two incredibly warm hands that felt larger than they looked when they were spread out against your flesh (somehow radiating intense heat even through the cotton of your sleep shorts). You had to contain a moan when he shifted his hips beneath you, practically shoving his pelvis right up against your crotch, forcing you to feel a certain hardness that you hadn’t known you were nearly sitting on until that moment. You knew that you should have rushed to get off him, but your bones were melting and somehow, your muscles were stiffer than concrete, making you entirely unable to move. 

What the hell was this man doing to you? 

“George-” You choked out, half wanting to apologize, half wanting to scold him, any words quickly dying off in your throat. 

“At least you’ve woken me up to a gorgeous view.” He mumbled tiredly, licking his lips as he stared you down with his eyes still tiredly half open. 

For a moment, you had no clue what he was talking about. 

And then you realized that his lazy gaze was fixated solely on your chest. When your own eyes dipped down, you realized in horror that in your sleep, your shirt had slipped down (likely aided by the fact that you were only wearing one strap due to the god-forsaken handcuffs). So now one of your breasts was completely out, while the other was mostly there, leaving little to the imagination. Not that George would have to imagine, with what he had seen in the mirror earlier. 

You gasped and moved to pull the fabric up with your one free hand, but George’s hand caught yours. You had no clue why - but you froze under the touch, leaving yourself exposed to his hungry eyes. 

“Not so fast, pretty girl.” He whispered, causing harsh goosebumps to pop up all over your skin at a rate so fast that it was almost painful. 

You found yourself numb with shock and terrible intrigue as he ripped the neckline of the fabric out of your fingers and pulled it even further down with utter urgency - pulling the one remaining strap of your shirt down over your shoulder and your free hand and discarding the thin fabric of the top so that it was bunched around your waist. This left your breasts heaving freely in the air as you struggled not to hyperventilate with the pure anticipation of what would come next. 

This was beyond uncharted territory. 

George kept steady eye contact with you as he then moved his hand - agonizingly slow - toward your breast, almost as if afraid that you would suddenly change your mind and smack him across the face for daring to do such a thing. But when no signs of displeasure came from you, he began groping your breast heavily - digging his fingers into the flesh in an utterly possessive, rough way that made you moan and arch your chest toward him. 

You unintentionally ground your crotch against his, your body writhing with pleasure against your will. You became ever more conscious of the large bulge beneath you (that seemed to be growing larger) and the heat between your thighs that was so demanding that it was almost painful for you. He gave a small smirk that would have been utterly insufferable any other time - still kind of was - but you couldn’t even bring yourself to comment on it as you were overwhelmed with pleasure from his touches. 

“Fuck, George-” You hissed out, the words leaving you without permission, your mind still partially convinced that you were still asleep and simply caught up in a bizarre wet dream. 

“I’ve got you,” He mumbled back hotly, his voice dripping with urgency. 

You were surprised when he removed his hand, causing you to let out a whimper of disappointment from deep within the back of your throat. You were surprising yourself with your own desperation - but his touch was so hot, so perfect. 

Thankfully, he didn’t leave you cold for long - he moved his touch to your hip and used his grip to scoot you up his body. You were forced to truly feel his strength now, something you had seen him apply to heavy boxes and stuck doors - but it was so much different when you felt it applied to you. Feeling his strong arms against you forced you to see him as more powerful than you had ever imagined him, and it caused an embarrassing clench in your cunt. 

You almost yearned being moved off his bulge, missing the feeling of it underneath you as you now sat on his lower stomach. And that mental yearning meant that you didn’t see that he had intentionally moved you to be closer to his mouth - now set on devouring your gorgeous tits as he now knew that you would allow him to touch them. 

From there, he didn’t waste another second. He arched himself up off the pillow into a rather uncomfortable position that put his head right at your breasts, moving your cuffed arms so that he could lean on that elbow and forcing you to lean on your hand near his hip. But you didn’t care about the awkward positioning as his mouth engulfed your breast with eagerness and warmth and he began to suck, lavishing you with intense attention that immediately lit your body on fire and flooded your panties with wetness. 

Fuck, he was good. 

“Oh!” You hissed out, unable to contain yourself. “Oh, fuck!” 

You began instinctively grinding yourself against the perfect softness of his stomach, your cunt tingling and needy as he tongued at your nipple. He moaned against your tit, bringing his hand up to better push the fullness of your flesh into his mouth, downright nuzzling his face into your chest with a very characteristic greediness. Clearly, he couldn’t get enough - now that he had permission to touch you, he wasn’t going to give you up so easily. 

He began harshly sucking on your nipple and tonguing around it, causing you to grip onto the sheets of the bed beside his hip with your still chained hand, overwhelmed by the sharp shocks of pleasure coming from his mouth on you. You were desperately needy to cling onto something with your other hand, and you finally landed on gripping onto his ginger hair - weaving your fingers into the fiery redness and holding on fiercely, shoving him tighter into your breast while your chest arched up into him, inadvertently smothering him. 

(Not that he would ever want to escape, not even if you started to pull away.) 

You could do little more than whimper and gasp into the darkness, seemingly a victim to his selfish whims now. You could do nothing but writhe against him, grinding your clothed cunt against his body as you grew hotter and hotter, no longer able to deny your intense attraction to him. Especially not with the way your underwear was sticking to you and every fiber of your being was screaming with lust. All you would do was hope that he wouldn’t be too stubborn to fuck you now.

All you had was the tiny shred of hope that he wouldn’t deny you and leave you needy just to prove some stupid point.

Soon, George did pull off your nipple, only to kiss a hot path across to the other breast, leaving a few fierce bites along the way - his sharp teeth digging into your skin only causing you to let out increasingly pathetic moans. As he wrapped his lips around your other nipple and sucked, you could hardly stand it anymore - you were growing too impatient, too hot and dizzy. Your pussy was clenching around nothing, your clit was singing with need, aching for attention. It was all too much, having his hot mouth laving attention on one of your most sensitive areas - but at the same time, you desperately needed more. 

“George, please-” 

You whimpered, tugging on his hair, trying to pull him away from your chest. You were desperate to get his attention elsewhere, onto more important things. 

Surprisingly, George did comply, leaning back from your skin with his lips rosy pink and slightly swollen now, a perfectly smug grin forming on his face that had regret swirling in your stomach. You hated that grin so much. But at the same time, that stupid expression had you swimming with lust. 

“You know, Miss L/N, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘please’ for anything. Not for as long as I’ve known you,” He hummed, his voice descending into a raspy husk as lust overtook him - it was a tone that shook your insides and caused even more wetness to ruin your clothes. 

You hadn’t even realized it. The word just felt so natural on your lips. 

You hated it. 

Naturally, your mind went on the defensive. Not so sharp as to scare him away, of course. But you wanted to play the game, rather than shrinking down into some docile, complacent little thing. 

“Maybe you’ve ever done anything worthy of evoking true manners from me up until now.” You replied, impressed with yourself that you managed to keep your voice so steady as his large, intensely hot hand stroked up your back, reminding you how strong his touch was. 

“I can’t wait to see your polite side.” George whispered, all hot breath, the words dripping with a kind of innuendo that could only exist between the two of you. 

Before you could blink, he used that strong hand on your back to shove you down into him, poking a weak muscle between your shoulder blades that he seemed to know would knock you over. Almost like he had spent time analyzing all your weak spots from afar; like he had spent time planning every detail of this moment in his mind so that it would be perfect and go off without a hitch, just like he did with his pranks. Of course, it worked just like he wanted it to, even when his pranks didn’t. So this simple move sent you tumbling into his lips, locking the two of you into the very first kiss that you ever shared. 

Though this kiss wasn’t chaste or sweet or romantic - it was nothing like he had dreamed it would be, and somehow, that made it even more perfect. 

You moaned whorishly against his lips, desperately trying to suck breath into your lungs as he consumed your mouth, making you even dizzier. And of course, your efforts to breathe were even further defeated when he used a quick, well thought out move to flip the two of you over. He kept his mouth glued to yours, continuing to move his lips against you with a kind of skill and finesse that had the world melting around you. You couldn’t even wonder where he had gotten all the practice or be jealous of his past conquests, because you were enjoying yourself too much. 

The moment he had you on your back, he spread your thighs with his knees and positioned himself there, hovering above you, kneeling between your legs. Then he moved your hands to a position above your head, rattling the chain of your joined wrists beside your ear, causing you to remember the handcuffs, the entire reason you were in this bed in the first place. It was something you had almost forgotten about at this point due to the mind-numbing pleasure that he was now giving you. 

You would never say it, but you were almost thankful for the stupid prank now. 

A little too soon for you, he pulled his lips away, and whispered against your mouth: 

“You know, love, if you wanted me to fuck you, all you had to do was ask.” 

It was another wave of cocky energy from him, boastful and prideful, and it caused a terrible shiver of lust through you. You didn’t have the room to admit that up until now, you had barely realized that you wanted him to fuck you in the first place, let alone knowing how badly you wanted it. 

You had been far too busy being annoyed with him to ever realize that somewhere under the frustration and anger, you were turned on by him. 

All you could do was gasp in reply when he left another sharp welt on the top of your breast with his teeth, clearly intent to mark you. He then moved his unchained hand down from where he had pinned your wrists above your head, teasing his fingertips down your body, just barely grazing your skin in a way that made you gasp and arch into his touch. With the roughness of his calloused fingertips, contrasted by the agonizingly gentle touch, your muscles seized up at the slow taunting that he raked over you - something that was barely enough, yet sent shocks of stimulation through your whole body. 

“Stop - stop teasing,” You moaned out, all breath, wanting it to sound a lot more demanding than it ended up being. 

“Oh? You want me to stop, do you?” George echoed back, pure trouble in his voice the second you heard it. 

He then moved off you completely, rolling back over to his own side of the bed and putting far more distance between the two of you than you ever would have wanted in those moments. You let out a kind of wounded sound that you didn’t even know you were capable of, absolutely insulted by his actions. You shoved yourself up on your elbows to stare blearily through the dark for him, wondering what the hell he was doing. 

“Well, goodnight again, I suppose.” He said, sarcasm ripe in his voice as he laid back onto his pillow and closed his eyes, clearly pretending to sleep. 

“George!” You squealed, downright annoyed once again. “George Fabian Weasley, I swear to Merlin, if you don’t-!” 

“Oh, you’re going to threaten me into fucking your brains out?” George chuckled, cutting you off and making you choke on your words as your throat swelled with embarrassment. That had been your idea, yes - but now that he said it aloud, it sounded incredibly stupid. “Also, how do you know my middle name?” 

You could answer that by reminding him of a time that his mother had been loudly shouting across the shop because he had sent her a package full of seemingly endless, expanding confetti and balloons for her birthday - but you didn’t want to kill his wood completely by bringing her up. 

“Nevermind.” He sighed, the thought dying off in his mind. 

(As he eyed your breasts, which were still so beautifully out in the open, anything else seemed unimportant.) 

Just as you hoped, he did turn back toward you and crawled back on top of you - this time kneeling high above you, truly lording his height over you even while not even standing, creating a tall, intimidating shadow above you that only turned you on more. He also entwined his fingers with yours between your chained hands so that the handcuffs wouldn’t further maim your poor wrist. 

“Let me give you a taste for how this works, love.” He said, his voice so utterly confident as he stared you down with fire in his eyes. 

He began skimming the fingers of his other hand along the waistband of your shorts, just above the fabric, making your muscles quiver under his touch. It was the barest touch of skin on skin, and it made you whimper out so pathetically. You hated that he was continuing to tease you in the most terrible way as your pussy wept inside your underwear. 

“I am the one in control here.” George stated firmly. “Right now, I’m not just some idiot you can yell at to get what you want.”

Staring into his eyes as he said this, seeing the dark lust that lived there - it truly thrilled you. 

This was the first time in your life that you were actually excited to hear a man say something like this, and not simply tempted to slap him for it. Or at the very least, you didn’t even feel the urge to challenge him into submission. Perhaps it was because you truly trusted George - you trusted him with your life, always felt safe around him because you knew that he had nothing but goodness and nobility in his heart. With him, you were absolutely eager and dripping with slickness to find out what he would do when you eagerly gave up control to him. 

“Outside of this room, you are a queen and I will be your humble servant.” he explained, grinning at you while he said the words. “I will get on my knees to help you put on your shoes, I will pour your wine, I will massage your feet after a long, tiring day, I will cook your meals and hand-feed you if you so desire-” 

Was he trying to make himself sound like the most tempting man in the world? 

“But within the walls of this room, you are mine.” 

The words, and the sudden shift of his voice to roughness absolutely shook you. You let out a girlish gasp and he smirked at you. 

He dug his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and panties together and used the elastic as a tether to yank you harshly down the bed, just a few inches closer to him. It was an impressive show of strength that had you yelping out in pleasure, shocks of electricity shaking you, your eyes still tethered to his, utterly enraptured in his gaze as his ravenous, smooth honeyed words continued. 

“You will do as I say, you will live for my pleasure, and you will beg for it if you want anything in return. You will be nothing but a set of holes for me to use. You will be a good girl for me - no lip, no backtalk, no whining. No complaining if you ever want my cock, do you understand me?” 

You found yourself panting, now - so overtaken by lust at his words, your body supercharged by everything he was forcing you to imagine that you were reacting as though he was already fucking you when he hadn’t even taken off your bottoms yet. If you were conscious past the intense pleasure, then you would have hated how much power he held over you. But perhaps you let go because he was just the right person to wield that power without abusing it. 

“How does that sound, love?” 

Of course, with all of his perfect nobility - he still had to ensure your consent. 

“Perfect.” You huffed in return, licking your lips to try and combat some of the dryness that was blooming through your mouth. “George, please-” 

He cut off your whining with another kiss, locking your joined hands above your head, making the whole thing feel desperately intimate as he pinned your hand to the bed with his fingers warmly entwined with yours. With your fingers laced together, it felt far too sickly sweet for what you knew was coming next. All you could do was grip his hand tightly back as you moaned into his mouth, gripping his thighs with your knees and bucking up against him, hopelessly seeking friction on your poor, weeping cunt. 

He couldn’t help but to love this version of you. 

He had been dreaming of this for years. He had imagined it so many different ways - getting you alone in an abandoned classroom when the two of you had been back at Hogwarts; getting you alone in his office in the shop now. He had spent so long imagining what it would be like to get you underneath him, moaning and lustful for him. The reality was so much better. And he certainly wasn’t going to waste it now. 

With his lips still pecking at yours, delivering surprisingly sweet kisses, he started finally pulling down your shorts, bringing down the fabric of your underwear along with them. You raced to help him, yanking them down over your body with your one free hand, entirely eager to get him to touch you where you needed it most. If this were any other time, you would have hated looking pathetic and needy in front of him, but in the darkness, in the isolated quiet in the room, it almost felt natural to let yourself finally fall to your inner most whims. 

Especially after the entirely bizarre day that you’d had of being chained to him and having what felt like a date with him, this didn’t seem so strange. 

In fact, the longer this went on, the more and more it felt right. 

It felt right to be underneath George, having his heated gaze tracing over every inch of you. 

You didn’t even have room in your lust-clouded brain to consider the fact that this might have been his plan all along. That right from the moment he had handcuffed the two of you together, he had been waiting to get you naked and needy underneath him. 

Which actually wasn’t true at all. He really had been planning to unlock you from the cuffs the moment that you freaked out and threatened to hex him. But sometimes, his mistakes just had a way of working out really, really well in his favour. 

And that couldn’t be more true as he tossed your clothes careless over his shoulder and came face to face with your gloriously pretty pussy - the prettiest pussy he had ever seen in his life. 

He put his hand on your thigh and forced your legs open, likely with more force than he had originally intended, but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he was all the more riled up when he heard you let out a pretty moan and your lips dropped open with shock - so he took it even further, pressing your thigh up into your stomach almost harshly. 

He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help getting a bit too excited about the perfect whiff of your natural smell he caught and the glistening wetness he saw clinging to your pubic hair. (His eyes now well adjusted to the dark, especially with a bit of light coming in from the window, casting a glow over your body that made you look even more perfect.) 

“Oh, fuck-” You gasped, clearly loving the way he took control over your body. 

So you did like to be manhandled a bit, you liked him using your body for his own pleasure. 

“Merlin, look at that,” He said, his voice a deep pleasurable hum, unable to take his eyes off the sight of your gorgeous pussy. “Dripping for me, aren’t you, love? Sweet little cunt just drooling everywhere. So fucking wet for me.” 

Your pussy was swollen, puffed with blood from how turned on you already were, downright sticky - utterly glistening as you continued to leak out wetness in anticipation. You were clenching with need and spilling more, smearing some of that wetness onto your inner thighs and even beginning to leak onto the sheets. 

(George made a mental note that if somehow he couldn’t get you back into this bed, he wouldn’t wash these sheets. He knew it was sick and perverted, but he would want to smell you on them for as long as possible - wanting to have something to keep his fantasies going and to assure him that his hadn’t been one very detailed wet dream.) 

He couldn’t resist the urge any longer - he skimmed his touch down your thigh and dipped his fingers in, letting out a quiet moan himself as he finally felt you - as he was finally able to feel how wonderfully wet and hot you were for the first time. 

“Fuck, this is the most perfect pussy ever.” 

George moaned, leaning down to kiss along your shoulder as he continued exploring you with his fingers, still teasing - sloppily stirring your wetness, teasing just to the edge of your entrance before he came and bumped up against your clit and back. He loved the way a moan threatened out of your throat and the way you arched up toward him as he did so. 

“So much better than I ever imagined.” 

His words hit you like a truck. 

He had imagined you like this before? 

He had thought about you sexually before? 

You were shocked. You had no clue that he had ever thought of you this way before. 

“George,” You gasped out, reaching up with your free hand to grasp his shoulder, and he hummed out a moan of acknowledgement in return. “You’ve - you’ve thought about me before?” 

He let out a chuckle, and the nearly mocking tone of it caused your cunt to clench horribly (something that you certainly didn’t expect). Seconds later, he rose up from kissing your neck to look you in the eyes. He traced over your face, and when all he found was genuine shock, he decided to indulge you. 

“Of course I have, sweetheart.” He told you, nothing but pure honesty on his lips. 

He finally brought his touch up to your clit, causing a gasp to rocket from your lungs as he drove sharp stimulation over the sensitive organ all at once - drawing hard circles onto the tiny, swollen bead with the tips of his fingers for a moment before he stopped. Then, he began to circle lazy touches there as he continued to speak. This had you panting harshly in his face while his words floated into your nearly numb ears. 

“You have no idea how many times I would see you walking down the corridor in those pretty skirts, with your shiny heels and your black stockings and all I could think about was shoving you over a desk and ripping a hole in the arse of those tights so that I could fuck you senseless.” 

“Oh, fuck.” You gasped in return. 

Of course, this immediately put a vision in your mind of him cornering you in an empty classroom and shutting up your bitchy complaints by shoving his cock down your throat. 

Or - as he had said, bending you over a random, dusky old desk and ripping a hole in your tights so that he could fuck you senseless. Your sex-addled brain even did you the favour of adding something delicious to the picture - him gagging you with his Gryffindor tie and guiding the length of it around to the back of your head to use as a kind of leash. Both for practicality to keep you quiet so that you wouldn’t get caught, and as a humiliation ritual, showing that the big, strong Gryffindor had truly tamed the bratty Slytherin girl. 

“You like the sound of that, do you?” He whispered heatedly, pressing more harshly circles into your clit again. “You have no idea how many nights I spent in the Gryffindor dormitory with my hand around my cock, thinking about you - thinking about that mouth, thinking about what it would be like to finally shut you up and have you choke on my cock,” 

He growled the words savagely, and you couldn’t help the whimper that you let out in return. 

“I spent so many nights awake, wondering what it would be like to have this sweet little cunt wrapped around my cock, dripping for me, soaking my bullocks - wondering what it would be like to finally have you underneath me, moaning for me, begging me to make you cum.” 

You bucked your hips up into his touch, crying out as a grinding madness flowed through you. His words swam in your brain and his touch created a fire in you from below, making you hot in a way that you hadn’t known was possible before. He overtook you, causing an ultimate domination over your body that overtook you and ultimately harnessed you under his control. 

“Everyone who knows me thinks that my dream for all those years was to run a joke shop,” George whispered frantically. “But my real obsession has been you.” 

You drew frantically close to orgasm, and you let out a pathetic sound when George took his fingers off your clit, taking his touch away from where you needed it most. He dipped his fingers back down to your hole, circling his fingertips around the needy gape and even slipping his touch in, just barely teasing his fingers inside - threatening you with more but not yet fulfilling you in the way you needed. 

Little did you know, in his mind, he was getting back at you for all those nights, getting his own little petty revenge for all the times he had pathetically cum in his own hand while dreaming about you. 

“You’re lying,” You gasped in return, forcing yourself to believe that everything he had said so far was simply for the sake of dirty talk. 

You tried your hardest to angle your hips the right way, trying to trick him into touching you where you needed it the most. But of course, he was smarter than that, always clever even if he was ‘stupid’. And even if he was one hand down, he could still outsmart you. He used a knee on your inner thigh to pin you down, keeping you in place - something that had you letting out a little pathetic moan as he teased his touch back up to your clit and drew more light, taunting circles there. 

“I wish.” He chuckled in response. “If I were lying, then I wouldn’t have been such a pathetic fool all these years - pining after a woman I thought I had absolutely no chance with.” 

Again, these words punched you in the gut. And strangely, he did have a point there. 

“Do you think it was fun for me having you around the shop but knowing that I couldn’t reveal my feelings for you because I thought that you would never feel the same way?” 

He growled out, fire in his eyes that immediately struck you in the gut. 

“Do you think it was fun for me - running to my office every ten minutes because I saw you bent over something and I could barely hold back? Because you looked up at me with those damn eyes? Because you called me Sir and my cock got so hard that I could barely think and I had to lock myself in my office and wank my cock raw just so I could attempt to stay sane?” 

These words truly left you breathless. 

