#run away with us for the summer lets go upsta--

[devildomprince]

Take a break.

I heard Lucifer breathe in deeply, followed immediately with his back popping. Should I ask Barbatos for help? Is he okay??

[forthehpfanboys]

Two Years

Pair: Fred Weasley x Reader; he/him.

Summary: You got back to Diagon Alley after the war and desperately wanna talk to him and explain why you were basically non-existent during the war. But is Fred ready to talk to you?

Warnings: Swearing.

Notes: Reader is Draco's Cousin! Hope you enjoy!

~DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE~

-

Complicated couldn’t even begin to describe your relationship with the Weasley’s. 

For to start, you were related to the Malfoys which automatically meant it was rocky. You were Draco’s cousin. Your family didn’t believe in the same ideology as Lucius and Narcissa, leading to family feuds being normal during literally any time of the year. Your family didn’t exactly want the attention of the Malfoys or the Dark Lord once the war reared its ugly head, so your family fled to America, dragging you with them. They wanted to get as far from the war as possible. 

And two, well, you were Fred’s partner before the war broke out. Since your family was absolutely dedicated to being hidden, you lost communication with him when your family decided to just get up and go. You didn’t even have time to tell him goodbye or really anyone and it hurt. You knew you hurt him too and no matter how you begged, your parents wouldn’t let you see him, let alone send him a letter. Owls couldn’t travel across whole seas and you were basically in lock down, even if you were a grown adult. 

You stayed up most nights because of nightmares. You’d wake up in a cold sweat more times than you could count on both hands. After these tear jerking visions from hell, you’d usually climb from your bedroom window to the room, gazing out at the moon like a love struck teenager, hoping maybe even praying Fred was gazing at the moon at the same time you were.. Most nights he actually was.

During the war, Fred had come into a.. Complication. He ended up fracturing his leg, resulting in a cane and physical therapy. George took up fixing and running the shop with Ron while he was borderline trapped between surviving at the Burrow and physical therapy. 

Fred spent most of his free time sketching out ideas of products to tire his mind long enough to ignore the stupid nightmares and gazing out the window, hoping you’d apperate across the field and come comfort him, but you never came. Everyone in the Burrow avoided mentioning your name around Fred, anyway.

When the time came, Fred went straight back to work with his twin, spewing out ideas about different treats, potions, trinkets, anything and everything he came up with while bed ridden and they both got to work quickly. 

It was nice, relaxing, normal again. Everything was normal to Fred but a piece of him was missing. You were across the world and you held a piece of his heart and he hated you never gave it back. 

No matter how badly he missed you or longed for you to hold his hand, he wasn’t ready to face you when you entered their shop. He literally wasn’t ready to face you. He turned around when the bell went off, ready to say the shop wasn’t open yet but dropped the box he was holding. He ignored the sound of shattering glass and immediately booked it back into the room, where he nearly knocked over his brother. 

“What’s wrong?” George asked, swiftly setting the box he was holding down on the shelf. “Are you going into another attack? Do you need to go upsta-” He was silenced when Fred's hand covered his mouth.

“Hello?” A soft voice called out, causing George's eyebrows to furrow before his eyes grew wide. Fred moved his hand, using it to slowly shut the storage room door, making sure to turn the handle so it shut silently. The separation allowed the twins to whisper to each other in peace.

“Isn't that-” 

“Yeah.”

“Then why-”

“Because I’m not ready.”

“..You’re not ready? Blimey, Fred, it’s been 2 years since he left.” George ran a hand down his face, the other landing on his hip sassily. “What do you mean you're not ready? You always talked about how you missed him but now you aren't ready?”

“You wouldn’t understand-” 

“Don’t even give me that, Freddie. Talk to me.” George smiled, resting a hand on his brother's shoulder. “I know you're older by like, 1/4 a second, but you don’t have to be a rock. Come on, don’t bottle it up.”

Fred let out a sigh, his eyes casting downward before he let out the smallest of chuckles. His hand came to rub the back of his neck.

“Fine.” 

George almost squealed with joy when his brother decided to open up to him. He wanted to clap his hands and jump around like a child, but opted for not compromising their position. 

Fred went on to tell George about how you left, how you didn’t even leave a note, how he didn’t know how to ask if you two were still together and if you loved him anymore. George has already known all of this, causing his face to melt into an unamused expression.

