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eoieopda · 6 months

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FORCE QUIT // EPISODE I: SCRAPS

you didn't have "anti-capitalist revolution" on this year's bingo card, but you never turn down a good time.

pairing: lee felix x reader | series masterlist (1/4) | next episode series summary: it's 2077, and life's a fucking nightmare. corporate titans ate the state and shat it back out, leaving citizens of the new republic to fall in line, or fall to their knees. a reckoning is coming — where will you fall? au: series — dystopian, cyberpunk; episode — childhood friends to strangers to something ➢insp. by: cyberpunk 2077 + the true lives of the fabulous killjoys genre: smut + angst + some fluff word count: 15.4k rating: 18+— minors do not have my consent to interact. series warnings: violence (hand-to-hand, firearms, explosives), depictions of injuries (blood/bruising/burns), some characters have cybernetic modifications, class conflict + poverty, surprise - corporations are bad!, unethical medical/tech experimentation, self-indulgent references to non-skz idols, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns. episode warnings: above + trainer!felix, edgerunner!reader, pov switches, time skips, reference to food insecurity + reader living check to check, reader has cybernetic retinal mods + one in her hand, reader experiences temporary vision loss after being knocked out, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v penetration. a/n: each episode features a different member x reader pairing, but the plot is linear, so you'd need to read them (in order) to get the full picture! you can sign up for the taglist to be notified of the next uploads. thank you to my beloved @sailoryooons for beta'ing this and @jihopesjoint for being my emotional support internet wife even though she doesn't stan skz. ily both endlessly!

You don’t deal in absolutes, but you know two things for sure: vending-machine burritos are a crime against humanity; and Han Jisung is a dirty, rotten bastard.

The firm stance you’ve taken on the latter may or may not have something to do with the former, but you can’t draw that conclusion now — not with the abuse your taste buds are currently suffering, anyway.

“Who the fuck —”

You cut yourself off to spit a mouthful at the ground. Notably, the remnants of that half-chewed abomination look just as awful on the way out as they did on the way in.

“— Replaced this queso with battery acid?”

Chipmunk cheeks stuffed to bursting, Jisung blinks back at you. He says nothing — suddenly too polite to speak with his mouth full — and shrugs, unbothered. That’s when the realization hits you like a boot to the skull. Drenched in disbelief, your muttering comes out in slow-motion:

“You spent the last of our cash on these.”

He swallows, though you don’t know how he could bring himself to do it. That act alone makes the rage you’re simmering in bubble over.

You repeat yourself through gritted teeth, pausing emphatically between every word, “The — last — of — our — cash!”

“My bad?” He eventually offers. Tongue flicking out, he tries to gather the unidentified sauce that clings to the corner of his mouth. He fails. “Not sure what else I was supposed to find with that little money in this part of town, but go off, I guess.”

You bite your lips together to hold back the guttural yell you’re seconds from releasing. At your sides, your empty hands clench tightly. Instead of snapping — with your words or your fists — you close your eyes, inhaling slowly through your nose. Deep breaths won’t do you any fucking good in this smog, but your brain tends to work a little bit better without visual interference.

I can go another twenty-four hours, you think. Maybe.

It’s been a while since you’ve last eaten and even longer since your last job. This isn’t out of the ordinary; gaps are to be expected when you live on the fringe, jumping from thread to thread. Still, it isn’t like Changbin to leave you hanging the way he has been lately. It sure as shit isn’t like him to dodge your calls, either.

So, you figure, if you make an unsolicited visit to his office — the stock room of a bar you know better than to frequent — he won’t have a choice. He’ll have to look you in the eye and explain the dry spell, personally. He owes you at least that much.

With your plan finalized, you hold out your left hand to Jisung. In the few moments you’d taken your eyes off him, he’d apparently gone from sitting on the hood of your car to reclining fully with his own eyes closed. Basking like a little lizard in the sunlight, it’s a miracle the hot metal hasn’t burned a hole in his shirt.

“Come on.” You nudge his bent knee with your knuckles to no avail.

As Jisung is wont to do, he pouts. “But it’s so nice out — and your car still reeks, by the way.”

The absolute, rakish audacity.

If you didn’t love him, you’d probably kill him.

Strike that.

Love is irrelevant. You wouldn’t kill him unless and until there was a price on his head. After all, your mother taught you better than to do the things you’re good at for free.

“Do we want to talk about whose fault that is?” You ask with a roll of your eyes. The affection’s still there; you know he sees it. “If I recall correctly — and I think I do, having been the only sober person present — you were the one who got blasted and barfed on everything I love in this world.”

“I got blasted and barfed exclusively on the floor of your car.”

It’s your turn to shrug. “Exactly. End of list.”

Groaning, Jisung rolls his eyes as far back as they’ll go, but he still takes your hand. He always does, always has. With your help, he scoots his ass down the hood and lands with both boots — precisely where your ejected burrito bite did, not five minutes earlier. You can’t stop the satisfied grin from spreading when he whines again, this time louder and with twice as much despair.

After playfully shoving your passenger towards his door, you unlock your own. You don’t dump yourself into the seat, however; not yet. A wall of horrible heat is waiting for you the second the door opens, and you know better than to run into it, headlong.

Jisung is less patient. He’s also more regretful, face twisting in self-imposed anguish when he drops down onto the sun-scorched leather seat. And, to your delight, the hits keep coming. You watch with a smile when the consequences of last weekend’s actions hit his nostrils. The look he gives you falls somewhere between humbled, apologetic, and absolutely dead inside.

“Not one of my finer moments, I’ll admit it.” He acknowledges with a wave of his hand. Resigned, he sighs, “I’ll scrub the shit out of the floor mats the next time we can afford a wash.”

Satisfied, you finally climb behind the wheel. Pushing through the slightly-muted sting of the seat against the backs of your bare thighs, you put your foot on the brake and lift your right hand to press your thumb to the ignition port. The roar of the engine covers the way your breath hitches, but Jisung doesn’t have to hear it to notice the grimace that accompanies it.

“Still sore?” He asks.

To his credit, he looks genuinely concerned as he reaches across the center console and takes your hand in his. It’s gentle, the way he tilts your palm up, but the movement burns in every single one of your tendons. This time, you know you have a captive audience, so you don’t flinch.

Despite the trouble it’s giving you, you have to admit that the new enhancement looks beautiful in the sunlight. In the center of your palm, two rectangular, silver brackets refract iridescence. Their shine contrasts sharply with the matte, midnight black cybernetic plating that now covers the majority of your palm, spreading to the first knuckle of your fingers but coating the length of your thumb in its entirety.

More than beautiful, it’s deadly — and it aches like a motherfucker.

“I read a study about these ballistic co-processors last night while you were knocked out,” he hums.

Classic Jisung.

He has no medical or academic background whatsoever but wastes his time reading crank doctors’ research for fun. And, of course, he makes sure to mention it — casually and apropos of mostly nothing — in order to impress.

Gingerly, he runs his finger along the edge of the cyberware, mumbling, “It usually takes five days from installation for the musculoskeletal inflammation to chill.”

Your fingers twitch of their own volition, which prompts him to look up at you curiously.

“Yeah, well…” You grunt.

Less carefully than you should, you pull your hand from his, tap the gear shift, and throw the car into reverse. Peeling out of the lot, you scoff without even bothering to look his way:

“It’s been ten.”

When the War came and went, it took the old way of life with it on its way out. You might’ve been late to the party by fifty or so years, but you’ve got the gist now. It goes something like this:

Korea, as it was once known, crumpled like a beer can in the face of a corporate uprising and was quickly kicked curbside with the trash. In its place came the New Republic — in all its stolen, neon glory — promising technological revolution, profit in excess. Although the world’s eyes were trained on the peninsula then, not everyone stuck around to watch democracy die in real time.

Not up close, anyway.

Some people had enough cash to run but not enough to make staying worthwhile. With their tails between their legs and their life savings in hand, they left before the capitalist rot could set in fully; chose willful blindness and headed for countries where corporations rule from the shadows rather than broad daylight.

Most people, however, didn’t leave. People like your grandparents, who hadn’t looked up long enough to notice things going to hell in a hurry. And if they did — well, maybe they saw things for what they were: shitty, same as anywhere else.

Five decades later, that fact hasn’t changed much.

Regardless of why a person opts to stay in the New Republic, their options for survival are effectively limited to two. Simply put, a person can sell their soul to the very corporations that strangled the state, or they can starve.

Nobody ever chooses the latter.

You can safely assume everything you need to know about a person based on where their next steps take them.

For example, those who crave both chic, penthouse apartments and blood-soaked streets are most likely to fall in line with WraithCo.. The name suggests that it’s a criminal enterprise run by fucking ghouls because that’s essentially what it is. More than that, it’s the arms manufacturer monopoly that out-manned and out-gunned the national military without breaking a sweat.

The high-powered, highly-paid WraithCo. executives find joy in three things and three things only: designer suits; missiles that explode into clouds of fiberglass upon impact; and testing said missiles out on non-violent nomad encampments outside city limits.

Fucking ghouls.

Despite being the most openly violent of the major players, you find WraithCo. to be the most boring. They lack nuance, don’t bother with a false front or a positive PR spin — it’s all a little too predictable. Thanotech, on the other hand, is subtle; the perfect cover for those who like to convince themselves they’re doing more good than harm.

In furtherance of that delusion, Thanotech replaced all public hospitals with state-of-the-art, for-profit rejuvenation centers. Worse, their lobbyists ensured that medical licensure was limited to employees of those centers, outlawing the provision and receipt of medical care outside of authorized Thanotech facilities.

In short, those who can’t afford Thanotech’s astronomical rates — specifically, poor fucks like you — are left to fend for themselves in back alley clinics; to pray that they don’t wind up worse-off than they started, that the police don’t sniff them out, and that their new modifications aren’t just garbage-tier knock-offs.

Of course, some people give more of a shit about these designer mods than the patients who may or may not wind up with them. In that case, the last of the three titans has them covered.

It’s no fucking surprise that the Ulsan Corporation is the crown-jewel of the New Republic — it’s primarily responsible for killing the old one. As the world’s premier technology and cybernetics conglomerate, Ulsan is also primarily responsible for the research, development, and distribution of cybernetic enhancements.

Like the one your body is currently acclimating to.

No such thing as ethical consumption under capitalism, right?

Ulsan may be less obvious with its bastardry than its counterparts, but as far as you can tell, it’s not good guy behavior to eat an established state and shit it back out. Even if you can’t tie any specific, ongoing atrocities back to them, you have no qualms about adding the desperate state of the union to their indictment.

You can blame them for the desperate measures they’ve necessitated, although you won’t give them an ounce of credit for the spark of resistance they so recklessly lit.

Despite it all, there are still people out there who refuse to accept things for what they are. They find an alternative to the comply or die ultimatum — run along the razor’s edge, taking what they can get, whenever they can get it.

Like Changbin, one of Seoul’s best-connected fixers.

Like you, a gun for hire.

Like Jisung, sitting in your passenger seat as you drive across town, who’s just happy to be included.

Generally speaking, piss and vinegar don’t mix well with club security.

If you were anyone else, rolling up to The Crypt like you own the place would be ill-advised. More than that, it would be asking to get your teeth kicked in faster than you could say, “I’m on the list.”

Thankfully, as it often does, your reputation precedes you. Nobody in the block-long line bats an eye when you cut right to the front, a fact that has Jisung smirking in a way that might otherwise get him killed. Still, the bouncer shoots you a look that says you’re more trouble than you’re worth; and you agree.

Before your friend can change the muscle’s mind, you grab Jisung by the wrist and tug him through the front entrance. You don’t let go when the door shuts behind you, although it’s more for convenience than concern for his safety. He has a tendency to wander, and you don’t have the patience.

“Haven’t been here in a while,” he muses as you drag him towards the main bar, head turning to look in every direction except the one you’re moving in.

You don’t slow down.

Winding your way through the drunks at the counter, you inch closer to the large booths along the far wall. Inside, draped nonchalantly over the plush benches, sit the big guns — mercenaries with far more sway than you, far fatter wallets. They’re living the high life you’ve always dreamed of, and they don’t even notice you staring as you pass.

“Oh, shit!” Jisung waves overhead to one of them, reminding you without trying that he — unlike you — has other friends.“S.Coups, where have the fuck have you been, man?”

You still don’t slow down.

Not when you reach the stairwell at the far side of the main floor. Not when you shuffle down the steps to the employees only section. Not even when the security camera overhead silently demands that you do.

There’s only one locked door amongst the few; you fly to it like a homing pigeon and beat against the metal with your free hand. It isn’t until the burning ache sets in that you realize you chose your right.

“Goddamn it.” You growl down at it, as if your hand will apologize for hurting. Turning your vitriol towards the door, you kick it hard, steel-toed boot forcing out a thud. “Changbin, open this shit up!”

Jisung glares as he scolds you, “Manners, maybe?”

You roll your eyes, but his expectant expression doesn’t budge.

“Fucking — fine, okay? Fine.” Hands thrown up in defeat, you take a deep breath. Your next words come out saccharine, accompanied by fluttering lashes that can’t even be seen. “Changbin, darling, could you please open this shit up?”

The two of you wait in dead silence for several seconds before Jisung’s hands fly up to your hair, unprompted. Your surprised yelp doesn’t faze him. He grabs the bobby-pin from where you’ve stashed it under your ponytail, drops to his knees, and starts to work.

You snort, “Well, damn. Look at you!”

Truly, you’re impressed. Jisung normally leaves the dirty work to you, yet here he is — breaking and entering.

They grow up so fast.

He tries not to look proud of himself, but his cheeks blush a shade of sakura and rat him right out. Though you’re sure he’d love to, he can’t even lift a hand to wave you off before the lock clicks. With a quick twist of the knob, he pushes the door open.

Changbin’s office looks close to normal, with a few notable exceptions. For starters, he’s not in it. The man you’re dealing with never sees the light of day if he can help it.

Jisung pipes up first: “Okay, what the fuck?”

The office chair Changbin normally occupies is spun to the side, as if his ass left it in a hurry. Even odder than that is the small, green light which indicates that he didn’t shut off his computer before leaving it unattended. It’s not a decision someone like Changbin — neurotic and paranoid to a borderline clinical degree — makes on his own.

That, you know outright, is a problem.

Cautiously, you slip past Jisung and walk on eggshells towards Changbin’s desk. You know it’s stupid, that no one would bother rigging the floor tiles to blow under the weight of your boots, but you can’t ignore the way your gut twists with every step. That dread only gets worse, the closer you get.

To the right of his primary screen, there’s a half-eaten vending-machine burrito that’s so covered with ants, you almost mistake them for pepper flakes. That sight makes bile rise in your throat, in and of itself, but it’s the untouched cup of coffee that sends a tingle of panic down your spine. Around the base of the glass, hardly visible on the sheet of paper underneath, is a water ring.

That coffee — at one point, however long ago — was iced.

Changbin would kill you for it if he were here, but he isn’t, so you drop down into his chair. You pause as soon as your ass settles onto the leather, still not convinced that one wrong move won’t set off some sort of trap. The breath you’ve been holding leaks out slowly when your actions go without consequences.

A quick glance up at Jisung confirms that he looks exactly as spooked as you feel. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows hard.

He knows the answer before he asks, but that doesn’t stop him. It comes out scratchy, riddled with hesitation that says he doesn’t really want to hear the response. “He hasn’t been here in days, has he?”

You shake your head, just barely, then turn to the desk. Bottom lip pinched between worried teeth, you scan the surface for anything you missed on your first pass.

Give me a hint, you motherfucker. All I need is a breadcrumb.

It’s the absence of something that grabs your attention. Eyes narrowing, you lean forward in your seat to get as close as possible to his monitors.

“Does that…?” You start to ask but your voice trails off before you finish; thoughts moving too quickly to inventory before the next one arrives.

Though black, the screens in front of you aren’t lifeless. If anything, they’re still backlit, glitching subtly in a way they shouldn’t — not if the system had been locked, powered off, or otherwise put to sleep. You don’t have to be a netrunner to know that someone is running an opp, fucking up the computer’s processing and leaving it brain dead.

It’s so small that you almost miss the minimized window at the bottom left-hand corner of his secondary monitor, screen otherwise barren. Hesitantly, you reach out your hand and press a trembling finger to it.

Jisung is hovering so closely over your shoulder that you can practically taste that burrito on his breath. You elbow him once in the chest, hard.

He coughs, pointing to the screen as he sputters, “What the hell are those?”

“Numbers, Jisung.” You deadpan. “They’re called numbers.”

