A/N: Guys, I think I'm finally cooking. Here's a little preview of a Remmick x Wife!Reader fic set right after he was turned.
I will also take this opportunity to give my two cents on when exactly I think Remmick was turned. While Saint Patrick reportedly came to Ireland some time in the 400s, personally, I think it more likely happened during the English invasion during the late 1100s by Henry II with the support of the then Pope Alexander III.
Either way, hopefully I'll have the time to finish this soon. Let me know what you think!
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He could smell you.
It was an odd feeling. Something that had always stirred the ache of home and devotion in his heart to all at once be so alien.
The others could smell you too. They could feel every memory attached to that smell; the warmth of your body as he held you in his arms, the taste of your lips and your skin. Your most intimate moments shared and shared alike.
There was someplace within him, buried beneath the noise and sensations of the mass that wanted to scream, to tear those memories back and keep them clutched in his own chest where they belonged.
But they weren’t his. Not anymore. You were theirs. Your salvation would be found in them.
So he stood at the entrance to a home that was at once his own and never was, staring up at you through a hundred eyes.
“Remmick?”
Yes. That voice. It echoed through every mind, his name on your lips stirring love and longing and horror.
Don’t. I’m dead, a chroí. Bury me. Live. Run.
But somebody else spoke with his voice.
“Everything’s alright. They’re gone, but not for long.” He extended a hand to you. “We need to go.”
Requests are open from this prompt list or just your own idea! <3 Have a nice day/night
Dean Winchester x Fem!Irish!Reader
Word count: 2183
Warnings: Just a cute St. Patrick's Day fic!
Y/N: Your Name
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(Not my photo, credit to whoever made it!)
*Dean’s POV*
The neon shamrock in the bar window flickered like it was barely holding on, green light stuttering against the wet pavement outside. It painted the Impala in a sickly glow, turning her glossy black into something almost otherworldly. I leaned back against the hood, surveying the place with a slow grin.
“Oh yeah.” I said, satisfied. “This is the one.”
Sam glanced up at the sign, O’Riley’s, and then at the line of people spilling out onto the sidewalk, all of them dressed in varying degrees of green, drunk, or both.
“It looks… packed.” Sam said carefully.
I shot him a look. “Sammy, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, of course it’s packed.”
“I’m just saying,” Sam gestured to the shouting, the laughter, the guy already throwing up in the gutter. “this doesn’t exactly scream ‘low profile’.”
I pushed off the car, already heading toward the door. “Relax! No hunt, no case, no ghosts, no demons. Just beer.”
Sam followed, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “That’s what you said the last time, and we ended up fighting a leprechaun.”
I paused mid-step, frowning. “That was one time.”
“It stole your wallet.”
“It was the trickster!” I snapped. “Totally different.”
Sam smirked. “You cired.”
“I did not cry.”
“You begged.”
I shoved the door open before Sam could keep going, and immediately, the noise swallowed us whole.
Inside was chaos. Green everywhere- streamers, beads, hats. Music blasted from somewhere in the back, something Irish, loud, and fast. People packed shoulder to shoulder, drinks sloshing, laughter echoing, bodies moving like one giant, drunken organism. I inhaled deeply.
“God, I love this holiday.”
Sam blinked, already overwhelmed. “It smells like beer and regret.”
I clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit!”
We pushed through the crowd toward the bar. I was carving a path like I owned the place. The bartender barely looked up before sliding two beers our way, clearly used to the demand tonight.
I raised my glass. “To no dying tonight!”
Sam clicked him reluctantly. “Low bar.”
We drank.
Two beers in, Sam was relaxed enough to stop scanning every corner like something might jump out and kill us. I, on the other hand, was… distracted. Sam noticed immediately the way my gaze snapped on something across the room and didn’t let go.
“Oh no…” He muttered.
I didn’t answer.
Sam followed my line of sight.
Near the far end of the bar stood a girl, maybe mid-twenties, surrounded by a loose circle of guys trying way too hard. She was laughing, head tipped back slightly, a pint of Guinness in her hand. Her hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, catching the green lights in a way that made it look almost gold. And her voice, even from here, carried. Not loud, just… distinct. Irish. Real honest-to-God Irish. Thick enough to curl around her words, but still perfectly clear. Warm. Musical. Dangerous. I exhaled slowly.
