#Fred Weasley: thread ;

[godofstupidsentences]

Fellow hp next gen fans, would anyone be interested if I started making threads on X about the next gen (such as “how I perceive…”)?

[yasministration]

Sewing kit - Ron Weasley

summary: "The instant Ron came to you asking for help sewing a rip in his t-shirt, Molly knew you were the woman he was going to marry." wc: 0.6k+

The instant Ron came to you asking for help sewing a rip in his t-shirt, Molly knew you were the woman he was going to marry. You’d been sitting in front of the fireplace with many of Ron’s siblings, along with Harry and Hermione, listening as Fred and George recalled the story of one of their wicked pranks to Charlie and Bill. You laughed along with everyone else as the twins reached the climax of their story, cuddling into Ron’s jumper that you wore.

This was your first summer at the Burrow as Ron’s girlfriend, and you’d admittedly been a hundred times more nervous to be here, to gain his family’s approval. Your head snapped towards the staircase at the call of your name, watching as Ron padded down the stairs, gripping the side of the shirt he was wearing. “Y/n” he repeated, “Could you fix this for me?” You straightened up in your seat, unaware of the eyes on you as you took the soft fabric of Ron’s favourite t-shirt in your hands, examining the rip in the seam. Your fingers grazed his soft skin underneath the fabric. You hummed, asking “Could you get my-” But your words were interrupted when Ron thrusted your small sewing kit forward, causing you to giggle “Perfect.”

You worked silently, looking for a thread the same colour as Ron’s t-shirt, and began sewing the seam back together. Ron stood in front of you silently, aimlessly playing with a strand of your hair as he listened in on the story. He didn’t notice the look Bill and Charlie shared, or the way Molly stood still with a tray carrying hot chocolate as she admired the intimate moment between you. Molly had to turn away to hide the tears forming in her eyes at the realisation that she would never get to sew her son’s clothes ever again, that he had found someone to do it for him.

“Oh that tickles.” Gasped Ron when your hands ran up his side in an attempt to tie the thread together before snipping it with a small pair of scissors. “Sorry sweetheart.” You muttered, looking up at him while you tried straightening out the now crinkled fabric of his shirt. Ron didn’t bother to check if the job had been well done, so Bill assumed that this had occurred many times before, noticing that Hermione and Harry didn’t flinch at their ginger friend’s request from you. Ron cupped your cheeks, leaning down to press a kiss on your forehead as he thanked you, taking your sewing kit back from you. You put a hand over his, shaking your head. “Leave it, I’ll take it up later.” You patted the empty spot next to you reserved for him, and Ron immediately sat down, putting your kit on the side table next to him.

His family watched as you shared a smile, Ron’s hand snaking around your waist while you comfortably cuddled yourself into his side. You leaned your head on his shoulder, arm slung in front of his torso in a loose hug and Ron instinctively pressed another kiss to your temple, eyes trained on his younger sister who started another story to fill the silence. You both thanked Molly sincerely when she handed you your hot chocolates, and she held eye contact with you, a hand coming down to your cheek to caress your skin with a motherly smile as she held back happy tears.

That night, when Ron took you by the hand to lead you outside for a long walk, Molly held her tongue, deciding to give you both some freedom. And when Ginny approached her, asking shyly if her mother could sew up a rip in her jeans, she burst into tears, hugging her daughter close to her.

[andy-15-07]

hey guys fred weasley throwing my legs over his shoulders and fucks me so good he can’t help but laugh at the puddle i am before him hi

Wicked

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Word count:1149

Harry Potter Masterlist | request (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Warnings: Smut (18+), oral (f receiving), teasing, dirty talk, pet names, established relationship, aftercare, fluff

Fred Weasley had a gift for many things,blowing things up, bending rules, getting out of trouble with a grin,but making you completely lose your mind might’ve been his most potent magic.

You were tucked up in his room at the Burrow,summer air warm, windows cracked open, and the low sound of enchanted wireless humming lazily from the corner. You’d stolen one of his shirts again, the old one from the shop with the neckline stretched and sleeves too big, hanging off your shoulder just enough to drive him mad.

He was watching you from the foot of the bed, eyes raking over your body like he hadn’t just had you the night before. Or the morning before that. Or up against the bathroom sink not twelve hours ago.

You peeked over the top of your book, trying not to smirk.

“You’re staring.”

Fred didn’t deny it. “I am. You look so good like that. All casual. Comfy. Completely fuckable.”

You snorted, but your thighs pressed together.

“Bit needy today, aren’t you?”

He tilted his head, grin wolfish. “You calling me needy? You, who literally screamed my name loud enough last night I think the ghoul in the attic clapped for us?”

You laughed, and that laugh earned a low growl from him. He moved, slow and controlled, like a lion stalking prey,crawling up the bed until he was hovering above you, nose brushing your cheek.

“You calling me needy…” he whispered, dragging his lips across your jaw, “…while you’re sitting here, soaking through my shirt with your thighs clenched and pretending you don’t want me to ruin you.”

Your breath hitched. “Fred—”

“Let me eat you out, Y/N.”

“...what?”

He grinned. “You heard me.”

“Yeah, I just—no foreplay? No kissing? No—”

Fred’s hands were already sliding down your body. “Baby, we’ve been doing foreplay since the minute I saw you in my shirt. I’ve been suffering.”

He kissed down your neck, hands lifting the hem of the oversized tee until it bunched at your waist.

“I need you on your back. Legs over my shoulders. Right fucking now.”

You’d never obeyed so quickly in your life.

He slid your underwear down slowly, teasingly, sucking a kiss to your thigh as he settled between them.

“Look at this,” he said, voice in awe. “You’re already soaked. Merlin’s tits, love.”

You opened your mouth to snap at him,but then his tongue flattened against your clit, and all that came out was a moan so loud it echoed.

Fred groaned, latching on like he was starving. His tongue circled and licked, slow at first, building gradually, fingers digging into your hips like he was holding onto the last threads of control.

He loved eating you out. It was one of his favorite hobbies,up there with Quidditch and annoying Filch.

And he was good at it. Filthy. Passionate. Worshipful.

“Fuck, Fred—please—”

His fingers slid inside you just as his mouth closed around your clit again, and your back arched off the bed.

“That’s it, darling,” he murmured against you. “Let me hear you.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging as you whined, thighs shaking. He didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause.

“Oh—fuck—I’m gonna—Fred—fuck—”

You came hard, grinding into his mouth, eyes screwed shut, legs trembling on either side of his head.

He moaned like he loved it,like tasting you was the highlight of his entire day.

And when he finally looked up, face soaked and smug, you were a breathless, blissed-out mess.

“You good?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You blinked at him. “I can’t feel my legs.”

He laughed so hard he had to lean on the bed for balance. “Holy fuck, Y/N. You’re literally a puddle.”

“Shut up.”

“No, really. You’re like—dripping. If you die, I’m blaming that book you ignored me for.”

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it with one hand and tossed it aside.

Then he was back on you,pulling off the rest of his clothes, lifting your hips like you weighed nothing.

“You think we’re done?” he teased.

You squeaked when he spread your legs and lined himself up. “I—Fred—wait—”

“Just a little more,” he whispered, kissing your cheek. “I’ll go slow.”

But he didn’t. Not really.

Because the moment he sank into you, tight and warm and still twitching from your orgasm, his control shattered.

He groaned like you were the best feeling he’d ever known. “Fuck—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight—how are you this perfect?”

You gasped, hands gripping his shoulders. “You’re huge, Fred—oh my god—”

His pace started steady, but it didn’t stay that way.

Every time he pulled out and pushed back in, he went deeper. Harder. Faster.

Your legs instinctively locked around his shoulders again, heels digging into his back as he slammed into you over and over.

Your moans were shameless now,raw and honest and wrecked.

Fred leaned down, face close to yours, grinning like he’d just discovered treasure.

“You love it,” he panted. “Being fucked like this. All stretched out and cock-drunk for me.”

You nodded helplessly, tears in your eyes from how good it felt.

“Say it,” he demanded, breath hot on your lips. “Tell me you love it.”

“I love it—I love it, Fred, please—”

“Please what, baby?”

“Don’t stop.”

“Never.”

His hand reached between you, fingers finding your clit again. Your body jolted at the stimulation, already too much and somehow not enough.

“You gonna come again for me?” he whispered, kissing your temple.

You nodded desperately. “Y-yeah—yes, fuck, please—”

“Good girl.”

That pushed you right over the edge.

You shattered beneath him with a scream, body spasming, stars bursting behind your eyes. Your walls clenched so tight around him, it pulled his orgasm out of him seconds later.

“Shit—Y/N—”

He buried himself deep, groaning your name like a prayer as he came hard inside you.

It was messy. Intense. Fucking glorious.

When he finally collapsed beside you, both of you breathless and sweaty and clinging to each other, the room was dead silent except for the ragged sounds of your breathing.

Then, softly:

“Still mad I interrupted your reading?”

You snorted into his chest. “I don’t even remember what the book was about.”

Fred chuckled, pulling you into his arms and kissing your forehead. “Exactly.”

You both laid there for a moment, tangled in sheets and limbs and sweat, before he grabbed his wand and muttered a quick cleaning spell with a flick.

You sighed. “That’s cheating.”

He smirked. “That’s magic.”

A beat passed. Then, softly, Fred looked down at you.

“Y’know I love you, right?”

You blinked. Heat rose to your cheeks. “What?”

He smiled. No teasing. No joke. Just Fred,completely sincere.

“I love you, Y/N. Like... all the time. Even when you’re ignoring me for books.”

You cupped his cheek. “I love you too.”

His grin widened. “Even when I turn you into a puddle?”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him again.

“Especially then.”

[agreeewrites]

Agreee's Library

Emoji Key: SFW 🤍 | NSFW 🤎 | Angst 🖤 | Fluff 🩶

feat. Choose Your Own, Wizarding World, MCU, Stranger Things, The Walking Dead & more!

Reader's Choice (x reader)

a boy who's jacked and kind 🤎

in the palm of his hand 🤎

Wizarding World

George Weasley

A Weekend At The Weasley's 🤎🩶

The No-Dating Rule 🤎🩶

A Christmas Gift 🖤🤍

'A Madness Most Discreet' Series (part 1, part two, part three, part four) 🤎🖤

Easy to Love (Valentine's Special) 🖤🤎🩶

Bill Weasley

'Magic Lessons' Series (part 1, part 2, part 3) 🤎🖤

1000 stitches 🤍🖤

Charlie Weasley

'Best Friends Brother' Series (part one, part two) 🤎🩶

1000 secrets 🤍🖤

Draco Malfoy

Bad Santa 🤎🖤🩶

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Sirius Black

'Hit Me Where It Hurts The Most' Series (part one, part two, part three, part four) 🤎🖤

The Black Dog and His Bluebird 🤎🖤🩶

Regulus Black

What's My Name? 🤎🖤

1000 secret kisses 🤎🩶

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I Wanna Be Yours 🤎🖤🩶

Baby I'm Yours 🤎🖤🩶

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Work For It 🤎

I Hate It Here 🤍🩶

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tug-of-war 🤎

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greening out 🤎

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Headcanons

what is it like being married to Rabastan Lestrange? 🤎🩶

what is it like dating Fred Weasley and Cedric Diggory? 🤎🩶

MCU

Steve Rogers

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart 🤎🖤

working late 🤎

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Steve Harrington

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1000 glances 🩶

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Rick Grimes

safe with me 🤍🖤

The Tortured Fangirl's Department Series

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart (Steve Rogers x assassin!reader) 🤎🖤

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys (Paul Lahote x human!reader) [part one, part two] 🤎🖤

How Did It End? (Gale Dekarios x fem!Tav) 🖤🤍

I Hate It Here (James Potter x animagus!reader) 🤍🩶

Published Work

The Raith Brothers Trilogy

Memento Amore

Memento te Aurum

Memento Sentire - Coming Soon!

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[emeritusemeritus]

Hi! I love your writings! I’m obsessed with jealous fred weasley so if you could write a one shot with whatever you’d like :)))

(If you hate just ignore pls lol)

Hi love! Thank you so much, this has been a lot of fun to write. I’ve been sat watching Goblet of Fire, took one look at Fred in this scene and knew it just had to be long hair Freddie because it makes me feral. Hope you enjoy! 🖤

Warnings: bit of swearing, mild sexual references. Fred gets jealous and a little possessive. Talks of marriage. Sorry McLaggen I needed a villain.

Word count: 1k

A cold heart and a warm jumper

Jealousy wasn't something Fred Weasley ever felt.

He knew his family weren't rich, that they'd never have the best of anything or anything new in abundance and so from a young age, he'd made peace with it and learned not to envy others. Being one of seven kids and most importantly a twin in a family that was already stretched both financially and emotionally, he'd had to learn to share, virtually from the day he was born. He'd shared clothes, toys, his room, practically his entire life with George, even a uterus and placenta, though he didn't care to think about that.

But now, watching Cormac McLaggen leering over the one thing in his life that he absolutely refused to share, he felt the unfamiliar rise of the green eyed monster throughout his entire body.

Godric he hated that slimy little prick. With his stupid blonde curls and the smug little smile that Fred really wanted to slap off his face right now, regardless of his rich daddy and any consequences that would inevitably follow.

The common room was a blaze with celebration, Harry’s victory in joint first place of the first task had been wildly celebrated by each and every Gryffindor and even Ron had joined in after being such a miserable git for a month. But even with the chaos and jubilant celebration around him, as well as a decent profit they’d made on taking the bets during the task, Fred was not in the mood for a party.