Ignoring the way he grumbles in response, you grab your mobile from your pocket. It springs to life at your sudden touch and broadcasts a holographic home screen in the air just centimeters above the glass. Just as fast, it tracks the movement of your eyes flicking through the list of applications. With the faintest shudder, the GPS navigation consumes the screen.

You repeat what you hope are coordinates:

35.2029, 128.6001.

As the map loads, you and Jisung exchange glances that are underscored by tense swallows. He knows it, and so do you:

No matter where that pin ends up dropping, you have no choice but to go.

It takes three hours to drive from Seoul to Changwon. Although it’s not a route you’ve taken in years, or one you ever expected to take again, you still know it like the back of your hand. You can still navigate every turn — every crater and curve — with your eyes closed, even now.

Despite that fact, your decision to race to the southeast this time has nothing to do with sentimentality for the hometown you left five years ago.

This is just for Changbin, you repeat like a mantra, pressing harder on the accelerator.

With every stoplight and thought you race through, the background grows blurrier but the big picture gets clearer. Changbin himself has nothing to do with it; and you’re not as selfless as your inner monologue keeps claiming. You correct yourself:

This is for me and my empty bank account.

Really — who could blame you?

You need steady contracts in order to eat. Without Changbin, those get fewer and farther between. It’s the transitive property, or whatever; basic math. You might starve without him, and that is the one thing in this life that you’re unwilling to do.

In the passenger seat, Jisung stirs. When he speaks, his voice isn’t weighted down with exhaustion in the way it usually is, halfway through a car trip. For some reason, it makes your stomach turn to consider that — for what is probably the first time ever — he isn’t sleeping through a drive.

“He left in a hurry,” he quietly notes.

Out of the corner of your eye, you glance at him and confirm the presence of that worried crease between his eyebrows. It’s not accompanied by the usual, furiously-bouncing knee. That makes your stomach turn, too. Clearly, he’s vaulted over mere anxiety and landed somewhere close to shutting down.

You nod. “He did.”

It spooks him when you take your right hand off the steering wheel and give his elbow a brief squeeze. You’re not the affectionate type; you both know this. It always makes your rare touches more ominous than comforting.

“Do you think he was running to something, or running away from something?”

Leave it to Jisung to say the quiet part out loud.

Normally, you have an answer for his constant questions; and if you don’t, you resort to lying or guessing. This time, however, you don’t bother with either of those tactics because it doesn’t matter. Whatever the correct answer is, it’ll still feel wrong because Changbin doesn’t run.

Period.

Full stop.

So, the conclusion your brain keeps trying to come to is that he didn’t — he wouldn’t — if it came down to choice. The only reason Changbin would’ve disappeared like this, suddenly and wordlessly, is if he was taken.

Pulse hammering loudly in your ears, you don’t hear Jisung announce that your destination is only a few hundred meters down the road. Without his emphatic pointing out the windshield ahead, you simply would’ve continued racing forward, taking the speed limit as a suggestion to be ignored. Thankfully, your lead foot switches to the brake with enough time to make your turn. Tires hit dirt; your car fishtails as it transitions from the road to the worn-out path to your right.

“The fuck is this place?” You mutter, more to yourself than to Jisung.

It’s obsolete, you know that much.

Something akin to an industrial park, but one that clearly hasn’t been used since before the War. There are electrical towers dotting a perimeter around the space, none of which are operational; the grid system was replaced by wind power, then by solar energy no fewer than fifty years ago. The driveway below is so cracked that patches of weeds have overtaken most of what remained of the pavement. All the rest is weathered, reduced to broken bits of cement and dirt.

Your car slows to a stop halfway down the parkway, surrounded on both sides by empty storage units with doors either broken or missing entirely. Hair raising on the back of your neck, you park but don’t kill the engine. Slowly, you rest your right hand over top of the holster strapped to your thigh and open your car door with your left.

The sun set a few hours into your drive. Its absence hasn’t done a damn thing to break the thick heat waiting for you outside. Humid air settles on your skin and leaves a sheen of sweat behind like a handprint, sticky.

“These were the coordinates,” Jisung affirms with a sigh. He stays seated inside the vehicle, leaving you to wonder why. He’s either too panicked to move, or correct in assuming you’d tell him to sit his unarmed ass back down before you made him.

You don’t respond.

Instead, your eyes continue to scan the property for signs of — well, anything. Movement, a heat signature, whatever might register on your optical mods. There’s nothing, save for the stray tumbleweed somersaulting across the empty lot. You narrow your eyes to zoom in, heart pounding with anticipation.

You almost scream when you see it, but you swallow the urge. Fear won’t do you any good, but the semi-automatic strapped to your thigh might. It’s in your palm before you can blink, cocked and aimed at the figure ahead. At the bottom of your field of vision, your ammo count glows in translucent, block letters.

So, the ballistic co-processor is worth the pain.

Their posture is casual, legs dangling from the metal catwalk they sit on. Their elbows rest against the railing in front of them, as if they’re leaning on a counter in a bar and not spying on you from a scaffold four meters overhead. The way they’re watching in silence is unsettling enough; the wooden tal obscuring their face is fucking nightmare fuel, if you’ve ever seen it.

Head tilted curiously to the side, the stranger stares down at you through small eye holes, wooden mouth frozen in a hand-carved smile. Whoever they are, they’re immersed in the bit. They exaggerate every slow movement for their audience of two.

Good for them, you scoff to yourself.

Gloved hands come up to pantomime “don’t shoot” mere seconds before they grab hold of the railing in front of them. Just as quickly, they swing themselves underneath with a kick of their legs until they’re falling, falling, falling towards the ground below. They land easily on their feet without so much as a grunt. All the while, dust swirls in pirouettes around their ankles, spot-lit by your car’s headlamps.

“What — what the fuck?” Jisung squeaks.

You don’t answer, but that doesn’t stop him from repeating his question, over and over.

Hands still raised, the stranger slowly closes the distance between you. Their fingers wiggle slightly in some demented version of a wave; they’re taunting you. The unhealed part of you wants to shoot those fingers off, one by one.

You’ve never been fond of clowns.

“If you like having kneecaps without bullets in them, I suggest you stay still, chingu,” you scoff, now more annoyed than alarmed.

To your surprise, they listen. Their feet still, side by side; and their hands stay where you can see them. That is, until they curl all of their fingers into their palm, except for their right index finger. With it, they point silently over your shoulder.

As soon as you can whip your neck around, a gloved fist collides with your temple. The last thing you see before your vision goes black is a second, wooden smile looming over you.

A hushed tone manages to nudge you awake.

“You really can’t keep doing this. Seriously, your people skills are awful.”

The whole world’s blurry, and you can’t make out the source of the sound, but you’re coherent enough to know it when a second voice chimes in. It’s much less gentle than the first, higher in pitch and twice as exasperated. It snaps, “She was armed.”

“I had it under control,” the first voice huffs.

The two seem to be too lost in their argument to notice your eyelids fluttering or your fingers twitching. Your wrists aren’t bound, you realize, but that fact doesn’t help you much in your current state. Back resting heavily against the thin nylon cloth of a cot, it’d take more energy than you have to spare in order to get to your feet. Worse, your eyes don’t seem interested in cooperating.

They should be by now.

They’re open, you’re conscious, and —

Motherfucker.

The more awake you become, the more the ache in your temple reverberates down your jaw. You know without looking that the right side of your face is bruised to hell and back. Scraped up, too, if you had to guess; you hit the gravel like a bag of bricks.

They must’ve done it on purpose, hitting you exactly where they needed to in order to scramble your visual input. The most you get is shapes, black and white static. It wasn’t the hardest knock you’d ever taken to the head — not by a long shot — but it was perfectly targeted and timed.

Clearly, they’re no amateurs.

One such shadow kneels down next to you. Gentle fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear while their other hand tilts your drooping head to the side.

They tut, “Just look at what you did to her face.”

“From what I’ve heard, she’s been through worse,” the second voice scoffs. You watch the shadow’s shoulders as they shrug, wishing you could focus on their face well enough to bash it in.

The retort comes quickly, but it doesn’t come in Korean.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do better.”

The hands that gently cradle your face pull away, leaving you cold. The action itself isn’t as jarring as the sudden use of English, though — especially the accent it’s spoken with. You may not be fluent, but you can sense what’s missing: the consonant on the end of that last word.

You sense something else, too, but you’re still too disoriented to follow that thought from start to finish. It’s on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.

Who — ?

The bastard that broke your brain must notice your face scrunching in confusion because their next words seem to be aimed at you. Clipped and unapologetic, they mutter, “Should be fine within the hour. Already been out for —”

They suck in a breath through their teeth. You can’t tell if they’re stalling in order to toy with you, or if they’re genuinely doing the math.

“— Seven hours or so, now.”

Fuck!

One of the two snorts out a laugh; it’s the only reason you piece it together that you spoke out loud. Emboldened by the confirmed functionality of your voice, you speak again without thinking it through first.

You don’t care where you are or who you’re with. You only have one question:

“Is Changbin still alive? Because if he is, I’ll kill him myself.”

The man kneeling next to your cot chuckles, soft and low, but he doesn’t acknowledge your question beyond that. Instead, he addresses his hamfisted friend. “Can you please get her some water?”

“Am I a waiter now, Yongbok-ah?” The other snips, though his tone is devoid of any real heat. If his face wasn’t blurred out of existence, you’d likely find a sneer on it. “Should I roll some gimbap for her, too?”

“Actually, you should,” counters this Yongbok. His response is buried so deeply under his breath that his back talk may as well be a secret for your ears only. “Punched her clean into the next weekday — so, yeah. It’s the least you could do.”

It grows silent enough that you can hear every incredulous footstep as the waiter storms off.

The remainder says, “Sorry about him,” and for whatever little it’s worth, he sounds like he means it. You say nothing, simply marinating in your resentment.

Meanwhile, he shifts from his knees in order to sit fully on the ground next to your cot. Elbows extended, he leans back onto his palms and sighs gently, “Minho’s not as bad as the first impressions he makes.”

You scoff so forcefully that you feel it in your sinuses. “This is the second. His first is the reason I can’t see who’s holding me hostage.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The shape beside you sits up suddenly. He sputters, “You’re not a hostage, and this isn’t a kidnapping —”

“Then what the fuck is it?” You snap, “Huh, Yongbok?”

Blindly, you throw out a half-balled fist in a half-baked attempt to even the score. It misses by a mile, nearly knocking you off balance in the process. Your wrist is encircled by the same warm fingers you felt before, doubling over but exerting no force.

“We were scouting you. You know, like, soccer?” He chuckles sheepishly. “Changbin mentioned that you were a free agent, so to speak, and we thought you might wanna join the team.”

What the fuck?

“And — it wasn’t supposed to wind up like this.” His shadow’s hands gesture vaguely at the room you can’t see. “I did try to warn you. You just didn’t turn around in time.”

There are too many questions swirling around in your skull to choose from. One of them must break free and nudge your retinal chip back into place because something turns the lights back on. Glitching wildly, your vision flickers from low contrast to high definition. It doesn’t hurt, but the surprised gasp you choke out could easily be interpreted that way.

The man next to you is back on his knees in a second, both hands finding your shoulders to either comfort you or immobilize you — and you aren’t sure which. Against your better judgment, you ignore the reflex that tells you to fight or flee. Instead, you reach out and touch his cheekbone to confirm that the faint spots you see are freckles and not lingering sensory damage on your part.

He doesn’t even blink, much less say a word. There’s no jerk to get away, and there’s not a single question asked about what the fuck you’re doing — just tolerance. Far more than you’d be extending if the roles were reversed.

Freckles.

You aren’t embarrassed, but you drop your hand quickly and scowl at him until he does the same. Once again, he raises them as he leans back. Notably, he doesn’t wiggle his fingers like the first time you crossed paths.

That reminds me —

Abruptly, you draw your arm back to deck him in earnest.

Just like the last time, he catches you before you can strike him; however, instead of capturing your wrist, it’s the entirety of your fist. His palm absorbs the shock, fingers closing around your hand. It’s the gentlest trap you’ve ever been ensnared in, which you hate.

Smart of you to prevent another attempt.

“Can I finish explaining myself?” He asks, voice soft.

Bright doe eyes scan over your face cautiously as he contemplates letting your hand go. It’s disarming, sure, but you’d rather die than admit it.

You give him absolutely nothing to work with, so he adds, “You can hit me when I’m done, if you still want to.”

All you give him in return is a glare, which he somehow correctly interprets as permission to keep going. The grip on your fist loosens, although it wasn’t constricting to begin with. Like nothing happened, you pull it away and cross your arms.

As if nonchalance has ever been your strong suit.

He stares at you, deep in thought, for longer than you know what to do with. Eyes sweeping over your features like he’ll be quizzed later, taking in every detail. It’s unsettling — what about you is even worth gawking at?

When he frowns, that spark of light in his eyes stays put. “You don’t remember me.”

It’s not a question because he isn’t asking; he’s telling. And you have no goddamn clue what he means, no matter how loudly the voice in your head screams that you should. The familiarity buzzing through your brain can’t place him — not the button of his nose, not even those fucking freckles.

“I don’t know anyone named Yongbok,” you counter, frustration evident.

You wouldn’t be this harsh if you know how not to be. Part of you feels guilty when you see the hurt flicker across his face, but both emotions — his and yours — are gone as quickly as they appear. Consequently, the walls stay up, refusing to give. Despite you, the corner of his mouth hitches up in a lopsided version of a smile.

That’s familiar, too.

“Never really went by it,” he chuckles. As he does, he tilts his head quizzically.

Another bell rings, yet you can’t name the note.

Shyly, he takes his half-smile with him and looks anywhere else. The anticipation is spinning cartwheels in your stomach, tingling down the back of your neck, and you’re seconds away from trying to smack the trapped words right out of him.

Who are you to me?

After a deep breath in and out, he glances back at you from the corner of his eye. His hesitation does nothing to prepare you for his response, which isn’t his name at all. It’s yours — a nickname, more specifically. One no one has used in damn near a decade.

“Been a while, Scraps. Hasn’t it?”

Felix has never seen anyone freeze the way you do when the realization finally hits. For a minute, he worries that Minho did more damage to your poor brain than either of them initially diagnosed; it wouldn’t be the first time. Minho’s never been known to be careful or tactful.

Your silence — and your total lack of physical response — doesn’t last, though. He nudges your kneecap with his knuckles just to make sure you can feel it. You blink rapidly, as if you’re just now remembering how.

He starts to ask, “Are you ok—?”, but your fist flies out, pops him right in the jaw, and he chokes on the rest of that question. Hands flying up to cover his face, he collapses back onto the floor with a groan. When the initial shock wears off, it dissolves into laughter that shakes his shoulders.

Honestly, what did he expect?

In a flash, you shove yourself off your cot. You’re on top of him before he can blink, pinning him down. You grip his shirt in one fist and raise the other. He braces himself for impact but doesn’t flinch, too taken aback by the fury you’re capable of communicating without a single word.

“You’re fucking with me,” you spit, breaking the silence.

Your glare is borderline feral — burning — and that makes him laugh even harder.

“You haven’t changed a bit, you know that?”

To both of your surprise, you don’t hit him again; you don’t even try. You freeze, but unlike the last time, your eyes are shaking. Your raised arm is, too, like it’s taking all you have to keep whatever you’re feeling to yourself.

Classic Scraps.

You mutter, “You’re dead,” and it’s not a threat.

Not even close, really. It’s a declaration, one accompanied by an expression that’s as close to vulnerable as he’s ever seen from you. All at once, you lower your arm; the rest of you slumps, too. Whispering, you repeat, “You’re dead.”

Something about your tone hurts worse than the burgeoning bruise near his mouth. It aches, even more so when he frowns. You deserve an explanation — an apology, too — but Felix doesn’t know where the fuck to start.

Maybe he should cash that reality check first.

“Is that what people are saying?” He asks.

He’s not sure what about that trips him up. It makes perfect sense that this is the conclusion people wound up jumping to. After all, he left without a word and never came back — didn’t leave a trace, either.

Felix wasn’t the first teenager to slip through the cracks, so he’d figured that his would be another run-of-the-mill disappearance. Sure, people tend to notice when kids go missing; but that doesn’t stop the world from turning. Sooner or later, people stop looking, either too busy or too hopeless to keep holding a torch.

Eventually, they forget.

At least, that was the reality Felix had subscribed to — that, after a while, he’d slipped through the cracks of collective consciousness. It was easier to tell himself that he wasn’t missed. His guilt couldn’t keep him up at night if nobody remembered that he existed in the first place; especially when a decade slipped past in his absence.