“.. You realize you're being ridiculous, right?”

“Gee, thanks George. I will most definitely come back to you when I have emotional turmoil.”

“No, no, mate, listen.” George wrapped his arm around his older brother's shoulder, gently guiding him away from the wall. “Listen, ok? You’re such a top notch guy, not as handsome as me,” George smiled wider when his brother snorted, “but you’re trying! So why not at least talk to the bloke, yeah? You guys were snogging before he left, so why not try to snog after?”

“I just told you why I can’t.”

“Who are you and what did you do with Fredrick Weasley?” George put the back of his hand across his forehead, being the dramatic shit he is. 

“Don’t call me that, you prat-”

“I thought I knew you! Confidence was your middle name! Frederick Confident Gideon Weasley!” The youngest twin only became cockier when the older one groaned and covered his face. “Oh, Frederick, where did you go?” He wrapped his free arm tighter around his brother and dragged him out the door, ignoring his protests and grabby hands reaching to hold onto the door frame. 

“George, wait!” Fred’s hushed whisper floated in the air, completely ignored by the other red-head.

“Fredrick! Where did you go, Freddie?!” He called out, knowing damn well you were still in the shop. Neither of the twins heard the shops bell ring a second tie, indication your departure.

“George?” Your voice echoed in the closed shop, leading George to dramatically turn to his brother and smirk at him. “Is that you?”

“Why yes, my dear friend! How are you?” George let go of his twin, allowing him to scurry off to the side and hide behind one of their many filled shelves. You walked up to him just after Fred hid, much to his delight and George’s dismay. George’s smile faltered ever so slightly when he took in your appearance. 

Your hair was a nest fit for Scabbers, the bags under your eyes would need to be checked with baggage at any muggle airport and your clothes. Not that there was anything wrong with a hoodie and sweatpants, but it was summer for fucks sake. He could see the sweat across his brow and wondered if he should turn the AC on.

“I’m as well as I can be, I guess..” You fiddled with a stray strand hanging from your hoodie. George noted the fraying hand made thumb holes and his eyebrow raised in confusion. “I um-” You ran a hand through your hair, “I wanted to talk to Fred, do you know where he is?” While your eyes were darting across the top level of the shop, George’s eyes flashed to his brother.

The shop owner shot his brother a glare when he shook his head back and forth fast enough to make anyone dizzy. 

“Um, no.. I haven't.” George grumbled out, his hands going to his pockets. He looked down at the floor deciding it would be better than the disappointed expression on your face. “Um, do you want me to give him a message for something?”

“No, yeah, if that’s ok?” You went back to fiddling with the stray thread. You didn’t notice Fred peaking at you through the products lined on the shelves. “Just um- Could you tell him I’m sorry for me? I’m sure he’ll know what I mean..”

“Yeah, sure thing, (Y/n/n). Anything for you.” George ran a hand through his hair after you turned on your heel and mumbled a thank you before exiting the shop. “You owe me.” The red-head turned to his identical and sighed when he saw the longing expression. “Merlin’s left tit, you’re fucked, mate.”

“I should’ve-” Fred hit his forehead against the wood of one of the shelves, a yell of frustration leaving his throat.

“Say it.” “..You were right. I should’ve talked to him.”

“Damn right I was. Now, go get your bloke before he cries in the street or worse, goes to Malfoy for romantic help.” George faked a shudder at the idea. George watched his brother turn, slamming his back into the shelf and slide to the floor. “Ok, Fred, seriously, this is getting kind of sad.”

“I can’t go talk to him, George!” Fred was pulling at his own ginger locks, his knees coming up to his chest. “I- No, I can’t.”

“Do you want me to do it?” George’s voice was soft. He plopped himself on the dusty floor right next to his brother. “I can talk to him as you? See what all of this is about?” 

“I don’t know, Georgie..” Fred’s voice was softer than his twins. He looked at his brother with a hopeless expression and glossy eyes. George figured from this it would be best to tackle the problem tomorrow so he just pulled his brother into his side and held him for a good while.

-

The next day was easier for Fred. The store was bustling, as it was Monday, morning and all the happy customers provided a great distraction. He took over the register while George focused more on the floor work: answering customer questions, restocking shelves. It was a lot for two twins to handle, but they managed, especially when Ginny or Ron offered their free days to come down and help. 