Despite it being the end of November, Fred’s striped jumper and beige overcoat suddenly felt like they were suffocating him as he stared at the corner where McLaggen leaned suggestively ogling his girlfriend, reaching out to touch her arm and shifting ever closer to where she stood. He was getting hotter by the second, burning up with anger and jealousy as he looked in disgust at the slimy sod. Who did he think he was to be stood so close to Fred’s girl? They’d been together years, it was hardly like nobody knew that she was his.

But then he heard your girlish giggle and his blood seemed to run cold. You were openly laughing with him, playing with a strand of your hair and making no move to shut down his advances.

He’d had enough and was just ready to march over and make Cormac choke down a puking pastille when he watched you take off your coat, throwing it over the chair behind you and taking a step back to avoid Cormac’s over familiar hands as they reached out for you again. Fred’s heart pounded as he looked at what you were wearing so proudly, his quidditch jumper with his surname displayed right across the back. He remembered now how you’d complained of being cold just before you left to view the task and he’d nipped up to his dorm to retrieve a warm jumper for you. He knew it wasn’t the nicest sweater, there was a hole in the left armpit that had been stitched back together with a completely different coloured thread and a great big pull in the fabric on the right sleeve but you’d worn it with pride. Your face had lit up when he held it out to you and you’d tried to sneakily smell it with a cute smile before you threw it over your head, tying up your hair so you could show off his surname now displayed across your back.

Watching you now, he realised how wrong he’d been. You were inching away from McLaggen, body turned away and looking for any sign of escape, the fingers in your hair a simple mechanism to block him from reaching out to you.

Fred was on his feet in seconds, almost trampling a load of first years who were sat in the pathway as he stalked over to where you were standing, his eyes fixed upon the letters across your back.

“Weasley,” he whispers in your ear as a greeting, immediately stepping behind you and placing his hand on the curve of your bum. You jump slightly at the sudden intrusion but recover quickly as you realise it’s him behind you. Fred watched as a smirk blossomed across your face as you realised, pressing your hips back just slightly as a form of acknowledgment, backing up into his hand which he squeezed, getting a good grip of your bum.

“This looks very good on you,” he whispers again into your ear, bending down just enough so that only you could hear how deep and breathy his voice had become. He reaches out with his left hand to glide it over your hip to your waist, tugging on the fabric of the jumper just enough that you’d understand exactly what he meant.

“The jumper or the name?” You smirk, earning another squeeze of your bum for your cheekiness, both of you openly ignoring McLaggen who is still trying to talk to you.

“Both,” Fred smirks, the tip of his nose catching on your hair, his lips moving dangerously closely to the smooth skin of your neck.

“If you don’t mind McLaggen, me and the Mrs have business to attend to,” Fred says suddenly, not even looking at Cormac who briefly considers if he does mind or not, mouth opening as if he is about to protest.

Fred doesn’t even give him a chance and simply throws his right arm around your shoulders and pulls you away with a shit eating grin on his face. His hand slips back towards your bum as you’re walking away, his hand slipping into your jeans pocket as he pulls you close to him, asserting his place. He can’t help but smirk as he directs you towards the stairs to the dorms, knowing that Cormac is still watching the pair of you and he takes a sick pleasure in knowing the last thing McLaggen will see of you tonight is Fred’s hand in your jeans as he takes you to his dorm; with his surname plastered in large letters across your back. The same surname that will be yours in just a couple of years, if Fred gets his way.

Maybe he should invite Cormac to the wedding.

[mywhisperingwords]

still here | fred g. weasley

summary: an old friend starts showing up every time you need him word count: 5.6k masterlist

The corridors of St. Mungo’s were quieter than usual, but there was still a hum of urgency in the air.

Since the war had ended, the hospital had been inundated with patients—some still recovering from physical wounds, others battling the mental scars left behind. You’d been working there for weeks now, throwing yourself into the chaos as a way to avoid the memories.

The war was over.

That was what everyone said.

But it didn’t feel like it. Not to you.

You rubbed the back of your neck as you turned the corner, the exhaustion of the day dragging at your heels. Healing was rewarding, but it was unrelenting too. Your own grief, your own loss, had been shoved to the side so you could focus on fixing others. It was easier that way.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The familiar voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest as you turned toward the sound.

Fred Weasley was leaning casually against the wall, hands stuffed into his pockets, his hair messy but bright as ever. His smile stretched across his face like it always did, a bit crooked, a bit mischievous.

“Fred?” Your voice cracked, disbelief threading through it.

“In the flesh,” he said with a grin. “You weren’t expecting me, were you?”

You stared at him, your mind fumbling to piece together what was happening. He was here. Alive. Whole. Standing in front of you as though nothing had changed.

It had been too long since you’ve last seen him.

“I—no,” you said finally, your hand gripping the strap of your bag so tightly it hurt. “What are you… what are you doing here?”

“Visiting,” he said easily, jerking his chin toward one of the nearby rooms. “Someone needed cheering up, and you know me—I’m the best man for the job.”

You laughed, a soft, disbelieving sound. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“And you have,” Fred said, his eyes sweeping over you. There was something softer in his tone, something unspoken. “You look tired.”

“I’ve been busy,” you said, shrugging.

“I can see that,” he replied, the smile tugging at his lips dimming just slightly. “But don’t let it wear you down too much, alright? You’ve always been better at taking care of everyone else than yourself.”

You swallowed, his words hitting somewhere deeper than you wanted to admit. “It’s… good to see you.”

Fred grinned again, bright and wide. “Good to see you too, love. It’s been too long. Let’s change that, yeah? You know where to find me.”

Before you could respond, he gave you a wink and strolled away down the corridor, disappearing around the corner.

You stood there for a moment, frozen. It had felt so normal, so effortless. Just like before.

“Who were you talking to?”

The voice startled you, and you turned to see Elena, a fellow Healer, approaching with a curious look.

“Oh,” you said quickly, your pulse still racing. “Just… an old friend.”

Elena smiled, tilting her head. “Nice to see familiar faces, isn’t it? Especially after everything.”

You nodded faintly, but something about her tone didn’t sit right.

The exhaustion in her eyes was clear, and you felt it too. Sometimes it was hard to be kind to yourself when you put it all on another person.

“You should take a break, let me take over some of your patients,” you told her, a warm smile on your face.

Elena watched you closely, before shaking her head. “Don’t throw yourself into more work, you need to rest too.”

The rest of the day passed in a haze. You went through the motions, treating patients, mixing potions, and doing your best to avoid lingering too long on the morning’s encounter.

But the more you thought about it, the harder it became to focus. Seeing Fred again had felt like coming up for air after being underwater for too long. It had stirred something in you—hope, relief, a flicker of happiness you hadn’t felt in ages.

&

You sank into the couch the moment you walked through the door to your flat, kicking off your shoes with a groan. Another day of potions, poultices, and endless rounds of patients, each one a stark reminder of what had been lost in the war.

St. Mungo’s was a lifeline, sure. It gave you purpose. But it also drained you, leaving little room to process everything you’d been through.

You leaned your head back and closed your eyes, savoring the quiet.

The knock on your door startled you.

Frowning, you dragged yourself to your feet, wondering who it could be at this hour.

When you opened the door, Fred Weasley was standing there, hands shoved into his jacket pockets and that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

“Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

“Fred?” you said, blinking at him. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t come find me,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Your brows furrowed. “I’ve been busy.”

“And I’ve been bored,” he replied, throwing himself onto your couch like he owned the place. “What’s a bloke got to do to get a little attention around here?”

Despite yourself, you felt the corner of your mouth twitch. Fred had always been like this—effortless, larger than life. He had a way of making everything else fade into the background.

“I didn’t know you were keeping tabs on me,” you said, heading to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“Well, someone’s got to,” he called after you.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto your face.

A few minutes later, you brought two steaming mugs of tea into the living room, handing one to Fred before sitting down across from him.

He didn’t reach for the mug right away, instead leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His gaze was intent, but not unkind.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

You hesitated, caught off guard by the question. Fred rarely veered into serious territory—he was the king of deflection, the master of keeping things light.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

You sighed, sinking back into the cushions. “What do you want me to say, Fred? That I’m tired? That I’m still trying to figure out how to keep going when it feels like everything’s fallen apart? Because I am. But what’s the point of talking about it? It doesn’t change anything.”

Fred leaned back, his expression softening. “Maybe not. But bottling it up doesn’t help either. Trust me.”

You looked at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away for a moment. “I hate seeing you like this. You used to light up every room you walked into, you know? Now it’s like… you’re barely there.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean to make it heavy. I just… I miss you, that’s all.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing a smile. “I miss you too.”

For the next hour, Fred did what he did best: distracting you. He told you ridiculous stories about the shop, about George’s questionable taste in merchandise and the chaotic customers who made running a joke shop anything but boring. He had you laughing until your sides hurt, the weight on your chest lifting just a little.

By the time he stood to leave, it was late, and you were feeling more at ease than you had in weeks.

“You should come by the shop sometime,” he said, pausing in the doorway.

“Maybe I will,” you replied, leaning against the doorframe.

He grinned, his eyes twinkling in that way they always did. “Goodnight, love.”

“Goodnight, Fred.”

You closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a long breath. For the first time in a long while, you felt… lighter.

It wasn’t until you were cleaning up the living room that you noticed Fred’s untouched mug of tea sitting on the coffee table.

You frowned, picking it up. It was still full, the liquid cold to the touch.

“He must’ve been too busy talking to drink it,” you murmured to yourself, shaking your head. You poured the tea down the sink and put the mug in the dishwasher, before heading to bed.

&

The shop was eerily quiet as you stepped inside, the familiar jingle of the bell sounding oddly out of place in the stillness. You glanced around at the dimly lit aisles, the shelves a kaleidoscope of colors even in the low light. It was strange seeing the shop like this, so empty, so lifeless.

You had worked late again, but something about the thought of going straight home made your skin itch. You needed to be somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t the sterile white walls of St. Mungo’s.

Your feet carried you to the back office without much thought, and you paused at the slightly open door.

Fred was there, hunched over the desk, his fingers toying with a quill as he stared down at a piece of parchment.

“Fred,” you said softly, pushing the door open further.

He looked up, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Finally off work, then?”

You nodded, stepping inside and leaning against the doorframe. “Barely. Thought I’d stop by, but it looks like I missed the fun.”

“Yeah, George closed up a while ago. You’ve got terrible timing,” he teased, his tone light.

Your gaze flicked to the desk where a photo caught your eye. It was the three of you—Fred, George, and yourself—arms slung over each other, laughing like you didn’t have a care in the world. You picked it up, your fingers brushing over the glass.

“I remember this,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Good times, weren’t they?” Fred said, leaning back in his chair. “You and George couldn’t stop arguing that day. Think you were fighting over who’d get the last treacle tart.”

Your smile widened despite the ache in your chest. “He cheated, though.”

Fred snorted. “He’s a Weasley. Comes with the territory.”

Setting the photo down, you slid into the chair across from him. “Feels like it was forever ago.”

Fred’s expression softened, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to settle on his features. “It wasn’t that long ago. We’re just… different now.”

You studied him, a lump forming in your throat. He looked the same as he always had—bright eyes, a smirk that never quite left his lips—but there was something in his voice, something in the way he looked at you, that felt heavier.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Things change.”

Fred gave a small nod, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “So, how’s it really going? With the hospital, I mean.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “It’s… a lot. I thought I was ready for it, but some days it feels like I’m drowning.”

“You’re not, though,” he said, his tone firm. “You’re stronger than you think.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” he said, his gaze locking onto yours. “You’ve been through hell, and you’re still here. That counts for something.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the sincerity in his voice made the words stick in your throat.

“Thanks,” you said instead, the word barely above a whisper.

Fred gave you a small smile, leaning back in his chair. “Anyway, I’ve got to run. Things to do.”

“Like what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. “You don’t get to know all my secrets.”

“Right,” you said, rolling your eyes as you stood. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”

“Don’t work too hard,” he said as he stood, heading for the door. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” you said, watching as he left.

You lingered in the office for a moment before shaking your head and making your way toward the exit.

As you reached the front door, someone stepped inside.

“George?” you said, startled.

He looked at you, his expression tight and guarded. “Thought I’d locked up.”

“I—uh—yeah. I was just… stopping by,” you said vaguely, clutching your bag.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. His face was drawn, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

“You look terrible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

George gave a dry laugh. “Thanks. Just what I needed to hear.”

“Sorry,” you muttered, shifting on your feet.

He stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You weren’t at the —”

Before he could say what he wanted to say, the picture of the three of you slid from your hands. You hadn’t realized that you were still holding it.

The shards of glass were everywhere, you immediately went to pick them up, but George grabbed your hand before you could hurt yourself.

“I do that too, you know?”

The question caught you off guard, your chest tightening. “What do you mean?”

George shrugged, his gaze flickering toward the back office. “Feels real, you know?”

You frowned, unsure how to respond.

“Right,” George said, his tone unreadable.

An awkward silence stretched between you before he cleared his throat. “If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

As you stepped out into the night, the cool air prickling your skin, his words lingered in your mind.

You shook your head, trying to brush off the strange feeling settling in your chest. The conversation with George left you feeling unsettled.

You told yourself it was just George grieving. Everyone was grieving. That’s all it was.

