#something something bigger magic reserve than normal

[greatprotector-if]

kallias crush drabble

(fire!mc)

“What do you think of this place?” you ask. There’s no threat here as far as you can see, but still you find yourself aching for the familiar lines of your sword hilt, even if just to give you something to fiddle with because gods you are completely out of your depth—

Kallias’ hazel eyes are bright and especially green under the twinkling lights. “Dance with me.”

Your brain crashes to a halt.

An almost wolfish smirk takes over their face, like they know exactly what they’re doing to you. Damn them. “I won’t know for sure how much I like it here until I get the full experience, you know?”

“You danced with the High Councillor earlier,” you say, like a fucking fool.

They wave a hand, their many bracelets clinking together with the movement. “You know that one doesn't count.”

Something inside you hums in petty satisfaction.

“Uh,” you say rather intelligently, your cheeks, ears, hands hopefully less on fire than they feel. There’s a horrible pause when you can’t figure out whether you should say yes or alright or fucking finally, but then you decide on, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Kallias parrots back, grinning freely. They offer you their hand.

You stop with your hand hovering just above theirs. You swallow thickly. “I, uh—I might be hot right now.”

Kallias laughs the way they do when they're about to knowingly make a bad joke. They press your palms together, folding their fingers over yours, and tug you towards the dance floor. “You always are, sunshine.”

Damn them.

[diejager]

4 when requests r open.. How wld u Feel abt a bear hybrid reader who’s slick is .. Honey ? 👁️

—🍯

Cw: weirdly sweet cum???, smut, oral sex, overstimulation, tell me if I missed any. Honey, what’s going on in that pretty head of yours??

Perhaps you shouldn’t have eaten so much honey, the sweet goodness that you indulged in when it was given to you in abundance, a rare treat to normal bear but a common dish to you. You loved honey like Pooh liked it, always seen with a small jar and lips stained with the sweet treat, tasting as sweet as honey whenever they walked up to kiss you, pressing themselves so close to you and lips devouring any groan from you, tongue lathering your lip to taste the honey from it and steal a taste of you from your mouth.

Gaz and Soap had always liked the sugary taste of you, your honeyed lips, your honeyed tongue and honeyed mouth, every part of you was sweet, a sugary treat to men like them when you were a big and grizzled bear. A Kodiak bear with both size and strength, but a soft and tender heart, and even sweeter lips that Gaz loved kissing and biting whenever he crossed your path, pulling you by the collar and passionately kissing you. A gentle but powerful wave crashing against you for something as simple as a taste and affection, his hands wandering down and holding you against him by the waist. Soap was more eager than Gaz, rough and devouring with his kiss, chaining you to his body by the hips, hands teasingly grasping at your ass and grinding against you to instigate you, push you further into his arms.

Then you found yourself always so, so sensitive, your core spiking in a strong pulse, sharp and boiling. You blamed it on the Scot, who couldn’t hold his tongue after he ate you like a starved man, left to dry out and hunger without food or water, gorging himself on your now sugary slick, the old tangy and salty flavour turned soft and sweet as honey. He shared it with Ghost, who had manhandled you to his room, stripping you naked and spread over his cold sheets while his tongue laved across your slit, the tip teasing your clit with soft circles and dipped into your drooling cunt. He groaned and moaned at the taste of you, burying himself between your thighs, nose bumping your throbbing nub and tongue curling deep inside of you to pull more sweet slick from your warmth and down his throat. 

From Ghost, it reached Gaz, who’s ears practically perked up at the temptation, sliding from one darkened wall to the other until he found you in the rec room with a small cup of honey and a finger in your mouth. He was rather forceful - surprisingly strong against your bear-like strength - in his demand, bending you over the counter, ass upturned and head buried in your arms while you mewled and panted, left a victim to Gaz’s skillful tongue. The way he dove in and curled, swirling your sweet slick around his tongue and drinking it all in, his lips placed firmly around your fluttering hole, drinking your cum like he would water. 

The from him, Price was the last to be aware, ordering you to his office for a taste. You sent his papers and pens to the floor, your flaying arms knocking things over in your search for purchase while he held you down by the hip, groaning when you closed your thighs around his head and fingers pulling his hair, locked in and tugging him closer and closer. He murmured praises, complimenting you for your magical body —one of a kind, he said, to have one’s slick tasting like honey. 

They left you panting and limping, walking around the halls with a powerful throb between your legs after every servings, grumbling under your breath at their insatiable tongues. Perhaps you shouldn’t have made it a habit, now that they made it a show of stocking up your reserve of honey with bigger and larger containers, grins stretching the corners of their lips. 

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce

[liminalmemories21]

28, 30 and 33 for the Tarlos game please Lim!

28 - Who is better friends with their neighbors?

TK, I think. Carlos is very polite and reserved. He lived in his condo for three years and never did more than nod a polite hello in the morning. TK hadn't even moved in yet, and knew everyone, and their kids, and who had the shitty son-in-law, and who made the best brownies, and hey he was just going to stop over at Mrs Harris (you know, across the street?) and help her move a couple of boxes, and MaryEllen (you know, she lives next door to you?) asked if they'd mind stopping in to water her plants next week because she's traveling for work (what? she works for a law firm downtown, they're on a big case in Galveston - Carlos, how do you not know this?)

Carlos tried to be more like TK when he moved into the loft - but couldn't do it, couldn't invite people in, let them see how lonely he was, so he nodded at the neighbors at the mailboxes in the lobby and when they were waiting for the elevator.

Ten days after TK is out of the hospital and living in the loft (where he'd always belonged) Carlos gets home and finds TK curled up on the couch with a mug of tea and two women he's never met before in his life sitting in their living room giving TK the tea on the condo board, and TK's telling them that he can probably help them with getting the city to put in fucking curb cut on the corner the way their supposed to, and maybe even a crosswalk, because crossing that street is like taking your life into your hands.

And he doesn't even ask how TK - who isn't even supposed to really be leaving the apartment except for doctor's appoinments has already made friends with half the building - because that's just TK's magic.

(hi, yes, borrowing a lot of headcanon from Interstitials and Enzo saying TK is catnip for little old ladies who need help changing their lightbulbs).

30 - Who is the bigger flirt? (to EACH OTHER)

hmm. I think TK is the more obvious flirt - like everyone can tell, and he does it just because he likes letting everyone see how much Carlos is loved and wanted.

But Carlos is a stealth flirt. It's not obvious, it's only ever things that will mean something to TK, but he drops them and TK completely loses track of the conversation, just soft inside and doesn't know if he wants to melt against Carlos or take him around the corner and do unprofessional things to him.

33 - Who takes more pictures?

hmm, Carlos I think - takes them of TK all the time, almost never includes himself in them, unless TK grabs the phone and poses them.

His favorite picture though is one his mother took when he didn't know she was aiming a phone in his direction - it's of the two of them, at dinner out at the ranch, before his father died. They're not doing anything special - just talking on the porch after dinner, TK's gesturing with one hand, and the other is resting on the nape of Carlos's neck, his father is laughing at whatever TK is explaining, and all of it is just so achingly normal - like any picture of his sisters and their husbands. Just like. Because it is just the same, and for the first time he feels it, and he has evidence of it that he can look at and remind himself when he forgets, starts to doubt.

Tarlos Inbox Game - Who is More Likely

[ohtobearandomftblog]

magic circles are different depending on the magic type. caster, holder, lost, transformation, elemental, etc. but theyre also different depending on the source of magic

a regular mage who uses the magic within them has the "standard" circle. for a small spell, its diameter is in the middle of the typical sizes, and the amount of rings within it can range from two to eight, depending on the amount of magic put into the spell. there would be dead space within the rings, but the writing and designs would still be breathtaking. gray making an ice fairy tail symbol used a small amount of magic, making a smaller-than-average magic circle with two rings. gray making an ice-make: shield would be standard size or larger, with four or more rings.

a nonmage who uses items has the smallest circle. the item has to use far more of the magic within it in order to operate. sometimes the item draws a bit too much or not enough from its reserves, making it a bit unstable for nonmage usage. it also means they run out faster, and it costs more to purchase anew than it costs to refill the magic container of an item. the biggest of these circles is maybe the diameter of a standard person's wrist. it has one ring, if any at all. the designs of the ring would be mostly empty, with just enough writing to fulfill its purpose. mystogan tried very hard to make sure people could barely see the circles of his magic, since the strongest item he had would cast a one-shot spell with maybe three rings, but a small circle.

a mage who uses items has a fluctuating circle. something like loke's rings would act more like a nonmage, with a small circle and one to three rings. something like silver celestial spirit keys would be a slightly-smaller-than-average circle and three or four rings. golden gate keys would be large, with five to eight rings, depending on both the contract between mage and spirit and the amount of magic put into the summoning. depending on the type of item used and the magic of the mage, the rings could be empty or bursting with writing, more than designs and patterns

a nonmage with a lacrima, if they survive the implant, would have the most unstable circles. ranging from smaller than their pinkie is thick to larger than a snake is long, with no rings or fifteen, with empty rings or swirls and patterns and words spilling out into the air. they are the most likely to experience fatal magic exhaustion. it's not that hard of a statistic to dominate, however, when there have only been twenty-four to ever live past the incubation state.

a mage with a lacrima implant would vary depending on how their magic is used. if they needed a lacrima to use any magic, then they would likely be similar in size and rings to a normal mage. if they could use magic already and had a lacrima to help with a different area of magic, then the circles for both could be on the upper-end of average, since lacrimas can generate magic/absorb some from the atmosphere. a mage with a lacrima implant that aids in their magic field could have massive circles with over twelve rings, all intricately written and drawn from the fusion of natural and artificial magic.

any others who can use magic, like a machia, would be similar to an item. they have a set amount of stored magic, and some can siphon magic from the environment. their circles and the rings depend on the spell used. the bigger the circle and the more the rings, the more likely the being is to destroy themselves.

these are the average, however. happy, who would count as a mage, would have one-to-three rings when using aria magic, but a circle proportional to his body and wings. despite that, the design within the rings would paint a story, with little writing. pantherlily, when transforming from small exceed form to his larger form, would have three or four rings and a large circle. there would be more writing than art, but nothing excessive, with the thin rings.

erza's requip magic has a standard sized circle, but seven thick rings, filled to the brim with writing with some sword- and armour-like art to show just how much is within her space. laxus's lacrima dragon slaying has the potential for magic circles larger than the fairy tail guildhall, more rings than a snowflake has crystals, more intricate art and writing than anything the fiore royal family could have commissioned... if he wanted to die. the amount of magic it would take for something like that is more than makarov brings together for fairy law.

the more a mage uses a spell, the more refined the circle can become. it may take a lot of magic to use a new spell, but one used for years may only take a little, transforming a large circle with plenty of empty rings to a slightly small circle with just enough thin rings for the essentials.

[opheliasam]

Thoughts on Stanford Era SamBenny 👀 ? Potentially? Perhaps?

Hmmm

I’m a staunch samjess truther re: stanford era, i do think they met in freshman year, which makes it a Little harder for Sam to meet anyone else. But as far as one night stands/ explorations go… very appealing

It’s late, Sam’s at the bar, final exam just ended. Maybe it’s a dare, maybe it’s a thing he brought up shyly that Jess wants him to further explore… or maybe it’s a one night stand pre-jess..

BUT.

Update: Okay, wow, this ran away from me. Absolutely didn’t intend for it. Gencest-Mature.

It’s a late night in some indistinct bar, off the corner of a shady part of town and Sam’s hunched over in a quiet corner, laptop propped up on a surface that’s surprisingly, magically, not sticky.

It’s a Monday night, and the bar is worse off for it; lighting dim and mood somber. Drifters and grifters.

Sam had a quiz today. (Mondays are quiz days.) Sam’s quiz went fine - more than fine if he allows himself that, but that’s not the point. The point is.

To be very frank, Sam doesn’t even know what the point is—about why he’s here and not in the library and he’d rather not investigate it, thank you. He just knows that it’s sometimes easier to study at noisy bars than elsewhere. To just be. And that’s fine. It is.

He sighs. The glare of his lap offending. He won't get done with this paper tonight.

Sam likes college. He really does.

He does, it's just - Mondays were heavy, and so were Tuesdays, and so were Wednesdays and Thursdays and well, Fridays were a blur of office hours and discussion sessions. Sam hadn't quite figured out what to do with his weekends yet, they were mostly reserved for passing out and freshmen events. Needless to say, Sam's schedule was less than “ideal”.

It's not something Sam really wants to admit to himself.

12-15 units is ideal for your first quarter, the UG Handbook had said. Sam remembers scrolling down stubbornly past that until he got to the part . The maximum number of academic units a first-quarter frosh may enroll in is 20, the rough equi—

Well, then.

He remembers his Cohort leader frowning upon hearing his plans for the semester, kind brown eyes wide with concern, "You should slow down, Sam. Take a breather."

Remembers stubbornly thinking then that coming to Stanford was the breather. Just getting there. Cursed may be the freshmen who take a full course load but it’s nothing that Sam’s not used to. He could do it. The rigour made him feel purposive, focused; free.

That had been five weeks ago.

People trickle in and trickle out, their presence noisy and solid, and Sam thinks vaguely about sleep studies and ocean sounds. Sleepless people desperately needing sleep. Sleepless people wanting to be whales.

Chastises himself for the judgement—they don’t want to be whales. They just—they just want sleep. It’s fine. It’s normal. It’s all fine. It’s—

The thing is, Sam knows need. He knows desperation too. He’s just never known this specific shade of desperate need.

If you walk out that door—

His chest suddenly feels tight with rage, white-hot and grievous. Ugly. Sam clenches his fist.

A glass clinks down in front of him. He watches it grumble at it is slides closer; wide fingers wrapped around it.

An Old Fashioned, served in a stern looking glass except for one little addition. it’s got a little umbrella in it. His lips quirk up, the rage settling into something gentler. Wait—Sam looks up, confused, “Hey, I don’t think I ordered—“

“My man, bar’s closing, and you’ve been in here for the last 5 hours treating it like it’s a goddamn library. It’s on the house, come on.”

It’s the Bartender.

Sam took notice of him when he arrived, but it was nothing more than cursory at the time.

But now...

The Bartender is a big dude. He’s dressed comfortably, a plaid overshirt draped casually over a black tee. His shoulders are very broad. He’s handsome, there’s no question about it.

He's bigger than Sam too—at least in terms of muscle mass; stockier.

He seems older, and he has one of the most impressive goatees Sam's ever seen. It would look stupid on almost anyone else, but it frames the bartender's solid jaw just right.

Sam smiles. Alright then.

Can’t hurt.

“Only if you drink with me.”

Mr. Cool-Beard-Guy-Bartender looks surprised, his eyes glinting in the dark. They look like church windows against the frigid, a frigid glass tone. His pupils are very, very black.

“Alright, Chief.” He answers, smiling with too white teeth.

Sam’s breath picks up.

“It’s your call.”

Easy.

The thing is, Sam shouldn’t be doing this. He really, really shouldn’t.

There’s something about this guy that Sam can’t put a finger on, and it should make Sam rethink this drink, should make him shove his laptop in his bag and get the hell out of here, should should should—

Instead, heat curls in Sam’s stomach. The conflict a siren song; the line between fear and arousal so thin it makes him hazy.

The door rattles loudly as the last customer heads out, snapping Sam out of his head. A slurry “G’night Brother” signaling a less than grand exit.

Watches the bartender as he mock salutes at the closed door, then winks at Sam. “ ‘Smiracle he still knows night from day.”

Sam can't help his smile. Funny. Mr. Cool-Beard-Guy-Bartender’s funny.

Sam’s way too sober for this but - what the hell, It’s 2 am, and past curfew anyway; he’ll have to spend the night outside.

He will, and if a handsome stranger is offering.

Well. It’s not like there’s anyone waiting for him.

Looking out for him.

He watches as the bartender gets another glass out, pours into it. It’s all very slow and deliberate. A show. A performance.

A seduction.

Sam inhales sharply and tastes air that’s thick with anticipation.

Before his brain can overthink this to the point of ruin, he clinks their glasses together and gulps the whole thing down like a shot.

He immediately regrets it; coughing and spluttering viciously as the acrid liquid settles in his stomach.

He can hear the guy chuckling while he’s having his near-death experience. It’s just rude.

He looks up at the Bartender, trying to make his eyes as disapproving as possible. It’s not very successful because it just makes the Bartender grin harder.

Dick.

Sam hasn’t had a drink in a while. Well, not since his freshman initiation, that’s for sure. And that was well over 5 whole weeks ago.

Cool Beard Guy Bartender hands him a lemon.

“Suck on that.” He instructs.

Sam wants to make a dirty joke. It’s funny. It’s actually, really funny and Sam’s trying very hard not to giggle.

“Uh…”

Cool Beard Guy Bartender puts his hands up, as if to say “hey I didn’t say anything.” Typical. Cool Beard Guy—alright, you know what, Sam can’t keep doing this.

“What’s your name, I mean,” sucks on the lemon. The sourness of it is grounding. It actually helps. Sam wonders if his thumb is going to taste like the lemon later. “—you don’t have to say it if you don’t want to—you know, it’s just I can’t keep calling you Cool Beard Guy—.”

Shuts up. Oh no. Oh no.

He flushes red.

You’re such a lightweight, Sammy.

Stupid big brother laugh. Stupid big leather jacket that didn’t fit right. Stupid big brother hands holding him up; cheap metal rings digging into his ribs. At the center of it all, a promise in the shape of a charm. A gift revoked, and a gift given.

So much warmth it threatens to suffocate—so much joy Sam’s giddy with it.

“Benny.”

“Hm?”

“My name.” He says, with a grin.

Right. Fuck. Focus, Sam chastises inwardly.

“Short for Benjamin?”

“Short for nothing at all.” The Bartender says with a smirk. It's restrained.

There’s a distinctive southern drawl in his voice that’s making it so much harder for Sam to think properly.

Sam’s feeling fidgety. There’s something about this guy that reminds him too much of hunts. Too much of scattered homes, and monsters and D—

“ ‘Nother.”

“You sure about that, Chief?”

Sam nods, grinning. He likes that. He likes being called Chief.

Benny’s quiet. His hand wavers where it’s holding the bottle and the silence stretches and squeezes.

His gaze is piercing, both hungry and conflicted. Sam knows that look. He’s seen that look, so many times.

“Nah, I think you’re good, Big Guy.”

The thought vanishes.

Sam’s eyebrows scrunch up. He thinks he must pout because Benny ducks his gaze, laughs a little breathlessly and downs his own drink. It was bigger than Sam’s own.

Must have—must have been. Sam feels very drunk.

Benny pours another and downs it too. It’s almost impressive.

Almost.

Sam watches. And watches; waiting.

He’s pouring a third one for himself before Sam clasps his hand over Benny’s wrist. Turns it over. He’s very cold.

“...Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.”

Sam needs him. Sam doesn’t want him to get drunk just because Sam is drunk. That’s not—it’s not right. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

“No.” Shakes his head. “No.”

Benny looks at him, searching. Closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. Breathes out. When he opens his eyes, they’re much darker.

“Okay. Alright then, no.”

Sam’s still holding his hand. Slides it down so it’s covering his palm. They’re slightly smaller than his, but wider. Rougher, like a carpenter. Or a hunter.

Sam shudders.

He can feel Benny watching him, careful. The way you track a prey. Sam would know, wouldn’t he?

Drags the glass to his mouth. Both of their hands clasped over the drink like a ritual. Or a promise. And tips it over into his drying mouth.

It still burns. And he’s going to have a hell of a hangover later. Scotch on rocks.

Just like Dad, huh Sammy?

His eyes burn. He blinks furiously. Not now. Not now.

“What’s the matter, Darlin’?”

Sam snorts at that, shakes his head. He’s not—he’s not.

“Are we—we just. We just gonna talk all night...Or ?” He slurs. Waves his hand between them meaningfully.

Benny laughs at that. Bemused.

“Whatever you want, Chief.”

Back to Chief again. Good. Good.

“I … I know what I want.”

