A/N: Hiya! Sarra-Bearra and Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare here again with another story! Hurray! This time, we have some slash again, but also plenty of crack/humor. So… enjoy! :3

Pairings: one-sided RonXHermione, HarryXHermione, one-sided JacobXBella, BellaXEdward, JacobXRemus. And yes, that last pairing is wolf-love. XD (we indeed dared. But it'll make sense, we promise! …Well, as much sense as a fanfiction can possibly make…)

BTW: 'bobbies' is equivalent to 'coppers,' for you Americans. 'Cause even I (Dreaming) didn't know that phrase. XD

The cobblestone streets of England are soaked with recent rain, and Ronald Weasley feels just as gloomy as the streets appear. He simply sits there, staring into the bottomless abyss of his beer glass, watching as the condensation drips languidly down the side of the crystal mug. He sighs, and the foam collected across the amber liquid's surface spreads in bubbling waves. It looks so inviting that he takes another large gulp.

"Careful there, sonny," the bartender chuckles. "You might be legal, but I dun want ya ter get wasted in my bar; see, I'm not too fond of gettin' in trouble with the bobbies." He finishes polishing the bar's surface beside Ron before attending to another customer.

The redhead snorts. "What d'you know?" It's not like the bartender knows what he's feeling, or what happened to him tonight. He needs his liquor right now.

Wa-BANG!

Ron jumps on his barstool, his eyes growing wide for a moment. He cranes his neck to find a rather pissed off-looking young man about his age storming into the building. He slammed the door so hard against the wall that Ron can spy a few cracks forming in the drywall.

The angry teen takes a seat beside Ron, his thick, muscular body nearly shoving the scrawny redhead over. "Oh, sorry," the other male mumbles in a sulking tone. "Didn't see you there."

"No problem," Ron replies idly. He stares at the boy next to him; he lacks a British accent, and is far too tan for a resident of Great Britain. "You're from America, aren't you?" he assumes immediately.

"Sure, sure; but you're from England, aren't you? Your accent is just as obvious as mine!" the tan stranger snaps aggressively.

Ron raises his hands in defense. "Sorry I asked," he retorts. He glances over at the bartender, and with a tipsy grin, demands, "You should get this guy a drink; he needs to loosen up."

The bartender returns in moments with the request, and as the American gives Ron a skeptical look, the redhead assures that this one is on him.

"So what's your name?" the muscular teen asks gruffly. "I think I should know who my drinking buddy is."

Ron laughs. "The name's Ron. Ron Weasley. And yours?"

"Jacob Black."

"Funny, I used to know a Black," Ron murmurs half to himself. Shaking his head slightly, he dares to question Jacob's sour mood.

"I could ask you the same thing. Why else would you be in a bar this late at night?"

"Touché," Ron agrees. "Then let's make a deal: if I scratch your back, you can scratch mine."

Jacob frowns. "Say what now? Why would I want to scratch your back? That's awkward and gay."

Ron rolls his eyes. "Not literally, you numbskull! I meant that if I tell you why I'm here, you'll tell me why you're here."

"Oh…" Jacob's lips form in a perfect O. "I get it. Sorry, I'm just not used to weird phrases like that."

Ignoring his last remark, Ron dives into his story. He stares down at his glass while he narrates, "I was on my way to visit a friend of mine to tell her how I feel. I thought that she fancied me, and that we could go steady; I mean, there were hints, and I really fancy her, so I thought…"

"Lemme guess: something either got in the way or she doesn't like you back."

In a depressed murmur, Ron admits, "A bit of both, actually. See, when I went there… another guy was leaving her house. And he… snogged her goodbye."

"Snogged?"

"…Kissed," Ron elaborates.

"Oh," Jacob says for the second time that night. "Well," he says around a slug of beer, "That's not so bad, I suppose; I mean, it's just some guy, right? She probably doesn't know him that well, and it shouldn't last too long –"

"It was my best friend. And hers, too."

"Yikes," Jacob says with a wince. "Then I'm sorry, but… you just got fucked, my friend."

"Oh gee, thanks a lot; I feel loads better now," the redhead says sarcastically. "You're a real pal."

Jacob laughs heartily and slaps Ron on the shoulder, making him choke on his drink. "I'm just being honest, man. But hey, look on the Brightside: at least she's not going out with your greatest enemy." And just like that, his demeanor shifts from joyful to pissy again.

Briefly, Ron imagines Hermione kissing Voldemort on the cheek. He shudders in disgust. Then, a thought occurs to him: "Wait... that's not what happened to you, is it?"

Jacob nods, his sulk returning. "I've known her since we were in diapers, until she moved away for a while. When she moved back, I thought it might be a chance to get to know her again, and I was right; but she ended up falling for this bloo-… bastard… who sparkles more in her eyes than I do. And then he left her, and I was there to comfort her, and I really thought we had something between us forming; and then she hears about him in trouble in Italy, so I come with her to keep her safe, and she just runs off with him again, and I'm left in a foreign country with nothing to do but hitchhike around and see the sights just for the hell of it, 'cause hey, why should I care if she loves that – that –" He slams his fist down on the bar, startling Ron again. "He just so disgusting! How can she like that sickly-sweet-smelling douchebag? I mean, I can understand the physical appeal, but he's just such a bipolar vam- asshole! I mean, I'm likable, aren't I? I might smell like the woods most of the time, and I might be a little tall and beefy, but I think I still look good! Sure, I don't stand in front of the mirror for hours to make myself look sexy or whatever, but I'm still hot, right?"