But you did remember.

You missed him.

You lift your knee so that you’re no longer straddling him and drop onto your back at his side.

It’s funny, he thinks as he stares up at the ceiling. The two of you spent years just like this, albeit on the hood of some junkyard sedan. Two pairs of wide eyes were always fixed on constellations, dreaming of something bigger than both of you. Of some future where you weren’t still stuck in the gutter.

“There was no trace of you anywhere.” You speak so softly that Felix is left to wonder whether you’re talking to him or yourself. “No records that you fled, no word from you, no hits on CCTV — nothing. The cops said there’d be a trail if…”

Your voice fades out before you can finish that thought, so Felix picks up where you left off: “If I was alive to leave one.”

There’s a long pause before you speak again.

“This is where you disappeared to?”

He feels a shift beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way you’ve tilted your head to gaze at him. By the time he does the same, the moment is gone, and you’re taking in the room around you.

It’s not much, but it’s all he has: A small room in a decommissioned factory, smelling faintly of sawdust despite not containing any. The cot you just sprang from is where he’s spent most nights since he was fifteen.

The floor underneath it — underneath you — is more dirt than concrete now, no matter how many times he’s scrubbed it; and the few iron shelves that hang along each wall are just as gross. So are the knickknacks he’s set on them, but he doesn’t mind.

The site itself is long forgotten. It’d be an eyesore if anyone ever looked, but no one bothers.

Even satellites have stopped paying it any attention, leaving it to fade into dirt and obscurity, not even a shadow of what it used to be. Once plush and inviting, the surrounding forest was leveled in a firefight that ended with ninety-percent of the nearby buildings getting blown to shit.

The New Republic could’ve easily organized a relief team to dig through the shattered city. At any point in the last fifty years, they could’ve rebuilt what burned in that failed uprising, but they didn’t; and Felix knows they never will because that rubble has a function. Apart from burying one of the country’s most impoverished districts, it serves as a cautionary tale. A threat left behind to the masses: this is what happens when people pose risk to profits.

Still, flowers can grow within cracks in concrete. After all, his life with you started just a few kilometers away.

“Are we still in Changwon, or did you and that asshole drag me out of the province?”

That edge of yours is ever present, and Felix is glad. It’s one of the million things he’s missed about you; a feature on the long list of reasons he wishes he could’ve called — messaged, sent a smoke signal, anything — to keep you around in whatever capacity he could.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Felix feels the weight of a lost decade sitting heavy on his chest, so he does what he always does: he chooses light. Smiling brightly, he asks, “D’you remember that junkyard we used to run away to after curfew?”

You roll your eyes. You don’t have to say it out loud; he knows you do. The two of you spent more time there than you did in your own homes, lining glass bottles along the wooden fence posts and firing stones at them with a homemade slingshot.

“We’re a few kilometers up the road, actually.”

At this, you sit up so that no part of your body stays pressed against his. Dead silence settles in the space between you like a brick wall. You bristle, then you snap, “All that time you were dead, you were still within spitting distance?”

Felix opens his mouth to respond, but your rigid posture makes it clear that you have no desire to listen. He closes it again without saying a word. It’s what he deserves, isn’t it?

“Traded in your family, your home, your — Me.” You clear your throat to hide the fact that your voice breaks. It’s too late. “And for what, Felix? To haunt some abandoned building like a ghost?”

You clench your fists, like a grip tight enough might keep you together. That part of you hasn’t changed either, it seems. Neither has the extremely unsettling way you get quieter, the more upset you are. Just like that, he’s reminded of what you used to say: the more it hurts, the less it shows.

“I couldn’t pick you out of a fucking lineup despite all of that history,” you whisper, deflated. “And you were here the whole time.”

Talking won’t do him much good, so Felix opts to show you. Palms pressed to the ground, he pushes himself to his feet, and he doesn’t bother dusting off the back of his pants once he stands. It won’t make a difference, anyway, when the whole damn city is covered in it.

Once he steadies himself, he extends his hand to you, half-expecting you to slap it away. You don’t budge. You never do, he recalls fondly.

“One chance?” His eyes are pleading, even though you don’t look up to meet them. “It’s hard to explain, but it’ll make more sense if you see it.”

Without looking, you lift your arm and slap your hand into his. A small concession, but it’s enough to make his smile reappear. He’s practically beaming when he hauls you to your feet, and you grip his forearms to keep steady.

“Fine,” you concede with a huff.

Then, you round on him with one pointed finger, jabbing him in the center of his chest with force. It’ll bruise, but he supposes that’s the whole point.

“This better be worth all the fucking theatrics, or I swear to god —”

“You’ll make me swallow my own teeth?” He rolls his eyes with a low chuckle and tugs you along after him on his way to the door. “Yeah, yeah, yeah — Heard that threat a thousand times, Scraps, and you’ve never once made good on it.”

Just to emphasize his point, he looks over his shoulder at you and grins with all thirty-two of them.

All things considered, you take everything in stride. You don’t react much at all when you discover that the abandoned building is anything but; refuse to bat an eye when the two people you woke up to are revealed to be a tiny fraction of the whole.

You even keep your hand in his as he ushers you from room to room — through the clinic, the makeshift and woefully under-equipped armory, the Hub — and introduces you to whoever you come across. He might even go so far as to call you friendly, which is a first. Receiving any kind of warmth from you typically requires high-level security clearance.

Or, at least, it used to. Felix has to remind himself more than once that, small echoes aside, there are parts of you he doesn’t know anymore. This could very well be one of them.

Halfway through the tour, you finally offer up more than a lukewarm greeting and your name. It’s just the two of you now; you don’t have to make yourself palatable anymore. Blunt as ever, you throw out, “This is a cult, right? You ran away from home to join a cult?”

There she is, he thinks.

Felix pulls a face in disapproval, which you either don’t catch or don’t care about. Instead, you turn your head in the opposite direction and let your gaze sweep over the loading dock you currently stand upon.

It’s the closest thing they’ve got to a sitting room, filled with the only comfortable furniture they could get their hands on — half-busted arm chairs, ratty old couches, tables held together with duct tape and a prayer. You drop suddenly onto one such couch, jerking him back until his ass winds up next to yours on a tattered cushion.

Felix can’t tell if you pulled him down on purpose, or if you simply forgot that you were holding onto him. Either way, he doesn’t mind, but part of him hopes it was the former.

“It’s a collective,” he corrects you, lips flattening into a firm, straight line.

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it. If it’s a sex cult, just say so.”

He tries not to laugh — really, he does — because the last thing you need is an enabler, but your deadpan delivery has always hit him where he’s weakest. He tries again while swallowing a chuckle: “It’s the Black Screen, home to the most talented and ungovernable motherfuckers on the peninsula.”

You don’t look impressed. Felix doesn’t take it to heart.

“We’ve got a reconnaissance team, netrunners —”

As if he’s doing a roll call, he points to nearby stragglers with every position he names.

“— corporate defectors, combat vets, medics, ex-fixers —”

He nudges you with his elbow, wiggles his eyebrows and murmurs, “— Edge runners —”

If that look in your eye is any indication, you still hate it when he does that.

“And a couple of wayward drunks who — well…” Felix pauses for a moment to think. It doesn’t help, so he shrugs, snickering, “I dunno how they got here, and they don’t contribute much, but they’re fun to have around!”

The corner of your mouth twitches, ever so slightly. He grins down at you, as if to say gotcha.

“So, it is a sex cult,” you repeat flatly after a beat.

Felix can’t beat your bit, so he may as well join you in it. Bested, he sighs, “Yeah, pretty much.”

You hum in acceptance of his defeat, clearly amused by how easily he still gives in to you.

With pursed lips, you continue to take in your surroundings. Your brow furrows while you process the information you’ve been bombarded with so far, but you don’t offer up any further questions or snide comments. Thankfully, the silence that falls over you both feels a lot less like lead than the previous one.

Felix’s gaze stays fixed on you, though you’re too busy looking elsewhere to notice. Maybe you couldn’t recognize him, but shit — he’d know you anywhere, anytime. You’ve gotten older, of course, finally grew into those features of yours. Still, there are hints of the kid he used to know hidden all over your face.

Original traits aside, the new additions — the tattoos, for starters — all read like you. In fact, Felix is fairly confident that he’d know who they belonged to, even if the other context was removed. After all, the cyberware installed into your hand can’t undermine the familiarity of it resting against his palm.

And it sure as shit still hits like it used to.

He considers it a blessing, really, that so much of you survived the years that flew by without him. That the scrawny girl next door — ready and willing to fight God over a single slight — still rolls her eyes the same way, still speaks in that satoori his non-native tongue could never mimic.

“Maybe I’m missing something,” you announce suddenly. The unexpected sound of your voice startles Felix so much that he jumps, knocking his shoulder into yours in the process. You ignore his reaction and continue, “This just looks like someone is collecting people as a hobby. What are you all doing here?”

Oh.

Yeah, that’s a fair question.

“We’re… starting a fire,” Felix muses.

You arch an eyebrow expectantly, although the rest of your face remains impassive. It’s less of a demand for him to continue than it is permission for him not to stop.

“And we’re going to burn it all down.” He hits you with a devilish grin, drops his voice low in a way that makes you shiver involuntarily. “The corpo-rats, the lies they sell — all of it.”

“Sounds like anarchy,” you say, tilting your head to the side. There’s a beat, then you grin to match his. “Sign me up.”

Felix stands at the far side of the dining area with his arms crossed and his head leaning back against the cinder blocks behind him. His legs are crossed at the ankles, knees aching from the sheer amount of time he’s been holding the wall up.

As much as his body wants to sit, the rest of him is out of options. The only table that isn’t full is the one you’re occupying with Changbin and Jisung. After the day you’ve had, you deserve time alone with something familiar. He recognizes that he isn’t that.

Not anymore — and not yet, either.

He finds it hard to stray too far, though. You’ve always been able to fend for yourself — that black-and-blue jaw of his is proof enough — but it’s a role he can’t help falling into, looking out for you. Muscle memory.

Although Felix can’t quite make out anything that the three of you are saying, it’s clear as a damn bell when you slam your palms down on the table. Just as obvious is the split second in which your anger gives way — when the pain in your right hand finally registers in your brain.

“That one going to be a problem?”

Hyunjin, as usual, seems to appear out of thin air. He sidles up to Felix and takes up the spot next to him along the wall. All it takes is one quick glance to confirm it — he’s exhausted. Dark half-moons sit in the wells beneath his eyes like ink, silently informing Felix of yet another all-nighter; still keeping secrets as to where he goes at night when everyone else is sleeping.

But Hyunjin isn’t a mystery Felix will ever be able to solve, so he looks back in your direction and asks, “Who, Scraps?” Then, with a shake of his head, he sighs, “No. She’s a cherry bomb, but she’s reliable. Far more than most, actually.”

It’s odd, Felix thinks, that Hyunjin didn’t already know the answer to that question. As the reconnaissance leader of the Black Screen, there isn’t much Hyunjin isn’t aware of. Felix doesn’t comment on that piece, however. Instead, he does his best to interpret your reaction.

“If I had to guess, Changbin just told her about the fake kidnapping.”

And Hyunjin doesn’t do a damn thing to conceal his smirk. That was his plan, after all.

Two weeks ago, Seo Changbin stumbled upon a lead by accident. While Felix isn’t privy to the details of what Changbin dug up, he knows it must’ve been significant. That’s the only explanation Felix can come up with as to how Changbin wound up at the rendezvous point. Nobody — not the corporate ghouls, their war dogs, or any other sorry soul — finds the Black Screen unless they want to be found.

Felix is privy to what happened next because it’s the only reason he wound up involved in this at all:

Whatever intel Changbin had was groundbreaking enough to score an invitation to the revolution, but he had more to offer the higher-ups than that. He dropped the name of someone who could be an asset, under the right circumstances. Someone who wouldn’t follow a breadcrumb trail for free but would tear the peninsula apart to find whoever owed them.

For what it’s worth, Felix disagreed with that characterization the second he heard it. Despite the mask you like to wear, you’re incapable of being self-centered. You’ve never been profit-driven, heartless, or attachment-avoidant. Just hellbent on survival for you and the people you feel responsible for, even as a kid.

The only reason Felix hasn’t asked you about your motive outright is because he knows you’d lie. The truth is simple: Unless it was for someone you care deeply about, you wouldn’t waste gasoline on speeding back to a place you hate.

Hyunjin clears his throat, pulling Felix out of the daze he’d fallen into. Given the pointed look on his face, Hyunjin must be repeating himself when he says, “She got you bad, huh?”

Confusion forces Felix’s brow to furrow.

“This?” He takes a wild guess and gestures to the bruise on his jaw before waving dismissively. “Nah, her form is terrible. Truly garbage-tier follow-through. I can teach her, though.”

Hyunjin pushes himself off the wall and moves to exit the dining area. As he passes by, he gives Felix a patronizing pat on his shoulder. “Not what I meant, Yongbokie.”

Felix frowns, unsure how to take what he’s being given.

The fuck?

“Not even close,” Hyunjin calls over his shoulder.

He shoots Felix a wink, and then he’s gone, disappearing out the door the same way he entered it — like a goddamn apparition.

“Wow. Recruited? That’s — wow.”

Jisung is doing a terrible job of pretending he isn’t blushing. He clears his throat to keep his voice even, but it’s useless. He’s not fooling anyone.

“I didn’t realize we were so sought after.”

“You’re not,” Changbin responds bluntly. He gestures across the table to you but maintains his eyes on Jisung. “She is. You just happened to be present, and they couldn’t leave a witness behind.”

Jisung doesn’t bother to hide the way his face falls. When he opens his mouth to whine, you raise your hand and silently demand that he spare you the earache. It seems to work; he slumps dejectedly and leans with his elbows against the tabletop. You proceed to ignore him.

Affect flat, you stare straight ahead at the source of all your fucking problems. The half of you that wants to hug Changbin for being alive and well is significantly quieter than the half of you that wants to grab him by the nape of his neck and shove his face into his yukgaejang.

Bastard.

“I no longer give a shit how I ended up here,” you state coolly. Liar. “That ship has sailed, and to keep it a buck with you, Binnie —”

He cringes at the nickname, which is exactly the reaction you sought.

“— I’m not interested in stroking your ego for getting one over on me. It won’t happen again. What I’m still waiting on —”

The only reason you leave that clause hanging in mid-air is to see the anticipation stir in his eyes. From where you��re sitting, it’s what he deserves: a little bit of unnecessary suspense. Really, it’s a form of reparations for the giant fucking inconvenience he’s been lately. His balance is way past due.

Jisung, perpetually along for the ride, shovels shrimp chips into his mouth while his eyes dart back and forth between your face and Changbin’s.

You shoot Changbin a sly smile and grab his beer, tilting the can his way in lieu of a bow. His eyes narrow, visibly annoyed with your stalling, but he doesn’t audibly complain when you down the rest of his drink. Resigned, he accepts the empty can that you hand it back to him

At long last, you clear your throat.

“— is an explanation for why you’re here,” you finally sigh.

Changbin rolls his eyes so hard that they go all-white for a moment. Then, to your surprise, he glares across the table at Jisung.

“You know, my life was way more pleasant before you dragged this one,” he huffs, gesturing to you with his chopsticks, “Into my bar.”

Just for a moment, Changbin sits with his annoyance. He’s entitled to some of it, you’ll concede. You’re not easy to love — you never have been — and you’re occasionally even harder to like. Despite that, he’s been known to look out for you in his own, mostly useless way; even in moments like this, when you’re being a fucking gash simply because you can.

But the fact remains that you dragged your ass across a peninsula for him. He knows damn well that you accept payment in the form of secrets when cash is too hard to come by, so….

“Spill,” you demand.

That tough exterior of his collapses like wet cardboard, just like you knew it would. He glances around the room quickly to confirm that no one is listening in, then he pushes his empty bowl out of the way. With the threat of staining his white t-shirt neutralized, Changbin leans in and asks, “Do either of you know Jung Wooyoung?”

Simultaneously, you and Jisung respond:

“The boxer?”

“The biter.”

Just the same, your friends turn to you with identical looks of bewilderment. You shrug, declining to elaborate because Changbin asked if you knew him, not how or how intimately. Truth be told, you’re not sure that he’s prepared for that answer.

“Anyways,” Changbin segues after clearing his throat. “He’s not up to either of those tasks these days.”

Genuinely curious, Jisung asks with a frown, “Did someone finally kill him?”

Fair question, you think.