Benny’s staring straight at him, his eyes calculating. It makes Sam feel—

“Do you…also want?”

Benny chuckles at that. His tone is sombre when he replies though, darker. Voice, gravel.

“Like you wouldn’t fucking believe.”

The honesty of it is staggering, has him feeling a little faint.

He watches as Benny swallows hard, then mirrors him.

And that’s that then.

Sam leans forward the same moment Benny leans back, catches him by his shoulders; his head knocks into Benny’s chest.

Whomp.

The embarrassment hits him like a pail of cold water.

He pulls back, flushed red. Confused. The anger comes easily enough.

“What the hell, dude?”

“Sweetheart...”

“It’s Sam. It’s Sam.”

“Alright. Sam. It’s late. It doesn’t matter what I want but I don’t want...I don’t want you waking up in the morning and punching me in the face, alright?”

Sam stares, confused. What the hell was he talking about.

Fuck this guy.

“What? What is it? You suddenly grow a moral compass? You don’t wanna fu—”

Sucks in a breathe. He suddenly wants to punch the guy. Feels so small.

“You don’t w—.” Clenches his teeth. His tongue betrays him anyway. “Me?” He breathes out, struggling.

Benny looks surprised, to his credit.

“Darl-"corrects himself, "Sam. I haven’t been able to take my damn eyes off of you since you walked in here with that scary lookin’ gadget of yours.” His southern twang playing with the vowels of the sea.

So easy admitted. So easily given away. The sincerity of it stuns. Sam’s heart does a thing. Idiot.

He makes him so shy. Makes him needy. He’s so drunk, and he misses home so, so terribly. And he wishes He were here. He wants-- He wants his big brother. He wants his big brother beside him. Looking out for him. Keeping him safe. He needs.

The admission burns like shame.

“Please.” His eyes blur over.

“What’s wrong?” Easy, warm. Inviting. Worried.

Worried.

Sam shakes his head.

Benny's eyes furrow.

“I want—I want to go home.” His voice breaks, and it’s humiliating.

Benny’s eyes are so, so kind.

“Come on, kid.”

There’s hands dragging him up and there’s hands holding him there. One of Sam’s hands slung over Benny’s neck. A parody of a memory long lost.

Big burly hands. Salt and brine. The back of his neck is so cold too. This should mean something. This should.

“You’re fu-fucking cold, you know that?”

Gets a chuckle in return. “I’ve been told.”

“Are you drunk?”

Pause. “…Unfortunately, yes.”

“Well, yeah...yeah. I mean—two drinks is a-a lot.” Eyes wide.

Silence. Sam can feel Benny’s breath growing more laboured.

“It’s not the Whiskey doing it.” The admission is strained, quiet. Followed by a dark chuckle.

Sam doesn’t quite follow, but it’s okay. It’s getting harder to think. He trusts. He trusts Benny.

Benny, the kind stranger with a no-name bar and too white teeth and the darkest pupils he's ever seen.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to my place.”

Sam doesn’t struggle or startle at that. He wants this. He does. Lets himself get bundled into the car. Let’s Benny take the wheel. Curls up in the backseat and stares at the moon.

It’s so warm in the car.

Blankets shared over winter nights on the road, a crooning lullaby - spoken in staticky tones. A rattling vent spitting out waves of heat that still don't entirely warm him up.

"Dean, turn it up!"

“It’s really warm.”

Benny hums at that. “Do you want me to turn the heater down?”

“No, I mean—it’s nice.” Pauses. “It’s really nice.”

He catches Benny’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Smiles.

“Thanks, Sugar.”

Sam wants to take offence at it, but it fails him.

Sam doesn’t remember much of anything else, but he does remember hanging on to him like a vise. He remembers clinging on and trying to breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Remembers being put to bed. Doesn’t remember much after that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam wakes up with a start, disoriented, to the sound of a motor bike starting. There’s a blanket wrapped around him and one of his shoes is on the floor.

He's barely out of the bed when last night decides to rear its ugly head; nausea swells like a wave and Sam scrambles to make to make it out of bed -

Vomit hits the floor with a wet dripping noise, sincere in all of its awfulness.

Sam groans. Great, can't help but sit down and stare despondently at the stupid mess. He wants to clean up, but it's just too much effort, he wishes he could just lie here a while, but it's not an option.

One, two, three - okay, again.

One, two, three - up.

Empty house. Empty flat. He walks around for a while, searching for water - his head an angry throb. He staggers over to the fridge and opens it to see it empty except for a singular water bottle, something that looks like dirt water, and a note.

He opts for the bottle first, downs the whole thing in one go, and groans. Too soon. His stomach grumbles unhappily, acrid bile pooling on his tongue, souring his mouth.

Sam sits down, parched throat now burning, and tries not to think about how he should have read the note first, shouldn't have acted so hastily.

Shouldn't shouldn't shouldn't.

He's so tired, already.

He knows what Dad would have said, what Dean would have said, and they're starting to sound like the same voice.

Something blisters beneath his skin.

The note.

When he reaches for the fridge door, it is urgent. He feels unsettled. The note is a neatly folded white printing paper, it says - "Drink the brown stuff first - it's good hangover cure." Handwriting scribbled, but still cursive, still elegant. It's sweet.

It's also surprising - it's not what he would have expected a dingy bar owner's (or was it bartender?) handwriting to look like. He tries to smile but there's something here.

Something he's not willing to accept here, he knows that.

Vamp -

He slams the fridge door shut.

There's nothing here that remotely suggests that. Nothing happened, there's nothing that incriminates Benny in the least. It's not like that - nothing happened.

Why'd he just leave all of a sudden, Sammy?

Fuck OFF, Dean.

It could have just been a bad one night stand. It was a bad one night stand - that's all. He embarrassed himself, Benny left. It was fine, it didn't mean anything. It didn't.

Okay. Focus. Did he bring his bag? Did he bring anything at all. His laptop. He needed to find his laptop. Sam wishes he weren't being as frantic as he was now, but fuck it, Dad wasn't here to tell him to get it together - he was allowed to freak out about this. It was allowed.

It was normal.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

A single thought keeps flowing in his head, turning over and over like a strand of DNA, extending vertically across himself. He feels like the thread and then, doesn't feel at all.

Home isn't real. Home isn't real, home isn't real. It's just you, alone.

He just has to go from here, that's all. He just has to leave and he just has to make sure that they doesn't get to know.

He doesn't chug the brown mud-water down (herbal hangover, c'mon), doesn't investigate anymore than he needs to (knows it is a conscious overlook on his part, knows he's doing it for a reason, knows that he is running away-)

His hands shake when he goes to dial his phone. His hands tremble with it. He doesn't know what he's doing, he needs - That's when the phone rings.

'Dad.'

oh fuck, what the hell, what the actual HELL.

He feels dangerously on edge, slanting - the precipice so much closer than he could have imagined. He feels equal parts trepidation and relief, doesn't know what to call this. The knot in his throat screams.

He could scream, he could scream at the phone and tell Dad to fuck off, to help him, to try and get him because he's fucking scared, but he won't. He won't.

He neutralizes himself. He's not this person, he doesn't run to fucking dad. He knows how to deal with this.

The phone stops ringing.

When he leaves the delipidated building, he doesn't look back. It's much too familiar a gesture to investigate, so Sam doesn't. His backpack is simultaneously heavier and lighter, the letter and the hangover-cure tucked securely in the second zip-pocket of his bag.

He pretends not to notice the phone booth outside of the house, and if there is a shadow in the bushes - he hopes it is imagined.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Okay ! Well, that took me way to long to write, over nearly 40 (or what it feels like) weeks of downright terribleness (re: personal life) but yayy

[oceansssblue]

~ [MAGICAL CREATURES SERIES] – THE BAD BATCH AU (N4)

Pt5. "THE SMELL OF FIRE" HUNTER/PHOENIX!OFC

THERE'S SOMETHING STRANGE HAPPENING IN THE SMALL MOON PLACED ON THE EDGES OF THE GALAXY WITH THE UNKOWN REGIONS. THEIR PEOPLE ARE RESERVED AND SECRETIVE; TRYING TO APPEAR NORMAL, THOUGH HUNTER HEAVILY SUSPECTS THEY AREN'T. HIS NOSE EASILY PICKS UP THE SMELL OF ASH AND FIRE.

WARNINGS (Pt5): FIGHT DESCRIPTIONS, WOUNDED CHARACTERS, MENTIONS OF BLOOD AND SCARS, BURNS, AND PAST CHILDHOOD TRAUMA (FIRE ACCIDENT).

Link for part 1:

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The night had turned off most of Aodh's usual faint glowing lights; dulling the ever shining highlights of the moon's silvery sand. Though not in full silence, the tribe seemed to be quieter than usual at such late hours; the oldest collecting the excess of food that wasn't eaten at dinner in order to save it for another day. Hunter had just finished his; the usual combination of a sweet sticky flower nectar and an array of different seeds. It was a weird diet for the clone; but if he was being honest, nutri-bars didn't taste much better. Omega even seemed to enjoy these.

It was thanks to this quietness –only a few murmurs and small laughs of the children here and there– that Hunter was able to hear a small dripping sound not so far to them. His ears twitched involuntarily, and his eyes quickly made a detailed scan around him while Tech and Wrecker continued their argument. He couldn't see as well in the dark as Crosshair; so it took him longer than he would have liked to realise the source of the noise.

His eyes finally landed on the lake behind the first line of trees. There was no creature to be seen; but he could barely make out the riples in the water, as if something were moving fast under it.

He made a hand gesture to his squad and they all went silent, suddenly as alert and focused as him.

Hunter's eyes narrowed.

"What is it?" Omega whispered.

The expert tracker then locked his attention on a black rounded shape slowly rising above the surface of the lake. The colors were so similar to it that it was difficult to separe it's figure from the water; but two seconds later, dark purple eyes revealed themselves, and Hunter inmediatelly understood what it meant.

"Chitari" he warned, hand slowly moving towards his unseparatable vibro-blade.

As if summoned, the beasts simultaneously jumped out of the water, and quickly pounced onto the distracted natives; havoc setting loose. Screams echoed throughout the forest; and while each batcher inmediately stood up and drawed their respective weapons, flashes of light and fire spread throughout the camp. In front of them, half of the natives turned to their animal shape –that burnt and ashy smell growing stronger each second–; while others looked lost and scared.

"The kids and elders can't transform" Hunter realised, clenching his jaw "Protect them".

The order needn't be repeated twice. The Batch quickly movilised; advancing between the trees with their weapons ready to use. Wrecker and Omega ran to help those of old age, while the other three of them quickly formed a circle around the kids of the tribe. Other natives had prioritised the same thing; an array of what Tech had confirmed a few days ago as phoenixes completing the circle as well. Some where orange, some looking almost golden. Bigger or smaller, slightly different features in their bodies. If something was clear, it was that they all had powerful beaks and claws, and they were ready to give their all.

Hunter had to pull himself together when he encountered his first Chitari face to face. He had seen hundreds of different species along the galaxy; but this... This creatures easily blended into the night, only a quick flash of purple serving as a warning before the first strike, and they felt oscure, almost demonic. The tribe believed themselves to be part of a fire spirit, of what Hunter had thought to be some manifestation of the Force. He questioned if that same logic meant that this creatures where part of the dark side of it, a concentrated corrupted kind of energy that resided only in the most dangerous Siths.

He managed to dodge the beasts paws by only a pair of centimeters; it's powerfull sharp claws leaving their mark on his left pauldron. He cursed and rolled out of the way of the second attack; quickly using the oportunity to turn around and take a swipe against the animal's skin. Raw fear and worry filled his chest when he realised his knife did nothing to the dark skin, seemingly impenetrable. How... How had the tribe skinned this animals, then?

One of the phoenixes intercepted the next strike of the Chitari over him; and Hunter watched as the bird aimed towards one of his eyes with his beak. In one quick powerfull movement, the phoenix pierced the Chitari's purple eye; and the animal screeched in pain. Both irises seemed to dull in color to almost black and a purple light rippled through the animals skin. The phoenix then rammed his beak and claws onto the beast's back and pulled; another screech and Hunter could see the Chitari's pale under skin.

He had no fucking idea how it all worked; but he understood how to fight them now, and he was quick to open his com, pressing onto his vambrace.

"Aim for the eyes" he pointed out, quickly dodging another attack and taking advantage of the intervention of a different phoenix to jump on the Chitari's massive form. "It somehow eliminates their skin resistance".

While the phoenix and the Chitari wounded each other and tried to pull their skins off, Hunter pounced and plunged his vibro-blade onto the animals left eye; the phoenix making a echoing shrill sound before tearing apart his belly with his claws.

In the middle of what seemed to be an endless assault, Hunter catched a flash of light with the corner of his eyes. A glance was all he needed to understand; the phoenix was spitting flames of fire, and red feathers blended with its black body. It was Alinta, fiercely keeping the Chitari away from the children of her tribe; which meant her father was alone in their cabin, as he always had his food there as to not strain himself too much at such a tiring hour of the night.

Hunter ordered his brothers to hold their position and ran.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Alinta had only experienced that level of fear once before in her life. The nightmare he often dreamed about; the trauma that still haunted her. But she had been with the rest of the tribe when the Chitari had pounced on them; had had to soldier on and protect the children, the future of their clan. It had been a difficult, hourly fight. They had won –though not without loss–; and only when just a few Chitari had remained alive, Alinta had deemed it safe to abandon her tribe to themselves, and rush to her father's cabin. She prayed the Chitaris hadn't found their way towards it yet, distracted by the congregation of natives ten minutes away; but she couldn't help but feel dreadful, with high chances that he would find his dad... Dead.

And he had looked dead, at first; but underneath all the dirt and blood, no matter if his body was weirdly sprawled on the ground or how much he trembled, Alinta had quickly found out he was very much alive. And she had broken into childish sobs at that.

"Dad..." she whinned, holding his upper body towards his chest, caressing his hair.

The man pulled a tired smile on his face and hummed.

"I'm alright, little bird. It's all superficial wounds. Hunter came in right in time".

Alinta blinked, and her eyes turned sharply towards the dead Chitari she had already noticed upon her arrival; only now repairing on the clone's figure standing at the other side of the massive beast, bloody vibroblade still in hand. Alinta's breath hitched, and her red stare travelled it's way towards the Chitari's wounded eye; then back down to the blood oozing down his mouth and neck. Hunter had... Hunter had saved his father, and that... That wonderful, beautiful strong human had killed the beast all by himself.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Hunter had helped Alinta to carry her trembling father inside their cabin towards his bed and patiently waited as she cleaned him and dressed his wounds with some sort of herbal medicine. They had been silent all throughout it; not wanting to disturb the wounded man, who had quickly fallen into a light slumber with the drop of the adrenaline. Hunter also knew Alinta had been terrified of losing him –it had been heartbreaking to see her reaction upon arriving–; and gave her the peace needed to process the recent events.

"She always guilt" the voice of the elder suddenly spoke up, almost giving Hunter a scare. "Inside. I close to die, she small. No her do, no... No know, but she guilt".

Alinta had left them momentarily to get more medicine from the tribe –both for his father and Hunter himself–; and the clone had been left alone with the man. The elder had apparently found the ocasion to be perfect to finally explain that bit of their past. Hunter felt a bit guilty finding out that information without the woman's presence; but it felt wrong to interrumpt, so he listened.

He listened how Alinta had woken up one day with their cabin covered in fire, walls and bed burning in flames and all around her. Her seven year old self had cried in fear; anguish only momentarily soothed by his father's bursting figure running through the growing fire towards her. But when her dad had tried to pull her into his embrace, ready to abandon the place, the flames had only switched from her skin towards his; licking up his hands and arms, making him scream in pain. She had screamed too, terrified; and watched helpessly as her father passed out from the pain and dropped heavily to the ground. She had quickly jumped out of bed, tried to desperately tug him out of the crumbling cabin; but had realised it only made his condition worsen, it only made the fire extend further from her to him, and she had been forced to give up on him. She had cried a thousend apologies before turning and running away; confused and terrified by how the fire didn't seem to hurt her, but trying to get help from anyone on the tribe as well. The fire had been washed down, and the gravely injured body of his father had been treated by Egon's most strong medicines for months. Parts of his skin had been completely burnt, scars and ugly dried wounds marking him forever; still calling Alinta's accident years later, when she had finally learnt to control herself.

"Little bird guilt. I see. I know. But she no guilt. I know. She... Know too, but hard accept sometime. Need people remind her" the man explained, his voice quiet and soft in the loneliness of their cabin.

Hunter's heart clenched.

"I know you and her" he continued, surprising the clone with his calmed, unacussing voice. "Remind her. Remind her to breathe. She always protect tribe. Protect me. If only a moment, help her live".

Hunter's mind swirled with thoughts and feelings. He felt lost for a minute; before taking a deep breath and accepting what he had already known for almost a week now –maybe longer–. Finding himself.

His deep chocolate eyes stared onto Alinta's father's bright ones. He nodded; a honest, solemn dip of his chin.

"I'll try my best".

END OF PART FIVE

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

PART SIX HERE:

YO GUYSSSS WE'RE ALMOST FINISHED WITH THIS STORY! WE'VE ONLY GOT ONE MORE CHAPTER LEFT (THAT WILL INCLUDE OUR CHARACTERS CAVING IN AND A SORT OF CLOSEUP) AND WE'RE DONE!

I HOPE YOUR LIKING THIS STORY, LET ME KNOW! REBLOG IF U CAN!

LET ME KNOW TOO IF U WANNA BE TAGGED FOR NEXT CHAP OR ANY OF MY WORK.

SEE YOU NEXT TIME!

Xx,

Sky.

Link to my general masterlist:

Link to magical creatures series:

[deceptichubs]

Post war / peace time on cybertron !! Breakdown are knockout are happy & together and stuff

Everything is normal till the day breakdown is cleaning some old stuff from their war days ..... and finds some old " failed " super soldier project and vials with glowing liquid regarding said super soldier project // failed because the results were a bit too big

And well it wouldnt hurt for him to try a little bit right ? Besides there is no such thing as too big for him . So he drinks one of the vials

5 minutes later he gets ravenous & hungry like never before !! Like someone just opened a black whole inside his boyd and he needs to fill it asap

Fortunaly he and knockout just bought groceruies, and he pretty much devours 1 month worth of food meant for two bots in two hours

He sits on the sofa, satisfied at last even with his belly sloshing and hurting from all the food he just ingested, but relieved all the same

BUT ! That was just the beggining what he drank was actually nanities meant to reinforce the frame of whoever drank them !! And now that breakdown gave all the fuel & material they needed, they can actually start working their magic :D

Breakdown was always an burly strong mech, top heavy and slower than most // but now the nanities are amplying that by building layer on top of layer

Reinforcing cables making them thicker, building stronger plating AND also building a very heavy layer of mesh for reserve and cushioning purposes ! ( very important )

It all condensed fat so its not as nearly as flabby and soft as it would be ...... but there is so MUCH of it ! Its heavy and curbesome, weird to poke at his own belly and meet so much resistance ...... but also kinda cool ?

And apparently there is such a thing as TOO BIG, he was already a big strong mech, but now he feels bloated and swollen all around him, like someone injected raw cement in his body

His arms were at least twice as thick with bigger cables with lots and lots of mesh / he could barely turns his head, as if everything but his neck & head grew, leaving him semi-buried in his own body

His chest was alwas big and imposing, but it grew so much he seriously couldnt look down at all

He barely managed to get himself up from the crushed sofa, each step slow and heavy

He was about as strong and immovable as a mountain ..... but also just as slow as one // he looks like a cross bewtween a heavy lifter who has been dirty bulking for years

Part 1

These descriptions are searing--the sheer size, the deteriorating mobility. Feels like something that could potentially happen in canon.

(Well, I'd like it to, anyway.)

[festivalofthe12]

So, in almost all cases, fiction depends on at least some minimal level of connection to realism. Unless something is explicitly written as a non-sequitur with no structure (and even then, some will find meaning in it if only by cross-referencing to real-world logic), we tend to expect things to be like real life unless we're given a good reason to think otherwise.