“Wow…”
Sam snorted. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
I finally tore my eyes away long enough to look at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sam gestured back to her. “There are like six guys around her right now.”
I glanced again, unconcerned. “Yeah.”
“And they all look like they’ve been trying for a while.”
I smirked, turning back to my beer. “Yeah.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “And?”
I finished my beer, then set the glass down with a deliberate clink.
“None of them are me.”
Sam groaned. “Oh, here we go.”
I was already moving.
The crowd shifted as I approached, slipping between people with practiced ease. I didn’t barge in, didn’t push, just… inserted myself, confident and effortless, like I belonged there. The girl noticed. Her eyes flicked to me mid-laugh, something in her expression changing, interest sharpening, amusement deepening. I leaned casually against the bar beside her.
“Looks like you’ve got quite the audience.”
Her lips curved, slow and knowing. “And what makes you think you’re not part of it?”
I grinned. “Oh, I am. I just don’t plan on stayin’ in the cheap seats.”
A couple of the guys around her scoffed, but she didn’t even look at them. Her attention stayed on me.
“Bold.” She said, taking a sip of her Guinness. “I like bold.”
“Good.” I said. “I like Irish.”
She laughed, full and bright, and yeah, that did something to me.
“Is that so?” She teased. “And what else do you like?”
I tilted my head, eyes flicking briefly to her drink. “Guinness.”
“‘Course you do.” She said, amused.
“I can keep up.” I added, almost offhand.
Her eyebrow arched.
“Oh, can you now?”
I shrugged, like it was nothing. “Yeah.”
She turned slightly, angling her body toward me fully now.
“What’s your name, then, confident American?”
“Dean.”
“Dean.” She repeated, her accent wrapping around it in a way that made it sound better than it had any right to.
“I’m-”
“-The girl who’s about to lose a drinking contest.” I cut in.
Her eyes lit up.
“Oh, you’re askin’ for trouble, love.”
“Maybe I like trouble.”
She laughed again, shaking her head.
“Alright then, Dean.” She said, setting her glass down. “What did you have in mind?”
I gestured to the bartender. “Two Guinness.”
“Make it four.” She added, not even looking.
I blinked. “Four?”
She smirked. “You said you could keep up.”
I huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
“Dean!”
I turned just in time to see Sam pushing his way through the crowd, looking deeply unimpressed.
“Don’t.” He said immediately.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t have a drinking contest with an Irish woman.”
The girl looked between us, amused. “And who’s this, then?”
I gestured lazily. “That’s my brother, Sam. He worries.”
Sam gave her a polite nod. “Hi.”
She smiled at him, friendly but distracted. “Hi, Sam.”
Then she looked back at me.
“You always this reckless, or is it just the holiday?”
I smirked. “Just when I’ve got something to prove.”
“Right.” Sam muttered. “Because that’s always worked out so well.”
I ignored him.
The bartender dropped four pints of Guinness of front of them. The girl picked one up, holding it between them.
“Alright Dean.” She said, her tone shifting, still playful, but with an edge now. “You and me. Two pints. No breaks.”
I grabbed my own, grinning. “You’re on.”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Shut up and count, Sammy.” I said, my eyes not leaving the girl.
“Three.” He said.
My grip tightened on the glass.
“Two.” Sam sighed heavily.
“One.”
We drank.
I barely had time to register Sam’s I told you so look before we tipped the glasses back. Guinness hit my tongue, thick, bitter, familiar, and I went all in. First pint? Easy. I’d done this a thousand times. Bars, dives, backrooms, anywhere that served something strong and cold. I could handle my alcohol. Hell, I prided myself on it. I slammed the first glass down, breath steady, already reaching for the second. She was right there with me. No hesitation. No stumble. Just smooth, controlled, like this wasn’t even a challenge. I narrowed my eyes slightly, tipping the second glass back.
Okay.
Okay, she was good.
Didn’t mean I wasn’t better.