With the way Wooyoung runs his mouth, it’s a wonder he’s lived as long as he has — assuming, of course, that he’s still alive. Beyond picking fights with people three times’ his size, his specialties include fixing matches and swiping other fighters’ significant others. If he’s not dead yet, you figure, it’s only a matter of time until the consequences of his antics come calling.

Changbin shakes his head, and the look on his face seems weirdly solemn, like the answer is even worse than that. It’s sobering; it knocks the smirk right off your face.

“He was short on cash, so he signed up for some clinical trial promising a million won for participants.”

Jisung, the resident non-doctor, sits up at this development. “Thanotech?”

You’re in the middle of rolling your eyes when Changbin intercepts, grimacing: “No, that’s the fucked up part. Well, one of the fucked up parts.”

Two pairs of expectant eyes lock on him.

“It’s Ulsan running the trial.”

You don’t pretend to be well-versed in any of the biomedical, cybernetic shit going on around you, but you do know that this particular corporation never leaks details of its research and development — not ever. Doing so would run the risk of a lesser titan swooping in to try and to dupe it.

But that’s not the only revelation that smacks you upside the head.

“Ulsan pays for lab rats now?” You scoff, surprised by your own interest. “Here I was, thinking they used ex-employees for that shit.”

It sounds callous when you say it out loud, but it’s a universal assumption. Part of the New Republic’s mythology, so to speak.

In your lifetime, you’ve never come across a single person who used to work for the Ulsan Corporation — not one. Just the same, you’ve never heard about anyone leaving; no one you’ve ever met has. It’s beyond the realm of possibility that a corporation like that has no turnover, so where do people go when their turn is over?

The dumpster out back, some say. According to others, they wind up in a secret mass grave in the oil fields.

“When he came back, I didn’t know where he’d been or why; I just saw him wandering around like a fucking zombie.” Changbin shivers. “He’s empty now, all sucked dry.”

Jisung looks pointedly at you, shit-eatin grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that what happened when you —?”

An elbow to the center of his chest stops his question before he can finish asking it. He yelps instead, scooting his chair further down the table to get away from you, your sharp edges, and your even sharper glare.

“It freaked me the fuck out, and I didn’t have any answers, so I started poking around for something — anything — that might make sense of it.”

“So, that’s how you got pulled into the web.”

The voice from nowhere makes all three of you jump. You whip around to find yet another stranger.

How many fucking people do I have to meet today?

This particular wild card sits on top of the table directly behind yours with arms gently crossed over her chest; not closed off but cold, judging by the goosebumps making themselves known across her bare arms. Her boots rest on the chair in front of her, one chrome leg shining next to flesh-and-blood.

Whoever she is, she’s beaming. That fact confuses the shit out of you because you’re not often met with friendliness, especially from unknowns. Or maybe, you think, it’s a well-concealed effort to disarm you. Whatever it is, it’s working; the urge to snap at her for intruding is dead on arrival.

You open your mouth to ask what she means, but you can’t get the words out before someone else interjects.

Minho, that bastard, shouts from across the room, “Spider! Got a minute?”

Her eyes light up in a way that says she has several, so long as he’s the one asking. Without another word, she hops to her feet and pushes the chair that held them back under the table. As she heads his way, she sends you an apologetic smile, like she somehow owes you anything.

“I don’t know what they unraveled by pulling that thread,” Changbin sighs, nodding towards the pair exiting the room. “But this place has been buzzing since I got here.”

You need something to chew on that isn’t this, so you reach over and grab the bag of shrimp chips from Jisung’s unsuspecting hands. The frown he gives you is cartoonish, but as usual, he doesn’t put up a fight. Your version of an apology is holding a spare chip out to him, which he happily accepts.

After shoveling a handful into your mouth, you mumble, “So now what?”

“I don’t know about you, but if these guys —” Changbin gestures vaguely around the room with his index finger pointed. “— Give me a target to point at, I’ll pull the trigger.”

You snort, “That’s a lot of trust.”

It doesn’t mean much, coming from you. Your metric is beyond fucked, and you know it. That word is foreign, though; so far out of your grasp that you can’t wrap your brain around it.

“Maybe it is,” Changbin mutters while he looks down at the empty can in his grip.

For a moment, that’s all he says. All he does is stare into the black hole of its opening, as if there’s some answer lurking in the emptiness below it. He must not find it, though, because he crumples the aluminum like a piece of scrap paper.

When he glances back up at you, you see the uncertainty in his eyes. It reads like fear, which manages to unsettle you.

“I just — I can’t see what I saw and do nothing.”

Your second month in the compound starts with a bang — no, a thud.

With your body being forcibly ejected from your cot, crashing onto the ground, and your jaw clenching shut quickly with a click of gritted teeth.

“How many fucking times are we doing this?” You growl, less than half-awake.

Already past today’s quota for rage, you form a fist and swing your arm back violently against the capsized cot; it scrapes along the cement floor and skitters further away from you. The sudden burst of movement doesn’t do anything to make you feel better, but it was worth a shot, you suppose.

Felix, whose sunshine smile is too goddamn bright for this hour, crouches down in front of you. He at least has the decency to look apologetic when he lilts, “Until you learn to wake up to an alarm, I fear.”

He pauses, eyes scanning for any genuine distress beyond your shitty mood.

“Does that hurt?” He frowns.

Bleary eyes follow his pointed finger to your elbow, now prickling with blood where you skinned it against the floor. It doesn’t; and you’re not even remotely concerned about it, so you swat his hand away without answering his question and shove yourself to your feet. Once standing, you wander over to your steamer trunk to grab something clean enough to wear.

The shadowy one, Hyunjin, brought your shit to you a week ago — thank god. He provided no explanation whatsoever for how he knew where you lived or how he managed to get inside your building, but you’re a beggar, not a chooser. You’d rather enable his burglary than keep wearing the same, re-washed clothes you came here with or borrowing from people you still don’t know well.

As you peel yesterday’s tank-top up and over your head, your gravelly voice flies out to Felix, who stands and moves to lean against the wall. “You at least going to feed me breakfast before you bore me with more target practice?”

That’s most of what your time together has been so far, anyway. The chain of command is sorting out details above your pay grade; and you condition yourself to jump as high as they may eventually ask you to.

Felix doesn’t answer you, which isn’t like him. You look at him out of the corner of your eye and find him staring up at the ceiling, like his life depends on it.

“What are you —?”

Oh.

You glance down, cutting your question off midway through. He’s giving you and your semi-exposed body privacy, that’s what.

Sensing blood in the water, you swim in to scoff, “You have no problem flipping my bed when I’m in it, but bras are where you draw the line? What kind of gentleman are you?”

Still averting his eyes, he rolls them. You do him the favor of tugging on a different, slightly wrinkled tank-top; but you don’t give him the courtesy of letting up.

“Where do you stand on ass, Felix?”

“Are you always this annoying, first thing in the morning?”

Amusement slips through the cracks despite his efforts to conceal it. You slip out of the cotton shorts you slept in, dip your toes under the fabric pooled around your ankles, and flick them at him. He concedes his staring contest to the panels overhead in order to catch them.

Impressive reflexes.

“I’m this annoying at all hours of the day.” You grin impishly for just a second, then shrug. “You’re just less able to handle it, first thing in the morning.”

Bending back over your trunk, you dig through for something denim. You land on black, high-waisted shorts with a triumphant, “Aha!”, and make a big show of raising your trophy overhead. Once again, you glance at Felix to see if your attempt to get a rise out of him was successful. In a way, yes, it was — just not in the way you expected.

Based on the way his gaze lingers on your thighs and the curve of your ass, you don’t think Felix even noticed your theatrics. You don’t think he means to stare, either. As far as you can see, it’s the perfect opportunity to fuck with him further.

“Admiring the tattoos?” You arch an eyebrow and wait for him to blush out of panic at being caught. “I can recommend the artist, if you want to hit them up.”

To your surprise, you don’t rattle him. Dark eyes flick up from your body to your face, and they don’t seem ashamed of where they’ve been. Your plan backfires. More than that, it blows up right in your face, which is starting to heat up.

“The cantine closes in five minutes. Training starts in ten,” he states matter-of-factly, holding your gaze. “So, you can either eat, or you can keep pretending you’re not trying to flirt with me.”

Your mouth drops open, but you can’t even snap back at him before he chirps, “The choice is yours, Scraps,” with a playful smile.

With nothing more to say, Felix leans away from the wall. On his way out the door, he gives you a lazy, two-finger salute. Dumbstruck, you stand there, watching him leave; wondering where the hell your bumbling, sweetly shy friend from back home managed to disappear to.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Felix waggles his finger at you. A smug smile toys at his lips when you let out a frustrated grunt. “That’s the problem.”

He takes a step away from you, raises his fists to mimic your posture, and throws a right jab out into the air ahead of him. When he draws it back, he pauses with his shoulders even.

“D’you see the issue with this?” He asks, loosening one fist so that he can gesture from shoulder to shoulder.

You roll your eyes. “Is it that nobody’s currently hitting you?”

Felix, to his credit, is completely unbothered by the attitude you keep giving him. He’s far more patient than he should be with you. You, however, do not take criticism well.

“You square yourself off instead of retriggering an attack,” he gently corrects you. “By not turning and leading with your shoulder —” He twists slightly backwards, so that his body is angled similarly to the way it was when he struck in the first place. “— you leave all this surface area open.”

Okay, fine.

You’ll concede that this makes sense, but you will not admit to poor blocking. In fact, deflecting is what you’re best at, so that’s precisely what you do.

“And how exactly am I supposed to block hits that aren’t coming?”

Felix relaxes his stance with confusion scribbled all over his face. You don’t wait for him to ask what you mean, plunging right into your notes for him:

“This sparring shit doesn’t feel real because you refuse to hit me. It’s been weeks, and there still aren’t any stakes. If you’re going to insist that I learn this — which, by the way, feels pointless when I’m already armed —”

You gesture down to your thigh, where your pistol is normally strapped.

“— then you have to make me care.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, opting instead to quietly chew on the challenge you’ve raised. For a split second, you think you’ve finally grasped the straw that’ll break his back. He turns towards the door and walks away, seemingly giving up on trying to teach a rabid dog new tricks.

But Felix defies your expectations yet again, grabs your gear off the counter at the far side of the room, and heads back to you. As he walks, he pulls back the slide to fish out the round that waits in its chamber. Bullet still in hand, his focus shifts to the magazine, which he easily removes from the base of your pistol’s grip. After tucking your ammunition into the back pocket of his jeans for safekeeping, he holds your now-empty firearm and thigh strap out to you.

“Gear up.”

Now, it’s your turn to be confused. You accept the items he pushes into your hands with both eyebrows raised.

“Are we giving up on hand-to-hand, then?”

“Absolutely not,” Felix snorts with a shake of his head. “I’m just going to prove the necessity.” When you don’t budge, he waves his hand to hurry you along. “C’mon, Scraps. Strap in.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, you slip the vertical strap over your belt loop and fasten it before doing the same to the horizontal piece around your thigh. Once it’s nestled snugly against your skin, you slide your weapon into its resting place.

Holding your hands up, you fire off a saccharine smile like the brat you are. “All done,” you chirp.

The smirk that appears on his face makes your stomach flip for two reasons, the least of which is the anticipation of his next move.

“You want it to feel real, right?” His voice drops so low that you feel it deep in your abdomen. “Fine by me.”

Like before, Felix steps slightly backwards. With a nod of his head towards your firearm, he challenges you, “Draw.”

It’s unfamiliar, seeing him counter you like this. Growing up, he was content to go in whichever direction you nudged him in. The version of Felix you knew back then was passive, agreeable to fault. You may not know what the fuck he’s planning now, but he radiates newfound authority that you almost want to respect, so you listen.

“Fine,” you demur while your fingertips trail over the cool, metal grip. “Make your point and move onto something useful.”

The next sequence of events flashes by so quickly that your brain can hardly keep up.

Just as soon as you pull the gun from its holster, Felix turns in his spot, channeling the momentum into a strong push off the ground. He’s in the air before you can even level the barrel; and in the blink of an eye, the side of his boot collides with your hand, forcefully ejecting the gun from your grip. The power behind his kick sends the weapon flying several meters away, where it clatters to the floor with a smack amidst the quiet.

Gasping more so out of surprise than pain, you recoil your stinging fist and clutch it to your chest. He reads your expression incorrectly, if his widened eyes are any indication. Immediately, Felix breaks his stance to step across the distance in between you.

Worried hands come to rest on your biceps, squeezing gently. He urgently asks, “You alright?”

You blink back at him, throughly stunned by how fucking fast his reflexes are, and he misinterprets that, too.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he sputters. His next words come out so frantically that they bleed together over the course of one breath. “I really didn’t want to hurt you; I just needed you to understand that your gun can’t always save you. Sometimes, you have to —”

“That was insane,” you blurt out.

Felix’s eyes widen, caught completely off-guard by your interruption. It’s understandable, you think. After all, it’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve given him over the past few weeks.

He peeps, “Oh?”

You nod vigorously — and there’s that sweetly shy boy from down the block, blushing slightly under the weight of your attention.

Somehow, seeing him this way feels like home; the one you knew before he disappeared, that you might actually admit to missing. Acting solely on instinct, you unfurl your right hand and seek out the warmth of his cheek, like it’ll flip a switch and turn the clock back.

It doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t — but you can’t help feeling like this is fine, too.

Until you realize what the fuck you’re doing, and you see the starry-eyed look he’s giving you. Then, you do what you always do.

You dodge.

Patting his cheek patronizingly, you breeze, “I guess I’ll let you train me, then,” before turning to retrieve your gun.

“Oh, really now?” He laughs, like he’s already forgotten the way your mask just cracked. You can’t tell if you’re grateful for this, or disappointed. “Is violence all it takes to win you over?”

Disappointed.

You wish he’d called your bluff again, like he did so long ago in that closet you’re currently calling a bedroom. Once wasn’t enough; you want to be caught out, to have someone refuse to let you get away with the bullshit you’re always trying to pull. For some proof that you’re not the bulldozer you pretend to be.

Felix raises an eyebrow as he tilts his head teasingly to the side. “Are you actually going to shut up and take instruction this time?”

Like that.

“Maybe.” You crouch down to grab your discarded pistol off the ground, lips pursed to keep the satisfied smile off your face. “Are you going to stop pulling punches?”

Three weeks of sparring tick by before you manage to clean his fucking clock.

It came as a surprise to both of you; not just that Felix slipped up in the first place, but that you were fast enough to capitalize on an opening he’s otherwise never created. You might’ve gasped even louder than he did when you managed to seize the opportunity — but that memory is fuzzy already. It doesn’t matter, anyway, not to him. Either way, the point stands:

You actually learned from the shit he’s been trying to instill in you.

Having hobbled from the training room to his bedroom, Felix now sits on top of the old, metal counter that once served as a workbench. It’s not comfortable by any means, but he’d rather die than move from his current position. Between his knees, you stand close to him, holding a frozen sponge to his left eye with your right hand.

Funnily enough, that particular hand is the reason he needs an ice pack in the first place.

For a while, the pair of you exist in comfortable quiet. It’s nice, he thinks, just being present. He would’ve been happy to carry on that way for as long as possible, but the shitty voice in the back of his brain keeps yelling that he’s letting more moments slip by than he has to spare. Wasting time that he should be making up.

He clears his throat to shake off the rust, prompting you to glance down from his forehead to his eyes. Your expression is hard to read, but there’s anxiety in there, somewhere. Felix worries that you’re worried; you’re searching for a sign that you’ve somehow injured him further.

“You’re a quick study — if and when you want to be.” His teasing sounds pathetic because his voice is barely more than a groan. Still, he smirks, “Those corporate mercenaries won’t stand a chance.”

With his good eye, Felix watches as your mask cracks a little further in the shape of a smile.

For once, you simply nod in acknowledgement and let the compliment slip through your defenses without trying to deflect it. He wants to compliment you for that progress, too, but he’s hesitant to push his luck when he’s already flying half-blind by the seat of his pants.

Then again, it might be worth the risk to push the envelope — even if you succeed in punching his goddamn lights out for good. He doubts that he’d complain, if that were the case. You’d be an incredible last sight to ever see, wouldn’t you?

His internal monologue pipes up again, demanding that he gamble.

Every single muscle he has aches after spending hours sparring with you, but that’s not at all what he’s talking about when he says, “You’re a knockout, Scraps.”

It’s a cop out, but it’s something.

Just for a second, Felix wonders if you heard what he meant, and not just what he said. All his doubt disappears when that shy smile tugs even harder at the corners of your mouth.