So, in Game of Thrones, we expect and accept dragons and magic existing because those are mainstays of the genre. And we expect some characters to declare life-risking loyalty to monarchs, even though almost nobody nowadays could really relate to that, because we understand the historical context the show is roughly based on, we expect it of the genre, and it 'makes sense' for the characters.

However, when Daenerys happily rides a dragon past a person she knows has it out for her and would try to kill her dragon, and her dragon dies, we get annoyed. We can accept dragons existing, but we just don't buy Daenerys psychologically acting that way: she's smart and ambitious and cautious, and most certainly would not just forget about a major threat so easily. People in the real world with her qualities and history wouldn't act like that: it isn't 'realistic'.

With that being said, writers are not omniscient. They carry into their works a countless array of assumptions about the way the world works. And so, even when they weren't deliberately intending for a story to send a particular message, we can still interrogate the array of 'common sense' presumptions that went into writing it: the stuff they thought was so obviously 'realistic', they probably didn't even think about it.

Take a very misogynistic writer who believes that it is normal and good for a husband to beat his wife when she misbehaves. And let's say this opinion isn't that far from the mainstream; or at the least, it's not a viewpoint that we often draw attention to. They would probably think nothing of having a heroic and likeable character treating his wife like that, the incident would probably be treated in a pretty perfunctory and undramatic sort of way (as it is, in the writer's imagination, a perfectly common and unexceptional occurrence), and there wouldn't be shown or implied to be any negative consequences for the wife.

This is all the sort of thing we think of when we talk about framing, and particularly around 'romanticising' behaviours. By examining the way a specific action (or theme or character or so forth) is treated - comically, dramatically, or neutrally? How are the shots staged; who gets any emotional close-ups? Who are our viewpoint characters? When does this scene occur, and how is it edited it; what comes before and after? - we can examine how a writer may have intended an action to be perceived.

Of course, this comes with a lot of caveats. This is all very subjective, not a checklist scenario: for example, a protagonist or even hero character performing an action is not necessarily always romanticised; characters can have flaws! Also, writers(/producers/directors/whoever) can just be... bad at their jobs? The clearest marker or failed art is in failing to communicate what was intended; maybe the creator of the scene described above thought it was 'obvious' that the hero beating his wife was bad, and mishandled the execution.

Additionally, everything has to be viewed in context. Sometimes, the bigger picture can completely change an interpretation of a scene. For example, the main characters of the What We Do In The Shadows TV show routinely act in vile ways typically reserved for horrific villains, but that's because the show is a dark comedy, and in this case, the show avoids romanticising them (among other ways) by making them giant fucking idiotic losers.

It's also worth noting that a lot of these analyses work far better on a societal level, much like BMI being intended to work with overall populations rather than individuals. If particular actions tend to be portrayed in certain ways, it says something about what we tend to think of as 'normal' for those actions. Looking at things that way is almost always most helpful than singling in on specific creators and holding them individually responsible for widespread, structural oppressions.

tl;dr: writers come into works with assumptions about reality, and through analysing fiction we can try to discern what they (or, ideally, what the society they're writing in) believe about the world.

[toxycodone]

exhausted wolf anon here 🐺🪚 i decided on giant whip spider for the creature my sona is, since they live in caves and it would make more sense to find him in the dungeon.

His mom is a half-foot named Danlok! She was obsessed with magic (haven't read the manga yet but she's into forbidden magic, forgot the name- I'm writing this down for the first time in this ask lol I'll do some research after) andddd got chased out of her half-foot village when they found out what she was doing!! Her husband (Ferfil ig? Fer is his first name 1000%, idk what the last name or family name is yet, just spit balling rn) helped her move into a secluded area, where they had their first kiddo! His full name is Sigvik Ferz, he grew up to be about 4 years old? Before contracting a fatal illness that they couldn't find a way to cure, despite his mother's magical prowess. He passed away after 7 months of his parents trying to stabilize him. So, she left his body exactly where it was, and worked tirelessly to keep his soul contained so she could bring him back to life. She became obsessed with this goal, to an unhealthy degree, submerging herself completely into her work and avoiding anything that would distract her. Her husband was (understandably) concerned, but tried to take care of her the best that he could while she was in this state, making sure she had food and water at least. One thing led to the next, and she managed to bring Sigvik back after she disappeared with his body for a full week. But something was very wrong visually- he was double the height, with a black dusty carapace on his entire body, 6 spiked arms, and two large whip-like appendages protruding from his back. The only recognizable part of him was his face, a slight difference being his eyes were a little bigger, and almost entirely taken up by his pupils, only a sliver of the scleras visible when he looked head on. But, he was back, just a little more reserved and light-sensitive than before. His father was a little off-put at first, but once he realized that this man was in fact his son, his parents both raised him like a normal half-foot child! (holy fuck I'm writing so much I apologize for this lmfao 😿😿)

He aged like normal, until he reached maturity- and seemed to stop completely. Neither of his parents noticed until around 5 years passed? and he had no significant changes in his appearance. Which was, maybe concerning?? His mom didn't know why it was happening. His dad tried to get an answer out of her but she couldn't figure it out even if she wanted to. Still, they took care of him, hoping

A few years after this, Sigvik came home after a little walk at night and his parents were both gone. He looked everywhere for them, in their little hide-out, but found nothing. Everything was in its place, exactly how it was before he left. So, he waited for them to return. Then waited a little more. Then waited even longer. He didn't know how long they would be gone, but they would always come back home before, so he didn't think this would be much different. After the first full day they hadn't returned, he decided he would go looking for them. He got lost in the woods outside of his home, found and promptly chased away by a group of weird tall people (hasnt met anyone other than his parents), getting even more lost. He found his way into a sea-side city at night, explored a boat, got trapped inside of a crate or something of that effect, anddd ended up on the island!! crawled into the dungeon and has been living there since :3

until maybe Laios' or Kabru's party stumbles on him in the deeper levels of the dungeon. He finds half-foots more familiar and approachable than the other races (he would be very scared of Laios when they first meet- large loud man + recluse bug boy with very sensitive ears = instant disaster) and also Kabru and Marcille would be the second scariest people he meets tbh, but Kabru could probably figure out a way to make himself seem non-threatening. I see Sigvik following Kabru's party around if they meet him before Laios' party- or he finds Chilchuck secluded from the rest of the folks and they talk while he's hidden from view since they both are half-foots and have good ears. Then he steps out and scares the fucking life out of Chil because what the fuck is that thing. But then he talks and realizes 'oh this guy is the half-foot I've been talking to for the past 20 minutes in my native tongue. huh.' and yeah ..

Fun facts about Sigvik Ferz!!

His favorite food is sweet-bread, his favorite color is ivory, and his favorite animal is a sheep...

Chilchuck reminds him of his dad so he sticks close to him if he joins Laios' party!

he would be a fucking force to reckon with if he actually tried fighting, but (un)fortunately he has no interest in doing that at all.

Anyway lmk what u think or what I should add to him bc idk what else I could expand on .... What would Venery think of him omg!!!!!

OKAY LIVE!! one. i am jealous of how good you are at naming characters I am. In awe. and that creature is so damn cool????

okay two. DO NOT APOLOGIZE FOR TYPING A LOT I LOVE THE BACKSTORY. It's really good! Did his parents get captured for his mom's involvement in dark magic?

I think Laios's party is definitely the best bet for him. In my personal hc I think Kabru finds it difficult to associate with beastmen (like. at least early in the story). Bc although he treats Kuroo POLITELY. He still says not to trust him and stuff (as time goes on he gets better tho as shown in the kobold extra he kinda confronts his own biases a lil)

BUT YEAH. IN THE DUNGEON. he is safest w Laios's group. And I can see chilchuck actually vouching for him, but in Chil's eyes, Sigvik is a victim of black magic and he. may kinda rub that in Marcille's face a bit. Chil would probably want to invite him in the party bc he's like "well we're trying to find a cure for izutsumi anyways" (Personally I think Chil would want to give him money to return to the surface but then hes like wait. this guy cant live on the surface he'll be killed, captured or worse). He sticks up for other half foots lol. BUT YEAH.

VENERY. MAN. ugh. the hyena genes really fuck w him (being a dungeon rabbit mix makes him a tad more docile but. not really. urghie)

He would definitely push Sigvik around. He is probably the most accepting besides Laios since Ven is just. cool like tat. but He's kinda like "this guy CANNOT be this much of a pushover" and then is like. shocked when he is. He'll bully Sigvik and pick on him but like. Does NOT let anything bad happen to him. and he also gets upset on Sigvik's behalf if anyone insults or picks on him (It's Ven's privilege to do that!! not a right!!)

After that Venery is giving him C+C lessons...combat and confidence. Bc he's nervous if Sig doesn't start learning to stick up for himself and fight back then no one will.

[alecsalamander]

the resa lives au

David dies on a Wednesday.

A tragic accident, says the nice man with the hard eyes, a fault somewhere along the brake line. It could have happened to anyone at any time – these things happen, she’s told, explanations coming where apologies should lie instead. If it helps, they tell her, he most likely didn’t suffer.

They tell her a lot, and all of it is exactly what she needs to hear. She doesn’t believe any of it.

It’s a perfectly normal and logical event: a man drives a car with a good hundred thousand number of miles on it, and the brakes fail. He dies on impact. She knows they’re lying because she knows – knew – David. Ever since she told him she was pregnant he was determined to keep them both safe; he never would have let the brakes in the car get worn like that. Not a car Lacey rode in.

She also knows because she was supposed to be in the car with him, but climbed out of the seat still in their driveway and said, with a kiss to her husband’s cheek, that it didn’t feel right leaving Wendy alone with the baby.

When she gets home that night, she turns on the shower to hide the sounds of her sobbing. She cries for exactly twenty-five minutes until the timer on her watch beeps, and then she throws up twice, and then she goes to sleep.

In the morning, she requests the paperwork for her Chapter 5-8.

When the team had been relisted to reserve, it wasn't the influx of free time or the relaxing of a great number of rules they had lived and breathed for the last five years that had been the greatest appeal – it was the sudden offering of something that felt like permanence. They were no longer required to live on base, or even in the same block; as long as they were within an hour of base, the government didn't much care where they decided to set down roots. She and David had put in an offer on a two-story, three-bedroom brownstone in a historic neighborhood of Boston that first week, and Wendy had gone with them.

(It was one thing to share space when they were required to be in a stricter geographic radius and another entirely when the decision was an active choice, but Resa had known exactly what she was doing. She'd told Lacey about the house in the same breath she'd asked Wendy to move with them, smiling when she'd immediately turned her bright green gaze with a gasped "Uncle Wendy is gonna live with us?" she knew he would never be able to say no to. It ended up being a bigger blessing than any of them could ever have known, because David was dead only a month later and Wendy was already there to keep their family together.)

Her discharge has only just come through when she sits down at the table with a second folder of paperwork. “Wednesday Bishop,” she says calmly. He looks up from his breakfast at the sound of his name, an action mirrored immediately by Lacey; Resa takes all of three seconds to wonder if the toddler even knew her uncle’s full name before now before continuing. “David has called you my partner in crime for years now. Wanna make it literal?”

He chews, and swallows, and meets her stare unblinkingly. And then, with his surety that always makes her think about magic, he agrees. “Absolutely.”

She's already cried for her twenty-five minutes this morning, but feels a few tears leak through the tight walls she keeps around them. The thing is, she knows if she lets herself cry for real she’ll probably never stop – she misses David like she’s forgotten how to breathe, like she’s been cut in half, like some very vital part of her is missing. She misses David in a way she knows is not ever going to get better, not with time or healing or however people talk about grief and the process. In a way she knows will be a bleeding, open wound until the day she dies. But she also knows that Lacey doesn’t understand any of this and probably won’t for years now, and she can’t be a good mother with this gaping, aching hole in her but she can’t be a mother at all if she loses herself to crying. And so she indulges, twenty-five minutes when she first wakes up alone and another before she climbs into a too empty bed, and the rest of the day she’s—

Well. Not fine. Functioning, maybe.

She feels a few tears leak through and she squeezes her eyes shut to stop them, and she tries very hard to smile. “I wanna commit insurance fraud.”

And Wendy just takes it in stride, nodding and chewing and swallowing. “Teresa Williams,” he says in that same calm tone, and this is the magic of certain people, the way they know people and notice everything and just understand without being told. “It would be my absolute honor.”

The thing is, David is dead and so is every part of her heart that isn’t entirely devoted to her daughter, but the rest of the team is not. The condolences came like a tidal wave when the others found out, and the concern hasn’t stopped: is she doing okay, does she need anything, can they help, what about Lacey. And they understood, of course, why she fought so hard for the discharge, but there’s still a good three years of an elaborate lie to uphold.

Lacey is sick, of course, and very terribly chronically so. And she just lost her very good insurance.

“In sickness and health,” Wendy quirks as he signs the necessary forms, and the nice courthouse lady witnesses, and then they’re married.

They’d discussed it, in the three days of lead up, drafting it out like one of their ops. Wendy had plans on top of plans on top of plans, and Resa was hemorrhaging grief and fear and just wanted it to stop - of course they’d discussed it. They were married because she needed to pretend that she needed the insurance, and because she needed his help to keep Lacey safe, and because neither of them had ever bought the story that David’s death was an accident. And because they were a family no matter what, just not a traditional one – they were married but Wendy was still gay and Resa was still so in love with Dave that it was like he was still here sometimes, and neither of those facts would ever change. They were married because they were best friends who loved each other, and loved Lacey even more.

They don’t wear rings and Wendy still lives out of the guest bedroom, and his FCP still has him listed for deployment should the need arise, but they’re married in the eyes of the insurance companies and the United States military, which feels pretty fucking official.

It’s for Lacey. It’s to keep her safe. Neither of them can see it as something they’ll come to regret.

For their first wedding anniversary, and the first anniversary of David’s death, Wendy takes Lacey to spend the weekend with his family up in New York.

Resa turns off all her alarms and allows herself to cry herself unconscious.

The first time Lacey calls Wendy 'Dad,' she thinks it might be the thing that breaks her.

It's not, it turns out – the thing that breaks her, that is.

Lacey greets Wendy at the door with a screech that sounds more like a dinosaur than a child as he tries to kick off his boots in the entryway. "Daddy!" she screeches, delighted, and throws her arms around his legs, "you're home!" The latest hadn't been a deployment, not a proper one at least – he hadn't left the country but he had been gone for almost six days, and while Resa knows he can't officially tell her anything she also knows he'll tell her everything as soon as Lacey is asleep – but she'd missed him all the same. And Wendy, acting on instinct and ingrained habit, scoops her up into a hug before he's fully processed what she's said. "I missed you," she says in her sweet little voice, and Resa watches the exact moment where she loses Wendy to a war they have no hope of winning.

His smile drops, and his face shutters. There was always a coldness to him, when they were on missions together. A detachedness. Something that kept him divorced from all the parts that made him their Wendy, and allowed him to be Thorn's second in command. It's something she knew he had likely developed in his childhood, though he never talks about it, and honed it his time as a sniper.

It's who he becomes now.

He kisses the top of Lacey's head, because there's no part of him that can separate from how much he loves her, and he gently sets her back on her feet. And then, with military precision, he about faces and disappears up the stairs to his room.

She finds him there later, when she's got Lacey fed and settled in for the night, sitting in the dark; he's still in the heavy, non-descript uniform they wear when they're stateside, and he's staring unblinkingly at the top of his dresser. At the framed photo of the three of them from that first tour, before they had Lacey, when they were still a family but hadn't made it official yet. "I'm not replacing him," he says, voice cold and detached and nothing like their Wendy. "I don't want to."

She thinks, in that moment where she looks at the man she considers her brother and doesn't recognize whoever looks back, that she would almost prefer to have found him in his own twenty-five minutes of crying and heaving and mourning.

"Wendy," and he flinches when she touches his arm. "Wes." She kneels on the floor by his feet like she’s in church, praying a little, and bows her head against his leg. “Lacey has loved you from the moment she met you. Losing Dave didn’t change that.”

“I’m not—“ he starts again, and stops. Her father, she thinks he’s going to say, which she thinks might be the worst possible reaction. Wendy is not Lacey’s father except in every way that he is, legally and emotionally and in her very young, very loving eyes. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, just how simple it is to hurt the ones we love most. “Trying to replace him,” he admits quietly, desperately; it’s a battle he’s always going to lose, fighting himself like this. 

What strikes her hardest, right there through the heart on the floor of her best friend’s bedroom, is the way Wendy hates himself for loving their daughter so much. 

“Wednesday Bishop,” she glares up at him as fiercely as she can, wielding his full name like a weapon. He blinks, surprised, and doesn’t look away. “David loved you enough to bring you home to meet Lacey, and enough to make you her godfather. Why would he be mad that you love her just as much as he did?”

Wendy lets out a single, shaky breath and then collapses, curling around her kneeling form, and she feels the sharp sting of tears to match the ones they’re both pretending haven’t made their escape from his eyes. She thinks, maybe, this can count for her twenty-five minutes today, the way they both mourn the fact that Lacey won’t ever remember a time when she called anyone but Wendy ‘Dad.’ She was young when David died, too young, barely three; she’ll know her father because neither of them will let her not, will keep his memory warm and alive in their home, but she’ll never remember him. And if she, in all her now five-year-old capacity for love and logic, chooses to bestow the title on the man who loves her like one, well.

It’s so easy, after all, to hurt the ones we love most.

The next morning, Wendy scoops Lacey up into a second, much happier hug. He kisses each of her smiling cheeks and, when her nose wrinkles in a giggle, the tip of that as well. “I missed you, sweet pea,” he tells her. “Did you look after your mom for me?”

“Daddy,” she tells him seriously. Too seriously for a child her age, and she’s so much like David sometimes that it’s like he’s still here with them. “I’m five. I can't even reach the phone.”

The twins agree to watch Lacey for the evening (and for fifty dollars. Each.) and they go out on their first – not Date Night, because they aren’t dating. They’re married, and have been for years, but it’s something so platonic and forgettable even that it still catches both of them by surprise, the few times it comes up. – child free night since Lacey’s first birthday. Resa drags him to a bar she’d found months ago, some place she’d passed once during a shopping trip and had always wanted to come back to. The vibes were strong, she’d told him then, and again when he’d balked on the sidewalk outside. And it wasn’t like he could argue with her; Wendy knew about magic because it was job to, to know absolutely everything he could, because then he could keep his family safe. But he didn’t know about magic the way Resa did, didn’t feel it, didn’t have it speak to him in whatever language it had chosen for her. They weren’t visions, she explained to him not long after he found out. She didn’t see the future, or even a possibility for it. It was just a feeling in her gut, like what most people thought they had, only hers were always right.

Her gut had told her to trust Wendy, the very first moment they met. It had also told her to get out of the car, and to go back inside and stay with him and Lacey.

Wendy trusted her gut more than he had ever trusted anyone in his life.

And her gut told her that this was a place she wanted to visit, and he trusted it, he did, only—

“This looks like one of those overpriced hipster places,” he tells her mulishly. Through the door is all exposed brick and Edison bulb light fixtures, and too many people. “It’s for the twenty-somethings.”

She stops pulling his wrist long enough to duck back into his space, tipping up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “You’re a twenty-something,” she reminds him gently. Neither of them ever really remember the fact that Wendy is a decade younger than she is, mostly because he hasn’t been allowed the chance to act any definition of young since he was Lacey’s age. “Come take shots with me out of stupid tiny mason jars.”

The shot glasses are just normal shot glasses, and the bartender looks absolutely disgusted with her when she half-jokingly asks if they have the small jars.

She returns to the same bar a few weeks later, alone this time, because the vibes are still strong and she’s learned to never ignore them. It’s the middle of the week this time, and mid-afternoon; the only people inside are the professional drunks and the bartender from last time, who recognizes her immediately. “Hold on,” he tells the man he’s currently serving, and turns around to disappear into the back. The swinging door marked ‘Employees Only’ slams closed in a way far too loud to be anything but deliberate.

Apparently he had been offended at her joke.