&

The air outside St. Mungo’s was brisk, carrying the crisp bite of autumn. You tugged your coat tighter around yourself, grateful for the rare quiet moment on your break. The day had been chaotic—healers rushing from patient to patient, the hum of spells and the faint scent of antiseptic filling the halls. It wasn’t exactly the type of environment that allowed for deep breaths or calm thoughts.

You wandered down a quiet path near the hospital, letting the cool breeze soothe your frazzled nerves. Your eyes scanned the rows of trees, their branches shedding golden and crimson leaves onto the cobblestone.

“Mind if I join?”

The voice was unmistakable, and you whipped around to see Fred grinning at you, his hands stuffed casually into the pockets of his jacket.

“Fred!” you exclaimed, relief washing over you like a balm. “What are you doing here?”

“Just thought I’d check in,” he said, falling into step beside you. “You’re impossible to track down these days, you know that?”

“I’ve been busy,” you said with a shrug. “Work’s been… a lot.”

“Still haven’t figured out how to clone yourself yet, then?” he teased, bumping your shoulder lightly with his own.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Not quite. Maybe I’ll work on that next.”

The two of you walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the leaves crunching underfoot. Fred was always like this, effortlessly pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts, making the world feel lighter somehow.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “what do you do to unwind after a day of saving lives?”

“Sleep, mostly,” you admitted. “If I’m lucky, maybe eat something that doesn’t taste like parchment.”

Fred gave a mock gasp. “Blasphemy! This is why I should’ve brought you something from the shop. Maybe a bag of Canary Creams to keep things interesting.”

You rolled your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips. “Pretty sure my coworkers would kill me if I turned anyone into a bird on hospital grounds.”

“Sounds like they could use a laugh,” Fred said, smirking. “You’re too serious these days.”

You looked at him, the warmth of his presence easing the tension that had been knotting your chest all day. “Maybe. It’s hard not to be, though. Things… aren’t how they used to be.”

Fred’s expression softened, and for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes dimmed. “No, they’re not. But that doesn’t mean you’ve lost who you are. You’re still you, even if it feels different now.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, and you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Fred gave you a crooked smile. “Anyway, I should get going. Don’t want to keep you from your heroics.”

“Right,” you said, watching as he turned and walked away, his figure disappearing down the path.

When you returned to the hospital, you spotted Elena near the staff break room. She was leaning against the wall, her arms crossed, and her expression almost concerned when she saw you.

“Hey,” she said. “You alright? You looked… I don’t know, distracted earlier.”

“Distracted?” you echoed, frowning.

“Yeah,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “You seemed… off. Just wanted to say, if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

Her words gave you pause, confusion prickling at the back of your mind. “I’m fine,” you said quickly, managing a small smile.

“Of course,” Elena said, her tone warm but cautious. “Just remember, you’re not alone, okay?”

You nodded, though her words lingered uneasily in your mind as you made your way back to your duties.

Why did Elena think something was wrong?

You pushed the thought away, chalking it up to exhaustion. But as you dove back into your work, you couldn’t shake the strange feeling in your chest—the faint but growing sense that something wasn’t quite right.

&

Your flat was dimly lit, the faint glow of a single lamp casting soft shadows across the walls. You had collapsed onto the sofa after a long day, still wearing your healer robes, too tired to change. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavily against your chest, but your mind refused to quiet.

A knock at the door startled you, your heart leaping in surprise. It was late—too late for visitors—but you dragged yourself up to answer it.

When you opened the door, Fred stood there, leaning casually against the frame with a lopsided grin.

“Hope I’m not interrupting your riveting evening plans,” he said, his voice light but warm.

“Fred,” you said, your fatigue melting into a mix of relief and surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to check on you,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He glanced around your flat, his eyes landing on the cluttered coffee table and the half-empty mug of tea. “Looks like I got here just in time. You’re living the dream, aren’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, shutting the door behind him. “Not all of us get to play with fireworks and sweets all day.”

Fred laughed, a sound that filled the room and wrapped around you like a blanket. He plopped down onto the armchair across from you, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“You look awful,” he said cheerfully.

“Thanks,” you muttered, sinking back onto the sofa.

There was a comfortable silence between you for a moment, the kind you only shared with someone who had known you forever. You tilted your head to look at him, the familiar lines of his face, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled—it was all so painfully Fred.

“It’s been a while,” you said softly. “Since we sat like this.”

“Yeah,” Fred said, his voice quieter now. “Feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”

You nodded, your chest tightening. “Do you ever think about it? About how everyone just assumed we were—”

“A couple?” Fred interrupted, smirking. “All the time. George used to place bets on when we’d finally ‘admit it.’”

You laughed, though it felt hollow. “They weren’t wrong, though, were they? We were close.”

Fred’s expression softened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “We were. Still are.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding. The question had been buried deep in your mind for years, but now it rose to the surface, demanding to be spoken. “Fred… why didn’t it ever happen? Why didn’t we ever—?”

He looked at you then, his gaze steady but distant, as if he were searching for the right words. “You know,” he said after a moment, his voice low, “sometimes you don’t get closure. Sometimes things just… are.”

The answer left you reeling, the weight of it settling heavily in your chest.

Fred stood abruptly, his hands sliding into his pockets. “Anyway, I should go. You need sleep, and I need to—” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward the door.

“Right,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

As he left, the silence in your flat felt deafening. You stared at the spot where he had been sitting, your thoughts a chaotic tangle of emotions.

Fred’s words echoed in your mind, and for the first time, you wondered if you were chasing something that could never truly be found.

&

The bell above the door of the tea shop jingled softly as you stepped inside. The warm scent of cinnamon and chamomile washed over you, momentarily easing the tension that had weighed heavily on your shoulders since the previous night. It was your first day off in weeks, and after losing a patient yesterday, you had needed this—a quiet space to think, or perhaps, to not think at all.

Your eyes scanned the room, landing on Fred sitting by the window, a steaming cup in front of him. His head was tilted slightly, gazing out at the bustling street outside.

You hesitated for a moment before walking over to him. His face lit up when he noticed you, and he gestured to the empty seat across from him.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

“Fred,” you said, sliding into the seat. “You’ve got a habit of turning up exactly when I need someone to talk to.”

“Call it a gift,” he said, shrugging. “What’s got you looking like you just ran headfirst into a Hippogriff?”

You sighed, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic of your cup after ordering a simple black tea. “Rough day yesterday. Lost someone.”

Fred’s teasing expression softened immediately. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice gentler now.

You shrugged, your throat tightening. “It happens. Doesn’t make it easier, though.”

Fred leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You ever think about doing something else? Something less… heavy?”

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But it’s not that simple, is it? I like helping people.”

“And who’s helping you?” he asked, his tone pointed but kind.

You looked away, his words cutting deeper than you cared to admit. “I’m fine,” you said quietly. “Really.”

Fred didn’t press further, instead leaning back in his chair and letting the conversation shift to lighter topics. He told you a ridiculous story about George’s latest experiment at the shop, complete with exaggerated hand gestures and dramatic pauses. You laughed in spite of yourself, grateful for the distraction.

The two of you sat there for what felt like hours, reminiscing about old times and trading jokes. For a moment, it felt like the world outside the tea shop didn’t exist.

Eventually, Fred glanced at the clock on the wall and stood up. “I should get going,” he said, his tone reluctant. “George will have my head if I’m late again.”

You nodded, watching as he turned toward the door. “Fred,” you called after him.

He paused, looking over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” you said simply.

His smile was soft, genuine. “Anytime.”

And then he was gone, leaving the air around you feeling oddly still.

You stayed a few minutes longer, finishing your tea in silence. When you finally stood to leave, you noticed something strange—people were staring at you.

Their gazes weren’t hostile, but curious, as if you’d done something out of the ordinary. You met a few of their eyes, but no one said anything. A couple seated near the door exchanged whispers, their eyes flicking toward your table.

Frowning, you pulled your cloak tighter around yourself and stepped out into the chilly air. The feeling of being watched clung to you as you made your way home, an unease settling in your chest.

When you reached your flat, you locked the door behind you and leaned against it, trying to shake the strange sensation.

“Just tired,” you muttered to yourself. “That’s all it is.”

But the memory of their stares lingered, gnawing at the edges of your mind.

&

It was late when you heard the knock at your door. You weren’t expecting anyone, and for a moment, you considered ignoring it. But when the knock came again, heavier this time, you reluctantly got up and opened the door.

George stood there, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, his face pale and drawn.

“George,” you said, blinking at him in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

He hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. “Mum’s been asking about you,” he said, his voice careful. “She says she hasn’t seen you in ages.”

You frowned, closing the door behind him. “I’ve been… busy.”

“You’re always busy,” he said, looking around your flat as though trying to make sense of the chaos. His gaze lingered on a pile of unopened letters on the table, a half-empty cup of tea on the counter. “You’ve been avoiding us.”

“That’s not true,” you said defensively.

“Isn’t it?” he said, raising an eyebrow. He looked at you closely, his sharp eyes narrowing. “You’re not okay, are you?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat. George had always been perceptive, too perceptive, and you suddenly felt stripped bare under his scrutiny.

“I’m fine,” you said quietly, looking away.

He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “we’re all trying to figure out how to move forward. It’s hard, isn’t it? Finding a way to keep going without—”

He stopped himself abruptly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Without what?” you asked, your chest tightening.

George shook his head. “Never mind,” he muttered. “Forget I said anything.”

You frowned, confused and slightly unnerved by the way he was looking at you, like he was trying to tell you something without actually saying it.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Just… come with me,” he repeated, already heading toward the door.

“George, it’s late—”

“I know,” he said, turning to face you. “But this is important. Please.”

Something in his tone made you hesitate. Reluctantly, you grabbed your coat and followed him out into the chilly night.

He didn’t say much as you walked, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold. You tried to make sense of his sudden appearance, the strange tension in his voice, but the silence between you felt too fragile to break.

Finally, he led you to a quiet, secluded area, the air around you growing heavier with each step. You glanced around, the faint outlines of headstones barely visible in the moonlight.

“George,” you said, your voice catching. “What is this?”

He stopped in front of a particular spot, his back to you. For a long moment, he didn’t move, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep, shaky breath.

When he finally turned to face you, his expression was unreadable. “I just thought… maybe this would help,” he said quietly.

You didn’t understand what he meant, not fully, but something in his eyes—something raw and achingly familiar—made your chest tighten.

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to say,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

George didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stepped closer and pulled you into a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around you. The unexpected gesture caught you off guard, and for a moment, you froze.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly. “It’s okay to miss him.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and you felt the air leave your lungs in a sharp gasp.

You clung to him, your mind reeling, the weight of his words pressing down on you.

For a moment, it felt like something inside you was unraveling, pieces of a puzzle you hadn’t realized you were trying to solve falling into place.

But the full picture remained just out of reach, the truth lingering at the edges of your mind like a shadow.

George pulled back slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders. “You don’t have to go through this alone,” he said, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes.

You nodded silently, unable to find the words to respond.

&

George left after a while, a long time that was filled with silence. But you couldn’t go yet, you were still standing in the middle of the graveyard.

That’s when Fred walked up next to you, looking down at the grave in front of you.

“You’re not real,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Fred tilted his head, a soft smile playing at his lips. “No,” he said simply, “I’m not.”

The weight of those words hit you like a tidal wave.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched thin, taut with everything you hadn’t said and everything you now understood.

“Why?” you finally asked, your voice barely audible.

Fred’s gaze softened, but there was something unshakably sad in his eyes. “You needed me,” he said. “So I was here.”

You swallowed hard, your hands shaking. “But you’re gone,” you said, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

“I am,” he said, his voice steady but quiet.

The world felt impossibly still, the air heavy with unspoken grief.

“I don’t—” you started, your voice cracking. “I don’t know how to do this, Fred. I don’t know how to let you go.”

Fred turned to you. “You don’t have to,” he said gently. “Not really. I’m always going to be here, just not like this.”

Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision. “It’s not fair,” you whispered. “You were supposed to have so much more time. We were supposed to have more time.”

Fred’s smile wavered, and for the first time, you saw the cracks in his façade. “Life’s not fair,” he said, his voice tinged with a bitterness you rarely heard from him. “But you know that already, don’t you?”

You nodded, the tears spilling over now. “I love you, Fred,” you said, your voice breaking. “I loved you, and I never even told you. I never got the chance to—”

“You didn’t have to tell me,” Fred interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. “I knew.”

You looked up at him, your breath catching. “How?”

He smiled, a bittersweet curve of his lips. “You think I didn’t notice the way you looked at me? Or how you always laughed at my terrible jokes, even when no one else did? Or how you always saved me a seat, even when it meant you had to stand?”

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping at your tears.

“I knew,” he said again, his tone softer now. “And you know, deep down, that I loved you too.”

Your chest ached, the pain so sharp and overwhelming that it felt like you might break under the weight of it. “I just wanted more time,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Another chance.”

Fred’s expression grew serious, his gaze locking with yours. “I know you do,” he said quietly. “But if you had it, would it ever be enough?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat.

Fred leaned back, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “You would always want more,” he said, his voice steady but filled with a quiet sorrow. “Because that’s how it is with love. It’s never enough time. Not really.”

Your hands trembled as you struggled to process his words.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” you said, your voice breaking again.

“You don’t have to,” he said, his voice impossibly gentle. “I’ll always be a part of you. I’ll always be in your memories, in the things that make you laugh, in the things that remind you of me.”

Tears streamed down your face, your chest heaving with the force of your sobs. “But it’s not the same,” you choked out. “It’s not the same as having you here.”

