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A Date, Of Sorts

Ron Weasley x f!reader

Summary: A chance encounter, a sympathetic ear. You find Ron Weasley drinking alone, a burnt out Auror burdened with heavy expectations. Once he opens up, the night takes you elsewhere.

Tags: explicit | post-Hogwarts | sex | cunnilingus | alcohol

2.9k words

A/n: For @ellivenollivander 🖤 I love how this is the fault of the Ominis server of all places. Despite the thing that got me writing was sub!Ron, I ended up writing this absolutely shameless self indulgent smut fic.

The Leaky Cauldron, London. Neither very grand, nor particularly cosy, absolutely terrible for conducting private business, and yet witches and wizards flocked to it like moths to a flame. You supposed it was convenient for the Ministry, given how packed it currently was with smart robed administrators with pinched faces and even the odd member of the Wizengamot or two. You were here for someone in particular, and yet after a careful sweep of the crowds, he eluded you. You considered that perhaps he'd been held up at work, deciding to settle down at a dark and dingy corner of the bar to wait.

The barman looked at you expectantly as he wiped a pint glass with a dirty cloth, your lip curling in faint disgust you were too slow to hide. “Butterbeer,” you requested, wishing it was something stronger. Keeping your eyes peeled for your date, you kept yourself busy by idly fiddling with the hem of your skirt whilst taking in the ambience—if it could be called as such. The old pub was dilapidated and held up by more magic and willpower than by the crumbling oak beams, yet you did admit it held a certain charm. Your eyes drifted down from the flickering lights and caught on something warm and familiar; a burnished copper mop that glinted amber and gold and reminded you of sticky toffee… “Ron?”

He hadn't heard you—though it was certainly the boy you'd gone to school with—clearly busy nursing a glass of what looked like whiskey with too much ice. You kept your eyes down, surreptitiously glancing across the bar whilst grabbing your butterbeer with clumsy fingers and shoving a pile of knuts on the counter. The barman grumbled, ignored.

Oh, it was Ron Weasley, alright. So many years later, he'd not changed in all the ways that mattered. A sip of beer masked a smile, sticky sweet foam coating your lips, but your blush felt far too obvious. Lucky, then, that he appeared so deep in thought, so enraptured with his own fingernails.

No wedding ring.

Ron sighed and picked up his glass and you instinctively copied him. He threw the rest of his drink down, wincing slightly at the burn before signalling the barman—who seemed far more genial towards him than yourself—for another. Whatever had him here, had him drinking for comfort; for solace. Now that you were really looking, you noticed how downcast he appeared, the once easy smirk he wore wiped clean from his face. The slight shadows under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights; the black suit of an Auror, top button popped open, the obvious culprit.

“Ron?” You tried again, and this time he looked up, slightly dazed, clearly not expecting to be addressed despite the busy pub filled with his colleagues. His eyes were blue and red; beautiful and sombre. A spark of recognition finally passed after a few agonising moments, and he offered you a sincere smile. Your name rolled off his tongue and you nodded—yes, it's me.

“Hey.” His voice was gravelly with drink. “Now there's a face I haven't seen in a while.”

He looked you over, unabashedly, as you'd done only moments before, eyes leaving a trail of prickled skin in their wake.

“Likewise. Working at the Ministry?” you asked cheerfully, but it was clearly the wrong thing to say. Your question prompted another gulp of whiskey. “Sorry, bad day?”

“Bad day, bad year. But how about you? What are you up to these days?” He deflected easily, suddenly giving you his rapt attention. You told him the usual story—you were a healer at St Mungo’s, caring for the sick was your calling, and so on and so forth. You might have seen a flicker of doubt in his gaze, but he only smiled and nodded, eating up every lie you had, ravenous to hear anything but his own story. He pushed his hair out of his face as if willing you to keep looking, and that's when you realised he was using his routine on you. That's also when you remembered you were waiting for a date, a thought that almost sent butterbeer dribbling down your chin.

“What are you, really? Go on, you can tell me. My lips are sealed,” he slurred. He looked at your lips as he said it, and you looked at his.

Unfortunately for him, it would take more than mere flirting from an old crush to get you to dispense with your secrets. An Unspeakable is discreet, even in the face of adversity (and gorgeous redheads).

“I promise you I am a healer, despite my clear disregard for my own health and wellbeing,” you said, gesturing to your third—or fourth—glass of beer.

“I think the most you'll get from that is cavities.” He laughed, and it sent you back in time to those days at school before everything went so horribly wrong.

“I'm better at mending broken bones than hearts but if you wanted to talk…”

“Is that what you think I have—a broken heart?” Ron grinned, wide and bright, and you melted despite your foolishness.

“Is it not? Sorry, I just assumed the whiskey and general demeanour—”

“Okay, alright. Glad to know you noticed me being a sulky git. Truth is, my job really takes it out of me sometimes.”

“I can imagine,” you said quietly. In fact, you knew exactly what he meant. “Is being an Auror not what you expected?”

“I’d say it's exactly what I expected. The problem is, after everything that happened everybody expected me to do this, you know?”

You nodded, fighting the urge to look away. Ron may have looked startlingly similar to his sixteen year old self—bright eyes; crooked smile; fiery, untameable hair—but despite the years that had passed he had a weariness about him that belied his true age. Once he'd started there was no stopping him, words pouring forth as he reached desperately for catharsis. He'd wished he'd taken a different path, and looking at him now, you had to agree with that assessment. Ron Weasley didn't suit the stifling crush of the Ministry.

You reached across the bar and put your hand on his, a gesture most unexpected and yet felt right for the moment. If your date happened to turn up now, then so be it. Ron looked at where your bodies joined with the slow sort of realisation of someone unused to physical affection—or maybe it was the firewhiskey. Everything certainly was quite hazy now. There was a soft glow around the edges of your vision that enveloped you in a warm hug of intoxication. The weak alcohol told you that anything was possible—even holding Ron Weasley's hand.

Ron cleared his throat, and for an awful second you thought he was going to pull away, not pull you closer. But soon you felt his callouses brush your palm as he turned over his hand and guided you closer, the hot tang of whiskey on his breath and smoke lingering in his hair—not the kind of tobacco smoke that clogged your lungs but the unmistakable scent of fire, of magic. You wondered what he'd been doing that day, why his coat was singed and he had the slightest hint of a bruise blooming on his cheek, but then he was kissing you.

