Title: Salary, Plus Benefits
Author: ozma_katiebell
Characters: Verity/Fred, plus hints of George/Lee
Rating: Heavy R
Warnings: Het, hints of Slash, inappropriate workplace behaviour, canon deaths mentioned
Kinks chosen: Sex at Work
Word Count: 4639
Summary: There was something to be said about working for the Weasley twins.
Author's notes: n/a

You've never heard of me, I'll bet. I'm not the sort of girl destined to shine, anyone'll tell you that.

I remember those sorts of girls, the shiny, happy ones. Angelina Johnson, for one, who dazzled on the Quidditch pitch and always had a crowd of people surrounding her, possibly because she was fit and funny and witty and above all, exceptionally nice. Or Cho, who was a bit quieter and more bookish, but so very pretty and clever and talented that her lack of conversation skills went almost unnoticed. It seemed to me that the boys all wanted to put her in their pockets and protect her from the big, mean world.

Oh, dear--that sounds catty, doesn't it? Really, I'm not. I'm just sort of--invisible. Always have been. Moderately clever, nice enough, sort of pretty when you squint, but utterly forgettable. And that was all right with me. I had an ambition to help people, so I'd decided to become a Healer. I knew there was a war brewing, goodness, anyone with eyes could see it, but I also knew I was rubbish at fighting, and with a 'blood traitor' dad and a Muggle mum, I wasn't anxious to go joining the fight and putting them in the line of fire. All right, I was scared, too. But, I thought, surely they're going to need more Healers than ever, right? Healers can be fairly heroic, when you think about it.

So there I was, ready to start at St. Mungos trainee program in September, and it might have been like I'd never left school. I'd be staying on at Mum and Dad's--no need to pay rent when they lived so close to London, right?

Still, being stuck in the suburbs for the next few years was a bit disheartening. I comforted myself with the idea that surely I'd make friends and have the occasional night on the town with them. Heck, if those medical dramas Mum was so fond of were to be believed, doctors (or Healers in this instance) in training did far more socialising (and snogging and shagging) than Healing.

In the meantime, there was the summer to get through, and what a summer it was. Depressing as shit, if you'll pardon my french.

It was the Dementors, of course, but it would have been depressing enough without them, what with all the attacks and worrying about my parents being abducted and the fact that the Alley was completely deserted. Well, maybe not completely deserted. There was one bright spot, at least, and that was Wheezes. Or Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes, to be specific.

All you had to do was step through those bright orange doors and suddenly life was fun. It wasn't that they ignored the war--those brilliant defense products of theirs still brought all that into the picture--but in their world, there was no sense in being depressed or worried about it.

Prepared, yes, but in the meantime, why not play a joke on someone? Or give a love potion to your secret crush. Or snuggle a pygmy puff. You could eat a sweet that would make you turn into a chicken or turn your spots into a miniature solar system (complete with asteroids). You could have a drink that would make you belt out a Hobgoblins song or or one of those Muggle rap songs or even dirty limericks. And then there was You-Know Poo, which was the real clincher for me. Yes, he was the terrifying spectre that haunted all our nightmares. But as far as the Weasleys were concerned, he didn't deserve our fear. He deserved to be mocked.

Maybe they were insane, but it seems to me that when you can laugh at your greatest fears, they don't own you, do they? And wasn't that what that Professor who turned out to be a werewolf had taught us all those years ago? Seems to me he'd have known a bit about the subject, right?

Anyway, about the joke shop. As I said--brightest spot on the Alley, both literally and figuratively. So when I saw Fred putting up the 'Help Wanted' sign in the window, I had a rare moment of recklessness (rather odd for a Hufflepuff, yeah?) I rushed inside to become the first applicant. As it turns out, I was the only applicant. Maybe they made all their decisions spur of the moment (it makes sense considering how they left school) or maybe they couldn't be bothered with a really thorough search. Perhaps they just liked the look of me, or they thought having someone with a talent for healing was a wise choice. Maybe they just were overworked and desperate. All I know was that within ten minutes, I had a magenta robe of my very own and a summer job I hadn't planned on getting.

Lucky break for me, it turns out.