Fred’s expression softened, his gaze filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache even more. “I know,” he said. “But you have to keep living, love. You have to keep going, even if it hurts.”

You looked at him, your vision blurred with tears. You reached out your hand, close enough to touch his face, but you didn’t, too scared of what might happen if you tried.

Fred’s smile was soft, tinged with sadness. “It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to.”

You clenched your fists, the ache in your chest almost unbearable.

“I don’t know how to say goodbye,” you whispered.

Fred looked down at you, his gaze filled with a love that you could feel in every fiber of your being.

“You don’t have to say it,” he said. “Just… let me go.”

You sobbed, the sound raw and broken, as you watched him turn around.

“Fred,” you called, your voice cracking.

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I love you,” you said, the words tumbling out of you like a confession, like a plea.

Fred smiled, his eyes glistening. “I know,” he said. “I love you too.”

And then he was gone.

You turned around again, staring yet again at the grave in front of you.

You stood there for a long time, the silence deafening. Until you took a step forward, your fingers tracing the engraved letters.

Fred Gideon Weasley

1st April 1978 - 2nd May 1998

[lumosflairr]

this isnt much to work with but imagine fred ron or harry doesnt matter with like that one scene from wolf on wallstreet with margot robbie putting her heel on the dudes forehead?? imagine how desperate they would be oohhh em jeepers just a desperate pathetic man is all i need in life

OH BABYYYY I LOVE THIS THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REQUEST!!! I chose to write with Fred because i really have nothing of him written AND this scene is so him core.

NO TOUCHING - Fred G. Weasley

Fred had crossed a line. Again.

He’d pushed your buttons all day—flirting shamelessly behind the register, brushing his hand too high on your thigh under the table at dinner, and worst of all… he charmed your favorite knickers to float down the stairwell like confetti in front of George.

So now here he was, on his knees in your shared bedroom, smirking up at you like he wasn’t the one in trouble.

“Aw, love,” he drawled, hands spread like he was being reasonable, “I was just having a bit of fun—”

“You think this is funny?” you said sweetly, stepping forward slowly.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the click of your heel on the wooden floor shut him right up.

Fred watched, transfixed, as you climbed up onto the low window seat—bare-legged, wearing one of his old Quidditch jerseys and nothing underneath. The moonlight pouring in behind you made the scene feel more like a spell than real life.

Then, you did it.

You lifted your foot, gently resting the tip of your stiletto heel right against his forehead, forcing his head to tilt back. His eyes fluttered closed. The smirk slipped.

“Oh, now you’re quiet?” you teased, voice smooth as honey. “Not so smug when you’re the one begging, are you?”

Fred groaned, equal parts flustered and absolutely wrecked. “I’d do anything right now.”

You arched a brow. “Anything?”

He nodded—slow, reverent. His voice came out rough. “You’re driving me mad.”

You pushed your heel just a little firmer against him—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him who had the power tonight.

“I know,” you whispered. “And you love it.”

He looked up at you, completely undone, and you knew you had him.

“You’re going to sit there,” you said, dragging your heel down slowly until it slid off his chest and hit the floor with a click. “And you’re going to earn me back. With your mouth. No hands. No spells. Just obedience.”

Fred’s pupils blew wide.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, already leaning in.

His breath ghosted against your inner thigh, his mouth inches from your skin, and still—he hesitated. Like he needed permission. Like this was sacred.

And maybe it was.

You let your heel slide down from his chest, letting it hit the floor with a deliberate click. You shifted back on the window seat just enough to open your legs wider—slow, deliberate, your eyes never leaving his.

That was all he needed.

Fred’s mouth met your skin like a prayer, soft and reverent at first—slow kisses pressed to your thigh, just beneath where the lace ended. Then higher. Then higher.

His hands stayed at his sides, clenched into the fabric of his trousers like he was restraining himself from grabbing you, dragging you closer. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. You hadn’t given him that.

So he used what you allowed.

His mouth.

You let your head fall back against the wall behind you, a slow smirk tugging at your lips as you felt him trace his tongue in slow, aching circles just where you wanted him. The heat of him. The way he murmured your name under his breath like he couldn’t help it—like it slipped out between kisses, between soft, panting groans as he tried to keep up with the way you moved your hips.

He was so eager. So good at this. Not cocky, not teasing—just starving. Like the only thing that mattered was you falling apart under his mouth.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging just slightly to guide him, and he moaned into you like he liked being pulled—like he’d let you keep him there all night if you wanted.

“You really are sorry,” you murmured breathlessly.

He nodded against you, lips not daring to leave your skin. His nose brushed your inner thigh. Then his voice—raw and low—came between kisses.

“I’ll spend every night like this if it means you’ll forgive me,” he breathed.

“Don’t tempt me.”

[httpvomitello]

hello can you please do enemies to lovers trope please and thank you and have a good day and week

Fred weasley x y/n jealousy version

Hermione and Ron and Harry hanging with y/n and Harry and Ron noticed how Fred kept staring but quickly noticed he got caught and Hermione noticed too and later on after dinner y/n was drawing by the window and Fred came up to her and talked and he watched her draw then she kissed him and after they just hanged

Hello, hellooo. I hope you like it ~ ♡

Surprises and trouble .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: You and Fred Weasley had a… complicated relationship. At best, it was a rivalry—at worst, an all-out war. Banter, pranks, and witty comebacks were practically a language you both spoke fluently. But somewhere between the teasing and the bickering, something else simmered beneath the surface.

fred weasley x f!reader

Fred Weasley was annoying.

You weren’t sure what exactly made him so insufferable—the endless pranks, the smug smirk, or the fact that he always seemed one step ahead of you. Whatever it was, you had spent years locked in an ongoing game of “who can drive the other mad first.”

At this point, it was tradition.

Which was why Hermione, Ron, and Harry were very confused when they caught Fred watching you across the common room.

“He’s staring again,” Harry muttered.

Ron glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, Fred was sitting on the opposite side of the room, arms crossed, brow furrowed slightly, watching you as you animatedly talked with Hannah.

“Blimey,” Ron said. “That’s the third time today.”

Hermione, who had definitely noticed, hummed knowingly. “I think I know what’s going on.”

Ron scoffed. “Yeah? He’s plotting something. Probably a prank.”

Harry frowned. “Then why’d he look away so fast when he noticed we caught him?”

Ron turned back just in time to see Fred abruptly snap his gaze away, suddenly very interested in a loose thread on his sleeve.

Hermione smirked. “Because, Ronald… Fred doesn’t want to be caught staring at her.”

Ron choked on his pumpkin juice. “Oh, no way.”

Harry, who had also noticed the way Fred got oddly quiet whenever you were around, exchanged a look with Hermione. “Oh, way.”

Ron, in pure disbelief, turned to look at you again. You were laughing at something Hannah said, eyes crinkling, completely unaware of the absolute crisis happening across the room.

“I don’t believe it,” Ron muttered. “He hates her.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “People don’t look at people they hate like that, Ronald.”

Ron didn’t get it. Neither did Harry.

But Hermione did.

Later that night, long after dinner, you sat by the window, sketchbook open, pencil gliding across the page.

It was quiet. Peaceful. The only sounds were the crackling fireplace and the occasional flipping of a page from a student finishing their homework.

And then, of course, he showed up.

Fred leaned against the window frame, arms crossed. “Didn’t peg you for the artistic type.”

You sighed. “Didn’t peg you for the nosy type.”

He smirked. “Oh, love, you wound me. I live to be nosy.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t tell him to leave. Which was weird, considering you usually sent him away with a sarcastic quip.

Fred, sensing the shift, hesitated for a moment before moving to sit beside you. His eyes flickered to your sketchbook, where half-finished drawings filled the pages—portraits, landscapes, doodles of things that must have caught your eye throughout the day.

“You’re good,” he admitted, surprising himself.

You glanced at him. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

Fred grinned. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

You snorted. “Yeah. Surprises and trouble.”

The conversation lulled. Fred found himself watching you as you focused back on your drawing. The way your brow furrowed slightly, the way your lips parted as you concentrated—it was mesmerizing in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the rivalry you two had built.

“Why were you staring at me earlier?” you asked suddenly, not looking up from your sketchbook.

Fred blinked. “What?”

“Before dinner, ” you clarified, turning to face him. “You were staring. Why?”

Fred swallowed. He could lie—shrug it off, make a joke. But something in your gaze told him you’d know.

So, instead, he did something stupid.

He kissed you.

It was sudden, unexpected, but the second his lips touched yours, you felt the warmth spread from your chest to your fingertips.

And what was even more unexpected? You kissed him back.

When you finally pulled away, Fred was staring at you, wide-eyed. “That—”

You cut him off with a smirk. “That almost sounded like you like me.”

Fred scoffed, but his ears were turning red. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, love.”

But the grin tugging at his lips told you everything you needed to know.

And as the two of you sat there, stealing glances and not bickering for the first time in forever, you realized something.

Fred Weasley was still annoying.

[maria021015]

Penpals - Part 5

Fred Weasley x FemHufflepuffReader

What happens when Fred’s new owl accidentally sends a letter meant for George to the wrong person? The mysterious recipient might just write him back. And it might end up being the best mistake Fred has ever made.

The Triwizard tournament has come to an end, and as the rest of Hogwarts celebrates in their common rooms for the joint win of Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory, Fred Weasley has different victory on his mind.

Warnings: explicit content, smut, set in a world where Voldemort didn’t return, and Cedric Diggory didn’t die.

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Each of the Hogwarts house common rooms were bustling with music and merriment in celebration of the Hogwarts Champions’ victory. It left the rest of the castle quieter than it had been in weeks. But up above it all, where the spires met the clouds, where the stars stretched overhead like scattered promises, a different challenge was being tackled by one Frederick Weasley.

The Astronomy Tower waited in silence, touched by the gentle brush of moonlight. Twilight curled around the stone like a silken shawl, blue and purple hues weaving themselves into the crumbling edges. A breeze swept through the open archway, warm despite the hour, as though summer had decided to make one final appearance before night fully took hold.

Y/n was waiting for him. She stood with her back to the staircase, looking out over the Forbidden Forest. Her hands rested on the cold ledge, fingers tapping nervously. The green dress from the Yule Ball had been replaced with something simpler - a soft green cardigan, her school skirt, and button-up shirt tucked slightly into it. She’d come early, unable to stay away. Each letter, each stolen glance, had led her here, and now she stood on the precipice of something both exhilarating and terrifying. It was the most exciting thing she’d ever done.

Footsteps echoed on the winding staircase behind her. She didn’t turn immediately. She knew. She felt it in her chest - the shift in the air. Like gravity itself was leaning toward him. She was scared to turn around, as though finally meeting him in person might ruin everything they’d built throughout the year.

“Finally, it’s about time I find you up here,” Fred Weasley’s voice rang out, softer than she’d ever heard it, threaded with awe and something reverent.

She turned.

There he was.

The boy who had haunted her sleep. The boy whose words she’d read until her vision blurred. His hair was a mess, as always, but tonight it looked more deliberate, windswept by the rush to meet her. His dress robes were half-buttoned, abandoned for a casual jumper rolled at the sleeves and trousers dusted faintly with dirt from earlier in the day. He had ink smudged on his hand. His tie hung loosely from his pocket, forgotten. But it was the expression on his face that stopped her breath.

Fred looked like he had been searching for her across lifetimes. His eyes - those warm, burning embers - locked onto hers and didn’t move. For a long moment, they just looked. After all the prose, the confessions, the teasing and aching and longing, the silence said more than any letter could.

“You’re…” he began, then stopped, smiling like it hurt. “You’re actually here.”

She swallowed, heart hammering. “I hope I live up to what you imagined.”

He stepped closer, slow. Measured. “You’re so much more than what I imagined.”

They met in the center of the tower, where moonlight caught in her hair and turned it to silver. Fred’s hand hovered at her cheek, unsure, waiting.

She leaned into it. The touch was feather-light. A graze. Like he couldn’t believe she was solid. He cupped her jaw fully then, his thumb brushing just below her eye as though memorizing every line of her face.

“I’ve thought about this moment every night for the past month,” she whispered.

He laughed, low and warm, his forehead falling to hers. “So did I. And now that you’re here, I don’t know what to say that can do this justice.”

“Strange, isn’t it? How it’s so easy to talk on a paper, but in person it’s much more difficult.” She mused with a hum, cheeks flushing crimson.

“I wouldn’t say it’s difficult, just…new,” Fred corrected. “Your voice is better than I could have imagined it. And it was you. The girl that I saw at the first task. I hoped it would be. You’re beautiful.”

“And you’re even more handsome up close,” She giggled, the sound melodious and light with joy.

“You should have come up to take a closer look a long time ago,” he challenged with a mischievous spark behind his eyes.

“Just shut up and kiss me, Weasley,” she said.

And he did.

Softly at first, hesitant, like a question he’d waited too long to ask. His lips were warm, tender, brushing hers in a way that made her knees nearly give out. Her hands fisted in the front of his shirt to stay grounded, to feel the beat of his heart under her fingertips.

When the kiss deepened, it was slow and exploratory, a dance of restraint and reverence. Fred pulled her closer, hands splaying over her back, anchoring her to him. His mouth moved against hers with aching care, like he was drinking her in sip by sip, not wanting to rush the taste he’d waited so long to revel in.

When they finally broke apart, both breathless, her forehead stayed against his, their noses brushing.

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” he murmured, eyes still closed.

“You said that already,” she teased, her voice shaking with a laugh.