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, chuckling quietly. “If you want to get technical, you didn’t even lose consciousness —”

Carefully, you bring your free hand up to his forehead and brush flyaway strands of hair out of the way of the makeshift ice pack. By contrast, your fingertips are warm enough to simmer on his skin.

“— so you’ll have to try that joke again when you actually do.”

Although you could, you don’t take your hand back after unsticking his hair from the condensation on his skin. You lower it gently, let it rest on his shoulder, and leave Felix to wonder if it’s a choice, a convenience, or a reflex.

This eats at him.

A long time ago, this little gesture wouldn’t be something he’d have to guess at. He used to just understand, never once needed to be told. So far out of practice, he’s no longer fluent in your body language — and he hates it.

Unwilling to leave anything else up to interpretation, Felix looks up at you with one, unobstructed eye. “Wasn’t joking,” he murmurs.

You freeze without meeting his eyes.

If he didn’t know better, he might think your retinal mods had been knocked loose again. You don’t seem to see him, and that’s all he wants. All he gets is quiet, so he tries again: “And I’m not bullshitting you, either.”

It’s his low voice speaking your real name that finally draws you out of hiding. Surprised for just a moment, your expression softens when you notice the way he’s studying your reactions. You don’t speak at first, but your bottom lip is pinched between your teeth; a telltale sign that you’re trying to.

“Since this is apparently honesty hour,” you start with an exhale.

Felix braces himself for whatever evasive maneuver you’re going to throw next.

Shockingly, you don’t throw out a joke to change the subject. You take the ice pack off his eye so he can see you properly, set it down next to his thigh on the counter, and scrub your hands sheepishly over your face.

“You freak me the fuck out.”

You laugh despite yourself, and then you pause just like that; like you’re waiting on him to laugh at you, too. When he doesn’t, you take it as your cue to keep going: “Am I insane, or does this feel easy?

“I think both things can be true.” You shoot him a look that could — and might — kill him. He holds his hands up in surrender, but he keeps his eyes locked on you. “And I know you’re not used to easy.”

Felix doesn’t know what he expects you to do next, but your next move isn’t one he would’ve guessed. In the end, it’s your still-chilled palms reaching up to meet him, and your fingers filling the empty spaces between his. Brow furrowed, you study the way you fit together, like the words you’re searching for are hidden somewhere in the gaps of your chain-linked knuckles.

“I’m not used to it because I avoid it,” you correct him, frowning. “Easy scares the shit out of me. It just feels like a trap, you know? Like, the second you stop looking out for it, the other shoe will drop and knock your unsuspecting ass to the dirt.”

Keeping his fingers interlaced with yours, he lowers your joined hands until they rest against the tops of his thighs. You watch them go; he watches you, and he can’t help thinking that he’s the reason you armored up in the first place. That him leaving was the blow to the head that taught you to wear a helmet.

“I’ve got good reflexes,” Felix whispers, squeezing your hand.

At this, your eyes flick upwards. A microscopic crease forms between your eyebrows, and he knows exactly what’s coming next, so he says it first: “Excluding today, obviously.”

When you smile, it hits him even harder than your right hook did.

“What are you saying, exactly?” You ask, head tilting to the side as you narrow your eyes.

“Fuck the shoe.”

The look on your face suggests that he can’t possibly be serious, but he’s never been more so. Maybe he can’t promise you easy in a world like this one; and he can’t keep that fucking shoe from dropping, but he swears he’ll catch it when it does.

Felix has to let go of your hands to hold you properly. You lean into his touch when he snakes his arms around your waist; and you rest your forehead against his, careful not to press into the bruise that borders his eyebrow.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he whispers. You hum in reply, confirming your willingness to trade. “Kiss me now, and we’ll batten down the hatches later.”

Felix may have called you a quick learner, but you have to wonder what his basis for comparison is. From your vantage point, it’s him that catches on in a heartbeat, like nothing unexperienced is truly new to him.

Coincidentally, it’s also him that’s kneeling between your thighs, bearing the weight of your hinged knees over his shoulders and making you shake with his tongue alone.

“Fuck, fuck — nngh — fuck!”

It’s all you can say because it’s the best you can do.

Over and over, too drunk on the sensation of his mouth, you let profanity spill out of yours. He has you dripping in more ways than one, pooling on that godforsaken counter, and you can’t spare a single thought about the mess you’re making.

Every neuron fixates on him, the cotton-candy blue strands gripped tight between your fingers, and the way he devours you, like he’s making up for skipped meals.

“F-Felix,” you beg, breathless.

Looking up at you from under his lashes, he feigns innocence. It’s bullshit — he knows you’re on the brink of death, knows your whole damn body is buzzing — and his sweet smile doesn’t match his actions. You jolt, wailing, when another kitten lick trails over your clit.

“Hmm?” That low timbre of his vibrates through you when he pulls back, panting.

God, you’re spent already, but you can’t collapse until you know what he feels like, buried to the hilt in you. Something about that need makes you shiver; has your bottom lip quivering when you manage to squeak, “Please.”

Absolutely boneless, you slump against the wall behind you. With far more grace than you, Felix maneuvers his way out from under the tangle of your legs. He ensures that they fall gently back into place on the countertop.

“Gotta work on that stamina if you’re gonna help wage a war,” he teases.

The half-powered glare you shoot at him doesn’t stop him from leaning in and pressing a kiss to your forehead. It doesn’t keep his fingertips from tracing languid lines down the lengths of your bare thighs, either.

Your voice is fucked out and weightless, far softer than you’ve ever heard yourself sound. “Is that what this is? Conditioning?”

The hand not caressing your thigh comes up to cradle your jaw, like it’s something fragile. It’s the first time anyone’s touched you as if you’re breakable, worth protecting — and motherfucker, you’re one soft smile away from crying.

“No.”

He states it much more firmly than he kisses you. So gentle that you can’t believe it’s real until you taste yourself on him, so warm that you dissolve like a sugar cube on his tongue.

Fuck any other person that’s ever pressed their lips to yours and called it a kiss. They’re liars, all of them. One by one, their names disappear with every passing second in which you know better.

“Need you,” you moan into his mouth.

Fistfuls of his shirt can’t bring him close enough. Even when his head dips down and his lips are at your throat, the ache wins out. You crave him anywhere — everywhere — all over you.

“Going crazy —” You gasp when his teeth nip at your collarbone. “— waiting on you.”

Greedy hands drop to the button of his jeans, fumbling to no avail. Apparently, your dexterity flew out the window two orgasms ago. A frustrated whine jumps out after it, pushing your head back as it goes.

Felix’s low chuckle soothes you, but it’s nothing compared to the relief you feel when his hands nudge yours out of the way. That, too, is a drop in the bucket; bliss crashes in waves when there’s no denim left to separate you. His hands land on your hips, fingertips pressing into your flesh as he guides you further down his length.

Never — not fucking ever — have you made a sound quite as pathetic as the one you bury into the crook of his neck. You can’t classify it, not as a moan or a whimper. It’s desperate — loud. It’s an air raid siren; every fucking barricade you’ve built over the years being blown to smithereens.

This is it, you think.

Fuck your bank account.

Fuck staring at the sky and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Fuck your contracts, your shithole apartment, and the million different ways you were set up to lose in this life.

This isn’t about you at all. It’s about you and him; all the space and time you’re dead set on reclaiming.

This is for us.

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i’ve been working on this since JUNE, and it’s a much bigger undertaking (creatively and….. mentally) than anything else i’ve done before, so i’m scared and also excited to start sharing it with y’all.

while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.

tagging: @saintriots, @mal-lunar-28, @dabiscrustyfeet

wanna be tagged for future uploads? sign up here.

#stray kids #skz #felix #felix x reader #felix smut #felix angst #felix fic #lf #stray kids fic #skz fic #stray kids smut #stray kids angst #skz smut #skz angst #stray kids series #skz series #jade writes #re: force quit #kvanity

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festivalsofmargot · 10 months

Text

Illicit Affairs {Dad!Garreth Weasley x F!Professor!Reader}

AGED UP CHARACTERS, 18+ SCENARIOS (Characters are adults, graduated from Hogwarts, and are 18+)

Introduction: Garreth thinks back on his life with you, and it was far from perfect. But he’d relive every second if he had the chance.

Word Count: ~ 13,100 (I think I’m gonna puke)

Warnings: Smut, Angst without a happy ending, Cheating, Loss

Author’s Note: Want to say right now that cheating is disgusting. This is purely a fantasy scenario. So if you get triggered by cheating I highly recommend you skip out on this fanfic. This romanticizes it and I didn’t really write the person getting cheated on as a realistic human being. More than anything, this is smut with a plot. I watched Cyberpunk: Edgerunners and I’ve never felt so empty inside. So writing this, I just felt like being sad, ya know? Like literally ruining my entire month.😃 Anyways, it’s 10 pm my time so still Wednesday for me. Bone Apple Tea Weasley Wednesday-ers! I’m going to hyperventilate and cry in bed. (Like wtf did I write this...?)

Songs (if interested):

Illicit Affairs - Taylor Swift

Little Stranger - Dawid Podsiadło

I Really Want to Stay at Your House - Rosa Walton, Hallie Coggins

Baby Teeth - Bunny Lowe

It’s My Fault - End Credits - Roque Baños

Whether the warmth in Garreth Weasley’s cheeks was coming from the multiple glasses of whiskey he had or the fireplace he sat across, he wasn’t sure. But it was welcome all the same. As he looked into the flames and slouched in his chair, lightly rubbing at his chin, he thought back on his life with you.

The two of you had been the best of friends while you attended Hogwarts. The moment he asked you to sneak a fwooper feather out of Professor Sharp’s office, he had felt in his gut that you were going to be someone special.

He had always been upset he only had three years with you at Hogwarts, and you had been too. Both of you had said “If only we met in first year.” too many times to count, but meant it every single time.

He knew it now that you had felt the same way about him. But during school, it was a constant struggle not to kiss you, especially after every dangerous outing the two of you had gone on. He had fallen hard and fast for you during his fifth year, and that infatuation never seemed to dissipate, even to this day.

Everything about you was perfect to him, you had fit together just right. But he was afraid if he ever confessed and it turned out you hadn’t seen him in that way, he’d lose you forever.

Thankfully, you had made the first move a few years after the two of you graduated. Merlin knows his cowardly ass never would have. That following month in Hogsmeade had easily been the best month of his life.

“If you’re sweet, maybe I’ll get you that discount.” Garreth said coolly to the woman with fox eyes before him, restocking some potion ingredients on the shelves.

“Are you sure sweet is what you want, Gar?” The woman flirted back, and Garreth’s body tensed at the shortened version of his name coming off her lips. He was able to keep an easy smile on his face and continue restocking, but he still didn’t like anyone else calling him that except for you.

“Fine, play coy.” She sighed playfully when he kept quiet and she made her way out. She gave him a little wave and as soon as she was out of sight, he let the smile vanish from his face. He didn’t even remember this woman’s name truth be told, thank Merlin she left before he had a chance to let that slip.

Garreth had been a little more reckless than usual these past few months. He hadn’t received a letter back from you in ages. As soon as you graduated from Hogwarts, you pursued the magizoology field while he went to work for Parry Pippin.

Garreth knew your main focus would be going after any poacher you came across rather than studying magical beasts. Try as you might to talk down what you did in your letters, he wasn’t stupid, he knew you.

Your silence had filled him with so much dread, he was wishing more than anything you had just decided you wanted nothing to do with him anymore. He didn’t care, as long as you weren’t dead. Please Merlin, don’t be dead.

To distract himself, he dove head first into the bachelor lifestyle. Drinking and women were his main hobbies outside of J. Pippin’s Potions. Being young and handsome, living on his own, and having plenty of his own money now, he was making himself enjoy it.

Garreth was manning the store by himself that day, looking over stock and crossing items off his parchment when he heard the doorbell ring. He absently greeted whoever had just entered the shop, not taking his eyes off his list.

“Welcome to J. Pippin’s, let me know if you need help with anything.”

“Gar?”

At the sound of your voice, Garreth nearly broke his neck turning to look at you. His eyes were wide, breath hitching in his throat.

The moment he locked eyes with you, you lost every word you had planned on saying to him. “I um… It’s good to see you again.”

Garreth dropped everything he was holding, closing the distance between you two in only a few steps, pulling you into a tight embrace. You didn’t hesitate to hold him back, letting his warmth envelope you.

“I was worried you were dead.” He whispered into your hair as the relief washed over him.

“I nearly was.” You admitted.

Keeping his hold on you, he pulled back just enough to look at your face. He noticed then that there was a small bandage on your cheek, and some other areas looked recently healed.

“That’s why I’m here. I needed to see you. Needed to tell you I -”

Garreth looked into your eyes and listened close, silently urging you to continue.

“I’m in love with you, Gar.” You breathed, as if a huge weight lifted off your shoulders finally telling him. “I always have been. It was close during my last outing and - When I thought I wasn’t going to make it, my biggest regret was never telling you. It’s alright if you don’t feel the same. I - I just needed you to -”

Garreth silenced you by crashing his lips onto yours. Keeping one arm around your waist, he brought up one hand to cup your jaw. He had caught you by surprise, but it didn’t take long to register what was happening and kiss him back.

This. This right here was exactly what you two always dreamed of doing ever since your fifth year at Hogwarts.

The sound of voices approaching the shop from outside made him tear his lips away from yours. He took a step back and you couldn't help the bashful smile that tugged at your lips.

"Sorry. Parry Pippin will have my head if he caught word of me snogging in the shop while he was away."

"No need to apologize." You chuckled and turned to leave. "I can leave you to it."

Garreth's eyes widened. "Where are you going?" He asked in a panic and took a step towards you.

"I was going to run a few errands around Hogsmeade. Get a room."

Garreth opened his mouth to protest, but some customers came in. "Welcome." He called, dismissing his usual greeting line and looking back at you. "Don't get a room." Garreth said loud enough for only you to hear.

You gave him a smile and nod, then took your leave. He made his way back behind the counter, watching your form out the window until you were out of sight. How was he supposed to carry on working as normal now that you were back and he had free reign to kiss you?

By the time you finished up what you needed to do and headed back to J. Pippin's Potions, Garreth was hurriedly closing up the shop.

He looked up with a beaming smile when you walked through the door again. Setting down some empty vials, he strode up and pulled you into another deep kiss. He was learning fast that he wasn't going to be able to help himself around you.

Pulling away, he went straight back to his closing routine, aiming to finish as fast as possible so he could leave with you. "Get everything you need?"

"I did." You got a bit shifty, wondering if you should tell him what you had done or it would seem like too much too soon. It hadn't seemed that way to you, having known Garreth for so long. But you hoped he would be happy to hear the news.

"You know you’re staying with me, right?" He said as he put away some ingredients.

You smiled. "I was hoping that was what you meant earlier."

He shot you a smirk over his shoulder. "I think you'll be very proud to see how tidy I keep the place."

"Oh will I?" You quipped, nervously glancing down to your feet and shoving your hands in your pockets.

Garreth took a double take at you, his brows furrowing in concern. “What’s got you so quiet?” A worrying feeling began to set in that he may have been too bold to assume you would be alright with staying with him.

You raised your brows and looked back up at him. “Nothing.” You assured. “Sorry, I uh -” You let out an amused huff at having gotten yourself so worked up. “I got something I want to tell you when we get to your place.”

The ease came back to him as he locked up some cabinets. “You know you already told me you’re madly in love with me, right?”

“I don’t remember saying ‘madly’.”

“Oh, silly me. ‘Devastatingly’ was the word.”

“That could have been it.” You shrugged, biting back your amused smirk. “Wouldn’t hurt to say it a few more times.”

A cheeky grin pulled at his lips. You love me.

“And you haven’t said it back by the way.” You teased.

Garreth’s movements slowed to a stop and he looked back at you, quirking a brow. “I haven’t? Yes, I have. Haven’t I?” Fuck, I haven’t. He had said it in his head so many times, were you certain he hadn’t even slipped up and said it aloud once?

“Well, then…” Turning out the lights and grabbing his coat, he shrugged it on and strode up to you. He cupped your face in his hands and planted another kiss on your lips. “I love you too.”

“That was corny.”

“It was.” He took your hand in his and led you out. “I’ll work on it.”

“After you.” Garreth said as he opened the door to his home.

“Wow.” Your eyes widened as they roamed his place. “You weren’t joking when you said you kept it tidy. I thought you were, or at least had a different definition of tidy.” You turned back towards him and looked him up and down suspiciously. “This isn’t the Gar I knew back at Hogwarts.”