Before she can decide if she’s self-conscious enough to want to leave, gut feelings be damned, the door slams open in the opposite direction and the bartender stomps back out and immediately over to her.

“You disgust me,” he tells her around a smirk that doesn’t seem to match his words, and he sets two very tiny mason jars on the bar in front of her. “How do you feel about whiskey?”

She laughs, loud and unbridled. “I’m more of a tequila drinker,” she tells him honestly, even though it’s not even four in the afternoon on a Wednesday, and waits for him to pour them each a shot. He toasts her sarcastically before downing the liquor without flinching, and he would look very unapproachable if he hadn’t somehow procured these two particular glasses since she’d teased him about them. “Teresa,” she doesn’t offer her hand but she does the empty glass back, and he doesn’t take it.

“CJ,” he replies, and deposits the second tiny jar next to hers. “Don’t bring those fucking things back next time. I don’t want management to get any ideas.”

She laughs again, and the feeling in her gut settles.

For their second wedding anniversary, and the second anniversary of David’s death, Wendy and Lacey go north to see his family again.

And Resa, after crying for twenty-five minutes, decides to get spectacularly drunk instead.

She goes to the bar with the vibes, because she’s still feeling a little bit lost and there’s something very safe about the way her gut leads her here, and she finds a seat at the bar without having to fight for it. “I need an entire pint of tequila,” she tells CJ as soon as he notices her, and he shrugs and reaches for one of the glasses normally reserved for beers.

“Where’s your husband?” he asks, because they usually come here together. Not often, maybe once a month or so, but she drops by during the day every other week – Lacey spends a few days a month with Wendy’s sisters, the only socialization she can get outside of school, and Resa spends those days at the bar nursing a single shot and chatting with the bartender, hating the way she’s too scared to even miss her little girl.

“New York,” she tells him honestly. And then, because it feels right, “It’s our anniversary. He took our kid to stay with his parents.”

CJ twists off the pour spout and half-fills the pint glass with tequila with the same uncaring air he seems to do the rest of his actions with – he talks to customers like they’re friends, or enemies, and never seems bound by any sort of convention. But he also still works here, so she guesses it’s either excusable or enough of a gimmick that no one cares enough to complain – and pushes it across to her. “I’ll get you wasted but I won’t fuck you,” he warns her, seriously. “Your husband knows where I work and he’s got that vibe.”

 “That vibe?” she asks.

He shrugs, unrepentant. “There’s something a little fucked up about him. About both of you, but I think you like me too much to come back and kick my ass.”

She laughs – she does like him, and they are both a little fucked up. “We’re not getting a divorce,” she says instead, but takes the glass of too-much alcohol. “They just went to visit family, and I stayed here. I—” It would be easy, she knows from the calm in her stomach, to tell him. That he might even understand. But the feeling in her gut is never as strong as the worry that haunts their household’s every waking moment, and so she falls back into the same spontaneous lies of Lacey’s childhood. The half-truths. Just enough information for someone to feel trusted. “There was a death in the family.”

He hovers for a moment, like maybe he understands more than she thought, but ultimately turns when the next voice demands his attention. “My offer still stands,” he leaves her with. “You know where to find me.”

She doesn’t get drunk that night.

She fucks him instead.

It feels better than crying and mourning, but mostly like she’s cheating on David somehow.

The story is still that David died in an accident.

That first year after his death, she loses contact with several of the witches she grew up with. The casual connections of emails and message boards where they’ve reconnected, or never lost contact to begin with, taper off in conversation like life has simply gotten in the way. They’re of an age now, most of them married and having children if they haven’t already. It doesn’t raise outward suspicion, like they simply have less time online. But then, in the encrypted messaging system that the majority of them use, an entire network that exists right beneath Thorn’s noses, familiar names go silent mid conversation and never speak up again. Over time, the usernames default to offline.

And then, in the second year, she loses even more. The tenuous connections that remain speak of a similar fear, of their numbers dwindling as they watch; she knew, of course, the unspoken directives that lurked behind Thorn’s mission statement. She knew better than anyone, because she had lied her way through acceptance of it in order to survive, to keep herself and her family safe, and had lost her husband anyway. But it had never been this sudden, or this widespread, or—

Well, it had always been overseas before. Acts of war, or arguably enough. It had never been American citizens vanishing from their homes.

She knows David’s death wasn’t an accident because he kept the car as safe as was humanly possible, and also because he kept a thumb drive of the truth in a hidden space in their home. Names and stories of witches who died, and where, and the orders that sent them there. Records of those who had been victims of the fear of magic, and those who had died without ever being proven of magic at all. Years of information damning Thorn and it’s government to the deepest circles of hell, and David had died for it.

One morning, almost three years after losing him, Resa digs out the thumb drive. And, because David is still dead and so now are too many of the witches they’ve known, she borrows Wendy’s laptop and she starts compiling the last few years.

Lacey starts kindergarten, and she and Wendy fight for the first time since they met.

He thinks she should be homeschooled, even offers to handle it himself – there’s too many lies binding her to the confines of their home, a child too sick to meet, for any form of schooling to be safe. She’s also, and much more importantly, still not quite cognizant of the fact that the things she can do – and if there is a limit to her powers they haven’t found it yet, and that scares her most of all, the way that not even their own kind seems to know what to do with anyone of her ability – aren’t normal and shouldn’t be seen or spoken of. There’s no way to explain to a six-year-old that the things that come as naturally to her as breathing or laughing could get her killed.

And Resa gets it, she does. She wants Lacey safe more than anything else, more than logic or rationality. But she’s also a witch, raised by them and around them, and Wendy’s experience is limited by his outsider perspective. Lacey and Resa and David are the first witches he’s ever known. He doesn’t understand that they’ve been hiding in plain sight for centuries, and that Lacey has already had any chance at a normal childhood taken from her just from the sheer bad luck of being born where and when she had been. So Resa argues for a regular normal public school, a place with regular normal kids, where Lacey can hide in a crowd of peers and, for a few precious hours a day, get a form of socialization that doesn’t come from her parents or her aunts or her only remaining grandparents.

Lacey starts kindergarten, at a regular normal school, and Resa and Wendy exist around each other in stony silence for a day or two, and then one day she comes home smiling so brightly that the entire house feels a few degrees warmer, and she tells them that she made a friend.

Something about their six-year-old carefully explaining the concept of what a friend is, because she’s never been exposed to it and thinks that it’s new and strange and exciting, silences Wendy’s argument for her safety. Because Lacey can be safe or she can be happy, but not both.

Not yet.

Their third anniversary, and the third anniversary of David’s death, comes all too quickly.

Wendy packs their bags like usual, ready to take himself and Lacey out of the house so that Resa can fill the space with everything she’s sacrificed, but sits down with her the night before he’d planned to leave. “Do you want to come?” he asks her in the quiet hours after Lacey is in bed, slinging an arm across the back of their couch in invitation. She accepts, curling against his side, and thinks about it.

David’s loss is still a hollow space in her chest, is still raw and aching, but feels more like a deep bruise – it hurts, down to her bones, but it’s no longer a sharp pain. It’s something softer and deeper, more a part of her, like her body found a way to heal around the feeling. She still misses him so much that it’s hard to wake up in the morning, but she also has three years of a life with her – their – family to cushion it. “I,” and she wants to agree, but hesitates. “I don’t know.”

He hmms a quiet, contemplative noise and hugs her closer. “Do you want to fuck the bartender again?” he asks seriously, even though he’d laughed at her for nearly five minutes when she’d told him about it.

There’s no hesitation this time. “Absolutely not.” The worst part about that night had been how they’d become something like friends after, and now she never goes to the bar outside of her once or twice a month with Wendy because she knows CJ’s schedule and meets him for lunch instead.

“Maybe we don’t go see my parents,” he offers. “Maybe we go somewhere, just the three of us.”

It’s a strange new step for them, existing as a family of three off paper and outside their home. So much of their life is built on a series of lies that it’s easy to forget, even for them, the truth at the heart of it.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Lacey starts first grade and turns seven and for a very brief year of their lives everything is normal.

Wendy is home more, which Lacey loves (and Resa greets with a cold sort of horror, that his missions are keeping him stateside now), and the three of them are doing more traditional family things together. Vacations, mostly camping trips or small B&Bs in isolated New England, and day outings. They go to art museums because Lacey loves to look at the colors, and natural history museums because she loves to touch things that are older than her. She learns to swim and to ride a bike and to skip rope.

For one brief, shining year of their lives, everything is good.

Everything goes to hell the year Lacey is eight.

The thing is, she was never under any assumptions that this would be a forever thing – she and Wendy (and David. So many of their plans were ones he put into place) bent their entire lives around shielding Lacey from the world, and from notice, but they never once thought it would be permanent. The hope was that they could get her to adulthood, a teenager at least, someone who could understand the importance of keeping hidden. That maybe, before it ever came up, they could change the world for the better. There were plans for it, of course.

Thorn was intimately familiar with their planning.

She’s not sure when the suspicion began. It could have been as early as her birth, as the nebulous timeline they tried so hard to stick to but it was hard, remembering so many lies made up on the spot like that. It could have been much more recent, a niggling of doubt that the last few injuries Wendy came home with seemed to stay there. He tried his best to hide the way Lacey would heal whatever she could see, but some things were impossible to lie about. The way his ribs had healed in under a week, for one. The black eye that washed off in the shower, for another.

She’s not sure when the suspicion began, only that it was far too along before she or Wendy noticed it.

He’s in closed-door meetings, filling in for Adam as they get the briefing for their next deployment; Adam is still injured from the whatever happened on their last mission, the one where Wendy had come home with multiple broken ribs and a haunted expression. It was the first time he refused to tell her what had happened. She’s walking Lacey to school, because that’s a thing she’s into now – it’s not an impossible walk but it is one that’s just a little too long for an everyday event, but Wendy has been gone for five days now and next week is spring break and it’s looking like they’ll have to cancel some of their plans and—

The walk was supposed to be a treat. A little something to cheer Lacey up.

And the thing is, it works. Her sunshine child is bright and beaming after only a few blocks, and practically skipping when they turn onto the street with her school. “Can I do it myself, Mom?” Lacey asks, all wide eyes and a pleading expression that is so much like her own. She means the crosswalk to get onto school grounds, a well-marked street crossing with flashing lights and an attendant (one of the lunch ladies, Lacey said the first time they walked and saw her in her neon vest). It’s her newest mark of independence, crossing by herself. They’ve let her do it a dozen times by now. And she wants to say no, that it’s not safe, only it always has been before. And Lacey has been so sad, missing her dad and perhaps their plans for vacation.

Which is why Resa doesn’t hesitate to let her do it again today. She smiles at her daughter and kisses her goodbye, to have a good day at school, and nods gratefully to the attendant as she moves to escort Lacey across the quiet residential street.

They’re halfway across when the van screeches through, sending the attendant flying. It’s five years away from war that has her hesitating, frozen at the horror of the broken body before her. She blinks, just a heartbeat before seeing Lacey is unharmed before the door of the van wrenches open and she sees the familiar man grab her.

Another blink, a single heartbeat, and they screech away.

She’s running before she even realizes it, her phone pressed against her ear. It rings out once, twice, three times and she hangs up. Calls again. The line rings once and she’s hung up again, redialing. It rings three more times before she slams the phone closed with one hand. The van is two blocks ahead, driving faster than her desperation.

Wendy calls immediately.

“Efnysien stole the cauldron,” she tells him like she used to, when she was a soldier and he was the only authority she swore allegiance too. And then, when the words fall out to trip up her feet, sending her to the pavement, “Oh god, Lacey. Adam took Lacey.”

Whatever Wendy says in response is lost to the noise that punches out of her chest, a noise that doesn’t sound like any words. Any language. Like something far older and more primal than language, something that doesn’t even sound human. It sounds very much like it feels, shattering her ribcage on the way up. She screams and she sobs and she curses and, by the time the first of the bystanders has reached her, she thinks if she looks down she’ll find pieces of herself left behind in the street, broken like the poor crossing attendant.

Instead, she wrestles every part of herself that is a mother away, and she remembers the training from her previous life.

She stands. Shakes off the hands and the questions. Brushes blood and gravel and dirt from her knees. Pockets her phone.

They’d planned for this.

Wendy was over fifty miles away when she’d called him. He’s home in fifteen minutes.

“I called Ronnie,” she greets him at the door, a furtive glance down the street as she moves just enough to hustle him inside. The door is closed and locked behind him, deadbolt and chain. “Felt right.”

He nods. There’s nothing else to say.

Another five minutes and Ronnie is knocking at the door, a series of short and long – alpha charlie. All clear. Wendy opens the door this time with the same level of paranoia, chain and lock and calculating glances left and right before he allows the man to enter. Ronnie shuffles through the too-small gap offered to him and stays in the entryway, looking around with barely disguised interest; they’ve lived here for over five years now and never had anyone over, least of all their team. Resa watches the way his eyes stray to photos of Lacey, the ones they keep at home rather than the ones they send through email and text – the ones where she looks healthy and vibrant and alive. “Aren’t we supposed to be grounded for another two weeks?” is the first thing he asks. Resa hadn’t told him anything except their address and to come over immediately.

“Adam took Lacey,” and there’s that coldness again in Wendy, that battleground steel.

Ronnie blinks, and pauses, and seems to search for his next words very, very carefully. “I can only think of one reason he would do that,” he settles on finally, because he’s the most like Resa and David of the entire team. He’s always been a little bit more one of Wendy’s people than he’s been the government’s. She thinks, if anything, that’s why she called him.

The steel sharpens. He’s still her Wendy, she can see in the way his shoulders relax and he turns his back to the front door, but something has changed in his voice; there’s less of a challenge and more of a conviction. A promise. “I’m not letting him kill my daughter.”

None of them are naïve enough to think he wouldn’t. Theirs is a career of watching him with other people’s daughters (and sons, and parents, and—)

Ronnie’s voice sharpens to match. “Pretty fucking hypocritical, Wes. You’ve never cared who Adam had us killing until it was your daughter.” Resa has never quite known the exact relationship between the two, but she’s suspected for years; in this moment she knows with utter certainty, just as she knows it’s over. “What’s that one quote JFK used, about good men doing nothing? You’re just as guilty as any of us.”

The space between them is quickly widening; it’s not a physical distance, but more the sort that drives people apart.

“Enough!” she snarls at them both, earning their immediate silence. Resa was a wife and a mother, but she was also a soldier. “Enough. Adam has Lacey and we’re taking her back, and we’re blowing the entire thing open after. Which side of that operation do you want to be on?”

Ronnie contemplates her presence, even though he’s known her for almost ten years; it is, she acknowledges, the first time he’s known her as a witch. Takes in her torn jeans and the evidence of a generally happy life. And then his entire body shifts, and he’s at attention but no longer on alert – it’s how they always were before a mission, some mix of calm and keyed up. “You’re blowing Thorn public?”

She thinks about David dying in a crash, and about all the acquaintances she’s lost contact with. She does not think about Lacey. “Wendy hasn’t been doing nothing,” she feels the need to defend him. “He’s been telling me everything, and I’ve been making sure there’s a paper trail. Dave started it. We have everything going back to the 90s, and no matter what happens today it goes to the press in twenty-four hours.” She knows none of them will walk away from this clean – there’s too much blood attached to Thorn’s actions to not cover their hands as well. But she figures there’s a big difference between the ones who pull the trigger and the ones who pull the curtain and, well, she’s willing to risk it.

Wendy is staring at her, calculating; he knows there’s no third person in this plan, not really. Ronnie will be a welcome addition but he’s not written in or out, and she’s all but promising that the world will know about witches and their attempted extinction regardless of their survival. Instead of calling her bluff, he backs it – backs her. “Help us or don’t,” he says without meeting Ronnie’s eyes. They both look over and around the other, but not at. Not anymore. “But it ends tomorrow.”

Ronnie agrees. She knew he would; she’s known from the moment she looked at the phone in her hand and trusted her gut.

She knows CJ works Fridays, and knows he comes in before lunch to nap in the back; usually to sleep off Thursday night in preparation for Friday night. When she doesn’t see him at or behind the bar, she grabs the closest bottle and shatters it against the floor.

“What the fuck,” he calls out before he’s even pushed through the door from the back, and then again when he sees her and what she’s done. “Teresa, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m in a hurry,” she doesn’t explain, and hands him the thumb drive that she’s willing to die for. That David did die for. She gives it to him without hesitation because something brought her here all those years ago and only ever stopped pushing her when she took the time with him; her gut has never been wrong but it has often been vague. She’s not surprised when he takes it and immediately wraps it in a fist, like he also feels the need to protect it. “If I don’t come in by noon tomorrow, I need everything on this to go online. Send it to the news, the police, I don’t care. Get it out there.”

There’s always been something about CJ, about the way he interacts with her – she thinks maybe, right now, she finally gets it. He takes the thumb drive and her half-assed explanation, and his usually uncaring air is replaced with something serious. “My dad,” he tells her, and it’s somehow the most personal information she’s ever gotten from him. CJ tells her his every thought as it happens, a stream of words without a dam to stop them, but they’re just as shallow. She knows who he is on the surface, but never anything more real than that. “He’s a cop, he can get it to the right people.”

“Hopefully I see you soon,” and her gut doesn’t tell her to say goodbye.

In the end, it doesn’t matter who CJ gets the thumb drive to. They blow the whole thing open themselves.

And also two-fifths of the Pentagon.

She and Lacey leave DC before the smoke clears. Wendy gives both of them an exhausted, grateful hug before he gives Resa the car keys and tells her that he’ll handle it from here. She passes the news vans only a block or so away and wants to turn around, wants to wrap him in her arms and press kisses to his cheeks because he is her brother and her best friend and he is stepping into the spotlight to keep Lacey safe, and she is so thankful for him that she has to pull over, just for a minute. “Your dad has to talk to some people,” she tells Lacey, mostly quiet from the ordeal; she had flashed a quick smile of her old self at being allowed to sit in the front seat, but slumped against the window too soon after. “He’ll be home later.”

Lacey doesn’t answer. She hadn’t expected her to.

It’s only a little before noon before she pulls up in front of the bar – the roads had been mostly clear with everyone at home, glued to their televisions. The last sixteen hours had played out across the news stations as first a terrorist attack and then something like a political coup. And then, unexpectedly, as the shattering of lines between fiction and fact. It was a security guard who turned the tides, recognizing Adam at some point and placing him as the one who had killed his brother.

It was easy to forget that magic came from blood, not from books. That if one member of a family was a witch, they all were.

The security guard recognized Adam, and he had put his gun away and thrown out his hands instead, and he had burned. The cameras caught everything. He wasn’t the only one who worked there, either – it was like her argument with Wendy, years before, about kindergarten of all things. Their kind has been hiding in plain sight for centuries. The number was small, but it was enough.

The bar is quiet when she enters, the televisions mounted behind the bar all turned to CNN with the volume on low, subtitles scrolling across in frantic bursts. A few of the dedicated alcoholics of the neighborhood are watching, transfixed. So is CJ. “Hey,” she slides onto an open stool at the bar, and offers a hand to help Lacey climb onto the one next to her. “I owe you one.”

CJ stares at her the same way he had been at the television – a little bit of awe and a whole lot of disbelief – and doesn’t comment on the fact that she’s very obviously brought a child into a bar. “I owe you… a million, probably.”

She can’t help it. She laughs. It’s been the longest day or so of her life, but something about CJ has always felt very ridiculous but very safe. “CJ—”

“Catalin,” he interrupts. For the first time since she’s met him his face is soft and open, and she realizes very suddenly that she’s seeing him when he cares. “My name’s Catalin, I—” and here his mouth opens and closes a few times. His eyes are gold, warm like honey, and he looks incredibly young. “You took down the Witchhunters.”

There’s very few people on earth who know them by that moniker – people on the team, or the witches they hunt. Everything makes sense now. “I knew there was a reason I liked you,” she grins at him softly, because maybe the entire world knows about them now but it’s hardly safe yet, and however many of their kind remain need as much softness as they can find. “Lacey, baby, meet my friend Catalin.” She strokes her daughter’s hair, grateful that she’s here and healthy, and watches that spark of familiar light come back into her eyes.