“Well, I can’t believe it more now.” His smile turned roguish. “And I should warn you, if you keep looking at me like that, I might forget how to speak entirely.”

She tilted her head, brows lifting playfully. “I wouldn’t mind that. I’ve heard you’re a bit mouthy.”

Fred chuckled, his laughter vibrating between them. “Only when I’ve got something to say. Which is always.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple, then one to her cheek, and another just below her jaw. Each one was careful. Deliberate. A trail of devotion. Walking her backwards slowly, they broke apart when her legs hit stone.

They perched in the window’s arch together, his arm around her shoulders as she curled into his side. Below, the lake glimmered, reflecting the ink of the night’s sky. A few stars had emerged, brave enough to shine through the spattering of clouds.

“So,” she said after a while, her voice quieter now. “What now?”

Fred looked down at her, brushing a lock of hair from her eyes. “Now we start the rest of whatever this is.”

She smiled, her fingers threading with his. “And what is it?”

He tilted his head, grinning. “It’s the story I’ll tell our kids one day. About how I fell for a girl in ink and parchment, who haunted my every thought until I found her at the top of the world.”

Her heart thundered in her chest, a maze of butterflies coming alive in her stomach.

“And then?” she whispered.

“And then I never let her go.” Fred’s words hung between them like a vow, low and reverent, and she couldn’t speak for a long moment. Her throat had gone tight, not with nerves but with emotion - a fullness that no amount of breath could satisfy.

She shifted closer, pressing her forehead to his collarbone, breathing in the scent of him - parchment ink, earth from Herbology, a faint trace of gunpowder and something uniquely Fred—mischief, warmth, and comfort. He held her tighter in response, and his hand moved slowly, almost absentmindedly, up and down her arm. The kind of touch that says, ‘You’re safe here. I’ve got you.’

“I was scared this would feel different in person,” she admitted softly. “That maybe the magic was only in the words. In the not-knowing.”

“And now?” he asked, voice husky, as if scared of her answer.

“Now I know it was always just you.”

Fred drew back just enough to see her face, his thumb brushing her jaw. “Say it again.”

“It was always you.”

He kissed her like a thank-you. Like a benediction.

The air had changed now - less tentative, more alive with heat. His kisses lost their hesitation, deepening with each pass. Her fingers found their way into his red locks, tugging gently, and she felt the low sound he made in the back of his throat vibrate against her chest.

He laid her back slowly, carefully, on the cool stone of the bench carved into the archway, never breaking the kiss. His body hovered over hers but never pressed, he wasn’t in a hurry. Fred Weasley, king of chaos and speed, was taking his time. Letting each heartbeat stretch into a moment, each breath become a wordless poem.

Her hands explored his shoulders beneath the loose shirt, memorizing the shape of him, the strength, the quiet steadiness in his muscles. Quidditch had certainly served him well all these years. He gasped softly when her palm slid to his ribs, and the sound was like fuel, sending a tremble through her.

When his mouth trailed down her throat, her head fell back. She didn’t stop the sigh that escaped, nor the soft, shuddering whisper of his name. “Freddie…”

His lips paused just above her collarbone. “Say it again.”

“Freddie,” she breathed, and this time, her hands guided him lower.

She felt his fingers tremble at the hem of her cardigan, and she nodded before he could ask. There was a whisper as the fabric hit the floor. His deft hands found the buttons of her shirt next, slowly slipping each one from its binding until the think white cotton top was falling from her body. He pushed it off her shoulders, gently, reverently, revealing the lace beneath - the green she’d hinted at, finally shown. His breath hitched audibly.

“You wore it,” he said, dazed. “Merlin, you actually wore it.”

“I told you I would,” she teased, but her voice was a whisper now, breathless and wanting.

He ran the backs of his fingers along the curve of the lace, over her shoulder, down her arm, reverent. “I don’t know how to be careful with how I feel about you.”

“Then don’t be careful,” she said, arching into his touch.

Fred leaned in again, kissing her deeply, and she felt it - the full weight of everything they had and hadn’t said. His longing. His tenderness. His restraint fraying slowly at the edges as her fingers traced patterns on his lower back, as her hips shifted instinctively beneath him.

His hand settled over hers, where it rested above his heart. “This,” he said hoarsely. “Has only ever beat for you. I just didn’t know it yet.”

Her throat tightened with emotion. She guided his hand down from her heart to the edge of her skirt, her eyes meeting his, full of intent.

“I want you to touch me,” she whispered. “If you want to.”

Fred’s breath left him in one long exhale. “I want to. But only if we take our time. I want to learn every part of you like a language. No rushing.”

She smiled. “I’ve got all night.”

What followed wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t reckless or frantic. It was soft, slow, and saturated in wonder.

They didn’t undress each other all at once. His robes loosened under her careful hands, the lace adorning her body never fully removed, only shifted enough to give access to skin he worshipped with mouth and palm alike. She unbuttoned his jumper in return, one at a time, pressing kisses to each new patch of freckled skin. His body responded to her touch like flame to oxygen - coiling, igniting, but never burning too hot or to hold.

Fred kissed her like she was both a mystery and an answer. Like every letter she’d written had settled into his bones and taken root. His hands mapped her gently, reverently, learning the curve of her waist, the softness of her thighs, the arch of her spine beneath his palm. He whispered her name between kisses, reverent and aching.

And when her body moved with his, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat, she felt something open inside her - a door that only he had the key to. A sense of belonging so fierce it nearly broke her.

Their bodies moved in sync, slow and deep and full of meaning, and when she moaned into his mouth, Fred groaned against her neck, clinging to the sound like salvation.

After, they lay tangled together, skin against skin, wrapped in robes and warmth and moonlight.

Fred stroked her hair as she curled against his chest, and he murmured, “Was this real? Or ami dreaming of you again?”

She laughed softly, fingers tracing idle circles on his chest. “It was real. More real than anything.”

He tipped her chin up so he could look into her eyes. “I think I’ve loved you since the third letter.”

“You’re just saying that because I stole Earl.”

“Merlin, you’re right. It was the owl theft that sealed the deal.”

She giggled, and he kissed her nose, then her cheek, then finally her lips again - slow and lingering.

“I want this,” he whispered. “Not just tonight. I want mornings with you. I want to annoy you in class. I want to hex anyone who tries to flirt with you. I want to build that little cottage we talked about. I want to take you to (your home country) and hear you tell stories about your family while I burn in the sun like a tragic ginger.”

She smiled against his mouth. “Then you’ll have all of it. All of me.”

The moon hung full above them now, silver and watchful. Stars blinked into being like an audience, like witnesses.

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Tags: @randomfan218-blog @ellouisa17 @votresoleil02 @solchienne @lou-diaries @pillowjj @starryeddie @mirkwoodshewolf @zannete @pinkcloudcat @loveenoughtofillmeup @babbling-creature @crashoutqueenie @eliengoddes

[jadeshifting]

AMORTENTIA.

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　

the air in the dungeon was practically electric, a low hum of whispered gossip and barely-contained giggles rippling through the students as they slid into their seats. today was the day—Amortentia day. everyone was buzzing, eyes darting around, wondering who among them might catch a whiff of their essence in the swirling potion. the curiosity was intoxicating: what would you smell? would it reveal some secret crush, or confirm a love you hadn’t dared to voice? the thought of brewing it, learning its secrets for future use, had everyone on edge, hearts thudding with anticipation. the room was alive with possibilities, every stir of a cauldron promising revelations and maybe, just maybe, a gossamer thread connecting you to the person you’re meant to be with

WHO IS IT THAT YOU SMELL ?

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˚☽˚.⋆ MATTHEO RIDDLE. dark chocolate and crackling embers devouring wood chips, with a hint of something dark and unidentifiable

˚☽˚.⋆ DRACO MALFOY. crisp winter air and freshly polished leather, laced with a whisper of expensive cologne

˚☽˚.⋆ THEODORE NOTT. ancient parchment and sandalwood, with undertones of the forest after an unforgiving storm

˚☽˚.⋆ PANSY PARKINSON. rich jasmine and a touch of spiced vanilla, wrapped in a cloud of luxurious bergamot perfume

˚☽˚.⋆ LORENZO BERKSHIRE. sea salt and sun-warmed driftwood, with a tiny hint of freshly squeezed lime

˚☽˚.⋆ BLAISE ZABINI. luxurious cooking spices and smooth, aged whiskey, with the faintest trace of cedarwood

˚☽˚.⋆ ASTORIA GREENGRASS. soft rose petals and sweet honey, tinged with the refreshing scent of a summer breeze

˚☽˚.⋆ DAPHNE GREENGRASS. mellow lavender and fresh morning dew, layered with a whisper of crisp apple

˚☽˚.⋆ MILLICENT BULSTRODE. earthy pine and rich musk, softened by the warmth of freshly brewed coffee

˚☽˚.⋆ HARRY POTTER. freshly cut grass and a hint of broomstick polish, with the undertone of gently burned bay leaves

˚☽˚.⋆ HERMIONE GRANGER. crisp parchment and freshly brewed peppermint tea, with a subtle whiff of vanilla candle wax

˚☽˚.⋆ RON WEASLEY. warm cinnamon and rich butterbeer, tinged with the comforting scent of old wood

˚☽˚.⋆ LUNA LOVEGOOD. the ethereal scent of rain-soaked wildflowers and a hint of parchment, like secrets whispered in a moonlit meadow

˚☽˚.⋆ GINNY WEASLEY. the fiery aroma of spiced apple cider and freshly mown grass, full of warmth and untamed spirit

˚☽˚.⋆ FRED WEASLEY. fiery cloves and burnt sugar, mingling with some mysterious electric buzz

˚☽˚.⋆ GEORGE WEASLEY. smoky bonfires and caramel toffee, layered with a cheeky twist of citrus zest

˚☽˚.⋆ CEDRIC DIGGORY. golden apples and the fresh scent of a cool river breeze, tinged with warm amber

˚☽˚.⋆ NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM. freshly turned soil and blooming flowers, with a faint trace of sun-ripened strawberries

˚☽˚.⋆ CHO CHANG. delicate baby’s breath blossoms and soft raindrops, with a whisper of green tea with too much sugar

˚☽˚.⋆ CORMAC MCLAGGEN. sharp citrus and molten pine candle wax, layered with the crispness of mountain air

˚☽˚.⋆ OLIVER WOOD. freshly mown grass and clean sweat, mixed with morning dew on wood and the stirring of broom polish

˚☽˚.⋆ SEAMUS FINNEGAN. smoky campfires and a hint of spiced firewhiskey, laced with the tang of sea salt

˚☽˚.⋆ DEAN THOMAS. charcoal sketches and warm cocoa, blended with the cozy scent of old bookshops

˚☽˚.⋆ REMUS LUPIN (ooh, scandal). warm honey and worn leather, with a trace of earthy pine forests after rain

THE JUICY AFTERMATH.

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the aftermath of Amortentia class is pure, unfiltered chaos. whispers turned into gasps when Dean realized his girlfriend didn’t catch his scent in the potion—no, she smelled someone else entirely. in front of everyone, too… yikes.

.　　. 　 ˚　. meanwhile, Astoria’s cheeks turned into fiery roses when she realized she smelled the awkward Gryffindor idiot she sneered at in the hallway (RON!! WEASLEY!!), and now she had to question practically everything about herself and her sensibilities

.　　. 　 ˚　. but the real scandal? Padma smelled Professor Lupin. yep, full-on professor. she looked like she wanted to sink into the floor, but how embarrassing was it, really? (no one else wanted to admit it, but plenty of his students knew that the gentle cadence of his voice and his capable nature made them swoon in class.) friendships were tested, secrets spilled, and the whole castle buzzed with the fallout of who smelled what—and more importantly, who smelled who

WHAT DOES YOUR AMORTENTIA SMELL LIKE ?

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after all, if you know, you can zero in the moment someone else smells you—you hear someone whisper a description of your particular brand of personal fragrance, and their harbored affections for you are on full display for you to take advantage of

˚☽˚.⋆ freshly baked cinnamon rolls on a chilly morning, the scent of the creamy glaze cutting through the bite of the cold air

˚☽˚.⋆ the buttery sweetness of caramel popcorn at the fairgrounds, playful and indulgent, mixed with the salty tang of sea breeze at sunset

˚☽˚.⋆the rich, creamy fragrance of coconut oil warming on sun-kissed skin, luscious and inviting

˚☽˚.⋆ the soft, powdery scent of lavender sachets in a vintage wardrobe, delicate and calming with an undertone of light wood shavings

˚☽˚.⋆ the silky smooth scent of jasmine tea steaming in a porcelain cup, refined and subtly intoxicating

˚☽˚.⋆ crisp, clean and freshly laundered linen on a breezy day mixed with the sweet, fruity aroma of ripe peaches on a summer afternoon

THIS YEAR’S AMORTENTIA DISASTERS.

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sure, there’s always one or two, but the Amortentia mishaps that year were legendary

.　　. 　 ˚　. first off, poor Cormac accidentally dosed himself—yeah, rookie mistake—and spent a week hopelessly in love with his reflection (but how different was that from his true self, anyway? no way of knowing.)

.　　. 　 ˚　. then there was Katie, who slipped a few drops into a goblet meant for Mr. Harry Potter of boy-who-lived fame, only for his best friend Hermione to pick it up instead. The look on Katie’s face when Granger started waxing poetic about Katie’s “brilliance” in the middle of the great hall was priceless—but, of course, Hermione was beet red and positively humiliated after it wore off, and i believe the two haven’t spoken since. i think Katie learned her lesson, though.