“I’m a changed man.” He said coming up and pulling you against him, capturing your lips. How could you expect him to keep his hands off of you at this point? If you asked him, he’d say the two of you had some lost time to make up for.

On one hand, it was wonderful knowing you pined for him all these years just as he had for you. But on the other, it was a bit frustrating knowing he could have been with you all this time, could have pulled you off to secret corners and kissed you senseless.

“Wait wait,” You slowed his kisses to a halt and took glances around his home. “Is there a room I can change in? I’ve been traveling all day and want to get out of these clothes.”

“Bedroom’s just there.” He gestured with his head towards it, not taking his eyes off of you. You gave him a grateful nod, slipping from his embrace.

“Won’t be a moment.” You called over your shoulder.

While he waited for you, he decided to grab some glasses from his cupboard. Maybe you’d be up for a stiff drink or two with him to celebrate. But truth be told, he needed something to help with his nerves. He was beyond elated to have you back, he didn’t want to mess this up.

His hands were shaky as he poured, and he cursed under his breath. The nerves were really hitting him. Easy now, Weasley. It’s you. We’ve been friends for years. He tried to inwardly calm himself.

But you weren’t quite friends anymore were you? Your confessions meant you were seeing each other now, right? So he was heading into uncharted territory with you. Merlin, of all the times for him to overthink in his life, why did it have to be then?!

He heard his door open and he turned back towards you with drinks in hand. “How would you feel about -” Garreth’s jaw went slack and he dropped the glasses, shattering them along the floor. You were standing at his bedroom doorway, completely naked.

“Oh fuck.” He croaked.

“Come here, Gar.”

“Yep, coming.” Though his mind was a mess, he was thankful to every higher power he could think of that his body kicked into gear to get to you.

His hands went for your hips first, gripping the soft skin there as his mouth went for your neck like a starved man, leaving open mouthed kisses and bites everywhere he could. So this is what it’s like to taste every bit of you, I always wondered.

You let out the most delicious sounds as he walked the two of you towards his bed. You fell back and he fell on top of you. You instantly wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding him close. You had dreamed of having him like this for so long, it was hard to keep a loose grip.

“Mmh. Wait. Let me -” He sat up, and with hurried fingers began undoing his vest, you sat up as well and helped him, the both of you smiling like ecstatic idiots. If there was a feeling to describe looking down at you looking back up at him as you went for his clothes, it would be euphoria.

Shrugging off his vest and then going for his shirt, he couldn’t believe how many layers he had on. Was this really what he dressed himself in every day? How did he ever find the time?

Slipping off his shirt and unable to keep his lips away a moment more, he bent down to capture yours again. He stayed locked with you as he went for his pants. Thankfully there weren’t as many buttons as the shirt, and he shoved them down with your help. But the pants caught on his legs. He stood to his feet to get them off but tripped over himself, hitting the ground with a loud thunk.

“Ow!” He cackled, finally kicking them off and you went into hysterics.

Climbing back onto the bed with a groan, he smiled down at you as he crawled over and laid on top of you. The nerves completely gone as you continued to howl with laughter.

Sighing, he buried his face in the crook of your neck, and you held him lovingly against you as you tried to calm down.

“Satisfied already, are you?” He said with a feigned annoyance, but the grin was still on his face, hidden against your neck.

“Yes, very much so.” Your laughter dissipated into little giggles as you wiped away the amused tears from your eyes.

The two of you laid there like that for a moment, just holding each other. And he thought back to when you had cuddled and napped together in the Room of Requirement frequently during your Hogwarts days. How in Merlin’s name did he think that was just something friends did? He certainly wasn’t cuddling with Leander Prewett.

He didn’t let himself dwell on his missed opportunities anymore. Here was his opportunity now, right under him, holding him close.

He began kissing at your neck, and that seemed to get rid of your amusement entirely, something carnal beginning to take over. His mouth went up from your neck to your jaw, finding his way to your lips again.

He slid his tongue in when he felt your mouth part slightly, and you met him with yours. As your tongues tasted and entwined, he realized it was the closest he had gotten to being inside you, and he wanted more.

Breaking the kiss, he adjusted himself between your legs, teasing his tip at your entrance. He glanced down at you two about to join, then up at your face. Breathless with anticipation, you gave him a nod of your head, and he pushed himself in, ever so slowly.

You kept your eyes on one another as he thrusted into you with a slow rhythm, a rhythm that would help him savor being in you for the first time.

“I’ve wanted this for so long.” He breathed, relishing the feel of your slick heat enveloping him.

The noises that escaped you were maddening, and he was beginning to lose himself. But he didn’t want to lose himself, he wanted to be attentive to everything you did as you clung to him, naked in his arms. But when you arched your back and your breasts pressed hard against his bare chest, the control was fraying at the seams.

His thrusts into you came harder and faster, and your hold on him tightened, nails digging into his back. It felt as if you two were more alive than you ever had been. Being intimate with someone was one thing, but being intimate with someone you were in love with brought you to a whole other level.

Multiple times that night, you had gone over the edge together. Tasting, touching, gasping, and sighing.

Both of you sweaty, sore, and satisfied, Garreth had you tucked under his arm, looking up at the ceiling, completely serene. “Back at J. Pippin’s,” He began, his voice raspy. “You said you wanted to tell me something.”

You sat up a bit to look at him, he kept a hand on your back. “When I went around Hogsmeade, I stopped at Brood & Peck.”

You sat up a bit more and Garreth sat up with you, beyond curious at what you were going to tell him.

“I got a job there.”

Garreth’s eyes widened. “You did?” He had been too swept up in your confession and being with you, he hadn’t even thought about where you two would take things from there. But it seemed you were already a few steps ahead anyway, just like you always had been.

He shifted closer and pulled you onto his lap so you were straddling him. “But what about your magizoology career? Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled but… are you sure this is what you want?” He asked looking up at you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I don’t want to fight anymore.” You sighed. “I don’t want to live on the road for years to come. I just want to stay in one place and live my life.”

Garreth loved the sound of that. Even if you hadn’t decided to do this to be with him, he would have been ecstatic just to know you were leaving your dangerous lifestyle. He didn’t have to worry constantly about you getting killed anymore.

“Give me a few days and I’ll find my own place. Promise.”

“About that.” His hand went up through your hair and he pulled your head back towards his. “I wasn’t really planning on you leaving.”

Garreth was a nervous wreck. When the third potion that day had slipped through his fingers and shattered on the floor, he knew he needed to step out and take a breath of fresh air.

He went out back and reached for the ring that was burning a hole in his pocket. When he had bought it, he had been more sure than anything you would say yes. But now that the time was approaching when he would ask you, doubts began to swirl.

Would it be too soon? Sure you had known each other and been close for years, but you had only been seeing each other for a few weeks. Granted, those past few weeks had been some of the best of his life. What if he proposed and you weren’t ready like he was? What if his eagerness to marry you would scare you off and you’d want to leave him and…

Garreth shook his head, taking another deep breath. His overthinking caused him to miss out on so much with you already, he couldn’t let it stop him again.

He took his time closing up the shop that day, he was still fidgety and wanted to get it together at least somewhat for when he went to meet you. Closing had always felt like it dragged on and on, but that night it seemed to speed by.

He went down to Brood & Peck and stepped through the door. You were looking over a map with Ellie Peck and discussing who knows what, probably another home relocation area for the beasts. Garreth couldn’t seem to pay attention, too in his own head still.

You glanced up at him and smiled, mouthing one moment. He smiled back and gave a little nod of his head, praying you would take your time. Merlin knew he needed every second you’d give him.

Finishing up, you grabbed your coat and waved goodnight to Ellie. You met Garreth and took his arm as you walked up the path to your home. You shot each other little smirks as you trekked along.

You sighed in exhaustion and rested your head against his shoulder. “Long day for you too?”

“Hmm? Oh er - yes. Long day.”

“More than anything I want to fall asleep, but I need to bathe first. The stables were a mess today.”

“That’s good to hear.”

You huffed an amused breath through your nose and looked up at his face. He was staring ahead, seemingly off in his own world. “I think it was so bad I might quit and go back to my old job. Hope you don’t mind, I’ll be sure to write you.”

“Mmhm.”

“Sebastian Sallow showed up today and confessed his love for me again.”

“Mmhm - Wait what?!” He snapped his head to face you with wide eyes, but then relaxed when you started to cackle. “Not funny.” He grumbled.

“It was a little funny.” You gave his arm a loving squeeze. “What’s got you so distracted?”

He swallowed thickly and stopped walking. You stopped walking with him and raised a brow at him. “Should I be worried?” You teased.

He decided he just needed to get this over with or he was going to be a nauseated mess for the time being. He took a step back from you and went down on one knee.

At first, you thought he dropped something on the ground, then it hit you when he reached into his back pocket and took out a ring.

He said your name and looked up at you with tortured eyes, your lips parted slightly in shock. “I - I was going to make a special dinner tonight and ask you then but I think I’d burn the house down cooking I’m so nervous.” He swallowed thickly, glancing down at the ring and then back up at you. “I can’t remember exactly what I planned to say. But it was along the lines of me having been mad for you since we were kids, and how I want to be mad for you the rest of my life.”

Tears pricked at your eyes and your chest was nothing but a fluttery mess. “Yes.” You breathed, getting on your knees with him.

An elated smile tugged at the corner of Garreth’s lips. “Yes? I - I had more I was going to say though - but… Yes?”

You nodded your head vigorously and the two of you couldn’t help but laugh. He put the ring on your finger and you grabbed for each other, kissing one another wherever you could get your lips on.

It had already been a month now that you and Garreth were together. He couldn’t believe how the days flew by being with you. But he shouldn’t be surprised. Every day consisted of him waking up to you in the morning, getting up and going to a job where he was surrounded by potions, walking down to meet you at Brood & Peck when he was done, then finishing it off by being buried deep inside you throughout the night.

Sure, you two may have lost out on some hours of sleep. But one could argue that you two taking the time to wear yourselves out could get you a deeper, more effective sleep. It was a running joke between the two of you, and neither of you were sure it was true. But you were both happy, and that was all that mattered.

With a smile on his face he couldn’t seem to shake, Garreth took the time to restock shelves at work. The doorbell rang when someone came in, he recited his usual line with the peppiness that had a hold on him this past month.

“Welcome to J. Pippin’s.” He turned towards the customer. “Let me know if -” He stopped cold in his greeting seeing it was Victoria Willowsmith, an ingredients delivery girl he had been seeing off and on before you came back. “Afternoon, Victoria.” He began as casually as he could, inwardly praying she just wanted to drop off ingredients and leave. “Got ingredients for me?” He put on a polite smile.

She looked uneasy as she walked towards him, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread. “Um… not today.”

He absently took out a rag and began polishing a nearby potion vial. “Then what can I do for you?” Something was off, he could feel it.

“I need to speak with you.”

When Garreth arrived to meet you outside of Brood & Peck, you threw yourself into his arms as you always did. “Mmm, I’m ready to head home.”

He kept quiet as he wrapped his arms back around you, but you noticed his hold wasn’t nearly as tight on you as it normally was. You stepped back slightly, looking over his features and noticing he wasn’t meeting your gaze.

“What’s wrong?” You asked in concern, placing a hand on his cheek.

He took a deep breath and took your hand down from his face, stroking his thumb over your skin as the anxiety built up sickeningly at what he was about to tell you. “Walk with me.”

You remained silent as he guided you away from Hogsmeade, down the stone path to a place more isolated.

Garreth sat the two of you on a nearby bench as the sun began to set. He held your left hand in both of his, looking at the ring on your finger. He couldn’t stand the thought of it ever coming off.

The way he was acting brought on a sense of trouble. But you willed yourself to keep quiet, and let him say what he needed to say. As he held your hand, you looked out into the sunset, hoping the sight would help keep you calm.

“You’re everything to me. I hope you know that.” Garreth began, but it only made all of this more eerie. When you didn’t say anything in response, he knew he had to just tell you, not drag this on any longer. “Before you came back, I was seeing this girl off and on. Nothing serious. But she’s come back and told me that she’s -” He ran a shaky hand through his hair and he felt you tense up. “- told me she’s pregnant with my child.”

Your stomach went into agonizing knots as you continued looking out into the sunset. You wanted to throw up, you wanted to scream, you wanted to cry. But after a moment, all those intense feelings turned into something numb.

“Please say something.” Garreth pleaded, finally looking at you then, unable to read your expression. “Shout at me. Anything. I just need you to say something.”

You met his gaze and gave him the smallest of smiles. “You’re going to be a dad.”

Something in him broke. He had wanted you to say those words to him one day, but not under circumstances like this. He sighed your name as you stood up and slipped your hand from his.

He stood with you and tried to search your eyes, but you gave him nothing.

“I uh -” You cleared your throat, trying to hide the sadness that constricted it. “I need to be alone at the house for a bit if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Whatever you need.” He took a step towards you, but you took a step back, and he wanted to die.

Without another word, he watched your form walk away.

He slumped back down on the bench until the sun had completely set. Then he headed over to Hog’s Head. Three Broomsticks felt a little too upbeat for such a night.

After a few drinks he decided it was time to face you again at home. Taking one last sip of liquid courage, he made his way out.

The first thing he noticed approaching the house was that none of the lights were on.

“No…”

He burst through the door and called your name in a panic, striding through the house and searching every room for you. “No no no.” But you were gone, and so were your things. There wasn’t a trace of you anywhere, not even a note.

Garreth fell to his knees, the pain hitting him all at once. He had never felt such an ache in his chest, as if a piece of him was gone, ripped right from him.

“Let’s see your list, bug.” Garreth said to his little one as he stepped out the door with her. The ecstatic, freckled, redheaded girl handed him the parchment that listed everything she needed for her first year at Hogwarts and he looked it over.

“Merlin’s beard! I don’t think I had this many books when I attended.” He teased, ruffling her hair.

“Dad.” Matilda grumbled, swatting him away and fixing her curly locks before they got into town. He and Victoria had agreed to name her after his aunt after she passed. She may have been tough on him growing up, but she had done so much for him, it only felt right.

The two of them went up and down Hogsmeade, getting everything she needed. Thankfully, they could save a bit on everything related to potions class. Ever since he took over for Parry Pippin, they had more potion equipment and ingredients to last a lifetime, even for him. Too bad Matilda didn’t seem to share the same passion for it as him. Her attention always seemed to lie in magical beasts, of course. Try as he might to shift her interests all these years, it was no use.

He saved the most exciting part for last, getting Matilda her wand. As they walked on to Ollivanders, he caught sight of that day’s Daily Prophet on the news stand they passed. His jaw tensed when he saw you were on the cover yet again. Seems he saw you there several times a year.

The first time he ever saw you on the cover, he had to do a double take. His legs turned to jelly and he immediately bought the first copy he laid eyes on. He would sneak off to stare at your portrait on the paper for months, maybe even over the course of a year truth be told. But the more he saw you grace the cover over the years, he’d eventually grown indifferent to it. It did start to get old after more than a decade of it happening.

What could you have accomplished this time? Perhaps you took down another magical beast fighting ring, discovered another abandoned dragon’s nest still full of eggs, or maybe even became the first ever human leader of a mongrel pack! Garreth didn’t care. All he needed was that little reassurance you were still alive and well and he could move on with his day.

He hoped Matilda didn’t catch it. Much to his chagrin, she was one of your biggest fans. He always… always had to buy the paper for her when you were on it. When he heard her gasp, he squeezed his eyes shut briefly in defeat. Of course she caught it.

“Dad! Can I have some galleons for -”

“Here, love.” He was already reaching into his pocket and handing her some money. He had never been one to say no to her. She gratefully (he liked to think) swiped it from him and took off towards the news stand.

“Come right back to Ollivanders.” He called, waiting back and not wanting to chance reading over the headline.

You stepped out to greet your students for your first beasts class. Who would have thought, even after the career you’ve had, you’d still get nervous?

As you looked out to all the little first years, you were surprised to see them all silent, attentively waiting to hear what you said next. “Well… Hello, everyone. Today, I say we jump into things and start with basic caretaking for each beast here we have in the stables. All we’ll need is a brush and some feed. But before we begin, any questions?”

Hands shot up, way too many hands. “Oh! Ah - yes you?”

“Is it true you took down Bartley Barrin’s graphorn fighting ring?!” A curly haired student that reminded you all too well of Lucan Brattleby asked in amazement.

You raised your brows, not sure if it would be appropriate to answer such questions, especially to your first year class. “Ah, right. We can discuss such things later, I suppose. Outside of class hours. Now, any questions on basic caretaking?”