You remembered times when you were having a particularly bad day and he had been getting on your nerves. Days when him giving you orders about stocking shelves or helping customers had caused you to call him ‘Sir’ in a griping, sarcastic tone - ‘Yes, Sir’ ‘I’ll get that done right away, Sir’ ‘Rearrange the front display again, Sir? Of course, Sir.’

At the time, it had been because you were being annoying on purpose, performing a sarcastic version of politeness because he had complained about you back-talking too much. You had always thought that him letting out a huff and stomping away was his way of showing that he was done with your bitchy attitude and fed up with you in general. 

You had no idea that the ironic title turned him on. 

“You like it when I call you Sir?” You posed, still breathless, a unique spark of mischief glinting in your eyes as you thought of all the ways that you could use this fact against him. 

George absolutely loved that look - loved to see you scheming, because he had never seen you do it before. He had only ever seen you too terribly serious. 

Perhaps he had done something utterly dangerous by revealing such a deep secret, by giving you a puppet string of his that you could pull on. But he didn’t care all too much about that right now, because he loved the way that the word sounded on your lips. If he had damned himself, he was having a great time on the way down. 

“Yes,” He admitted weakly, unable to stop himself. 

His hand moved from the wetness of your pussy, now shaking slightly as he moved to grip your thigh, simply needing to hold on to something. 

You gave him a wicked grin as you moved your free hand to the tie on his pajama pants, heavily eyeing the impressive bulge that you had been sitting on not long ago. You wanted him out of those pants - yearning to feel the fullness of it, desperate to know what he would be like inside of you. 

“Please, Sir, I need your cock.” You moaned out, pulling the tie on his pants, giving him your best seductive expression, now fully able to take advantage of a kink that you didn’t know he had. 

“Oh fuck,” George moaned, his head collapsing against your breast as he became breathless - hearing you say the words punched the air out of his chest, twisted up his stomach in the most perfect way. 

You resisted the urge to laugh at how abundant and instant his reaction was, biting your lip to stifle the sounds. Oh, hell yes - you were definitely going to use this knowledge to your advantage in the future. 

“You’re bloody evil.” He added on quietly - no punch behind the words, not truly smiting you for playing into a fantasy that he had always wanted to see come to life. 

In fact, he helped you untie his pants, and he was quick to shuck them off, along with his underwear, just as eager to get his cock out as you were. This resulted in a sharp gasp from your lips as the heaviness of his cock flopped out and fell onto your thigh while he pushed the fabric down and untangled it from his ankles. 

He propped himself up on his knees to toss his pants over the side of the bed, and it gave you a chance to fully admire his cock in the minimal lighting. If you hadn’t felt the size of his bulge earlier, you would have almost thought that the sheer size of what you were looking at was some kind of visual trick due to the shadowiness of the room. 

But there was no denying it - he was huge. 

His cock was a stunning nine inches long, tall and skinny like he was, pale with a bright red tip (exactly like a mini George). An intimidatingly long rod that swung out from his body like a beast - standing stiff and proud, leaking precum, clearly tight with need from how badly he wanted you. Unconsciously, you licked your lips just from looking at it. 

It was by far the biggest cock you had ever seen (including ones you had seen in dirty magazines), let alone the biggest one you had ever been fucked with. You could only imagine how it was going to feel fucking you open, reaching so far up inside of you that you would be able to feel him in - 

“Biggest you’ve ever seen?” George posed, smirking at you, his expression far too cocky for your liking… But you supposed that he had a right to be cocky this time. However, that thought made you hate it even more. “Biggest you’ve ever taken?” 

He reached his free hand down and began slowly stroking himself, and you felt drool collecting in your mouth as you watched his beautifully large hand grip that cock - it was utterly mesmerizing. 

You chose not to answer his question, but your stunned expression and lack of words was more than enough of an answer for him. 

He gave you a truly filthy smirk as he spoke again. 

“I always knew those Slytherin boys just couldn’t measure up.” 

This caused a jolt in your stomach. 

You had never told him about your trysts with boys from Slytherin, and you had hoped that the Hogwarts rumor mill wouldn’t get to you - but you couldn’t be so lucky, could you? 

“George, please don’t-” You choked out his name, hoping that he wasn’t judging you. 

And of course, he wasn’t. 

“Shh, shh.” He said, raising his hand up to gently stroke your cheek, cutting off anything else you had to say. “It’s alright - you’re with the best now. You can forget about all the rest.” 

Of course. He didn’t care who else you had been with - he only cared to make you forget about any other man who had fucked you by making a distinct impression. He only cared about proving that he was the best. 

He wasn’t trying to call you out as some kind of whore… he was just being prideful, as any Gryffindor would be. 

“Not until you prove it.” You huffed out, feeling strangely brave. “Force me to forget about all the others. Make it so that I can only remember the feeling of your cock inside me, George.” 

The heat in George’s eyes seared to a bleeding madness, and you knew that you had pushed just the right button. 

He let out a laugh - not his usual sweet, harmonious laugh, but one that was laced with maniacal madness - a sound of warning that had your breath stilling in your chest, had your stomach twisting around itself as you quaked with anticipation. You carefully took in each of his movements as he scooted up between your thighs, pumping his cock a few more times in his hand before he took the base gently between his fingers, teasing his cock along the hot wetness of your slit - still taunting you. 

“Will you even be able to take all of it?” He posed, pure mockery in his voice. “No girl I’ve been with ever has.” 

Of course, he was bringing up his past conquests, now trying to make you jealous. As the round cockhead bumped against your clit, only further driving you to madness, there was only one thing you could think to say. 

“You should know that a Slytherin never backs down from a challenge,” You hissed sharply, spreading your legs more and trying to force your body down onto his cock. “Now shut up and fuck me before I change my mind, Weasley.” 

You thought that perhaps this might taunt him into roughly shoving his cock inside of you, finally giving you what you had been craving all night. But no, unfortunately, he had more self restraint than that. He had been practicing his self restraint for years when it came to you. 

No - it was as if he knew that the most torturous, agonizing way to go about this would be to go as slow as possible. 

“Love, I told you-” He chuckled, continuing to wipe his cock along your wetness, loving how perfect and sticky you felt against him, how warm. “You can’t boss me around - not here. You can complain all you like, but I am the one who decides how this goes.” 

His stunning confidence and unwavering attitude had you swallowing thickly - for once, you were truly intimidated by him. 

Because you knew that he was right. 

He finally brought his cock down to your entrance and pushed in so utterly slowly, popping the round head into the tightness of your hole - something that caused him to let out a perfect, deep groan as he savoured the feeling of you sucking him in for the first time. 

From there, it was the most creepingly slow, inch by inch movement that you thought you were going to burst. 

You wanted to scream as he kept you pinned in place with his knee on your inner thigh, keeping a hand on the base of his cock to keep himself honest. He had to make sure that he didn’t get too eager and thrust forward into the inviting heat of your pussy and fuck you until you were screaming like he wanted to. 

And yes, in his mind, that was one of the reasons he was doing this so slowly. Obviously, he was trying to get you back for your bratty mouth. 

But he was also afraid of hurting you. He had meant what he said about none of his previous partners being able to take it all. All of his previous experiences had been shallow thrusts and him not being able to cum from penetrative sex because he had been too terrified to hurt the woman below him, wanting to make it a safe, pleasant experience for her. And he wanted nothing but the same for you, even if he couldn’t cum with you.

“Please,” You whined, trying desperately to buck your hips up, unable to move with the angle he had you pinned at. “Fuck! Hurry up!” 

As your frustration and annoyance grew, you dissolved from lust-addled politeness back to the griping bitchiness that you were more accustomed to, hoping that despite his earlier warnings, it would work to get you what you wanted. 

Especially because it was more and more difficult to keep yourself composed when his cock was right there. 

The fullness of his cock splitting you open, your pussy desperately leaking around him - his thickness, his perfect length making you feel so full. You had managed to take all of him - it wasn’t anywhere close to a challenge. You had no clue why he was sitting still, why he was so intent on making you wait with his cock just sitting inside of you. You didn’t know why he was just splitting you open, taunting you as the muscles of your pussy quivered around him and your body silently begged for more. 

You needed him to move. You needed him to pound you senseless until you couldn’t remember your own fucking name. 

“Hurry up and fuck me!” You cried out, tears leaking from the corner of your eye as your desperation only grew. 

You let out a shocked gasp when he reached up and grabbed you by the jaw - a rather aggressive hold in contrast from the sweet, soft, teasing touches that he had been using with you all night. He dug his fingers into your cheeks, forcing your gaze to meet his. The roughness immediately sent a thrill through you. This caused you to leak even more wetness around where the two of you were joined, making your pussy flutter around his cock as he growled his next words at you. 

“If you don’t behave yourself, missy, I’m not giving you the last two inches.” He told you, heaving hot breath into your face. 

The last two inches? 

But - 

Oh fuck. 

The reality hit you like a ton of bricks - the fact that he wasn’t fully inside you, not yet. The fact that there was more of his cock to come. Within seconds, it truly broke your mind - it filled you with intense desire and had moans echoing from your lungs that you couldn’t control. 

“You’re so big!” You moaned out, truly trying to comprehend the size of his enormous cock. “You’re so big! Fuck - you’re so big,” 

You craned your neck down, trying to get a better look at where the two of you were joined, now desperate to see those last two inches still sticking out, barely able to picture it. Your neck began to ache and you couldn’t see properly with the angle and ultimately, you gave up and collapsed back onto the pillow. 

“Yes love, I warned you.” George said, giving another terrible smirk. “Do you still want it?” 

“Yes!” You chirped back - there was no other answer in your mind. “Fuck, please!” 

He chuckled and smoothed his thumb along your chin, dipping the digit between your lips, trying to soothe some of your stunned words by giving you something to do with your tongue. You eagerly started sucking on his thumb, too dumb with pleasure to think about your pride. And finally, he eased those last two inches inside of you, causing you to moan wildly against his finger, feeling a beautifully stinging kind of fullness that you never would have imagined was possible. 

When George’s pelvis finally hit your inner thighs, finally sinking all the way inside of you, both of you moaned intensely. You had no idea that this was his first time truly being this deep inside of someone, truly feeling all that heat and wetness swallowing up his cock. Both of you were loving the feeling so much, loving being so wrapped up in the other person, clutching at the other person’s hand - so much so that it almost made that horrible collection of metal still wrapped around your wrists almost seem forgivable. (Almost.) 

“Good girl.” He sighed, the words coming off his lips so naturally. “Such a good girl, taking all of me.” 

You choked on your breath at this, and then let out another moan as the words truly hit you. 

This was the first time anybody had ever called you good. Ever. 

Even though it was a lustful pet name, it triggered a need for validation deep within you that you had long tried to turn off, and it melted everything inside of you, making you even warmer and more pliant on his cock. 

He pulled his hand away from your face, pulling his thumb out from between your lips - he wanted to hear you now. And he was easily satisfied as your moans echoed even louder as he finally began to move his cock. 

It was a slow grind of his hips quickly turning into sloppy, quick fucking as he lost himself in the feeling of your warm, perfect cunt. Distantly, he was thankful that Fred wasn’t home (especially because neither of you had remembered to close the bedroom door before going to sleep). But part of him wouldn’t have even cared if Fred was around, because of all the times he had woken up to the sounds of Fred and Angelina going at it and had to retreat to the shop to do some late night work just to escape it. 

Though that distant thought soon became a ghost in his mind as you continued to moan and squirm below him. 

He hammered his hips into you at a smooth, even pace - he loved the feeling of you around him so much, and he was afraid to cum too early. And it was instantly clear to you that he was holding back, rather than using this delicious, long cock to its full potential. As your pussy quivered around him, a harsh tingling in your stomach cried out, aching for more. 

“Harder!” You demanded, your voice breathless rather than sounding truly authoritative at all. “Fuck me harder! Come on!” 

“I thought you were gonna be good for me,” He growled out, his voice gravelly and perfect. 

He slowed his hips to an unbearable grind, once again intent on teaching you a lesson. He shoved his cock deep inside you, stuffing you full and rolling his hips tightly against you, reminding you just how impossibly big he was as he gripped tightly onto your hip, likely leaving marks. He pinned you in place as he forced you to feel the full might of his cock, punishing you with every precious inch. 

“But you’re just a demanding little brat, aren’t you?” He huffed, sounding self righteous as ever. 

“And you’re just a tease.” You whined in return, a pathetic moan leaving your lips as his pelvis pressed against your clit, making your whole body shake. “I b-bet you can’t even make me cum.” 

You tried offering up a challenge, hoping he would be determined to prove you wrong, hoping that you could use that Gryffindor stubbornness to your advantage. But instead, he simply smirked at you, rolling his hips against you in deeper, slower strokes - and he became even more satisfied when your wetness leaked down over his balls and he felt your stomach quake against him. 

Your body was telling him everything he needed to know. You were desperate, and he could do whatever he wanted to you. He was in control. 

“Why should I? Why would I want to give into a needy brat like you?” He posed, the low rumble of his voice only driving you more insane. “I could just pull out now and leave your little pussy all alone. I could leave you gaping and needy. I could just leave you like this without letting you cum at all.” 

You had to forcefully bite your lip to keep yourself from outright begging - to stop that needy thing inside of you that wanted to cry and grovel and beg him not to do that because it would be the worst possible outcome. Now that you had gotten a feel for what his cock was like, you couldn’t imagine not having it. You couldn’t imagine not cumming on his cock before the night was through. That would be a tragedy of epic proportions. 

But you knew that George Weasley was just as stubborn as you were, and he would pull out and leave you wanting just to prove a point, even if it meant that he fell asleep with his cock hard and covered in your wetness. He would suffer if it meant that you did too. 

You had to play things extremely carefully from here. 

“If you did, then you would just have to watch me touch myself until I do cum.” You said, trying your hardest to sound confident. It was difficult to keep your voice even as he ground his hips tantalizingly slowly against yours, driving the tip of his cock impossibly deep inside of you. “And - and you wouldn’t be able to leave.” You added on, gesturing with your cuffed hands, reminding him of your ever-present attachment. “S-so you should just fuck me yourself and do it right.” 

Sadly, this didn’t seem to phase him. 

He leaned down, whispering his next world-ending words into your ear. 

“I could pull out and fuck in you in the arse instead,” He rumbled in your ear, absolutely no hesitation in his words. “I could stop touching your pussy completely and cum in another one of your pretty holes to get myself off and just leave you wanting, leave you begging for more. Teach you a lesson.” 

This idea sent sparks shooting off in your brain - something you had never thought about before, something you had never even considered wanting - the idea alone now had your cunt drooling more pathetic wetness around George’s cock. Your mind became consumed by thoughts of him punishing you by fucking you in the ‘wrong’ hole just to teach you a lesson. 

George felt that extra bit of wetness - heard the little gasp you let out that you hadn’t even noticed went past your own lips. He let out a dark chuckle in response. 

“Wow, you actually like that idea, don’t you?” He laughed. “You’re such a nasty little bitch.” 

Before any insecurities could creep in, he let out a dreamy sigh and added on: 

“Oh, my dirty, sweet girl - I love it.” 

And then he swooped down, capturing your mouth in another heated kiss that had you moaning wildly against his tongue. 

Despite not wanting to give into your bratty demands, George felt an intense need growing inside of him. Between the feeling of your perfect, warm cunt surrounding him and how perfectly turned on he was by you - he felt a need to hear more of your moans. He felt a need to please you. 

So ultimately, he gave in. And he did pick up his pace. All too soon, he devolved into a completely mindless, sloppy mess. He was driving his hips forward with almost no finesse, fucking into you with sharp, hard strokes that began driving you cleanly up the bed as he pounded into you harshly. The pure power in his hips knocking the wind out of you as the way his cock smacked into your cunt caused loud, wet sounds to echo throughout the room, barely concealed by his groans and your responsive moans of pleasure. 

“Oh fuck, fuck-” You gasped, everything in the world becoming numb to you except for the feeling of his cock continuously driving up into you, that impossibly long, large thing that was creating a void inside of you that no other man would be able to fill. “George!” 

A desperate knot was drawing tighter in your stomach, having been teased into a tight bind all night - it really didn’t take much and your orgasm was already getting so close. 

“Please, please, please!” 

His mind was swimming as he lost himself to the feeling of that perfect hot wetness surrounding his cock, making it feel like the world around him began and ended with you. And he could have easily stayed inside of you forever. But still, he knew all the signs - the sputtering shallows of your breathing, the way your cunt was fluttering around him, the way your thighs were tensing up, beginning to grip a bit tighter around his hips. 

And he was going to make you beg for it. 

“That’s it, come on,” George growled ferally, leaning in and pressing his teeth to your cheek, loving the light sheen of sweat on your face and lapping a lick at it, enjoying the taste. He chugged in a breath before he spat out his next words. “Beg for it. Beg me to let you cum. Be a good girl for me. Then you can cum on my cock just like you need to,” 

His words - the sheer depravity in his voice made every single nerve ending in your body sing, stealing the breath out of your lungs and temporarily melting your brain. Your voice choked out of your throat and for a moment, all you were able to get out were a few pathetic, nonsensical syllables that truly didn’t add up to any words. You were desperate to comply with his demands as that searing heat grew more maddening in your stomach, as your orgasm became closer. All the while, he continued to pound sharply into your cunt. 

Luckily, George took pity on you. 

“Say: Sir, please let me cum.” He ordered sharply. “Say it. Be a good girl for me.” 

You gulped in a huge breath, and then struggled past the haze of his cock pounding into you in order to comply. 

“Sir, please let me cum!” You shouted, your voice much more desperate than you ever imagined it could be, warbling with pleasure as your pussy clenched around his cock. “Please, please, please-” 

“Shh, good.” He soothed you, so utterly pleased and turned on by your words. “Such a good girl for me. You’re such a good girl. My good girl,” 

He spoke the words with intense liquid madness and determination as he pounded into you harder, bringing his unchained hand down to furiously rub your clit, utterly determined to have you cum on his cock. 

“Such a good girl,” 

Consciously or unconsciously, he kept repeating it because he wanted you to find it true. Ever since you had looked him in the eyes just those few ghostly days after The War, the only thing truly present in your drunken state being the anchoring harsh truth that you believed you were somehow a ‘bad’ person - it had haunted him. 

And he had tried his hardest to spend every single day since then trying to get you to believe that you were a good person. He needed you to know it. You had done good things, and it didn’t fucking matter what anybody else in this fucked up world believed about you. 

You were good because he believed it. 

You were his good girl. 

“My good girl, my precious girl.” He moaned furiously into your skin, licking across your neck as you moaned an echo back. 

And now he was trying his hardest to chase any doubts that you had about this out of you by pounding them out of your head with the fury of his cock. 

These words - spoken with such intense passion and power that it couldn’t possibly be a lie - this is what had you arching up off the bed as your orgasm ripped through your body. 

Those simple but utterly possessive words, the thing that nobody else had ever dared to call you before - the thing that nobody had even considered coming close to labelling you as. Good. It was now something so entirely precious on George’s lips as he sucked a claiming mark into your flesh, moaning ravenously into your shoulder in the process. He continued to fuck you harshly through the waves that whipped at your body, digging his thumb into your clit in a way that was nearly painful but felt so damn good. 

“George!” You rasped out his name, your throat raw at this point from how much noise you had been making. 

You had never been fucked like this before, and you had a feeling that if George expected this to be a one time thing, no other man would ever measure up for you. Not after this. 

As the last of your orgasm ebbed away, leaving you tired and tingling, George’s thrusts slowed down. Eventually, he stilled, leaving his cock rod-stiff and full inside of you, still lighting up the nerve endings of all those absolutely sensitive places and making you ache in the most beautiful way. You were panting harshly as he kissed up your neck, and you did not expect the words that he whispered in your ear next. 

“At least now you have a reason to like me.” He said, a light, joking tone to his voice. 

You couldn’t help the soft, genuine, breathless laugh that you let off when you heard the words. Coincidentally, in all the time you had known him, it was the first of his jokes that you had ever actually laughed at. 

George leaned to your lips and gave you another soft kiss, and you let out a sharp whine as he pulled his hips back. You were expecting that he was going to begin fucking you again - likely at a softer, slower pace due to some gentlemanly regard for your now very sensitive pussy. But you felt a swell of annoyance when he began to pull out completely. 

“Don’t you dare pull out!” You hissed against his lips, your sense of entitlement and general attitude immediately swinging back into play. 

You moved your hand down to his lower back before he could blink, digging your nails sharply into his flesh and using this touch and your knees on his hips to trap him there. This pushed him slightly forward as you tried to force him back into place. 

“Fuck!” He breathed out sharply, thrusting forward instinctively, loving the gasp you let out when his cock slapped against your swollen pussy once again. 

The words smacked him so suddenly - you acting like it was a terrible crime for him to pull out. It was most certainly a kink of his, but something that no woman had ever said to him before. 

He had dreamt of you begging him no to pull out with his hand around his cock, and now you were literally forcing him back inside of you. 

He couldn’t hold back now - he knew that it wasn’t polite or proper, but he shoved his cock inside of you once again, creating a filthy slap as more of your wetness leaked around him. Then, he put all of his unrestrained power into pounding into you, now chasing blind pleasure inside of your perfect cunt. You let out a howl, scraping your nails across his back in delight as a beautiful kind of overstimulation ripped through your body. 

“Filthy bitch.” He growled into your breast. 

“Fucking tease.” You responded, any desire to behave completely thrown out the window. Now that you had cum, any desperation he had teased into you was gone, and any desire to obey him was gone right along with it. He had wound you up with teasing and given you what you needed, and now you were free to taunt him again. “You were trying to scam me out of what’s mine,” 

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?” He replied, growing more breathless as he became lost to the feeling of your cunt squeezing his cock. 

“Your cum.” You replied. “You taunt me all night and won’t even cum inside me? It’s not fair.” 

With you being such a brat, he should have made some snide, clever reply about how life isn’t fair. But your voice saying the words ‘cum inside me’ quickly sent him hurdling over the edge - this time, you had the upper hand. 

Mere moments after the words left your lips, he let out a shuddering groan as he slammed his hips tightly against yours, shoving his cock deeply inside of you to milk the feeling. His shoulders shook, gripping your hand so tightly in his where the two of you were chained as he shot his load deep inside of you, savouring the feeling of cumming inside someone for the first time, so utterly happy that it got to be with you. 