Now when I mentioned the girls like Angelina and Cho and that French Veela-thingy whom all the boys drooled over sixth year (and who apparently was about to become an in-law to my new bosses), well, they had nothing on Fred and George for sheer dazzle. They were a force of nature, they were, fireworks personified, an explosion just waiting to happen. And no, I'm not talking about their tendency toward pyromania, though that was considerable. I mean their presence, their essence, their spirits (and their tempers).

To a shy, nervous, and generally forgettable girl such as myself, they were golden gods. But they were always very kind to me, and ever so patient, and while they made it perfectly clear that they enjoyed making me blush, their teasing was never cruel. And I have to say that they inspired me to come out of my shell a bit. Well, it was bound to happen, running the cash register--people were just so happy to be there that they tended to be really chatty--but I had more stimulating conversations in my first month there than I'd probably had all throughout school.


Fred and George picked my brain, too, wanting to know what sort of things girls my age might be interested in and what I thought of their products, making it clear that they valued my input. In return, I got to see a lot more of their creative process the longer I worked there. You'd have been surprised at how terribly serious and focused they could be whilst working down in the lab. And to hear them talking excitedly about dull things such as inventory and marketing and suppliers and profits was such a startling change from the manic jokesters I'd admired from afar at school that sometimes I wondered if I'd stepped into a parallel universe.

After my second month, (and after the novelty of being called Mr. Weasley wore off) they stopped treating me like an employee and started treating me like family. I know this for a fact because this is about the time when their family started coming by in droves. All right, maybe not droves, but there were an awful lot of them, and every single one got teased, insulted, hugged and interrogated in varying degrees.

My bosses interrogated me about my (nonexistent) love life. They tried to set me up with customers. They pinched my bum when I walked by, especially when I had my arms full. But it took me teasingly threatening to report them to the Ministry for sexual harassment to really impress them. Apparently, giving back as good as you got was the best way to earn their respect. Learning this made my job even more of a pleasure. How many people get to tell their boss to stick a firecracker up his bum and get a raise out of it, I ask you?

I might never have left the place if I hadn't stupidly developed a crush on one of them. Well, it was bound to happen, I suppose--nearly every girl who walked in the store was half in love with one or the other (or interested in having both. At the same time.) For me, it was a real problem. What do you do when somebody flirts outrageously with you for eight hours a day and then goes upstairs at the end of the day to dress up for a date with one pretty witch after another? At least that's what I was convinced he was doing on his nights out. And yeah, I'll admit it, once or twice I went to the Leaky and a couple of the least dodgy Diagon Alley pubs to see what he was doing (and who with) but with no success. Which only made me sure he was engaged in indoor sports, if you know what I mean.

Oh, I haven't mentioned which one, have I? Well, I should think it would be perfectly obvious--I don't think the other one plays for my team, exactly. Funnily enough, I almost wished at the time I'd fallen for that one. I mean, which is worse--loving someone who (for biological reasons) could never fancy you, or loving someone who is an incredibly enthusiastic player for your team--but doesn't want you?

Probably.

Apart from the flirting.

And the bum pinching, which both of them did in equal measure.

Do you see my problem? And he was my boss, too, so sort of against the rules, but then again, this was a man who took great pleasure in chucking the rules. Right?

At any rate, what brought it to a head was a love potion. Or a lust potion. Or it could have just been lust.

George was gone already--on a date, he said. I liked to imagine that he was upstairs performing highly indecent acts on his best mate, the one whom he always watched as he walked from the room, if you know what I mean. Goodness, I watched too, and so would you. He really had a beautifully shaped bottom, and his legs seemed to go on for miles and miles, and those hands...

But I digress.

So right--George was gone and Fred was working in the basement around closing time. I called down to let him know I was closing up, and he asked me to lock the door from the outside. Now this wasn't an uncommon request. I guessed that he was testing products, and since some of those products made a person do questionable things, it was always a good idea to make sure the test subject couldn't go out in public until the effect wore off.

Apparently one of the early tests had resulted in George streaking down the alley starkers, which let me tell you, I would have paid good money to witness. These days, they had sort of a system in place--a pair of Galleons which they used to signal each other that they were starting a test. If the test subject didn't send another signal to let their partner know that the test was over, he'd come round looking to make sure his brother was all right. That way, they didn't always have to sit around and watch over each other, and considering how active their social lives appeared to be (lots of bleary mornings) I didn't think they'd like to spend all their spare time working.