All the hands slowly went down except for one, enthusiastic, redheaded girl’s. She was reaching her hand up in the air so high you were worried she’d pull a muscle if you didn’t call on her.

“Yes?”

“Should we grab extra feed for the nifflers so they can stow it away for later?”

A smile tugged at your lips. “No need. They’ll get fed multiple times a day just like the other beasts.”

The girl gave a firm nod of her head as if saying got it. Then her eyes widened and she shot her hand up again.

“Go on.” You were trying to bite back your delighted smile. You’ve only had an enthusiastic student for a few minutes and it was already making you giddy. Please let there be more like her.

“Can we use the same brush on all the beasts? Or do we need to grab different sizes?”

“You can certainly use the same brush on all of them, er - What’s your name, dear?”

“Matilda Weasley.” She answered with a gap toothed smile.

You kept a straight face as your insides constricted a bit and you nodded your head. This wasn’t the first Weasley you had encountered since you arrived back at Hogwarts, it was probably the seventh truth be told. Yet you couldn’t stop your mind from reeling.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Miss Weasley. I hope you keep this enthusiasm even after you see how grumpy kneazles can be.” You clapped your hands together. “All right then! Everyone grab a brush and some feed and we’ll head over to the stables.”

“Dad!” Matilda burst through the door of J. Pippin’s Potions and ran up to Garreth.

He met her with open arms. “There’s my girl. Sporting the Gryffindor robes too, I see.” He looked at her proudly. But then he furrowed his brows and checked his pocket watch. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at dinner?”

“I ate fast.” She said dismissively. “I wanted to ask if I could have some money to go to Brood & Peck to get my own beasts brush!”

Garreth sighed. “Don’t they have brushes you can use for class, bug?”

“They do, but they lock them away when class isn’t in session. Professor Y/N said I could visit the beasts whenever I wanted in my spare time to -”

“Professor who?”

“Y/N, the beasts professor. Didn’t you read the paper?! Now, as long as I have my own brush, I can stop by even when no one’s able to take out the class brushes from storage so…”

Garreth let Matilda go on as the room started to spin. Shakily, he reached into his back pocket and grabbed some galleons for her. Probably giving her too much for what she wanted at Brood & Peck. But he couldn’t seem to think straight at the moment, and he didn’t need Matilda around to see her dad possibly faint.

“Thank you!” She sang, sprinting out the door.

Garreth leaned himself back against the counter, trying to stay steady. He rubbed at his chest in hopes it would help his heart rate go down. The last he saw you was 12 years ago, when you walked away from him. Not a letter, not a glimpse of you outside the Daily Prophet since.

The Daily Prophet.

Garreth grabbed his coat and keys. Switching the open sign to closed, he locked up and made his way home.

He was greeted by Victoria when he stepped through the door. "What are you doing home so early?" She called from the kitchen.

"Matilda needed something from her room." He threw out as he headed there.

Throwing open her door, his eyes roamed the room quickly in search of the Daily Prophet he had gotten her. He spotted it on her dresser and made a beeline for it.

"Famed Magizoologist Takes Up Teaching…"

He looked over the article explaining your move to becoming the next beasts professor for Hogwarts and the bustling nerves within him wouldn’t let him stay still. You’re here… you’re just down the road.

His body seemed to be moving without thinking. He dropped the paper to the ground and made his way out, headed down the road to Hogwarts.

“All right, that's enough questions for today I think.” You chuckled awkwardly, and the several students that had been asking you endless questions about your poacher hunter days whined.

“I know I know. Now I think it’s best you all be off before curfew anyway. I won’t be so interesting when I have to give you detentions, will I?” You guided the students out of your office.

Once you shut the door behind them and were finally alone, you let out an exhausted sigh. Sure, you were grateful you didn’t have difficulty getting students to listen to you, but you couldn’t have predicted how exhausting their questions would become.

Your “career” wasn’t something you looked back on fondly. You had done a lot of things you couldn’t take back, things you lost sleep over. But pursuing it was all you had.

As you turned to get ready for bed, a knock sounded at your door, tensing you up. You took a deep breath to relax and prepped yourself up a bit. No need to get a reputation as a scowling, moody professor quite yet.

Turning on your heel, you went back to the door. “It’s almost curfew.” You called as you opened the door. “You should -”

Words seemed to escape you, which probably didn’t matter much since your voice did as well. Locking eyes with the green ones before you seemed to have the same effect as petrificus totalus.

Garreth was just as frozen in place as you. He didn’t have a plan for when he faced you again, all he had been set on doing was seeing you in person before him. He had walked up and down the road from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade until the sky went dark. Even after all that time, even after 12 years, he still had no idea what he’d say to you.

After a few moments of silence and the both of you trying to regain composure, you swallowed thickly. “Mr. Weasley.” You nodded your head in some sort of greeting, at least that’s what you thought your head did.

“Professor.” He attempted to greet back. “May I… May I come in?”

Nodding your head, you moved to the side to let him through. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he stepped inside. He needed to or else he’d be a fidgety, thumb twiddling mess.

You closed the door and the both of you stood there in silence for a moment, not sure where to begin in starting a conversation with a history such as yours. “Would you like a drink?” You offered.

“Yes. Thank you.” He answered, looking around your office and living quarters. Any minute now, he’d be able to look your way again. Any minute now…

You went to grab the bottle given to you as a welcome gift when you first arrived to teach at Hogwarts. You were planning on saving it for a special occasion, and you couldn’t think of anything that could top what was happening then.

Pouring for the both of you, you grabbed the glasses and walked over to hand one to him. He gave a polite, if not awkward, smile as he took it from you. Both of you downed it a bit fast. Your frantic nerves helping you push passed the dreadful taste.

“Another?” You asked.

“Please.” You gladly took the glass from him again and he ran a shaky hand through his hair.

You returned with your refilled glasses, and he took his from you, just as appreciative as the first time.

“What brings you here?” You managed to begin.

He looked down at his glass, twirling the liquid around in his hand. “I needed to see you.” He decided to confess.

Your breath hitched and your heart rate picked up. The only response you could manage was a nod of your head and an absent sip of your drink.

He looked up and met your gaze. “Was this stupid of me?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He gave the smallest smile and looked back down at his glass.

“I think I met about ten different Weasleys today.” You casually began with a chuckle, the warmth in your cheeks putting you a bit at ease. “By chance were any of them yours?”

He let out an amused breath through his nose. “My little Matilda just started.”

“Ah, so it was Matilda. I had a suspicion. She’s delightful to have as a student just so you know.”

Garreth began to feel a bit more at ease now too. “I bet you it’s only because you have her for beasts class. Any other subject, you might have struggled to keep her attention.”

You nodded your head. “I may have gotten the sense she loved magical beasts. Just a little though.” You quipped.

Garreth shook his head. “Already asked me for her own beasts brush. I tried to remind her the school had some she could use, but she’s a silver tongue that one.”

You laughed at him then. The thought of Garreth Weasley being such a sucker for his little girl was too sweet not to smile at.

“What?” He asked, an amused smile of his own plastered on his face.

“Look at you, Gar. A proper dad.”

His chest fluttered at you calling him that again, but he shoved it back. “In all its glory.” He took another sip of his drink when his emotions began to swirl. In a perfect world, he would have had children with you. You would have been Matilda’s mother. But he shouldn’t dwell on impossible things like that, he had done enough of that already.

“What are you up to these days?” You asked.

Garreth gave a shrug. “A lot of the same really. Parry Pippin gave me his shop.”

Your eyes widened. “He did? That’s wonderful, Gar!”

There you went, calling him Gar again so effortlessly, blissfully unaware of what it did to him. He took another sip. “Not too bad, yeah? Never felt the need to change the name, thought it worked fine as is.”

“Outgrew ‘Garreth’s Subterranean Concoctions’, did you?”

He grunted and rolled his eyes in response, taking another sip of his drink. But he had to admit, at least to himself, he was a little impressed you remembered. “I decided it was, in fact, too obtuse. But I’d rather talk about you and your adventures. Think I’ve seen you in the Daily Prophet once or twice.”

It was your turn to roll your eyes. “Merlin, don’t remind me. Those journalists are pests. Won’t leave me alone.”

“Can’t really blame them. You’re probably the most interesting magizoologist they’ve encountered. You’re famous now.”

You rubbed at the back of your neck. “I wasn’t trying to be. I think the only plus side is my students seem to be very keen on what I have to say in class.”

“My Matilda’s going to talk your ear off. I hope you’re prepared.”

You smiled again, a warm feeling coming over you. You always knew Garreth would be a doting father. As much as you wanted him to have been the father of your children once upon a time, you couldn’t be mad with where things ended up. He clearly adored his little girl.

“I think you’re underestimating how much I’ll appreciate her enthusiasm.”

“Oh.” He guffawed with a shake of his head. “I don’t think I am.” Another sip. When he realized he finished the last of his drink, he took out his pocket watch and cursed under his breath. “I apologize, I shouldn’t have come to see you so late.”

You waved him off and chugged the last of your drink, going up and taking his glass from him. “You, Mr. Weasley, are welcome any time.” You said as you went to put away the glasses in your kitchen.

He rubbed a hand down his face as you walked him to the door. “Thank you… for tonight. Really.”

You met his serious stare and smiled at him. “Of course, Garreth.”

He smiled back, but it had a hint of sadness to it. Call me Gar one more time. Just once more.

“Goodnight.” He opened the door and went into the night air, giving you a small wave over his shoulder.

“Goodnight.” You called and waved back, then shut the door. You took a deep breath and released it, relieved that your reunion had gone as well as it had. Maybe you could do this. Maybe you could be friends with him again.

Another knock at the door tore you from your hopeful thoughts. You didn’t hesitate to open it back up. “Forget somethi -”

“What’s on your neck?”

You stilled, you had completely forgotten you had it on. You had worn it for over a decade, it basically felt like a part of you now. If you had known he was coming you would have hidden it for the time being, but it hadn’t even crossed your mind until he asked you about it just then.

You were too flustered to answer, and Garreth walked up until he was toe to toe with you. Not taking his eyes off yours, he reached a delicate finger up to tug at the necklace you were wearing. He pulled it up just enough so that it wasn't covered by your shirt anymore. His eyes dropped to what was on it, and he lost all sense of reason. It was the engagement ring he got you. He thought he was seeing things when he caught the briefest glimpse earlier, but he had to be sure. He had to. And now that he was, he knew he was about to do something really stupid.

He looked back up to your eyes, his hand shifted from holding the necklace to cupping your neck, and he slowly leaned down towards you. “You need to tell me to stop.”

You shook your head, your breathing growing heavy. You didn’t want him to stop. You wanted him to close the distance between you so badly, but not like this, not when he had a wife at home. “Go home, Garreth.” You somehow got yourself to whisper, his lips just a breath away from yours.

He stopped. “Alright.” He whispered back and nodded, forcing himself to come to his senses. He kept his eyes on yours as he released you and walked backwards. Once he was far enough, he turned on his heel and strode up the path back to Hogsmeade.

The next day, Garreth headed down to Hogwarts with a crate of overstocked potion ingredients. He remembered how you always asked him for potions back in your school days, surely giving the excess stock to you would be better than tossing it out. Of course, that was, without question, the only reason he was heading to Hogwarts.

He walked along the path towards the beasts class stables, carrying the crate over one shoulder, and he spotted you talking to a student. He walked a bit slower so he could watch you.

You knelt down to the young student’s level and explained something to him. The child was cradling a puffskein in his arms, and you were gesturing to different points on the creature while you spoke. Seeing you interact so well with kids did something to Garreth’s insides.

You glanced in his direction and his throat went dry. You turned back to the student and stood, finishing up your lesson. The student handed you the puffskein and you waved goodbye as he ran off.

You turned towards him, squinting slightly with the sun in your eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Can I help you, Mr. Weasley?”

He pointed up at the crate on his shoulder. “Was wondering if you wanted some spare ingredients.” He called back.

“I’ll take whatever you can give me. One moment.” You turned to put the puffskein back in the stable.

Garreth shifted on his feet as he waited for you. He tried to keep his gaze on you subtle as you bent over to put down the puffskein and lock up the gate. But once you faced him fully and walked towards him, he eyed you with undivided attention. Merlin, you’re stunning.

“Let me get the door.” You said as you passed him.

He followed close, doing everything he could to not look at your backside in those pants. With a click of your key in the slot, you pushed open the door.

He stepped in and glanced back at you. “Anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

Garreth went and placed the crate on your desk, taking glances around your hut, getting a scope of the place. Then he went back up to you, bringing himself toe to toe again, just as close as the night before. “I’m off then.”

You took in his freckles for a moment. Surely it was harmless to admire from afar, right? “You’re welcome any time, Mr. Weasley.” You decided to remind him.

He took the briefest glance at your neck, catching you still wearing the necklace with your ring. “Then I’ll be back tomorrow, Professor.” With that, he took his leave.

It had become a daily occurrence for Garreth, walking down to Hogwarts with spare ingredients from the shop. It was the highlight of his day every time. Just getting to be near you and feel that thick as honey tension between you, it was intoxicating.

It had gone on for weeks, and the excitement hadn’t dissipated in the slightest. If anything, it only grew by the day.

His newfound routine had been thrown off when there was a shortage of wiggenweld potions across the valley. He had been the only shop to have stock and he wasn’t able to leave until every last customer was helped.

As soon as everyone had cleared out, he rushed to close up. Throwing the crate with ingredients over his shoulder, he picked up the pace to make it down to you before Hogwarts’ curfew.

He didn’t expect to walk down and see you waiting on the steps of your hut.

His footsteps slowed to a stop as you stood and eyed him. “You're late.” You stated as you went to get the door.

“Busy day.” He replied as he came up behind you and stepped inside. Walking past you, he went to your desk as he usually did, but stopped and turned when he heard you close the door and lock it.

He met your gaze as you took determined steps towards him. “Put it down.”

Garreth recognized that look in your eye, even if it had been over a decade since he’d seen it. He dropped the crate to the ground, the wood breaking and the ingredients scattering across the floor. He closed the distance between you two, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling your lips to his.

Your hands reached up and gripped the fabric of his shirt, holding him against you just as you had dreamed to these past 12 years.

The two of you licked and bit and sucked at each other's lips in an attempt to fill this insatiable need between you, gasps and sighs escaping. Garreth gripped at your thighs, picking you up and hoisting your legs around him. He carried you to your desk, the two of you urgently shoving off everything that covered it as he sat you on top of it.

With hurried hands, you went for each others’ pants, unbuttoning and pulling down the fabric that separated you both. As soon as he had access, his tip was at your entrance. You shifted so he could enter you, moans coming from both of you as he did.

His thrusts were hard and spaced out as soon as he was in you again. He couldn’t let himself go fast. No, he needed to savor every second of this. The two of you kept your eyes locked on one another as he pounded into you.

When your head began to fall back, he cupped your face, keeping you upright. “Keep looking at me.”

Your hands shot to the back of his head and held tight to his locks as he thrusted into you. He crashed his lips back onto yours, your tongues battling for dominance, and his release was coming fast.

He reached up for the top of your shirt, tearing the top few buttons open, breaking them off and sending them flying. He broke your kiss and looked down at your necklace, the ring in full view before him. Grunts escaped him as his thrusts came faster and he plunged into you until completion.

Both of you breathing hard, you remained holding one another. He rested his head on your shoulder as he caught his breath. You seemed to come out of the blissful haze before he did, but when you shifted to get up he held you in place.

“No.” He said. “No, please. Can we stay like this a little longer?”

The desperation in his voice matched the desperation you felt. But this was a mistake, you shouldn’t have initiated as you had. You should have let him drop off the ingredients and go. But you shut the door and locked the both of you in, selfishly taking him as if he were still yours.

“I’m sorry.” You breathed as you shifted away from him and off the desk. “I shouldn’t have… Forgive me, this is all my fault.” Your voice was strained as you went to grab your discarded pants.

Garreth pulled up his own pants as well, numbly looking at the wall before him. He wanted your warmth against him again, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to get his fill of it. “I’m just as much to blame.”

“I think -” You took a shaky breath and went for the door when you were both clothed again. “I think I’m fine on ingredients. Thank you for everything.”

Garreth’s face went stoic, and he took his leave without looking at you. “You’re welcome.”

You and Garreth kept your distance from each other throughout the following months. But he still kept an eye out for you throughout Hogsmeade. He allowed himself to look, but the temptation to touch never faded.

After a rather taxing day at the shop he decided to pop into Three Broomsticks, he tensed when he saw you at a table in the back talking with Brood & Peck’s new worker. He had seen the fellow around and heard some things about him. He had quite the adventurous background, just like you.