He was loving everything from the feeling of your wetness dripping down over him to the way your pussy fluttered around him to the way you gripped his back with your nails and the way you held his hand just as tightly with the other hand. Even the little gasp you released beside his ear as you felt his cum stirring into your guts, marking you so deeply. 

“Fuck.” He sighed. “Perfect.” 

“Fuckin’ right.” You replied. 

You were quickly growing obsessed with the fact that someone like him - polite, courteous, genuine, funny - could dissolve into a beast of a man under the right circumstances. You were growing addicted to both of his sides - the polite gentleman who had made you dinner and set up a perfect romantic atmosphere aftwards, and this man, who was making you lustful and weak on his cock. 

You weren’t sure if you could live without this now - without him. 

George finally pulled out, and you found the gush of a mess that began spilling out of you halfway satisfying and halfway gross. 

“Time to clean up, I suppose.” He hummed out, his voice wrecked. 

You thought that he would reach for his wand, going to use some cleaning spell so that the two of you wouldn’t have to navigate trying to shower while cuffed together - though cleaning spells didn’t work as well as good ole fashioned soap and water, it would be a fine temporary fix. 

You were absolutely surprised, but entirely pleased by what he did next. 

He moved down your body and situated his head between your thighs. Your cuffed hands ended up lingering around your hip, with his fingers digging into the flesh there, while his other hand was on your thigh, holding your legs apart before he dove in with no hesitation. He licked an eager stripe up your cunt, tasting the combined essence of the two of you before he shoved his tongue deep inside of your swollen, gaping hole, now set on ‘cleaning you up’. 

“George,” You whimpered out, reaching down with your free hand to grip his hair, needing to hold on. 

You couldn’t resist humping your hips into his face as you heavily enjoyed the feeling of his fat tongue lapping at you, slurping up your wetness and his own cum as it flowed out of you. 

He began moaning against you, shoving his face tighter into you to feel more of your warmth, determined to lose himself inside of you. This caused his nose to begin bumping up against your clit, perfect stimulation while his tongue fucked inside of you and he lovingly, lazily enjoyed your taste. You couldn’t help but to ride his face, digging your fingers into his scalp as you took a more demanding hold on those gorgeous red locks. 

“Holy fuck, George,” You moaned, more undeniable heat stirring up in your belly. 

You were bone tired but you wouldn’t have asked him to stop - not for anything. 

It didn’t surprise you when a perfect, lazy orgasm rolled through you - one that pitched your breath into a tight gasp as your body stiffened against him, your back arching slightly off the bed. His humming moans against you made it all the more perfect as your thighs quaked beside his head. 

He let out one last deep hum of satisfaction as he moved to pull away, leaving a small, tender kiss on your clit that caused your thighs to jolt. Cheeky fucker. Then, he kissed his way back up your body before diving into a sloppy kiss on your mouth. A kiss that had you tasting yourself on his lips, complete with him shoving his tongue past your lips that you could truly soak in the taste of your own pussy combined with his cum, and how utterly filthy it was. 

You weren’t surprised to feel his cock still hard against your thigh, and you pulled away from the kiss with only one thing on your mind. 

“Stick it back inside me where it belongs.” You huffed at him, looking down the length of his body to that gorgeous cock, now wet with your juices and glistening in the low lighting, so absolutely perfect. 

George groaned lowly, clearly affected by your words. 

He shocked you when he flipped you over, keeping your chained arms above your head and forcing you onto your stomach, giving you a faceful of pillow as you became filled with hazy confusion. He was quick to shove your thighs apart, and in a moment, he complied with your demand - fucking his hard cock back inside of your sore, needy pussy. This time he didn’t wait for you to adjust before he started fucking his hips into you at a rapid pace, forcing sounds out of you and causing you to fall forward into the pillow, which did smother you slightly. 

“So demanding,” He huffed into your ear, hammering his hips even harder. “Good thing that I like demanding, whiny little bitches.” 

His words ripped through you, and you forcefully dug your head out of the pillow, turning your chin to the side to get some air in order to muster a reply. 

“Good - good thing I like lanky, red-headed gits,” You breathed back, the words not packing nearly as much of a punch with your voice lust-weak and breathless. You sounded just like he wanted you to - defeated. And he continued to pound the air out of your lungs with his massive, impressive cock. 

George chuckled, and the sound alone caused a whimper from your lips. 

“Yeah, lanky, red-headed gits with huge cocks.” He whispered in your ear, shoving his hips forward harder in a way that caused you to moan loudly again.

… 

You didn’t even quite remember falling asleep. All you knew was that you spent most of the night in a tangle of limbs, heated and pleasurable with the one person that you never thought would bring you those feelings. 

And you absolutely loved it. 

… 

The next time you woke up, it was due to the strong morning sun hitting your face. 

You almost never slept with the curtains open for this reason. 

Even though you had to get up early every single morning to help open the shop, you preferred getting ready in the soft lighting of a table lamp instead of being assaulted by overhead lighting or the damn sun first thing after opening your eyes. And usually, you got up most morning before the sun even rose anyway. 

You moved your hand to grab your wand, wanting to use it to shut the curtains and get that damn light out of your face, and you were quickly reminded of the stupid circumstances that had set the whole night in motion. 

Your wrist buzzed with pain and a quiet metallic rattle reminded you that you were chained to George Weasley. Chained together with a pair of handcuffs due to a stupid fucking prank. A prank that you never could have guessed would lead to this. 

Currently, he was cuddled tightly into your back like a clingy cat, his limbs tangled up with yours, even in the places where the presence of a pair of handcuffs literally kept the two of you bonded together. His legs were entwined with yours and his other arm was underneath your neck with his hand dangling down by your breast - he had fallen asleep fondling it like a comfort toy. His head was nearly on top of yours, with his whole body so tightly pressed into your back, pure skin on skin underneath the covers. 

Where you were usually grossly adverse to touch from anyone else, you found yourself oddly loving this. And you didn’t know why. You couldn’t find any complaints about this situation. Except for the goddamn metal bracelet around your wrist that was slowly making your skin more and more sore. Other than that, you wouldn’t have changed a thing. Well, the curtain. You wanted to close the curtain to shield the sun from your eyes so that you could get some more sleep. 

You started looking around to find your wand (which, if you remembered, was in your bag, on the floor, over by the wardrobe) - or George’s - but all you could see was a mess of abandoned clothes that caused a flare of heat through your stomach as you were reminded of the night before. And George’s drafts of parchment, his ideas for the shop. As you looked around, unintentionally squirming underneath him, you felt him stirring from his sleep. 

He let out a groan as he swelled to consciousness, and the arm under your head moved to grip your body a bit tighter. An oddly comforting move that caused you to relax back into him as he began kissing down your neck warmly. 

“Good morning, gorgeous.” He said, the morning rasp in his voice sounding so attractive. 

“Morning.” You replied. “I would call it ‘good’ or - better, at least, if this was gone.” You said, shaking your joint wrists for emphasis. “You know people usually take the handcuffs off when the kinky sex is over.” 

George laughed. 

“Yes, I know.” He replied. “And I am truly sorry that I have put us in such a predicament.” 

At least you felt the genuine nature of this apology. 

“Thank you.” You replied quietly. 

“And at least we know that the next few days of our lives won’t be so utterly terrible while we’re stuck together. We have found a way to make the time pass rather nicely,” He added on, his voice slipping into that suggestive tone as he kissed over your shoulder. 

Though something that he said stuck out to you. 

“Our relationship being ‘not so terrible’ - will it just be for the next few days while we’re stuck together, or… will it go beyond that?” You dared to ask, glad that he was behind you and you didn’t have to look him in the eye for this. 

Relationship. 

You were daring to call it a relationship. 

What the fuck had happened last night? 

Oh the damage a pair of little handcuffs could do. 

“Oh, sweet girl.” George sighed, pulling away to hover above you, and you felt his eyes on your face in a way that made you feel far too transparent, far too minuscule. “Look at me, please.” 

For some reason, you followed the instructions. 

You turned your head, leaning into the comforting strength of his bicep underneath you and looking up at him. In the golden light of the morning, his face was even more beautiful - his red hair now more orange, his skin almost luminous, his smile beaming down at you. 

Your stomach twisted with horrible nerves, unable to anticipate what he was going to say next. You hated not knowing if he was going to let you down easy, being the gentleman that he was, or if he was going to say the very wonderfully terrible thing that you were hoping he would say. 

“I meant everything that I said last night.” He told you, passionate dedication brimming his voice in a way that made his throat swell, almost causing him to choke on the words. “I have been dreaming about you for such a long time - and not just in a sexual sense.” 

This jolted something inside you, truly awakening senses that you didn’t even know you had. This filled you with affection, fear, and maybe even love that you didn’t know you were capable of. 

George Weasley… 

Had it really been him this whole time? 

“Is that so?” You dared to prod at him, your throat quivering with terrible fear as you spoke the words. 

George grinned. “Woman, I’ve been in love with you since I was 16 years old.” 

He knew it was likely terrible to use that word with you - the big terrifying L. That if his fussy caring and affection had only annoyed you, then surely this would have you attempting to hack off your arm to get free. But instead of anxiety, all he saw staring back up at him was trepidation - intense insecurity as you took an unsure step toward those huge words. 

You weren’t ready to flee from something so huge - you were once again terrified that it wasn’t real. 

“You - you’re lying.” You declared, your voice quivering even more now. You were trying your hardest to hold back tears while in such a tender state. “I - I was so horrible back then. There’s no way-” 

You cut yourself off, a single tear sliding from the corner of your eye as the words died off in your throat. 

“Hey, Y/N, come on.” George pressed on. “I wouldn’t lie about this, I mean…” He dove into his mind, remembering it so fondly, knowing that there was only one way to truly convince you. “I’ve had a fondness for you for as long as I can remember. But the moment I truly knew it was love - The Yule Ball. Our Sixth Year, when you wore that big poofy dress, with the big gaudy flower on the chest… your hair was done and your make-up was stunning-” 

“Of course you liked how I looked.” You huffed in return, your protective instincts flaring up once again. “It’s easy to fall in love with a girl when she’s wearing a gorgeous, expensive dress.” 

“Yeah, but that wasn’t the reason.” George argued firmly. “I didn’t just think you were a pretty girl in a dress. It didn’t really hit me - the fact that I was truly, utterly, hopelessly in love with you - not until I saw you smack that bloke across the face.” 

His words speared deep inside your gut, and sent your mind reeling back to a night years ago that you had mostly tried to forget. 

For George, it was a very fond memory that he liked to hold onto. 

… 

The Yule Ball had been talked about at Hogwarts for weeks. 

People anticipating the event in hushed whispers, everyone trying their hardest to get dates and moping around if they couldn’t, younger students endlessly upset because they wouldn’t be allowed to attend the once-in-a-lifetime event. 

George honestly thought that it wouldn’t live up to the hype, but on the night of, he found himself pleasantly surprised. 

The decorations were gorgeous, The Great Hall absolutely transformed from how it looked on a day to day basis. It was nothing short of breath-taking. And, with a few well-researched textile spells, the once wretched looking second hand dress robes that their mother had picked up for them actually turned out quite spiffy. (He did slightly regret not having enough time to lend his newly found tailoring talents to his younger brother to save him from the same embarrassment, but - sometimes little brothers just have to go through the natural hurdles of life on their own.) 

Upon Fred’s insistence that he too get a date (after he had made a foolish public show of asking Angelina to the ball, not at all subtle about his interest in her), George walked into the ball with Katie Bell on his arm. Of course, it was only because the girl had been hand-picked and practically shoved in his face by his twin brother - along with a nagging comment about how she was Angelina’s friend, and George would be a crappy wingman if he didn’t bring her along. 

She was a sweet, beautiful girl, and George was glad to be keeping her company while Fred went about his ‘twelve step plan’. Apparently it was some long, drawn out map that he had made to marrying Angelina and having kids by the time they were thirty-five, with those future children’s names already picked out - oh, the blackmail he would have against his dear brother if he ever needed it. But George wasn’t exactly thrilled to be stuck playing wingman, babysitting Angelina’s friend while Fred was off in some corner, snogging his date. 

Between the dancing and the socialization and the general revelry, George’s eyes kept wandering to you. 

His gaze had glued to you the moment you first came in - you were wearing a gorgeous, black and green dress made up of a tattered-looking fabric, something that Fred had snorted and called ‘heinous’, and made a joke about how you looked like you had gotten attacked by ghouls. It made the girls laugh, but George never thought to laugh at your expense, even when you weren’t around to hear. 

George thought the dress was beautifully fitting on you, especially with the delicate flowers on the chest and the waist. Your makeup and hair were beautifully done, as always, with a matching flower behind your ear, topping off the way you had styled yourself. Truly, the only thing that ruined the royalty of your look was the twat dragging you around. 

Your date was someone George didn’t know the name of - he kept racking his brain and all he could come up with was B. Bradley, Bailey, B… Butt. Arsehole. He chuckled to himself and Katie looked at him strangely. When he asked Katie if she recognized the boy on your arm, she gave a stiffly annoyed brow and said that he was a Ravenclaw boy in his seventh year, the year above you, named Craig Burman. 

Burman. Fucker. He had been on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team at one point, for a few months back in George’s Fourth Year. 

George smiled to himself when he remembered Burman crying after Fred had broken his thumb with a Bludger. Which was likely why his stint on the Quidditch team had been so short. 

Even with that satisfaction in mind, George’s eyes kept wandering to you, watching as you danced with him, as he flirted with you - leaning in and whispering in your ear, too ruddy close for his liking… He couldn’t help the sourness in his stomach when your neutral (almost bored) expression turned into a frown and then you stormed out of the Great Hall into one of the connecting corridors. 

George’s insides became even more sour when Burman chased after you. 

George also couldn’t help it when he stood up from his chair and began craning his neck over the heads of other people in the room (thankful for his natural tallness), waiting for a moment to see if you would return. 

“Is something wrong?” Katie asked, her voice a bright, cheerful chirp. 

“Uh… I’ll be right back.” George told her, giving her as much of a smile as he could muster when he was so full of worry. 

He bumped his way through the crowd on the dancefloor and made it through the door you had rushed out of, going around the stragglers lingering in the corridor, gossiping and chatting - as he got further from the noise of The Great Hall, he was drawn down one of the other halls by the sound of your voice. 

“Are you stupid?!” You shouted, your voice echoing off the stone, intense fury in your tone that made every hair on his body stand on end. 

“I - uh - um - ah -”

Another voice came back, not with words, but more as a bit of stuttering nonsense - and you didn’t give the person a chance to form words before you spoke again. 

“‘Buh - bah - buh’.” You mocked him, and then let out a huff. “That’s not an answer! I’m serious, are you daft?” 

George crept closer, and peeked around the corner in curiosity - and just in time, his eyes came upon the sight of you having backed Burman tight against a wall, your stance large and intimidating, your hand winding back to slap him in the face. The crack of skin on skin was glorious, hrash - clearly, you weren’t holding back. 

George couldn’t help the small, silent cheer that he did as your date recoiled, pathetically holding his cheek. 

In some part of his mind, he had imagined himself as the valiant knight, coming to rescue you because your date had been treating you poorly. But it became instantly apparent that you didn’t need rescuing. And he found himself even more attracted to you because of that. 

“I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be smart!” You shouted, continuing with your verbal berating of him. “But I suppose your incessant mouth-breathing has deprived your brain of too much precious oxygen and allowed you to recess to a bloody neanderthal in order for you to think this kind of behaviour is at all acceptable!” 

George was curious as to what kind of ‘behaviour’ got him on your bad side - knowing you, it could have been something as minor as not using a napkin to wipe his mouth after eating. You were incredibly up tight. 

“It’s not my fault, okay?” Burman hissed in return, still clutching his aching cheek. “Blaise said you were easy! That’s the only reason I even asked you out! He said if you had a few drinks-” 

George’s insides stilled with shock. That awful fucking cocksucker- 

“Oh Blaise said that, did he?” Your voice was clearly struck with intense hurt, which you were trying your best to conceal with rage. You reached to your cleavage, pulling your wand out from the front of your dress, and Burman let out a terrified sound and began to run away, but not before you could raise your wand and fire off a curse. “Furnunculus!” 

George stepped toward you then, not wanting you to do anything that might get you expelled due to a mindless momentary fury. 

Burman ran away crying, clutching his face tightly as boils began popping up all over his skin, and George grabbed a hold of your wand arm tightly and held you back. He kept you from stepping forward, clearly attempting to pursue him. 

“I think he’s had enough.” George huffed quietly. 

“I can’t believe you’re siding with him after-.” You cut off your own words, snatching your arm back but thankfully moving to tuck your wand back into the top of your dress, glare sharply at George. “You blokes are all the same, aren’t you?”  

“I’m not siding with him.” George replied, quick to clear up the misunderstanding. “I just don’t want to see you expelled over some stupid prat who’s not worth your time.” He told you. “And you should know that I believe in alternate ways to get revenge.” 

He almost offered up plans on the spot, already thinking of all the things he was going to do to Burman. But he knew that talk of itching powder and fake bugs likely wasn’t going to make you feel better. At least not right now. 

“He - he doesn’t deserve to keep his bullocks after what he did.” You heaved out, the tears in your throat making it more difficult to get the words out. Now that the screaming was done, the upset of the whole situation was truly hitting you. 

“What did he do?” George asked, trying his best to keep his voice calm. He knew that it would be hypocritical to let his anger irrationally take over when he had just stopped you from truly feeling yours. 

You hastily wiped at your eye, trying to stave off the tears, hating the idea of potentially ruining your make-up, and you forcefully looked away from George before you grunted out: “Why do you care anyway, Weasley?” 

George grabbed the decorative cotton pocket square from his jacket and shook it out from being folded, offering it to you as a handkerchief to wipe your tears. 

You stared at it, then at him, seeing nothing but genuine concern on his face. You knew that even though he was a prankster, he wouldn’t have thought far ahead enough to sabotage his own suit in order to prank someone with it. You reached out and grabbed the fabric and then began delicately wiping the edges of your eyes with it, still being careful not to ruin your precisely laid make-up, even through your tears. 

(You had no idea that to this day, George still kept and treasured the stupid small square of material with your black make-up smudges on it because it reminded him of that night.) 

“You can tell me.” He said quietly, trying his best to sound approachable and non-threatening. 

“It’s stupid.” You huffed. “Ugh - he’s stupid.” 

“I have absolutely no doubts about that.” George replied, rolling his eyes. 

“He… he said ‘how many drinks will it take for you to suck my cock?’ And then he tried to take my hand and shove it down his trousers. It was all very juvenile.” You heaved out, trying to get the embarrassing words out all at once. “Like I said, you blokes are all the same.” 

“Not really.” George opposed. “When I take a woman on a date, especially one as rare as you, I respect her. I would treat her like a queen and make sure that she knows she is the most beautiful, special, exquisite creature on earth.” 

George knew the intense irony behind these words, considering the fact that he had practically been ignoring Katie all night and treating her as lesser because he had been watching you out of the corner of his eye, wishing that you had been his date instead. But he didn’t regret his words or the unhinged passion with which he spoke them - not when he saw you swallow thickly and he witnessed the flicker of affection behind your eyes. 

“And if I do have sex with someone, it’s only after a tender seduction that leaves her begging for it.” He added on, feeling far too bold. “I would never be caught using some stupid line like that.” 

You opened your mouth to say something, and George wanted to scream in protest when his name was called from further down the corridor. 

“George! Psst - Georgie!” 

Fred called out, causing his attention to be distracted from you as he whipped around. He found his brother waving at him, standing beside a slightly rumpled looking Angelina, who was hanging tightly onto his arm, and a rather annoyed Katie. He was pointing to a large bottle of Fire Whiskey that was very poorly concealed, being cradled in the breast of his jacket. 

“Come on!” 

Ah yes. Time for the ‘get drunk in the Gryffindor common room’ section of the evening. George had the urge to invite you, but he knew that would likely be frowned upon by his compatriots. 

“You should go.” You said, carefully folding the pocket square with attention to detail, making sure that none of the make-up marks would show on the outside, and then stuffing it back into his pocket. 

“That’s yours.” You mumbled, smoothing your hand over the chest of his jacket after you tucked it in - a gentle touch that had his whole body tingling. 

“Thank you.” He said quietly, now breathless because of you. 

“George!” Fred called out again. 

Hesitantly, George walked away, glancing back over his shoulder to let his gaze linger on you once more - wondering what the night would have been like if he had asked you to be his date to the ball instead. 

… 

A week later, when the boils had just barely cleared up, Craig Burman ran from the Great Hall screaming. He had been delivered a box of sweets that turned into cockroaches right after he bit into the first one. It was a product deemed too unpleasant to go with the WWW line, but as everyone at the Ravenclaw table either laughed or recoiled in disgust, you locked eyes with George across the room, only receiving an all-too-knowing smirk. 

… 

“That night, I instantly fell in love with your fire. Your fight.” George declared. “Seeing the way you stood up for yourself - I just couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. You are someone who never let any bullshit pass without speaking up against it, and I fell in love with you because of that.” 

“You fell in love with me because I was a bitch?” You questioned, still shellshocked by the words. 

George let out a snort of laughter, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“I suppose… you could put it like that.” He sighed. “But truly, I fell in love with you because you’re strong. Stronger than you ever give yourself credit for.” 

You became overwhelmed with tingles of affection, and you were stunned into silence, sitting there quietly as he continued to speak. 

“Fred thought I was mad for pining after you for so long, but… there’s never been anybody else for me. Not like this. And if you had never looked my way - if you had never felt the same way about me, then - I guess I would have just died a lonely old bat.” 

Your throat nearly closed in on itself, and all you could do was continue to listen to his impassioned speech for a few more moments. 

“I meant it when I said that I would do anything for you. I will cook for you and do your laundry and be your little servant boy if you want me to. Having you in my home as my guest last night was one of the best nights of my life, even before the sex, and-” 

You couldn’t help it any longer, you pulled him down into a kiss - unsure what to say in the wake of his passionate words, you expressed yourself the only way you could in those moments, kissing him intensely, passionately. 