“Hi Cat,” she bestows the nickname with her wide toothy grin, and is rewarded with the first real smile Resa has ever seen from the man. “Can I have a beer?”

The smile falls but his eyes are still warm, and he stares at her incredulously. “No the fuck you cannot.”

Lacey sighs and hits him with the wide, pleading eyes she learned from Resa. “I’ve had a long day,” she tells him. “I got kidnapped by Witchhunters and my mom and dad blew up a building, and then I had to sit in the car for like a billion hours.”

“You don’t need a beer, you need to do shots.” He nods and digs out three shot glasses, and he makes three very small Shirley Temples. Lacey looks absolutely delighted. “Alright brat, sănătate,” and he clinks his glass against hers, and then against Resa’s, and he shows her how to do a shot.

Wendy catches up to them two hours later, looking wrung out in a way she can’t even imagine. He slides onto the stool at Lacey’s other side just in time to watch her take another Shirley Temple shot, and he looks at her like she’s hung the moon. “Hey CJ,” he finally greets the bartender. “Any chance I can get one of those?”

Cat laughs. Resa has told him most of the story by now, the way that she and David joined Thorn to try and take it down, the way that Wendy joined them without question. The way that David died, and the way it wasn’t an accident. The way she and Wendy were married but more like siblings, about the insurance fraud and they way they juggled raising a child and a witch at the same time. “Like I told the ladies, your whole fucking family gets whatever they want for free as long as I’m behind the bar,” he says sincerely, and he jerks his head at the television screens. CNN is still discussing Wendy’s interview, the way he confirmed that witchcraft was real and that the government had attempted to obliterate it. His record helped; he was respectable and believable. “We gotta stick together, right?”

Wendy huffs a noise that isn’t a yes, but isn’t a no. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he says dryly, “but I’m not actually related to this one.” This one is the way Lacey leans into his side and beams up at him, ivory and gold – she looks mostly like Resa and a little bit like David, and nothing like Wendy. She does, however, take after him in mannerisms.

Resa watches the exchange and tries to get Wendy’s attention across the space between them, because she’s absolutely sure that Cat has noticed that and most other things about Wendy as well.

He grins, soft and crooked; Resa has known him for four years now and considered him a friend for three of those, but she thinks today is the day she truly meets him. The air of uncaring sarcasm is mostly gone, aside from the sharp parts of his humor that she thinks are the most real, and his face seems more open. Eyes more expressive. She understands him better than she ever has before – she feels the same weight lifted from herself. She’s been carrying hers and David’s and Lacey’s for years. “All the more reason for us to stick together. You’re gonna need as many of us as you can get.”

Wendy takes the Shirley Temple shot he’s been offered with a wry, “One of you is more than enough, thanks,” and toasts Lacey before swallowing.

[rowanivar]

It takes what feels like weeks for him to even feel any semblance of normal and even then, Rowan thinks he is sort of on autopilot. Because they'd told him he could forget or whatever and of course he had said no, the few memories he had of the whole ordeal were mostly alright. Those last moments with Gabriel, someone would have to claw those memories from his cold, dead hands. He is an artist, he draws big brow doe eyes all the time, can barely bring himself to look at previous sketches, photos, anything. It's not like before, it's not like when either partner had disappeared where he had hope, the statue at the Forum reminds him of that. Gabriel is gone, the man he'd curl up in bed with, the one he'd so carefully tattooed, the one he had loved. Now he sits before the other person he loves and there is an elephant comfortably in the room. Because they both know this is not one plus one, this was one plus one plus one and they were missing a part of them. Maybe seeing each other only made the hole bigger. And yet there's peace here in Grazie's, no hard feelings between them and yet the hardest of feelings individually. They are different now, two people who had grown together and not quite apart, but things are drastically different. She is different, having been through so much, losing her magic, gaining something else, and him, too. Being a witch was a lot harder, so much more than just being an artist, a podcaster, an investigator with shenanigans to investigate. "Yeah, yeah I have. Just felt right." Rowan offers her a nod and a small smile from behind his coffee cup and it's the first genuine one he'd managed in a hot second, something reserved for her. There's a faint tint of pink to his cheeks at the compliment that has him ducking his head. "That um, that means a lot." Coming from you. Someone from day one he'd tried to be better for. More confident, more on time, more thoughtful. "You're quite something right now, aren't you?" There's a fondness there to his voice but it's tired, because he's tired. And he imagines she is, too. The weight of the world feels like so much because it is so much and it's open in so many more ways to them both now, like this. Two people who have grown to love each other in different ways, still passionately supportive of one another but missing that glue.

@rowanivar location: Grazie's, a booth with a view. notes: u fucked with the wrong bitch

It had been a month since all of this had ended. Since the war had come to a close and Rowan had told her that Gabriel wasn’t coming back. She’d waited for him in The Void, waited to bring his soul to the other side so the two of them might have one, final goodbye. The two of them were never saying farewell, it didn’t seem like it was the nature of Emma and Gabe’s relationship. Once upon a time she’d been a coward who’d folded up a note and left it behind, a few tearstained words in lieu of an actual parting. He was the one person Emma didn’t think she’d ever been able to say goodbye to, the one person that Emma hated imagining being apart from. Not even Micah had had that title before, not Emory either. Rowan was arguably new but indelibly important because for all that she was she knew that she had the witch to thank. 

It had been a month since all of this had ended, and while Emma had seen Rowan scarcely here and there the palpable shift between them was evident. She would pass his shop under the light of day, sometimes visible… Sometimes not, and she’d watch him through the window as he spoke with his employees, or he consulted with a client. Once he’d caught her eye and she’d waved, then he waved back; they both smiled, and then Emma had kept walking. Appointments to keep, business to attend to, that sort of thing. Yes, she was dead, but the renegotiation of the contract she’d made with Kore gave a chance at liberty that she’d never known in life. Purpose and a sort of fulfilment that she’d always lacked before. 

Micah was in Emory and Abel’s hands now, their father’s as well. Emma wouldn’t feel this light if she didn’t trust that those that surrounded her brother now were more than capable of keeping him grounded. He, too, was embarking on a new and exciting journey. The life of an eladrin; Micah had never wanted that for himself, in fact, she suspected there was likely a part of him that hated it. When Emma was a little girl she’d spent her nights filling her head with beautiful, fanciful tales. With stories of princes and fairies, of a Queen that Emma would come to learn was her grandmother. In her childhood she’d have felt lighter than air at the prospect, but the truth was that life was only ever what you made of it.

Emma was free now, free to see the world that had been denied to her. She could dance until dawn, she could pilgrimage across the wastes, she could trek through the Amazon, or she could spend an entire afternoon reading by the beach. Agency and privilege that she owed in part to what Gabriel had given up; hope, chance, and freedom. The reaper would never forget anything, she refused, she would remember every moment that this realm had suffered, and she would remember every moment that Gabriel had fought. Her beautiful, broken warrior, the dhampir who’d walked through fire more times than she could count. He’d survived the cut of The Eye’s knife, not once, but twice. He’d withstood the fires of the end of the world and still managed to be the sort of man that Emma had always known him to be. 

She would never forget him, but neither could she squander his gift, and she would not allow Rowan to do the same on her account. For strength Emma returned to Gabriel’s statue, unbeknownst to her this was the beginning of a sort of anniversary. November 20th would be the place of their appointment, where she’d sit beside his statue and tell him of her tales and of her journeys. Emma would tell him of the people she’d met, and the places that she had seen. She would tell him that she missed him, her dear friend, her lover, and her confidant. She missed the way his eyes battled sadness with a smile, and how he managed to breathe life back into a woman who’d thought herself a shell. 

So, in an inconspicuous diner with a nice but quaint view, Emma sat opposite the third component of what had been one of her most significant relationships to date. “I heard you joined the Amaranthus,” Emma commended, they were a proud coven, powerful, and slipping over the precipice of reform. “I’m proud of you.” 

[sunsents]

Content 2/2 - F.W (M)

Empty Chapter II

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

CROSS POSTED TO WATTPAD HERE

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

Pairing: fredweasley x fem!reader

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

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

Rating: 18+

DON’T REPOST MY WORK

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

Five Years Later, 2003

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

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

Aleyna quirks a brow, "Whose Stacey?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fleur! What are you doing here?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Auntie ____!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ginny pauses, “Erm, yeah…”

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

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

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

“____?”

And then, you’re suffocating.

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

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

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

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

He’s still wearing the bracelet you gave him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes grow wide. “Sorry Ma’am.”

Someone clears their throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, stand straight soldier!” you demand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn, I’ll drink to that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, any plans for Christmas Eve ____?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sighing, you set your hand on your lap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aleyna, don’t.” you nudge her arm.

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

“Wha-“

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

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

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

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

“How’s Blaise doing by the way?”

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe he did, only you didn’t see.

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

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

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

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

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

————————

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

Jambo’s no different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Absolute blasphemy.

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

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

Of course your logic sucks.

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

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

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

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

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

Woah, you’ve had your coffee today.

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

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

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

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

“Morning, I know it’s early and-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Woah, down girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright.” he says softly.

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

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

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

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

“Eva!”

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

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

Fred winces. “Actually-”

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

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

You freeze. “What?”

They broke up? “Why, oh Fred-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nonetheless, you smile. “Just that what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That turns the after taste into pure panic.

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

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

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

——————

You look good.

Or, at least you think you do.

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

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

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

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

“Sounds like a you problem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aleyna gives you both questioning looks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“____!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why!” says Ginny, banging another fist.

“I think you know why,” says Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What I meant to say was, I wan-“

“Oh my god, ____, Fred!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t wish you a merry christmas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well what changed your mind?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not upset, I’m tired.” you sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eva stutters, “What?”

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

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

“No, he won’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean to cheat you know!”

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

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

“Yeah, you!” you cry.

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

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

——————

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

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t you tell me she cheated?”

Fred’s expression softens. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fred freezes - second time that night.

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

Fuck fuck fuck.

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

But it was too late.

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

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

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

You almost swallow your tongue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s Freddie for you, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

“Then why didn’t you come back?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

“Finally!” George yells.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“____.”

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

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

You smile back, “Oh it’s alright.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Took you long enough.”

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

“I won’t.”

Your lie slips so easily.

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

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

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

“____.”

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

“____, darling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes it does, and stupid!”

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

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

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

“That doesn’t explain the rest-“

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

“I can’t do this tonight Fred-“

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight Fred, merry christmas.”

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

————

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

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

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

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

Tuesday; cloudy and dark. Spend your day thinking if you’ll ever be loved again. Regretful, pained, hungover and miserably under caffeinated.

Wednesday; crazy fucking blizzard that catches you so off guard you forget you ruined you chances with Fred Weasley for a moment. Aleyna tells you how stupid you are, you realize how stupid you are, then find out Aleyna is more of a snake than she lets on because she lets you eat a whole pack of doughnuts and that amazing Shepherd’s Pie her mom makes.

Thursday; clear skies. Not a cloud in sight. Your head is unusually clear, maybe too clear because you forget to feed Jambo and take out the trash. You think about running back to the joke shop, tell Fred you love him and that you don’t give a shit about the past anymore. But you don’t.

And now it’s Friday. You’re sitting on your bed, Aleyna in your closet, flinging clothes at you for you to try on because she insists you go out. It’s been a week since you walked out on Fred, again, and perhaps made the biggest mistake of your life.

“Stop wasting away your pathetic life here and do it outside!” she yells, voice getting closer when she comes into view.

“Aleyna, I’m really not in the mood.” you dismiss, laying back on your bed. “I just, should I go to him?”

Aleyna groans, pained. “Merlin forbid, this is the millionth time you ask me. I tell you yes, you don’t do it.”

“What if he says it’s too late, and it is! I don’t deserve-“

“Shut up. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. What matters is that you need to at least try.”

You need to at least try. Aleyna’s voice echoes around your head after she leaves and you're back to your routine. Get up, brush your hair because the tangles bother you more than you let on, (and sometimes your teeth, if you feel like it.) then stay in your pyjamas all day while lazing around your apartment. You’ve started making coffee for yourself again, which is a small step but still encouraging. Plopping down on your couch, you sigh. Jambo follows, leaving fur floating around the air in his wake.

Love To Love You Baby by Donna Summers plays softly in the background, your magic radio is mocking you yet again on how single and sad you are. Especially after how long it has been since you’ve had sex. It’s painful, but you can’t help but think of Fred whenever you try to at least relieve some stress. Of course, this ends with you curled in a corner and crying, it’s frustrating how much he turns you on, and now knowing you can never have him-

Jambo’s loud meow reminds you that you haven’t brushed him today and you slowly get up, striding to the kitchen. You try to relax your mind but your chest feels even tighter with your effort. Your house is an organized mess, you didn’t bother cleaning up throughout the stages of your grief.

You should talk to him. You should go outside, get fresh air, make out a game plan and at least talk to him. Fred’s kind, the funniest, most lovingly stubborn man you’ve ever met. He doesn’t deserve what you’re putting him through. You don’t want to leave things so bittersweet again, you want to keep seeing George, even Fred if time allows.

The pain of your past doesn’t allow you to follow your desires. You hate yourself for it and it’s only a matter of time before you break and go back to your old, quiet self. It’s as if the past got your wrists on lock, holding you back whenever you try to sprint free and love again. You thought Fred would have unlocked the chains and swept you away, but that was before you decided that he shouldn’t.

Gripping the fur comb on your left hand, Jambo watches you walk over to him with big eyes. He looks triumphant, lying on his chubby stomach and readying himself for the brush of his three year life.

Knock Knock

Perhaps this is why Jambo hates Aleyna. You chuckle. “Sorry Bo, give me a minute. She probably forgot her coat again.”

You put down the comb and rush over to the door. Not bothering to check through the peephole, you fling the door open while laughing. “Forgot your condoms or some-“

By the look Fred gives you, you’d think he hits it raw.

“Fred.” you whisper, frozen with your hand gripped on the handle.

He looks haggard, eye bags under his eyes with slightly damp hair sticking out obscenely from the sides. It looks longer, or perhaps it's the way he quickly runs a hand through it and smooths it back. You probably look no different, yet Fred still looks unfairly handsome, eyes dripping with honey and curved bottom lip tucked between his teeth.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you take in his appearance. He’s wearing a simple black pullover with a pea coat messily tucking in the material of his hoodie. You can see the after effects of the snow outside visible on his grey sweatpants, you can’t tell if he came to your house straight after working out for…however long he works out to have thighs like that.

“Can I-“ he gives you a look over and you blush. There’s a hundred different things you want to say, and you merely stay quiet and look at him with hopeful eyes. Coward. “Can I come in?”

You step aside wordlessly. He takes one, big step and he’s inside. Cursing his giant legs, you close the door behind him.

“Wow,” he clears his throat, looking around your apartment. “Nice place.”

“Thank you.”

Fred’s hand twitches when he hears your voice, as if he hadn’t heard it since he was a child. As if he was hearing it for the first time.

As soon as he steps in, his cologne engulfs the air around him - as if he’s marking himself in your house and leaving his delicious after taste. You would tell him he smells amazing but the air between you is too tense to say anything but;

“Fred I-“

“I wanted to-“

Fred breaks out into a smile, and you follow. It looks like a grimace, a hopeful one though. “I wanted to apologize.”

Your heart swells. You know it shouldn’t, because you don’t deserve an apology but the fact that he thought of you makes you feel like you have another chance. Of course you do, the poor man walked over to your house in the middle of a snowstorm. There’s got to be something there, right?

“Fred,-“

“No, let me finish this time.”

You stay silent.

“Been trying to think of the right ruddy words to say this past week but fuck that.” he growls, shrugging off his coat when you offer. “I’m not waiting any bloody longer.”

“I admit that at some point,” he starts, taking a deep breath. “I had feelings for Eva. That’s why I didn’t break up with her. It was well after three months of us dating and I thought I moved on.” you usher him to sit down, quickly following behind. Your legs feel wobbly as he continues.

“That’s why I didn’t break up with her, and I won’t deny that what I had with her was nice, but it wasn’t you. No one ever compared to you ____. I was fine until you decided to stop being our friend.”

“I didn’t decide that, It was something I had to do.” you defend fiercely, sitting next to him on the bar stool of your kitchen island. Damn rich apartments.

“I know that now, but at that time I thought you hated me. I clung onto Eva because I thought - seeing as she was your childhood friend - we’d be friends again.”

You scoff. “Look how that turned out.”

Fred raises a brow.

“Sorry, continue.”

“I started getting over it until that summer happened. It killed me to see you again, that’s when I realized I could never stop loving you. I blamed myself for everything, for fucking up all my chances even though I-“

You put a hand on his shoulder, “Freddie, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Fred pauses, squeezes your hand and gives you a wide, hopeful smile that punches you right in the heart. His head dips down to rest on your shoulder and he sighs. “You called me Freddie.”

“I did.” you smile.

“I wanted to talk to you, but you kept avoiding me. With the war and everything I just couldn’t, especially after that near death thing.”

“Near what?” You gasp.

Fred chuckles, as if it was no big deal. It makes your chest ache. “I got trapped under a wall, Georgie saved me. Owe him my bloody life. Took me sometime to get over it though, those were the times I needed someone the most.” he takes a deep breath before continuing.

“It was around those times that I found out Eva cheated on me. She was acting dodgy the past few months, and I feel awful for feeling relieved when we broke up.”

“But, that’s not your fault.” you sigh, hand caressing his back gently. He relaxes at your touch and a smile tugs at your lip at this. “You don’t owe Eva a damn thing. It’s okay to feel like that, because I do.”

Fred laughs, a small melodic sound that brings you pride that you pulled it out of him. “Oh, is that how it works now?”

“Yep, I said so.” you give him a toothy grin, and he chuckles, further causing your ruin.

But you can’t let things get too comfortable, not before you’re completely honest with him. Here he is, vulnerable and open, telling you his entire life story and you sure as hell are going to do the same - minus some embarrassing parts.

“Do you,” you clear your throat, awkwardly shuffling on your stool. The seat is uncomfortable and it makes everything all the more frustrating. “Do you want to know what I was thinking before you showed up?”

Fred pauses, gaze lingering over your face attentively. Breath catching, you let him look at you. Directly, fully look at you. He flushes, quickly hidden away by his hand when he nods his head slowly and leans on his palm.

“I was thinking of you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I was thinking if I should just go to you myself.”

Fred takes a quick breath. Shuddering because of the cold, surely, his tone is soft and barely above a whisper. “Why didn’t you?”

“I was scared you’d reject me. I was going to apologize to you, get on my knees and beg for forgiveness until you gave me a second chance.”

“Oh.”

You let him grasp your chin and turn your face towards his, he lovingly strokes your cheek, long finger somehow reaching easily. “I’m sorry Freddie, I love you.”

“I’ve waited to hear those words for so long.” his chest heaves when he responds.

“Well, how much of a let down is it?” you smile, nuzzling your hand in his palm.

He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, then to your cheek. “Let down?” he tells you, as if he heard the most obscene thing. “It’s so much better than I could have imagined, and I’m sorry too. I hate myself for letting you go through so much pain on your own. If I wasn’t such a clueless git I could’ve done this much earlier.”

“Do what?”

Fred kisses you. It’s not urgent, nor wanton, it’s soft and tender that still leaves you breathless. He leans his forehead against yours, and you ruin the kiss by smiling but he couldn’t care less. Opening your mouth, you let him flick your tongues together until it’s a sloppy, needy mess.

He groans, and that’s when you know the kiss progressed much too far to stop now. The needy ache between your legs pushes you to hover yourself over him, and his strong arms grasp you by the waist. His lips aren’t a perfect fit, it makes the kiss all the more pleasurable and it’s until he’s slowly walking towards your bedroom with your legs tucked around his hips that you break away.

“Fred,” you sigh when he sets you down against a wall. “I want you.”

He frowns, “It’s Freddie, how many times-“ he gathers your knee in one hand and pushes his crotch against your center with a grunt. “Do I have to tell you?”