.　　. 　 ˚　. and let’s not forget Jenny, who finally got her crush, Maximus, to fall head over heels—only to discover lovesick Maximus was clingy with a capital C. cue sleepless nights and desperate whispered pleas for antidotes. a couple of brave (or just plain desperate) students tried to brew their own fixes in the dorms, resulting in green smoke, shrieking mandrakes, and one extremely unfortunate case of squishy bones and a subsequent trip to the hospital wing

.　　. 　 ˚　. and of course, the pièce de résistance: Parvati and Lavender dragging a moonstruck Ruby to Slughorn, her eyes glazed over, babbling sonnets about a completely baffled Draco Malfoy—he loved attention, sure, but he looked like he wanted to die. Slughorn went easy on her to save them the embarrassment. the whole school buzzed with these tales, each mishap adding another layer of absurdity to a year that already had more than enough going on

GOOD LUCK IN LOVE THIS YEAR, WITCHES AND WIZARDS

yours truly,

— me :^)

[mastermindmiko]

Dancing

Pairing: George weasley + Reader

Summary: The Yule Ball with George as your boyfriend

Warnings: none, I believe

Word count: 700

“I think that was the best night of my life.” 

“I think that you’re over exaggerating.” I say, and bump his shoulder playfully. George swings our intertwined hands faster and higher, and there’s a bounce in his step. I would’ve been as joyful walking if these heels weren't a massive pain. George says, “It really was. I spent the night with my friends, dancing and we had fun…” 

He trails off and turns to grasp at my chin, he tilts my head higher. He presses a sweet peck on my lips that leaves me smiling like a maniac. He continues, “And, I got to spend most of it with the love of my life.” 

We reach the common room, and the fat lady is asleep. George knocks on the side of her portrait and she jolts awake. She’s shaken and grumbles, “What are you two doing disturbing me and being out so late?” 

“We would’ve stayed out longer if Flitwick hadn’t kicked us out of the great hall.” George states, chuckling. It was past midnight anyway, the night was supposed to end at ten, but we, and many other couples, couldn’t get enough of the Yule Ball even after the band had left. George opens his mouth to say the password, but the fat lady waves him off. 

“No need for a password, it’s too late for this kind of nonsense.” She yawns, and opens towards the common room. It’s warm, a great contrast against the snow that was falling during the ball. I sigh at the warmth and George grabs my waist. 

“I don’t want this night to end.” He grumbles, placing his face on my shoulder, pressing soft kissing to the crook of my neck. I grin, and thread my fingers through his hair. He stands up straight, and says, “Keep dancing with me.” 

“There’s no music.” 

“There’s no need for music, you can just think of any song you like.” George says, and he’s already placing his hand on my waist and raising my palm to his shoulder. I smile, “I really don’t think I can take another step in these heels.” 

“Take them off then.” George says, he goes down on his knees, and raises his hand for me to hold on to. He takes off both heels for me, and it feels amazing to have my feet back on the ground. His hands move up and down my legs over my stockings. 

He stands back up, and resumes back to dancing position. I think we’ve danced so much tonight, that I’ll still be dancing in my dreams. He starts to move the way we learned for the waltz, and my feet move instinctively. He’s much more silly this time, twirling me around more often, sneaking kisses whenever I’m close enough. 

I place my head on his chest, and we move slowly, barely taking any steps at all. I enjoy the pace of his heart. I lift my head up to look up at him. I say, “We should do this every month.” 

“The yule ball?” George asks, confused, amused, and not in any way opposed. I chuckle, “No, like a dancing-sort of date…maybe next time with actual music.” 

“That’s a brilliant idea, darling.” George says, and presses a kiss to my head, before I lean back on his chest. A few footsteps coming down from the boy’s dormitories interrupts us. Fred says, “Mate! I thought she kidnapped you and I was hearing the sound of your ghost coming to haunt me!” 

I laugh, and George smiles. I say, “I’m pretty sure if anyone’s kidnapping anyone then it’ll be George kidnapping me, not the other way around.” 

“It’s three in the morning.” Fred states after a laugh. And despite not wanting to, and enjoying George’s body heat way too much, I had to pull away and say, “He’s right, it’s pretty late.” 

I grab my heels from where I left them on the ground, and start going up the stairs. George follows closely behind, and when it’s time to turn left to head towards the girls’ dormitories, George grabs my hand. He presses a kiss on my hand and says, “I’ll dream of you tonight.” 

a/n: Hey! if you think this didn't completely suck, feel free to check out my masterlist, and I hope you enjoyed this fic

[wisteria-lodge]

What do you think about Molly Weasley?

I have a lot of thoughts about Molly Weasley. I think she’s a fantastic character,  just not in the way that JKR intended. 

I think the intention was to make Molly kind of a mama bear. Fiercely loving, fiercely protective, hot tempered… but you know. In a cute way. In a warm way. I do think that Movie!Molly threads this needle. (I also think that her bear-ears hairstyle is perhaps intentional.) 

Movie!Molly gets her big duel with Bellatrix, she gets (reasonably) annoyed at the boys for stealing the car. Her only spicy moment is the Howler… which is softened and made more comedic by 1) including a nice message for Ginny at the end 2) including a tongue-sticking-out moment, which turns the whole thing into more of a joke on Molly. Now it’s your mom being kind of weird and embarrassing… versus her public shaming you, toxic tik-tok mom style. The Howler is much worse in the book: “​​I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS.”

So let’s talk Book!Molly, because there’s a lot there. She’s a Prewett, growing up in a more *typical* pure blood family as opposed to being a “blood traitor” Weasley. (Cedrella Black was disowned for marrying a Weasley, Lucretia Black married a Prewett no problem.)  Molly also married Arthur really young, and really quickly. It’s even lightly implied they married too quickly - 

“I just think [Bill and Fleur] have hurried into this engagement, that’s all!”  “They’ve known each other a year,” said Ron (...)   “Well, that’s not very long! I know why it’s happened, of course. It’s all this uncertainty with You-Know-Who coming back, people think they might be dead tomorrow, so they’re rushing all sorts of decisions they’d normally take time over. It was the same last time he was powerful, people eloping left, right, and center —”  “Including you and Dad,” said Ginny slyly.  “Yes, well, your father and I were made for each other, what was the point in waiting?” said Mrs. Weasley.

There’s some psychological truth to that. (Also, Molly and Arthur were 100% hooking up while at Hogwarts:)

“[The Fat Lady] was here in my time,” said Mrs. Weasley. “She gave me such a telling off one night when I got back to the dormitory at four in the morning —”  “What were you doing out of your dormitory at four in the morning?” said Bill, surveying his mother with amazement. Mrs. Weasley grinned, her eyes twinkling.  “Your father and I had been for a nighttime stroll,” she said.

And the timeline’s too fuzzy to know for sure…  but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Molly getting pregnant with Bill was one of the reasons she and Arthur got married so fast. 

It’s hard to say, because you never get a great sense of their relationship, but I’m actually not sure how compatible the two of them are, or if they would have gotten married at all if it hadn't been for the war and all these external factors. There is an ongoing conflict between them: Arthur is a political radical who seems to enjoy upsetting the Malfoys - he’s not playing nice, he doesn't have a prestigious job, he’s not getting a promotion anytime soon, and he’s fine with this. His interest in muggles is fringe counterculture stuff, and his hobby is illegal. And Molly… is pretty establishment. She wants her sons to be Head Boys and Prefects, and then she wants them to get jobs at the Ministry:

“Mum went mad at [Fred and George after finding their prank candy.] Told them they weren’t allowed to make any more of it, and burned all the order forms. . . . She’s furious at them anyway. They didn’t get as many O.W.L.s as she expected.” “And then there was this big row,” Ginny said, “because Mum wants them to go into the Ministry of Magic like Dad, and they told her all they want to do is open a joke shop.”

Like we hear about this interaction secondhand, which softens the emotion, but I’m sorry? Molly burned their order forms? She wants them to do jobs they very clearly have no aptitude for, instead of being entrepreneurs? Arthur sides with the twins, and of course he does. They’re anarchists just like he is. But it *really* bothers Molly, and this conflict just keeps coming up. 

[sidenote. You cannot tell that Arthur Weasley, once he was in his late 20s/early 30s, once he had grown into himself a bit. Tell me that this man didn’t once think “you know, I really should have married a Muggle. That would’ve been perfect.”’]

But back to Molly Weasley, nee Prewett. She wants a big family, and there is no way this doesn't have something to do with the fact that both her brothers were just brutally killed. She’s trying to distract herself, fill some void, find some meaning. The fact that it doesn’t work (because how could it, she’s got just buckets of unprocessed trauma) is maybe why she is so set on having a girl. Maybe a little baby girl is what she needs. 

In the main timeline of the book, Molly 100% needs enrichment. She needs to start breeding alpacas or join a book club or get a job. (Job could be cool, especially since she has no kids at home and money is an issue.) Like come on, Molly is intense, Type A, and powerful. Possibly one of the best duelists in the entire series. She takes out Voldemort’s number two, and Bellatrix has already defeated Sirius - incredibly talented and powerful in his own right. I do think that the reason JKR made this choice (instead of letting Neville have a confrontation with Bellatrix, which would have been more narratively straightforward) is because (whether consciously or unconsciously) she doesn’t like the idea of one of her good-guy GUY characters hurting a woman. So Molly defeats Bellatrix with magic mom powers, which is the same reason Narcissia can lie to Voldemort’s face I guess.

What Molly definitely does NOT need to be doing is obsessing about her kids' significant others. Like take Fleur. (Who I think we as readers were meant to dislike more than we actually did?)  Fleur is great. So when Molly has a problem with her… then starts trying to matchmake Bill with Tonks… until Tonks (another fan favorite) also starts annoying her… it makes Molly looks really unreasonable. Also, let Bill have his long hair and earring. 

She gets weird about Hermione in Book 4, after she believes Rita Skeeter’s write-up that she's some sort of temptress playing Harry and Krum off each other. Instead of, idk, asking Harry (who she thinks of as a surrogate son) she sends Hermione a passive-agressive comically undersized chocolate egg. Harry and Ron get huge ones. That’s not cute, or funny.

Also, Percy and Penelope Clearwater. I know the real-world reason Percy hides his relationship in Book 2 is so he can be a red herring acting all suspicious… but in universe, I guess Percy just wants to date someone without his mom being weird about it? Like Penelope Clearwater is nice and normal and fine. Why is he hiding this relationship?

Then there’s Molly the disciplinarian, which we mostly see in the context of Fred and George (although there is also Ron being public-shamed by the Howler.) She is constantly giving the twins a hard time about their life choices, their jokes. Ron says “I remember Mum walloping Fred with her broomstick." Then yeah, she burns their order forms. She does feel bad about this later, and after the whole thing at the Quidditch World Cup hugs them and says, “What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn’t get enough O.W.L.s?” It’s meant to be a sweet moment, but this would annoy me just a little. It’s a little like saying, “I’m glad I don’t have to think of myself as being a bad mother.” 

I also want to point out Molly's pretty clear favoritism. Fred and George are the problem children, Ginny is the baby (although we almost never see her and her mother interact, so it’s actually very hard to say what their relationship is like), and Percy is the golden child. We see how this sort of sets him apart from all his siblings, how he's described as pompous and full of himself, but also how he’s secretive and hides things from his family. It’s kind of precarious being the golden child, and when he finally does stop pleasing his mother he falls hard. (Although I will always be a big believer in Daddy Issues!Percy. That has to be why he commits that hard to Barty Crouch Sr that fast, and then ignores that many red flags.) 

And of course Ron is the invisible child. Almost the first thing we hear him say is, “She always forgets I don’t like corned beef.” That one can slide. Molly’s got five kids at home, she made corn beef sandwiches, not everyone is going to be equally happy. But Ron’s clothes.  Molly makes her own clothes, she's defined by her facility with household magic. She knits Ron sweaters... but at least two of them are maroon despite the fact that Ron hates maroon. His room is  plastered top to bottom in bright orange Chudley Cannons merch. She couldn’t make him an orange sweater? There’s also the issue with the dress robes. Ron clearly doesn’t like them (“Mum, you’ve given me Ginny’s new dress.”) But he is the one who cuts off the lace trim later, and he doesn’t do an amazing job. I know that it's a joke, but like. That sounds like a job for Molly.

We do get Horcrux!Hermione telling Ron that he is the “Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter,” so this idea of Molly picking favorites is *kind of* in the text. But Horcrux!Hermione is wrong about Harry/Hermione being a thing, so maybe we’re meant to read this as Ron’s baseless anxiety? It doesn’t feel like that though. What it actually feels like is an unresolved plot thread. 

So here’s my take on Molly Weasley. This is someone who is pretty high-powered, who suffered a period of emotional upheaval, then got married and started having kids because she kind of thought that was what you do - and it wasn’t as fulfilling as she thought it would be. I think a lot of her comments come off as *meaner* than JKR intended, because let’s face it - JKR has a kind of mean sense of humor. And if I want to speculate further… I think there are quite a few parallels between Molly Weasley and JKR. I don't think she put them there consciously.

[rose24207]

Potions and Obsessions

Summary: in which Fred‘s crush gets caught in the middle of a love potion and instead of giving her the antidote, Fred is keeping her all to himself.

Genre: dark!Fred, dark

TW: reader is under the influence of a potion, obsession, drugging, arguing

A/N: Okay so here’s something different! I’ve been obsessed with Fred since a few days and I thought why not give him a little attention. Let me know if I should continue exploring different characters or fandoms! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

Fred Weasley wasn’t supposed to be this kind of man. He was a joker, a prankster—the life of the party.