I pushed harder, drinking faster, ignoring the way the room buzzed just a little louder around me. Across from me, she didn’t rush. Didn’t strain. She just… drank. Calm. Steady. Confident. That should’ve been my first clue. I finished with a sharp exhale, slamming the empty glass down against the bar.
“Ha-”
I turned, ready to throw out something smut, and stopped. Because she was already done. She finished her pint like it was nothing, just looking at me like she had all the time in the world. She looked at me and smiled. Ah… crap. I blinked. Once. Twice.
“...wait.”
Sam let out a long, deeply satisfied sigh behind me.
“Wow…” He said flatly. “You lost.”
I ignored him. Because I was staring at her. She leaned in slightly, resting her forearm on the bar, eyes locked on mine, amusement dancing in them.
“Your brother's right.” She said her accent wrapped around the words like music.
“Never challenge an Irish lass to a drinkin’ game.”
Sam snorted.
I exhaled, a disbelieving laugh breaking out of me.
“Yeah…” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. “Yeah, I’m gettin’ that now.”
God.
I lost.
I don’t lose.
Not like that.
Not to someone who didn’t even look winded.
And somehow…
Somehow…
It just made her more interesting.
I let out another short laugh, shaking my head before looking back at her, a grin slowly creeping back into place.
“Alright.” I said, leaning in a little. “Fine.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Fine?” She echoed.
I nodded.
“You win, clearly. “I admitted.
“Clearly.” She agreed, entirely too pleased with herself.
I huffed a laugh.
“But,” I added, pointing at her. “in my defense, you’ve been trainin’ for this your whole life.”
She gasped lightly, mock-offended. “Are you sayin’ I’ve got an unfair advantage?”
“I’m sayin’ you were born for this.” I shot back.
That got another laugh out of her. Yeah. Worth it. I leaned my elbow on the bar, closer now, lowering my voice just slightly.
“Can I at least know your name.” I said. “since you beat me so bad?”
She studied me for a second, like she was deciding something.
“Y/N.”
I repeated it immediately.
“Y/N.” I said, nodding once. “Yeah. That fits.”
Her lips curved faintly. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just does.” I said with a shrug. “Sounds like someone who’d absolutely destroy me in a drinking contest.”
She laughed, shaking her head.
“Dean, was it?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice to meet you, Dean.”
“You too, Y/N.”
And just like that, we stayed, talking. At first, it was light, easy stuff. Where we were from, how long she’d been in the States, and her poking fun at how Americans celebrated St. Patrick’s Day like it was a competitive sport.
“You really go all out.” She said, gesturing around the bar.
I smirked. “Hey, we commit.”
“I’ll say.” She laughed. “Back home, it’s a bit more… balanced.”
“Balanced?” I repeated. “You just beat me without even trying.”
She grinned. “That’s natural talent, love.”
There it was again.
Love.
I shook my head, smiling into my drink.
“Yeah, I’m starting to think I never had a chance.”
“You didn’t.” She said easily.
“Brutal.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Barely.”
She laughed again, and it settled into something comfortable after that. Real. We talked about stupid stuff, random stuff- music, traveling, weird bar stories. She told me about Ireland in pieces, little glimpses here and there, the way her voice softened just a bit when she talked about home. I found myself listening more than I usually did. Actually listening. And she noticed.
“You’re not what I expected.” She said at one point, tilting her head at me.
“Oh yeah?” I smirked. “What’d you expect?”
She shrugged. “Another cocky American who can’t back it up.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “Hey, I can back it up.”
She gave me a look.
“...most of the time.”
That earned a grin from her.
At some point, Sam reappeared at my side. I hadn’t noticed how long we’d been there. He glanced between us, taking in the fact that we were still talking, still laughing, still… there.
“Huh…” He muttered.
Y/N looked over at him, smiling. “Still here, Sam?”
He jerked a thumb toward the door.
“I’m gonna head home.”
I blinked. “Already?”
Sam gave me a look.
“Dean. It’s been hours.”
“Has it?”
Y/N laughed softly beside me.
“Time flies when you’re losin’ gracefully.” She teased.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m never gonna hear the end of that, am I?”
“Not a chance.”
Sam shook his head, clearly amused.