You barely respond, clawing at his back. The curve of his thick cock gradually growing, his thighs encasing around your legs feels too damn good and you don’t know how long until you’re fully at his mercy. Fred roughly rolls his hips, a deep grumble leaving him and the stimulation is enough to make you whine. “Again,” you rock your pervis.

“Oh yeah?” he smirks, humping you harder. “You like this? How much? Let me feel.”

You rut against him desperately, trying to get off on the friction Fred barely decides to provide.

True to his word, Fred kisses you again with a groan, this time sparing you no tenderness and sucking on your bottom lip until it throbs. His hips continue to rut all the while his free hand slithers down your clavicle, down the sides of your waist - he makes sure to spread his palm wide to feel you everywhere - until he teasingly snaps the band of your pyjama bottoms. You yelp, relishing in his moans.

“If you like it so much- well shit.” his eyes flutter shut the moment he feels your slick from your underwear. “My love, you’re so wet that I bet I can taste you through your panties.”

If you weren’t wearing your yellow duck polka dot panties this would have been more sexier, and it takes Fred talking about eating you out to realize - oh my god, you’re wearing your duck panties.

“Fred, don-“

Fred has already pushed your bottoms down, revealing the abomination and further causing your face to feel hotter.

“Oh?” he smirks. “Sexy lingerie, all for me?”

You groan, hiding your face in his shoulder while he laughs at you. You feel his chest bob, and you can’t help but giggle alongside him.

“Now, strip.” he commands, and all the humor in the situation vanishes in an instant.

He lets go of your knee and you easily slip out of your bottoms, then slowly said polka dot panties. He grips your thighs, hoisting you up on his hips again and before you know it, he’s stumbling into your room.

His hand is cupping the back of your head, somehow gone there the moments he walked. You wouldn’t know, it’s hard to concentrate on anything else when the heat of his cock between your thighs feels like that.

Fred deposits you on the messily scattered forest you call your bed, and the smell of linen mixed with his cologne is enough for you to grind your hips on nothing.

Fred tuts, pushing a palm flat on your hip. He trails his hand between your legs and palms your pussy, bare. “Babe, you’re dripping. Since how long?”

You whine, “Since the moment you walked through - ah, my door.”

Fred’s eyes glaze over with nothing but dangerous greed. Dipping his knee on the mattress, he manhandles you into submission. “You think you can just get away with saying shit like that?” he groans, eyes fixating on wherever it lands on your body. It’s like he’s trying to take it all in, overwhelmed yet still wanton.

He shuffles to sit against your headboard and pats his large thigh, you waste no time crawling towards him. He quickly grabs your waist before you can approach him. Pulling you against him with your knees propped between his thighs, he’s face to face with your pussy and drooling.

“Such a sweet, pretty cunt.” he breathes, gently kissing your clit. You cry out, knees buckling but Fred’s large palms are flat on your ass and adamant on keeping you up and against his lips. Your center throbs, this is all you have ever wanted - the both of you have ever wanted and Fred has the audacity to tease.

“I know, I know.” He gently sushes. “I need to,” his head leans on your abdomen, desperate. “Need to get you ready for my cock.”

You barely nod, Fred seems to be in battle with himself. You don’t know which side wins, until he starts to suckle your clit with continuous, obscene kissing noises. You grip his shoulder, body bending in half. It feels so good, too good that you can’t hold straight. “Please - Fred,”

Gasping, your pelvis rocks forward. He keeps you still with his muscles digging in your hips, ass, back - everywhere he’s desperately roaming and memorizing.

His tongue finally darts forward - you knew that goddam tongue would be what did it - you nearly collapse, melting forward. It’s wet and warm and god - almost what you imagine his dick might feel like if it ever prods at your entrance.

He’s licking with bold, textured strokes. Your thighs are quivering, it’s the sudden brush of pleasure that meets your cunt every other second that causes this.

“Shit,” Fred pulls back, one hand holding your thighs wider. His thumb circles around your entrance and you cry out in pleasure. “My balls feel so fucking tight ____. If I keep this up, I might just come before I can put my dick in you.”

“Then - ahh Freddie!”

“Don’t get mouthy with me.” he smirks, sliding a finger inside. “I knew what you were gonna say before you opened that sweet mouth of yours.”

He fucks you like this, wet squelching noise mixing with your pants and moans. Working you open, Fred curls a finger inside and your thighs finally give out. “Merlin, you’re gonna get it,” he gives you a sweet kiss on the stomach. “I’m just as desperate to fuck you. Look,”

You do look, very gladly at that. He adds a second finger the moment your eyes fall on the wet patch of his bottoms. He’s rutting against nothing, all the while scissoring his fingers inside you - and from the look he gives you, you know he’s imagining what it's like to be inside you.

“Fred!” you gasp, rocking faster until your legs start to jerk and twitch. You don’t want to come yet, want to savor the way Fred’s fucking you with nothing but two fingers and it’s better than any sex you’ve had.

Your arousal pools between his fingers, dripping down his bracelet adorned wrist, all the way down to his veiny forearms. It’s a sight for sore eyes, Fred watches in a trance, gaze half lidded. You can see his cock twitch in his pants and he moans, “Fucking hell babe, look at the mess you’ve made.”

His thumb presses against your center with his two other fingers working, and he roughly drags it over to your clit to press. He’s licking again, slurping noises mixing with the pats of his tongue quickly dragging across your pussy.

That does it. Whining, and with quick breaths you hurtle towards such an intense orgasm that you swear you see Santa himself and his jingle fucking bells. It’s sudden and weakening, you barely register. Fred’s there all the while, desperately licking every drop of his hard work until there’s nothing. He groans and moans, like he’s having his thanksgiving now.

He’s not like a starved man, or any other cliche line you can think of. No, it’s like he has made a deal with the devil and is captured by the dark vitality of greed. He can’t stop, and merlin, do you not want him to.

“That was,” you breathe, taking a seat on his thigh when he allows.“That was the best orgasm I’ve had.”

“And that was the most gorgeous sight I have ever seen.” Fred smiles, it slowly turns into a smirk. The cocky bastard is way too proud of himself. He should be though, it’s been a while since you’ve had sex - if it always felt like this you would have never stopped.

But you know it never feels this good. No, it’s because of Fred. It’s him, and how much you love him, and how attractive he is - how skilled, amazing, passionate of a man he is. He’s perfect and way out of your league but you don’t care because he’s finally yours.

Said man is breaking out in a sappy grin, kissing your lips sweetly to whisper against them. “Get used to it.” He kisses you again. “I’m going to make you come again, and again, and again until you can’t walk.” he’s lowering you down onto your back, hands caressing your thighs.

“Really?”

“Especially now that I know how sweet and tight you are,“ Fred runs a finger through your pussy and you whimper. “How amazing you smell,” he dips down to lazily suck a hickey on your collarbone. “How soft your skin is,” his hands are lifting your waist up to unhook your bra. “How much I’m in love with you.”

Your gaze softens, and you let him undress you, bra after shirt until you’re left bare beneath. He shivers, his eyes are darting everywhere, to the curve of your hips, up your stomach - and finally, the slope of your breasts. He sucks in a breath. “You,” he rasps. “You had this bikini, that summer.”

“Wha- which one?”

“The white one.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh.”

“We all loved that bikini, especially the days when the lake was particularly cold. Your nipples would be crystal fucking clear.”

You should feel embarrassed, fuck you really should but you knew what you were doing when you bought that bikini. That doesn’t stop you from acting clueless though, “Fred you big oa - oh!”

Fred dips to suck on your nipples, mouth wide open and hungry. “From that day onward, I fucking knew your tits were amazing.” he groans, gazing at them for a moment. “ Shit, was I right.”

You feel his clothed cock rub against you as he speaks - and it finally becomes a problem.

“A-ah, Fred. Clothes,” you barely gesture, though Fred understands you quickly. Sitting back on his heels, he swiftly removes his hoodie overhead.

Of course he isn’t wearing anything underneath.

Of course he has abs.

You curse under your breath - Fred’s chest is well defined, as you expected it to be. Well toned pecs, pert nipples hard and on display, golden skin stretching over his abdomen and six pairs of muscles you’d like to mark. He’s lean yet buff, corded well with muscle and now you know where those enthusiastic years of Quidditch have gone into

You reach for his arm, Fred quickly obliges and lets you guide his palm flat on your body. You breathe heavily - you love how you're he’s feeling you up like this. His hand lands on your breast, and he gives it a rough squeeze before rolling off the bed to get out of his bottoms.

“Are you trying to kill me, doing that? Huh?” he rasps, stumbling slightly. He swings his socks somewhere and gets back on the bed. “Is that what you want?”

When you don’t respond, he chuckles. Slowly, he pushes down his boxer briefs. It’s teasing, this motion. But then again, everything about Fred Weasley is.

His cock slaps against his abdomen - that’s how big it is. You feel yourself salivate, pupils expanding at the thought of such a thick, attractive cock inside you. You almost jump forward and sit on it but when you see the angry red color of his cock, the twitching of his head and the pre-cum that drips, it becomes clear how much he has been holding back.

Fred grips his cock and the head gushes slightly, you feel your cunt flutter. “Come here.”

You let him grip your body and settle you on his lap, entrance inches away from the head of his cock. You’re making eye contact, it’s almost intimidating how intense his gaze is. On your heat, breasts and fucked out face. “Merlin, I’ve been dreaming about this for fucking years. Let me,” he breathes. “I should just take a picture and stare at it all day.”

“Why take a picture when you have the real thing.” you smirk slightly.

Fred groans, “Ohh, you’re such a good girl.”

You smile, “Freddie, please get a condom. Flattery won’t get you that far.”

“Damn it.” he smiles jokingly, reaching for your night stand.

“Wait, shit.” you get off his lap and down your bed, legs wobbling a bit as you stride towards your dresser with hurried steps. Fred whines when you leave but you pay him no mind. “Been a while, here.”

Grabbing the pack, you stumble back on the bed and sit on your knees.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Fred nods his head. “Put it on, baby.”

You rip the packet open and slowly roll it on him, his cock is already wet and glistening enough for it to be quick. Your center pulses with want as you do this.

Fred pushes you down and crawls on top, centering his cock with your entrance. “No more,” he grunts. “Gotta have you now.”

Gasping, you feel him rub against you. He continues to tease, until the tip of his cock finally pushes past.

You cry out and glance down at where his cock bulges, it’s a type of pain you’d love to feel everyday. “A-ah Fred!”

“I know baby,” he whines, pushing further in with a quick thrust. He strokes slowly to work you open. You cry out, arousal gushing out.

“Such a sweet pussy, taking all my cock so well.” he kisses your jaw, feathering his lips around your throat and lazily sucking. “Feel so good.”

It’s true, it feels so fucking good that you can’t hold in your moans anymore. Not that you were trying to, but the desire to chant his name becomes reality when he rolls his hips against your center. He’s so close to bottoming out and the woozy cloud floating in your head grows. “Oh my god, don’t want you to stop.”

The stretch feels so good that you can’t help but clench around him, pain jerking your hips up.

Fred's balls deep in, his chest heaves and his eyes squeeze shut for a moment. He pauses, letting the two of you adjust to the euphoric feeling of his cock inside. ”Why the fuck would I wan’t to stop?” Your insides are throbbing, and you find yourself arching your back every time he gives you a sweet kiss on your chest. “Why would I ever stop. Shit, baby, I love you.”

“I love you too - oh!”

Fred withdraws, then slams into you with such vigour that you scream. Another shameful flow of your juices gush out as pleasure rips through you. He continues this, another harsh thrust into your cunt that makes you arch in pleasure. “Freddie!”

“Just like that.” he grunts, rolling his hips. “Love when you call me that.”

His hand hooks your leg around his waist, and he speeds up his motion, soothing the needy ache you feel.

lt’s dizzying, how good he can make you feel. Like you’re the center of the universe and all that matters is Fred fucking you open with sweet, yet untetheredly rough thrusts. It’s scary how lost you can get in him, and it becomes haunted when he captures your lips in a kiss and lifts your leg up on his shoulder.

“You’re so tight, oh fucking hell. Look at you, my goodness you’re absolutely perfect.” he murmurs against your lips, muting your moans.

“Fred! Oh god - ah!”

Your cries egg him on, he’s ruthless with the way his fingers dig in your ass to slam into you faster. The angle, his thick cock, how he’s biting down on your lower lip, you can barely take in. You feel helplessly at his mercy, and soon he’s fucking you too hard to keep kissing. “Easy, baby,” he coos when you squirm underneath him. “I’ve got you - my sweet little flower. Feel good?”

The question itself is clearly hysterical, your pleasure is etched on to your face and your thighs quiver underneath him. His mouth hangs open, eyes droopy, yet he still wears that infuriatingly attractive smirk. “Yes! Feel so good - ah you cocky bastar - umpfh!”

He drapes your other leg over his shoulder, your breasts bounce as his thrust turns more languid. Your back arches, mouth hanging open. “Oh my god - Fred!”

It feels so fucking good like this, so deep and good and - fuck, everything else other than him becomes a distant memory.

“Ahh - shit baby. Doing so good,” he grunts, his moans turn more high pitched when you meet his thrusts halfways. “Drown me baby, my flower takes me so well,”

Fred’s hand curls around the mattress as his other grips your thigh. He slams into you, stretching you out so good that your orgasm builds rapidly within. With your legs draped over his shoulder, he bends forward further until he’s sucking in your chest and leaving red marks. “OH - Freddie,” you whine, clawing at his back.

“That’s it my love,” he croons, head thrown back yet still adamant on watching you. His hands tangle in your hair, carding through and gripping them hard. “Come on my cock - make a mess of your sheets. Doing so well for me, wanna feel you clench around me.”

His face contorts in pleasure when your cunt does clench, hair draping over his eyes to cover his glazed, blown out pupils. Fred reaches between your legs to sweetly thumb your clit, squeezing it between two fingers and it’s the final straw until you break.

You arch in pleasure, shuddering violently underneath him. Fred’s letting you ride it out, finally gasping and his hands clench around your thigh and the mattress. Your hand finds his, interlacing your fingers together as you messily grind your hips and finally come down. Ropes of hot cum fill the condom around your sensitive walls. You tighten, aching a little from the warmth that you can’t feel directly from the plastic barrier.

Fred collapses on top with panting breaths. His head rests in the crook of your neck, arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

“Well shit.”

“Yeah.” you chuckle breathily. The post orgasm clarity makes you realize; fuck, I love this man way more than I let on. You suddenly feel the need to show him, and yet you settle for tenderly brushing his hair back when he lifts his head.

Fred smiles, grin lazy and sappy. After pecking your lips, he slowly pulls out. You whine from the sudden coldness when he rolls out of your arms, then he grins at your noise of distress.

“Hold on love, be right back.” Fred pulls off his condom, ties the top and tosses it to the trash before collapsing next to you - way more dramatically. His arm drapes over you, pulling you to his chest and pressing a kiss on your forehead. “I love you.”

You sigh, content. “Love you too,” you smirk. “Would love you more if you cleaned me up.”

Fred’s eyes flash dangerously. “Oh?”

“Not like that you idiot!” you smile, gently slapping his chest. “Swish your wand or something, I don’t wanna get up.”

“Hm,” he taps his chin. “Give me a tour of your apartment and I’ll think about it.”

You sigh, propping yourself on your arms. Fred whines and tries to pull you back in but you don’t relent. “Alright alright.”

Rolling off the bed, you rush to the bathroom, ignoring the pulsing soreness in your core. “Wha - come back! What about my tour?” Fred yells after you.

You laugh at his eagerness. “You’re not getting it!”

After cleaning yourself up, you practically hurl yourself in his arms. Fred catches you with something between a grunt and a chuckle, leaning against the headboard and letting you rest your head on his chest. Your eyes lull around, begging to give into your exhaustion. “Close your eyes, flower,” he whispers sweetly, gently running his hands across your hair and massaging your scalp.

The snowstorm outside has gotten intense, the wind howls against your sealed windows yet the world feels much brighter from this morning. It’s hard to focus on anything besides the way your heart flutters, and the feel of Fred beneath you. Snuggling closer, his fingers gently trace around your shoulders.

“Freddie?” you murmur, cheek pressed against his chest.

He hums in response.

“You’re staying over, right?”

Fred peers down at you, his brows are etched together and the concern on his face nearly makes you sob. “Do…do you not want me to?” he answers shakily.

You let out a breath. “Of course I want you to!”

“Good.” he smiles, letting out a bigger breath than you. For a moment, you think you broke the man. “Because you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon.”

[rubysunnday]

she could be the one | c.b

The house was quiet. The household staff had finished their duties for the day and had blown out the candles, shut the windows and curtains and had migrated down stairs to their quarters. Y/N had forgone the ball occurring that night in Greenwich, choosing to stay home and finish her embroidery.

She looked up from her sewing as something clattered against her window. Y/N frowned, dismissing it as a stray branch and turning back to her sewing but looked up again when something clattered against it again.

Y/N stood up and walked up to her window, pulling back the thin, net curtain and looking out.

Colin Bridgerton, the bastard, was standing in the side garden of the house looking up at her smugly whilst holding a bunch of pebbles in his hand.

Y/N scoffed out a laugh and pulled up her window, opening it wide and poking her head out the window.

“Colin Bridgerton, what on earth?!” Y/N exclaimed, staring at him as if he’d gone insane which, in all fairness, wasn’t a difficult assumption to make considering his seven siblings.

“No one was home,” Colin replied, “minus Hyacinth and Gregory but they're both too engrossed in attacking the other to notice me disappearing.”

Y/N laughed, leaning out her window further. “That doesn’t explain your presence here. In my garden. At night.”

“I missed you,” Colin said, beaming. “And I wondered if we may have a stroll around your surprisingly large garden.”

Y/N gaped at him, astonished by the nerve and gull of the man who was not only her best friend but also the man she’d shared her first kiss with at the start of the season underneath the cherry tree at Hastings House.

“Colin... I-”

“Come on, Y/N/N,” he said, stepping closer to the window and giving her a the smile that made her knees weak. “Please?”

Y/N sighed, clutching the window sill tightly as her knees wobbled. “Alright. I’ll come down.”

Y/N turned around and grabbed her shawl, missing Colin’s celebratory punch in the air. She turned back around and began climbing down from her first floor window, using the rose trellis as a ladder.

Colin’s hands snaked around her waist as soon as she was within arm’s reach and he gently lifted her down onto the ground and spun her around, pressing her back against the wall and kissing her. Y/N’s feet were still yet to touch the ground.

“Colin,” Y/N said, pushing him back slightly and looking at him. “You can put me down, now.”

Colin smirked and gently dropped her to the floor. He leant down and kissed her again, pushing her back against the wall.

“I thought we were strolling,” Y/N replied, smiling, pushing him back again. She reached out and entwined her fingers with his. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

Y/N began walking, gently tugging Colin’s arm so that he followed after her.

The gardens of Chantry House - Y/N’s childhood home - were even bigger then those at Bridgerton House. The central feature was the fountain at the centre of the garden with a statue of young woman holding a water pot in the middle. Behind it, through the cherry trees and behind the hedges was a beautiful white marble pavilion.

Y/N lead Colin around the fountain, through the trees and behind the hedge and walked up the stairs and came to a stop in the centre of the pavilion.

“No one will see us here - unless they come back early, that is,” Y/N explained, pulling Colin close and grabbing his other hand. “It’s also about to rain so, I thought we could hide in here.”

Colin frowned. “How do you know it’s going to rain?” He asked, letting go of Y/N’s hand and resting it on her waist.

“You can smell it in the air,” she replied, fiddling with his collar. “Petrichor - the smell of dust after rain. It travels on the wind from where it’s rained which means its coming this way.”

Seconds after she finished speaking, the roof above them began being battered by heavy rain, the wind blowing stray drops inside the pavilion. Y/N sighed happily, tilting her head back as the late summer heat broke and the wind swept away the humidity and heavy air.

Colin smiled at her as she spun in a circle, his eyes focused solely on her and nothing else. He’d become known as a flirt and a bit of a rake over the years and almost any woman he laid eyes on knew he was there for a short time and not a long one.