Fred had just finished closing the drawer, handing a youngster his change back when the bell above the shop's door caught his attention. He shifted on his feet when Draco was practically dragging you into the shop wearing the same clothes as yesterday. The red-head was starting to wonder if you were ok.

“(Y/n)!” George yanked you into a hug before you could even blink, causing you to erupt into a fit of giggles that left Fred absolutely yearning to have you by his side again.

“Hey Geo!” You briefly hugged him back before pulling away, causing his attention to shift to your cousin. 

“Malfoy.” George looked the blonde up and down. He’d throw hands if he had too, even in his own shop.

“Hey, be nice. He’s on our side now.” You punched the tall suited man lightly in the arm before shoving your hands in your pockets.

“It’s unfortunate but true. Most birds did appreciate my bad boy ages.” Draco ran a hand dramatically through his hair while George snorted. “But that isn’t why we’re here. Is your brother around?”

“He’s at the til, why?”

“I’m just here to make sure (Y/n) actually talks to him like he promised too.” Draco put a hand on your back and gently pushed you forward. “But how is business, Weasley?”

While George went on to talk about statistics and boring old shit, you slowly walked over to the red-head who was trying to distract himself by restocking some of the knickknacks in the class case beneath the counter. You cleared your throat, clearly scaring him. He let out a squeak and hit his head on the underside of the glass case.

“I-I’m sorry, Freddie! Are you ok?” you asked, your hands awkwardly fidgeting in front of you as the male stood up and rubbed the back of his head. You bit your lip, resisting the urge to grab his shoulders and check his head. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” He had his eyes squinted so tight he could see stars flashing behind his lids. He couldn’t look at you yet. You’d looked like a kicked puppy yesterday when you left and it pained him so much.

“Did, um.. Did you get my message from Geo?” You were fiddling with the string again. Fred opened his eyes slowly, nodding to you while he played with the product in his hand. 

“I.. Look, I don’t wanna beat around the bush, but I-”

“I already know.” Fred spoke up quickly, louder than intended. “I know, it’s fine.”

“S.. So it’s fine then?” You looked around, a tiny bit confused. Fred wasn’t one for jumping to conclusions, but it seemed his legs weren’t tired yet.

“Yeah.” 

“So, I just wanna be sure we’re on the same page, you know my family dragged me to America?”

“Uh-”

“And basically put me under house arrest so I couldn’t see you or message you or leave or really live? And I haven’t forgotten you and my feelings for you haven’t changed and Godric, Fred, I miss you so much.” Tears pricked your tired eyes as you glanced at him. You cleared your throat over the awkward silence you felt was your fault. Fred was replaying your words like a record stuttering on a player and the bloke was still confused.

“.. Come again?” The red-head blinked stupidly, subconsciously leaning over the counter. Maybe he wasn’t hearing you right over the noise of the shop. You couldn’t help but release a borderline silent chuckle that bubbled into your throat.

“I still love you, Freddie bear.” You twiddled with your fingers, your eyes glancing down to his lips before looking back into his sparkling eyes.

“You do?” The co-owner was trying to keep his joy nestled deep down in his chest.

You nodded your head.

“Oh thank fuck.” 

“Wha- Ah! FRED-”

The male had all but jumped over the glass counter, dramatically picking you up by your waist and slamming his lips to yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist, while your hands gripped to his shoulders like your life depended on it. You immediately fell under the spell of his kiss and didn’t even hear your cousin and your boyfriend's twin brother whooping/gagging.

Fred soon set you down, his usual cocky grin spread across his face until his knee buckled. The strain of his dumb ass jumping over the counter and picking you off your feet like you were a feather was finally catching up with him.

“Ah, ow, ow.” Fred groaned out, bending over to hold his right knee. You put a hand on his shoulder, worry etched across his face. “Ah, so um.. I should probably explain-”

“We both have a lot to explain, Freddie. Two years is a lot of time to be apart.”