His lips parted, soft and supple, coaxing you to respond amongst your shock. You tilted your head—an invitation—and he smiled against your mouth, sliding a hand onto your knee with only thin nylon between you and his burning palm.

When you pulled apart, both breathing heavier than before, it took a while to focus your eyes on his heavy lids that suggested he wanted much more than just your kiss. Despite his drunkenness, Ron kept his hand a respectful distance from your lap, despite your growing urge for him to venture higher and relieve the throbbing ache between your legs. He licked his lips and smiled.

“Do you do that to all the girls that lend you an ear?” you asked quite breathlessly.

Ron chuckled and smiled that crooked smile that set your pulse racing, but his answer was sincere and serious.

“I always fancied you, know. At school.” He shrugged, a hint of boyish charm and feigned innocence. “And thanks for listening. It's not often anyone thinks to ask.”

His fingers still burned a brand into your thigh; so distracting was his hand's presence that you almost forgot to reply.

“You're welcome,” you replied weakly. To your dismay, he knew damn well the effect he was having on you. Even more horrifying were the words that spilled from your mouth next. “Do you want to go somewhere quieter?” What in Merlin's name possessed you to say that?

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You'd asked and he'd accepted, and your fate was sealed. Though there was no promise of anything more than quiet company the expectation hung thick and heavy in the air between you. After that kiss, how could you think clearly about anything other than how they'd feel on your body?

You walked in the chilly night, wind battering the comfortable jacket of warmth the alcohol had given you until you were startlingly sober by the time you stood on Ron’s doorstep. By then you didn't care much—apprehension had made way for giddy excitement and lustful want. Reminiscing on old times and flirtatious banter continued into the hallway, which was much more tidy and homely than you'd expected. There wasn't much time to take in the decor before your lips were fused once more.

Pressed against the wall with a dado in your spine, you were now reminded just how tall he was, towering above you and blocking the ceiling light like an eclipse. Your neck craned to kiss him, a gentle finger tilting your chin, a leg slotted between your own. Not enough pressure to relieve much of anything, only an enticement. His hands roamed whilst tongues entwined, and you moaned softly into his mouth once he found his way underneath your top, skimming the waistband of your skirt. You'd thought he might be fumbling, a little awkward, but Ron surprised you with his gentleness, his teasing strokes. He grazed the dips of your waist, groaning low with approval as your hips rocked of their own accord.

His hair felt like spun silk, copper strands falling over his eyes as you displaced them. Laboured breaths and moans filled the cramped hallway, your skirt hitched around your hips and his thigh pressed tight against your aching centre. You might've let him take you there and then if he'd not pulled away. You felt like you'd been slapped, so sudden the absence of his lips was that you opened your mouth in protest before realising he was taking you to the bedroom with a smirk to end all debate. His red and kiss-swollen lips and mussed hair had you practically skipping behind him, falling into his arms and onto the bed as soon as the door shut.

“I thought we were just coming here to lament about our jobs some more,” you said with a pout.

You were on your elbows, looking up at him, half undressed and flushed as he knelt before you with a hand on his belt buckle. He stilled, looked at you and raised his eyebrows.

“I mean, we can do that instead if you want.” He shrugged. He shrugged. Then his fingers slipped inside your knickers with one swift motion and his face split into a shit-eating grin. He didn't need to point out how aroused you obviously were, but he did anyway—something about being ‘soaking wet’ before he plunged his fingers inside you and silenced any retort. Not that you could have thought of one, given how addled your mind was as he curled his digits almost languidly. Your back arched, head thrown back against the mattress as you looked up at him, surrounded by a dim halo of light. He'd abandoned his attempts at undressing himself, fixated on your every reaction to him. You swore his eyes were now a darker grey, a swirling tempest as he drank you in, rather than the baby blues you'd been so enamoured with.

“Ron…,” you managed to sigh between the pumps of his hand.

“You’re gorgeous.” The words dripped in what sounded like awe, coaxing a whine from your throat.

Your body shifted and squirmed beneath him, desperate for more and he heard your silent plea. You thought he would finally shed his pesky clothes, that damned black suit that clung to his body so delectably, but once again he surprised you by dipping his head and disappearing from view.

“Ro—oh fuck.”

His fingers remained buried to the knuckles but now the warm, wet swipe of his tongue sent your head spinning. Deciding that the bunched fabric of your underwear was far too impeding, he swiftly pulled them down, discarding them to the floor before laying flat on the bed. He shifted to get himself comfortable as you watched, waiting, gripping the bed sheets in eager anticipation. Ron spread your legs, looking up through blond lashes and holding your gaze as he buried his mouth between your thighs. Your knuckles paled, cotton straining in your grasp as his tongue flicked lazily over your clit. Just the right amount of firm pressure, testing the waters.

He quickened, flicked and swirled his tongue, reacting to every heightened moan until he knew exactly how you liked it. By then you were close to the blissful end, your climax only a lick away, and you moaned his name so loudly the walls should have shattered. You came hard, fingers threaded through his hair and eyes locked on his, asking him without words to please don't stop as wave after wave swept over you. You felt him smile against you as he sucked until you squirmed, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

You were staring at the ceiling again, wondering when your ears would stop ringing, when the mattress shifted and Ron’s face loomed into view.

“That good, huh?”

You licked your lips and sighed in response, only now noticing he'd finally shed his shirt as you let your eyes fall on the expanse of freckled skin. He'd filled out since those school days, with broader shoulders and muscles you swore he'd not possessed even in his prime as a Keeper. Your palms flattened against him; firm and irresistible.

Lower they roamed until you found his belt, the buckle clicking as you made quick work of it, moving onto his trousers whilst Ron watched you, apparently fascinated. Knuckles brushed his cock straining against the fabric as you loosened every button, only taking a second to run a teasing thumb over the head before his mouth crashed into yours. Your surprised gasp was muffled, twisted into desperate whines as he kicked off the last of his clothes and planted himself between your legs all whilst your tongues danced and gasping breaths mingled. A press of his thigh spread your legs wider, his erection grinding against your overly sensitive clit. Fuck, he’s big, you thought with a pleasurable squirm of excitement in your abdomen.