When he pulled away from the kiss, gently pressing his forehead against yours, you tried your hardest to form words. 

“You are mad.” You told him, a joking tone to your voice that made him smile. “But I understand it now, at least. And I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you… just, without the little chain in the middle.” 

George let out another bright laugh - a sound that you absolutely, utterly loved. 

“Alright.” He sighed. “But I was rather starting to like being chained to you.” 

You let out a bright laugh. “You dickhead!” 

“What? Is it so wrong that I want to wear a pretty girl as a bracelet?” 

… 

Soon, the two of you agreed to get up and get breakfast. 

Getting dressed while still stuck together was much easier this time, especially because you weren’t particularly worried about modesty this time around. He simply put his pajama pants back on (without underwear - something that made his soft cock hanging inside the fabric truly distracting for a few moments). 

You picked out a pair of clean underwear (he let out a cartoonish whistle and picked through the ones you had packed, making a joke about how all you had were ‘stripper clothes’) - and put your shorts back on. And then he went into the office and got a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes promotional tee shirt for you, one that he could sacrifice to cut the neck extra wide so that you could pull it up over your hips and step into it. It ended up foolishly falling off one of your shoulders, then, but it was comfortable and mostly covered you, so you didn’t entirely mind. 

You had to laugh when you realized that you somehow always ended up in that gaudy orange. But as you watched George carefully nurse a pan of scrambled eggs, his hair glinting in the morning light pouring in through the kitchen window - you had to think that it did kind of suit you. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” George asked, very much not used to you standing beside him, staring at him with doting affection in your eyes. 

“I was just…” You leaned in, hiding your face in his shoulder, almost embarrassed. “Thinking about how orange suits me.” 

“Orange?” He replied, mischief in his voice. “Or ginger?” 

“Shut it.” You sighed in reply, the words playful now more so than angry. 

“Georgie!” 

You were surprised when someone called out from the sitting room, clearly having just Flooed in. 

“Georgie, you awake?” 

Fred. It took you a moment to recognize his voice when he wasn’t being snarky or angry. 

“Kitchen!” George called back, and then he gave you a confused look. “He’s not supposed to be in for another few days,” He told you, speaking quieter so that only you could hear these words. 

Leave it to Fred to ruin your (nearly perfect) weekend. 

“Well, brother, you are going to owe me big time-” Fred began speaking in a boastful voice, but cut himself off when he entered the kitchen and his eyes landed on the two of you. 

It was likely that he hadn’t been expecting to see you. You were surprised that news of your ‘handcuff’ predicament hadn’t gotten around to the entire Weasley clan just by gossip alone. As Fred’s eyes scanned over the two of you in your (unfortunately) scantily clad state, his eyes grew wider and you resisted the urge to hide behind George out of embarrassment. 

“I can explain-” George rushed out, only to be cut off. 

“No need.” Fred said, clearly dampening down laughter. “Ron already covered it in his letter.” He held up a parchment envelope, waving it around. 

Your stomach dropped. So they had been gossiping. 

“Ron?” George choked on the name, upset. “What the bloody hell does he have to go with this? What did Bill do?” 

He abandoned his eggs for a moment, tearing across the room, seemingly forgetting that you were attached to him and dragging you uncomfortably along in his pursuit to steal the letter from Fred. Of course, he knew his brother too well and dodged around the table to avoid the move, keeping the letter close to his chest and grinning widely as he released the information slowly, lording over the power for a few minutes. 

“Oh, our dear oldest brother was trying to help you,” Fred grinned. “He didn’t want you to have to wait three whole days for an appointment with the curse breaker, especially not while being forced to be attached to such a moody, terrible girl,” 

“I did not describe you that way in the letter,” George turned to you, rushing to say this. 

You knew he likely wouldn’t have. It was just the other Weasleys’ impression of you. They had interacted with you during your time as an Order member, and they had not liked you much then. 

“So he took a copy of your letter and sent it off to Percy, attaching a note asking if he knew anybody else in the Ministry that knew anything about curse-breaking, but - ah, luckily Percy had contact with Ron and Harry’s handler because he helped set up their top secret mission.” Fred continued on. 

“So he got a letter to Ron, asking for Harry’s spare key, and Ron sent me this,” Fred said, holding up his letter with intense triumph. “Stupid bloke didn’t know I was busy with my girlfriend…” He mumbled this part furiously. “And I was on my way to rescue you. I cut my vacation short so that I could rescue you because I thought you were here, having a miserable time. But it looks like you’ve been just fine.”

Between the marks on your neck and the scratches on George’s back, and the lack of clothing that you were both wearing, you couldn’t make much of an argument to the contrary. It was very clear what the two of you had gotten up to. 

For a few tense moments, nobody spoke. 

Fred and George engaged in a terrible staredown, exchanging a wordless conversation that only twins could. It was clear that George wanted to deny that he had a fantastic night last night, despite his outcry for help. And Fred wanted to directly call him out on having sex with you, but didn’t want the gory details because he hated thinking of you that way. 

“Did you get the key or not?” George pressed, desperately trying to change the subject. 

“Angelina won’t have another week off for three more months!” Fred shouted in return, clearly upset that he had been forced to abandon his time with her. 

“Okay, well - it’s not my fault Ron addressed the letter to you and not me. It’s him you should be mad at!” George quickly defended himself, passing the blame as he had been trained to do growing up. 

“I am.” Fred said plainly, nodding. “And I suppose since you’re having such a great time with your friend here, I’ll just leave you to it.” He grinned. “And you won’t be needing this.” He opened the envelope and tipped it, and something slid out - the tiny, silver, utterly elusive handcuff key. 

You had to contain a gasp when you saw it. 

George opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, you did something entirely dumb, and entirely impulsive. (George was rubbing off on you.) It was something entirely grown out of frustration and a hatred for the soreness in your wrist. 

You picked up the spatula that George had been using for the eggs, and threw it across the kitchen at Fred, hitting him squarely in the face. He let out a harsh ‘ow!’ and dropped the handcuff key - and you used a quick, simple summoning spell to get the key before it hit the ground, catching it tightly in your palm before he even realized what was going on. 

“What was that for?” Fred barked, rubbing a now sore spot on his head and looking from you to the spatula that was now at his feet. 

But you were already unlocking the handcuffs at your wrist, so utterly relieved to be free. George grinned at you as you unlocked his side, going so far as to stick his tongue out at his brother in mockery - knowing that this round, he had gotten the victory. 

“Well I suppose that since you’re no longer attached to my brother, you can go home now,” Fred said dismissively, still rubbing that spot on his head. 

“No, I’m just going back to bed.” You replied, moving toward the kitchen door. Then you turned to George. “And you know what whole ‘making it up to me’ thing? That’s gonna start right now. And I’m not just talking about the handcuffs - I’m talking about the snake in the pastry box, the feather eyebrows, everything.” 

“Of course, my love.” George replied, winking at you. 

“You can start by making me breakfast and bringing it to me in bed. But something other than those eggs - because they’re burning.” You told him, causing him to turn and rush to take the pan off the stove as a light smoke began to come off it. 

You let out a light laugh as you walked out of the room, looking forward to closing the curtains and relaxing in his bed for a while. 

“Snake in a pastry box?” Fred gaped. “What the hell have you been up to while I was gone?” 

“Trust me, brother, the details would bore you.” George chuckled in return, his smile so cheek-splitting that it was beginning to hurt. 

… 

Just about a year later, you found yourself in Hogsmeade. 

It was a place that reminded you of your youth. Of course, it was a place that was frequented by students during trips that Hogwarts allowed, but you were never someone who went on those trips frequently. Back then, you never had friends to attend with you. You went if you wanted some sweets or if you wanted to browse the shops, but even when you did do those things, you never stuck around for more than an hour or so before you took the long walk back up to the castle and enjoyed the time that the Slytherin common room was fairly empty because everyone else was socializing down at the village. 

But today, it was a place of joy and new beginnings. Today was April first - April Fool’s Day. The biggest day of the year for any prankster, and the grand opening of the official second location of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. It also happened to be Fred and George Weasley’s birthday. 

The second location was a beautiful orange building at the very end of the village. A place that the twins had specially built for this purpose, towering over every other small shop around, and utterly magnificent. And as luck would have it (or, as their perfect marketing skills had seen to) - it was a Saturday, so the students from Hogwarts were visiting, rushing down the bustling streets like a crowd of ants, eager to get into the brand new shop. 

You had worked a morning shift at the flagship store in Diagon Alley before trading off with Benny. He was someone new they had hired to help with the transition while opening the new store, knowing that they would have to be in Diagon Alley less and less as they tended to their new baby. And after you had worked your shift, you had picked up George’s special birthday present from Madame Malkin's before you Apparated over to come and help them with the inevitable rush from all the Hogwarts students coming on their afternoon trip. 

You had to elbow your way in the door, and you were struggling your way through the crowd with the large gift box. You were amazed by how many people were already here on the first day, both young and old, not just students but people who had seemingly come to Hogsmeade just for the opening of the shop. Holding the gift box up in front of your face to protect it from the bustling crowd, you accidentally bumped into someone. 

“Oh, sorry.” You said, lowering to see who it was, pleasantly surprised to find Hermione - or rather, Professor Granger standing in front of you. 

“Y/N.” She grinned. “I suppose you’re here to help the twins?” 

“Yeah.” You nodded. “I’m trying to find George to give him his birthday present first.” You said, tapping the box to tell her that’s what it was. 

“Oh, goodness.” Hermione said. “I completely forgot today’s their birthday. I’ve been so busy grading essays, and with exams coming up-” 

“I’m sure they don’t mind.” You said, knowing how anxious she could be. 

“Wish them a happy birthday for me?” She posed. You nodded. “Right now I’m just trying to make sure the least lethal items get into my students’ hands.” 

With that sentiment, you had to wonder if opening a WWW so close to Hogwarts was a good idea or not. But you supposed that the twins truly didn’t care about that. If anything, they were up for encouraging students to buy the ‘most lethal’ products. 

“Gregory!” Hermione called to someone behind you, using a sharp tone that you had only heard her use with Ron a handful of times. “Gregory, put that down! Now!” 

She walked around you and charged toward whoever Gregory was, and before you could linger on the interaction, you finally spotted George. He was standing in front of a display, giving a demonstration of one of the products.  

“Trick coins.” He said proudly, showing off a coin that would always land on whatever side was ‘called’ while it was in the air. “Bet your friends and win every time! Heads or Tails, young man?” 

He asked, picking an eager young Third Year who was wearing a Gryffindor scarf from the crowd. The boy smiled and George flipped the coin up with an elegant flare of his thumb. 

“Tails!” The boy called out eagerly, and when George caught it and flipped it against the back of his hand, and then he revealed it to the crowd, it was still the non-face side of the coin, as the boy had called out. Naturally, this recieved many ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’, and many loud cheers. 

“Due to an advanced transfiguration charm, it responds to your voice and morphs on command, but appears to be nothing more than a regular coin to the naked eye!” George explained, holding it up as he gave the last of his pitch. 

The students began cheering, and then swarmed the display as he walked away, having spotted you. 

“Hello, love.” George grinned, leaning down and giving you a kiss on the cheek. “Please tell me that those are some extra Extendable Ears, we sold out in like two hours-” 

“No.” You replied, knowing that you had packed an extra box of the Extendable Ears and hidden it in the back. You would show him later. “It’s your birthday present.” 

George’s smile widened. 

“I thought you already gave me my birthday present.” He replied. 

The glint in his eye immediately told you what he was talking about. 

The night before, you and Angelina had baked a cake that was definitely lopsided, with slightly melted icing, but ended up tasting good, and you both gave it to Fred and George as you sang them Happy Birthday. It looked pathetic compared to the multi-layer cake that Molly made for them with orange frosting and decorative patterns of fireworks in different colours of frosting, with three Ws on the top and some small sparklers. But they loved it because both of you had tried even though you both had minimal experience with baking. 

And early that morning, before the sun had even risen, when he had been eager to get out of bed and rush to Hogsmeade to make last minute preparations before the shop made its grand opening, you had pinned him to the bed. You had dug your nails into his hips and practically sucked the life out of his cock, leaving him trembling and causing him to get dressed standing on shaking thighs while you grinned at him from the bed. 

“Technically, this is your gift.” You said, motioning toward the box. 

“You know if you’re not careful, I’ll become spoiled.” He told you brightly. 

You wanted to make a comment about how you were simply repaying him - someone who made an effort to make you dinner almost every night, bought you beautiful, thoughtful gifts at random for no reason, and generally pampered you. But the affectionate words got stuck somewhere along the way. 

George took your hand and guided you back to his office - one that was much smaller than the one he had in Diagon Alley, more meant for doing simple paperwork than actually experimenting and coming up with new products. 

He pulled the chair out from his desk and turned it around to face you, letting out a tired grunt as he sat down. Clearly, he was already very tired even though the day was barely half over. You knew that he loved his work so much, but you did worry that he didn’t take enough breaks from it - enough time to actually relax. 

You couldn’t help the smile that broke across your face as you gave him the box, and he quickly tore off the shiny paper and lifted the lid. His eyes danced with happiness as he lifted the fabric out of the box. 

It was a perfect replica of the shiny, royal purple coat that you had been forced to cut apart when the two of you were cuffed together. Not only was it a good birthday gift, but you thought it was a perfect way to honor the opening of a new shop. Seeing as he had loved the other one because it had signified the twins opening their shop in the first place. 

“It’s the same, right?” You asked, hoping that you didn’t sound overly eager, but at the same time hoping that you had remembered it in enough detail to describe it to Madame Malkin properly. In fact, you had drawn a picture of it and carefully chosen the fabric with her, telling her that she would be trying to replicate her own past work because George had loved it so much. “I tried my hardest to remember it-” 

“It’s perfect.” George beamed, standing up to try it on, his smile absolutely cheek-splitting at this point. “Thank you so much.” 

He put two hands on either side of your face and pulled you in for a kiss. You savoured it for a moment, truly loving that you could have him - that all his sweetness and his affection was yours now. 

“I did make one small change, though.” You told him as you pulled away. 

You grabbed the left side of the jacket, pulling it back and showing off the inner breast pocket. Here, you had asked for detailed embroidery of a serpent to be added, similar to the one on the Slytherin crest. 

“So you can keep me close to your heart.” You said. And then immediately thought: “Is that too cheesy?” 

“It’s just cheesy enough, thank you very much, my love.” He chuckled - and then he put a gentle hand on your cheek and titled your face upward, pulling you into another kiss. 

“George, please told me that you found those Extendable Ears-” 

Of course, the two of you were disrupted by Fred barging in. Annoying. 

“L/N.” He said your name curtly, acknowledging your presence rather than greeting you. “George really doesn’t need to be distracted right now-” 

“I packed another box of Extendable Ears and put them in the upstairs store room.” You said, turning around to face Fred. 

“What? No!” Fred spat back, immediately ready to argue with you. “There’s nothing up there but Skiving Snack Boxes and Morph-O-Masks, you-” 

“Did you actually pull out some of the boxes and look?” You stressed, immediately steaming forward and walking out of the office, now on your way to the store room, determined to prove him wrong. 

“I don’t need to look to know that you’re wrong!” Fred argued back. 

George sighed and took off his new jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair to come back to later. He knew that he would have to go and break up the argument, but he took a breath, giving himself a moment of peace before doing so. 

As much as some things change, some things are just damned to stay the same.

...

So that is officially the ending of this fic!

I might write more with these characters set in this universe in the future, but for now that is a very big MIGHT and I am not directly working on anything like that at the moment. I always like to leave my fics with a very distinct ending so that way I can move on to other things and feel satisfied that I have finished with a certain fic.

I really appreciate comments - I would love to hear your thoughts about this fic, because it does take a lot of hard work to write and edit a fic that is over 60k. But please, if you are going to comment, do not simply comment asking for 'part 2', or asking for more. I do consider it rude when people finish a long fic and then immediately ask for more, because it feels like someone is blatantly ignoring all the work that I have put into a fic and saying that I have not worked hard enough, or saying that an already completed fic feels incomplete.

I would love to hear your thoughts about the characters, the dynamics, or certain moments during the fic. I always love it when someone comments telling me what their favourite moment was, and I never find long winded comments to be annoying or 'too much'. Always feel free to bring your enthusiasm to the comments!!

Anyway, even if you don't comment, I hope you enjoyed reading, and I hope that you have a great day!! And if you enjoyed this fic, definitely feel free to check out my other Harry Potter related stuff on my Harry Potter Masterlist.

Happy Reading,

Sunny ☀️

PS, here is the picture of her dress:

[wonderjanga]

Is He Your Father Or Not?

Some people realize that Billy Batson, the Whiz Kid, looks a lot like Captain Marvel. They have the same dimples, same eye color, same hair color, and cleft chin. Not only that, but the Whiz Kid is where people mail fan mail for the Big Red Cheese. (idk if this is canon but it is in my heart), It’s also where people ask questions about Cap, which the kid somehow knows the answers to. And as for the cherry on top? Whenever the kid reports fights and incidents surrounding Marvel, they’re all extremely detailed as if he had been there! Who else but Marvel could’ve told him about certain details? So, in conclusion, they have to father and son! And if not, are they siblings? Is Marvel his uncle? His cousin? *Billy is doing a Q&A where people call the station and he answers their questions*

Billy: “Hello caller, what’s your question?”

Caller: “Hi! I’ve been a fan of this show for a long time, and I’ve been wondering this for a while so this was my perfect chance to ask! Is Captain Marvel your dad? You two look so much alike.”

Billy: “Haha… No, he is not my dad. In fact to further prove my point, my dad is dead!” *sounds honest to god cheerful as he says this* “So, believe me when I say Marvel is not my dad.” *hangs up* “Onto the next question!”

or

*ever since Black Adam found out Marvel was Billy, he’s been showing up at random points, disguised of course, and trying to convince Billy to give up being the champion and stuff. Basically trying to adopt him and such. Only, Billy doesn’t want to be adopted by the guy who kinda killed his dad. Currently, the two are walking down a busy sidewalk*

Black Adam: *talking Billy’s ear off about how he should give up being Marvel*

Billy “just trying to survive” Batson: *annoyed at Adam for doing this, stops walking and takes a deep breath so he can yell at the top of his lungs* “THIS MAN JUST TRIED TO TOUCH ME INAPPROPRIATELY! I’M CALLING CAPTAIN MARVEL ON YOU!” *Runs away to alleyway so he can transform*

Black Adam: *is gobsmacked*

Nearby People: *Judging him severely*

Marvel: *flies out of alley* “Stay there, Billy. I’ll handle this.” *Looks down at Black Adam* “Wooooooow, Teth. This is a whole new level of low, even for you. Touching kids? Seriously?”

*epic battle ensues*

*A day later, Billy has monitor duty with Green Arrow.*

GA: “Dude, it was awesome how you defended that little kid from that molester.” *looks away from monitors for a second to look at Marvel* “Hey, by the way, you guys looked a lot alike, is he you’re a kid?”

Marvel: “What? No? Just cause we look alike doesn’t mean he’s my kid.”

GA: “Well, I guess, but at the same time he was able to call you and you came in like less than a second.” *looks back to monitors* “Do you do that for all the kids who call you?”

*before Billy can think of an answer, the next pair lined up for monitor duty came to clock in. Before GA can even attempt to continue their conversation, he zips back to Fawcett as soon as he can*

or

*The Justice league are unable to contact Marvel for like a week. Naturally, they start to get concerned, so somehow they manage to magically transport themselves to the Rock of Eternity. There, they see Marvel nursing Billy back to health on the floor, near the rock. Billy got really sick after he got caught out in a bad storm* (In this AU, whenever Billy and Marvel go to the Rock of Eternity they get split into two)

Flash: “Marvel who’s that—”

Marvel: *whirls around to look at them* “SHHHHHH you’ll wake him!” *whisper yells as he puts a finger over his lips, doing the shh motion*

Superman: “Aww… He’s adorable!” *whispers as he flies over to look at Billy.* “He looks about Jon’s age. Cap, is he your kid?”

Marvel: “Uuuuuuuuuh yes…?” *doesn’t really know what to say and is going with whatever seems the least suspicious*

Flash: “Wait really?” *looks over to GL and leans over to whisper and in his ear* “Dude I think he’s shown more concern over that kid more than any of the other times I’ve seen him interact with the other two.” (Marvel is a bad “dad” might as well be connected to this one too)

GL: “Oh my god. You’re right.”

*around a day after this, Supes asked Marvel if Billy would like to meet other superheroes his age. Marvel told Supes he’d ask sometime later”

[writeriguess]

Will you write a soulmate AU with Toya but hes going through therapy and is finally deemed stable enough to be back in society abd he becomes a sidekick and works with shoto abd 4 years have pasted since he’s been back aloud in society and he meets reader and falls in love with her at first glance and he peruses her

Flame-Touched

Toya Todoroki had never believed in soulmates.

It wasn't that he thought they didn’t exist—he knew better than to dismiss something so many people swore by. The universe had a twisted sense of humour, after all. But for someone like him, someone who had spent years consumed by vengeance, trauma, and the weight of his own destruction, the idea of a perfect match felt like a cruel joke.

And yet, the universe had given him a second chance.

Four years had passed since he was deemed stable enough to rejoin society. It hadn’t been easy. Therapy had been a battle all its own, forcing him to confront the wreckage he’d left behind. But he had fought, clawed his way toward redemption, and in the end, they let him come back. Not as a hero—he wasn’t sure he’d ever deserve that title—but as a sidekick. Working under Endeavor had been out of the question, but when Shoto offered him a place at his own agency, Toya had surprised everyone—including himself—by accepting.

Now, at twenty-six, Toya was still figuring it all out. He had a job, a routine, a somewhat functional relationship with his siblings. He had stability.

What he didn’t have was love.

And he’d convinced himself that was fine.

Until he met you.

It happened in the most ordinary way possible.

A slow evening patrol. Cool air. The city humming around him, a far cry from the chaos he used to revel in. Toya wasn’t even thinking about anything in particular when he saw you—just another civilian walking down the street, lost in your own world.