Garreth tried to keep the scowl off his face as he enjoyed a drink or two… or three.

Throughout the night, Garreth spoke amicably with everyone seated next to him at the bar. He’d sip at his drink as he took casual glances your way. You had been talking with that blockhead all night, smiling at him, acting smitten. He hid it well, but it was sending him up the wall.

He caught that you finally said goodbye to the man and took your leave. He downed the last of his drink and left after you. He could probably blame it on the alcohol in his system, but in truth, it was just how crazy you made him.

Coming up behind you, he grabbed your arm and pulled you into a dark, nearby alleyway.

“Hey! Garreth, what in Merlin’s name are you doing?" You took rapid glances around to make sure no one could see you two.

Pinning you between him and the wall, he pressed himself against you. You were taken aback, but immediately compliant. You looked up at him as he put a firm hold on your neck, feeling the chain of your necklace under his fingers.

A thrilling sensation coursed through you and you were eager to see what he would do next, ignoring all the screaming voices in your head to not let it go any further.

He leaned down and bit at your bottom lip, then placed his forehead against yours. “Trying to replace me?”

You didn’t respond, only looked into his darkened eyes with yours as your breathing picked up. Keeping his hand on your throat, he slid his free hand down the front of your pants, immediately going for your folds.

“Go ahead. Just try.” He moved his fingers against your slit and greedily took your lips with his.

You kissed him back with just as much hunger, but you got yourself to turn away and push feebly at his chest. “Garreth… We can’t -” A whimper escaped you at his touch, and he plunged his first finger into you.

“I had to watch you with him all night.” He spoke in a low tone next to your ear.

You bit your lip and your hands slid up from his chest to grip his shoulders. He took that as his chance to slip another finger in.

“Does he know what’s around your neck?” His fingers moved faster. “Hm?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, wanting to slap him, but also wanting him to continue taking you as he was.

“Fuck, I like the way you’re looking at me.” He breathed. He had never taken control like this before, and it was a power trip he never knew he wanted to experience.

Your breathing was becoming shallow as he kept up his movements. “Don’t stop.” You panted in his ear as you threw your arms around him, holding him even closer.

“I’ll stop when I want to stop.”

The combination of his rough fingers and the way he was speaking had you delirious, the fire in your abdomen now an inferno. You were a furnace completely at his mercy and it was everything.

When your heavy breathing melted into moans, Garreth shifted back a bit, moving the hand that was on your throat and placing it over your mouth. “Keep fucking quiet.” He commanded in a hushed tone. But his fingers moved faster within you, almost challenging himself to get you to scream out.

He glanced down at his hand in your pants then back up to your face, and caught your half-lidded, pleasure filled eyes. His knees nearly buckled at the sight, but he stood strong. He could tell you were close, and more than anything he wanted to get you there, be the only person who ever did for the rest of your lives.

Your eyes began to roll into the back of your head and he removed his hand from your mouth, capturing your lips with his. He was going to swallow every cry and mewl he got out of you.

When your walls stopped contracting over his fingers, he slowly slid them out of you. His hands went to your hips and he rested his forehead against yours. As you caught your breath, the two of you had left your hate-fuck filled state and somehow shifted to something else.

“Tell me you still love me.” He exhaled, trying to stay steady. “Tell me you still love me like I love you.”

You took in his freckles with him being this close, just like you had always done. “Of course I still love you. You’re all I have left.”

His throat constricted. “Then why did you leave?”

Your arms snaked around his shoulders. “Garreth…”

“You didn’t even leave a note.” He shook his head slightly, the tears began to sting at his eyes. “You left me with nothing. We could have figured something out. We could have -”

You pulled his head down to your shoulder, cradling him there. He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you tight to him.

“Please just… tell me why you left without giving me a chance. I know I didn’t deserve it. I know that. But I have to know what was going through your head.”

You let out a shaky breath, keeping your own tears at bay. “There wasn’t a place for me there.”

He tightened his hold on you and buried his face into the crook of your neck.

“It didn’t feel like my home anymore. That house was for you and your family.”

“You were my family.” He argued against your neck. “We were going to get married.”

“But we weren’t yet. And you had a baby on the way, Garreth.” You sighed. “I thought about coming back so many times. I did once.”

Garreth pulled back slightly, furrowing his brows and meeting your eyes. “When?”

“About a year after I left.” You admitted. “Your aunt had passed and I wanted to visit her grave. Told myself I was going to let you go and give you back the ring while I was at it. Then I saw you sitting outside your house holding little Matilda.” You smiled a bit thinking back on it. “You looked tired, but so happy. I felt like I’d only intrude, so I left.”

Garreth thought about it, and he didn’t know what he’d do if you decided to meet with him. He had come to terms with it all by then, marrying Victoria, having Matilda, losing you. He might have been able to stand tall. But then again, he went mad just seeing your picture in the Daily Prophet for the first time.

“And the ring? After all this time?”

You shook your head. “I can’t seem to let you go.”

You held each other in the alley like lovesick teenagers who snuck out in the night. He kissed you then, but without the aggression or urgency. For the first time since he’d had you in his arms again, his lips were tender on yours.

Just like it had when you were seeing each other over a decade ago, time seemed to fly by. Months had passed since he began sneaking away to see you, taking a quick floo to your hut and locking yourselves away for a few stolen moments. Moments where you two would be entwined. He’d be on top of you, under you, any position he could manage while he was inside you. Sometimes you’d make love, sometimes you’d fuck. It was all perfect to him.

That potions shop keeper is having an affair with the beasts professor at Hogwarts. Garreth imagined people around Hogsmeade would say. But your meetups were the best kept secret he had ever had. No one ever suspected a thing.

Sure it was a bit thrilling to have secrets, but all that mattered was that he had you again. He couldn’t ask for anything more.

Except for maybe a divorce. He felt awful running around on Victoria as he was. She was a fine wife, a fine mother. But he hadn’t felt that spark of life he always had with you. The moment he saw you standing in person before him again, he knew his marriage was over. He had nothing more to offer her.

It had weighed heavily on Garreth. Separating wouldn’t exactly be easy to do legally, or cheap. But he’d push through, whatever it took to get the life he had been aching for since the moment you left.

He hadn’t touched Victoria since you came back. She had tried, and he’d been dismissive. Even spending a good amount of his nights sleeping at the shop. She had sensed his distance easily, and eventually gave up on trying. He hoped she found a lover too.

He’d go easy on Matilda and break the news to her when the time came. He reasoned her being away at Hogwarts a majority of the year now would give her enough space from it all. There was never a good time for parents to separate, only the sooner the better at this point.

Matilda hadn’t attended beasts class that day. You would assume she was out sick, but something felt off. Every time she was sick she would still make her way to beasts class, and you’d always have to tell her she could catch up after hours and to go get some rest. But she hadn’t even shown up that day, and it set all your alarm bells off.

“You’re not in trouble, I promise you.” You assured the student you overheard mentioning her name. “Just tell me where she said she’d be.”

“W - Well, she mentioned a place called Henrietta’s Hideout? Hideaway? Said she needed to find a runaway niffler.”

Your blood had gone cold. Henrietta’s Hideaway was beyond dangerous for anyone, let alone a child. It had been riddled with traps and dark wizards when you and Garreth went exploring there, when you were particularly young and stupid. “Are you sure?”

The student nodded his head, clearly nervous.

You turned on your heel, immediately heading to the nearest floo.

Matilda felt in her gut coming to Henrietta’s Hideaway would be dangerous, but she ignored that feeling and ventured forth anyway. The thought of leaving Agnes Coffey’s pet niffler to roam here and get killed made her sick to her stomach. She couldn’t sit by and let it be. She couldn’t.

She had managed to find the niffler, Rococo, but getting back out alive was starting to feel impossible. There were traps everywhere, and she didn’t know how to cast disillusionment on anything else other than herself. Rococo would give her away to the surrounding dark wizards for certain.

As she stood there, hiding herself and cradling the niffler in her arms, her hope slipped away every time she peeked around the corner. Each time it seemed like the amount of dark wizards lurking around went up. She let herself panic, but she didn’t let herself cry.

She startled when she started to hear spell blasts. Hearing the alarm in the dark wizards’ voices as they started casting spells back, Matilda held tight to the niffler and slid down the wall she was leaning against. She was finally starting to feel like the child she was.

She needed to get out of there, she needed her father. He could save her, he always had. She squeezed her eyes shut and closed out the world around her, the tears started to come then.

Because her fear had taken over, she didn’t even notice when everything went quiet. She continued to hold tight to the whining niffler and keep her eyes closed when you approached.

“Matilda? Matilda, it’s me. Everything’s alright now. Come with me, dear.” You knelt to her level and spoke in a hushed tone.

She slowly looked up hearing your voice, her eyes widening. Letting herself sob then, she threw an arm around you while still holding tight to the niffler.

She threw you off balance slightly but you kept upright and held her back. “I got you.” You soothed and slowly brought both of you to your feet. “Let’s get going.” You pulled back, keeping a hold on her shoulders. You looked into her eyes, trying to get her steady again. “I need that Gryffindor bravery, alright?” You gave her a reassuring smile.

She wiped at her eyes quickly and gave you a firm nod. “A - Alright.”

The two of you moved forward out of Henrietta’s Hideaway. You tried to remember what the trap mechanisms looked like when you were there back in your school days. Dark Wizards you could handle. Nearly invisible traps? Those could sneak up on anyone.

You and Matilda caught sight of the entrance and she was immediately filled with optimism and relief. “There!” She shouted and began sprinting.

“Matilda, slow down!” You called, keeping up with her as best you could.

You caught it at the last second. The tile Matilda stepped on made a clicking sound, and sank just slightly under the pressure of her foot.

“Matilda!” You shouted and shoved her out of the way. You weren’t sure what the trap being set off would do, but something moved into your abdomen, a strong pressure hitting you immediately. It didn’t hurt at first, but it had a solid hold on you. You couldn’t move. Then whatever was in your abdomen slipped out, the blood and the pain started to come. It was a spike, triggered by the plate Matilda had stepped on.

The realization started to kick in then. You did your best to keep your breathing even and not scare Matilda. This was it. This was the misstep that got you, wasn’t it? You could feel it. You weren’t going to be alive after today.

“Matilda.” You began as calmly as you could. “Go… Go get your father. He can help me, he’ll know what to do.” You sat down on the ground, clutching your stomach, slowing the bleeding to buy yourself time. “Watch your step as you go.”

Matilda was scared seeing your wound bleeding as harshly as it was, but she was able to stand strong at your handling of it. You were her hero after all. Of course you could handle something like this, no problem. She nodded her head vigorously and ran out.

You tried to keep your breathing even, last long enough to see Garreth one last time.

“Dad!” Matilda burst through the shop door. Garreth caught her panic in an instant and didn’t hesitate to run up to her. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he looked her over quickly, ignoring the niffler in her arms.

“What is it?! What’s wrong?!” He cupped her cheek when he noticed some of the scrapes on her face. “Let me get a wiggenweld.” He turned to get it but she grabbed his wrist.

“No time! It’s Professor Y/N. I - I was at Henrietta’s Hideaway and she helped get me out of there. She saved me from a trap but she’s hurt, dad. She - She said to get you. Said you’d be able to help.”

Garreth’s eyes widened, nostrils flaring. Henrietta’s Hideaway? “What in Merlin’s name were you doing all the way out there?!” Not waiting for her answer, he ran for the door. “Wiggenweld! Now!” He snapped before he was out of sight and at the nearest floo flame. As soon as he returned with you, he’d give Matilda an earful.

Garreth called your name as he carefully stepped into the hideaway. It had been so long since the two of you had explored there. He had no doubt it was still as dangerous as it was back then, the both of you had barely made it out in one piece even with how capable the two of you were.

He heard you cough. He turned your direction and his heart dropped at the sight.

You were sitting on the ground in a pool of blood, back up against a rock, hand clutched over your abdomen attempting to stop the bleeding. Garreth strode up and knelt before you. “We have to get you out of here.” He swallowed thickly once he got a closer look at the wound and noticed the loss of color in your skin. A sickening thought took hold of him.

Are you dying?

“No, I -” You hissed in pain. “I’m not going to make it out of here, Gar.”

He had never heard your voice so weak, dread started to set in. No, you’re not dying. You survive everything. You can’t die. “We’ve got to try. I can carry you.”

He wanted to scream when you only shook your head at him. “Be with me.” You reached for his hand.

His nostrils flared, his breathing starting to come out uneven as he tried to shove the panic down. “I’m getting you to St. Mungo’s.” As carefully as he could, he attempted to lift you. But your cries of pain stopped him. He shifted just enough so he was on the ground with you, holding you in his arms, your blood coating his clothes. The helplessness he felt was crippling.

“Tell me what to do.” He pleaded. “You always have a plan. Tell me what I need to do.” Garreth was crumbling, the pieces of him falling too quickly to catch.

You rested your head against his chest and looked up at him as he looked around the cave frantically. “Be with me. Please, Gar.”

He shook his head. “I just got you back.” His voice cracked, his throat constricting. “Please… Please don’t leave me. I can’t do it. I can’t lose you again.”

You weakly reached up and tugged at your necklace. “You never lost me.”

Garreth looked down at the ring he gave you and the tears stung at his eyes, ready to fall. You let go of the necklace and cupped his cheek, looking at him with so much love, he didn’t feel worthy of any of it.

He reached up and held your hand against his cheek. “You saved my girl.” He whispered, more grateful than you’d ever know.

“You know me. Always have to be the hero.” You quipped, your voice so weak it nearly came out as a wheeze. “I wish we met in first year.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, nodding his head, tears falling.

“It was always you, Gar.”

He shifted you in his arms, holding you tighter. “And it was always you.”

“You and me.” You smiled, your voice getting quieter.

“You and me.”

As you looked up at him and he looked back down at you, you seemed to stop breathing, seemed to go perfectly still. He said your name, but no response. He said it one more time, waiting for something, anything at all. But nothing.

He pulled you up more against him, resting his cheek against the top of your head, and let the rest of the tears come.

Come back to me.

The day of your funeral, he’d barely been able to speak, his voice would betray him each time. Nobody expected him to speak much anyway. After all, who was he to you? He wasn’t blood, he wasn’t your husband. At most he was an old friend, as far as everyone knew. No one would ever know what he truly was to you, would they? If he thought he felt loss when you left him all those years ago, it was nothing compared to what he felt then.

You were gone, for good this time. The permanence of it made his chest ache with an unbearable emptiness. It seemed every breath he took, he needed to guide himself through it. In, out. In, out. In, out.

Even after everyone left, he remained with your grave. As he stood there, looking down at your tombstone, he realized this was all he could have with you for the rest of his life.

He tried to think about your smile, your laugh, picture you there still with him. But as soon as he’d fall into the memory, a little voice in the back of his head reminded him it wasn’t real. Then your laugh in his head went silent, and he’d be brought back to reality in front of your tombstone.

Someone had walked up and looked down at your grave with him. “Seems I’m late.”

Garreth glanced up briefly and saw Sebastian Sallow beside him, looking down uneasily. “Afraid so.”

He had never liked Sallow. The lad would be fine in Garreth’s eyes if he hadn’t been so hopelessly in love with you back at Hogwarts. He had been sane before you showed up, but as soon as you arrived, something about you drove the poor fool mad. He had to stop him from following you around and begging you to reconsider your rejection too many times to count.

“Merlin, this can’t be real. She was supposed to outlive us all.” He whispered in disbelief. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

Garreth blinked away the memory, trying to get the image of your bloody, lifeless form in his arms out of his head. “Not long before she passed. You?”

“I’d say about five years ago. Last I saw her, she was walking out my door, breaking my heart once again.”

Garreth wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer, but he asked anyway. “You two…?”

Sebastian glanced up at him, then looked back down with a shake of his head. “Not really. I mean we tried for a while. But she was never able to love me like I loved her.” Sebastian let out a shaky sigh. “Untameable that one.”

Garreth could only nod his head. That you were.

“I really thought I had a chance after you.” Sebastian huffed humorlessly. “But if it wasn’t going to be you, I don’t think it was going to be anybody.”

Garreth swallowed the lump in his throat and knew it was time to be alone. He gave Sebastian’s shoulder a cordial pat as he passed. “Good seeing you again, Sallow.”

Garreth sat before the fire, and let himself wallow in his own whiskey fueled pity. How many times had he let you down throughout knowing each other? How many times had he failed you when you two were right on track to live happily ever after?

There was nothing he could do now, was there? The only thing left to do was mourn. So he thought back on his life with you again. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could see you again in his dreams tonight.

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