“Ron, please…”

That smile again, a flash of amusement before your eyes fluttered shut as he pressed inside you. Slowly, deliberately, with moans of pleasure from both sides, his cock stretched you so satisfyingly an inch at a time. “Fuck, so good. You feel so good.” The praise rolled off his tongue and he kissed you again, sloppier this time; a brush of lips and heavy breaths, sharing each other's air. Your fingers entwined in his hair as he finally, mercifully, started rolling his hips. He held you firm with bruising fingertips against your hips, speaking of restraint you wish he didn't have, but oh, it felt glorious. He hit all the right spots, his steady pace building you up for another explosion of pleasure.

“Right there, yes, more.”

Harder, faster; you witnessed Ron let go of the last of his self restraint, pounding into you with such reckless abandon you could no longer breathe, let alone form coherent sentences. You managed to cry out a string of yeses until your orgasm enveloped you once more and your body convulsed, toes curling and back arching, but he didn't stop. Towering over you with flames framing his face, mouth agape and eyebrows peaked. “That's it, come for me…fuck, I'm so close.” He chased his release with brutal thrusts, gripping your hips so hard you felt bruises blooming, until finally he came with a shuddering moan and your name shouted for all to hear.

Somehow, it sounded right.

He could have rolled over and asked you to leave; there were no expectations, no pressure from either of you to stay entwined for longer than necessary, yet that's exactly what you did. Long after your breath had steadied, he held you in those strong arms, still flushed beneath the smattering of freckles. This chance encounter had reawoken a flame from former years, and you'd never been so grateful for a date not to show. If just for one night, it had been unexpectedly perfect.

“So, fancy dinner tomorrow night?” Ron's voice drifted into your ear as you felt yourself lulling, and you turned to see him grinning like an idiot; a picture of the schoolboy you once knew.

Full of surprises.

“Yeah, go on then,” you replied in an equally casual manner. You both laughed, somewhat shy and giddy.

“Wicked.”

#ron weasley #ron weasley x reader #ron weasley x you #ron weasley fanfiction

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cuffmeinblack · 1 day

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I'm having both.....

#guhhhhhh #what are words #hnnngggggggggg

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cuffmeinblack · 1 day

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They are perfect for each other✨✨✨

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cuffmeinblack · 2 days

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Hello! 🧚 This is a Fact Fairy, here to present you with some 100% solid facts!

Fact 1: Richard is cute.

Fact 2. Zacharias is hot.

Fact 3: They should totally make out of something...

IS THIS YOUR WAY OF GETTING ME TO REPLY TO RP I'M SORRY

But yes, these are FACTS.

#Richard deserves the world #and also some good d...kisses

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cuffmeinblack · 2 days

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had a dream where i logged in to ao3 and saw this

so i'm manifesting it for every author who sees this

likes charge reblogs cast, rb to wish kudos and comments upon your favorite fics

#plot twist it's all spam

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cuffmeinblack · 2 days

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*cue that one tiktok sound* these are my ladies.

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cuffmeinblack · 3 days

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Random Andrew Larson fluff fic.

This boy has me lately, and I needed to write for him.

This was nearly smut, but I couldn't do it, he's too sweet to do the things I was gonna make him do.

Word count: ~2200

Summary: Andrew has a certain way of grabbing MC's attention - and her affection. Old habits die hard, not that she'd ever want him to stop asking for her time.

A Moment of Your Time

"A moment of your time, please?" Andrew Larson asked, polite as he'd been every time she encountered him in Hogwarts.

Always a gentle greeting and a friendly smile from this one - such a contrast to her usual cohorts.

Sebastian's quips and reckless plans, Ominis's penchant for gossip and incessant bickering with the former, both Natty and Poppy eager to delve into danger for the sake of what they deemed right, Garreth's daily pleas for assistance with various concoctions...

But then there was Andrew Larson, a calm presence amidst a veritable storm of chaos.

Appreciative for any second he'd spare her, she smiled brightly and nodded, and he took a seat next to her in the Library, setting his open textbook in front of her on the table.

"I'm struggling with this concept in Professor Hecat's class, and I recall you're rather familiar with advanced dueling techniques." An easier way of saying she's a brute who took out a goblin warlord, but who was she to deny her classmate a request for help?

So, of course, she all too eagerly assisted with his studies, chattering excitedly as she pointed out the passages she found most helpful, with real-life examples as well, of course.

Because she was, in fact, very familiar with advanced dueling techniques.

"A moment of your time?" The familiar question rang out in the noisy halls, beckoning her to a quiet alcove away from the bustle.

She brightened instantly to see Andrew's ever-charming face, that easy smile waiting for her as she trotted over, adjusting her hair in what she hoped was a nonchalant motion while she approached.

"Yes, Andrew?" She asked, daring to venture just a bit closer than necessary to him - a toe over the line of politeness and crossing into his personal space. If he questioned it, she could simply say she couldn't hear him over the raucous students walking behind them.

He didn't mention it, however, and maybe he was simply being polite, or perhaps it had something to do with his next question - if she read into it the way she desperately wanted.

"Is it a fact that you're close with Mister Weakes in Hogsmeade? I've been meaning to stop by for broom polish, but I find the shop admittedly dizzying in its vast selection - would you mind accompanying me if it's not too much trouble?" He asked, voice smooth like he'd practiced the request a hundred times in the mirror before summoning her.

Very unlike her own clumsy response as she fumbled with the words, part of her knowing Albie only carried a single variety of broom polish, and the other not willing to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Y-yes, of course - I mean no, it's not too much trouble, and yes, I'd love to accompany you - not love, mind you, but I'd be happy -"

"Splendid." Mercifully, he cut off her humiliating attempt at basic English with a serene laugh, but then only made things worse with his closing line, leaving her to wonder more still.

"I'll take you out for a butterbeer afterward as thanks."

"A moment of your time?" The tap on her shoulder came with the words she knew so well, and she spun around to smile as Andrew, in his dress robes, held out a hand in a silent invitation to dance.

The Yule Ball, while spectacular, had been so disappointing before this moment that she'd wondered why she even bothered attending at all. Several hopefuls had asked to escort her, all of which she turned down in favor of the only boy she was even willing to spare a thought for anymore.

But Andrew Larson, who despite all the will-he-won't-he over the months, never once approached to ask for a date despite her certainty that he would. Nor did he approach her for anything at all over the entire week leading up to the event.