Not (I suspected) that they needed the signal. They seemed to have a connection in their deliciously warped brains that let one know when the other was in trouble. But this wasn't trouble, exactly--this was giggles, or spots, or feathers, or poetry, or nudity, or lust.

Anyway, I'd have been all right if I'd just locked up like he asked. Except when I was nearly out the front door of the Leaky (I liked to take the tube home--don't ask. Mother issues. Delaying the drama) I remembered that I'd forgot to close up the jar of dittany when I'd spilled the bobotuber pus. Left out all night, it was sure to congeal, and seeing as how we went through the stuff like mad, (and it wasn't cheap) it seemed a shame to waste it.

Therefore, I ran back, released the charms I'd put around the door when I left, went down to the basement, and very nearly expired. Of shock, not to mention lust.

Because Fred was there, and he was doing something that is generally only done when alone in one's room. Or behind the bedcurtains. Or in the shower. (Oh, dear, now that's a mental picture that's going to stick with me for some time. Fred. All wet. Doing...that.)

Oh, all right, he was wanking.

There, I said it, but I really do hate that word. 'Masturbating' is not much better, though. Pleasuring himself? The point is, whatever you want to call it, I could see it all very clearly. Very, very clearly. And after a moment of horrified embarrassment, I found that I couldn't tear my eyes away. Fred really ought to have heard me, come to think of it--which should have clued me in that he was (possibly) under the influence--but at the time I couldn't think clearly. It was bloody well beautiful.

His face, all twisted with pleasure, and his eyes, all dark and intense and his beautiful hands, (the very ones that I'd fantasized about having all over me) and his erection...

Oh, dear, that doesn't sound right, does it? Sort of takes you out of the picture. Penis? Even worse. All right, his dick, which was--well, not exactly beautiful--they are sort of absurd looking, aren't they? And it's not as though it was the first one I'd seen. There was that time I'd walked in on Brigid O'Meara giving Roger Davies a blow job in the prefects bathroom. Not to mention the fact that I'd actually had Martin Brown's inside me (if only for three minutes, mind you, and it was rather dark inside the camper parked behind his house).

More digression, sorry. Back to Fred's dick. It was fascinating. It had lovely freckles all over it, and watching it disappear and reappear inside the circle of his fingers was oddly mesmerising, and let's face it--this was Fred Sodding Weasley and if you had ovaries and a pulse you never could take your eyes off him, even on a bad day. And so (heavens, I'm mortified to admit it) I stepped back into the shadow of the stairwell and watched.

And salivated.

And yearned.

And ached.

And completely soaked my knickers.

It would have been fine if I'd stood up out of sight. Like a vain idiot, I'd wore heels that day, so I had to sit down on the step. Which wasn't a problem in itself, but I'd set down my purse on the step beside me. On the edge, inconveniently enough. And it was over packed, as usual. (The boy scouts have nothing on me for preparedness) And it spilled, all down the stairs, including a bottle of water, which bounced several times and rolled into the basement. Which was the thing that finally got Fred to look up. Which made me want to just crawl into a hole and die.

Of course, Fred being Fred, he simply grinned. And said, (without even pausing to think--how does he do that anyway?) "Ooh, it seems our Verity is a bit of a voyeur."

I'd have liked to deny it, but it would have been pointless. Anyway, if I was a voyeur, I'd only just discovered it. I don't think I'd have liked to watch anybody but Fred, really. Maybe David Beckham. Or maybe George and Lee, though I can't believe I just admitted it...

Anyway, back to my mortification.

Had I been less embarrassed, I might have noticed that he was a bit slurry. Instead, I scooted further down the stairs, trying to look at anything but his hand. Or his dick. Or the bit of bright hair that trailed between his belly button and his bits, which really, really needed to be inspected more closely.

Anyway, I did manage to speak, and I honestly don't know where I got the nerve, but I managed to say; "And, it seems our Fred is a bit of an exhibitionist. What else is new?" Well, that got a smile out of him that rivalled the first time I'd teased him back, so the embarrassment lessened a bit.

"I never said I wasn't," he said, and he began to move his hand again, drawing my eyes down to the one place I didn't want to look. Except I did. Want to look there, I mean. Well, that wasn't the only thing I wanted to do, but I digress.

