You Made Me Believe You’re Mine || Fred Weasley

Thank You For Your Service // F.W.

I can still taste the powder from the barrel of my gun. I can hear my Sergeant screaming, “Run, Soldier, run.” I can feel the backpack on my shoulders, God, it weighed a ton. I see death in every single thought. They taught me how to put that uniform on, I just can’t get it off // A Soldier’s Memoir (PTSD Song) - Joe Bachman 

Part 1 of 2. 

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem! Reader; George Weasley x OC (Mentioned briefly)

AU: Is early 2000s AU a thing?; military!AU; muggle!AU

Summary: Private First Class Fred Weasley is severely injured during his deployment, teaching you - his wife - about the meaning of sacrifice and unconditional love. 

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: ANGST to FLUFF, pregnancy, children, marriage, mention of 9/11/2001 terrorist attacks, Operation Iraqi Freedom, American military, violence/war/combat, long distance relationship, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), mention of prosthetic limbs/loss of limbs/severe injury, amputee, hospital, vomiting, burns, coping with disability, hurt/comfort, reader takes on a caretaker role, night terrors/nightmares, crying, fighting, throwing things, talk of su*cide, emotional outbursts, kissing, cuddling, i think that’s everything. PART 2 WILL FEATURE VANILLA SMUT. 

Author’s Note: I want to make it clear I am not pro-war nor am I in support of war, so please don’t come for me. I do, however, support active duty and veteran military members for their sacrifices. Also, I don’t know how accurate the timeline of events are so please bare with me. While this story is a work of fiction, the reality is that thousands of veterans are living with both mental and physical wounds as a result of their service during Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom. To learn how you can help post-9/11-veterans, please visit The Wounded Warrior Project.  A small donation to the Wounded Warrior Project significantly helps the men and women they serve. The WWP provides a number of valuable services to wounded warriors, including connections to mental health services, peer-to-peer support, independent living support (for veterans with severe injuries, such as traumatic brain injury), employment services, family support, housing, and more. For more information on PTSD among vets, please visit the United States Department of Veteran’s Affairs National Center for PTSD.  I want to highlight that love/a good relationship is not enough to cope with PTSD nor does it ‘fix’ it. If you or someone you love is experiencing PTSD symptoms, please seek help through means of professional counseling. 

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There are so many things no one tells you before you marry a soldier. There is a tendency to leave out the heartbreak that forms when you marry one. In reality, you aren’t just marrying him, but the Army as a whole. Being a military spouse comes with its own code. You learned to walk on his left side at all times just in case he had to stop to salute with his right; you always stood for the Anthem and crossed your heart at the Pledge; you spent hours learning acronyms and ranks; and overall, you strived to be as proper and patriotic as possible. However, you wouldn’t trade the world for the life you had with  Private First Class Fred Weasley. You had married young - like many military wives - so that you could have the opportunity to live on base. You hadn’t thought much of Fred’s position during peacetime.

Fred was a doting and loving husband. He worked long hours, but you never much minded. You were able to work part-time as a registered nurse, picking up hours as needed, although you and Fred were able to manage on his salary.  In fact, it all seemed like the perfect career path. Fred would continue to move up ranks, and eventually, you would be able to settle down with a decent military retirement fund. Everything was going as it should -  that was until September 11th, 2001.

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Every Part of You (tasm!PeterParker x Reader)

Summary: The phone rang again and you took it in your hand, seeing Peter’s face grinning up at you, tongue stuck out between his lips. For a moment, your finger hovered over the button to answer the call, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it, instead throwing the device across the room. It didn't ring again. — or, the one where you have a panic attack & Peter is there for you.

Words: 1.5k

Notes: anxiety and panic attack — please read with care; some cursing; negative self-talk, fem!reader, intense feelings. please be kind to yourself if you read this & please don't read it if you are not in the right space to do so. anxiety and panic disorders are different for everyone—this is based on my own experiences and may not represent your own experiences living with anxiety and that's okay and normal. take care of yourselves, loves 🌻 written for some lovely pals who requested this topic xx ily

The squirrels had gotten into your window garden again, telling gnaws in the leaves of your basil plant a conspicuous giveaway. Normally, you’d be cursing the fluffy devils, swearing up and down that if you ever caught the little bastards in the act you’d go medieval.

But you didn’t exactly have time to imagine your revenge or mourn your chewed up herbs as you towelled off your hair and began preparing for the date you and Peter were set to go on that evening. Plus, the excitement you felt buoyed you past the point of anger, your feet nearly gliding along the carpeted floor of your bedroom as you busied yourself with hair and makeup and the always daunting task of picking the right outfit.