But then you looked up.

And the second your eyes met his, something inside him shifted.

It was a strange sensation, like a fire sparking in his chest. Not the painful, destructive kind he was used to, but something warmer. Softer. His feet stopped moving before he could even think about it.

You blinked at him, lips parting slightly in surprise. And then, as if you felt it too, you smiled.

Toya felt something in him crack wide open.

Holy shit.

"Hey," you said casually, as if greeting some random stranger on the street.

But Toya had been around long enough to recognise the way your pupils dilated slightly, the way your breath caught just a fraction. You felt it too.

The bond.

Shit, shit, shit.

He had never been good at emotions, and this? This was a lot. Too much. So, of course, his brilliant response was to stare at you like he’d been struck by lightning.

Your smile faltered just a bit. "Uh… you okay?"

Say something, dumbass.

"Yeah," Toya finally managed, voice rougher than he intended. "You just… look familiar."

It was a lie. He’d never seen you before in his life. But it was better than blurting out I think you might be my soulmate, because that would probably get him slapped.

You tilted your head, studying him. "I don’t think we’ve met before. But you’re… Shoto’s partner, right? The blue flames gave it away."

Toya nodded, trying to remember how to act like a normal person. "Yeah. That’s me."

You smiled again, and damn it, it made his stomach flip.

"I’m (Y/N)," you introduced yourself, sticking out your hand.

Toya hesitated for a split second before taking it. The moment your skin touched his, a pleasant warmth spread through him—not the burning heat he was used to, but something soothing.

Shit. Yeah. He was done for.

The problem with falling in love at first sight was that it made Toya absolutely, hopelessly pathetic.

Shoto noticed immediately.

"You met someone," his younger brother stated one morning, watching Toya with narrowed eyes.

Toya, who had been absently staring at his phone with an uncharacteristically soft look, nearly dropped the damn thing. "No, I didn’t."

Shoto arched an eyebrow. "Right. And that stupid look on your face is just because you love morning briefings so much?"

"Shut up."

Shoto smirked. "You like someone."

Toya sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "It’s… complicated."

Shoto, to his credit, didn’t push. Instead, he just said, "If they make you happy, don’t let them slip away."

And that was the thing.

Toya had never pursued anyone before. He’d had flings, meaningless encounters that never lasted more than a night. He had never wanted more.

But with you, he did.

And that scared the hell out of him.

You made it easy.

That was what threw him off the most.

Toya expected awkwardness, hesitation, maybe even rejection. Instead, you welcomed him into your life like he belonged there. You started meeting up for coffee (he stuck to tea), bumping into each other “coincidentally” when you were totally in the same place on purpose.

And when he finally worked up the nerve to ask you out, you just laughed and said, "I was wondering when you’d get around to it."

Toya stared. "You knew?"

You grinned. "You’re not exactly subtle."

Fair enough.

Dating you was… easy. Natural. You weren’t intimidated by him, didn’t flinch at his past. You saw him—really saw him—and still chose to stay.

"You’re different," you told him once, curled up next to him on the couch. "Not just from how people think you are, but from how you think you are."

Toya swallowed hard, looking away. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You took his hand, tracing absent circles against his palm. "You’re good, Toya."

He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he just squeezed your hand a little tighter.

The first time he kissed you, he was a goddamn mess.

It had been an impulse, a moment of weakness after you laughed at something he said, and before he could stop himself, he just leaned in.

And you kissed him back.

And suddenly, Toya understood why people wrote poetry about this shit.

Afterward, you pulled back just enough to whisper, "I knew you’d do that eventually."

Toya groaned, burying his face in your neck. "You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?"

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him. "Nope."

And for the first time in his life, Toya realised he didn’t mind.

Because if soulmates were real, if the universe really had given him one—

He was never letting you go.

[aimfor-theheart]

write the ex gf vi mini skirt fanfic request and my life is YOURS

ANON YOUR LIFE IS MINE!!

wc: 1.9k bro what the hell

tags: i imagine this as a grad school au or a modern/non fantasy au. reader is femme/wears a skirt and is called 'princess'.

cw: suggestive. ex-girlfriend!vi but you're both still really into each other lol.

***

the night is young and blue. you feel good—buzzing with a little excitement and confidence. the top you’re wearing clings to you in all the ways you love, fits right where you like it to, and your skirt is cropped all short with a little ruffled edge.

its sweet. coy. flirty.

you’re out with friends at some late night joint where the food is fried and the drinks are cold. the group is rather big—over spilling from one booth into the other where people come and go, flitting from one group to the other to chat and joke around. you're all around the pool table, where you and mel have started a game of pool against jayce and viktor.

you’re having a good night despite the fact that your ex-girlfriend is here.

vi is nursing a beer, lingering beside her sister—who keeps flitting around to socialize—and ekko. they're vaguely watching your game of pool.

unfortunately, the disadvantage of dating someone in your close group of friends, is that when you split up, she’s still at every event and night out.

you both said you’d play nice tonight.

and you have been. you haven’t snipped at each other. you haven’t ignored each other, either, but tonight—

you're feeling a little bold. looking for a little trouble (much to the frustration of all of your collective friends. ekko had promised he'd keep vi on a tight leash tonight but, well, that's no fun.

you're testing your luck.)

and maybe your skirt is getting a little short.

a peek of lacy panties never hurt anyone.

(maybe except for jayce, who regards you with sibling-like affection, and whose mortified when you bend over the edge of the pool table to line up the shot. your panties, dark beneath your skirt, peak out. his eyes go skyward. viktor snickers and mel pats his arm.)

you and mel are beating jayce and viktor in your game of pool. occasionally, ekko is ribbing the guys for losing. you watch as the balls clink together, rolling around, before coming to a gradual stop. it's your turn again.

"tough luck." vi says, "winning streak may be over, princess."

ekko elbows her for the petname.

it is a tough shot. it's a bad angle.

you give her this little sneer, but it's toothless—doesn't actually have a lot bite. "you forgetting i always kicked your ass in pool?"

"and who taught you how to play?" she says, quick and easy with it. she's grinning a little, too, and you're careful not to look at her too much. your heart still stutters a little despite it.

you huff and roll your eyes and respond with a bratty little, "jinx taught me better than you."

and then you take position at the end of the table, setting your hips against the wood and leaning forward on top of it, pool stick in hand as you line up the shot. and leaned over the table like this, your top low—cleavage spilling out against the felt green, you glance up at vi.

she's eyeing you dark and hungry, watching you through the thick bend of her lashes.

you swallow, focus back on the game.

you aim, pull back, and—

the white ball cracks against the wall and then against the midnight blue one, sending it careening into a nearby pocket.

you bounce up as everyone audibly reacts around you—mel cheering, jayce and viktor in awe. ekko laughing. jinx shouts in surprise. and vi curses a little.

“you see that?” you ask her, smile curling at your lips.

she takes a sip of her beer, “i saw it, hotshot. let’s see if you can do it again.”

“just makin’ sure your eyes were on the game.” you quip back and ekko coughs a little into his drink. you turn away from vi, before you can see the look on her face, but you can feel her eyes on you. burning.

you bite back a grin.

you set yourself up to take the next shot; there's only one ball left until you and mel can sink the eight ball. you press your hips into the pool table again and slowly lower yourself onto it.

behind you, you can almost feel vi's gaze, dark and heavy. your skirt rides up, revealing a peek of your panties—

black and surprisingly delicate, the lacy pattern intricate. and vi should know there's a little bow on the front of them.

she knows because she got them for you.

(something yawns open inside of vi, cavernous and wanting; a little wild and hungry. she thinks about coming up behind you, thinks about pulling your skirt down a little so no one else gets a peek, or plastering herself all over your back.

she thinks about bending you over the pool table and—)

you sink this ball into the pocket, too, on fire.

you bounce up, cheering, as the guys start to groan. ekko says, "that's a wrap, guys."

you miss the eight ball shot, but mel, on her next turn, easily ends the game. jayce and viktor owe you both another round of drinks.

and soon after, you're sipping on a mixed drink, too sweet and too strong. cloying. it sits on the back of your tongue.

you excuse yourself to the bathroom at some point when the liquor is hitting you a little more and you're flushed with warmth, giggly from your friends. and as you're drying your hands in the bathroom, alone, giving yourself a cursory check in the mirror, you hear the door open.

you pick your gaze up and in the mirror, you catch vi's eyes.

your stomach flips, a butterfly of nerves taking off inside you.

as she approaches, her form dark and broad—shrouding yours in the glass reflection as she nears, you turn over your shoulder to say, "what are you doing, vi?"

she cages you in against the sink, thick arms on either side of you. you feel the hard press of her belt, cold and metal, against the soft give of your body. your back is almost pressed to her chest. in the mirror, you watch her tongue swipe across her teeth. you trace the shape of her around your form—your own face, lips a little parted in surprise. hair tousled. the dark look in her eyes as she takes you in, too, takes in your reflection.

she smells familiar; soft, worn leather and amber. she feels familiar, too, having her around you again.

in the mirror, you catch her eyes.

your breath hitches a little and you force yourself to turn in her arms, to face her. you tip your chin up in that haughty little way that she used to love or hate. her eyes are hooded when you say, "vi—you can't be cornering me like this. we're not together anymore."

(it's a little coy around the edges. you play innocent well.)

you feel her knuckles against your thigh before you realize she's taken the edge of your skirt between finger and thumb. she rubs at the fabric a little, admiring it. her fingers are just underneath your skirt, just barely against your skin there. your head swims—you blame it on the drinks you had.

"then why are you wearing the underwear i bought you? that little, lacy black pair?"

you feel warmth hit your face, despite it all. you try to bite back, "and how would you know?

"think i wouldn't notice?" she asks, soft and husky, eyes clashing with yours, "hard to believe—the way you're acting in this little skirt, bending over in front of me, letting it ride up." you feel the back of her hand brush against your thigh. testing. trying.

"i don't know what you're talking about." you try to turn your nose up at her, looking away, but her other hand suddenly grabs your face. a little rough. a gasp is torn from you, even as she squeezes your lips into a little pout. you shudder as she presses into you harder. a little meaner. you fuss and squirm, trying to twist away, but she squeezes a little tighter.

bares down on you like a bad dog with a little bird in her mouth. pins you in place.

(vi rarely uses her strength on you, so much so that sometimes you forget—sometimes you're a little startled with the sudden flex of her muscles.

is the room spinning? heat swarms your face, your neck—down to your chest, hiccuping a little with breath. desire is a sharp, bright flicker inside you.)

"you know, if we were still dating, i wouldn't have let you prance around like this all night." vi says lowly and she's—she's got some sort of smile lurking in the corner of her mouth.

(a sort of wild amusement, watching you. watching your eyes blow wide and dark with lust, despite the way you try to fight her.)

"we're not—" you try to get out.

"i know," she says and it's almost just a hiss, a growl around the edges, her head dipping to your jaw, the corner of your throat. she angles your head away to give her room, to hold you in place. her lips don't connect with your neck, but your pulse jumps like she does, jumps like you want her to. "and ain't that a shame? i would've taken care of you already—pushed aside the panties i gave you and—"

the door to the bathroom suddenly shoves open.

in an instant, vi is gone, almost like she was never there in the first place. your chest heaves a little, warmth sitting high in your face as you grip the sink still, leaning against it. vi is a casual distance away now, leaning against the wall near the sinks, like she's waiting for you. like you were just talking. you have to take her in—the slight flush in her face, the fever-bright burst of her blue eyes, to know that she was affected at all.

someone else walks in, none the wiser. they head into a stall.

"you comin' home with me tonight?" vi asks, gaze searing, despite the way she keeps her voice casual. to anyone else, it might sound like a friend asking.

"vi—" you warn, as you finally gather your bearings enough to head towards the door. out of the bathroom. she's on your heels.

as you exit, and walk back towards your friends, she drops her hand to the back of your skirt. she tugs it down a little, so it sits lower on your thighs. you try to swat her away, but she catches your wrist, twists it a little to press it to your lower back. it doesn't really hurt—but you hiss and whine about it.

"let me go." you bite out.

her hand, wrapped tight around your wrist, falls away and you almost miss it. for a moment, she lingers near the edges of your skirt, around the curve of your thigh, before slipping away entirely.

she grins, slow and lopsided—sharp at the edges. and you'd know that smile anywhere on her; know how it tastes, how it feels against your thighs, or along the bend of your shoulder.

know it means trouble.

all you'd been looking for all night—in the bend of her smile.

"yeah, you're comin' home with me tonight, princess."

[inkykeiji]

you and me to infinity

character: shigaraki tomura (+ the slightest hint of keigo)

genre: smut, modern!au

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudo-cest (adoptive siblings), noncon/dubcon, dacryphilia, rough sex, semi-public sex, blood, no prep, painful sex, one use of the word bitch, tomura is kinda mean, tomura carries reader, mention of drugs (he’s a lil high), size difference

notes: set within my lil icky big brother tomura universe! | title credit: ecstasy by suicidal-idol

words: 4.8k

synopsis:

“I really hate it when you look at him at all, and I really hate the way he looks at you.”  His tone morphs from mocking condescension to a deep growl, jagged and dripping with jealousy, words ground out through his teeth. Whimpering, you stare up at him. “Y-You do?”  And it’s impossible to hide the genuine surprise, tinged with absurd delight, colouring your voice, a direct response to the authenticity ringing in his own—sincere anger and envy and a hint of hurt. “Of course I do,” he huffs, admission cool against your damp cheeks. “I don’t like it when people look at what’s mine. I don’t like it when people stupidly believe that they can play with my things.”

The sun is strong today, shining down with that summer brutality it always seems to acquire in the late days of July and painting the backyard in harsh gold, bouncing off the shimmering water of the pool and limestone of the patio. 

Sticky sweet chemicals and coconut cling to your flesh in a fine film, scents lingering in the air around you. It’s so potent Tomura swears he can smell it from the pool, swears he can taste it on his tongue, bitter sunscreen mixed with the salt of your sweat.

It makes his mouth water, saliva collecting in the crevices near his molars and beneath his tongue in thick little puddles, and he pulls himself from the water, swim shorts sticking to his slim thighs as he perches on the edge of the pool, calves still submerged, fingers curling around the edge of the stone. 

You’re sitting across the water from him, sprawled out on one of the plush lounge chairs with a pair of sunglasses on your head and a book in your palms, index finger idly playing with one of the curled, fraying corners of the cover.

You both hear him before you see him, a distinct slap of rubber against stone, a sound that has come to indicate Keigo’s arrival. 

Already twisting in your chair at his footsteps, your face splits into a brilliant smile the moment he rounds the corner, procuring an equally impressive smile of his own, features softening when he meets your gaze, professionalism melting in your presence. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, smooth and warm, grin never dimming. “Whatcha reading?”

It takes you a moment to gather your bearings, dog-earred book completely forgotten in Keigo’s light, and a soft little noise sounds at the back of your throat as you remember it, picking it up and glancing at the cover. 

“It’s, um, Crime and Punishment,” your voice is shy and soft, but your eyes are bright, wide, eager to soak up any specks of attention Keigo will toss your way.

It’s pathetic, as far as Tomura’s concerned. You act like some lovesick little schoolgirl around him, hanging on his every word with sparkles in your eyes and teeth sunk into your lip. 

“Dostoyevsky,” Keigo hums with an appreciative nod. “You’re one smart little cookie, aren’t you?” 

His thumb and forefinger clasp your chin, tilting your face higher, as if he’s inspecting it for something. The silence is thick as his eyes sweep across your face, slow and thorough, admiring.

You let him, putty in his fucking hands—as always—leaning into his touch a little, allowing him to tug you closer. 

“Brains and a face like that?” Keigo blows air out his mouth in a low whistle. “That’s a lethal combination.” 

Girlish giggles bubble in your throat and Keigo’s smile stretches, a slight chuckle of his own on the back of his tongue. 

“Where’s your Daddy, princess?”

“In the office, I think.” 

“Thanks,” his grasp on your chin loosens, thumb skimming across your bottom lip before his hand drops completely. 

Your stare follows him as he strides towards the glass doors, desperate and ravenous for as much of him as your eyes can swallow down, soak up, devour. 

“Maybe, if you’re still out here later, we can talk about Russian authors some more,” he says just before he reaches the Manor, pivoting on his heel and walking backward.

Yes, your head is nodding enthusiastically. Yes, definitely. 

The sliding door slams shut with a dull thud, silence enveloping the space again, only broken by the erratic chattering of Tomura’s teeth, molars grinding together as MDMA clouds his brain, rushes through his veins, capillaries tingling.

You’ve since returned to your book, a small, satisfied smile on your lips as your eyes stare listlessly at the page, gaze unmoving. 

Fuck. As much as Tomura hates that golden-haired honeyed-voice fucker, he can’t blame him for being enraptured by your beauty. 

Because, truly, you are fucking stunning—skin perpetually dewy as if it’s routinely kissed by the morning sun itself, eyes glittering like magnificent jewels even in the dimmest light (even in the dark—Tomura knows, Tomura has seen it) always so expressive, alight with excitement or curiosity or terror—but that isn’t all. 

It’s your very presence itself, your nature of being, your bunny-like shyness and your kitten-eqsue playfulness, and how you’re oblivious to it all, rendering it all so natural, so genuine.

If Daddy had allowed you to go to school, you would’ve been the most popular girl in your year, every year, Pre-K all the way to your university undergrad, and then beyond that, had you chosen to pursue that path. 

The thought makes Tomura’s blood boil. 

Just the mere idea of all those boys, those scoundrels and mongrels, leering at you and salivating like his baby sister is the freshest, leanest, tastiest piece of meat they’ve ever had the privilege of laying their eyes on has his vision bleeding a furious red. He knows Keigo would’ve been one of those boys. He knows Keigo would’ve probably won, too. 

Well, it’s a good thing Daddy never sent you to school, then. Because that means there’s little to no competition for Tomura, and that means Tomura is the winner. 

That means Tomura is the only boy you see often, the only boy you really know, not counting Daddy’s employees that swing by every often, that never pass the threshold of acquaintance, that you’re too shy and sweet and precious to talk to—the ones Tomura pushes you behind his back and away from any time they’re in your immediate vicinity, safe and sound, guarded by your big brother; the ones that never manage to say more than a few words to you, a polite greeting or a handful of small talk, before someone, Daddy or nii-san, is redirecting their attention.

And that means Tomura will stay the winner, forever.

Besides, little sisters should belong to their big brothers first and foremost anyway, right? Who better to take care of them, to teach them, to lead and protect and reprimand them, than their big brother? Who could possibly know them better than their big brother does? 

No one. 

But Keigo’s attention leaves you glowing, the effects lingering long after he’s disappeared—Tomura can practically see the dreaminess in your eyes, the swooning and the yearning, the spectacular fantasies floating around in that pretty little head of yours. 

It makes him sick.

It makes him sad.

“You never look at me like that.”

“Hm?” your big brother’s voice breaks you from your daze, blinking to clear the haziness. “Like what?”

“Like the way you look at Keigo, all starry-eyed and tongue-tied.”

“You’re my brother.”

“So? What difference does it make, if we don’t even share the same blood?” he questions. “If anything, being your big brother should qualify me more.” 

Frowning, you look over the edge of your book, forehead crumpled in confusion. 

“H-How do you figure?”

And, Christ, you’re so fucking shy, so fucking sweet Tomura can barely stand it. Maybe you don’t look at him with specks of sun in your eyes, but you do look at him like this, irises deep with devotion, with admiration, with trust. 

You look at him like he carved the moon in the sky, like he created the laws of the universe, like he knows best. You look at him like you’re desperate for his approval, like you’re aching for him to let you in on the secrets of the cosmos, like his word is fucking gospel.

He shakes his head, hand dismissing the idea with a wave—there’s no way you could ever possibly understand, no way he could ever possibly explain it to you in easily digestible terms, idea cut up into cute bite-sized pieces.

“C’mere,” he says instead, wading in the water. “Your big brother is lonely in the pool all by himself.” 

“But I’m reading my book.”

“Bring it,” he shrugs.

“I—Won’t it—”

“You don’t have to get in the water,” he rolls his eyes. “Just come lay on a floaty or whatever.”

And, ever the good girl that you are, you do as your big brother says, allowing him to hold the inflatable pink lounger, warmed by the constant sun, still as you teeter onto it, a short squeal catching in your throat as the raft wobbles.

Unsurprisingly, having you closer does little to dispel the bitterness simmering in his chest, the hinges of his jaw beginning to ache from the incessant, uncontrollable gnashing of his teeth. 

Because you’ve gone right back to your stupid book, not paying him a scrap of attention, not even bothering to look over as he glides past you, back and forth, back and forth, skinny body graceful in the water.

And that just won’t do.

It hurts, probably more than it should, more than it has any moral right to, a sharp stinging burrowing deeper and deeper into his chest with every passing moment you stay entirely oblivious to him.

It’s incredible, how what he feels for you manages to seep through the thick fog of manufactured euphoria, tainting it. Even when he’s high on a cocktail of narcotics, he still can’t fucking escape you.

It’s what has him flicking water at you as he wades next to you, little droplets smattering across your bare torso, missing the pages of your book by a hair. 

They’re pretty, though, tiny drops of crystal adorning your skin, rising and falling with your gentle breaths and glittering as they catch in the sunbeams.

“Nii-san!” you gasp, eyes flying over to him in surprise as your body instinctively jerks, rocking your raft a little. 

“What?” he asks as he flicks another fistful at you, crimson eyes shimmering. “Can’t handle a little water?”

“You’re going to ruin my book,” you whine, flinching again as the next batch of droplets scatters over your body, procuring heavy taps against the plastic.

“Oh? The book Keigo likes?”

And just like that his hands are curling around pink plastic, jagged nails digging into puffy inflation before yanking hard and fast, snatching the floaty from beneath your body in an instant.

Your short scream is gargled by the water, your body creating a small crater of mini white caps as it hits the surface, fanning out in ripples around you. 

You resurface a moment later, choking on your own breath, lashes fluttering wildly as you reestablish your bearings.

They look pretty, too, all spiked together with dewdrops of water collecting at the points; they look the way they do after Tomura makes you cry—one of his favourite sights.