Then, as luck would have it, she discovered he'd had to go home early for the holidays for a relative who'd fallen ill - through perstering his friend Amit relentlessly, she was at least relieved to discover his aunt was indeed well again, and Andrew would return after the holidays.

Still, her friends managed to convince her to attend the Yule Ball stag, if only to experience it once before graduation. So, she'd sullenly pined away the evening, watching the others twirl around and enjoy themselves, wishing she were anywhere else.

Perhaps in London, cozied up next to a fire with a certain fair-haired boy responsible for snatching her affections without even trying.

Until he arrived, looking far more spectacular than anything she'd seen all evening.

Crystal chandeliers and decadent buffets be damned - Andrew Larson was before her in the flesh.

"Weren't you in London?" She asked quizzically, but then silently cursed herself as his smile faltered, and he retracted his hand.

She should have just taken it.

"Yes..." Andrew explained, now more hesitant than she'd ever seen. Still, he maintained that soft demeanor that turned her to goo each time they interacted. "Amit mentioned in his letters you hadn't accepted a date for tonight, however, and I thought it would be a shame if I didn't get the chance to ask the most dazzling girl in school for a dance - so I came back just for tonight."

"You came back all the way from London to ask me for a dance?" She asked, flabberghasted.

Again, he offered his outstretched hand.

This time, she accepted without missing a beat.

"A moment of your time?" He asked, taking the initiative to grab her by the hand before she could even react, pulling her into an empty section of the school gardens - tall flowering plants, wild vines, and privacy.

Surrounded by the sunny, floral backdrop, Andrew looked ethereal.

"It's been difficult to catch you between studies." He said, corners of his lips tugging down.

She didn't want to see that kind of expression on her darling boyfriend, of course, and simply leaned up to peck his cheek.

As expected, the small act put a bright smile back on his face, as such innocent affection always succeeded in achieving.

Also, as always, she pulled away afterward, not wanting to press the matter, but he gently coaxed her back to him, a delicate finger under her chin, before placing his lips softly on hers.

The kiss only lasted for the briefest, lingering second, but it was more than enough to send her heart fluttering and face dark red. For all the days she'd spent wishing to kiss him - really kiss him - she now felt woefully ill-prepared.

All at once, however, Andrew withdrew and she was left simultaneously reeling from the intense embarassment of her first kiss coming on and ending so suddenly she couldn’t react, and a heated desire to pull him back for more.

Seemingly picking up on her frazzled state, her boyfriend merely chuckled, proudly wearing the blush on his cheeks, equally affected by the act as he looked fondly at her, hand still resting on her cheek.

It was only later, as she walked back to class, the she found the single stem of blue hyacinth he'd tucked in her hair.

A knock came first - three sharp raps on the door of her office, loud enough to make the unexpected visitor's presence known, but not so obnoxious as to startle her from the veritable mountain of paperwork covering most of the surface of her work area.

“Come in.” She called out tiredly, not at all in a good position for more chatty visits from colleagues.

The first year of settling into her new position with the Ministry's Obliviator Headquarters proved taxing - freshly graduated from Hogwarts and maintaining the delicate balance of a fully-loaded work schedule with her social life was significantly more difficult than school had ever been, even in the thick of exam season. Now, with her probationary period over, the real work felt insurmountable.

Her office door creaked open, and she caught sight of the bright blue bouquet of hyacinth and cornflower before she heard those familiar words.

“A moment of your time, dear?”

An immediate balm to her headache, far more effective than any potion or spell, she rose from her chair, fatigue dissipated immediately at the sight of Andrew.

Standing in her doorway, bashful yet still with his heartachingly tender charm, he looked far lovelier than the bunch of flowers he cradled.

“I thought my favorite Ministry worker bee would welcome a small distraction and a gift almoat half as pretty as she is - honestly, I couldn't stop thinking about you all morning and well…”

Maintaining some sense of propriety, he let the door click shut behind him before drawing her into a kiss. Tender and soft as he'd always been, now he held onto her for far longer, the hand not occupied with a floral arrangement resting gently on her upper arm.

What was not as always, however, was how Andrew continued the kiss when normally he would have put a halt to things, never willing to push too far. Instead, he opted to deepen his claim on her lips, mouth moving softly against hers, testing, and slow. Heat built steadily until she'd forgotten to breathe, or what oxygen even was.

Then, when all thoughts of paperwork and stress effectively flew from her in favor of this very intriguing new side of her boyfriend she was now getting acquainted with, he pulled away slowly.

She whined under her breath, lightheaded and all but melting from the phantom caress of his kiss, only to have her breath hitch once more from the look he fixed her with.

Nervous - Andrew Larson, her composed, beloved boyfriend, lost his poise somewhere in that moment and looked lost for words.

He didn't need them, though, choosing to distract them both from his floundering by placing the flowers in her hands, obscuring her vision of his red face with the vast, bushy bouquet.

While she cooed over the bundle, sniffing them and showering him with thanks, she shifted the flowers to get a better look at him, only to find he was no longer standing in front of her.

Andrew was kneeling, delicate engagement ring in hand, and a hopeful look on his features.

Needless to say, the work simply continued piling up the rest of that day.

“A moment of your time, Mrs. Larson?”

Andrew did not wait for her reply, simply stealing her away swiftly, dragging her eagerly by the hand through the whimsical gardens where they’d said their wedding vows not even ten minutes ago.

She laughed in response, “Where could my husband possibly be dragging us off to when all our friends and family are waiting for us to start the reception?”

His answer came in the form of pushing her playfully behind the gazebo at the far end of the gardens, far enough from prying eyes to be obscured, but still out in the open enough to be considered scandalous for what he was doing to her.

“W-what are you doing?!” She stuttered out, a gasp finishing off her query when his hand boldly scorched up her thigh under the skirt of her white dress and tugged insistently at the garter.

Body pressing against hers, pushing her back against the wooden frame of the shelter concealing them, his lips latched onto her throat, gentle in the way he claimed her, drawing another gasp and a stifled moan.

His breath was hot against her ear when he finally answered, amusement tinging his voice, “Enjoying my gorgeous wife, of course. It's my right as your husband to consummate our marriage, isn't it?”