[charitysplace]

Pre-order: The Welsh Gambit [Book 2 in The Tudor Throne]

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The Tudor Throne Series, Book 2: The Welsh Gambit

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Back Cover:

Lady Anwen cannot forget, nor her brother forgive. Since she killed Lord Meuric’s son in self-defense on a lonely Welsh road, and spent several months imprisoned and mistreated in his castle, Anwen has fought her nightmares. Alone and unable to bear a man’s touch, she unites with a local ‘witch’ to learn how to heal. As Edward Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham, prepares for the autumn joust, he fears escalating tension between the locals and Lord Meuric’s brutal overseer, Beynon. His mood worsens when Sir Thomas Lovell, the king’s ruthless enforcer, arrives unannounced in search of a traitor. As thousands flock to the tourney, death, superstition, denial, and treason come to a brutal conflict, as a child searches the castle for the bones of a lost maiden and uncovers a terrible secret…

Author's Notes:

This was one of those novels that "found itself" amid a muddle of ideas. I must have rewritten it twenty times and each time, several characters and themes emerged with great strength -- the "witch" Winifred, Lady Anwen's struggle to overcome her traumatic past, and the marriage of Margaret and Richard Pole, which seems strong enough to outlast any storm. I had a wonderful time researching jousts and tourneys, thrusting the Staffords into the middle of events, and honoring Prince Arthur's memory with a rousing good story set in a time of deep national unrest and mourning for a lost prince.

I hope you enjoy reading it half as much as I labored in love to write it.

Excerpt:

Anne Tyrell stares out the window, lost in the beauty of the Welsh Marches. She spent her first year of marriage in its green foothills. The carriage winds through silver birch and blackthorn trees, each mile closer to her children. Anne dreads their reunion. She bears the shame of their father’s execution closer to them with each turn of the wheels.

A stallion pulls level with her view, its rider leading a dozen men. She peers at the tall, angular man astride its back. His hair grays at the temples, his narrow face severe. Once, she adored Sir Thomas Lovell. She awaited news from him with breathless excitement. Now, many years later, her stomach tightens whenever they meet. He came to Guînes under a pretext, persuaded her husband to return to London, and imprisoned him on board ship. He then sent men to disarm their son and threw them both in the Tower.

She wonders how they ever loved each other, yearning to forget their stolen kisses and amorous whispers. He escorts her into the Welsh Marches to attainder her estate in the king’s name. He and Lord Dudley will cram her valuables onto carts and keep them in the royal treasury until King Henry decides otherwise.

The castle appears in a maple grove, its gatehouse covered in roses and honeysuckle. Her children wait in the courtyard, James the tallest at eighteen, William three years younger, and Pet twelve. Anne twists the door handle before the coach halts to embrace her daughter, bewildered by her height. Pet shares her height. Anne sweeps the hair back from her face, gasping, “You have grown!”

“I gained two inches last summer. I may outgrow you, Mother.” Pet’s amber eyes flit to Lovell, her tone guarded. “I missed you.”

She approaches her sons, aware of their audience. The boys hug her, their expressions glum. Lovell scans the castle with scorn and removes his gloves. Dudley dismounts and shakes out his mantle. Anne steers Pet into the house. “We are together now.”

“I wish it were under different circumstances,” Pet whispers.

Anne catches her breath in the foyer, moved by its sameness. The servants have altered nothing in her absence. Familiar colorful tapestries line the walls, the small staff assembled to greet her. She scans their faces, noting the steward’s absence with concern. Anne looks at her son, tension in her words. “Where is Hywel?”

James glances at his brother. “He fled after our father’s arrest.”

Her heart plummets. Anne prayed on the journey none of their staff schemed with her husband, knowing it would arouse further scrutiny of their finances. She considers how to handle this and turns with forced politeness when Lovell and Dudley enter. “My lords, you will find our records upstairs. The maid can show you. I trust you do not need me.”

The girl guides them upstairs, Anne relieved in their absence. “Come,” she tells her family, “we must discuss our future.”

They follow her into the parlor where she shuts the door and joins Pet in a window seat. It overlooks the garden, the fountain dry and a rook’s nest in the crook of its statue. After a deep breath Anne asks, “Why did you not warn me of Hywel’s escape?”

James sinks onto a bench and runs his fingers through his curls. “I dared not write to you. I feared Lovell might read our letters.”

“Well, we can do nothing about it now,” his mother says.

William shifts a stack of books from a chair. “How is Tom? We have not heard from our brother. Is he in the Tower?”

“Yes. I have visited him twice. I believe him secure for now. Lovell could not incriminate him at your father’s trial.” Anne rubs her forehead. “I expect his release after the attainder.”