It had been a few weeks since you and your boyfriend had gone on a proper date, not that you minded. The nights you spent sprawled across his lap while you battled it out on the XBox were the only thing you needed. But Peter had been busier than usual with what you playfully called his after hours job, a flood of some new drug making its way across the dimly lit alleys and back rooms of New York. And you’d been focusing so intensely on your applications for grad school that you’d hardly gotten a full night of sleep in a week. So you’d both agreed a night out was in order, and Peter would be meeting you at that gorgeous Italian joint that he’d taken you to on your second date.

You glanced at the clock on your bedside table, its neon red letters catching the breath in your chest, stopping you in your tracks as you moved around your bedroom, half-dressed and hair damp.

You were going to be late.

A surge of cold energy made your stomach somersault and you grit your teeth against it. You could hurry, maybe just throw your hair back with a headband?

Those stupid squirrels—if you hadn’t had to spend time worrying about them—

And the subway was always running behind this time of day. You’d end up having to stand, squished between strangers and too warm, sweating and jostled around.

And you still wouldn’t be on time. Because why would anything ever go right? Why couldn’t you do anything right?

Dread crept up your spine, flexing its fingers around your lungs and making you wonder, for a moment, if you were dying, the sudden overwhelming weight of mortality crushing you.

No. No. No no no.

You closed your eyes, a tightness building in your chest, and when you opened them, it was as though you were seeing the world through a fishbowl, distorted and grotesque. You felt a cold sweat prickle at the back of your neck, inexplicable fear bubbling in your stomach. You bit your lip, turning around once in place, pinching your wrist to try to focus on anything other than that awful little voice that had begun worming its way into your ear.

You knew there was nothing to worry about. It would be okay if you were late.

But it would ruin everything.

No, it wouldn’t. You tried, truly you did, to force the thoughts you knew were ridiculous out of your head, but your failure to do so only made you more frustrated, more disappointed. Your nails dug into your palms, tiny crescent moon shapes appearing under the pressure.

All the planning Peter had done, for nothing.

Everything seemed to blur and your legs slowly buckled, your body giving you enough time to fall gently to the floor before you hugged your knees up to your chest. Still, you heard whispers, your brain betraying you as it cruelly lashed you with hissing thoughts.

Your nail polish is chipped. Your shirt looks hideous.

And you should be studying. Kiss grad school goodbye. You’ll never get in.

You haven’t called your parents in a week, that’s awful. After everything they did for you.

You are nothing.

You were falling, falling, falling, slipping under the waves of your own insecurities until they blanketed you like an unforgiving, crushing rockslide.

You will never be enough.

Peter is too good for you.

You will never be loved.

You pressed your palms into your eyes, pushing hard to try to distract yourself from the whirl of thoughts in your head, from the tangled knots in your stomach. You lowered yourself onto your side, a sob wracking through your chest.

Peter…

With effort, you reached up for your phone, on the bed above you, fingers trembling, dropping it twice before you managed to tap on Peter’s contact information.

You’ll only make it worse by calling him, idiot. What are you doing?

It rang once. You hung up. Tears now fell freely from your eyes, your chest tight as you tried to suck in air from a room that was growing smaller and smaller, its walls closing in around you.

Then, your phone rang, a cheery sound that cut through the buzzing in your ears. You ignored it, allowing it to go to voicemail. You couldn’t talk to him, not now, not when you were so broken.

So pathetic, upset over literally nothing.

Ruining Peter’s night over literally nothing.

The phone rang again and you took it in your hand, seeing Peter’s face grinning up at you, tongue stuck out between his lips. For a moment, your finger hovered over the button to answer the call, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it, instead throwing the device across the room.

It didn’t ring again.

It might have been five minutes or five hours—time slipped by agonizingly slow and all at once—before you heard clambering outside your bedroom window, the sound of someone prying it open and falling with little grace onto your floor.

“Hey ladybug! I’ve been tr—”

You’d known it was Peter even before you heard his voice die in his throat. For his part, he’d been so worried that you’d called him and then not answered he swung over to your place in record time, heart hammering in his chest.

It took him a breath or two to fully take in the scene before him, your form curled up on the floor, shaking with silent sobs.

Shit. He knew what was happening.

Peter was by your side in a second, close enough to offer his hand, far enough to allow you space. You looked up at him with bleary eyes and he smiled weakly.