It makes him want to ruin you even more, to stain you with him, to make a mess of your body and remind you who you fucking belong to, who you were made for. Your discomfort sparks some sick, innate craving lurking deep within his ribcage—something acrid and addictive, something starving yet insatiable.

“Tomu-nii!” you wail as you flounder, his name tattered by a gasp.

“Oh, shut up,” he’s saying even as he takes you into refuge of his arms, letting you cling to his shoulders and helping you find your footing. “It’s just water, crybaby.”

“My novel!”

“Daddy will buy you another,” Tomura rolls his eyes. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“You don’t understand,” you slump against your big brother’s chest, sulky. “That one had all of my annotations in it.”

“Oh? You mean the annotations you were going to talk to Keigo about?” his face screws up, the name acid on his tongue, corroded with resentment. 

“I worked really hard on those,” you continue, ignoring his question, cheek pressed to his protruding collarbone. “And now I’ll have to start all over again; they’re ruined!” 

It doesn’t matter, he’s telling you with a dismissive roll of his eyes, hands flexing around your shoulders.

“Not to you, maybe,” you mumble through a petulant pout, brows knitted. 

“You know, I really hate it when you talk to Keigo,” he begins, voice dropped an octave as it rubbles behind his bony chest, protruding ribs shuddering with dark vibrations. 

His chest puffs out a little, large hands cuffing your biceps as he pushes forward with his weight, guiding you backwards. A gasp jumps in your throat as your spine bumps against the pool’s wall, sharp edge of the patio digging into your skin. 

“I really hate it when you look at him at all, and I really hate the way he looks at you.” 

His tone morphs from mocking condescension to a deep growl, jagged and dripping with jealousy, words ground out through his teeth. Whimpering, you stare up at him.

“Y-You do?” 

And it’s impossible to hide the genuine surprise, tinged with absurd delight, colouring your voice, a direct response to the authenticity ringing in his own—sincere anger and envy and a hint of hurt.

“Of course I do,” he huffs, admission cool against your damp cheeks. “I don’t like it when people look at what’s mine. I don’t like it when people stupidly believe that they can play with my things.”

“Yours?”

“Yeah,” he snorts a little. “My little sister.”

Confusion furrows your brow, your head tilting a little as your eyes search his face. 

“But that—That doesn’t make me yours—”

And although it’s supposed to be a statement, firm and sure, it comes out as a question, quivering and hesitant.

“Yes it does,” he scoffs, as if you’re stupid, and it’s so cute, it’s so laughable. “Daddy adopted you for me.” 

“N-No, he didn’t—”

“Yes, yes, actually, he did. He adopted you because I told him to, because I asked for you—you, specially. You’ve always been meant for me; you’ve always been mine.” 

Large hands skim down your sides, clumsy fingers creeping beneath the waistband of your bikini bottoms, toying with the thin, flimsy strings.

“Ever since we brought you through that door, you’ve belonged to me.” 

A shameful giddiness bubbles up in your chest at the thought, something hot and sinful unfurling in your stomach. Swallowing against the feeling, you try to extinguish it, try to stomp it out with sentiments of how wrong it is, but it only flares higher, burns brighter, your eyes wide and unblinking as they stay glued to your big brother’s face, clinging desperately to every word that falls from his lips. 

“And,” he continues conversationally, “since you’re mine, don’t you think you should make your big brother feel better after making him so sad?”

“Sad?” you question, all giddiness eradicated from your features in an instant as you blink up at him, looking so fucking sincere—forehead warped with concern, eyes glossy and scanning his. 

“Yeah, stupid,” he says, filtered through an exaggerated pout. “I really can’t stand seeing you with him, you know? It hurts.” 

And although he’s playing it up, there’s a twinge of truth to his voice, a tremor of honesty worming through his words. 

“I—I’m sorry, nii-san, I didn’t realize—” 

“It’s fine,” he cuts you off, already bored of this routine. “Because you’re going to make it up to me, aren’t you?” 

The implicit expectation hangs heavy in the air, the belief that you’re supposed to be good for your big brother, obey your big brother, do everything he says exactly when he says it, exactly how he says it, weighing on your chest.

And now, he’s got you trapped.

“S-Sure, but…” you trail off, floundering, a delicious desperation shimmering in your irises—a harsh push-and-pull, a tug-of-war between should and want. “I don’t think—I mean, this isn’t—”

With a growl, Tomura uses his body to shove you against the edge of the pool again, stone skinning your elbows, a short cry pushed from your chest, sharp and high. 

“Enough of this,” he spits, eager hands tugging on the cute little bows tied at each of your hips, bikini bottoms coming undone with a few harsh yanks. 

“No, Tomura! We really shouldn’t—!” 

“Oh, yeah? And why’s that?” he’s panting out as two clumsy fingers plunge into your unprepared hole, a gasp slicing your throat. 

“Because! Because it’s—it’s not right!” 

“Never stopped us before.”

Well, never stopped him before. You’re just as complicit, too, though. He knows you want it just as badly as he does, knows that this whole act is merely a facade, masquerading as a good little girl when you’re just as depraved as he is. 

You wouldn’t let him do this to you if you weren’t—wouldn’t get this wet this quickly for him, wouldn’t go this pliant beneath your big brother’s touch, wouldn’t welcome him beneath your frilly peppermint pink covers in the dead of night and wouldn’t beg for him so pathetically only a few minutes into his perversion, wouldn’t cum so quickly when he gives you exactly what you’re asking for. 

You might fool everyone else—Daddy and Kurogiri and Keigo—but you could never fool your big brother. 

He knows you inside out. 

“No!” you’re struggling against him, but your thighs are already trembling, your hips already bucking. “I’m serious, we gotta st-stop!”

“Uh-huh?” he hums out, indifferent. “And what if I don’t want to stop?”

Because you sure as hell don’t—not with the way your legs are squeezing his hand, pelvis gyrating in messy little circles as you try to catch your clit on the heel of his palm; not with the sweet wispy whines that keep prying past your lips, fracturing your sentences. 

“Just—Come on! Not here!” 

“Why not? Don’t want your new boyfriend Keigo to see how much you love getting fucked by your big brother?”

“What? No! Daddy—Kurogiri—”

He laughs, mirth wrapped in malice. “Give me a break. Kurogiri doesn’t give a fuck what we do. I own him, too.” 

And, you suppose, on some level that’s true. Kurogiri bends over backwards, twists his spine and snaps it to fulfil Tomura’s every wish and whim.

Kurogiri would rather risk his own livelihood than ever put Tomura in any sort of danger. 

“You should know by now that I get what I want,” he grunts as he spins you around, the heel of his palm shoving at the waistband of his swim shorts, “when I want,” a strong palm flattens against the small of your back then pushes, hard, forcing you to bend at the waist, your face smacking off the ground, “and how I want.” 

Leaning over your folded body, his chest presses to your heaving back, flat and flush, his cock bluntly nudging your fluttering hole, his chapped lips brushing against your ear. 

“And what I want,” he begins, hot breath curling around cartilage, shivers skittering across your skin. “Is my little sister’s cunt.”  

And so he takes it—takes what he’s rightfully owed, takes what he rightfully owns, thrusting his cock into you in one hard, quick motion, burying himself in your body, tip pressed tightly to your cervix and balls nudging your clit. 

The abrupt gesture yanks a yelp from your throat, eyes shutting against the reflexive burn of tears. It fucking stings, little hole quivering around his girth as it struggles to adjust, core desperate to split itself open for him.

A moan falls from his lips as it trembles around him, and God, he wishes he could see it. Your sweet cunt always looks so cute as it strains to take his thick cock, to swallow it whole, spasming around hot, hard flesh and evoking a gruff groan from deep within his chest.

“Hurts, Tomu-nii,” you whimper, words half-muffled by the stone, lips dragging across it lazily. 

“Yeah?” he breathes, leaning back a little as his hands stay firmly wrapped around your hips and giving an experimental thrust, basking in the pained mewl that spills from your throat as he grinds his cockhead against sensitive tissue. “How much?”

“S-So much,” you hiccup out, eyes squeezing shut. “So much, swear I can feel you in my—in my tummy, nii-san.” 

“That so?” Tomura’s asking as his hips draw back, slow and purposeful, until only the tip of his cock is dipping into you. “Good.”

His pelvis slams forward, so powerful it procures a little tsunami of waves around your bodies, water sloshing over the edge of the pool and onto the pavement lining it. 

It’s downright ruthless, the snaps of his hips hard and fast and so, so rough, your body jostling with each pound of his cock into your cunt. Saw-toothed fingernails sink into your waist, latching onto the supple flesh like anchoring little leeches, keeping your body in place during his merciless assault. 

Tears are leaking from your sealed eyes, seeping past the tight seam in fat droplets to clump your lashes into little spikes, water teetering precariously on the points.

Limestone grates against your cheek with his harsh pistons, leaving the delicate skin rubbed raw. Copper stings your nose, your blood smeared across the stone, salty and bitter as it mixes with your tears and flows into your mouth. 

“Nii-san!” you wail into the coarse ground, the honorific a garbled mess on your tongue, soaked with spit.

His pace doesn’t slow, though, doesn’t falter at all, instead accelerating in speed, the plunging of his cock turned voracious in it’s endeavour to fuck you. A smudge of your blood glimmers up at him in the late afternoon sun, glazed with sticky snot and tears, and a moan rips up his throat, eyes zeroing in on the stain, fingers pressing bruises into your flesh as he yanks your hips backwards.

“Nii—Nii-san!” the honorific judders in your throat, stammered by his vicious movements. “Nii-san, it hurts!”

“Y’already said that.”

But oh, how he loves it when it hurts. 

Because you look so pretty in pain, facial features screwed up in a perpetual wince that only gets tighter the harder he fucks you until finally, it snaps, shatters, melts beneath the pleasure. Everything goes lax then, dopey and dreamy with ecstasy as that sordid bliss bathes your body

Because you sound so gorgeous when you’re in pain, cracked whines and sharp gasps and rib-shattering sobs all slicing up your throat, leaving your voice raw for days afterward—so cute, so precious, so unbelievably obvious; a lasting effect of his sins, something you can’t hide with make-up or sweaters or bandages and one of his favourite sounds in the whole world to hear.

Because your blood looks so artful, smeared across stone tiles or painted in diluted saliva streaked along your skin or pooling in the indents he leaves, the etches of his mouth and the carvings of his nails.

It all has him cumming embarrassingly fast, his cock throbbing almost violently as he stuffs your cunt full of his seed, your name splintering on his tongue. Clumsy fingers hastily snake between your thighs to rub hard, fast circles into your clit, his cock still buried to the hilt inside of you. 

“Come on, come on, c-come on,” he’s nearly whimpering in your ear, his breath scalding as his hips twitch, minuscule movements he couldn’t control even if he wanted to, desperate to fuck you more despite the ripples of overstimulation cascading over his flesh. “Cum for your big brother, cum all over your big brother’s cock.” 

It’s more of a plead than it is a demand, panted out in pathetic whines while he ruts into you, pelvis moving in irregular little gyrations, matching the pattern of his fingers. 

It’s the begging that does it, that has your stomach tensing and your slick walls convulsing on his cock, an intense gush of heat flooding your thighs; because the idea of him being so desperate for your cream, so needy to feel your cunt pulse around his shaft, is so unbearably hot.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he’s gasping, hips still fucking, cockhead grinding into your sensitive cervix. “Fuckin’—ah—fuckin’ milk me dry, bitch.” 

His cock gives another weak spurt of cum, a reward for all of your hard effort, and a shudder rips through his body, entire form trembling beneath the force of it. 

Then he’s collapsing on top of you, drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth to stain your cheek, cock finally beginning to soften. 

Sticky with sweat, his chest heaves against your back, his body gone lax draped over yours. 

But you’re still shivering with sobs, weeping uncontrollably into the stone as they claw at your chest, your attempts to swallow them down only making you cough more.

The weight on your back lifts, and your crying worsens, your big brother a pleasant, grounding heaviness. 

“Okay, okay, c’mere,” he’s saying as he gracelessly collects you in his arms, tugging you to his chest. “Hush, nii-san’s got you, nii-san’s here.” 

“Tomu,” you wail, face instinctually burying into his neck as your arms wrap around his shoulders, clutching him tightly. 

“I know, I know,” he’s saying as he shifts your weight to one side, his free hand reaching to snatch your bikini bottoms, floating aimlessly a few feet away. “Nii-san’s gonna take care of it, alright? Nii-san is going to make it all better.” 

His words soothe your sobs to sniffles, voice void of it’s usual bite, his hands gentle but sloppy as they re-tie your bottoms around your hips. 

You’re too fucked out to walk on your own, legs trembly and unsteady, and it’s clear that you have no intention of doing so anyway, not with the way you’re clinging to Tomura like he’s a fucking lifeline, nails piercing the flesh of his shoulder. 

Not that Tomura minds. 

No, Tomura likes feeling needed, Tomura likes fulfilling needs—that’s what a big brother is for, right?

And, as fate would have it, Tomura runs into the very person who started this whole mess, just as he’s carrying your pliant body into the house. 

Really, Tomura supposes he should be thanking him.

But Keigo looks concerned, forehead wrinkling with worry as his eyes scan your limp body, brows pushing together. 

“What’s going on? Is she—”

“Heat exhaustion,” Tomura says as an explanation, shrugging a shoulder in practiced nonchalance, a sharp glint in his eyes. 

“Shouldn’t she—” 

“Don’t worry yourself, Keigo,” Tomura brushes him off airily, already pushing past him. “Her big brother has it covered.”

If Keigo had bothered to look a little closer, he would’ve noticed the haphazard way the strings of your bikini bottoms had been tied, the work of clumsy big brother hands, too large and lanky and uncoordinated. 

If Keigo had bothered to look a little harder, he would’ve noticed the strokes of bright crimson smeared across Tomura’s protruding collarbone, a casualty from your steadily oozing cheek, painted over his skin as you nuzzle into him.  

If Keigo had bothered to look a little longer, he would’ve noticed Tomura’s half-hard cock, straining against the sticky material of his swim shorts, water dripping off the hems and running down his legs, garment plastered to his thighs. 

But Keigo doesn’t bother—or, more accurately, Tomura doesn’t allow him to—so he doesn’t notice any of it. 

Keigo does, however, notice the waterlogged copy of Crime and Punishment, sunk and abandoned on the pool floor—but Tomura doesn’t care about that. 

All Tomura cares about is getting you cocooned in your fluffy pink comforter.

“M’sleepy, nii-san,” you mumble against him, lips dragging over the knobs of his collarbones in a slur, punctuated by a sniffle.

“I know,” Tomura says softly, readjusting his grip on your body and cradling you closer to his chest. “I know, baby. Nii-san’s gonna put you to bed now.” 

He’s awkward with it all, hands too large, too rough, to do it as gracefully as Kurogiri does, but it’s still endearing all the same, moment infused with his distinct charm. 

It’s as he’s pulling away after tucking you in that you manage to worm a hand out from beneath the tightly tucked comforter, hooking an elbow around his neck and pulling him back down, begging for him to stay in a small, fragile, desperate voice. 

“Stay the night this time, nii-san?” 

And Tomura doesn’t have the heart to tell you that it’s only four PM as he nods and climbs into your bed, snug beneath your covers; doesn’t have the heart to tell you that you’ll both be waking up at one in the morning, groggy and starved from sleeping at an odd time and missing dinner, forced to rummage around in the kitchen for some late night snacks. 

Nor does he have the heart to tell you that if Daddy finds the two of you like this again there’s going to be some type of retribution, probably in the form of tightening your restraints, taking them from smothering to near strangling—not that Tomura necessarily cares. 

Daddy spoils you both rotten, but you’re his precious little princess, his prized little possession, and he’ll do what he must to keep you pure and untarnished, untainted, all without knowing that Tomura’s already had his dirty, grubby hands all over you, inside of you—your cunt and your mouth and your heart—and he’s left streaks of sordid stains on your body, on your soul; disgusting and permanent.

But no matter what Daddy does, it won’t matter. Tomura will find a way to weasel past rules and regulations—he always does.

[mikashisus]

the trickster and the sun

SYNOPSIS: kinich was fast in everything he did, but with you, he felt as if time always moved slow.

PAIRING: child of hermes!kinich x gn!child of apollo!reader

TAGLIST ! @wystiix @pneumosia @pixelcafe-network

warnings: none

word count: 749

notes: another pjo au!! i think im going to make this a mini series. this is a little smth to set up a longer oneshot i have planned for sometime in the future, tho the mc of that one will be a child of ares ;) also, this can be interpreted as platonic, it's up to u guys!

Kinich was fast. 

Sometimes, he was so fast that you couldn’t keep up. Not only was he ahead of the game when it came to tricks and locks, but he was also a supersonic runner. No one in camp could ever keep up with him, not even his siblings. 

He liked to leave you puzzles. Not the kind of puzzles and mind games Athena’s children would give out, but lock puzzles. He’d sneak them into your bag or pockets when you could’ve sworn it wasn’t there moments ago. You’d spend the entire afternoon figuring them out, twisting and turning the handmade puzzles and trying to break them apart. 

Eventually, you’d throw your hands up in frustration and dispose of the device, stalking off to the target range to vent your anger out. 

As a child of Hermes, Kinich was exceptionally playful and mischievous, but it wasn’t as obvious as it was with his siblings. His trickster side truly came to the surface through his actions and the small glint in his eyes every time he talked to you. 

There was one time he had stolen your prized golden bow, gifted to you by your father, right under your nose. You had turned around for a split second, and the weapon was no longer hanging on the wall near your bed, but tucked underneath his in the Hermes cabin. You had looked high and low for it, even checking the target range to make sure you hadn’t accidentally left it there. 

Clueless to his act of theft, you began to panic and wonder if your father would kill you for losing something so precious. As soon as you began to pace around and ramble about the consequences, Kinich’s guilt overcame him and he summoned the bow back from its hiding place. 

The scolding he received after was greater than any other time you yelled at him for his conniving tricks. The look in your eyes moments before convinced him to never steal anything precious of yours again, for fear of seeing that same exact expression on your face. 

Aside from his tricks and theatrics, Kinich was a messenger like his father. He loved to travel and take on odd jobs not only in camp but around the world too. And with his speed, he was back to camp in less than a few minutes of taking on a job. It was almost as if he had teleported there and back. 

He was truly a jack of all trades, but he could never best you at archery; for that was something you were naturally skilled at as a child of Apollo. He could never best you at shining brightly like the sun, either. 

In every aspect, you outshone him. Like now, when you were guiding new campers to their cabin (per your request and Chiron’s surprise). 

Everyone knew you to be quite outgoing and cheerful, with a smile so blindingly bright it resembled your father’s, and an aura about you that felt warm and fuzzy on his skin– as if he was sitting in the sun. 

As you spotted your best friend, you waved enthusiastically and called out to him, making a beeline for where he was standing just outside the Hephaestus cabin. With an eager voice, you introduced him to the campers. 

It seemed as if there had been many newcomers recently, and with newcomers meant there would likely be new occupants to the Hermes cabin. The Hermes cabin was lively and packed all the time. He was lucky if he even got a moment of silence during the day. That, or some space. 

Though, he preferred to just go elsewhere and take a moment to breathe. Like, finding you in the solace of Apollo’s cabin or heading out to the target range to watch you practice. If you were sitting on your bed reading a book, he’d flip the pages to get your attention or steal one of the highlighters in your hand. If you were practicing in the target range, he’d take your arrows and your quiver and misplace them so you’d focus on him. 

Kinich was a trickster. 

And oftentimes, you couldn’t keep up with his tricks, much like you could never beat him in a race. He was annoying in an endearing way, always stealing your things to gain your attention and showing off his speed in races to prove himself to you. 

He was playful and witty, but above all, he was your best friend.

notes: like i said, i have another kinich wip planned but the mc will be a child of ares and im very excited to write it :D it's gonna be much longer than this one too! maybe as long as the tartag pjo au fic i wrote a bit ago, we’ll see!

© 2024 mikashisus. do not plagiarize, copy, repost, feed to ai, or translate my works to any other platforms.

[itsabouttimex2]

I have been going insane about the not beloved au.

The idea and sheer emotions of it just cling to me and haven’t left me for days and I blame you. Just the idea of [User] not only not being the beloved- but in a way being solely viewed that way- and in a sense being completely treated as such where it is very obvious- just- I love it.

The pure angst potential with the au is there and I -‘ screeching about it.

Y/N’s Not The Beloved?

(Monkiefam)

Exactly- Y/N is so heavily defined by being “not the beloved” that it kinda becomes their entire character.

Just like some people get jammed into slots they’re undeserving of by born traits or mere appearances, Y/N is out here getting pigeonholed into the “not our favorite” just because MK is the little monkey demon that their parents dreamed of having for so long.

And it doubly sucks ass, because Sun Wukong and Macaque are such good parents to MK that any criticism on your part will be questioned and “debunked” by well-meaning peers who probably just see you as “spoiled” or “jealous”.

Like, imagine this: your classmate, Y/N, is the adopted child of the fucking legendary hero, Monkey King. He’s married to; of all people, to the infamous Six-Eared Macaque. They have an adorable adopted son who is also a demon monkey.

And if what Y/N has to say about this whole family dynamic is “they spoil my brother too much/love him more than me/expect me to constantly look after him” and like…

From their perspective?

Bitch! You are privileged beyond compare and comprehension! You have two unimaginably powerful parents! They could crumble a civilization and raise a new from the smoldering ashes! They could impose themselves as gods and demand proper tribute! And instead they adopt a silly little mortal out of the goodness of their hearts, and you have the gall to “whine” about it not being enough?

Some of your classmates get beaten for bringing home bad grades? Some of them have dead parents? And a few were disowned for being queer! Others live in filth! Some have literally nothing! Why are you so damn “ungrateful”, Y/N?!

And then desperately trying to explain that yes, you are grateful for them and everything they’ve done, it’s not right for you to miss out on fundamental life experiences just because MK didn’t want you to go, or to nearly flunk a test because you couldn’t sleep on account of MK demanding your attention, or to lose friends that you were never allowed to hang out with because MK didn’t like them.