A bee buzzes the roses outside the window, its wings deafening in the sullen silence. Pet studies her palms, her voice small. “Nan Browne wrote us of the ordeal. Was it dreadful, Mother?”

Anne cannot speak around the lump in her throat. She saw her husband walk to the scaffold, mount the stairs, utter a speech, and lay his neck on the block. The ax severed it with a single stroke.

“How could it not be?” James asks. “They cut off his head.”

She cringes at his bluntness. “Do not dwell on it. Remember him as you saw him last. We had a fine Christmas together.”

Pet tries to smile but raises only one side of her mouth. Quiet fills the pause while Anne strokes her daughter’s hair. William fumbles with a piece of ribbon. “Must we go before the tourney?”

She nods.

Prince Arthur planned to lead the festivities, but now lies dead in a crypt. Reluctant to rob the public of their entertainment, the king appointed the Duke of Buckingham to hold it in his honor.

Her eyes tearful, Pet says, “James has trained for months!”

Pained by their distress but unable to ease it, Anne squeezes her hand. “Our lives have changed. We can no longer do as we please. We must defer to the king’s wishes to live in London.”

“How much is our income?” William stares at her with anxiety, his feet pulled under him. “Enough to support our tutor?”

She scoured the accounts when Lovell announced her living, but had to choose between a tutor and a servant. Their faces fall at her pause. Anne forces confidence into her words. “Our situation will be painful and difficult, but we can survive. We have each other.”

“But not Father,” William whispers.

Anne blinks away her tears. “Never doubt he loved you.”

��If he had, he would not have chosen Suffolk,” James snaps.

She expects the others to defend him but they study the floor instead. Shocked, Anne scans their forlorn expressions. “Your father pursued his ideals. Do not deplore him for his mistakes.”

“My contempt is for the fiend who imprisoned him,” James says.

She reaches out to pull him near, reminded of his father in his unspoken anger. “Never let Sir Thomas know how you feel.”

Voices draw her attention to the courtyard where a monk parts from a maid to enter the side door. Pet’s long sleeve brushes the sill when she leans forward, her tone soft. “That’s Brother Elfric.”

“What befell your other confessor?” Anne asks, distressed.

James kicks at the hearth. “Abbot Ifan recalled him to the abbey after his strength declined. Elfric has tended us these last months.”

“I adore him,” Pet says with radiant eyes.

Anne estimates him at twenty-years-old, struck by his handsome face and gentle air. She chews her lip, concerned by her daughter’s infatuation. “Send him in to me. I want to meet him. Then we can walk in the garden. Meet me outside in ten minutes.”

Once her children retreat, Anne crosses to the sideboard to pour a drink. The monk enters after a knock, his bow graceful. Anne corks the bottle and scans the amiable face and intent brown eyes. “Brother Elfric, my family speaks well of you.”

“I serve them as best I can under the circumstances, milady.”

Anne drinks the rich, flavorful pear wine from their orchard, her husband’s pride and joy. “I’m grateful you could comfort them in my absence. I know not how to heal their broken hearts.”

“Lavish love upon them. Trust God to manage their sorrow.”

She sinks onto the cushioned bench. “How are they?”

“Pet has not confessed since her father’s downfall.” The monk stares into the honeysuckle. Anne notices a long scar on his neck. “William spends most of his time with his falcons. James mourns more than just his father. Lady Anwen no longer writes him.”

Anne moans, this the result of a feud between Anwen’s brother Lord Neirin and a local landowner, Meuric. After a felled bridge barred their return at Christmas, Meuric’s son caught them on his land. When he tried to molest her maid, Anwen cut his throat. The infuriated Meuric imprisoned her in his garret until Lovell offered him a place on the Welsh Council for her freedom.

“Has she shared the details of her ordeal?” she asks.

Elfric shakes his head, plucking a loose thread from his cowl. “She speaks not of her tribulation. Lady Anwen hasn’t left her castle. Unless a sympathetic soul reaches out to her, she may never recover. She might welcome a visit from you, Lady Tyrell.”

Voices float on the wind, her children waiting in the inner bailey. “Do you try to divert me from my torments with hers, Brother?”

The confessor shrugs, a twinkle in his amber eyes. “Busy hands are the best cure for a broken heart… unless you want to listen to Lord Dudley and Sir Thomas assess the house?”

Aware of their footsteps upstairs, Anne shudders. 

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