“It was nice meeting you, Y/N.” He said to her.
“You too, Sam.” She replied warmly.
Then he turned back to me, his expression shifting just slightly, more serious now.
“Don’t drive drunk.”
I scoffed. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.” I said. “I’ll walk to grab a cab or whatever.”
Sam studied me for a second longer, then nodded.
“Alright.”
He clapped my shoulders once before stepping back into the crowd. Just like that, he was gone. I turned back to Y/N. She was already looking at me, still smiling.
“You’ve got a good brother.” She said.
“Yeah.” I replied. “He’s alright.”
“Alri-” She laughed softly. “You Americans and your understatement.”
I grinned. “What? I’m not gonna inflate his ego.”
“Mm.” She hummed. “Fair.”
There was a pause. Not awkward. Just… quieter. Then she picked up her drink again, taking a small sip.
“So,” She said, glancing at me over the rim of the glass. “what now, Dean?”
I met her gaze, leaning in just slightly.
“Now?” I said. A slow grin spread across my face.
“Now I keep talkin’ to the girl who out drank me.”
hello❤️i just saw your blog! im irish so i was wondering can you do whatever fic you write with an irish reader? i think the accent and the slang difference would be fun to read! you don’t have to specify the fic on r being irish just a fic wheres r is irish hope i could explain that!😅
Leannán
ao3 link
Characters: Farm Era Daryl Dixon x Irish!Reader
A/N: so excited for this request !! thank you love! i have irish heritage so this was so fun to write(and also incredibly self-indulgent). i decided on daryl since it would be the most difference in accents:) also feel like i totally didn’t do this justice, it feels kinda short and rushed…but i had fun so slay!!
Warnings: fluff, love confession, bad accent writing, cursing, reader is sort-of mentioned to have green eyes(very self indulgent), reader knows irish gaelic (yes i know the language is practically dead, it’s just so pretty)
Word Count: 605
not my character | images from pinterest
Making fun of your accent is one of Daryl’s favorite activities.
You know he likes to see your face get all red, cartoon steam coming out of your ears. It reminds you of the little boys on the playground who would push you to the dirt as a way of flirting.
Not that he would ever admit that it was flirting.
Luckily, you could take the teasing… and dish it right back.
“You sure are one ta talk; what with your grunts and yee haws.” You shove his shoulder as he eats his breakfast with you by the fire.
“Ain’t say yee haw,” he pouts, “and ya jus’ say weird words fer things. Like tha’ one fer kiss.”
You smirk at him. “What, póg? Why, ya want one?”
“Stop.” He rolls his eyes.
That’s how your usual conversations with the arm-swinging grump went.
Days on the Greene farm were usually quite relaxed after the chores for the day got done. You’ve found yourself drawn to Daryl more and more after every conversation, his soft spot for you becoming apparent to everyone. Maybe it’s because you both felt like outsiders in the group. In a weird way, you felt like he understood you… even if he quite literally couldn’t sometimes.
“Shite.” You curse under your breath. Lugging water to the house from the well was tough work, but work you’d rather be doing compared to washing clothes or making food. Curse you and your feminist ambition.
“Need some help, Irish?”
You blush at the nickname that has become common from the mouth of Daryl Dixon. “I do, please.” You sigh as you hand a bucket of water to him. “Why are you back so early? The sun’s only mid-sky.”
“Was hopin’ you’d wanna go on a hunt with me. Could use the help.” He grabs the other bucket from your hand as well, carrying them both with no difficulty.
“I doubt that you, mister hunter man, king of the wild, actually need help with hunting. But, I’ll gladly join.” You smile while stretching out your sore back.
He finishes your chore for you, Lori tossing a “thanks” over her shoulder on your way out of the farmhouse.
Hunting with Daryl feels like one of the most peaceful things in the world, obviously ignoring the occasional walker.
You trail quietly behind him, soaking up the nature around you while he does all of the work.
However, you know he wouldn’t have it any other way. He just likes your company.
“Ya know… yer eyes remind me of the woods. My favorite place.”
You’re sure your eyebrows raise to your hairline after hearing his statement. You’ve never heard him speak so directly before.
He stops abruptly, causing you to walk into his back.