“Hi beautiful,” he whispered, “I’m here.” He saw the fear in your eyes, the quivering of your lip and his chest constricted. Still, he knew he had to focus on helping you. “You’re having a panic attack, Y/N.” He paused, allowing you to digest his words. When you nodded almost imperceptibly, he continued, “You’re gonna get through this, yeah? It’ll all pass and I’ll be here. Now, you gotta tell me, love, what are five things you see?”

Peter’s voice was warm and soft in your ear, much kinder than the voices swirling in your head. You tried to focus on his words, on his face. Swallowing thickly, drawing in a deep breath, you began to answer. “You,” your voice was shaky, but Peter smiled encouragingly.

“Good, what else?”

“The floor. The bed. Those socks. My hands.” Each item listed gave you a moment’s focus.

“That’s my girl,” Peter encouraged you, still keeping a space between you, “Now four things you can touch?”

You reached for his hand and he freely gave it, allowing you to wrap your fingers tightly around his own but keeping his grip loose.

“Your hand,” you whispered. Peter nodded. Your free hand moved up to touch your cheeks, feeling the heat of your skin and the dampness of your tears there. “My face,” you continued.

“Yeah,” Peter smiled, “Your sweet face. What else?”

Time began to settle into its usual rhythms as Peter helped you ground yourself, shift your focus, bringing you out of your head. The bedroom took on its normal appearance, walls no longer falling in around you, objects once again sharp-edged.

Before you could open your mouth to apologize, Peter was rubbing a pattern on your knuckles. “Can I hold you?” he asked. In response, you pushed yourself up and closer to him, falling into his arms as your head met the firm cushion on his chest.

“I’m sorry, Pete.”

“Don’t apologize, Y/N,” Peter kissed the top of your head, “It happens. It’s normal. Today it’s you, tomorrow it’s me, yeah?” You nodded against him and he pulled you closer.

“How about I order us a pizza?” he asked, “We can eat it in bed?”

“Yes please,” you whispered, laughing lightly as Peter picked you up and set you amongst the silky softness of your bedsheets. You watched as he grabbed the phone from his back pocket and called the pizza place across the street, watched the way his lips moved as he spoke and the way his fingers played with the zipper of his hoodie as he idled and the way he kicked off his Chucks and curled his toes, clad in mismatched socks, into a stretch.

You weren’t perfect. Neither was he. There were parts of both of you that were sometimes a little worse for the wear, but what was loving someone if not sinking deep into their skin, replacing their hurt with your love.

Taglist: @v1oletvenus // @violetrainbow412-blog // @veraocruel // @morgane–stark // @frannyyy03 // @nervouslaught3r // @alijulia87 // @kdatthecastle // @di4na // @infp-t-rhi // @dreamer7black // @plutoneu // @equivocalshit // @yodelingzavia // @pinkybee926 // @where-is-my-oat-milk // @lia-andari // @multiple-boxes-of-earthworms // @starkovsmarvel // @lucyysthings // @panicattheeverywherekid // @earthgirl616 // @huhurrr-r // @astoria-reads // @schmuckyschmarnes // @mypalbuck // @spider-starry // @theupsidedownkiss

George Weasley in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

okay guys, I am currently writing something involving animals/a veterinarian reader, and the title I decided on has the purrfect cat pun. I can’t reveal too much but ugh I just laughed for like 5 minutes

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x BAUfem! Reader

Category: Fluff

TW: Mentions of usual CM case-related violence, mentions of Haley’s death, insecurity, and cursing

Well, this is new, innit? (And, yes, I am referencing The Beatles with the title). I wasn’t sure if my usual tags would be interested in this, but I’ve included it just in case - I’m sorry if I tagged you and you’re not interested in this! Hope you like it! xx 

Profilers are strange creatures. A bizarre breed of human, truly. Not bad, per se, just…odd. Charmingly odd, in most cases, as you’d discovered upon joining the elite Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. The team were a fascinating and brilliant bunch, but also unerringly loyal and empathetic (highly desirable and important qualities in your line of work). However, being able to read people also equips profilers with the infuriating ability to make themselves impossible to read. They know all the tricks of the trade to hide their tells and never give away anything. And now, nearly a year into working with the BAU, you’ve managed to crack nearly everyone…except your boss, Aaron Hotchner. The most intimidating man in the world. And why do you consider him the most intimidating man in the world? Because you’re not at all sure where you stand with your boss…ever. At any time. You have absolutely no idea how he feels about you or perceives you. Which is unsurprising considering the mixed messages you get from Hotch. 

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definitely not crying over fictional characters again

Best of Fred and George Weasley

I feel like this is my head most nights ❤️

Be back soon very soon. Prepare for more thirst content. I have plenty in the quiver.

Are you missing me? 😏

fr