Rhetorical question, of course, and one she found herself incapable of answering with anything other than a yearning whimper of his name when that lace garter snapped under his touch and so did what little shreds of their combined patience remained.

Hand traveling up to touch her with a confident boldness she'd never known her Andrew to possess, he made good on that promise and claimed her so thoroughly that by the time they stumbled back to the reception much later, red-faced and disheveled, she could hardly comprehend a word said to her the rest of the day thanks to the sweet echoes of his touch still lingering on her body, and the sound of his breathless, loving praise in her ears.

Their little ones outside with the neighbors’ children, she watched over the peaceful scene with a smile.

Content - as always.

This truly was the perfect life. Andrew, doting father and the pinnacle of stability in their marriage. No matter what chaos life threw their way, between their respective Ministry positions and their two young children, he anchored her in a way nothing else could.

Even now, while she relaxed with a drink on the lawn with the Sweetings, he'd insisted on being the one to go inside and prepare snacks.

Still, even now, she'd always come whenever he beckoned.

Like when the back door creaked open and Andrew poked his head out with that charming smile and his familiar words.

And she knew she'd either be exiting the house shortly helping him carry a drink tray, or they'd both be stumbling out, flushed and giggling while she smoothed out her skirt and made excuses about needing to clean a spill.

She hoped it was the latter.

“A moment of your time, my love?”

Of course, she ran to him.

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cuffmeinblack · 3 days

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It's Wednesday 🖤

Happy Weasley Wednesday!!

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cuffmeinblack · 3 days

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A (not-so) little scene depicting Garreth Weasley's first kiss, shortened from my WIP slow-burn Two Sides of the Same Coin.

Garreth Weasley x F!MC

“I like you,” he says again, “I really, very much like you.” He swallows and it’s tight, and his face is warm and very probably a deep shade of red, but he’s fine — more than fine — now that he’s flung the sentiment out into the open, glittering there between them. “I really, very much like you, too, Garreth,” she says, and the words shine brighter than anything he’s ever known, seemingly illuminating him from within. He thinks he may very well turn into the bloody sun and take up residence in the sky, but he finds he doesn’t want to do that because then he’d be entirely too far removed from her. He exhales a quiet, measured breath, properly keeping the run of himself, but only just— his focus flits down to her maddening lips once more, blush-pink like rose petals, still curved in the exquisite trace of a smile.

Warnings: mild sexual content Word count: ~4.7k

Garreth Weasley has never been quite so studious in the entirety of his academic career.

Because, as of late, he’s become particularly fond of spending as much time as he possibly can with a certain friend of his, and this friend happens to spend an awful lot of time poring over textbooks in the library.

As it turns out, an individual with her lofty aspirations — such as becoming an Auror or an Unspeakable — has quite a bit of studying to do.

Garreth, on the other hand, had always been perfectly content to coast on by; lazily scribbling notes in class (when he felt like it, anyway), only to give them a cursory once-over the morning of an exam, cramming as much information as he could into his brain like a snake unhinging its jaw to gulp down an ambitious, once-monthly meal.

And so here he is, a highly unlikely sight: Garreth Weasley sat at a desk in the lower level of the library, hunched over a history book and doing his best to focus on the entirely riveting accounts of a one Burdock Muldoon.

His eyes keep stumbling over the same sentence over and over again, the words not connecting with his oversaturated brain (Muldoon [1429-1490] was Chief of Wizards’ Council from 1448 to 1450, a short tenure wherein…). And he most certainly isn’t distracted whatsoever by the girl beside him, who gives a soft little sigh as she turns the page of her textbook and absently tosses her flowery-smelling hair over her shoulder.

Because Garreth Weasley isn’t some pea-brained dolt incapable of properly functioning while in the presence of someone he found to be very, very appealing. No; he is totally, completely sound of mind.

Of course, he would be lying point-blank if he were to declare he preferred these stretching hours in the library with her to something a bit less rigid, such as taking a stroll together about the grounds or finding a secluded spot in the castle to talk and laugh and whatever else (and his heart doesn’t give a ridiculous, involuntary flutter at the thought of that last bit).

Another sigh floats beside him then, one a bit less soft than the last, and he closes his eyes, highly doubting he’ll ever come to learn what abstract tragedy befell this Burdock Muldoon character.

Then, when a book closes rather forcefully, his eyes pop open again as a pair of arms stretch outward in his peripheral, before swiftly collapsing back down onto the shared desk.

“If I read one more word, I fear my mind will melt down to a puddle.”

He sees her blinking rapidly, as though she’s forcibly erasing the walls of text that have burned into her retinas. That textbook she slammed shut gets added to a modest stack before her, followed by another — and a couple more after that — until a short tower of pages and spines sways there on the table. Garreth straightens in his chair, furrowing his brow with a cautious curiosity.

“Er — so what are you going to do now?” he asks, determined to stomp out the odd seed of hope taking purchase within him.

“Nothing, I suppose. Nothing sounds like bliss, actually.” She slides her teetering books carefully to the edge of the desk and stands, fixing him with a serious look. “Please, don’t feel as though you’re meant to join me. I wouldn’t want to interrupt—”

But Garreth is already shooting to his feet, the back of his legs shoving that uniquely uncomfortable wooden chair loudly behind him. He’s instantly something of a teleporting Diricawl, flipping his own dusty textbook closed and sidestepping to her half of the desk at the speed of light.

“Trust me, I don’t very much care for this Murdock Buldoon— or is it Burdock? You know— never mind.”

He tosses his own book atop the wobbling tower and then heaves them all into his arms, rather in a hurry to get going before she could give this all a second thought. “Let’s just get out of here.”

He thinks he would quite like to thank whichever professor had saddled her with an assignment so outrageously mind-numbing that she felt compelled to leave this academic sanctuary of hers.

As they proceed to the exit, she insists on carrying her own books — or at least half of the cumbersome stack — but Garreth refuses valiantly, angling his body away from her as she attempts to reach around to take them. His heart swells a bit as her hand closes around his upper arm (which has grown much more solid in recent weeks, thanks to the many textbooks he’s been hauling about like some bipedal ox), and he finds he isn’t bothered in the slightest when a Hufflepuff girl levels him with a ferociously incensed scowl as they pass by her desk.

And then—

“Mister Weasley!”

Of course, he should have known that he couldn’t possibly be afforded a single bloody scrap of luck.