When he turns around, you can see the blush that reaches his ears. He was nervous.
“Daryl, what are you trying to tell me?”
He kicks at a clump of grass. “Nevermind.”
“Don’t, it’s okay, you can tell us.”
He smiles a little at you using “us” instead of “me.”
“I think I like ya, Irish. Nah, I know I do.”
“I like you too ya eejit.” You punch his shoulder.
It’s his turn for his eyebrows to raise to his hairline. “Really? Ya don’t have to jus’ say that.”
Instead of responding with words that you know would fall short in reassuring him, you pulled him into a hug.
“Leannán.” You whisper into his chest.
“What does tha’ one mean?”
“Darling.” You answer while smiling up at him.
He tucks your hair behind your ear and gently kisses your lips.
Please know this is an absolute piss take I had to write for the sake of my sanity because I could not get an Irish!Reader out of my mind. It’s going to be very hard for the majority of you to relate or understand the reader but enjoy a look into real Irish stereotypes 😂 @buckybarneschokeme enjoy hun 😩
Warnings: swearing, obscure references
Masterlist
“That’s not how this works.” You barely paid the metal armed man any mind as you swung the lump of ash between your hands like your father had thought you to.
“Sure what would you know?” You grunted, sliding your hand down the length of the hurl and decapitating the alien in one go.
“Apparently nothing.” He answered quickly, shooting the next robot to appear.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. These whores don’t stop.” You swung again and again. Your granny had been right when she warned you to take the hurl to America. Even if there was no one to play with, it would come in useful.
You felt almost like you should give her a ring and ask her to light a candle for your situation. It had helped during the leaving, why not against aliens?
///
“Sure for fuck sake. What do ya think I’m gonna do with that?” You asked in horror, mug in hand. Bucky looked confused and you glared at the machine he had pointed you to.
“Uh, use it? To make tea?” He offered but from the sound of his voice you knew he knew he was wrong.
“Without a kittle?” You asked in shock.
“A kettle? We don’t really have those over here.” Bucky told you honestly and you your upper lip lifted in disgust.
“If I used a microwave to make tea my ancestors would appear to bate me with a stick. Fucking microwave.” You told him like it was life or death and he had failed you epically.
///
“You ever been to the bog son? You ever been slaving away in the scorching heat with only a flask of tea as thick as tar and a few tayto sandwiches to get you through?” You asked and Bucky scrunched his nose up in confusion before shaking his head.
“I don’t think so. When did you go through that?” He asked as if it was a form of mental torture.
“Every summer from I was old enough to walk. I’d be in the back of the tractor with Daddy and he’d have us out as soon as the sun rose and we’d not be back until the evening.” You told him, looking up from the magazine you were reading and finding Bucky’s horrified expression.
“I thought Hydra was bad.” You scoffed and shook your head.
“Awh it was worth it in the end. Your arse would be warm for the winter and Daddy would bring us to the pub after for a lucozade and a bag of tayto.” You told him, patting his head earnestly when you walked past him to switch on the kettle you had made Tony buy for the Tower.
“I’m never sure if you had a good childhood or not.” Bucky told you honestly and you shrugged.
“I had an Irish childhood.” You told him honestly.
///
“Sounds like a rough day at the office?” You told him, unsure and Bucky looked up from where his head was buried in your lap.
“Have you ever had a hostile terrorist organization try to take over?” He asked and you shrugged
“I mean yeah, but we call them the Brits.” You told him and he laughed. “Bet them up the North and couldn’t get them any further.”
“Some day.” He promised you, his voice muffled against your stomach as you combed through his hair.
///
“You ever consider playing county?” You asked Sam, looking up as he caught the baseball Bucky threw. “You’d have to ditch the glove and pick up a hurl but we could do with you on the Laois team.”
“County?” Sam asked and Bucky watched you with a grin. He had yet to figure out what you were talking about half the time but his teammates had no chance.
“Aye, with a catch like that you could be a senior inter-county hurler in no time. You get free gear and a lunch on Sunday.” You told him. He moved closer to where you were lying in the shade because you burned when the lightbulb was too bright never mind the scorching sun.