But when he looked at Y/N... he felt as if his world was complete. As if he had no need to travel in search of fulfilment because it was right in front of him. Because his fulfilment was her.

The thing he'd spent so many months travelling to find had been in London the entire time and he just hadn't realised it until their stolen kiss under the cherry tree back in May. Ever since then he’d needed her in his life. Needed her smile, her laugh - the way her eyes lit up whenever she spoke about history and museums and anything else she liked.

He needed her like he needed air to breathe.

“What?” Y/N asked, finally noticing the way Colin was staring at her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Colin smiled and shook his head fondly. “Nothing, darling. You just look beautiful tonight. You look beautiful every night.”

Y/N felt her cheeks heat up and swished the skirt of her dress. “Why thank you, Mr Bridgerton.”

The gardens lit up as a flash of lightning cracked across the sky followed by the low rumble of thunder echoing above. Y/N smiled and grabbed Colin’s hand, pulling him closer.

“Can I interest you in a dance, Mr Bridgerton?” Y/N asked, taking the lead - a move usually reserved for men in a dance.

Colin let out the cutest giggle that didn’t sound like it could possibly come from him - the handsome, tall third Bridgerton brother. “Of course, Miss Y/L/N.”

Colin took up the women’s position in a waltz whilst Y/N took up the man’s. Y/N softly hummed under her breath the traditional rhythm for a waltz and the two began dancing around the pavilion, the rain being forced in by the wind and causing the two to get damp as they spun around.

Y/N giggled as Colin spun her away, spun her back to him and took up the normal pose of a waltz, taking the lead. 

It wasn’t often that they were allowed to be alone - society and tradition dictated that there should always be a chaperone around should a man and woman want to be alone. But the intimate moments between her and Colin - when no one else was around and it was just the two of them in a dark corner of a ballroom or in the centre of a maze. 

Dancing with him in the middle of the night, in the rain was magical. Y/N, dressed in nothing more than her morning dress, barefoot with her hair down, felt free. No one was watching her. It was just Colin’s eyes on her.

Colin had lost his jacket when he’d walked into the pavilion and had rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing his forearms. They both felt free and away from the piercing eyes of the Ton.

Colin put his hands on Y/N’s waist and lifted her up into the air, spinning her around and the gently setting her on the ground again, the two impossibly close.

“Y/N,” Colin said softly, their foreheads touching, “I -”

The sound of a carriage rattled past the back gate and Y/N lurched away from Colin, her eyes wide.

“Oh, that’s -” She turned around in a circle and spotted Colin’s jacket and threw it at him. “My parents. You should go, Col, or... well, god knows what your brothers will do to me.”

Colin laughed. “Alright, I’ll go, but not after a kiss.”

Y/N shoved Colin out of the pavilion and stood on the top of the stairs, leaning down and kissing the tip of his nose.

“There,” she said, stepping down until she was on the path. “Now, go.”

Without giving him a chance to argue, Y/N dashed off down the garden path in the direction of the back door before her parents returned and found her in the garden with Colin Bridgerton.

Colin stared after her a stupid grin on his face. Anthony was going to be in for a shock when he got home that night. Colin Bridgerton was finally ready to settle down with the woman who had become his world. 

[foli-vora]

reflections

masterlist

A/N: I’m back, baby! This is completely self indulgent because I’m feeling shitty about my bod, who better to help than certified soft boi Marcus? This is dedicated to all the goddesses who sometimes struggle with remembering that they have the body of a bad bitch, regardless of what it looks like or what society tells you it should be. I love you.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!reader

Word count: 3k

Warnings: insecurities, body image issues, SMUT 18+ ONLY - body worship, unprotected p in v, I may have cried writing this no I won’t apologise

+

It was one of those days.

Your clothes didn’t feel right on your body, clumping in certain spots and hanging wrong everywhere else. The reflection in the bathroom mirror showed someone desperately trying to piece together what was left – a bit of extra serum here, a heavier swipe of makeup there, as if it would all come together in the end and you’d be able to walk around with your head held high.

It didn’t work.

How you landed Marcus Pike, you’ll never know, and it’s that thought that festers, ugly and unyielding, in your mind throughout the entire day and well into dinner.

He watches you from across the table as he eats, head tilting when he quickly catches onto the fact that you’re unusually quiet, reserved, curling in on yourself and pushing the food around your plate instead of enthusiastically diving in like you normally do when he cooks.

“Is everything okay?” His voice is soft, his gentle probing so much more different from previous partners and their passive aggressive ‘What’s wrong with you?’.

Your eyes find him, flickering across his face creased with concern, your stomach twisting uncomfortably as you force a little smile. It doesn’t sit right on your face. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

He knows you’re lying, knows from the sudden shine in your eyes that something’s bothering you, something’s hurting, but he lets it rest for now, sensing your discomfort from miles away and instead choosing to reach a hand across the table to fold softly over yours as he fills the silence with the goings on of his day.

You don’t eat.

He doesn’t comment on it.

He hides when he hears you tidying in the kitchen, thinking he was already getting ready for bed. He watches you swipe away the food on your plate with a quiet sniff, the back of your hand quickly catching a lone tear that streaks down your face, and then he knows.

You pull at your shirt, shift uncomfortably in your tight pants – his favourite – and he knows.

Heart breaking for you, Marcus makes sure to make a noise as he enters, smiling softly when you jump and laugh quietly. You force a smile, turning your back to him to start washing dishes when warm hands cover yours in the soapy water, a body pressing up close behind you.

“Take a shower with me?” He asks into the hot skin of your throat, kissing softly below your ear as he sways with your body gently. A habit of his – always swaying to music that isn’t there. The music of your love, he liked to say. The cheesy idiot.

You want to say no, he can feel it in the way your body tenses.

“I had one earlier.”

He leaves it, nodding against your cheek in understanding before kissing it softly and fading away upstairs. He takes your composure with him, and you can’t help but cry as you finish up the dishes.

You really don’t deserve him. He was far too good for you.

The ugly thought that had long settled in your mind, suddenly sprouts into something bigger. It fills you, the unworthiness, and your chest tightens as you fight off the heavier sobs, struggling to swallow around the lump lodged in your throat from the effort of keeping it all at bay. You’d save them for later, when he’s oblivious and lost in dreams.

You must have taken longer than you thought because he’s already pottering around the room in his pyjamas by the time you make your way upstairs, dark hair dripping small droplets of water onto the collar of his comfy tee. He never dries his hair properly. Usually you’d do it for him – cover his head with a towel and rub it vigorously until he’s unsteady, chest heaving from the laughter muffled by the fabric.

Not tonight.

He watches sadly as you retrieve your pyjamas and head for the bathroom, head downcast.

“Hey,”

You stop instantly, a small smile twisting your lips uncomfortably as you turn to raise a brow at him.

“Come here.”

When you get to him, he quickly steers you to the full-length mirror by the walk-in closet and shushes your quiet refusal, standing close to you as you both appear in the reflection.

“Look.” He says.

You frown at him in the reflection, “What?”

“Look.”

And so you do.

You can’t help the sting of more tears in your raw eyes as they roll over your body, automatically drawn in to the bits you don’t like and picking them to pieces in your mind. He watches intently, heart breaking even more in his chest with every second he watches resentment fill your features.

“You’re beautiful.”

Your head shakes. It’s automatic. Can’t he see out of those gorgeous brown eyes?

His voice remains gentle, “Stop it – look.”

His fingers gently fiddle with the hem of your shirt before he’s pulling it up, careful as he pries it from your body and slides it over your head. Your arms automatically go to cross over your chest, to cover the suddenly exposed skin, but he doesn’t have it.

“No.”

His hands are warm on your shoulders, palms soft as they rub soothingly up and down your arms, and you don’t bother hiding the sadness anymore. Why bother? He already knows.

“What were those affirmations from your new year resolution?”

You snort before you can help it. “They were bullshit –”

He didn’t think so. You were all about them for the first few weeks – writing them in your journal, saying them in the mirror while he watched from behind the shower curtain. You even made him write some down and they’re still stuck to the side of his computer screen in his office.

“What were they? And look at yourself when you say them.”

You heave a sigh, eyes rolling from his to meet your own in the reflection. “I am strong.”

He mhm’s softly into your neck, chin resting softly on your shoulder. “And?”

“I am powerful.”

“Incredibly so. And?”

“I am beautiful.”

“Yeah, you are. Now again.”

“Marcus –”

“Again.”

You do as he asks, heart thundering in your chest as his hands smooth down along your torso and across the skin of your stomach, wrapping you up in his arms as he watches you. He turns you once you finish, hand tenderly smoothing along your cheek before cupping your jaw.

“I know this won’t fix it, I know what you’re feeling goes deeper than this, and I know nothing I do will take your pain away, but will you let me try, honey?”

His thumbs sweep under your eyes, brushing away the tears that had fallen from your lashes, and you smile, heart thundering in your chest as he presses a tender kiss to your forehead.

You really didn’t deserve Marcus Pike, but God were you lucky.

“I love you.”

He grins, eyes shining, “I love you.”

A part of you says no, no he doesn’t, but then his hands gently cradle your face and bring your lips to his, and you’re lost in the slow movements of his kiss, unaware he was backing you up to the bed until the backs of your knees hit the sides and you’re falling back onto it with a startled giggle.

You try to fight off the wave of hesitation when he goes for the button of your jeans and relax, but he can feel your reluctance, always so attuned to you and what you were feeling. He pauses, fingers stopping their movements as he looks at you.

“It’s okay.” You don’t know why you’re whispering. It’s just so quiet in the bedroom, so still, maybe you were afraid of shattering the silence.

He continues then, slipping the button through the loop and pulling your fly down before he grabbing the denim and dragging it softly down your legs. You lift your hips, shimmy a little to get them past your thighs and smile at his soft expression when he settles on his knees between your legs after throwing your jeans to the floor.

There was something magical about being the sole focus of Marcus Pike’s attention. Your skin hums under his gentle touch, goosebumps following the path of his fingers as they dance softly over your body. You don’t shy away from his open gaze; don’t cross your arms over your chest and try to hide your thighs like your mind is screaming at you to do. You just simply lay among the pillows, letting his eyes crawl over every inch of you.

And there’s no disgust hiding anywhere on his face. No flicker of repulsion. No curl of the nose or judgement in his gaze.

It’s pure admiration, pure awe.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

You want to scoff, you know that’s not the truth – the planet is full of drop-dead stunning women – but the longer he stares at you, looking all over your body and straight into your wide eyes, you think maybe he’s not lying… maybe there is a tiny bit of truth to his statement and, well, what’s the harm in believing it? If only just for a little while.

So you smile, heart beating wildly when he grins in return, eyes soft as he reaches back and pulls his tee off in one smooth swipe, and then moves to hover carefully over you. You welcome the soothing heat of his skin as he presses into you, hands greedily grabbing at his back as trails his lips across the skin of your jaw, nipping softly at your throat before he moves to your lips.

It’s easy to lose yourself in his steady stream of affection, your mind all but blanking as he steals the breath from your lungs, his tongue taking the last of any coherent thoughts as it moves along your own. He swallows your whimper and presses further into you, grinding his hips slowly into yours and relishing in your quiet moan.

He softly pulls away, keeping his voice low as he asks, “Is this okay?”

You’re nodding before he even finishes his question, and he smiles before kissing his way down your jaw, following the path to the curve of your shoulder to where the flesh of your breast melts from the cup of your bra.

He pauses, eyes flicking up to yours, “Still okay?”

You lift your chest to answer his question, one of his hands quick to whip around your body and undo the clasp before pulling it away from your completely. He inhales quietly, watching your breasts fall to a more natural position once free of the bra, and heat creeps along your ears the longer he stares, wandering hands moving to cup the soft flesh delicately.

A light sigh leaves you when his thumbs brush over your nipples, circling over the stiff peaks before he rips a surprised gasp from your lips. His fingers tickle the harsh sting of his pinch away before he envelopes a nipple into the wet heat of his mouth, tongue soothing any remaining pain. He moves to the other side, repeating his actions before pulling way to blow softly over the wet skin, chuckling quietly at the way you squirm under him.

He continues his slow journey downwards, but stops when he reaches your stomach. A part of you doesn’t want to look at him – what if he doesn’t like it? But then you’re reminded that he’s seen you naked hundreds of times, in all sorts of places and positions. Why would now be any different?

So you look at him, eyes following to where he rests comfortably between your thighs, gaze already trained on you with an air of soft fondness. He smiles when you look at him, and only when you look at him do you realise what patterns his fingers are tracing over your skin – he’s tracing your stretchmarks.

The sudden wave of apprehension is washed away when his lips trace over the shallow valleys in your skin, kissing along every single one he could see while his fingers continued running up and down your sides softly.

“Marcus,” you giggle, when he moves too close to the ticklish spot above your hip.

“What?” He asks innocently, a loud raspberry quickly cutting through the peace of the bedroom as he nuzzles into your side. You laugh louder, squirming against his hold and batting him away as he continues his attack. He glows when he sees the lazy smile stretching your features, no shadows hanging in the back of your eyes.

“Idiot.” You mutter affectionately, smile widening.

“Your idiot.”

His fingers trace over the waistband of your panties, waiting for your go ahead before they slide under the fabric and move them softly down your legs. He discards them off the side of the bed and hums lowly when your legs part under his gentle coaxing, eyes zeroing in on your folds shining with the arousal that had built from his tender ministrations.

“This okay?” He whispers, eyes watching the way your brow creases when he runs his fingers up and down your slit, his cock jumping in his pyjama bottoms when he feels your arousal coat his fingertips.

“Mhmm.” You relax into the pillows, eyes closing in bliss at the rhythmic circles he was rubbing over your clit. “Marcus?”

“Yeah honey?”

You knew where this was going, and as much as you adored his tongue and the absolute magic he could make with it, you just wanted him close. Your hands greedily grab at him, “Come ‘ere.”

He frowns, pouting as his fingers dip into your heat. “But I –”

“Not tonight. I just want you… please?”

He softens, nodding with a smile as he melts back over you, lips eagerly meeting with yours as you feel the weight of his body carefully press into you. He shimmies out of his pyjama bottoms, quick to settle back in between your legs and you exhale shakily as the head of his cock slides between your folds, a fire kickstarting in your stomach as he lazily drags his hips back and pushes forward until he runs his tip over your clit again and again.

His hand darts in between your bodies, fumbling to line himself up with your entrance as your lips work messily against his, throwing his thoughts into a complete jumble, and it’s not long until he’s sinking into you, bottoming out in your wet heat with a low groan. Your walls flutter deliciously around him and his hips jolt, before he’s rolling forward and starting a steady, unhurried pace.

“I love you,” he whispers as you pant below him, the slow drag of his hips against your clit as he grinds into you steadily building the fire in your core.

You can’t help the tears that build in your eyes, the intense power of his adoring gaze too much for your damaged heart to handle, but he doesn’t let you turn away, he won’t let you hide. His forehead meets yours, hands moving to intertwine tightly with yours as you breathe in the other, the slow pressure of his hips staying steady as your chest tightens from the sparkle in his dark eyes.

You put that sparkle there. You can see it now.

It was love.

Your love, his love –

It all morphed together in a wild frenzy of colours and sounds and everything was just right. Here now, with him, everything was right. There was no pain, no doubt… just pure devotion. Your heart struggles with the pressure of it all, chest threatening to surrender under the weight, but you welcome it eagerly, desperate to feel and breathe all of him as he moves over you.

The tears break free. “Marcus –”

“I know. I’ve got you, honey.”

“I love you,” you murmur, sniffing quietly as you wiggle a hand free to tangle into the damp locks at the back of his head to keep his forehead pressed against yours. His nose runs softly along your own and your heart squeezes at the sweet tenderness of it. “So fucking much –”

His face crumbles, completely unashamed as a wave of tears build in his own eyes, his own insecurities biting at the back of his mind, and he nods, pushing the shadows away and instead, nuzzling into you and your warmth.

“I know – almost as much as I love you.”

You share a watery smile, your thumb brushing softly over his cheek to collect the stray tear that falls free and then he’s moving, your hands winding to grab at his back as he picks up the pace, keeping the pressure of his hips rolling against your clit and you cry out quietly as your stomach tightens with the threat of your oncoming crash of pleasure.

He senses it, moves just that little more desperately against you, and then you’re shattering under him, eyes closing as fire floods your veins and rips through your body. He falls with you, his own end coaxed on by the sudden tightening off your hot walls and the rush of slick that floods him. He shudders above you, face pinching as he fills you, and you moan when you feel his cock twitch inside you.

You pull him to rest in your arms, head tucked comfortably in the curve of your shoulder as he huffs into your throat. You try to steady your own breathing, your heart beating wildly against your chest as the post-climax tingles settle into your limbs, your body melting into the bed as exhaustion rolls through you.

He’s gentle as he pulls out of you, carefully falling next to you, and watching you shift onto your side to face him with a languid smile.

His voice is barely a whisper, his fingers moving to find yours as his racing heart calms. “You really are incredible, honey.”

Heat crawls along your chest and fills your cheeks, “You’re not so bad yourself, Agent Pike.”

“Seriously,” he says quietly, “I wish you could see it.”

You swallow the sudden lump building in your throat, and you smile widely at him, filled with such a sudden wave of confidence you wish it would last. “One day I will.” And you know in your heart that it could be possible, it would be. “One day.”

+

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[olivyh]

Twst Species headcannons

Beastmen:

-Palms and bottoms of their feet are rougher and more padded, as well as a slightly darker shade than their normal skin tone

-Legs are built similar to the hind legs of animals (with the sharp angles and little bumps)

-Start “walking” as children on all fours because it’s more comfortable due to the way their legs are built

-Many have scars under their bottom lip due to accidentally biting it bc their fangs were longer after losing their baby teeth

-Similarly, they also have small scars across various parts of their bodies due to their claws

-They can see in the dark to an extent

-Their eyes also do the glowy thing in the dark, as well as on camera

-Beastmen have very thick and coarse hair, which makes it notoriously harder to cut

-Many lion beastmen especially do not cut their hair often, as their hair symbolizes strength within their communities

-Cutting ones hair is a sign of trust in beastmen communities, considering how guarded they are with who touches their head (Patting a beastman’s head is a quick and easy way for them to get their guard down, and it takes them off high alert) as well as their ears being within constant danger near scissors.

-Beastmen do shed, a lot, like, a lot a lot

-They have been known to growl and purr like their animal counterparts, as well as hunch their backs and snarl when threatened

-Baby beastmen will bite you, as a sign of affection. They also wrestle with their caretakers from a young age to show affection as well. Grown beastmen will let the younger beastman win, regardless of species

-They also play wrestle with mates and potential mates to show their interest and affection. Not too hard, but enough to jostle the mate around. They will be absolutely smitten if the mate does it back.