The shrill voice piercing the relative silence unmistakably belongs to the largest, most prickly thorn in Garreth’s side as of late: the dreadful Agnes Scribner.

That welcome hand encircling his arm has quickly dropped away, and now he’s rather more than a bit annoyed when he spins to face a more-unpleasant-looking-than-usual librarian striding toward him. Her features are pinched into an impossibly tight frown as she peers up at him through those thick, rounded glasses; like they were a pair of magnifying lenses that enlarged his wrongdoings, making them appear ever more egregious.

Madam Scribner historically had never been particularly amenable to the idea of Garreth Weasley (known pyrotechnic) existing in the same space as her precious books (potential kindling). His uncharacteristic frequenting of the library in recent weeks had been enough to throw her into a sort of neurosis, wherein she closely monitored his every last move and became increasingly quick to tell him off for even the smallest of infractions.

He’s feeling a bit like a wrongly-accused criminal upon her approach, the books weighing down on his wrists like leaden manacles. Nonetheless, he grants her that highly innocent, highly deceitful smile he’s been perfecting all these years.

This ought to be good.

“Yes, Madam Scribner?” he asks, his words so saccharine upon leaving his mouth that he thinks he may have just willed a dental cavity into existence.

She stops just before him, tutting dramatically. Many of the students around them take a sudden interest in this exchange, their heads tilting up from their textbooks and ink-stained sheaths of parchment, eyes wide and attentive like they were an invasive den of diurnal mooncalves.

“Mister Weasley,” she repeats, her voice lower but no less stern, “pray tell, how many times must I remind you that the library is a quiet space?”

Now, Garreth knows very well that the posed question is meant to be rhetorical. He isn’t daft. But perhaps it’s the many eyes he feels on him now — or perhaps he’s annoyed by this delay of his exiting this wretched quiet space that he hadn’t even wanted to patron in the first place — that causes him to answer with a bit of cheek.

“Hmm—” he makes a thoughtful show of it— “Well, for one, just today you told me off for speaking a bit too loudly. My apologies. There was also yesterday, when you asked that I scratch my quill less ‘aggressively’… so that’s twice. And then there was the day before that—”

“Enough,” Scribner cuts in, sniffing indignantly. “That is quite enough. Well, Mister Weasley, as you have sufficiently demonstrated that a simple telling off isn’t adequate for the message to sink in — I suppose a week’s worth of detention will have to do.”

A pang. All of the stupid, mooncalf-like eyes upon him burn warmer than before, and he silently curses them, each and every one.

Garreth finds he’s rather keen on ending the exchange altogether and getting on with it (the girl beside him has already fully turned on her heel, away from this foolish spectacle — is she embarrassed?), so he only nods curtly in response and accepts the fate he (only partly, he’d argue) brought upon himself.

“You’ll report to the detention classroom starting this evening. Now, please, be gone.”

He’s waved off dismissively — like he were some enormous, unsightly kind of vermin to be exterminated — and so he turns right around again, feeling significantly less enthused than he had been a few minutes prior. Aunt Matilda is most definitely not going to like this. But, more pressingly, his companion is already several paces ahead of him, making a determined beeline toward the exit.

He crosses the threshold after her, their shoes clicking against the shiny marble of Central Hall, and he very nearly collides with her full-on when she stops short in front of him.

She’s doubled over and her laugh fills the cavernous space, echoing and spinning upward to the massive chandelier at the apex of the ceiling, at once seeming to bathe everything in a decidedly lovelier glow.

“Did you see her face? I nearly burst into laughter right then and there… Garreth you are— you are something.”

A ridiculously wide grin spreads across his face at this, singularly annihilating whatever grumbling feelings he had about his detention. His chest tightens some, though not at all from straining under the weight of the books (that which he is, admittedly, growing increasingly aware of).

“Right. Okay,” his voice is all gasping and strange and he feels a bit pathetic, “I reckon the detention is worth it, then.”

“Oh… well I’m sorry about that bit. Scribner really has it out for you, for some reason; it’s rotten—”

“It’s no matter,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage, though inwardly he thinks the nuisance of Agnes Scribner is something of a matter, actually. “I’m overdue for a detention. Can’t let the public think I’m losing my nerve.”

Another small, lovely laugh escapes her, and Garreth feels light — lighter than air — and he’s convinced he could very well take flight and bust straight through one of the arching stained-glass windows, content to float up and away, past the parapets and towertops to live peacefully amongst the clouds.

Her teeth press into her lip in an attempt to quell another round of laughter — and he’s warm and somewhat dizzy and very possibly going mad —

But then there’s a creak of a heavy door, and a group of students spill out of it, and it all rather effectively shatters whatever precarious thing that had just been drawing up between the two of them. He starts cursing people indiscriminately in his mind again as they pass: must they always be interrupted?

She’s self-consciously taken a small step backward, tilting her head to the ceiling in thought. The many glittering lights above sparkle in her eyes, dancing like twinkling stars against the inky backdrop of her pupils. He’s almost startled when she snaps them to him, intensely focused.

“Follow me,” she says, quietly, “There’s a place I quite like nearby.”

They ascend the several levels of the main staircase. Legs trembling ever so slightly, he completely ignores the bellowing portrait of an obnoxious knight brandishing his sword about (he calls Garreth a pock-marked knave, and Garreth valiantly resists the urge to clarify that the marks in question are, in fact, freckles).

Following a narrow corridor, they enter a rather grand, circular room. It’s quite empty, and a single chain of thick iron links runs vertically up the very center of the space, presumably suspending that massive chandelier below in the atrium of Central Hall. Mounted torches flicker against the tall, paneled walls, and the light catches the lustrous shine of her hair, bouncing softly down her back with each step.

“It’s rather peaceful up here,” she says, gliding up to a small table off to the side and turning on her heel to face him. Her woolen skirt arcs around her, swaying softly about her hips before going still again.

Garreth feels strangely wooden as he approaches, and his footfalls are entirely too loud against their silent surroundings. He carefully deposits the stack of books onto the tabletop, holding them steady for a moment as they teeter back and forth, and the cords of muscle in his arms practically sigh with relief now that they’re blissfully unencumbered.

Soon the rest of him seems to be humming with some abstract anticipation— she’s staring up at him like that again, a small smile playing about her lips.