It’s especially bad in the situation that Y/N is particularly young, around say… under thirteen, or maybe semi-verbal, if they’re shy or anxious, and they haven’t learned how to properly communicate and express themselves in a conducive and effective manner, which leads to exchanges where what Y/N says is utterly ineffective at conveying what they mean, like:

“My parents love MK more than me.” (My parents unhealthily prioritize him even at a cost to myself.)

“Aww, sweetie! He’s just new to your house! You’ll get used to him!”

“I have to babysit MK so much that I don’t get to hang out with my friends.” (My budding social life is beginning to crumble under the weight of being a caretaker to my little brother.)

“You’re such a good older sibling! I bet your parents are really grateful to have a babysitter on hand!”

“MK wanted to go somewhere new yesterday, and he made our dads take me. I didn’t get to sleep.” (MK’s immediate happiness is becoming more important to both of our fathers than my physical health.)

“I bet you all had a lot of fun if you’re this tuckered out, huh? You’re lucky they took you!”

It gets to the point that Y/N, as they grow up, turns to the internet for validation and support in their life, probably to results that are equally split towards positive/negative.

“NTA- Clearly your fathers do not respect your health or feelings! Pack up and move out!”

“I can’t move out though? We live on a sacred mountain and I’ve never had a job because they make me babysit MK instead.”

“ESH cause y’all sound exhausting. I’d beat the fuck out of this “MK” TBH. What a brat.

“He’s nine though??? WTF dude?”

“Honestly all these NTAs and ESHs are so confusing clearly OP is a fucking ungrateful brat who’s gonna regret pushing their family away when they’re alone and have nobody. MASSIVE YTA kiddo.”

“I just want to stay home and sleep because I’m tired as hell from all the other family trips that I went on with my family? This is the first time I’m saying no?”

And slowly growing more and more ostracized and confused by everything in their nonconventional little family and how MK’s obsession with them is both fueled and enabled by Wukong and Macaque’s obsession with him, all slowly heading to a peak-

And when you snap, you are inevitably going to snap hard.

[flamingpudding]

I had a crack idea that I was thinking of so you know in Dan is Klarion au I was imagining a au based off of that one where all of Danny's children are Klarion is like the robin thing for Batman it started off with Danielle when nabu insulted Danny as the Ghost King and Balance

Ever since Ellie decided that she needed to get back in blood so she made the chaotic antihero Klarion and and her suppose it familiar 'cat' Teekl the way to help out her mother and mess with Dr Fate/Nabu Teekl is actually a bear with an illusion on that makes him look like a cat in the human's eyes

Whatever since the anti-hero Klarion in The Phantom family has been passed down each of them giving their own flair to the persona of Klarion with a different animal every time that they had pretending to be a cat

Tell her to finally passed on to Dan it is an honorary sibling thing each of them has their own antihero name once they passed down the title of Klarion

Diana's query and takes after his father's style of dressing and his tickle is a phoenix

First of Thanks for the Ask! Inspirational as always! Helps with my writers block [insert awkward laugh]

Either way because this is split in two asks... you get two version! One focused on how it started and the other on the reveal! Though the might be some little Shorts... Also there is something really funny to me about a giant bear letting Illusionen into a cat... So Enjoy!

(BTW still thinking over the other ask... and working on it don't worry!)

------------------

Ellie huffed as Danny reprimanded her for her actions. She just huffed crossing her arms. She was just helping Danny. Her mom got a lot on his shoulders and she as the sort of oldest saw that the best. Sure technically Dan was older then her but, he shrunk down to kid level again and now she was the oldest.

Well if she ignored her other brothers but they were only saved recently and still in treatment with Frostbite. So she was the oldest. End of story.

"Ellie you can't just go off like that you know that messing with an Ancient is not-"

"Mom, That Nabu-Guy was being a pain in the a- " - "Ellie!" - "A PAIN, babbling on to much about Order here Order there. How keeping Balance means keeping Order and bla bla bla!" She cut in stopping her mom before he could go on another rant about the Ancients, she needed to treat with respect.

"He doesn't respect you, the Ancient of Balance! You are the literal Symbol of Balance between Life and Death! Aside from being the Ghost King. So of course I had to mess with the one HE mentors!" Ellie added huffing as she crossed her arms.

Danny pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ellie, you created an entire alternate persona!"

"Yea so?"

"You used an illusion spell on Fluffels!"

"And? Any good Anit-Hero needs a Mascot." Ellie shrugged once more looking up at her mom before looking over to Fluffels, her pet ghost grizzly that was pretty much double maybe even tripple her size and the fluffiest ghost grizzly you could find in the entire Ghost Zone, and the cutest.

Danny on the other hand groaned, wondering if he had done anything wrong while raising Danielle. Sure he had been a teen himself but good damit why the hell did Ellie decided messing with the Ancient of Order or rather his mentee was a good idea. "I am calling Jazz! You can explain to her what you were thinking!"

He was definitely to overworked and stressed to deal with Ellies mischievousness right now. Well she did call her alternate persona Klarion, Lord of Chaos. Nope! He was not dealing with this right now, so Danny did the sanest thing he could think of. Turning on his heel and walking away. Where to? Who cares maybe he would check in with his old man Clockwork and see what Ellie had actually been up to, instead of just reading through Nabu's complains.

Ellie on the other hand blinked watching her mom leave before calling after him. "Does that mean I have to stop, being Klarion?"

"Mom?!"

"MOM!"

------------------

"Well hello my lovely Amadillos! Long time not seen!"

Ellie shouted cheerfully as she twirled into appearing hair styled into a horn like form, black suit and she might have over done it a little with the black eyeliner but hey it was an iconic look wasn't it. She smirked as Fluffles growled which translated into a meow for the mortals before her thank to the illusion spell.

The mortal teen looked up at her surprised as she floated down her hand glowing with red ectoplasm (a color change from her usual green ectoplasm that had taken a while to learn from Pandora). Young Justice was currently transporting something of interest to her. Well of Interest for the Justice League, really but Doctor Fate was involved which meant Nabu was involved, which naturally meant she would get involved. It didn't hurt that she would also get to try to try some new tricks.

"You got something interesting there... and I want that." She grinned. Ellie didn't give them long before she acted using the new tricks she had learned.

"Woah! Hey there, watch the pointy and sharp thowies!" She laughed making a quick shield as she blocked some batarangs and arrows before blinking.

"Hey they look different. Robin, did you change equipment? Did you get a new haircut too?" She asked curious but didn't really receive an answer as they ignored her questions and shouted something about distracting her while the others continue the transportation. Still she bend down to pick one of them up twirling it between her fingers. "What gives didn't they have a different design before?"

In hindsight it was probably not a good idea to just abandon her original goal but Robin was making her curious. And she could always find a different way to mess with Nabu. Her mom had given her an indirect okay years ago anyway.

"Teekl!" She called out and only her eyes could see how Fluffles jumped at the call growling in response as he swatted away some of the more annoying Young Justice kids. To the mortals it probably looked like Teekl was using ectoplasm, or well magic, in their eyes.

She used that change to go up into Robins face smirking widely as she looked at the other more closely, trying to get a read on him. "You are different! You aren't the same Robin I meet before!"

She ducked in time avoid Superboy as she hopped back excited with a new idea for her family.

But first she would have to deal with the little chaos and mischief she was creating.

------------------

".....and that is how I learned that the Robin title is getting passed down. So I was thinking of doing the same!" Ellie broadly stated looking at all her younger siblings before her. "We all get pretty annoyed with the way Nabu treats Mom so there always has to be a Lord of Chaos to 'balance' Nabu out!"

She grinned at her siblings expecting the same kind of excitement she had and they didn't disappoint. Danny had been there for all of them, even going so far as in to find a way with Clockwork to save some of their lives. So of course they all would jump at the change to mess with the one Ancient that was badmouthing their Mother just because Balance didn't entitle Order the way they wanted.

After all Chaos was needed to Balance Order out.

This was going to be fun...

[Follow up part Linked here]

[crazzzycomet]

Dried Roses

joel miller x fem!reader

summary: Coming up on two years of your parents' tragic passing, you decide to make the move to Austin, Texas, in hopes of a fresh start for you and your three younger siblings. After few months of settling in, a lapse in judgement and a one night stand ends with Joel Miller in your bed.

tags: 18+, au no outbreak, age gap, one night stand, sassy!Joel, mentions of death and grief, porn + plot, idk this chapter just sets everything up, flashbacks of drunk sex, joel loves pushing it

wc: 5.9k

this is chapter 1 of dried roses - there are currently 6 chapters uploaded on ao3 <3

——

“No! She said we’re having waffles today, not eggs and toast.”

“You’re such a brat, Lulu.”

“I’m telling!”

“Who are you gonna tell? She’s not even up yet!”

Shit. Your eyes ping open at that.

You reach for your phone on the nightstand, squinting through the film of sleep, trying to make out the small, bright numbers. Thirty minutes passed your usual wake up time. You grumble, rubbing your eyes hard enough to see stars, leaving a residue of black mascara on the base of your palms. 

Your mouth is dry, and the water on your nightstand is empty. Rays of morning sunlight spill through your sheer lace curtains, making you contemplate crawling underneath the covers and dying there. You groan, regretting decision after decision after shot after shot. 

It had been almost two years since your parents had passed, leaving you with guardianship of your three siblings - and just around three months since you’d packed up your entire lives and moved everyone to Austin for a fresh start.

A fresh start.

That’s what you’d told yourself when, Maya, the only coworker you have at the café even remotely around your age, had approached you before closing. She'd invited you to join her and her group of friends at the bar, and you were in absolutely no position to turn down friends.

At least that’s what your younger sister, Romy, told you when you'd asked for her opinion. She'd insisted you go out, and in typical Romy fashion, she was entirely too blunt about it.

“When’s the last time someone asked you to go anywhere with them? Not since mom and dad died, I think,” she had answered for you. “Remember when you were cool? I don’t. Go get laid or something, I don’t know. Whatever will make you less…uptight.”

That was it, you’d decided it was time to finally put yourself out there - at least try to make some friends your own age.

Your hometown friends were nice enough, but apparently not nice enough to come and watch your little brother, Bear, suck at baseball every Saturday, or let Lulu mess up their fresh manicure with glitter pens. 

So you dusted off your little black dress and slathered on some makeup, downed tequila shot after tequila shot after tequila shot, trying to steer clear of the topic of little league and kindergarten playground gossip.

The night was going pretty well, actually. Maya’s friends were welcoming, everyone was gelling, and you’d even gotten a few of their numbers incase they were ever having another girls’ night. Everyone was friendly, and more than a few men had offered to buy you drinks. It made you feel, that for a split second, you were just a normal girl in her twenties. It was nice. 

Then, you saw him. 

He’d been sitting in the corner of the bar, scowling at his friends, or coworkers by the look of their matching shirts that all read Miller Contracting. He’d finally cracked a smile when they all gathered around him, singing a terribly poor rendition of “Happy Birthday”. You think you may have even seen his shoulders bounce with laughter.

There was something about this guy. Something that drew you in.

Maybe it was the way he looked all serious most of the night, crease between his brows and everything, glass of whiskey in hand. Maybe it was his dark brown curls and patchy scruff, peppered with grey. Perhaps it was the fact you’d always been attracted to older men. But if you had to make a real scientifically educated guess, not being laid in just over a billion years might’ve had something to do with the appeal.

Whatever. He was hot, okay?

It was around the fifth time you two had locked eyes that he’d gestured toward the bar, asking silently for you to meet him over there.

Fuck it, you thought - and at some point throughout the night, that became your motto. Especially when you'd decided it would be a great idea to bring him home, despite the infinite list of reasons not to. But, who were you to deny this middle-aged man birthday sex? Right? Right?

A sting of regret fills your eyes with each dry blink and your heartbeat flutters rapidly in your chest, which is always a super fun symptom of your hangovers these days.

Your sheets feel like a haven this morning, cradling you in luxurious warmth that you never want to leave and—God, areyou still naked? You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You cannot get out of bed right now, not with your head pounding like it is. You clamp your eyes shut, waiting for one of your siblings to come and tap at your door with their sticky hands. Why are their hands always so sticky?

Maybe they’ll just let you sleep until you have to drive them to school. Wishful thinking. 

Your mattress groans as you roll lazily to your left side, swearing under your breath while your heart simultaneously sinks down to your stomach when you behold what's in front of you. 

He's still here, lying next to you - the man you'd brought home last night, sleeping peacefully, taking deep, languid breaths beneath your sheets. 

Fuck. 

You freeze, bloodshot eyes wide, willing him to disappear into thin air. 

Who the hell doesn’t sneak back home in the middle of the night after a one-night-stand? Isn’t that, like, the polite thing to do?

You clench your eyes tightly, hoping he’s a figment of your imagination. Opening them with reluctance, you’re met with tanned, broad shoulders, lightly dusted with freckles from the sun, and the back of his curls, loose and sloppy from sleep and sex. It's no wonder your blankets are radiating so much heat - he's the goddamned kindling. 

“I’ll start the waffles,” you hear Romy sleepily croak, muffled through your bedroom door, “go wake her up, Bear. She probably forgot to set her alarm again.”

You gasp. A deep, genuine plea for air. 

Shit. Shit. Fuck. Shit.

You would be so dead if your parents weren’t.

You begin assessing your situation. You have about two minutes before Bear snaps out of whatever book he's reading, and actually comes to wake you. That is, if Lulu doesn’t get to you first. In that case, you have about twenty seconds.

“Lulu, no.” Romy snaps her fingers like she’s scolding a puppy. “Go get your homework and put it in your backpack. Sissy told me that Ms. Diaz said you’re missing two days worth. You're in kindergarten, Lu, how are you missing homework when it's all cutting and pasting?”

“But-" 

“Go,” Romy rasps.

The pattering tiny jelly sandals, and a squeaky whine from the five-year-old echoes through the crack under your door. You can almost see the way Lulu lets her head hang in shame when she’s caught. Her long, wavy hair in front of her face while her cheeks pink up.

Okay. You have two minutes then.

Your eyes snap back to the man in your bed. He’s dead asleep, each breath deep and slow. He smells like your perfume mixed with cedar and the whiskey that spearheaded this whole situation. His skin looks so soft against your plush, white sheets. He looks calm. 

Fine. You'll be nice and let him sleep. You can only hope that he’s at least smart enough to not come out of the room while you’re dealing with the monsters beyond your bedroom door.

Slowly and carefully, you roll over, wriggling free of your tangled bedding, hoping that - was his name Joe? No, Joel. Joel - hoping that Joel isn’t a light sleeper.

No such luck. You look back, jaw clenched tight like a jaguar, and there’s pair of sleepy brown eyes staring back at you.

“Good morn-“

You all but pounce on him, placing your hand over his mouth. His eyes widen at your legs sprawled over his middle, and they grow even wider when he hears tiny voices coming from the kitchen, coupled with the clanking of a whisk in a plastic bowl.

“Shhh." You retract your hand from his mouth and place your finger to your lips.

“Bearrrrr!” Lulu’s whines could literally be echolocated by the bats inhabiting South America. “Romy said to wake her up!”

“I’m going! Just lemme finish this paragraph!”

“But, she needs to look over my homework and she needs to fix my hair and-“

“Jesus, Lulu, just let him finish. Come grab the first waffle and I’ll do your hair later.”

“Is that-“ Joel tries before your hand is back to concealing his mouth in an instant.

“What’d I just say,” you whisper harshly.

He raises his hands in defeat. Since when were his hands so big? 

His sleep-worn eyes trail down your body, the lines around them creasing as a smile breaks beneath your hand. You follow his eye-line, realizing you’re still completely naked, bare chest fully on display.

“Perv.” You cover your breasts with your free arm. Your cheeks flush as you feel him smile wider into the palm of your hand. “Not funny.” You grab his jaw. "Wait here."

He nods. You sloppily race out of bed, looking for anything to cover your body. The sound of chair legs scraping against the oakwood floors echoes, and itty-bitty footsteps begin thrumming toward your bedroom door.

Why the hell did you insist on having the room closest to the kitchen?

A tiny knock at your door has Joel pulling the sheets up to his nose. You gesture at him to keep still, shifting your attention to the door and the little shadow underneath it.

You spot the forest green flannel Joel was wearing last night, slung over top of your dresser in the haste of what you can only remember in hazy blurbs of Joel's tongue and hands tracing over your perfumed skin. You grab it without thought, and begin buttoning with rapidity. 

Another little knock.

“Baby Bear?” you pant, Joel’s flannel now fastened enough to cover your chest. It’s hem uneven, thanks to your crack buttoning skills, hanging a few inches below your ass, covering you just barely.

“Can I come in?” 

You reach into your underwear drawer, grabbing the first pair your hand touches and stepping into them while Joel watches intently. Grinning like he’s watching his favorite TV show.

“How ‘bout I come out,” you offer.

You hear a giggle through the chestnut-stained door. “'Kay. Lulu wouldn’t let me have eggs and toast.”

“Eggs and toast tomorrow it is, then. I’ll be out in a sec, alright? Go eat.”

There’s that giggle again, followed by thudding steps back into the kitchen, shouts of celebration about eggs and toast tomorrow, and groans from Lulu.

You look over at Joel, who's holding in a laugh.

Wait here, you mouth, and he nods again, this time with a wink. The bastard.

You wipe the mascara that's made a home beneath your eyes. Joel sinks back into your bed, pulling a pillow over his head. Your hair’s a rat's nest, but the claw clip you trip over on your way out will fix that.

You open the door and slip out, loosing a breath at the sight of Bear swinging his legs, sat atop a barstool pushed close to the kitchen island. He’s shoveling a syrup-covered piece of waffle with one hand, and tracing along the words of some book about rainforests with the other. Lulu sat next to him, focused on getting syrup onto every square-inch of her waffle. Both wholly unaware of the middle aged man you're hiding in your bedroom. 

“Ah,” you sing as you walk by Bear, smoothing his cowlick down as you make your way around the counter, “Romy made you guys waffles, huh? Heard Lulu put up quite a fight for these.”

“Wasn’t equipped to argue with her today,” Romy says, filling the waffle maker with a sloppy pour.

 You nudge her with your hip.“I can take over so you can get ready.”

“Thanks.” She hands over the ladle and wipes her hands on her pajama pants.

“Thanks for picking up my slack."

“Yep,” she sighs, wiping the flour that made its way to her elbow. “Fun night?”

Your heart skips, but your face remains stoic as you clean the loose batter that seeps through the sides of the waffle maker. 

You ignore her question. “Thanks for covering for me here last night. I’ll give you my tips after my shift today.” 

“Happy to help.” Her eyes pull toward your bedroom door and snap back at you. “Both of you,” she says quietly, smiling like a maniac.

“Excuse me?” you lower your voice, your brows following suit. Your face is a bit more scrunched than you’d like.

“You never close your bedroom door in the morning. And under your eyes turns a specific shade of purple when you’ve been up all night.”

“You’re insane.” There’s no use in lying to Romy, she’s too damned perceptive for her own good, but you decide it’s worth a shot.

"Also, I heard you talking to someone when you walked in last night at-" she checks an imaginary watch "-two in the morning." 

"I was on the phone. What are you doing awake at two?" you deflect, and not well, based on the look she's giving you. 

“Should I go ask him if he wants a waffle?”

“Romy!” You wack her on the arm.

“Ow!” 

“No one’s in there,” you lie again, fully aware of the fact that it’s not working.

“Fine. I’m just saying, I’m not stupid,” she grumbles. “It’s alright if there's a guy, just wake up earlier next time. Lulu spins out when you’re not up.”

“Noted."

"Good." 

"Jesus, Ro, you're a mess." You dust away the flour on the neckline of pajama top. It’s got a giant rainbow trout across the chest, and it spills over her knees. "Is this Dad’s shirt?” 

“Uh - yeah, I found it at the bottom of his drawer before the move." Before you can comment, she looks you up and down, raising one brow. “And whose flannel is that?”

“Dad’s,” you snap.

“Mm. Yeah. Dad never wore flannels.”

“Well - he wore this one,” you try to sell your third lie of the morning while she rolls her eyes. You grab her by the shoulders, turning her away and giving her gentle a shove. "Don't you have to get ready? Go away." 

She starts up the stairs. “Tell him I say 'hi' and that he’s got nice taste in flannels!”

“Shut up!” you shout into the void.

“Ms. Diaz says we’re not supposed to say shut up,” Lulu says, smacking on her last few bites of waffle.

“Shut up, Lu. Finish your breakfast,” you say flatly, fixing yourself a plate.

The morning is pretty standard, as far as mornings have gone in the last two years. Romy gets ready in her room. Bear and Lulu’s homework gets checked by you, while Bear spits out facts about some frog he's learned about in some encyclopedia he’s picked up from the library that week. You pretend to be extremely interested, all while Lulu insists on you doing her hair over Romy, because 'she pulls too hard'.

Everything’s done with about fifteen minutes to spare. Except this time, there’s a stranger in your bed. A stranger who patiently awaits your instruction.

He’s probably fast asleep, you’d kept telling yourself while your morning tasks seemed to take a lifetime. Each plait of Lulu’s french-braid found it’s place in slow-motion, and Bear’s droning on about the strawberry poison dart frog appeared infinite as you tapped your foot through it all, listening for any signs of stirring behind your bedroom door.

“Everyone get in the car. I need pants,” you say, handing the keys to Romy. Finally - fucking finally, this morning was almost over. Almost. 

You bolt to your room about a millisecond after the front door clicks shut behind them. He’s probably asleep, you repeat to yourself, taking a deep breath before you turn the knob.

You open your door slowly, revealing a man sitting up on the edge of the bed, fully dressed (minus a green flannel), complete with a smug little grin plastered on his face.

Your eyes lock on one another. You lean your back against the wall, loosing a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in all morning.

“Y’alright?” he asks. 

“I’m so sorry,” you say with a winded laugh, placing your head in your hands. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Busy mornin’?”

“What do you think?” You begin surveying your room for a clean pair of jeans or sweats or anything that can cover your legs.