"Er, I don't believe it's my place to say, really," Ron mumbles while he rubs the back of his head to ward off an embarrassed blush. "But I do know what you're taking about. I know a guy at school who thinks he's such a pretty-boy, and it's extremely obnoxious." He clicks his tongue. Under his breath, he curses, "What a stuck-up git!"

"Uhg, I know! I just hate that," Jacob hisses under his breath. He finishes off his beer and orders himself another. "But you know, I think there will be better people for us out there. There are millions of other fish in the sea, Ron."

"Yeah, I know, but I'm not sure any of them will compare to my Hermione," he sighs.

Jacob nods again. "I know. I dunno if anyone will compare to my Bella."

Ron grows depressed. "But to her, I guess I never really compared to bloody Harry Potter," he mocks, his tone spiteful.

"Yeah, well, I guess I never even had a chance against fuckin' Edward Cullen~!" Jacob mocks in a girly falsetto.

Rather buzzed, Ron slaps his hand on Jacob's shoulder. "Know what we should do? We should have a drinkin' contest just to forget them. The first one to hiccup loses."

"I'm all for that," Jacob smirks. "On your marks, get set, go!"

And so they begin, back and forth, ordering and chugging ale until Ron hiccups and has to stop, and Jacob – being the rugged, built man that he is – out-drinks Ron by about five glasses. At this point, they are equally smashed.

Leaning onto each other's shoulders, they exit the bar together, their clumsy footsteps carrying them down the street. During some intermittent conversation amidst the drinking, they discovered that they are staying at the same local motel. They laugh randomly and giggle drunkenly throughout attempts at singing miscellaneous Scouting For Girls songs, a band they discover they have as a common interest.

But before they can so much as begin to sing, 'James Bond,' Ron scowls and releases a string of curses, ranting about how James was Harry's father and how pissed Ron is at Harry because Harry is almost even more of a hero than James Bond, and –

Jacob simply smacks the redhead upside the head and points out with a slur that they've arrived at the motel.

As Ron starts to fumble and unsuccessfully place his motel room key into the lock, Jacob begins to drift off. The tanned teen has caught the scent of something, and his werewolf instincts – a fact unknown to Ron – kick into overdrive. He feels a compelling need to follow this unfamiliar, intriguing scent off into the woods nearby.

Ron turns around, about to say something to his new best friend when he suddenly notices that Jacob isn't there, and is instead walking down the street and out of sight. The redhead harrumphs to himself and finally makes it into his motel room, muttering under his breath, "Why the bloody hell does everybody ditch me?" before shutting the door angrily behind him.

Meanwhile, Jacob ran (dizzily) into a meadow at the hub of a forest, and while standing in the dead grasses he kicks at a few twigs and stones because meadows only make him think of what Bella told him once about Edward taking her to a meadow, and how romantic meadows are to her now, and it just makes him so furious that he nearly forgets about the scent he was following. That is, he forgets until it surrounds him again, overwhelmingly strong, and his head darts upwards to find a figure standing a few feet away.

"What are you doing here, lad?" a man older than Jacob states curiously. In the moonlight, Jacob stares at the man, strange, uncontrollable urges rising up in the pit of his stomach. This man is… oddly attractive, and even though he clearly has scars (Jacob is reminded of Emily), this man smells of wolf, and that alone sparks Jacob's interest.

"I was… looking for someone," Jacob slurs, but the drunken stupor is starting to fade as his body heals itself of the effects of the alcohol, and as it prepares for something Jacob can feel slowly approaching. Something powerful and impossible to escape, "Like fate or something," he mutters under his breath.

"What's like fate?" the man murmurs. He's standing before the younger male now, and he's looking directly into Jacob's eyes, as if asking questions he already knows the answers to. "Us meeting here tonight? If you ask me, it's a rather bizarre place to meet somebody."

"Not unless it's… animalistic instinct," Jacob hints strongly. He can smell what this man is, but he wonders if the man can smell the same thing on him.

The stranger grins. "Are you implying what I think you're implying?" He chuckles. "That I'm an animal?"

"Not just any animal," Jacob says with a lopsided smile. "But specifically a wolf; a wolf… like me."

The man's eyebrows rise as he smirks slightly. He doesn't deny it. "Well then, I guess I was right; you were implying that. Funny how much our scents give us away, eh?"

Jacob is beginning to feel like a lovesick schoolgirl. He silently curses his genes, because he suddenly knows why he's feeling this way: he's imprinting. Slowly but surely, he's imprinting, and on a man, no less!

Screw it. The idea of homosexuality isn't that far-fetched; on the contrary, it (all of a sudden) seems… very plausible.

In fact, so plausible that Jacob takes the initiative and steps closer to the man to the point where their chests touch. And, without pausing, begins… what's the word Ron used? …snogging the daylights out of the man.

"Whoa, wait a second," the man teases as he pulls away for a moment (even though he did enjoy that kiss). "Don't you even want to know my name first?"

Slowly, a Cheshire grin crawls onto Jacob's face. "Oh, don't worry; there's all the time in the world for us to learn every last detail about one another."

And Jacob pulls the older man back into a moonlit kiss, but the man can't help thinking that imprinting, while natural, is a little creepy at times. He felt like he just gained his own personal stalker. He was slightly unnerved by that fact, but at the same time, strangely flattered. The man shook his head and gazed back at the teen warmly. "Where have you been all my life?"

- FIN. -