But when you, the ever-determined and independent Gryffindor girl he had quietly loved for years, fell under the influence of a misplaced love potion, something inside him shifted.

It had started innocently enough—a love potion brewed by George as part of an experimental line for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

The plan was to use it as a prank on a Slytherin, but it had gone wrong when you accidentally stumbled into the mist of it.

The change in you was immediate and startling.

Normally reserved, you suddenly couldn’t bear to be away from Fred. At breakfast the morning after, you plopped yourself down beside him, practically in his lap, and looped your arms around his.

"Fred!" you exclaimed, your voice full of bubbly adoration. "Did you miss me? I can’t stand to be apart from you anymore."

Fred stared at you, wide-eyed. You weren’t the type for public displays of affection—at least, not before now. His gaze flicked to George, who had gone pale beside him.

“Oh no,” George muttered under his breath.

“Potion?” Fred asked, his voice low but tinged with something darker than worry.

George nodded. “She must’ve wandered into it. We need to—”

Fred cut him off, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

But he didn’t.

For days, you followed Fred everywhere, your normally sharp tongue replaced by sweet words of devotion.

You sang his praises, laughed at every joke he made, and glared daggers at anyone who so much as looked at him too long.

Fred, usually so laid-back, should have been unnerved. He should have taken you straight to Madam Pomfrey for the antidote.

Instead, he savored it.

It wasn’t like he had ever stood a chance with you before. You were brilliant, confident, always two steps ahead of everyone around you. Fred had admired you from afar for years, cracking jokes and pulling pranks just to see you smile.

But now?

Now, you were his.

“Fred, come on, this is wrong,” George said one night as the two of them worked late in the Gryffindor common room. You were asleep on the couch nearby, your head resting on Fred’s lap.

Fred’s fingers absentmindedly played with your hair. “What’s wrong about it? She’s happy, isn’t she?”

“That’s not the point! It’s not real, and you know it!” George hissed, his voice low but urgent. “You need to get her the antidote.”

Fred looked down at you, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “I already did.”

George froze. “What?”

“She’s not under the potion anymore,” Fred said casually. “She’s been herself for days.”

“That’s— That’s impossible,” George stammered, but the certainty in Fred’s voice made his stomach churn.

Fred turned his gaze to his brother, his eyes darker than George had ever seen. “She’s in love with me, George. Potion or not. She just needed a push to see it.”

George’s blood ran cold. “You’re lying. You didn’t give her the antidote, did you?”

Fred shrugged, his grin turning sharp. “Why would I ruin something perfect?”

George stared at his brother in disbelief. “Fred, this isn’t you.”

“It’s exactly me,” Fred said softly, his fingers still threading through your hair. “For once, I have what I want. And I’m not letting it go.”

The next morning, you woke up in Fred’s arms, stretching and smiling up at him. “Good morning,” you murmured, your voice warm and genuine.

“Morning, love,” he replied, his grin brighter and softer than it had been the night before.

You hadn’t changed. You were still completely devoted to him, still shooting glares at anyone who came too close, still utterly, completely his.

And Fred knew he’d never let that go.

Thank you for reading!

[sweetbabycheesez]

Mistrial and Error

The dungeons always felt too clean. That might’ve been your first clue—how the stones beneath your shoes didn’t echo the same way they did in the upper floors of the castle. You noticed these things, the way your hair always fell neatly even when you didn’t try, the way your robes always looked pressed and sharp like they were charmed by house-elves who understood taste. The way others looked at you in the Great Hall when you laughed too loudly or rolled your eyes mid-conversation like you were meant to be invisible in public spaces.

But Fred Weasley had never once asked you to be quiet.

Maybe that’s what did you in.

You don’t even remember how it started, not really. One minute, you were calling him and George "sideshow performers with delusions of grandeur" in a Transfiguration class group assignment, and the next, he was helping you hide your hand after you hexed a desk by accident and left scorch marks in the wood.

You were supposed to hate each other. Gryffindor and Slytherin, born into rivalry. You—Y/N Everleigh Marlowe—of the noble Marlowe line. Your father was a Ministry official, your mother a socialite who once danced with a Beauxbatons diplomat under the Midsummer Moon. You were raised on tailor-fitted cloaks, books without cracked spines, and expectations that hovered above your head like stormclouds.

Fred? Fred Weasley wore someone else’s boots to Hogsmeade, patched his gloves with mismatched thread, and had a laugh that sounded like it didn’t care who was listening.

You met in between.

Your friends—Becca Muldoon, Talia Greengrass, and Isadora Flint—knew something was up before anyone else. Not because you told them. You wouldn’t. But because they noticed how you smiled into your pumpkin juice at breakfast. How you left gatherings early with the excuse of “prefect business,” despite not being one.

“You fancy him,” Becca had said once, biting into a chocolate frog.

“Fancy who?” You were too quick to deflect.

“The ginger menace.” Talia smirked.

“Fred Weasley?” Isadora asked like it was a curse.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be daft.”

But of course, Fred heard it. You didn’t know he’d been behind you, just outside the corridor by the Slytherin common room entrance, behind a tapestry of Merwyn the Mad. He’d been waiting with a note charmed to sing softly when touched—your signal. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the words stopped him cold.

You fancy him.

Fred Weasley.

He grinned like an idiot all the way back to Gryffindor tower.

Fred’s Perspective

He kept the bracelet hidden under his sleeve—silver and green, braided with enchanted thread that shimmered when he ran his thumb over it. You made it for him after your first real argument ended with you both snogging behind the Greenhouses.

He was writing when Ginny stole the letter.

“You’re up to something,” she said, peering over his shoulder.

Fred shoved the parchment under his elbow. “Get lost, Gin.”

“Oi! He’s writing poetry!” Lee Jordan yelled from the sofa.

“Bet it’s to Angelina,” George said with a wink.

Fred’s ears turned red.

Ginny was faster. She snatched the letter with a laugh, dodging Fred’s arm.

“You’re proper annoying, you know that?” he barked, lunging for her.

She read aloud:

‘I don’t care if your common room’s buried in snake statues and pretension. I’d follow you down there any day if it meant I’d see your stupid smirk again.’

The common room exploded with laughter.

“Give it back!” Fred snapped, snatching it from her hand.

Lee leaned forward. “Who’s the Slytherin girl?”

George’s brow furrowed. “No way… Y/N Marlowe?”

Silence.

Hermione’s mouth fell open. Ron stared. Harry blinked like he hadn’t heard right.

“Mind your own bloody business,” Fred snarled. “All of you.”

“You’re dating her?” Ron looked scandalised.

Fred stood. “You don’t know her. You don’t know anything about us.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Bit defensive, aren’t we?”

Fred didn’t answer. He stormed off, fists clenched.

He didn’t need them to understand.

She was worth it.

There was always someone watching.

You noticed it the first time Fred sent a paper origami bird fluttering across the Great Hall. It landed in your lap with a little curtsy. You smiled despite yourself.

The note read: Dinner’s never been this interesting.

Hermione Granger caught it first, her gaze flickering between you and Fred like she was assembling a puzzle.

Then George.

Then Harry.

Then Ron, who looked like he’d just bitten into a lemon.

You ignored the whispers.

It was different, being with Fred. He never judged your clipped words or your cold front. He saw through it.

“D’you practice looking like a snob in the mirror?” he teased once.

“Do you practice looking like you got dressed in the dark?” you fired back.

He’d kissed you then, just to shut you up.

Honeydukes, Hogsmeade Trip

You were sharing a lollipop in Honeydukes when Talia walked in.

“Of course it’s you,” she muttered under her breath.

Fred looked like he’d been caught robbing Gringotts.

You swallowed. “Don’t say anything.”

Talia tilted her head. “I won’t. Just… be careful.”

Gryffindor Common Room, Later

“Oi, Fred,” George said, holding up the bracelet. “Found this under your bed.”

Fred snatched it. “Mine.”

Lee frowned. “You made a silver and green bracelet?”

Fred gritted his teeth. “Yeah. Problem?”

“No. Just weird is all.”

Hermione whispered something to Harry. Harry whispered to Ron. Fred felt them all staring.

“Right, that’s it,” he snapped. “She’s not your problem. She’s not rude, she’s just got the privilege to be. She’s smart, sharp as anything. She sees through every fake smile at those Ministry galas. And yeah, her robes are clean and her handwriting’s perfect, but I’d bet my last Chocolate Frog she’d hex anyone who called her stuck up.”

Silence.

Fred stormed to his room.

When you met again behind the Herbology greenhouses, you wrapped your arms around him.

He kissed you deep and slow, pulling you against him like he needed to.

“You’ve been smoking,” he murmured against your mouth.

You pulled back. “No I haven’t.”

“You have.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe a bit.”

He grinned. “Can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

He did. His lips were warm and soft, but firm—like they knew what they wanted. His fingers found your waist, your jaw, then your hair. You raked your fingers through his, tugging at the roots until he groaned low against your mouth.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless.

“Reckon we’ve got five minutes before someone catches us,” he said.

“Four, actually.”

You both burst out laughing.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t supposed to be. But it was yours.

[kmt123whatsthetea]

Forest desires

George Weasley x reader

Requested by: @georgeweasleywife4566

Request gist: “George and the reader have sex in the forest”

A/N: Thank you for the request! I decided to slow things down and make it a soft sex one (it wasn't really specified so I thought I’d give my little pervert brain a rest). I’ve been in a world of self-pity lately (my dad got to meet the guy who played Percy Weasley, and didn’t invite me to the comic con). I'm also sorry that it's taking me so long to write, I’ve been sucked into RE4 (my hand is glued to the controller)

T/W: unprotected sex, forest sex, mentions of exhibitionism, Goblet of Fire George (it's not a trigger but I didn't want it to get lost in the A/N), teasing, fingering, reader is a little unsure about the situation but George comforts her, George licking your juices (it sounds so unsexy like that), George being a gentle boy,

George could talk you into anything.

From sneaking around the castle late at night to getting frisky under the Quidditch stands, he’d twist your arm. Metaphorically, of course.

But this was a new fantasy he had.

“What if you and I snuck into the Forbidden Forest tonight?”

Knowing George, this wasn’t just a moonlight jaunt. He had something naughty planned. But knowing you, you’d agree to go.

____________________________________________

The sneaky trek down to the forest wasn't new to you or George. He had snuck out many times and sometimes brought you along on a late night pranking mission with Fred.

Before you knew it, he was pulling you by the hand deeper into the dark woods. He pulled you to a small clearing where the tree’s parted, letting the moonlight in. How could the Forbidden Forest be so romantic with all of the centaurs, unicorns, and spiders running around? The thought made you pull George's hand, a little reluctant to get busy in a place that man feared and machinery disappeared (said machinery being the Weasley’s flying Ford Anglia).

George chuckled at your reluctance. He always found it fun to talk you into different situations, like pulling pranks on staff members or messing with the Slytherins that walked to class alone. But when it came to intimate situations, he was the king of persuasion.

“It’s okay, love. You know I’ll always protect you from any scary monsters that hide in the shadows. You’re my girl, remember?”

All it took was the ‘My Girl’ line, and he could convince you to do anything.

He sat on the grass and patted the spot next to him. When you had sat down, he moved a little closer. His lips found yours in a tender kiss, knowing just how to make you relax. One of his hands cupped your cheek, stroking the skin with his thumb, while his other hand moved to your thigh, toying with the fabric of your pyjama shorts.

Your hands found their way to his hair, threading through his ginger locks. You loved that he grew his hair out over the past couple of years but you’d never admit it to his face, not wanting to make his ego any bigger.

George slowly guided you to lay down before laying himself on top of you. His lips reconnected with yours and his tongue slowly swiped across your bottom lip. His hands reached for your shorts, pushing them down to your knees and leaving your underwear. His thumb found your clit through the material to rub light circles over it while his kisses silenced your soft moans and whimpers.

When you bucked your hips to try and gain more friction, he lifted his thumb to deprive you of the friction you were chasing. When he broke the kiss, you whined.

“Georgie, stop teasing. I need you”

“I thought you were worried about being seen, love. Does my dirty girl like the thought of being watched while getting her pretty pussy played with?”

He pulled your underwear to the side and rubbed his thumb around your hole, not giving you what you desperately needed.

“Maybe if you tell me what you want, I’ll give it to you”

His husky voice and sinful words were going to be the death of you one of these days.

“I want you, Georgie. I want you inside of me. Please?”

Or maybe it was your innocent whimpers and doe eyes that would be the death of him instead. His smirk grew, it always did when he got you to reveal that dirty side that you kept hidden beneath that goody two shoes exterior. He pushed his finger inside, curling it to rub against your sensitive G-spot. He could find it quicker than finding a target for his pranks.

His other hand cupped your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. He pushed another finger in, scissoring them to stretch you out. He could tell that you were trying to hold back your moans, that little voice in your head still telling you that some creature was hiding in the fog. His lips grazed against your cheek.

“It's just us out here. Those pretty noises of yours are for my ears only”

When your walls started to squeeze his fingers, he knew you were close. His thumb rubbed small circles over your clit once again and that's all it took for your orgasm to catch up. This time, you didn't hold your moans back, letting George hear just how good he made you feel.

He pulled his fingers away from your pussy before bringing them to his mouth and licking off your juices from them. He loved the way you tasted.