The threads of his mind spin about like candy floss; he’s finding her altogether very distracting, and he’s rather transfixed by her mouth, and he’s very acutely aware that they’re well and truly alone for the first time in ages.

“I— Yeah. Yes. It’s very… very quiet.”

He’s stumbling over his words like some pitiful newborn foal failing at its first steps, his brain clearly incapable of properly connecting with his stammering voice box. The words he thought he might like to say in a private moment such as this slip away from him irretrievably, slick and liquefied like running water through cupped hands under a faucet.

Rather effectively, he had convinced himself that this kind of opportunity wouldn’t present itself anytime soon; it had been a coping mechanism, really, so he wouldn’t constantly dwell and pine and seethe about the tedious inconveniences of NEWT-level classes. But here they are— very much together and (more importantly) very much alone.

And so he finds he’s blank with a profound kind of nervousness and he’s simply staring at her, dumbstruck, all while the inside of his head falls to dumb silence; save for the rush of blood currently pounding through his ears, perfectly in time with the insane thudding of his heart.

“Mhmm—” her slight smile twists into something else… something knowing; conspiratorial, even— “I’ve never seen anybody else up here, in fact.”

Blood courses through him like a deluge following a drought as she takes a purposeful step forward: one that brings her close enough that he could reach out a hand and touch her.

He doesn’t, though, because his arm is rigid like some thick icicle, bizarrely frozen into place, as though he were under the effect of a particularly enduring Glacius charm. Absolutely nothing of substance takes hold in his mind, which is hopelessly as slick as a sheet of ice, his thoughts racing past frictionlessly.

“That’s—”

He almost effing flinches when her hand grazes his (it silences him before he can say anything stupid, mercifully), and he swallows again with an absurd amount of difficulty. Like his mouth had been filled with salt and sand, leaving his throat dry and coarse and thoroughly unable to articulate anything coherent.

But he does manage to let out a short laugh.

It’s a nervous thing that drops from his mouth like a glob of porridge from a ladle, and everything is utterly mental and he feels like the biggest idiot on this side of the Highlands.

He wills himself to think of absolutely anything at all besides the distracting, featherlight touch of her fingers on his wrist— sending rousing waves up the length of his arm and settling somewhere deep in his chest, spurring on his riotous heart but doing absolutely no favors for his presently short-circuiting brain.

“That’s… what?” she asks, and his mind is so muddied that he has no idea what in the hell she’s referring to.

“I…” he flounders, “I actually have no idea what I was going to say, and I doubt it was anything groundbreaking.”

He’s almost surprised at the intelligible words he produces, and it would appear he has finally fucking thawed — he twists his hand easily and envelops hers, the silken feel of her skin under his fingers so very welcome after weeks of quite desperately missing it.

It’s something he had regularly dreamt of doing again. He had also, admittedly, allowed himself to dream of a bit more than mere hand-holding during those stretching nights when he lay in bed, deep in thought. But now Garreth finds those hazy imaginings were altogether much safer within the confines of his mind.

He thinks — he knows — he must extend the decency of properly verbalizing his feelings for her, a sort of delicate confession he’d been turning over and over in his mind for some time now. The various strings of words he’d mulled over never felt exactly correct or properly encompassing or enough, but he reckons he may very well burst into a million tiny shards if he continues shoving them under his tongue.

His mouth forms her name, and his voice is all breathy and gasping again, but he pushes on and meets her blazing gaze, all at once equal parts thrilled and terrified:

“I want you to know that I despise the library—” swell start, mate— “Er — what I mean is — in spite of that, I still thoroughly enjoy every single second I spend there, with you. Because—” and now he’s balancing on a tightrope, and the ground far below it is covered in jagged stalagmites— “because I like you, quite a lot; more than anyone else I’ve ever liked in my life, and I’d continue spending every day in that wretched place if it meant I could just be beside you.”

It’s not perfect, and it’s not flowery, but it’s the truth.

“I like you,” he says again, “I really, very much like you.”

He swallows and it’s tight, and his face is warm and very probably a deep shade of red, but he’s fine — more than fine — now that he’s flung the sentiment out into the open, glittering there between them.

“I really, very much like you, too, Garreth,” she says, and the words shine brighter than anything he’s ever known, seemingly illuminating him from within. He thinks he may very well turn into the bloody sun and take up residence in the sky, but he finds he doesn’t want to do that because then he’d be entirely too far removed from her.

He exhales a quiet, measured breath, properly keeping the run of himself, but only just— his focus flits down to her maddening lips once more, blush-pink like rose petals, still curved in the exquisite trace of a smile.

His other hand reaches to intertwine with hers, and the gravity about her seems to magnify, willing him to bend forward; closer. Like he’s so completely drawn to her that he’s been pulled firmly into her orbit, a hopeless sort of perpetual blood moon content to exist solely in relation to her.

Those feathery soft lashes fall, but they do not rise again this time, her satiny-soft eyelids closed and so very close now. She’s entirely lovely but somewhat blurred in this proximity, and he can’t figure out where he’s meant to look — stop making this so bloody complicated, he thinks to himself — and so he allows his eyes to fall closed, mirroring hers.

It feels safer like this, under the cover of darkness and no longer quite literally face-to-face with a milestone he’s thought about relentlessly and yet still isn’t entirely convinced he’s prepared for. Her breath flutters somewhere just above his upper lip, faint and warm and coaxing him onward…

And then his mouth finds hers—

Partly. At least, he thinks so.

He suspects he has likely botched the landing and ended up somewhere a smidge too far south.

He could very well let himself panic and pull away and stammer out some sad, sodding apology, but he decides he doesn’t want to do that. Instead, he peeks one eye open (to his relief, hers are still closed) and he shifts his mouth upward, and then everything is right.

Her lips — fully flush against his own, now — press gently yet earnestly forward in response, and whatever singularly amazing thing he had just experienced before is nothing — nothing — compared to this. It’s an upending, heady feeling, so wonderfully mixed up with her, and all he knows for certain is that he’ll never be the same again.

His hands tighten around hers, grasping like he may very well begin levitating away, as though he were spinning out on some intoxicating, disorienting mix of bliss and euphoria and longing. He doesn’t suppose that he (or any other Potioneer worth their salt) could ever hope to bottle up such a thing.