“I’m thinkin’ so,” he chuckles.  You quickly find a pair of jeans and slip one leg in, pausing to look up at the man on your bed. His curls are tousled and his scruff seems thicker than it was 8 hours ago.

“You said you were -“

“Twenty-five,” you say, fighting with your zipper.

“S’right. Twenty-five.” He places his hand on the back of his neck and rubs a knot that’s probably been there for just as long. “Twenty-five,” he repeats.

“Isn’t gonna make me any older the more you say it.”

He doesn’t seem to notice that you’re being a smart ass. That, or he doesn’t care. Either way, you see his wheels turning and you know what he’s about to ask. You wish people didn’t always have to ask.

“Twenty-five ‘n - how many voices were there? Three?”

You look down, attempting to fix the buttons on your stolen flannel. 

“Um, yeah. Three.”

“Any of them-“

“Mine? No,” you interrupt. “They’re my siblings. Fifteen, seven, and five.”

Before he has time to ask any more questions you start again.

“Hey listen - I really gotta go. My sister’s already suspicious, so um, if you could let yourself out after we take off - like, without stealing anything - I’d really appreciate it.”

Your tactic fails.

“Your parents?”

“Out of town,” you say quickly, trying to avoid the inevitable condolences from someone you're never going to see again.

Technically it's true, they are out of town - just buried 6 feet further down than you’d prefer.

“You can leave the door unlocked,” you continue before he can ask more questions. “I’ll be back soon. I have to get ready for my shift.” It dawns on you that you may have made this poor man late for work. “Oh shit, are you - do you have to be anywhere right now?”

He shakes his head and peeks at his watch. “Not ‘til ‘bout nine.”

“Okay, good.” You know he’s lying. He glances at his watch every second he thinks you're not looking. “Alright so,” you clap your hands together, “I guess just don’t steal anything - and leave right after you hear me leave. Okay?”

He leans back, placing his palms on the bed.

“You always this - twitchy?”

Your brows scrunch. “What?”

“You heard me. You always this keyed up? Or was last night just a fluke?”

“Only when there’s a strange man in my bed who won’t stop asking me questions.” You cross your arms. 

“So you always let strange men into your bed?” His brows raise, brown eyes twinkling at you like a goddamn puppy. “Or am I just special?”

“You always fuck someone twenty years younger than you? Or am I just special?"

His brows lower. That shut him up. Finally. Now you can- 

“Only when they beg for it.”

Oh.

Oh this fucking guy. Now you remember this fucking guy.

"I did not beg for it." Your ears feel like they're going to melt off. 

"Didn't beg for it," he repeats. "Must be misrememberin' things, then." 

"You are." 

He chuffs. 

“Okay, then. I have to go," your voice falters. “Sorry again for all of this, and - um - don’t steal anything.”

“You said that already, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Fuck off.

“Then don’t do it.” You glower.

He just laughs to himself, like he's trying his hardest not to push it.

“Looks good on you by the way,” he says, still leaning back on his palms. His biceps flexed under his faded black tee. 

“I - huh?”

“My flannel.” He points. “Well, your daddy’s flannel - 'f that's what ya wanna call it. Works either way, I s'pose."

Your eyes shift between his. He gives you a fox-like grin. You could slap him right now, if you weren't so busy trying to keep yourself from blushing over the fact that he'd definitely heard everything beyond your bedroom door this morning. 

“I don't have time for this,” you swear under your breath, tripping your way through your cesspool of a room. 

“Had fun with ya last night,” you hear him say while you’ve got one foot out the door.

Your limbs freeze.

“Yeah - um. Me too.” You peer back into the room. “Nice meeting you, uh -“

Oh fuck, how did you already forget his name? You just had it an hour ago. It started with a G. No, a J. Juh. Juh. Juh- 

“C’mon, darlin’. Had you screamin’ it last night, ’n ya already forgot?”

Alright, fuck this guy.

“Guess it just wasn’t that memorable.” 

“Bullshit,” he huffs a laugh. “The mouth on you, girl."

Your nose scrunches with a vindictive grin.

“It’s Joel,” he says. “Joel Miller.”

“I was getting there."

“Didn’t want you hurtin’ that pretty little head thinkin’ too hard.” He winks. “Nice meetin’ you too, darlin’.”

“Alright, Joel-“

He interrupts to say your name back. Just to make your stomach swirl. Just to show you he remembers. 

“Leaving now," you say, heartbeat drumming in your ears. 

“We’ll see,” he says. You don’t have to look at him to know he’s grinning.

“Bye, Joel Miller. Happy birthday,” you say on your way out.

Good riddance.

————

Miraculously, you get all three kids to school on time. You speed home, hoping you’ll have more than five minutes to shower this time, and maybe more than that to actually put on some makeup before your shift at Sweet Pea's Café - a charming little mom-and-pop restaurant that you'd applied to a few weeks after the move. 

The door’s creak is the only sound that fills the house when you enter, followed by your strained, “Hello?”

No response.

Nothing greets back, save for the smell of freshly brewed coffee and maple syrup, stuck for life onto the plates that the kids forgot to rinse after breakfast. Except, you don’t remember making any coffee this morning. In fact, you haven’t used the drip coffee maker since before you’d moved.

It belonged to your dad, and you had only saved it because the counter would look completely off-kilter if Dad’s coffee maker weren’t here taking up some space - like the heart of the house would be missing. So there it sat, unused, untouched, and cloaked in a gummy layer of coffee grounds-past.

You saunter into the kitchen, and for a split second you expect to find your dad, sipping entirely too loudly from his under-washed, borderline unusable coffee mug.

And maybe the thought would’ve lasted longer if you weren’t met with the pile of dishes you had to do, and to the right of those, a note.

Words written on a piece of torn printer paper, its ends curled up like ribbon, lying next to the half-full coffee maker.

You pick it up:

Tried my hardest not steal anything, but you left a perfectly good waffle out on the counter. Couldn’t have a waffle without some coffee, so I stole some of that too. Try not to be too mad, the coffee tasted like shit, so now we're even. Also, the roses in the windowsill could use some water. Or a trashcan. Joel

You let a smile slip before you can catch yourself. You turn the note over :

If you want to yell at me for all the stealing.

His phone number follows, written neatly underneath. 

A freshly washed plate, mug, and fork sit lonely on the dish-rack, which makes you smile even wider.

Your eyes flit up toward the windowsill above the sink, where the dried roses are sitting. Restfully. Gathered together, bound in a transparent green vase. Their color drained out from stem to petal - the way marrow dries up in the bones of a corpse. Stiff, hollow, and lifeless.

Nothing like the smile on your mom’s face the day your dad brought home that same bouquet of red roses. The kind of red so deep, it makes you feel something. You hadn’t seen her so giddy before, the way her smile lines creased so sweetly and her eyes beamed. She sang quietly to herself while she trimmed the stems and filled the vase with water, arranging the blooms perfectly. 

You clench your teeth, swallowing the lump that’s formed in your throat as you ball Joel’s note into your fist and throw it into the garbage.

————

Friday finally comes, and you’re thanking whatever the hell created the universe after the way this week dragged. Each day felt agonizingly long; even work at the café was eerily slow. Helping the kids with school projects. One customer popping in here and there.

It was the definition of mundane, and it didn’t exactly leave you with much to do besides think. Think about your night with Joel and that stupid note he left. Fantasize about his calloused hands on your bare skin. He had infiltrated the walls inside your mind like a fucking termite who was immune to extermination.

That night was gnawing at your brain. That morning was gnawing at your brain. Joel Miller was gnawing at your brain. The way he'd made you laugh at the bar, the moans he’d drawn out of you in your own sheets, the phone number he’d written out just for you. It was relentless. Sickening, even.

It didn’t help your case once you had begun to string together piece after piece of that drunken night you two shared. You’d get flashes of it in the shower, in bed at night, and it even begun invading your mind at work. His sweat-soaked skin against yours. His low drawl sending chills up your spine while he whispered against your ear. The way he felt inside of you and told you how pretty you looked, ‘takin’ it like a good girl’.

It all ended the same way - with your hand between your legs the moment you were left alone in your bedroom.

Sleep had evaded you night after night, and instead, had you lying in bed and staring at the ceiling - willing yourself to keep still, rather than going to search for Joel’s note at the bottom of the garbage can, sodden and sticky with syrup and grape-jellied crusts from Bear’s sandwiches.

Times like that - when the gnawing was so incessant you thought you might scream - you’d think of a list of reasons why it would be a monumentally bad idea to go dumpster diving for that stupid fucking phone number. The list you’d come up with was logically sound, and painstakingly long. You’d repeat it to yourself over and over and over to lull yourself to sleep.

Toward the top of your imaginary list, the age gap between the two of you danced in your head like a tragic ballet. This must've been a lapse in judgement for him. Maybe a mid-life crisis or something he had to get out of his system. 

The kids were the most glaringly obvious con on the list. They rely on you fully, and they don't need you getting distracted by whatever having Joel's number saved in your phone would entail. You hadn't even told him the kids were under your legal guardianship, and if you did, who's to say he wouldn't run for the hills like everyone else.

On Wednesday night, you’d concluded that you couldn’t have been the first woman Joel had left a note for, anyways. There was absolutely no scenario in which there weren’t other women he’d gone home with - maybe even your age - that hadn't found a slip of paper with his number written on it the next morning. Who are you to think that you're special enough to be the only one? Who are you to think that he’d been waiting impatiently for you to call?  He's not making a list. He’d forgotten all about you by now.

But sometimes, you’d fail to catch the thoughts that wandered too fast and far, unable to squash the fantasy of it all. The asinine daydream where you were the only one, having allowed yourself to keep his note in your back pocket and call him whenever you wanted. Whenever you were ready. A world in which you could sleep with a man the night before, and not have to keep him hidden like a secret in your room; or not having to treat any semblance of a chance at a relationship with a man like a mushy, over-ripe, banana - tossing it out before it has the chance to rot in front of the kids. 

This particular Friday afternoon, though, your mind had finally quieted. It was as if the night you’d shared with Joel threw the ecosystem in your brain off balance - changed the pH of the soil, and the temperature of the climate. The repeated list of reasons not to reach out had been the controlled burn you’d needed to silence the flashbacks and fantasies. Finally, you could breathe. 

You were finishing up your afternoon shift when you felt a buzzing coming from your apron pocket. You fish out your phone, a silly contact picture lighting up the screen with each vibration.

Romy.

“Ro? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” you whisper from behind the cash register.

“I just needed to ask something real quick?"

“Yeah?”

“Before you say no, my homework’s already finished - I did it in fourth period - and my room is clean and -“

“What d’you want?”

“There’s this girl, Sarah - she switched into my AP Bio like two Wednesdays ago - anyway, we’ve been hanging out at lunch too and sometimes even in the library - “

“Spit it out, babe,” you snort.

“She asked if I could sleep over at her house tonight. So I was wondering...”

“Of course you can go.”

“Really?” she squeals.

“Yeah, Ro. You’ve been helping me out a lot since the move. Maybe too much, actually. You deserve it. Plus you have, like, zero friends by my count.”

“Shut up,” she chides. “Thank you. I can’t wait to tell her. She said her dad was gonna get the pool all ready for us and everything!”

“Jealous,” you say, mindlessly skimming a customer’s receipt. “I have to meet her parents first, though. You know the drill.”

“I know, I know. But it’s just...parent. Just her dad.”

“Okay, whatever,” you sigh, half listening. A lady with rosy cheeks and a button nose meanders over to read the menu above your head. You flash her a plastic smile, saying into the other line, “Gotta go,” before hanging up the call to ring up a blueberry muffin and an iced chai.

————

You pick the kids up from school after your shift, and Romy wastes no time in packing an overnight bag the second you all get home. You freshen yourself up, changing into jeans and a comfy sweater, wiping the work day and coffee grounds off your skin. It’s nerve-wracking to meet the parents of any of your siblings’ friends, because they're one: always so much older and more put together than you - and two: always surprised to see a sister in lieu of a mom. It was always jarring for other people, and for some reason, however understandable, it bothers you.

“You ready?” you ask, clasping your hands together - Romy excitedly pacing in the kitchen with a backpack full of pjs and toiletries waiting for your go-ahead. 

You try to swallow your dread as Romy whirls around with a huge smile. She hasn’t been this giddy in months. She was finally acting like a teenager, and you can’t recall the last time she’d been able to be one. She’s practically beaming.

This will be good for her, you think. She could use a friend. 

You all pile into the car and Romy types the address into your phone.

“Oh,” she says, handing it back to you, “it’s only three blocks away.”

“Well maybe if this goes well, you could walk there next time,” you bat her on the shoulder and she squats you away. 

It takes all of about two minutes to get there, pulling your car beside the curb. Romy’s excitement is palpable, even making you feel a little nervous.

“Don’t embarrass me,” she says with a wince, throwing her backpack around her shoulder.

“You don’t embarrass me,” you assert.

You leave the car running with the two little ones in the back, urging them not to touch anything. You throw an arm around Romy as you walk up the drive and make your way up the front porch. She takes a deep breath before she nods in your direction, prompting you to knock on the door.

*Knock knock knock*

“Is that my hair clip?” Romy asks with a tone. 

“Huh?” You feel the back of your head, where the clip holds your hair in place. “I don’t know. I just grabbed it out of my bathroom.”

“It’s mine.” You both turn and face each other, ripping your arm from her shoulder. “Why do you always steal my stuff?”

If you had a dollar for every time Romy picked a fight when she's nervous about something...

“Steal your stuff? Isn’t that my shirt you’re wearing?”

“You gave it to me, idiot!”

“I don’t remember giving it to you. Why would I give something to someone that won’t even let me borrow a fucking hair clip?” You whisper harshly.

“I would, if you would just ask like a normal fucking human!” Her features pinch tightly.

“Oh my god," you scoff. "You’re so annoying - I’m glad I’m getting rid of you tonight. Maybe I'll get lucky and Sarah’s dad will offer to adopt you.”

“Good! Maybe he won’t steal all my shit and pretend like it’s his," she mutters angrily. 

“Romy,” you say through your teeth, “watch your fucking mouth before-“

Someone clears their throat in front of you, the smell of cedar and coffee wafting out toward you two. It grabs both of your attention, whirling your heads back to the door in front of you - except now it’s open, a man broad enough to block the entrance staring back at both of you.

Your stomach plummets down to your ass.

No- further.

Not because this guy definitely just overheard you cussing out your little sister. Not even because Romy specifically asked you not to embarrass her - which you'd undoubtedly just done. 

No. None of that mattered right now.

Not when the hand propping open the door was the same one that had been wrapped around your neck Sunday night. Staring back at you are the same brown eyes that he made you look at while he talked you through your climax. And a familiar mouth - one that already knows the taste of your cunt - twisted in that same sardonic grin he'd donned Monday morning.

Joel fucking Miller.

--

ao3 link: crazycomet 💫

this is my first fic + my first post on tumblr lmfao hi everyone i hope you enjoyed

[highvern]

Totally Scrooged TEASER

Pairing: Lee Seokmin x f!reader

Genre: neighbor!au, idiots to lovers, fluff/angst/smut

warnings:  alcohol consumption, others tbd

Teaser Length: ~1.5k | Full Fic Length: ~20k

Note: it's christmas timeeeee!!!!!! i missed DK so dearly since Teach Me so I had to bring him back for the holidays. everyone, check out the rest of the fics on @camandemstudios everyone worked so hard and im so excited to read them. thank u @gyuswhore and @lovetaroandtaemin for beta-ing this teaser

summary: When your ex decides to propose to his best friend he told you not to worry about only eleven months after your breakup, you decide the holidays aren’t worth it this year. You’re dedicated to ignoring the red and green splashed on every surface, but your neighbor has a way of convincing you maybe the holidays aren’t totally bad.

collab m.list || m.list

Comment to be tagged when the fic is posted later this month!

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

Shot number four is about the time you realize drinking your sorrows alone in your apartment on a Saturday night is a little bit pathetic. But you unlock your phone out of habit and the same picture of your ex down on one knee in the middle of the street in marathon gear stares back at you, and a fifth shot sounds exactly like what you need.

At least the burn of peppermint schnapps is festive.

Ten months. You and Sam split barely ten months and he’s already engaged to Carson. 

After three years of dating, getting Sam to talk about plans further than a month out was like pulling teeth. When he asked you to move in with him you thought there was a very real chance he suffered some head injury that day. Sam and long term commitment didn’t mix. Your entire relationship felt like borrowed time. His engagement proved it was the truth.

In hindsight, you should’ve trusted your gut about Sam’s “platonic” “childhood” “best” “friend.” 

They did everything together. Their families vacationed in Montauk every summer, they alternated who hosted which major holiday despite living next door, there isn’t a single milestone either achieved without the other. Every time you visited his parents house the plethora of photos of your boyfriend and his best friend from cradle to present day seemed to grow exponentially. 

She’s like my sister.

Most people would frown upon dating a sibling after breaking up with their long term girlfriend, who was sick at home with the flu during Christmas, via text but what do you know? You’re the one sitting on your couch in a tiny apartment you can barely afford wallowing in drunk sorrows while they’re out celebrating.

It’s addicting. Scrolling through all the comments on their engagement photos, with a blanket over your head like some fairytale witch. Sam’s friends you tried so hard to bond with flood the comments, gushing about how cute he and Carson are, how happy they are for them. 

Your friends texted you how big of a jerk he was, a few calls but you ignored them. All you want is to wallow in self pity. 

Like the judgemental diva she is, Shinx watches from her tower in the corner, green eyes disdainful. She never liked Sam anyway.

It’d be better if Carson wasn’t objectively likable. Everyone liked her, you included. At least, until your boyfriend dumped you in a three sentence text and she posted a picture of them together on her Instagram not twenty four hours later with the caption “the best things take a while” – color coordinated for the Spencer family photo shoot in front of their lake house.

Assholes.

Even when she isn’t dolled up for pictures, you can’t even pretend she isn’t pretty. Carson looks like she belongs on a Hollywood set, even after running a 5k at the crack of dawn. Perfect messy ponytail, face rosie but not too red. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair. 

Shot number seven empties the bottle.

Through the living room wall your neighbor belts the lyrics to Celine Dione’s “All By Myself.”

It was ignorable the first few times he replayed it – a little poetic even given the circumstances – but it’s been nearly twenty minutes and you don’t need to be reminded how alone you are. You rocket off the couch and land against the wall with a thud.

“Keep,” knock. “It.” Knock. “Down.” Knock. Knock. KNOCK.

Mr. Neighbor, because you don’t know his name, sings louder.

In the months you’ve lived in this apartment you’ve met your neighbor exactly twice. When you first moved in only two weeks after your break up because Sam’s name was on the lease - not yours – and this was the only place you could find on such short notice in the middle of winter. You had the unfortunate privilege of riding the elevator with him in complete silence, only the sound of your pathetic cries as you moved soggy box after box. He was at least polite enough to take the stairs afterwards. And last month, during a building-wide fire drill because someone on the second floor fell asleep while making boiled eggs. Neither of you felt very chatty at four in the morning.

You couldn’t care less about splotchy cheeks or if your eyes were bloodshot. In your drunken righteousness, you don’t care that there’s mascara running down your face or the sweatshirt billowing around you has grease stains. Something snapped in you. Gritting your teeth, you rush out to the hall and straight for the neighboring door.

Your knuckles sting with each knock but he doesn’t answer until you escalate to pounding against the metal door like the police.

Mr. Neighbor must hear that because Celine cuts off mid-belt. Seconds later the door flies open.

He’s taller than you remember, your eyes level with a hole in the collar of his sweater. When you drag your gaze away from the dip of his throat the combination of tears and booze makes deciphering his face incredibly difficult because he has four of them and they keep moving back and forth in blurry circles. His dark hair sticks up in a million directions. Like he put his finger in an electric socket and then tried to fix the mess himself.

Mr. Neighbor stares at you, expression unreadable. “Can I help you?”

“You know,” you start, teetering on drunk feet as you shove an indignant finger into his chest. “Some of us just want to come home from work and relax! Not listen to their neighbors screaming at the top of their lungs.”

“I didn’t realize it was that loud,” he hiccups. “I’ll turn it down.”

It’s hard to be angry when he looks like a mirror image of you. Wet, red-rimmed eyes and a sniffling nose. There’s booze in the air which could be yours but with the state he’s in it’s doubtful. Who listens to “All by Myself” ten times if they aren’t also sobbing alone in the dark? 

Guilt squeezes your chest. “Sorry, I’m just…rough day.”

Mr. Neighbor doesn’t say anything for a long time, appraising you silently. If you weren’t drunk off your rocker then the fact you aren’t wearing a bra and the old sweater you tossed on does nothing to hide that fact might be embarrassing. Or how you aren’t even wearing shoes, just fuzzy socks with a hole in the ankle. You also smell like a drunk elf who escaped the North Pole.

“It’s okay. Sorry about the music.”

Mouth moving before you know what comes out, you stop him from leaving just yet. “Why are you crying?”

“Stupid shit. Why are you crying?”

You want to brush it off. You’re not looking for pity. Sam objectively sucked, and your relationship would’ve ended one way or another. Sometimes, it just feels good to cry all the frustration out and wish the worst on people. And you really would prefer not to do either of those things with your neighbor you hardly know. 

Especially, when you realize he’s objectively hot even through the blur of tears and intoxication. But alcohol has a way of loosening even the tightest lips.

“My ex got engaged.”

His eyes widened in shock before softening in pity. 

“Do you wanna come in?”

You don’t sense any ulterior motive. Mr. Neighbor has the vibe of someone who never met a stranger, one of those people you tell your life story to in the airport when your flight’s delayed only to leave and realize the only thing you learned about him was he also hated airline food and thought flying first class on domestic flights was a waste of money.

Maybe whatever “stupid shit” he was crying over can be a distraction from your own baggage. If it can’t, at least the invite to complain to a person completely unexposed to the drama of your love life wasn’t half bad. 

However, you don’t know him. His stupid shit could be infinitely worse and then you look like the asshole while he’s crying over his childhood pet passing away back at his parents house while he’s stuck in his apartment because flights during Thanksgiving are ungodly expensive.

Either way, another person to whine about the world with sounded nice.

You say yes.

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