“I have literally no clue what you’re talking about.” Sam looked to Bucky for help but he was not going to be of any help.
“D’ya ate sweets?” You asked seriously.
“Like candy?” He asked in confusion at the change of conversation. “Sometimes.”
“You’ll have to cut that out. D’ya do push-ups?” You asked and he nodded. “Good. D’ya ate your broccoli and the sort?”
“Vegetables? Yeah.” He looked to Bucky again but all he was doing was laughing at your serious attitude.
“You’ll make county then. You’ll need to practice every night and give up the pints but you’ll be good. I can tell.” You we’re struggling to hold in your laughter but Sam’s face tipped you off.
“What the fuck Barnes? Get your leprechaun on a leash.” You stopped laughing immediately.
“We don’t joke about the leprechauns. Look what happened to poor Darby O’Gill.” You blessed yourself with a solemn face and Sam looked panicked.
///
“Happy St. Patty’s day.” You knew he was bullshitting you but you still threw your elbow back into his gut and he groaned in your ear. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve offended my whole culture. Even the English didn’t do us this dirty.” You told him, continuing to cook the breakfast. He had come to love the morning ‘fry’ as you called it and it was your job to cook enough for everyone every morning.
“Stupid sausages.” You cursed for the billionth time.
“You’d miss the Clonakilty Sausages.” Bucky spoke up, his put upon Irish accent making you cringe.
#bestirishdish= spice bag 💖(this is a joke lol but not really also idk if this only in dublin but they’re literally chefs kiss) there’s not really a lot of irish dishes tbh a lot of my uk / european friends eat similar foods except guinness>
culture= guinness and religious trauma lol
ok i’m done now but i’m just after reading someone’s suggestion for an irish character so here u go lovie❤️
THANK YOU SO MUCH, LOVE!!!!!!!!!! LOVE U 💗💞💕💞💕☺😚💞😚😩
Irish!Reader Meeting Toms family for the first time and finding out his grandad is Irish so you start speaking Irish to each other and at the end he is like, “ Ceist agam ort. An bhfuil tú ag súil amach le Tomás?” And y/n is laughs and says yes and he gets so excited. Then after Tom is like, “ what were you guys talking about?”
Oh my god I love this!
So it would totally be around Christmastime because I feel that would be the only time the Hollands get to see their family from Tipperary. You have met Tom’s immediate relatives a few times before, but this is the first time you’ve been introduced to the whole family. Tom had warned you about his grandparents before they arrived, making sure that you were prepared for any ‘intrusive questions’ they may ask. But by the time they arrive, Tom is even more panicked when he can’t understand what questions were being asked because his grandad starts the conversation as Gaeilge, meaning he can’t step in and stop them from asking too much.
Tom sits there intently, listening in to find any words that sound vaguely familiar or even remotely English-sounding. And when he sees his grandad’s face light up, he gets very confused. After dinner, Tom offers to drive you home, which is received with a warm smile from his grandfather who was nudging Nikki and whispering something to her. Nikki laughs and looks back towards the two of you.
On the way back to the car, Tom keeps pestering you, asking about what the two of you were talking about, but you only confused him further when you chuckle, avoiding the question. When you realise that you left your phone in the house, Tom wastes no time jumping out of the car and rushing in to get it.
He goes into his house with a determined look, ready to interrogate his grandfather if needs be. Tom stops in the hallway as he sees him sitting on the armchair in the living room laughing as Sam shows him pictures on his phone of you and Tom on set in LA.
“Grandad?”
“Tomás! Your girl still around?”
“Uh, she’s in the car. So, what were you two talking about earlier?” Tom asks, to which his grandfather chuckles and hands Sam’s phone back to him.
“Just some friendly banter, Tom.” He gets up to leave, placing his hand on Tom’s shoulder as he passes him in the hallway. From where they stand, the two men see you through the window, nodding your head to the music playing on the car radio.