His mouth pulls into a sudden smile against hers — the corners stretching out widely against his will — and then her mouth is rolling languidly against his, her bottom lip slotting softly into the thin crevice of his partly-open mouth. A shudder rips through him, like a bolt of white-hot lightning seeking to ground itself somewhere deep within his core.

It’s then that his lungs inconveniently begin clamoring for air — it would appear he has forgotten how to fucking breathe under these circumstances — and though he has a perfectly functional nose from which to inhale, its mechanisms are beyond recall.

Managing (somehow, someway) to gently pull back from his rightful place at her mouth, he swallows down some air while supposing this avenue of suffocation would be a not-entirely-unwelcome way to go, all things considered.

She’s still there, just inches away from him: her eyelids like the fragile wings of a butterfly, fluttering open and closed, her gaze alternating between meeting his and darting somewhere around his mouth and back again. Another jolt shoots straight down— he notes her lips are redder than before, the bottom one glistening and making him consider terrible, mad things, absently sending his tongue to chase down the slickness across his own lips.

At once, her eyes go unfocused and her hands leave his. For one wild moment he truly believes he must have cocked it all up somehow — perhaps (horrifyingly) she could hear his unruly, screaming thoughts — but then his shirt collar tightens about his throat and her fists are balled around the fabric there, pulling him urgently down and he finds he’s more than content to fall; more than content to bend to her will.

His eyes squeeze shut, tighter than a vice, and her lips slot against his once more.

This kiss is far less tepid than the last; more sure. Her jaw bucks against his, heavy with want, sending him reeling with the force of it.

Mint sparks against his parted lips, a sharp reminder of the little white candies she always rolled between her teeth in the library (and now he’s rather glad he had decided to pluck one for himself earlier). His hands are much too empty and yet he convinces himself he’s perfectly alright with grasping at nothing but air in the name of decorum, in spite of his fingers twitching with need.

The way her mouth plunges makes him forget about absolutely everything else; they could be anywhere in the world right now, and not only would he believe it, but he wouldn’t care, because right at this very moment he cannot be made to give the slightest damn about anything at all, apart from the feel of her lips surging insistently against his own.

That tight grasp at the base of his throat slackens then, her hands looping to hook around the nape of his neck. She takes the tiniest step forward— pressing flush against the flat plane of him — and she’s so very warm and inviting and close, and his skin is searing under his clothes, and her fingernails are digging desperately into his neck, and his hands are still fisting at nothing but it doesn’t matter because he’s going certifiably insane at the way in which she’s grasping for more of him.

But he’s still lucid enough to realize that this girl he’s trying to practice decorum with can very probably feel something that isn’t particularly becoming of a decorous man.

While every atom of him screams for more — for more of this closeness, for more of her — that singular thought is entirely too much. He’s feeling very much like he’s standing at a precipice, from which he’s achingly tempted to jump, but he doesn’t know what, exactly, awaits him at the bottom.

And so his hands fly to her waist, firmly but not too firmly, in an attempt to wedge some space between their lower halves. But then — oh — she seems to interpret it as a demonstration of him wanting more, and then she’s flattening herself against him more fully in response, sending another one of those jolts ripping straight down through him like a pulse of electricity to a lightning rod.

Absolutely everything is entirely too warm now — from the red-hot flush across his face to the sweat collecting between his palms and her knitted jumper to the raging heat emanating solidly from within his trousers — and despite her earlier insistence that no one comes up here, he decides he certainly does not want to run the risk (however low) of someone stumbling upon them: her, flushed and red-lipped; him, sweltering and sporting rather damning, obscene evidence of impropriety.

With a great deal of difficulty, he takes a decided step backward, stifling a groan at the base of his throat that would have been atrociously mortifying if it had actually materialized. His grasp remains determinedly still against the curve of her waist, the very idea of his hands sliding too far upward or downward presently unconscionable.

“I—” his voice crackles like ice along his vocal cords, “that was — it was… something.”

He keeps her close (partly because he quite likes this proximity, but mostly because he’s sparing her the sight of the very prominent erection he’s doing his very best to will away), and he rests his forehead gently against hers, fully hoping he’s not perspiring as much as he suspects he may be.

“Yes, it was,” she says, low and sweet, followed by a dreamy, breathy laugh.

Merlin damn it.

His eyes squeeze closed again, and he raptly focuses on something, anything, that he might consider to be utterly boring and unexciting — the simple recipe for Wiggenweld Potion bobs about his mind, like a reliable life-raft amidst a sea of sordid thoughts. After a few stretching moments, breathing in the flowery scent of her but doing his best not to think on that too closely, he clears his throat and tilts his head back.

“Regrettably, someone had to land himself a detention,” his voice sounds more like it belongs to him now, and his mouth twists. “And I’d quite like to leave myself enough time to escort you back before I’m due there. If you’ll allow it, that is.”

Her breaths are more even now, and she makes a sort of protesting face. “Garreth, you don’t need to—”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind being— I dunno — a squire, or charge. Or, if you like, an overgrown house-elf…”

She smirks, her hands falling away from his neck, and then her gaze falls somewhere at the base of his throat.

“Oh, sorry.”

Then she’s smoothing out the very place where her fists had bunched up the fabric of his jumper (he makes himself think of Wiggenweld again as her hands sweep firmly across his upper chest), and after several rough swipes she gives him a sort of half-hearted shrug that seems to say “good enough.”

“I ought to be careful around you,” he says. “Or maybe I’ll just report you to Augustus Hill over at Gladrags — he would consider this a felony, I reckon. Even against a horrendously unfashionable garment such as this one.”

The littlest of laughs; then her cheeks redden and her eyes blaze.

“Maybe you ought to wear something a bit more durable next time.”

Next time.

His mind is as empty as the vacant Quidditch pitch, and he manages to say something not at all clever — “noted,” he thinks — before he turns his attention to the books on the tabletop, his stomach performing some acrobatic flips as he revisits those words again in his mind (“next time”). He heaves the stack into his arms, slinging it low and level with his pelvis as a sort of precautionary measure; and though the collar of his jumper is hanging a fair bit looser about his neck, he doesn’t suppose either of them really look noticeably out of order.

They slowly depart, side by side, an undercurrent of something new and exciting thrumming invisibly between them, and Garreth Weasley is still fully under the impression that he’ll never, ever be the same again.

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