Author: burnouts PM
She's like a fallen angel. /Or, Fred, breaking himself over an already broken Molly. -MollyiiFredii, LysanderMolly. OneShot. For Taters.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Angst - Molly W. II & Fred W. II - Words: 1,252 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 2 - Published: 04-11-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8015900
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
prompt: fish pairing: mollyiifredii
for taters (heading for a huge collision)
and i would have stayed up with you all night,
had i known how to save a life
she licks her strawberry red lips and tucks a strand of long hair behind her ear, tilting her head sideways slightly in a gesture he's come to know so well. there's a smirk at her lips, a devilish grin that reads of mystery.
she stands, smiling sweetly at the rest of the family, and heads towards the bathroom.
he stands and follows, exactly two minutes later (it feels like forever).
her lips attack his the second he slides into that bathroom, forming bruises and earning moans from deep within his throat.
"molly," he loves the way her name rolls off his tongue, the way her body fits with his, aligning perfectly, the way her nimble fingers tangle up in his hair and slide down his chest.
"lysander," she moans, and he pretends he doesn't hear it. he pretends his name came out of her mouth, he pretends his messy dark hair is neat and blonde. he pretends she loves him.
she's a mess, with her painted lips and cigarette breath. he should stop this-this taking advantage of her, this fucking her in bathrooms when the family is only a few feet away. he should stop, should tell her to go sober up and for fucks sake, close those legs of yours.
he kisses her, because he knows she's not going to listen anyway and they'll just get into another fight and god, why does that dress fit so well.
(he never claimed to be a good person).
that's what this is.
the thought is random, and it hits him just as he's buttoning up his pants again and she's slipping her dress back on. her presses a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips and winks.
"see you later, freddie." she winks, and he finds himself enthralled with the way her eyes sparkle, green with flecks of gold.
she's like an angel, he decides, all thoughts about how wrong it all is out the window. but not a good angel, a fallen angel-an arch angel.
she stumbles onto his doorstep one night, her hair soaked and her pale skin glowing against the street light and the sheen of the water on the pavement below them.
"molls?" it's two am and he was just in the middle of a dream about the girl in front of him. he wonders for a second if this is just another one of their many booty calls, but there's something about her tonight.
against the dark of the world, she looks minuscule; a mess, heartbroken and falling apart.
"i just want lysander," she falls into his arms and cries and even though fred is startled, he doesn't hesitate in taking her into his arms.
"i know," he murmurs, "i know."
because what else can he say? it's all right? it's not. you'll be okay? she probably won't though. lysander will be home soon? he won't.
"he loved you," he says, instead of anything else. "he loved you."
"i just want lysander," she sobs in the crook of his neck.
(lysander is dead, sweetheart).
"i know," fred nods. "i know."
"i'm okay." she insists, her face lit up by the blue-green glow of the fish tank in his otherwise drab flat. "i am," she says, and she sounds so sure of herself that he finds himself compelled to believe her.
the only problem with that? they both know she's anything but okay.
"you aren't." he says quietly, his eyes tracing over the pattern of the quilt grandmum sewed him for his first birthday. "you aren't." his voice is stronger now, and he looks up at her, taking the time to really look at her, and really see her.
and he does see her; he sees her now, as more than just that angel in his fantasies. he sees her skinny elbows and the dark bags underneath her eyes. he sees her sallow skin and the frown that's been permanently tattooed onto her small face, only ever hidden by that flirty smirk she wears so well.
but more than that he sees her as what she truly is - broken. and he can't just let her walk away.
but that's just what she does, because - "i'm not broken, fred, so stop trying to fix me."
(no, but she is broken. seemingly beyond repair).
he tries to talk to her again, later, but she quiets him with a kiss, and fuck, he really should pull away; he should tell her to stop, to grow up, to close her legs and fix her self.
he doesn't, because fred weasley has always had a weak spot for molly weasley (sucks they share the same last name; god must love screwing him over-if there is one, anyway).
and anyway, he reasons with himself, sex has always been her outlet; her way to get her emotions out.
(a little voice in the back of his head laughs, because we all know sex isn't her outlet, sex is her way to forget.)
lysander is dead, but somehow, he's still alive.
somehow, lysander is everywhere molly looks, and therefore everywhere fred looks.
lysander is dead, molly is falling apart, and fred is in love with his cousin.
life is effectively fucked for them all, he guesses.
but, as long as he gets to kiss her behind closed doors and take her skirt off at night, he's happy.
(even if it's his name she's crying, calling, screaming)
lysander is dead, but he's still the only thing molly sees.
he holds her when she cries and kisses her when she wants to be kissed. they hold hands underneath the table, and sometimes she throws lamps at his head when she's pmsing, and they're (not) happy.
she tries, she really does, and he'll give her that, but at the end of the day, the only man she'll ever love is still dead and not even ductape can fix her now. but fred will be damned if he doesn't try, because she's molly, the girl with the strawberry lips and perfect hair, and he maybesortofkindof loves her.
he doesn't tell her, not really - only when she's dead to the world, passed out in the bed beside him, her hair a mess and a content smile on those lips he can finally kiss whenever he wants.
"i love you."
he should pack up and leave.
she's bad for him. he's bad for her. this isn't love. this is content. this is broken and screwed up and fucked, but this isn't love.
this is just life-an unstoppable cycle of lust and anger and life and death and, mainly, want.
he lays back down beside her and closes his eyes, because she was left once and she can't be left again.
(but really, he just can't live without her, because he's selfish like that).
a/n: hope you enjoyed! :') and please, no favourites without a review!