Hi I was wondering if I could get a being a Irish witch in Hufflepuff and dating fleur delacour would include. Please and thank you so much 😊
(I’m going to just combine this with your other request since they’re pretty similar)
Being in the same year as the Golden Trio but in Hufflepuff and dating Fleur Delacour would involve…
Late night snack trips since your common room is so close to the kitchens
You get to know some of the house elves pretty well
And they love making your favourites for you, especially if it helps cheer you up on gloomy days
Not knowing what to feel when you realize you’re in the same year as the Boy Who Lived
Eventually, you realize he’s just another kid like you so it becomes normal to encounter him on a regular basis
Seeing as you’re in Hufflepuff, you don’t hang out a lot with Harry, Ron, or Hermione
You’ve definitely interacted and get along, but you’re not exactly close
You’re probably decently close with Hermione and Neville, at least on an academic basis
You see Neville a lot in the greenhouses and Hermione in the library
You have a signed copy of Newt Scamander’s book and it’s one of your most prized possessions
Despite having friends in most of the houses (you’re even on relatively decent terms with Draco and his brood), it’s still irritating that your house is so often pushed aside
Getting annoyed that all of the attention is always given to Gryffindor and Slytherin
Struggling not to feel discouraged when you don’t win the House Cup so many years in a row
Definitely feeling frustrated
Hating to be seen as the ‘loser house’ where all the ‘leftovers’ go
The first time you see the Beauxbatons students enter, you’re just as amazed as everyone else
You can’t stop staring at Fleur
She notices you looking and gives you an amused little smile that makes your heart melt in an instant
You secretly rejoice when she gets picked for the Tournament because now you know her name
Being so damn happy when Cedric is the one chosen for the Triwizard Tournament because finally, finally, Hufflepuff is in the spotlight
Getting angry at first when Harry’s name comes out of the Goblet because of course Harry Potter is going to be in the Tournament, age restrictions be damned
You don’t stay angry for long though
You know Harry well enough to know that he wouldn’t do something like that
Being torn on whether to support Harry, Cedric, or Fleur during the Triwizard Tournament
Probably still being a little put-out that Harry is taking the glory away from your house, even if he didn’t mean to
No one can say you’re not invested in the Tournament though
You’re tongue-tied the first time you actually get the chance to speak with Fleur
You’re a stammering, blushing mess as you try to compliment her on her performance in the first task
You expect her to walk away but she smiles and laughs
She calls you adorable and kisses your cheek before leaving
You don’t manage to work up the courage to ask her to the Yule Ball but you do dance with her during the night
She’s even more beautiful up close, both of you red-faced and smiling like idiots
You end up talking together in the gardens for awhile
She laughs at your jokes and it’s music to your ears
Nothing really comes of it
At least, until an article gets published in the Daily Prophet by a certain Rita Skeeter
You’re mortified
You try to avoid Fleur but eventually run into her a few days later
She assures you that she’s not mad at you
You bond over hating Rita Skeeter
She asks you to escort her to Hogsmeade during one of the school visits and you both get tea in one of the little shops
You ask her about Beauxbatons and exchange childhood stories
You walk side by side back to Hogwarts, bumping shoulders
She kisses you in the courtyard and giggles at your stunned expression
After the third task, you’re the one to wrap a blanket around her shoulders and hold her while she cries for Cedric
You mourn with her and all of your house for him
You wanted your house to be remembered, just not like this
A/N: I swear I'm chipping away at this thing. I'm out of practice. But here's a little to hold you over. And quick reminder this is set right when Remmick was first turned.
Here's the first preview if you're curious.
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“I’m not leaving you,” they tried. “I promised, didn't I?”
Your eyes flashed, and they knew you felt the same memory.
It was a vow whispered against parted lips. The tenderness and ecstasy of becoming one burned as you clung to each other, nails digging into flesh as if to tear it all away the body and leave only the spirits behind.
I am yours. Nothing could take me from you. Yours, a chroí. Yours. Yours.
Ours.
The declaration resonated inside them all. Resolve and desire bloomed in their minds, mouths widening into bared teeth.
Every movement you made came into sharp focus down to the trembling of your mouth and tears swam in your eyes.
“You did,” you whispered. “I know you tried.”
Somewhere far away Remmick heard his own voice cry out. He rattled inside his own corpse, throwing himself against his ribs as if to crack himself open. His only thoughts were of blood, of tearing them all apart and crawling his way back to you.