So there I was, watching Fred wank for the second time--in spite of the fact that he was now aware of it--still highly embarrassed, but a little thrilled that he didn't seem to mind me watching. Heck, I was turned on, and for that matter, it was clear that he liked being watched.

As was proven by his next words, which were, "You don't have to hide in the dark up there, love, unless you like it better that way. View's better up close."

Arrogant git.

But still, all too true, and I found myself dropping my purse where it was, rising to my feet, and ascending the staircase. Once I got past the bottom step, I didn't know what to do, so I moved to my usual spot for training, up on the worktop. As far as possible away from him, of course, but it was sort of odd to be sharing counter space with him while he was doing...that.

Apparently, though, that wasn't close enough for him because he hopped down and moved toward me. I braced myself, stiffening my spine and sitting as far back as I could, doing my best to not look at him (which sort of defeats the purpose of the whole thing, doesn't it?)

Before I knew it, however, Fred was standing right in front of me, and his grin was dazzling even when I wasn't looking directly at it. I could see his fist moving out of the corner of my eye. I closed my eyes and suddenly Fred's lips brushed against my neck and I felt the impact of that minimal bit of contact so keenly throughout my body that I just sort of went into a daze. I opened my eyes to find that he'd begun kissing beneath my chin, and his hand/dick were pressed against one of my knees while his free hand began creeping up my leg and under my skirt.

At this point--having decided that either this was a particularly vivid, particularly erotic dream or that the stars had aligned in my favour and my dishy boss was actually snogging me--I decided to embrace the situation, or embrace Fred, anyway. Because he smelled even better than I imagined up close and his lips were doing magical things to my neck and chin and shoulders and the hand that had started creeping up my leg had now reached under my skirt to my inner thigh, and damn, he knew exactly what he was doing. Well, heavens, of course he did, good god, girls came into the shop on a daily basis and practically threw themselves at the boy, or boys, or men. Being as manic as they were, I suspected they never focused on anyone for long, but that didn't matter because at the moment, his focus was on me, and it was utter heaven.

By the time his fingers reached my knickers (thank goodness for my Muggle heritage, because the underpants sold in Wizard shops are much better suited to grandmothers, ans Victorian grandmothers at that) I'd managed to draw his attention to my mouth, and his lips met mine just as his middle finger slipped beneath the elastic. If I hadn't been wet already, the way that his tongue felt as it slid against mine would have done the job. Or it might have been his other hand, now off his dick and working on the buttons of my cardigan.

"You really like to watch, apparently," he muttered against my lips, laughing softly as his middle finger (now joined by his index finger) slipped and slid around my more personal bits, sending waves of pleasure over every nerve in my body.

"And you really like to sexually harass your employees, don't you?" I replied, reaching around behind him to begin tugging his shirt over his head. He'd got his other hand inside my bra while I was distracted, so I reckoned that his chest were fair game.

"One of the perks of the job, I'd say," he replied, but I hardly heard him because I was drinking in the expanse of his chest, just itching to touch all that warm, gorgeous dappled skin. His fingers were back under my knickers as soon as he got a free hand, but shortly afterwards, he reached up to begin tugging them down. I lifted up my bottom to help him along and began working on his trousers, which were only partially unbuttoned. By using my hands and feet I managed to get them to around mid-thigh,and he kicked off his shoes and stepped out of them.

Yeah, definitely a job perk, seeing Fred Weasley naked, I thought. Still, no point in feeding his ego, right? "I don't know--personally I might rather have another raise."

"I don't know about that, but you've certainly got a rise," he countered, quick as lightning as his fingers brushed across my most sensitive bits, top and bottom. My bra was a front closure one, which seemed to surprise him, but he worked out how to unsnap it quickly enough. No one ever said Fred Weasley was less than resourceful, right? Soon enough, my tit was in his hand and his fingers were torturing my bits and I had to bite my tongue to keep from whimpering.

"Obviously," I said, thinking it was well past time to make him moan a bit. I reached down to wrap my fingers around his erection, causing him to make the sexiest little groan I think I've ever heard in my life. Not that I'd heard all that many, mind you.