-Beastmen grow up using the same sounds their animal counterparts do, as its similar to being taught a first language that the rest of your family speaks. Most aren’t taught English (Or commonspeak since England is nonexistent in Twisted Wonderland) until later in life

-Beastmen can understand similar dialects and tones of other species, and can further understand and speak a little bit of other beastmen languages

-They cannot eat certain foods that their mother species can’t. Canine beastmen cannot eat chocolate, onions, etc, feline beastmen cannot eat onions, garlic, grapes, etc etc without having issues afterwards. (This makes them a target for pranksters on NRC’s campus. Ex: The incident of Heartslabyul’s Ace Trappola switching out all the tea for coffee during the unbirthday party and Chenya unfortunately missing the cues and drinking the whole cup)

-They are very territorial to anyone besides the clan they reside with. The only people they aren’t territorial with are young children, although they are on high alert if the child’s guardian is nearby

-Beastmen will adopt a child if they see it doesn’t have a clan to stay with, regardless of species. It’s not unheard of to see a beastchild of another species or a young human in beastman clans

-I saw a hc that said that Rook is mixed beastman/human so I’m gonna roll with that for the next one: Beastmen and human mixed babies can have the same attributes as beastmen but on a tamer scale. Their vision, hearing, sense of touch and smell could be higher than a human’s but not as high as a beastmans. The ears and tail are the more dominant gene but it’s not uncommon to see a mixed beastmen/human child with more human features

-Beastmen grow larger than most humans, with the average beastmen (under the right conditions) ranging around six ft at full height. Female hyena beastmen grow taller than their male counterparts

Mer:

-They’re hypersensitive to sunlight at first and have to wear sunglasses or something shading their eyes their first few weeks on land

-They also get dehydrated very easily even in human form, so they have to carry around water bottles

-Their skin dries out quickly, so their hands and feet especially will be very dry and potentially cracking unless they moisturize often

-They have a lot of back and leg pain because they’re not used to gravity pulling them down

-Can also see in the dark very well due to living at the bottom of the ocean

-Their hair is also very thin and silky, but separated into thick chunks, almost looking like scales from a distance. Furthermore most Mer don’t like having longer hair due to the amount of effort it takes to maintain it, with currents twisting it up and the high chances of it getting stuck between rocks and coral

-Most mer have the habit of picking up whatever’s nearby and eating it raw, due to the fact that their bodies can process it. It’s not uncommon to see a mer picking a crab off the side of their house and plopping it into their mouth.

-They have no problem with eating the fish they are associated with, and they do not consider it cannibalism since they aren’t exactly the same species. (Meaning the Tweels can eat eel and Azul can eat octopus without any problems)

-Baby mer can swim around at a very young age (from just a few days old), and mature faster than most other species in the first few weeks of their lives

-Azul has horizontal, rectangular pupils

-Aside from cecaelia, most mer do have slanted pupils that change shape depending on the danger in the area.

-Mer communicate under the water using clicks and chitters similar to echolocation, and could choose to not learn commonspeak as they don’t interact with humans as much as beastmen

-They are born with teeth and can eat smaller fish from birth (or hatching, depending on the species)

-They’re not mammals, so they don’t have nips I think

-They don’t choose to wear clothing or accessories unless it’s for a formal event or a family heirloom

-Back to the birth thing I think mer eggs are very easy to lose due to the harsh climate of the ocean. Many mer settle for only having a child or two due to how hard it is to raise a child there. Jade and Floyd also hatched from the same egg, meaning they were on the smaller side as babies

-Mer babies also bite to show affection, and will wrap their tail around their guardians when they feel scared or nervous

-Cecaelia babies are well known for sticking to their guardians for the first few weeks of their lives, and are very difficult to pry off due to the strength of their tentacles (And when they do theres little marks left across their backs, stomachs, shoulders, etc from the suction cups) (I’m sorry i cant stop picturing tired momma ashengrotto walking around w little marls on her and baby azul still stuck to her like 👁👁)

-I know this is a little far fetched and is nowhere near mentioned in the game or comic but I have a feeling the tweels have a hard time seeing out of their gray eye? Like coming from the same egg they maybe took some features from the other or they had a difficult development while in there (or maybe I just know nothing abt twins)

-Incredibly territorial, especially towards members of different species.

-Most mer have skin pigmented similar to their tail color as well as thick layers of scales (if their species permits) around their throats, their sides, their arms, and around their ear fins (It throws me off how Azul and the Tweels are the only ones with different skin tones- like you’re telling me you have two teal mer and a black and white mer but the guards at the museum had just blue tails and absolutely no other signs of being a mer??? Give us green Rielle pls and thx)

-Mer grow much larger than humans and beastmen, and don’t stop growing until their twenties.

-They also have markings on their torso, tail, and face that’s similar to others in their families. Normally you can tell which mer is from which family depending on the markings said mer has

-Similar to beastmen tails and ears, mer can be read by their fins. In extreme emotion, mer’s fins will flare out or flatten against their body when they feel threatened.

-They don’t know how to drink things when they get to the surface. I think they’d struggle with the idea since you can’t drink underwater or else the liquid will go everywhere (but then how’d Azul make those potions???)

Fae:

-Also hypersensitive to sunlight, which results in many fae being nocturnal.

-Older fae have been known to go days without any sleep with little to no repercussions. Younger fae have more difficulty with this.

-They have a stronger immunity to magic, and often potions crafted by them are well known to be more potent due to this fact

-Fae speak many languages, with many smaller species talking in little chirps and bell like noises, with bigger species talking in low growls and hissing noises. Fae on opposite sides of this cannot understand each other, but each species of small fae can understand other small fae, and larger ones can understand other large ones, even if there’s a difference in language.

-All of them can practice transformation magic without the use of a spell or potion, regardless of genetic makeup. It’s not uncommon to see large dragons or other reptiles walking the streets of the Valley pf Thorns, nor is it too uncommon to see small “floods” or floating fire balls in more secluded areas of the woods

-Fae grow the largest out of all the groups, but have control over their size due to their transformation magic. They don’t stop growing until they appear the same age as thirty (but is actually a much longer time considering their lifespans)

-Because of this fae take much longer to mature from birth/hatching (I like to think 1 normal year= 80~ years) (So An 80 y/o fae would only be equal to a one year old in any other species)

-Very reserved in their relationships with other fae and especially species. I think the cultural differences between other fae is enough to create a large gap between them, and most fae understand the difference in life span between them and other species, so they actively go out of their way to avoid forming relationships with them. (I feel like this is a part of why Sebek is so abrasive towards humans. I mean, his life span has to be different even if he’s only half, so he might be using his anger to deflect his own feelings about eventually having to lose his human father and Silver, as much as they bicker. Poor guys just in denial and trying to protect himself :(()

Human:

-Humans who grew up around magic users have more resilience to magic and potions (meaning Mc/Yuuken, who grew up in a world without magic at all, is more susceptible and will be effected longer by the side affects of potions and spells, or the spells will pack more of a punch and be potentially more dangerous)(Meaning they could take a sleeping potion meant to give the user a full nights rest and be out for a week straight)

-The chances of a human’s unique magic leaning in one direction depends on the area they live in and what resources they have available (I can’t think of anyone else’s unique magic who does this but Kalim’s oasis maker is a big example. He mentioned they had difficulty getting water on the Land of the Hot Sands so maybe that could have been a factor that altered the makeup of his magic. Like a demand and supply type deal?)

-Magical human’s pupils also change shape when they’re using their magic. I like to think that whenever it’s being used their pupils are blown wide to the point where you can hardly see their actual eye color

-Either that or their eyes glow

-Magic using humans are typically stronger, but have lower endurance than non magic users. This is due to the strain that’s put on their bodies even when magic isn’t in use. There are potions they can use to lessen these effects, and many choose to naturally boost their endurance through various activities, but they have to work harder than non magic using humans

[noaltbruh]

I hope this follows the rules! But is it okay if I request a scenario where Giorno has a nightmare of turning into Diavolo and S/O comforts him when he wakes up?

My first request in so long, what an honor!

You're surely a fan of this scenario, I've seen you requesting it quite a lot of times.

Either way, let's get into it!

Esci dalla mia testa

06/04/2004

Midnight had just struck, it had already been three years.

Three years since Giovanna had become the new Don of Passione, and since the former had been punished for his actions.

But in reality, time had lost meaning to the young boy years ago. Everything he did, it felt so...Mechanic, so frivolous, simply keeping track of the days in order not to forget an important reunion.

He buried himself under thousands of piles of work, which only seemed to grow bigger and bigger with every day that passed. This was supposed to be his dream, his greatest goal, and he had reached it at such a young age.

But then...Why did he feel so empty?

He was supposed to be happy, after all the sacrifices that had been made to arrive so far, he had to be grateful for everything that's been given to him.

But he couldn't be, because those sacrifices were not his own, because innocent lives had been taken away, because he had come.

He truly was no different than the man whom he had condemned to suffer for all eternity. But he had to clinch his teeth, and keep on going with his head high, for the few people that were still by his side. Most importantly, for his partner.

As everyone around him had found a significant other, pressured by his best friend, he had decided to reluctantly indulge in this so called 'romance'.

And when you two finally met, he felt like a tiny fickle of faith had risen inside of his heart again.

You listened to him, to his struggles, to his doubts, to each one of his complaints like the were the only worries in the world. He failed to express how much you meant to him, after those...'Accidents', he had become even more close-up about his feelings.

You were very well aware of his workaholic tendencies, as most nights, you were the one to ask him to put down all the documents and get some rest

And this...Was one of those.

As you rapidly fell into a deep sleep, exhausted from your own day, you felt a soft hand gently caressing your forehead. You were so warm and comforting, like a puppy, the only one able to give him hope in this twisted world.

But sadly, your presence could not magically make all his guilt and insecurities go away, and he had accepted that.

After contemplating your dreaming figure for a minute, he slowly closed his eyes, wishing to escape, just for a short while, from all those crushing responsibilities and expectations.

His consciousness started to slip away, he felt ready to conclude another day. Until, he heard whispering. Weak, confused, peculiar sounds, he could not understand a word of what those voices were trying to tell him, they were too far from the boy.

But they wouldn't stop. Delicate, constant and unbearable like the sound of a drip of water falling into a sink. They were playing with the Don's patience, a sleeping lion that should not disturbed, unless you wanted to be torn to pieces.

His mind immediately connected the situation to a possible Stand attack, nothing out of his normality, per se, but he was not concerned for himself. You were still peacefully resting, clinging to your sheets, it was a quite cold night. He wouldn't have let a single soul cause any harm to his darling, she was his only true happiness, his sunshine.

In the moment he stepped outside of the bedroom, what he was faced with sent a frozen shiver down his spine, as he brought his hand to his chest, to control his heartbeat.

There were four doors, floating in absolute darkness. A weak stream of light, that seemed to be originated from nothingness, illuminated each one of them singularly.

The whispering got louder and louder, faint giggles could occasionally be heard. The young one turned around to look at the entrance of this cursed place, the one he had just walked through.

But there was nothing there.

And so, like a captured prey that had nothing left to lose, he ventured himself into the first door, only to be met with a monochromatic version of Fugo. He was breathing heavily, desperately sobbing and all curled up on himself, on the shore of the same place where the rest of the gang had decided to betray Passione.

Giorno was standing on top of the water, unable to move a single inch of his body.

"Look at what you did"

A deep voice murmured in his ear. One he hadn't heard in a long time, one he wished he could have erased from his memories, that infected his mind and was more deadly than the sobbing boy's stand.

Diavolo.

"Me? Fugo chose not to leave, it was his own fault if-"

"If he was abandoned by everyone he loved? Do you have any idea of how selfish it sounds?"

The boy hesitated for a brief moment, staring at those warm tears falling into the canal.

"It was just...A temporary matter, he rejoined Passione, he's doing better now"

"My, it must have surely been fun to prove your loyalty to someone who caused the death of half of the people you cared about, after refusing to participate in his little suicide mission"

The blond's legs started to tremble, mantainig his composure was starting to look impossible.

"They...They didn't die because of me, they sacrificed themselves for a noble cause, for making Italy a better place, they wished it as much as I did"

The man contained his laughter, then he continued.

"Is that so? Why don't say that in their faces then?"

The image of the lonely boy disappeared, together with everything in the room. Giorno was back to that black space, but the door was now missing.

And the next one...Had nothing better reserved for him.

He found himself in the island of Sardegna, the only sound that could be heard were the small waves that met with the coast.

He knew perfectly why he was here. He took a closer look at the seaside, there were some footsteps printed on it. He felt a knot in his stomach at the thought of where they would have brought him.

Abbacchio's lifeless body was laying on top of a rock, surrounded by dead flowers. His entire torso had been torn apart, and yet... His corpse was smiling. A tiny, melancholic smile on his purple lips.

"Do you still have the courage to repeat what you said?"

Diavolo began, in a mocking tone.

"When he became part of the Organization, he was at his lowest, he had nowhere else to go, every path he took brought him nothing but sorrow and disappointment. The only thing that gave him comfort was following Bucciarati...And so, with that excuse, I transformed him in one of minions"

The thought of calling out Gold Experience hit Giorno's mind, but he knew that there was no point of lying to himself. The albino was gone, his soul had left his body long ago.

"I don't need you to tell me just how disgusting you are"

He said, his voice was filled with a suffocated rage, as he knelt over to look closer at his former companion.

"Abbacchio couldn't have cared less about killing me, he came with you because Bucciarati did, because he so desperately wanted to follow him, he felt like scum at the thought of no longer having him in his life"

The boy with emerald eyes felt an hand touching him on his shoulder, but there was no one there, except for himself.

"You exploited his dependence from the man, and used at your advantage, just as I did"

He stopped for a brief moment, enjoying the desperation in the other's eyes.

"But at least, he didn't die under my guidance

And with that, the second room disappeared as well. The boy contemplated whether to remain in that hellish void or to move forward, the image of what was waiting on the other side hurt way too much, his juvenile soul was starting to crush.

But he couldn't remain there, it would have meant giving up to Diavolo's twisted games, seeing him break down was exactly what he was waiting for.

He turned the doorknob, when he felt something humid staining his clothes: there was fresh blood streaming from his lady bug pins. The trail that it formed on the ground invited him to follow its path. He knew he couldn't decline, none of what he wanted seemed to matter in this place.

A metallic railing stood in front of him, his entire pins bled so much to the point of consuming themselves. An horrific scream coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time echoed through the room, as he directed his gaze to the top of the grey construction.

"What a shame...Oh well, he was the most disposable member of the team anyway"

Narancia's corpse was resting among dozens of spikes, his faded orange bandage slipped from his dark hair, landing right next to Giorno's feet.

"Oh Narancia...So young, so naive, just another victim of this unfair world. That's what you're thinking, isn't that right, Giovanna?"

"This is why people like him should not be involved in this business..."

"Mh? And why is that? Childish minds are the easiest to manipulate"

Ignoring his last statement, the other leaned down to pick up the bandage, but his hand went through it. His body was starting to feel dizzy, like it belonged to somebody else.

"Not answering won't make me go away, the damage has already been done, after all"

"Narancia should have NEVER joined Passione in the first place. He could have gone to school...Have a normal life, but-"

"But he died for your cause before he could. What he said before I activated King Crimson melted my heart a little, how cute...He really trusted you that much to the point of thinking that he would have come out of it alive"

The railing emanated a cracking sound. For a second, he was afraid it would have fallen off, causing him to get impaled as well.

"I took away his chance of living an happy, standard life when he decided to work for me, and you did the same, allowing him to come along with the rest of your team"

The small boy suddenly faded away, together with the rest.

"But at least, he didn't die under my guidance"

At last, there it was: only one room left. Despite how deeply he cared about each one of his former team members, the premonition of what would have come next was more painful than everything he's seen so far altogether.

He sat down, staring at the door from a distance, his eyes emptier than the ones of his old allies. They say that eyes are the window of the soul, and nothing else could have been used to describe his inner turmoil. Nothing but a faded, dull green, testimony of all his battle scars and the survivor guilt that he tried so much to repress.

Perhaps his eternal punishment had arrived: having the chance to confront his inner demons, to move on, to show how fearless he was.

...But never truly grasping the idea of freedom, never facing and accepting what really happened, he was never given the time to. So much had oppressed him all at once, he couldn't keep up with it.

He was a child, a child that had to grow too fast.

But then, someone came out of the door. A bittersweet figment of his imagination, that made his heart stop beating for a second.

The one he hadn't seen in years, the one he had tried to subdue the most, the one that showed him for the first time in his life what love was, stood in front of him. There was no hole in his chest, no sign of blood or wounds, a reassuring smile accompanied his face, as he held out his hand to the grieving kid.

"What are you doing all alone in here? The others are worried for you. Let's not make them wait any longer, shall we?"

Giorno ignored his help, his gaze was stuck on that endless floor. He didn't have the courage to look at the other, his presence alone felt like a sadistic joke.

He didn't look sad, depressed, miserable... He was just...Tired.

He wanted to cry those tears that he had denied in the last three years, he wanted to yell at that illusion to leave him alone, that wasn't the real Bruno, it couldn't be.

But, as he impeded any of this from coming out, something he didn't think he would have felt in a thousand of years struck him.

Bucciarati hugged him.

A tight, comforting hug like one of a mother, that he was waiting for his child to reciprocate. The latter's breathing became heavier and heavier with every moment that passed, as weak laments rapidly turned into audible sobs.

"There's no reason to be sad now, I'm real, you can feel it, can't you?"

"Y-You...You're here...But h-how is it p-possible?"

The brunette chuckled, the sound of his laughter was more comforting than an angel's voice.

"It isn't"

Giovanna's stand penetrated the man's torso, but its arm...It was not Gold Experience's. It had a checkered red and white pattern that extended in its entirety, and it possessed an amount of physical strength which was out of any possible expectations for the creature able to give life.

"Foolish child, I thought you were better than this, I'd lie if I said I wasn't a bit disappointed"

The sound of Bruno's corpse falling to the ground resonated through that empty space, as the last door vanished. A puddle of blood originated from his horrible injury, it was big enough for the boy to see his reflection in.

"You are no better than me under any point of view. We took advantage of his kindness, we used him as a simple pawn for our own gain. The only difference between us, is that I was not manipulating enough to convince him to join my side voluntarily. He was a tool to the both of us, but you were the one who caused his demise"

The mirror that had been created showed two people, but the transparent figure of Diavolo immediately ceased to be visible. The only one left was Giorno, though his reflection seemed to mutate with every second that passed.

His blond curls started to change shape, turning into a fuchsia mess, with dirty green stains on it. His eyes had a killer, maniacal look inside of them, his pupils got smaller in horror. His entire body structure was different. He looked older, more muscular, his clothes, too, were no longer his own.

"Mista loved him, and you killed him"

"Fugo loved him, and you killed him"

"Trish loved him, and you killed him"

"Narancia loved him, and you killed him"

"Abbacchio loved him, and you killed him"

"You loved him, and you killed him"

...

"Giorno? Giorno please, wake up!"

You screamed, your sleep was interrupted by the sound of your boyfriend hyperventilating, as he desperately held you to himself, still trapped in that horrible dream.

You sighed in relief when he abruptly opened his eyes, so swollen and red from all the tears he's shed.

"Another nightmare, uh?"

You asked, gently caressing his back to try and calm him down, he was as vulnerable as a baby that runs to his parents after having a bad dream. Waking up in the middle of the night to comfort him is something you had grown accustomed to, but you had never seen him this shaken up.

He slightly nodded in response, grabbing the top of your pajamas. You put an hand behind his head, making him rest on your chest, and kissed him softly on his forehead.

You could hear him murmuring something, you couldn't tell wherever he was talking to you, or to himself.

"I-I'm sorry...I'm sorry...I'm s-so sorry..."

He repeated like a broken record, you could barely make out what he was trying to say.

"Tesoro, you've done nothing wrong, there's no one you owe your apologizes to"

The boy raised his head slightly, intertwining your fingers with his, he needed to feel sure that this was not another tremendous trick of his mind.

"See? I'm here, you don't have to be afraid. I know that you feel unworthy of my feelings, but there is no one out there that deserves love more than you do. Nobody is perfect, Giorno, you did everything that was in your power to help them"

"But I...I was the one w-who put them in danger in the first place"

"No, you were not. You all shared the same ideals, you saved them from the oppression they were put in"

As you swept those remaining drops away from his face, you could still feel his entire body shaking like a dried leaf in a windy day of autumn.

"N-None of this would have happened if I didn't come along..."

"Exactly, none of them would have known what it meant to be free. I...Understand that the sacrifices that were made are not easy to forget, but blaming yourself like this...Do you really think that's what they would have wanted?"

Not receiving an answer, you laid down once again, still holding him in your arms. You forced a tiny smile, kissing him delicately on his lips, and whispered in his ear that everything would have been okay.

But, in reality...You felt you were trying to reassure yourself as well. This was not something you could have solely resolved through staying by his side, healing from this would have taken a lot of time, but...At least, you could offer some temporary safety, and it seemed to be enough for the time being.

In fact, after some minutes, everything seemed to cease. The boy fell asleep once again, this time with the knowledge that you were there to protect him.

You sighed, praying for your darling to finally find some peace.