You moved your hands to his pyjama bottoms this time, surprising him. You pulled them down just enough to pull his cock out. Moving his tip to your entrance, you coated it in your juices before looking up at him with those pleading ‘fuck me’ eyes.

He moved his hips forward, pushing in slowly. He bottomed out, letting you take a moment to adjust to him. He stroked your jaw with gentle fingers.

“Keep those eyes on me, love”

His eyes bore into yours as he slowly pulled his hips back. He kept his thrusts slow and gentle, always treating you as if you were made of glass. You reminded him often that you wouldn't break if he was rough, but he insisted that you were precious.

He slowly slid his cock in and out of your pussy. His gentle grunts and your moans mixed with the soft sounds of the forest at night. Your voice came out in small whimpers.

“Please George, need more”

“You don’t need more baby, I wanna make it last”

His movements remained slow, taking his time to drive you crazy. His hand moved down to your hip, holding you and stopping you from squirming and escaping his torturously slow pace. When he went slow like this, you could feel everything. Every vein, every curve, every twitch. Although you hated how slow his pace was, you loved how full it left you feeling.

“I know you’re close, baby. Cum all over my cock and I’ll fill you up. I know you like to be nice and full”

He knew you better than you knew yourself sometimes. You had been so focused on how full you were starting to feel that you hadn't noticed your orgasm creeping up on you. You came on his cock, squeezing it so snuggly and coating it with your juices. He followed soon after, spilling his seed deep inside of your pussy. His thrusts stopped, content with keeping his cum inside of you for now.

He laid himself on top of you, being mindful not to crush you.

“You know love, tomorrow is a Saturday. We could stay out here for another round”

George could always talk you into anything.

[romanczukowsky]

🌾The Burrow Breathed With Us

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader (Y/N)

Setting: The Burrow, pre-relationship, wedding night, slow burn → first time

Summary: The Burrow is bursting with life — laughter, chaos, and quiet, hidden glances. You’re just a family friend helping out, tying Fred’s crooked tie before the wedding. But between the soft brush of fingers and the heat in his gaze, something unspoken begins to take shape. When the music fades and his hand drifts higher on your thigh… the line between friends and lovers disappears — with one whispered promise and one slow, breathtaking night.

Author's Note: This story is soft, poetic smut — written with more emotion than filth, more touch than thrust.

The Burrow was living by its own rhythm today. The Weasley house had always felt just a little too small for the number of feet, voices, laughter, and love that passed through it—but today? Today, it seemed like the very walls were trying to breathe with us, swollen with emotion, with the scent of baking bread, the sharp calls of Molly’s voice echoing down the halls, and the frantic clatter of shoes running up and down the stairs.

Downstairs, George was muttering to himself about missing cufflinks, Percy was arguing with his reflection in the mirror, and Fleur was close to tears over... something delicate and dramatic. Even the family cat looked agitated, darting in and out of rooms like a living streak of fur and annoyance, as if to remind us all that chaos was the natural order of things.

And me? I stood at the top of the stairs, just outside Fred’s room, holding his tie like it was some sacred object—fragile, significant, electric in my hands. He was waiting for me, wearing that crooked, shameless grin that made it impossible to think clearly.

"Come on," he called, voice playful. "Save me before I accidentally strangle myself with this thing."

I stepped into his room, trying not to look too long. He was only in a dress shirt, half-buttoned, the collar loose, his freckled chest peeking through just enough to make me feel flushed. His hair, that wild, familiar mess of ginger, fell over his forehead like he hadn’t even tried to tame it. And his eyes—those endlessly mischievous eyes—held something softer in them today. Or maybe it was just the light. Or maybe it was me.

"You still haven’t learned how to tie a tie?" I asked, standing in front of him and beginning to thread the fabric through my fingers.

"Nope," he replied, his tone casual, but softer than usual. "But it gives me an excuse to have you stand this close to me, so..."

I stepped in. Too close, really, for just ‘helping’. My fingers brushed against the hollow of his throat—his skin still cool from a morning shower. He didn’t move. He just looked at me, eyes a little too steady, too open.

And I felt it—barely there, but undeniable. That moment. The shift.

The point where something unspoken passed between us like a breeze that raises the hairs on your neck. The place where teasing ended and tension began.

"You look good in white," I murmured before I could stop myself. The words just... slipped out.

Fred raised a brow, smiling lazily. "Does that mean I shouldn’t look even better on my own wedding day?"

I laughed—nervous, breathy. "It’s not your wedding, Weasley."

"For now."

I didn’t answer. What could I have said? That I’d been thinking about him for weeks? That every time I closed my eyes, I could feel the echo of his laughter like a ghost against my skin? That somewhere between the jokes and the late-night talks, he’d gone from my favorite friend to my quietest ache?

No. I didn’t say any of it.

I just tied his tie. And I left.

The ceremony had been beautiful, of course. Laughter threaded through the vows, people weeping into handkerchiefs, and a blush on the bride’s cheeks that made even the sun look shy. I stood off to the side during the final cheers, my hands clasped in front of me, but my eyes? My eyes were on Fred.

He had been smiling—grinning, really—like he meant it, like something inside him had bloomed and refused to close again. I watched the light kiss the edges of his hair, watched the way he leaned in to whisper something to George that made them both laugh too loudly. And yet, even through the celebration, he looked at me.

Not always. Just enough. Like he didn’t need to search the room because he already knew where I’d be.

By the time the sun had softened and the music began, we were sitting at a long wooden table strung with wildflowers and flickering candles. Fred beside me. Too close.

I had laughed at something he said, something stupid and charming in that Fred Weasley way. And then I felt it—his hand. Beneath the table. Resting lightly on my knee.

My breath caught.

At first, I thought it was a joke. A tease. But he didn’t move it away. His fingers just stayed there. Warm, casual. Then they curled ever so slightly, as if testing the boundary of skin and cloth.

“Y’know,” he said softly, just near my ear, “I keep imagining this day... but with you in white. Me in a better-fitting tie. And everyone here to watch us.”

I turned to him—eyes wide, heart in my throat. He wasn’t smiling now. Not fully. There was something else behind his gaze. Want.

And then his fingers started to move.

Not fast. Not demanding. Just… exploring. A single fingertip tracing idle circles against the inside of my thigh. Slow, lazy shapes that made the skin beneath my dress feel suddenly too aware. My lips parted, but I didn’t breathe. I couldn’t.

His touch drifted upward, half an inch, maybe less.

And then again.

Higher.

I swallowed, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. The table was loud with clinking glasses and spinning stories. But in my world, there was only him.

Fred’s thumb stroked the soft part of my inner thigh—tender, uncharted skin. I bit the inside of my cheek. My hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. I could feel the heat blooming in my chest, spreading outward, rising to my cheeks.

I was blushing. Fiercely.

And I didn’t stop him.

His fingers slipped higher, brushing the edge of my underwear. So close to where I pulsed for him I thought I might lose my mind. Slowly, deliberately, his hand slipped just beneath the fabric, resting against the warm, bare skin of my inner thigh. The contrast between the coolness of the lace and the heat of my skin beneath made my breath hitch. His touch was featherlight at first, teasing the sensitive skin hidden from view, then growing firmer, more confident.

Every nerve in me awakened under his hand, a delicious shiver spreading through my body. His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns, exploring the secret places where only he was allowed to go. The warmth of his palm pressed gently, grounding me even as it set me aflame.

He paused there, as if asking a silent question. I tilted my hips, just barely—an invitation.

I felt his smile against my temple.

“Merlin,” he whispered, “you’re wet…”

I shivered.

“Fred,” I murmured. Just his name. But it carried every unanswered want, every imagined kiss, every second I’d lain awake wondering what his touch might feel like.

He didn’t wait this time. He leaned in, lips ghosting over my ear. “Come with me.”

I nodded, already standing, already following.

The hallway blurred behind us as Fred took my hand, weaving me through the dim, quiet upper floor of the Burrow. Laughter still floated from downstairs like a distant memory, but it no longer belonged to us. Not now.

He opened the door to his room with one smooth motion and let me step inside first.

It was exactly as I remembered—chaotic, warm, a little too full of mismatched things. A half-made bed, a crooked poster on the wall, a sweater tossed carelessly over a chair. But it felt safe. Like him.

Fred closed the door behind us. The soft click of the latch made my skin prickle.

Neither of us spoke.

I turned to face him and found him already watching me, his tie slightly askew from earlier—my knot, still clumsy but real. He reached up, loosened it slowly, and let it fall to the floor between us.

"You’re quiet," he said gently.

"I’m…" I tried to find the word. But my breath was shallow. My heart, wild. "Thinking too much."

He stepped forward and lifted a hand to my face, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"Then don’t," he whispered. "Let me think for you."

His kiss came soft at first—his lips brushing mine like he was still waiting for permission. But I leaned in. And when I did, something in him shifted.

Fred deepened the kiss, his hands coming to my waist, then sliding up my back with a care that made me feel cherished, not just wanted. His mouth was warm, slow, tasting. Like he wasn’t in a rush. Like he meant to memorize me.

When we finally parted, I was trembling.

He looked down at me, brushing his nose lightly against mine. “You’re shaking.”

"I know," I breathed.

"Is it too much?"

I shook my head. “It’s not enough.”

Fred exhaled, a low, reverent sound, and guided me gently backward until the backs of my knees touched the edge of his bed. He kissed me again, slower this time, while his hands moved down—over my ribs, over my hips—before slipping beneath the hem of my dress. His palms were warm and steady on my thighs as he knelt in front of me.

His lips found the inside of my knee first.

Then a little higher.

Then higher still.

Each kiss a question. Each breath against my skin, an answer.

By the time his mouth reached the softest part of me, I was already undone.

He looked up once—eyes burning, waiting for any sign of hesitation. But I reached for him, fingers in his hair, and he took that as his yes.

His tongue was gentle, patient, tasting every inch of me like he had all the time in the world.

And in that moment, maybe he did.

I moaned, soft and aching, the sound escaping before I could even try to hold it back. Fred’s grip on my thighs tightened just slightly, keeping me open for him. My body arched into his mouth, my hips restless against the unbearable sweetness of him.

Every circle of his tongue. Every stroke of his fingers. Every breath between kisses made me feel like I was glowing from the inside out.

He wasn’t teasing. He was worshipping.

And when I finally shattered—quietly, breathlessly, his name spilling from my lips like prayer—he kissed the inside of my thigh once more, as if sealing it there forever.

When he rose, I pulled him to me. My arms around his neck. His forehead rested against mine.

“Y/N,” he whispered, and nothing in the world had ever sounded more tender.

I kissed him again. Slower now. Certain.

There was no going back.

And neither of us wanted to.

His lips found mine again, and this time the kiss was deeper. More grounded. There was no rush — only the thrum of his heartbeat echoing through mine, and the quiet, sacred space between each breath.

Fred laid me gently back on his bed, his body covering mine with a kind of reverence I hadn’t known I needed. The sheets were a little messy, the lamp on the nightstand flickered softly, casting gold shadows over his face. But none of that mattered. It was him.

He hovered above me, one hand braced beside my head, the other stroking a line from my shoulder, down the curve of my waist, and over my hip. I felt him against me, hard and patient, pressed to my thigh — and every inch of my skin came alive beneath him.

He looked down at me. Eyes soft. Serious.

“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of this?” he whispered, his breath warm against my lips. “Of you?”

I cupped his face with both hands, trembling. “Then stop dreaming,” I breathed. “Take me.”

And he did.

Fred leaned in and kissed me again as he gently slid his hand between my thighs, easing them apart. His fingers moved with the same care he had shown me before — learning, exploring, preparing. I gasped softly as he found me, still trembling from what he'd already given me.

When he finally positioned himself, his breath hitched — just slightly. Our foreheads touched. My legs wrapped around him on instinct, drawing him in. Welcoming him.

He pressed into me slowly. Inch by inch. The stretch was real — tender, intense — but never too much. He paused once, kissing my cheek, as if asking with his body: Is this okay?

“Yes,” I breathed, wrapping my arms around his back. “Fred, please…”

That was all he needed.

He began to move — slow, grounding thrusts that rocked through me like tides. His hands were everywhere: cupping my cheek, cradling my hip, brushing down my arm. Every roll of his body against mine made me feel more open, more wanted, more known.

We barely spoke — just small, sacred sounds between kisses and gasps. The occasional broken whisper:

“God, you feel—”

“Don’t stop—”

“I’ve wanted this… wanted you…”

His rhythm built gradually, the tension coiling and tightening deep inside me. I met him with every motion, hips rising to meet his, breath catching with every deep, aching thrust. He filled me completely — not just physically, but emotionally. His presence, his touch, the way his fingers threaded through mine as he moved within me — it was all too much and somehow never enough.

He kissed my shoulder, my jaw, the corner of my mouth. His pace faltered — just slightly.

“Y/N,” he whispered. “I’m close—”

“So am I,” I gasped, wrapping myself tighter around him.

And when we finally tipped over the edge — together, shaking, mouths pressed in a silent cry — it felt like falling into something infinite. Something honest.

Afterward, he didn’t pull away. He stayed, his forehead resting against my collarbone, our breathing slow and tangled. His body heavy over mine in the most perfect way. I ran my fingers through his hair, and he kissed the center of my chest like he never wanted to leave.

“I don’t know what this means now,” I said quietly, barely trusting my voice.

Fred looked up, his lips still close to my skin.

“It means,” he said, “I’m completely yours, if you’ll have me.”

I smiled, heart pounding, lips brushing his.

“I already do.”