Fred pressed into my hand, closing his eyes and speeding up the movements of his fingers. I swore under my breath, and he chuckled, saying, "Whatever happened to the sweet, shy, proper little thing that peeked through the window at me while I hung up the 'help wanted' sign?"

"You two are a terrible influence, apparently," I said, grasping him more firmly and attempting to stroke him, though the angle was bad.

"We do try," he said, and his fingers began dipping inside me.

"Oh, god," I moaned. "More..."

He complied, moving his fingers in and out while he kissed at my neck. "Definitely going to have to add 'shagging the boss,' to our repertoire of daydream charms."

"The possibilities are endless," I said. "Worktop, desk, that stupid Fountain of Magical Brethren, or the Ministry Loo..."

"Minister's office..."

"But only if it's Scrimegeur. No Fudge for me, thanks."

"I see your point," he said. "But I've got a brother that might be interested in the Fudge version. His nose was so far up Fudge's arse that-"

"Can we dispense with the horrible mental pictures and get to the shagging already?"

"Impatient little thing, aren't you? I might have to demote you," he said rocking into my hand, beginning to sound breathless.

"To what? I'm already dead bottom here," I said. I gathered up a bit of the moisture at the end of his dick with my thumb and I spread it around. He seemed to like the change very much indeed.

"No, I think George is the bottom, actually, but you probably didn't need to know that. Nor did I, come to think of it, but he would go on talking."

"That's quite all right, I'd much rather think of George's bum than Fudge's."

"That's only because it's an inferior replica of mine," he joked.

I don't know if it was a reaction to what I said about his brother or if he'd finally got sick of all the pseudo-sex, but he stopped what he was doing at that point, pulled out of my hand and reached around to grab my arse and pull me right in line with his crotch. I was probably going to get splinters, but I wasn't about to complain.

"Yours'll do," I said, wrapping my legs around the bottom in question as he finally slipped inside me. It was heaven, let me tell you. Nothing at all like the five minutes I spent in Martin's parent's dusty camper, afraid to move too much lest the creaking of the springs give us away.

Fred didn't fumble, or apologize, or finish up before I'd had a chance to get started. Fred was all about kisses, laughter in my ear, talented, talented fingers playing me like a fine instrument until I thought I was going to die from pleasure. Fred was joy, and exuberance, and eyes bright with triumph each time that I came and a shout that sounded like laughter when he finally did.

It wasn't until I had all my clothes back on that I took a look round, spotting the cauldron at the other end of the worktop. It was from the Wonder Witch Line. It hit me then that the reason I'd caught him wanking, the reason he was so quick to take advantage of my freely offered favours was that he'd been under the influence of a love potion. Or a lust potion--it was hard to tell without the label.

Horrified, I fled the room, despite Fred's protests. And like a bloody coward, I never came back to work again.

Well, I never claimed to be brave, right?

Over the years, I've gone over the events of that evening over and over in my mind, wondering if I'd jumped to conclusions. The bit of slurring I'd heard could have been a result of the firewhiskey they kept down there for 'medicinal purposes.' And he hadn't seemed out of it--as a matter of fact, he certainly had been capable of intelligent banter. Nor had he seemed desperate to come, any way possible--I mean there had been foreplay, right? And he hadn't declared his undying love to me or some such nonsense, so that ruled out a love potion.

Regardless, I stopped going to the Alley--I knew it would only depress me and Wheezes was the only thing going for it that summer. Autumn came soon enough, and I started my training and got too busy to dwell on it much. I'd heard rumours that the twins and Lee were part of that Phoenix lot and had been all along. Which meant that Fred had probably not been going out with a different girl every night as I suspected, but had instead been going out fighting Death Eaters in his spare time. Well, there surely had been some girls, but far less than I'd assumed.

You can't imagine what hearing their voices on the wireless during that last winter and spring of the war did for my flagging hope. My Mum had been killed early the autumn before and my Dad had gone into hiding. As for me, I was working at St. Mungos, surrounded by blood and death and sorrow.

The last time I saw Fred was during the battle, but at this point, any chance to reconnect with him was lost forever. He was among the group of people we Healers hadn't been able to save. I was pleased to see he'd died with a grin on his face, though. That's how I'd like to remember him. Always smiling, always laughing, even at the darkest of times. I'm lucky to have known him. A lovely, lovely man, was Fred Weasley. There'll never be another like him.